David Trevellyan 03 -More Harm Than Good (6 page)

       
“Not really.”

       
“Well that’s a shame.
Because I’ve got three more for you.
Tell me when you’re
ready.”

       
I said nothing.

       
“One,” she said anyway,
and pulled a matching Sig from beneath the folds of her sweater. “Ready for the
next one?”

       
I shrugged.

       
“Two,” she said,
effortlessly standing up and stepping away from the wheelchair. “Don’t worry.
It’s not a miracle. And the next?”

       
“Why not?” I said.

       
“Good sport,” she said,
pulling a pair of handcuffs from her belt and dangling them off her left index
finger. “Guess who these are for?”

Chapter Five

The MI5 agent was about five foot eight when she wasn’t sitting in
the wheelchair. She was wearing dark skinny jeans with black ankle boots - flat
enough to run in - and a long grey sweater that was sufficiently baggy to hide
the holster for her sidearm. There was no sign of any
jewellery
.
Curly blonde hair reached down beyond her shoulders. She wore no make-up, and
her face looked like it could be quite pretty if she hadn’t been scowling so
vigourously
.

       
I let her cuff me - she
was still holding a Sig, after all - and I didn’t interfere when she called a
medevac team for her partner. It was a little ironic, given that we were in a
hospital, but I knew she wouldn’t be ready to drop her cover just yet. I also
knew what her next move would be. To summon a snatch squad to spirit me out of
there, and without any ID it was the devil’s own job to convince her I was from
Royal Navy Intelligence and that we were on the same side. The best I could do
was persuade her to hold off calling the cavalry until she’d at least run my
code words past her liaison duty.

       
“Wait by the wall,” she
said, eventually, then prodded a number of keys on her phone before holding it
to her ear.

       
Someone answered inside
ten seconds, and it took her another minute to pass on her request. Then she
raised the gun and held it steady,
centred
on my
chest, while the person at the other
end ran
the
necessary checks. She was silent for another three minutes, occasionally
glancing down at the guy on floor. He was twitching slightly now, and moaning
quietly to himself. She took a step towards him but stopped abruptly,
concentrating on the phone again, then lowering the Sig to her side.

       
“You’re to go to your
room,” she said, ending the call and retrieving the handcuff key from her
pocket. “Don’t go anywhere, and don’t contact anyone. They’re going to talk
about us, your people and mine. They don’t want anyone disappearing. And they
don’t want anyone muddying the water.”

Julie Smith, the nurse who’d admitted me, was standing in my room
when I got back. I opened the door and the initial look of panic on her face
turned to anger when she saw it was
me
.

       
“And where do you think
you’ve been?” she said. “Do you think I’ve got time to hang around patients’
rooms, waiting for them to decide whether to show up?”

       
“Sorry,” I said. “I
didn’t
realise
you were coming back, tonight.”

       
“I told you I was.”

       
“Really? I don’t
remember. And the truth is, I’ve got a bit of a problem.”

       
“I’m sure you do.”

       
I took two halting, half
steps backwards then sat down heavily on the bed, my right hand settling
against my temple for a couple of seconds before I let it fall back to my side.

       
“Are you OK?” she said.

       
“Not really,” I said.

       
“How are you feeling?
Can you describe it to me?”

       
“Tired. Absolutely
exhausted. It just came over me. I feel like I need to sleep for a week.”

       
The nurse’s hands didn’t
move from her hips but her head tipped slightly to the side, she let out a
long, slow, breath, and the harsh expression on her face began to gradually
soften.

       
“Heightened fatigue is
perfectly normal in these situations,
Mr
Trevellyan
. Your body’s trying to repair itself. That takes
a lot of energy. So try not to fret. Everything will sort itself out, in time.
And for now, we’ll keep a really good eye on you. At least you’re back in the right
place.”

       
“Thank you. I do
appreciate the care you’re taking of me. But now, I really need to get off to
sleep.”

       
“You’re probably right.
But let’s have a look at you, first. Best to be sure, you know.”

       
“Couldn’t we leave that till
morning? I’m honestly fit to drop.”

       
“No,” she said, reaching
for the
chart which
was hanging from the foot rail of
the bed. “I’ve got to do your
obs’
now. Those are the
rules. Now come on. Play along, and I’ll be as quick as I can.”

       
Nurse Smith was true to
her word. She wasted no time with her poking, prodding, and scribbling. But
fast as she was with her observations, I was faster to grab my phone from the
bedside table drawer the second the door closed behind her.

There was a knock on my door at 9.35 the next morning, but it wasn’t
one of the nurses coming to check on me. It was the MI5 agent. She was back in
her wheelchair. Her blonde hair was straighter than before, making it appear
slightly longer. The blue of her eyes seemed a little more pronounced. A hint
of lavender and bergamot washed over me as she opened the door. And
surprisingly after last night, I saw she was smiling.

       
“Question for you,” she
said, from just inside the doorway. “Destiny. Do you know what determines it?”

       
“That’s profound for
this time of the morning,” I said. “Do they serve coffee early, on your floor?”

       
“Coffee, no. And it’s
not so profound, either. The answer, apparently, is ‘the choices we make, and
the chances we take.’”

       
“Oh, OK. I’m with you.
And I’m getting a vision. An old rowing boat, painted white, tied up on a
deserted sandy beach.
Crystal clear water lapping against its
picturesquely weathered sides.
Some kind of weird big rock in the
background...”

       
“In a cheap, cheesy
frame, hanging over a visitors’ table.”

       
“Exactly. So, you’ve had
the pleasure of an audience with
Mr
name-on-the-door
Jackson as well?”

       
“I have,” she said,
resting her hands in her lap. “First thing this morning. I got the job of
smoothing over the rumpus about that spontaneously self-collapsing chair, since
its suicide occurred in my room. That wasn’t the kind of low-profile insertion
my people were hoping for. They wanted me to throw a couple of buckets of iced
water around, if you know what I mean. Make sure none of the
neighbours
were getting too nosey.”

       
“Were you successful?”

       
“Time will tell. And
don’t worry – I kept your name out of it. Can I come in?”

       
“Be my guest.”

       
“So I’m told you’re here
because you’re sick,” she said, crossing to the foot of the bed and unhooking
the clipboard that held my charts.

       
“Injured, actually,
rather than sick,” I said. “See for yourself.”

       
“This looks convincing
enough,” she said, studying the papers.

       
I shrugged.

       
“One more question for
you,” she said. “What were you doing in my room, last night? I mean, what were
you really doing?”

       
“I saw that guy go in.
Jones. I followed him. I thought he was a thief.”

       
“The elusive boot thief,
perhaps?”

       
“You know about that?”

       
“I took a peep at
Jackson’s email while I was waiting for him to turn up, just now. There was one
from a woman called Lydia. She was refusing to officially record the theft -
alleged theft - of your boots because you wouldn’t fill in some form.”

       
“According to her, if
it’s not down in black and white, it didn’t happen."

       
“So, your boots get
stolen and you do what?
March barefoot all the way to the CEO
himself.
You don’t think you could have been over-reacting, just the
tiniest bit?”

       
“There was no one else
around to talk to.”

       
“This isn’t some
elaborate cover for what you’re really doing here?”

       
“No. They were just nice
boots. I wanted them back.”

       
“Listen, David. Your
name actually is David? Please. I’m in a bind, here. We both could be. The
people above us may not play well with others, but that doesn’t mean we can’t.
We’re the ones at the sharp end. And we both have reasons to be here. They
could be separate. Or they could overlap. Yes? So I’d like to know. I don’t
need specifics. But tell me - should I be looking over both shoulders, now? Or
only one?”

       
“Only one,” I said,
after a moment.

       
“Really?”

       
“Really. I’m here
because I hurt myself. I was busy making a serious mess of someone else’s day
when a metal spike did the same thing to my head. So now, I’m waiting for test
results. I’m not working. And I’m not going to interfere with what you’re doing
- whatever that may be - in any way.”

       
“Are you sure? Cause you
pretty much interfered the hell out of Tim.”

       
“That was an accident.
He was in disguise. I didn’t know who he was.”

       
“Some accident. The
guy’s young. He’s fully fit, and he finished top of his class in training
school. Which means I’m struggling to see someone with brain damage demolishing
him in two seconds flat.”

       
“It took longer than two
seconds.”

       
The agent didn’t reply.

       
“Look, the truth is, I
don’t have brain damage” I said. “And I may have prolonged my stay here a
little because I want my boots back. It’s outrageous they were stolen, given
how I got here, and the hospital suits won’t do anything to help. But that’s
all.”

       
“Give me your word on
that?” she said.

       
“I do.”

       
She didn’t look
convinced.

       
“OK,” I said. “If you
don’t believe me, look around for those boots.
Any footwear,
in fact.
If you can find a single thing in this room I could wear on my
feet, you can call me a liar.”

       
She glanced at the
locker at the side of the bed,
then
shook her head.

       
“It’s all right,” she
said. “I do believe you.”

       
“Thank you,” I said.
“And I’m sorry about your guy, Jones. I didn’t mean to hurt him. I wouldn’t
have, if I’d known who he was. How’s he doing, anyway? Will he be OK?”

       
“Don’t worry. He’ll be
fine in a little while. He’ll recover, and he’ll have learned a useful lesson.”

       
“And I’m sorry for
throwing a spanner into whatever you’re working on.”

       
“Thanks. I’m trying to
keep the lid on a powder keg here, and flying spanners are the last things I
need. Plus I’ve been stuck with mentoring Tim. That’s another reason I was a
little crabby last night. I hate baby-sitting. Specially when the baby ends up
in Intensive Care.”

       
There was a sharp knock
at the door before I could reply.

       
“Come in,” I said,
reluctantly. I was enjoying the conversation, and I wanted to find out more
about what she was doing at the hospital. Hints about powder kegs with loose
lids can have that effect.

       
The agent broke eye
contact as the door swung open and a nurse I’d not seen before stepped into the
room.