Ryan, Chris - Zero 22

‘My bet is the President’s people want to know why we didn’t go through with our op to take you out,’ Danny said. ‘They want to know what you said to us to make us change our mind.’

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘They don’t know that.’ He frowned. ‘The question is, do they think you’re dead? If they do, why are they looking for me and Bethany? And if they don’t, will they have someone waiting for us at your apartment?’

‘Nobody knows about that apartment,’ the General said, his voice testy.

Danny gave him a sidelong ‘don’t be so naive’ look. The General fell silent. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he clenched his teeth.

‘If the media controlled by the President is circulating that footage on the news networks, it means they’re very nervous,’ Danny said. ‘They’re going to make sure their hit happens quickly.’ He inhaled. ‘I don’t like this,’ he said. ‘Every military instinct tells me we should hold off. Put in some surveillance on your apartment. But I don’t think we have time. I think we have to deal with whatever comes. And Bethany and I need to make sure nobody sees our faces.’

They drove in silence for a moment. Then the General said: ‘We’re about forty-five minutes away.’

The television was on mute. Rabia was in the children’s room, getting them ready. Hamoud could hear her kind cajoling and it made him smile. He crossed the room to join them, but the picture on the television screen made him stop. An eight o’clock news bulletin showed a slightly blurred CCTV image of a man and a woman. The man had dark hair and dark features. He wore a suit that looked a little small for him across the shoulders. The woman had blonde hair and a dark jacket. There was something about them that made Hamoud stare. A sharpness in the eyes. A ruthlessness. A caption across the bottom of the screen read: ‘American troops killed in Amman, Jordan. Footage of suspects released.’ Hamoud felt a chill as he looked at them. He didn’t really know what a killer was supposed to look like, even though the American authorities had accused him of being one. But if he had to guess, he imagined they might look like these two.

He caught himself. What a terrible assumption he had just made, judging somebody on their appearance. Others did that to him all the time. Perhaps these two people were completely innocent, like Hamoud had been completely innocent, like so many others at Guantanamo had been completely innocent. He thought of his box of newspaper clippings back home, with pictures of other inmates he had never met. How many of them had been falsely accused? But, he told himself, the news networks must have a reason for broadcasting such an accusation against this man and this woman. Perhaps Hamoud was being too sensitive. Perhaps they really were bad guys.

The news reel moved on. Hamoud switched off the television and put the image from his mind. He was determined to have a pleasant evening with his family.

It was a warm, clear Florida night. The buses that took people from the resort hotels to the park were packed full. Hamoud’s children gripped his hands tightly. He could tell that they felt claustrophobic, pressed in on all sides by the other passengers. There was not so little room, however, that those around Hamoud couldn’t manage to put a little space between them and him, especially when they caught sight of his beard and vivid scar. Hamoud gave both his children a little reassuring squeeze. He hoped they would not realise that he felt the same as they did. Sweat dripped down his back. His mouth was dry. He held his breath.

Then the bus spat them all out at the turnstiles and he could breathe easily. The children were more relaxed too. Hamoud and Rabia ushered them into the park and towards the now familiar sight of Main Street. It glowed with activity. There was a juggler who twirled luminous batons high into the air. Mickey, Donald and Goofy were enthusiastically greeting children as they passed. The Cinderella Castle dominated everything, its spires glowing. Rabia stopped him for a moment and pointed at it. ‘This,’ she said. ‘ This is America. Not that awful man and his awful rallies.’

She was right, of course. She always was.

They walked through the castle and onto the main drag. Here it was even busier. An enormous carnival float made its way slowly towards them. The characters – more than Hamoud could even recognise – stood on the float, waving and dancing. There was a full brass band with trumpets and trombones and an enormous bass drum with a picture of Mickey Mouse on the skin. Young women with twirling batons and epaulettes marched glamorously in front of the float, and everyone cheered and waved as it passed. Rabia and the children waved too, and he felt a sudden and indescribable surge of happiness. It took him by surprise. He looked around and realised that, for the first time in ages, he felt like he was living in the moment, like he was part of something. He started to wave at the float. He grinned. He even shuffled from one foot to the other, in time with the music. His children laughed delightedly to see it, though he couldn’t hear them because the music was so loud. They danced with him and waved at the float with two hands and Hamoud didn’t even stop dancing when he saw a woman dressed as Snow White taking photographs of people in the crowd. She was taking photographs of everyone , so what did it matter that, as the float had almost passed, she stood at the edge, looked back and scanned the crowd as though searching for someone in particular? What did it matter that as her gaze fell directly on Hamoud, there seemed to be a flicker of recognition? That a look of intense concentration replaced that of vacuous jollity as she raised her camera and took his picture, lowered it again and waved at him with a big cheesy grin, and then was gone?

Hamoud was breathless. He was excited. He felt like a new person. ‘What shall we go on first?’ he said, speaking loudly because the noise of the brass band hadn’t faded away yet. The children shouted a barrage of incomprehensible suggestions and Hamoud laughed again and took them by the hands and led them up Main Street with Rabia also laughing by his side.

And then he saw him, and he stopped.

The man with the strange, long face was standing on the opposite side of the road outside a souvenir shop. Three young girls with blonde ringlets were standing to one side of him clutching cuddly Minnie Mouse toys. He was wearing the same baseball jacket that looked just a little too big for him, and he was distractedly touching his cheeks. Was he nervous? He certainly appeared to be. One of the Minnie Mouse girls bumped into him and giggled. He gave her a look of such fury that Hamoud was shocked. Frowning, the man turned and stormed away, disappearing into the crowd.

All Hamoud’s joy drained out of him. He felt a crushing sense of impending doom. Who was that man? How did he know him? Because he did know him. He was certain of it.

The children had noticed his sudden change of demeanour. They looked up at him, wide-eyed. Rabia gently touched his arm.

‘This way,’ he said. He pushed through the crowd, his family close behind, heading in the direction he had seen the man storm away. He caught a glimpse of Donald Duck on the back of the man’s baseball jacket. Then he lost sight of it again. He picked up his pace and continued to follow.

20.30 hrs.

The SUV was stationary. At the General’s instruction, Danny had parked it on a quiet street. It was lined with yellow street lamps. They beamed geometrical shapes of light into the heavy rain that hammered on to the roof of the vehicle and sluiced over the windscreen. They sat in the darkness, barely able to see out. Shadows flitted past on the sidewalk, hunched under umbrellas or wrapped in heavy raincoats. Across the street a line of four-storey terraced townhouses loomed above them. Danny couldn’t make out the roofline or the doorway through the rain. Just the window-glow of the rooms that had lights on inside.