Zero 22, page 31
part #8 of Danny Black Series
Rabia came out of the bathroom wearing a robe, her hair wrapped in a towel. She checked on the children through the interconnecting door, then sat on the edge of the bed next to Hamoud and stroked his hair. ‘I don’t know why you watch that man on television,’ she said.
‘Look how popular he is,’ Hamoud said. ‘Look how they cheer for him. Maybe, if that’s what it is to be an American, we should listen to what he says.’
‘No,’ said Rabia. ‘He won’t be president for ever, even if he would like to be. When he’s gone, things will change.’
‘It doesn’t feel like things will change,’ Hamoud said. ‘You’ve seen how people look at us. They don’t trust us. They think our children will grow up into terrorists.’
‘Then we will show them that we are good people,’ said Rabia. ‘That our children are good people.’
She was right, as always, and he smiled at her. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘when we get back home, I would like to find some work. I think I’m ready.’
Now it was her turn to smile. One of those smiles that was almost a cry. She squeezed his hand and then went to look out of the window. On the television, he saw two adoring members of the crowd hold up a banner which said ‘POTUS 4 EVA’. The President smirked and nodded. Hamoud switched the television off.
19.45 hrs.
Lightning flashed over the skyline of Washington DC. Thunder cracked and the rain lashed down. Lines of headlamps and brake lights glowed hazily through the elements. There were no pedestrians on the sidewalks. It was the kind of rain that made it difficult to breathe.
Danny followed the General’s directions, which took them to the heart of the capital. They queued over the Potomac River, where the water seethed and shone with each fork of lightning. ‘Jefferson Memorial,’ the General said, pointing out an illuminated domed building with classical columns.
‘We don’t need the full sightseeing tour,’ Danny said. ‘Just get us to the thing.’
Danny’s curt response didn’t stop the General pointing to the right a few minutes later. ‘United States Capitol,’ he said. Danny looked at the huge, impressive building, lit up in the darkness, the illuminations burning through the thick curtain of rain. A couple of minutes later, the General pointed ahead and to the left. ‘You know what that is,’ he said.
It was the first time Danny had ever been to Washington DC, and so it was the first time he had seen the White House in person. The atmosphere seemed to boil around and above it. A double fork of lightning streaked the sky, framing the White House on either side, and Danny couldn’t help a hot sensation of bile rising in his throat. He wondered how many operations he’d been involved with had been discussed in that building. How many men had been sent into action, and to their deaths? He thought of the Zero 22 team, and the taste of bile grew more bitter. He could just make out the American flag perched atop the White House, and the muscles in his face pinched. He suppressed a fantasy of breaking into the place, finding his way to the Oval Office and letting the President have it. That would be an impossibility, even for him. His only option was to help the General release the deepfakes. And quickly.
‘Where’s the memory stick?’ he said. And before the General had time to refuse to tell him again, he added: ‘We’re here now. We’ve got you into the country. We’ve got you in to DC. We can’t fuck around any more.’
The General was also staring at the White House. He didn’t take his eyes away from it as he spoke. ‘I have a lady friend,’ he said. ‘I keep an apartment for her downtown. On the QT, you understand? It wouldn’t be seemly for a man in my position to be involved in any kind of indiscretion.’ If he was aware of the ridiculousness of his comment, given what had happened with Bethany in Amman, he didn’t show it. ‘I hid the memory stick at her apartment.’
Danny felt himself deflating. How stupid was this guy? ‘You asked some random bit on the side to look after the most important intelligence object in the world right now?’ he demanded, incredulous. ‘How the hell do you know you can trust her?’
‘She doesn’t know I hid it there,’ the General said. ‘I didn’t tell her anything about it.’
‘What if she finds it?’
‘She won’t. She won’t even be there tonight. She works in New York during the week, flies back weekends. The apartment will be empty.’
‘You hope.’
‘I know.’
Danny gave that a moment’s consideration. ‘Tell me about the apartment,’ he said.
‘What you want to know?’
‘What kind of building?’
‘Terraced townhouses. Four storeys. The apartment’s on the second floor.’
‘Entrances? Exits?’
‘One entrance. There’s a fire window at the back with an external staircase. Don’t think it’s ever been used, at least not since I bought the place.’
‘Is there a concierge?’
‘No.’
‘Do you have a key?’
‘Don’t need one. Smart entry system. There are access keypads at the entrances to the building and the apartment.’
‘Are you known there? Will people recognise you?’
‘They’d recognise me if they saw me, I guess. I go in and out late nights and early mornings. I don’t think anybody knows I’m a regular.’
‘Where can we leave the car?’
‘Out front, if there’s space. Otherwise, a parking lot a couple of blocks away.’
Danny thought his way through this information. He didn’t like it much. A second-floor domestic apartment with only one entrance and one exit. If anybody was expecting them, it would be simple to surround the place. A couple of guys on the floor above, a couple on the floor below. Mark the entrance and the exit. Eyes on the street to see them approaching. If Danny had a team of his own, he could establish some countermeasures. But he didn’t. It was just the three of them. And it didn’t matter that the General thought his liaisons with his mistress were discreet. If Danny knew the intelligence community – and he did – they would be fully aware of O’Brien’s supposedly secret trysts. They would know about his apartment, what time he tended to arrive and leave. They might even have surveillance equipment installed in the walls and other hidden places. If they had even the slightest suspicion that the General was still alive, the vaguest notion that he had re-entered the country, the three of them could be heading straight into a death-trap.
‘Stop.’ It was Bethany. Her voice was a shocked whisper. They were driving along a street lined with shops. ‘Pull in,’ she said. ‘Back up.’
‘What the . . .’
‘Do it, Danny. I think I just saw something. You need to see it too.’
The road was busy. Danny earned himself some angry beeps as he put two wheels up on to the sidewalk and reversed several metres, past a drug store and a McDonald’s. He came to a halt in front of a TV shop. There were several large screens in the window. Had they been any smaller, the rain lashing against the glass would have completely obscured them. But they were huge, and they all displayed the same image: Danny and Bethany, in the clothes they were wearing in Amman. Their faces looked grim and purposeful. It would not be obvious to anybody looking at the image for the first time, but Danny could immediately see that this was footage that had been taken as they strode along the corridor of the General’s hotel.
‘How the hell—’ the General started to say.
‘The hotel’s CCTV,’ Danny said. ‘Your people have hacked it. Or they’ve leant on the Jordanians. One or the other.’
The picture disappeared. The news reel moved on. Danny silently pulled out into the traffic again. He felt sick. He tried to work out what it meant. Were they reporting that the Brits had launched an op to assassinate the General? The President’s Wagner Group contacts would have seen Danny and Bethany leave with him. They would be wondering who they were and what they were doing.
‘My bet is the President’s people want to know why we didn’t go through with our op to take you out,’ Danny said. ‘They want to know what you said to us to make us change our mind.’
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘They don’t know that.’ He frowned. ‘The question is, do they think you’re dead? If they do, why are they looking for me and Bethany? And if they don’t, will they have someone waiting for us at your apartment?’
‘Nobody knows about that apartment,’ the General said, his voice testy.
Danny gave him a sidelong ‘don’t be so naive’ look. The General fell silent. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he clenched his teeth.
‘If the media controlled by the President is circulating that footage on the news networks, it means they’re very nervous,’ Danny said. ‘They’re going to make sure their hit happens quickly.’ He inhaled. ‘I don’t like this,’ he said. ‘Every military instinct tells me we should hold off. Put in some surveillance on your apartment. But I don’t think we have time. I think we have to deal with whatever comes. And Bethany and I need to make sure nobody sees our faces.’
They drove in silence for a moment. Then the General said: ‘We’re about forty-five minutes away.’
The television was on mute. Rabia was in the children’s room, getting them ready. Hamoud could hear her kind cajoling and it made him smile. He crossed the room to join them, but the picture on the television screen made him stop. An eight o’clock news bulletin showed a slightly blurred CCTV image of a man and a woman. The man had dark hair and dark features. He wore a suit that looked a little small for him across the shoulders. The woman had blonde hair and a dark jacket. There was something about them that made Hamoud stare. A sharpness in the eyes. A ruthlessness. A caption across the bottom of the screen read: ‘American troops killed in Amman, Jordan. Footage of suspects released.’ Hamoud felt a chill as he looked at them. He didn’t really know what a killer was supposed to look like, even though the American authorities had accused him of being one. But if he had to guess, he imagined they might look like these two.
He caught himself. What a terrible assumption he had just made, judging somebody on their appearance. Others did that to him all the time. Perhaps these two people were completely innocent, like Hamoud had been completely innocent, like so many others at Guantanamo had been completely innocent. He thought of his box of newspaper clippings back home, with pictures of other inmates he had never met. How many of them had been falsely accused? But, he told himself, the news networks must have a reason for broadcasting such an accusation against this man and this woman. Perhaps Hamoud was being too sensitive. Perhaps they really were bad guys.
The news reel moved on. Hamoud switched off the television and put the image from his mind. He was determined to have a pleasant evening with his family.
It was a warm, clear Florida night. The buses that took people from the resort hotels to the park were packed full. Hamoud’s children gripped his hands tightly. He could tell that they felt claustrophobic, pressed in on all sides by the other passengers. There was not so little room, however, that those around Hamoud couldn’t manage to put a little space between them and him, especially when they caught sight of his beard and vivid scar. Hamoud gave both his children a little reassuring squeeze. He hoped they would not realise that he felt the same as they did. Sweat dripped down his back. His mouth was dry. He held his breath.
Then the bus spat them all out at the turnstiles and he could breathe easily. The children were more relaxed too. Hamoud and Rabia ushered them into the park and towards the now familiar sight of Main Street. It glowed with activity. There was a juggler who twirled luminous batons high into the air. Mickey, Donald and Goofy were enthusiastically greeting children as they passed. The Cinderella Castle dominated everything, its spires glowing. Rabia stopped him for a moment and pointed at it. ‘This,’ she said. ‘This is America. Not that awful man and his awful rallies.’
She was right, of course. She always was.
They walked through the castle and onto the main drag. Here it was even busier. An enormous carnival float made its way slowly towards them. The characters – more than Hamoud could even recognise – stood on the float, waving and dancing. There was a full brass band with trumpets and trombones and an enormous bass drum with a picture of Mickey Mouse on the skin. Young women with twirling batons and epaulettes marched glamorously in front of the float, and everyone cheered and waved as it passed. Rabia and the children waved too, and he felt a sudden and indescribable surge of happiness. It took him by surprise. He looked around and realised that, for the first time in ages, he felt like he was living in the moment, like he was part of something. He started to wave at the float. He grinned. He even shuffled from one foot to the other, in time with the music. His children laughed delightedly to see it, though he couldn’t hear them because the music was so loud. They danced with him and waved at the float with two hands and Hamoud didn’t even stop dancing when he saw a woman dressed as Snow White taking photographs of people in the crowd. She was taking photographs of everyone, so what did it matter that, as the float had almost passed, she stood at the edge, looked back and scanned the crowd as though searching for someone in particular? What did it matter that as her gaze fell directly on Hamoud, there seemed to be a flicker of recognition? That a look of intense concentration replaced that of vacuous jollity as she raised her camera and took his picture, lowered it again and waved at him with a big cheesy grin, and then was gone?
Hamoud was breathless. He was excited. He felt like a new person. ‘What shall we go on first?’ he said, speaking loudly because the noise of the brass band hadn’t faded away yet. The children shouted a barrage of incomprehensible suggestions and Hamoud laughed again and took them by the hands and led them up Main Street with Rabia also laughing by his side.
And then he saw him, and he stopped.
The man with the strange, long face was standing on the opposite side of the road outside a souvenir shop. Three young girls with blonde ringlets were standing to one side of him clutching cuddly Minnie Mouse toys. He was wearing the same baseball jacket that looked just a little too big for him, and he was distractedly touching his cheeks. Was he nervous? He certainly appeared to be. One of the Minnie Mouse girls bumped into him and giggled. He gave her a look of such fury that Hamoud was shocked. Frowning, the man turned and stormed away, disappearing into the crowd.
All Hamoud’s joy drained out of him. He felt a crushing sense of impending doom. Who was that man? How did he know him? Because he did know him. He was certain of it.
The children had noticed his sudden change of demeanour. They looked up at him, wide-eyed. Rabia gently touched his arm.
‘This way,’ he said. He pushed through the crowd, his family close behind, heading in the direction he had seen the man storm away. He caught a glimpse of Donald Duck on the back of the man’s baseball jacket. Then he lost sight of it again. He picked up his pace and continued to follow.
20.30 hrs.
The SUV was stationary. At the General’s instruction, Danny had parked it on a quiet street. It was lined with yellow street lamps. They beamed geometrical shapes of light into the heavy rain that hammered on to the roof of the vehicle and sluiced over the windscreen. They sat in the darkness, barely able to see out. Shadows flitted past on the sidewalk, hunched under umbrellas or wrapped in heavy raincoats. Across the street a line of four-storey terraced townhouses loomed above them. Danny couldn’t make out the roofline or the doorway through the rain. Just the window-glow of the rooms that had lights on inside.
The car windows were misting up. The General cleared his with one hand. His skin squeaked across the wet glass. He pointed at the house directly adjacent to them. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘The one with the black door.’
Danny couldn’t make out the colour of the door, nor any other feature of the house. It was in complete darkness. There was no lamp post in front of it, no lights on in the windows. He strategised. If he were putting in surveillance on this place, where would he do it from? Easy. He would set up an OP on the roof of the townhouse opposite. In weather like this, nobody would look up, nor expect anybody to be out in the elements. But he knew how the average surveillance guy thought. They were not Regiment trained, willing to endure any amount of physical discomfort in order to get the job done. They would take the easier option, which would be to set up behind one of the windows of the building opposite. Danny wiped away the condensation on his side of the car and examined that building. He observed that each floor had a light on. But if there was surveillance on any of those floors, they would keep all the lights off in case they unexpectedly had to move into another room.
‘Wait here,’ he told the others. He stowed his Sig, raised his hood and exited the vehicle. The rain soaked him to the skin in seconds. He strode twenty metres along the sidewalk, head down, checking out the other vehicles parked on either side of the road. He was looking for something that stood out as a surveillance vehicle. A van, marked or unmarked. Even a larger car with blacked-out windows. He saw nothing suspicious, so he turned 180 and walked back past the SUV and twenty metres in the other direction. Still nothing. He returned to the others and sat behind the wheel again. His clothes were cold and clammy. Rainwater dripped from them on to the seat and floor. There was another fork of lightning. As it flashed, Danny saw Bethany’s face reflected in the rear-view mirror. It was pale. Almost gaunt. She looked more tense than he’d ever seen her.
‘I’m going in by myself,’ Danny said. ‘I can move quicker and more quietly alone, and if something goes wrong it means you have another chance to retrieve the memory stick. Once I get into your apartment, I’ll check it’s empty. I’ll turn on a light overlooking the road for five seconds if everything’s clear. If you haven’t heard from me in ten minutes, you need to get the hell out of here. I’ll leave the fob with you. Any questions?’
