Last Light (10 page)

Close behind them, four police officers pushed their way in to sort out the fracas.

I checked Baby-G, a new black one with purple illumination. Over three hours to go before pick-up, and there was nothing I wanted to do. I didn't want to eat, didn't want to drink, didn't even want to just sit around, and I certainly didn't want Maureen gazing into my soul, no matter how helpful she was trying to be. She knew too much already. So I started heading out towards the street, nodding my thanks. Even in a time of crisis she gave me a second of her time.

"You need to stop worrying, Nick. Worrying too much affects this, you know." She tapped the side of her forehead with her index finger.

"I've seen enough of that in here to know, darling."

One of the phones rang behind her as the scuffle continued at the bottom of the stairs.

"Got to go, luv. I hope things work out for you they normally do, you know. Good luck, darling."

Once outside, the noise of the construction site drowned out the shouting. I slouched on the steps, staring at the paving slabs as the fighters were dragged away, their angry voices lost amongst the roar of pneumatic drills.

On the dot of 3 p.m. the Merc cruised past and found a space further down the road. Trainers was at the wheel and Sundance next to him. They left the engine running.

I unstuck my very numb arse from the steps and dragged myself towards them. They were dressed in the same clothes as this morning, and drinking coffee out of paper cups. I took my time not to make them wait, but because my body couldn't move any quicker, just like my mind.

They gave me no acknowledgement as I got into the back and they put their seatbelts back on.

Sundance threw a brown envelope over his shoulder at me as we drove off.

"I've already taken five hundred out of the account, so don't bother trying again today. That covers the eighty-five sub plus interest."

They grinned at each other. The job had its compensations.

My new passport and credit card were hot off the press but looking suitably aged, along with my new PIN number and open-return air ticket, leaving Miami to Panama City, 7.05 a.m. tomorrow. How I got to Miami by then didn't bother me I'd be told soon enough.

I flicked through my visas so I knew that I'd been on holiday for two weeks in Morocco in July. The stamps were all related to the truth I had been there, just not as recently. But at least it meant I could bluff my way through a routine check at Immigration and Customs. The rest of my cover story would be the same as ever, just travelling after a boring life selling insurance; I had done most of Europe, now I wanted to see the rest of the world.

I still wasn't impressed by my cover name, though. Hoff why Hoff? It didn't sound right. Nick Hoff, Nick Hoff. It didn't even start with the same letter as my real surname, so it was difficult not to get confused and hesitant when signing a signature. Hoff sounded unnatural: if you were called Hoff, you wouldn't christen your son Nicholas unless you wanted to give him a tough time at school: it sounded like someone with a speech impediment saying 'knickers off.

Sundance didn't ask for a signature, and that bothered me. I got pissed off with bullshit when it was official, but even more so when it wasn't.

"What about my CA?" I asked.

"Can I call them?"

Sundance didn't bother to look round as we bumped along in the traffic.

"It's already done." He dipped into his jeans and brought out a scrap of paper.

"The new mini roundabout has been built at last, but everyone is still waiting on the decision about the bypass. That comes through some time next month."

I nodded; it was an update on the local news from what the Yes Man had renamed the Cover Address. James and Rosemary had loved me like a son since I boarded with them years ago, or so the cover story went. I even had a bedroom there, and some clothes in the wardrobe.

These were the people who would both confirm my cover story and be part of it.

They'd never take any action on my behalf, but would back me up if I needed them to.

"That's where I live," I could tell whoever was questioning me.

"Phone them, ask them."

I visited James and Rosemary whenever I could, so my cover had got stronger as time passed. They knew nothing about the ops and didn't want to; we would just talk about what was going on at the social club, and a bit of other local and personal stuff. I needed to know these things because I would do if I lived there all the time. I hadn't wanted to use them for the sniper job, because that would have meant the Firm knowing the name I was travelling under, and where to.

As things had turned out, it looked as if I'd been right.

Sundance started to tell me how I was going to make it to Miami in time for my flight to Panama. The Yes Man hadn't hung about. Within four hours I was going to be lying in a sleeping bag on top of some crates of military kit stuffed into an R.A.F Tristar, leaving R.A.F Brize Norton, near Oxford, for Fort Campbell in Kentucky, where a Jock infantry battalion was having a joint exercise with the 101st Airborne Division "Screaming Eagles'. They had given up their parachutes years ago and now screamed around in more helicopters than nearly all of the European armies put together. There were no commercial flights this time of day that would get me where I needed to be by tomorrow morning; this was the only way. I was getting kicked off in Florida, and a US visa waiver would be stamped in my passport at the Marine base. I then had three hours in which to transfer to Miami airport and make the flight to Panama.

Sundance growled as he looked out at two women waiting for a bus.

"Once you get there you are being sponsored by two doctors." He glanced at his notes again.

"Carrie and Aaron Yanklewitz. Fucking stupid name."

He looked at Trainers, who nodded in agreement before getting back to the scrap of paper.

There will be no contact with Mr. Frampton or anyone here. Everything to, or from, is via their handler."

I wondered if there was just a faint chance the Yanklewitzes were Polish Americans. My head was pressed against the window as I gazed out at real life passing me by.

"Are you listening, fuckhead?"

I looked in the rear-view mirror and could see him, waiting for a reply. I nodded.

They'll be at the airport with a name card and a pass number of thirteen. You got that? Thirteen."

I nodded once more, this time not bothering to look at him.

They'll show you the wee boy's house, and should have all the imagery and stuff by the time you get there. They don't know what your job is. But we do, don't we, boy?" He swivelled round to face me as I continued to gaze at nothing in particular, not feeling anything, just numb.

"And that's to finish the job, isn't it?" He jabbed the air between us with his forefinger as he spoke.

"You're going to finish what you were paid to do. And it's going to be done by Friday, last light. Do you understand, Stone? Finish it."

I felt more depressed and pissed off each time the job was mentioned.

"I'd be lost without you."

Sundance's finger and thumb jabbed the air again as he made not too good a job of containing his rage.

"Kill the fucking boy." He spat the words and flecks of saliva showered on to my face.

I got the feeling everyone was under pressure in this car, and I bet that was because the Yes Man was himself. I wondered if C had been told about my security blanket or had the Yes Man decided to claim that the 'scuppering' was down to bad com ms After all, that was what I'd told him, wasn't it? I couldn't remember now.

The Yes Man had probably told C that good old Stone whom C wouldn't know if I fell out of the sky and landed on his head -was on the case, and everything was going to be just fine. But I had the sneaking suspicion I was only going to Panama instead of Beachy Head because I was the only one on the books soft enough in the head to try to pull it off.

As we joined the A40 out of London and headed for Brize, I tried to focus on the job. I needed to fill my head with work instead of woe. At least that was the theory. But it was easier said than done. I was penniless. I'd sold the Ducati, the house in Norfolk, even the furniture, everything apart from what I could shove into a sports bag, to pay for Kelly's treatment. Twenty-four-hour private care in leafy Hampstead and regular trips to the Moorings had cleaned me out.

Walking away from the Norfolk house for the last time, I'd felt the same trepidation I had as a sixteen-year-old walking away from the housing estate to join the Army. Back then, I hadn't had a sports bag, but a pair of holed socks, a still-wrapped bar of Wright's Coal Tar soap, and one very old toothbrush in a Co-op plastic carrier. I planned to buy the toothpaste on my first pay day, not knowing when exactly that was, or how much I was going to get. I hadn't really cared, because however bad the Army might be, it was getting me out of a life of correction centres and a stepfather who had graduated from slaps to punches.

Since March, the start of Kelly's therapy, I hadn't been able to work. And with no national insurance number, no record of employment not so much as a postcard to prove my existence after leaving the Regiment I couldn't even claim the dole or income support. The Firm wasn't going to help: I was deniable.

And no one at Vauxhall Cross wants to know you if you aren't able to work, or if there isn't any to give you.

For the first month or so of her sessions I'd done the bed sit shuffle around London if I was lucky, being able to do a runner whenever the landlord was stupid enough not to ask for money up front. Then, with the help of Nick Somerhurst's national insurance number bought in the Good Mixer, I was able to get a place in the hostel, lining up at mealtimes by the Hari Krishna van, just outside the Mecca bingo hall. It had also got me the Somerhurst passport and supporting documents. I didn't want to have the Yes Man tracking me with docs from the Firm.

I couldn't help smiling as I remembered one of the Krishna gang, Peter, a young guy who always had a grin on his face. He had a shaved head and skin so pale he looked as if he should have been dead, but I soon discovered he was very much alive. Dressed in his rusty red robes, hand knitted blue cardigan, and a multicoloured woolly hat, he used to run about inside the rusty white Mercedes van, pouring tea, dishing out great curries and bread, doing the Krishna rap.

"Yo, Nick! Krishnaaa, Krishnaaaa, Krishnaaaa. Yo!

Hari rammaaaaa." I never felt quite up to joining in, though some of the others did, especially the drunks. As he danced about inside the van the tea would spill and the odd slice of bread would fall off the paper plate, but it was still much appreciated.

I went on staring out of the window, cocooned in my own little rusty world while the other one passed me by on the street.

The A40 opened up into motorway and Sundance decided it was time for a bit of a performance.

"You know what?" He looked over at Trainers, making sure I could hear.

Trainers swung into the outside lane at the same time as passing his tobacco to Sundance.

"What's that, then?"

"I wouldn't mind a trip to Maryland ... We could go to Washington and do the sights first..."

I knew what they were trying to do to me and I continued to stare at the hard shoulder.

Trainers was sounding enthusiastic.

"It'd be good craze, I'm telling yer."

Sundance finished licking the Rizla before answering.

"Aye, it would. I hear Laurel..." He turned to face me.

"That's where she lives now, isn't it?"

I didn't answer. He knew very well it was. Sundance turned back to face the road.

"Well, I hear it's very picturesque there -you know, trees and grass and all that shite. Anyway, after we finished up there in Laurel, you could take me to see that half-sister of yours in New York .. ."

"No fucking way you're getting near her!"

I had a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach and had to breathe out quickly as I thought about what might happen if I didn't get the job done. But I was fucked if I was going to play their game. Besides, I was just too tired to react.

Just over an hour later the Merc pulled up outside the air movement centre at Brize, and Trainers got out to organize the next stage of my life.

Nothing was said in the car as I listened to the roar of R.A.F transport jets taking off and watched soldiers from the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders wander past in DPM camouflage, berg ens on their backs and Walkmans clamped to their ears. It was like going back in time. I felt I'd spent half my military life at this airfield, because as well as loading up for flights on a regular basis, just like the Highlanders, I had learnt to parachute here. I'd loved it:

after being stationed in a garrison town with only three pubs one of which was out of bounds to low-life like me and a chip shop, this place had been Butlins. They even had a bowling alley.

I watched as a captain herded the trogs through the doors, ticking them off on a clipboard as they passed into the large 1960s glass building.

Trainers came back with a nervous-looking Crab Air (R.A.F) movements corporal. He probably didn't have a clue what was going on, just that he had to escort some pissed-off looking civilian on to one of his nice aircraft. He was told to wait short of the car as Trainers came and opened the rear kerb side door. I could only see him from the chest down as his hand beckoned me out.

As I shuffled my arse across the seat, Sundance called out, "Oil"

I waited, looking at the foot well

"Don't fuck up, boy."

I nodded: after our little talk on the way here, and the Yes Man's lecture earlier, I'd got the message. I climbed out and nodded a greeting to the Crab corporal.

We'd only gone a few paces when Sundance called to me yet again. I went back and poked my head through the rear door, which Trainers had kept open. The roar of a transport jet made him shout and me move back into the car, my knees on the seat. 'I forgot to ask, how is that wain of yours? I hear you two were going to the fruit farm before she left. Little soft in the head as well, is she?"