Going Grey (4 page)

It was almost a foreign language, but Mike understood. He could see some of the detail on Rob's zap patch — Union Flag, SGT, blood group O positive – and just the first two letters of his service number, RE. He could focus clearly on the flash on his shoulder when he turned, though:
ROYAL MARINES COMMANDO.

"Tell Livvie. Call her."

"Louder. Can't hear you."

"Livvie."

"Who's Livvie? Your missus?" Rob glanced away for a moment. A brief frown creased the bridge of his nose. Mike felt a sudden pressure on his guts as if everything was squeezing out somewhere like a ruptured tube of toothpaste. "Yeah, I'll tell her you'll be late for dinner."

"Bad?"

"Don't worry. You've still got all your limbs and your dick. How's the pain? Need a shot?"

Rob held a saline bag in his left hand, and his watch — the watch he was going to add to the ransom — seemed very detailed and hypnotically important. Mike had lost track of how long he'd been lying there. He could hear the helicopter.

Rob gestured up with his forefinger. "Hear that? Helo inbound. Just like MASH. You must owe them money."

"It's Dad."

Rob leaned over him, frowning. "Dead? No, you're not dead. You wouldn't be talking to me if you were browners, would you? Not unless you're a zombie."

"
Dad.
Don't tell him." It was too much effort to explain. If the casevac had turned out from the nearest US base, then they might have found out who his father was. He might actually survive this. He'd see Livvie again. The thought was almost a religious experience. "Thanks, buddy.
Thanks.
"

"Yeah, just put in a good word for me at my court martial."

Then Rob was gone, sudden as a camera shutter snapping from light to total blackness. The next face that leaned over Mike, seconds later, surely no more than that, was female and topped with a US issue helmet.

"We got you, Mike," she said. "Just got to load you on the gurney. It'll hurt. Hang in there."

Something else hurt him instead, a white-hot searing pain in the crook of his elbow. After that came a rapid slide into an odd bliss as if he'd been launched into bright blue space. The last thing he remembered was asking someone to get Rob, but he wasn't sure if any sound came out.

Damn, I hope I don't ramble. I always ramble with anaesthesia.

I'm not dead yet. I'm really not.

What was his name? Rob? Rob what? I can't remember.

Mike let himself drift, reassured that he'd open his eyes again. From time to time he was aware of lights being shone in his face, but it was brief and sporadic. Eventually, someone tapped the back of his hand, and kept tapping, saying, "Mike, Mike, Mike," over and over. Everywhere was brightly lit and quiet. It took him a few moments to work out that a nurse in green scrubs was trying to wake him.

"You're okay, Mike." It was hard to tell what she looked like. Her features didn't make sense to him, a
recognisable face but somehow also a random jumble like a Picasso painting. He was desperate for a mouthful of water. As he fumbled to wipe his nose, the nurse caught his hand. "That's a feeding tube. You've had surgery. Do you know where you are? Camp Shaughnessy. You're Michael Brayne, right?"

Rational thought was returning in chunks, like bricks appearing in a wall that had been nothing but mist seconds before.

"Livvie?" Mike felt for his wedding band. There was surgical tape around it. "Has anyone told her?"

"Your wife? The Esselby guy's taking care of that. The company's contacted her."

"And where's Rob?"

"Who's he?"

"The Brit who brought me in. He patched me up."

The nurse shook her head. "Our dustoff casevacked you here. No Brits."

"No,
Rob
. He saved me. Where's my phone? I need to call Livvie."

"Okay, take it easy. Are you Senator Brayne's son?"

The whole event gradually uncoiled in Mike's head, a strip of frames from a movie, from getting pulled over at Pelayi to squeezing the trigger to when he felt as if his spine had exploded through his back. And he could see Rob's face looming over him – lean and efficient, the kind of face that said everything was under control.

"Yes. Yes, I am." He had to call Livvie. "Can you get me a phone, please?"

The nurse walked away and spoke to someone. Mike caught the magic phrase that opened all doors in officialdom: "Tell them it's for the senator's son."

The senator's son.
It was the last label Mike wanted. He had to justify himself all over again.

"Phone, please?"

"We'll get you one, Mike. Now rest."

Livvie would be quietly angry that her worst fears had almost come to pass. And his father would never yell at him, but he'd have that look, that sad disappointment that asked why Mike had to do this goddamned job instead of accepting his political heritage like his sister Charlotte.
I said not to join that outfit, Micko. I know better than anyone. We
spend
people like you. It was bad enough when you joined the Guard.
There: he didn't even need Dad to be present. He could have the argument entirely on his own.

There was no clock on the wall. What time was it? Which day? Now he was in a different room, dimly lit and quieter, and vaguely aware that he'd lost hours or even days. He reached for the bedside cabinet, hoping to find a phone or at least some notes to tell him what day it was, but tubes seemed to be plugged in everywhere. He accepted defeat.

Damn, he needed to find Rob, too. He couldn't recall the guy's surname, but an incident like that would have been logged. There weren't that many Royal Marines over here to check out. They'd be based in Nairobi or the local AU camp.

I remembered all that. I'm lucid. I know I am.

That was the last thought he had before a noise woke him with a start. Another nurse leaned over him. She held a cell phone where he could see it and made an exaggerated gesture to indicate she'd put it on the bed by his hand.

"Do you need more painkillers?"

"Can I have a glass of milk, please?" Suddenly Mike craved an ice-cold glass. He didn't even like milk. "Or juice."

"Sorry, nil by mouth until the tube comes out tomorrow."

The nurse vanished again. Mike reached for the phone and tried to focus on the display. How long had he been here? Damn, not quite twenty-four hours. There were already messages for him from Livvie and Dad, and from Brad, the program manager at Esselby.

Livvie's simply read: '
Whenever you're ready. Just glad I've still got you.'
He was desperate to hear her voice. If he called, though, he'd sound drugged and hoarse. She'd be upset. He decided to wait until he sounded like his old self, and settled for a text in the meantime.

The painkiller was much more powerful than he'd realised. He tapped out his reply like a man struggling with a new language, but there was no better excuse for being brief. He didn't need to tell her how close a call he'd had, at least not yet.

'Livvie honey – doing fine. Sorry to scare you. Love you.'

And Dad, as always, got right to the point: '
Micko, your guardian angel is Robert Rennie. I called in a favour from the DoD to bypass all the BS. Stand by for a visit. We'll reward him properly in due course. You're coming home. We love you.'

Mike felt the relief of something achieved. He typed THANKS DAD, LOVE YOU because he'd fumbled the caps lock, then hit send. The effort left him sweating.

Dad was upset. Mike could understand that. He didn't have to be here, and he wasn't defending his country. It was just a compulsion. He didn't know how to settle for doing anything less for the rest of his life.

The nasogastric tube came out the next day. With the tube gone, he felt whole enough to call Livvie and chat for a few minutes until he ran out of energy. He told her everything positive he could remember about the rescue. The grisly detail could wait.

"I'll be home for months," he said, trying to be casual. "We can take all those trips we promised ourselves."

"So this Rob guy. Have you invited him to visit?"

"I haven't seen him yet. But I will, honey. You sure you're not angry with me?"

"No. Upset, naturally." Livvie paused. "But you've got your quest, and if I stop you, then you won't be Mike any more, will you?"

Mike pondered that after she rang off. It wasn't the first time she'd said it, and she was right. He was looking for something. Every time he thought he'd found it, he'd turn it over and it would transform itself from a right and decent thing to a tainted grey area — wars supporting the wrong allies, training foreigners who turned on you in the end, and guarding aid programs that didn't solve a damn thing. It was simple; Mike just wanted to
do good
. But it was getting harder to pin down what good meant in the real world.

He still couldn't think of anything cleaner than being a soldier, whether in national uniform or as a contractor. It was a difference he could see with his own eyes and make with his own hands. The worst thing about wealth was that it left him with no excuses for what he hadn't done with his life, and at thirty-five he still felt he'd done absolutely nothing.

Mike was starting to worry that he'd be flown home before he got to see Rob and thank him, but the guy showed up the next day. He walked in clutching a plastic carrier bag as if it was a routine visit. He looked dauntingly fit in a khaki T-shirt instead of Kevlar plates, and it was now clear how much of Rob was Rob and how much had been armour.

"So there I am, in the boss's tent, getting a bollocking about all the paperwork I've caused," Rob said, launching straight in without an opening hello. "And then he gets a call, and suddenly I'm the man of the match. Any ideas?"

Mike wasn't sure what to say. Thanks seemed remarkably slight. He held out his hand while he tried to think of something appropriate. Rob shook it with the grip of a boa constrictor.

"Ah," Mike said. "That'd be down to Dad. He
knows
people."

"I was having a nice beer with the AU lads at the base when your lot showed up. I thought I was going to end up with a bag over my head en route to a CIA jail in Shittistan."

"Sorry. It's probably because I kept asking for you."

"Well, here I am." Rob gave him a conspiratorial wink. "Why didn't you tell me you were just an ordinary, average billionaire with an ordinary, average billionaire senator dad who's got government ministers on his speed dial?"

"I was kind of disembowelled at the time. It slipped my mind." Mike felt suddenly emotional, a backslapping, tearful kind of relief. "Rob, thank you doesn't begin to cover it. But anyway, thank you."

"So you hung around just to see me? You mad bugger."

"I wouldn't have made it out alive without you." It sounded lame, but anything Mike said that summed up what had happened would sound feeble.
You saved my life. You saved me from being taken hostage. I owe you.
"And I even know what a bollocking is. I lived in England for a while. I read history and politics at Oxford."

"So we civilized you, did we?"

"You sound like you come from somewhere down west."

"Bristol.
Oh-ahh.
And you sound like Katherine Hepburn."

"New Hampshire. Fairly close."

Rob pulled up a chair and sat down at the bedside, unfazed. Up close, his dark hair was flecked with a trace of grey. "So what's Septic nobility like you doing in a mucky job like this? Bored with crashing Ferraris into swimming pools?"

"I spent a few years in the National Guard. I like the life."

"No offense to the Guard, mate, but your knife skills seem a bit too hardcore for that. I bet you could kill a bloke with a teaspoon, couldn't you?"

"I got myself trained privately." Mike made it a rule never to bitch about the Guard, however frustrated he'd been with it. He knew he was talking to a seasoned commando who wouldn't brook any whining. "I joined Esselby as a contractor. You learn a lot there. Not spoons, though."

Rob didn't blink. "Never wanted to join the regular Army? No, I suppose they'd beat the shit out of you for being the crown prince. That's what the lads on the flight over here called you. Very fairy-tale."

"I keep the family connection quiet. People think I'm playing at soldiers because I'm bored. My sister calls me Marie Antoinette."

Rob didn't ask why, but maybe he understood the reference. Mike felt totally and inexplicably at ease with him. Maybe it was because he exuded a solid sense of his own worth, a certainty about his place and purpose in the world. All the revelations that made people fawn over Mike or want to pick a fight — his dynastic wealth, his education, even his service — didn't even make Rob blink. Mike didn't have to wonder whether to trust him. Rob had pulled him to safety under fire and shielded him, and that told him everything he needed to know.

"Well, you're not shovelling the thankless shit for the money, obviously," Rob said.

"It's a compromise. My wife sees more of me and I still get to do the kind of things I'm good at."