She didn't reply. The cruiser came up level. My heart started to pound big time. Both of the patrolmen, one black, the other Hispanic, were wearing black, short-sleeved shirts and sunglasses, even at this time of the morning. Their chests looked bigger than they actually were, due to the protection they wore under their shirts. The driver was staring at us both, the Hispanic was facedown, looking at a screen attached to the dash, probably carrying out a plate check on our car. I smiled like an idiot at the driver. What was I supposed to do? He wasn't giving me any instructions.
It was Sarah who switched on. She opened her window, and at the same time I could see the black trooper doing the same. His mustache met his glasses, with acne-scarred cheeks each side. I couldn't see his eyes, only what he was looking at in his mirrored lenses, but his demeanor told me that I wasn't on his Christmas card list.
Sarah came to the rescue.
'Hello, Officer, can I help you? Is there something wrong?' Her voice was outrageous; it was the fluffiest damselin-distress impression I'd ever heard.
The policeman would have heard it many times before, only not in Cambridge English. He drawled, 'Yes, ma'am. The driver of this vehicle is violating the Federal Highway Code by consuming a beverage while at the controls of a moving vehicle.'
She said breathily, 'I'm so sorry, Officer, we didn't realize. We're just on vacation from England and ...'
The black policeman got the OK from his mate. The check had come through. He nodded back at him, then turned toward us. He looked at me and jutted his jaw.
'Sir?'
The lights had changed to green, but no one was going to hit their horn.
I smiled like the dickhead tourist I was determined to be.
'Yes?'
'Sir, please don't consume beverages on the highway. It's an offense.'
'I'm sorry, Officer, it won't happen again.'
Trying hard not to let a smile reach his face he drawled, 'Y'all have a nice day,' and they drove off.
At the airport I abandoned the car in the long-term car park. Formalities such as handing it back to the rental company didn't figure on my list of things to do today.
I waited outside the terminal while Sarah went in and got the tickets. I needed to call Josh's number, hoping to leave a message. Getting it clear in my head what I wanted to say, I hit the keypad.
A heavily Hispanic female voice answered, 'Heelo? Heelo?'
'Oh hi, is this Josh's number?'
'Jish?'
'Yes. Can I leave a message for him?'
'No Jish.'
'Can I leave a message?'
'Jish no here.'
'I know that. I want to leave a message.'
'I say to Jish. Goodbye.'
The phone went dead. I felt as if I'd wandered into Fawlty Towers. I redialed as Sarah came out of the terminal. She saw me and headed over.
She passed, handed me my ticket and carried on walking. We were going to travel as two separate individuals.
'Heelo? Heelo?'
I could hear a vacuum cleaner in the background. I said, 'Please say to Jish, Nick is flying to Washington today.'
'OK. Ees Nick.'
We were getting warmer.
'What... time ... is ... he ... home?'
'He no home.' Maybe not so warm.
'Muy bien, much as gracias, senorita,' I said, using rusty stuff I'd learned while garrisoned on Gibraltar as a young squaddie. Then I added the only other Spanish phrase I knew: 'Hasta la vista, baby.'
I checked in and made my way to the gate area. The front pages of the state newspapers glared at me as I passed the newsstand. The main picture seemed to be a fuzzy black-and-white still from a CCTV video of Sarah and me lifting the van. She was still looking like a sperm, T-shirt over her head; I was side-on with my head uncovered. It must have been taken at the point when the dog and I were about to have a major disagreement.
I decided not to buy the paper or hang around. The newsstand was part of the shop where I'd bought the maps of the lakes; maybe it would be the same woman behind the counter, and she could put two and two together.
I walked to the gate area and waited.
The hour-long flight was late landing. The Ronald Reagan National Airport, Washington's main domestic terminal, is a stone's throw from the capital, on the west bank of the Potomac River and southwest of D.C.' near the Pentagon. You can see the traffic jams around Capitol Hill as you land.
I disembarked behind Sarah, who was following the rest of the herd toward the baggage area. We'd both packed our weapons in our bags; being a domestic flight, there wasn't much of a risk. I collected my holdall from the carousel and walked off to the phones. It was 10:27 a.m.
My Mexican friend was quick to answer.
'No Jish,' she said.
'Mas tarde. He home two o'clock.' Then she put the phone down.
Getting anywhere in D.C. by taxi at this time of day is a wish. If you're in a hurry, the best bet is the Metro. As I headed toward the airport station, Sarah linked up with me with her head down, baseball cap on. At the machines I checked the map and put in two one-dollar bills for my ticket.
'RV back here, by the machines, at two o'clock?'
She shook her head.
'No, not here. I'll meet you somewhere in town.
There's more chance of me being seen here.' It was clear by the way she studied the instruction panel that, in all the time she'd lived in this city, she'd never used the Metro. I took the change out of the cup with my ticket and put in some more money for her as she looked at the map.
'I
need to keep out of town for now,' she said.
'No need to expose myself too much. I'll go south and hold off for a while.'
'Do you know the Barnes and Noble on M, in Georgetown?'
Still studying the map, she nodded.
'Two o'clock.'
As we moved toward the barriers, I checked the signs and pointed her to her platform.
'See you at two.' The peak of her cap nodded and headed down the escalators.
The rules of the Washington Metro are simple: the answer to everything is No. No smoking, no eating, no Walkmans, litter or pets. If you're good boys and girls you can read the newspaper. The station was as stark and clean as the set of asci-fi film, with its streamlined, dark-gray concrete and moody lighting.
The lights set into the platform flooring started to flash, warning that a train was about to arrive. Moments later, a string of sleek silver carriages whispered alongside and the doors opened silently.
I was heading north on the Blue Line. It would take me past the Pentagon, which has its own Metro station, and the Arlington National Cemetery, then eastward under the Potomac to Foggy Bottom, the nearest stop for Georgetown and the M and 23rd Street junction. I came out of the Metro and onto the busy street feeling cleaner than when I'd gone in.
Checking the map on the wall at the station entrance, I saw that I had just over a ten-minute walk to the RV
