the plan would be to move to a known quantity the road and parallel it until
I could get my hands on a vehicle.
     I carried on for another ten minutes or so, with Sarah now up with me.
     About sixty or  seventy  meters  away  to  my  half  right,  there  was
something  that looked as if it could work: a  fallen tree on higher ground,
its  branches still intact but decaying. It had fallen down a sharp bank. It
would give us ideal cover from  view from the air as well as the ground and,
just as important, it  would give us cover from  the elements. If the police
didn't get  hold of  us,  I didn't  want the weather  to finish  us  off. It
wouldn't be long before exhaustion and cold would take their toll.
     "What are we doing now?" Sarah asked.
     "Why have you stopped?"
     I didn't bother replying; I was looking back at the route we'd taken.
     Then I  turned around again  and looked forward at the tree, off  to my
half right. The ground ahead was  the same  as behind, rises,  with lots  of
dead ground beyond.
     I turned half left and started kicking my feet, leaving obvious sign. I
wanted  them to see  my  direction  change away from the fallen  tree. Sarah
followed on behind, puffing and  panting, struggling to keep the size eleven
trainers on her size-five feet.
     Over a  rise, and  in the dead ground beyond,  was a stream a couple of
meters  wide.  I  headed down and waded  straight into the freezing water. I
checked behind me and couldn't see the tree.
     Sarah stood her ground on the bank.
     "What are you doing?"
     "Get in."
     The water  came  over my knees.  I  turned  left and  moved downstream,
stopping every dozen or  so paces and  looking back to make  sure I couldn't
see the tree. I had trudged  about fifty meters, with Sarah splashing  along
behind  me, before I decided this was far enough. I didn't know why, it just
felt right. I got out on the far side of the stream and stood still. I could
hear Sarah's trainers squelching  as she came up beside me, visibly thankful
for the rest.
     I gave myself a minute to collect my thoughts,  looking  at her, soaked
and bedraggled, fir needles splattered on  her face, twigs in her hair.  Not
exactly how she'd choose to  appear at one  of her  embassy parties, but she
was doing well; she'd obviously kept herself in shape.
     "Ready?"
     She nodded and took a deep breath to prepare.
     We  moved up and down  for another 300 meters or  so, in  a direct line
away from the stream. Sarah  was starting to  feel the strain, and  I  could
move only at her speed. I decided that this  was far enough; it was time for
one last bit of deception. I stopped and moved over to an outcrop of rock.
     Sarah came  up level with me, and we both  had our hands  on our knees,
panting for breath as if we'd just finished a 200-meter sprint.
     "Sarah, take off your underwear."
     She looked at me blankly. She'd heard me say that before, but not  in a
situation like this.
     "What?"
     "Your panties, I need them." I'd already  taken off  my jacket  and was
pulling  off my shirt.  I was  after the T-shirt underneath.  Her expression
told me that she wasn't sure about this.
     "Sarah, trust  me. They must have dogs." She didn't bother to ask, just
moaned to herself about getting undressed.
     In any other situation it would have been quite nice to watch  her drop
her jeans and  peel  off her underwear,  but that was  the story of my life:
wrong time, wrong place.
     I  got my shirt back on and shivered as it touched  my skin.  Sarah was
busy  doing up her  jeans.  I picked  up her panties and placed them with my
T-shirt between the rocks  and a bush. If we  were being tracked visually or
by  dogs they would  get to this point.  The mutt doesn't know what's really
happening and what exactly he's looking  for; to him it's just a game. A dog
can confuse an item of clothing with the quarry and assume victory  with its
find. Then the  handler has to get the dog sparked  up again before it  will
continue.
     Dogs  pick up  scent  in two  different  ways:  from the  air, and from
contact with the ground, trees, plants and buildings. Airborne scents  don't
last long; they  are quite  quickly blown  away  by the wind.  Ground scent,
however, can  be obvious to a dog for anything up to forty-eight hours,  and
can be generated not only by leaving  your smell on things you touch, but by
your  movement  itself.  If  you're  walking  on grass,  or pushing  through
vegetation, you'll crush leaves and stems with every step.
     Even  on  bare  ground  your  footprints  will  release  air  and  tiny
quantities of moisture that have been trapped in  the earth,  and they smell
quite  different from the air above ground. From  your "scent footprints," a
dog can even tell which direction you are moving in, because as you push off
each step with your toes,  the front of the scent print is more obvious than
the heel, and it doesn't  take long for a well-trained dog to work out  what
that means.
     Just as  each person's footprints look slightly different  to the human
eye, so does the mixture of  scents in  a smell footprint to  a dog. If he's
really switched on,  he might  even be  able  to track one individual  where
there are a number of people traveling together.
     A dog could  out-hear, out-smell  and out-run me. But I could  outthink
him.
     "The strongest odor is from the sweat glands," I said to Sarah.
     "But  at the  moment I think your underwear will smell  more than  your
T-shirt." I grinned.
     "Nothing personal."
     She thought about it and nodded; she had to agree on that one.
     "OK, follow me. Step by step. Don't  touch anything,  not even to  lean
on."  I started  to  pick  my way over the outcrop, sticking  to the highest
rocks to keep out of any areas where scent could be trapped. Hopefully, they
would be washed clean by the rain.
     We moved into dead ground, carefully picking our way to prevent leaving
sign. I started to move  back down to the  river. I got seventy-five  meters
short of the water and moved left until I saw the fallen tree.
     From nowhere, the heli reappeared.
     We hurtled  under the  trees,  hugging them as  if they  were long-lost
relations.
     I heard the groan of the rotors again, moving deliberately over the top
of the canopy. It got so close  I  could  feel the downwash. I suddenly made
sense of what it  was doing it was  following the  line of the stream, maybe
patrolling any exposed  waterways because that  was all they could see  down
here. It moved off and so did we.
     The fallen tree looked quite promising. There  were enough branches  to
hide under, and we could  even get under the trunk where it lay clear of the
ground. It was going to be a squeeze, but we'd be needing to huddle together
anyway to share body heat.
     Sarah was down on her knees trying to catch her breath. She searched my
face as I motioned her in.
     "Why aren't we running?"
     "I'll explain later, just get under cover."
     She squeezed in and I followed. The underside of  the trunk was just as
wet and cold as the open air, but we were hidden and had a chance to rest.
     I  wasn't too sure anymore if this was a good decision, but it was  too
late to worry now.
     I  made  sure I could see  the first turning point before the stream by
scraping away the mud  between the  trunk and  the ground. I'd used the same
tactic  time and again in the  jungle,  where it  was standard  procedure to
"loop the track" and put in an instant ambush  on your own trail. If we were
being followed,  they would pass  no more  than sixty or seventy meters away
and move half left, away from us and into the dead ground.
     There they'd  find the stream, and start trying to  cast over the other
side to pick up  our scent or ground sign  again. That would  give us  vital
time in  which to act; if I saw dogs while lying up, I'd just have to make a
run for it.
     The heli  passed overhead yet  again, this  time  at speed, but we were
well concealed. It could stay there  all day  if  it wanted to,  it wouldn't
make any difference. Sarah was looking at me, waiting for an explanation.
     "We wait  until last light  and  go back toward  the  road." I  pointed
uphill.
     "That way."
     She wasn't enjoying this outing, but she cuddled  into me. I was wedged
against the trunk, looking out; she was behind  me, her body spooned against
mine with her  arms around my chest.  I  could feel her warmth. I tried hard
not to think about how much I  liked her depending on me. Continuing to look
out, I tilted my head toward her.
     "Concealment  is  our best weapon. It's going  to  be  cold, and you'll
think you're about to die, but you won't  as long  as we keep close and keep
each other warm. Do you understand that?"
     I felt her nodding,  then  she  squeezed  herself a little more tightly
against me. Even in these circumstances, I had to admit it felt good.
     There  were three situations I'd hated all  of my life: being wet, cold
or hungry. Four, if you included having to shit in the field. All our lives,
even as children, those are the three things that most of us  try to  avoid,
but here  I was,  doing it  again,  and  I  couldn't help  feeling that,  at
thirty-eight, I should be seriously concentrating on getting a life. The one
I had seemed to be going nowhere fast.
     As  the  minutes  ticked by  my body  started to cool,  even with Sarah
snuggling in  behind  me, and the ground  itself seemed to become colder and
soggier. I could  feel her body warmth at  the  points where  she was making
contact with me, but the rest of me was freezing. Every time she fidgeted to
get comfortable, I could feel the cold attack the newly exposed area.
     She  fidgeted  again and muttered,  "Sorry, cramp,"  as  she  tried  to
stretch out her leg and tip up her feet in an effort to counter it.
     I kept stag,  listening to  the  stream, the wind  in the treetops, the
rain dropping onto the leaves and  debris  on the forest floor.  There was a
murky,  calf-high mist permeating the woods that reminded me of stage smoke.
That  could work either for  us or against us: it would give us  some visual
cover if we were forced to move, but it was also good for the dogs.
     As  time  passed without  any hint of a  follow-up, I  started  to feel
better about our situation. I  looked  at  my watch:  seven  forty-six. Only
another  twelve hours or so until last light.  Doesn't time fly  when you're
enjoying yourself? At least the Baby-G surfer was keeping cheerful.
     Sarah had settled down and wanted to talk.
     "Nick?"
     "Not now." I needed time to think. I wanted to take a long hard look at
what  she'd told me, and  to  think  about all that  had  happened. Was  she
bluffing about the Netanyahu plot?  How did they plan to  kill him? How  had
she been planning to stop them?
     My head was  full of questions,  but no answers. Now wasn't the time to
ask. Tactically, noise had to be kept to a minimum, and besides, I needed to
keep  my head clear  for the  task in  hand. I had to get out of here alive,
preferably  with Sarah still alive, too,  for there was still another job to
do.
     n  hour  later  Sarah  and  I were chilled  to the bone  and  shivering
violently.
     I  tried to combat  the cold  by tensing up  all  my muscles  and  then
releasing  them; that  worked for  a while, but I was soon shaking again.  I
didn't have a  clue how Sarah was coping, and I didn't care now; my head was
in hyper mode trying  to work  out  my options. Was she telling  the  truth?
Should I call London if I got out of this? Should I get help from within the
U.S.? From Josh, maybe? No, he wouldn't be back from the U.K. yet.
     I heard a noise and hoped that I hadn't.
     Peering through the mud hole, I opened my jaw to improve my hearing.
     My heart sank. I turned my head to look at Sarah, who was just about to
tell  me that  she'd heard the dogs,  too.  The  sounds were coming from the
direction of our approach. I couldn't see them yet, but they would be on us.
It was only a matter of time.
     My eyes and puckered lips told her to stay quiet, then  I moved my head
back to the hole in the mud.
     Sarah put her mouth against my ear.
     "Come on, let's go." I whispered for her to shut the fuck up; they were
coming over the brow of the rise.
     There was  a  gang of them. The  first thing I noticed was the  two big
snarling dogs on long leads, steam rising off their wet coats, their handler
fighting  to  keep  control.  The  good  thing  was that  they  were  German
Shepherds;
     they weren't  tracker dogs,  but "hard" dogs--there  to bridge the  gap
between us and  the  pursuers if we  were spotted. The other good thing  was
that they didn't look quite so big with their coats wet against their skin.
     The pursuit consisted of a six-man police team. One of them had a
     springer  spaniel on a lead,  its nose to the  ground, loving the whole
business.
     Apart from the tracker-dog handler,  none  of  them was dressed for the
hunt; they were wearing just their  normal brown waterproof jackets, and two
of them  were even in  shoes, with mud splattered up their pressed brown and
yellow-striped trousers.
     They passed us in a haze of dog noise and steam as our tracks took them
half left, away from us  and toward the stream. The moment they were in dead
ground I turned to Sarah.
     "Now we go."
     I squeezed under the trunk and  immediately broke into  a run in a line
directly away from the river. Maybe my hide-until-dark plan hadn't been such
a good idea after all. The  only option now was to outrun  the team.  It was
unlikely the  dogs would  tire, but they  could  go only as  fast  as  their
handlers, so I would just have to get them exhausted.  The police had looked
wet and  hassled, and were breathing hard. Even  in our shit state we should
be fitter than they were.
     I pushed on, looking for  a  point where  we  could  hide a  change  in
direction.
     It  might not stop them, but it  would slow them down.  After  close to
thirty minutes of hard running through thick woodland I had to stop and wait
for Sarah to catch  up; she was panting deeply, clouds of  her breath fusing
with the  steam coming  off  her  head. When we moved off again I checked my
watch. It was ten thirty-nine.
     We  went for it for  another solid hour. Sarah was lagging  farther and
farther behind, but I pushed the pace.  I knew she would keep going. When we
used to train together in Pakistan she  would never give up, even on a silly
fun run. And then it was only her pride at stake; now it was a bit more than
that.
     We were in low ground  and I could see sky about 200 meters in front of
us, through the tree trunks. I heard the sound  of a car, and then splashing
on tarmac.
     I crawled up to the tree line.  It wasn't a  major road, just  a single
carriage way  in each direction, and not particularly  well  kept,  probably
because it  wasn't used that much  the sort of backwoods road that looked as
if the tarmac had just  been  poured from the back of a slowly moving  truck
and left to get on with  it. It might even be the same road as the last one,
there was no way of telling. The rain wasn't firing down like a power shower
anymore, just a constant drizzle.
     I  still  didn't  have a clue where we were,  but  that didn't  matter.
You're never lost, you're only in a different place from the one you wanted,
and at a different time.  Sarah had crawled up next to  me and  was lying on
her back.  Her hair had clumped together,  so I  could see the white skin of
her skull. We looked as if we both had our personal  steam machines strapped
to us.
     I  decided to turn right it could have  been  left or right,  it didn't
really matter and just  follow the road; at some stage we'd  find a vehicle,
or at least discover where we were, then work out what we were going to do.
     "Ready?"
     She looked  up  and  gave a nod and  a  sniff, and we crawled backward,
deeper into the tree line. I got to my feet and she accepted my outstretched
hand. I  hauled her  upright and  we started running again, paralleling  the
road. After only a minute or two I heard a car; I got down and watched as it
splashed through the potholes, lights on dipped, side windows misted up  and
the wipers  on overtime. As soon as it  had disappeared from view we were up
and running.
     The next vehicle was  a truck loaded with logs; its wheels sank into an
enormous pothole and threw up a wall of water that fell just short of us.
     There seemed to be a vehicle of some  description every five minutes or
so.  Most were going in our direction, which was a good sign.  I didn't know
why, but it felt that way.
     After another two  kilometers or so I began to see lights forward of us
and  on the opposite side of the road. As we got closer, I could see that it
was a  gas station-cum-small general  store with  a tall neon  sign  saying,
"Drive Thru  Open"  in  orange letters.  It  was  a  one-story, flat-roofed,
concrete building with three pumps on the forecourt, protected by a high tin
canopy on a  pair of steel pillars. The place had probably been state of the
art  when it  was built in the Sixties or early Seventies, but now the white
paint was gray and peeling, and the whole fabric of the building was falling
apart. I knew how it felt.
     There were windows on the three sides of the shop that I could see;
     above the ones at the front were large, red,  raised letters telling me
the place was  called Happy Beverage &  Grocery.  Faded  posters  advertised
coffee and corn  dogs,  Marlboro  and Miller Lite.  They were all the  same,
these sorts of places, family-run as opposed to franchised mini-markets, and
I knew  exactly what this one would  smell like inside a  mixture  of  stale
cardboard and cona coffee, fighting with the aroma  of the corn dogs as they
rotated in their glass  oven. All rounded off, of course,  with a good layer
of  cigarette  smoke. The main  sound  effect  would be  the hum  of fridges
working overtime.
     Even the pumps outside were early Seventies. This place was in decline;
     maybe years ago, when  the  road was first  built,  it  was a major hot
spot, but  once the freeways had been laid to move the growing population of
North Carolina, the traffic  went elsewhere. Happy Beverage & Grocery looked
like it was already history.
     I stopped  just short of the Drive Thru sign on the  other  side of the
road and got down. Sarah joined me, and I told her to wait where she  was. I
crawled forward. I'd been right; now that I could see through the windows my
eyes hit  on  packets  of everything from Oreos to Cheerios,  and a  line of
glass-doored fridges which were less than a quarter full of milk cartons and
Coke cans. A large glass pot of coffee was stewing  away on a hob, alongside
a  whole  range of polystyrene cups,  from two pints  down  to half a  pint,
depending on  how awake you  wanted to be. If you wanted cream,  it would be
powdered, without a doubt.
     On her own, as far as I could see, and sitting down behind the counter,
was  a large woman in her mid-thirties. I could see  only her top half;  she
had peroxide-blond "big hair," which was  probably kept that  way with a can
of lacquer  a day; she must  have been one of those Southern women the radio
program had  been talking  about. The T-shirt  was  probably her daughter's,
going by  its  tightness. I couldn't see her bottom half, but no doubt she'd
be wearing  leggings that were about four sizes too small. She was eating  a
corn dog and reading a  magazine, and  somehow managing to smoke at the same
time.
     I crawled back to Sarah.
     "Can we take a vehicle?" she said.
     "Not yet. It doesn't look as if she has one."
     Beyond the  shop  was  another  tarmac  road that  met this  one  at  a
T-junction. The only  thing  that interested  me was  that  where  you  have
junctions, you nearly always have signposts.
     We  headed for the  junction.  The neon  light was  reflecting  off the
rainswept road  and  the hard standing of  the  pump  area. I  had to remind
myself  that it  was still daytime. The sign said, "Drive  Thru," and I'd do
just that, given half a chance.
     I started to envy the woman with  big  hair. She was sitting  in  there
with  a TV or  radio on, and the heaters would be blasting away  to keep the
condensation off the windows; in fact, she  was probably keeping so hot that
she might need to knock back a Coke after the corn dog. I wondered how she'd
keep the cigarette in her mouth.
     We passed the shop and carried on to the junction. I motioned for Sarah
to wait, but she'd got her breath back, and with it some of her old habits.
     She'd never liked being ordered around and not being part of the show.
     She came with me.
     I moved forward  the last ten meters and spotted a signpost,  green tin
on a tin stake. To my left, the way we had come, wasn't signed;  to my right
was a place called Creedmore, which was  no good to me I didn't know it from
a hole in the ground.  But I knew where Durham was. It was  just west of the
airport; lots of people and  traffic, somewhere we  could get lost. The sign
said that the road facing me was going that way.
     It passed the gas station at the junction on  the left, went uphill for
about  half  a  mile,  with  muddy  drainage  ditches  on  each  side,  then
disappeared to the right behind a line of tall firs. That was where I wanted
to  go  once I'd lifted a  vehicle, but before I did anything I  had to make
sure the woman couldn't call for help. My eyes followed the phone lines from
the building  across the  junction. They paralleled the road running from my
left to right.
     I  moved in  the  Creedmore direction, about  twenty meters beyond  the
junction,  and  crawled back  up to the road, looked and listened.  Absolute
silence. I got to my feet, nodded at Sarah and we sprinted across. Once back
in the  trees, I followed the phone  lines  until I found  a pole about five
meters short of the junction.
     I started  taking my  belt off, and asked Sarah for hers. This time she
didn't question me. She followed the line of my gaze as I studied the top of
the pole.
     "Are you going up there?"
     "I want to cut the line to the gas station."
     "Are we going to rob it?"
     Sometimes  she had only a nodding relationship with reality.  I stopped
pulling my belt off and looked at her.
     "Are you serious?" I  wondered  about what had  happened  to  all those
expensive years of university training. She had enough brain power to move a
glass  without even touching it, but sometimes  she didn't seem to have even
an Eleven Plus in common sense.
     "We're just going to get a car and get the fuck out of here," I said.
     "We have guests arriving, remember?" I mimed a dog biting with my hand.
     I took her belt and buckled the two together to make one big loop. Hers
was  the American's heavy  biker's belt,  with a  Harley-Davidson logo  that
said, "Live to ride, ride  to live." I dropped the loop at the bottom of the
pole, hooked my feet inside either end,  gripped the pole with my hands, and
started to climb. I'd learned how to do this from a documentary on the South
Pacific,  when  I'd  seen blokes use similar devices to climb coconut trees.
You  slid your feet up as high  as you could, keeping  the strap  taut, then
pressed down until  it  gripped. It was  then  a matter  of  reaching up and
gripping the pole with both hands,  lifting your feet again, and so on. That
was  the theory; the pole was so wet and slippery,  however, that it took me
several attempts to master it.  At the end of  the day, though, I was rather
impressed with myself; if ever I  was marooned  in Polynesia,  I wouldn't go
hungry.
     I heard the hiss of tires and the drone of an engine getting closer. My
heart missed a couple of beats while I wondered how I'd explain myself, then
both sounds  changed direction and  died as the car turned and headed toward
Durham. It  happened twice more.  Each time, I  stopped and waited until the
vehicle had gone. At least the treetops gave me some cover.
     I had just another couple of  feet to go when I heard a  fourth vehicle
approaching, but this time from the direction of Durham. It was going slowly
and coming close.
     I looked down for  Sarah, but she was already moving away from the pole
and into cover.
     The car drew up at what I guessed was the junction and stopped. I heard
a door open and the sound of radio traffic. It had to be a police cruiser.
     I couldn't  reach  down  for  my weapon, because  it  was taking all my
strength and grip just to stop myself sliding back down the pole. I wondered
about climbing up the last couple of  feet so I could rest on a  cross spar,
but the way my luck was going I'd probably fuck it up and come hurtling down
like Fireman Sam and land on their heads.
     I heard a burst of laughter and looked down again. Sarah was nowhere to
be seen, but a Smokey  Bear hat was, covered in clear  plastic, shaped so it
kept the felt dry. It moved into the woods, above a dark-brown raincoat that
stuck out at the sides. State troopers have zips up the sides of their coats
to enable them to draw their pistols easily, but this guy wasn't doing that,
he was undoing his front zip. I saw  his  knees jerk as he released himself,
then the sound of piss hitting the tree just a few feet below me. Steam rose
in front  of the hat. I didn't  want to  make  the slightest sound. I didn't
even  want to swallow.  My fingers were  starting to lose their grip  on the
rain-slicked pole.
     I searched frantically for the trooper's  mate. I couldn't see  him; he
must have stayed  in  the  car, as you  do  when it's  raining. I  could see
raindrops ricocheting off the garage roof, glistening in the light  from the
Drive Thru  sign.  The  stream  of  urine  against the  tree subsided as  he
finished off, then he let go a resounding fart.
     I started  sliding. I pressed down  hard on the belt with  my feet, and
gripped the pole like  a  drowning man. The sounds below  had stopped, and I
watched him jigging up and  down  to shake off  the drops. He packed himself
away, checked his coat, and strode off.
     I heard  the troopers joking to each  other. The car door slammed,  and
then  they  drove off. I  let out all the air I'd  been holding in my lungs,
inching myself farther  up  the  pole to increase my  range of  vision.  The
cruiser was finally driving into the gas station.  Why the fuck didn't he go
in  there in the first place?  Maybe he  was trying to chat up the woman and
the last  thing he wanted was for her to  hear him farting away and stinking
the place out.
     I reached the top  and hooked my left arm around the cross spar. I took
a few  deep  breaths to  calm  myself down, then looked  for Sarah. She  was
emerging from the bush she'd been hiding in, and I wondered if  she knew how
lucky she'd been: it looked a very inviting bush,  and she might easily have
got drenched by old fartypants.
     I followed the telephone line  to  make sure it was the one to the  gas
station,  reached  down and retrieved the  Leatherman from my pocket.  Where
these lines come in  to a pole,  they get hooked up to take the tension from
the line, and then there's a nice little loose bit that carries on  through.
I leaned out, squeezing hard with the mbber soles of my feet, got the pliers
part of the Leatherman  over the  line, and snipped. Then it was just a case
of sliding down the pole nice and slowly so I didn't land up with half a ton
of splinters in my arms and legs.
     Sarah was straight  in at me: "Give me a gun,  Nick. What  if he'd seen
you?"
     It made sense but I felt uneasy.  Giving Sarah a  weapon seemed to be a
lot like giving Popeye  spinach. On  the other hand, if he'd spotted me  she
could have done something  about it. I  still wasn't sure whether she  would
fuck  me over, but decided she still needed me too much. I'd let her have it
for now.
     I got Lance's semiautomatic,  9mm  Eastern-bloc thing out  of my jacket
and handed it over. She said a sincere  "Thanks" as she pushed  back the top
slide half an inch and checked to see if there was a round in the chamber.
     The cruiser was driving out of the gas  station and coming  back in our
direction. We both got down, and she used the time to put her belt  back on.
The  blue  and white  passed  us heading  toward  Creedmore; maybe they were
helping to man a roadblock or something farther up the road.
     I wanted her to stay where she was while I went back to the gas station
to hijack a vehicle. She insisted on coming with me.
     "Listen," I said, "a  man  and  a woman  turning  up  at a gas station,
stealing a vehicle don't you think there's a bit of  a chance they'd make  a
connection with the lake?"
     "Nick, I'm coming  with you. I'm not  going  to take  the chance  of us
getting split up and this all going wrong. We're going to stay together."
     She  was  right;  without realizing it,  she had reminded me what I was
here to do.  If there was a  drama with the police or whoever,  and  it  was
obvious I was about  to  lose  control, I would have to kill her before they
could get her. Not the ideal option, but at least she'd be dead. Looking  at
her with my not-happy-about-it face on, I gave in to her demand.
     "Fuck it, come on then."
     We finished  doing  up  our  belts, moved  back  up  the road for  more
distance and  crossed. We turned right and  paralleled to  a  point where  I
could get a clear view of the pumps and the shop again.
     One car, a white Nissan sedan, was already on the forecourt, but it was
four up, with two couples in their mid-twenties. The driver had just started
the engine and  out he  rolled. I heard a distinctive ding-ding as the tires
ran over  a  rubber  tube  sensor. He got to the road,  stopped, turned  his
wipers and dipped lights  on, laughing with the  rest of them probably about
the  woman  with the corn dog turned  left  and off they went. We lay there,
waiting in the rain.
     During the  next ten  minutes, two  news  vans  with  satellite  dishes
scuttled past  along the road, headlights blazing, windshield wipers working
furiously, on their way to get the story.
     Another car  rolled onto the  forecourt.  It was  a  Toyota, full of  a
family. I was half up, ready to go for it, like a big cat watching the herd.
The car  was  ideal, a normal family  sedan.  Dad got out  and, avoiding the
rain, ran straight  into the shop. I saw him give Big Hair a few bills, then
he came out again and filled up.  I  decided against. I was  looking  at the
family two kids in the back, window  half steamed up,  the kids beating each
other up, the  mother turning around  and  shouting at them. There were just
too many people in the car. It  would be a  nightmare  to drag two screaming
kids from the car.
     Ding-ding. They took the Durham road.
     Sarah looked over at me.
     "I thought we were in a hurry?"
     Big  Hair was  walking  across  to the machine  to get herself  another
bucket  of  coffee. She went  and sat back by the till, next to  the window,
looking out, wistfully stirring her bucket with a spoon. I was right, it was
packet creamer. Perhaps she dreamed that one day  Clint Eastwood would drive
onto her forecourt, come  in to pay for gas, and bang,  The Bridges of Happy
Beverage County. Until then, nice work if you can get it.
     A sign to  the left  of  the  shop  entrance  announced, "24 Hour Video
Surveillance,"  together with the fact that  they carried only fifty dollars
in  the register  and  the  rest  was  slipped into  a night  safe that  the
attendant didn't have access to. I turned to Sarah.
     "When we go to lift  the wagon, I want you to get your T-shirt and pull
it over your head, so you can only just see out of it."
     Ding-ding. Another vehicle drove in toward the pumps from our left.
     This time it was a really old van, late  Seventies, early Eighties, the
sort of thing  Mr. T and the A-Team used to run around  in, but a very tired
gray.
     The windows were half  steamed up, so  I  couldn't  see how  many  were
inside, but as soon as the driver opened the door I knew this was the one.
     He was  in his early forties, and the  important thing was that  he got
out and didn't take the ignition key with him, but just waved at the woman.
     He must  be a local, because he was trusted enough  to nil up  and  pay
afterward.
     We got back into our big-cat positions, and I  studied our prey. He was
wearing a pair of  green overalls that had seen better days, with oil stains
and rips in the knees. His  baseball cap  should have  been white but needed
burning  more than bleaching now. He was skinny and  of average height, with
about three days' stubble and four years'  worth of wet or very  greasy hair
over his shoulders.
     The  tank  was fall, the  filler  cap  went  back on. I whispered, "You
ready?"
     She nodded. He  turned and, with his hands working  their  way into his
overalls for money,  jogged toward the shop. I jumped to my feet and started
to run. With  my left hand I pulled my T-shirt  up  over my face, and so did
she. We  must have looked like  a  couple of  sperm.  I kept  my eyes moving
between the van and  the shop. I didn't  really bother about what  Sarah was
doing; the  plan was  for her to go to  the  near  side of the  van,  to the
passenger door; I was to go around the rear, because I wanted to hide myself
as much as possible, then get in the driver's seat and go for it.
     The  glass panels had  been smashed out of  the  back  doors  and  were
covered with cardboard, and the whole  thing was a rust bucket. I turned the
corner of the van and  moved  along the side toward the driver's door. I had
to skip over  the loop of  the pump  lines and slipped on the diesel-stained
floor. I recovered without falling and  got to the door.  Still holding  the
T-shirt over  my head with my left hand, I got hold of the door handle in my
right. It was a rickety, rusty  old thing,  hardly any chrome left  on it; I
pulled and it all but came away in my hand, hanging on by one edge.
     The window  on the  other  side was  misted  up and I couldn't see what
Sarah was  doing.  All I knew  was that she wasn't getting in. She must have
the same problem; her handle must be busted.
     The driver's window was down about three-quarters of the way. That must
be how he got in--just reach  in and open up from  the  inside.  I jumped up
slightly, got my right  hand in ... and then chaos. The furious barking from
the back of the wagon made me jump back as if I'd been given the full twenty
seconds with a Tazer.
     I glanced toward the shop. The guy was staring out, mouth wide open.
     Someone  trying  to  nick  his  van must have been the  last  thing  he
expected.
     The black thing in the back of the van was leaping  up and  down, going
ballistic. I had to put  my hand  inside again;  it had  to  be  done, I was
committed now. I reached in, yelling for Sarah to do something.
     I was jumping up and  down, trying to find and  grab the inside handle,
the dog  was reacting as  if it had had to wait three days for lunch, and to
the left of me the distraught owner was coming out of the shop shouting, "My
dawg! My dawg!"
     "Sarah, fucking do something!"
     She did. I heard a loud, quick double tap from Lance's 9mm.
     It couldn't get worse than this. I jumped away from the window, leaving
the dog  in the  van going  ape  shit and  ran  around  to the  front of the
vehicle.
     "Sarah, fucking stop shooting! Stop!" Then I realized she wasn't firing
at the driver,  she was  drawing down on  the two German  Shepherds that had
come out of the tree line and were now about five meters away from giving us
the good news. It had just got worse.
     She took one down; it fell over itself and kicked around on the ground,
yelping. The  other one  kept coming. Sarah  turned to fire but  it was  too
close to me now. My right hand flew down to draw  my weapon at the same time
as my  left went to pull up  my bomber jacket so  that  I  could get to  the
pistol. It was too late for both of us.
     It's pointless trying  to  evade  an attacking  dog so close; without a
weapon,  you can't  do anything  about  immobilizing  the fucker until  it's
committed  itself to an  attack. You've got to let the thing  sink its teeth
into you, and take it from there.
     I  had to get him onto me. I turned  half left, let go of the bottom of
my jacket and presented my forearm, still trying to get to my pistol with my
right.
     He didn't want to miss this. He leapt up, his jaws opening with a  deep
growl, his  lips pulled back to bare his teeth so he got a  good  bite first
time.
     I saw his eyes roll back as he launched himself at me.
     I stood my  ground and braced myself for the hit. I felt his saliva fly
onto my face as he opened up and his head flicked back.
     There were probably  other  things going on,  but they were  lost on me
now. I couldn't hear anything but the snarling  of my  attacker. I  felt the
weight of the dog hit me, and then him closing his jaws on my arm. His teeth
sank straight through the jacket into the skin of my  forearm and  I started
to shout.
     "Sarah! Sarah!" I wanted her to come and shoot this fucking thing.
     "Sarah!"
     I staggered backward with his weight, and  he came  with  me.  I got my
hand around the pistol grip; not completely, but enough to pull it out of my
jeans. The dog was  jumping up on me,  trying  to get me to the  ground, his
hind legs scrambling against my legs and waist. His legs hit my hand and the
weapon fell.
     "Sarah!"
     There was fearsome pain  as his teeth  tore into my skin.  It  was like
having multiple injections with pen-sized syringes. I had to  let it happen.
I had to make sure the dog had confidence in himself, that he sensed an easy
victory. If I went with the flow, he'd keep his teeth in one place, thinking
he had me,  he wouldn't thrash around all over  the  place.  Forget the  old
wives' tales about grabbing a foreleg in each hand and splitting them apart:
it only  works with chihuahuas--and that's assuming you can catch the little
shit in  the first place. In real  life dogs are  like monkeys, they're much
stronger than they look.
     I continued to move back under its weight as the German Shepherd jumped
up and snarled. I could smell his raw-meat-eating  breath mixed with mud and
the shit on his coat from the follow-up. He took a deeper grip on my arm and
I screamed out for Sarah  again as I felt more flesh being mangled.  She was
nowhere to be seen.
     I heard several gunshots as I staggered back  toward the  driver's side
of the van. I was trying to look and act submissive; I  didn't want to fight
this fucking thing, I just wanted Sarah to come around and hose him down.
     The dogs' handler and  the police wouldn't be far behind.  We needed to
get moving.
     The animal's growl  changed tone as he shook his head from side to side
like a mad thing, trying to get a deeper grip. His rear legs were now on the
floor, with his front pads on my  chest, walking back  with me like a circus
performer, still attempting to join his jaws together, but through my arm.
     Now the black thing inside  the van  sparked up again as I  heard  more
gunshots, but there  was  no instant, miraculous  release of the grip on  my
arm.
     It wasn't going to happen. I'd have to do it on my own.
     The dog was feeling really confident now; he knew  he'd got me. I  bent
down and,  with my right hand, grabbed hold of  his left rear  leg. The limb
twitched as if he were doing an Irish jig as he tried to kick away.
     I started to pull the back leg up toward me.  The dog was confused  and
pissed off, biting more and  moving his  head  from left  to  right.  I  was
grappling to  keep hold of his leg. It was dancing away like Michael Flatley
on speed.
     I got a firmer  grip on the  spindly bit at the bottom of the dog's leg
and, with my  right arm, pulled it up as hard as I could toward my chest, at
the same time starting  to turn. The dog yelped with surprise, and I started
to pirouette, as if I were  spinning  a child in a  game. I did three, four,
five turns, and the dog started to rise with the centrifugal force, anchored
by its teeth in my arm  and my  hand on his leg. He  had to make a decision,
and he did: he let go of my arm. I  didn't reciprocate by letting go of  the
leg; I kept hold  now  with  both  hands  and swung him around and around as
violently as I could. Still spinning, I managed to take two steps toward one
of the concrete  pillars supporting the forecourt canopy. On the third step,
the dog's head  connected  with the pillar. There was a thud and a weak yelp
and I  let go. My own  momentum carried me on around  for another one and  a
half turns. My head was spinning as I tried to get my bearings.
     I found the  van.  Sarah  was  sitting  in the cab, firing  out  of the
window.  I  screamed  at  her, "The door! The door!" She  leaned across  and
opened it up. I looked down; my pistol was by the pump line. Bending down to
pick it up,  and  keeping  bent to  avoid getting hit, I  half  jumped, half
collapsed, into the driver's seat and slammed the door closed. As I did, the
black thing in the back tried to scramble over the driver's seat.
     Sarah shouted, "Let's go. Come on, let's go!"
     1 was still  in a semi stoop over the steering wheel, trying to present
a smaller target, when the police started firing back at us.
     All the windows were steamed up, probably from the dog's panting, which
was good for us, because at least it hid us from the video. Just as well, as
the  T-shirt ploy  had gone to rat  shit the  moment the dogs arrived on the
scene.
     I hit the ignition and the engine turned over, but it failed to engage.
It sparked up on the  second  go. Sarah fired a  few  more rounds toward the
tree  line.  The mutt behind me wasn't biting, but it was making  more noise
than the weapon reports.
     The shots that hit the  van reminded me of being in  a helicopter under
fire; because  it's so loud inside the aircraft, you don't know you're being
attacked until you see holes suddenly appearing in the airframe, accompanied
by a dull ping as the rounds penetrate.
     The driver was screaming  his head off  inside the shop, jumping up and
down, but no way was he coming out until the shooting stopped. The woman was
on the phone, shouting into the useless receiver, and as  we rolled  off the
forecourt  the driver started running along inside the shop, keeping up with
us, his arms waving in the  air as  he screamed  at the top of his voice. It
was wasted  on us. He was inside the shop  and his  fucking  dog was  making
enough noise to drown the roar of a helicopter.
     Ping. Sarah was  still screaming,  "Come on, come on, come on!" And the
dog was adding his tuppence worth. He wanted out. Didn't we all.
     I  turned left onto the road. There  was  a coffee-holder on  the dash,
with a half-full poly cup of coffee in it, a cigarette butt floating  on the
top. As the van lurched, the whole lot went over my  jeans. Then, surreally,
the radio suddenly came on of its own accord. Sarah fired a  few more rounds
into the tree line. There was a return.
     I  looked in the wing  mirror. The police  were on  the  road, assuming
proper firing positions. I put my foot down.
     I  jerked my thumb  at the dog and shouted at Sarah, "Sort that nicking
thing out!"
     I turned  left again and started to drive up the hill.  I looked behind
me and saw  this big black mangy thing. Fuck knows what it was, just a  wet,
dank dog  in  the back, jumping up at the newspaper Sarah  was trying to hit
and distract it with, barking and yelping away at us both.
     We started to  take the right-hand bend in the road. The moment we were
out of sight of the junction and shop I hit  the brakes. I yelled, "Get that
fucking thing out!"
     "How?"
     "Just get it out!"
     She opened  the  door and  tried to  grab  hold of  the dog, but it was
already  scrabbling its  way  out, its claws  tearing  against  her seat. It
clambered over and fucked off.  It probably hadn't been trying to have a  go
at us at all, it had just been frantic to get back to its owner.
     She closed the door and I hit the gas  pedal. I'd noticed some bags and
stuff in the back.
     "Why don't you check that out?"
     She didn't need telling again. She was straight in there.
     "Is  there a  map?"  My arm  was killing  me  as I gripped the steering
wheel.
     The wagon's heating system wasn't up to it, so I used my sleeve to wipe
the condensation from the  windshield. Even the  wipers only  worked on half
speed. At least now I could sort of see where  I was going, even if I wasn't
too sure where that was.
     The  bend  eventually  straightened out and trees loomed  up  on either
side. Above them, all I could see was thick gray cloud. Great; the worse the
weather, the less the chance of the heli still operating.
     "Nothing, just  crap." Sarah was back in  her  seat. She wound down the
window  and started to adjust the wing  mirror to keep a check  behind us. I
kept  my foot down, but the  vehicle was  making only about 60  mph with the
wind behind it, the threadbare tires not exactly gripping the road big time.
All the shit in the back was rattling, and  bits of paper were flying around
in the draft rushing through the open windows. I just  hoped the  brake pads
were in better shape than the bits of the wagon I could see.
     She  tried  to  pull  open  the glove compartment on  her  side,  which
probably hadn't  been  done for years. It  gave way, and out spilled bits of
fishing wire, lighters,  greasy old garage receipts, all sorts.  But no map.
She shouted,  "Shit, shit, shit!" I kept quiet, letting her frustration play
itself out.
     I drove on  for about three miles, during which we didn't say a word to
each other. We got to a T-junction with the same sort of road. There were no
signposts. I turned right.
     I  was feeling exposed.  I didn't know  if  the police back  at the gas
station had  com  ms which would depend on whether  they had relay boards in
the
     area  to bounce  radio  signals off.  I couldn't  help a  smile:  Metal
Mickey's head would have come in handy.
     I shouted at her so I could be heard above the noise of the wind.
     "Did you drop any of the police?"
     She was wiping the wing mirror. She seemed to have calmed down a bit.
     "I don't know, I don't think so. Maybe."
     I started to feel even more  depressed. Whatever  had  happened, if  we
didn't get out  of the  area very soon  and hide  up, we'd be  in a world of
shit.
     Less  than  two  minutes  later  the  chance came  when  I  saw  dipped
headlights in front of us.
     "I'm going to take it, Sarah. Make sure you don't say a word, OK?"
     She nodded.
     "What do I do?"
     "Just  point the gun  at whoever's in there. Do not shoot anyone.  Just
keep your finger off the trigger .. . please."
     I slowed down  to about  20 mph  and  swung the van left, blocking  the
road. The car kept coming toward us. I couldn't see how many were in it, but
it was a blue four-door sedan.
     Sarah was waiting for instructions.
     "Come out this side and follow me.
     We have broken down, OK?"
     I jumped out, trying to watch the car as well as listen for a heli. The
car slowed. It  was a Mazda, one up, and going by the big hair blocking half
the windshield she was the twin sister of the woman at the gas station.
     She  wasn't too  happy  about what was going on. I had  to be quick, in
case she reached for  a weapon; for all I  knew, she might  be one of  Jim's
best customers.
     The  car stopped. I ran over to the driver's side  with a very thankful
face on. She hit her window button  and let it down only a couple of inches,
but at least she wasn't going for her handbag or the glove compartment.
     I got to the window and drew down on her, screaming, "Look down!
     Look down!" My accent was getting worse.
     She was  maybe in her thirties. Her hair  must  have taken  all day  to
tease into  that  beehive. Her  makeup was about two millimeters  thick  and
looked like wet cement now she'd started to cry.
     I yelled, "Out, out!"
     The door  was locked. I  kicked  it  and made out like a  madman, which
wasn't far from the truth.  She finally relented;  Sarah heard  the clunk of
the central locking and started moving toward the  car as the woman got out.
I motioned with my hand for Sarah to  take the driver's seat; she passed the
woman, who was standing on the road sobbing her heart out.
        "I
     have babies. Please  don't kill me, please. Take the car, take the car.
Take my money. Please don't kill me."
     I wanted to tell her, Shut up. You're not going to die. I'm playing the
madman because  I want to scare you; that way you don't go for a weapon, and
we all stay alive.
     Sarah  was  in, door closed; I ran around to the other side and  joined
her.
     Before  I'd  even  shut  the  door  she  was slamming  the car  into  a
three-point turn. I  looked under my legs to see what  I was sitting on.  It
was Big Hair's bag. No point in fucking her  up completely; I got the barrel
of the pistol hooked  in the bag and  threw  it  out to her,  just as  Sarah
finished  a really bad turn with lots  of braking and tires screaming in the
wet.
     "Get your foot down."
     She didn't need any prompting for that.
     The  car  interior  smelled  of  fresh  perfume  and  coffee.  A  large
polystyrene cup with a lid was  resting in the console holder;  I lifted  it
out and gave it a shake. It was half full and the contents  were still warm.
I took a couple of sips and handed it over. The  air conditioning was on;  I
turned a couple of dials and it soon changed to hot, hot, hot.
     "Where to, Nick? Where am I going?"
     I wasn't sure.
     "Just keep going until we see a sign."
     Ten  minutes  later  we hit a main drag and  were welcomed  to Route 98
Raleigh was to the left, Durham to the right.
     "Go  left, left!" It was  still a single carriage way  but  wider  than
before and with houses dotted along the way.
     Before long  we were  joining  other vehicles on  their daily migration
toward  the city, and  in no time we were in mainstream traffic and had some
cover.
     I said, "Have you got any rounds left?"
     She gave  me her weapon. I checked and refilled her mag from the spares
in my pockets, and passed it back. She placed it under her right  thigh with
a "Thanks."
     I started to  recognize our surroundings. Traffic was starting to  slow
up;
     every time we hit  a major  intersection  there  was another  bunch  of
lights letting people out  from all the suburbs around the city. We couldn't
see any of the houses, though, because of the trees and low-level industrial
units that hemmed us in on either side.
     We had stopped at a set of lights alongside some other  people drinking
their  breakfast. Some of  them had big paper cups  from drive-ins, some had
mugs that  looked  like Apollo space capsules, really wide  at the bottom so
they didn't fall over in the car,  then narrow  at the top with a nozzle  to
drink  through. All  of a sudden I  saw people in  different cars around  us
smiling or laughing out loud to themselves. Sarah saw what was happening and
she wanted  to listen in.  She hit the  radio buttons on preset  and cruised
through the stations. Three  goes  and she  got it. A  man and a  woman were
talking about people's choices of bumper stickers. The  woman said, "One  is
OK, but hey, more than that reads a ten on my geek meter."
     The  guy replied, "Have you seen the  one that says, "A mind is like  a
parachute. It  only  works  when it's opened ..." Come on, man, that's like,
off the scale!" There was some canned laughter, then he  quickly returned to
the airwaves.
     "Hey, morning! It's Q98 comin' attchaaa ..." The ads started to roll.
     Everyone was laughing with us in the traffic. Then it got worse as they
saw the same thing we did. The van four or five vehicles ahead had that very
sticker in its rear window. I couldn't  stop laughing  as we started to move
on green. I looked over at Sarah, who was joining in the fun; it wasn't that
the  joke was that  funny. I think we were just  so  relieved to be  back in
civilization.
     We hit the belt line saw signs  for the airport and swung  right at the
intersection onto the highway. About halfway around  we were on an  elevated
section,  and down below  us were low-level square buildings, mostly  motels
and burger  joints, islands  in a sea of neon. The  rain had slackened to  a
drizzle.
     I directed  Sarah  off the ramp and  we cruised around,  looking for  a
motel that would work for us. She drove past a Days Inn, standing in its own
lot. It was a  T-shaped building,  with  the reception at the  top and three
stories of brown doors making up the stern. It had seen better days, but was
just what was needed. I let Sarah carry  on past it so I could check out the
area. That way I knew which way to run if we got bumped once we were inside.
     "Turn left here."
     She drove into  the parking lot of an adjacent single-story  sportswear
outlet. There were  about 200 cars in the 400-capacity car park; she found a
space in the middle and parked. We wiped the car interior of our prints, got
out and did the same to the outside--not that it mattered that much, as they
would have our prints from the van; it would just slow them up a bit.
     Walking back toward the motel, we made an effort to clean ourselves up,
brushing  the  mud and pine needles off our clothes. It  didn't seem to make
much difference. We got a few strange looks in the car park, but nothing too
serious; Americans know  better  than to stare at disheveled  strangers. The
motorway roared above us with  the morning's traffic, and  a truck's  brakes
hissed loudly as it stopped to make a delivery.
     As I peeled the gloves and plastic wrap from the docs, I gave Sarah our
story.
     "OK, we're Brits--boyfriend-girlfriend, traveling up from the Cape Fear
coast, had a puncture. We've been out in the rain trying to fix it, and  all
we want to do now is sort our shit out."
     She thought for a few seconds.
     "Got it."
     I cleaned  up the jacket  sleeve the  dog  had  ripped as best I could,
wiping the dried blood  on my hand against my  jeans.  A last quick spit and
rub on the more stubborn stains did the trick.
     We'd  put our hands through our hair in  a  last-minute effort to  sort
ourselves out as we went through the door. We still looked rough, but so did
the motel. The carpet in reception needed  replacing and a new coat of paint
wouldn't  have gone amiss. To my left, a TV blared by the coffee and vending
machines as the glass doors closed behind us.
     The receptionist went  through  the automatic company welcome: "Hi, how
are you  today?"  still  looking down  at something  more important. She was
about seventeen or eighteen,  and wore a  maroon  polyester vest and  skirt,
with a white blouse. Her name tag said  she  was Donna. She was a black girl
with relaxed hair put into a side parting, a big, round pair of glasses and,
now that she was actually pointing it at us, a great big brilliant smile. It
might not be sincere, but at least she was  the first person we'd been close
to for a while who wasn't shooting at us.
     Her smile evaporated as she took in our appearance.
     "What's happened to you folks?"
     I did my best stupid English tourist impression.
     "We had  a puncture this morning and the car  went off  the road in all
this rain. Look at us. It's been a nightmare; we  just want to  clean up and
sleep." I stopped my  waffle and  looked  sorry for myself while showing her
the state of my jeans.
     She agreed, we were in shit state.
     "Wow!" She looked down at the computer and hit the keys.
     "Let me see .. ." She didn't sound too hopeful.
     "It's  early  and I don't  know  if any rooms  will be  ready yet." She
smiled as she read the screen, and I knew we were in luck.
     "Hey, you know what?  I have a double room but  it's  smoking." The way
she said it, I  knew that when the time came for  her to have a child, she'd
sue someone lighting up even two states away. She looked up,  waiting for us
to share her distaste.
     I said, "That will be fine,  thank you." She looked at us as if we were
somewhere below subhuman.
     "We  don't  smoke,  but at the moment anything  will do." I smiled.  We
became normal again and were given a big smile back.
     She continued to hit the keys.
     "Sure. I have a special at the moment:
     thirty-nine  dollars ninety-nine, plus tax."  Her  expression  now said
that I should be jumping up and down with joy. I took the hint.
     "That's great!" I pulled out my wallet and gave her my credit card. She
could have been asking for $139.99 plus tax, I wouldn't have given a shit.
     "Thank you" she studied the card "Mr. Snell."
     She swiped  the plastic and  the machine clicked and hummed as I filled
in  the registration  form.  I put  down any shit  I could think  of for the
vehicle registration. They never look at it anyway, and if she did, I'd just
say, sorry, Hugh Grant-type character Brit abroad.
     "OK, you're room two sixteen. Where are you parked?"
     I pointed out and to the left. She started to direct with her hands.
        "OK,
     go  around back to the left,  up the first  flight of stairs, and  it's
there on the right-hand side."
     "Thanks a lot."
     "You're welcome. Y'all have a good one."
     We walked out of  reception and I placed  my  arm around Sarah, talking
shit about what a night it had been. We turned left to go to our non-car and
worked our way around the motel to our room. There was a  chance that anyone
putting two and two together after watching the news might  call the police,
especially if the gas station  was already news.  But this girl looked as if
she didn't even know what day it was. There had to be a point where I had to
accept I'd done all I could  for now. It was time to  clean  up, get our act
together and then move on.
     It was a typical, low-rent motel room that could have been anywhere  in
the world,  with a  queen-sized bed,  faded  flower-pattern cover and  white
melamine-veneered chip board furniture. The curtains were closed and the air
conditioner was off to save electricity.
     I took the Do Not Disturb sign from the inside handle and put it on the
outside as I fiddled around trying to  find the lights. Sarah passed me as I
closed  the  door  and  pulled  the latch  across.  I  went over  to the air
conditioner  and,  leaving the curtains  closed, switched it  to  full-blast
heat.
     Sarah was sitting on the bed, pulling her trainers off. I  walked  back
to the other side  and checked the window, a sealed, double-glazed unit that
overlooked the landing. The only  way out was by the door. I  visualized  my
escape  route. There  were two staircases; I could  either get  down to  the
ground or onto  the  roof.  Once on the ground I would head back to  the car
park  and  hijack  a vehicle.  If  push came  to  shove,  I'd kill her  here
beforehand. I picked up the remote from  the bedside cabinet it was attached
to a  curly bit of wire so I couldn't nick  it and started flicking  through
the channels trying to find some news. The faded silver plastic TV must have
been about ten years old so were most of the programs.
     Sarah  went  toward  the air  conditioner, pulling  off her  jacket and
muttering, "I need a shower."  She  started  to  take  off the  rest of  her
clothes, placing  them  item by item on the heater, then weighting them with
ashtrays  and  a telephone  directory  to keep  them in  place. The air  was
blowing them about as if they were on a clothesline in a gale.
     I watched her undress  as I  lay  on the bed. I  couldn't stop thinking
about  what she'd  said the guys in the house were  planning, and about  how
lucky we'd been to get away. I just hoped she hadn't killed any police; even
if she was telling the truth about the  assassination plot, we'd be in  deep
shit over that.
     I'd made a conscious decision to let her keep the weapon; if any police
had been  killed, she  had  the weapon that  linked her to that, and  to the
Lance killing. London would have to do a mega deal with the Americans.
     I watched her naked body walk across in  front of  me,  heading for the
bathroom. She'd always been at  ease  with nudity, almost nonchalant, in the
way models are. Her body was beautiful and still well trained. I watched her
thigh muscles flex  as she moved; her skin was usually so healthy it glowed,
but with those  cuts and bruises she  wouldn't be  showing her  legs  off in
short skirts for a while.
     As  the shower started  splashing  I lay  back against  the  headboard,
flicking  through the  channels  with the  sound  on  mute.  I couldn't  see
anything of use  yet, like the news, but if  I'd  wanted  to  buy a  diamond
necklace and  earrings or an ab-cruncher, it was  my lucky  day. My chin was
resting on my chest, my back propped up by the pillow. I could smell myself:
wet, mushy and, like her, in need of a shower. Looking in  the mirror to the
left of the TV, I saw a scarecrow who needed a shave.
     I finally hit a news channel that was showing pictures of forests, then
the lake. I didn't bother turning it up. This must be it; we were famous.
     There was film of different emergency vehicles toing and froing, police
and ambulance crews running around with waterproofs over their uniforms.
     Then a policeman gave an interview with the same sort of thing going on
in the background. I really didn't want to know what he was saying.
     If there were dead police, a picture of them would soon be onscreen.
     It wouldn't  change what  I had to do, even  though  it  might make  it
harder.
     The news was replaced by  a commercial. I was in a semi daze trying not
to nod off. My eyes  were stinging as much as my  forearm now; at least that
had  started to scab up a bit. I'd sort it out later. If I'd got tetanus I'd
be finding out very soon. I smiled at myself  in the mirror as I thought,  I
could always sue the police department. This was America, after all.
     I watched a child's toy commercial, where two  small girls were playing
with dolls.  Shit! I leaned over to the  bedside cabinet that held the phone
and a Days Inn notepad and pen combo, and wrote a  big "K" on my left wrist.
Next to the pen was a small  book  of matches; I put it in my jeans pockets,
along with the mags.
     My  body was aching all over. I forced myself up, and pulled the  phone
book off Sarah's jeans. They fell to the floor and I couldn't be bothered to
pick them up.
     I trawled through the Yellow Pages, looking for car hire, called a toll
free  number,  and  was told that, for a charge  of $43  a day, plus tax and
insurance, they'd be with me inside an hour and a half.
     Sarah came out of the shower just as I was putting down the receiver.
     She had a  large towel wrapped  around her, and a smaller, still-folded
one in her hands. As she walked across  to check her clothes  I could  smell
the soap and shampoo.
     "Who was that?"  she demanded as she threw the towel by the TV and bent
down to pick up the jeans and put them back on the heater.
     "I've hired a car."
     "Excellent. How long before we move?"
     I didn't  know why she  was so  pleased. We  weren't going anywhere she
wanted.
     "We?" I said.
     "What the ruck's with  this we business?" I always seemed to regress to
South London gob by twang when pissed off.
     "All the bollocks you're on about is your problem, not mine.  The  only
we about this, Sarah, is that we we got  the North  Carolina police, FBI and
whoever  else  wants  overtime  looking  for us,  and if  you have killed  a
policeman and they catch up with us, we're in a very big world of shit. Take
my word for  it, we won't  survive any containment;  they'll hose us down on
sight.
     "We are  going to do nothing.  What I am going to do is, first, get  us
out of this shit; then I am going to  get  us both back to  the  U.K. End of
story.  I  don't care  what is happening elsewhere, or  what you want  to do
about it. I have enough shit here to deal with. Fuck Netanyahu."
     She sat on the end of the bed and looked at me. I knew she was going to
give me a sales pitch, but tough, I wasn't going to let her get to me.
     "Nick, I'm going to tell you anyway. It's important. I need your help."
     I cut in.
     "Sarah, I'm not interested in your stories. Not now, OK?"
     She wasn't going to give up.
     "Look, I am the U.K. liaison in a contact group set up by the CIA. It's
called the Counter-terrorism Center, and we're based at Langley. Our general
remit is  to disrupt terrorist--" "Sarah, I told  you, shut the  fuck--" Her
voice  got a bit louder.  "--to disrupt  terrorist operations; my particular
cell is coordinating a U.S. effort with European and African nations to roll
up Osama Bin Laden's networks."
     "Bin Laden? What the fuck .. ."
     She looked at me, waiting for me to continue. I didn't, but  she knew I
was now starting to take an interest. She drew a breath and continued.
     "Yes,  Bin  Laden. We  had  a  common cause while  he  was fighting  in
Afghanistan,  that's  true.  But the problems began  after the  'eighty-nine
Russian withdrawal and his  return to  Saudi.  As far as  he was  concerned,
Nick, Afghanistan wasn't destroyed  by  the Russians, but by Afghans who had
turned their backs on their religion  and their country for money and power.
Once he returned home,  he saw the same  corruption in all  the Arab nations
that had adopted Western  values--above all, in  Saudi, the land of the  two
most holy places, Mecca and Medina."
     I looked at  her blankly, wondering if she would be  saying all this if
she knew her life depended on it.
     "The whole  situation was  made  worse  by the  Gulf War.  To  him, the
presence of hundreds of thousands  of American  and other foreign  troops on
Saudi soil was a desecration of  Islam, the return of barbarian Crusaders to
defile Islam's holy places. He vowed to  wage war  against their presence in
Saudi and against the  Saudi leaders who had brought them into the  country.
As  far as he was concerned  it had become  an American colony. He wanted to
strike back at the West--in fact, at anyone who was non-Muslim and in Saudi.
     "The  thought that  former mujahedin would one  day  come to the United
States and conduct operations didn't enter anyone's  head at the  time." She
allowed herself a small smile.
     "The CIA has a word  for it: blowback--a poisonous  fallout, carried on
political winds, drifting back home from a distant battlefield." The corners
of her mouth went serious again as she  added, "Bin Laden has  become,  over
the last several years, the international terrorist  posing the most serious
threat  to Western interests. He  has an incredibly effective infrastructure
and, of course, he has lots of money  to fund it all himself. The ASU at the
lake was funded by him.
     That's why I was there."
     I shrugged.
     "Listen, if there's shit on, call Washington, London, whatever.
     Let them sort it out. There's the phone, call them."
     She looked  across at  the bedside cabinet, but made no movement toward
it. Her eyes stayed fixed  on mine. I wasn't  too  sure if  she was actually
listening, or just waiting for me to say more.
     I got up and went over to  the vanity unit outside the bathroom. It had
a sink, mirror, shaving plug, soap  and hand towels; it was time to clean up
my arm. If  she were telling  the truth, all she had  to do  was pick up the
phone.
     I took off  my  jacket, pulled  up  the shirtsleeve,  and  surveyed the
damage:
     two rows of  nice clean puncture wounds  that any German Shepherd would
be  proud of. If I collected any more scarring I'd  start  to look  like the
Cabbage Patch doll Kelly said I was. I turned on the taps and Sarah remained
silent for a few seconds as I rinsed the dried blood and mud off my arm. The
puncture wounds were deep, but less jagged than I'd expected.
     "Nick, don't you imagine that I've already thought of that?"
     I glanced in the mirror and saw her sitting on the bed.
     "Making  contact  with  anyone is  not an option,  because  it's not  a
solution."
     I washed the wound slowly with soap  and waited for that first horrible
stinging  to  die down, trying  to  work out if what she'd said was any more
than her  usual cocktail-party  performance.  The room  heater  was  working
overtime and making my eyes sting.
     "Nick, how do you  think the ASU was going to get close to their target
here in the U.S.? Just walk up and give him a little tap on the shoulder?"
     I  shrugged.  It didn't matter if I knew or not,  she was going to tell
me.
     It came at me in a flood.
     "Nick, Bin Laden has a highly placed source.
     We think it's possibly as high as the National Security Council.  Think
about what that means: the group that blew up the World Trade Center ... and
Khobar Towers in Saudi,  remember? Nineteen  American servicemen  dead. They
also did the 'ninety-five bomb in Saudi. Another five Americans killed.
     "Those are the people who have someone within the administration.
     That's why  I  can't just pick  up  the  phone and get inside help: the
source would  find out, then close down for a few years and never  be found.
He is the key to stopping Bin Laden."
     I could see the passion in her eyes as she continued.
     "Nick,  the source has  access  to Intelink. Not only does that mean he
would  know before  virtually  anyone else of  any contact I made, but  just
think about what information is being passed on to Bin Laden and anyone else
he then decides to sell or give it to. Don't you think I would  love to call
this in?"
     Well, if all this was true, that was the phone call question taken care
of.
     Intelink is a  top secret network, through which all  the U.S. and some
Allied  intelligence  agencies share information,  very  much like their own
private  Internet. Within  it, all agencies also have  their own intra  nets
separated by  fire  walls from the main system.  There are  about a  hundred
sites that need top secret security clearance to get  access to. Whoever the
source was, if he or she had access to it, then they must be big time.
     I washed,  thought  and said nothing.  If she was telling the truth and
Netanyahu was killed and the source did exist, it would  be  a drama, but it
wouldn't make  much of  a  dent in my  life. Come  to think of it, would  it
affect anyone else's very much?
     I could still see her reflection in the mirror.
     "Hey,  kill one Israeli prime minister," I said, "another  pops  up. So
what?"
     It  seemed that something I'd  said had  amused  her, because  her nose
twitched and a big smile lit up her face.
     "They're not  going to kill  just  Netanyahu, Nick.  The main target is
Arafat. Bin Laden  hates him hates him even more than Netanyahu, for reining
in  Hamas  and  other  Islamic  fundamentalists  and  supporting  the  peace
process."
     I looked down at my arm, trying to hide my smile.
     "He's not too keen on making friends, old Bin boy, is he?"
     My  joke  wasn't appreciated;  she  just  carried  on as  if  she  were
Elizabeth giving me a brief.
     "For Bin Laden,  the important thing about this attack is what it  will
say to the world. When  CNN asked him about his plans, he said,  "You'll see
them and hear them in the media, God willing." Since then, the Islamic Jihad
group  has sent the United States a warning: that they would soon deliver  a
message to  Americans  'which we hope they read with care,  because we  will
write it, with God's help, in a language they will understand."
     "His  message is that  nowhere is safe for  United States  citizens and
their friends.  It's  the  logical  extension  of  the  bombing of  American
interests  overseas.  The one place that  should  be  safe  here in the U.S.
isn't. Think  about  it, Nick. Two world  leaders killed while guests of the
most powerful  nation  in  the  world. A  perfect demonstration that Allah's
avenger can  strike wherever  and whenever he wants. Just think what a boost
that would be for the fundamentalists. As you would say, there'd be shit on.
And the source is there, Nick, every step of the way."
     She stood up and started to walk toward  me.  I concentrated on dealing
with my arm.  I  said, "And what about the guy we were sent  in  to lift  in
Syria? Where does that fit in?" I hoped I wasn't sounding too interested.
     "And you changed the data. London told me everything."
     She was now standing next to me.
     "Ah, London again. I  killed him  because  I  had to, Nick. He knew the
real data. If he'd come back to the U.K.
     the corrupt stuff I gave them wouldn't have stood up."
     "Why change it in the first place?"
     She sighed.
     "To try to confirm if  the source really  existed, and where in the NSC
food chain he was.  Those were early days, Nick,  nothing was confirmed.  At
that point he was just a myth."
     She clearly felt more had to be said.
     "Look, I needed to do  it so that when the source if  he existed got  a
look at the data, he would have to inform Bin Laden that everything was  OK,
nothing had been compromised.
     That way, not only did it confirm he existed, but meant that perhaps he
could  be tracked down.  Whoever  sent you here  will  not  know everything,
Nick."
     There was  a  lull.  I knew  she  was  waiting  for me to  ask  another
question.
     I  patted my arm with a hand  towel, turned and leaned back against the
sink. I looked at her, two feet away.
     "We  should  have  been told there  was a change  of  plan  once on the
ground. You fucked a job up that killed Glen" She looked at me, confused.
     "Reg Three, remember?"
     There was no reaction in her face.
     "Yes, of course. I'm sorry about that." I knew she really didn't give a
shit about Glen. Come to think of it, nor did  I anymore. It was a long time
ago. Even  in the Regiment he would have been long forgotten, apart from  by
his family and a  few  close  friends on  Remembrance  Day. His  wife  would
probably have married another member of the Regiment and would be getting on
with her life.
     I got back into the present.
     "So why are you in the shit about all this, if it was part of the job?"
     She looked at me with her small-child-in-trouble face.
     "That's the problem." She hesitated.
     "They didn't know. I thought that if no one was aware there would be no
leaks." She  was starting to look depressed, as you  would if you'd severely
fucked up.
     "In  fact,  it was  a cock-up from start  to finish. The  FBI confirmed
shortly afterward that the source did exist.  They call him Yousef, but they
didn't know at what level of  the  NSC  he was.  I decided not to tell  them
about  anything I was doing.  In fact, they don't even know about what I was
doing at the lake."
     It  was all making sense now. It was so typical of Sarah to be going it
alone, hoping  to collect all  the  Brownie  points  and smooth  her way  up
another rung of the career ladder.
     "So  now  you want  me to help you get out of your fuckup."  I couldn't
help smiling. Actually, it felt good.
     "I couldn't tell anyone,  Nick. If  I had, the whole thing  might  have
been compromised. I wouldn't couldn't risk  it." But she was risking it with
me. That  also  felt  very good, which was making things even more difficult
for me.
     She turned  back toward the bed, sat down  and  hit the "off" button on
the TV remote control, knees drawn up and her arms around them, counting the
number of piles there were per square inch of carpet.
     "The problem is, Nick, I still don't know the identity of the source no
one does.
     No matter how I did it,  that has been the aim of this last four years:
to find him, and to force the whole network down."
     She had finished with the carpet and turned back to  me as I  continued
to tend my arm.
     "The two others who were arriving at the  lake  today are the only ones
here in the U.S. who know who  he is. I've met  them only once. I don't know
their names, contact details, nothing.  But my  plan was  to play along with
the hit, and get them lifted I wasn't quite sure how.
     But once we had those  two, we'd get the  source as well. It won't stop
at Netanyahu and Arafat, unless we can neutralize the top man."
     She  brushed  back her  hair with her  fingers as  it  was  drying.  My
breathing  was very slow and  heavy as I tried to think of questions to help
me feel right about what I was thinking.
     "Nick, you are the only " The phone rang.  Sarah jumped up  and started
to throw her things on, picking up her weapon and checking the chamber. With
her jeans  halfway up  her legs,  she  pulled  the curtain  slightly  to see
outside. She shook her head. I picked up the phone. She carried on dressing.
     It was reception; we exchanged a few words and I replaced the receiver.
     "It's the car. Take everything, get into the shower room and wait." She
picked up the rest of her clothes,  towels and bag and took them with her. I
put my jacket back on  to hide  the wound  and the fact that my shirtsleeves
were missing and changed channel, checking it wasn't on a news program.
     I turned up the volume to cover Sarah.
     There  was  a  knock  on the door. As I walked across the room,  even I
couldn't help noticing how dank  the room smelled. I looked  through the spy
hole It was a young black guy wearing a blue T-shirt.  He had all the  forms
on a clipboard under his left arm, and a runner for the credit card  in  his
hand.
     I  sat down  with him  on the  bed to fill  out the  forms.  Showing my
driving license was  always a  bit  of fun,  as most people outside the U.K.
don't have a  clue what they're  looking at a damp  piece of pink paper that
says nothing much at all,  and  doesn't even have a picture. He  was turning
the page over for the details he needed, trying to appear as if he knew what
he was about. I couldn't bear to see him in pain.
     "The number's there." He smiled at me in relief.
     As he got up, I could see him trying to work out the smell. I laughed.
     "We were using a friend's car for our holiday. It broke down last night
in the middle of nowhere."
     He  nodded,  not  really caring. When he left, Sarah  came  out of  the
bathroom, taking her jeans off again to dry.
     If she were telling the truth, maybe I would take her back to London.
     The problem was that  although I hardly knew  where I was with Sarah, I
did with Lynn and Elizabeth. It might be G&Ts at seven, dinner at  eight for
them, but  if I didn't carry out my  job they would  fuck me over  big time,
maybe  even  organize my own  personal T104. I needed more information  from
Sarah; the  fact that  she'd killed the American gave me a pretty clear idea
of whose side she was on,  but I  needed solid evidence. I sat on the bed as
she finished undressing and put her clothes back on the heater.
     "When are they going to do the hit?"
     She came and sat  next to me. She looked up at me with excitement, then
her face changed.
     "You still don't believe me, do you, you bastard?"
     She gripped my arm with her hand.
     "You  must help me.  I'm the only one  who can identify the two who are
left, and I  know  them, Nick. They won't  rest until  they've finished  the
job." She stared at me. I didn't answer; I knew she was going to continue.
     "What are  we here  for, Nick?  How  will you look at  yourself  in the
mirror if you don't help me to stop it?"
     Mr. Spock would have been proud of her. The emotional stuff didn't work
too much for me, but  the story did sound logical. But she'd already  fucked
me over once, and looking at  myself in the mirror had never been high on my
list of priorities.
     I got to my feet and went toward the door.
     "I'm going  for a cruise around to  see if  I can get us  some clothes.
What size are you?"
     "Eight U.S." shoes six. Why don't I just come with you?"
     "They're looking for a couple now. They may even have a video grab from
the gas station. Sit here, I'll be back."
     Out in the corridor, I closed  the door  behind me but didn't walk away
immediately. Ripping two matches from  the book I'd picked up I  wedged them
between the door and the frame, one a foot above the lock, one below.
     I heard the locks being closed from the inside as I went downstairs.
     The rain came down  in a constant drizzle as I got into the car, a  red
Saturn,  and turned  over  the  ignition. The  heater blew  at  its  highest
setting, the radio blared and  the  windshield  wipers thrashed from side to
side. The  urgent  bing bing bing  told me  to put my seat belt on.  I  did,
inhaling the new car smell, put it into drive and headed for the road.
     In case she was watching, I drove out of her line of sight before going
around the back of the motel, crossing over the main drag  and parking up in
the lot  for  Arby's,  a  hot sandwich  shop.  Looking  through  the  power,
telephone and  stop-sign lines  that hung above  the main drag I  now  had a
trigger on the motel door; I'd even be able to see where she walked to, as I
had the stairs and ground floor in  view. If she did  something  that showed
she was lying, at  least I'd know, and  then I'd have control again. Plus, I
could see if  the police turned up. What  Sarah  was going  to do once  that
happened I didn't  know, and I  wouldn't  wait to see. If  she followed  her
usual pattern, she would probably  kill a couple  of them and hopefully  get
killed  herself. It was  a  risk, not  keeping  her  with  me, but worth it.
Besides, there was something I had to do alone.
     I kept watching the motel door as I turned  on the power of the mobile,
hit the PIN and eventually keyed in three digits. An operator answered.
     "Yes, please," I said.
     "North  Carolina,  Century   Twenty-one   Realtors,  on   Skibo   Road,
Fayetteville."
     Century  21 was  a  family-owned estate agency  franchise,  letting out
apartments. I'd gone there once when I was in the Regiment, when a couple of
us were  staying in Fayetteville for  six  weeks. We spent one  week in Moon
Hall,  a military hotel on the  base, which was  fine enough,  but  with the
allowances we'd been given we decided to treat ourselves to an apartment.
     The only reason I could remember the name was that the "Ski" in "Skibo"
was pronounced "Sky" and I always got it wrong.
     I kept the engine running so the  window wouldn't fog, and  my  eyes on
the trigger. As I waited, I hit the  wiper arm to clear the windshield.  The
number was given to me and I dialed.
     The call was quickly answered by a female voice in turbo mode.
     "Century   Twenty-one,  Mary   Kirschbaum  and  Jim   Hoeland  Property
Management Inc. How may I help you?"
     I switched to my bad American.
     "Hi, I'm looking for an apartment to rent--three  bedrooms, maybe." The
bigger it  was,  the  more  chance  there  was  of the  kitchen  having  the
facilities I was going to need.
     I heard the sound of a keyboard being  tapped at warp speed, and within
a nanosecond she replied, "I have only one or two bedrooms available.
     Do you require furnished or unfurnished?"  She gave me the feeling this
wasn't her first day on the job.
     "Two bed, furnished, would be fine."
     "OK, how long do  you  require the  property for? I need a day's notice
for weekly rentals and a week's notice for monthly rentals."
     She  had obviously decided that for someone like me, who didn't seem to
have a clue what he wanted, it would be better to explain right away instead
of wasting her time.
     "Two weeks, but could I get it today?"
     There was a pause. I'd fucked  up the procedure, but she recovered with
style.
     "Right now I  have a  two-bedroom apartment available to rent  for  one
seventy-five a week or five  fifty  a  month, plus electric  and tax. If you
decide to stay longer the monthly rental rate would start on month two."
     Once  I'd heard the first nine or ten words I didn't even listen to the
rest.
     "OK,  that  sounds  great.  What's the kitchen  like?  Does it  have  a
freezer?"
     I thought she was going to ask if I'd just arrived from Mars.
     "Yes, they all have a full kitchen. Freezer, dishwasher, range--" I cut
in before I got the whole list.
     "And I can definitely have it today?"
     There was another pause.
     "Sure." The computer keys were going into meltdown.
     "You need to  come into the office  today before  five  thirty so I can
book  you  in. It  will  be a  two-hundred dollar deposit in cash,  plus one
week's rental, plus tax  in advance,  cash or card  only.  Can  I  have your
name?"
     The  keyboard was  given another brief respite as I slowed  the process
down by talking at a normal speed.
     "Snell. Nick Snell."
     By the time I'd finished, it was on the hard disk.
     "OK, I'm Velvet, the  rental assistant.  I'll  see you here before five
thirty."
     I came off the phone feeling dizzy. I had to  hit the wipers again as I
kept both eyes on the motel door. I looked at the half washed-out  "K" on my
wrist,  then at my watch. It wasn't too early  I dialed call number two  and
got the answer, "Hello, lower school office."
     "Hello,  Mr. Stone here. I'm sorry to call outside of social hours, but
is it  possible  to talk  to Kelly? I'm  working  and I  "  Before I'd  even
finished a very  prim and proper  voice,  straight out of a  1950s black and
white film, said, "That's perfectly all right, Mr. Stone.
     One moment."
     I was treated to an electronic version of  "Greensleeves." I'd  thought
that had been banned by the music police years ago.
     I knew it  wasn't "perfectly  all right."  The  secretary would have to
drag her out of class, or whatever  goes on in boarding schools at that time
of the evening. Him calling again, the wrong line, wrong day and always with
excuses but I paid  the bills, and on time.  It must piss her  off. I made a
mental note to find out  who  this woman was  and what  she looked like next
time  I  visited.  I imagined a cross between  Joyce Grenfell and  Miss Jean
Brodie.
     She came back on the line.
     "Can you ring back in a quarter of an hour?"
     "Of course."
     "Not bad news, I hope. She's been so excited today, because they sang a
belated  "Happy Birthday'  in  assembly. She's feeling a  very special young
lady indeed."
     I turned off the power with fifteen minutes to kill,  while keeping  my
eye on the motel and listening to the radio, feeling really pleased that I'd
got it together  to  call.  It  would  surprise her. I  was cut  out of  the
daydream by a news headline.
     "..  .  the  deadly  gun  battle  only minutes  away  from  vacationing
families.
     We'll bring you more from the scene after these messages .. ."
     Once  I'd  listened  to  an  important  announcement about  this week's
sportswear specials  at Sears, a very serious voice tried to give weight  to
the popcorn-style  report he was  presenting.  They had found bodies  at the
house, and they were thought to be Middle  Eastern. However, police were not
yet  releasing  further  details.  His  voice  dropped  an octave  for extra
gravitas.  Unconfirmed  reports  suggested  that   the  dead  men  could  be
terrorists.
     At  least  there was  no mention of  any  dead police,  which meant  no
pissed-off cops hunting for  the Bonnie  and Clyde who'd murdered their best
mates. I sat  and  listened  to the  rest  of  the  news,  very aware of the
uncomfortable dampness of my jeans.
     It was about seventeen minutes past twelve.  I powered up the phone and
called the  U.K.  again, nicking  my eyes between the keypad and  the  motel
door. I got the ringing tone and turned off the radio.
     Our conversations  when she was at school were normally quite strained,
because she was  in the office and  people were listening in, and,  like the
grandparents,  they still didn't  understand  how someone as  erratic as  me
could be in charge of a child's welfare.
     It rang, she answered.
     "Hello?"
     "Hi,  how are you today!" I always tried to sound really happy  to  put
her at ease.
     "Fine. Where are you?"
     I could hear  phones ringing and Miss Grenfell-Brodie fussing around in
the background.
     "I'm in London, still working. How's school?"
     "Fine."
     "And Granny and Grandad? Did you have a good time?"
     "It was OK." Her tone suddenly shifted.
     "Hey, Nick, it's really cool you called!"
     It was great to hear her voice as well.
     "See, I promised I'd ring you, and I have, haven't I? You see, a normal
person's promise. Are you impressed, or what?"
     She started to spark up.
     "Yes, and do you know  what? The whole school sang "Happy Birthday'  to
me today in assembly. Well, Louise, Catherine  and me. They had birthdays in
the holidays, too. Are you impressed, or what?"
     I imagined Miss Grenfell-Brodie giving Kelly a disapproving look.
     "We don't say 'or what," remember? Anyway, was it embarrassing?"
     "No! My class has bought a present for me. A book of amazing facts;
     it's really cool."
     "Wow!" I said, trying to work up some enthusiasm.
     "So what have you been doing today?"
     "Hmmm, mostly the Geography project, I guess."
     "That's good. I used to love that at school." I looked  skyward in case
a bolt of lightning was heading my way.
     "We had wet breaks all day today," she chatted on.
     "Is it raining in London?"
     "Pouring, I got soaked. It was raining cats and dogs. Especially dogs."
     We both  laughed. She  said, "Have you talked with Josh  yet? Are  they
back home?"
     "No, they won't be home until tomorrow."
     "Oh, OK. We need to send a card to say thank you for them coming to see
us."
     I thought I was the  one  who  had to come up with the grown-up, parent
type stuff.
     "OK. Can you be in charge of that? It would  be a  really nice surprise
for them. Tell them a few amazing facts while you're at it."
     "I will, during Letters."
     "Great, they'll love that." Letters was an hour set aside each Saturday
after study time,  when the  kids  who were  boarders had to  write to their
parents. Or, if you were Kelly, guardian and grandparents.
     A truck parked between me and  the  motel.  She was still prattling  on
while I moved in my seat to keep the trigger, and at the same  time used the
opportunity to adjust my damp jeans.
     "I wished we could have stayed with  them, Nick. Can we go back  to the
ship?"
     "Yeah, no problem." I  realized I was  still feeling  guilty. She could
have asked for  anything  at  that  moment and I'd  have agreed  to  it. The
traffic  was still screaming past  between the  target and me,  throwing  up
clouds of water.
     "Can Josh and everyone come?"
     "Of course. As soon as we  go  on the next long holiday.  Make sure you
ask Josh in the card, OK?"
     Even as I heard myself saying it, I knew it wasn't going to happen. The
chances of  Josh being able to get over to the U.K. with his kids again were
slim because of the expense. I said, "I've got to go now. You have a really,
really happy birthday time tonight."
     "OK, are you going to ring me again soon?"
     "I hope so.  I won't be able  to this  week, but  I'll definitely  call
after the weekend, promise. NPP. Are you seeing Granny and Grandad at all?"
     "Yes. There's no  Drama on Saturday, so  after Study  Time and  Letters
Granny said I can go stay with them."
     I was pleased about that, because if they weren't able to have her some
weekends she didn't get to leave the school grounds.
     "OK, listen, have a great day."
     "I will. I love you."
     It always felt weird when she did that. I liked it, but I  could  never
say it unless she did first. If I did, it made me feel like I was intruding.
     "I love you, too. Now there's another amazing fact! OK,  back to class.
I'll speak to you soon, all right?"
     She laughed and the phone went dead. I guessed she knew she had to make
the first move.
     She was happy that I'd called and I was happy that I'd remembered to.
     What was more, it was a lot easier to do now that  I knew the Firm knew
about her. I didn't have to get out of the  car and use a public call box. I
cleared both numbers from the recall menu and closed down.
     The truck had moved, so  I no longer had to sit like a contortionist to
keep the trigger. I  sat there for a minute  just looking at the  motel door
and the traffic cruising between us, feeling very pleased with myself.
     I switched back into work mode, pulled $5 out of my wallet and went and
bought  a Coke, trying  my best to "keep  dog"  on  the  target  through the
windows. Once out on the forecourt with my pint and  a  half of Coke and ice
in  my hand, I went to  the bank of four phones that stood beside the Burger
King next door.
     I  pulled out the handset to its  full extent so that I could still see
the  motel. The  roar of the traffic was almost deafening. I put my money in
to call directory assistance. Pushing my finger in my ear and pulling on the
handset  for that  last  inch of  line  to  keep  the  trigger,  I  shouted,
"Washington D.C."  British  Embassy, Massachusetts Avenue, please." I had to
say  it  again  because  of  the  traffic,  plus she  couldn't understand my
Australian accent.
     I dialed the number and finally got through to who I wanted.
     "Michael, it's Nick. I need some help,  and I've decided to take you up
on your offer."
     There was a slight pause as Metal Mickey mulled this one over.
     "Well, that depends on what exactly the offer was." I could imagine the
smile on his face.
     "It's just some  questions that need answering, nothing that'll get you
into trouble."  I could hear myself shouting down the phone to overcome  the
traffic noise.
     "Good. I would just hate to be a naughty boy."
     I bet he would.
     "No, mate, no trouble. Have you a pen?"
     He gave a slow, "0-K," as he looked for it.
     "I need anything that  you can find on a handling name Yousef. Anything
you can get."
     He sounded surprised at my plain speech on the phone.
     "Nick,  aren't  you the  naughty one! You're  supposed  to  be the  one
concerned with security."
     He giggled like a schoolboy.
     "I know, mate,  but  this  is important and I haven't any time  to mess
about. The other thing I  need to know is what exactly Sarah's been  working
on  these  last two years in the U.S."  plus, what did she do the two  years
before that? I know you don't know now, but  I just know you'll  be able  to
find out."
     "Why, Nick, you old flatterer, you."  He started to laugh as he wrote a
note to himself.
     "Aren't you supposed to be the one in the loop?"
     I let out a sigh.
     "Yeah, I know, mate, but I've fucked up and  got myself in a  muddle. I
don't really want to  call London and get it  sorted  out. First  time doing
this sort of job, and all that. It would be very embarrassing."
     He let out a squeal of delight.
     "Oh, tell me about it!"
     I didn't have a clue what he was on about and just carried on before he
had the chance to tell me.
     "Finally, I need  to know what Netanyahu and Arafat are  getting up  to
this week. You know, times, places, that sort of thing" "0-K. You are a busy
boy, aren't you?"
     "Oh,  and one last  thing.  I need to know the names and backgrounds of
the four men killed last night at a place  called Little Lick Creek in North
Carolina."
     There was a pause; I  could almost hear the cogs churning  as he linked
this  to  Sarah and  her  country breaks. I was expecting a reply along  the
lines of, "I don't feel comfortable with this, Nick," but instead got a very
nonchalant, "When do you need this by?"
     "Later this afternoon  would  be great. Do you think you can?" I had to
turn back toward the booth to hear him as three trucks thundered past.
     "No, but I know a man who might. I can't wait to call him."
     "Thanks for that, Michael, I really appreciate it. There is no one else
I can ask you know how it is. But I would like this  one to be just  between
you, me and the gate post, OK?"
     "You, me and the gate post, mmm, sounds interesting. Byeee!"
     I stepped  back into  the booth and hung  up. I would  rather have been
talking with Josh, but  I couldn't until  he got back  from the  U.K." Metal
Mickey would have to do.
     The rain had given me a new layer of  wet on the shoulders of my jacket
and hair. My forearm  was starting to  sting again. Walking  to  the car,  I
lifted up my jacket cuff to investigate. Not good. There were scabs forming,
but the bites  were deep and needed  cleaning and dressing  by  someone  who
really knew what they  were doing.  At least when it scarred I wouldn't have
to explain anything. The teeth marks said all there was to say.
     I did a drive-past of  the motel, checking to see if there was anything
abnormal,  such as sixteen police cars and twice  as many shotguns, ready to
pounce.  Nothing. I parked up and walked past the reception. Looking through
the  glass  doors,  I  could see that  Donna was still  at reception,  still
reading whatever  was  so  riveting  below  the desk. There was  a  tray  of
Danishes next to  the coffee machine for the guests, and  a bowl of big  red
apples.
     Everything looked absolutely normal.
     I put my relaxed face on and headed  through  the  door. Three children
were fighting over who was going to carry what bag. I smelled the coffee and
remembered I was  hungry. Leaving the family to sort out its shit,  I walked
over to the machine, picked up coffees, four  apples and  the same amount of
pastries, and then went back over to Donna.
     "We've decided  to check out  early now we have  a  replacement car," I
said, breaking the corner off one of the Danishes and taking a bite.
     "Sure, no problem, but I'm afraid I'll have to charge you full price."
     She printed  out  the bill and I  checked it  to see if there were  any
phone calls logged. There weren't. I signed the card counter foil
     I went to the room. The two telltales were still  in place. Knocking on
the door, I made sure she could see me through the spy hole as I pulled them
out.
     The  heat was stifling, and  the moisture from the drying  clothes  and
bodies had made it as humid as a  greenhouse. She'd gone back to watching Tv
sitting on  the edge of the bed, still with a towel around her. She took her
plate and coffee without looking at me, her eyes glued to the screen.
     "It's the third bulletin I've seen."
     As I joined her on the bed, I could see that it was a rerun of what I'd
heard on the radio. A reporter was talking with a background of police  cars
and vans,  and then the woods.  He  was  wearing a  brand-new blue  Gore-Tex
jacket,  probably bought on expenses at Sears  on  the way to the lake;  the
hood was down so that you could see his very perfect, plastic hair and face,
and he  was talking in that earnest here-weareatthe-scene tone of voice. The
shootings had  happened hours ago, but  he had to make it sound like the bad
guys could reappear any minute.
     I said, "Have they mentioned any details?"
     She was sounding quite excited.
     "Yes. They've all said it was two men at the gas station, but there are
unconfirmed reports that one of  them could be a woman. The FBI are  at both
scenes, but  there's  been no official statement  yet."  She took  a bite of
Danish and spoke through a mouthful of pastry.
     "That  woman in  the  blue Mazda must  have been  really scared  if she
couldn't see I was female."
     I had  to  agree. But  then  again, maybe  they  were going on the dogs
finding Sarah's underwear.  After another mouthful she  added, "There's been
no mention of Lance."
     I wasn't  bothered by that;  I knew  they wouldn't be  giving the media
everything  they  knew. Unless they hadn't found him yet. The main thing was
that no police had been killed.
     I stood up  and walked over to the window.  Her clothes were mostly dry
now.
     "It's time to move. Get your kit on, let's go."
     She pulled her jeans on, and I knew what they would feel like stiff and
horrible. She got them on, bent her knees and did little squats to make them
a bit more pliable, dusted off the mud  and got  her top back on. As she put
on her size-eleven trainers she looked up at me.
     "Where are our new clothes?"
     "I forgot. Let's go!"
     We got  into the car and I drove.  She didn't  seem  to notice to start
with,  because  she was busy eating her apples and drinking coffee, but when
we  got  onto  the  highway  it  was obvious we were driving  away from  the
airport, not toward it. She frowned.
     "Where are we going?"
     "Fayetteville."
     She picked up the map sheet of the state that the hire company had left
for us.
     "But that's even farther away from Washington. Why Fayetteville?"
     "Because that's what I  want to  do: I want to be out of here and  in a
safe area that I know. Then I'll sort my shit out." I kept my  eyes open for
signs for the 401 south.
     Her face fell.
     "You are going to help me, aren't you, Nick?"
     I didn't answer.
     Keeping to the speed limit so as not to attract any police attention, I
drove along  the same road