Her reply was an almost inaudible squeak. ‘I’m sorry, Caitlin. It is a new phone. Prepaid. I had to talk to him. I had…’
‘Jesus Christ, Monique. How many times did I tell you, no calls to anyone? Let alone your boyfriend the terrorist.’
‘He is not a terrorist…’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Did he pinky promise you that? Cross his heart and hope to die? Well then, I guess that’s all right. I’ll just go back to bed.’
Caitlin spun on her heels and stalked away, heading for the bathroom, where she tugged on the string to power up the one exposed bulb, before bending down to rip back a sheet of mouldy linoleum, exposing the wooden floorboards beneath. She reached one finger through a knothole, gave a tug, and the board came away. Another pull removed the piece of wood beside it. A thick, buff-coloured folder came out first. She sensed Monique coming up behind her but said nothing, busying herself with emptying the small arsenal she had stashed away beneath the floor.
No conversation passed between them. The only sound was Caitlin’s breathing and the metallic rattle of weaponry and ammunition coming up out of the hiding place. She could feel Monique wanting to say something, the air was almost alive with the tension growing between them. Caitlin didn’t trust herself to respond rationally, however, so she decided to short-circuit any confrontation. ‘There’s a sports bag in the bedroom, would you please get it for me?’ she asked, in as reasonable a tone as she could manage.
‘Okay,’ replied Monique in a small, frightened voice.
She returned a few moments later with an old Adidas bag, empty save for a few shopping items from their last trip out. Batteries, a flashlight, some energy bars. Caitlin began stuffing the guns and ammo into the holdall.
‘I am sorry, Caitlin… It’s just…’
‘Forget it,’ she snapped. ‘It’s my fault. ‘I should have found the phone and taken it off you. You were always going to call someone. I should be apologising. I’ve lost my edge. This fucking tumour, the Disappearance, or whatever – it’s fucked me up and we are going to get killed because of it. Not because you made a mistake. That’s just… you. You’re not trained. You have no experience. You don’t think things through the way you need to now.’
She finished topping off the bag with the three passports and a stack of currency. After a pause, she tossed the greenbacks. They were just deadweight. The euros, about fifteen grand’s worth, still had some residual value. Probably about half the purchasing power they’d had before Friday, 14 March. Caitlin hurried through to the small living area.
‘I’m outta here. You can stay or come with me. If you stay, there’s a good chance men will be here with guns very soon.’
‘Because of my call.’
‘Because of your call. To Bilal.’ Caitlin turned and looked at her with real anger. ‘If you come, there’ll still be men with guns. At first it’ll be like at the hospital – professionals, playing by the rules. Even if the rules have changed, and I don’t know what the fuck they are anymore, there will be rules. But soon, very soon… no more rules. Just violence like you cannot imagine. You will have to change, Monique. You will have to grow up.’
‘To be more like you?’ Her tone was reproachful, almost sarcastic.
‘To be like me. And Bilal.’
At that Monique rolled her eyes again and Caitlin pushed past her, not wanting to be delayed by another tantrum. She retrieved a small backpack from the bedroom and began cramming food into it. Trail food that she’d picked up from a camping store: freeze-dried meals, more energy bars and a couple of British-surplus MRE packages. It was getting lighter outside, the glow of the fires beyond the edge of the old city were throwing less of a dramatic light on the low, scudding toxic clouds that hung over Paris. Which hung over everything, she reminded herself.
‘I am sorry…’
‘Would you for chrissakes stop saying that and pack. We have to get out of here,’ Caitlin insisted. ‘Come on.’ She led Monique through to the bedroom and pointed at another small backpack. ‘Pack clothes and food. More of the latter,’ she ordered.
‘Okay, okay. But you are wrong about Bilal. I told him what you said…’
‘A week ago that would have got you killed, but right now, slow packing is what’s threatening to end your life. Come on – move.’
Caitlin’s ears pricked up at the sound of a distant siren. Her heart jumped forward a beat, but the sound tapered off. As Monique began to fill her pack with more supplies, the American retrieved a pistol from the holdall. A Glock 19 for herself and a.38 revolver for Monique, if needed.
‘So what did he say exactly, your boyfriend, that is?’
Monique cinched shut the top flap, and flapped her arms theatrically. ‘He said you were crazy. He was very understanding. He thought the Disappearance had driven you mad. There have been many instances amongst the Americans in Germany. Suicides, breakdowns and such.’
‘So he’s in Germany? At Neukцlln, perhaps?’
Monique froze, a suspicious glare fixed on her face.
Caitlin smiled. ‘That’s right, I know where he lives. With his mom. Be cool – he is so off my to-do list now. Remember, I’m unemployed as of last week.’
The other woman eyed her doubtfully but finally swung the pack over her shoulder, ready to go. Caitlin rushed to put on a fresh pair of socks. She slipped into her old boots, donned the leather jacket she’d stolen from the hospital and loaded up. She wouldn’t normally hit the streets weighed down with so much artillery, but any encounter they had with the cops was going to turn nasty. She had no doubt that both she and Monique were on watch lists with every agency of the state by now. The only question for her was whether the state would fall apart before it laid hands on them.
She checked her watch – 5.45 a.m. Fifteen minutes until the curfew was over. Fifteen minutes they probably didn’t have.
At least the drizzle had stopped for now. She could see that the pavement and the road were still slick with acidic rain, but for now they could move about without the irritation of burning skin and stinging eyes. Caitlin checked the room for the last time, making sure they weren’t leaving some vital piece of kit behind in the rush. The GPS batteries were dead but the satellite system itself, or at least the link to it, was increasingly sketchy, so the unit stayed on the table where she’d dropped it. Between them, they knew enough of the city to get away.
There was nothing to identify her. Unless the French security service had her DNA on file somewhere, and anyway, that sort of obsessiveness was no longer necessary. She’d already been blown. Echelon was gone. She was simply looking to save her own skin now, not to maintain operational security. It was liberating in a way – she could play a lot faster and looser because there were no rules. They might just make it.