"I'll do my best, mate. I'll see what I can get on this list."

"I'd really fucking appreciate it," I said.

"Don't let me down. Pat. I really need your help." I hoped the urgency was going to register with him. I was still checking down the stairs.

"Also at the back there" I opened the page for him to make sure he saw it "I've put a casual pickup I need that to happen at 2300 tonight."

Pat was looking at the RV notes. I bent my knees to lower myself and moved his face over so I could get eye-to-eye again.

"Eleven o'clock tonight, mate, eleven o'clock, OK?"

I knew Pat well enough to tell he knew it was serious. He knew he was fucked up and was trying hard to understand everything I said.

I was glad now that I'd put the details down on paper for him. He looked as if he needed all the help he could get.

"What do you drive?" I asked.

"A red Mustang." He pushed his face closer to mine.

"Redder than Satan's balls!" He enjoyed the joke so much he couldn't help laughing.

"Leave via H Street." I pointed away from the rear of the station.

"See you tonight then." He smiled, moving off. From behind I could see a slight veer to the left as he walked.

I waited and checked he wasn't being followed, then went on up toward the parking level, making it look as if I were off to my car. From there I took the elevator back down to the coffee shop.

I went back toward the restaurant, stood off, and watched.

Kelly was still struggling with the pizza.

"What took you so long?" she said through a mouthful of mushrooms.

"They ran out of toilet paper." I laughed as I rejoined her.

She thought about it a moment and did the same. As soon as we got back to the hotel I put the TV on for Kelly and dumped out the shopping bags on my bed. She asked me what I was doing.

"I'm just helping Pat. You can watch the TV if you want.

You hungry?"

"No." She was right; after a pizza the size of a tank mine, it was a stupid question.

I picked up the big red-and-white-framed quartz kitchen clock and sat in the chair by the window. I broke off the frame until I was left with just the hands and clock face with the quartz mechanics behind it. By bending it very gently, I now started to break off the plastic face. When there was just about an inch of jagged remains around the center of the hands, I finally snapped off the hour and second hands. Only the minute hand was left. I put in a new battery.

Kelly was watching.

"Now what are you doing. Nick?"

"It's a trick. Once I've finished I'll show you, OK?"

"OK." She turned back to the TV, but with one eye on me.

I took the egg carton over to the wastebasket and tipped out its contents. I ripped off the top and half of the bottom so that there were just six compartments left. With Scotch tape I fashioned a small sleeve running all the way up the side of the carton, just big enough to accommodate the minute hand. I called over to Kelly, who was humming the theme to a soap.

"Do you want to see what this does?"

She looked intrigued as I slotted the carton onto the minute hand.

The nightstand was about four inches below the level of the TV's controls. I positioned the clock on it so it was directly below the infrared sensor on the set and secured it in place with gaffer tape.

Kelly was taking even more interest.

"What are you doing?"

"See the remote? Use it to turn the sound up."

She did. "Now turn it down. OK." I bet you that in about fifteen minutes you can't turn the sound up." I joined her on the bed.

"Both of us must sit here and not move, OK?"

"OK." She thought I was going to do something to the remote and smiled as she hid it under the pillow.

It was quite nice really, watching TV during some downtime, apart from every minute hearing, "Is it fifteen minutes yet?"

"No, only seven." By now the egg carton, attached to the minute hand, was working its way up toward the base of the TV.

When the egg carton was upright and obscuring the sensor, I said, "Go on then, try to turn the sound up."

She did, and nothing happened.

"Maybe it's the battery?" I teased.

We put a fresh battery into the remote. Still nothing. She couldn't figure it out, and I wasn't going to explain my trick.

"Magic!" I grinned.

I extracted the rest of the gear, drank some of the orange juice and rinsed out the container, made sure that all the electrical equipment had fresh batteries, and prepared everything to be packed.

It was about 10:20, and Kelly was asleep. I'd have to wake her up and tell her I was going because I didn't want her to get up and start worrying. At times I thought she was just a pain in the neck, but I did want to protect her. She looked so innocent playing starfish again. What would happen to her after all this, I wondered--presuming she survived.

I tested everything again, unplugged the mobile and put it in my pocket, and finally checked my weapon and made sure I had some cash. I picked up a half-empty pack of cookies to eat on the way.

Close to her ear, I whispered, "Kelly!"

I got no response. I shook her a bit. She stirred and I said, "I've put the TV on low so you can watch it if you want--I've got to go out for a couple of minutes."

"Yeah."

I didn't know if she understood or not. I preferred telling her this when she was half-asleep.

"Don't put the lock on this time because I'll take the key. I don't want to wake you when I come in, OK?"

I left, and went down in the elevator and onto the road. The highway traffic rumbled above me. At last, no rain, just air that smelled damp.

I turned left and walked in the opposite direction from the usual, just for one last check. I munched on the cookies as I walked past the target. All the same lights were on; nothing had changed. I wondered if the homeless bloke was underneath, waiting with a chain saw for somebody else to piss on him. I quickened my pace to meet Pat on time. I got to the highway and turned right, following the road, with the roar of traffic above me.

The road swung right, and I started to leave the highway behind. Soon there was a vacant lot on both sides, and the sound of traffic receded. I could hear my footsteps again. To my right were more car pounds. How could Washington be in such a financial mess when the city must be making a fortune on towed vehicles? To my left there were the new, jerry built office-cum-workshops. I got to the first one, moved off the road into its shadow, and waited.

It was bizarre to be only a few hundred yards from the Pentagon and possibly right under the nose of the people who'd like to see me dead. It was also quite a thrill. It always had been. Pat had a term for it; he called it "the juice."

I heard an engine coming toward me. I looked around the corner of the building. Just one vehicle. It must be him. I pulled my pistol.

The red Mustang drew up. I was in a semi crouch fire position, aiming at the driver with my Sig until it stopped. It was Pat. I could see his Roman nose silhouetted in the ambient light from the airport.

Pistol still in hand, I walked over to the passenger door and opened it; the interior light didn't come on. I got in and closed the door gently, onto its first click only.

Pat had his hand on the hand brake and slowly released it to move off. From a distance it's very difficult to tell whether a car is stopping if you can't see brake lights. That was why Pat was using the hand brake with no interior light coming on and no noise of a car door shutting, the pickup would have been very hard to clock.

Checking the road behind us, I said, "Turn right at the next intersection."

There was no time to fuck around; he knew it and I knew it.

Pat said, "Everything's in the back, in that duffel." He'd come down from whatever high he'd been on and sounded quite embarrassed.

I leaned over and lifted out the laptop. I said, "Is the sound turned off?" When Windows 95 came up, I didn't want the Microsoft sound playing.

He made a face that let me know I was a dickhead for even asking. We both laughed; it broke the ice.

We came up to the concrete wall. As we passed the hotel I was careful not to turn my head. We turned right under the highway and pulled up at stop lights on the other side.

I said, "Go straight and turn right on Kent."

"No problem."

The area was urban and well lit. He kept checking in his rearview mirror to see if we were being followed. My eyes were fixed on the side mirror. I didn't turn and look now; neither of us wanted to appear aware.

There were a few cars behind us, but they had come from other directions. That wasn't to say they weren't following us.

I looked at Pat. His 9mm semi was snug under his right thigh, and in the foot well under his legs he had a 9mm MP5K, an excellent in-car weapon because of its compact size and rate of fire. He'd clipped on double thirty-round magazines.

"What the fuck did you bring that thing along for?"

"I didn't like the sound of your new best mate, Luther. I didn't want him and his buddies dragging me in for a little chat."

We approached another set of lights.

"Do a right to left switch here, mate. Let's see if we have any groupies."

There were one or two cars behind us. The shape of a vehicle's headlights, once it is up close, helps a lot to ID it. If the same shape is up your ass on three turns in the same direction, it's time to get out the worry beads.

Pat signaled and started to move to the right. All the other cars seemed to want straight ahead or to turn right with us; nobody was in the left-turn lane. At the last moment Pat signaled left and moved over--nothing that was aggressive or would provoke a bout of road rage, just a change of mind.

We were all held up at the light. I looked at each car in turn.

Just couples or kids cruising--or so it appeared. I'd soon know if I saw them again.

We turned on the green, and nothing followed. It was now time to talk.

Pat started it off.

"Your instructions were shit. You said three buildings; there were four. It's a good thing I know what I'm doing." He was waiting for praise.

"The fact is, I couldn't remember how many. The taxi was driving too fast. I can't count anyway."

We were now just cruising. Pat said, "I've been thinking.

Do you want me to go in as your number two?"

That would be good. It would get the job done quicker and would mean better security and firepower if we were in trouble. But I decided against it; Pat was my only link with the outside world, and I didn't want to compromise that. I told him my reasons and he nodded his acceptance.

"Take us back to the Pentagon City Metro station, will you, mate?"

I started to prepare for the drop-off and got into acting mode again. He put his signals on, everything correct, nothing untoward, nice slow approach and into the curb outside the Metro. I got out, put my head back in through the open window.

"Thanks a lot, mate, see you later." I retrieved the black nylon bag from the backseat. My mind-set was that I'd been playing baseball with him all night and now I was going home; he'd just dropped me off after a drink. I closed the door and tapped the roof a couple of times, and off he drove. I suddenly felt very alone. Had I made the right decision about Pat not coming with me? I made distance and angles before doing a circuit back to the hotel, arriving at about 11:50.

I quickly sorted out and double-checked all the stuff that Pat had given me and packed what I needed into the bag. I emptied my pockets of change and anything else that might rattle or fall out. Then I cut off most of the top end of a trash bag, put in my passport and wallet, wrapped it into a small bundle, and put it into my coat pocket.

Once I'd done that, I jumped up and down one more time to check for noise, picking up the bag and shaking that as well.

"Guess what, Kelly? I'm going to go out again in a minute, but I'll be back very soon. Will you be OK?"

But she was out of it. I left the hotel and walked toward the target. The bag had two handles and a long shoulder strap. I walked toward the river with it slung over my shoulder, following the same route as the previous night. Nothing had changed except that the lights from the highway were a bit brighter tonight without the mist.

At the fenced gate I used the handles of the duffel to put it on my back like a rucksack and climbed over. I'd keep it on my back now; if I was confronted, I could run and still keep the kit, or, as a last resort, draw down on them with the Sig.

I got level with the target building, with the vacant lot and fence in between. There was no sound apart from the hum of the highway. I started to pick my way through the clutter. It was muddy not deep squelching mud, because the ground was quite hard, but I still needed to take my time to get through; I didn't want to slip and make noise, because my pal in the shrubbery might not be the only homeless person around here.

I got to the fence near the PIRA building. Using the bush as cover, I eased the bag off my shoulder and sat on it. The first leg was completed; it was time to stop, look, listen, and take everything in. I needed to be extra careful because I was on my own. Really this was a job for two people, one watching, one doing. I spent a few minutes more just tuning in. Visibility was a bit better tonight because of the stars.

Looking left, the parking lot was still empty; to the right, the pallets were still where I'd seen them.

From my coat pocket I pulled out the trash bag protecting my docs. Right at the base of a bush I dug a shallow hole in the mud with my hands, threw in the bundle, and covered it over. This was my emergency cache, my hidey-hole, as Kelly would say. If I got lifted, I would be sterile, and if I got away, there would always be the chance of coming back and retrieving it.

I wiped the mud off my hands onto a small tuft of grass and started to get myself ready for the job. I gently unzipped the duffel. I got out the pair of navy blue coveralls, probably just like the ones Kev's friends had worn.

The problem with climbing over a high fence with a forty-pound bag is that you can spend more time getting stuck and making noise than actually crossing it.