'You have rather an inflated view of yourself, don't you think?'
Adam laughed and stood up.
'Remember, even if this isn't under our direct control, that you are a member of the Armed Forces and still a representative of Her Majesty's Government,' warned the briefing officer. 'But you are on your own. Use your initiative as you see fit. That doesn't mean that we will support all your actions. Understood?'
Adam understood. He shook his head, refused to salute the senior officer and left the office. He was looking forward to the exercise. He enjoyed America and sensed the whiff of oncoming danger. It was good to be back at work, even if he didn't know why he was going and what was expected of him.
The file on Trimmler wasn't very expansive. He’d worked on V1 and V2 rockets and was now one of the most senior scientists in America, one of the world's greatest authorities on guidance systems and electronic navigational hardware. He was a valuable asset to the Americans.
There were also some notes on Trimmler's family and highlighted the fact that he was a wealthy man who lived in La Jolla, an exclusive and wealthy town on the outskirts of San Diego. Of his German past there was little, except to say that he had not been a member of the Nazi party and was born in Leipzig. He was first and foremost a scientist. Adam wondered why someone would want to kill him.
He had returned home to Lily's last meal before leaving for America. He rang her from the car phone in the Gullwing and the meal was ready for him by the time he let himself into the flat. It was steak and kidney pudding, cooked as only she knew how, and she fussed round him as he ate.
'I'm off to America tomorrow,' he said.
'Will you have time for breakfast?' she asked. He sensed the disappointment in her voice, recalled that she led as lonely an existence as he did.
'No. I'll get it on the plane.'
'I'll get your pudding,' she said, scurrying off to the kitchen. Damn, he could've handled it differently. Then he remembered the Christmas present he had given her. A Sony CD Walkman with her favourite collection of fifties songs. She'd had it strapped to her head ever since. It was an oddball sight, the old white haired lady cleaning and cooking while she bopped her head to Max Bygraves and Bing Crosby. He smiled and knew she would be alright. He would be back soon.
When he had finished and she had put the dishes in the dishwasher, he had escorted her downstairs to wait for the taxi. He kissed her on the cheek and she was pleased. For all their closeness and dependability on each other there was little show of emotion between them.
He had driven to Woking, out into the Surrey countryside. He drove automatically, his mind locked into the past and the memories of where he was going. It took nearly an hour to reach the cemetery from the centre of London. The gates were locked, as he knew they would be, so he parked some distance from the cemetery and walked to the twisted and open railing he had discovered many years ago. He slipped through the opening and made his way towards the gravestones on the west hill.
He sensed others around him, didn't need to see them to know they were there. Mostly kids, experimenting with drugs and sex, or tramps destroyed by experimenting with them. They were all harmless, but he hadn't once thought so, when he had first come here all those years ago. The hidden voices and movements had frightened him, filled the twelve year old boy with fear and visions of ghosts and ghouls and bodysnatchers. He laughed to himself as he remembered chasing a ghoul through the undergrowth to find a naked boy running away, as frightened as he was. A girl was shrieking somewhere behind, interrupted in the act of losing her virginity.
The three graves, side by side in their loneliness, were well kept as usual. He leant over his mother's and touched the flowers. They were fresh, as he always insisted. He stood between the two headstones and touched them both, his two hands joining them again. It was a ritual he always attended to.
Then he went to the grave on the other side of his mother's.
'Marcus James Nicholson. Aged Nine. Beloved son of Henry and Margaret and beloved brother of Adam.' Underneath, much smaller in its print was the inscription 'The Gods Love Those Who Die Young'
He knelt beside the grave, reached forward and touched the earth.
'Hi. I'm going away again, Marcus. To America. California. You'd have liked California. Crazy people who've inherited the earth…I think I upset Lily earlier on. I was thoughtless. I forget she's old and she needs me around. When you're that age, moments count, time runs out, eh? I raced at Donington yesterday. Had a great ride, the best time I ever recorded. I don't know why they're sending me to America. The whole thing smells. I mean, I can understand Ireland and living rough, taking on an enemy you know is there. But this California thing, it's not something I'm trained to do. I still can't work out why they're sending me there. Still, it's action…Gives me something to do, eh?…I'm lonely, Marcus. Can't stop this feeling that I'm not all there, that so much is still with you, with mum and dad…I sometimes wonder if I get into danger just so someone'll put a gun to my head and take me out. I don't belong here, Marcus. I'm so fucking lonely. So fucking alone.'
Adam had left the cemetery five minutes later, driven the Gullwing back to London, went to Tramps and picked up the first attractive girl he fancied, took her back to the flat and fucked her in his loneliness until morning broke and it was time to leave for Gatwick and southern California.
The flight had been uneventful, apart from the interlude of the young beautiful Englishwoman flying to meet her husband in Los Angeles. She had her two children with her, the youngest a toddler who was full of beans. A Californian yuppie had sat next to her and turned his bronzed charms on her. Adam heard the immortal line 'I just love children' as he moved in on his prey. An hour later into the flight he didn't love them quite as much. The toddler had crawled over him, first crumpling then wetting his new Italian suit. The second child, no more than four had then knocked her mother's gin and tonic over the man, who frantically looked round for another seat. But all the first class berths were taken. He suffered silently until the children finally went to sleep. With twenty minutes to run into Los Angeles, he had shifted to go to the toilet. The toddler, now fast asleep against his arm, had been in the way and the mother reached over to move the child. 'No!' snapped the young man nervously. 'No. I'm all right. Don't wake him.' He finished the journey with his legs crossed. He was first off the plane, rudely pushing his way past the other passengers.
Adam helped the mother lift her hand luggage down from the overhead lockers.
'When I get married,' he remarked, 'I shall make sure my wife travels everywhere fully armed with at least two young children.'
'Works every time,' she said and they both laughed. Then she went off to meet her husband, out there waiting for her in the crowd. He settled back in his deep British Airways seat for the rest of the journey, only fifteen minutes down the coast.
The jumbo slurped its wheels onto the tarmac and rolled to a stop seven thousand feet down the runway, where it rumbled to the right and taxied to the terminal.
She hadn't expected him to be quite so short. She knew he was a field officer in the SAS and had expected the usual Californian tall, broad shouldered illusion of a fighting man. His hair was too long at the back, too gelled and too crimped. Maybe she'd expected too much, after all these years waiting to become a real CIA operative.
'Hi,' she greeted him as he stood waiting, a cigarette in his hand, the only passenger left, for his contact in the small terminal arrival hall. 'Are you Adam Nicholson?'
'Yes,' Adam answered cautiously.
'I'm Billie Wood. Welcome to San Diego. This is a No Smoking area.'