The Lucy Ghosts Page 4

  He was pleased to be home, although regretful because he knew he could never go back to Belfast again. He had been there for nearly three years, had enjoyed his tour of duty. The danger had always appealed to him and Northern Ireland had given him the best years of his life. Before that, there'd been the Gulf War, where his sojourn behind enemy lines had taught him that he could only rely on his own ability. It had been a lesson he learnt well, a lesson that was to save his life many times. Those had been good days, out there, on the edge of danger in the sands of the desert. Then there'd been a spell in Germany, undercover as a construction worker, on the lookout for IRA terrorists who were attacking servicemen and their families. It had not been a happy time; failure to root out a terrorist cell had left him frustrated and feeling useless. But he'd learnt to speak German, although that was of little use in the Irish provinces. It had been his introduction to army life.

  At thirty-four, he now faced a future in uniform behind some desk. He knew it wouldn't last, that his service career was probably over. Adventure, his constant mistress, would have to be found in some other form.

  Adam had recognised the disdain in the debriefer's eyes during their short meeting. He had relished that. He knew everybody hated him. It was the way he preferred it. It suited him, he owed no-one any debts, lived his life the way he wanted.

  Over the years the image and the reality had become inseparable. In his own misguided way, Adam now saw himself as the perpetual outsider, the ultimate loner. He had simply become, in one colleague's terms, 'not a nice person, not a regular chap'.

  Being rich helped. His parents had been killed in a motor accident whilst on holiday in Spain when he was only nine. A successful property developer, his father had set up a trust fund for his two sons that had accumulated over the years to give Adam the sort of unearned income some considered obscene. Adam's identical twin, the second to be born, Marcus, had also died in the car. Adam had been left at home to keep his ailing grandmother company, something his father had insisted on. He knew it would help the old lady, his own mother, and the children's only living grandparent. Indeed, she had been the only living relative outside the parents and the two boys.

  At the funeral Adam had stood between his father's lawyer and accountant, both of them now trustees to the boy's future. Even at that age he knew they didn't really care about him, and only when he was much older would he discover how large a fee they charged to administer his inheritance and his upbringing.

  He missed Marcus most of all. He often remembered the desolation as he watched the last coffin, the smallest, being lowered into the ground in a Woking cemetery. He'd stood there, refusing to cry because his father wouldn't have expected it of him, and watched the earth being scattered over the wooden coffins. The lawyer, the one he disliked most, had grabbed his hand and half dragged him away. The funeral was over and he probably had another meeting to get to. Adam remembered the other mourners staring at him, saw the pity in their eyes. 'Poor little boy. Fancy losing his parents at such a young age.' None of them had been close friends, mostly business associates.

  Adam had straightened up, held his head high and walked out of the cemetery. He was his father's son.

  He wanted to stay in the flat that night, to sleep in the bed next to where Marcus should have been. But he went to his grandmother's. He stayed there until she died. He was never allowed back to his parents' flat. After they had died, the flat was sold and Adam lived in a mixture of boarding schools and trustees' homes until he was eighteen. With a handsome income at that young age, he had to wait until he was twenty five before his parents' flat came up for sale. He didn't mind paying over the asking price, it was the only home he had ever wanted, the only place he felt he belonged. He was close to Marcus again, his twin had never died in his own mind. He had shared his school-days, his whole growing up with him. With Marcus so close, he knew he wasn't on his own.

  He hated the emptiness of the flat when he had been away. To him, this home, where he had lived with his parents and twin until their sudden deaths all those years ago, was a living being. As all homes should be. Although regularly maintained by a live-out housekeeper, it needed the daily wear and tear of life to generate its character.

  Lily, his elderly housekeeper, had not expected him, so the fire was unlit, the services off. He smiled, knew she would chide him for not contacting her. She could organise his life from tomorrow morning.

  He dropped the brown holdall on the sofa and crossed through the lounge to the big Georgian window on the far side. He unlatched the security lock and swung it open, letting the cold December chill in and the sounds of London street life below.

  The noise and the freshness pumped him up, swirled through the room and made him feel at home immediately. It was always good when the apartment came to life again.

  He picked up his bag and entered the bedroom. He threw the bag onto the bed and inzipped it, took out his shaving gear and toothbrush. He was a dapper and meticulous man, always perfectly turned out, always looking his best. He went into the bathroom to freshen up. He took off his dirty workman's shirt, part of his undercover disguise, and stepped out of the torn blue jeans.

  The badger hair shaving brush was soon being soaked under the tap and then whisked in the Geoffrey Trumper cream shaving mug. 'Luxuriant Shaving Cream from his celebrated establishment in Curzon Street, Mayfair - By Royal Appointment' read the lettering on the side. When he had lathered his face he picked up the sharpened cut throat razor and carefully shaved off the stubble that had been a necessary part of his appearance for the last few months.

  The shaving complete, the face washed clean, he examined his features. He was annoyed with the white outline on his lower face where the stubble had been, so markedly different from his upper face which was weather worn. An hour under the sun lamp would soon sort that. The eyes, dark brown in colour, were clearer and brighter now, more dominant than they had been with his stubbled face. The face was no longer that of a workman, but of a young, alert and intelligent man. He smiled, enjoyed the sophistication of his features.

  The hair was still straggly, still unwashed and partly matted. He would have to wait for the water to get hot before he could shampoo it.

  He pulled the hair gel and apple shampoo out of the wall cabinet and put them beside the shower, ready for use in a short time.

  With time to spare, he returned to the bedroom and opened his wardrobe. The suits waited like empty soldiers, racked in parade formation on their hangers, the ties and shirts in the shelves alongside. He ran his hands over the cloth, felt their expensive softness, looked forward to wearing the clothes he felt most comfortable in.

  He grinned. It was good to be back.

  When Adam stepped out of the lift into the underground garage, there was no comparison to the stubbled workman who had entered the flat an hour earlier.

  This was urban man.

  The suit he wore was faintly striped over a brown cloth, the shirt pastel blue, the tie hand painted. The trousers were held up by a slim, black leather belt, the monogram AN shaped into the buckle. The clean-shaven face was crowned with black gelled hair, short, slick and swept back at the top, long in a Pharaoh style down his neck. It was wavy as it ran back, sharp ridged and glossy. The end of the Pharaoh cut fell over his upturned coat collar, the lapels folded forward as was expected in the high fashion of the day. Black, highly polished, soft leather slip-on shoes completed the outfit.

  He crossed the shared garage to his car bays and switched on the light. Seeing them after a tour of duty always gave him a burst of pleasure. Emma and Steed. Named after his favourite characters in the TV series 'The Avengers'.

  Emma was a red 1955 Mercedes Gullwing 300 SLC sports car with a white interior. Capable of over 155 miles per hour, it was probably the finest sports car ever produced. Adam loved its shape, its sexuality, its sense of speed even when it was standing still. The Gullwing's sensuality simply gave him the horn.

  Steed, the more masculine
of the two, was a 1990 Ferrari F40, with a top speed of over 200 miles per hour with 0-60 in four seconds. Just as the Mercedes had been during its time, a racing car with a road going body.

  These were Adam's children. These, and the apartment upstairs, the only things he considered of value to himself.

  He decided to take the Ferrari.

  And whatever his orders, Adam Nicholson wanted people to know he was back.

  Ch. 5

  La Jolla

  Southern California.

  Nearly seven thousand miles away, in the early Californian morning, Billie Wood looked out from her La Jolla condominium at the mist that rolled in from the sea. Behind her, Christmas decorations spanned the big living room, the fairy lights still flickering on and off in unison.

  It had been a hot night and the air conditioning had rattled incessantly on, not quite coping with the temperature. But it wasn't the heat that kept her awake, but her restlessness. She wondered where Peter was, her husband of nearly twenty years, now separated from her as he frantically chased his dream of a disappearing youth. Probably curled round some bimbo he had acquired in a disco the night before.

  At forty one, after the last four years apart, she still missed him. She resented his womanising, his wasting of money on his latest flame, his fight to keep middle age at bay. For all that, she missed his companionship, his humour, his ability to lift her when she was down.

  From the dark of the bedroom, she heard Gary move in his sleep. Her latest live-in companion, Gary was a health freak in his late twenties, the sort of exciting lover that most older women imagined they wanted. So different from Peter, with his flabby gut running to waste and his soft skin loose as he tried to shed weight.

  So why did she still miss him?

  Damn you, Peter. I deserved better.

  It would soon be time to get ready for work. Another of life's disappointments. The daughter of a local doctor in Long Beach, California, she had worked hard as a student, all those years ago, and finally left Berkeley with a pass in law that awed the most judicious and prudent of employers. Any law firm or major corporation would have employed Billie without a moment's hesitation. Add to that her fluency in French, German and Spanish, she seemed destined for a life of achievement and reward.

  But nothing turns out the way we plan it.

  Although a child of the sixties and a strong proponent of flower power, she was suitably impressed when the CIA approached her, covertly through her tutor. With her exceptional qualifications in law and languages, was an ideal candidate for the Agency.

  The CIA, primarily responsible for the clandestine collection of foreign intelligence, co-ordination of national intelligence and for conducting counter-intelligence abroad, gains many of its employees from the college campuses of America. Whereas the FBI, responsible for national security and operating like a police force, is far more open in its selection of candidates, the CIA can only operate in a secret and underground manner.

  The recruitment of Billie Knutsford, as she was before her marriage, was conducted in such a way. Before she had completed her final day at Berkeley she was interviewed and accepted into the Agency. She was assigned to the Office of Collection and Dissemination and based on the West Coast where she continued to keep in touch with the college fraternity, seen as a breeding ground for insurgents and agitators. She went to work each day at the Mayfair Cab and Taxi Company and became assistant to the Vice President of Scheduling. The network of cabs that covered southern California was ideal for gathering information with some drivers working as operatives for the Agency. Then the department, responsible directly to the Executive Director of the 'Company', was restructured into the Office of Management, Planning and Services (Domestic). Overnight, Billie found herself at the bottom of the tree, now under control of the Deputy Director for Administration. They'd sent her on a computer course; they now had software programmes that collected and disseminated information for her; used its vast database not to help her make decisions, but make decisions for her. She regretted her decision to join the CIA, the perpetual snooping on people she considered no more than young rebels depressed her. Nevertheless she decided to stick it out and work her way to the top.

  Love soon blunted her ambition.

  Peter Wood, five years her senior and the son of the richest and most successful mortician in San Diego, met and married Billie Knutsford. Life changed and she got used to the wealth, she settled for comfort and a social life that was the dream and envy of all those who aspired to the life they read about in the glossies. She decided to keep working and retain her independence and individuality until she had children.

  But she never did. Tests finally showed that Peter simply didn't have it in him. Her parents died and her marriage broke up after twelve years. It had been no-one's fault, it simply went sour. He turned to younger women and the life of an ageing playboy, she to the career that had never been. So she kept working, kept her head down, kept collecting and disseminating the information on the kids at college.

  For all her promise, for all that bright glow of a future, Billie Wood was no more than a well-paid clerk in a cab company.

  She suddenly remembered the memo on her desk. It had been addressed to her, had come from Langley. She was asked to prepare a report on her section. In truth, they wanted her to justify her existence. She'd seen it before. It was the first step in closing down the section, the latest in a long line of cost cutting exercises.

  All she’d ever wanted to do was something important. Achieve something. Make an impact.

  The clock on the mantelpiece chimed seven.

  Time to stop thinking.

  Time to go to work.

  The phone rang in the sitting room and startled her. She hurried over to it and snatched it up, not wanting the ringing to wake Gary.

  'Hello.' she whispered into the receiver.

  'Mrs Knutsford?' a woman's voice asked crisply

  'Yes.'

  'I have a call for you.'

  There were clicks on the line as she was being transferred. She listened for any movement from the bedroom, but Gary remained sleeping. She was relieved. He was like a bear with a migraine if he woke from a deep sleep.

  'Billie ?' asked a voice that she had never heard before.

  'Yes,' she replied cautiously. It sounded official, probably Langley.

  'This is the DDA.' It was the Deputy Director of Administration himself. She'd only met him once before, many years earlier, just after his appointment when he'd visited California to see their operation for himself.

  'Yes, sir.' She immediately hated her subservience.

  'Whatever we say now goes no further. Is that clear?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Good. Phil Tucker, from our European Communications Sector is on his way to San Diego. He'll be bringing some computer tapes with him. I want you to give him all the help you can. Do exactly as he asks.'

  'Yes, sir.' She cursed herself as she said those words again. Pretty original, Billie. You're really impressing the guy.

  'This is important to us. On a-need-to-know-only basis. Make sure you give it your best. My secretary will ring you with Tucker's flight times.'

  'I'll make sure I....' Too late. The phone had gone dead. 'Yes, sir,' she snapped and slammed the phone down.

  In the bedroom she heard Gary stir.

  She knew it was going to be one of those days.

  Ch. 6

  Shepherd's Bush

  West London

  England.

  'Sar'n'vinger?'

  'Please.'

  'Okay.'

  Adam watched the old Chinaman behind the counter sprinkle the salt shaker over his chips, then follow it with vinegar.

  When he had completely doused the chips, he handed them, wrapped in newspaper, to Adam.

  'Great. Thanks.'

  The old Chinaman in his white overall turned to his next customer as Adam left the Fish and Chip Take-away.

  'Sorry. I'm on my way,' h
e shouted to the traffic warden who was inspecting Emma who was parked on a double yellow line.

  'Never booked an old car like this before.'

  Adam swung the door upwards. He turned to the warden and offered him a hot chip from his newspaper packet. 'I wouldn't call this bribery,' he joked.

  The warden laughed and took one of the chips. 'They're not going to carpet me for this,' he replied. 'Some car?'

  'A 1955 Mercedes 300 SL Gullwing. Fourteen hundred made, about three hundred left.'

  'Horny shape. For a car that old. How fast?'

  'About a hundred and fifty.'

  'Good brakes?'

  'No. Drums, not discs. Which is why there's only about three hundred left.'

  'Expensive, is it?'

  'Yes.'

  'How much?'

  'A lot.'

  'Go on. How much?'

  'About a quarter of a million.'

  'Pounds?'

  'Pounds. But this car's not about money.'

  'When you've got a quarter of a million in a car, you can afford to say that. Here, give us another chip.'

  He leant towards Adam and helped himself. 'You're being watched, you know.'

  'Watched?'

  'Yeah. Don't look, but that grey Rover across the street. I saw it pull up just after you. When you went in the chippie, the passenger got out and came over, watched you through the window. Scarpered back just before you came out.'

  'Thank you.'

  'No sweat. You're not bent, are you?'

  'No,' Adam laughed. 'And it isn't a stolen car.'

  'Never thought it was. Anyway, they're not police. I know all the unmarked cars. '

  'So why tell me?'

  'Why not? Fellow shares his lunch with me, he deserves a favour. Even if he does drive a car that could pay my wages for the rest of my life.'

  The warden moved off as Adam swung himself into the car. Climbing into a Gullwing was an acquired knack and he made it look easy. As he pulled the door down, he examined the Rover in his rear view mirror.