Die Twice (5 page)

Except musicals, obviously.

There were fewer channels on TV in those days, and no video or DVD, but I still seemed to have plenty of choice. The BBC showed at least one movie every Saturday, for example. Early in the evening. Often Westerns, for some reason. They must have been cheap. But I didn’t mind. I enjoyed them. There was bound to be a gallant hero to cheer for. A cruel villain to despise. A beautiful girl to rescue. Plenty of fighting to act out in the playground at school the next week. The knowledge that good would always overcome evil.

And however dicey things became, there was no need to worry.

Because, when the chips were down, you could always rely on the cavalry to arrive.

I stopped Rollins midway up the second flight of stairs. I’d made him describe the entrance to the apartment McIntyre was holed up in four times, but I still wanted to see it for myself. I didn’t trust amateurs. Especially not ones who gave me the feeling they’d say just about anything to save their skins. The mirror I’d taken from his medical kit was small, but it gave me a good enough view to suggest that his account was reasonably accurate. There was nothing obvious to derail the plan I’d just briefed Fothergill on. So, I took out my cell phone, turned the ringer volume up to one notch above silent, set its alarm for four minutes’ time, and handed it to Rollins.

“OK, Doctor,” I said. “Where will you wait?”

“Here,” he said. “Right where I am now.”

“Will you move?”

“No. Not a muscle.”

“How much noise will you make?”

“No noise. None at all.”

“The alarm on the phone will sound. What will you do?”

“Silence it. Immediately.”

“And?”

“Go up to the door. Knock three times, then pause, then knock three times again. Just like he told me to when he summoned me before.”

“Good. And when you hear footsteps inside the apartment?”

“Run. Fast. And don’t look back.”

It wasn’t the world’s greatest plan, but I didn’t have many options. Normally, once I had a confirmed target securely squared away, I could stand back and hand the reins to a snatch team. From the
SAS. Or SBS. Or the host country’s police or special forces, if we trusted them or had told them in advance what we were doing. But whoever took it over, they’d take care of the rest. Forcing an entry. Avoiding booby traps. Cleaning up afterward. It was a very satisfactory division of labor. But this time, London hadn’t sent anyone to help. And they’d ruled out involving the Chicago police any further. I was sorry the twelve o?cers outside were fictitious because that left me with just Dr. Rollins at my disposal to create a diversion. Not a very promising position. And not very much time. Four minutes wasn’t long to get myself into position. I’d have liked more, but I knew I couldn’t risk it.

A drawback of being a new recruit in the navy is that you’re used for all kinds of psychological studies. The results are fed to us during training, so I knew I was seriously pushing the limit of how long a frightened person would remain compliant. Give him much longer and his brain would start to reboot itself. He’d start to question everything I’d told him. See that some things weren’t quite the way I’d painted them. Begin to doubt everything else. And most likely run for the hills. So the moment I left him I headed back down one flight of stairs and into the apartment I’d gained access through. I climbed back out through the window. Then I crept along the fire escape and made my way up one story, testing each footstep carefully before trusting my full weight to the grimy, corroded metal.

Rollins had confirmed that the apartment McIntyre was squatting in had the same basic layout as the one below, so I edged along to the bathroom window and checked my watch. There were eighteen seconds to go. I pried the frame away from its mounting and wriggled my fingers into the narrow space. The wood around this window was drier and less decayed, and as I waited for the time to pass I could feel the points of several splinters slowly burrowing into my skin. A thin trace of blood had just reached my
palm when the second hand finally reached the twelve. I knew the alarm on the phone should be starting to sound. I pictured Rollins switching it off. Standing up. Climbing the final few stairs. Approaching the door. Raising his hand. Knocking. McIntyre hearing it. Focusing on it. Recognizing the agreed pattern. Moving to investigate. And leaving his back momentarily unguarded.

I took a deep breath and heaved sharply backward.

McIntyre had left nothing in the bathroom that would reveal the apartment was occupied. But a few sheets of dusty newspaper were lying on the floor beneath the window, artistically off-center, where an intruder’s foot would naturally land. The positioning was too perfect to be a coincidence. So I stretched to the side, got my right foot on the rim of the tub, and bypassed them. Then I checked underneath. Something was hidden there. A strip of bubble wrap. I don’t know where he got it from, but it made a half-decent perimeter alarm—for something improvised out of scrap. The guy was certainly thorough. It was just a shame he hadn’t put his skills and training to their proper use. We’d both have been spared a whole lot of trouble if he had.

There were no further obstacles between me and the door so I crossed the room and paused for a moment, to listen. At first I heard nothing. I was beginning to think that Rollins must have bottled and run away when I picked up a slight sound. It was coming from my left. From the far end of the corridor, where the main living room would be. Maybe a chair leg scraping lightly over a wooden floor. And it was followed by footsteps. One set. They were cautious. Coming my way. They reached the door in front of me, but I let them pass. Even with him injured, I saw no reason to get into a fight with McIntyre if I could reasonably avoid it. So I gave him another couple of seconds to make up some ground on the front door. Then I stepped into the corridor and raised my Beretta so it was pointing at the back of his head.

“Commander McIntyre,” I said. “Stop. Blue on blue.”

He stopped, arms by his sides, a Beretta matching mine in his right hand.

“Bend down,” I said. “Put the gun on the floor. Gently.”

He bent his knees so he could reach the ground, but kept his waist completely straight. The move looked awkward. Rollins had told me he’d been injured in the lower abdomen during the shoot-out with Fothergill. I guess he was still feeling the effects of the surgery. Or at least, that he wanted me to think so.

“Stand up,” I said. “Raise your hands. And kick the gun away, behind you.”

So far, so good. Stopping him had been perfectly straightforward. And I was still wondering whether he would give up the gas canister just as easily when the front door was ripped off its hinges. Something had sent it hurtling down the corridor toward us, cannoning off the floor and walls and finally biting into the wooden boards at McIntyre’s feet.

It seems that the movies had a point about the inevitable sound of hooves in the distance. But there’s one thing those old Westerns never warned you about.

The cavalry might always arrive. But it isn’t always on your side.

Civilians were mentioned a lot during our first couple of weeks of training. The instructors never missed an opportunity to remind us that members of the public always came first. Everything we were taught was ultimately aimed at preserving their safety and well-being. Because although our job was very specialized, when you boiled it down to the bare bones, it was actually extremely simple. We were there for one thing. To look after those who couldn’t look after themselves.

I didn’t have a problem with that. In fact, it made perfect sense. On the whole, I welcomed it. My only reservation was about the people who were capable, but wouldn’t look after themselves. Who chose not to. Who thought they were entitled to have someone else do all the hard work on their behalf. But in the end I didn’t have much time to waste thinking about them. As our exercises became more complex, mention of the wider population dropped off dramatically. Soon they were hardly part of our thinking at all.
Not much more than a background presence. We were too focused on the job in hand.

Until one Saturday when we were sent out, on our own, to major cities around the country.

We were told that a fringe terrorist group was planning to activate a device that would release clouds of fumes into the crowd at a Premier League football match, later that day. The vapor was thought to be highly acidic. It was capable of causing horrific burns wherever it came into contact with bare skin. Possibly permanent blindness, if it got into the eyes. And even death, if enough was breathed in to destroy a victim’s lungs.

The attack was to be part of a protest against the working conditions the group alleged were forced on workers in clothing factories in the third world. The ones who made the replica shirts the supporters were so keen on wearing. It would be carried out by four people. All would be women. Our job was to help the police spot them, so they could be arrested before any damage was done. We had their pictures. We believed they would be arriving by train. But still, picking them out of a crowd of tens of thousands of people wasn’t going to be easy.

We were given our destinations as soon as the morning briefing was over. Mine turned out to be Birmingham. I made good time up the motorways, dumped my unmarked car on some waste ground near the spot where the Aston Expressway crosses Trinity Road, and started to make my way toward the railway station. This part was slow going, pushing my way through the unbroken river of people. Then, when I was nearly at the stadium, we stopped moving completely. Some sort of disturbance had broken out just ahead of me. I shouldered my way through the onlookers to find out what was going on. A knot of people had formed outside a pub. Two were supporters of the visiting team, and five were home fans. It was a dangerous combination, but still at the pushing and shoving stage.
There was still time for it to be defused. I looked around for the police. There were none to be seen. I called it in, but was told that somehow, inexplicably, there was no cover in that sector. The nearest officers were ten minutes away. An eternity, in the circumstances. Punches started to be thrown. One guy went down. He took a kick to the head. A knife appeared. Then another. I scanned the crowd. People were sickened. Excited. Fascinated. Horrified. Delighted. But none of them was ready or able to intervene. The situation was out of control. It was on the verge of becoming a bloodbath.

Unless I stopped it.

I did step forward. But not to break up the fight. Instead I just eased around the edge of the mob and continued on my way. I had a job to do. The next ten minutes were difficult, pushing visions of the guy on the ground out of my head and trying to focus on the pictures of the terrorists I’d memorized that morning. Comparing them against the swarms of happy, smiling supporters. And trying to conceal my surprise when I finally spotted a face I did recognize.

One of my instructors.

The whole episode had been staged. There was no plot to release acid into the crowd. The point of the exercise was completely different. To see if you had the presence of mind to put the needs of the many ahead of the few. Even in the heat of the moment. Even when you had to get blood on your shoes to do it. Because that put the place of civilians in its full context. You don’t involve yourself with them on purpose, but occasionally they get caught up anyway. Sometimes by accident. Sometimes through their own greed. Sometimes because of stupidity. And sometimes, plain bad luck.

But whatever the cause, it wasn’t your problem.

You couldn’t allow anything to stand in the way of your objective.

When they saw the remains of the shattered apartment, the fire department wanted to take me to hospital. The police wanted to take me to jail. And Fothergill wanted to take me somewhere secluded so he could shoot me.

Fothergill came closest. He got the first half of his wish, at least.

After we’d disentangled ourselves from the authorities, I got him to stop at my hotel so I could change my clothes. The look on his face as we drove told me not to expect much hospitality once we reached the consulate, so I made him stop again at the nearest Starbucks. I was in need of a major dose of caffeine. And then, when I was well enough supplied, I let him drag me back to his office.