Nobody even raised an eyebrow.
Zack Levinson looked around his new London office — bland, featureless shit hole that it was — with bleary eyes.
Levinson was tired. Damned tired. He'd caught the redeye from Washington just the night before and the DCIA was already on his case. Donald Priestley's body had barely been cold when Levinson had been drafted in to replace him and for a few blissful hours he thought he was on to a soft option — an extended vacation in London. He'd soon been disabused of that stupid idea.
The DCIA was in a panic — that much was clear. Levinson didn't know why he wanted former SAS soldier Will Jackson, but he really wanted him, and the full force of the CIA's London resources were given over to finding the guy.
Levinson's mobile rang and he answered it immediately. 'Give me good news,' he said.
'We think we've found him.'
'Alle-fuckin'-luia. Where?'
'Central London. Private hospital. We're going in now.'
Levinson breathed a sigh of relief. 'OK,' he said. 'Go get him and bring him straight to me.'
He hung up and leaned back in his chair. Zack Levinson's day had just taken a turn for the better.
The moment he walked out of the hospital, Will hailed a taxi. He slumped heavily into the back seat. 'Holiday Inn,' he told the driver. 'Nearest one.'
'You all right, mate?' the driver asked, genuinely worried.
'Fine,' Will breathed. 'Just drive.'
The taxi slid away.
Half an hour later he was in a reassuringly bland room of the hotel, having checked in under an assumed name. He sat on the side of the bed, swallowed a couple of morphine tablets, and then set about attending to his wound. He winced as the dressing peeled away from the skin, the flimsy gauze sticking slightly to the still wet blood around the stitched-up entry point. He staggered to the bathroom, splashed cold water over the sticky wound, then dabbed it dry with a clean, white hotel towel which immediately became stained with patches of scarlet. Back in the bedroom he unwrapped the packaging of the fresh dressing with shaking fingers, pressed it to the wound and stuck it to his skin with sticking plaster. It looked a lot less professional than the previous job, but at least it was clean.
Minutes later, to his overwhelming relief, the morphine started to kick in. Will stood up and looked at himself in a mirror. Jesus, he thought. You look like death warmed up. His skin was pallid, his eyes bloodshot and tired. He wished, more than anything, that he could just lie down and sleep — for days, if necessary. But that wasn't going to be possible. His mind was suddenly ablaze with plans, with things he had to do. Pankhurst's warning had been stark, and for the first time ever Will felt an absolute confidence that the DG of Five was on his side. And Pankhurst was right. Will might have done enough to stop the law coming after him, but the CIA would be slightly more tenacious, especially if they suspected that he knew anything about Operation Firefight.
He had to make arrangements. Set things in motion. He cursed the debilitating wound in his shoulder, but he couldn't let it get in his way. Will could only stay anonymous for so long; the Americans would catch up with him eventually. Unless…
Unless… He sat again on the side of his bed, a slideshow of images flickering through his brain. He saw Latifa Ahmed, brutalised and only days from death in the hut in Afghanistan. He saw the bodies of his fellow SAS men, dead and cold. He saw the flat, emotionless eyes of Faisal Ahmed as they stood together by Priestley's bleeding corpse. And he saw his family's grave, silent and still.
So much violence.
So much death.
And it seemed to Will Jackson as he sat in that bland hotel room that there was only one way to put an end to it. He looked out of the window as a strategy began to form in his head.
By his side was the clear bag of his personal possessions he had taken from the hospital. He opened it up and pulled out the phone he had removed from Ahmed's body. There were still bloodstains on it, though who the blood belonged to he couldn't tell. He flicked through the memory until he found what he was looking for.
Then, with a deep breath, he shuffled up the bed towards the hotel phone. First he called directory enquiries; then, when he had the number he needed, he dialled it.
The phone rang twice before it was answered. 'Good morning, Thames House.'
'Put me through to the Director General,' he said. 'Tell him it's Will Jackson on the line.'
Lowther Pankhurst put the phone down, then pressed his fingertips together and closed his eyes. Jackson was asking a lot. An awful lot. It could cost Pankhurst his job if it ever came out.
But by God, if anyone had earned a break it was Jackson. He thought back to the interrogation Latifa Ahmed had undergone. Nasty. He and Jackson might have had their differences, but the guy didn't deserve anything like that. In an official capacity, Pankhurst had to keep his nose clean; as a man, he owed Will Jackson a helping hand.
He buzzed through to his secretary. 'Get Ashley Jones up here, would you?' he requested.
Minutes later, Jones was being ushered into the DG's office. He was a good man. Unassuming, with his mousy brown hair and short stature, but reliable. Discreet. He stood respectfully on the other side of the desk and for a moment Pankhurst couldn't help noticing the difference in attitude between Jones and Jackson. A rueful smile flickered over his face, but he quickly checked it.
'What I'm about to tell you goes no further than the two of us,' he said.
'No, sir.'
'I need you to arrange two passports, then deliver them to a contact in forty-eight hours. 11.30 a.m., Friday. St Pancras Station.'
'The contact's name, sir?'
'You don't need to know that. He'll find you.'
Jones nodded, without asking any further questions.
'You have a pen and paper?' Pankhurst continued. 'Good. Take this down. These are the details you'll need…'
It was a busy forty-eight hours, but slow, and it passed in a haze of morphine. Will travelled twice out of London — both of them difficult, traumatic trips, but necessary. When he wasn't travelling, he stayed in his hotel room — out of sight, recuperating as best he could, and hoping that Five would come through for him.
As he lay alone in the room, he had time to reflect. He didn't need any more regrets in his life, that was for sure. Killing people had been his job for a long time, after all. But while he was unable to mourn the passing of Donald Priestley, in his moments of honesty he had started to feel a grudging respect for the man who had killed his wife, his daughter and his military colleagues.
Maybe that was why he was doing what he was doing.
Friday morning arrived and Will was up at eight o'clock. It was a bright, clear day, not a cloud in the sky. The wound was still painful, but bearable now and he felt he could face the day without any morphine, avoiding the lethargy that it brought on. He still cleaned the wound well, however, and applied a new dressing before putting on the same clothes he had been wearing for the past few days, which were now beginning to smell.
He looked at his watch. Ten to nine. The meet was at 11.30. He'd stay in the room till eleven before making his move. He lay down on the bed and switched the television on in the hope that it would distract him. It didn't.
There was a knock at the door. Will cursed. He'd put the do not disturb sign on the handle when he first arrived, but the cleaners seemed to ignore it. 'No thanks!' he shouted grumpily.
A pause, then another knock. Firmer this time. 'Will Jackson?' an American voice called.
Will's heart stopped. His fingers instinctively felt for a gun, but he didn't have one. He glanced towards the window, but the room was five flights up. There was only one way out and that was through the door. He pulled himself to his feet. 'Who is it?' he called, warily.