Paul Johnson - The nameless dead

‘You don’t have to do that,’ I said, encircling her girth with my arms. ‘You need all your strength to make those horrible sandwiches.’

That got me two elbows in the midriff, and they hurt a lot more than before Quincy had put me through the grinder.

‘Aren’t peanuts supposed to be dangerous for small children?’

‘After they’re born, idiot. I don’t know, I act like the good housewife cooking your dinner and all I get is mockery.’

I didn’t want to tire her out with a bout of verbal sparring that would end in inevitable victory for me, so I let that go. We ate and retired to the sofa. She fell asleep not long afterward, so I went over to the computer, flexing my fingers. It was weeks since I’d typed. There was another problem. Would I be able to remember all the passwords for the firewalls I’d set up to keep Sara out of my life? As it turned out, my memory worked fine, suggesting that Dr. Rivers was right about the conditioning wearing off.

I managed to dredge up the email addresses of my family and friends from my memory as well and sent them all messages, hoping that Sebastian’s team wouldn’t censor them. My family had been advised by the Foreign Office that Karen and I were well but out of contact until further notice-the press hadn’t been given the details of our involvement in the cathedral action.

My in-box was full of unread messages. Over a year before, I’d instituted a daily reporting regime to ensure Sara didn’t pick us off one by one. My mother and thirteen-year-old daughter Lucy were frantic in their earliest messages. Even my ex-wife Caroline, Lucy’s mother, was fairly concerned. My closest friends had also been climbing the walls, convinced that the Soul Collector had made a move when they didn’t hear from me for so long. It was good to reassure them personally that we were well, not that I could tell them anything specific. I didn’t think we’d be allowed visitors anyway.

I thought about Sara. In the past she’d managed to access all my various communication systems, though more recently I’d had a high-level security system applied to my computers and phones. Even if she used other methods to find me, she’d struggle to get into the camp. On walks around the place, I’d noticed a very large amount of razor wire, as well as sophisticated monitoring gear of all kinds; and large numbers of personnel, both in FBI jackets and army camouflage gear, all toting firearms. Which reminded me, if we were heading toward release, I’d need some time on a firing range. Even back in the U.K., with its zero tolerance policy toward handguns, I’d managed to equip myself with pistols. We’d have no chance against Sara without them.

I leaned back in the uncomfortable chair. Maybe Peter Sebastian wasn’t really planning on cutting us loose. He only knew about the Soul Collector by reputation, but he’d had experience of what Heinz Rothmann and his brainwashed mob could do with guns. With Rothmann still out there, Karen and I were targets if we were going to be staying in the U.S. until we were sent for trial-if that ever happened. Could it be that the Americans and the Brits had done a deal and we were going to be allowed home? Given what Karen and I had tried to do to the President, I didn’t think that was very likely.

When I looked up again from the computer, I noticed it was after midnight. I woke Karen up and walked her to bed. She was only semiconscious, but she managed to press my hand against her abdomen and kiss me before sleep swallowed her up again. I stood watching her, a stupid smile on my face. Then I remembered how it had been when Lucy was newly born-never more than an hour of sleep at a time, deafening wails, the endless changing of diapers. Soon I’d be going through that again. I had never thought I would, but the prospect didn’t induce panic. To my amazement, I was actually looking forward to it. How old would Magnus have to be before I could get him his first rugby ball?

I went out and made a jug of coffee, then spent the next three hours getting in touch with people and surfing the web. Nothing earth-shattering seemed to have happened in the weeks since we’d been out of circulation-the usual earthquakes, changes of government, wars. There had been a string of grisly murders across the U.S.-Peter Sebastian, who was in charge of the FBI investigation, was quoted as saying that the fact the victims were involved in human rights activities and Democratic politics was not necessarily significant. Go, Peter, go. Asshole.

I diverted myself by checking the rugby league scores. My old club, the South London Bison, had lost their last four games. That put everything into perspective. I needed to get back there and do some coaching.

Eventually my eyes started to close of their own accord. I found myself checking my email in-box before logging off, as I always used to do-it seemed plenty of old habits had survived the brainwashing process. The second I took in the new message in bold, I sat up like an electric eel had brushed me. So, Matt, how are you? You must have gone to ground, I can’t find you anywhere. I’ve been busy-blood, lots of it, and enough pain to make a torturer squirm in jealousy-which is why I haven’t been bombarding you with messages like a sick schoolgirl. I’m sick, no doubt you’d say, but a schoolgirl? Well, you remember what I was like in bed, don’t you? How’s Karen, by the way? Not up to much in the sex department these days, I shouldn’t think, getting fat and such. Have you become a father again yet? I do hope that doesn’t cramp your style. I won’t let it cramp mine… Anyway, keep well, Matt. I will find you and only one of us will walk away from that happy reunion. Did you ever come across that Thomson/Rothmann character again? I heard that he’d escaped, despite what one of your pet detectives in Washington D.C. called your ‘brave and selfless efforts.’ You really must be more ruthless. It’s essential in this line of work. Remember this: you brought about my brother’s death, you killed my sister. I’m going to slaughter you and everyone you love, not necessarily in that order. In the name of our beloved and most glorious White Devil, S.C.

The Soul Collector. Sara. I sat back, my heart thundering and my palms damp. The bitch. If I hadn’t been sure before, now I knew-nobody was safe, not Karen, not our son, nobody. The only way for us to survive was for me to kill my ex-lover. And the only way to do that was to offer myself as bait. But to do so, I needed to get out of the camp.

I was going to have to do whatever it took and, as my crazed ex-lover said, I would have to be ruthless-a rock; tougher and sharper than steel.

I needed more time with Quincy Jerome.

The woman was of average height and build, only the lightness of her movements suggesting that she maintained a high level of physical fitness. She wore a pale blue tracksuit and a green baseball cap with the single word Irish on the peak. Any passersby on the street in Astoria who tried to make out her features had little luck. She used no makeup and her features apart from the high cheekbones were unremarkable. A ponytail of auburn hair sprouted from the back of her cap and the unusually bright winter sun brought the color out.

‘Hey, doll, you want to feel my olives?’

The woman stopped and looked back at the stallholder. He was short and swarthy, a slack smile on his lips. Olives in various shades of green and black were arrayed in large plastic trays.

The man tried again. ‘Just for you, from Kalamata with love.’

A plane taking off from nearby La Guardia roared above them.

‘What’s that?’ the stallholder said, leaning forward.

‘I said, your olives look beautiful, but I hate the taste.’ The woman’s voice was even and only marginally accented.