The Hostage (54 page)

Aggy glanced at the gun then up at Stratton. Of course. How stupid of her. There was every reason for Lawton to die and not one for him to live. She looked at Lawton; he was probably right. At that moment she truly hated the business she was in.

Stratton wanted to tell them it didn’t matter anyway. According to Sumners the explosion wasn’t enough to kill the virus; they were all covered in it, inhaling it, and therefore also dead. He chose not to say anything if for no other reason than to save Lawton the anguish of knowing he had failed Aggy in his final hour. It was obvious that Lawton’s motivation for doing what he had was to save her.

Chaz and Wilks walked up the steps to join them. They didn’t look as if they’d sustained any damage, not physically, but Wilks’s eyes betrayed a deep concern.

‘We fucked then, are we?’ he asked Stratton. ‘Chaz said according to your bloke the explosion wouldn’t be enough to burn up the bio.’

So much for sparing Lawton. ‘I guess not,’ Stratton said.

‘’Ow long we got?’ Wilks asked.

‘Don’t matter,’ Chaz said. ‘We’re gonna have to stay right here until they come and take us away in big plastic bags and then keep us isolated until the end. Isn’t that right?’

‘Something like that,’ Stratton said.

Wilks lowered his eyes. The thought of never seeing his wife and kids again was like a knife in his heart.

‘Focking bang seemed big enough. Another pound and I reckon old matey there would’ve made the river,’ Chaz said, jutting a chin towards the road where Brennan lay, still smoking from his short flight. ‘If only you’d used two,’ he added.

Stratton found the comment curious. ‘What exactly did Sumners say?’ he asked.

‘He said it wouldn’t work, that the boffins said one Super “X” charge wouldn’t work, but two would be enough. If you’d put two in, it would’ve killed the virus.’

‘I used three,’ Stratton said matter of factly.

Wilks looked up at Stratton with an expression not unlike that of someone who’d just had an execution order reprieved. ‘You serious?’

Lawton started to spasm and choke. Aggy held his hand, frustrated that she was unable to do anything for him.

‘Kathryn,’ he said. ‘Kathryn . . . Munro.’

Lawton’s pain was increasing but he was determined to speak through it.

Stratton knelt beside him to hear him better.

‘Term . . . terminal . . . f . . . four,’ Lawton said. He gripped Aggy’s hand more strongly, as if he had more to say. ‘K . . . Kinsella . . . priest. Father . . . Kinsella.’ The effort was too great for him and he nearly fell unconscious. He gripped her tightly again, unfinished. ‘Godfather,’ he said with his last gasp of breath and his hand went limp in Aggy’s. She kept hold of it, gripping it. No matter what Bill had done, his last act had been generous; she owed her life to him. A tear rolled down her cheek but she kept her head down, hiding it from Stratton.

Stratton stood and put his gun back in its holster as several police cars arrived, their lights flashing. People began to step cautiously out of the MI5 building. Chaz turned to head down the steps towards the police.

‘Chaz,’ Stratton called after him. Chaz stopped and looked at him. ‘No mention of the virus.’

Chaz nodded and walked over to the police, holding his badge out to them.

Stratton started down the steps and stopped to look back at Aggy. ‘We have one more stop to make,’ he said.

She didn’t look at him. He took it as a message to go away. He understood. It was obvious she had felt a great deal for Lawton - and little for him. It wouldn’t have worked anyhow, he reminded himself again. But losing her to a dead spy was an irony. His eyes lingered on her a while, knowing it would be for the last time.

He turned and walked away.

‘Stratton,’ Aggy called out. He stopped and looked back to see her stand and walk down the steps towards him. ‘I was saying a prayer for him. Where are we going?’

He wanted to smile but it wouldn’t have been appropriate. He would never understand women. ‘You pray?’ he asked, sounding every bit as surprised as he was.

‘Not usually. It was for him. He said he used to pray until a priest put him off the church.’

Stratton removed the bus driver’s jacket as they walked over to a police car and he showed an officer his badge. ‘We need to get to Heathrow,’ he said.

Hank gently broke the surface like an ailing porpoise, more by luck than judgement, and took a gasp of air, the fresh intake of oxygen making his head throb harder. He struggled to keep a toehold on consciousness as he drifted in and out of awareness. His left shoulder ached like a son-of-a-bitch but he could not avoid using the arm, along with his other limbs, to keep afloat, which he was only just achieving. A thin mist surrounded him, hovering just on top of the water, and through it, much higher than he was, he could make out a long line of orange lights dispersed at regular intervals. Everywhere else was in darkness.

Hank could remember the last few moments on the boat, coming down the stairs and on to the main deck. What happened then was patchy and confusing, with flashes of light, thumps, pain and then the sudden cold. It was unclear how long he had been in the water. He couldn’t concentrate long enough to make sense out of the muddle of information his mind was throwing up; a mixture of images from his past combined with others from inside a hood and beating a man to death.The water lapped over his face. He knew he should be trying to get to land but he had no clue which way to go.

Tiny blurred white lights above him slowly came into focus. They were stars. He stared at them, the only things he could see that his mind could make sense of. He recognised the Plough that led to the North Star and then to the crooked ‘W’ that was Cassiopeia. He wondered how he knew the formations so well; they were not something he had ever taken much interest in.Then he remembered the lecture file in the SBS training team office. But moments after focusing on them they became blurred again. He thought his vision was failing but that wasn’t why he could no longer make them out. He had sunk beneath the surface and was slowly going down. The line of bright orange lights also began to fade. He beat with his arms and legs to get back to the air but it was useless. His cheeks bulged and he increased his efforts to swim back up from the darkness that was now all around. He saw Kathryn and Janet and Helen, and his father who had died when he was ten and all the pain left his body except the desperate urge to keep his mouth closed against an even more powerful force to open it and suck in anything, even the water.

Then something grabbed him and he felt a sharp tug followed by a series of rhythmic jerks until he broke the surface. He took in an enormous breath and flailed weakly to stay afloat as the hand that tightly gripped his jacket continued to pull at him. Something hit him in the back of the neck but not painfully. It was a wall of soft mud and a second later he felt himself being hauled out of the water and on to land.

‘Not a watery death for you, me old matey,’ Hank heard an out-of-breath man say in an English accent. He remained still on his back, unable to muster the strength to move, and tried to focus on the stranger, who appeared to be wearing a black rubber suit.

Spinks removed his diver’s facemask and emptied his nostrils noisily. ‘You’re an ’eavy bastard you are, mate,’ he said spitting debris from his mouth and squeezing the water from his eyes. ‘Trust me, if you ’adn’t a been on the end of my first duck-dive you weren’t gettin’ another one.’

Spinks finished dealing with his own minor discomforts and leaned over to take a closer look at his catch. ‘Can you ’ear me?’ he asked.

Hank nodded and tried to move but the pain in his chest and left shoulder was suddenly intense.

‘’Ow bad are you ’urt,’ Spinks asked, checking him out.

‘’Ow many shots you take? Do you know? . . . They got you good, didn’t they? Teach you to screw around with the boys, wone’ it.’

Hank moved his right arm slowly and hovered it over his left upper chest. Spinks moved it away and took a look. ‘Yeah, I see an ’ole in your jacket.’ Then Spinks noticed the wound on the side of Hank’s head. ‘That don’t look too good either . . . Cor, bet that fuckin’ ’urts.’ Spinks scrutinised Hank’s face and moved his head over to get a better look. ‘Wait a minute. You ain’t a boyo. You’re the Yank, ain’t you? You Hank Munro?’ he asked loud and clearly.

Hank nodded.

‘Holy shit,’ Spinks said as he quickly struggled to locate his communications prestel. ‘This is Spinks,’ he said adjusting his throat-mic. ‘I’m on the west bank north of the boat. I’ve got the Yank. Munro. He’s got a few bullet holes in ’im but he’s alive, just about anyway . . . ’

Hank felt suddenly tired and his eyelids grew heavy. Just before he closed them he was certain he had seen Orion’s Belt directly above him but couldn’t be bothered to open his eyes again to check.

 

Kathryn was seated under the ‘meeting place’ sign in the arrivals lounge of terminal four, Heathrow Airport. Tired as she was she had not been able to sleep and not just because of the uncomfortable seats and half-dozen cups of coffee she’d had from the Starbucks conveniently located a few yards away. She had been waiting for more than five hours and was wondering what she should do if nobody came to meet her. Surely Father Kinsella didn’t expect her to sit there throughout the night? Everything else about her trip appeared to have been meticulously planned and executed but perhaps something had gone wrong.

For the first few hours she kept hoping Hank would appear from the stream of people that at times seemed to fill the building but her expectant glances for him had become less frequent as the evening dragged on and the passengers and visitors in the terminal were gradually outnumbered by those who worked in it. She felt grubby and unclean and yearned for a hotel room with a deep bath and a large bed with crisp, clean sheets. The first deadline she set herself for leaving if no one turned up had passed and she was determined to stick to her next one at midnight, although she doubted she would have the courage to leave even then. It would be terrible if Hank turned up tired and hungry while she lay in a comfortable hotel nearby. And then there was Father Kinsella. He would probably be none too pleased either.

‘Kathryn,’ a voice said from behind as her bag was placed on the seat beside her. She whipped around to see Father Kinsella and got to her feet, expecting to find Hank too. When there was no sign of him her eyes rested on the priest’s.

‘It’s not been the best of days,’ he said. ‘Don’t ask me any questions, Kathryn. I’ve just come to tell you to go home.’

‘You expect me not to ask about my husband?’

‘No, but I don’t have an answer for you, that’s all. You have your return air ticket. Get a hotel for the night and go back to your children in the morning.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Yes. That’s it.’

A dangerous blend of rage and frustration began to percolate in her. ‘And you expect me to just walk off and do as I’m told and not even question what the hell is going on just because you say so?’

‘I do, Kathryn,’ he said with an assertive look.

‘Well, damn you!’ she said, raising her voice.

Her ire did not appear to have any effect on him.

‘It’s a war we’re in, Kathryn.’

‘I’m not at war with anyone.’

‘Sure you are. You were born into a family at war. You hate these people as much as I do, you always have.’

‘I hated them because I was told to. It wasn’t my hate. It was my mother’s, and yours. Mostly yours . . . You’re an evil man.’

‘Evil, am I? Because I’m a priest at war? Go home, Kathryn, you don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I always thought you were evil, even when I was a child. That’s why I was always scared of you. I grew up with this stupid war and you know something, I don’t have a clue what it’s all about. And the reason I don’t have a clue is because what you’ve all been saying to me all my life doesn’t make any sense. Not today. I think it’s only people like you keep it going because you enjoy it. That’s why Hank isn’t here. That’s why you’re evil.’ She picked up her bag and stared into his eyes. ‘I don’t know what it was I did today, but I have a feeling that was evil too . . . If you don’t tell me where my husband is, right now, I’m going to find an English police station, walk in and tell them everything that I did and your part in it.’

‘Is that right?’ he said with a threatening look. ‘Are you sure you want to be playing those kind of games with me?’

‘Try me,’ she said just as defiantly.

Instead of being angry, he broke into a chuckle as he surreptitiously looked about to see if anyone was watching. He walked around the seat row to get closer to her.

‘Ah, Kathryn, Kathryn, Kathryn. For a moment there I was foolish enough to take on that Irish temper of yours—’

‘I’m not Irish, Father Kinsella,’ she said, cutting him off.

‘I’m American.’ She turned to leave and he grabbed her arm brutally.

‘Now you listen to me.’

‘Get off me,’ she shouted.

‘If you ever want to see your precious children again—’ and then he froze. Kathryn was staring at him in utter horror because of his threat, but Kinsella’s peripheral vision had picked up something that shut her out of his mind as warning bells rang in his head. Still holding Kathryn’s arm, he jerked his head around to see a man standing, watching, a few feet away. He didn’t know the man but he identified the eyes: they were as cold and malevolent as his own.

Kinsella weighed him in an instant and knew it was the enemy. In all of Kinsella’s years as a primary antagonist in the fight against the English he had never actually confronted the enemy himself. He had met many English, of course, and seen soldiers and police, but never had he actually come face to face with those who took part in the fight. He noticed a slight cut on his cheek and knew that he had seen him before, from a distance, that very evening, outside the MI5 headquarters. The man watching him like a predator was undoubtedly one of their dark forces and Kinsella had immediate respect for him if nothing else.