Remote Control (26 page)
Authors: Andy McNab
I said, ‘It’s OK, not today thank you, we’re sleeping.’
I saw her look down and heard, ‘Sorry, sir, you didn’t have your sign on.’
‘Oh, OK.’
‘Would you like some towels?’
‘One minute, I’m just coming out of the shower, I’ll get some clothes on.’
It would be natural to be wanting towels.
I put the weapon in my left hand, undid the lock and opened the door just a fraction. The weapon was pointing through the door on the left-hand side; if any fucker pushed past her to get in, it would be the last thing he did.
I opened the door a little more, held it with my leg and put my head in the gap. I smiled. ‘Ah, hiya.’ The gun was pointing at her behind the door. I didn’t put my hand out to get the towels, I didn’t want someone grabbing it. All I did was put my hand up and say, ‘I’ll put the others out later on. I just need two big towels; that’ll be fine – and have you got some more shampoo?’
She gave me what I wanted. I said, ‘Thank you,’ and she smiled back. I closed the door.
Kelly was lying on the bed open-mouthed, watching my every move.
I shrugged. ‘Don’t you just hate it when people do that?’
She started laughing. So did I. ‘They nearly had us that time!’ I said.
Her expression changed and she slowly shook her head. ‘I know you won’t ever let them get me.’
It was 10.30, another 20 minutes to go before I went up and changed the tapes. I picked up the one we’d been watching the night before, slapped it back into the player and rewound it ready for its next session.
I only had to smile at her and she jumped up and went to the door, ready to drop the latch.
‘While I’m out I want you to have a shower. Will you do that?’
She shrugged. ‘I get all the good jobs.’
I went upstairs to the roof.
The weather was still crap.
21
There was still an hour to go before the midday call. We sat down together to watch the latest footage.
I said, ‘It’s really important, we might see somebody we know. Then we can give the tape to Daddy and he can find out who was shouting at him. Anybody that you think you might know, like Melissa’s dad or the man at the grocery store, or even the men who came to see Daddy, tell me and we can have a closer look, OK?’
I started to fast-forward, stopping the tape whenever there was traffic. I logged what they looked like: male, female, black, white, Asian; and what they were wearing: black on blue, red on blue.
The game wasn’t as much fun for Kelly the second time round.
‘What about him?’ I enthused.
‘No.’
‘That lady?’
‘No.’
‘You sure you’ve never seen this man?’
‘Never!’
At last she spotted somebody she knew. I rewound the tape. ‘Who is he?’
‘Mr Mooner on
Fox Kids
.’
Fox Kids
.’
‘OK, I’ll write that down.’
Another guy started to walk up the stairs. I stopped the tape and rewound. ‘Do you know him?’
She shook her head.
I said, ‘Well, I know somebody who looks exactly like him. I used to work with a man who could never remember where he left things, and one day we hid his false teeth and he had to eat soup all week!’ She had a little laugh and it kept her going a bit longer.
At 11.45 we were still going through the tape and logging. I stopped at two men who were going in together.
‘Do you know either of them, because I don’t, I can’t think of anybody who looks like them.’ I was racking my brains trying to think of another story to keep her interested.
‘No, I don’t know them.’
‘Oh all right then. Just a couple more, then we’ll do something else.’ I started to fast-forward, saw a figure coming out of the building, rewound and played it.
She moved to the edge of the bed. ‘I know that man,’ she said.
I pressed freeze-frame. I was looking at a black guy in his mid-thirties.
‘Who is he?’
‘He came to see Daddy with the other men.’
I tried to sound calm. ‘What’s his name? Do you know any of their names?’
‘Can I go home and see Mommy now? You said I could go home tomorrow and now it’s tomorrow.’
‘We have to sort this out first, Kelly. Daddy needs to know their names. He can’t remember.’
I was trying to do the psychology bit, but I knew more about fly-fishing now than I did about child psychology.
She shook her head.
‘Daddy knew them, though, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, he knew them. They came to see Daddy.’
‘Can you remember anything else about them? Were they smoking?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
‘Did any of them have glasses?’
‘I think this man had glasses.’
I looked closer at the screen. He wore thin wire frames.
‘OK, were they wearing rings or anything?’
‘I don’t know.’
I tried the colour of the car, their shoes, their coats. Did they talk to each other using different names? Were they American?
She was starting to get upset, but I had to know.
I said, ‘Kelly, are you sure this man came to see Daddy the day I found you?’
Her eyes were welling up. I’d gone too far.
‘Don’t cry.’ I put my arm around her. ‘It’s OK. This man came with the other men, yes?’
I felt her nod.
‘That’s very good because I can give this information to Daddy when I see him and that will help catch them. You see, you’ve helped him!’
She looked up at me. There was a slight smile under the tears.
If she was right, then what we had was one of the people who’d killed Kev coming out of an office that was fronting for PIRA.
There was still more tape to run. I tried to sound upbeat. ‘OK, then, let’s have a look and see if we can see the other men. They were black too, weren’t they?’
‘No, white.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’
We carried on through the tape. I came out with a possible ID of Nelson Mandela, and she saw Michael Jackson. Apart from that, jack shit.
‘Can we go home now and show this to Daddy? He must be better now. You said so, if we saw anyone.’
I was digging myself deeper. ‘No, not yet. I have to make sure that he is the man who came to see Daddy. But not long now, not long.’
I lay on the bed pretending to read the fishing mag. My heart was beating loud and slow. I was trying to keep to my game plan of only concentrating on the matter in hand, but I couldn’t. Why would Kev be killed by people who knew him? Were Luther and co the same group? They must be. What did Kev know, or what was he involved in? Why would he tell me about his problem if he was corrupt? Were the DEA investigating PIRA and drug dealing? Maybe Kev was, and the murders were carried out by PIRA or the drug dealers because of something he had done or was about to do? But why did they know him?
Conjecture would get me nowhere. It was just a waste of time and effort. Kelly was stretched out beside me and was looking at the magazine. It was a strange feeling having her head on my chest. I moved my arm around her to look at my watch. She thought I was going to cuddle her.
It was nearly time for Pat to call. I got up and switched on the mobile phone, then stood by the window, pulling a gap in the curtain, looking at the highway through the rain, deciding my next phase. I tried to think of a good RV. It wouldn’t be secure to meet again at the shopping mall.
Dead on time the phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, mate.’ I could hear the traffic going past a call box.
‘Things are happening,’ I said. ‘I need an RV.’
‘In two hours, is that OK?’
‘Two hours. Union Station all right for you?’
‘Er . . . Union . . . yep, no problems.’ He sounded spaced out.
I’d travelled through the terminus a few times before and could remember its layout. ‘Come in through the main entrance,’ I said. ‘Go up to the top floor, to the coffee bar facing the stairs. Buy a cup of coffee, sit down and wait. I’ll pick you up there, OK?’
There was a long, worrying pause. ‘Is that OK, Pat?’
‘I’ll be there. See yer.’ The line went dead.
Union Station is the main Amtrak station in Washington, DC. It is so grand and elegant that it should be in Paris, not here in the home of the breeze-block and dark-wood veneer. At most major railway stations in the world you expect to find the seedier side of life, but not so at Union. The ticketing, check-in and baggage-handling areas look like part of a modern airport. There’s even a first-class lounge. You don’t see the trains because they’re behind screens and, in any case, you’d be much too distracted by the shopping mall, the food hall, the coffee shops, even a five-screen cinema. More importantly for me, however, I remembered it as a big, busy location, and, because of the Easter holiday, I knew there’d be a big transient population of people from out of town, who would know nothing of the events at Hunting Bear Path.
A cab got us to the station early. There was just under an hour to kill, so I made the most of it shopping for items I’d be needing for the CTR of the PIRA office, besides the stuff I’d already bought at Walmart. Now that Kelly had confirmed the black guy, the only option was to get in there and have a look around.
I bought a Polaroid camera and six packs of film; a pair of cheap and nasty fibre coveralls; more rolls of gaffer tape and Sellotape; heavy-duty scissors that promised I could cut through a shiny new penny with them; a Leatherman, a tool that’s a bit like a Swiss Army knife; trainers; rubber gloves; batteries; clingfilm; a plastic bottle of orange juice with a large spout; a box of large drawing pins; a box of twelve eggs; and a quartz kitchen clock, 9 inches in diameter. Kelly looked at it all and raised an eyebrow, but didn’t ask.
By one forty I had a couple of carrier bags full of gear, as well as the books and time-wasters I’d had to put in her basket to keep her involved.
I remembered the beautiful tiled flooring in the entrance hall, but I’d forgotten the cathedral-high ceilings. In the middle was a rotunda shape with a news-stand and groups of tables outside. Above it, reached by a flight of stairs, was a restaurant. It was absolutely perfect for what I needed.
We were greeted at the top by a waitress.
I smiled. ‘Table for two, please.’
‘Smoking or non-smoking?’
I pointed at a table right at the back. ‘Can we have that one?’
We sat down and I put the bags under the table. I couldn’t see the main entrance, but I’d be able to see Pat heading towards the coffee shop because that was further into the main part of the station and up a level.
The waitress came to take the drinks order. I asked for two Cokes and said, ‘I’m ready to order now, if that’s all right? We’ll take a nine-inch pizza.’
Kelly looked up. ‘Can we have extra mushrooms, please?’
I nodded at the waitress and she left.
Kelly smiled. ‘I am just like my mommy. We both like extra mushrooms. Daddy says we must be forest pixies!’ She smiled again, wanting a reaction.
‘That’s nice,’ I said. This was a conversation that needed nipping in the bud.
Kelly got stuck into her Coke, obviously enjoying being able to watch real people for a change.
Pat was early and wore the same clothes as a VDM (visual distinguishing mark). Either that or the fucker simply hadn’t changed. As he walked past and below me, something about him didn’t seem right. There was a very slight stagger in his stride, and I knew it wouldn’t have come from drinking too much beer. I feared the worst.
I carried on doing my checks, covering his arse to protect my own.
I gave it about five minutes, got up and said to Kelly, ‘I have to go to the toilet. I won’t be long.’ On the way out, I asked the waitress to keep an eye on Kelly and our bags.
Another set of doors took me into the main ticketing and train area. The place was heaving; half of the USA must have been on the move. Even the air-conditioning was finding it too much: the combination of heat and wet from the people made it feel like a greenhouse. I joined the packed crowds slowly shuffling up to the top floor.
He was in the queue at the coffee shop, with about three or four people ahead of him. Very hale and hearty, I went over and slapped him on the back. ‘Pat! What are you doing here?’
Reciprocating my big smile, he said, ‘I’m here to meet somebody.’ His pupils were as big as saucers.
‘Me too. You got time for a Micky D’s?’
‘Yeah, yeah, why not?’
We started to walk beyond the coffee shop, following exit signs through automatic doors, and took the escalator up to the multi-storey car park.
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