Fifteen
Donaldson steered Henry diagonally across the floor of the unit, through the doors the paramedics/soldiers had gone with the injured man. This led into a narrow corridor off which were a number of half-glass doors on the left. Henry presumed that there were offices behind them. There was a wooden staircase at the far end, leading up to the first floor.
Donaldson took him to a door marked ‘toilet’ and said, ‘Get in there, wash yourself off, and I’ll be back in a few minutes with some new clothing for you.’
Henry complied and found himself in a tiled loo with a couple of wash basins and mirrors. He leaned on a basin and stared at his reflection. His eyes were sunken, his whole visage a scarred, swollen mess. His cheek was swollen and purple and he thought he could see it throbbing.
There was blood streaked all over him.
He slid his leather jacket off and had a look at the slashed arm, grateful that Kate had brought it for him when he’d set off for London. Its thickness had probably saved him from being seriously wounded. Four hundred quid to replace, he thought sourly, pulled his shirt off and tossed it on the floor. It needed to be incinerated. Then he got to work, washing himself down, aware that his jeans were a mess.
The water did little for him, other than to clean off the excess blood and make him look a little more presentable.
Donaldson reappeared bearing a change of clothing over his arm.
‘These should all fit you,’ he said and handed it all over — jeans, T-shirt, boxer shorts, socks. Henry stripped in front of him and stepped into the fresh, clean clothes, which fitted him snugly. ‘Sorry, but I ain’t got any trainers for you. You’ll have to stick with the ones you’ve got.’
‘No worries,’ Henry said.
The toilet door opened and a pretty, white-coated black woman in her late twenties entered, a stethoscope dangling around her neck and a notepad in one hand.
‘Walking wounded,’ Donaldson said, nodding at Henry, who managed a pathetic smile. ‘This is Dr Arlene Chambers, Henry. She’ll give you a quick once-over, see if your brain has been permanently damaged or not.’
‘Hi,’ she said brightly. ‘What happened to you?’
‘Er … been in a fight, was well on the way to losing it, got slashed by a knife.’ He held up his left hand, which he had washed and was bleeding again. ‘And got whacked in the face.’
‘OK — let’s have a look at you.’ She turned to Donaldson. ‘Karl, a bit of privacy, please.’
‘Ma’am,’ he said, and Henry saw the doctor quiver with pleasure and flutter her eyelashes. He reversed out and left them alone. Dr Chambers began a fairly thorough inspection, concluding with taping up the cut on Henry’s hand.
‘That cheekbone is undoubtedly broken. An X-ray will confirm it, but that’s one thing we don’t have here. Your hand could do with stitching, but those strips will hold it together for the time being … I know you’re not going to have time to go to hospital just yet.’
‘I’m not?’ Henry exclaimed.
‘The rest is just bruising, soreness and swelling — all the usual things you get when you fight. These will help with the pain.’ She handed him two tablets as big as pebbles. ‘Army issue — very effective.’
‘If you can swallow them.’
The door opened and Donaldson came back in. ‘Finished?’
‘He’s all yours,’ the doctor said, smiled at Henry, looked up gooey-eyed at Donaldson, and left them.
‘OK?’
‘Never better.’ Henry put his mouth to a tap, filled it with water, then swallowed the tablets with a bit of difficulty.
‘I think you’re only supposed to have one,’ Donaldson said.
Henry shrugged.
‘Follow me.’ Donaldson led him back out into the corridor and in through a door which had ‘The Swamp’ scribbled on it. Beyond was a large office with a big window, blinds drawn. A roomy old settee dominated one wall and three easy-looking armchairs and two plastic chairs made up the rest of the seating. A microwave, oven, kettle, coffee-maker, toaster, fridge and an array of loaves of bread, packets of bagels, jam, marmalade, peanut butter, tea, coffee and milk cartons covered a worktop next to the sink. This was obviously a chill-out room.
‘Take a seat,’ Donaldson said, and Henry lowered himself gratefully into one of the armchairs as the American boiled the kettle and made two mugs of instant coffee, handing one to Henry.
‘Fuck, I’m sore,’ Henry said, adjusting his position.
‘You look it … but Arlene’s magic medicine will work wonders in no time, especially a double dose of it.’
Henry raised his eyebrows. Chit-chat time was over.
‘OK — quick story from me,’ Donaldson said.
‘I’m all ears.’
‘The American Secretary of State is visiting the north of England at the request of your Foreign Secretary, who is also your local Member of Parliament.’
‘That much I know.’
‘She’s due to reach Lancashire this afternoon after visiting Liverpool,’ Donaldson said. He settled his big frame into the seat next to Henry, crossed his long, muscular legs. ‘As you can imagine, the security arrangements are way up there.’ His index finger pointed skywards.
‘I QA-d the Operational Order,’ Henry said.
‘That only tells half the story … no doubt you are aware that your English cops and security services have been in constant contact with their American counterparts?’ His voice rose at the end of the sentence with that curious American inflection that seemed to make every statement a question. ‘Even if the world wasn’t in the state it is, the security arrangements for the visit would still be massive and as it is, they’re well beyond that.’
‘But there’s more?’ Henry prompted.
‘Much more,’ Donaldson said gravely. ‘Think you can stand up?’
They were in a darkened room, two rows of chairs, five in each row, facing the front where there was a brightly lit, but blank, projector screen. Henry sat in the middle of the front row, the only member of the audience. Donaldson stood at the front of the room to one side of the screen, bending to look at the keys of a laptop computer, hooked up to a data projector, which was throwing bright light on to the screen.
Donaldson spoke as he faffed around with the computer, occasionally muttering something about ‘hi-tech shit’ under his breath. ‘This will have to be quick, Henry, and I make no apologies for that … shit! … computers!’ he tapped a few keys, then said, ‘Ahh, here we are … found it.’ He picked up a remote mouse and sat next to Henry. ‘Since your Foreign Secretary visited Condoleezza Rice in her hometown of Birmingham, Alabama last year, we’ve known she was invited back by him to visit this backwater … so far, so OK. Our security service, your security service, start to get heads together with the politicos to arrange the visit. High profile, lots of cops, lots of spooks. However, a seed of information came to light, then blossomed into a flower, if you will.’ He cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the metaphor. ‘An arrest was made in Spain … do you recall the Madrid train bombing?’
‘Who could forget that?’ The carnage wrought on a morning commuter train into that city, bombs exploded by Islamic extremists, killing and maiming many.
‘To this day suspects are being pulled in. Two months ago Spanish police arrested a guy suspected of involvement and interrogated him-’
‘Interrogated?’
‘OK, tortured him,’ Donaldson said flippantly. ‘Turns out he was very peripheral to the actual bombings.’
‘Because torture always elicits the truth?’
Donaldson gave him a cold look. ‘Don’t get all moral high ground with me, pal,’ he warned Henry, who shuddered. It was a definite shot across the bows. ‘We don’t have time for any of that.’
‘OK.’ Henry shrugged, chastened, but experiencing something very nasty crawling through his lower intestine.
‘This guy dropped some names, one of which was this fella.’ Donaldson pointed the mouse at the computer. A face appeared on the screen. It was a grainy, black and white head-shot of a bearded man of Middle-Eastern origin. The sort of photo Henry had seen hundreds of times in the media over the last few years, particularly after 9/11. Dark-haired, bearded, staring, deadly eyes peering out accusingly.