The Hostage (21 page)

‘Why’d you join Special Forces?’ Stratton asked.

‘I wanted to be a soldier and I wanted to be the best of the best,’ Hank replied.

‘You sound like a commercial,’ Stratton said.

Hank knew his answer was on the pathetic side but he did have a deeper, more meaningful one when in a serious mood. ‘I think a lotta guys don’t really know what they’re getting into when they join Special Forces. There’s no way you can truly know what it’s about till you join. Then you find yourself doing things you never imagined, no matter how much you’d heard about it before. For me, it’s not just a job. It’s a constant struggle to prove myself, and not only to myself, to the guys I work with.You know what I mean?’

‘Not really,’ Stratton said.

Hank felt that Stratton knew exactly what he meant even if it wasn’t how he felt about it. It was like a snub. Hank was suddenly unsure if he liked Stratton at all.The guy didn’t seem to have any respect for him.

‘Why’d you join SF?’ Hank asked.

‘I joined the Marines first because I had nothing else to do at the time. By the end of training I was disappointed. I looked at the guys I’d passed out with and thought I was better. Since I was stuck in the mob for a few years I decided to see what SF had to offer.’

‘What do you think about the job?’

‘It has its moments.’

‘Did it teach you anything about yourself?’

‘I learned that I like working by myself. Sometimes I get the chance.’

Hank decided he and Stratton were worlds apart. Hank liked being in a team. The team ethos appealed to him. He did enjoy the feeling of self-importance when he did small tasks alone but that was not what Stratton meant. Stratton meant he didn’t like working with people. There was a big difference in this business. Hank decided that’s what it was about Stratton, the shield around him. He was a lone wolf, nothing more complex than that.

‘So?’ Hank continued. ‘What about the test? You never answered my question.’

Stratton was staring out the window again. ‘It wasn’t a test,’ he said. ‘There are no exercise solutions.’

‘Then what was it all about?’

‘It was an opportunity for you to take a look at yourself. You can only do that under pressure. That’s when you know who you really are.’

‘So, there is no answer?’

Stratton looked into Hank’s eyes a moment then leaned forward. ‘It was a question, Hank, but not one I can answer for you. Every SF operative thinks he has a right to be in the job because he passed some tough selection course. But some of us are not as qualified as we like to think we are. Some of us don’t have what it takes and don’t know it because we don’t often get the chance to find out who we really are, and when we do it’s sometimes too late. You ran into that pram and killed a baby instead of yourself. You know a little bit more about yourself today than you did last week. That’s all.’

‘But I wouldn’t have done that back home, not in a normal day in my life. When I hit that buggy I was on ops.’

‘Hank. I don’t give a shit.’

Stratton sat back, ending the conversation. Doles returned, took his seat, and checked his watch. ‘Should be on the ground nicely for eight. Even have time for a spot of scran before the stake-out.’ He took a deep breath, exhaled, and closed his eyes as if the ritual was enough to set him off to sleep.

Hank was thinking about what Stratton had said and was still unclear if the man approved of what he had done yesterday or not. Stratton closed his eyes. Hank decided Stratton was the kind of guy no one got to know very well. He was in a different place to anywhere Hank had ever been or was likely to go.

The train burst out of the tunnel and Hank looked at the French countryside for the first time.The light was only just starting to creep over the horizon. He thought of Paris, what it looked like. All his images were from movies and all contained the Eiffel Tower. He closed his eyes. He would see Paris soon enough, but as a spy, kind of. That was neat. None of the guys back home had been a spy in Paris. His thoughts went back to the buggy and the baby flying out of it and he was confident he’d done the right thing, as far as military logic was concerned. But would he really have killed himself had it happened in civvy-street? he wondered. He truly couldn’t say. Hank decided that Stratton’s little exercise was bullshit. He didn’t believe he knew himself any better because of it.

Bill Lawton stood at the open French windows of his room on the fourth floor of La Concorde Hotel, overlooking the narrow Rue Cambon. The buildings lining the tight little street were tall and slender and stood compacted together. Bill was hidden behind the white net curtain that flowed from the ceiling, far enough back into the room to see the street below without being seen from the offices opposite.

Bill had been in this hotel once before five months earlier. He had had the same view of the street but from the room above. It had been summer then. Now it was wet and the wind that gently billowed the curtains brought a chill with it. The room was on the tatty side, with its cheap furnishings and artwork, pale grey paint covering old patterned wallpaper. But it was clean, discreet, a four-minute walk to the Place de la Concorde in one direction, ten minutes to the Louvre in the other and two minutes to the Métro.

Bill could clearly see the circular tops of the four empty tables on the patio outside the small café almost directly across the road. He checked his watch. His overnight bag was packed and lying on the bed, his tweed jacket and Barbour beside it, ready to go. He felt the knot of his woollen tie and adjusted it for the umpteenth time, the only outward sign that he was nervous. He was no stranger to perilous rendezvous and had been in far more dangerous situations without feeling this edgy. But there was a distinct difference this time. Driving alone into bandit country in Northern Ireland to meet an armed IRA tout on the man’s home turf was fraught with danger, but on those occasions Bill was supported by a sophisticated intelligence network and a small army of Special Forces operatives on the other end of his emergency standby radio. On this particular rendezvous he was completely alone.

He forced himself to take a deep, relaxing breath and began to pace the room. Each time he reached the window he glanced down at the café tables; they remained empty. Everything was fine, he assured himself; there was plenty of time.

He went through the schedule once more, chiefly to maintain his calm. As soon as the meeting was over he would hail a taxi on the Rue de Rivoli at the end of the road no more than forty seconds walk, take it directly to Charles De Gaulle airport thirty to forty minutes away depending on traffic, and hop on a British Airways shuttle to Heathrow, any one of five or six that would get him to London before the end of the day. He had tonight and tomorrow of his three days’ leave remaining before he had to catch a flight to Aldergrove airport, where a duty driver would take him back to his office in Lisburn Army camp. But most important, and the reason he needed to be back in London no later than six that evening, was that he had a dinner date.

Just the thought of it was a distraction for several reasons, good and bad.The main downside was that she was officially out of bounds. He was a commissioned officer in Her Majesty’s Army and she was a corporal, or at least he assumed she was. She was too young to be a sergeant. She might even be a private. Anyhow, she wasn’t an officer. If his superiors found out about the tryst he would be in deep water - fraternising with non-commissioned ranks was a serious no-no in his regiment. But she was beautiful and his hunger to sleep with her from the moment he had laid eyes on her had overridden every other concern. Imagining her naked body entwined about his almost made him forget he was in France, never mind what he was doing here.This was to be their first date. He did not expect to discover her flesh the first night; he suspected she was going to be a difficult catch to land altogether. He wondered if she would see him two evenings in a row, the two nights he had left on leave. After that it might be impossible. Two nights might do it though. If not, no matter. She was going to be worth the wait, he could feel it.

Bill had known her for several months although he had talked to her only on a handful of occasions. His job as liaison officer between Northern Ireland army group headquarters and the commander of the southern intelligence undercover detachment meant he had little reason to communicate directly with the field operatives. He linked the detachment with the rest of the intelligence community and brought in whatever relevant information he could dig up. It was rather like being a public relations rep at times, which suited Bill down to the ground for he had the gift of the gab and for making friends. The detachment was a couple hours’ journey from his office and on his frequent official visits he usually grabbed a quick cup of tea and a bite in the little cookhouse. Sharing a table with an operative or two was inevitable, which is how he first met her. He had fantasised about her from that first day and under the normal circumstances of the job that was as far as it would have gone.To ask her out on a date would have been unthinkable. Undercover operatives didn’t go out on dates in Northern Ireland and rarely had any kind of relationship with anyone outside of the small, secluded detachment. Which is why he could not believe his luck when he saw her boarding the same flight as his from Aldergrove to Heathrow the day before he flew on to Paris. As coincidence would have it both were heading home for a few days’ leave, and it seemed as if fate had truly intervened when he saw that the seat beside her was empty. The forty-minute journey was enough to have her laughing and enjoying his company. Bill was not strikingly handsome, which he saw as an advantage. His predatory intentions were well disguised and might not have been so if he was good looking. He was attractive but in other ways. His manner appeared passive and his charm and wit natural as they stealthily infiltrated their target. By the time a woman was aware of his intentions she had developed some of her own.

Bill had no time to waste on this occasion. If he had not asked her to dinner before she left Heathrow to catch the Underground into London he might never have another chance. He sensed she was genuinely keen when she accepted and gave him her telephone number. She seemed the type of woman who knew clearly what she wanted as far as men were concerned. He wondered what her real name was. She didn’t look like an Aggy. To be sure she didn’t look like an undercover operative either. Of all the female agents he had seen in his three years in military intelligence it was not much of a compliment to say she was the best looking since few of them were even attractive to him. Although she never dressed to impress it was obvious that she had a well-proportioned and athletic body. Needless to say, he was looking forward to the evening immensely. He had to remember when telephoning her, if he talked to her mother, Aggy’s cover story was that she was stationed in Germany. He wanted to call her there and then to confirm the date, but he would have to wait until his plane landed.

His thoughts were brought sharply back into focus as he spotted a man and woman sitting at one of the tables outside the café.

The man was supposed to be alone; Bill would not reveal himself otherwise.The high angle made it difficult to confirm it was his man, although he had the same colouring and seemed the right age. Bill had met him twice before and would recognise him if he could get a reasonable look. He needed the man to raise his head just a little more. If it was him, the fact he was accompanied was a warning signal. Bill didn’t even want to think about that until he was certain.

The man looked up as the waiter came out of the café to take the couple’s order. Bill was relieved to see it was not his meeting. He checked along both sides of the street. A man was lingering on a corner by a lamppost smoking a cigarette. Bill quickly scanned around and then came back to the man. He watched him for a few minutes, occasionally checking elsewhere. The man then took a broom from a doorway and began sweeping the gutter. A street cleaner. Bill stepped back into the room as another bout of paranoia rushed through him. He was experienced enough to control it but could not suppress the fear of the risk he was taking. He had asked himself the same questions at least once a day for the past ten years: what was he doing? Why was he risking absolutely everything for it? But asking himself these questions was part of the game of assurance Bill played with himself. He was ninety-nine per cent certain about what he was doing. Well, ninety-eight perhaps. He reasoned that the doubt represented his moral obligation to question his actions. He checked his watch. Sixteen minutes to ten. He would give his meeting till exactly ten o’clock. If he did not show, Bill would head for the airport.

Hank sat beside Stratton in a café, at a table in the back where it was gloomy and unpopulated. He had not seen the rest of the team since they arrived at Gare du Nord, and then a couple of them only briefly before they disappeared in different directions. Stratton seemed to know this part of Paris well. He had given the taxi driver the name of the street in what sounded to Hank like fluent French, and then on arrival he led Hank down several back streets directly to the café, all without consulting a map or notes.

Hank checked his watch. It was quarter of ten. He was on his third cup of coffee, having polished off a sandwich jambon and was considering another. He decided to wait until Stratton finished his, although that didn’t look as if it would be any time soon. He’d taken just two bites and the rest was getting cold on his plate. The front of the café was doing a fair morning’s trade, the waiters moving quickly about delivering coffee, croissants and toasted sandwiches; he and Stratton could remain where they were for hours without drawing undue attention.

Stratton had not said a word since they’d left the train. Hank had no inclination to talk either, at least not to Stratton. That was too much like hard work. He wondered what Stratton was like socially, whether he drank and hung out with the guys in bars. Hank was sure Stratton didn’t dislike him. He felt his coldness was a combination of the pressures of command and that Hank was still a stranger, not to mention a foreigner.