Ryan, Chris - Zero 22

Danny hesitated. It wasn’t such a big thing to ask. He had a phone. He could put a call through to Hereford and make it happen. But what would a conversation with the boy do for Bethany’s state of mind? Would it focus her or upset her? Right now, she seemed to Danny to be in the zone. He didn’t want anything to mess with that. ‘They won’t do it,’ he said. ‘You know Sturrock.’

She turned and looked at him. There was a tightness around her eyes and Danny thought: does she know? Has she worked out that there’s no way MI6 would let her live, after what she was about to do for them?

The tightness eased. Bethany nodded. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I know Sturrock.’ Her voice was full of bitterness. ‘Alright then. If we’re going to do this, let’s do it.’ She gathered up her dirty clothes and stuffed them into one of the suitcases. Danny did the same.

Hamoud was spared his nightmares because sleep had been impossible. He was too excited, as excited as his children had been the night before, although he would never have admitted it. When they had finally gone to sleep, he and Rabia had fallen into bed. She slept instantly, exhausted from a hard day of cleaning other people’s houses. Hamoud lay awake, staring at the ceiling and enjoying the anticipation of their unexpected family holiday.

Now it was 6 a.m. and, as usual, he was up before everybody else. He had made himself a cup of weak tea and was sitting cross legged on the floor, as he had learned to do in his empty cell at Guantanamo. The Walt Disney World brochure was open in front of him. In his mind, he once again mapped the faces of his children onto the faces of the happy kids in the brochure. It warmed him even more than the tea, and for the first time in years, he felt a sense of calmness and optimism.

His tranquillity was broken by footsteps in the corridor outside. A knock on the door. Hamoud scrambled over to it, spilling his tea in the process. He opened the door. There, on the floor, was a FedEx package. He picked it up and looked at both sides. He’d never before received anything by FedEx and was surprised that nobody had asked him to sign for it. Perhaps they’d made a mistake. He wanted to call back the delivery person, but when he looked along the corridor there was nobody there.

Paranoia was a strange, powerful affliction. One moment you could be entirely free of it. The next, it hit you with tidal force, crashing over you, taking your breath away. It was happening now. Hamoud had to grip the door frame to counteract his dizziness. Where was the delivery person? Why couldn’t he see him?

He drew some deep breaths. Calmed himself. Recognise this for what it is, he said. You are paranoid. You are worrying about problems that don’t exist. Perhaps the delivery person hadn’t waited for a signature because it was so early. He felt a little better, but the paranoia had not completely subsided.

Back inside the apartment, he carefully opened the package. It was all there. Plane reservations for that afternoon, in their names, from Cincinnati to Orlando. Their hotel booking and passes for the parks. Everything in order. So why did he still feel uneasy? He moved over to the window that overlooked the front of their apartment block. With one bony finger, he parted the curtains and peered out on to the road below. He saw his reflection faintly in the window. The grey-flecked beard. The prominent scar on his eye. He looked through it. He was searching for a FedEx van, but there was none. The road wasn’t busy this early in the morning, but on the opposite side he saw a black SUV parked up on the kerb. A man was hurrying across the road, away from the apartment block, towards it. When he reached the sidewalk, he stopped for a moment and looked back over his shoulder. He gazed upwards and Hamoud had the uncomfortable sensation that the man was staring directly at him. He guiltily let the curtain fall closed as an electric shock of anxiety buzzed through him. It was the same feeling that he used to get in the prison camp whenever he drew the attention of someone in authority. Hamoud didn’t like to be noticed.

He took several deep breaths to calm himself again. Then he returned to the bedroom, the tickets still in his hand. Rabia was half awake. When Hamoud perched on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, she sat up and reached out to stroke his back. ‘What is it, my love?’ she asked.

He almost didn’t say. He knew how the conversation was likely to evolve. She would say to him, ‘I think you have PTSD. I think you should see a doctor.’ But he didn’t want to see a doctor. He wanted to get better by himself. But he also wanted to share his concerns with his wife. He frowned at the tickets in his hand. ‘Something’s not right,’ he said. ‘Why would anybody send us to Walt Disney World? We’re not the sort of family this kind of thing happens to. It feels . . . it feels wrong .’ He didn’t mention the lack of a FedEx van or the man by the SUV.

‘Hamoud,’ said Rabia, her voice gentle and cajoling, ‘Hamoud, you need to stop assuming that nothing good will ever happen to you. The things in your past were terrible, but they are over now. God owes us a bit of luck. Perhaps this is the beginning of a change for us. Let’s just enjoy it while we can.’

He nodded and smiled at her as reassuringly as he could. But while she was in the shower, he found his phone and he dialled the same number he’d called when the offer had first dropped through his door.

‘ Hello, Walt Disney World, where all your dreams come true! ’

It was the same cheerful female voice as before. It struck Hamoud as a bit odd that he should have been put through to the same operator, but he told himself that it was hardly an impossibility. He stuttered his name. ‘I just wanted to check . . . to check that our all-expenses-paid trip . . . to check that it’s a real offer.’

‘ Of course, sir. We’re looking forward to welcoming you at Walt Disney World. ’

‘Um . . . don’t you need to check?’

‘ Mr Al Asmar? ’

‘That’s right.’

‘ We’re looking forward to welcoming you! May I help you with anything else today? ’

‘No,’ Hamoud said. ‘No. Nothing else.’

‘ Then you have a good day ,’ said the voice. Music played over the line. The Mickey Mouse song, its catchy refrain spelling out his name, sung by a choir of children, over and over again. A relentlessly cheerful tune, but somehow menacing to Hamoud as he looked from the door to the window, and heard his little ones moving around in their bedroom, the sound of his wife’s shower. His palms started itching again and he wanted to scratch them.

He ended the phone call. The song died. His children ran into the room, as excited as they had been before going to bed last night. They flung their arms round his neck, squealing with delight, and Hamoud didn’t have the heart not to join in with them. Rabia was right, he told himself. He needed to stop assuming that nothing good would ever happen to him. This was the beginning of a change for them. He would enjoy his good luck for as long as it lasted.

He would not be paranoid.

TWELVE

11.37 hrs. Hunter had rotated to the rear service entrance of the Mansion House. He was perched on the plastic bench of the bus stop that faced the apartment block. Rush hour was over and there were only three other people at the bus stop, all ignoring each other and staring at their phones. Hunter was watching the vehicles entering and leaving the service entrance. In particular, he was watching a Transit van with the Amazon logo on both sides as it drove down into the basement parking lot. He stepped away from the bus stop so he wouldn’t be heard by the other pedestrians, put his sleeve to his mouth and spoke over the team’s radio. ‘Cunningham and the others are here,’ he said. ‘Keep your positions. I’m moving in.’