(1995) By Any Name (20 page)

It can happen that way.’

‘You’re only partially right. You might succeed in permanently blocking the trauma, whatever it is. But the chances are that sooner or later you’ll recall who you are, and some aspects of your life before the incident that brought on the amnesia.’

‘I want to believe you.’ He was suddenly conscious of her not as a psychiatrist, but a woman.

Since the moment he had been picked up on the motorway he had been obsessed with the burning question of his identity. There had been no time to think of anything other than who he was, and how he could stay one step ahead of whoever wanted him dead. But when he looked into Elizabeth’s eyes he realized that there was more to life than mere survival.

Clasping her in his arms he pulled her towards him. She laid her head against his shoulder. He revelled in the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips, the warmth of her body against his. The clean, fresh smell of her hair. He touched her lightly, tenderly. His lips sought hers.

She closed her eyes. It had been such a long time since a man had held her in his arms. Over two years since Joseph had walked out through door one morning, never to return. She clung to John, wanting 196

him as she had never thought she would want any man again, but when his hand travelled to the back of her neck and his kisses became more urgent, more demanding, a wave of cold, hard logic doused all emotion. Pushing him away she fell backwards and scrambled to her feet in the doorway.

‘No!’

All pretence of tenderness died. His blue eyes turned to steel. ‘Because I’m a murderer?’

‘Because you’re my patient. Can’t you see what’s happening here? We’ve been thrown together under impossible circumstances. We don’t even know if we’re going to be alive tomorrow. There’s no one else around, so we’re grasping at anything that makes us feel remotely human, simply because we need contact and compassion.’

‘Hasn’t it occurred to you, that this may be all the contact and compassion we’ll ever get?’

‘We’re not going to die,’ she insisted with more conviction than she felt.

‘Elizabeth… ’

‘No.’ She backed out. ‘I can’t help you, not this way. It would be wrong, especially as you don’t even know who you are. You could be married. You could have children and a wife. A wife you love and adore.

And in the next minute – the next hour – tomorrow –

whenever your memory returns, you’ll end up hating me if we do this.’

‘I could never hate you.’ He left the bed and walked towards her. She stepped back to the bathroom door and opened it.

‘I’m going to have a bath, and then I’m going to bed in that bedroom,’ she pointed to the room with the single bed. ‘I want you to leave the key in the inside of the door, and I suggest you get some rest in the other room.’ She retreated inside, slammed and locked the door.

He heard the key turning. Leaving the bedroom, he switched off the light and went into the living room.

He cleared their coffee cups and straightened the cushions on the chairs. When the room was restored to its arid, soulless state, he switched off the light and opened the curtains. Resisting the temptation to look at the river he went into the kitchen, closed the serving hatch and washed their coffee cups, before putting them away in the cupboard. It took so little effort to keep the flat immaculate. There was no clutter – what kind of clutter?

He closed his eyes and saw suitcases overflowing with clothes, books, newspapers, bottles of whisky and glasses, plates filled with crumbs – toys – he thought he could see a giant pink hippopotamus soaked in blood. Was that the result of his imagination? Or hypnosis dragging some ghastly reality from the damaged recesses of his mind?

From the back of the apartment he heard the sound of water running. The bathroom door opened and closed. He heard footsteps cross the corridor and a key turn in a lock. Elizabeth had locked herself into the bedroom.

He walked through the flat turning off all the lights. Pausing for a moment in the bathroom he breathed in the warm, humid, soapy scent that lingered in the air. When his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he returned to the living room and walked to the window.

The lights on the promenade were shining, misty circles blurred by rain. A delicate, silent drizzle dropped isolated islands of water beads on the window pane, beads that melted into sudden, spasmodic streams when they became too heavy to cling to the glass. He remained there for a long time, watching the raindrops move with strange peculiar lives of their own – and thinking.

He’d known about the promenade before he’d driven into Brecon. He’d obviously spent time in this flat. He knew every piece of furniture, where everything was kept, which kitchen drawer to open for spoons, which cupboard the plates were kept in, which door to open for cleaning materials. Had he furnished the place or had someone else? Was this stark austere style and colour choice his? What was the purpose of this apartment? Had it ever been a home, or was it as Elizabeth had suggested and the old man in the pub had said, a holiday flat, or was there some other, more sinister purpose behind its existence?

Did it provide a cover for terrorists while they trained on the Beacons? That would explain the proliferation of no expense spared equipment in the cellar. Aids that would help operatives acquire and hone the same skills and survival techniques that had turned the British Special Forces into the finest assault troops in the world.

When the hands on the clock pointed to two he went into the double bedroom and threw himself down, fully dressed on the bed. But no matter how often or tightly he closed his eyes, sleep evaded him.

He had a sudden craving for a cigarette. He could almost taste strong Turkish tobacco and that unnerved him even more than his knowledge of guns. No self-respecting soldier would smoke. Smoking was unhealthy. It slowed performance and clogged the lungs and arteries with filth.

Perhaps he should stop trying to think like a British officer, and concentrate on the thought patterns of a terrorist. What did he know about terrorists? They spoke Arabic, like him. They had a working knowledge of enough European languages to enable them to move easily around the globe. They had an exhaustive knowledge of small arms – they were trained to kill – he had been found covered in someone else’s blood –

Once again he smelled the metallic odour, and felt the thick, sticky cloying gore on his chest. He was a terrorist. It was the most logical explanation. He could hardly be a member of the security forces when his face was plastered everywhere and no one had recognized him.

He should leave now. Slip away from Elizabeth.

Steal another car – and then? He left the bed. It was useless trying to sleep while his mind was this active.

He walked down the corridor, went into the kitchen and filled the kettle without bothering to switch on the light. He looked down at the empty car park below. A shadow moved. Then he heard it, the unmistakeable clink of metal grating over stone.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

John raced down the corridor to Elizabeth’s bedroom.

He tried the door only to recall she’d locked it. He put his shoulder against it and pushed. The wood holding the lock splintered and gave way.

She sat up in bed.

‘There’s no time. Dress, stay here and wait for me.

Don’t switch the lights on. Where’s the gun?’

‘In the oven… ’

‘Stay here.’ He hurtled down the passage. Trust a woman to put a bloody gun in an oven. He hoped grease hadn’t fouled the mechanism. Lifting out the baking tins he extracted it carefully, barrel foremost.

He pushed it into the waistband of his jeans, picked up the rucksacks, walking boots and pickaxe from the corridor and dived into the back bedroom.

Was it his imagination, or was there noise on the balcony as well as the roof? Sliding his feet into the walking boots he swung the axe into the partition wall. It split beneath the weight of the head. One more blow and he was through.

‘What’s happened?’ Elizabeth was at his side, dressed in a sweatshirt, jeans and the ridiculous biker’s boots. He checked the size of the hole he’d made in the plasterboard. If he dragged the pickaxe downwards he would create a gap large enough for them to crawl through, but he’d have to be careful to keep noise to a minimum.

‘Get the wax jacket you wore earlier and the walking boots.’

‘We’re leaving?’

‘Just do it,’ he hissed. He hit the wall again. He’d fought through to the other side by the time she reappeared with the jacket over her arm. He only hoped they’d find somewhere other than the mountains to hide. Dressed like this, they’d soon freeze to death.

John was helping Elizabeth through the wall when the sound of shattering glass echoed from the living room. He followed her in, leaned out, grabbed the empty wardrobe and pulled it over the hole he’d made. It wouldn’t fool anyone for long, but it might give them a few minutes grace. He stepped back alongside her into icy and absolute darkness.

‘Where are we?’ she whispered.

‘A back room in the house opposite the pub that we looked at earlier. Keep hold of my hand.’ He inched forward, sensing that they were in the old kitchen he’d remembered. He felt his way along the right hand wall, stumbling over a desk and chair before he reached the door. His hand closed over a door knob, pulling it inwards, he opened the door.

‘We’re about to go down a long passage,’ he whispered.

‘There’s a dim light at the end.’

‘Street light shining through a window.’ He stole forward, keeping her behind him. The light was coming through the open door of what he remembered as a drawing room. Keeping tight to the wall he went in and edged close to the glass. The street below was filled with army and police vehicles, their emergency lights flashing.

‘You think all that is for us?’ she whispered.

‘I don’t think they’re having a quiet drink across the road. Keep hold of my hand and follow me.’

She did as he ordered, because it was easier to obey him than make any decisions of her own. They left the office and crept down the stairs into a small hallway. The upper part of the door that opened on to the street was panelled with etched glass, and the glare of headlights flooded through, illuminating the area.

Ducking below the panels, John pulled Elizabeth down with him. Crouching on all fours he opened doors that led into offices on their right and left. Any thoughts he’d had of shooting his way out, died when he studied the strength of the force that surrounded them.

Troops armed with rifles and machine guns, Land Rovers, lorries, and jeeps completely blocked the narrow road. Searchlights had been set up, bathing the street and the inside of both offices in a bright, daylight glow.

He looked into the room on their right. There were two desks, their backs separated by a screen partition.

Dragging Elizabeth behind him, he slithered over the floor beneath the desk on the opposite side of the screen to the door. Beside them was the reassuringly comforting bulk of a metal filling cabinet, just the thing to stop a bullet.

John listened to Elizabeth’s breathing and sensed her fear. There was a pile of white, A3 sized paper on a computer trolley. He was tempted to pick up a sheet, smash the window and wave it. Then he remembered the consultant, Dave Watson, the two dead soldiers and the paramedic. How long would Elizabeth survive in that street with all that hardware pointed at her? Not long. Not long at all.

Chaloner had misgivings about the source of the intelligence that had prompted Heddingham to give the command to storm the flat, but he had no misgivings about his men. He would have, and frequently had, trusted them with his life. He stood out of sight of the bake-house windows, behind a wall, watching the shadowy figures of his squad crawl over the roof. Each man was dressed in flame retardant suits and respirators that made them look more like alien extras from a film set than special service operatives.

He waited until the two men detailed to break through the balcony doors were in position before moving to the front door. His partner followed. Every window and exit in the building was covered. He pressed the button to illuminate his watch. Uncertain whether or not there was a radio receiver inside the apartment, he’d insisted on maintaining radio silence until the operation was underway.

‘Four – Three – Two – One – ’

The crash of breaking glass rang through the rain-sodden night air as half a dozen windows were simultaneously sledge-hammered. He stood guard, gun primed when his own partner smashed down the cellar door.

Throwing a CS grenade in ahead of them, they negotiated the stoop into the cellar. Chaloner concentrated solely on his partner and the area designated to be searched by them. The plan had been discussed, approved and assigned. All that was left for him to do was carry out the task allotted to him to the best of his ability. His men were trained to work in pairs, and he was no exception.

They had all memorized the layout of the apartment. First they would carefully and methodically clear their apportioned areas. When the sweep and search was completed he trusted that West would be cornered, hopefully with his hostage still breathing. It was the plight of the hostage that had given rise to Chaloner’s misgivings about the operation.

He’d tried to explain to Heddingham that sweep and search operations couldn’t be rushed. That speed cost lives. That for their own and the hostage’s sake, his men had to ensure each area was clear before moving on to the next, and that would alert their target, and give him ample opportunity to “neutralise”

Elizabeth Santer. But Heddingham had refused to be swayed by his argument.

‘Living room clear.’ The message crackled over his receiver when radio silence was lifted.

‘Bedroom one clear.’

‘Kitchen clear.’

‘Bathroom clear.’

‘Corridor and cupboards clear.’

‘Cellar and stairs clear,’ he replied as he and his partner swept around the cellar and up the stairs.

‘Bedroom three and four clear. Hole in back wall of three. Could be suspect escaped.’

‘Bedroom two?’ he demanded.