The Network - Jason Elliot [2]
‘You’d better cancel, then.’ He hands me the phone without looking at me, but pushes me firmly forward again so that I can’t see where we are. ‘Make it quick.’
Lili Marlene is the alias I’ve assigned to the number that’s calling, but the voice at the other end belongs to H, a lifetime soldier and twenty-two-year veteran of the Special Air Service, better known to its members as the Regiment. I’ve never been quite so glad to hear it.
‘Listen,’ he says in a tone that sounds concerned but not worried. It reassures me, but not much. ‘I just heard you’ve been picked up. Sounds like you’re in a vehicle. Just give me yes or no answers.’ He lowers his voice. ‘Can anyone hear what I’m saying?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Do you know where you are?’
‘No.’
‘Have they told you where they’re taking you?’
‘No. Very sorry.’
‘Sounds like there’s been a bit of a balls-up. I can’t explain it all now, but you need to get out of that vehicle.’
‘Yes,’ I say, after a pause.
‘Whatever it takes. Just get away. It doesn’t matter where to. Never stop, remember? Don’t give them anything till you see me again.’ A grittiness has entered his voice. ‘Not a word, just the big four. Have you got me?’
‘Alright,’ I say.
‘I’ll catch up with you as soon as I can. Now get out of that vehicle and get moving.’
I hand back the telephone to the sullen man at my side, who looks straight ahead as he returns it to the seat pouch.
‘She sends her love,’ I tell him. ‘You should try a bit of romance yourself sometime.’ There is no visible reaction.
The truth is I’m not ready for this and feel a kind of dread rising from my abdomen. I need a plan to focus on and to control what H calls the fear factor. It is nearly dusk. Within half an hour I will have darkness on my side. So fifteen minutes later I decide it’s time to act and start making the appropriate gestures.
‘I’m going to be sick,’ I say.
There is no immediate answer. I imagine the two of them exchanging a questioning glance behind me.
‘I’m going to be sick all over you if I don’t get some fresh air.’
‘Pull over, Snapper,’ says the one who does the talking. ‘Passenger needs to make a pit stop.’
‘Quickly, please,’ I say, with my hand over my mouth.
The nearside door opens and I feel a hand on my right arm.
‘Watch him,’ growls the one who stays behind.
The hand stays on my arm as I walk diagonally to the rear of the vehicle, where I’m hoping the driver won’t be able to see us in his mirrors. There’s a fence by the side of the road, and woods beyond the adjacent fields which will give me the cover I need.
I kneel compliantly by the verge on all fours, and for a minute imitate the violent spasms that accompany the worst kind of hangover, throwing in some profane muttering for extra effect. My adopted minder stands mutely behind me.
As I stand up, I turn but not all the way, and raise my right hand in a gesture of exasperation, complaining that no one carries a handkerchief these days. I repeat the gesture, which will have the effect, I’m hoping, of distracting any attention away from my left hand, which is about to connect with the bridge of my victim’s nose. A second later the two meet in a crunching embrace, and a jolt of pain travels up my arm as my victim topples backwards. While he’s struggling to figure out what’s happened, I hit him again.
I am over the fence and a good few seconds into my sprint across the field when the first shout goes up. When I risk a backward glance half a minute later, I see the car skidding and lurching, lights blazing, across the field towards me. There’s no time for hesitation when I reach the chalky escarpment at the far side, which cuts steeply downwards to what looks like a broad river beyond the trees. I’m under the barbed wire and slithering down before I hear more shouts as the three men above me spread along the lip of the escarpment. I catch a glimpse of their silhouettes and the drawn weapons at their sides. Their hesitation gives me precious extra seconds. By the time they plunge down the slope after me, I’ve already sprinted to the far