Ryan, Chris - Zero 22

He bent down again and picked up the tracking device.

‘Get dressed,’ he told the General. ‘And get back into the car.’

NINETEEN

It was a short hop from Cincinnati to Orlando. The children had squealed at take-off and landing, and had been almost unreasonably excited when the kind air stewardess had handed them a complimentary Coke from the drinks trolley. Rabia did not ordinarily allow them to drink soda, but today she did so with an indulgent smile. It was almost enough to make Hamoud forget about the unpleasant stares he and his family had received from some of the passengers on this Delta flight. There was something about airplanes in America that made those stares more aggressive. It was probably a 9/11 thing, Hamoud supposed. At least, and as far as he was aware, none of the other passengers had demanded that his family leave the plane before take-off. He had heard of that happening.

When they arrived in Orlando, the children’s excitement was irrepressible. Even Malick, who was normally so quiet. Almost every poster at the airport showed an image of the Cinderella Castle, or thrill-seeking kids on a rollercoaster, or Mickey Mouse. Malick and Melissa pointed at every single one. Hamoud and Rabia gently ushered them along the corridors of the airport towards the exit, through the crowds and out into the departure area.

A man was waiting for them here. He wore smart clothes – a blazer and dark trousers – and he held up a blackboard with the name ‘Hamoud Al Asmar’ clearly written in white chalk.

Hamoud stopped. The man’s face was familiar. He tried to place it, but it eluded him.

‘Hamoud, are you alright?’ His wife and children had gone on ahead for several metres before realising that Hamoud was not with them. They had turned back and rejoined him. ‘Hamoud, what is the matter?’

Hamoud smiled. ‘Nothing, my love,’ he said, and he tousled his son’s hair as the little boy stared up at him. ‘Look, there’s our transfer.’

Rabia preened herself. They would never take a car service in the ordinary course of events. ‘It’s like being the President of the United States,’ she told her children rather grandly. ‘Come along!’

They made themselves known to the driver, who was very polite. He offered to take their bag for them but Hamoud declined. He wasn’t used to such service and it made him uncomfortable. The driver led them out into the hammer-blow heat of a Florida summer. Hamoud felt a bead of sweat dripping precisely along the vertical scar on his face. They headed into the parking lot where the driver’s minivan was parked. ‘Make yourself comfortable folks,’ he said as he slid the door open for them. There were two rows of seats in the back of the minivan. The children took the back row to themselves – another thrill for them – while Hamoud and his wife took the front row. It was pleasantly cool in the air-conditioned van, and a country music station played softly as they exited the parking lot and headed away from the airport.

But Hamoud couldn’t relax. He could see the driver’s face in the rear-view mirror and was even more certain now that he recognised him. He thought hard. The harder he thought, the more the man’s identity slipped from him. Relax, he told himself. Try to forget about it. If you’re not thinking so hard, maybe it will come.

‘We’re nearly there, children,’ he said. The kids squealed with joy and Rabia laughed fondly to hear it.

And it was as she laughed that it came to him. He hadn’t been able to place the face because he’d only seen it for a split second earlier that day, watching Hamoud from a distance as he and his family passed through security at Cincinnati. He felt a twist of anxiety in his gut. What could this mean? Were they being followed? Did this man mean them harm? He didn’t seem harmful. He was driving calmly at fifty miles per hour, eyes forward, paying no interest to Hamoud and his family.

It was paranoia, he told himself. Nothing more. It couldn’t be the same person. Why would an Orlando transfer driver be loitering in the security area of Cincinnati airport? He wouldn’t. Hamoud was mistaken. It was as simple as that. He was being foolish. He wasn’t well in his mind. He had to remember that, for his own good and for the good of his family.

He held his wife’s hand and tenderly squeezed it. They were going to enjoy their holiday, and his confused thoughts were not going to get in the way.

‘This is fucking insane,’ the General growled. ‘You were one of my guys, I’d have you court-martialled.’

Danny said nothing.

‘You should throw that goddamn tracker out of the window,’ the General said. ‘Any one of these vehicles.’ He pointed vaguely out of the Nissan’s windows to indicate the other cars on the motorway. ‘Any of them could be one of these Wagner Group nut jobs. You want them to try to take us off the goddamn road again?’

‘They can try,’ Danny said.

Bethany kept quiet. Danny guessed she was conflicted. Like the General, she no doubt wanted to get to the pick-up point as quickly and as safely as possible. She was surely thinking about her kid, and getting home to him as quickly as she could. But at the same time, if anybody understood the desire for revenge, it was her. She had killed for it in the past. Risked everything for it. Bethany White most certainly understood how Danny was feeling.

The traffic was thinning out. They were heading west, back towards the Israeli border. Desert terrain faded into the night on either side of them. Danny had reset the GPS unit to guide them back to the Roman ruins where they’d met their fixer and left the smuggler’s lorry. It would mean, any minute now, going off road and heading across the desert. The Nissan was hardly the ideal vehicle for such a journey. Danny didn’t care. It would do. He would make it work.

‘It’s insane!’ the General said again.

‘You want me to leave you by the side of the road, say the word.’

Silence. Danny could tell the General was considering a different line of argument. ‘You any idea how important it is I get out of here in one piece? You think your goddamn side show is more important than the security of the United States of America?’

‘You’ll get out of here in one piece.’

‘It’s a war crime, you know that? It’s a bona fide, black and white, cut and dried war crime. Jesus, I’m trying to expose a conspiracy at the highest level, and you’re off on some personal vendetta?’

‘It’s not a personal vendetta,’ Danny said.

‘I’ll tell you what it is – it’s a disaster in the making. You got any idea what will happen to me if it’s discovered that I’ve been involved in this madness.’

‘Nobody’s going to discover anything.’

‘How do you know that? How can you possible say that?’

‘Because the Russians won’t want anybody asking questions about why they were trying to assassinate a five-star general, an SAS man and a former MI6 officer. In any case, we don’t have a choice. We have to deal with these Wagner Group guys. It’s an operational necessity.’

‘The hell it is,’ the General said.

‘We’re heading to a covert RV with a British chopper in the Jordanian desert close to the Israeli border. If we don’t deal with these guys, we’ll lead them straight to it. They’re serious players. I’ve seen them in action. I’m not going to compromise the guys coming in to pick us up. I’m not going to risk another massacre.’

‘You’re finding excuses,’ the General said.

‘The guy with the mohawk is called Alexander Turgenev,’ Danny said. ‘He’s smart enough to orchestrate an ambush on an SAS unit. He’s smart enough to track us this far. You really think we should underestimate him? Not to mention that you just watched him shoot two of your men in the back of the head. Are you seriously telling me you don’t want to see him dead?’