Sam Bourne - The Final Reckoning

‘Yes, and we will talk about that. About that and everything else. We really will. I have to say Rebecca, you do look very tired. Do you feel tired?’

‘As a matter of fact, Richard, I'm really exhausted.’ She smiled again, showing even more of her teeth. Tom was amazed by this sudden show of friendliness. ‘Does it show?’

‘I'm afraid it does, Rebecca. And what about you, Tom? Are you feeling tired?’

Tom wanted to tell him to mind his own business and to get on with telling them what they needed to know. But that urge gave way to another feeling. Maybe it was the warmth of the room or the restorative power of a hot drink or just the sight of Rebecca at last relaxed. Whatever the source, now didn't seem the moment for a fight. This man was being friendly and mellow. Tom felt he should be friendly and mellow too.

‘You know what? I am really tired. Isn't that funny?’ And Tom gave a smile that turned into a small chuckle.

‘Do you want to get some fresh air perhaps? Would you like some fresh air, Rebecca?’

‘Yes, Richard I would.’

‘And you, Tom? How about you? Would you like some fresh air?’

‘I think I would, Richard. Thank you.’

‘OK. Well, why don't you drink up and we'll get some fresh air. That's it, finish off those coffees and we'll take a walk.’

Both Tom and Rebecca did as they were told, taking a sip, then keeping the mug close by their lips to down some more. They did that more or less in silence, until there was no coffee left.

‘All righty then,’ Richard said, so that now all three of them were smiling. ‘About that walk.’

They got to their feet, Tom giving Rebecca a quizzical look that was nevertheless pleasant: this is odd, isn't it? She gave a semi-shrug back to him that said, Let's just go with the flow.

‘Pick up your handbag, Rebecca.’ It was Richard, his wording – direct, as if he were giving an order – surprising Tom. But Rebecca, who had been such hard work with him, didn't object to being bossed about by this strange man, this ‘Richard’. Tom wanted to criticize or complain or at least make a sarcastic remark, but he didn't have the energy.

They were outside now, stepping into an immediate and fast-moving stream of pedestrians, rushing in such haste, barking into their phones so loudly, Tom felt his head spin. Some were carrying umbrellas which meant, Tom realized after a delay, that it was raining.

‘Tell you what,’ said Richard, his voice still calm and smooth. ‘Maybe this isn't quite the right atmosphere. Since we all want fresh air, maybe we need to drive somewhere.’

‘Drive?’ Rebecca said.

‘Yes, drive. And guess what, here's my car.’

Tom had noticed it already, a split second earlier: a silver Mercedes saloon, hugging the kerb. It was not quite a limousine; more like a very upmarket hire car, the kind his high-paying clients – including those whose tax returns claimed they were in the New Jersey construction industry – would occasionally send to collect him. He noticed the windows were blacked out.

At that very moment, just as Richard stopped speaking, Tom felt a firm and sudden push to his lower back, a robust nudge, the kind busy-bodies used to administer on the Tube to ensure the passengers moved into the carriage. It obviously worked because, without quite knowing how it had happened, it was no longer raining. He was in the dry. A second or two later, he found himself on the back seat of the Mercedes. Rebecca was on the other side and Richard was in between them.

He wasn't sure if it was real, or just his woozy imagination, but the car seemed to be gliding forward. There was no outside noise at all. Tom could see nothing more than the ear of the driver and that seemed to be filled by some kind of device. It was flickering with a blue light.

‘Rebecca, would you just roll up your sleeve for me.’

Tom watched, though he seemed to be looking through a gauze. Was it especially dark in this car? Tom tried rubbing his eyes. No, it made no difference. His vision still seemed soft, as if someone had rubbed Vaseline on the lens.

‘There we go,’ Richard was saying, as Rebecca obliged, offering him the flat surface on the underside of her right elbow. She didn't even flinch when Richard produced a syringe, pushing a small squirt of fluid from its needle as a test. ‘You'll feel a small jab and that will be that.’

Tom watched all this as if it were being played back to him on videotape. He tried to tell himself that it was happening right now, that it was strange and probably not a good idea, but somehow he couldn't get the words out. It wasn't just speaking that was the problem. His thoughts themselves seemed to have slowed down, as if they had to travel through a thick, viscous treacle of lethargy. No matter what he was seeing happen in front of him, he couldn't rouse himself to feel that strongly about it. He had a vague sense that he should, but mainly he just wanted to relax. He heard a distant voice say, ‘I'm just going with the flow.’

‘That's really good that you're going with the flow, Tom,’ Richard said. ‘Really good.’ He produced another syringe and nodded in the direction of Tom's right sleeve. Automatically, Tom unrolled it and presented the patch of exposed skin, offering this man he had met perhaps ten minutes earlier his vein.

‘By the way, Tom, I'm sorry I had to drug your coffee.’

Tom felt the tiniest prick and watched as the needle tucked under his skin, the vein now protruding.

‘Not nice to have tainted two perfectly good cappuccinos like that. Or was one a latte? Anyway, sorry about that.’

The man's voice was getting more remote, as if he were speaking on a cellphone and had just gone into a tunnel. As a matter of fact, that was just how Tom felt. He imagined himself on a first class train, stretching his legs forward and pushing his seat back, ready for a really good sleep. And all around, the light was falling away, replaced by darkness. A tunnel of darkness, enveloping him, covering him. What harm would it do to surrender and allow himself some rest? He would tell this man, this Richard, that that was what he was going to do, that he was going to sleep. If only he could find the energy to open his eyes, then he would tell him. He would tell him…

The journey west took more than two hours, with the crawl out of London accounting for most of that time. Once they were on the M3, the traffic moved along pretty briskly and Richard could relax.

Richard. It wasn't a bad name; he'd had worse. And it had done the trick, hadn't it? Rebecca Merton had not challenged him to say more; he hadn't given her the chance. He'd been more worried about this UN lawyer she was with. But neither of them had noticed the spray of GBL – gamma-butyrolactone, the industrial solvent which had found a niche as the date-rape drug of choice in the seedier corners of the London club scene – which he had administered before they'd barely exchanged a word. It had not been difficult: one quick spray and job done.

He had been given only the barest instructions and certainly no clue as to the purpose of the mission. That was standard practice but this job was anything but standard. He was used to taking out men rather than women or couples; and they tended not to be middle class professionals but intense, bearded young men who'd spent too long watching beheadings on the al-Qaeda version of YouTube. So this had been an extra challenge. And the level of resources was unusual, too: he'd been told he could spend whatever he liked, just so long as he got the subjects out. No one had said anything explicit, but the way his controller had spoken suggested this was a job authorized from the top. Or close to it.