Liberation Day Part 2

"Bathroom." Hubba-Hubba pointed back the way he'd come.

"Get them out of here before the fuel cuts us off. Give them the car. Go, mate, just get them out of here. This f.u.c.ker stays, I want him to watch."

Lotfi had pulled the greaseball onto the bed and was yelling abuse at him. He let fly with his fist, punching him hard in the mouth for good measure.

As Greaseball tried to separate his hair from the blood on his face, I made sure he saw me take out the butcher's knife. He began to get the message. His brown eyes bulged and shook some more.

I pulled Zeralda by the arm and rolled him back over onto his stomach, then sat astride him and grabbed a fistful of his hair in my left hand. I yanked it back and positioned the knife below his Adam's apple.

I looked up to double-check that Greaseball was watching, and then started to cut. I had prepared myself for days by telling myself that this was going to be shocking, but this wasn't the time to be shocked. I had a job to do.

The knife was razor sharp, and I felt little resistance once it got through the first layer of skin and I pulled back on his head to make the cutting easier. I was beginning to feel a little light-headed. Maybe it was because of the cloud of weed that still hung in the air, but I doubted it. Pink Floyd were still at full pitch, singing about the best days of our lives.

Greaseball closed his eyes but Lotfi thrust his pistol against his ear, uttering in Arabic. His eyes opened again, just in time to see blood stream from his dead friend onto the tiles, and flow between his own feet dangling from the bed. It was too much for him; he vomited onto the bedding as he tried desperately to keep his feet off the ground, as if it were on fire.

He started to babble in vomit-soaked Arabic to Lotfi, but halted abruptly as a blinding light burst through the haze of sweet-smelling smoke that still filled the air.

It came from the area around the tanks. The OBIs had done their stuff. The fuel was burning fine: I could see the leaves on the trees outside, which were higher than the perimeter wall, reflecting the bright orange flames.

I concentrated on the job at hand, working at the top of his spinal column like I was cutting a section of ox-tail.

Lotfi had gotten fed up with his supporting role and was pistol-whipping the other pedophile. If he hadn't before, Greaseball now got the message: he was in deep s.h.i.+t. He started begging, his legs and red-stained soles up by his chest, his hands down between them trying to protect himself as he lay on the bed. "Please, please, I'm a friend. I'm a friend..." something like that, anyway. His English sounded pretty good; I just couldn't hear too clearly with the music this loud.

I yelled at Lotfi: "Turn that f.u.c.king noise off, it's doing my head in."

He kicked his way past the furniture that had been thrown around the room, and seconds later the music stopped, just as Greaseball tried wiping the vomit from his mouth before realizing his hands were bloodstained.

Hubba-Hubba appeared in the doorway and for a moment looked appalled by what I had nearly finished.

"What?"

"Gla.s.ses," he said.

"What?"

"One of the boys needs his gla.s.ses."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "f.u.c.k him, just get rid of them. We're running out of time."

"He can't. He needs them, they're difficult to get. Really expensive to buy here."

He rooted around on the floor next to the bed, then pulled back the blood-soaked covers as I finished what I'd come to do.

I grabbed the top sheet, pulled it from under Greaseball, and wrapped Zeralda's head in it.

Hubba-Hubba stood over the headless body. "Can you turn him over?"

"What?"

"Turn him over. They could be under him. You have the gloves."

I did as I was told. The precious gla.s.ses were under his legs, one lens cracked and bloodstained.

Hubba-Hubba picked them up between his thumb and forefinger as if he were holding a scorpion. "They can go now. I'll put them in the car."

Lotfi hadn't returned, but I knew what he was up to.

I wiped the knife blade on the bed and put it back into the bergen, then pulled out a black garbage bag and threw in the shrouded head.

And that was it. I'd never cut off a man's head before, and I hadn't been looking forward to it one bit. But after seeing Zeralda with the boys, I'd had all the incentive I needed. In fact, I felt pretty good as I turned to Greaseball.

The roar of burning fuel now filled the night. Flames licked higher and higher, brus.h.i.+ng against the sky. The police could only be minutes away.

Greaseball raised himself up from the bed. "You can't kill me, I am too important. No one but Zeralda is to be killed-you know that, don't you? You can't kill me, that is not your decision to make, you are just the tools."

I looked him straight in the eye, but said nothing, feeling angry and deflated as he spat out some vomit. Then he almost smiled. "How do you think your people knew that he would be here tonight? You cannot kill me, I'm too important. You need me. Now, stop being stupid and crawl back into your kennel until required."

Windows were being smashed about the house now, to feed the fire we were going to start in here. Lotfi and Hubba-Hubba would be stacking furniture for good measure. This was the bit they'd really loved during the training.

Lotfi pulled the last of the squeeze bottles from his bergen. They'd been half-filled with boiled dishwas.h.i.+ng liquid, then topped off with gasoline and given a good shake. He gave the bed a squirt, then saved the rest for Zeralda. One match and this place would be an inferno.

Greaseball made a run for it into the house and Hubba-Hubba started after him.

"Leave him. Not enough time."

The phone rang and we all jumped.

It could have been anyone-maybe the police, maybe one of Zeralda's family, or one of his pedophile pals. Whatever, Hubba-Hubba turned and gave the phone a good squirt as well.

"Come on," I shouted, "time to move. Let's light up, let's go, let's go!"

I shouldered my bergen, and heard the rush of fuel being ignited in the room next door. Lotfi ran past me and out into the courtyard. I followed as Hubba-Hubba transformed the bedroom into a furnace.

There was no great plan for the next part-just run down to the boat and get out to sea for a pickup and some hot sticky black tea and a noseful of diesel fumes.

As I ran through the perimeter door I saw the flaming fuel from the bung flowing out of the breach and down the incline, exactly like it said in the script. The sky was bright orange. After all that practicing, all that rehearsal, it looked just beautiful. I stood there for what seemed like ages, looking at the flames as the heat gently seared my skin. I was almost sorry that we wouldn't be around to see the best part. As the flames flowed under the fuel trucks, they, too, would soon be joining in the fun, with luck just as the police arrived.

Lotfi gave me a shove, and our shadows followed us until we got over the lip. Once we hit the sand it was simply a case of turning right and following the sh.o.r.eline to the Zodiac.

As I scrambled down the hill I felt nothing but exhilaration. At long last I'd earned my U.S. pa.s.sport-and the right to a whole new life.

5.

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 11:56 HRS.

I sat on the T, the smart aluminum commuter train that had brought me from Logan Airport into Boston and, after a quick change, north toward Wonderland. sat on the T, the smart aluminum commuter train that had brought me from Logan Airport into Boston and, after a quick change, north toward Wonderland.

Wonderland always sounded to me like some kind of glitzy shopping mall; in fact, it was only the drop-off point for people from the northern suburbs heading into Boston. Today, though, no destination could have been better named. Carrie had been lecturing at MIT this morning, so was picking me up here instead of at the airport, then taking me to her mother's place in Marblehead, a small town about twenty miles north along the coast. Her mother had lent us the guest annex, while she carried on with her bed-and-breakfast business in the main house. Carrie and I lived there alone now that Luz had started high school in Cambridge. To me it was home, and it was a long time since I'd felt that way about anywhere.

The other pa.s.sengers looked at me as if I'd just escaped from the local nuthouse. After two days of traveling back from Egypt, my skin was greasy, my eyes stung, and my socks, armpits, and breath stank. As some kind of damage limitation before I saw Carrie, I was brus.h.i.+ng my teeth and swallowing the foaming paste as I looked out of the window. It wasn't going to transform me into Brad Pitt on Oscar night, but it was the best I could do.

I picked up the nylon duffel bag near my feet and put it on the empty seat beside me. I needed to check just one more time that the bag was sterile of anything that could link me to the job before she picked me up. My hand pa.s.sed over the smooth, rounded shape of the Pyramids snowstorm shaker I'd bought her at the Cairo airport, and the hard edge of the small photo alb.u.m she'd lent me for my weeks away. "If you don't look at it and think nice things about me every day, Nick Stone," she'd said, "don't even think about coming back."

I opened it and felt a grin spreading across my face, as it did every time I saw her. She was standing outside Abbot Hall in Was.h.i.+ngton Square, Marblehead, on the start of what she'd called my U.S. Heritage Induction Tour. Abbot Hall was the home of The Spirit of '76, The Spirit of '76, the famous portrait of a fife and drum at the head of an infantry column during the Revolutionary War. She wanted me to see it because she said it embodied the spirit of America-and if I were going to become a U.S. citizen one day, it was my solemn duty to d.a.m.ned well admire and be moved by it. I said I thought it looked more like a cartoon than a masterpiece, and she pushed me outside. the famous portrait of a fife and drum at the head of an infantry column during the Revolutionary War. She wanted me to see it because she said it embodied the spirit of America-and if I were going to become a U.S. citizen one day, it was my solemn duty to d.a.m.ned well admire and be moved by it. I said I thought it looked more like a cartoon than a masterpiece, and she pushed me outside.

Her short brown hair was being buffeted by the wind blasting off the Atlantic as I pressed the shutter. She looked like GI Jane in green fatigue cargos and a baggy gray sweater. She certainly didn't look in her late thirties, even though a certain sadness in her smile, and a few small creases at the corners of her mouth and eyes, told anybody who was paying attention that the last couple of years had not been easy on her. "Nothing Photoshop can't handle," she said, "once I've scanned them into the PC."

It was rare to see her expression so relaxed, even when she was sleeping. Normally it was much more animated, most often frowning, questioning, or registering disgust at Corporate America's latest outrage. She had good reason to look weighed down. It had been hard for her and Luz since the two of them had come back from Panama, one without a husband, the other without the man who'd become her father. Since Aaron's death there hadn't been a day when he didn't come into her conversation. I still tended to cut away from stuff like this, but the way she saw it, he'd been her husband for fifteen years and dead for only a little over one.

In the whole of my life as a Special Forces soldier, and later, as a "K" working on deniable operations for the Intelligence Service, I'd always tried to turn my back on the guilt, remorse, and self-doubt that always followed a job; what was done was done. But watching her trying to deal with it moved me more than I'd thought possible.

I'd been sent to Panama in September 2000 to coerce a local drugs racketeer into helping the West. Carrie and Aaron had been my local contacts; they'd been environmental scientists running a research station near the Colombian border, and on the CIA payroll as low-level intelligence gatherers. I was staying at their house when the racketeer's boys came looking for me, and Aaron had paid the price.

There hadn't been many days since when I didn't wonder if there'd been something more I could have done to save him.

There was another photograph of Carrie taken in her mother's kitchen at Marblehead. She was cooking clam chowder. Just to one side of her was a framed black-and-white portrait of her with her father, George, a handsome, square-jawed all-American in a uniform, probably taken in the early sixties.

I gazed at the one of her standing outside her college. Carrie had been encouraging me to give the place a try; I'd always loved medieval history, and had been reading quite a lot about the Crusades lately. I'd told her I wasn't sure the whole mature-student thing was me, working in Starbucks, being bossed by an eighteen-year-old manager. I hadn't quite gotten around to telling her that my formal education had ended when I was fifteen, so the college was unlikely to take me on as a janitor, let alone enroll me in one of its courses.

I guessed there was quite a lot of stuff, one way or another, that I hadn't told Carrie. There was my trip to Algeria, for a start. It wasn't the job itself; I wouldn't have said a word about that anyway. It was the fact that I'd promised her I'd never get involved in dirty work again. The carrot George had dangled in front of me was irresistible; with American citizens.h.i.+p papers in my pocket, I'd be free to work at whatever I wanted. But I wasn't sure Carrie would appreciate the method behind the madness.

The story I'd told her was that I'd been offered three weeks' work escorting thrill-seekers into Egypt. After the 9/11 attacks, tourism to the Middle East had all but dried up, and the few travelers still brave enough to go wanted guides. Carrie agreed it was a good idea for me to make some money before I started the long process of applying for citizens.h.i.+p. Until that happened, all I could do were menial jobs, so money would be tight. I hadn't a clue how I was going to explain to her why my citizens.h.i.+p had come through so fast, but I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. I sat and looked out at the dull gray day as ice-covered trees zoomed past along the side of the track and vehicles in the distance with cold engines tailed exhaust fumes behind them. It wasn't a good start to us being together, but it was done now. I should just look to the future.

After two days of moseying around, ninety feet below the Mediterranean, following the North African coastline, we'd finally made it back into Alexandria. The weather had closed in as predicted about ten hours after we got on board, not that we knew, so far below water. A Chrysler MPV was waiting at the dockside; somebody took my bergen, and that was the last I saw of it. For the next week I just had to wait in a hotel room in Cairo while the head I'd brought back was confirmed as Zeralda's. If not, we might have been sent back to get the correct one.

I still didn't know why I'd been asked to bring back Zeralda's head and I still didn't care. All that mattered was that George was coming to Boston in a few days' time, and I'd be getting Nick Stone's s.h.i.+ny new U.S. pa.s.sport, social security number, and Ma.s.sachusetts driver's licence. I was about to become a real person.

I looked around the train. Most of my fellow travelers had now gotten bored looking at the jerk brus.h.i.+ng his teeth and wiping the foam that ran down his chin, and were buried in their papers. The front pages were plastered with the war in Afghanistan, reporting that everything was going well and there were no casualties. Northern Alliance fighters were silhouetted against the sunset as they stood watching U.S. Special Forces soldiers carrying enough gear on their backs to collapse a donkey.

I looked out and chewed on my brush. To my right, and running parallel with the track, was the coast road, also cutting through the icy marshland. We were overtaking a taxi, his side windows festooned with patriotic imagery; there was even a little Stars and Stripes fluttering from his aerial. I couldn't see the driver, but knew he just had to be an Indian or a Pakistani. Those guys didn't want to leave anything to chance in these troubled times.

The marshland petered out, and whitewashed clapboard houses sprang up on either side of the train, then the blur of supermarkets and used-car lots also draped in the Stars and Stripes. I felt my pulse quicken with antic.i.p.ation. I didn't have to work for the Firm (British Intelligence) any more, didn't have to do anymore jobs for George. I really felt I'd been given a new start, that life was coming together. I was free.

6.

I shoved the toothbrush into my brown nylon duffel bag as the train came to a halt and people stood and got their hats and coats on. The automatic doors drew back to reveal the signs for Wonderland Station, and I stepped out of the train, hooking the bag over my shoulder. I got an immediate and fierce reminder that I wasn't in North Africa anymore. The temperature was several degrees below zero. I zipped up my fleece jacket, which did nothing to keep out the bitter wind as I joined the throng heading for the barrier. shoved the toothbrush into my brown nylon duffel bag as the train came to a halt and people stood and got their hats and coats on. The automatic doors drew back to reveal the signs for Wonderland Station, and I stepped out of the train, hooking the bag over my shoulder. I got an immediate and fierce reminder that I wasn't in North Africa anymore. The temperature was several degrees below zero. I zipped up my fleece jacket, which did nothing to keep out the bitter wind as I joined the throng heading for the barrier.

She was standing by a ticket desk, dressed in a green down jacket and a Russian-style black sheepskin hat, her breath billowing about her face as we both waved and smiled.

I got through the barrier and threaded my way through the crowd. Taking her in my arms, I planted a big, exaggerated kiss on her forehead, hoping that the toothpaste routine hadn't been in vain. I ran my fingers gently down her cheek as I drew back and we exchanged huge smiles.

Her large green eyes stared into mine for several seconds, then she hugged me hard. "I missed you big-time, Stone."

"Me too." I kissed her again, properly this time.

She linked her left arm in mine and rubbed her free hand up and down my stubble. "Come on," she said. "Places to go, things to do. Mom's at a church meeting until this evening so you don't have to say h.e.l.lo until later. Gives us a little time." She rested her head on my shoulder as we walked outside. "But we're not going home just yet. There's something I want you to see on the way."

We weren't quite in step: the leg she'd broken in Panama had left her with a slight limp. I grinned like an idiot. "I'm all yours."

The dog-track parking lot was used by commuters during the day. The November air had already worked its magic on line upon line of winds.h.i.+elds and frozen them white.

I looked down at her face poking out from the sheepskin. "How's Luz?"

"Oh, she's fine. She says hi. She might be coming back next week-with a new friend."

"It'll be good to see her. Who's the lucky boy?"

"David somebody, I think." She turned to me. "But you're not to-"

"I know." I held up my hand to swear the oath. "No jokes, don't worry, I won't embarra.s.s her..." If I did, though, it wouldn't be the first time.

We reached the main drag and waited for the lights, along with ten or so other pedestrians heading for the lot. "So, how was your trip? I notice I didn't get a card of the Pyramids like I was promised."

"I know, I know. It's just that I thought by the time I got back into Cairo and mailed it I'd be here. Especially this time of year..."

"Not to worry. You're back, that's all that matters."

The traffic stopped and the green signal ushered us across.

"Did you get hit by the storms?"

"We were much farther south."

"I was worried." Those little lines appeared at the corners of her eyes. "Six hundred people died in the floods in Algeria...."

I looked straight ahead. "Six hundred? I didn't know."

We'd just gotten in among the cars when she stopped and faced me, her arms pushed in under mine and linked around my waist. "You stink like a camel, but it really is good to have you back all the same." She kissed me lightly on the lips, her skin cold but soft. "You know what? I don't want you to go away ever again. I like you right here, where I can see you."

We stayed wrapped in each other and I fought the urge to tell her the truth. Sanity prevailed. I would find a time and a place to do that, but not now, not yet. She was too happy, I was too happy. I wanted to keep the real world outside.

She let me go. "Magical-mystery-tour time."

We got to her mother's Plymouth sedan. Carrie hadn't gotten around to buying a car since she'd gotten back: she'd been too busy. She'd arranged the transportation of Aaron's body from Panama to Boston, then the cremation, before returning to Panama to scatter his ashes in the jungle. After that, she'd had to get Luz settled into high school, and herself into her new job. She'd also had to set up house-then change her life around again when a not-too-reliable Brit turned up begging for a spare room.

We split as she went to the driver's side of the Plymouth, reaching into her bag for the keys and hitting the fob. The car unlocked with a bleep and a flash of the indicators. I pulled open the door, threw my bag into the back, and climbed in, as Carrie closed her door and put on her belt. That frown of hers had reappeared, the one that went along with the raised eyebrow and slight tilt of the head.