ou said you'd make up for not seeing me on my birthday.
     You promised me then, Nick ... you promised."
     She  didn't just  have her hand on  my heartstrings, she'd braided them
into ropes for extra  purchase and was  pulling on them big time. I said, "I
know I did, but that was last time. This time it will be different, I really
mean it."
     Her bottom lip  was starting  to go  and her eyes were leaking down her
face.
     "But, Nick, you promised ..."
     I stroked her hair.
     "I'm  sorry,  I can't help  it.  I've got to go to work. Oh,  come  on,
Kelly, cheer up."
     What the  fuck was I saying? I always hated this. I didn't know what to
do or say, and  to make things worse I reckoned I was starting to sound like
my Auntie Pauline.
     The cry had become heartrending sobs.
     "But I don't want you to go ... I want to stay here and be a sailor ...
I want you to stay here ... I don't want to sleep on this boat without you."
     "Ah," I said, and the  way I said it was sufficiently ominous  to  make
her look up.
     "You won't be sleeping on the ship. I'm going to take you to see Granny
and Grandad. Listen, I promise, I  really do  promise, I'll  make this up to
you."
     She stared at me long and hard, then slowly shook her head from side to
side, deeply wounded. She'd been sold down the river, and she knew it.
     I wondered if she'd ever trust me again.
     There was nothing I could say, because actually she  was right. Just to
make sure I avoided the issue, I walked across to the bosun.
     "We've got to go," I said.
     "Family  problem."  He nodded; who gives a  fuck, he  just gets paid to
wear the hat and growl.
     Josh came back. His kids were halfway through a lesson  on how to hoist
the sails. I said, "We've got to go, mate."
     I tried to pat  Kelly's head,  but she flinched  away  from my hand.  I
said, "Do you want to go downstairs  and  change? You can say good-bye  in a
minute. Go on, off you go."
     As she disappeared I looked at Josh and shrugged.
     "What can I say, I've got to go  to work." And then, before  he had the
chance to come up  with  all sorts of  different ways that he could help,  I
said,  "I'm going to take her down to her grandmother's  now,  then I'm off.
I'm really sorry about this, mate."
     "Hey, chill, it doesn't matter. These things happen. It was just really
good to see you."
     He was right. It had been really good to see him, too.
     "Same here. Have  a good flight back. I'll  give you a  call as soon as
I've finished this job, and we'll come to you next time."
     "Like I told  you, the  beds  are always made up. The coffee, white and
flat, is always hot."
     It took me a moment to understand the white and flat bit.
     "Is that some kind of Airborne saying?"
     "Kinda."
     I said good-bye  to  his kids  and they  got back to  pulling ropes and
getting bollocked by the bosun. Then I went down below and changed.
     We  stopped at a pedestrian crossing to let  a blue-haired New  Age guy
saunter across. I laughed.
     "Kelly, look at that bloke there!  Isn't he weird!" He had big lumps of
metal sticking out of his nose, lips, eyebrows, all sorts. I said, "I bet he
wouldn't dare walk past a magnet factory."
     I laughed at my own joke. She didn't, possibly because it was so bad.
     "You shouldn't make personal remarks like that," she said.
     "Anyway,  I bet he s been to the Bloody Tower." Her schoolwork might be
suffering a bit but she was still as sharp as her old man.
     I  looked across at her in the passenger seat and felt yet another pang
of guilt. She was reading about how wonderful London was from a flyer we had
in our rental car; she was sulking away, probably wondering what could be so
important  in my  life that instead of taking her to see the Crown Jewels, I
was dumping her back with her dreary old grandparents whom  she already  saw
enough of during the weekends out from her boarding school.
     We  drove  through Docklands  in  the  East  End of  London,  past  the
outrageously  tall office block on Canary Wharf; then, as we followed  signs
for the  Blackwall Tunnel, the  Millennium  Dome, still  under construction,
came  into view  across the Thames. Trying anything to lighten the  mood,  I
said, "Hey, look, the world's biggest Burger King hat!"
     At last I got a reaction: a slight movement of the lips, accompanied by
a determined refusal to laugh.
     Still heading toward the tunnel that took us under the Thames and so
     south, we  came to a  gas station just past the  Burger  King  dome.  I
needed to call her grandparents.
     It  seemed that fuel was a sideline for this garage; it sold everything
from disposable barbecues to  lottery tickets and  firewood. I undid my seat
belt and tried to sound happy with life.
     "Do you want anything from the shop?"
     She shook her head as I got out to use the  pay phone on  the wall. I'd
get her something anyway. A nice bundle of kindling, maybe.
     After  pulling  various  bits of  paper  from my  jacket pocket I found
Carmen and Jimmy's phone number  on  a  yellow Post-It note, its  sticky bit
covered with blue fluff from my  jacket. Kelly was still sitting in the car,
belted up and staring daggers at me, both for what I had done and what I was
about to do.
     I knew that they'd be in at this time of day. They  always had lunch at
home;  in nearly  fifty years of marriage they'd  never  eaten  out.  Carmen
didn't like other people preparing her husband's food, and Jimmy had learned
better than  to  argue. I  also knew that Carmen would answer  the phone; it
seemed to be a house rule.
     "Hello, Carmen, it's Nick. How are you both?"
     "Oh, we're fine," she said, a little crisply.
     "Quite tired, of course,"  she added, to introduce a tone  of martyrdom
at the first available opportunity.
     I should have ignored it and got straight down to business.
     "Tired?" I asked, and as I said it I suddenly remembered something.
     "Oh,  yes, we  stayed up until  well  after News at Ten. You said Kelly
would be calling us."
     They hadn't heard from her since I'd  taken  her away for the trip, and
I'd promised she would call. Mind you, Kelly hadn't exactly  gone out of her
way to remind me.
     "I'm sorry, Carmen, she was so sleepy last night I didn't want to  wake
her."
     She  didn't go for  that one and  I didn't blame her. She was right; at
ten o'clock last  night we were both filling our faces  with Double Whoppers
and fries.
     "Oh, well, I suppose we can talk to her now. Has she had her lunch?"
     What the question actually meant  was: Have  you remembered to feed our
granddaughter?  My thoughts  went out to  Jimmy, married to  her for  half a
century, and her son,  Kev. No wonder  he'd  headed  west just as soon as he
could.
     I tried to laugh it off; for Kelly's sake I didn't want to rise to this
emotional blackmail.
     "Carmen, look, something has come up. I have to go away tonight.
     Would you be able to have  her and take her back to school on Monday? I
was going to take her out for the five days to 'do' London, but she might as
well go back now."
     There was  excitement in the  air, but she still had  to carve off  her
pound of flesh.
     "Of course. When will you be coming?"
     "That's the problem, I haven't enough time to get her to you. Could you
meet us at Gatwick?"
     I knew they could. In fact, chances were that Jimmy  was  already being
dispatched with  an impatient motion of her hand to get his  eleven-year-old
mint-condition Rover  out  of the garage. The  new door that  had just  been
built  gave direct access  from the  bungalow;  he was very proud of that. I
could  picture  him in  there,  wiping  any stray finger marks off the paint
work.
     "Oh .. . can't you come here? It would mean we wouldn't get  back until
late."
     They  lived  only  an hour from the airport,  but anything  to  fuck me
about.
     "I can't, I'm afraid. I'm a bit strapped for time."
     "But where would we meet you?" There  was an edge of panic in her voice
at  the  thought  of  having to  do something  so  challenging,  mixed  with
annoyance that today's minute-by-minute routine was being disrupted. It must
have been a riot growing up as Mr. and Mrs. Brown's little boy.
     I'd sensed from the beginning that they or  rather, she  didn't  really
like  me.  Maybe she  blamed me for their son's  death; I certainly knew she
resented  the  fact  that  I   was   the  person  he'd  appointed  as  their
granddaughter's guardian, even though she knew very well  that they were too
old to look  after her themselves. But fuck it, they'd be dead soon. I would
just  feel  sorry for Kelly when that  day  came; she needed other people to
support her, even if they were as suffocating as the Browns.
     When  I got back to  the  car  Kelly was  pretending to be engrossed in
another  flyer,  and without  looking  up she greeted  me  with a  downright
martyr's  sigh. I'd have to sort her out soon, or she was  going to turn out
like her poisoned granny.
     I kept it upbeat.
     "They're really excited about you coming to stay today instead  of next
weekend, they can't wait to see you and hear all about your time on the ship
with everyone."
     "OK. That means that I go back to school when everybody else does?"
     "Yes, but you'll have a great time with Granny and Grandad first."
     She  didn't  share my  optimism, but she was switched on enough to know
that, even  though they  might be boring, they loved her dearly. It was  the
only reason I put up with them.
     We got  back onto the main  drag and headed for the tunnel, me thinking
about  the  RV details I'd  been  given. From Kelly  there  was nothing  but
brooding, oppressive silence and I didn't really know how to break it.
     Eventually I said, "I'll phone you at school one lunchtime next week,
        OK?"
     She perked up.
     "You will? You'll phone me?"
     "Sure I will. I don't know when it will be, but I will."
     She looked at me and raised an accusing eyebrow.
     "Is that going to be another one of your promises?"
     I smiled and nodded my head. I  knew I  was digging  myself a very deep
hole  here, because every time I promised I seemed to fuck up; I didn't have
a clue what I'd be doing, and I knew it was a short-term gain.  I hated this
part of my  responsibilities, I hated letting her down the way  I'd been let
down.
     I said, "Not just a promise a double promise. We'll talk  about all the
things we'll do on our next holiday. I'll make it up to you, you'll see."
     She was studying my face,  sizing me up. Having gained an inch, she was
going to go for the full mile.
     "Do I have to go to Granny and Grandad's?"
     I could guess how she felt. She'd told me that when she  was with them,
she  spent most of her  time pulling her shirt back out of  her jeans  after
Carmen had pulled  them up to her armpits "to keep out the cold." I wouldn't
want to be going there either, but I said, "It'll be fine, don't worry about
it. You were going  to  stay  with  them  next  weekend after school anyway.
Another weekend won't hurt. I'll have a little chat and see if they'll  take
you to the aquarium to see those sharks we were talking about."
     She gave me a look to let me know the aquarium trip wouldn't happen.
     I knew she was right and ploughed on.
     "One  thing's for sure,  I  don't want  them to  take you to the Bloody
Tower; that's our special thing, OK?"
     There was a  slow acknowledgment,  even though  she probably knew there
was  more chance other grandmother metamorphosing into Zoe Ball overnight. I
indicated to get off the M23 on the last stretch toward the airport.
     Signs  welcomed  us to  the North  Terminal  and  I  headed up  to  the
shortterm parking. I kept up my goodness-me-I'm-so-excited voice.
     "Right, let's go and see if Granny  and Grandad are here yet, shall we?
Tell  you what, if they aren't, we'll  go  and have something to eat. Hungry
yet?"
     That should keep Granny happy.
     She didn't  say  it, but the look she gave me as she got out of the car
said, Cut  the crap, dickhead,  I've  had it up to here. She'd been hung out
with the washing; she knew it, and she wanted me to know that she knew it. I
got  hold of her hand and bag, because there was traffic all over the place,
and followed the signs to the North Terminal.
     I'd arranged  to meet them in the Costa Coffee shop.  It  would be easy
enough to find; even they could do it.
     I looked at my G-Shock, the one I'd bought to replace the one I'd lost.
It was a  Baby-G this time--the new  one--and when you pressed the backlight
button, a  little surfer  came  up on  one of  the displays. I quite enjoyed
that, even though it was the same little man doing the  same  little surfing
thing every single time. Sad but true.
     It was just past one o'clock. They weren't there yet. Trying to ease my
guilt I took Kelly on a sightseeing tour of the shops and she landed up with
bars  of chocolate, an airline teddy bear  and an All Saints  CD. It was the
easy way out; I knew it wouldn't achieve anything, but it made me feel a bit
better.
     We went back to the Costa Coffee shop and sat on bar stools with a view
of the terminal entrance. She  had an orange  soda, I had  a flat  white, if
that was what they called it, and we both had a  sandwich as we sat watching
a packed airport get fed, catch planes and generally spend more money in one
hour than they would in an entire day on holiday.
     Kelly said,  "Nick, do you know how long it takes before an elephant is
born ?"
     "Nope."  I wasn't  really  listening; I  was too busy  bending  over my
coffee  and  looking out  for  Wallace and  Gromit, resisting looking at  my
watch.
     "Nearly two years."
     "Oh, that's interesting," I said.
     "OK, do you know how many people were in the world in I960?"
     "Three years."
     She'd sussed me out.
     "Nick ... Three billion. But very soon the world will have a population
of six billion."
     I turned to look at her.
     "You're very  clever for a--" Then I saw what she  was  doing:  reading
facts off the back of sugar packets.
     "That's cheating!"
     At last I  got a smile from her. It turned into an actress's smile when
she said through gritted teeth, "Oh, look. Granny and Grandad."
     "Well, off you go then and say hello!"
     Muttering under her breath, she got off her stool and ran over to them.
     Their  faces   showed  a  mixture   of   relief   at   finding  us  and
self-congratulation at being brave enough to be out and about in such a big,
busy place. Kelly  gave them both a hug; she did love them, it was just that
they weren't the sort of people you'd want to  spend all day with, let alone
a bonus weekend.
     Their trouble was,  they  didn't actually do anything. They didn't take
her to the park or on outings; they just kind of sat there expecting her  to
draw pictures and drink cups of tea.
     Jimmy was  wearing  cream flannels  and  a beige  anorak;  Carmen  wore
clothes from the sort of catalog that had Judith Chalmers on the cover.
     Jimmy's  face  seemed to have no features whatsoever;  he looked as  if
he'd been  designed in a wind tunnel. Kev  must have got his  dark  skin and
eyes from  his mother, who  still looked attractive, even if she did believe
people really thought her jet-black hair was natural.
     The  pair of  them  were busy fussing all over  Kelly, asking  her what
she'd done as they walked toward me. I got in there first, flicking  my eyes
between them as I spoke.
     "Jim, Carmen, how are things?" And before they could debrief me  on the
road conditions and the exact route they'd taken I got straight down to it.
     "Look, I'm sorry about this, but I've got to go. You sure you're OK for
the rest of the weekend?"
     They  were  both very  happy. It was like Christmas  again, except that
that time it had been Heathrow  and Kelly had had to be picked  up four days
early.  They never  understood why someone so erratic had been chosen as her
guardian; they didn't even know me and I was clearly not suited to the task.
I bet they had me down  as one of Kev's wife's  friends. They never did like
Marsha.  When  they  weren't  blaming me  for their son's murder,  they were
probably blaming her, not that she was around to answer back.
     Carmen busied herself doing  up the  top  button  of Kelly's  shirt and
tucking the whole thing back into her jeans. You can't take any chances, the
drafts you get in airports.
     I made  sure they saw me take a quick look at  my watch. I had loads of
time, but it didn't mean I wanted to stay.
     "I've really got to go now. Kelly, give us a hug and a kiss."
     She  wrapped her arms  around me and  I bent  at the waist so we  could
kiss. Carmen  hated that,  because Kelly didn't show  them the same  sort of
sustained affection.  She did with them only what she knew was expected, and
I had to admit that made me feel good.
     I looked her in the eye and mimed a phone call with my hand.
        "I
     promise."
     She raised an eyebrow and gave me a withering look.
     "Is  that a Nick promise?" she  said quietly, so that only I could hear
it. I suddenly saw about twenty years into the future; she was going to grow
up into the sort of woman who could light a fire just by looking at it.
     "No," I said, equally quietly, "it's an NPP."
     "What's that?"
     "Normal person's promise."
     She liked that one and nodded.
     I knew I'd dropped myself in the shit even more, just as my parents had
done  with  me. By now  it  was  almost unbearable.  Carmen  and Jimmy  were
uncomfortable  with  our private  intimacy, and I really didn't know  how to
behave  in  these situations.  I was  feeling more guilty  than ever. I just
wanted to leave.
     The look on Kelly's face made me remember my thirteenth birthday.
     My  parents didn't. They  made up for it by running to the corner  shop
and buying a board  game in the shape of a robot for seventy-five pence. The
reason I knew that was because it wasn't even wrapped up, just in a bag with
the  price tag still on. I knew how  it felt to be let down  by the ones who
are supposed to love you most.
     I whispered in her ear, "I've got to go."
     As I stood up, Carmen's nod told me I should have left ten minutes ago.
     She said, "We'll be  hearing from you,  then?" in that special  way  of
hers that suggested she wouldn't exactly be holding her breath.
     "Of course we will. Granny," Kelly said.
     "When Nick  makes a  promise he always  keeps it." She might  be  lying
through her teeth, but she knew when to back me up.
     I grinned.
     "Yeah, something like that. Bye now."
     Jimmy smiled weakly. I couldn't tell if he  was happy or just had wind.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard him speak.
     Carmen decided it was time for Kelly to cut from me.
     "Oh, that's nice, you've got a record, have you?" she said.
     "Who's it by?"
     "All Saints."
     "Oh, they're good, aren't  they? My favorite is the ginger one with the
Union Jack dress."
     "That's the Spice Girls."
     "Oh, is it?" Carmen glared at me as if it was my fault, then rounded on
Jimmy.
     "Grandad  doesn't  like any  of  them;  he  doesn't  go  for  all  that
piercing."
     Kelly looked at me and rolled her eyes. As the  look  changed to one of
desperation, I turned on my heel and walked away.
     made as  if  to  go  back to the car park, but instead  jumped onto the
transit  train  that would  take me to the  South  Terminal. I kept thinking
about the fuckup and how Kelly must be feeling, but I would have to cut from
that soon.  I decided to  use the two-minute  journey to  sort out my guilt,
then bung the work  cassette into the back of  my head before  I got off the
train.
     The  shuttle was full of all  the usual airport suspects: young couples
in matching  football shirts, him  with a team  holdall, her with copies  of
Hello! magazine  and  word search  puzzle  books;  and businessmen in suits,
carrying briefcases and laptops and looking in dire need of The  Little Book
of Calm.
     I walked into the South Terminal, following the signs to the short-term
car park, and took the elevator to the top floor. I was in work mode now;
     everything else had been put to one side in another compartment.
     The exposed  roof  level  was about three-quarters  full. The deafening
sound of aircraft taking  off blanketed  all  the  other noises  of cars and
clattering luggage trolleys.  I half closed my eyes to protect them from the
glare of sunlight as I started walking down the aisles.
     In  a row of wagons, down the middle,  I spotted  what I'd been told to
look for: a Toyota Previa people carrier, dark blue with tinted windows.
     Maybe the Firm had found  a use  for the ones brought  back  from Syria
after  all; it wasn't  as if  Hertz would  have been too happy to have  them
back.
     I went to  the rear of the row of vehicles and started  to  follow  the
line of cars toward it.
     Since the change of government  in 1997, every department seemed  to be
using  people carriers.  I didn't know if  it was policy or  just that  Tony
Blair used one,  but  they were a great improvement--much more  room  for  a
briefing,  instead of sitting  hunched up  in the back of a  sedan with your
knees around your head. Besides, they were easy to find in a hurry.
     As I got closer I spotted a driver in  the front seat,  filling up  the
right hand side  of  the cab area, reading the Evening  Standard and looking
uncomfortable in his collar and tie. None of the windows was  open. The size
of his head and his flat-top haircut made it look as if it should have  been
sticking out of the turret of a Panzer.
     I approached  casually  from  the  rear, checking the number  plate.  I
couldn't exactly remember the  full registration but I knew that it would be
a  P.  The thing I was looking for was the VDM, and sure enough,  above  the
Toyota  sign,  on the bottom left side of the  tail,  was  the  small chrome
outline of a fish, the trademark of heavy-duty Christians. This was the one;
I went up to  the  sliding  door  on the side and waited, listening  to  the
engine purr.
     The door opened out a few inches, then slid back to reveal the two rows
of passenger seats. I looked inside.
     I  hadn't seen Colonel Lynn for  nearly a year, but  he  hadn't changed
much. He hadn't lost any more hair, which I was sure he was happy about.
     His clothes were the same as always, mustard-colored corduroy trousers,
a sports jacket with well-worn leather elbows, and what looked like the same
Viyella  shirt he'd  been wearing  the last time  we'd met, just  a bit more
frayed around the collar.
     I climbed in and slid  the door closed behind me. I  could feel the air
conditioning working overtime  as  I took my seat next to  him and we  shook
hands. Lynn had that fresh-from-the-shower officer's smell about  him; maybe
he'd  taken in a quick game  of  squash at the Guards' barracks  in  Chelsea
before  coming to  the meeting. Between  his feet was a  dark blue nylon day
sack which I recognized. It was my quick-move kit.
     There was somebody else in there, in the rear row of seats, whom I also
recognized. I turned and nodded politely at her.  She returned the  gesture,
refolding her copy of the Daily Telegraph. It  was only the second time that
I'd met Elizabeth Bamber in  person. Last time hadn't gone too well; she was
on the selection board  that refused  me permanent cadre. It seemed that our
cultural differences didn't endear us to each other during the interview.
     Permanent cadre are Ks deniable  operators on  a  salaried retainer not
freelancers like me, called on  to carry  out  shit  jobs that  no  one else
wants. The pay I got was 210 a day for ops, 160 for training days. I  wasn't
too sure what the retainer was, but I knew that, like all other payments, it
would be handed over in a brown envelope  with no tax or  national insurance
to pay. It was a  bit like casual labor, which made me feel used and  fucked
over, but I liked the money  what there was of it.  In any case, it was  the
only line of work I'd  ever  known, and I was more afraid  of  what I  would
become without it.
     I didn't know exactly  what Elizabeth  did, or for whom; all I knew was
that  she  was  one  of those women who,  if  they  weren't working for  the
Intelligence Service, would  probably own a  stable full of racehorses.  She
probably  did  anyway.  She  had  that  sort of  broken-veined, no-nonsense,
out-in-the-fresh-air  look about  her. She was medium height and in her late
forties or  at least  looked  it, especially with her  shoulder-length hair,
which was 60 percent gray, with a center parting and a little fringe, though
I  doubted  she gave  much of  a  fuck about  it. In fact,  having  hair was
probably  a  bit of  an inconvenience for someone like her, because it  took
valuable time to comb the stuff.
     She was wearing a very smart, sensible, gray  two-piece that  looked as
if  it  had cost a fortune;  it  would have been economical in the long run,
however, because she probably wore it every third  day,  alternating it with
the two other equally expensive outfits she bought every year  in the Harvey
Nichols sale. Under her  jacket was a blouse with a long scarf attached that
was  tied into a  bow.  The smart but practical look was complemented by  an
almost total lack of makeup it probably took too long in the morning  to put
it on, and she couldn't be bothered with that: she had a country to protect.
     I made a half turn back toward Lynn so that I had to move only  my head
to see each of  them. There was  silence for about half a  minute, broken by
the rustling of a  newspaper  in the front. I glanced to my left and saw the
driver's huge neck sitting on a very wide back and slightly hanging over his
collar. I could see  part of his face in the rearview mirror; his  pale skin
and near-Slavic looks  gave the game away: he was a  Serb, no doubt promised
passports for his entire family  if  he spied for us during the Bosnian war.
This guy  would  now  be  more  loyal  to the  U.K. than most  Brits, myself
included.
     Still we just  sat there. Elizabeth was looking at me; I was looking at
her. Come on, I thought, let's  get on with  it. It always felt  as  if they
were toying with me.
     It was Lynn who kicked off.
     "We haven't seen you for a long time, Nick. How's life?"
     As if he cared.
     "No complaints. How long am I going to be away?"
     "It will depend on how  quickly you  can  get the task  done. Listen to
what Elizabeth has to say."
     Elizabeth was  primed,  ready  to go; she didn't even have  notes.  She
levelled her gaze on me, and said,  "Sarah Greenwood." It was delivered more
as  a question than a statement,  and her eyes  narrowed slightly, as if she
were expecting an answer.
     My reaction when I heard the  name surprised me. I felt as if I'd  just
been told I had a fatal disease. My hard drive was  spinning.  Was she dead?
Had she fucked up? Had she got  me in trouble? Had she been lifted? I wasn't
going  to  show these people anything more than I had  to; I tried to remain
casual and unconcerned, but all I really wanted to do was ask, "Is she OK?"
     She said, "You know her, I believe?"
     "Of course I know her by that name anyway." I didn't say how I knew her
name, or what jobs I'd done with her. I didn't know how much Elizabeth knew,
so I just played it straight, which is always the best thing to do.
     In  my experience, the less  you  say, the less drama you get  yourself
into.
     It's good having two ears, but even better to have just one mouth.
     "Well, it seems that she has disappeared and of her own accord."
     I looked at  her, waiting  for  the  follow-on, but she let it  hang. I
didn't exactly know what she was getting at, yet she was looking at me as if
I should know.
     Lynn saw the problem.
     "Let me explain, Nick."
     As  I  turned my head toward  Lynn,  I caught  him  just finishing  eye
contact with Elizabeth. He was playing the peacemaker here.
     He said, "Two years ago, Sarah Greenwood was  posted to  the Washington
desk. You are aware of that?"
     Of course I was. I always  tried  to keep tabs on where she was and how
she  was  getting  on, though I never kidded  myself that the  interest  was
mutual.
     I'd  half hoped that  she'd make an  appearance  during my debrief over
last year's fuckup in the States, but she  didn't. I realized  he was  still
waiting for an answer.
     "No, not really."
     There  was a pause as Lynn glanced again  at Elizabeth. It looked as if
he needed the nod  to continue; he must have got it, because he said, "Sarah
has been  U.K. liaison with the Counterterrorism  Center, a new intelligence
cell set  up by  the  CIA  to provide  warnings  against potential terrorist
attacks.  It's  a  central clearinghouse, if you like, for  intelligence  on
terrorism  worldwide. Here  is the problem. As  Elizabeth  has already said,
Sarah has disappeared we know she's still on the U.S. mainland, but we don't
know where or  why she  has gone. We fear that her  reliability and judgment
are, how shall I say it, in doubt."
     I  couldn't help a smile. That was the standard ruck-off when what they
were really  saying was: "We don't like you anymore. You have done something
wrong and you are no longer one of us."
     Now  it was  time for Elizabeth to join in. She said, "Let's  just say,
since  her  posting  in  Washington  she  has  been  engaging  in  too  many
initiatives of her own."
     Still looking at Lynn, I smiled again.
     "Oh, I see too many initiatives."
     I gave her word the full five syllables.
     I hated it when they beat around the bush. Why didn't they just  get on
with it  and tell  me what the fuck was happening and what they wanted me to
do about it? Before I could get an answer we were interrupted by the arrival
of some punters.
     "Oil You're not on holiday now; give a hand with these sodding bags!"
     "All right, don't get out yer bleedin' pram!"
     Everything stopped as we all  looked over  to the driver's side  of the
wagon.  I couldn't see Lynn's face, but Elizabeth's registered disgust.  Two
couples were standing by a  Ford Escort XR3i.  While we'd been waffling away
they'd turned up, opened the trunk and were loading their luggage.
     One young couple, both in their  mid-twenties, had  come to pick up the
other one. The girl back from holiday was wearing white cut-down  jeans with
half her ass hanging out to show us how brown  she  was, but the effect  was
spoiled  a bit by all  the exposed skin being goose bumped,  what  with this
being  Gatwick rather than Tenerife. Just in case we didn't  get the message
that she'd been away, her bottled blond hair was in beads  where it had been
braided by a beach hustler.
     Our  man in the  driving seat was keeping an eye  on them continuously,
still with  the paper up, still on  the same page, the  skin  of his massive
neck hanging over his collar even more as he looked right in his wing mirror
checking everything out. These boys had to be jacks of all trades, offensive
and defensive  drivers, as well as bodyguards to  protect their "principals"
and great joke-tellers to entertain them. Maybe that was why the Serb worked
for  Elizabeth.  She wasn't  the sort  of  person who  understood jokes, and
judging by the Serb's expression  as he tried to follow the estuary  English
outside, he  wasn't  up  to speed on banter either. I  just hoped he  wasn't
learning his English  from these two in  the wagon  people  would think that
Prince Charles had been hitting the gym.
     The  entertainment  was  over.  We  all  turned  back  to  our original
positions and Elizabeth carried on, physically affected by what she had just
seen. Her breed found such people a terrible stain on their ordered lives.
     "We  are concerned that there  might be a conflict about the ethics  of
her employment."
     I tried not to laugh.
     "Ethics?  That's not  Sarah. She's got  ethics filed  under  "Things to
worry about when I'm dead."" I risked a chuckle, but either Elizabeth didn't
understand, or she got the joke and didn't like it.
     The atmosphere  felt so frosty I  wondered if the Serb had adjusted the
air conditioning. I was slowly welcoming myself out of this wagon.
     Elizabeth continued as if I still hadn't spoken.
     "We  feel that this could  expose current operations and put operators'
lives in very real danger."
     That stopped me smiling.
     "How do you know Sarah might be putting operations at risk?"
     "That," she said, "you don't need to know." I could  see she'd  enjoyed
saying that.
     "However, let me  give you  an  example of  the  problem  we  face. The
information that Sarah Greenwood retrieved from Syria I  understand that you
were  part of  that operation?  that  material delivered to us  was  in fact
incorrect. It would appear that she quite deliberately distorted information
she knew was important to us and the Americans."
     So they had wanted what was on the computers  after all. And, as usual,
I had been one of their mushrooms, kept in the dark and fed on shit.
     She was on a roll now.
     "It was most unfortunate that the Source  was killed--after  all,  that
was your task: to bring him  back. We still don't know what intelligence the
Syrian operation would have revealed-because  you destroyed the computers on
site, I believe."
     She made  it sound as if  I'd done all that on some kind of whim. I let
her carry on, but inwardly I was ready to punch her lights out.
     "The Americans were not pleased with our efforts, and I have to say, it
was hardly one of our finest hours."
     I wasn't going to let her rev me up even more. For years we'd done jobs
for the  U.S. that Congress would never sanction,  or that were  against the
1974 executive order prohibiting U.S. involvement in assassination.
     The job had been false-flagged as an Israeli operation because the
        U.S.
     could not  be  seen  to  be  screaming  into  Syria  and kidnapping  an
international financier, even  if he  did happen to be the right-hand man of
the world's most prolific terrorist. However, by making it look like a joint
operation between the Israeli military and Mossad, everyone was a winner:
     America  would get the Source, the U.K.  would have the satisfaction of
doing  a  difficult job  well and Israel would  reap all the kudos. Not that
they knew  about it when it  was happening--they  never did--but  they would
still take all the credit.
     I thought back to Syria and Sarah's frantic work on the laptop, and the
fact  that she had killed the Source. Sarah had certainly sounded convincing
during  the debrief, and after  that  I  didn't  even think about it, it was
finished.
     Whatever  had happened  since then  didn't worry me  either;  it wasn't
going to change my life. Well, maybe it was now.
     Elizabeth  continued, "She could have  caused a major change in foreign
policy, and that, I must say, would have been most detrimental to the U.K."s
and USs balance of payments and influence in the region ..."
     She  was talking crap. I bet the reason she was pissed  off was because
Clinton had recently signed a "lethal presidential order" against Bin Laden.
He had authorized, in advance, an aggressive operation to arrest him  if the
opportunity arose,  at the same time recognizing that some of those involved
might be killed.  In other  words, Clinton had found a way  around America's
strict anti  assassination  rules, and the Firm  would be done out  of  some
work. I could see that Sarah fucking about wouldn't help matters.
     I waited for the part Elizabeth had  forgotten  to emphasize. There are
three  things  they like to give you at a briefing, when they eventually get
around to saying what they really mean. One,  the aim  of the task; two, the
reason  why  the  task  has  to  happen;  and  three, the incentive for  the
operator.
     I saw her eyes move fractionally up and to the left. She was lying.
     "...  as well as putting operators at risk in the  area. Which  is,  of
course,  our  most   important  consideration."  Not  a  bad  incentive,   I
thought--even if she was talking bollocks--especially if it was me operating
there.
     "As to her motives, well, that's not for you to worry about."
     I was starting to feel uneasy about all this. I turned to Lynn.
     "If you were worried about this back then, why didn't you just give her
a bung?"
     From behind me Elizabeth said, "A bung? A bung?"
     Lynn  looked  over my head and said, in the  voice of a queen's counsel
patiently explaining a blow job to a High  Court judge, "Money. No, Nick, we
didn't offer  her a bung. You  know  as well  as I do that the service never
bribes or pays anyone off."
     I couldn't believe he'd  said  that  and I  somehow managed to  keep  a
straight face. Amazingly,  so did  he.  They  look  after  their own  in the
Intelligence  Service. Even  if  the  IG's  been given the  sack  for  gross
misconduct,  whether it's for being a  pedophile and getting blackmailed for
it, or for just screwing up the job, he goes into a feeder  system  where he
gets work, and that does two things--it keeps tabs on him, but it also keeps
him sweet, and, more importantly, quiet. That's what a bung is all about:
     keeping the house in order.
     I wished they would give me one.  Only  a few  months earlier  I'd been
escorting an  IG  called Clive  to  a service  apartment  in  London.  These
apartments are paid for, furnished and run by the Intelligence Service.
     Nobody  lives  in  them;  they're  used  for  meetings,  briefings  and
debriefings, and as safe houses.
     Clive had had a bit  of a  drama with Gordievsky, the Russian dissident
who'd years ago defected to the West with a headful  of secrets. The  former
KGB chief  was briefing the  Intelligence Service  at  one  of the  training
establishments near  the Solent  on the south coast.  Clive  and  two others
refused  to go to  the presentation, on the  grounds that  Gordievsky  was a
traitor, and it didn't matter which side he came from. I happened to believe
they  were  right,  but  they  still got  cut away.  After all, it  was very
embarrassing for Her  Majesty's  government to have  its people  calling  an
inbound defector a scumbag. Two went quietly with a payoff and jobs supplied
by the Good Lads' Club  the City. Clive,  however,  refused to go. The  best
way, it seemed to the service, was to offer him a bigger wad  than the other
two. If that was refused, then he could have as much pain as money can buy.
     I persuaded him  into a flat in Cambridge Street, Pimlico, and listened
as they offered him  200 grand to  shut up  and fuck off to the  City. Clive
picked up the  money, ripped it out of  its plastic bank wallets, opened the
window  and scattered it like confetti.  As  the hundreds of notes fluttered
down  onto the corner pub on Cambridge Street, the punters must have thought
Christmas had been brought forward to June.
     "You want to fuck me off?" Clive said.
     "Then it's going to cost you a fucking sight more than this."
     I thought  it  was great and  wanted to join the pub crowd fighting for
fifty-pound notes. To my mind the boy had done good; nobody likes a traitor,
no  matter what side you think you're on. I  really hoped  Sarah wasn't one,
because I liked her. Actually, I liked her a lot.
     I asked Elizabeth, "And you're sure that she hasn't been lifted?"
     She looked at Lynn.
     "Lifted?"
     It  was a bit  like being at Wimbledon, sitting between these two. Lynn
had to interrupt again because Elizabeth seemed about as switched on to real
life as Mickey Mouse.
     I asked, "So what do you want me to do about it?"
     Elizabeth kept it very simple.
     "Find her."
     I waited for  the rest of the sentence. There was  nothing. It  was the
most succinct aim I'd ever been given.
     "Do you know where she could be? I need a start point."
     She thought for a while.
     "You will  start in Washington. Her  apartment, I think, would be best,
don't you?"
     Yes,  I didn't disagree  with  that. But I had  another question:  "Why
don't you get the Americans to help you? They'd have  the resources to track
her down much faster."
     She sighed.
     "As I thought I  was making  clear  to you,  this  matter  needs  to be
handled with the least possible amount of fuss, and speedily." She looked at
Lynn. He cleared his throat and turned to face me.
     "We don't really want to involve any American departments yet. Not even
our embassy staff  are  aware  of the situation. As you might  imagine, it's
somewhat  embarrassing  to  have one  of  our  own IGs  missing in the  host
country.
     Especially  with Netanyahu and Arafat in the U.S.  for the Wye summit."
He paused.
     "If you fail to find  her they will have to know, and they will have to
take action. This is a very grave situation, Nick.  It could cause us a  lot
of embarrassment."
     I had been given the shortest aim  ever, and now I'd also been told the
clearest reason why. Lynn showed the worry on his face.
     "We need to find her quickly. No one must know. I emphasize, no one."
     I hated it  when these people used the word "we." They're in the  shit,
and all of a sudden it's "we." If the job went wrong it would have no father
but me.
     I calmed down.
     "That's why you want a K it's a deniable op?"
     He nodded.
     Why me? I said, "Isn't this a job for  the  security cell? They're used
to investigations. This isn't my sort of work."
     "This isn't something that needs to go any farther within the service."
     There was irritation in Elizabeth's voice.
     "I particularly wanted you for the job, Mr. Stone, as I understand  you
know Sarah better than most."
     I looked at her, still trying not to show any emotion.  She'd  raised a
knowing eyebrow as she said it. Shit. I tried to look puzzled.
     "I know her, if  that's what  you mean,  and I've  worked with her, but
that's about it."
     She tilted her head slightly to one side. She knew I was lying.
     "Really?
     I was informed that the relationship between you was somewhat cozier.
     In fact I was told that the  reason for your divorce after  leaving the
military  was due entirely to your  relationship  with Sarah Greenwood. Am I
mistaken?"
     She wasn't, and I  now understood even more. They had chosen me because
they thought  I knew  her well enough to have a chance of finding her.  They
were firefighting,  and they were using me as  Red Adair. Fuck 'em, let them
sort their own shit out. I might be pissed off, but I wasn't  stupid. It was
excuse time.
     "It's not going to work," I said.
     "The U.S.  is a  big  place,  and  what am I  going to do on my own?  I
haven't seen  her for ages and we weren't that close. What  can I do? What's
the use of even getting on a flight?"
     Lynn bent down to pick up my quick-move kit.
     "You will  be  going on the flight. You  will start an investigation to
find her. If not, I'm afraid you will find yourself in jail."
     I felt like saying, "Come off  it, that's the sort of line I use myself
when I'm threatening people. You can do better than that." But I had learned
the hard way to keep my mouth shut,  and it was just as well I did. Lynn had
my day sack on his knees now.
     "Credit us with  a  little intelligence, Nick. Do you  really think  we
don't know the full events of last year?"
     My stomach lurched and I knew my cheeks were starting to burn. I  tried
to remain calm, waiting to hear what he had to say.
     "Nick,  your version of  events leaves out a number of  details, any of
which will put you behind bars if we so  choose. We haven't investigated the
money you kept, or the unlawful killings you performed."
     That sounded rich  coming from a man who had sent me  out routinely  to
"perform"  unlawfully. But I  knew  that  they could  stitch me  up  if they
wanted.  It was  par  for  the course; I'd  even been part  of the stitch-up
sometimes.
     I now knew how it felt.
     There was an  outside chance  they were  bluffing.  I stared at him and
waited to see what else he had  to  say. I soon wished  I hadn't, because it
gave Elizabeth another opening.
     "Mr. Stone,  let us consider  your situation. What,  for example, would
happen  to the child in your  guardianship if  you were imprisoned? Her life
must be difficult  enough as it  is, I should have thought: new country, new
school..."
     How the fuck did they  know  all this? I thought I'd already been given
my incentive, but obviously not. They didn't come any less subtle than this.
I had to clench my fists to control myself. I felt like kicking the shit out
of  both of them. They knew it, and maybe that was  why Godzilla was in  the
driver's seat. It's always unwise  to fuck with a man who has a neck  bigger
than your own head,  especially if  he  probably has  enough weaponry in the
foot well to shoot down a jumbo jet. I took a deep breath, accepted I was in
the shit and let it out again.
     Elizabeth carried on as Lynn opened my day sack
     "Having found her, report back where she is  and what she's doing. Then
await further instructions."
     I turned back to Lynn. I knew she had finished and he would now give me
the details I  needed.  I  could hear  the newspaper being unfolded. She was
probably checking which of her horses were running tomorrow. I tried to keep
my breathing under control. I felt angry and helpless, my two least favorite
emotions.
     Lynn  was  unloading  the  bag  and  handing me  the  items.  My  cover
documentation, driver's license,  passport and even an advert for books from
a local paper, showed that, as from  now, I lived in Derbyshire. There  were
three credit cards. These would have been serviced every month,  and used so
that I ended up with  a  normal  bill  like everyone  else. The  family  who
covered for me  made sure of  that; years ago we used to keep all this stuff
with us all the  time, but there  were too many fuckups, with people getting
corrupt  and using  the credit cards  to pay for new cars and silk underwear
for their mistresses. An  audit a  few  years earlier  had unearthed  two  K
operators who had never even existed, and somebody somewhere was drawing off
the money.
     Lynn said, "There's the photography kit to Mac anything down to us."
     I Xhad a quick look inside. From the way that Lynn said it, I knew he'd
just  got the  briefing on this kit, and it sounded all exciting and sexy. I
nodded.
     "Great, thanks."
     "Here are  your  flight  details and  here are your tickets." As he got
them out of the  bag he checked the details and  said,  "Oh, so  you're Nick
Snell now?"
     "Yep, that's  me."  It had  been for quite  a while now, ever  since  I
became operational again after ... well, after what I'd thought I'd got away
with.
     Then he produced two flash cards from envelopes and handed them to me.
     "Your codes. Do you want to check them?"
     "Of course." He passed the bag to me. I took out  the Psion 3C personal
organizer and turned  it on. I'd been trying to get the new 5 Series  out of
the service, but unless the funds  were  for building squash  courts, it was
like trying to get blood from a stone. All the Ks  would have to put up with
the  3Cs  they'd bought  two years ago--and the thing  I had was one  of the
early  ones,  which didn't  even  have  the backlit display.  The  service's
attitude  to kit was the  same  as that  of a  thrifty mother who buys you a
school uniform several sizes too big, only in reverse.
     I put the  cards into both of the ports. It would be no good getting on
the ground and finding  that these things didn't work.  I opened up each one
in  turn  and  checked the screen. One  had just a  series  of  five  number
sequences;
     I closed that down and took it out. The other  had rows  of words  with
groups of numbers next to each word. All was in order.
     "The contact number is ..." Lynn started to reel off a London number.
     The Psion  held  the  names  and addresses  of  everyone from  the bank
manager to the local pizza shop, as you would have  as part of your cover. I
hit the data icon, and tapped the telephone number straight in, adding, as I
always  did, the address "Kay's sweet shop," I  could sense Elizabeth's eyes
burning  into  the back of  my head  and  I  turned around. She  was looking
disapprovingly  at me over the top of her paper, clearly put out that I  was
entering her contact number in the 3C. But there was  no way I'd remember it
that quickly; I'd need to go away and look  at it,  and  once I had it in my
head I'd wipe it off.  I'd never been  clever enough to  remember strings of
telephone numbers or map coordinates as they were given to me.
     Lynn carried on with the details.
     "Once in D.C." make contact with Michael Warner ." He gave me a contact
number, which I also tapped in.
     "He's  a  good  man,  used  to  work in communications, but had  a  car
accident and needed to have steel plates in his head."
     I closed down the Psion.
     "What's he do now?"
     Elizabeth had  finished with the racing section and turned to the share
prices. The driver still hadn't  turned a page.  Either he was  learning the
recipe of the day by heart or he'd gone into a trance.
     Lynn said, "He's Sarah's PA. He'll let you into her apartment."
     I nodded.
     "What's the cover story?"
     Lynn looked impatiently at his watch; maybe  he had another squash game
to get to.
     "He knows nothing, apart from the  fact that  London needs to check out
her security while she's away on business. It's time for her PV review."
     Personal vetting is carried out every few years to make sure you aren't
becoming  a  target  for  blackmail,  or sleeping with  the  Chinese defense
attache--unless you've been  asked  to by Her Majesty's government--or  that
you,  your mother, or  your great aunt haven't chucked in your lot  with the
Monster Raving Loony Party. Not that that  would have meant that much in the
past. Once  you were "in" as an IG things seemed to flow along without  much
in the way of monitoring, unless you were at the lower end of the food chain
my end where it was a completely different story.
     "He is a  bit  strange at  times;  you may  have to be  patient."  Lynn
started to smile.
     "He  had to leave  the com  ms cell  because his steel plate  picked up
certain frequencies and he used to get terrible head pain. He's good at  his
job, though." The smile faded as he  added  pointedly, "And more  important,
he's loyal."
     I shrugged.
     "Fine." Chances were that Metal  Mickey was  loyal because  he couldn't
get a job anywhere else, apart from as a relay station for Cellnet.
     I was packing everything back into the bag. I couldn't wait to get into
the fresh air; I was fed up with being scrutinized and fucked  over by these
people. But  Lynn hadn't finished. He  had one more item,  which  he  shoved
right under  my nose. It was a sheet of  white paper,  requiring a signature
for the  codes. I  used  Lynn's pen to scribble mine and handed it  back. No
matter what  happens,  you've  still got to  sign  for  every single  thing.
Everyone needs to cover their ass.
     I pushed open the door  and slid it  back, picking up the day sack When
my feet were on the concrete I turned and said, "What if I can't find her?"
     Elizabeth  lowered the  paper and gave me the sort  of look she'd given
our friends in the Ford Escort.
     Lynn glanced at Elizabeth, then back at me.
     "Get yourself a good barrister."
     I picked  up the day sack turned away and started  to  walk  toward the
elevator. I heard the door slide closed, and moments later  the Previa moved
off.
     I  walked toward the elevator trying not to get myself  into a  rage. I
didn't know what had brought  it back on--the fact that the  Firm knew about
both  Sarah and Kelly, or the fact that I'd been stupid enough to think they
didn't. I tried to calm down by telling myself that, in their shoes, I would
have done exactly the same, would have used it as a lever to make me do  the
job. It was a fair  one, but that didn't make me any  happier about being on
the receiving end.
     I got  to the  elevator  and  jabbed the  button. I looked  at  the red
digital  display  above  the  door. Nothing  was  moving. An elderly  couple
arrived,  having an argument  about  the  way their bags were stacked on the
trolley.
     We all waited.
     The elevator stopped at every floor but ours.  I stabbed at the  button
six times in  rapid succession  and the elderly couple shut up and moved  to
the other side of their trolley to keep out of my way.
     Maybe  it was Sarah I was pissed off with,  or maybe I was  just pissed
off  with myself for letting her under  my guard. Elizabeth was spot on, she
had been responsible for my divorce.
     The wait for the elevator was starting to turn into a joke. More people
had arrived with trolleys and  were  milling  about. I took the stairs.  Two
levels down, I followed the signs to departures across the skywalk, fighting
my way against a stream  of pedestrian traffic with suntans. Several charter
flights must have come in at once.
     I couldn't get the briefing out of my mind. How was  it that they  knew
everything about last year's fuckup?  I'd  kept my mouth shut all  along and
let them have just the barest of facts.
     There  was no  way I was going to let them take  the  money off me. Did
they even know about it? I had a brain wave and started to feel better. They
couldn't know everything. If so, they  would know that I had enough evidence
to put a few of the fuckers behind bars forever, and if they knew that, they
wouldn't  risk  threatening me. Then I felt pissed off  again: they could do
what  they  wanted,  because they  knew  about Kelly. I'd seen  grown  men's
emotions getting fucked over  and  used against them  when it came to  their
kids, but I'd never thought it would happen to  me. I cut all the conjecture
from my mind and started working.
     Departures was the normal mayhem people trying to  steer trolleys  that
had  other  ideas and parents  chasing runaway  two-year-olds.  A gaggle  of
pubescent schoolkids  with  tin  grins  were  on a  trip  somewhere, and  an
American  kids'  orchestra was  sitting  on its  trombone and bassoon cases,
bored with waiting to check in.
     I went to the  cash point then  to the bureau de  change. Next priority
was to find myself  some plausible hand luggage.  I bought myself  a leather
holdall, threw in  my quick-move day  sack and headed  for  the pharmacy for
washing  and shaving stuff. After that I hit a clothes  shop for  a  pair of
jeans, a couple of shirts and spare underwear.
     I checked in  at the  American Airlines  business-class  desk  and fast
tracked  air side into  the  lounge, where  I got straight  on  my mobile to
contact  my "family."  They were  good people, James and Rosemary.  They had
loved  me  like a son since I boarded with them  years ago,  or that was the
cover  story, anyway. James  always seemed  like a father should be;  he was
certainly the sort of man who would have taken his eight-year-old around HMS
Belfast. Both civil servants who had taken early retirement, they  had never
had any children because of  their careers, and  were still doing their  bit
for Queen and country. I even had a bedroom they called  it "Nick's room" in
the loft. If all your  documentation shows that's where you  live, you  must
have a room, surely?
     These were the people who would both confirm my cover story and also be
part of it.  I  visited them whenever I could, especially before an op, with
the result that  my  cover got stronger as  time  passed. They knew  nothing
about the ops and didn't want to; we would just talk about what was going on
at the social club, and what to do with greenfly on the roses.
     James wasn't  the best  gardener in the world, but  this sort of detail
gives substance to a cover. While  I was  in the area I would use  my credit
cards at one or two  local shops,  collect any mail and leave. It was a pain
to do, but details count.
     "Hello, James, it's Nick  here.  Quick  change of plan. I'm going for a
holiday in America." I might have changed names, but not James and Rosemary.
They just got used  to the change of details; after all,  I  was their third
"son" since retirement.
     "Any idea how long for?"
     "A couple of weeks probably."
     "All right, have a  good holiday then, Nick. Be careful; it's a violent
country."
     "I'll do  my best. See  you when  I get back. Say hello to Rosemary for
me."
     "Of course, see you soon. Oh, Nick ..."
     "Yes?"
     "Local council elections. It was a Lib Dem who got in."
     "OK, Lib Dem. Male or female?"
     "Male, Felix something. His ticket  was to stop the planning permission
for the super store."
     "Oh, OK. Will he block it?"
     "Don't be stupid. And talking of blockages, the problem with the septic
tank got sorted out yesterday."
     "OK, cheers. I tell you what, I'm  glad your shit is sorted out  there,
because I'm up to my  neck  in it here." We were both  still laughing  as  I
pressed  "end"  and  watched the  businessmen frantically  bent  over  their
laptops.
     There was nothing else to do now but wait for my flight, my head slowly
filling up with Sarah. I didn't want to do this job. She'd fucked me up, but
I still missed her. I could see that if what I was being told was right, she
definitely needed  to  be stopped; it was just that  I didn't want to be the
one to do it.
     I settled into my business-class  seat,  listening first to the screams
and banter  of  the zit-faced, hormonal boys and girls from the band  twenty
rows behind me, then to a very smooth, west coast  American voice saying how
wonderful it was for the flight  crew and cabin staff to be able to serve us
today.
     They filled us with drink  and a meal of chicken  covered in stuff, and
it was only then that I closed  my eyes and started to think seriously about
how I was going to find Sarah.
     Even in the U.K." a quarter of a million  people go  missing each year,
over  16,000  of them permanently--not, for the most part,  because  they've
been abducted,  but out of deliberate  choice. If  you go about it the right
way it's a  very simple thing to do. Sarah knew how to  do that; it was part
of her job. Finding a missing person  in the  U.K. was bad enough,  but  the
sheer size of  the U.S.A." and the fact that I couldn't  turn  to anyone for
help, meant it was going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack, in a
field full of haystacks, in a country full of fields.
     Whatever was going on in her  head, like most people in  this business,
Sarah would  have her security blanket tucked away.  Part  of that  would be
another identity. I had two backup IDs, in case one was discovered.
     Everybody  finds  their own way  to build one up and,  more especially,
hide it from the Firm. If you ever had to do a runner  from them, you'd need
that head start, and if Sarah had it in mind to disappear it would have been
well planned. She wasn't the sort of person to do anything at half cock.
     Then again,  nor was 1.1 thought about my new  mate, Nicholas Davidson,
who I'd bumped into in Australia the year before. He was a bit
     younger than  me,  and  had the  same Christian name, which is always a
good start,  as it helps  when reacting to a  new ID. But  more importantly,
both Nick and Davidson are very common names.
     I found him  in a gay bar in  Sydney.  It's usually  the best place for
what  I  had in mind, whatever country  you're in. Nicholas, I soon learned,
had been living and working  in Australia for  six years; he had a  good job
behind the bar and a partner with whom he shared a  house; most important of
all, he  had no  intention  of going back to the U.K.  Pointing out  of  the
window,  he said, "Look at  the  weather.  Look  at the people. Look  at the
lifestyle.  What do I  want  to go back for?" I got to know  him over two or
three  weeks; I'd pop in there a couple of times a week, when I  knew it was
his shift, and we'd have a chat. I met other gay men there, but they  didn't
have what Nicholas had. He was the one for me.
     When I got back to the U.K."  I  opened up an  accommodation address in
his name. Then I went to the town  hall and got  Nicholas registered  on the
electoral roll for the area of the address and applied for  a  duplicate  of
his driver's license. It arrived from the DVLC three weeks later.
     During that time  I also went to the Registry of  Births and Deaths  at
St.  Catherine's  House  in  London  and  obtained   a  copy  of  his  birth
certificate.
     He  hadn't liked to talk to me about  his past, and  I  could never get
anything more out of him than his birthday and where he was born, and trying
to dig any deeper would have aroused suspicion. Besides, his partner, Brian,
was getting pissed off with me sniffing around. It took a couple of hours of
scouring the registers between 1960 and 1961 before I found him.
     I went to the police and reported that my passport had been stolen.
     They gave me a crime number,  which I put on my application  form for a
replacement.  Added to a copy of  the  birth  certificate, it  worked:  Nick
Davidson  the Second  was  soon  the  proud  owner  of a  brand-new ten-year
passport.
     I needed to go farther. To have an authentic ID you have to have credit
cards. Over the next few months  I  signed up with several book  and  record
clubs; I even bought a hideous-looking Worcester porcelain figurine out of a
Sunday supplement, paying with a postal  order. In return,  I got  bills and
receipts, all issued to the accommodation address.
     Next I wrote to two or three  of the high-street banks and asked them a
string of questions that made it sound as if I  were a big-time investor.  I
received  very  grovelling letters  in reply, on the  bank's letterhead, and
written to my address. Then all I did was walk into a building society, play
very stupid and say I  would like to open a bank account, please. As long as
you have documentation with your address on, they don't seem to care.
     I put a few quid in  the new account  and let it tick over. After a few
weeks I got some standing orders up and  running with the book clubs, and at
last  I was ready  to  apply for  a  credit  card. As  long as you're on the
electoral register, have a bank account and no  bad credit history, the card
is yours.
     And once you have one card, all the other banks and finance houses will
fall  over themselves to make sure you take theirs as well. Fortunately,  it
appeared that Nick One had left no unpaid bills behind when he'd left. If he
had it would have been back to the drawing board.
     I was  thinking about  going  one  step  farther and getting  myself  a
National Insurance number, but really there was no point. I had money and  I
had a way out,  and anyway,  you can just go down to  the local DSS  and say
you're starting work the next Monday.  They'll give you  an emergency number
on  the spot, which will last you for years.  If that doesn't work,  you can
always just make  one up;  the system's so inefficient it takes forever  for
them to find out what's going on.
     As soon as I had my passport and cards up and running, I  used them for
a trip to confirm they  worked. After that, I carried on using them to  keep
the cards active and  to get  the passport stamped  with  a  few entries and
exits.
     Just as I  would do if  I needed to disappear,  Sarah  would be leaving
behind everything  she knew. She wouldn't  be contacting family  or friends,
she would completely bin all  the little day-to-day experiences that made up
her life, all the little eccentricities that would give her away.
     I  started to think  back over what she'd told me of  her past because,
without any outside help, that was the only place I had to go. I really knew
very little, apart from the fact that she'd had a boyfriend a while ago, but
binned  him after  finding out he was also seeing another woman.  The  story
went that  he lost a finger during the row  with her;  and that  was the sum
total in that department. Maybe metal-headed Mickey Warner could help,  if I
made  it  sound  like  a  PV question.  In fact, there  would  be plenty  of
questions for him to answer.
     As  for the family and her upbringing, she'd never told me  much. All I
knew was that,  though we might have  come from different ends of the social
spectrum,  we seemed to share  the same emotional background. Neither set of
parents had given a monkey's. She was fucked off to school when she was just
nine, and me, well, I was just fucked off. Her family life was a desert, and
it would hold no clues. The more I thought about it,  the smaller the needle
became and the larger the haystack.
     What  it  boiled  down to  was  that  if she wanted  to  disappear  she
could-nobody was going to find  her. I could be on her  trail for months and
still not be  getting any  warmer. I racked  my brains,  trying to  remember
something,  anything,  that  might  help, some little clue  she  might  have
revealed at some point that would give me a lead.
     I pressed the "call" button and ordered a couple  of  beers,  partly to
help me sleep, partly because,  once I got to  D.C." there would be no  more
alcohol.
     For me, work and drink never mixed.
     Maybe Josh  could help. I could get hold of him  when he  returned from
the U.K." and  maybe he could  access some  databases  and run  some  covert
checks. I wondered whether I should tell him the truth, but decided against.
It could land both of us in the shit.
     The  thought suddenly struck me  that part of me was  hoping I wouldn't
find her. I felt depressed,  but  resolved  to crack on and get it over  and
done with. I would  go straight to her  flat, meet my new mate Metal Mickey,
and take it from there.
     The beer turned up and I decided to veg out for the rest of the flight.
As I watched a  film my mind drifted to Kelly.  She  was probably sitting at
the table with her grand ad drawing pictures and drinking tea  and trying to
pull her shirt out from her jeans every time her grandmother  tucked it back
in. I made a mental note to call her.
     I took another swig of beer and tried my hardest  to think of something
else, but I couldn't get Sarah out of my mind.
     In  1987,  two  years  before  the  end  of  the  Soviet  occupation of
Afghanistan, the  U.K.  and  U.S.  were sending  teams in-country  to  train
Afghani rebels, the mujahedin.
     The Soviet Union had  invaded  Afghanistan eight years earlier. Peasant
villagers got  their  first  experience of modern technology when  they were
pounded by Moscow's  jets, tanks and  helicopters. Three million were killed
or maimed; six million others fled west into Iran or east into Pakistan.
     Those that were  left  standing took on  the Russians, living on  stale
bread and tea, sleeping on rocky mountainsides.
     Eventually  the mujahedin put out an international  plea  for help. The
West responded with  $6 billion  worth of arms. Congress, however, would not
give  permission  for  the   rebels   to  be  armed  with  American  Stinger
ground-to-air missiles  to take down the Russian gunships  and ground attack
aircraft, so our job was to train them in  how to  operate the Brit Blowpipe
missiles  instead. The CIA reasoned  that  if  Congress was shown  that  the
Afghans  had  a  piss-poor  ground-to-air  missile  capability   which  they
certainly  did with Blowpipe: you needed to be a brain  surgeon or  have two
right hands to use  the thing then they would  eventually be allowed to have
Stingers instead. They were right. We stayed and generally trained  them how
to fuck the Russians over.
     Not that I knew it at the time I was more concerned about not losing  a
leg  on the hundreds  of thousands of  antipersonnel mines the  Russians had
dropped but  in Saudi Arabia, a few years before, a young  civil engineering
graduate called Osama  Bin Laden had  also responded to the rebels' plea for
help, packing himself and several of his family's bulldozers off to  central
Asia. An Islamic  radical from an influential and enormously wealthy family,
whose construction company had been involved in  rebuilding the holy mosques
in Mecca and  Medina, Bin Laden was inspired by what he saw as the plight of
Muslims in a medieval society besieged by a twentieth-century superpower.
     At first his work was political.  He was one  of the  Saudi benefactors
who spent millions supporting the Afghan guerrillas. He recruited  thousands
of Arab fighters in the Gulf, paid for their passage to  Afghanistan and set
up the main guerrilla  camp  to  train them.  Then he must have  gone a  bit
loopy. With all that money he decided to take part  in the fighting himself.
I  never  saw him,  but every other word from the mujahedin would be  on the
subject of  how  great he was. They loved  him, and so  did the West at that
time. He  sounded  like a  good  lad,  taking care of  widows and orphans by
creating  charities  to support  them and their families, all  that sort  of
stuff.
     Our team had  just finished a  six-month tour in the mountains north of
Kabul and was cleaning up back  in the U.K.. before a two-week holiday  when
we  got called to  London for orders. It looked as  if we were going back to
visit  our  new  best  mates  a  bit  quicker than we  thought.  Aboard  the
helicopter, the rumor  going around was  that  we  were needed to  protect a
civil servant during meets with the  mujahedin. We groaned at the thought of
having  to nanny a sixty-year-old  Foreign Office pen-pusher while he did an
on-site audit of arms expenditure.  Colin  had been  picked to  be  with the
principal at all  times  when  on the  ground,  while the rest  of us  would
provide protection from a distance.
     "Fuck that," said Colin.
     "It'll be  like  getting stuck in  an  episode  of  Yes,  Minister." He
promptly wriggled out of it and handed the job over to me.
     Colin, Finbar, Simon and I were part of  the team. We were sitting in a
briefing room in a 1960s office block on the Borough High Street, just south
of London Bridge, drinking tea from a machine and gob bing off  as we waited
for  others to arrive. A woman we didn't recognize entered the room, and all
four of us, as well as a  few of the advisers and briefing personnel,  did a
double take. She was stunning,  her  body hardly disguised by a short  black
skirt and jacket. She  nodded to  people she  knew  and sat  down, seemingly
oblivious to the many pairs of male eyes burning into her back.
     Colin would  fuck the crack of dawn if he  had the  chance. He couldn't
keep  his eyes  off  her. She took  off  her jacket, and  the sleeveless top
beneath  showed off her shoulders. They had definition: she trained. I could
sense Colin getting even more excited.
     He leaned over and whispered to Finbar, "I need a lawyer."
     "Why's  that,  wee  mon?"  Finbar  always  called  him that, which  was
strange, as the Irishman was about a foot smaller than Colin.
     "I'm getting a divorce."
     We were all  intrigued to know what she  was bringing to the  party; it
came as  a bit of a shock  when she was introduced as  the  civil servant we
were  going to protect. I had to smile. I knew  what  was  coming  next and,
right on cue, Colin leaned toward me.
     "Nick ..."
     I ignored him, making him suffer a bit more.
     "Nick ..."
     I turned and gave him a big smile.
     "I'll take my job back now, mate."
     I slowly shook my head.
     Listening intently to  the briefing officer, she  crossed her legs, and
the rustle of the material was just about the  most wonderful sound I'd ever
heard.  I  was  sure we were  all  paying more attention to that than to the
briefing.  She was  now comfortable in her seat and her skirt had ridden  up
enough to show  the darker tops of her tights. It was impossible to tell  if
she was doing it on purpose. She didn't  turn her head or glance  around  to
check for effect.
     When she stood up  to speak,  her voice was  low and very confident. If
the Intelligence Service didn't work out  for  her,  she could always find a
job on a 1-900 number.
     Sarah explained that what she wanted to do was lay her hands on and get
back to the West an airworthy, Russian-built Hind  ground-attack helicopter,
the true capabilities of which, she said, were still not understood.
     Better still,  she added,  she'd like  a pair. She was the one  who was
going  to strike the  deal with the Afghans,  and  it was a  simple  case of
"We'll  scratch  your  back  by  carrying on  showing  you  how to fuck  the
Russians, you scratch ours with a helicopter or two."
     From day one  of  the  two  months that we  were moving  in and out  of
Pakistan to the rebels' mountain hideouts, she was a consummate professional
to work  with.  She made life so much easier for us sometimes  on  jobs like
this we could spend just as much time massaging the fear factor out  of  the
poor fucker who had to make the meet as we would preparing for it ourselves.
But  she was different. Maybe she wasn't scared because she had just as much
of  a fiery temper as  the  truculent rebels. That often  led  to delays  in
negotiations more so than the fact that she was a woman.
     But it  was  obvious to  me that she had  the  knowledge,  language and
background  to hold her  own  with these people,  for whom  we  all had  the
greatest respect; after all, they were fighting a superpower, and winning.
     I saw that Sarah had a love and understanding of this part of the world
that she couldn't have hidden, even if she'd tried. On top of  that, she was
switched on and didn't flap when the meets got heated. She knew I was there,
and that the  other three were around somewhere, watching.  If the  shit had
hit  the fan, the Afghans wouldn't have known what had hit  them unless  the
shit was Russian, in which  case  our orders were to bail out  and leave the
rebels to it.
     We were on a  shopping  trip,  but  with a difference.  Everyone had  a
weapon and everyone  was at war  not  only with the  Russians, but also with
each other as they  fought  to gain control of the country. Sarah played one
group off against  another to  get what she wanted. It went wrong only once,
when two young men discovered what was going on and confronted her. I had to
do a little  confrontation of my own at that point, and make sure the bodies
were never found.
     Another time she  lost her cool when the rebels told her they wanted to
sell the Hind to her, not simply hand it over. They had screamed and shouted
at each other and the meet had ended with her storming off the mountainside.
We drove to the border in silence, while she sat and brooded about  what had
happened. At length she said,  "Not a  good  one for me,  Nick.  What do you
think I should write in my report?"
     I thought for a moment.
        "PMS?"
     She laughed.
     "Never mind,  we'll just have  to come back and try again soon, but not
for the next five days." It was the first time I'd seen her really laugh. As
we  tried to make it back to Pakistan before one of the  helicopters she was
so keen to get hold of found us, she was giggling like a school kid
     It turned  into a ritual. After it happened  for the third time I would
just nod and say, "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."  She'd laugh, and we
would then just spin the shit until we got to the safety of Pakistan.
     Later  she had  a report  that PIRA  (the Provisional IRA) were passing
technical  information to the  mujahedin on  how to make homemade explosives
and timer units. London reckoned  the Afghans would be paying PIRA back with
buckets of their U.S.and U.K.-sourced weapons.
     She looked concerned.
     "What are  we going to do about it, Nick? London wants me to  find  out
who their contact is."
     I cracked up.
     "You already know them."
     She looked puzzled.
     "I do?"
     "Colin, Finbar, Simon and me."
     She was now totally confused.
     "Think  about it. Who has been fighting a  terrorist  war for years? We
showed the  Afghans what PIRA  use, we  showed  them how to  make  the timer
units.  PIRA's  stuff is  easy to make, reliable and it works. It's the best
improvized kit in the world. We even use it ourselves,  so  why not show our
new best mates? That's our job, right: to help fuck up the bad boys."
     The next evening in Pakistan was spent constructing a sit rep that took
the piss  out of the int collator who'd thought up this little PIRA gem, and
she found  it as funny as I  did, which was  all  rather nice, because I was
finding that I liked the way her nose twitched when something amused her and
her face creased into a big, radiant smile.
     It was strange that we got  on so well, because in many  ways  we  were
chalk and cheese.  I had  joined the  Army  because I  was  too  thick to do
anything else. I'd seen the adverts that said I could be a  helicopter pilot
serving Queen and  country, and an uncle of mine, who was an  ex  serviceman
told me that girls loved a uniform. As far  as I was concerned,  all you had
to do to  get permanently tanned and laid was saunter down to the recruiting
office. To a sixteen-year-old kid who thought that the world beyond my south
London housing estate was just hearsay, it was no wonder the posters  sucked
me  in.  I couldn't  wait  to go  to  Cyprus  wherever  that was  and fly my
helicopter  over beaches packed with girls who were just  gagging for  me to
land and let them play with my joystick.
     Strangely, however, that wasn't quite the way things turned out. I took
the entry  tests, but  the Army  seemed to take the view that  somebody  who
could only just about do up  his own boot laces without getting confused was
not  about to  take  sole  charge  of a multimillion-pound Chinook.  So, the
infantry it was, then.
     Sarah,  on the other hand, was smart. Private  Benjamin she wasn't. Not
that I knew much about her; ironically, she was just as good as I was at not
giving anything away. No, I realized later, she was better. And to be honest
that pissed me off. I wanted to know all about her strengths and weaknesses,
her  hopes  and fears, her  likes  and dislikes,  because  armed  with  that
information I could properly  plan and carry out an attack  on her expensive
designer underwear. Since part  of our cover  while in Pakistan was  that we
were a couple and  had to share  the same hotel  room much to Colin's fury I
thought I might be  in with a chance. At  least, that was  at the back of my
mind at the start. I soon surprised myself by finding that, more than to get
into her pants, I wanted to get inside her head. I realized I actually liked
her. I liked her a lot, and I'd never felt that way about anyone before.
     As  time  went by, however, I was making no progress. I could never get
any sort of  handle on who this woman  really  was.  It  was like playing  a
computer  game  and never  getting past level one. It  wasn't  that she  was
aloof; she was a great mixer. She'd go out with the  team, and even accepted
dinner with me  a couple of times. She had a  way of  making me feel  like a
puppy jumping around at her feet waiting for a doggie treat. I knew, though,
that I had the dreamer's disease, and that  nothing would happen between us.
What the fuck  would she want from someone like me, apart from my ability to
rip people apart for her if they got too scary?
     On  that point  I'd obviously acquitted myself all right, because Sarah
was the  one who suggested that  I apply for a job  with  the service once I
lefr  the  Regiment.  Even now,  after five years, I  still didn't know if I
should kiss her for  that, or  give her the good news with a  two-pound ball
hammer.
     I drank more beer and tried to watch the TV screen in front of me,  but
really I couldn't be assed. I thought back again to the Afghanistan job. The
United  States and its allies  gave tens of thousands of  assault rifles and
rocket-propelled  grenades, millions of rounds of ammunition and hundreds of
Stinger missiles to the  mujahedin.  By the  time the war ended  in 1989 the
muj's stock  of  Stingers was  far from  exhausted, and the CIA  soon had  a
multimillion-dollar reward operation going, in an  attempt to get  them back
before  they were  sold to any  terrorist group who fancied a couple to play
with. As far as I knew, the offer still stood.
     I turned  onto my side, trying  to  get  comfortable, and thought  that
maybe I should be going back to try and get some of that reward for myself.
     It was about time I made some money. I didn't know where they were, but
I knew an Afghan who'd got Sarah's Hinds for her, and he just might.
     It's strange how  things change.  During  that time Bin Laden was  most
certainly in the West's Good Lads club. Now he'd  had the idea of blowing up
things on the American mainland, he was public enemy number  one. I wondered
what sort of reward the U.S. had on his head.
     The flight ended in Dulles airport,  just outside  of Washington, and I
joined  the  long snake of  people lining up for Immigration. It took  about
twenty minutes to shuffle to the desks, gradually zigzagging my way backward
and forward between  the ropes. It  reminded me of lining up  for  a ride at
Disneyland. The immigration personnel looked like policemen and behaved like
bouncers, pushing and herding us into position.
     My immigration official glared  as if he were trying to spook me, maybe
because he was bored. I just smiled like a dickhead tourist while he stamped
the visa waiver and wearily invited me to enjoy my stay in the United States
of America.
     The automatic doors parted and I walked into the frenzy of the arrivals
lounge. Drivers were holding up  name cards, families were clutching flowers
and teddy bears,  and they were all looking hopefully at each face that came
through the sliding doors. All I wanted was a big dose of caffeine.
     I wandered over to  Starbucks and got myself about a pint and a half of
cappuccino. Tucking myself  away  in the  corner,  I got out the 3C  and the
mobile and switched them both on.
     I found the  number I wanted and waited  an age for the mobile to get a
signal. The new Bosch mobiles worked on both worldwide and U.S. frequencies;
     there wasn't 100 percent  coverage here yet, but it was getting better.
They  had completely changed  the way we worked. Phones had  been around for
ages that could do the same job, but they weren't available commercially. On
covert ops you can use  only what you can buy at the Carphone Warehouse;  if
not, you'd stand out like dogs' bollocks. I hit the keys.
     "Hellooo, Michael speaking." The  voice was camp  and  highly  pitched,
more like a game-show host  than  the personal assistant of  a member of the
"other Foreign Office."
     "My name's Nick Snell," I said.
     "Oh, yes, I've  been waiting to hear from you," he said, and  it was  a
mixture of warmth, excitement and pleasure, as if I were a long-lost friend.
     "How are you?"
     I  was a bit  taken aback. We didn't know each other, and  going by the
sound of his voice  I wouldn't  even buy a secondhand washing  machine  from
him, yet he was talking to me as if I were his best mate from way back.
     "I'm fine," I said, feeling a smile spread across my face.
     "How are you?"
     He came back  with, "I'm  just Jim Dandy!" Then he tried  to switch  to
serious mode.
     "Now then, where do you want to meet me?"
     All  of a  sudden  I wondered if  I  was on a radio stitch-up show  and
started to  laugh.  I  said, "I'll leave that to you. After  all,  it's your
town, isn't it?"
     "Oh, and what a town!" He clearly couldn't wait to share it with me.
     There was a little pause, then he said, "I tell you what, I'll meet you
at the Bread and Chocolate Bakery. It's a coffee shop on the corner of M and
23rd. They  do fantastic mocha, and it's not far from the apartment. Now, do
you know where M and 23rd is?"
     I knew the area and I could read a map. I'd find it.
     "I've  got to pick a  car up first--I'll  be there in about  two hours'
time. Will that fit in with you?"
     For  reasons  best known to  himself, he came  back with  a  mock-Texan
drawl.
     "Why, sure, Nick." He laughed.
     "I'll be the  beach ball with the blue shirt and the red tie; you won't
be able to miss me."
     I  said,  "I'm wearing jeans, a blue checked shirt  and  a blue  bomber
jacket."
     "See  you there. By the way, parking is  an absolute bitch this time of
day, so good luck to you. See you there, M and 23rd. Byeee!"
     I hit the "end" button and shook my head. What  the  fuck was that  all
about?
     I was only two blocks away when I got held up in slow-moving traffic.
     With its tall buildings  and narrow  roads, the area  around M and 23rd
reminded me of the more upscale areas of New York. Even the weather was  the
same as on my visits to the Big Apple: cloudy, but warm. Trust Sarah to live
around  here,  I thought, but in  fact  it  made  sense.  It wasn't far from
Massachusetts Avenue, which more or less  bisects the city from northwest to
southeast, and all the embassies, missions and  consulates are  in the area,
mainly in the northwest section.
     As I filtered forward I saw the problem.  The junction ahead was sealed
off by D.C.  police  bikers, and we were  being rerouted to the right. As  I
made the  turn,  a fleet of  black Lincolns with darkened  windows  screamed
through  the  crossroads.  At the rear  of the  convoy was  a  bunch of four
wheel-drive Chevy escorts and two ambulances, just in case the principal cut
his finger. It looked as if either Netanyahu or Arafat was already in town.
     The  grid system in D.C.  works with the lettered streets running  east
west  and  the  numbers  north-south. I found  the junction I wanted  easily
enough, but  there was no way I could stop. The one-way  circuit on M street
had a mind of its  own, and Metal Mickey was right, parking was a gang-fuck.
The  street was  lined with cars that  had a firm grip on  their meters  and
weren't letting go for anyone; another three laps of the block and I finally
found a Nissan  pulling away from  a  space  on  M, just past the junction I
wanted.
     I  locked up, fed  the meter and walked. Bread and Chocolate turned out
to be a small coffee shop on the street level of an office and apartment
     building,  just fifteen  meters farther down  on the left side of 23rd.
There was another coffee  shop  opposite, attached  to a  grocery store, but
this was the better of the two. The interior looked so clean I felt I should
have scrubbed up before going in. Long glass  display cases were filled with
Danishes  and a  million different  muffins  and sandwiches, and on the wall
behind them  was a coffee  selection menu that  went on  forever. Everything
looked so perfect I wondered if people were allowed to buy anything and mess
up the displays.
     The tables were white marble,  small and round, just big enough to seat
three. I sat facing the glass shop  front and ordered a mocha  a  small  one
after the  mother lode at the airport. The place was  about a  quarter full,
mostly  with smartly  dressed  office workers  talking  shop.  I  nursed  my
caffeine for the ten minutes that  remained before our RV  Right on time, in
he walked, and  a beach ball he certainly was. He had skin that was so clear
it  was  virtually see-through, and black hair that was slightly thinning on
top, which he'd  gelled  and  combed back to  make it  look thicker. On  his
cheerful, chubby face he had fashionably round, black-rimmed glasses, behind
which a  pair  of  clear  blue  eyes were looking twice their  natural  size
because  of  the thickness of  the lenses.  He was  wearing a  shiny,  gray,
single-breasted suit, bright blue shirt and red tie, all set off nicely by a
little  burn-fluff  goatee  beard.  He  must  have been  about  forty pounds
overweight, but was tall with it,  over six  feet. His jacket had all  three
buttons done up and was straining to contain the load. He spotted me just as
easily and came over, hand outstretched.
     "Well, hellooo. You must be Nick."
     I  shook  his  hand,  noticing his  soft skin  and  immaculate,  almost
feminine,  fingernails. We  sat down and  the waiter  came over  immediately
maybe Metal  Mickey  was a regular. Pointing at  my coffee, he looked up and
smiled.
     "I'll have one of those, please." The  aroma of the mocha was  no match
for his aftershave.
     The  moment  the  waiter  was   out  of  earshot,  he  leaned  forward,
unnaturally close to me.
     "Well then, all I've been told is  to help you  while  Sarah's away." I
was about to reply, but he was off again.
     "I must  say, I'm quite excited about it. I've never been involved with
someone  else's PV review before. Just my  own, of course. Anyway, so here I
am, all yours!" He finished in a grand gesture, with his hands in the air in
mock surrender.
     Grabbing my chance, I said, "Thanks, that certainly makes things a  lot
easier.  Tell  me,  when was the last time you saw her? I'm not too sure how
long she's been away."
     "Oh, about three  weeks  ago.  But what's  new?  She's  here, there and
everywhere, isn't she?"
     The coffee came and Metal Mickey's head turned as he said thanks to the
waiter. The light caught it just right and I could  see the  scarring  where
the plate had been inserted an  area about three inches  by  two of slightly
raised  skin.  I  just  hoped  that no one on a nearby table answered  their
cellular phone, because he'd probably leap up and start doing the conga.
     He picked up his coffee cup, got his podgy lips over the rim and sucked
away at the froth. He put  it down again  with a big  "Ah!" and smiled, then
was straight back into it.
     "Yes, three weeks ago was the last time. I don't  worry  much about her
comings  and goings. I just make sure things  are running smoothly here." He
hesitated, like  a child who wants something from a parent and  is trying to
pluck up  courage. I was almost  expecting  him  to  start playing  with his
fingers and shuffling his feet.
     "I've been thinking,  is her  review because she's due to return to the
U.K.? If so, it's just that I wondered ... would  I have to go  back, too? I
mean, not that I wouldn't want that, but it's just..."
     I caught his drift and cut in.
     "I don't think she, or you, will be going  home  soon,  Michael. Unless
you want to." I decided not to hit him with  any questions at the moment. He
was too  nervous, and would naturally be loyal to Sarah. Besides, I might as
well get  to grips with the apartment, then hit  him with  everything in one
go.
     There was visible relief in his face. I went on, in a more upbeat tone,
"You have the keys for her apartment?"
     "Sure do! Shall we go up there now?"
     I nodded,  and sucked down  the rest of my coffee  while he pulled some
notes  from a  slim, tidy wallet  to pay for the coffees. At the pay desk he
carefully folded the receipt and tucked it away.
     "Expenses," he sighed.
     He carried on as we walked out onto 23rd.
     "I don't know when she's coming  back. Do you?"  He held open the glass
door for me.
     I thought, Who's supposed to be asking the questions here?
     "No, I'm afraid I don't. I'm just here to do the review." I thought I'd
leave it at that.
     I didn't know if he'd seen how a PV review was really carried out which
wasn't  like  this--but  he  nodded  as  if  he  knew it was all part of the
procedure.
     "Did you manage to park near?"
     "Just around the corner, on M."
     "Well done, good boy!"
     I started to go to the right, toward the car, thinking we were about to
go for a drive.
     "No, no, silly," he said, pointing the opposite way.
     "She lives at the end of the block, on N."
     It  was  strange; the  one  thing I  didn't get from  Lynn  was Sarah's
address.
     Mind  you, I  didn't  ask.  It must have  been shock at  the thought of
seeing her again.
     As we walked the short distance along  the narrow, tree-lined street to
the next junction, I saw what  he  was pointing at. The apartment  block was
right on the corner of 23rd and N. Its jutting balconies and  combination of
red brick and white stone made it look like a game of Jenga played with Good
& Plenty candy. I couldn't make  up my mind whether that was how it had been
designed, or if the builders had been drunk when they put it all together.
     We carried on toward the junction and I decided to chance a question. I
knew I'd resolved not to press  him just  yet, but this was one  that  I was
very curious to have an answer to.
     "Tell me about boyfriends," I said.
     He looked at me with a mixture of surprise and disapproval, and sounded
quite defensive.
     "I  don't think  that has anything to do with this PV" He  paused, then
said, "But yes, as a matter of fact, I do ..."
     "No, no, not you," I laughed.
     "Sarah. Do you know of any men that she's been seeing?"
     "Ohhh, Sarah. None at all. Well, not after what happened last time."
     His tone just begged the question.
     "Why, what happened?"
     "Well, poor Sarah was in love with a guy from the real Foreign Office.
     He was back in  London, but he came here from time to time. They  would
disappear  for  a week  or two, to the  middle of  nowhere.  Not my sort  of
stamping ground, let me tell you."
     I looked at him expecting to share a  smile, but he was thinking of the
next bit and had begun to look sad.
     "Something very unfortunate happened,  and I'm afraid it was me who was
the bringer of bad news ..."
     He was waiting for the pan to reply, and I obliged: "What bad news?"
     "Well, I get a call  from Sarah, telling  me  that Jonathan"--he took a
breath, getting really sparked up about him--"is arriving at the airport and
she wants me to pick  him up and  take  him straight to the restaurant she's
booked for a surprise dinner.  They planned to leave for  the lakes the next
day."
     I nodded to show that I was hanging on every word.
     "I  get to the airport  to pick him  up. He's never seen me  before, of
course, but I've seen photographs of him. Anyway, so there I am, waiting.
     Out he comes, arm-in-arm  with  another woman. All  over her like a wet
dress,  I ask you!  I put  my name card  down sharpish,  I can tell you, and
followed to  see what happened  next. I even got in the taxi line  with them
and listened. She was called Anna .. . Ella .. . Antonella--that was it.
     Anyway, a stupid name if you ask me, but spot on for a Sloaney slapper,
which  was what she looked. Too many pearls around her neck; didn't suit her
..." He left a gap. Maybe he wanted me to feel part of the show.
     I said, "What happened next?"
     "Well, what was  I to do? I call Sarah at  the restaurant an hour later
to say that I couldn't find him. She says, "Not a problem, he's called me on
my cell phone." You  can imagine, Nick,  I struggled all night about what to
do.  Do  I  tell her or  do I not? Well,  it's none  of my  business, is it?
Anyway, the next day the decision  was made  for me." The smile on  his face
told me that it had been a good one. He was trying to suppress a giggle.
     "Go on."
     "Well, poor old Anna whats-her-face had been mugged downtown. In such a
mess she was, lost her money, cards, the poor girl was in hospital for days,
you know. Well,  who does she ask the police  to  contact but dear Jonathan,
care of  the  embassy?  The call comes through, I get to hear  about it, and
guess  what--it  only turns out he's her ! So, I had the contact number  and
she was in hospital. Poor girl. I suppose I feel sorry for her now."
     I  laughed, but wondered who in their right  mind  would  two-time with
another woman when they already had Sarah.
     "What happened?"
     He held his hand up, with his index finger folded down.
     "The bitch lost his finger; she slammed the car door on his hands! That
will teach him to mess  with Sarah.  If  you knew her like I do, Nick, you'd
know  that  she's  a wonderful woman. Far too good  for a  man  like  that."
Someone  must  have  powered  up a  mobile  near us--Metalhead  was off on a
tangent.
     "And she wears such wonderful clothes, you wouldn't believe!"
     As we got to the junction I saw that the entrance was on  the N  Street
side. A Latino in a blue polo  shirt and green work trousers was hosing down
the street  directly  outside the main doors,  while the  greenery along the
front of the building was getting a drenching from the irrigation system.
     The  main  doors were made  of copper-colored alloy  and glass.  To the
left, a brass plate welcomed us to the building; to the right, a touchscreen
TV entry system made sure the welcome wasn't abused. Metal Mickey took out a
long plastic key, which looked as if it  should be used  to wind up a  kid's
toy. He slipped it into the keyhole and the doors parted.
     We walked into  a  world  of black marble  floors,  dark-blue walls and
ceilings you could free  fall  from. The elevators  were ahead of us,  about
twenty  meters  farther  down  the  atrium.  To  the right  of  them  was  a
semicircular desk--very Terence Conran,  with a shiny  wooden top and  black
marble wall  beneath. Behind it sat  an equally smart  and efficient-looking
porter, who would  have looked at  home on the door of a five-star hotel. It
appeared  that  Metal  Mickey  knew him  quite well. He  greeted  him with a
cheery, "Why, hello, Wayne, how are you today?"
     Wayne was fortyish, and obviously having a really good day.
     "I'm very good," he smiled.
     "How are you doing?"
     It was  obvious  that he didn't really  know Metal Mickey's name  or he
would have said it, but he recognized the face.
     "I'm just Jim  Dandy,"  Mickey grinned. Then he looked  over at  me and
said,  "This is  Nick,  a  friend of  Sarah's. He's  going to  be  using the
apartment for a few days while Sarah's away, so I'll show him what's what."
     I  smiled at Wayne  and  shook his hand,  just  to prove to him  that I
wasn't a threat. Wayne smiled back.
     "Anything  you need,  Nick, just dial  HELP  on the  in-house phone and
it'll be done."
     "Thanks a lot. I'll need Sarah's parking space, if she has one."
     "You just tell me when you want to collect the pass key." He beamed.
     There was one more thing I needed. I leaned toward Wayne, as if letting
him into a secret.
     "If Sarah comes in, please don't tell her I'm here.  I want to surprise
her."
     Wayne gave me a knowing, between-men sort of nod.
     "No problem.
     Tell you what, I'll call you on the in-house if I see her."
     Metal  Mickey  and  I took  the elevator to the  sixth  floor. The door
opened onto a corridor that was every  bit  as  plush  as the entrance  hall
downstairs, with the same colored walls and subtle, wall-mounted lighting.
     You could see the vacuum marks on the thick blue carpet.
     Metal Mickey was quiet for a change  as  we walked  along the corridor,
his hands in his pockets as he sorted out some  keys. He stopped outside the
door to apartment  612. "Here  we  are."  He  undid  the  large,  five-lever
deadlock first, then the equivalent of a Yale lock, and pushed the door open
for me.
     I stepped in before him and blocked  the doorway, which opened straight
into the  living  room. He got the  message, dangling the keys  between  his
thumb and forefinger in front of me.
     "Do  you want  me to stay  and make you some coffee,  or  do  you  need
anything else?"
     I said,  "There will be  a few things I need to talk to you about  work
stuff, you know. Later on. But apart from  that, mate, no.  But thanks a lot
for  everything.  I just need a little time on  my own,  to sort myself out;
it's my first one, I need to do a good job."
     He nodded as if he knew what  I  was talking about,  which was  just as
well because I  didn't; it  had  just come  into  my  head. It  was  nothing
personal, I just didn't want him around.
     He gave me his card.
     "My home and pager."
     I took it from him.
     "Thanks,  I'll  try  not to  call  you out of  hours.  I can't  imagine
there'll be any need. It can all wait until Monday."
     It always pays to be nice to  people,  because you never know when  you
might  need  to use them.  And besides, Metal Mickey  was  harmless.  As  he
started  to  walk  back toward  the  elevator, I poked  my  head  around the
doorframe and called out, "Thanks a  lot, Michael." He  just waved his right
hand in the air and said, "Byeee, and remember, anything else you need, just
call."
     I closed the  door and remained standing on the threshold while I keyed
Metal Mickey's numbers into my 3C cards always get lost. Once done, I looked
around at  nothing in particular, just  tuning  in to the place rather  than
charging in and not noticing  anything. I knew there wouldn't be any letters
under the door, because they all went via the central mailbox.  I  also knew
that  there'd be nothing tangible, like a notebook with  a  detailed plan of
what she was  up to, but if you don't take your time you can go straight for
the sixpence and miss the five-pound note.
     I  went  to  lock  myself in so no one could  enter; it was  a  natural
reaction  to  being in  someone else's  house when  I shouldn't, but on this
occasion there wa