Firefight (33 page)

'Hold please,' a polite American voice told him.

Bradley Heller came on to the line immediately. 'You get
him?'

'We got him.'

'And?'

'He's a pretty cold fish.'

'Did you get the impression he knew why Ahmed was
after Priestley?'

'I asked him outright. Says he has no idea. Of course, it
would help, sir, if
I
knew what was going on.'

'That's a headache above your pay grade, Zack,' the DCIA
replied, evasively. 'Is Jackson being trailed?'

Levinson's eyes flickered through the window. 'Yeah, he's
being trailed.'

'Good. Give him forty-eight hours. If he makes contact
with the woman, bring them both in. If not, apprehend
him and we'll deal with her later. Then I want Jackson on
the first US military transport out of the country.'

'Am I allowed to know where to, sir?'

A pause. 'You have your instructions, Zack. This is a big
gig for you. Don't let me down.'

Levinson's jaw clenched momentarily. 'I won't let you
down, sir. You have my word.'

*

Alarm bells had started to sound in Will's head the moment
Zack Levinson had started to question him. They knew
Priestley's killing didn't stack up. They couldn't prove
anything, but they knew. And what was that bullshit about
offering Latifa Ahmed sanctuary? Days ago they had been
waterboarding her, now they wanted to set her up in a cosy
little condo with an income for life. He didn't think so.
Zack Levinson had been perfectly transparent: Will knew
that he and Latifa were in danger. Immediate danger.

He stepped out into the street. The guys he had clocked
on each side of the road were still standing around nonchalantly,
but as he continued walking he kept one eye on
the side mirrors of the cars parked at the edge of the road.
Sure enough there they were, following him at a distance.
Two trails, and they were just the ones he could see. No
doubt there would be more. As casually as possible he looked
over his shoulder. A black cab was edging slowly up the
street, its FOR HIRE light extinguished. He looked ahead
again - suddenly everyone he saw was a potential trail. Guys
on bikes, mums with prams. He knew he was being followed
and any of them could be involved.

He had to lose his trail. He had to lose them quickly.

Will looked at his watch: 10.45. He had three quarters
of an hour and he couldn't afford to be late. It took a
supreme effort for him not to keep looking around - if
he alerted them to the fact he knew they were there, it
would make losing them all the more difficult. So he slowed
his pace and headed to the centre of town.

It took him ten minutes to reach Selfridges. He strode
in confidently, fully aware of the fact that while he was in
there all the main exits were likely to be watched. He
headed across the ground floor, breathing in the heady smell
of the perfume department, until he reached a line of elevators.
He pressed the up button, then waited. It took a minute
or so for the lift to come and in that time maybe seven or
eight other customers congregated around him. The lift
doors hissed open and they all politely entered. Just as the
doors were starting to close, however, Will twisted his body
sideways on and slipped out. To his relief, no one was quick
enough to follow him. He rushed to the escalator and made
his way up to menswear.

Once there, he found himself a large heavy overcoat and
a brightly coloured woollen hat. He took them into a
changing cubicle and, having checked that there was no
CCTV, he ripped the security tabs off the items, then put
on the overcoat and shoved the hat in his pocket. He walked
brashly out, knowing that confidence alone was likely to
avoid any harassed shop assistants from stopping him - they
were too busy with the swarms of last-minute Christmas
shoppers in any case.

A change of clothes, he thought to himself as he left the
department store by a different exit, won't be enough to
fool the best surveillance teams, but if he threw every trick
he knew at them, then he had a chance. And Will had
plenty more tricks up his sleeve.

His next destination was Hamleys on Regent Street. As
Will had calculated, it was full of parents and their excited
children. Will pushed his way in and negotiated his way
through the crowds until he reached the far side of the
ground floor. It took him a short while to find what he
was looking for - a small, red fire alarm on the wall. He
shuffled up against it, his back to the wall, then jabbed it
sharply with an elbow. The glass shattered and immediately
a high-pitched wail filled the air.

For a brief moment everyone stopped. And then, as one,
the crowd dissolved into a state of blind panic. Everyone
headed for the exit doors, which became blocked with a
scrambling sea of people.

Will joined the throng. As he did so, he took the woollen
hat from his pocket and put it firmly on, then bowed his
head towards the floor. If he kept in the middle of the
crowd, he would be unrecognisable.

It took several minutes to leave the shop, but that suited
Will just fine. Once he was out in the cold air, the pavement
was still crowded. He headed south down Regent
Street towards Piccadilly Circus, quickly ducking down into
the underground station.

The Tube concourse was circular, exits heading off at regular
intervals, and Will decided to use this to his advantage. If anyone
was still following him, they would expect him to get on a
train to try and shake them off; he was going to do something
different. If he walked quickly enough and put sufficient
distance between himself and any trails, the circular concourse
would mean that he could get out of their line of sight and
take one of the exits before they noticed he had gone.

Like everywhere else, the station was crowded and Will
thanked his luck as he hurried down the south-eastern exit
and into Lower Regent Street. As soon as he was above
ground again, he hailed a black cab. 'St Pancras!' he hollered
at the driver as he climbed in and moments later he was
heading north again. From the windows of the cab he kept
track of any car coming up behind them. By the time they
were in Cambridge Circus, Will was convinced that he had
lost his trail.

He looked at his watch: 11.20. Ten minutes to go. He
was going to make it.

Will asked the cab driver to stop just short of the station.
He paid him, then stood on the pavement for a couple of
minutes looking out for any other possible surveillance.
There was none, so he headed up into the station.

It was only a couple of days until Christmas, but the station
was still busy. That suited Will as he walked speedily but
unobtrusively through St Pancras. Up ahead he saw what he
was looking for: the huge black statue of a couple embracing.
The most romantic meeting place in Europe, he seemed to
remember someone calling it and in another life maybe it
would have been. But romance was a long way from Will's
mind. He realised his heart was thumping nervously. This
morning had underlined that he was right to be doing this;
but he just hoped there weren't any more surprises.

A number of people were milling around, waiting for
loved ones or looking impatiently at their watches. Will
ignored almost all of them. There was only one person he
was looking for right now and he realised his heart was in
his throat at the prospect of that person not having made
it. He scanned the crowds around the statue, but there were
no familiar faces.

A Tannoy announcement echoed around the station and
a few people moved away from the statue. Will checked his
watch: 11.30.
Shit
. She should be here by now.

11.31.

He'd told her not to be late.

11.32.

She knew the risks. He couldn't stay here for long.

And then he saw her.

Latifa Ahmed seemed to appear from nowhere, walking
out of the crowd with a slight limp, but with a steady determination
in her gait. She wore a heavy coat against the
cold and a headscarf that covered her hair. As she grew
near, Will saw that she had applied a little make-up to her
face. It disguised her well; but it also, he noticed, enhanced
the natural prettiness that he had never noticed in her before.

'I thought you weren't coming,' Will said, abruptly.

'I almost didn't,' she replied. Her voice was sad.

'You don't trust me?'

'I don't trust anyone. But coming with you is better than
sitting and waiting for the Americans to—' Her voice trailed
off.

Will nodded. He knew what she was trying to say. They
were both in the same boat.

Now Latifa was here, he started looking around again.
He knew what he was after: a man by himself, probably
not in a suit, so as to stand out to anyone who knew what
they were looking for. There was such a guy on the other
side of the statue. Just standing there. Waiting.

'Don't move,' Will told Latifa and he sauntered around
to where the man was standing.

Their eyes met, and the man seemed entirely comfortable
with a stranger staring at him. Will sidled up to him.
'You got something from Pankhurst?' he asked.

The man said nothing; he just nodded and handed Will
a white, padded envelope. Will glanced inside. Two passports,
just as he'd asked for; and a thick wad of euros, which
he hadn't requested but was pleased to see. He looked back
up at the man. 'I'll watch you leave,' he said.

The man didn't respond. He just walked away, out into
the crowds of St Pancras, and didn't look back.

Will returned to Latifa, who was just standing there,
expressionless. 'Is it time?' she asked.

He nodded.

'And we will be safe, once we have left the country?'

He shrugged. 'Safer. The world's a big place. There are
lots of places to hide. You could even go back to Afghanistan,
if you wanted.'

Latifa shook her head. 'No,' she said. 'I do not think I
will do that. There are too many memories for me there.'
A vacant look passed across her face.

'You can't escape your memories, Latifa. They travel with
you.'

She looked straight into his eyes. 'You are right,' she said,
sadly. 'Thank you for doing this, Will. I know I do not
deserve it, after what my brother did.'

Will took a deep breath. He knew how much it took
for Latifa to say that. 'You're not your brother, Latifa,' he
replied. 'You're not your brother.'

She inclined her head. 'You are leaving a lot behind, Will.
Are you sure this is what you want?'

'You're wrong,' Will replied. 'I don't have anything to
stay for.' He smiled. 'Only memories. And like I say,
memories -'

'- travel with you.'

'Exactly.' He took her lightly by the arm. 'The train for Paris
leaves in ten minutes. We need to be on it. Are you ready?'

That distant look crossed her face again and for a moment
she didn't speak. But when she did it was clearly and firmly,
with a confidence that Will didn't expect.

'I'm ready.'

Will nodded and together they walked away from the
statue into the teeming crowds of St Pancras.

And into whatever the uncertain future held.

Christmas Eve

Snow had fallen.

Father Jack Butler had a tradition. Every Christmas Eve
he would walk around the cemetery of the Hereford churchyard,
spending a few seconds at each of the many graves.
He was not a young man and each year it took him a little
longer to pay his silent respects to the dead. Today it chilled
him just to look at the thick snow, but it was a tradition
and a worthwhile one at that, he thought. He braced himself
against the cold and started his annual round, shuffling
through the white powder with creaky joints.

They were like old friends, some of these tombstones.
Constant. Ever-present. They grew increasingly elderly with
him, each year a little more marked and decrepit. But he
drew a kind of comfort from the knowledge that these
blocks of stone, these memorials to life - each of them
holding their own secrets and stories - would outlive any
of the visitors that came here for moments of quietness and
reflection.

He found it more difficult to be so philosophical around
the newer graves, however. This was a sadder part of the
churchyard and seemed even more so today, covered with
the silent blanket of snow. His eyes were caught by the fresh
mounds covering the graves of the two men he had buried
in the past week. Soldiers, both of them - it would be a
good six months before their stone memorials were erected.
Addressing their families had been difficult. No one had
been informed of the circumstances of their death and Father
Jack Butler had been the incumbent of a Hereford church
for long enough to know what
that
meant. He nodded
respectfully at the two mounds of earth before turning back
towards the church.

His route through the snow took him past that bit of
the churchyard that always saddened him most. A single
grave, but home to two bodies: a mother and daughter.
They had been buried here for a couple of years now and
each time he passed this stone he felt his very faith being
questioned. He remembered their deaths; he remembered
the horror of it. From time to time, after the funeral, he
had seen, from a distance, a man at their graveside. The
priest had watched him, watched how he stood, immobile
and hunched, for such long periods of time. Such terribly
long periods of time. Now and then he had considered
approaching and talking to him. But when you have been
a priest for as long as he had, you developed a kind of sixth
sense, an intuition that tells you whether words of Christian
comfort are likely to be of help to certain people.

Father Jack Butler's intuition had told him he would be
of no help at all to that man.

As he passed the grave, he noticed something. Propped
up against the tombstone, covered with a delicate dusting
of snow, was a flower. A single flower. For some reason it
caught the priest's heart and he walked a few steps nearer.
He bent down to take a closer look and picked the flower
up with his pale, shaking hands.

Tied to the rose with a piece of gold ribbon was a card.
It was damp from the snow and he held it lightly, not
wanting to damage the paper. In the corner of the card
was a small, florid illustration, but it was not this that caught
his eye. It was the writing in the middle. The blue ink was
slightly smudged, but he could still tell that the handwriting
was firm yet spidery - not like his own flowing copperplate.
It crossed the priest's mind that it was written by
someone not used to holding a pen.

A single word. A simple word.

Goodbye
.

Father Jack Butler blinked and he wondered what on
earth it could mean. What story could possibly lie behind
this plain, poignant message?

For a long while he stared at the card, but finally the
cold got to him and he realised his hand was shaking more
than usual. He gently replaced the flower, stood up and
nodded respectfully at the tombstone that always reminded
him of the violence there was in the world. Then he turned
and slowly trudged back towards the church.

It was Christmas. A time for peace. There was a family
service that afternoon, and he had much to do.