The Increment (18 page)

Adrian Winkler was waiting
at Heathrow on Sunday morning. Harry had sent him a jabberwocky message from his personal email account. “Let’s get incremental,” adding his arrival time in London. Harry slept soundly on the long flight, the first good night’s sleep he’d had in a while. In the Arrivals Hall at Terminal 3, Adrian was holding a sign that said “Mr. Fellows.” That made Harry laugh when he first saw it, but he realized it wasn’t a joke. That was his work name now. He was Adrian’s agent.

Adrian had a car waiting; a late-model Rover, nothing too fancy. He was dressed simply, in jeans and an old sweater. The Sunday morning traffic was light on the M-4 into London. Adrian asked if Harry wanted to sleep after his flight, but Harry said no, he needed be back in Washington in forty-eight hours; they should use every minute they had. They stopped at a simple hotel in West London near the Hammersmith flyover; Adrian waited in the car park while Harry checked in and changed into jeans and a black leather jacket. The two men looked like punters out to do a bit of business; not quite shady, but not entirely respectable, either.

The Rover chugged to a suburb called Neasden, almost to the North Circular Road. There wasn’t a more anonymous neighborhood in London. The housing estates and council flats had been built for the working classes of several generations ago, but now it was a neighborhood for immigrants—Pakistanis and Indians, mostly. Adrian drove through the market streets of Neasden until he reached the Dollis Hill Housing Estate, and then pulled up outside a garage. A Pakistani man was inside, working on a motorcycle—a muscle bike, big and bright with chromed exhausts. Bhangra music was playing on a boom box inside the garage.

Adrian parked the car and got out. “Hey, mate,” he called out.

The Pakistani emerged from the shadows of the garage and waved. He turned down the music, but you could still hear a faint exotic beat. The man’s skin was a dusky brown, the color of tobacco. He was wearing coveralls, but you could see from the way he walked that he was a muscular man. His neck was thick, his shoulders broad.

Adrian extended his hand. The two men shook hands, palms and then fists together.

“What up, my man?” said the Pakistani.

“Hakim, I want you to meet a mate of mine,” said Adrian, motioning to Harry. “His name is Bill Fellows. He’s working with me on that little project we discussed.”

“My brother.” The Pakistani bowed.

Harry looked at the tough little man. He was taller than the Pakistani by almost a head, but he doubted he could take him in a fight.

“How’s your bike?” asked Adrian.

“Pretty fucking good, man,” said Hakim. “I had it up to one-forty the other day.”

“Not on the road, I hope.”

“Nope. Out at Credenhill. Putting on a show for the lads in Hereford.”

“Hakim used to race motorcycles,” said Adrian. “He used to do a lot of things. That’s part of his cover, eh?” He punched Hakim on one of his thick biceps and the Pakistani ducked into a fighting crouch, bobbing and weaving.

“You used to box, too?” asked Harry.

“Still do,” said Hakim. “Amateur only, man. Not a
professional
.” He laughed. The Pakistani was a professional killer, that’s what he was. Adrian took the Pakistani by the arm and pulled him close.

“So here it is, lad. We meet tomorrow with Mr. Fellows and the team. Same meeting place you and I used last time, down in Brixton. You remember?”

“How could I forget? Sorry how that one went down.”

“Not our fault,” said Adrian. “Unlucky.”

Hakim winked at the SIS man.

“Are we cool, then?” said Adrian.

“Most chillful, sir. But you ain’t seen me bike show yet. Want to see your boy burn a little rubber, then?”

“Sure, mate. Just put it in your pants afterwards.”

Hakim went back into the garage, wheeled out the big bike, and started it up. The roar made Harry jump. The Pakistani put on a helmet decorated with a red crescent and the words “Allah’s Warriors,” and jumped into the saddle of the big bike.

“Impress me,” said Adrian.

Hakim smiled. He rolled the bike to the center of the road, waited for a car to pass in the other direction, and then took off. He hit sixty miles an hour a few seconds later, and a hundred miles an hour a few seconds after that. People in the neighborhood looked out the window and thought, What a crazy fucker this Hakim is.

The Pakistani turned around at the top of the road, near where it met the A406, and then drove back slowly to where Adrian and Harry were standing.

“Don’t you dare me, man,” Hakim said. “Because, you know, I will always do it. I am a dangerous boy, you know.”

“Yes,” said Adrian. “I am quite aware of that. See you tomorrow in Brixton.”

The next stop was
in Barking, in the far East End, north of the sewage works. This was another dreary working-class neighborhood. Adrian made his way to a sports ground off Longbridge Road. Another muscular young man was waiting for them. This one appeared to be an Arab—his skin the light tan color of a paper bag. It being a Sunday, this gentleman was also getting some exercise in the old neighborhood with some of his mates. He had been lifting weights on an ancient bench whose padding was worn down to the nub. He excused himself from the lads when Adrian and Harry arrived. The young men stood back as he parted, black and brown faces, hooded eyes. You could tell that they worshipped the Arab. He was the neighborhood hero.

“Greetings, Marwan,” said Adrian. They shook hands, with the same routine he had used with the Pakistani. “Meet Bill Fellows. A friend from work.”

“Allah y’atik al affi,”
said the Arab. Harry knew the words. May God grant you good health. The young man’s grip was tight as a vise.

“What are you bench-pressing these days?” asked Adrian.

“Two-fifty,” said Marwan. “Three hundred on a good day.”

“Well stop pumping, now. You’re too…noticeable. Where you’re going, you want to look like a coffee boy.”

“Got it,” said Marwan. “I have my baggy shirts. Nobody is going to make me. Not bloody likely.”

Adrian explained the drill. The group would meet the next morning in Brixton. After that, they were rolling. Settle up any outstanding matters, and be ready to move. Marwan was smiling from ear to ear. He still didn’t know where he was going, but it didn’t matter to him. It was action.

“He’s Yemeni,” explained Adrian as they were walking back to the car. “But he can mimic almost any Arabic dialect. Iraqi, Lebanese, even Moroccan, although that’s a stretch, I have to say. Incredible gift for languages. Pretty strong, too. A good man to have in a tight spot, I’ll tell you. One of the best.”

“The best what?” asked Harry.

“You’ll find out. All in good time.”

Adrian was showing off.
He was demonstrating for Harry what the action arm of British secret intelligence looked like today. It wasn’t James Bond in a tuxedo drinking a martini, or some upper-class twit driving an Aston Martin and saying “Sorry, old boy” as he shot his adversary with a bespoke pistol. Instead it was these righteous Pakis and Arabs, ready to kick ass for Queen and country—blowing people away while they listened to Bob Marley on the iPod. “M” and “Q” and Miss Moneypenny and the rest of the doting, end-of-empire gang were gone. The Increment was Sex Pistols, Prince Nassim, and Hanif Kureishi all rolled into one. It was New Britain, with a vengeance.

There was an urgent
message on Harry’s BlackBerry from Marcia Hill, his deputy back in Washington. She asked him to call in as soon as he could. He decided to ignore it. He didn’t want any electronic record of where he had been that weekend. Whatever it was, it could wait.

They had one last
stop that Sunday afternoon. The third member of Adrian’s team was waiting in the very center of London, on the dirt pathway that surrounds Hyde Park. Adrian parked the Rover on the Knightsbridge side, just past the barracks of the House Guards, and led Harry into the park through Rutland Gate. The midday sun was high in the sky, its rays sparkling against the inky water of the Serpentine. They stopped at the bridle path that skirted the grass. Harry looked up and down the trail. All he could see was a handsome woman atop a sleek brown horse. She looked like an equestrienne socialite with a fancy flat in Sloane Square. Harry looked in the other direction, down the park toward the Albert Memorial, searching for the final member of Adrian’s team.

“If you please, Jackie,” called out Adrian to the woman on the brown stallion. “Get off your high horse and say hello.”

The woman dismounted and took off her black riding hat. The blond hair cascaded down her shoulders. Clad in her tight jodhpurs and high leather boots, crop in one hand and horse’s reins in the other, she wasn’t simply handsome, but quite strikingly beautiful. She stuck the crop in the waistband of her trousers and extended her hand toward Harry.

“William Fellows,” said Harry. The horse started for a moment, rearing as Harry walked toward the rider. She jerked the animal back with a sharp pull on the reins.

“Delighted,” she said.

Harry couldn’t take his eyes off the young woman.

“Jackie’s a looker, isn’t she?” said Adrian, drawing close to the other two. Rather than being offended, the woman smiled. “That’s her cover, you see, the fact that she’s so bloody attractive.”

“How so?” asked Harry. The woman was flicking the crop against her lower thigh. “Jackie seems pretty conspicuous to me.”

“Precisely.”

Adrian surveyed the area to make sure no one was in listening distance.

“That’s the whole point, my friend. Beautiful Western woman in Tehran. Traveling on a German passport. There to see her Iranian lover. A businessman who visits her hotel at odd hours. The woman goes to restaurants, parties in North Tehran. Gets up late and eats breakfast in bed. Maybe even goes riding at the Jockey Club with some posh Iranians. What could be more clear and obvious than that, eh? She fits every prejudice and stereotype held by your average Ministry of Intelligence wanker.”

“And the MOI wanker’s fear,” said Jackie. “Don’t forget that. Except they won’t know to be afraid, if I do this right. I should move around the city more or less at will. Because they will think they know precisely who and what I am. But men are so easily manipulated. Really.”

“Tomorrow at ten. Brixton,” said Adrian. “The lads will be there. We will go over the whole ops plan.”

Jackie gathered her hair and put the helmet back on. The horse had turned away from them and was munching some of the stubbly grass. She put her left foot in the stirrup and swung her body over the horse’s flanks. Her bottom was smooth and tight under the elastic fabric of her riding pants. She nestled snug in the saddle and trotted off.

“Wow,” said Harry.

“Yeah.” Adrian sighed. “She’s a peach. Brave as a lion, too. Tough sending her off on this one. It’s dangerous. She’ll be in charge. If anything goes wrong, she’ll be the vulnerable one. Not easy for me.”

Adrian shook his head and looked down at the ground. He seemed upset.

A thought occurred to Harry. He put it out of his mind, but it came right back.

“You’re not…” began Harry.

“Not what?”

“You’re not…involved with her.”

“You mean am I fucking her, Harry? Is that what you mean?”

“Well, yes. I guess that is what I mean.”

“Here’s all I will say about that, Harry boy. As I told you at dinner the other week, life is complicated. Shit happens, isn’t that your American expression? And when it happens, it happens. This isn’t America, Harry. We aren’t infected with all your politically correct cultural reeducation crap, my friend. We don’t have the same rules about not sticking your pen in the company inkwell. Here in Britain, it’s ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ for heterosexuals, too. Follow my drift?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Harry. “Whatever. I just don’t want it to complicate our operation, that’s all.”

“My operation,” said Adrian. “And it won’t.”

Harry didn’t talk at
first when they were back in the car. He wanted to let the balance return between him and his old friend, after the disruption of this beautiful woman and the complicated “other” life she evidently was part of. It wasn’t his business, except in the sense that the life of Adrian was dear to him, and he knew that for all his professional skill, the British officer was wandering. He thought of Susan, Adrian’s wife, a woman he had always thought of as a perfect match. Bright, witty, caustic when necessary. A life companion, he would have thought. But some lives require complication. They can’t live with too much happiness. They seek out danger. A lover who is borderline crazy, who will draw you into a spider’s web and suck you dry of whatever impulse made you want to risk your happiness in the first place. Adrian wasn’t a lover so much as a thrill seeker.

The tension between them ebbed away, and soon enough they were talking about the operation. Harry stopped the car at an off-license and brought some beers out to the Rover. It was the safest place to talk about secrets. They ran through what Harry would need to contact his Iranian agent, and what Adrian and his team could deliver. Harry made notes for himself, but then wondered if he should even bring them back to the United States. They were incriminating. In that sense, maybe he was a thrill seeker, too. He had gotten tired of his life partnership with the Culinary Institute of America and wanted something a bit spicier.

“Tell me to fuck off,” said Harry, “but who are these people of yours? I mean, who owns them? Is the Increment a real organization? Or is it just a cute name?”

“They’re all special-ops people, by training. Members of the Special Air Services, our esteemed SAS, and a few navy chaps from the Special Boat Services. They are seconded to us for one-off missions. They do what we ask, on our rules, extralegal. Whatever it takes. And then they go back. The thing is, for the right sort of person, you really don’t want to go back, do you? You want to play James Bond forever. So is the Increment real? I would have to say, ‘Yes and no.’”