hear Josh,
opening and closing doors somewhere along the corridor, checking on the kids
again, I guessed, or locking  up, or whatever he did at this time  of night.
The toilet flushed, and after a while Sarah appeared.
     She  pulled  back  the  duvet and  climbed  in  beside  me.  I  smelled
toothpaste on her breath and soap on her skin. Her leg touched mine I wasn't
sure how accidentally. Her skin felt cool and smooth.
     We  both  lay there, thinking our own  thoughts. I wondered whether her
thoughts were anything like mine. After a while she turned to me.
     "What  are  you  going to do after  this, Nick?  After you've left  the
service, I mean?"
     It was something  I had always  tried not to  give any  thought  to.  I
shrugged.
     "I don't know. I never think that far ahead, never have. Tomorrow night
that's far  enough. And  I hope  I'll be  celebrating that  we're all  still
alive."
     "I don't think I'll stay in," she said.
     "I'll probably do what everybody else does get  married, have children,
all that sort  of stuff. I sometimes wish I had a child." She lifted herself
up on one elbow and looked into my eyes.
     "Does that sound crazy?"
     I shook my head.
     "Not since I've had Kelly."
     "You're very lucky." She  moved her  face closer, and  I could feel her
breath on my neck.
     "Maybe I'll write my memoirs." She brushed my face with her hand.
     "But where  could  I  possibly start the story?" She  paused, her  eyes
shining.
     "And what would I say about you?"
     "Hmm." I smiled.
     "Not easy." Fuck, if she carried on like this I'd go to pieces and tell
her I was in love with  her or some shit like that.  I couldn't handle it at
all.
     Her lips brushed against my  forehead too lightly for it to be  a kiss,
then  moved down to  my cheek.  I turned my head  and my mouth met  hers.  I
closed  my eyes and could  feel her  body half  on  top  of  mine, her  hair
brushing my face.
     Her  kiss was long, gentle and  caring, then suddenly more  urgent. She
pressed her body hard against mine.
     I was woken  by  the screams of 200 kids--or at least that was  what it
sounded like.  I  kept my  eyes  closed and listened to  the din. Maria  had
arrived and was trying to shush and  organize them, and in doing so  she was
stirring things up even more.
     A herd of elephants  went  downstairs, followed by  Mexican commands to
"put on clean sock" as she  went past our door. I opened my eyes and  looked
at Baby-G. It was six fifty-eight.
     I yawned, turned and saw Sarah. She was sitting up, nicking through the
Jackie 0 book. I muttered, "What was  that  you were saying  about  children
last night?"
     Eyes firmly  fixed on the page, she nodded, not listening. I hoped this
wasn't  going to be  one  of  those terrible  momings-after  when both of us
desperately wished  we  were somewhere  else and  neither  of us could bring
ourselves to be the first to go for eye contact. I hoped not, because I knew
it would only be that way for me if it was for her.
     "Time  spent  on  reconnaissance is seldom  wasted.  Nick,"  she  said,
glancing at me and smiling. Things were looking up.
     I propped myself up and checked the scabs  on my arm. They were sealing
up OK; the bruising was now very dark and swollen. I moved closer and looked
at the book.  It was mostly about the decor of  each  of the main rooms that
Jackie 0 had changed in the 1960s.  The useful  stuff  was at the back in an
appendix:  floor plans  of both wings,  west  and  east, plus the  executive
mansion in between. There was no way of telling if the layout was  still the
same, but that was all we had, apart from my memory of Josh's guided tour.
     I  looked up to read her eyes, and they told me she was already walking
into the White House press room. Her work cassette was in.
     I  threw off  the duvet  and headed  for the  shower. I came  back  ten
minutes later, drying my  hair  with a towel, to find her  already  dressed,
apart from her jacket and shoes.
     "Let's go down and find out what's happening.
     I'll shower later." She waited while I threw on my clothes and followed
her.
     Armageddon was well under way in  the dining  room. Spoons crashed into
cereal bowls, chairs scraped on the wooden floor, the toaster  popped, Maria
rutted and fussed. In amongst all this the kids were practicing their songs.
The problem was  they were all in different time.  It  sounded  like cats in
heat. I tried to remind myself that this was a celebration of peace,  rather
than a declaration of war.
     Josh had his back to  me, doing some magic act  with  lunch  boxes.  He
looked like  a TV chef cooking ten  things at once,  wrapping  sandwiches in
plastic wrap, washing apples, throwing in handfrils of cheese snacks. He was
wearing navy-blue suit trousers and a freshly  ironed white shirt;  I  could
see his white T-shirt underneath, and the  dark skin of his arms. I couldn't
wait to see his tie. The thing that worried me was that he had a light-brown
pancake holster just behind his right hip, and  a  double mag carrier on his
left.  I  just  hoped he didn't end up having to use what would be  going in
there on us two. I checked with Sarah. She'd clocked his gear, too.
     Josh  didn't  even  look  around  as I came in;  he  just  called  out,
"Morning!
     Coffee's  in the machine  over to the left." I could see the percolator
bubbling away.
     "Bagels  are by the toaster. Can't  stop, got to get these ready before
Puff Daddy and his backing crew here are picked up for their gig."
     I went over and  split some of the pre-cut bagels, putting  a couple in
the toaster as Sarah poured some coffee. We put on a good show, as if I knew
that  she liked nothing better than toasted bagels for breakfast  and didn't
even have to ask, and she knew exactly how I liked my coffee. She asked Josh
if he wanted some and he looked up from the lunch boxes for a second, nodded
and smiled.
     She poured.
     "So what are our chances, Josh?"
     He  had  his back  to  us again, jamming  too much food  into  a Little
Mermaid lunch box.
     "I was going to give them  a call  at the  top of  the  hour," he said,
"just after the shift change."
     He finished loading up the Little Mermaid and glanced at his watch.
     "Tell you what, let's see if I can get hold of the guy now."
     He walked over to the  wall telephone and dialed,  hooked  the receiver
with about a ten-foot lead between his shoulder and ear, then walked back to
put the lunch boxes  into the  kids' day sacks He had sold  out: his tie was
just  plain old blue. He saw me looking at it in disgust, annoyed that there
was nothing I could take the piss out of. He grinned back at me.
     The day  sacks were  made of clear  plastic the only sort  of bag  that
could be taken into some American schools now, because the kids had to  show
they held only  books and lunch  boxes  and  not guns. I imagined that White
House security would have thought them a good idea, too.
     I could hear  cartoons on the  TV next door. That  worried me; it meant
they'd  finished breakfast  and were killing time. In this house,  there was
never any TV while there were meals to be eaten or work to be done. I looked
at my watch. It was seven thirty-two.
     He got an answer.
     "Yo, it's Josh." There was a gap.
     "Yeah, absolutely fine, I'll be there today anyway to watch my kids; we
can  talk then." They spun more  work shit for a  while, and had an  in-joke
about their president.
     The toaster popped up. I picked up the bagels and  went to the  fridge,
digging out some spread. Sarah's  eyes followed me as she crossed to sit  at
the kitchen table. She looked like a student waiting for her finals results.
     I deliberately didn't  look at Josh;  if  he  turned I didn't  want any
eye-to eye
     Our unconscious bubbles away  inside, and mostly we manage never to let
people see  in; the only  place they can is our eyes. I'd spent most  of  my
life controlling it, but  Josh knew the  score. He'd been there, too. I just
concentrated hard on the bagel as I spread, and listened.
     He finished warning and got down to business.
     "Who's  the shift coordinator  today?  Ah, right.  Is  Davy Boy in?" He
sounded pleased.
     I walked across  the kitchen and sat next  to Sarah. She  had her hands
around  her mug,  just  sipping  slowly,  taking fantastic  interest in  the
coffee's molecular structure. Josh  was still gob bing off on the phone with
his back to us and zipping up the day sacks Once he'd done  that, he  walked
over to us and dumped them on the table, still waffling.
     "I've got two really good friends here, over from the U.K." and  I want
to bring them in for a  visit.  What do you say, bud?" He smiled at whatever
was being said at the other end.
     "Yeah,  today ... yeah, I know,  but  it's  their only chance,  man ...
yeah, that's OK."  He looked at his watch,  placed his thumb on the  cutout,
looked at us and said, "Call back in thirty."
     Both of us managed a genuine look  of happiness, but I was bluffing big
time. We had a problem if the kids left before we got the OK for the visit.
     I checked my watch  again. It  was now seven thirty-nine.  Josh smiled,
too, feeling good about himself as he sat down at the table with his coffee.
     Sarah sounded excited.
     "I'll go and get ready, then.  See you both soon." She gave my shoulder
a loving squeeze and disappeared.
     Josh checked  the  kitchen.  His jobs were  done.  We  drank coffee  in
silence.
     He ate a  bagel and listened to Maria still shouting at the kids in the
next room. I said, "When do the kids leave, Josh? It's a bit early for a one
o'clock start isn't it?"
     "About eight. A school bus will pick them up and take them downtown.
     Dress rehearsals, man. I'll  be glad  when this is all over; this quilt
business seems to have taken over my life."
     I nodded. I knew exactly what he meant.
     I tried to fill the silence.
     "What's the dress code?" I said.
     "I don't want to let you down."
     "Hey, no problem, man. I just gotta look good; it's my job."
     We continued  to drink our brews and gob off. I asked if I could borrow
one of his ties.
     He was about to clip me over the head when a shout came from the dining
room.
     "Daddy! Daddy!" There  was some  whining going  on and Maria  was  just
about to go ballistic. He got up.
     "Back in five."
     He went out with a smile on his face; mine dropped. I checked again.
     Seven forty-five. Fifteen  minutes till the kids  left, but  closer  to
twenty-five before we got the go or no go for the visit.  Not good; I needed
the kids here just in case we  had a no go,  otherwise plan B wouldn't work.
Time  to get  my finger out of my ass and get in gear.  I put my coffee down
and  went upstairs. Sarah's shower was running and she was standing naked by
the  curtain, just about  to step in. I said nothing, but went to my bag and
pulled out the 9mm, then checked the chamber.
     She  came over to me,  putting her  mouth right against my ear  as  she
asked what was happening.
     I placed  the weapon  in  the waistband of  my jeans and pulled  out my
shirt to cover it.
     "The kids could be leaving before Josh gets the go or no go."
     She  leaned  over  the chair,  got  her clothes and started  to  dress,
muttering, "Shit. Shit. Shit."
     "You wait  here and  stand by. If I have to go for  it, you'll hear. If
so, get down to me and be  quick about it.  Remember, don't kill him, OK? Do
you remember what to do?"
     She nodded as she tucked her shirt into her trousers. I still wanted to
run through it with her. We couldn't afford to fuck up now.
     "If  it's a  no go, I'll hold them here, and  you will have  to go with
Josh on your own. Can you handle that?"
     She nodded again, without looking up.
     "Good. Remember, he will do whatever you say if the kids are hostages.
     Make sure you keep reminding him about his kids."
     This time she stopped dressing and looked up at me.
     "Good luck," I said quietly.
     She smiled.
     "And you."
     Checking my shirt, I went downstairs, leaving Sarah as she checked that
there was a round in the chamber, ready to go.
     The bags had gone from the kitchen, but kid-type noise was still coming
from the TV room. Josh came back in from giving them their day sacks
     "What's the score up there,  then, eh?" He jerked his  head to indicate
upstairs.
     "Is it serious?"
     "I think so, mate. I hope so."
     He had a big smile on his face.
     "She's magic, man. She'd make my head spin."
     "Tell me about it." I sat down to finish my coffee, with a sly check of
Baby-G.  It was  seven  fifty-seven. Three  minutes and  the  kids  could be
leaving; still over ten before the call.
     Dakota came into the kitchen, very excited about the day's program.
     "Hi, Nick. Are you and Sarah hanging  out with  Daddy today so you  can
see us sing? It's going to be so cool!"
     Josh tried to calm her down.
     "Wow, chill. We  don't know yet, we're waiting  on a call. You'd better
say good-bye to Nick now, just in case." With that he  went back into the TV
room to usher the others into the kitchen.
     Dakota came over and gave me a  hug. It  must have  felt as strange for
her as it did for me. I  was holding  back;  I  didn't want  her to feel the
weapon.
     "If I don't see you this afternoon, I'll call you all soon--with Kelly,
        OK?"
     By  now the others were coming  through, more  interested in what  they
were missing on the TV than in saying goodbye.
     Josh was getting them organized.
     "All go upstairs and  say good-bye to Sarah. Holler through the door if
she's in the shower." Off they scrambled.
     I heard their shouts, and hers in return.
     Josh  was on the doorstep with Maria. It looked as  if she was finished
until this afternoon. Good: one less to worry about.
     It  was  eight o'clock. Things could start getting scary  soon.  I made
sure  my work cassette  was in, and  stayed there.  At  least Josh's holster
wasn't full yet; it never was with  the kids around. I heard the hiss of air
brakes outside.
     "The  bus is  here,  kids, let's  go!"  There  was  a thumping  on  the
staircase and  one in my heart as I walked into the hall to stop them,  hand
now reaching under my shirt.
     They saw me.
     "Bye, Nick, see you this afternoon!"
     The  phone  rang and Josh came past me, back into the kitchen, sounding
exasperated.
     "Come on, kids, get your bags. Bus is waiting!"
     Through  the  open kitchen  door,  I  saw him  answer  the phone. I was
standing in their way as  they were about to turn  left toward the door that
led from the hallway into the TV room. I put my hand around the pistol grip.
I  knew it  would work;  people don't  fuck  about  when it comes  to  their
children.
     Sarah was  at the top of  the stairs, weapon strong, five steps behind.
The worse scenario  I could imagine couldn't be stopped now. She was walking
down the stairs, pistol behind her, in case one of the children looked back.
     I slowed the herd.
     "Hey, hey, don't go yet. I think your dad wants you all in the kitchen.
He's finding out if Sarah and I are coming to see  you all sing today." They
turned left through the door to their dad. I had eye-to eye with  Sarah. She
was  nearing  the  bottom  of  the stairs and was placing her  weapon in her
trouser band.
     "Remember what I said."
     She nodded as we both went into the kitchen with the last of the kids.
     He got to the end of his call  and the kids  were all over him, wanting
to know.
     "Right, we're on at ten!" He beamed.
     The kids cheered and we both cheered with them.
     "Well done!" I had a big smile on my face.
     "Thanks a lot, mate.
     Brilliant!"
     He remembered the bus.
     "What  are you guys doing here? Go,  go!" He shooed them out toward the
front door.
     I heard  the hiss of the  bus's air brakes and the chug of diesel as it
dragged  itself down the road. Josh came back into the kitchen and collapsed
onto a chair with a loud sigh, pouring himself some more coffee as he looked
up at Sarah.
     "Come back, Geri, all is forgiven." He looked at me.
     "Great news, huh? To  tell you the truth, I'm quite looking forward  to
it myself."
     Sarah laughed, more out of relief than anything else.
     "Say, do you guys have a camera?"
     We didn't.
     "No problem, we can pick one up from a store. I'm quite looking forward
to going downtown. I  miss working the team, man."  He took another  slug of
coffee.
     "This  job is  driving me crazy,  know what I'm saying? I've got to get
back on ops." Tilting his head back, he killed the coffee.
     "I'm going to  make  a call to  arrange  parking. It's a  nightmare  up
there."
     Sarah stood up.
     "I'll finish getting ready and pack."
     I followed her out to the stairs and passed over my weapon.
     "In the bags."
     I  was back  at the  coffee  percolator as  Josh finished his  call.  I
motioned to see if he wanted more, and he nodded. The phone went back on the
wall and he came to the table.
     I took a seat beside him.
     "We'll just have to wait now while she puts her face on."
     He  smiled  as he unfolded  the newspaper. I  started  to  flap as  the
Washington Post was laid out  on the table top, but the chances of the story
still being in there after three days were pretty slim, especially given the
amount of column inches devoted to events at the White House.
     "Anything interesting?"
     "Hell no, just the normal shit."
     He turned  the  paper  around to show me  the  front  page: pictures of
Netanyahu and Arafat  in town yesterday.  The subject was a bit too close to
home for me at the moment.
     He turned the paper back  as I  asked,  "What do think, mate?  Think it
will work? You know, the peace deal?"
     He started to  give his views on  the summit. Not that I was listening,
but I wanted  him to talk, which was why I'd asked the question in the first
place. The more he was gob bing off, the more I could just sit there and nod
and  agree or  throw in the odd  question, but  at the same time  get myself
revved up for the job. I  was in my own little world, so  relieved  the call
had brought good news.
     I heard  Sarah coming down the stairs. It  brought me back  to the real
world. He  was now honking about  all the roadworks and the D.C.  traffic as
Sarah came into the room with our  bags and my  jacket. She may not have had
time for a shower but she'd made up for it with eyeliner and lip gloss.
     Josh stood up, looking at his watch.
     "OK, let's saddle up!"
     I picked up our two  bags  while Josh  ran upstairs. He didn't say why,
but we both knew that it was to fetch his weapon.
     A bleep came from  the pickup and the lights  flashed. Josh jumped into
the cab, and Sarah and I  went around to the passenger side. As I opened the
door  a  toy racing car  fell out. Crayons, a coloring sheet from McDonald's
and other kids' crap littered the foot well I put our  bags in the back; our
weapons were inside now, and would stay there.
     Sarah picked up the toy from the sidewalk and climbed in. I followed;
     there was room enough for three in the front seat.
     The morning  sky was  still overcast,  but bright when the sun came out
between the clouds. I had to  squint  as I looked through the  windshield. A
pair of mirrored  sunglasses were  hanging  by their cord from  the rearview
mirror. Josh put them  on over his shiny head and fired up the ignition. The
engine  gave  a  big  four-liter  growl,  and out  we  backed,  the  antenna
automatically starting to rise.
     The radio came on, and to my surprise it  was a woman talking about the
place of  Jesus in today's world. Josh looked at  me, obviously feeling that
my unasked question needed an answer.
     "Christian channel," he said, not at all defensively.
     "A couple of guys got  me into listening. It's been  a help.  I've even
started going to a few meetings with them."
     I said, "That's good, Josh," and wondered if his bible studies had  got
as far as Judas yet.
     We headed north, back along the route by which the taxi had brought us.
Josh chatted about how long  it had been since he'd been to the White House,
and what he missed about working there. The thing he didn't miss, he said as
we gradually crawled our way to D.C." was the traffic. He hated it. As if we
didn't know by now.
     Sarah saw a  filling station coming up and reminded Josh to stop for  a
one-shot  camera. Twenty-five minutes after leaving the  house, we were back
on  the Jefferson Davis Highway approaching the Pentagon. Instead of passing
it, however, we took a  right onto a bridge that took us across the Potomac.
Josh became the tourist guide.
     "Left, that's  the  Jefferson Memorial, and farther over is the Lincoln
Memorial. Sarah, you've gotta get Nick to take you to the Reflecting Pool at
sunset; it's real romantic, just like the movies."
     We had plenty of time to admire the view, as the traffic was backed  up
from  halfway  over the  bridge. Eventually we started heading north on 14th
Street,  bisecting the  vast  stretch of grass that is  the  National  Mall,
running from the Capitol building  all  the way down to the Lincoln Memorial
by the Potomac.
     Once over the Mall  we made a few turns. Josh said, "Here we are, where
all the  dirty deeds are done!" We drove past the target, leaving it to  our
left.
     "We  have to go around because of the  one-way system. But that's cool,
you get to see it from all sides."
     Once we'd done a circuit counterclockwise, we landed up on 17th Street.
     The front of  the  White  House  faced north,  sandwiched  between  two
gardens, Lafayette Park, which was part of the pedestrian area in the front,
now that Pennsylvania Ave was closed to traffic,  and,  at the rear, backing
onto the National Mall, the Ellipse, a large area of green that looked as if
it had become a giant car park for government permit holders.
     The White House was flanked to the west by the old Executive Office and
to the east by the  Treasury Department. Each of  the two buildings  had  an
access road between it and the White House, but both were closed to traffic.
West  Executive  Avenue was  closed  off  to pedestrians  as well,  but East
Executive Avenue wasn't, to allow the public entry through  the east wing of
the White House.
     We  turned left and slowed down. Rows of cars were  parked on the grass
of  the  Ellipse, and  in amongst them was a line  of  about a dozen  yellow
school buses.
     Josh indicated again. The road  had originally  bent around,  away from
the White House, but had  since been blocked  off to create yet another  car
park. We passed the gates to West Executive Avenue and stopped on the corner
of State Place. Josh opened the window and put his hand out.
     "Yo!"
     He got a nod from a man dressed in a gray single-breasted suit and what
looked like a reddish tie.  He'd been standing by  the gates  and started to
amble toward us.
     "Davy Boy! Long time!"
     "Yo, Josh, good to see you!"
     Sarah  and I looked at each other as they exchanged greetings.  She had
the same concern as I did: Was this guy going to stay with us?
     "How goes it, Davy, get a place for me?"
     Davy continued toward the wagon. I could see his tie now lots  of small
Dalmatians on a red background.
     "Hey, you know what, just park in the West Exec duty pool."
     As we got out of the vehicle Josh clapped Davy  enthusiastically across
the shoulders.
     "Come here, let me introduce you  to  my friends  from the U.K. This is
Sarah." They shook hands.
     "And this is Nick." We pressed the flesh.
     "Hey. Good to see you. Welcome." Davy was in his mid-thirties, and very
open and friendly.  He was also tall, fit, good-looking and had  all his own
teeth white  and perfect.  If he hadn't been in the Secret Service,  a great
career would have beckoned as the Diet Coke man.
     Davy had everything arranged.
     "I'll take you guys to the gate house, get you an ID pass each and take
you in.  As you know, it's kinda  busy  today, but we'll do what we  can for
you."
     Sarah and I gushed our  thanks as we started to walk off with him. Josh
cut in from behind us, "See you folks in a few."  I heard his door close and
the wagon start to move.
     Davy did all the small talk.
     "Take long to get here?"
     I looked at my watch. It was ten sixteen.
     "No, not really, just over an hour."
     "That's good. Was he complaining about the traffic?"
     "He did nothing but moan."
     Davy Boy liked that one.  It seemed that nothing had changed  with  his
old work mate
     Josh's black Dodge passed us on the way to the gates that would let him
into  West Executive  Avenue.  We were  going  there  as well,  but  via the
security gatehouse. Josh stopped at the big, black iron  gates, which opened
automatically for him. The gatehouse  was to the left, with a  turnstile and
airport-style metal  detector.  From a distance it  had  looked as if it was
made of white  PVC and glass, like a conservatory. As we got nearer, I could
see  that it wasn't;  the white  paint  covered steel, and  the glass was so
thick I could only just make out movement inside.
     As the gates closed behind him, I could see  Josh parking in line, nose
in to the pavement, about fifty meters up on the left-hand side.
     There was a big  round of applause to my right and  the roar of excited
children's voices coming from a  huge  marquee that had been erected in  the
rear White House gardens. Davy grinned.
     "There  are  about  two hundred of them  in  there. Been practicing all
morning." He screwed up his face as the applause continued.
     "At least they think they're good."
     I could see more  clearly into the gatehouse now that we'd gone through
the fence, turned right and were standing by the metal detector. Just beyond
that  was the  turnstile.  Two  bodies were inside  the  gatehouse. The door
opened and one of them came out. An electric buzz came from the turnstile as
Josh came through to join  us.  The guard was white and in  his forties. His
Secret Service  uniform was a very sharply pressed white shirt, a black tie,
black  trousers  with  a yellow  stripe  and  black patent-leather belt kit,
holding a semiautomatic pistol and spare mags. He couldn't wait to have a go
at Josh.
     "Things must be  getting  desperate around here if they're bringing you
back!"
     Josh laughed; he'd  obviously had this for years from this guy, because
he gave him the finger as he replied.
     "I've been sent to get rid of all the dead wood, so  you'd better watch
out, lard-ass."
     Everybody contributed to the banter as the fat one slapped his stomach.
     Sarah  and I were the  gooseberries in this, so we just kept our mouths
shut and concentrated  on  looking awestruck  at  standing  so  close to the
official residence of the most powerful man on earth.
     I could see  that Lard-ass and a younger black guy who was still inside
the gatehouse were  also responsible  for manning a  bank of TV monitors and
radios.  Davy  got  hold  of  a clipboard  and  went through  the signing-in
procedure.
     "Nick, surname please?"
     "Stone." Being with Josh, there was no option but to reply truthfully.
     "OK, S-to-n-e." There was a few seconds' pause as he finished writing.
     "And Sarah?"
     "Damley."
     He  frowned, and she spelled it  for him as she wiped  her new  glasses
with a tissue from her pocket.
     "OK, if you can just sign here and here for me, please."
     The first signature was for the ID card, the second for the entry log.
     Josh  then signed himself  in as  well. Davy gave the clipboard back to
the guard, who handed Sarah and me each an ID card. Lard-ass smiled at Sarah
as he passed her card over.
     "You're not going to let these two losers show you around, are you?"
     "I guess I'm stuck with them for now."
     He smiled and shook his head.
     "The only place these  two know  is the  canteen. You'll just be eating
doughnuts and drinking coffee all  day, and look  what that  did for me!" He
looked down at his belly.
     We joined in the laughter. Mine was out of sheer relief at getting even
this far. It appeared that we weren't quite in the Good Lads Club because we
didn't  have  our cards on nylon straps we had clips, with  a black V  on  a
white background, not for visitor, but  volunteer. It must have been part of
the deal, today being busy: no visitors. It seemed Davy and Josh  had made a
real effort for us. I hated that. It made me feel even more guilty,  but I'd
live. At least, I hoped I would.
     Our  IDs looked quite  different  from the  ones  Davy  and  Josh  were
wearing.
     Theirs  had  a  blue edge surrounding  their  pictures,  and  some  red
markings underneath. We clipped ours onto  our jackets and Davy clapped  and
rubbed his hands together.
     "OK, people, let's do this thing."  He  walked around the  detector and
waited with Josh as we walked through it.
     As we all went through the turnstile I didn't know which feeling inside
me was stronger, elation at getting past the first hurdle, or concern that I
was now fenced in and the clock was ticking.
     We walked north  along West Exec  Ave.  We weren't  inside  the  actual
grounds yet, as the iron fencing that stretched away  from the gate  divided
the  White House from the road. We seemed to be aiming for an entrance about
fifty meters  farther up,  which  opened onto the  front  White House  lawn.
Looking through into the gardens, I could see the rear of the  main building
and the marquee.  A member of the Emergency Response Team was standing under
a tree, talking into  his  radio as he watched the road, and us.  He  really
looked  the  business.  He  was  dressed  from  head to foot in black: black
coveralls, black belt kit, body armor and boots. He had a  baseball cap with
ERT  on the  front and a pager that was hooked onto the  leg  strapping that
went around his thigh  to keep his pistol and holster in place. It looked as
if his main weapon, probably an MP5,  was covered by a  black  nylon support
across his chest.
     Josh took  a  back seat as  Davy  started to give us the brief while we
continued toward the gate.
     "Regardless  of  what people  think, this  place is  basically  just an
office complex. Over to the  left-hand side"  we looked over at the old Exec
Building  in perfect unison, like a group of Japanese tourists "that's where
the VP's office is, and that's also the Indian Treaty Room. It's a fantastic
sight, I'll try and get you in there later on, especially if our little tour
the other side of the fence is cut short."
     We  carried  on  up the road between  the two buildings, basically just
listening to Davy Boy. The more you listen, the less you have to say and the
less you can fuck up and the more time you can spend looking  for anyone who
looks remotely like a dark-skinned Al Gore or Bill Gates.
     Walking purposefully between the two buildings, via the gate,  were men
in  conservative  suits and women in identical two pieces,  each with  an ID
card dangling on a nylon cord. Television and power cables snaked across the
tarmac, and  at  the top  of  the  road, where  it met Pennsylvania  Avenue,
satellite trucks were jammed onto every available square inch of space.
     As we got to within ten meters or so  of the gate I saw Monica Beach in
front of  me, on the White House side of the fence. I looked at Sarah. She'd
seen it, too. Multicolored umbrellas were pitched high to keep the light out
of the camera lenses. Spotlights  were rigged  up for  the reporters to look
good in front of the cameras, and there were yet more power cables.
     They seemed to have a  life of their own. The whole place looked like a
Hollywood location.
     Beyond Monica  Beach I could see another gatehouse, which I guessed was
the  press  entrance point from Pennsylvania Avenue. Throngs  of people with
videos and cameras jostled against  the railings to  get a good shot  of the
building. They seemed to  be photographing everything that moved,  maybe  in
the hope  of capturing some celebrity to show the folks  back home.  If this
all  went  to  rat shit in a few  hours' time, I guessed the police would be
appealing for them to hand in their footage.
     Davy continued to give us the general picture as we stood at the gate.
     There was a bit  of a  bottleneck as ERT and  uniformed Secret  Service
security scrutinized the IDs of everybody who was waiting to go through.
     "The  White House  can be broken down into  three main parts. The  east
wing"--he  pointed to the far side of the main  house; we looked, but I  was
more intent on scanning the faces of  the news crews  that were walking from
the  building up to  the beach--"then, in the middle, the executive mansion.
That's the part you always see in newsreels. As you can  see,  just outside,
on  the lawn, is  where the ceremony will take place. The kids will be doing
their thing in front of the stage."
     Arranged on the stage were a couple of rows of chairs, and two lecterns
emblazoned with  the presidential seal. The flags  of  Israel, Palestine and
the  United  States  were  being unfurled  on  flagpoles.  The  scene looked
idyllic.
     Sarah was watching the  hordes  of tourists poking their video  cameras
through the fence.
     "Isn't it dangerous to be so exposed to the road?"
     Davy shook his head.
     "No,  they'll close  off Perm Ave soon." He pointed  to our side of the
executive mansion.
     "This here is the west wing, used  mainly  for administration and press
briefings, as you can see." He nodded over to the TV crews behind us.
     We turned, and it gave both of us an opportunity to have a good look at
the personnel. I couldn't see anyone who looked remotely like our targets.
     In  any case, these guys were technicians  sorting out camera gear, not
reporters.
     We just had to get back to playing the tourist.
     "The Oval Office is in the west wing and not in the executive mansion,"
Davy went on.
     "That's why these guys"--he  pointed at the crowd by  the fence--"never
get to see him. They're always looking at the wrong place and from the wrong
side. The Oval Office overlooks where all the kids are at the moment."
     Still we  waited, shuffling forward  toward the security. Now and again
Josh and Davy waved at somebody they  recognized. We moved out of the way so
that a  group of sharply  dressed men and women could come through  the gate
onto the road. One of the women recognized Josh.
     "Well, Mr. D'Souza! What brings you to town?"
     Josh stepped to one side with a larger than normal smile on his face.
        "I
     thought I'd just  drop in and say heyyy." We stood and waited for a few
seconds so that  he could  finish his conversation. I could hear him talking
about his  kids  being part  of  the  ceremony.  Sarah  suddenly  remembered
something.
     "Oh, no, the camera. I've left it in the car."
     Josh heard and turned his head.
     "Hey, no problem, I'll open the truck."
     Sarah didn't want to mess up the conversation.
     "That's OK, I'll do it."
     She held out her hand for the keys and Josh presented them.
     I'd forgotten it, too. We were going to need it, as we were tourists on
a once-in-a-lifetime trip. Josh looked at me as if I was a mop head
     "We now know who's the one with the smarts!" Then he turned back to his
conversation.
     We waited until Sarah ran back to us  with the camera in her  hand, and
Davy continued the tour.
     "Come on, I'll show  you something that you see on the news every day."
Following yet more power cables, we  were walking along the pathway that led
from the gate to the front of the  east wing. We  went down a  few steps and
past a door  with  a  small  white semicircular canopy  over  it. More power
cables spewed  over the ground and a portable generator was chugging away to
my  left.  Every  time we  passed  groups  of people, I watched Sarah for  a
reaction. She was the only one who could give a positive ID on these people.
I could make only possibles.
     "Here we are." We'd arrived at a large glass-paneled  door. I looked to
the  left and saw a satellite truck  backed  up against the side of the main
stone staircase, which was the North Portico of the executive mansion. Under
the staircase were open doors leading into the  ground floor. A flight above
it led to the first floor and the main entrance. Davy ushered us through and
we were immediately  confronted by a very familiar sight,  the  lectern with
the presidential seal from which  I'd seen  so many  White House  statements
delivered. The room  looked very  purposeful  and businesslike, but was much
smaller than  I'd imagined. Facing the lectern were plastic chairs, arranged
in rows with a center aisle.  It looked more like the  setup for a community
meeting in the local village  hall,  except that there were wires everywhere
on the  floor, with camera crews sorting out TV equipment  and mikes. I  was
busily scanning the room,  looking at the  dozen or so people who were  in a
frenzy preparing for the afternoon's events.
     Josh looked at us both.
     "You got your camera?"
     I played dumb.
     "What?"
     "Your camera?"
     There was a big laugh. He said, "Go on, get up there!"
     Sarah and I looked  at each  other and I thought, Fuck it, we've got to
do it, it would be unusual not to. Josh took pictures of each of  us  at the
lectern, and one of us together; we put  our arms around  each other for  it
and smiled. He threw the camera at me as we walked toward him.
     "Something to show your  grandchildren!" On  cue, Sarah and I exchanged
the expected coy smile.
     We came out of the press conference area and back onto the pathway.
     Davy was looking at the satellite truck. Josh was still saying hello to
everyone he  knew and  explaining  to them why he was here. Davy had made up
his mind.
     "Hey, you  know what? I think  we will go  around the other side.  It's
kinda  busy in there." Shading  our  eyes  from a sudden  burst of brilliant
sunshine, we started to walk up  the  small flight of stairs that would take
us to the same level as the main entrance staircase.
     Still no Al or Bill, but we were a bit early. What we were going to  do
when we pinged them, I hadn't actually worked out yet.  It  all depended  on
the situation. I  hoped  we  could get Josh  to  take action, alert him that
something  was  wrong,  or  maybe I'd  say  that  I'd  seen people  I  could
positively  ID as  terrorists. Whatever, it didn't matter, as long as  these
people stopped them. All we had to do was find them first.
     I asked, "Davy, when do the rest of the media arrive,  mate? Do they go
anywhere to get instructions and stuff like that?"
     He pointed back to the press room.
     "The media  get a briefing in there at noon. The  TV  presentation guys
won't  pitch up  until then.  They just have their sound and lighting people
rig up first."
     I looked excited.
     "Would it be possible to see the briefing? I'm a bit of a media junkie,
I really like that sort of thing."
     Davy looked  at me as if I  was  mad. How could something like  that be
interesting?
     "Sure, no problem."
     I looked over at Sarah as we walked. She knew what I was doing.  All we
had to do was keep this up until midday.  If the players were going to show,
they'd be at the media brief.
     We'd reached the bottom of the stairs of the North Portico leading into
the  mansion. Davy  pointed to  the  stage  on  the  grass  opposite,  still
receiving its finishing touches. He nodded toward Pennsylvania Avenue.
     "The cameras will be on  that side  of the  stage, with  the TV reports
made from  the  media  area  we passed earlier."  We both nodded  and looked
extremely interested, which wasn't difficult. Josh wasn't  so enthralled. He
asked Davy, "Where to now?"
     "You wanna see the alley?"
     We continued to walk past the executive mansion toward the east wing.
     The drive  we  were walking on went from the white  gatehouse the press
used and swept in a semicircle to the far right of the lawn, where there was
a  similar  security post. An ERT guy was walking toward it from a  line  of
black Chevy pickups parked in line on the driveway. Their red and blue light
racks,  darkened  windows  and antennae  made  me  remember  that there were
probably more  guns within a 200-meter radius of where we were standing than
Jim's had  sold in its  lifetime. We  would have  to be  careful not  to get
zapped ourselves when they took on the players.
     We now  had an uninterrupted view down into the lower area on the other
side of the staircase. I couldn't help noticing the paint. It was more cream
than white, and it  was peeling. We  moved a bit farther along and went down
some steps that  took us  below the level of the  grass. At the bottom, Davy
turned and walked backward so he could face us as he explained, "This is the
part the public don't get to see." We bent down to get past some large steel
ventilation pipes. He pointed at the executive mansion.
     "This is really  the ground floor.  Behind  this wall  are some  of the
state rooms, like the  Diplomatic Reception Room, the China Room, that kinda
thing." He indicated the area below us.
     "But this is more interesting... the basement, that's where it's at. In
fact, there are two  basements. Bowling, rest areas, paint shop and repairs.
There's even a bomb shelter down there."
     Looking  to the  right, I  saw windows that opened onto rooms under the
White House driveway and lawn.
     We  came to a  white, glass-paneled double door. Actually,  it was more
gray than white, now. You could tell this  was the admin area. Davy kept the
door open for me and Sarah. Josh followed.
     We were now under the main staircase. Across the way the satellite crew
were working under the eagle eye of an ERT escort. Davy gave him a wave.
     "Hi, Jeff, good to see you, man."
     Davy  steered  us toward  the door that was nearest the other entrance,
into  which all  the  cables  seemed to  lead. Once  through  it, I was  hit
straightaway  by the smell: the heavy  odor of  school  dinners and cleaning
products that  I'd known  as a child and  that,  as I  got older, I  came to
associate with  army cook houses or stairways  of low-rent accommodation. We
were in a hall about four meters  wide, with polished floor tiles. The walls
were stone,  with a plaster skim and many years' worth of cream gloss paint.
Grooves and concave shapes  had been  gouged into the plaster by  carelessly
pushed food trolleys, an empty one of which was parked up in the corridor.
     Following the cables, we passed an elevator and staircase  on our left,
then went through another door. It was like walking into a different world.
     We  emerged into  the  opulent  splendor  of  marble  walls  and  glass
chandeliers,  hanging  from  high  cross-vaulted  ceilings.  The  smell  had
disappeared.
     Blocking the view  to our left were two  tall brown screens, positioned
like a roadblock. Davy and Josh muttered greetings to the ERT and two Secret
Service agents who were in the area. One of them had a blue tie with golfers
in various poses, the other had a yellow one covered with little biplanes.
     Davy  said,  "This  is  the ground floor hallway. We can't  see down it
today as the  president will be here later on. He won't want to see all this
stuff trailing around." He was pointing to the cabling.
     Sarah wanted to know more.
     "Why,  what's happening  in here?  I thought  everything  was  going on
outside?"
     Two television technicians walked past from left  to right, escorted by
their ERT minder. Josh  was still talking quietly to  the two Secret Service
guys.
     Davy  whispered,  "At about eleven, Arafat, Netanyahu and the president
will  be in the Diplomatic Reception Room for  coffee." He  nodded his  head
toward the TV crew, who were now walking back toward us.
     "These  guys are rigging up a remote for CNN that's going  to  put  out
live coverage.
     The leaders stay there for twenty to thirty minutes,  then move out for
an early lunch."
     Sarah was  trying to  work out where the Diplomatic Reception Room was,
pointing past the screens.
     "That's the oval-shaped room down there on the right, isn't it?"
     Davy nodded.
     "Yeah, after lunch they then move to the Blue Room.
     That's the same shape and  directly above on the first floor. Then,  at
one o'clock, they walk out onto the  lawn and get blasted  by  the  heavenly
choir." He screwed up his face again at the thought of 200 kids out of tune.
     Josh came over and joined us.
     "Hey, guys, I think we'd better move on."
     We got the hint. The Secret Service  guys didn't want us around so near
coffee time.
     We started down the corridor  to the right,  following the cables. Davy
sparked  up,  pointing  at  a large  white  double  door at the  end of  the
corridor.
     "That  leads to the  west  wing, where the briefing area is." The cable
went through a door on the left of the corridor. We turned right and entered
one  of the admin areas. The smell came back to  me. To the left was another
elevator.
     "That's the service elevator for the State Dining Room."
     Davy was clearly enjoying his role as tour guide.
     "It's directly  above  us  on  the first floor."  To the right  of  the
elevator was a spiral staircase.
     We stopped by the elevator. Davy had a huge grin on his face.
     "I gotta show you  folks the burn  marks you Brits  made last time  you
made an unannounced visit!"
     A trolley headed toward us, pushed by an efficient-looking, mid-fifties
black guy  in  black trousers, waistcoat,  tie and a very  crisply laundered
white shirt.  It  was  laden with coffee pots, cups and saucers, biscuits of
all sorts. The guy said,  "Excuse me, gentlemen," then saw Sarah and  added,
"and lady," in a very courteous manner as he cruised past, the cups rattling
on  the metal trolley. Basically, of course, he was just telling  us  to get
the fuck out of the way. He was a man with a mission.
     We  climbed  down  the  spiral staircase as Davy continued his  running
commentary.
     "We have two  other  elevators, one hundred  and thirty-two  rooms  and
thirty-three bathrooms."
     Josh chipped in.
     "And seven staircases."
     I tried  to raise a  smile  of acknowledgment. At any  other  time this
would be interesting, but not now.
     At the bottom we stopped by  a pair  of  fire doors  with  thick wooden
panels inset with two rectangular strips  of wired, fire-resistant glass and
covered with dirty hand marks where they got continuously pushed. Above them
sat a  large slab of stone  supporting the  archway. Black scorch marks were
clearly visible.
     "We've  kept them there just as  a little reminder of the sort of thing
that happens when you guys come to town. Not that you stayed that long; we'd
had more than enough of you by then."
     There was more laughter. I saw Sarah check her watch.
     Davy  said, "You know, people think that it was called  the White House
after you Brits burned it down. Not so, it only  got its name in 1901, under
..." He turned to Josh for the answer.
     "Roosevelt." Josh looked at us sheepishly.
     "Hey, if you work here you have to know these things."
     There wasn't much we could say, and there was only so much burned stone
we could look  at. After a  minute  or so,  Davy said, "OK, let's go bowl  a
few."
     As  we  pushed  our  way  through the  fire  doors, I  could see  maybe
twenty-five or thirty meters of white painted corridor in front  of me, each
side  of which had white wooden  doors slightly inset into  the  walls.  The
whole  area  had a functional  feel.  It  was lit  by  strip  lighting, with
secondary lighting boxes positioned at key  points in  case of power failure
or fire. The same cook house-and-polish smell hung in the air. There was  no
activity down here at all. Our  footsteps  squeaked on the tiles and  echoed
along the corridor.
     We came to  a  pile of cardboard  boxes  and bulging bin liners stacked
against the wall.
     "It's just like any other house," Davy said.
     "All the junk goes into the basement."
     We passed several of the  white doors and came to a gray metal one with
a slowly flashing red bulb above it. Davy pointed up.
     "Let's see who's in."
     He  swiped  his ID card through  a security lock and said,  "Welcome to
Crisis Four."
     He opened the door and gestured us in. I followed Sarah into a darkened
room that contained a bank of at least twenty CCTV screens set into the wall
in banks of three. Each carried a different picture, with a time code bar at
the bottom ticking  away the milliseconds. The colored views  were of large,
richly decorated rooms, and hundreds of meters of corridors  and colonnades.
On a desktop that  ran the whole length of the console, illuminated by small
down lighters were banks of telephones, microphones and clipboards.
     I went in  and  moved  to  one  side so  that Josh  could  follow.  The
temperature  was cooler in here;  I could hear the air conditioning  humming
gently
     above me. Lined  up in front of  the bank of  screens were four  office
chairs on castors. The sole occupant of the room was sitting on one of them,
dressed inERT  black,  his  baseball  cap  illuminated  by the screens as he
mumbled into one of the phones.
     I looked at Sarah. Her eyes were glued to the screens;  I could see the
light from them reflecting off her face.
     The phone went down and Josh called out, "Yo, Top Cat! How goes it?"
     TO spun around in his chair and raised both arms.
     "Heyyya,  fella! I'm good. It's been a while." He was white  and looked
in his mid-thirties, with a very smart, well-trimmed mustache.
     They shook hands and Josh introduced us.
     "This is  Nick,  and  this is Sarah, they're  from the  U.K. Friends of
mine.  This is  TO." We  both walked  over to him, and he  stood up to shake
hands. His chin already had shadow and he looked as if he needed five or six
shaves a day;  either  that, or he'd  been on duty all  night. He  was maybe
about five foot six, with short dark brown hair under his black cap.
     TC's firm grip contrasted with his very soft Southern  accent, but both
oozed confidence.
     "What have you seen so far?"
     "Josh has been showing us  what happened the last time  the  Brits were
down here."
     Sarah had a question to ask Davy.
     "Do you think  it would be possible  to see the State Dining Room? It's
just that I'm a big fan of Jackie 0 and..."
     Davy looked at TO, who shrugged apologetically.
     "I'm sorry  to have  to  tell you folks  that no one  can  go  upstairs
today."
     Josh felt that he had to explain.
     "Access depends on what is going on.
     Just about any other day would have been fine. Hey, thousands of people
visit most days; it's one of Washington's biggest attractions."
     Sarah and I both started waffling variations on the theme of,  "It's no
problem, it's great just being here. We're really enjoying it."
     Davy sounded like he had a good idea.
     "I tell you what, from here you can  see it all anyway." He pointed  at
the screens, and then proceeded to give us a quick rundown.
     "As I said, this room is  Crisis Four.  It's one of the control centers
from where any  incident in the White House or grounds can be monitored  and
controlled.  Which control center  is  used  depends on  where  the incident
occurs."
     Sarah and  I were all eyes  and  ears  as  we  looked  at the  screens,
especially the one that showed the press briefing room. Not much had changed
in there. I kept my eye on it, though.
     TO took over the brief as he went back to his chair.
     "Crisis  Four could be  used, say, if  anything happened  upstairs--the
president  and  first lady would be  moved down here to the  secure area. It
also doubles as the bomb shelter. There's a kinda neat  room beyond this for
the VIPs." He pointed at a screen.
     "There's the State Dining Room. That's kinda neat, too."
     It didn't look as if lunch was going to be served there today. The long
dark wood  table had just silver  candelabras placed along its center. Apart
from that it was bare. Sarah studied the  picture for a while, as if  taking
in  all  the detail of the  decor. My eyes  were focused on  the shot of the
briefing room.
     "Is that the  Diplomatic Reception Room?" Sarah  put her  finger  on  a
screen to my  left, pointing  to a doorway.  Looking  over,  I could see the
brown screens  blocking  off the ground  floor corridor, and  the ERT escort
standing over the CNN guys, who were still fiddling about with cables.
     TO confirmed it.
     "That's  right. Any minute now you'll see the big three appear and walk
in there. At the moment they're across the hall, in the library."
     As I watched the picture  he was indicating, flicking back to check the
briefing  room  every few  seconds, our  friendly waiter  came  out  of  the
reception  room  and  walked  back toward the brown screens.  This  time his
trolley was empty. I heard com ms mush coming from TC's earpiece.
     "The  coffee's there,  all we need now  are  the drinkers." The ERT guy
began to move the CNN people out of the corridor, back toward their wagon. I
flicked my eyes over at  one  of the screens again. Shit! Bill  Gates was in
the briefing room. At least, the hair and glasses  matched what I thought he
looked like. He had walked in and was just looking around. I needed Sarah to
confirm, but she was the other side of Davy as we all stood around TO in his
chair.  I  kept looking at  her,  trying  to  catch her eye.  I couldn't say
anything  yet; I  could be wrong. Why wasn't she  also checking that screen?
They  were focused on the other one with the  four Secret Service men at the
far end of the corridor.
     More mush was coming from TC's earpiece.
     "Here they come ..."
     A  few  seconds later  the three  world  leaders  walked out  into  the
corridor and turned toward the camera. They were moving quite slowly so that
Arafat could keep up.  I checked Bill Gates. He  was  now  sitting down  and
writing. I looked back at  the other screen, then at Sarah. Come on, look at
me,  check the screen, do something!  She was oblivious  to anything but the
three leaders  as a group of  advisers  followed them, clutching folders and
nodding with each other as they walked.
     "Hey, let's give  you  folks a listen." TO leaned  over the desktop and
hit a  button on the console.  A speaker  in front of us burst into  life. A
very quick but calm New York voice was  giving commands over the net. People
were acknowledging  him  in  just the same  tones. It sounded  like  mission
control  at  Houston.  Small red  buttons  were  now lit  on  three  of  the
microphones on the desk. I checked Bill Gates. He hadn't moved.
     They walked along the corridor for a short way, Clinton between the two
others as they  moved in line abreast. A few paces more and they turned left
into the Reception Room.
     I looked  across  at Sarah. She was  checking the  large green  digital
display clock on the wall. It was 10:57; they were right on time.
     "Hey,  Sarah,  isn't that  Gatesy?  You  know, that reporter friend  of
yours?"  I couldn't think of anything  else to  say. I  pointed and everyone
turned to look.
     Sarah took  a  step forward  and looked at  the  figure  sitting  down,
reading his notes. Standing back, she looked at me.
     "No, it's not. His hair is much darker. But they do look similar."
     TO stood up  "That's  it,  folks, I've gotta go."  He hit  the  console
button.
     The sound and red microphone lights died.
     We all shook hands again.
     "I hope you  people have  a good trip.  Ask these  two  nicely,  see if
they'll take you over to the Treaty Room."
     Davy said, "It's on the itinerary, after the alley."
     TO nodded as he headed for the door.
     "See you  guys. Hey,  Davy, don't forget, four thirty  this  afternoon,
we've got that meeting." They ran through a few details  of their work admin
while  Sarah and I,  the gooseberries, just stood by, keeping  an eye on the
briefing-room screen.
     We followed TO out of Crisis Four. When we were all out in the corridor
he made sure the door was secure,  then turned  right and walked off  toward
the fire doors with a cheery wave of the hand.
     A couple  of Hispanic women came squeaking along in white overalls  and
white  patent-leather shoes, looking  like  a  cross  between  cleaners  and
nurses, and talking at 100 mph  in their own  language. They stopped as they
passed   us,  nodded  and  smiled,   then   returned   to  their  warp-speed
conversation.
     We turned left and moved farther down the corridor.
     Josh had an idea.
     "Hey, you  know what? I'll  go over and see if  I can get us  into  the
Treaty Room, and maybe even the VP's office."
     "That would be great," I said.
     "Would we still be able to watch the press brief?"
     Sarah joined in.
     "Yes, I'd love to see that as well. I have--" Josh smiled as he put his
hands up defensively, like a parent fending off an overenthusiastic child.
     "Hey, no problem.  In a few."  He  turned  and  walked toward the  fire
doors.  Sarah  and I  exchanged  a  relieved glance  as Davy led the way. We
stopped two doors down.
     Davy grinned.
     "This is the best room in the house." He opened the door. Inside was an
open space, maybe fifteen feet by fifteen, with  stack  able  plastic chairs
arranged around the walls, the same as in the briefing room. Beyond that, in
shadow, was a single-lane bowling alley.
     The  floor was highly  polished lino. The walls were painted white  and
covered with a couple of posters of bowling teams, and pushed against it was
a large wooden  box, also painted white, with compartments that looked as if
they were holding about eight or nine pairs of bowling shoes.
     There was  whirring and clicking  as all the bits and  pieces of  alley
machinery came to life and the strip lighting along the alley flickered on.
     Davy smiled back at us as he walked toward the shoes.
     "I've got a great story for you guys."
     By now the bowling balls were rolling  up onto  the stand and the  pins
were being positioned by the machine at the bottom of the lane.
     Davy had  his  back to us, his shoulders rolling  as he anticipated his
own story. His head moved to look at us both again and he pointed at the top
pair of shoes.
     "You  see these?" We  both nodded. He  looked back to pull them out.  I
took the opportunity for  a quick look  at Baby-G.  Fifty-five minutes to go
until the press brief.
     Davy turned around to walk back to us.
     "These are Bill's personal bowling shoes," he said.
     "Look at the size of the things."
     They must have been something like size sixteen, at least.
     "He's a big man all right." Hefting them in his hand, he chuckled.
     "You know the old saying, big feet, big..." He suddenly checked himself
in case Sarah didn't approve. She was smiling.
     The  shoes were white with  red stripes. As  Davy reached us, he turned
them around and showed us something.
     "See this?" All smiles, he pointed to the back of the shoes. I saw that
each had a little mark in black felt tip.
     "One  day Bill came down  with some of  his bowling buddies. He went to
get his shoes, and a couple of the advisers saw this written on the back."
     He  pointed again. On one  was  the letter L, and  on the  other an  R.
"There  they were, supposed to be discussing world  affairs,  and his  aides
were suddenly more worried about  how he'd  react to  people  writing on his
shoes  ... "Well, Bill picked them up, and for  a moment there  was  silence
..." I could tell old Davy Boy had told this story many, many times, because
the pauses  were in  just  the right  places.  "... yep,  there  he was, the
President of the  United  States, the most  powerful man in the  world,  and
someone had gotten a pen and done that to him!
     "Nobody  was too sure  how he was  going to take it. Anyways, he looked
down at the shoes, and then Bill started to laugh.
     "I'll  tell  you what, boys, this  is just what I need ... they  are so
darned confusing, not being proper shoes and all."
     " Davy  started to laugh. I  wasn't sure if the story was funny or not,
and nor  was Sarah.  I just  took  Davy's lead and joined  in. I  could hear
Sarah, standing slightly behind me, doing the same.
     The laughter died down and Davy carried on, pleased with our reaction.
     "And that's why it's still there. Apparently Bill says it cuts his prep
time by a half, so there's more time to play."
     He was going to put the shoes back.  He turned away and took two steps,
and there was a thud.
     Bill's shoes  fell out of Davy's hands. There was no blood until he hit
the  floor, face  forward, and then it started to  spurt from his head, dark
and thick. I swung around.
     Sarah was in a perfect firing position, standing at  forty-five degrees
to Davy, with her right  pistol  hand  out  straight, pushing the suppressed
weapon at the target,  her left  hand cupped around both the pistol grip and
the other hand, pulling back. She looked  so relaxed she  could have been on
the range.
     "What the fuck are you doing?" I shouted. What a bone question; I could
see precisely what she was doing.
     I  didn't  know why,  but I was  half whispering,  half shouting as she
lowered the pistol.
     "For  tuck's sake, we  agreed, no killing. What are you  doing bringing
that thing in? We don't need it."
     She just  stood  there, in a different world, calmly putting the pistol
back into her waistband.
     This  was out of  control. No matter what  happened now,  we were in  a
world of shit and I had no idea by whose rules we were playing.
     I started to move toward the door.
     She looked at me quizzically.
     "Where are you going?"
     "I'm locking the door what do you think I'm doing, letting everyone in?
We're in deep shit, Sarah. Do you have any idea what you've done?
     This won't stop anything; it makes it worse."
     I reached  the door  and  turned the  lock  inside the tumbler. It  was
pointless going  over to  Davy. There  wasn't a  sound from  him,  and dark,
deoxygenated blood seeped from his mouth.
     I stayed where I was, shaking my head in disbelief.
     "It was under control, Sarah, for flick's sake. Midday the press brief,
remember? What the fuck are you doing?"
     She started toward the door. I moved across her, putting  my arms up to
stop her.
     "Whoa, this is way out of control. It's time to stop this, now, and get
help. Just get thinking of a fucking good story."
     I pointed  at Davy  as I turned toward the  door once more. Why had she
done it?  It took two  seconds before it  became  obvious to  me why.  She'd
stitched me up.
     "You flicking bitch!" I started to turn back toward her.
     At the same instant I  felt pain  explode in  my stomach.  The wind was
knocked out  of  my  lungs as I fell to  my knees.  I felt a  fierce burning
sensation on the left side of my gut.
     The left side of  my forehead hit  the floor, then my nose.  There were
sparks flashing in  my head. I tasted blood in my throat. I'd  never taken a
round before.
     I couldn't see Sarah. I was too busy curling into a fetal position as I
tried to control the pain.
     I started  a low moaning noise that I couldn't  stop.  I slowly, slowly
rolled my  head  to find her. She was crouched  over Davy.  His  ID was  now
around her neck; at a casual glance she would look part of the environment.
     Her  loafers tiptoed around  him, avoiding  the  blood,  then took  the
pistol from his belt and the two mags from their carrier.
     I didn't  want her to  know that I was still alive. I lay as motionless
as I could, eyes closed, trying to stifle my own moaning. It wasn't working.
     I sensed her standing over me.  I opened my  eyes. She was just too far
away for me to reach her, even if I'd been able to.
     She looked at her watch and then at me. The weapon came  up and stopped
in line with her eyes. For the first time in my life I  thought of someone I
would miss,  and I  decided that my  last thought would  be  about  Kelly. I
looked  at Sarah  and  waited.  There  was  a  delay,  but  no  emotion,  no
explanation. Then  she  said,  "You have a child now. I  hope  you live long
enough to see her."  She lowered the weapon, checking her watch again as she
walked away.
     The tumbler was turned and the  door opened.  I tried  to shout, but it
didn't happen. The only sound that came out was a weak rasp.
     "Fuck you!" Blood sprayed out of  my mouth.  She glanced down at me, no
reaction in her eyes.
     There was a pause as she checked outside, then the door closed quietly.
     She was gone.
     The  pain  was intensifying. I looked around frantically  for  a  panic
button  or a phone, but I couldn't see too  well, things were getting  hazy.
Two others left  to kill Arafat? My ass;  it had been her all along. How the
fuck did I not see it?
     Being curled up in a ball on the floor  wasn't going  to do  me  or the
VIPs any good. I needed to do  something, even if it didn't work. As I died,
I would at least know that I'd tried to right my fuckup.
     My vision  was starting to blur. I was taking short, sharp breaths, and
my stomach muscles were tensing of  their own accord. I moved my hand over a
hole  in my belly the  size  of  a  five-pence piece and plugged it with  my
thumb. At least  I  didn't have to  worry about an exit wound; I knew it was
subsonic ammunition for the silenced Chinese thing. The round would still be
kicking around inside me somewhere.
     I dragged myself toward the door, through a pool of Davy's blood, which
had started to ooze across the lino, and I was  just about to pull myself up
to open it when it swung inward and connected with my skull.
     Curled up again in  pain as more sparks flashed  up  in my head, I  was
just about  switched on enough to  know that I  was  stopping  the door from
opening fully.
     Encountering resistance, whoever it was  got  their body weight  behind
the door and pushed hard. I was shunted along the floor until they could get
in.
     It was Sarah again. She didn't talk, just closed the door behind her.
     Then, grabbing hold of my feet and  avoiding  the blood, she started to
drag me facedown across the room, grunting with the effort.
     I felt as if I  had a  magnesium incendiary  burning in  my  stomach. I
tried to keep tensed up, and all I could see was a dark trail of blood where
my body had just been.
     After four or five paces she dropped my feet on the floor. I moaned  as
I curled up, trying to reduce the pain as she aimed her pistol at the door.
     It opened. Josh had good news.
     "Hey, guys, it looks like we're going to " I tried to  shout a warning,
but  nothing  came.  The  expression on  his face  was of  utter  shock  and
disbelief, his eyes looking even wider behind his lenses. Sarah was in front
of him in  a perfect  firing position, calmly  pointing at his  center mass.
People  take a while for this kind of information to  sink in, especially if
they're not expecting it, but Josh was catching on fast.
     Sarah maintained her very cool, controlled voice.
     "Close the door, Josh."
     His eyes flicked between the two of us, took in Davy's prostrate  body,
then mine,  and finally settled on the pistol, no doubt trying  to work  out
how the fuck she'd brought it in.
     "Close the door, Josh."
     If Josh  was scared,  he wasn't  showing it. He was  taking  in all the
information;
     without saying  a word, he did as  he  was  told  and then  stood stock
still, showing Sarah his hands.
     She said, "You will now turn around and put your hands on your head."
     He  knew the  routine. If you've  got your  back to  the  person  who's
pointing the pistol at you, you can't assess what's going on.
     "Move out of the blood, then down onto your knees."
     Once you're on your knees, you're very vulnerable.
     She had more instructions.
     "With your left hand, using your thumb and forefinger, take your weapon
out. Do it now."
     I was helpless, just a curled-up bundle  of shit. I heard voices in the
corridor.
     I  recognized the loud Hispanic accents of  the two white-shoed  women,
walking from the  direction of  the  fire  doors.  Sarah quickly checked her
watch again.
     Should I call out? I didn't have the strength. They wouldn't hear me. I
looked over at Josh,  who I could  see side-on. He  was considering the same
option.
     He wasn't flapping as he obeyed her, his finger and thumb on the pistol
grip.
     "I'm taking it out now, Sarah."
     "Good, Josh. Now put it on the floor behind you."
     Keeping his right hand  on his head, he flicked the  weapon  behind him
onto the lino. I could see the sweat coming down from his bald head onto his
face  and the wet patches in the armpits of his jacket  as he raised his arm
again. Fear is a good thing, there's nothing wrong with that, it's a natural
reaction; you've just got to be  able to control it.  He'd been  here before
and knew what to do.
     For a  moment  I  had  the strange  feeling that  I was in an audience,
looking  at actors on a stage.  I knew exactly what would  be going  through
Josh's mind. He'd be wondering how he was going to get out of this, and just
waiting for the chance to do something about it anything.
     Blood is the same as  milk. Drop a carton on the floor and it looks  as
if three have been emptied.  Davy's blood had  spread outward and was mixing
with mine around my face. I didn't have the energy or inclination to move, I
just spat from time to time to try and keep it from going in my mouth.
     Sarah  threw Josh's  weapon  the length  of  the bowling  alley and the
clatter echoed around the walls. She checked her watch once more.
     "OK, Josh, this is what you will do. Are you listening?"
     He nodded.
     "You will  take me to  the  Diplomatic Reception Room. You  will  be my
escort. Do you understand?"
     He was very calm as he answered, "I can't do that."
     Americans have  this  wonderful total conviction  about themselves  and
their country. Even when they're up to their necks in ten types of shit they
have this unshakeable belief that everything will be all right, that America
is  behind them  and  the Seventh  Cavalry will come over  the  hill  at any
moment.
     After being  captured during the Gulf  War,  as opposed  to  asking for
things, American prisoners would  demand them--they just  knew  they were on
the winning side. In  the  Regiment, you always knew that if you were in the
shit you would never be left behind,  and that was sometimes  the only thing
that helped you through, but the Americans believe that at a national level.
I wished I had their confidence.
     Sarah couldn't quite believe what she'd heard.
     "What?"
     Josh said simply, "I will not do that."
     There was a pause, and I watched Sarah's face for a reaction. It wasn't
long coming.
     "Josh, you've got some thinking to do, and not a long time to do it in.
Think about your  children. This is no time to  mess about with your family,
Josh.  Take  me  to that room or you will die. I've got nothing to lose, I'm
going to be dead soon anyway." She had certainly listened to my brief on how
to get  Josh to do want  she wanted. She checked her watch. If she needed to
get  to  the Diplomatic  Reception Room before the end of  the coffee break,
there wasn't much time left.
     "They're great  kids.  Josh,  and they need you. You're  all  they have
left.
     Besides," she  smiled her curious little smile, "you  could even try to
stop me. You can't do that if you're dead. I'm either going  with you, or on
my own, with you dead--in ten, Josh."
     I  saw  his chest rise and  fall as his  body  took in more  oxygen  to
suppress the  shock  it  was  experiencing.  I could  only guess what he was
thinking:
     Do I die now? Or do I accept what she's saying,  and try to prevent  it
on the way? At least then I'm going to be alive for a little longer.
     I had blood in my throat  and my voice was hoarse as I said, "Take her,
Josh. Just do it."
     He looked at me and  our eyes locked. I could  see for sure what he was
thinking now: You  fucking  asshole. No matter if I  had  known what she was
going to do or not, to him I was now the world's biggest bastard.
     Fair one.
     I looked up at Sarah as she gave the final warning.
     "It's make-your  mind-up time."  She didn't have long until  the coffee
break ended.
     He  looked  at the wall,  thought for a few seconds  more, and  quietly
said,
        "OK."
     "If you  try to fuck with me,  Josh, know this: I  will kill you before
anyone has time to react. I don't want your president. I just want the other
two. But if you fuck with me ... do you understand me?"
     He  closed his eyes and nodded. When he opened them again he fixed them
on mine. I hoped my  eyes  were saying:  I  didn't know  this was  going  to
happen, mate, and I'm sorry, so sorry.
     But his expression told me it was a bit late for that.
     Now that she was going to have an escort, Sarah took off Davy's ID card
and put her own one back on. That was detail, and detail counts.
     She said, "Let's go."
     She stepped back from the door as Josh walked toward it.
     "My weapon might be hidden, Josh, but at the slightest sign that you're
fucking with me I'll ensure that I get you first."
     He nodded, looked back at me and walked out.
     She followed without giving me a second glance.
     Everything  was out  of  focus; my head was spinning.  I was losing too
much blood. Between us, Davy and I had the lino pretty much covered.
     But now wasn't the time to worry about that;  I had to accept that  I'd
been shot, and get on with it.
     struggled  onto my hands and knees, sucked in a  couple of deep breaths
and started to crawl over toward  the abandoned ID card.  Every movement was
agony. With each bend of a knee or stretch of an arm I felt as if a  red-hot
saw was working on  my stomach.  It  took me what felt like forever to cover
the ten or so feet.  My head was swimming as I tried to  pull the nylon loop
over my head without disturbing the injury in my guts.
     When I'd finally finished, I couldn't even remember why I'd done it.
     I  began  crawling  to the  door, coughing, spitting  lumps  of  blood,
moaning to myself  like  a drunk in the  gutter, my clothes,  face and  hair
soaked with my blood and Davy's.
     On my knees, I fumbled with the handle like a panicking child. It was a
normal  knob, with  the tumbler lock  in the  middle, but I couldn't make my
hands work. My fingers weren't listening to my brain,  or maybe  it was just
that they were too slippery with warm red fluid.
     I  knew what  I was trying to do, but  I  couldn't accomplish it. Maybe
it's true  that your life can flash before  you  as you  die. I was suddenly
looking  down a  long tunnel, to when I was  about  six years old  and  fell
through  a glass roof into a  garage. I'd been with  a  gang  of older boys,
running across  the roof as  an initiation test. I  hit  the ground, cut and
bruised, and had to fight with the door bolt to escape. I was so scared that
I couldn't make any
     sense  out of  how to pull the fucking thing across, and once I'd  gone
through all that,  there was no way  I was  going to  show them how  much it
hurt. They let me join their gang.
     My  hands started to  shake as they slithered around the door handle. I
was losing it. I knew I  was going to die soon. I didn't care; I just didn't
want it to happen until I'd at least tried to stop Sarah.
     I forced myself to calm  down, take deep breaths and tell myself what I
needed to do, just as I'd done back in that garage. It worked.
     "Help  ... help me ..." I  tried to shout, but could only manage a weak
splutter. Not surprisingly, nothing happened.
     I  couldn't  just  lie there  in the doorway  and wait. Pressing myself
against the frame I scrabbled and pushed myself upright and, head reeling, I
half turned, half fell into the corridor.  I  bent over, leaning against the
wall for support, my left hand clutching my stomach. Blood smeared along the
white plaster as I stumbled toward Crisis Four.
     She didn't have far to go. If Josh fucked up and got zapped, she'd just
have to follow those TV cables and she'd be there.
     My only hope was to find TO. Anyone would be a start. I focused hard.
     There was no  red light on outside Crisis Four. Shit. I started to look
for a fire alarm, though at that moment I  didn't think I'd recognize one if
it hit me in the face.
     I felt my reserves of strength ebbing by the  second as I swiped the ID
card through the machine and tumbled through the door.
     There was  a picture on every screen, but they were  moving  in  a slow
spin, like a kaleidoscope. I started crawling again.
     I didn't know how I got to TC's chair, let alone off the floor and into
it.
     All I knew was that, as I tried with every ounce of whatever strength I
had left to focus on the screens, I could see her.
     Sarah  and  Josh had just  come out  of the kitchen area.  The ERT  guy
hadn't moved from the area  of the brown screens and just turned toward them
as they appeared.
     Spitting out the blood and mucus that was gathering in my throat, I hit
the microphone switch.
     "Mayday, mayday.  Black  man, white  woman  on the first floor. Mayday,
mayday ..." I  didn't  know if it would mean  anything to them, but  I hoped
they'd get the idea.
     There was no reaction  from the ERT guy. Then  all three slipped out of
focus  and became  a  blur. I  screwed my eyes shut and  opened them  again,
spitting out another mouthful of crap onto the desk.
     Refocusing, I could see the  ERT  guy motioning to them  to either move
out toward the staircase or go back into  the kitchen. I  lifted  my head to
look at the picture above, which was showing what was happening on the other
side of  the brown screens. There were a  few people in plain clothes at the
far end, but no reaction from them either.
     Fuck it! I tried again.
     "All stations, all stations ..." then stopped,  my head resting next to
the base of the microphone. The red light wasn't on.
     I started leaving bloodstains  over as many  buttons  as I could reach,
wishing  I'd  taken notice  of which ones TO had hit when he  turned off the
speaker.
     I got a light.
     "Mayday, mayday .. . first floor, first floor. Mayday, mayd--" The  ERT
guy was switched on and responded immediately, moving toward them.
     Sarah was quicker.  She must  have  seen his face react to the  message
from  his  earpiece.  She  drew her  weapon, instinctively  aiming  from the
stomach as soon as it was free of  her waistband. Josh dived on her, but too
late. She fired.
     The ERT  guy  dropped like a bag of  shit. Then, within a second of the
struggle, so did Josh. Fuck, what had I done?
     Sarah  turned and  ran as the corridor  filled with blurred  figures in
plain clothes and black uniforms.
     The  cameras were now  cutting  from  location to location  as the main
control  room tried to get a fix on her as she disappeared off the screen. I
knew where she was going.
     I swiveled around on the chair, and with my left hand on my gut, forced
myself  to my feet.  The  door shimmered in front  of my  eyes  as if I were
looking through a heat haze. I staggered into the  corridor. I  didn't  look
around, just turned right and faced the fire doors.
     There  couldn't  have been much of the stuff left  to be pumped around,
but adrenaline was getting me up and moving.
     She'd be here soon.  The Secret Service would bring the principals down
to the shelter until everything was clear, and she'd aim to cut them off.
     I crashed through the two doors and looked up just  as Sarah was taking
her last  steps  down the spiral stairs. She was  going  shit or bust,  head
down, pistol in hand.
     I couldn't think of anything else to do but throw myself at her in some
sort of rugby tackle. Perhaps it would have helped if I'd ever played a game
of rugby.
     I collapsed against her, throwing my arms  around her waist and linking
them together behind her back as her momentum propelled me backward into the
swing doors.
     She  was still moving, taking me with her, cracking me on the head with
her pistol. By now I really couldn't feel that much. My arms slipped down to
her legs and she started to fall with me.
     The fire  doors flew open again as we  burst through.  We both hit  the
ground and the doors swung back, trapping my lower legs.
     She was  stretched out, her  back  on the floor, and I was wrapped in a
mess around her feet. I could make out the pistol was still in her hand.
     My guts wrenched and screamed as I kicked my legs free from  the  doors
and scrambled up her  body, slapping my hand down heavily  on her forearm to
hold the weapon down. She kicked and  bucked to try and get me  off her. She
was like an insect on its back, frantic to get upright.
     I  became aware  of  screaming,  shouting and  heavy  footsteps echoing
around the area, but it was as if a mute button had been hit, and everything
was happening a long way away.
     I didn't care  where  the noise  was coming from. All that mattered was
her left hand, which was  going for Davy's  pistol now that she couldn't use
hers. I could feel it in her waistband as I moved farther up her body.
     Her resistance got stronger; it  was as if she were having some sort of
fit, her head and body thrashing from side to side.
     I put all my weight on her. It wasn't that difficult, I was fucked. Her
hand struggled to work its way between us toward the weapon.  Our heads were
so  close  together  that I  could  feel her  breath  on my face. I  had  to
head-butt her, there was  no other way. She reacted noisily. The three times
I made contact, I heard the back of her head bounce  off  the floor.  It was
messy, but it slowed her up.
     My head now hurt almost as much as my stomach. I was in shit state.
     Keeping  my forehead pushed against hers, blood dripping  from my mouth
and nose,  I prized the gun out  of her grip as she tried to  clear her nose
and mouth.
     I  rammed  the  barrel into her windpipe and looked at her, my forehead
still  putting pressure on  hers.  She  didn't return my stare as I tried to
focus, just closed her eyes and tensed her body as she waited for death. Our
bodies rose  and fell with her labored breathing as  the  doors were  kicked
open and I began to make sense of the shouting from behind me.
     The mute button had been deactivated.
     "Release the weapon! Release the weapon now! Do it!"
     I thought about it for the two seconds I  would have before they pulled
or shot me off her.
     Her  body relaxed  and  she  opened her eyes and  looked at  me. It was
almost an order.
     "Do it... please."
     Fuck it. I tilted the gun upward and it slid two inches until it jammed
under her  chin. Pointing it toward her skull, I let my head move aside. Her
eyes followed mine as I pulled the trigger.
     Blood and splintered bone splashed onto the side of my face.
     I'd  finished the job  I'd been ordered  to  do;  that was  what I made
myself think. A  moment later I felt  the  pain  shoot  up my arm as someone
kicked the pistol out of my hand.
     I  was manhandled onto  my back. I looked  up  and there was  ERT black
everywhere,  then Josh  loomed over  me, blocking out everything else, blood
dripping onto me from the mess on his face. They tried to pull him off me as
he started to give me a good kicking. It wasn't working.
     I turned on my side and curled up to protect  myself,  and through  the
haze I could hear orders being shouted and the general confusion around me.
     I was losing it. Josh  was still screaming  above me, and managed a few
more  kicks. It didn't  matter, I could no  longer feel them. What I  really
wanted to happen, did. I became unconscious.
        JUNE 1998
     I came out of the flat on Cambridge Street, checked I'd put the  key on
the ring of my Leatherman and  closed the door  behind me. It was a  strange
feeling, being  a virtual  prisoner  here in Pimlico. I'd brought  plenty of
worried-looking people here in the past, but  never imagined that  some  day
I'd be one of the victims myself.
     The debrief was taking forever. The  Firm  was trying to  strike a deal
with the Americans. Both sides wanted this to go away, and they weren't  the
only ones.  It had been four weeks since I'd  come  out of hospital, and I'd
been confined to the area ever since, under what amounted to house arrest.
     I was getting paid, and at operational rate, but it still wasn't a good
day out.
     None of my injuries hurt much anymore, but  I still needed bucket loads
of antibiotics. The entry wound had sealed up quite  well. All that was left
was a dent in my stomach, colored the same vivid pink as the puncture wounds
in my arm.
     Walking down the last couple of  stone  steps to the pavement, I looked
to my  left at the crowd  enjoying an  end-of-the-week drink  at  the picnic
tables  outside the pub. Friday evening's  rush hour had  turned  the  whole
street into  a car park. The  traffic fumes  were cooking up  nicely  in the
early evening sun. The heat was unusual for this time of  year. It felt more
like
     Los Angeles than London.
     I crossed between  the stationary vehicles, heading for  the all-in-one
shop on the corner. The Asian father and son combo were used to me now;
     dad started folding a copy of the Evening Standard as soon as he saw me
come in. I felt like a local. Weaving back over the road, I headed for the
     pub. There were just  as many  people inside, and  above the din Robbie
Williams was giving it full volume on  the sound system. The smell of smoke,
stale  beer  and  body odor reminded me not to  come here again. It did that
every night.
     I worked my way toward the rear, where I knew it wouldn't be so packed,
and, besides, that was where the food was. I'd  started to recognize some of
the  regulars sad fucks like me, with nowhere else to go, or  office workers
big-timing it,  or  old men smoking their  roll-ups  and  spending  an  hour
nursing a warm pint.
     I asked for  my usual bottle ofPils and, helping myself to a handful of
peanuts from one of the  bowls, headed  for a booth. The one with  the  most
room was occupied by an old man  who looked  as if  he'd  just  come  from a
British Legion outing, all tie and association badges. He couldn't have been
there long; his bottle of  light ale hadn't yet been poured into his half of
bitter.
     "Anyone sitting here, mate?"
     He looked up and  shook his head. I eased myself  into the seat slowly,
taking care that my jeans didn't ride up and expose the tag around my  right
ankle. Taking a swig ofPils, I opened the newspaper.
     It was all  the usual doom and gloom. Ethiopian and Eritrean forces had
stopped bombing  the shit out  of each  other with  their MIG  23s  to  give
foreign nationals time to be  airlifred from the war zone. That was the sort
of work  I liked,  just plain and  simple war. You knew where you stood with
that shit.
     I  scanned the  rest of the news sections, but  there was still nothing
about what  had happened in  Washington. Still no mention of the injuries to
the  ERT guy and  Josh, and I knew now that there never  would  be. Lynn had
given me the  American party  line  during  one  of our little evening rides
around  town.  The press  release  was short: a stressed-out member  of  the
domestic staff had become temporarily deranged in the White  House basement.
It  was  a minor  incident, dealt  with in minutes. The  three world leaders
hadn't  been made aware until well  after the event. The most the story ever
got was a column inch in the following day's Washington Post.
     I was glad the ERT guy hadn't died. He'd just been wounded in the thigh
something  to  tell the grandchildren about. Josh had got it big time in the
face. Lynn said the round had split the flesh on the right side and made his
mouth  look as if it  ended  by  his ear. I'd  been told  the  surgery was a
success, but I doubted he'd ever be modeling for Calvin Klein.
     My  one hope  was  that his  Christian thing  would  work  in my favor.
Sitting in the flat a few days  earlier, waiting for  the debriefing team to
arrive, I'd been listening to Thought for the Day on the radio.
     "If  you can't forgive the sin,"  the voice  had said, "at least try to
forgive the sinner."
     Sounded  good  to me.  I just  hoped Josh  could get Radio Four in  his
truck.
     I hadn't spoken  to him yet; I'd  wait  a while, give him time to  calm
down and me time to work out what the fuck I was going to say.
     I hadn't seen Kelly  since the Americans released  me  into the  Firm's
custody. We'd spoken on the phone, and she thought I was still away working.
     She said  that  Josh had called. He'd told her nothing  about what  had
happened, just that Sarah and I had visited.
     I still had no regrets about killing  Sarah. The only thing that pissed
me off was that every time in my life I'd let someone  get close to me, they
fucked me over. Everybody, that is, apart from Kelly. It seemed to be my job
to do that to her.
     I'd blown it again by making promises I couldn't keep. She still wanted
to go to the Bloody Tower, and she wanted to go with me. Three times now I'd
arranged  it, only to cancel at the last minute  because the debrief dragged
on.  At  least  she was going to  her grandparents this  weekend. Carmen and
Jimmy would spoil her rotten.
     I took another long swig of Pils fuck the antibiotics, I usually forgot
to take them  anyway and  checked Baby-G.  They  started serving  in  twenty
minutes.
     The  debrief was going OK,  I  thought, but you never  knew  with these
people. I wasn't getting as  hard a  time of  it as I  might, mainly because
Lynn and Elizabeth were potentially in just  as much shit  as I was and were
taking measures to  cover  their asses.  Even so, every event of  those five
days was  being  dissected  in great detail. Not  documented, of course. How
could it be; it hadn't happened.
     Not that any of it meant much. I was lying to the team, using  a script
supplied  by  the good colonel. I'd RV with  him each evening, and the  Serb
would  give us a few laps of London.  As Lynn had said,  "You  need guiding,
Nick, on some of the more, shall we say, delicate areas of the operation."
     And, of course, to avoid the slight problem of the T104, since not even
the investigation  crew would be aware that  such  things existed.  The only
ones  in  the  know  were  lowlife  like  me,  Elizabeth and  Lynn.  To  the
investigators, I  didn't even have  a name; I was just  referred to  as  the
"paid asset." That suited me just fine.
     Lynn  had already  told  me that I'd been sent on the  job  because, if
anyone  could find  her, I could. But I knew there was more to it than that.
It had become blindingly  obvious that those two fuckers had known all along
what she was up  to, and thought  I'd be so pissed off with her I'd feed her
through the grinder without a second thought.
     They'd even known where she was hiding, but wanted me to go through the
process of finding her. They reckoned that if I thought I'd tracked her down
through my  own efforts,  and if what I saw  on  the ground confirmed  their
story, that would put me even more in the mood.
     There were still loose  ends,  of  course. I still couldn't work out if
Metal Mickey  was part of Lynn's game or not. After all, Lynn did say he was
loyal. But to whom? Fuck it, who cared? It just annoyed me that these people
could never just tell it straight. Why bother to tell me all that bullshit?
     I  would  still  have done the job if I'd  known the truth. The fucking
games they played pissed me off, and worse, they put me in danger.
     Naturally,  nothing  in  the  big picture had  been  changed by Sarah's
death.  Bin Laden  was still out  there doing  his stuff. Yousef had  closed
down, but he'd probably resurface in a year or two. And I still wasn't going
to  be getting permanent cadre:  they said I'd be a disruptive influence  on
the team.  I'd  tried  to get a bung instead, claiming that what happened in
the White House might have been my fuckup, but I did stop the president from
being shot. Well... you have to elaborate a bit. It didn't work.
     Even the deafest old duffer  in the pub must have heard their laughter.
All I  got was the promise that if a  single word came from my lips that was
off message I was history.
     My major concern now was, what did I  get up to after this? I needed to
get  some real money together so I didn't  have  to carry on  getting fucked
over by these people. Maybe I'd take a look at the American rewards program.
     Bounty  hunting terrorists,  white supremacists and South American drug
dealers wouldn't be so bad. Maybe I could  try and  recover  those  Stingers
from the muj. Who knows?
     The bottle  was empty. People  were three deep at the  bar and it  took
ages  to get myself another. As I rejoined my mate in the booth, I was again
careful not  to  expose the  light-gray band  of  plastic around  my  ankle,
housing  its two inch  by two  inch  box of  electronics. I checked my watch
again; just over ten minutes till the peanuts disappeared and the menus were
put on the bar. Not that I needed one. I knew it all by heart.
     I  thought about  Sarah again. I'd learned more about her in my  stints
with Lynn than I had in all the time I'd known her. I'd always felt that she
was  holding something back from me, and in my stupid way I'd decided it was
because she was scared of intimacy.
     Sitting back on the cigarette-burned red velour, I  started to pick  at
the label on the Pils bottle.  The old man bent his neck as he tried to read
the headlines on my paper. I passed it across the table.
     The  night before last  had  been another hot and  humid one. Lynn  had
picked me up as usual for our daily debrief on the debrief, but this time in
his new  Voyager. It looked like the  Firm's budget had got a bit of a boost
this new fiscal year. The air conditioner was going full blast. The Serb, as
ever, kept his eyes fixed on the road.
     "How was all this allowed to happen?" I said.
     "How come you didn't suspect her earlier?"
     Lynn kept his gaze on the real world beyond the darkened window.
     "Elizabeth voiced concerns." He shrugged.
     "We took a few people  aside for a word, but there was nothing we could
put  our  finger  on.  The false flag operation in Syria  seemed like a good
moment to put her to the test."
     Lynn obviously held a lot more pieces of the puzzle in his hand than he
was letting me see,  but he did tell me this  much. The Syrian operation had
been taken on by the Brits only as a means of checking whether Sarah was Bin
Laden's  best mate. It was Elizabeth's idea. Sarah changed the  data, killed
the Source  and  covered  her tracks. She was good  at doing that. I thought
back to her giving the American a round in the head after taking his clothes
in the forest.  But  she wasn't  good  enough in Syria. Without  knowing it,
Sarah confirmed that  she  didn't exactly go  to sleep every  night  humming
"Rule Britannia." It was then just a question of letting her lead the way to
Bin Laden. The  only problem for Elizabeth was that she  had omitted to fill
in the Americans when Sarah was posted to Washington.
     Lynn  had  turned  and  looked  at  me as  if  to  underline  his  next
disclosure.
     "Things  got slightly out of hand when Sarah took an active part in the
ASU," he said.
     "Once that had happened, how could we tell our  friends across the sea?
That was where you came in."
     I let that  one sink  in in amongst all the other crap I was trying  to
make sense of.
     The investigating  team had been clutching at straws to explain Sarah's
behavior, and I wasn't doing much better.  I asked  him, "Do  you  know what
turned her?" He seemed to know everything else.
     "We'll  never completely  know,  will  we? People  are still  trying to
fathom out T. E. Lawrence ... and who really knows what made Philby  and the
rest do what they did?" There was a pause.
     "A team  went  to Sarah's mother, to pass on  the tragic  news. She was
saddened, of course, but very proud of her daughter's most untimely death in
the service of her country."
     "I thought her parents were dead."
     "No, just her father. He died when she was seventeen.  A team have been
weaseling with the  mother  for a few weeks  now.  You  know, trying for any
links or information that may be useful."
     Sarah's father, George,  they had learned, was a big-time oil executive
who was a stern disciplinarian and a major-league hypocrite. He'd spent  his
whole working life in the Middle East without ever getting to like the Arabs
unless, that is, they were either royal or wealthy  preferably both and took
to all things  Western in  much  the  same way that flies take to  shit. The
right sort of Arab  certainly didn't include  his lower-class domestic staff
and their nine-year-old son.
     The friendship between Sarah and Abed had been perfectly  innocent, the
mother had said. The fact was, her daughter was just desperately lonely. But
as far as George was concerned, inside every Arab was a rapist  just waiting
to get out.
     The two kids were  inseparable. Sarah was an  only child,  pushed  from
pillar to  post all her life, with  a remote, domineering  father, a placid,
ineffectual mother, and  no opportunity to make lasting  relationships.  You
wouldn't need to be an  agony aunt to understand her joy in finding a friend
at last.
     George,  however, was  not amused.  One  day, Abed's mum and dad didn't
turn  up  for work. Nor did  the  boy come around  in  the afternoon,  as he
usually did. The whole family seemed to have vanished. Then, just a few days
later, Sarah's  father pulled the plug on her  education in Saudi and packed
her off to a U.K. boarding school.
     It was only after  her  father had  died  that Sarah  learned what  had
really happened. She was helping her mother go  through  her father's things
when she came across a gold Rolex Navigator.
     Sarah said, "I never knew Daddy had one of these."
     Her mother looked at the watch and burst into tears.
     The Rolex had been given to him by a grateful business acquaintance.
     It  was George's prize possession.  He had accused Abed of stealing it,
and thrown  the  whole family out onto  the streets.  With  a reputation  as
thieves hanging over them, their  chances  of ever  working again would have
been ziff. They would have seen  out their days as "dust people," the lowest
of  the  low,  outcasts  from  Saudi  society and  living  on  the  edge  of
starvation.
     Sarah waited until her mother had finished, then left the house without
another word. She never saw her again.
     "Of  course, I don't  go  along  with all this  nonsense  about blaming
everything in your life on the traumas of childhood," Lynn said.
     "My parents dragged me around Southeast Asia  until I was seven, then I
went to Eton. Never did me any harm."
     The menus were being  plonked unceremoniously on the bar counter by the
girl  who'd served me before.  The thought of dishing  out  another  hundred
stuff and chips obviously didn't fill her with too much excitement.
     I  decided on the pie and another beer. The same as  last night and the
night before. A  quick look at Baby-G told me it was seven forty-eight, just
over half an hour until my RV Traffic  was still clogging the  street by the
time I left, but at least it was moving. I turned left, checked my watch yet
again and headed toward Victoria Station. Thirteen minutes till  the pickup.
I turned two corners  and stopped, waiting to see if anyone  was  following.
They weren't.
     Crossing the road, I cut through a housing  estate that was packed with
K reg Vauxhall Astras and Sierras, sat on  a wall by the  rubbish chute  and
waited.  Half  a dozen kids  were skateboarding up and down the  only bit of
clear tarmac they could find--the exit in front of me that led onto the main
drag toward the station. I listened to their  banter, thinking about when  I
was where they were.
     I thought of Kelly--the girl who'd had her whole family killed, and now
had a stand-in father who constantly let her down. And worse than that, much
worse, I was probably the closest thing she had to a best friend.
     Sarah's words came back to me.
     "You have a child now. I hope you live long enough to see her."
     I cut away from all that and got back to real life by  reminding myself
of the two big  lessons I'd learned in Washington. The first was never again
to be  so  soft  with someone who  showed emotion  toward me. I had  to stop
kidding myself that I  knew, or even  understood, that  sort  of  stuff. The
second was easier: always carry a pistol. I never wanted to play Robin  Hood
again.
     It  was last light as I  sat, watched and listened. Sarah's words still
bugged me.
     "You have a child now ..."
     The  Voyager  would  be arriving  any  minute.  I looked  at Baby-G and
thought about  George's Rolex.  And then I knew what  I had to do.  I wasn't
exactly a  top-of-th