Crisis Four (17 page)

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Authors: Andy McNab

BOOK: Crisis Four
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The sideboard and bookcase were both made from a light wood veneer, and the walls were emulsioned off-white. There had been no effort whatsoever to personalize this flat. It was as anonymous as my house in Norfolk, though at least she had a sofa and a bookcase.
There were a few society, news and what’s-on-in-Washington magazines beside the sofa on the floor, piled on top of each other. A phone was lying on top of the mags, its digital display telling me there were no messages. The walls were bare apart from some bland views of DC which were probably taken when JFK was boss. There were two lamps: a normal table lamp on the floor just in front of the sofa, its wire snaking away across the carpet, and a standard lamp over by the bookcase, both with matching white shades. That was her all over; she might be highly professional in her job, but when it came to her personal admin she was a bag of shit. But what did I expect from someone who wouldn’t even know her way around Tesco?
There wasn’t a television set, which didn’t surprise me. She’d never watched it. If you asked her about
Seinfeld
and
Frasier
, she’d probably say it was a New York law firm. My eyes moved back to the bookcase. On the bottom shelf sat a large glass vase, but there were no flowers in it, instead it was filled with coins and pens and all the rest of the shit that people pull out of their pockets at the end of the day. Near it was her social calendar: thick, gilded invitations for drinks at eight at British Embassy or American Congress functions. I counted seven for the last month. It must be a terrible life, having to scoff all those free vol-au-vents and knock back glasses of champagne.
On the sideboard was a bog-standard, all-in-one, solid-state CD player, probably quite inexpensive, but serving its purpose. About a dozen CDs were stacked on top of each other, and as I walked over I could see that three of them were still in their cellophane. She hadn’t had enough time to play them yet – maybe next week. There was also a boxed set of five classical operas. I turned the cases to read the spines.
Cosi Fan Tutte
was there, of course – one of the few things I did know about her was that it was her favourite.
I looked at the rest of the music: a couple of 1970s Genesis albums, remastered on CD, and what looked like a bootleg cover of a group called Sperm Bank. I’d have to have a listen to that one, it was so out of place. She and I had never really talked that much about music, but I knew she loved opera – whilst I’d hear things on the radio and think, That’s good, I’ll buy that, but then lose the tape before I’d even played it.
The standby light was still on. I pressed ‘open’, put in the Sperm Bank CD and hit ‘play’. It was some kind of weird Tahitian rap/jazz/funk, whatever they call it – very noisy but very rhythmic. I turned the volume up a bit so I could hear it big time, and felt very fashionable. Fuck it, the chances of her coming back here were ziff.
I’d had my first cursory look in the living room, now I’d try the kitchen. It was about fifteen feet square, with units completely filling up both sides of the wall, so that it ended up being more like a passageway. The hob, oven and sink were all built-in.
I had a mooch in the cupboards above the work surfaces, trying to get some idea of how this woman lived. It was nothing to do with the job now. I was just curious to see this other side of her. There was hardly any food, and probably never had been. There were cans of convenience items, like rice and packet noodles, which could just be opened and boiled, and a couple of packs of gourmet coffee, but no spices or herbs or anything else you’d need if you cooked at home. On the few occasions when she wasn’t at embassy dos, or being dined in restaurants, she probably got by with the microwave.
I opened another cupboard and found six of everything – the accommodation pack again – plain white crockery, six cups, six glasses. Over 60 per cent of the cupboard space was empty. In the fridge was half a carton of milk, which wasn’t looking too healthy – it smelled and looked as if it held the cure for HIV. Next to that were some bagels, still in their plastic bag, and half a jar of peanut butter, and that was it. Not exactly Delia Smith, our Sarah. At least I had some cheese and yoghurt in mine.
The bathroom was between the kitchen and the bedroom. There was no bath, just a shower, sink and toilet. The room had been left as if she’d got up normally, done her stuff and dashed off to work. A dry but used towel lay on the floor next to a laundry bin which was half full of jeans, underwear and tights. No sign of a washing machine, but I wasn’t really expecting one. Sarah’s clothes would go to a dry-cleaners, or to a laundry for a fluff and fold.
The bedroom was about fifteen by twenty feet, with a walk-in wardrobe, but no other furniture apart from a double bed and a single bedside lamp sitting on the floor. The duvet was thrown to one side where she’d just woken up and thrown it off. All the bedding was plain white, the same as the walls. There were pillows for two people, but only one of them looked slept on. Again, there were no pictures on the walls, and the venetian blinds on both windows were closed. Either she’d just got up and gone to work, or this was simply how it always was.
The walk-in closet had mirrored sliding doors. I pulled them open, expecting the scent of a woman’s wardrobe, that slight waft of stale perfume lingering on jackets which have been worn once and are back on their hangers before they find their way to the cleaners. In fact, there was almost no smell at all, which wasn’t surprising. The rows and rows of expensive-looking clothes were all in dry-cleaner’s plastic wrapping, and even her blouses and T-shirts were on hangers. Out of curiosity I checked a few labels, and found Armani, Joseph and Donna Karan. She was obviously still slumming it. On a shelf above the dresses was the just as expensive luggage to match. Nothing seemed to be missing or out of place.
In front of me was a small stand-alone chest, just a white Formica thing with about five or six drawers. One of the drawers was open; I looked inside and found knickers and bras, again all very expensive.
All her footwear was arranged on the floor on the right-hand side of the wardrobe, and looking very orderly: formal, summer, winter and a pair of trainers. To the left of the wardrobe, and also on the floor, was a shoe box. I bent down and lifted the lid. A Picasso dove greeted me, on top of more old Christmas and birthday cards. Flicking through them, I found a picture of her arm-in-arm with a tall, good-looking man. They were in woodland, looking extremely happy, both dressed the part in waterproofs and boots. Maybe this was Jonathan, and presumably in happier times. Sarah looked a little older than when I’d seen her on the Syria job; the bob had had three years to grow out and her hair was about shoulder length, still very straight and with a fringe which was just above those big eyes. She hadn’t put on weight, and still looked fantastic as she smiled that almost innocent, childlike grin towards me. I realized I was looking at the man beside her and wishing it was me as I dropped the photo back in the box and lay down on the bed. There was no smell of her, just that of dry-cleaned cotton.
We had been in and out of Afghanistan those first two months, with no result. The rebels had managed to get a major offensive off the ground in between their internal feuds and were kicking the arse out of the Russians. No-one would be talking to us for a while, so we got out of the way, taking time off and generally having fun. We could only hope that one of the rebel groups with an entrepreneurial flair would attack a heliport and see us all right with a couple of Hinds.
Both of us could have gone back to the UK with the other three and done our own thing, but she wanted to go trekking in Nepal and I knew the country well. It seemed a simple swap: she showed me the historical and religious sites, and I showed her the bars and dives where, as a young infantry soldier on an exchange with the Gurkhas, I’d been separated from my money. It was an education for both of us.
It was during the first week off, staying in Katmandu before moving to Pukara for our week’s trek, that things changed. By now she would take the piss out of my accent: I called Hackney ’ackney, and she called it Hackerney. We’d just finished a run one day, and were both getting our key cards from our socks, when she leaned into my ear and said, in her bad cockney accent, ‘Awright darlin’, you wanna fuck or what?’
Three weeks later, and back with the rest of the team in Pakistan, the cover story of being a couple was now played out for real. I even had fantasies of maybe seeing her later on once the job had ended. I’d been married for four years and things hadn’t been going well. Now they were in shit state. With Sarah I enjoyed the intimate talks and learning about things I’d never bothered to find out about, or even knew existed. Up until then, I’d thought
Cosi Fan Tutte
was an Italian ice cream. This was it. Love. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. For the first time in my life I had deep, loving feelings for someone. Even better, I got the impression she felt the same. I couldn’t bring myself to ask her, though; the fear of rejection was just too great.
When the Afghanistan job finished, we were on the flight home from Delhi and well into our descent to Heathrow before I plucked up enough courage to ask her the big question. I still didn’t know that much about her, but it didn’t matter, I didn’t think she knew that much about me either. I just really needed to be with her. I felt like a child being dropped off by a parent and not knowing if they will ever come back. Courage or desperation, I wasn’t sure which, but I kept my eyes on the in-flight magazine and said, very throwaway, ‘We’re still going to see each other, aren’t we?’
The dread of rejection lifted as she said, ‘Of course.’ Then she added, ‘We’ve got to debrief.’
I thought she’d misunderstood me. ‘No, no… I hoped, later on, we might be able to see each other… you know, out of work.’
Sarah looked at me, and I saw her jaw drop a fraction in disbelief. She said, ‘I don’t think so, do you?’
She must have seen the confusion on my face. ‘Come on, Nick, it’s not as if we’re in love with each other or anything like that. We spent a lot of time together and it was great.’
I couldn’t bear to look at her, so I just kept my eyes fixed on the page. Fuck, I’d never felt so crushed. It was like going to the doctor for a routine check-up and being told I was going to have a slow, painful death.
‘Look, Nick’ – there wasn’t a hint of regret in her voice – ‘we had a job to do and it was a success. That means it was a success for both of us. You got what you wanted out of it, and so did I.’ She paused. ‘Look, the more intimate we were, the more you would protect me, right? Am I right?’
I nodded. She was right. I would probably have died for her.
Before she could say another word I did what had always worked in the past, ever since childhood: I just cut away. I looked at her as if I’d just been asking her out for a drink, and said, ‘Oh, OK, just thought I’d ask.’ I’d never been fucked off with such casual finesse. I kicked myself for even having considered that she would want to be with me. Just who the fuck did I think I was? I was definitely suffering from the dreamer’s disease.
It was only a month after we’d landed at Heathrow that I left my wife. We were just existing together, and it didn’t seem right to be sleeping with her and thinking of Sarah.
When the Syria job came along I didn’t know she was going to be on it. We met for orders in London, this time in better offices – Vauxhall Cross, the new home of SIS overlooking the Thames. She acted as if nothing had ever happened between us. Maybe it hadn’t for her, but it had for me. I made a plan. Never again would she, or any other woman, fuck me over.
I sat up on the bed and put the lid on the shoebox. That could wait. I needed to tune in to this place and try to get a feel of it.
I went back into the kitchen, filled the coffee percolator with water and ground beans and got it going. Then I went back into the living room. Sperm Bank – or the Sperm, as I now liked to call them – were still rattling along big time.
I slumped sideways in one of the chairs, with my back against one arm, my legs over the other. I’d found nothing at all on the first sweep. I would have to give each room a thorough going over, digging everything out. Somewhere, somehow, there could be a slight clue, a tiny hint. Maybe. The only thing I knew for sure was that if I rushed it I wouldn’t find anything.
As I looked around me my thoughts drifted. Sarah wasn’t that different from me really. Everything in my life was disposable, from a toothbrush to a car. I didn’t have a single possession that was more than two years old. I bought clothes for a job and threw them away once they were dirty, leaving hundreds of pounds’ worth of whatever behind me because I didn’t need it any more. At least she had a photo; I didn’t have any mementos of family, schooldays or the Army, not even of Kelly and me. It was something I was always going to get around to, but hadn’t.
I went back to the kitchen, realizing I was thinking more about myself than her. And I wasn’t looking for me. I was starting to feel quite depressed. This was going to be a long, long job, but I had to do it by the book if it was going to work.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and went to the fridge, then remembered that the milk was only good for medical research. I couldn’t find powdered creamer, so I’d have to have it black. I took the pot with me, and was walking back into the living room just as the Sperm decided to sign off. I threw myself back in one of the chairs and put my feet up again on the coffee table, sipping the hot coffee and thinking, I’ve got to make a start; it’ll be like most things, once you get stuck in, everything’s fine.

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