as before toward the city. Crossing the Cape Fear
bridge, I noticed a car park on the other  side, on the riverbank below  the
bridge, to allow fishermen and boats to get to the water. As we reached land
and passed the exit down to it, I made a mental note.
     Soon afterward we hit Fayetteville city limits, which seemed to consist
entirely of fast-food joints.
     "Why Fayetteville, Nick? Why are we here?"
     It was the sort of America she'd never seen, nor wanted to, by the look
on her face.
     "This is the only place  I know in North Carolina. I plan to  stand off
here until  London decides how they're going to get you, and me, back to the
U.K.  They'll  have  to  sort  this gang-fuck out with the  State Department
before we go anywhere,  or do anything.  Until then, we need to keep out  of
the way of the police--in fact, everyone."
     I glanced across and thought I  saw her stiffen. I knew she was rattled
about all this, but she was fucked if she was going to show it.
     I  drove  down  Skibo, and  Century 21 was just  as  I remembered it, a
logcabin-style  converted home set amongst pine trees, with a small car park
in front and a large neon sign jutting  out from the side of the road. But I
wasn't ready to  go in  yet; I needed  to sort my  act out and look at least
halfway presentable.
     I drove some more and found  a shopping area set around an open square.
Beyond that, way  over  to  my left, I saw the "Pentagon," and realized that
this must be part of the shopping mall I'd been to before. A large
     banner hung from a  York stone facade the  size of a row of  houses. It
announced that Sears department store was ready and waiting to take my money
any time  with its fantastic sportswear sale. I pulled in and buried the car
amongst a whole lot of other vehicles.
     She was staring at me.
     "What now?"
     "Clothes. I'll go on my own. What size are you?"
     "I've already told you I'm an eight, and my shoe is six, both U.S."
     Then she gave me a look that said, Can't you remember? You used to know
that stuff.
     Looking at her  as  she  smiled, I closed  the door and  walked  toward
Goody's Family Clothing Store.
     Half  an hour later I came back  with two bulging nylon sports bags. We
went into the Pentagon  and changed in the public toilets. I washed my  face
and  made an  attempt to dress my arm  injuries with some of  Goody's finest
dishcloths. I  should  have found a pharmacy, but I just couldn't  be assed;
there seemed to be more  important things to do. Besides, I was the original
one-stop  shopper. Once washed  and  changed I waited outside the  washrooms
with my  bag of old clothes. Nearby was a cell  phone  shop;  I went  in and
bought two $20 call cards and stopped off at the ATM.
     Sarah and I looked quite the devoted couple in our matching suburbanite
jeans  and  sweatshirts,  with  neat nylon  bomber  jackets for the rain. It
certainly made  me  feel a  lot better to be out of my mingy old kit, but my
eyes  were  stinging with fatigue and I had trouble focusing on anything for
too long. We got back to the car and threw the old stuff in the trunk.
     I was now into a new phase of the job.
     "You drive," I said, throwing the keys at her.
     "I'll tell you where."
     We drove onto the Century 21 lot and parked up amongst the fir trees.
     The  engine was  still running, and I looked across  the  carriage  way
toward a gas station, not really concentrating, but getting myself ready for
the next few minutes. These things have to look natural, and that can happen
only if you act natural. That takes just a bit of preparation.
     She was confused.
     "What are we doing now?"
     "Like I said, we are doing nothing. / am getting us somewhere to stay.
     The fewer people that see us together, the better. Wait here."
     I left the keys with her again. It was no drama, she was going nowhere;
     she wanted me to help  her. Besides, she knew that if she drove off I'd
have to call it in, and she would then be OTR (on the run) not only from me,
but also from the police, and the Firm would  have  no option but to  stitch
her up.
     I left her counting trucks and  went inside the  office.  I  recognized
Velvet  from  her voice as she took another phone inquiry  at  the speed  of
sound.
     Her  hair was long,  past her shoulders,  and she had a dyed-blond perm
that was long overdue for a refit. It had so much spray on it that the hairs
looked like strands of nylon. The skin on her arms and hands showed that she
was in  her  twenties,  but her fingers  were  yellow  and  she already  had
crow's-feet from screwing up her face to stop the cigarette smoke getting in
her  eyes. She looked pretty enough on  the  outside, but  I  wouldn't  have
wanted  to  look  down a fiber-optic  scope  into her  lungs.  My  eyes were
stinging more than ever.
     She finished her call and looked up.
     "Hi. How may I help you?"
     "Hi,  my  name's  Nick  Snell.  I  booked an  apartment with  you  this
morning."
     Before I'd finished she was  already  going into her files, and moments
later she nourished a key.
     "I'll  need you to fill out this form. I forgot to ask if you have  any
pets. If  so, they mustn't weigh more  than twenty  pounds  each and you are
only allowed two. How are you paying?"
     "No, I don't, and cash."
     At  last, a reaction from  her that  wasn't  fully automated; maybe she
liked the way I pronounced the word "cash." Two  minutes later I was heading
back to the car.
     I opened the map and  looked  for North Reilly  Road, which  Velvet had
told me was only a few minutes' drive away. Stewart's Creek turned out to be
a private  "community" with just one road in  and out; it opened up  into an
area of  about forty acres,  on  which sat twenty  or so  blocks  of  green,
wooden-facaded apartment blocks, three  stories high. We observed the 15 mph
limit as we entered our new neighborhood.
     "It's apartment one seven one two," I said, looking from side to side.
        "I
     guess that's  building seventeen." Sarah nodded and we splashed our way
through  the puddles, looking at the numbers on the large  gray  mail  boxes
arranged outside each block. We passed the community pool and tennis courts,
beside which stood a row of call booths and Coke and newspaper machines.
     "Got it." Sarah turned into number seventeen's parking lot.
     We  climbed the  wooden  stairs and entered  the  apartment.  The first
impression was, brown. There was  a  brown  sofa and chair around a tv and a
log fire in the fake-stone fireplace,  with a chain-mail curtain  to protect
the brown  carpet.  The living area  was  open plan,  with the kitchen  area
facing us as  we went in. At the far  end of the  room was a set of  sliding
patio  doors  with insect  mesh  on  the  outer side,  which led to a  small
balcony.
     The place  smelled  clean  and  looked comfortable.  In  the  bedrooms,
blankets, sheets and towels were all laid out, ready for use. In the kitchen
there  was a welcome  pack of coffee, powdered creamer and sugar. Sarah went
into  the bedrooms, closing the blinds. I slipped  into the kitchen area and
switched on the freezer, turning the dial to "rapid." The sound of the motor
powering up was too noisy, so I put the fridge on as well.
     She came back into the living room as I was putting the kettle on.
     "Now what?" she asked, closing  the patio-door blinds to cut out prying
eyes.
     "Nothing. You stay  here,  I'll  go and  get  food. I'm  starving.  The
kettle's on, why not make a brew?"
     I  drove to  the  nearest store, which was part of  a gas station,  and
bought the normal  supplies a couple of subs, chips,  canned drinks, washing
and shaving kit. Then I used my call card to dial Metal  Mickey from a phone
booth on the forecourt.  There was  no  answer from  his  extension  at  the
embassy, not even voice mail and the switchboard wouldn't take messages.
     Baby-G told me it was 18:36. He must have finished for the day. I tried
to remember his home number; I couldn't, shit. It got binned with the 3C.
     I returned to  the apartment. Sarah was lying on  the sofa half asleep,
TV on and with  no coffee made. I  threw her a sub and a bag of  chips,  and
turned to  reheat the  water. The yellow freezer light  told me it was still
working overtime to achieve quick freeze.
     Sarah eventually reached  out and  started to  pull  open her  food.  I
poured water into the coffee mugs.
     The annoying thing was  that  everything  she'd  said made sense; she'd
done nothing to show  she  was  lying. Why should she  trust anyone  back in
London? I knew from firsthand experience that the Firm was as slippery as an
eel in baby oil.
     I turned around to  face  her as  I placed the  coffee on the breakfast
bar.
     She was lying back with the sub on her chest, one mouthful missing.
     She'd closed down. I knew how she felt. I was knackered and my head was
starting to spin. I desperately needed sleep. I checked  that the front door
was locked and crashed out on one of the double beds, on top of the piles of
sheets, towels and blankets.
     It was still dark when  I woke. I turned and felt another body next  to
me. I hadn't heard or felt her come into the room.
     As my eyes adjusted to the dull light from the street lamps through the
blinds, I could make out  her shape. She was facing me, curled up, her hands
together, supporting  her head. It sounded as if she was having a bad dream.
She  mumbled to  herself and started to  move  her head  against  the folded
blanket. She'd never appeared more  vulnerable. I just lay there, looking at
her.
     Her skin glowed in the warmth of the room, but her brow was furrowed.
     For a moment, she  almost seemed to  be in pain. I reached out to touch
her, just as  she gave  a small cry,  tossed and turned  once,  then settled
again. I could still smell the scent of apple shampoo in her hair.
     I  figured I'd been pretty  good at keeping people at arm's length ever
since I was a  kid. It didn't make life completely fucking brilliant, but it
kept  me going and  it  sure  as hell helped  avoid disappointment. This was
different, though. Very different.
     She murmured again and snuggled closer to me. I didn't know how to deal
with this at all. First Kelly, now Sarah. Any minute now I'd be checking out
real estate agents' particulars for the  dream cottage with roses around the
door. The full catastrophe. It scared the shit out of me.
     I'd never  been the  world's best when it came to staying in one place,
and I  started to have this  uncomfortable feeling that keeping on the  move
suited  me so  well because  it meant I didn't have to think too much  about
what I was running away from, or what I was heading toward.
     I could hear the TV still going in the next room. A woman was trying to
sell us a  great deal on a barbecue set. I rolled over, sat up and pulled at
the corner  of  the blinds. It  wasn't raining,  but I  could  see from  the
rivulets on the windows  that we'd had another downpour during the last  few
hours.
     The back lighter of Baby-G told me it was 02:54.
     I stood up slowly, trying not to  disturb her, and made my  way  toward
the  kitchen. Rubbing  my eyes back into life as I  passed the mirror on the
living room wall,  I  saw the  face from  hell;  creases  and  blotches from
sleeping on the towels, and my hair thick with grease, sticking up as if I'd
had  a good burst from a Tazer. I shuffled to the  kitchen, scratching every
fold of skin I could reach. It was coffee time.
     Sarah must have heard me banging about. Her voice behind me matched the
way I felt and looked.
     "I'd like one of those, please."  The TV went quiet as she hit "off" on
the remote.
     She sat on the sofa, looking sheepishly at the carpet, her arms between
her legs, as if she'd  been unmasked as human after all. I was expecting her
to say,  "Please don't tell anyone," but she didn't.  Instead she said, "I'm
sorry about that. Nick, I  just  felt  so alone  and scared. I  needed to be
close  to you." She  looked up  at  me.  Her  eyes  were  full  of pain, and
something  else  I  couldn't  quite identify,  but  found myself hoping  was
regret.
     "You did mean a lot to me. Nick. I just didn't know how to deal with it
at the time.  I'm  sorry for  how I behaved then, and I'm sorry for being so
stupid now." She paused, searching my face.
     "I won't do it again, I promise."
     I turned back to the coffee and tried to sound upbeat.
     "That's OK, no drama."
     What I really wanted to do was grab  her, hold her tightly  and pretend
for  a moment  that I  could make everything  all right.  But  I  was frozen
between  my memory of what  she'd done to me in the past  and what my orders
were for the future.
     I plugged in the kettle, feeling more and  more confused. I had a crack
at dragging myself back to the present.
     "I need Michael Wamer's home number."
     It didn't register with her at first.
     "Who?"
     "Michael Warner. I want his home number."
     I  turned  and  glanced at  her. It  dawned  on  her that  I'd  been to
Washington.
     She said, "What  did you tell  them?" I  didn't think I'd ever seen her
look more miserable.
     "That I  was reviewing  your  PV Anyway,  I've  talked  only  to  Metal
Mickey."
     I tipped last night's mugs into the sink and started again.
     "Metal Mickey." She started to laugh.
     "Great name!" Then her mood changed again.
     "Why do you need his number?"
     I brought the coffee over to her,  placing it on the low table in front
of the sofa.
     "I  had some questions I wanted him to research. He might  think it odd
if I don't call to get the answers."
     She thought for a while as she took her first sip, and then recited the
number.  I  didn't have a pen, but scratched it onto the front  of the phone
book with my car key and ripped the piece off.
     "I'll be back in a minute."
     She put down her brew and stood up.
     "It's a bit early, isn't it?" She was right, but I wanted to know.
     "Fuck him. He's paid twenty-four hours a day, isn't he?"
     The call boxes by the pool and courts were only about fifty meters away
across the road. To the right of them  were  the newspaper vending machines,
one with USA Today and the other with the Fayetteville  Observer Times Under
the  street lighting I could  just make out a  picture of the forest  on the
front page of the  Times. I  couldn't  be assed to  find out what they  were
saying.
     It really  had been  raining while  we were  asleep, and quite heavily,
judging by the size  of the puddles. It  was warm and damp and my sweatshirt
was starting to stick to my back. I  wished this  weather  would make up its
mind. I got out my bit of phone book and the call card and dialed.
     There  was a sleepy "Hello?" from  Metal  Mickey, very drowsy, but slow
and wary.
     "It's me. Nick. Sorry it's so early but I couldn't get to a phone. Have
you had  any luck?" I heard the rustling of bedclothes as he got comfortable
with the phone in his ear.
     "Oh, mmm yes, let me get my eyes on and I'm all yours." There was a gap
as he fumbled around for his glasses.
     I didn't want to be on the phone with him all night.
     "Our two  friends we spoke about, what are they up to for  the rest  of
this  week?" I turned  around to check  if anyone  was watching. Not that it
would  be unusual to  be  out telephoning at this hour,  as these apartments
didn't come with a phone. You had to connect your own.
     "Well, they've finished their work and will  spend Wednesday and a  bit
of Thursday just pressing flesh and  having  photo opportunities to show how
nice they are and how well things  have gone during  their visit. Isn't that
nice?"
     "I'm sure it is, but where? Where is all this happening?"
     "Don't really know. In and around D.C." I suppose."
     "OK, mate. Now what about our American friend?"
     "Ah now, I think we need to meet  for that  one, Nick. I  don't  really
want to  discuss him on a land line, and a lot  of paperwork has come my way
that I think  you may want to read. I also have the information  you  wanted
about your other friend."
     Had he found  something sensitive, or was he just worried that when his
PV review came up, gob bing off on the phone would reflect badly on him?
     I said,  "OK, mate, I'll tell you what.  Same place as before, at 12:30
p.m.
     today. You sponsor it."
     "Lovely, I'll see you then." There was a pause.
     "But what about...  the others?"  He was sounding more like the village
gossip with every word.
     "What?"
     "About  your other four  friends. You know, the ones who go on holidays
to the lakes."
     "Oh, yes, those friends. I'd forgotten, I have so many."
     "I know just  what  you mean, Nick. It's soooo hard  to keep track." He
paused again. I was going to have to work for this.
     "Who are they?"
     "Can't tell you!  Well, not over the phone, Nick. I  think you  need to
read what I have for you. It all links in very nicely with Girlie. It's like
a great big  jigsaw puzzle.  Isn't it exciting! See you  tomorr " "Remember,
you sponsor." I had to cut in to make sure he knew.
     "Byeee." I didn't  know if he'd understood what I meant, but  I'd  find
out soon enough.
     I replaced the receiver and turned to walk back to the apartment. Sarah
was halfway across the car park and storming toward me. I stayed where I was
and let her come to me.
     She was shaking with anger.
     "Are you going to kill me?" She jabbed my chest with every word.
     "Is that what the phone call's all about?"
     "Don't be stupid," I said.
     "Why would I drag  you all the  way here  "  "I saw the  freezer light,
Nick. Don't lie to me."
     "What? It must have come on when I turned on the fridge."
     "Bullshit! They're on separate plugs. Do I look stupid? You're lying to
me. Nick!"
     I looked around to make  sure no  one was watching. This wasn't exactly
Times  Square, and raised voices  on the  street  in the early  hours of the
morning were sure to bring police or private security cars. I  put my finger
to my lips. She lowered her tone, but still laid into me.
     "Why don't  you believe me, for Christ's  sake? Why don't  you  believe
what I'm trying to tell  you?"  Her throat tightened and tears welled up  in
her eyes. It was the first time I'd ever seen her cry.
     "I can't believe you were going to do that. I thought I meant something
to you."
     I discovered I was feeling guilty, probably as guilty as I ever had.
     "What after  you froze me, Nick?  Was it the  wood-shredder to grind me
up, like you did with those two in Afghanistan? Bag me up,  then down to the
river and feed the fish? They ordered a T104, didn't they? Didn't they?"
     I shook my head slowly.
     "You're wrong, Sarah, you are--" She wasn't having any of it.
     "You  were going to do  the same  to  me as  you did to those two  muj,
weren't you? Weren't you. Nick?"
     I held her by the shoulders.
     "You're talking shit,  the freezer must have been on already. Listen to
me, I believe you, I really do, but it changes nothing. I  am still going to
take  you back  to London." The words were said  with  conviction;  I wasn't
lying about either of those  things now. It made it easier as  I looked into
her eyes.
     "But, Nick, if you believe me,  you've got to help me.  You're the only
one I can trust." She shook her head and turned her back on me.
     "Hah!
     What a fucking irony!"
     "Sarah, listen, I don't care what happens in Washington. The only thing
I do care about is getting out of here with both of us alive."
     She turned back to me, tears streaming down her face, then wrapped both
arms around my waist and buried her head  in my chest.  She started  to  cry
even harder; I wanted to do something,  but just didn't  know what. I looked
up at the clouds and let her get on with it.
     The crying switched back to anger and she pushed me away.
     "You  used to  care for  me, Nick. Haven't you any fucking boundaries?"
She covered her face with her hands, wiping away the tears.
     "I can't believe you were going to kill me, or even think of it."
     "No, Sarah, no ... I wasn't..."
     The  crying  changed  to convulsive  sobs. It  sounded as  if she  were
haveing a breakdown.
     "I got it  so wrong, Nick, so fucking wrong ... I  thought I had it all
worked out... all under control... I even trusted you. How could I have been
so stupid?"
     I stroked her cheek wordlessly, then ran my fingers through her hair as
she carried on.
     "You  were right... you were right. I wanted to be the one, I wanted to
do it all  myself... I wanted it so badly, it just got  out of control. Once
it  started I couldn't  go  anywhere  for help, I had  to  go it alone." She
squeezed me hard and carried on sobbing.
     "What am I going to do. Nick?
     Or maybe you don't care?"
     It was  pointless asking  me.  I  was still trying to get over  my  own
guilt.
     Fucking  hell,  I'd got  so  far  down  the line that I'd  switched the
freezer  on. How could  I  have done that to her? Maybe I  didn't have moral
boundaries like normal people.  Was I always  going to be the  freak without
emotion?
     She was still in remorse  overload; it was  as  if she  was talking  to
herself.
     "I  could have  done something about  it in  the beginning,  but no,  I
wanted to be the one to get the credit. I'm so sorry, so sorry. Oohhh, shit,
what have I done, Nick?"
     She squeezed her arms around me even more, desperately wanting support.
     I put my arms around her and she sobbed her heart out. I wanted to give
her the comfort she needed, but just didn't have the tools. I'd never really
needed them.
     "I don't know what to do, Sarah," I whispered.
     "Just hold me. Nick, just hold me."
     I hugged her tighter. I felt strangely good about what I was  doing. We
stood  there for  minutes, rocking gently  in  each  other's arms,  her sobs
slowly subsiding. I doubted there were any more tears left for her to cry.
     She wiped  her face on  my shirt.  I  tried  to lift her chin,  but she
resisted.
     "I'm sorry,  Nick.  I'm just so  sorry..."  She moved away from me  and
wiped  her  face  with her  palms, the  sniffles starting  to  slow  down in
frequency as she regained some of her composure.
     "Sarah, where are they going to make the hit?"
     She looked up, breathless.
     "The White House, tomorrow."
     "How? How will they do it?" I needed to know for when I called London.
     It would be my justification for returning with  her alive. She was  in
the shit, I understood that, but  so  would I be if I  helped her and hadn't
prepared my tuppence worth for the inquiry that was bound to follow.
     She sniffed loudly.
     "There's a photo call on the White House lawn with Clinton, Arafat  and
Netanyahu. They'll give a press conference, then there'll be a ceremony with
white doves and songs for peace, kids singing, all that sort of nonsense for
the cameras. I don't know  any more. The two  that  were  arriving yesterday
from Washington had all the  details. The team works in just the same way as
we do: no details until the last minute.
     All  we  knew was  that  we were already accredited  to enter the White
House as news crew."
     "So that's why the old guy had a suit?"
     She nodded.
     "We were  going to be part  of Monica Beach. Oh, shit, Nick,  how did I
ever think I could do this on my own?"
     Monica Beach was what the media called the area of the White House that
TV crews gave their reports from, because ever since the Lewinsky affair, it
had been even more crowded than Santa Monica beach.
     My  first reaction  was that it sounded  more like something out of a B
movie than a real plan.
     "It wouldn't work; they'd never get out of there."
     The tears started again.
     "Nick, these people don't care. Survival isn't an  issue. Look who they
have  for their  inspiration.  Bin Laden's devoted his  life to driving  the
Russians  out  of  Afghanistan, and  is  now doing  the  same  to drive  the
Americans  from Saudi.  He  both  finances  and  inspires  them.  Pakistani,
Palestinian, even  Americans. Dying is  not an issue with  these people, you
know that."
     I found myself nodding.
     "If  you can't attack your enemy, you  attack the friend of your enemy.
And  what  better way  to show the world that even  the mighty  U.S.A. can't
protect anyone  from Allah's  vengeance, even  in  its own  backyard." As  I
spoke, I realized what  a fucking idiot I'd been, just keeping my head down,
concentrating  on the  job, trying  not to think about where  all  this  was
heading.
     "Shit, Sarah, explain to me in detail, the kids singing and white doves
bit."
     I could see her  scrolling through her memory for the  information; she
took a breath and wiped her nose as she gathered her thoughts.
     "After a press  conference,  there's  going to  be a ceremony involving
about two hundred kids. They'll present a peace quilt made from patches sewn
in the U.S." Israel and Palestine  to the three  leaders on the  White House
lawn, in  front  of the North Portico. The kids will sing songs of peace and
white doves  will be  released  as Netanyahu, Arafat and  Clinton  hold  the
blanket for the cameras."
     Now I knew what had been troubling me. My heart started pounding and  I
thought I was going to  vomit. I sounded surprisingly calm for someone whose
mind was working at warp speed.
     "My friend's kids are going to be there ..."
     There was a look of horror on her face.
     "Oh, shit.  Nick, one of the options  was  a bombing. It  wasn't  their
first choice, but now, who knows?
     Without the assault weapons, it will  be the easiest way." She  started
to cry again.
     I  grabbed  her and  forced her to look me  in the face.  Her eyes were
puffed up, her cheeks wet and red.
     "Sarah, I've got to make a call."
     She started to beg.
     "Please  don't, Nick.  Calling won't solve it.  Your friend's  children
might be saved, but the others will still die."
     I  put my hand  up  to her mouth. I  understood what she  was saying. I
couldn't call Josh anyway: he would only get back just in time for the final
rehearsal. Did  I give a fuck  about the other kids? Yes, of  course  I did,
just not as much as I did about Josh's.
     "I have to call someone to get his number, that's all."
     I strode back to the bank of phones, got the phone card out and dialed.
     Miss Grenfell-Brodie answered. I said,  "Hello, it's Nick Stone  again.
I'm very sorry to  bother  you,  but would  it be possible to talk to Kelly?
I'll phone back in fifteen minutes if that's all right."
     She was obviously getting used to this. I could almost hear her sigh.
     "Yes, of course, but please  try not to do this too much, Mr. Stone. It
disrupts her routine. Phone calls  can be arranged through this office  at a
more convenient time for everyone concerned."
     "Thank you  for  telling  me,  I wasn't aware of  that. It won't happen
again, I promise. Could you ask her to bring her address book with her?"
     "Yes,  of  course.  She will  be  brushing  her  teeth.  She's just had
breakfast.
     I will fetch her."
     "Thank you." I put the phone down. I did know about booking calls.
     But then again, fuck 'em. Who was paying the bills?
     Sarah arched an eyebrow.
     "Who is Kelly?"
     "Never mind."
     We stood there waiting. I could see that she was dying to say something
more, but she knew me well enough to know I wasn't in the mood to answer.
     As I stood by the phones,  more  and  more anxious  about being seen, I
realized that I no longer had to be. I could call  Kelly from the mobile. We
walked back toward the apartment in silence, Sarah still with her arm around
my waist.
     As I closed the door behind us,  she went to wash her face. I  put  the
kettle on. I thought about what Sarah had  said.  I didn't normally remember
the deaths I'd  seen,  but I could see the  body of Kelly's little sister as
clearly as  if she'd been  slaughtered  yesterday. Whatever happened, Josh's
kids  weren't going to  go the same way. But should I tell him, and risk him
doing his job and  telling the Secret Service? I would in his shoes, but did
it even matter? Would the ceremony go on if he did? Yes, of course it would.
But what about the source? Would it affect the timing of the hit?
     As  the  kettle did its stuff I bent down to  pull the deep-freeze plug
from its  socket, then stopped myself.  Things  had changed, but  pulling it
would show her that  she'd been right about me.  I decided to leave it where
it was.
     I walked around the breakfast bar toward the  sofa. What the tuck was I
going to do about this situation? My first reaction was to tell Josh and get
him not to tell a soul, but that wasn't going to  work. Even if, like me, he
didn't give a shit about the brass  in  the White  House, he would about the
kids. Then he'd be smack in the middle of the same predicament as me.
     Some of  them must  be his  friends'  kids, and  then  friends  of  his
friends.
     Soon every fucker would know the score.
     Sarah came from the bedroom, her eyes still red, even after her wash up
     She saw the steam rising from the kettle and walked past me to make the
brews. I checked my watch.
     A different female voice answered this time.
     "Oh, yes, she's on her way, she should be here any moment."
     "Thank  you." I cradled the phone in my shoulder, expecting a wait, but
almost at once got "Hi! Why are you calling me again, what's up?"
     At first I thought I should try  not to  sound as if I was talking to a
child, then I decided not to bother.
     "Nothing, just checking you've cleaned your teeth."  It got a laugh out
of her.
     "Have you got your address book with you?"
     "Sure have."
     "All  right then,  I'm after Josh's  number, because I'm  going to  the
airport in a minute. Guess what? I'm going to  Washington and maybe I'll get
to see him."
     "Cool."
     "I know, but I need the phone number and I've left it at home."
     "Oh, OK." I could hear  the pages  flicking in  her Spice Girls address
book. At  the bottom of each page was a  multiple-choice profile and a space
to insert the "cool factor" of the person the page was about. I'd felt quite
proud  to see  that she'd  circled  "funny and weird" as my description, and
given me a OF of 8 out of 10.  But that had all  crashed before my eyes as I
turned  to the  next page  and saw her  grandparents circled  as  "kind  and
gentle" and given  a  OF  of 10. Perhaps  I'd  have  to  start  tucking  her
pullovers into her jeans all the time if I wanted to up my cred.
     She reeled  off the number and I  scratched it on  the piece  of  phone
book, then tapped it into the phone as we talked.
     "Nick, why are you going to America?"
     "I'm going with a friend. Her name is Sarah."
     I looked  over at her. She was staring  quizzically,  trying to work it
out. I was sure she knew it was a child. Those things are hard to hide.
     I said, "My friend Sarah is going to do some work in Washington and I'm
going with her. Hey, would you like to speak to her?"
     "OK." There was a slight reluctance in her voice. Maybe she sensed that
things were about to get complicated. I didn't want to tell her they already
were. Sarah came to the settee with two full coffee mugs.
     I passed over the phone and said, "Sarah, this is Kelly. Kelly wants to
say hello."
     She fixed her eyes on me as she spoke.
     "Hello?" There was a gap, then, "Yes, that's right. Sarah."
     I  kept looking at  her and hoped  this was  the right thing  to do. It
might come in handy, later. Sarah was still talking.
     "Yes, I'm going to Washington.
     What do I do? I'm a lawyer. Yes, I'm just going over to  work, just for
a few days, and Nick is coming with me." She was obviously getting the third
degree.
     "Oh, yes, a  long time, but I hadn't seen him for years. Yes,  OK, I'll
pass him back. Nice to talk to you, Kelly, goodbye."
     "Will you still call me next week?"
     "I promise.  Don't worry, this isn't instead of next week's phone call.
I'll see you soon, no worries."  I  was just  about to carry out our  normal
routine at the end of  a call, but checked  myself. This one was  different.
Shit, this could be the last time I spoke to her.
     "Hey, Kelly."
     "What?"
     "I love you."
     She sounded slightly  quizzed  at me  saying it first,  but  very happy
nonetheless.
     "I love you, too!"
     "Bye bye."  I slowly took the  phone  away from my ear and switched  it
off, not too sure how I felt about letting it all hang out.
     "How old is she?"
     "Nine last week" "You kept that quiet, didn't you?"
     "She's a friend's child."
     "Of course."
     "No,  she is." I thought  about telling  her about Kev  and Marsha, but
decided against it.
     She sat next to me on the sofa and cupped both hands around her coffee,
still puffy-eyed.
     "You OK?"
     She nodded, trying to regain some sort of composure.
     "Yes. Look, thanks for ... I don't know what came over me."
     As we drank our coffee I explained my plan. We would go to  D.C." and I
would  look at what Metal Mickey thought was so worth looking  at. Depending
on what I found, I would then decide whether to tell Josh, or just go for it
ourselves.
     I was  feeling uncomfortable about the  Josh situation, but cut away by
trying  to justify it to myself by the  fact that he  wouldn't be back until
early  this afternoon, and by then I'd be with Mickey. So  it wasn't as if I
was  abusing  our friendship. I  took  another  sip  and  decided  that  was
bollocks.
     Deep down, I knew I was.
     Everything we did  now  would be paid  for and ordered by Sarah, in the
name of Sarah  Darnley. It was  part of her security blanket. There must not
be any movement detected on my credit card or phone. We went back
     down to the call box and called the ticket line. We were going to leave
for Washington National on the 8:50 a.m. from Raleigh.
     After showering and sorting our  shit  out we drove north, back  toward
Raleigh. There was a constant flow of early morning commuter traffic. It was
cloudy,  but  no  need for  wipers  yet. First light had passed us by  as we
headed out of the  city, stopping only to buy  some coffee and a plain  blue
baseball cap for Sarah from  a gas station. I had one hand  on the wheel and
was sipping coffee through the gap in the  top of the  container when Sarah,
who'd been keeping one eye on her wing mirror, turned off the radio.
     "Nick, we have a problem."
     Behind us, and to  our  right,  was  a  Fayetteville  blue and white. I
stopped at the lights as Sarah started  to draw her pistol, placing it under
her right thigh. On the  basis of  her performance so far, the mere sight of
it got me flapping.
     "Sarah, let me do this."
     She didn't reply. The cruiser came up level.  My heart started to pound
big time. Both of the patrolmen, one black, the other Hispanic, were wearing
black, short-sleeved  shirts  and  sunglasses,  even  at this  time  of  the
morning. Their chests looked bigger than they  actually  were,  due  to  the
protection they wore under their shirts. The driver was staring  at us both,
the  Hispanic  was  facedown,  looking at a  screen  attached to  the  dash,
probably carrying out a plate check on  our car. I smiled like  an idiot  at
the driver. What was I supposed to do? He wasn't giving me any instructions.
     It  was Sarah who switched on. She opened  her window, and at the  same
time  I could see the  black  trooper  doing the same. His mustache  met his
glasses,  with acne-scarred cheeks  each side. I couldn't see his eyes, only
what he was looking at in his mirrored lenses, but his demeanor told me that
I wasn't on his Christmas card list.
     Sarah came to the rescue.
     "Hello, Officer, can  I help you? Is there something wrong?"  Her voice
was outrageous; it was the  fluffiest damselin-distress impression I'd  ever
heard.
     The  policeman  would  have heard  it many  times  before, only not  in
Cambridge English.  He  drawled, "Yes, ma'am. The driver of this  vehicle is
violating  the Federal Highway  Code  by  consuming a  beverage while at the
controls of a moving vehicle."
     She said  breathily,  "I'm so  sorry, Officer, we didn't realize. We're
just on vacation from England and ..."
     The black  policeman  got  the  OK from  his  mate. The check had  come
through. He nodded back at him, then turned toward us. He  looked  at me and
jutted his jaw.
     "Sir?"
     The lights  had  changed  to green, but  no one was going to hit  their
horn.
     I smiled like the dickhead tourist I was determined to be.
     "Yes?"
     "Sir, please don't consume beverages on the highway. It's an offense."
     "I'm sorry, Officer, it won't happen again."
     Trying hard not to let a smile reach his face he drawled, "Y'all have a
nice day," and they drove off.
     At  the  airport  I  abandoned  the  car  in the  long-term  car  park.
Formalities such as handing it back to the rental  company didn't figure  on
my list of things to do today.
     I  waited outside the terminal while Sarah went in and got the tickets.
I  needed to call Josh's number, hoping to leave a message. Getting it clear
in my head what I wanted to say, I hit the keypad.
     A heavily Hispanic female voice answered, "Heelo? Heelo?"
     "Oh hi, is this Josh's number?"
     "Jish?"
     "Yes. Can I leave a message for him?"
     "No Jish."
     "Can I leave a message?"
     "Jish no here."
     "I know that. I want to leave a message."
     "I say to Jish. Goodbye."
     The phone  went  dead. I felt as if  I'd wandered into Fawlty Towers. I
redialed as Sarah came out of the terminal. She saw me and headed over.
     She passed,  handed me my ticket and carried on  walking. We were going
to travel as two separate individuals.
     "Heelo? Heelo?"
     I could hear a vacuum cleaner in the background. I said, "Please say to
Jish, Nick is flying to Washington today."
     "OK. Ees Nick."
     We were getting warmer.
     "What... time ... is ... he ... home?"
     "He no home." Maybe not so warm.
     "Muy bien, much  as  gracias, senorita," I said, using rusty stuff  I'd
learned while garrisoned on Gibraltar as a young squaddie. Then I added  the
only other Spanish phrase I knew: "Hasta la vista, baby."
     I checked in and made my way to  the gate area. The  front pages of the
state newspapers glared at me as I  passed the  newsstand.  The main picture
seemed to be a fuzzy black-and-white still from a CCTV video of Sarah and me
lifting the van. She was  still looking like a sperm, T-shirt over her head;
I was side-on with  my head uncovered. It must have been  taken at the point
when the dog and I were about to have a major disagreement.
     I decided not to  buy the paper or hang around. The newsstand was  part
of the shop where I'd bought the  maps  of the lakes; maybe it would be  the
same woman behind the counter, and she could put two and two together.
     I walked to the gate area and waited.
     The  hour-long  flight was  late landing. The  Ronald  Reagan  National
Airport, Washington's main domestic terminal,  is a stone's  throw  from the
capital, on  the west bank of the Potomac River and  southwest of D.C." near
the Pentagon. You can see the traffic jams around Capitol Hill as you land.
     I  disembarked behind Sarah,  who  was  following the  rest of the herd
toward the baggage area. We'd both packed our weapons  in our bags;  being a
domestic flight, there wasn't much of  a risk. I collected  my holdall  from
the carousel and walked off to the phones. It was 10:27 a.m.
     My Mexican friend was quick to answer.
     "No Jish," she said.
     "Mas tarde. He home two o'clock." Then she put the phone down.
     Getting  anywhere in D.C.  by taxi  at  this time  of day is a wish. If
you're in a hurry, the best bet is the Metro. As I headed toward the airport
station, Sarah linked up with me with her head down, baseball cap on. At the
machines I checked the map and put in two one-dollar bills for my ticket.
     "RV back here, by the machines, at two o'clock?"
     She shook her head.
     "No, not here. I'll meet you somewhere in town.
     There's more chance of me being seen here." It was clear by the way she
studied the instruction panel  that, in  all the time  she'd lived  in  this
city, she'd never used  the Metro. I took the change out of  the cup with my
ticket and put in some more money for her as she looked at the map.
        "I
     need to keep out of town for now," she said.
     "No need to expose myself  too much.  I'll go south  and hold off for a
while."
     "Do you know the Barnes and Noble on M, in Georgetown?"
     Still studying the map, she nodded.
     "Two o'clock."
     As we moved toward the barriers, I checked the signs and pointed her to
her platform.
     "See you  at  two."  The peak  of her  cap nodded  and headed down  the
escalators.
     The rules of the Washington Metro are simple: the  answer to everything
is  No. No smoking, no eating,  no Walkmans, litter  or pets. If you're good
boys  and girls you can  read  the newspaper.  The station was as  stark and
clean as the set of  asci-fi film, with its streamlined, dark-gray  concrete
and moody lighting.
     The lights  set  into the platform  flooring started  to flash, warning
that a train was about to arrive. Moments  later, a string  of sleek  silver
carriages whispered alongside and the doors opened silently.
     I  was  heading  north on  the Blue  Line.  It  would  take me past the
Pentagon,  which  has  its  own  Metro  station,  and the Arlington National
Cemetery, then eastward under the Potomac to Foggy Bottom, the  nearest stop
for Georgetown and the M and 23rd Street junction.  I came out of  the Metro
and onto the busy street feeling cleaner than when I'd gone in.
     Checking the map on the  wall at the station entrance, I saw that I had
just  over a ten-minute walk  to  the RV  As  I headed north, I noticed  the
improvement  in  the weather. Only 50  percent  cloud  cover  and  no  rain.
Compared with the downpours of the last couple of days, it was heaven.
     Bread and  Chocolate on 23rd was teeming with office workers enjoying a
lunchtime sandwich and coffee. I had just crossed M, and was on the opposite
side  of the road,  walking toward Sarah's apartment. Metal  Mickey seemed a
bit  of  an airhead and I  didn't want to get fucked  over  and lifted while
tucking  into  a sticky  bun and cappuccino. I  didn't expect  the RV  to go
wrong,  but these things have  to  be  done  right; complacency is  a  tried
and-tested  shortcut  to a disability pension, or worse. Anyone  could  have
been  listening to his calls,  or he might  simply  have got  cold  feet and
decided to seek  advice. They would then use  him to get  to  me, the  K who
should have been in North Carolina dealing with Sarah.
     I bumbled on,  not looking  directly  through the window,  but checking
things out  all the same. If a  trigger  was on the shop and a weirdo walked
past staring at the place, it would be a good bet that he was the target.
     Things were  looking fine; I  couldn't  see anyone sitting  in cars  or
hanging about, but that wasn't necessarily significant. Whether or not I was
getting set up by Metal Mickey, they could just as easily have put a trigger
on him.  And if he'd said anything to  the Firm, I'd know as soon  as I  met
him;
     I didn't have him down as the sort of  man who could tell lies with his
body language.
     I walked past the 7-Eleven-type store on my right and noticed  it had a
small coffee and Danish area, busily taking its share of the office workers'
dollars. There wasn't much going on in  there,  either, just people  filling
their faces and catching up on gossip.
     I  got  to  the junction and  turned left on  N.  Walking about another
thirty  meters, I was more or less level with the entrance to Sarah's block.
The water  system  was working overtime again  on the  flower garden. If I'd
been triggered as I did my walk-past  they would now be behind  me, thinking
that I was heading for the apartment.
     Two   attractive  black  women  were  approaching  from   the  opposite
direction,  coffee and pretzels in  their hands. I would  have no  more than
three seconds in which to check. They passed, laughing and talking loudly.
     Now was the time. I turned to give them an  admiring glance in that way
that  men  think  they  do  so  unobtrusively.  The  two  women  gave  me  a
You-should-be-so-lucky-white-boy look and got back to their laughing.
     There were three candidates  beyond them. A middle-aged couple  dressed
for the office turned the corner, coming from the same direction as me,  but
they looked more  preoccupied in staring  into each other's eyes for as long
as possible before it was time to go home to their wife or husband.
     Then again, good operators would  always make it  look  that  way.  The
other possible was coming from straight ahead, on N Street, on the same side
as  Sarah's  apartment.  He  was  wearing  blue  jeans  and a short-sleeved,
dark-green shirt with the tail hanging  out,  the way I would if I wanted to
cover my weapon and radio.
     I faced back the way I was walking. You can only do so much checking.
     If these were operators, the couple would now be overtly cooing to each
other;  but instead  of  sweet nothings they'd be  reporting on  what I  was
getting up to, on a radio net, telling control and the other operators where
I was, what I was wearing,  the color  of  my bag  and which shoulder it was
being carried on. And if they were good, they would also report that I could
be aware, because of the look back.
     I carried on the last twenty meters to the end of  the block and turned
left. I was now on  24th Street  and  paralleling 23rd. This was  the second
corner  I  had turned; if there was a technical device or trigger on our  RV
there could be people stood off around the other  side of the block, waiting
for the word to move. Nothing seemed to  look that way, just lots of traffic
and people lining up to buy lunch at the pretzel stalls.
     The couple  were still  with me.  Maybe  they wanted pretzels, or maybe
they'd told Green Shirt that they could take  the  target around the corner,
toward M Street. Stopping at  the last of the three stalls,  I bought a Coke
and watched the area  I'd just come from. The lovers were now at  the middle
stall,  doing the same. I moved off, got to  M and turned left, back  toward
23rd and the  RV  Three corners had now been turned in a circular route;  an
unnatural thing to do. I moved into an office doorway and opened my Coke. If
the lovers came past, I would bin the RV, but then  again, any good operator
wouldn't turn the third corner. I  hated clearing an  area, especially if it
was me going into the RV It was so hard to be sure.
     Nothing happened during the five minutes it took me to finish the  can,
so now seemed the  ideal time  to get my weapon out of the  bag; apart  from
anything else, fishing around  like  a tourist looking for a map  gave me an
excuse  to  be standing there  now that  I'd  finished  drinking. I  sneaked
together the Chinese  thing and its mag, which I'd split for the flight, and
tucked  it into my  jeans, ensuring that the jacket covered it and the catch
was off, so it could  be used in  the  semiauto  mode. Moving  off again,  I
eventually turned back onto 23rd and into the 7Eleven.
     I bought a Danish, a newspaper and the biggest available cup of coffee,
and  sat  at  a  table that  gave  me  a good trigger  on the RV  There were
twenty-five minutes to go.
     I watched as people  walked past from both directions, on both sides of
the street.  Were  they doing walk-pasts  to see if  we were in there?  This
wasn't paranoia, it was attention to detail; it doesn't work like it does in
the  movies,  with fat  policemen  sitting  in their car  right  outside the
target, engine running, moaning about their wives and eating doughnuts.
     No  one  went  in and came  straight  out again; no  one walked  around
muttering into their collar.  All of which  meant either they weren't there,
or they were very good indeed.
     Cars, trucks and taxis trundled  past from right to left on the one-way
system. As the traffic  stopped for  a red at  the junction with M, I pinged
Metal  Mickey sitting in the back of a  cab, well down in his seat with  his
head resting on  the back. I couldn't  see his eyes, but I hoped that he was
also taking the trouble to clear  his route.  Maybe he wasn't as  much  of a
numb nut as I'd thought. The traffic moved on and he went with it.
     If  there was  one thing  I hated more than clearing  an area  before a
meet,  it was the  meet itself. It's at simple events like this  that people
get killed, in the way that  a traffic cop stopping a car for  jumping a red
light might land up getting shot by the driver.
     I sat,  watched  and  waited. It wouldn't look abnormal to the  staffer
anyone  else for me to be spending that amount  of time there. The place was
packed and the size of the coffee signaled that I wasn't a man in a hurry. I
checked around  me again, just to be sure  that  I wasn't  sitting next to a
trigger.
     It had happened to me once, outside Deny;  it was late  at night, and I
was waiting in a car  waiting to lift a player, only to discover,  as a  JCB
tried to crush the car and me with its bucket, that I was parked in front of
his  brother's  house. Maybe they'd always done that  with any dickhead they
spotted picking his nose outside.
     Mickey  appeared  right  on time, but  not  from  the  direction  I was
expecting him to. He came from the right, the same direction from which he'd
approached in the cab. He  was dressed in the same loud suit and  neon shirt
as before. Perhaps he thought I'd have problems IDing him. He was carrying a
laptop bag, with the strap over his right shoulder. Was what he wanted me to
see on hard disk, and the dickhead had  actually brought it with  him? Maybe
he wasn't so switched on.
     I knew from our last meet that he was right-handed, and noted  that his
jacket was done up; chances were, he wasn't carrying. Not that it meant that
much  at this stage, but these things  needed to  be  thought  about in case
things went tits up.
     Having cleared his route,  he showed no hesitation about going into the
cafe. Good man. He did understand  about sponsoring the meet. He knew I'd be
watching him, and covering his ass as well as mine.
     I watched for  another five minutes past the RV  time; if I didn't walk
over to meet  him he would wait another twenty-five minutes before  leaving,
then  try again tomorrow at the same time.  Nothing that I could see told me
the RV was compromised. I got off my stool and binned the rest of the coffee
and Danish, checking that my weapon wasn't  about to clatter onto the floor.
I  hated not having  an internal holster; I'd already lost  my  weapon twice
because of it. I walked outside and checked once more as I crossed the road.
Nothing. Fuck it, there's only so much checking you can do.
     As I pulled the door toward me I saw his back  in line  at the counter.
The  place was  still packed. I walked past  him  and did my surprised, "Hi!
What are you doing here?" He turned and smiled that happy  I-haven'tseen-you
for-a-while look, and we shook hands.
     "Great to see you, it's been ... ages." He beamed.
     "Join me for a coffee and something sinful?"
     I took a look around. All the seats were taken.
     "Tell you what," I said, "the  place across the street isn't  so  full,
let's  go there." His smile got even  bigger  as  he agreed. When we got out
onto the street he slapped me on the shoulder.
     "I'm sooo glad you said that. It's like that every lunchtime, you know.
I don't know why I bother going there."
     To  my surprise, he didn't  make  as if  to cross the street,  starting
instead  to walk  toward  N.  I  fell into  step beside him and  shot  him a
quizzical look.
     Mickey put his arm  around my shoulder and said, "We'll  go to Sarah's,
it's a bit more private." He patted his computer bag.
     "I've even brought some milk  to go with the  Earl Gray.  Do  you know,
there's a little  shop in  Georgetown that gets it straight from  Sir Thomas
Lipton himself!" He was very pleased with himself; maybe he was  hoping  I'd
take special note of his initiative when I filed my report. Fuck the milk; I
wanted to see what was next to it.
     As we walked along  23rd, I carried on playing the part of best mate in
nice-to-see-you mode. I couldn't decide whether he was  really good, or away
with the fairies. Either way, I was glad I could run faster than him and had
a weapon.
     "I'll leave the clearing to you now," he said.
     "You're probably much better at it than I am."
     I laughed and nodded  in response, so that anyone watching would assume
he'd just made a joke.
     "By the way," he grinned,  "the man sitting on the corner? He's  always
around here;  he works in the apartments. I know you'll be keeping an eye on
him."
     I looked around and saw Green  Shirt,  sitting on the wall to the right
of Sarah's apartment, smoking.
     "Just in case you started to worry. You  may have seen him on your area
clearing
     I certainly did on my drive-past; in fact I always look out for him. It
makes me feel better to know he's there." He gave me a cherubic smile.
     We  reached  the entrance and  the  water system was still drowning the
flowers. Wayne was  behind the desk, leaning back in his chair and reading a
newspaper.  It  was  like watching an action  replay; they both had the same
clothes on  and  even  the dialogue was the same: "Hello, Wayne, how are you
today?"
     Wayne  put down his paper  and grinned like an idiot. He  was obviously
having a really good day again.
     "I'm very good. And how are you today?"
     "I'm  just  Jim  Dandy." The  corners  of  Mickey's mouth  were  almost
touching his  ears. As we walked toward him, Wayne turned his fall attention
to me. I really felt as if I was being welcomed to the asylum.
     "How are  you today? Do  you still need that car space? If you want it,
you got it!"
     I said, "I'll certainly bear it in mind. Thanks."
     He put his hand up.
     "Hey, no problem."
     We reached the desk and Metal Mickey switched his camp game-show host's
voice into overdrive:  "Wayne, I  bet  if you looked in the delivery  drawer
you'd find a large UPS envelope addressed to Sarah."
     Wayne had a look, rummaged around for a moment and handed it over.
     "Why, thank you, Wayne, I hope you continue to have a very nice day!"
     We said our good-byes and walked to the elevator. He saw me looking  at
the envelope; as the elevator doors closed he raised an eyebrow.
     "Why, Mr. Snell, you didn't expect me to carry the material around with
me, did you?"
     Sarah's  apartment was just as  I'd  left it. There was even the  faint
aroma of burned food hanging in the air. Metal Mickey wrinkled his nose.
     "Cooking--the other night," I explained, closing the door behind us.
     "Ooh, that's what it is." He walked toward the kitchen.
     "I'd ask for the recipe, but..." He twitched his nose again.
     "Can  I get you  some tea?" He threw the envelope  onto the settee  and
unzipped his bag.
     I  walked over and sat down beside it, checking my  watch. The envelope
looked quite thick, but I had plenty of time before my RV with Sarah.
     I heard the kettle being filled as I ripped open the UPS plastic outer.
Inside was a brown envelope, sealed with Sellotape.
     Metal Mickey came back into the room.
     "They're  printouts, and they are now your responsibility." He couldn't
help looking rather pleased with himself.
     "How did you get all this?" I asked.
     He gave an impish smile and his eyes twinkled.
     "Ask no questions, you'll be told no lies;  that's  what my dear mother
always used to say." He came over and sat down next to me.
     "However,  I  have a  friend," his fingers mimed  quote marks "who  has
access  to Intelink." He clasped his hands together between his legs and did
a pretty good impression of a Cheshire cat. It was the most pleased I'd seen
him, and he had every reason to be.
     Intelink was switched on  in 1994. The need for real-time  intelligence
had  never  been  so  acute,  as the  Gulf  War  demonstrated  when  General
Schwarzkopf  very  loudly  complained that the spooks  had failed to produce
satellite imagery fast enough. The network was soon being  used as a central
pool  by  all  thirty-seven  members  of  the  United  States   Intelligence
Community,  from  the CIA to FINCEN (Financial Crimes Enforcement  Network),
plus  other groups connected with national security and the military. I knew
that at least 50,000 people had passwords, with varying levels of access.
     We both heard the kettle boil and click off. Mickey jumped up.
     "Tea!
     Milk, sugar?"
     "Strong. Shaken, not stirred."
     I heard him  giggle as I pulled out the wad of paper,  filed  in  three
clear-plastic sleeves. It was definitely stuff off Intelink. On the top file
I  could  see the META tagging: <"IL. CIA Executive  Order 12958: Classified
National Security Information^ META (Megadata) is a  system for pulling down
the documents needed from hundreds of thousands on call.
     The  information  available is nearly half  a million electronic pages;
just over  80 percent of  all  the National  Security Agency's output can be
accessed in two hours.
     The rest  of  the  title  went on to  give its  level of security. This
document  was  tagged Intelink-P--in other words, managed purely  by the CIA
and top secret, available only to policymakers.
     Mickey came back with the tea. I had just finished skimming through the
rest of the tags. This was  looking good. There was another IntelinkP and an
Intelink-TS--classified secret, about a third of  the intelligence community
have access at this level. I was  quite looking forward  to having a read. I
looked at Mickey as he held a sugar lump on a spoon for me.
     I shook my head.
     "How on earth did your friend get this stuff?"
     He sat down and proceeded to put four lumps in his cup.
     "Well,  the objective  is the eventual flow down, or up, of information
as various security  classifications impose  themselves. Right now, standard
COTS  tools  are  used, but they're  not specially augmented with multilevel
security.
     These tools don't provide the right hooks, so for  now different levels
of  security  are  provided  by different physical  levels  of  security, so
there's an issue  regarding  upgrading and  downgrading  information between
security levels."
     I gave up listening to him halfway though his waffle.
     "What the fuck are you on about?"
     His spoon fought a battle with the amount of sugar in his cup.
     "If  they say something  is an 'issue," it  means they haven't got that
sorted out yet.
     Now and  again you can confuse the system. Especially when it's new and
is taking a while to sort itself out."
     He went back  into  Cheshire-cat mode and took a sip of what  must have
been very sweet tea. I was waiting for his teeth to drop out as he spoke.
     "The  only one that  can't be got into  at the  moment is a new, fourth
level. It  hasn't  even got a name  that I know of. Maybe it's only  for the
president and a few of his best buddies, who knows?"
     I didn't touch my  cup, just  kept flicking  through the pages, looking
for things I understood. I heard him slurp another mouthful of tea, and then
a loud swallow.
     "There will be a lot in there that is of no use to you whatsoever.
     He just pulled down any document containing  information that  might be
relevant. He's such a nice boy. Drink your tea, Nick, it'll get cold."
     I nodded and didn't say a  word. He  got the  hint; I  heard the cup go
down  on its saucer. Mickey stood up  and went  back into the kitchen,  then
returned with his laptop bag.
     "Nick, I hope you find it interesting reading.
     I've left the milk and tea for you."
     I looked up at him.
     "Thanks, mate."
     "Of course, you'll destroy all the files before you leave?"
     "No problem."
     He got to the door and turned, dangling  the apartment keys between his
thumb and index finger.
     "By the  way, send my love to Sarah. Tell her, if she needs these, I'll
be leaving them with Wayne."
     I looked at him, trying to look confused.
     "Er, what?"
     His eyes twinkled.
     "Oh, you are so transparent, Nick! PV? Pants, that's what it is, a load
of frilly old pants. I'm not that mad, you know. I  bet they told you I was,
didn't they? Well, let's  just let them think  it. Pension, that's what it's
all about,  my absolutely  gorgeous disability pension." Still highly amused
with the whole thing, he turned to leave.
     I said, "Michael, thank your friend for all his help."
     He looked  back with  a smile that  suggested it had already been taken
care of.
     "Been there,  done that. Now remember, say a special hello to Sarah for
me. Byeee." The door closed behind him. I got  off the settee and turned the
lock. If anybody decided to hit the place, it should at least give me enough
time to get the papers down the toilet.
     I checked out Baby-G. An hour  to go before the RV with Sarah. I pulled
out the papers that were tagged Intelink-P: Executive Order 12958.
     I  turned  the pages,  but they  meant  nothing to  me,  just  lots  of
directions on security  of documents. Maybe  Mickey's friend  had a sense of
humor.
     Next  was Executive  Order  12863 on  the  PFIAB  (President's  Foreign
Intelligence Advisory Board) and Executive Order 12968: Access to Classified
Information. I thumbed through acres of stuff that was full of abbreviations
and acronyms. I understood ziff.
     Then I saw the reason I had been given it. One of the subparagraphs was
entitled, "Yousef." I felt a jolt of adrenaline.
     I read slowly, making sure I understood every word.
     Since  1995, several senior  officials in Clinton's  administration had
been under surveillance by the FBI. At first they suspected that one of them
was spying for the Saudi  government, but more recently that information was
being leaked to Bin Laden. According to this report, the hunt for Yousef had
narrowed to include a senior official on the  National Security Council, the
1,200-strong   body   that   advises  the  president   on  intelligence  and
defense-related matters. Its office is in the White House.
     I  picked up my  lukewarm  tea. It tasted shit; I'd have to  make a new
brew. I went  to the kitchen with the files. There was plenty  of jargon and
junk,  but it was  clear  that  the  hunt  for  Yousef  had  begun after the
interception  of a message  between Washington and  Bin Laden's  farm in the
Sudan that hinted about an agent who might be able to get a copy of a secret
letter signed by Warren Christopher, then  secretary of  state, that spelled
out  American  commitments  to  the Palestinians in  the  Middle East  peace
process.
     The handler in the Sudan had replied, "That is not  what we use  Yousef
for."
     The report carried on to say that they believed there was little chance
of discovering  Yousef's identity after the intercept, because he would have
been one  of  the first  to learn about  it  on Intelink.  All communication
between  him and his  handlers would have ceased. I  had a  quiet  laugh  to
myself.
     Maybe  that was what the fourth level of Intelink was all about: trying
to keep people like him out of the loop.
     There  were  references  to other  documents  relating  to Yousef,  but
Mickey's friend  hadn't  included them. I  placed  the cup on the floor  and
picked up the other Intelink-P  file. Its tag told me it was a CIA document,
entitled simply,  "Counter-terrorism  Center." It wasn't the whole document,
just the  introduction, but even that  ran  to fifteen  pages.  I definitely
needed more tea.
     When the Clinton administration  endorsed the idea of specialized units
to infiltrate terrorist operations and disrupt them, the CIA established the
Counterterrorism Center  as a  central clearing  house for intelligence. Its
aim  was  to  "give the president  more options  for  action against foreign
terrorists to further preempt, disrupt and defeat international terrorism."
     These options included covert operations designed to prevent terrorism,
or  to  take  revenge for  successful  attacks on  Americans.  New cadres of
undercover  CIA officers were sent overseas,  and the  use  of CIA teams was
expanded to  assess  and  predict  threats  against United  States  military
personnel deployed abroad.
     Part  of this  strategy  was a  new level of  cooperation  between  the
intelligence agency and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, its traditional
rival.
     Senior FBI agents stationed overseas held long and  successful meetings
with CIA station chiefs the  first at the United States Embassy in Rome, the
second at  the  embassy in London  to  work out  ways to  cooperate  against
terrorists and other international criminals.
     The kettle boiled and cut out. I  left it for a while; this was getting
interesting.
     I knew that such a  meeting would have  been unthinkable as recently as
two years ago, when the two agencies were at each other's throats over their
conduct in  the investigation and arrest of Aldrich  Ames, a spy for  Moscow
inside the CIA.
     I put  the file down,  threw a tea bag into  a cup and poured. The next
page dealt  with  Sarah's  group.  The  unit  had  scored several successes.
British police raided the  London home of an Algerian named Rachid Ramda and
found links with the Armed Islamic Group, an Algerian organization suspected
of  seven bombings in  France that killed seven and wounded 180 in 1997. The
police also discovered records of  money  transfers,  and traced them to Bin
Laden's headquarters in the Sudan.
     In Egypt,  security officials uncovered  a conspiracy  by the extremist
group Islamic Jihad to assassinate  President Hosni Mubarak. It  seemed that
Sarah's group was  investigating  evidence  that Bin Laden  helped  fund the
plot. They also had evidence that Bin Laden was the major  backer of  a camp
in Afghanistan called Kunar, which provided training for recruits of Islamic
Jihad and the Islamic Group, both Egyptian terrorist organizations.
     This was in addition to the three terrorist training  camps in northern
Sudan, which Bin  Laden helped  to fund, and where  extremists  from  Egypt,
Algeria and Tunisia received instruction.
     I threw the tea bag into  the sink, added milk and wandered back to the
settee to read some  more. Sarah's explanation of  events was  becoming more
convincing as  the minutes  passed. I sat  back  down. To track Bin  Laden's
activities,  the  National  Security Agency's eavesdropping satellites  were
used to listen in on  telephone  and  e-mail  conversations  throughout  the
world. CIA analysts  were able to determine that  in January he  had held  a
meeting  with leading  members of his network to prepare for a new  wave  of
terrorism.  Soon afterward  he publicly  announced  his intentions  when  he
issued a fat wa calling on Muslims to kill Americans.
     I had a drink and held the cup on my chest, slumped on the sofa.
     American  officials  are  barred  by executive  order from planning  an
assassination.
     But after  the fat  wa  was issued.  Bin  Laden was  named in a  secret
presidential covert action order  on terrorism, signed by Bill Clinton, that
authorized intelligence  agencies to plan  and  carry out covert  operations
that  might  lead to  death.  Such  a  measure  was  necessary,  the  report
concluded, for two reasons:
     "I. We believe that Bin  Laden  is  planning new terrorist acts against
American interests.
     "2. We believe that the question is not whether Bin  Laden will  strike
again, but when."
     I bent my neck forward and drained the cup. I  checked my watch; thirty
minutes  to go  to the RV I went back  into  the kitchen and turned  on  the
electric hob, then placed my cup and the two files I'd read on the work top
     It was time for  file number three. This one came from an acronym,  DOS
FAN  which I didn't recognize.  The document discussed the investigation and
arrest of several of Bin Laden's operators worldwide.
     The hot plate was red. I saw a smoke alarm on the ceiling, and stood on
the sink  unit to pull out the  batteries. Then I touched one  of the papers
I'd read to the plate. Once it was in  flames I placed it in the sink, put a
few more on top and carried on reading.
     The first  few  pages detailed  those  responsible for the World  Trade
Center  bombing: Mohammed Salameh,  a Palestinian,  and  his roommate  in  a
Jersey City apartment, Ramzi Ahmed, an Iraqi who'd fought in Afghanistan and
arrived at  Kennedy  International Airport  on  a  flight  from Pakistan  in
September 1992.  After the bombing, he  spent  most of  the next three years
until his eventual arrest  at a guest  house called the House  of Martyrs in
Peshawar, Pakistan, which was owned by Bin Laden.
     On that same flight in 1992 had  been  Ahmad  Ajaj, a Palestinian fresh
from Afghanistan, whose  suitcase was full  of bomb-making manuals. Ajaj was
convicted in the Trade Center bombing, as was Mahmud  Abouhalima, who raised
money for the rebels. Arrested  in Egypt,  he  told  his  captors  that  the
bombing was planned in Afghanistan by veterans of the jihad.
     Meeting at a  New York mosque, Ramzi Ahmed recruited  Mohammed Salameh,
Nidal  Ayyad and  Mahmoud Abouhalima. They helped him  buy and mix explosive
chemicals in cheap  apartments and a rented storage space  in  Jersey  City.
Abdul RahmanYasin, an Iraqi, was also recruited.
     From time to time, I fed the fire in the sink.  Halfway down the  third
page I found out what DOS FAN stood for: Department of State Foreign Affairs
Network, Mid East policy group.
     The report went on to detail individuals from one particular cell  that
was under scrutiny, and their names tallied with those Sarah had given me. I
finished the last four  pages and burned them,  too.  I felt  as if I'd been
speed-reading Tolstoy's War and Peace.
     I turned the tap on and pressed the button for the waste-disposal unit.
     There was the  wailing of metal as it took the black ash. I got a  grip
on myself and decided it didn't change a thing. All I cared about was Josh's
kids.
     Another thing Sarah had been right about: there was no one to turn to.
     Josh couldn't be  trusted not to approach one of his superiors. Even if
his kids didn't go to the  ceremony, the others would still be at risk,  and
he'd want to do something about it.
     I watched the last bit of  ash swirl  down the hole, and turned off the
tap and waste disposal. Only  five minutes  left to the RV I was going to be
late, but it wasn't as if she had anywhere else to go.
     Fuck it, I'd have to get  her into the White House without Josh knowing
what we were up to. I  didn't  know quite how I  was  going to  do it.  Once
again, I felt more bonehead than Bond.
     I walked into the bookshop after clearing the area. The coffee shop was
to the rear, and I spotted Sarah at one of the tables, nursing a tall latte.
She  was dressed much smarter than when I'd last seen her.  The baseball cap
was gone, and in its place was a gray trouser suit and designer loafers that
must have sent her credit card into meltdown. Her facial appearance had been
totally changed by a pair of black, rectangular, thick-rimmed glasses.
     As I  approached  she  smiled  and  gave  me the  hello-sonicetosee-you
RV-drill look.  I looked  surprised and  delighted--not  that I  had to fake
it-and she stood up for the lovey-lovey kiss on the cheeks.
     "How are you?
     It's so  good to see  you." She voiced her pleasure for  the benefit of
the people around us.
     We sat down and  I put my nylon bag  beside  her new  leather  one  and
matching briefcase. She noticed my raised eyebrow and said, "Well,  I should
be looking the part. I am a lawyer, remember?" I smiled, and she gazed at me
for several seconds before taking a studied sip of her coffee.
     Then she gave me the smallest of smiles.
     "Well?"
     What could I do but nod.
     "Yep, let's get on with it. But we do it the way I need it to be done,
        OK?"
     She nodded back, her smile slowly widening into a victory grin.
     "I was right, wasn't I?"
     We left  the bookshop and walked  along  the main  street.  I told  her
everything, from  what  Lynn  and Elizabeth  had  said to the attack  on the
house. I just left  the T104 out  of the story,  and kept  the return to the
U.K.
     in its place. She never asked. I also told her about Kelly, the  events
that made me her guardian  and  where  Josh stood  in all of this. It  would
undoubtedly come into any conversation once we met up.
     "We met when we did, OK? The  dates and everything  will work. You used
to work for us  as  a secretary."  She nodded. I said,  "We didn't see  each
other because it was all too complicated. Then we met up again. How long ago
was the Syria job?"
     "Late 'ninety-five about three and a half years ago."
     "OK,  we met again  four weeks ago, in  London, in  a  pub in Cambridge
Street, and we sort of got back together, saw each other, nothing big time.
     And this  is  our first trip together. We've come  here because  you've
never been before and I like  Washington, so we thought,  Fuck it,  let's do
it."
     She cut in, "But I told the kid I'm a lawyer and I'm working."
     I  didn't  like  her calling Kelly that,  but she was  right about  the
story.
     "OK, you're in the States to meet a client, in New York,  and  I wanted
to show you D.C. The rest you can busk."
     "Fine. There's only one problem, Nick."
     "What's that?"
     "What's your name? Who are you?"
     "I'm Nick Stone."
     She laughed.
     "You mean that's your real name?"
     "Yeah, of course."
     And then it dawned  on  me, after  all  the  years that we'd known each
other, I didn't know her name, either. I'd only ever known her as Greenwood.
     "I've shown you mine, you show me yours."
     She was suddenly a bit sheepish.
     "Sarah JarvisCockley."
     It was my turn  to laugh. I'd  never known anyone with such a fucked-up
name.
     "Jarvis-Cockley?" It was pure Monty Python.
     "It's a Yorkshire name," she said.
     "My father was born in York."
     Stopping at  a call booth, I tried Josh's number. It would be pointless
traveling  there if he hadn't got home yet.  He was in,  and sounded excited
about seeing us both.
     We got a  cab, crossed back over the  river and  followed the Jefferson
Davis  Highway  southwest, away from D.C."  toward the  Pentagon. We  didn't
talk.
     There was  nothing  left to  talk  about; she'd  told  me what the  two
players looked like while we waited for a cab. It was hardly worth the wait.
Neither appeared to  have any special features that were likely to make them
stick out.  From the sound of things, we'd be looking for Bill Gates and  Al
Gore, only with darker skin.
     We were both too  tired to say any more. It was easier for  us to leave
each other with our own thoughts,  and mine centered on how  the fuck I  was
going to  do this. She put her  arm in mine  and squeezed my  hand. She knew
what I was thinking. I had  a feeling she usually did, and somehow that felt
good.
     We  approached  Arlington  National  Cemetery:  I  could  see  aircraft
emerging above the trees on the opposite side of the road, as they took  off
from the National Airport by the river.  At least the sun was trying to come
out, even if it was in patches through the cloud.
     I gazed at the row upon row of white tombstones  standing in immaculate
lines  on  the impossibly green grass to our right. Heroism  in the face  of
idiocy  was an everyday job for me, but it was difficult not  to be affected
by the sheer scale of death in this place.
     I knew  the Pentagon  was just around the corner as  the highway gently
turned right. The traffic wasn't that bad  now; it would  be much worse in a
few hours, as the staff of the world's biggest office complex headed home.
     The car parks each side of us were the size of Disneyland
     The Pentagon came into view. It looked just like the Fayetteville mall,
except  that  the stone was a more depressing  color. We  lost  sight  of it
momentarily as we went under a road bridge. One of the supports still bore a
crudely painted white swastika. Josh had seen it as a sign of democracy.
     "The day they clean it off," he once said to me, "is the day no one can
speak out." I just saw it as the halfway marker between his house and
        D.C.
     "About  another twenty  minutes,"  I  said. Sarah nodded  and  kept  on
staring at the massive stone building. A Chinook helicopter was lifting from
the rear of it, the tailgate just  closing. I always liked it  once the gate
closed; it kept the cold out.
     I'd been to Josh's house many  times before while we sorted out Kelly's
future.  They  lived in a suburb  called New Alexandria, which  was south of
Alexandria proper  and quite a way southwest of  D.C." but people  who lived
there called it Belle View, after the district next door. That way it didn't
sound as  if  they wanted to live in Alexandria but had been forced to buy a
little farther away. The nearer your house was to D.C." the bigger your bank
balance had to be.
     Josh's house was on the Belle View road, overlooking the golf course.
     As we turned onto it I gave the taxi driver directions.
     "Halfway down, mate, on the right."
     Sarah moved closer to me and leaned to whisper in my ear.
     "Thank you for believing me, Nick. I'm glad you're here."
     I knew how lonely she felt. I put my fingers between hers.
     The  golf  course  was  to  the  left,  and  facing  it  were  rows  of
three-story, brick-built homes that in the U.K. would be called town houses.
The whole area was  green and leafy, and probably a wonderful place for kids
to grow up in. I half expected snowflakes to start falling and James Stewart
to appear around the corner.
     "Just  behind that black pickup." The  Asian driver grunted and  pulled
in. Parked on the drive outside Josh's was a double-cab bed Dodge truck with
large chrome bumpers and kids' mountain bikes stashed on a rack at the back.
A big For Sale sign was hanging outside the house.
     A middle-aged Mexican woman in  a cream raincoat emerged from the front
door, which was about ten very  worn  stone steps above pavement  level. She
looked at us and smiled, then just carried on past. I looked at Sarah.
     "That must be my new friend."
     Josh appeared at the door, all smiles, his head and  glasses shining as
brightly as his teeth. He was wearing  a gray sweatshirt tucked  into belted
gray cargo fatigue  trousers and  a pair  of walking  boots. As he came down
toward  us he was still grinning away,  but concentrating more on getting  a
good view of Sarah through the sun bouncing off the taxi windows.
     He  opened  the door for  me,  and I stepped  out after paying off  the
driver, who took my money with another grunt. We shook hands and he reminded
me that he had the strongest grip of  anyone I knew. He said, "Great to  see
you, man. I didn't think we'd link up again so soon." He lowered his voice.
     "How did the job go?"
     "Not too  bad,  mate. It took a day, that was all." It was  good to see
him.
     He released my hand and I pumped it, trying to get some blood back.
     Sarah  came around the front of  the taxi, between the  two vehicles. I
held my hand out toward her.
     "Josh, meet Sarah."
     "Hi, Sarah." He shook her hand and I saw her reaction to his grip.
     "Nice  to meet you, Josh. Nick has  told me a lot  about you." She must
have been reading too  many books; whoever says that in real life? Josh just
gave her his biggest smile.
     "I don't know what he's said, but when we get inside I'll  tell you the
truth." He ushered us up the steps and through his front door.
     The first  thing Sarah  asked for was the bathroom. Josh pointed up the
stairs, "First on  the left." As an afterthought he called after her, "We're
going into the living room, so you make as much noise as you want." That was
something  I'd forgotten  to warn her about; Josh didn't change his sense of
humor for anybody. I wondered if  that was one of  the reasons his  wife had
eloped with a tree-hugging yoga teacher.
     The holiday cases were still in the hallway.
     "Where are the kids?" I asked as we walked past them.
     "Jet lag is not an option with kids. It's rehearsal time in D.C." man.
     The big day is tomorrow."
     I wasn't going to pursue the  subject.  It made  me  feel too much of a
lowlife, and besides, it was too early to hit him with the real reason I was
here.
     "Of course. I hope they have a good time."
     The  house hadn't changed  at  all. The  flowery  three-piece suite and
thick  green shag-pile carpet were still  in  place.  The  pictures were the
same, and you  couldn't move for  them: Josh  as a soldier, Josh  becoming a
member of Special  Forces,  Josh and the  kids, Josh and Geri, the kids, all
that  sort  of stuff, plus  all those horrible school  photographs,  rows of
gappy-toothed kids  in uniform, with that  really stupid grin that they only
do when there's a camera pointing at them.
     He  closed  the door and said,  "So, my friend,  how does it all square
with Sarah? What does she know?"
     I stepped closer to him.
     "All she  knows  is that  Kelly's family were  killed  and  I'm now her
guardian. She  knows what  Kev did, and  how I knew  him. You're  the  other
executor of the will. That's how we became friends. She  thinks I work for a
private security firm. We haven't got down to details yet."
     He nodded. That was more or less all he knew about me anyway.
     "Cool.
     Now a couple of details to get out of the way, mate. Do I get Maria  to
make  up  one bed  or  two?"  It  had always sounded really funny to me when
Americans said "mate," because of the accent; the word sounds like it should
only come out of Antipodeans or Brits, but Josh had got into the Brit way of
speaking with me. Either that, or he'd been taking the piss all this time.
     It was a good question, and I had to make the answer sound convincing.
     I smiled.
     "One, of course."
     "All rightttt!" A big, conspiratorial grin lit up his face. We both sat
down, him on a chair, me on the settee.
     "Next important question, how is Kelly? She get to her grandparents
        OK?"
     "She's fine.  Yes,  everything  went  OK.  I spoke to her  today; she's
missing you and the  crew. I think you'll be getting a  thank-you  card from
her soon."
     The small talk was already  killing  me. Normally  I would chat happily
about  that sort of shit; it was what our relationship was all about. But at
the moment all I could think about was the fact that I was about to fuck him
over big time even though I knew it was the right thing.
     The door opened and Sarah came in. Josh stood up.
     "Anyone for a brew?"
     I  laughed. To Americans, a brew means a beer; I'd once been with  Josh
and had  said, "Do you fancy a brew?"  He'd looked at me  as if I  should be
certified. One, we were driving; two, we were looking after kids, and three,
it was nine o'clock in the  morning.  It had been a bit of  a standing  joke
ever since.
     Sarah was out of this one. She sort of smiled to look as though she got
it, but she probably wasn't used to being offered a brew at embassy cocktail
parties,  and it  certainly wasn't going  to be  a  big thing in her  social
circle.
     He turned to Sarah.
     "Coffee good for you?"
     "Thank you."
     He turned and walked toward the door, talking as he went.
     "The kids  will be back from  singing practice  soon and all  hell will
break loose. It'll be so cool for them to find you here."
     We listened to him pottering around in  the kitchen. Sarah went and sat
on  one of the chairs only a short distance from me, but significant in  the
circumstances. I said, "Sarah, we're sharing a room tonight."
     She got it immediately, stood up and came and sat next to me.
     "What now?"
     It was pointless bullshitting her.
     "I don't know, switch on and take my lead. It's far too early yet."
     She looked anxiously at the carpet.
     "I'm worried, Nick. This has got to work."
     "Trust me. Look over there," I nodded toward the books to the right  of
the fireplace.
     "Second  shelf down." What had caught my eye  was Designing Camelot the
Kennedy White House Restoration. I looked at her through her glasses.
     "That's got to be a good omen." I hoped I sounded more confident than I
felt.
     She  saw it, and her expression  gained a  new determination. Josh came
back with the coffee pot,  mugs and biscuits as she was pulling it  from the
shelf. He started to pour.
     "Flat white?" he asked. We nodded.
     He  saw Sarah  flicking the  pages, admiring the pictures  of the White
House interior.
     She looked up and caught his eye.
     "Now there's a classy lady." She turned the book around so we could see
the picture of Jackie 0.
     "Yes, ma'am, she certainly turned this town upside down.  That's her in
the State Dining Room. She was  our  Princess Diana, I guess you  could say.
Geri loved her. I bought her  that book  for her  birthday,  just before she
left."
     He started to open the packet of biscuits.
     "I have to hide these from the kids, otherwise there'd be none left.
     "You know what?"  he said  through  a mouthful of  biscuit,  "I  didn't
realize  all the  things you  have  to do  when  you're  looking  after kids
singlehanded.
     I've had to learn so much."
     Sarah looked surprised.
     Josh looked over at me, quite happily, "You didn't explain?"
     "I thought I'd leave it to you," I said, trying to turn it into a joke.
     "Yeah, leave it to you, then I'd tell her the truth later on."
     He looked at Sarah.
     "Geri had gotten more and  more involved in local projects and classes,
that  sorta thing,  so that she could"--he  pulled a  face to  underline the
words--"better herself." He passed a mug of coffee to her.
     "One of them  was yoga. You know, I  guess  I was  too busy working and
stuff  to  see what  was going on. I just  didn't  notice  the classes  were
lasting longer as the months passed."
     I smiled in sympathy as he passed me my mug, and we had eye-to-eye.
     "In fact, she got to like the  classes so  much she never really wanted
to come  home."  I could see  him looking at  Sarah  for her reaction.  He'd
managed to  make it sound  like a joke, but  I knew that  deep  down he  was
devastated.
     I felt guilty as hell as I listened to Sarah doing a number on him, but
I knew it was the only way.
     Nodding toward the pictures above the gas log fire, Sarah continued  to
reel him in.
     "What about  the  children?  They're such  beautiful kids; whatever got
into her to make her leave them?"
     He picked up his coffee and sat back.
     "The yoga teacher, that's what got into  her." He tried a laugh, but it
was starting to really hurt him now.
     Sarah took a second or two  to get that  one, but I could see from  her
eyes that she'd picked up on Josh's sadness.
     "She calls once a week," Josh said.
     "The kids miss her real bad."
     "How long has it been?" she asked quietly.
     "Must be about nine months or so." He looked over at me. I nodded;
     the timing was about right. Not that he didn't know; I bet he'd counted
every single day. He took a sip from his mug, deep in thought.
     We  all  sat  in silence for  a  while,  until Sarah asked  a couple of
polite, ice-breaking questions  about the children, and Josh  told  her what
she  already knew. She was good;  they were bonding. He was  almost enjoying
having  a woman listen to the story and  appear to  understand his  point of
view.
     There  came  a  sound of crashing and slamming, and shouting in heavily
accented  English. Maria was back  with the kids and  telling them  to  slow
down. She put her head through the door.
     "Hold!"
     A second or two later, the kids came surging past her to see their dad.
     At that moment they spotted me.
     "Nick! Nick! Is Kelly here?"
     Then they stopped  and  got embarrassed  because they saw somebody they
didn't know.
     "Hiya," I beamed.
     "No, Kelly's at school. Did you enjoy your time in London?"
     "Yeah, it  was cool. It's  a shame Kelly can't be here,  though."  They
were  all excited. They  went  over to  their dad, kissing and  cuddling him
until he was buried.
     "You guys, this is Sarah, Nick's friend. Say hello to Sarah."
     All together they shouted, "Hello, Sarah."
     "Hello, everybody, very nice to meet  you."  She shook each of  them by
the hand.
     Formalities over, it all changed. It was  straight into, Dad,  can I do
this?
     Dad, can I do that?
     "Dad,  it's really  cool!  There  are  kids from  everywhere,  even New
Mexico. Some of them are going swimming. Can we go swimming?"
     Josh said, "Yes, yes, yes but later. Maria'll arrange  it. Go and  have
something to eat. Go, go, go."
     The kids went out  in a whirlwind  and headed for the kitchen. I  heard
the  radio go  on, tuned  in to  a  Latin music  station. We heard  them all
squabbling, and Maria making the most noise of all, telling them to keep the
noise down.
     I carried on looking for a time when I could hit him with my pitch. The
kids went out, came back, eventually went to bed, and Maria went home.
     By  then we'd seen the  new  garden shed, we'd talked about  Christmas,
Easter, even about  Thanksgiving and the  different ways Americans and Brits
stuff their  turkeys.  I  still preferred  Paxo  to peanuts. Josh told Sarah
about tomorrow's events and  what  the  kids were  going  to  be  doing.  He
couldn't disguise his pride that his kids  were part of it all. He was going
to be watching  it with  some  of the ERT (Emergency Response  Team) people,
whose kids were also involved.
     Sarah  was perfect all the time;  maybe it wasn't even put on,  because
something  told me she genuinely liked Josh. I  was glad, as these  were the
only two adults I had any feeling for. I wanted them to like  each other. It
mattered  to me.  Fuck the job in hand; I knew it had to be done, and  soon,
but we seemed to be moving into something more important between us. I hoped
so. Once  the job was finished, I needed  Josh to appreciate our reasons for
keeping him in the dark.
     Before we knew it we'd had pizza, nachos,  a couple of bottles of wine,
and it was  nearly ten o'clock. We seemed set to spin shit all night,  but I
knew I had to wait for the right moment. I listened to the other two as they
put the world to rights.
     I heard Josh saying, "Have you met Kelly yet?"
     Sarah was just sitting back drinking wine next to me.
     "Kelly? No, I haven't, not yet. You know Nick, he  keeps his cards very
close to  his chest." She gave me  one of those strange  looks  couples give
each  other  when  they're  talking  about  one thing,  but  thinking  about
something else.
     "I have spoken to her, though." She  was  keeping the lies close to the
truth.
     It was always the best way.
     Josh  said,  "She's a really good  kid,  you'll like her  a  lot. Maybe
ifGeri  was  here Kelly would have come to  live with us and  the kids. It's
been really hard for her."
     Sarah looked at me  to carry on the  story. I  began to think  she  was
liking this, finding out about me.
     "Yeah, but me and her, it's all right," I mumbled.
     Sarah reached out and grasped my hand.
     Josh broke the silence.
     "Ah .. . you sure you two don't want to be alone?"
     We all started laughing. I looked at Josh and remembered that  I  had a
job to do, and now was the time to do it.
     "Mate,  I've  just had  a brilliant idea.  Well, good for us, but maybe
hard for you to sort out."
     He sat back and took a sip of wine.
     "Yesss ... and what could that be?"
     He suddenly sounded like my dad.
     "Well,  if there was any chance of a trip around the White House for us
you  know,  like  the  time you took me around before?  Sarah would  love me
forever." I smiled at her.
     She picked up the ball, blushed and her eyes lit up.
     "That would be absolutely brilliant. Can you really fix that, Josh?"
     Josh wasn't looking too sure.
     "Well.. ."
     I decided to jump in and keep it all  upbeat. Looking  at  Sarah, whose
face now  resembled  that of a child at a fun fair I said, "This boy  is the
greatest.
     He  took me around  the  White House  last  year.  He  was  running the
vice-presidential protection team."
     "Oh, I'd love  that. That would be fantastic!"  She  was making all the
right noises.
     I  said, "There's a  bowling alley in  the basement so  Bill can go and
have a bit of a  practice, and some of the stonework still has scorch  marks
from when the Brits tried to burn it down in eighteen  hundred and something
or other."
     She turned to Josh.
     "Is he bullshitting me?"
     He shook his head as he took another sip of wine.
     "No, the Brits came  to  Washington and  burned the lot  down.  It  was
eighteen fourteen."
     I said, "Come on then, mate, what do you say? I'll even buy a  crap tie
to make me look like Secret Service if you want. What do you say?"  I always
took  the piss out of  the  way they dressed. The White House team's uniform
seemed to  be either a  gray suit, or a  blue blazer and dark gray trousers.
The only thing they were allowed  to have  choice over, it seemed, was their
ties. I had never seen so many Daffy  Ducks and Mickey Mouses in one  place,
apart  from the window of Tie Rack.  Josh had an impressive display of sheep
jumping over gates and Bugs Bunny eating carrots.
     It was time for him to insult me in return.
     "Lard-ass,  you will  never look like an agent. No matter how  hard you
try."
     Sarah stood up.
     "This is way over my head," she grinned.
     "So I'm  going to pop upstairs again." She knew it was time to leave us
alone. She raised an eyebrow at Josh.
     "I'll shut  the door this time, so you won't be embarrassed if I make a
noise."
     Josh rocked back  on his chair and started laughing as  the door closed
behind her. He looked at me.
     "She's cool, man, real cool." I could see his smile tighten; I was sure
he was thinking about Geri and how much he missed her. I felt sorry for him,
but I didn't want to let him off the hook.
     "What do you reckon then, mate? Any chance? It would be great  for her,
and on top of  that I'd score an  unbelievable number of  Brownie points, if
you know what I mean?"
     He sat back in his chair, holding his arms up in mock surrender.
     "Whoa, man, chill. Chill out on  trying to sell it to me. I got it." He
put his arms back down and got serious.
     "I'll try, but I can't say for sure," he said.
     "I'll phone up in the morning. What's your cutoff time?"
     "It's got to be three at the latest. We're on the six-something  flight
from Dulles to Newark."
     He held up his hands again.
     "OK, OK, I'll see what I can do. Tomorrow's a big  deal  up there,  but
maybe we can go  in  the  morning. Nothing's  going to kick off until around
midday, and the kids won't be doing their thing until one."
     He put his glass down, filled it up again and offered me some. I nodded
and passed mine over. He hadn't noticed that I was only sipping while he was
knocking it back.
     Josh held up his glass.
     "It's really good to see you, man."
     I raised mine.
     "And you, lard-ass."
     Sarah  walked back in, probably having  listened  behind  the  door the
whole time. I gave her a big smile as she sat down.
     "Josh says we might be able to get in tomorrow before we go back to New
York. He's going to see what he can do."
     She gave him the  sort of look that would have made a blind man's heart
beat faster.
     His face lit up.
     "Hey, you know what? I have a neat idea. If I can't take you in myself,
I could probably get you onto  one of the tours. You could always come  back
and go around with me another time."
     Sarah  carried on  looking excited,  but I knew that she'd be  flapping
inside.
     Josh continued.
     "I could  organize tickets for you both without much trouble. You won't
see the bowling alley  or the pool, just  the main building reception rooms,
but hey" he looked straight at Sarah "the important thing is you get to  see
the  State  Dining  Room, and  that's  the  only part  left  that  Jackie  0
furnished. It's the room in the picture you showed me."
     Sarah reached across and touched his hand. I could see she wished she'd
never mentioned the woman.
     "Thank  you, that  would be great. I just hope that we'll be able to do
it with you; it would be much more fun."
     Josh just about melted.
     "Yeah, I know what you mean, it would be kinda cool to show you around.
I promise I'll call in the morning; that's all I can do, man."
     "It's going to happen, believe me," I said to Sarah.
     "I told  him, if it didn't,  I'd  tell the White House about the rubber
duck."
     "The what?"
     Josh looked at me with an embarrassed smile.
     I said, "There's this yellow rubber  duck  that gets passed  around all
the different sections in the Secret Service and the Unit."
     She cut in.
     "The Unit?"
     She was well aware of what I was referring to, but she  knew Josh would
expect her not to be.
     "Delta Force," I explained.
     "Sort of the American  SAS. Anyway, the  big thing is to have a picture
taken with  the  duck in the  most unusual  places. Josh's task was  to  get
photos taken  in  the White  House,  so he  had  one of  it floating in  the
president's toilet in the private apartments, and he even managed one on the
desk in the Oval Office ..."
     Josh yawned politely and started rising to his feet.
     "On that happy note..."
     As we said our good nights Sarah  picked up the Kennedy book and put it
under her arm, and we all trundled up the stairs. At  the top  landing, Josh
went left to  check on his kids; through their open doors I could  see night
lights  glowing below  a  poster of a basketball hero,  and a big picture of
their mother. Duvets and toys were strewn everywhere.
     Our bedroom was farther along to the  right.  It was exactly what might
be  expected of  a  spare room in one of these  houses: very clean  and  new
looking, with  a polished-wax pine bed  with shiny nuts  and  bolts  showing
either  side.  I got the  feeling  the  design  choices had been Geri's, not
Josh's, because it was all matching flowery curtains,  pillowcases and duvet
covers;
     if anything good  was to come of Geri leaving,  it was that Josh  could
sort  out the decor in the next house. The bed was  made up, with one corner
of the  duvet pulled back invitingly. Maria had done such a professional job
that  I  half  expected  to see  a  note with tomorrow's  temperature and  a
chocolate on the pillow.
     I closed the door behind us, and right away Sarah was into her bag. She
picked up her weapon and mag,  and went into the en suite,  leaving the door
ajar. I watched as  she loaded it by  pulling back the  top slide placing  a
round in the chamber and letting the action go forward  under control to cut
out any noise, then just pushing the last two millimeters into place against
the round. She then pushed the magazine in quietly until there was a click.
     I laughed.
     "You expecting a rough night?"
     She turned and smiled, then  checked safety. I got up and joined her in
the bathroom. Sarah turned on  the tap in the basin and started to clean her
teeth. The danger with whispering is that you can make  an even louder noise
by doing it incorrectly than you would by talking. I leaned into her ear and
said,  "If he does get us in, then no matter what, we don't harm him. OK? We
don't harm him or anyone else; have you got that?"
     She nodded as she spat out toothpaste.
     I said, "We're  all  on the  same side  here. If we get caught, or even
challenged, we  don't  fight  back. Nobody  gets killed, and  we  don't take
weapons, OK? They stay in the bags."  The  security  would be so tight  we'd
never be able to get them in.
     "Anyway, we don't need them."
     She  rinsed her teeth, turned and nodded her agreement, offering me the
toothbrush.
     "Thanks." Our eyes met, then she smiled and went into the bedroom.
     I  watched  her undress  as I  brushed my  teeth. She laid her  clothes
neatly over the chair, and when she was completely naked she  started taking
off the price tags from the new lace underwear she'd bought to wear the next
day. As ever, she wasn't shy about her body, but I sensed this was different
from her performance in the motel. That was business, while this was .. .
     well, whatever  it was, it felt  good. I watched her in the glow of the
bedside light.
     Digging into her  bag again, she took out a new shirt, unwrapped it and
put  it on the chair.  Then she looked up at  me and smiled. I  finished  my
teeth as she came back in and we swapped rooms again.
     As the bathroom door closed, I sat on  the bed  and started to  pull my
clothes off, thinking about the prospects  for  tomorrow. I could