Reeve edged the Citroën past the two wrecked, smoldering cars. There was black smoke in the night sky. Surely somebody would see that. He scraped the Xantia against tree bark and blistered metal, but managed to squeeze past and back onto the road. He allowed himself a cold glint of a smile. His SAS training told him never to leave traces. When you were on a deep infiltration mission, you’d even shit into plastic bags and carry them with you. You left nothing behind. Well, he was leaving plenty this mission: at least two corpses, and a burned-out Land Rover with British plates. He was going to be leaving a stolen car somewhere, too, with blood on its steering wheel. And these, it seemed to him, were the very least of his problems.
The very, very least.
He drove north, heading away from a horror he knew would surely follow.
His arms and shoulders began to ache, and he realized how tense he was, leaning into the steering wheel as if the devil himself were behind him. He stopped only for gas and to buy cans of caffeinated soft drinks, using them to wash down more caffeine tablets. He tried to act normally. In no way could he be said to resemble a tourist, so he decided he was a businessman, fatigued and stressed-out after a long sales trip, going home thankfully. He even got a tie out of his bag, letting it hang loosely knotted around his throat. He examined himself in the mirror. It would have to do. Of course, the driver of a French car should be French, too, so he tried not to say anything to anyone. At the gas stations he kept to bonsoir and merci; ditto at the various péage booths.
Heading for Paris, he caught sight of signs for Orly. He knew either airport, Orly or Charles de Gaulle, would do. He was going to ditch the car. He figured the ports might be on the lookout for a stolen Xantia. And if the authorities weren’t checking the ports, he reckoned his attackers almost certainly were. In which case they’d be checking the airports, too. But he had a better chance of going undetected on foot.
He drove into an all-night parking garage at Orly. It was a multistory, and he took the Xantia to the top deck. There were only two other cars up here, both looking like long-stayers or cars which had been ditched. The Xantia would be company for them. But first of all he knew he needed sleep-his brain and body needed rest. He could sleep in the terminal maybe, but would be easy meat there. He reckoned there’d be no planes out till morning, and it wasn’t nearly light yet. He wound the car windows open a couple of inches to help him hear approaching vehicles or footsteps. Then he laid his head back and closed his eyes…
He had a dream he’d had before. Argentina. Grassland and mountain slopes. Insects and a constant sea breeze. Two canoes paddling for shore. In the dream, they paddled in daylight, but really they’d come ashore in the middle of the night, faces painted. Supposedly in silence, until Jay had started singing…
The same song he’d sung when they landed on the Falklands only a week before, taken ashore by boat on that occasion. Splash-ing onto the beach, meeting no resistance. And Jay humming the tune he’d been ordered to stop singing.
Row, row, row your boat
Gently down the stream.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
Life is but a dream.
A dream? More like a nightmare when Jay was around. He was supposed to be a good soldier, but he was a firing pin short of a grenade, and just as temperamental.
Just as lethal.
They’d sent for them after that firefight in the Falklands. They wanted to mount a two-man mission, deep surveillance. They were briefed onboard HMS Hermes. Their mission would be to keep watch on Argentinian aircraft flying out of Rio Grande. (Reeve was told only afterwards that another two-man unit was given the same brief with a different location: Rio Gallegos.) Nobody mentioned the words suicide mission, but the odds on coming back alive weren’t great. For a start, the Argentinians on the Falklands had been equipped with direction-finding equipment and thermal imagers; there was little to show that the same equipment wouldn’t be available on the mainland.
Therefore, their radio signals out would be monitored and traced. Meaning they would have to stay mobile. But mobility itself was hazardous, and the possibility of thermal imagers meant they wouldn’t even be able to rest at night. Getting in would be easy, getting out a nightmare.
Jay only demurred when his request for a few Stinger shoulder-launched antiaircraft missiles was rejected out of hand.
“You’re going in there to watch, not to fight. Leave the fighting to others.”
Which was just what Jay didn’t want to hear.
Row, row, row your boat…
And in the dream that’s what they did, with a line of men waiting for them on the beach. For some reason, the men couldn’t locate them, though Reeve could see them clearly enough. But Jay’s singing got louder and louder, and it was only a matter of time before the firing squad by the water’s edge let loose at them.
Row, row, row your boat…
Reeve woke up in a sweat. Christ… And the true horror was that the reality had been so much worse than the dream, so awful that when he’d finally made it back to Hermes they’d refused to believe his version. They’d told him he must be hallucinating. Doctors told him shock could do that. And the more they denied the truth, the angrier he got, until that pink haze descended for the first time in his life and then lifted again, and a doctor and two orderlies were lying unconscious on the floor in front of him.
He sensed movement, something low to the ground and in shadow, over beside one of the other cars. He turned his headlights on and picked out a thin, hungry-looking fox. A fox scavenging on the top floor of a multistory parking garage. What was wrong with the fields? Had things got so bad for the foxes that they were moving into high-rises? Well, Reeve could talk: he was hiding in a garage. Hiding because he was being hunted. Right now, he was being hunted by the bad guys; but all too soon the good guys-the so-called forces of law and order-would be hunting him, too. He turned off the headlights and got out of the car to exercise. Sit-ups and push-ups, plus some calisthenics. Then he looked in his traveling bag. He didn’t have much left in the way of clean clothes. At the first service station on the route he had scrubbed away the blood. There were dried stains on his sweater, but his white shirt was still clean. He was wearing it now. He’d tried cleaning his shoes, not very successfully. They looked like he’d been playing football in them.
In his bag he found Lucky 13. The dagger was a problem. He knew he couldn’t hope to get it past airport security. It would have to stay here. But it was a murder weapon; he didn’t want it found. He walked with the dagger over to the elevator, and pressed the button for it to ascend. Then he wiped the dagger with his handkerchief, rubbing off fingerprints, and held it with the handkerchief. When the elevator arrived, he leaned in, pressed the button for the floor below, and stepped out again as the doors were closing. He slipped the blade of the dagger into the gap between the doors and, as soon as the elevator started to descend, used the blade to prize open the doors a couple of inches. Then he simply pushed the hilt and handle through the gap and let the dagger fall onto the roof of the elevator, where it could lie until maintenance found it-always supposing these elevators had any maintenance.
It was still early, so he sat in the car for a while. Then he got out and went over to the far wall, and leaned out so he could see the terminal building. There were two terminals, separated by a monorail, but this was the one he wanted, and he could walk to it. There were bright lights inside, and movement, taxis pulling up-the start of another day. He hadn’t heard any flights leave in the past half hour, excepting a few light aircraft. But they would start leaving soon. During the night some larger planes had landed. At that hour, they had to be package operators or cargo.