Tim Stevens - Delivering Caliban

Giordano pulled out his phone and called Naomi. She’d work more quickly than anyone here could, even if she was more than two hundred miles away.

‘Yeah. Get me someone in the FBI. The Director if you can, but somebody more junior will do if necessary. Just not too junior.’

In twenty minutes, and with only the briefest recourse to the co-operation is in the interests of both our services shtick, Giordano had a name. Two names, in fact. Barbara Berg and Daniel Nakamura. Both Special Agents with the Bureau who’d gone off the radar earlier this afternoon, and were now operating without sanction.

They were the same two agents who’d pulled Purkiss in for questioning at the airport.

They had Purkiss with them, he was sure of it. And that made finding him easier, because three people were more conspicuous than one.

‘I need an office,’ said Giordano. ‘I’m going to be here for a while. This one will do.’

Interstate 95, between Washington D.C and New York

Tuesday 21 May, 2.05 am

The truck was an eighteen-wheel behemoth, its white refrigerated trailer like a carapace from beneath which the head-like red cab protruded. Pope saw all manner of decorations through the windscreen as they approached; multicoloured disco lights, a statuette of a nude woman on the dashboard that no doubt gyrated when the engine was running, a buffalo skull mounted on the inner roof.

It was unlikely transport for two people on the run, so it would do.

Joel sang tunelessly under his breath as he helped up first Nina and then Pope. The inside was trimmed in red leather. Pope pulled the door closed and then shifted against it to give Nina room in the middle. She lowered her violin case into the footwell.

Since he’d mentioned the voices, she’d been noticeably different: readier to comply with his suggestions immediately, and even making eye contact on occasion. He had some way to go to get her back, but he felt he was making a start.

The engine started with a great coughing rumble, the entire vehicle shivering slightly as it shook itself awake. The cab smelled of onions and spearmint and diesel.

‘Rock and roll, people,’ said Joel, and the beast began to pull out.

Through the window Pope saw, back don the interstate, the massing emergency vehicles. The traffic cops were already setting up, diverting the stream of nighttime cars around the scene.

‘Damn,’ said Joel, staring at the rear view mirror. ‘That’s some fender bender.’

For a moment Pope thought the man would turn the truck round to investigate; but he joined the northward flow.

Joel was going to Queens. Pope had told him his destination was Brooklyn, but he intended at the last minute to ask to be dropped off in Manhattan. Just in case the driver was in radio contact with anybody during the journey and mentioned where he was taking his passengers.

‘So, Mike,’ said the driver. ‘What do you do for a living?’

‘It’s Mark,’ said Pope. Had the man been testing the cover name deliberately? But why would he? ‘I’m in insurance.’

‘Yeah? No kidding.’ Joel barked a laugh. ‘My first wife ran off with one of you guys.’

Pope said nothing.

‘You want to watch this guy, honey,’ Joel went on. ‘Always on the road. No telling what he gets up to.’ He gave Pope a leering wink.

Two more attempts at starting conversation followed before Joel gave up with an invisible shrug.

For ten minutes the only sounds were the rumble of the truck’s engine, the hissing of the tyres on the wet road and the tinny music from the radio, accompanied now and again by Joel’s off-key humming. Pope glanced at Nina. Yes, there was definite eye contact, if not yet a smile.

At two fifteen — Pope noted the time on the digital dashboard clock — the report came, cutting through the muzak. Joel reached across and turned up the volume.

‘- Issued a missing person’s report on a Ms Nina Ramirez, age twenty-six, height five two, weight one hundred and fifteen pounds, dark hair, eyes brown. Ms Ramirez is believed to be suffering from mental health problems and was last seen in Charlottesville, Virginia, at nine p.m. yesterday evening. Police believe she may have been heading in the direction of Washington D.C. and may pose a risk to herself.’

Pope listened hard. There was no mention of anybody of his description, nor of anyone else who might be with her.

The report ended with a telephone number and the music faded back in.

Nina stared up at Pope. Over her head he saw Joel’s profile, the jaw muscles bunched.

*

At two twenty-one — again by the dashboard clock — Joel said: ‘I got to call this in, man.’

Pope stared at him, saying nothing.

As though he’d been asked a question Joel said, ‘You both look like adults. But if she’s mentally sick… ah, man. I got to do the right thing.’

Nina blinked, glanced up at Pope again, looking confused.

Pope said, ‘It’s not her. My wife’s name is Carmela. She’s not missing. She’s right here.’

Joel shook his head. ‘I saw the way she reacted. It was her name they mentioned in the broadcast.’ He whistled thinly through his teeth. ‘Can’t ignore a missing person report when the person’s sat right up here beside me.’ As though addressing a child he said to Nina, ‘What’s your name, honey?’

She didn’t reply.

Pope said, ‘Look, Joel. Just keep on driving. Get us to New York. I’ll pay you, like I offered before.’

Another shake of the head.

‘Two hundred dollars.’

A pause; then the driver said, ‘Sorry. Can’t.’

There’ll be a bigger reward for turning her in , Pope thought.

Pope drew the Heckler amp; Koch from his pocket and transferred it to his left hand. Stretching his arm across the back of the seat behind Nina, he levelled the muzzle at Joel’s head.

‘Drive.’

*

Nina recoiled when she saw the gun and it was all Pope could do to keep it trained on the driver. She twisted round and away from his arm, straining against her seatbelt.

Joel didn’t jerk away, didn’t spin the wheel in fright. He simply muttered, ‘Holy shit,’ drawing out the first syllable.

‘He’s going to turn you in to your father’s people,’ said Pope, keeping his voice low and matter-of-fact. ‘That message on the radio didn’t originate with the police. How would they know you were headed for Washington? It’s the CIA. They must have found the men I killed by the side of the road.’

At the mention of CIA Joel’s eyes widened a fraction. Pope thought the driver realised he was dealing with two crazies here, not just one.

‘Get us to New York,’ Pope said in the same voice, to Joel this time. ‘No tricks. No attempts to alert anybody to the situation. Then I’ll let you go, unharmed.’ He’d dropped the American accent.

In the dim light of the cab’s interior, Pope saw sweat sheen the man’s forehead under the peak of his cap.

Nina hunched forward, avoiding contact with Pope’s outstretched arm behind her as though it was a python trying to drape itself across her neck. Pope kept his gaze fixed on the driver’s face. The man was scared, but he was keeping his cool. It might mean he was planning something stupid.

After ten minutes Joel said, ‘Shit.’

‘What?’

‘Got to stop for gas.’

Pope leaned forward slightly and darted a look at the fuel gauge. The needle was touching the red and a light had come on.

‘Why didn’t you fill up back at the truck stop?’

‘Too expensive. My employers won’t pay up if I bring them receipts from that place.’ Joel nodded at the windscreen. ‘There’s a gas station five miles ahead. I always fill up there when I’m doing a night run to the city. Grab a last cup of coffee.’