Fear of the Fathers (16 page)

Grady had been good friends with Romano since Stonehenge. They had flown back together to JFK on Christmas Eve to get their connecting flights, and had stayed in touch. Now that Grady and Brooke had moved out to LA, they saw each other most days. The experience had bonded them in a subtle yet deep way.

Romano turned on the stereo and sat down on one of the couches. Grady took the other. The sound of classical music filled the air.

“Do you like Mozart, Grady?” he asked.

“Sure. What's not to like?” said Grady. “This one's from
The Marriage of Figaro
right? It's the music from the start of
Trading Places
.”

“Bang on. Great film isn't it?” He offered Grady the box of cigars.

Grady took one. “Yeah, it is,” he said. He ran the cigar under his nose.

Romano took one for himself, lit Grady's, then his own. “We could remake it,” he said. “Me in the Dan Ackroyd role, and you in the Eddie Murphy one. What do you think?”

Grady raised an eyebrow. “You're kidding me right?”

Romano held his eyes seriously for a moment, then laughed. “Of course I am. I wouldn't meddle with a classic. But I think we should do a project together.”

Grady took a puff of his cigar and exhaled. “You're forgetting one important thing Mr Movie Star – I can't act.”

“I know that,” said Romano. “I didn't mean you had to have a starring role. I just thought we might write something together. Maybe a spy thriller or something like that. You've got all the inside information. We could make it really gritty and realistic.”

Grady thought for a moment. “Yeah, why not. After all, everyone likes a spy movie. It'd be really cool. But I'd have to have my own chair on set. You know, like directors do.”

“No problem. Scott Grady – Executive Producer. It's got a nice ring to it.” He took a swig of brandy. “Of course, all that stuff that happened before Christmas would make a terrific screenplay.”

“I guess it would,” Grady agreed. “But who the hell would believe it? I'm still having trouble getting my own head round it. That shit at Stonehenge really freaked me out.”

“It was kinda scary, I guess.” He swirled his brandy in the glass. “Have you spoken to Jennings recently?”

“We email each other every couple of weeks. Why do you ask?”

“I…,” Romano stammered. “I just thought that he might like to have a hand in it too. We need to get as many sides of the story as we can. Different perspectives add meat to the tale.”

Grady stared at him curiously. “He'd definitely want to do it, but I think he's a bit tied up at the moment. He's been assigned to the Prime Minister's personal team.”

Romano frowned.

“Is something wrong Grant? Why are you really asking about Jennings?”

“I'm not sure,” said Romano. He got off the couch, went to the window, and stared at the storm. “I've just got a bad feeling about him.”

“What? You think he's dangerous?”

Romano shook his head. “No, not at all. I think he might be in trouble, or at least heading for it. I keep dreaming about him. I dream that he's scared and running from something. That he's isolated.”

“How long have you been having these dreams for?” asked Grady.

“For the last week or so.”

“Well I've heard from him in the last few days, so nothing's happened to him yet.”

“Maybe it's nothing,” said Romano.

Grady finished his brandy. “I'll call him tomorrow.”

They stubbed out the cigars and went back to join the party. Before he sat down Grady kissed Brooke on the brow.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, I'm great,” said Grady. But he wasn't. Suddenly he was on edge. If there was one thing you took seriously about Grant Romano, it was his dreams.

Annie slipped out of her bed quietly. Kamal's snoring indicated that he was fast asleep. She felt around on the floor for her shoes, picked them up, and tiptoed towards the door. For a moment the snoring stopped, and she froze, holding her breath. But then it continued in the same smooth rhythm and she crept onwards. Turning the handle softly she edged open the door. Then she stopped dead.

Kamal's voice was harsh. “Where are you going?” he said.

Annie wavered. The light of the hallway beckoned her on, willing her to run and not look back. But a feeling inside, be it fear or some other emotion, told her to stay still.

“Turn on the light and close the door,” Kamal commanded.

Annie did as he asked, and stood facing him like a naughty child.

He sat up in his bed, his eyes bored through her head. “What is wrong?” he said calmly. “What are you doing?”

For a moment Annie stared at him blankly, and then remembered what had set her off. “I was just going for some fresh air. I needed to think.”

“Think about what?” he asked.

“Just stuff.”

“Well, I suggest you think in here. I am not comfortable with you wandering around on your own at night. Perhaps I ought to tie you up again.”

“No,” said Annie. “There's no need to do that. I'll get back into bed.”

“Yes,” said Kamal. “But first you must tell me what is bothering you.”

Annie sat down. “You, Kamal. You're what's bothering me. I know who you are now. I know what you've done.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was you at the racecourse wasn't it? You tried to assassinate the Prime Minister.”

Kamal was noncommittal. “Why do you think that?”

“I recognized your eyes on the TV report.”

“You are very observant – the picture was hardly clear.”

“So, you don't deny it then.”

Kamal shrugged. “What is the point?” he said. “It makes no difference to our situation, does it? What exactly did you think I was – a travelling salesman?”

“No, I just thought—”

“You just thought what?”

“I don't know what I thought,” said Annie. “It was just a shock to find out you were the most wanted man in Britain, that's all.”

“Well,” said Kamal. “That is what I am. I am a hitman, an assassin, a killer.”

“And you were paid to assassinate the Prime Minister?”

Kamal stood up and paced. “Not exactly,” he said. “I was paid to shoot at him. Not to kill him.”

Annie's brow furrowed. “But why? Why would anyone pay you to do that?”

“I have no idea. I just get my instructions and I carry them out. If the money's good enough, then I do it. It's as simple as that.”

“Don't you know who pays you?”

“No. My work is discreet. I do not know them, and they do not know me. There is a long global chain before anything gets to me. I am just a codename. If someone wants a job done, they will get in touch with someone at the lowest level. Then through a system of anonymous emails and drop points, the request finally gets to me. I name my price and that goes back through the same channels to the customer. If they agree to my terms then the job gets done.”

“But if nobody knows who you are, how did those men find you?”

“I have been asking myself exactly the same question for the last few days. I cannot think of any explanation. I have been so careful, so circumspect, that I cannot imagine how anybody has traced me. It would take a multinational operation with a huge amount of manpower to even get close.”

Annie went to the bathroom sink and splashed her face with cold water. “I was right. It must have been the police then,” she shouted through.

“No,” said Kamal. “Certainly not. If the authorities had found me then they would have mounted a big operation and stormed the hotel and bedroom. They would have sent in the SAS. They would not have bothered with a honey trap.”

“So, basically, what you're saying is that somebody's paid you to shoot at the Prime Minister and now they want you dead. Why?”

“They have only paid me half the money.”

Annie returned from the bathroom looking puzzled. “But surely with all the trouble they've gone to, it would have been cheaper and easier to just give you the money.”

“I agree,” said Kamal. “But I cannot think of any other reason.”

“Is there really no way of knowing who hired you?”

“Well, I do have provisions for a non-payment scenario, but I have never had to use them. I would have to go right back down the chain. It would take a lot of time and effort, but theoretically it could be done.”

“Then that's the reason they want you dead. They want any trace of this wiped clean away.”

Kamal poured himself a drink. The girl could be right, he thought. As fantastical as it seemed, someone might be going to extraordinary lengths to protect their anonymity. But why? Who could possibly have so much to lose?

Without opening his eyes Jennings reached lazily for his mobile phone. The alarm was getting louder and starting to grate. He pressed what he knew to be the snooze button, and turned away and drifted. There was plenty of time to get up and dressed, he just needed ten more minutes.

Forty minutes and four alarms later he shut off the phone and opened his eyes. The world lay heavily on him. He knew that he'd feel better once he was up and about, but the ‘black dog' was weighing him down. What was it all about? What was the point in it all? Why couldn't he just sleep forever? Or at least until the world was a better place.

After a five minute battle with gloom he finally managed to drag himself out of bed. It was 6.30am and the half hour that he'd allowed himself for breakfast had disappeared with his inertia. A shower and a shave would have to suffice. At five to seven he was washed and dressed and ready for his shift. He took one last look in the mirror, straightened his tie, and headed downstairs to report in.

Allenby was already on duty and had dismissed the night shift. “Cutting it a bit fine aren't we?” he said.

“Yeah, sorry Tim. I just hit the snooze button one too many times.”

Allenby laughed and patted his shoulder. “Don't worry mate, we all do it. Let's do a quick sweep and then we can get some breakfast.”

“Great,” said Jennings. “I thought I'd missed my chance.”

“No mate, we've got plenty of time.”

They ate breakfast quietly in the ground-floor room that passed as a staff canteen. Jennings found that he wasn't really that hungry and ended up pushing food around the plate.

“Lost your appetite?” said Allenby.

“I guess so,” said Jennings. “A fry-up seems like a bit too much this morning. Perhaps I should have had a bowl of cereal or a slice of grapefruit.”

“Girls' food,” sneered Allenby. “You can't survive on that shit. We've got a big day ahead as well.”

“I know,” sighed Jennings.

The Prime Minister was scheduled for visits to a number of secondary schools. It was part of his recent ‘inner city' initiative to improve education in impoverished areas. He wanted to show that nobody in the country would be forgotten under his government. ‘A bold and booming Britain for all' was what he'd promised before the election, and he was sticking to his word. Of course, it was all show and Jennings knew it, but the public appeared to have swallowed it, and anything that gave people hope had to be good, didn't it?

At ten o'clock the black limousine pulled up outside 10 Downing Street, and Jennings and Appleby escorted the Prime Minister and his wife to their transport under an umbrella. Appleby sat in the front next to the driver and Jennings in the back with the Ayres'. He would gladly have swapped places with Appleby.

The car drove off slowly, the middle of a cortege of three.

“How have you been finding it?” Ayres asked Jennings. “I haven't really seen you since Sunday. I hope you haven't been too bored on the night shift.”

“No sir, not at all,” he lied. “But it's nice to be getting out and going somewhere.”

“Well, you should be happy for the next week or so then – I've got a busy schedule. We'll be travelling all over the country.”

Jennings nodded. “I know sir, I've seen the itinerary. You seem to be taking education very seriously.”

“Absolutely,” said Ayres. “After all – children are the future.” Jennings stifled a snigger at Ayres' hackneyed soundbite. Were politicians really that out of touch that they thought people were buying into their populist crap? Surely society had become too sophisticated for playground politics? He looked out of the window, saw a gang of teenagers smoking and drinking next to a bus stop, and decided that maybe it hadn't.

“That's what we need to cut out Jennings,” said Ayres, pointing to the group. “Those children can't be any older than fourteen. They should be at school.”