36
Suzy’s face was caught in the glow of the dashboard, still concentrating on the tunnel of light created by the headlamp beams and the high trees either side of the road. The rev counter was into the red. Without so much as a sideways flicker of the eyes, she smiled knowingly. ‘Kelly going home?’
‘Fucking right she is.’ I gripped my seat as she took a bump and all four wheels left the road. ‘Aren’t you worried about anyone?’
‘Nope. No one.’
A sign flashed by at 115 m.p.h. ‘Fakenham 4’.
Another corner was coming up. She dipped the lights to double-check if any traffic was coming the other way, then switched back to full beam. She braked hard on the straight, block-changed from fifth to second, and accelerated hard through the apex on the wrong side of the road. An oncoming car two hundred metres away flashed us angrily.
I gave it a few more minutes and dialled Carmen.
‘It’s me, Nick. Did you change the flights?’
‘Who?’
‘Nick.’
‘It’s very late, you know.’
‘Have you organized the flight for tomorrow?’
‘It’s so late and what with Josh just calling as well . . . he woke us up.’
‘Have you sorted out the flights?’
‘Yes, she’s flying in the afternoon. We have to be there at one, so we’ll leave at eleven – that’s if we wake up in time. Now, if we pay as soon as the statement comes in you won’t have to—’
‘Is she awake?’
‘Of course not – I imagine she’s only just got back to sleep after talking to Josh. I can’t wake her again.’
‘Carmen, please? This is really important.’
‘Nothing’s as important to a girl her age as a good night’s sleep. I’m not going to wake her.’
‘OK.’ I resisted the urge to yell my frustration at her. Maybe she was right. ‘I’ll call again in the morning. Look, I’m going into a tunnel, got to go.’ I cut the phone’s power.
We were hitting the outskirts of Fakenham and almost immediately the racecourse was sign-posted to the right. We took the turn, then another less than half a mile later. The roads were getting narrower each time. Suzy made few concessions. ‘Now what?’
‘Drive in and park up, I suppose.’ I picked up the moan-phone and called the Yes Man. ‘We’re here.’
‘You still have the mobile and the canisters?’
‘Yes.’ What the fuck did he think? That I’d popped them into a car-boot sale?
‘The pickup should be there soon. Bring him in on Quebec.’
‘OK, on Quebec. It’ll be a Maglite.’
‘I don’t care what it is. Just bring him in and get on board.’ The phone went dead.
The road became a narrow stretch of tarmac with white-painted posts either side, which soon became a long blur as Suzy forgot to relax her right foot. I was looking out for possible landing sites in case we couldn’t get on to the racecourse itself. We passed tennis courts to the right, some buildings to the left, and arrived in a large gravelled parking area. Cars were clustered round the entrance to what looked like a sports club, with signposts pointing off to squash courts and all sorts. Light shone from the front windows and I could see a group of not-so- sporty figures inside, propping up the bar.
The racecourse was in front of us, fenced off by white-plastic rails. To our half-right was the shadow of the grandstand. Suzy parked and we took our cover docs from under the seats and stuffed our ready bags with all the empty military NBC wrappers. We didn’t want the local police finding a car full of interest. They’d be happy with just a few new pairs of socks and my Next boxers.
Suzy brought the key with her as we started towards the grandstand. That way she knew it wouldn’t be found in a wheel arch by accident. There had been no instructions from the Yes Man about the car, but it would need to be collected quickly; it was an untidy loose end.
The glow of the town was off to our left, a floodlit church tower dominating the high ground. I began to hear a faint rattle in the distance, which became the more definable clatter of rotor-blades somewhere in the darkness above us. He was coming in without lights.
I fumbled around and pulled out the mini Maglite, turning the top to switch it on as I hummed the Bridal March. ‘Here comes the bride, daa-daa-de-daa.’ Suzy looked at me as if I was having a fit. ‘It’s the only way I can remember Quebec. Get it? “Here comes the bride, daa-daa-de-daa.”’ I kept mumbling it to myself as I pointed the Maglite into the air, twisting and untwisting the end in time with the beats to transmit the Morse letter Q. Aboard the helicopter they would be seeing the pinprick of white light from below in a field of darkness – and if they didn’t, I’d just keep on doing it until they did.
The noise in the sky became a throbbing roar, and within seconds I could make out the nose of the heli just fifty feet above and in front of us, coming in low. I pointed the Maglite down to the grass and kept it on as a reference point for the pilot, and to make sure it didn’t shine into his eyes. From the aircraft’s silhouette, I knew it was a Jet Ranger.
It hovered for a few seconds, the downwash from its rotors battering against us as it wavered left to right before plopping down on its skids about twenty feet away. I turned off the Maglite and there was a sudden solitary flash from the navigation light under the Jet Ranger’s belly to give us a fix in case we hadn’t seen it. As if.
Suzy ran past me to the aircraft’s nose, then round to the opening door. I followed, my bag on my shoulder, automatically bending at the waist. I never knew why people did that because the rotors are always well above head height.
The downdraught buffeted my face and clothes as I followed her round, and the smell of aviation exhaust drenched the air.
My bag was soon being bundled into the back, and I had Suzy’s arse in my face as I tried to get in and she tried to organize her own bag behind the seats. We eventually made it and I pulled the door closed, cocooning us in a world of warmth and comparatively little noise. I could smell coffee, but not strongly enough to wipe out Suzy’s vomit.
The Jet Ranger lifted from the ground. The pilot, seated directly in front of me, was wearing NVG [night- viewing goggles], like a pair of small binoculars held in place by a head harness, about half an inch in front of his eyes. They were bathed in the green glow from the rear of the goggles as he checked the take-off.
Suzy turned and started shoving the bags further behind us, to create more space, then the roar of the engine drowned everything else. It was pointless talking, which suited me fine.
The guy sitting next to the pilot pushed himself round in his seat until he more or less faced us. He had a headset on, with a boom mike by his mouth. In the low light of the instruments I could see he was a small, smily, friendly overweight thirtysomething with dark, curly hair. He stuck his thumb up by his ear and his forefinger down by his mouth, and shouted at me almost apologetically: ‘The phone, please? The phone?’ He was wearing a padded check shirt, open over a
The lights of Fakenham shrank below and behind us as the pilot got busy talking to whoever pilots talk to when flying these things covertly round the UK. Well, not that covertly because they were operated by commercial companies with pilots who liked to moonlight for the Firm. Why go to the expense of buying and running your own when you can hire them by the hour? Apart from anything else, it was a better cover.
Frodo the tech took the SIM card out of the phone and inserted it into a machine on his lap about the size of a reporter’s notebook. Within a few seconds words and numbers were scrolling down the display panel in front of him, and he was jabbering into his mouthpiece. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but guessed he was on a radio net that connected him to the Yes Man, or whoever was checking these out. It would be only a matter of minutes before they knew everyone she’d ever talked to or been called by.
I gazed vacantly out of the window, my mind very much in Bromley. My operational concerns were finished for the moment: I had no control over what was happening to me, I was in the hands of the pilot.
