I walked into the South Terminal, following the signs to the short-term car park, and took the elevator to the top floor. I was in work mode now;
everything else had been put to one side in another compartment.
The exposed roof level was about three-quarters full. The deafening sound of aircraft taking off blanketed all the other noises of cars and clattering luggage trolleys. I half closed my eyes to protect them from the glare of sunlight as I started walking down the aisles.
In a row of wagons, down the middle, I spotted what I'd been told to look for: a Toyota Previa people carrier, dark blue with tinted windows.
Maybe the Firm had found a use for the ones brought back from Syria after all; it wasn't as if Hertz would have been too happy to have them back.
I went to the rear of the row of vehicles and started to follow the line of cars toward it.
Since the change of government in 1997, every department seemed to be using people carriers. I didn't know if it was policy or just that Tony Blair used one, but they were a great improvement--much more room for a briefing, instead of sitting hunched up in the back of a sedan with your knees around your head. Besides, they were easy to find in a hurry.
As I got closer I spotted a driver in the front seat, filling up the right hand side of the cab area, reading the Evening Standard and looking uncomfortable in his collar and tie. None of the windows was open. The size of his head and his flat-top haircut made it look as if it should have been sticking out of the turret of a Panzer.
I approached casually from the rear, checking the number plate. I couldn't exactly remember the full registration but I knew that it would be a P. The thing I was looking for was the VDM, and sure enough, above the Toyota sign, on the bottom left side of the tail, was the small chrome outline of a fish, the trademark of heavy-duty Christians. This was the one; I went up to the sliding door on the side and waited, listening to the engine purr.
The door opened out a few inches, then slid back to reveal the two rows of passenger seats. I looked inside.
I hadn't seen Colonel Lynn for nearly a year, but he hadn't changed much. He hadn't lost any more hair, which I was sure he was happy about.
His clothes were the same as always, mustard-colored corduroy trousers, a sports jacket with well-worn leather elbows, and what looked like the same Viyella shirt he'd been wearing the last time we'd met, just a bit more frayed around the collar.
I climbed in and slid the door closed behind me. I could feel the air conditioning working overtime as I took my seat next to him and we shook hands. Lynn had that fresh-from-the-shower officer's smell about him; maybe he'd taken in a quick game of squash at the Guards' barracks in Chelsea before coming to the meeting. Between his feet was a dark blue nylon day sack which I recognized. It was my quick-move kit.
There was somebody else in there, in the rear row of seats, whom I also recognized. I turned and nodded politely at her. She returned the gesture, refolding her copy of the Daily Telegraph. It was only the second time that I'd met Elizabeth Bamber in person. Last time hadn't gone too well; she was on the selection board that refused me permanent cadre. It seemed that our cultural differences didn't endear us to each other during the interview.
Permanent cadre are Ks deniable operators on a salaried retainer not freelancers like me, called on to carry out shit jobs that no one else wants. The pay I got was 210 a day for ops, 160 for training days. I wasn't too sure what the retainer was, but I knew that, like all other payments, it would be handed over in a brown envelope with no tax or national insurance to pay. It was a bit like casual labor, which made me feel used and fucked over, but I liked the money what there was of it. In any case, it was the only line of work I'd ever known, and I was more afraid of what I would become without it.
I didn't know exactly what Elizabeth did, or for whom; all I knew was that she was one of those women who, if they weren't working for the Intelligence Service, would probably own a stable full of racehorses. She probably did anyway. She had that sort of broken-veined, no-nonsense, out-in-the-fresh-air look about her. She was medium height and in her late forties or at least looked it, especially with her shoulder-length hair, which was 60 percent gray, with a center parting and a little fringe, though I doubted she gave much of a fuck about it. In fact, having hair was probably a bit of an inconvenience for someone like her, because it took valuable time to comb the stuff.
She was wearing a very smart, sensible, gray two-piece that looked as if it had cost a fortune; it would have been economical in the long run, however, because she probably wore it every third day, alternating it with the two other equally expensive outfits she bought every year in the Harvey Nichols sale. Under her jacket was a blouse with a long scarf attached that was tied into a bow. The smart but practical look was complemented by an almost total lack of makeup it probably took too long in the morning to put it on, and she couldn't be bothered with that: she had a country to protect.
I made a half turn back toward Lynn so that I had to move only my head to see each of them. There was silence for about half a minute, broken by the rustling of a newspaper in the front. I glanced to my left and saw the driver's huge neck sitting on a very wide back and slightly hanging over his collar. I could see part of his face in the rearview mirror; his pale skin and near-Slavic looks gave the game away: he was a Serb, no doubt promised passports for his entire family if he spied for us during the Bosnian war. This guy would now be more loyal to the U.K. than most Brits, myself included.
Still we just sat there. Elizabeth was looking at me; I was looking at her. Come on, I thought, let's get on with it. It always felt as if they were toying with me.
It was Lynn who kicked off.
'We haven't seen you for a long time, Nick. How's life?'
As if he cared.
'No complaints. How long am I going to be away?'
'It will depend on how quickly you can get the task done. Listen to what Elizabeth has to say.'
Elizabeth was primed, ready to go; she didn't even have notes. She levelled her gaze on me, and said, 'Sarah Greenwood.' It was delivered more as a question than a statement, and her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she were expecting an answer.
My reaction when I heard the name surprised me. I felt as if I'd just been told I had a fatal disease. My hard drive was spinning. Was she dead? Had she fucked up? Had she got me in trouble? Had she been lifted? I wasn't going to show these people anything more than I had to; I tried to remain casual and unconcerned, but all I really wanted to do was ask, 'Is she OK?'
She said, 'You know her, I believe?'
'Of course I know her by that name anyway.' I didn't say how I knew her name, or what jobs I'd done with her. I didn't know how much Elizabeth knew, so I just played it straight, which is always the best thing to do.
In my experience, the less you say, the less drama you get yourself into.
It's good having two ears, but even better to have just one mouth.
'Well, it seems that she has disappeared and of her own accord.'
I looked at her, waiting for the follow-on, but she let it hang. I didn't exactly know what she was getting at, yet she was looking at me as if I should know.
Lynn saw the problem.
'Let me explain, Nick.'
As I turned my head toward Lynn, I caught him just finishing eye contact with Elizabeth. He was playing the peacemaker here.
He said, 'Two years ago, Sarah Greenwood was posted to the Washington desk. You are aware of that?'
Of course I was. I always tried to keep tabs on where she was and how she was getting on, though I never kidded myself that the interest was mutual.
I'd half hoped that she'd make an appearance during my debrief over last year's fuckup in the States, but she didn't. I realized he was still waiting for an answer.
'No, not really.'
There was a pause as Lynn glanced again at Elizabeth. It looked as if he needed the nod to continue; he must have got it, because he said, 'Sarah has been U.K. liaison with the Counterterrorism Center, a new intelligence cell set up by the CIA to provide warnings against potential terrorist attacks. It's a central clearinghouse, if you like, for intelligence on terrorism worldwide. Here is the problem. As Elizabeth has already said, Sarah has disappeared we know she's still on the U.S. mainland, but we don't know where or why she has
