The Mission Page 4

  “Usually I do,” Jenny said, wrapping her croissant in a napkin to take home with her. “We’re really still newlyweds. I’m learning things about him even now. Did you know he was a hostage negotiator?”

  “No! What about his work at Sapphire?”

  “They support him. He’s only on call several weeks a year. Anyway, last night he came back from a hostage incident, an armed robbery in a jewelry store that didn’t work out the way the robbers hoped. He said that SO-19 officers were on the scene. Did Brian mention it?”

  Beth’s mouth was full, so she shook her head in response.

  “Evidently there’s some overlap between negotiating techniques and the interview techniques Colin learned in his detective course, and one of the functions of a good negotiator is to gather information. Honesty is important because lying destroys trust. If he has to lie about something, he has to make sure he isn’t found out. Then he explained some of the principles that govern good negotiation skills. For example, if the parties are far apart, a good negotiator tries to find some areas of agreement to narrow the gap. Do you want to know what I did?”

  “Of course,” Beth said with a curious smile.

  “I moved closer to him on the sofa. He was still very serious, talking about how giving is required on both sides and it isn’t smart to give in to a hostage taker’s demand without requiring something in return.”

  Beth’s smile broadened.

  “When he said that urgency should be avoided, I kissed him and told him I was feeling very urgent about something I didn’t want to avoid. He caught on pretty quickly, kissing me back and adding that when the negotiation process is complete, the negotiator should congratulate the other side.”

  Beth laughed aloud.

  “I wasn’t sure which side I was on, so after we’d spent some time – well, you know – not talking, we congratulated each other.”

  “I’m glad you’re happy, Jenny. Brian and I are. I always thought we’d end up together, but I wanted to see if the grass was greener before I committed myself.”

  Jenny raised her eyebrows. “Was it?”

  “No!” Beth exclaimed, bursting into giggles. “My Bri was always the biggest and the best!”

  CHAPTER 9

  When their cab pulled up to Buckland Manor, Jenny’s spirits lifted, because the sun lent an optimistic golden glow to the façade in spite of the near-freezing temperature. She had been low since her last doctor’s appointment, when Dr. Hannaford had spent an inordinate amount of time trying unsuccessfully to force gas through her Fallopian tubes. She remembered nearly passing out the month before, and she had dreaded the visit. “Either there’s an obstruction, or you’re excessively tense,” Hannaford had finally concluded. “I rather favour the latter.” Colin had been unhappy with the news, which Jenny felt was unfair. She was the one who would suffer the consequences, because the lack of results meant there would need to be another test. At the hospital, the doctor had said. Jenny wondered if they’d anesthetize her. She hoped they would; wasn’t that what hospitals were for?

  She and Colin had taken the Jubilee Line tube from Finchley to Baker Street then changed to the Bakerloo, which ran to Paddington Station. An above-ground train from Paddington and then a cab delivered them to the elegant Cotswold country house in time to feast on scones and champagne at tea. The grounds were breathtaking, and the historic hotel (Was there anything in England that wasn’t historic?) was exclusive – only thirteen rooms, and theirs was one of only two with a four-poster bed: a beautiful place to celebrate their second wedding anniversary. Since they’d married in Texas and honeymooned in Bermuda, she had no wedding cake to put in her freezer. Colin had therefore suggested that she wear her tailored satin wedding suit each anniversary, promising to take her somewhere very special every time. Last year, their first, they had dined at Claridge’s. This room recalled their honeymoon, however. In Bermuda they’d also had a spacious room, one with a private balcony with an ocean view. When she had asked Colin what he’d like to do first, he had answered, “Make love to Mrs. Sinclair.” So the pink beaches had waited, and to the sound of the surf, they had celebrated their union.

  Now it was December 8, a date they had thought was appropriate for their marriage since the day that followed the bombing of Pearl Harbor in World War II had initiated the alliance between America and Britain. They made reservations for dinner, where Colin ordered a bottle of Bordeaux rosé to accompany her lamb and his fish. “Bottled poetry,” he said, quoting Robert Louis Stevenson. Their candlelit meal was unhurried; the service was unobtrusive; and no contentious topics were discussed. She felt herself being courted all over again, and the combination of Colin’s charm, his deep blue eyes, and the wine began to relax her. Wishing they were already alone together, she decided against the rich dessert and the after-dinner liqueur.

  Back in their room, she showered and donned new lingerie – long, lacey, and black – while Colin started a fire in the fireplace. He caressed her with a special tenderness, and when they finished, she rested her head on his chest and wished they could feel this close all the time. “Colin, I love you so much. I’m sorry I’ve been short-tempered. I know how important having a family is to you. I’ll see this through. I’ll schedule the next infertility test after the first of the year.”

  He didn’t respond immediately. Then, softly, he said, “No, Jen. I’ve been unpardonably selfish. The sort of tests you’re undergoing – they’d be difficult for most women, but for you – unbearable. And I’ve provided little support. I’ll not ask you to continue with this. Shall we take what comes?”

  “What if nothing comes?”

  “Then we’ll have each other, without any tests.”

  “I didn’t know how bad they’d be, or how weak I’d be. I wanted to think I had gotten over everything. I was unfair to you. You didn’t ask me to see the doctor; I pushed myself to do it.”

  He shifted his body, wanting to communicate face to face, to read her expressions and allow her to read his. “Jenny, I never meant to imply that you were not enough for me. You are.”

  “But Colin – we can’t just suddenly stop wanting children!”

  “No, but I’d consider adoption. If you would.”

  “Are you giving up on me?”

  “Never.” He kissed her. “When we married, I felt that God had made us something more than we had been when we were apart. If – if we become parents, we’ll be something more then as well. But Jen – it’s your body, so it’s your choice. I’ll stand with you either way.”

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  It was wintry in the Cotswolds. In the morning Jenny and Colin bundled up, Jenny in one of the many sweaters Colin had given her when they first married. He knew she wasn’t yet accustomed to the damp cold in London, so he bought her turtleneck sweaters, sweater-jackets, even sweatshirts with hoods and pouches in front to warm her hands. Too cold for tennis or croquet, they walked the grounds, finding the waterfalls and wondering how far the temperature would have to fall before the cascading water froze in place. They consumed warm soup and hot tea, and Jenny read some of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s love poetry from the collection Colin had given her as an anniversary gift. He took her photo with his new camera, promising to frame the best ones as Christmas gifts for her family.

  Strange – once the burden of proceeding with the medical tests was removed, their estrangement seemed to disappear, and she felt more capable of continuing with them. The frosty air and the lush landscape that grew within it paralleled their ability as husband and wife to flourish in spite of the difficulties that threatened them. They renewed their commitment to each other and to a shared future, whatever that might hold.

  CHAPTER 10

  Not long after Colin and Jenny’s idyllic respite in the Cotswolds, the holiday season erupted with news of further terrorist incidents. The December 21st London Daily Telegraph reported that a cargo ship called the Nisha had been boarded in the English
Channel by anti-terror police. BBC News also carried the story. A Scotland Yard spokesman insisted there was no danger to the public, but Jenny wasn’t so sure. She called Colin, who knew no more than she did.

  “Outside of SO13, the Anti-Terrorist Branch, only the most senior Yard officials would have been informed,” he said. “But be reassured: The action took place in international waters. The ship wasn’t allowed to enter the Thames.”

  Over dinner, she picked at her food while Colin spoke of lighter things, but afterward he made another attempt to set her mind at rest. “We’ve a good deal of experience fighting terrorists. The IRA was a thorn in our side for years, and we learnt how to respond.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re safe here.”

  She snuggled closer. “I don’t think a terrorist will come to our door. I’m just worried about something bad happening somewhere else.”

  Instead of answering, he kissed her, and she stopped thinking about terrorism completely.

  The next morning her fears returned with a vengeance. The Telegraph had a followup report, and other newspapers also carried the story. Officials were concerned that the ship may have had terrorist material on board. When Simon called, she asked him what that meant.

  “The Nisha?” One of his Special Boat Service “Shakyboats” mates who had been on the assault team had had more than a few choice words for the bitterly cold and windy weather.

  “Simon, are terrorists using ships now instead of planes?”

  “Since 9/11, I’d guess that the intelligence services have been monitoring all major types of transport and their routes. Assault teams are always on standby.”

  “Didn’t the ship see them coming? They might have been shot down.”

  “Jenny, helicopters aren’t armoured, but they would have gone early in the morning and flown without lights. They can navigate with night-vision goggles and instruments. They’d have had gunships with snipers to cover the boarding parties who would have hit it hard and fast. Neutralised resistance. Taken control of the ship, then handed it over, the ship to Royal Navy blokes and the contents to the experts.”

  “What was on it? What qualifies as terrorist material? They wouldn’t have boarded it just for guns, would they?”

  Her multiple questions revealed her anxiety. “Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you. The important thing to remember is that the ship was stopped.”

  “Simon, do you miss it? Being in the Special Forces?”

  “Some, but there’s baddies here as well for me to go after.”

  “What is it like? Are you scared? Please tell me.”

  He paused. “Briefly,” he admitted. “Then you review your role in the mission and you get excited. You check your equipment. Make sure you have a round chambered. By that time you’re settled and confident. Ready to jump or hit the ropes.” His mate had been rather proud of how they had managed to fast-rope down onto a vessel under way.

  “You slide down a rope?”

  “We call it fast-roping because you’re down in seconds. That’s why it’s so effective, but it takes a bit of upper body strength. And satisfactory gloves.”

  His understated humor made her smile. “Thanks, Simon. And sorry for the interrogation.”

  After they hung up, she realized she’d never given him a chance to say why he’d called, a fact she forgot when the news broke about Richard Reid. He had tried to destroy an American Airlines plane in flight with a bomb in his shoe but had been subdued by passengers and flight attendants.

  Terrorism was insidious, she thought. An attack could occur anywhere and anytime, requiring only one individual who was willing to die. And Reid had been born and raised in Britain. For those living in the UK, the threat could come from within.

  An airplane again – and her parents and brothers were scheduled to visit for Christmas. Throughout the afternoon and into the evening she tried to talk herself out of calling Simon. And lost.

  “Simon, I know we just spoke this morning, but I’m really afraid now,” she began. “This Richard Reid thing. I need to hear your no-nonsense voice. My family is flying in soon. Is it safe? Or should I tell them not to come?”

  She heard a woman’s voice in the background. “Wait one, Mandy,” Simon said sharply.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. You’re with someone, and I disturbed you.”

  “Not to worry. Jenny, listen to me. Reid wasn’t successful. Security procedures are better now in American airports than they used to be and certainly better than in Paris, where Reid’s flight originated. I believe your family will be all right.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Amanda get up for a cigarette.

  “Promise?” Jenny asked.

  “You know I can’t do that, love.”

  “Will you pray that they’ll be okay?”

  “I’ll hope for it.”

  “Simon, I have a little Christmas something for you, but we’ll be in Kent until after New Year’s.”

  “Shall I ring you then?”

  “That’d be great. Sorry I interrupted you, Simon. Merry Christmas.”

  When he closed his phone, Amanda’s full lips were set in a pout. “Who was that?”

  “A friend. Am I not allowed to have friends?” he asked lightly, hoping to dispel her mood. She hadn’t bothered to cover herself when she came back to bed, and he liked what he saw.

  “Not if it’s a woman!”

  “Things are going well between us, aren’t they?”

  “But you’re planning to see her.”

  “I was one of her protection officers. Some while ago.”

  “Why do you still keep in touch with each other then?”

  “I’ve given you no cause to distrust me, Mandy.”

  “Your voice changed when you spoke to her. I heard it.”

  “Are you questioning my integrity?” he pressed, evading the question.

  She stubbed out her fag angrily. “Are you cheating on me?”

  “Amanda, don’t do this,” he said, each word quieter and colder than the last.

  “Damn it, you are, aren’t you?”

  He swung his legs to the side of the bed and reached for his trousers. Amanda wasn’t the first to question his relationship with Jenny. She wouldn’t be the last. He’d have a pint down the pub. More, actually.

  CHAPTER 11

  Alcina hated everything about Christmas: the lights, the music, the cheer. She particularly hated the romantic adverts about the gifts couples could give each other, because she and Tony could not give each other anything. Worse, Christmas this year fell on a Tuesday, one of the prison’s nonvisitation days, so she’d had to choose between seeing him before or after the holiday. At least going after Christmas had eliminated any expectations she might have had.

  For over two years she had caught the train from Victoria Station to Maidstone East in northern Kent and then walked the short distance to the prison. Early arrival was the rule, but she still had to wait sometimes to see him. She and the other prison widows. Some had children with them. Thank God she and Tony hadn’t had any.

  She hated the prison guards. She was the victim in this relationship, but she was treated as if she had also committed a crime. The officious guards searched her every time she entered and left, a demeaning, humiliating process which she was sure they enjoyed. They still perused her passport as if she were a stranger. They recognised her – after all the times they had patted her down, she was certain they did – but when on one occasion she had forgotten the precious VO, the Visiting Order Tony had sent her, she had been refused admittance and sent away with a stern reminder to obey the rules, no sympathy and no regret on their wooden faces. She wanted to look her best for Tony, but she couldn’t even freshen her lipstick because her handbag was placed in a locker before she was escorted to the visitors’ room. And their time together was limited to one short hour.

  On the two previous Christmases, she had requested and received permission to bring Tony a photograph of herself. Not this year; she was no longer the s
ame girl who had attracted his attention. She had been the prettiest of the Castellanos sisters, everyone had said so, but the hardships of the months since Tony’s conviction had aged her. Her clothes hung on her thin frame. She hated seeing her reflection; her face was gaunt and drawn, with new lines appearing from nowhere, and even her hair had lost its lustre. Perhaps that was why Tony was short with her.

  At the beginning Tony had been the one who had hated everything. Because he had been convicted of a charge involving rape, sex offender counselling was required, part of the prison’s “resettlement” process. He had refused to cooperate, doggedly maintaining his innocence. Nor would he participate in any of the instructional programmes. During one of her visits, he’d complained so loudly that the guards had cut their time short, roughly wrenching him away from her. Were they afraid of him? What did they think he could do with his bare hands? They were the ones with the weapons.

  On her next visit she had urged him to comply, frightened that his continued resistance could result in disciplinary measures or transfer to a prison farther away. “Don’t you want to get out of here?” she’d hissed. “Do whatever they want you to do! You don’t have to mean it!”

  The train would reach the Kent station in a few minutes. It was bitterly cold; she would be chilled through in no time. What would his mood be today? Would he be glad to see her? She was tired, hungry, lonely. Christmas was a hateful holiday.

  CHAPTER 12

  Jenny spent the entire Christmas season wishing she were pregnant. After all, Christmas existed because a baby, a particular baby, had been born. In Kent, where Joanne, Colin’s mother, lived, she was surrounded by family, both Colin’s and hers, and she reflected that there would be no families if couples didn’t have children. She and Colin, both the firstborns in their families, had spring birthdays, so their mothers had been pregnant over Christmas. She hadn’t told her mother or Colin’s about her infertility problem, and she knew Colin wouldn’t. That was one good thing about being married to a policeman: She never had to worry about him revealing confidential information.