‘This is getting out of hand,’ Grantham said when he’d reached Carver. ‘You’re jumping at shadows.’ There was something close to sympathy in his voice as he went on, ‘Look, I understand. You’ve had a hell of a time and he’s given you a proper beating. I’m not surprised you’re traumatized, but you’ve got to calm down. There’s been no communication between Tyzack and Selsey and nothing’s happened apart from a couple of chavs having a shag in a parked car.’
Grantham put a hand on Carver’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. ‘Tell me, honestly, are you sure about this whole US President business? Because I’ve gone a long way out on a limb for you and I don’t want it cut out from under me.’
Carver closed his eyes. For a second he felt almost overcome by a wave of exhaustion. Maybe Grantham was right.
No… he wasn’t going to give in now. He hadn’t imagined what Tyzack had said, and he knew, in his bones, what it meant.
‘Don’t worry,’ Carver said. ‘I’m fine. And I’m right about Tyzack. I’m sure of it.’
‘All right, I believe you. But I still don’t think you’re doing anyone any good charging round London chasing paranoid delusions. I’m going to check in with the people here, make sure everything’s good, then I’m taking you back into town. We’ll get you a hotel room. And then I want you to rest. The President lands in approximately thirty-six hours and I need you fighting fit by then.’
It was only a couple of hours later, as he was lying in bed, on the cusp between wakefulness and sleep, that an image flashed into Carver’s head. It was the man in the passenger seat of the white van, driving past Selsey’s house. He’d been looking into his glove compartment, so Carver hadn’t seen his face. But he had seen the cap and he’d recognized the badge: the New York Yankees. He’d seen the same badge, the same cap somewhere else: outside the hot-dog stand in Cascade, Idaho… the creep who’d walked across to chat up Maddy.
Carver opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling as he whispered two words to himself: ‘Damon Tyzack.’
83
Chantelle Clemens let Jake Tolland know exactly where he stood and she didn’t mince her words. ‘I just want you to know, if it were down to me, you wouldn’t be getting on this plane,’ she said as they stood at the foot of the steps that led up to the US Air Force C-37A Gulfstream jet that would be taking them to England. ‘The only reason you’re here is because Miss Dashian made a personal request for you to accompany her. Seems the one person in the whole Western world that this young woman trusts is a journalist. Guess that shows how much she’s got to learn.’
She glared at Tolland, just daring him to deny it. Young as he was, he had the good sense to stay silent. Clemens went, ‘Humph!’ and then returned to reading the riot act. ‘Here’s the deal. You do not, repeat not, have any press privileges on this flight, nor at any time leading up to the President’s speech. Everything that happens stays private, and I mean a total embargo. One word gets out before the speech, you’re out on your skinny white ass and I don’t care what Missy says. You hear me?’
‘Absolutely. My lips are sealed. But how about after all this is over, can I write about it then?’
Clemens looked at him as if he’d just broken wind. ‘Maybe,’ she conceded. ‘No promises at all, but maybe. And only after you have received explicit clearance from the Chief of Staff’s office. Now get aboard the damn plane before I change my mind.’
Tolland ran up the steps, followed more sedately by Clemens. As she reached the cabin he was already strapping himself into a set facing backwards, directly opposite Lara, who was smiling at him in a way that made her whole face light up. Suddenly she seemed a totally different creature to the shy, suspicious, obviously traumatized girl who had shuffled across the front hall at the House of Freedom.
Oh my Lord, thought Chantelle Clemens. I do believe that crazy child is sweet on the boy. She sighed, shook her head in wonderment at the resilience and optimism of youth, and made her way to her seat. Then she summoned the steward and said, ‘You can tell the captain we’re ready to go.’
Lara was flown into Fairford airbase well before dawn and shown to a guest suite. Someone told her they’d give her a few hours to rest, but Lara was so filled with a mixture of nervousness, excitement and sheer confusion at the dizzying pace of events that she lay wide awake until someone knocked on the door to take her to breakfast.
She’d been smuggled out of the House of Freedom with a blanket over her head and the only photographs of her that had reached the media were some blurry old family snaps, touted by the same aunt who had sold her into slavery. Yet somehow all the people in their military uniforms, going about their work or lining up for food, seemed to know who she was, and they greeted her as someone special, even precious.
Lara had been used by plenty of Americans in Dubai, and she couldn’t understand how those crude, drunken oafs could have been produced by the same nation as the impeccably neat and sober Air Force personnel who were now smiling at her, shaking her hand and calling her ‘ma’am’. They told her what a privilege it was to be taking care of her. They insisted that she should let them show her round the base. They even helped her choose what to eat when she was overcome by the sheer profusion of choices on display.
She found herself looking round every so often, just to make sure that Jake was still close by. He would give her hand a little squeeze and that would be enough to make her feel safe until the next time she was overwhelmed by it all. In the meantime, she was happy to let Chantelle Clemens tell her what to do now, what would happen tomorrow and what her role in proceedings would be.
‘You’ll meet the President when he arrives here and you’ll travel with him to Bristol,’ Lara was told. Clemens must have seen the look of alarm on her face because she added, ‘Don’t you worry yourself about Mr Roberts. He’s a good, kind man, and he’s got kids about your age. He’ll make you feel right at ease.’
Lara nodded, saying nothing as Clemens continued, ‘When we get to Bristol, I’ll be there to look after you and show you where to go, OK? Good. Now, you’ll be introduced onstage during the President’s speech. We wrote some words for you to say, if you think you can manage that. But if you can’t that’s fine. Take a look, why don’t you? I’ve got them here.’
Clemens handed Lara a sheet of paper. ‘What do you think?’
Lara read aloud, speaking quietly: ‘My name is Lara Dashian. I was taken from my country, Armenia, against my will. I was bought and sold. I was made to do terrible things. If I did not do what my owners wanted, I was beaten.’
She stopped for a moment, unable to go any further.
‘Take your time,’ Clemens said.
Lara nodded, took a deep breath to compose herself and continued. ‘But I was lucky, I was rescued. Many other girls, just like me, are not so lucky. They are still slaves. Please, I beg you, do everything in your power to help rescue them.’
She fell silent, the arm holding the sheet of paper loose at her side, her head down, biting her lip.
‘Please excuse me,’ Lara said. She walked a few paces away and then slumped down against a wall. She ended up on the floor, with her head in her hands.
Clemens gave the girl time, then went over to her, crouched down on her haunches and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
Lara nodded.
The two of them stayed silent and motionless for a few seconds, then Lara looked at Chantelle Clemens and said, ‘I will say those words. For the other girls, the ones who are not so lucky, I must say those words.’
84
Damon Tyzack heard the explosive crack echo around the rolling Cotswold landscape and watched as a puff of orange smoke billowed up into the air. He cursed under his breath. The dummy explosion had detonated on a
