Ultimate Weapon (9 page)

He’d checked the phone as soon as he stepped through the door. Nothing. He’d checked the mail, but there was nothing apart from the usual bills, credit-card offers and a letter from the agency confirming his next shift on the rigs.

Finishing the pizza, he walked up to Sarah’s room. It was next to his own bedroom, and he’d left it almost exactly as it was when she was a teenager: there were some posters of Blur and Pulp on the wall, an easel where she liked to paint, and bookshelves crammed with all the books she’d needed for her A levels. Nothing else. Just like her room in Cambridge, Sarah left little of herself in any of the places she stayed. She took everything with her.

Her diary, thought Nick. It must be around here somewhere.

He found it in the drawer of her desk. He skipped past the writing – she’d only kept it for about six months when she was seventeen – towards the phone numbers. There was a list of about twenty of them, all written in her neat, black lettering – Sarah updated it occasionally when she came to stay so she could call her friends locally, but she hadn’t touched it for at least two years
now. It was a long shot, he knew. Sarah wasn’t necessarily in contact with any of these people now.
But when somebody vanishes off the face of the earth, where else do you start?

‘Is that Louise?’ he said into the phone as soon as it was answered.

‘Yes.’

The woman sounded tired and stressed. Somewhere in the background, he could hear a baby screaming. ‘It’s Nick Scott, Sarah’s dad.’

There was a pause while she tried to place them. ‘OK,’ she said.

‘I was just wondering if you had heard from Sarah at all?’

‘Is she OK?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Nick. ‘No one has heard from her for a week or so. I was just wondering if she might be with one of her old friends.’

‘I haven’t seen her for almost two years,’ said Louise.

‘Sorry to trouble you.’

‘Jesus, I hope she’s OK.’

‘So do I.’

Nick put the phone down and glanced out of the window. It was a cold but clear night. The cottage was halfway up a hill, with a view on to the Black Mountains beyond. A three-quarter moon was hanging in the sky, sending pale shafts of silvery light into the grey-green hillside. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a car, but it was half a mile to the next house, and tonight, like every night, the hills were cloaked in silence. Nick
tried the next number on his list. Emma had been Sarah’s best friend at school, the pair of them inseparable from the ages of fifteen to seventeen, although her mother, keen for her daughter to climb the heights of Herefordshire society, hadn’t liked Sarah much, and approved of Nick even less. Last he’d heard, Emma was working in London on a women’s magazine. He tried her on the mobile number. No, she told him. She hadn’t heard anything of Sarah. In fact, she hadn’t spoken to her for six months. Emma had called her asking if she could be a case study for a magazine feature about how brains stopped a girl from getting a proper boyfriend, and, to use Emma’s phrase, ‘she seemed a bit miffed about it’. So, no, she hadn’t heard from Sarah recently. Nick put the phone down, and looked out of the window again. He felt desperate for a drink, and was thankful that there was nothing in the cottage: if he’d been in town, nothing would have stopped him nipping out to the off-licence. He tried another number: James, a guy Sarah had dated when she stopped seeing Jed for about a year in her early twenties. No luck there. He’d changed address, and the person answering the phone didn’t know where he’d moved to. Bugger it, thought Nick.
A brick wall would be more help than this.

Again he looked out of the window. Something was moving. A shadow maybe. Nick looked closer. He could hear a rustling, but that might just have been the wind blowing through trees. No, he decided. Tonight was just like every other night on the edge of the Black Mountains. Empty. Still.
Abandoned.

He tried another number. Gill was one of Sarah’s friends from university: she was now working in Manchester as a doctor. Nick knew that she sometimes went up to stay with her for the weekend. They’d spend twenty-four hours getting wasted on the clubbing scene. Maybe she was just crashing there for a few days. Perhaps she’d just forgotten to take her mobile charger with her. It was easy enough to do. Nick sometimes forgot to charge up his mobile before leaving for the rigs.

No, said Gill. She’d been up for the weekend about a month ago. She seemed her usual self: strung out like a wire, babbling about work, drinking too much, always looking for the next party, the same old Sarah. There had been a text a couple of weeks ago, but since then Gill had heard nothing. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do.’

With a sinking feeling, Nick put the phone down. He was running out of options. None of her friends knew where the hell she was. Her professor was acting evasively. She had a hundred grand in her bank account.
What the hell has happened to her?

Suddenly, Nick could feel how cold the cottage was. It was a few weeks since he’d been here, and a cold snap meant its old stone walls had frozen solid: they were like ice cubes, freezing everything around them. He’d put the heating on but it would take a couple of days for the place to thaw out again. He looked out of the window again, trying to remember if the BP station on the road into Hereford sold beer or wine, and whether it might be open at this time of night. Just one
drink, he thought to himself.
To get me through the next few days.

Another movement. Something was out there.
Somebody. He was certain of it.

Nick remained still. The expression on his face was relaxed, impassive, as if he was just admiring the shapes the moon and the clouds were creating on the hills. But inside his mind was working furiously. Someone is out there, he told himself.
Somebody is watching me.

He started moving away from the window. Whoever they were, he didn’t want them to know they’d been spotted. Just act casual, like you have no idea they’re out there.

Flicking on the TV, he caught the closing headlines on the ITV news. Blair was talking some rubbish about the threat of Saddam Hussein supplying biological weapons to terrorists. Nick turned the sound down. If anyone was watching the house right now, they’d think he was just slumped in front of the box. No threat to anyone.

Quietly, he slipped away to the phone. He picked up the receiver, and started to dial, but used only eight digits instead of nine. The phone just made a rapid bleeping sound. That was fine. Nick didn’t want to speak to anyone right now. Still holding the phone to his lips, he turned his back to the window. Kneeling down, he started to unscrew the back of the phone. It was a cheap receiver he’d bought in Argos for a tenner: the back came away simply enough. Inside, he could see a small black chip measuring one centimetre lengthwise and half a centimetre across. Nick recognised it at once.

A bug.

Someone was listening to his calls.

He screwed the receiver back into place, then dialled Sarah’s mobile number again, just for a number to ring. Whoever was listening into the calls, he didn’t want them to know they’d been rumbled. Not yet. ‘Hiya, silver girl, it’s me,’ he said when he got the voicemail message that was now tediously familiar. ‘Give us a ring when you can.’

Slowly he moved back towards the TV. A Clint Eastwood film was just starting. Perhaps he’d watch it. After all, there wasn’t much chance of sleeping tonight; maybe just crash out in front of the box. Let them think I haven’t seen them.

The listening device was familiar to Nick. One of the first things you learnt on the security circuit was how to sweep a room for bugs. This was nothing special: a simple plug-in device you could buy from a couple of dozen firms that sold them over the Internet. It took the phone call and transmitted it over a short-wave radio signal to a listening post nearby. Its range was about half a mile, depending on the terrain. In these hills, maybe less. That meant they were close by.

Glancing up at the silent screen, Nick could see Clint pulling his Magnum from its holster. Somebody is watching me. And my phone is tapped. Nick repeated the same two phrases to himself sombrely.

Well, mate, all I know is this. You picked on the wrong fight this time.
You’ve got a hell of beating coming to you.

* * *

The sky was darker tonight, Nick noted. A thick layer of clouds had settled into the valley early in the day and showed no signs of moving. The moon was hidden, and none of the stars was visible. Perfect, he told himself.
For this evening’s work, I need all the darkness I can get.

Once or twice he’d glanced towards the spot where he’d seen the movements, but he hadn’t looked at it for more than a fraction of a second. That would create suspicion. He had no idea who might be watching him, or why, but he assumed they’d been properly trained. That meant one of the first things they’d be looking for was a sign that they’d been rumbled. Any hint of that, and they’d evacuate the place on the spot. The first rule of surveillance was always the same, whoever you were working for:
Don’t get bloody caught.

Nick picked up the phone. There had been almost twenty-four hours now since he’d realised he was being watched. Enough time to plan his response down to the last detail. He called Sarah’s mobile again, waiting for the voicemail to click on. ‘It’s me again, love,’ he said. ‘I’m going to be in all evening, so give me a ring.’ Next, he called Ken’s Pizza Delivery in Hereford. ‘One large pepperoni, and a beer,’ he said, then gave the address. ‘For about ten, please.’

That should convince whoever is listening I’m staying in for the evening.

For a few minutes that morning, Nick had wondered if he should call Jed and get his help. He could stay in the house, while Jed could stalk the men in the bushes. He’d decided against it. I can handle this by
myself.
I don’t need that arrogant little tosser buggering things up.

Nick flicked the TV on. It was already pitch black outside. He glanced out of the window but could see nothing, only darkness. He pulled the curtains together, then bolted the front door. Taking off his shoes to stay as quiet as possible, he walked upstairs to his bedroom. The cottage only had one entrance, at its front. The back door that led into the kitchen had been bricked up years ago. His bedroom looked out on to the side of the house, and was protected by a large oak tree which, even in winter with its leaves down, effectively camouflaged the window. Stopping by the cupboard, he pulled out a tin of boot polish, and started to smear some across his cheeks and forehead. He was wearing black jeans and a black sweatshirt. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, Nick flashed a menacing, malevolent smile: the smile of a man intent on beating his way to the truth. It feels good to be back in action, he told himself.
This is who you are.

Swinging open the window, Nick climbed gently on to the ledge. He’d owned this house for more than a decade, but until this evening he’d never thought how to turn it into a fortress. A gutter ran down the side of the house, a yard from the window. Nick reached over, gripping the pipe tightly into the palm of his fist, then started to lever himself across the side of the house. The stone from which the cottage was built was pitted with crevices, perfect for climbing. In a few seconds, he’d secured his grip, and slid effortlessly down the drain-pipe on to the grass below.

Keeping low to ground, with his back bent double, he moved across the stretch of lawn towards the adjoining field. There was a gap in the hedge through which some sheep sometimes broke and ate whatever few flowers Nick had bothered to plant in the garden. He pulled himself through, and started to walk across the field, keeping himself close to the hedge. Glancing up at the sky, he could see it was still pitch black; the cloud cover was heavy, and a few light drops of rain were starting to fall. A biting wind was blowing through the mountains. Perfect, Nick thought. The worse the weather is, the harder it will be to spot a man coming towards them.

He reckoned the observing post was where he’d spotted the movement last night. It would be nothing special – if they had any brains, they’d keep themselves as mobile as possible. A sheet of green tarpaulin to cover themselves, and a pair of binoculars, plus whatever kit they needed for listening to the bugged phone calls. So long as their clothes were camouflaged as well, that should be enough to stop them being spotted. Nick’s plan was to skirt around the front of the house through the fields, then crawl up on them from behind. Keep it simple, he could remember one of his instructors yelling at him during his training courses for the Regiment.
If you can stab the fuckers in the back, that’s as good a place as any.

Nick paused. He’d moved about three hundred yards now: two hundred yards up from the front of the house, and a hundred yards across the field, so that he was looking straight down at the cottage. He could see the
light seeping out from behind the curtains, and underneath the front door. The light above the porch cast a few pale shadows across the path that led to the road, and just about touched the bonnet of his six-year-old Rover parked a few yards from the door. Otherwise, the hillside was shrouded in darkness.

The rain was starting to gather strength. Nick could feel it starting to beat on to him. Water was curling around his hair, and dropping down over his face. The blacking on his face was starting to smudge. He looked down towards the house, his eyes scanning the surface of the ground. They’ll be somewhere, he told himself. And they’ll be looking in the wrong direction.