runaway two-year-olds. A gaggle of pubescent schoolkids with tin grins were on a trip somewhere, and an American kids' orchestra was sitting on its trombone and bassoon cases, bored with waiting to check in.
I went to the cash point then to the bureau de change. Next priority was to find myself some plausible hand luggage. I bought myself a leather holdall, threw in my quick-move day sack and headed for the pharmacy for washing and shaving stuff. After that I hit a clothes shop for a pair of jeans, a couple of shirts and spare underwear.
I checked in at the American Airlines business-class desk and fast tracked air side into the lounge, where I got straight on my mobile to contact my 'family.' They were good people, James and Rosemary. They had loved me like a son since I boarded with them years ago, or that was the cover story, anyway. James always seemed like a father should be; he was certainly the sort of man who would have taken his eight-year-old around HMS Belfast. Both civil servants who had taken early retirement, they had never had any children because of their careers, and were still doing their bit for Queen and country. I even had a bedroom they called it 'Nick's room' in the loft. If all your documentation shows that's where you live, you must have a room, surely?
These were the people who would both confirm my cover story and also be part of it. I visited them whenever I could, especially before an op, with the result that my cover got stronger as time passed. They knew nothing about the ops and didn't want to; we would just talk about what was going on at the social club, and what to do with greenfly on the roses.
James wasn't the best gardener in the world, but this sort of detail gives substance to a cover. While I was in the area I would use my credit cards at one or two local shops, collect any mail and leave. It was a pain to do, but details count.
'Hello, James, it's Nick here. Quick change of plan. I'm going for a holiday in America.' I might have changed names, but not James and Rosemary. They just got used to the change of details; after all, I was their third 'son' since retirement.
'Any idea how long for?'
'A couple of weeks probably.'
'All right, have a good holiday then, Nick. Be careful; it's a violent country.'
'I'll do my best. See you when I get back. Say hello to Rosemary for me.'
'Of course, see you soon. Oh, Nick ...'
'Yes?'
'Local council elections. It was a Lib Dem who got in.'
'OK, Lib Dem. Male or female?'
'Male, Felix something. His ticket was to stop the planning permission for the super store.'
'Oh, OK. Will he block it?'
'Don't be stupid. And talking of blockages, the problem with the septic tank got sorted out yesterday.'
'OK, cheers. I tell you what, I'm glad your shit is sorted out there, because I'm up to my neck in it here.' We were both still laughing as I pressed 'end' and watched the businessmen frantically bent over their laptops.
There was nothing else to do now but wait for my flight, my head slowly filling up with Sarah. I didn't want to do this job. She'd fucked me up, but I still missed her. I could see that if what I was being told was right, she definitely needed to be stopped; it was just that I didn't want to be the one to do it.
I settled into my business-class seat, listening first to the screams and banter of the zit-faced, hormonal boys and girls from the band twenty rows behind me, then to a very smooth, west coast American voice saying how wonderful it was for the flight crew and cabin staff to be able to serve us today.
They filled us with drink and a meal of chicken covered in stuff, and it was only then that I closed my eyes and started to think seriously about how I was going to find Sarah.
Even in the U.K.' a quarter of a million people go missing each year, over 16,000 of them permanently--not, for the most part, because they've been abducted, but out of deliberate choice. If you go about it the right way it's a very simple thing to do. Sarah knew how to do that; it was part of her job. Finding a missing person in the U.K. was bad enough, but the sheer size of the U.S.A.' and the fact that I couldn't turn to anyone for help, meant it was going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack, in a field full of haystacks, in a country full of fields.
Whatever was going on in her head, like most people in this business, Sarah would have her security blanket tucked away. Part of that would be another identity. I had two backup IDs, in case one was discovered.
Everybody finds their own way to build one up and, more especially, hide it from the Firm. If you ever had to do a runner from them, you'd need that head start, and if Sarah had it in mind to disappear it would have been well planned. She wasn't the sort of person to do anything at half cock.
Then again, nor was 1.1 thought about my new mate, Nicholas Davidson, who I'd bumped into in Australia the year before. He was a bit
younger than me, and had the same Christian name, which is always a good start, as it helps when reacting to a new ID. But more importantly, both Nick and Davidson are very common names.
I found him in a gay bar in Sydney. It's usually the best place for what I had in mind, whatever country you're in. Nicholas, I soon learned, had been living and working in Australia for six years; he had a good job behind the bar and a partner with whom he shared a house; most important of all, he had no intention of going back to the U.K. Pointing out of the window, he said, 'Look at the weather. Look at the people. Look at the lifestyle. What do I want to go back for?' I got to know him over two or three weeks; I'd pop in there a couple of times a week, when I knew it was his shift, and we'd have a chat. I met other gay men there, but they didn't have what Nicholas had. He was the one for me.
When I got back to the U.K.' I opened up an accommodation address in his name. Then I went to the town hall and got Nicholas registered on the electoral roll for the area of the address and applied for a duplicate of his driver's license. It arrived from the DVLC three weeks later.
During that time I also went to the Registry of Births and Deaths at St. Catherine's House in London and obtained a copy of his birth certificate.
He hadn't liked to talk to me about his past, and I could never get anything more out of him than his birthday and where he was born, and trying to dig any deeper would have aroused suspicion. Besides, his partner, Brian, was getting pissed off with me sniffing around. It took a couple of hours of scouring the registers between 1960 and 1961 before I found him.
I went to the police and reported that my passport had been stolen.
They gave me a crime number, which I put on my application form for a replacement. Added to a copy of the birth certificate, it worked: Nick Davidson the Second was soon the proud owner of a brand-new ten-year passport.
I needed to go farther. To have an authentic ID you have to have credit cards. Over the next few months I signed up with several book and record clubs; I even bought a hideous-looking Worcester porcelain figurine out of a Sunday supplement, paying with a postal order. In return, I got bills and receipts, all issued to the accommodation address.
Next I wrote to two or three of the high-street banks and asked them a string of questions that made it sound as if I were a big-time investor. I received very grovelling letters in reply, on the bank's letterhead, and written to my address. Then all I did was walk into a building society, play very stupid and say I would like to open a bank account, please. As long as you have documentation with your address on, they don't seem to care.
I put a few quid in the new account and let it tick over. After a few weeks I got some standing orders up and running with the book clubs, and at last I was ready to apply for a credit card. As long as you're on the electoral register, have a bank account and no bad credit history, the card is yours.
And once you have one card, all the other banks and finance houses will fall over themselves to make sure you take theirs as well. Fortunately, it appeared that Nick One had left no unpaid bills behind when he'd left. If he had it would have been back to the drawing board.
I was thinking about going one step farther and getting myself a National Insurance number, but really there was no point. I had money and I had a way out, and anyway, you can just go down to the local DSS and say you're starting work the next Monday. They'll give you an emergency number on the spot, which will last you for years. If that doesn't work, you can always just make one up; the system's so inefficient it takes forever for them to find out what's going on.
As soon as I had my passport and cards up and running, I used them for a trip to confirm they worked. After that, I carried on using them to keep the cards active and to get the passport stamped with a few entries and
