Fire Hawk (7 page)

The concept of wearing his own clothes again gave him unexpected pleasure. Chrissie's fresh-washed smell, however, was a sharp reminder of his own pressing need for a clean-up.

‘I think I'll take a shower first,' he told her.

‘You can't.' She pointed at his shins. ‘You'll get those dressings all wet. You could sit on the edge of a bath with your legs outside and do a sponge wash. I'll help you. D'you know where the bathroom is?'

‘No. And I can manage thanks.' He didn't want her fiddling around with him when he was naked.

He opened the bedroom door. Mowbray's was a small, modern house with a narrow landing. He moved along it,
touching the wall for support until he found the bathroom. Tiled in pink and white it had a small tub and a hand shower. He knew Chrissie was right behind him and he half-closed the door to keep her out. Some odd sense of propriety told him that if they weren't having sex any more she wasn't entitled to see his genitals. He slipped the white cotton pants down over the bandages on his shins, then tried to lift one leg while balancing on the other, but the pain became excruciating.

‘Fuck!' He fell against the wall.

He heard the door swing open behind him. ‘You halfwit,' Chrissie clucked. ‘Let me help you.'

He perched on the edge of the bath as she'd suggested and allowed her to untangle the shorts from his ankles. He saw her shoot a searching glance at the hairy tangle of his groin, as if checking for damage.

‘They didn't . . .?'

‘No.'

She remained crouched in front of him, looking up into his eyes.

‘Good,' she mouthed, grinning in that silly way she'd often grinned when they were about to have sex.

But they weren't.

She stood up again. ‘You're a lot thinner,' she told him.

‘It's the diet I was on. Might write it up as a paperback and make my fortune.'

His weak joke made her smile. But then, she'd
always
laughed at his jokes, however feeble. ‘You're looking good,' he added, even though he seemed to think her stomach wasn't quite as flat as it used to be. All those dinners out with her husband, no doubt. ‘Nice suit.'

‘It's Prada,' she answered, smoothing it down.

The label meant nothing to him, but he knew it would mean a lot to her. She'd always had expensive tastes in clothes.

He turned round and ran the bath water until it was warm.

‘I wish you'd let me help,' she pleaded.

Twisting to reach the taps had caused a twinge in his kidneys. Every movement he made seemed to hurt.

‘Well, all right.' Time he stopped being childish. ‘Thanks.'

She took off her jacket and hung it on the hook on the door. Then she searched the cupboard over the basin and amongst bottles of baby oil and skin lotion found some shampoo. Wrapping a towel round her waist to protect her skirt from splashes, she wet his thick, dark hair with the hand shower and massaged the shampoo into it, her long fingers lovingly re-exploring the shape of his head as if recovering a half-lost memory. She worked the shampoo down to his neck and shoulders.

‘You're so tense,' she breathed. ‘Your neck muscles are like a statue's.'

‘I can think of a nice way to loosen them,' he murmured, reaching up to hold her hand against his neck.

‘Sam . . .'

With a snort of a laugh she took her hands away. Picking up the shower, she rinsed his head. Then she laid it in the bath and stood back.

‘If you're going to be like that, I think I'd better leave it to you to wash the rest.'

She folded her arms and watched as he soaped the more intimate parts of his body. When he'd almost done, she took the sponge from him and dabbed at his back, biting her lip at the extent of the bruising she saw there. By the time the washing was complete, there was water all over the floor.

‘I'll mop it up in a minute,' she told him.

She took a towel from the rail and draped it over his shoulders. Her hands hovered for a few moments. If he'd
been facing her he would have seen the indecision in her eyes. Making up her mind, she pressed her body against his, hugging him from behind as tightly as she dared. Her mouth reached the level of his shoulders.

‘I haven't half missed you,' she whispered, sighing.

Sam knew that nothing had really changed in her, mind and body still pulling in opposite directions. And the body had usually won. A woman who wanted it all, whatever the consequences. He knew then that he could persuade her if he tried. He knew it for a certainty. And why not? Why shouldn't they make love, even if it were for old time's sake.

‘They'd written you off, lover.'

Her words sliced through his thoughts.

‘Who had?'

‘The Firm.'

He swallowed hard. He'd expected it – denying spies when they got into trouble was the name of the game – but to hear it confirmed that SIS had been ready to let him die was still shocking.

‘They'd got the denials all prepared,' she continued softly, still clinging to him, ‘for when the Iraqis paraded you in front of the press. You were dead meat, Sam.'

He didn't need to know this. So why was she telling him?

‘And? What changed it?' he croaked. ‘What swung it my way?'

She clung to him harder than ever, her chin hooked onto his collar bone.

‘
I
changed it. I told Martin I'd divorce him if you died.'

Slowly he twisted round. He stared at her in astonishment. There was, he supposed, some daft female logic in what she'd just said.

‘You'd divorce him if I was
dead
? But you weren't prepared to do it when I was living and breathing and wanting you to?'

She shrugged and looked down at the floor. It didn't make a lot of sense, but then what she felt seldom did.

‘Well anyway,' he breathed, nonplussed. ‘Thanks. Thanks for saving my life.' He began to dry himself.

She folded her arms as if feeling the need to get in control again.

‘Well,' she added, deciding to make light of it, ‘I suppose I did owe it to you, since you saved
my
life.'

He watched her fingering the long strands of hair that curved down to beneath her jaw line. They were dark and damp from being pressed against his wet shoulder.

‘You kept me sane when Martin was driving me mad,' she explained. ‘And you took the flak on the Kiev cockup.'

She was referring to a drugs investigation they'd both been involved in a year ago which had gone sour.

‘And you took it pretty well when . . . when I had to give you up,' she concluded pointedly.

Well
? She had no idea how
un
well he'd taken it.

‘Ah, yes.'

Was that it? Was this the other reason she'd come here, he wondered cynically? To make sure he knew that it was
she
who'd saved his life? That she'd repaid all debts to him?

‘But above all, Sam,' she added, noting the incredulity on his face, ‘I couldn't let them kill you.'

‘Thanks.'

‘I mean,
could
I? You knew that. That's the
real
reason you gave my phone number to your pigeon.'

She was right of course. Their eyes locked. They had the measure of one another.

‘There is one other thing I want to say,' she declared softly, looking down. ‘Just for the record.'

‘What?'

‘All those things I said to you when we broke up – I meant them. All of them.'

Meant that despite deciding that from now on she had to be faithful to her husband, it was still Sam she really loved and always would.

He stopped himself from asking her again. She'd explained why she'd chosen Martin instead of him, even if it defied logic.

‘Thanks a million, love.' He pulled open the bathroom door and stumbled back to the little bedroom with its rabbit wallpaper.

Chrissie followed a few minutes later, wiping up his wet footprints on the woodblock floor with the towel she'd used to mop up in the bathroom.

‘I expect you'll need to be on your way,' Sam mouthed when he heard her come in behind him. He was halfway through dressing.

‘That's all right. You said you were hungry. I'll cook you something.'

‘No need,' he told her, still with his back towards her. ‘I'm sure you've got other things to do.'

‘Sam . . .' Her voice cracked as if he'd hurt her. ‘I've got time. I don't need to be at the airport until midday. I'd rather be here with you.'

He completed the zipping of his trousers and turned round to find her standing very close to him. Her lips were slightly apart, her eyes half-closed. He disengaged his brain and let his arms take the decision, pulling her towards him. He touched his lips to hers and felt her breath tremble. Then he kissed her greedily like he used to, feeling her body mould to his as if it were a second skin. Her hips responded to his. He knew his wants were matched by hers. Pure chemistry, like always. Then, to his surprise she pushed him back.

‘God I've missed your kisses,' she whispered, closing her eyes. ‘Missed them terribly. But . . .' She shook her head as if wondering how she was going to win the fight going on inside her. ‘But I really have promised to be
good.' She turned away from him and moved towards the door. ‘And now I'm going to make you some breakfast.' She glanced back with a mischievous smile. ‘At least then I'll have satisfied
one
of your appetites.'

The kitchen was little larger than a galley, fitted out with neat lime-washed cupboards and a shiny marble worktop. He sat at the small plastic-covered table while she checked out the options.

‘There's eggs and tomatoes,' she told him, her head in the fridge. ‘Would an omelette suit?'

‘Fine.'

As she opened and closed cupboards looking for a frying pan, Sam tried to recall the last time she'd cooked him a meal. She found a glass bowl, broke three eggs into it and beat them with a fork. Then she cut up some tomatoes while the rings heated up on the cooker. The smell of the cooking fired up his appetite. She put on a pan of water and found coffee and a filter.

It felt odd sitting here with her like this. Like being a proper couple, but not.

‘Never seen you this domesticated before,' he remarked.

‘That's because you were always so determined to use the limited time we spent together in other ways, my darling,' she riposted.

‘I seem to remember that determination was mutual.'

‘Well, I can hardly deny that. But there was another reason. I always had the distinct impression you didn't
like
me in your kitchen. Afraid I'd scratch the non-stick off your pans or something.'

‘Nonsense.'

She served the omelette on a plate painted with flowers which looked Italian and hand-made.

‘Got nice taste, Mrs Mowbray has,' Chrissie remarked.
She turned her head as if listening. ‘Where is she, by the way?'

‘In England. Their daughter's at school there.'

She sat down opposite him and watched him eat.

‘This is good,' he told her.

He felt she was observing him. Like a doctor studying a patient – or an inquisitor working out what approach to take.

‘How bad was Baghdad?'

He glanced up. Her face had an odd, bruised look, as if in some way she felt responsible for what had happened to him.

‘It wasn't nice,' he answered.

‘No. I've gathered that much. They interrogated you for a long time?'

‘Yes.'

‘What did they ask?'

He hesitated. She was approaching forbidden ground again. But he could tell her some of it.

‘Well, a man approached me in the hotel. He whispered something to me. The interrogator wanted to know what it was.'

‘And that “something” was to do with biological weapons?'

‘Yes. The man mentioned anthrax.' No harm in telling her that.

‘
Anthrax!
' Her alarm surprised him. ‘But what exactly? He gave you details about an attack being planned?'

‘Not details.'

‘Well, what
did
he say then?'

‘Chrissie . . . I can't go into this.'

She looked uncomfortable and began twisting the diamond and ruby ring on her wedding finger. ‘No. No, of course you can't.'

Sam finished eating. He could see there was more she wanted to know.

‘When they arrested you, I get the impression they knew who you were – is that right?'

‘They knew precisely. They had my real name.'

She put a hand to her mouth. ‘But how? Any ideas?'

‘None whatsoever.'

She took in a deep breath. ‘That must have been one hell of a shock.'

‘Yes.'

‘They'll go mad in London.'

‘Undoubtedly.'

She was breathing faster than before, as if nervous for him. He watched the rise and fall of her breasts and noticed a couple of buttons had come undone on her blouse.

‘And later,' she asked after a while, ‘did it ever get so bad that you thought you might not—'

‘Yes. I got pretty low,' he interrupted euphemistically. He wasn't going to tell her just
how
low he'd got in that stinking, shit-caked cell. Despair like that was shaming to look back on. Best not talked about. Best not even remembered.

‘I'm so sorry.'

‘Wasn't your doing, sweetheart,' he replied dismissively. He didn't want her pity.

‘No. I know it wasn't. But I'm still sorry.'

They drank the coffee she'd made.

‘I can't tell you how good that was,' Sam murmured, pushing away the plate. ‘I feel almost human again.' He stroked his chin. ‘Could do with a shave though.' Two days since a razor crossed his skin – or was it three?

She reached over and touched his hand. ‘Won't you tell me about it? It might help to talk.'