Ryan, Chris - Zero 22

And then Lewis and Emerson were there, appearing as if from nowhere. They had unclipped themselves from their tandem harness and had obviously donned their fins because they were cutting speedily through a mound of swell. Emerson reached them first and helped them unclip from each other. Lewis moved close to Bethany, ready to help her if she got into trouble. Danny caught sight of her face for the first time since the jump. Her skin was very pale, her blonde hair plastered to her cheek. She looked vulnerable, bobbing in the vastness of the Atlantic. And although Lewis stuck close, it was Danny she looked to.

He could feel his own body temperature dropping and was relieved to hear the approaching buzz of an engine. It grew louder very quickly and, as the swell raised him again, he saw a large black RIB approaching. Beyond it he caught a glimpse of the frigate, grey and immobile in the distance. Then the RIB was alongside them. A coxswain leaned over the side, shouting at them to board. Danny kicked his way to the RIB and remained in the water as the other guys helped Bethany. He clambered over the side. The RIB only had one other crew member at the wheel. He followed the coxswain’s instruction to sit behind him next to Bethany. He could almost sense the relief coming off her.

It only took a couple more minutes to collect the others. The General looked in pretty good shape for an older guy. He swam powerfully towards the RIB and barely needed any help boarding. Then they were speeding back towards the frigate, bouncing on the waves, spray everywhere, the air a mixture of salt and fuel fumes. Apart from the Royal Navy vessel, the ocean was deserted in all directions. Their insertion into American waters might have registered as a radar splash, but he was confident that no American eyes had witnessed it. He couldn’t help noticing, though, how the General scanned the horizon constantly, as though searching for some unseen watcher.

They were travelling against the current, so it took longer than Danny expected to reach the frigate. Maybe fifteen minutes later its vast hull loomed above them, and the ocean itself seemed to shake with the rumble of its idling engines. Overhead, a crane jutted out over the deck railings. It supported a heavy winch, which lowered a set of ropes and carabiners down to the bobbing RIB. The SBS guys fastened the ropes to anchoring points on the RIB, and in seconds they were hauled aloft. Danny saw Bethany gripping her seat so hard that her knuckles turned white. The SBS guys almost looked bored, this manoeuvre was so routine for them.

The crane lowered them on to the deck. A man stood there to greet them. He was dressed in blue naval uniform, and wore a full black beard, flecked with grey. His eyes were sharp and blue, and he spoke cheerfully with the remnants of a Liverpudlian accent that sounded out of place here in the middle of the ocean. ‘I’m Captain Mitchell,’ he announced, ‘and you’re very welcome aboard.’

Danny stood and shook hands with him. ‘How long till we dock.’

‘Four hours?’ He seemed to notice Danny’s frustration. ‘Sooner if possible. I’ve a got a boat full of men and women who’ve been at sea for several weeks and we’ve just delayed their arrival into Norfolk by eight hours. I’ll be honest with you. They’re getting thirsty.’

With a twinkling smile, the captain turned and led them along the deck.

TWENTY-TWO

The chef at the breakfast bar made the children pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse’s head and flecked with chocolate drops. They stared at their breakfast in awe, as if unable to process that something so extravagant and delicious could be theirs to eat. Rabia nursed a bowl of fruit and a glass of orange juice and fondly watched the kids take their first bites and close their eyes in ecstasy as they chewed.

Hamoud had nothing but a small cup of strong coffee. He wasn’t hungry but he was tired. He hadn’t slept.

The dining room was very large but only half full. Perhaps a hundred people, half of them children, none of them sitting anywhere near Hamoud and his family. A young child had pointed at his scar and started crying. His parents had hurried him along to another table much further away.

Disney characters, in their huge, colourful costumes, were moving from table to table. There was Baloo, the bear, pretending to steal a young boy’s chocolate milk. There was Cinderella, white gloves up to her elbows, gracefully curtseying at a table of wide-eyed girls. Chip ’n’ Dale were messing around at the far end of the restaurant. They had frightened a baby in a high chair and were putting their hands to their mouths in false alarm.

Hamoud was sweating. He was scratching his palms under the table. He was looking from character to character and he realised he was searching for Goofy. For the Goofy who had taken his picture yesterday.

Or had he?

‘Is everything alright, my love?’

His wife put one hand on his and he smiled in return and took a sip of coffee. There was no Goofy. None of the characters were paying him or his family the least attention. He was about to point at Chip ’n’ Dale because he knew their antics would make her laugh, when something caught his eye. It was a security camera, positioned over the entrance to the restaurant and angled so that it was pointing directly at Hamoud’s family.

A surge of panic rose in his chest and he fought to control it. He shut his eyes. In an instant he was elsewhere. He was sitting alone in a foul cell, cross-legged on the floor, a tray of food that only a starving person would countenance eating. A camera above the door, pointing at him. The flashback was sharp. Vivid. He could see every streak on the concrete walls and every tiny dot of rodent droppings on the floor. He could smell the toilet in the corner and taste his thirst. He could hear the footsteps of the guard outside.

And then he opened his eyes and was back in the restaurant, his family staring at him as he continued to scratch his palms under the table.

‘My love?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I think I have an upset stomach. I’m going to the washroom. Shall I see you up in the room?’

The children were munching again. Rabia squeezed his hand. ‘See you up there,’ she said.

Hamoud left the restaurant. The elevator that would take him back up to his room was straight ahead. The reception desk was to his right. He stood for a moment, contemplating the two. He looked over his shoulder to check that his wife couldn’t see him. She was out of view. He walked up to the reception desk. There was a small line and he had to wait a couple of minutes to be seen. Long, sweaty minutes. His mouth was dry and his palms itched. He forced himself not to scratch them because that would make him look even more nervous than he already did. He had never tried anything like this before.

‘May I help you, sir?’

The woman behind the desk was plump, with bleached hair scraped tightly back. She smiled, of course, but it was the fixed, forced smile that Hamoud recognised so well. The smile of a prejudiced American attempting to hide their true feelings. Her eyes kept flickering to his scar, and Hamoud could tell that she was making unfavourable judgements without even talking to him.

‘I’m very sorry,’ Hamoud said, keeping his voice low so that the person behind him in the line would not overhear, ‘but I’ve lost my key card. May I have another?’

‘What room number would that be, sir?’

He hesitated before delivering his lie, then cursed himself for hesitating, and so he stuttered and had to repeat himself. ‘Room 297,’ he said.

He knew he’d blown it the moment the words were out of his mouth. The receptionist couldn’t hide her suspicion. She typed at the terminal in front of her and said, ‘I’m sorry, sir. The guest in Room 297 checked out this morning.’