Exposure (8 page)

“By the way...” he said turning towards her.

“I’m not tucking you in,” she said quickly.

He smiled again.

“Nice idea, but I was going to say that there’s some coffee in the fridge and sugar and tinned milk in the cupboard – if you want it.”

She shook her head.

“I like mine black.”

“What a surprise,” he muttered under his breath as he closed the bedroom door.

Helene made herself some strong coffee and unearthed a couple of cereal bars that weren’t too far past their sell-by date.

She surveyed the rest of the den. It was clean, almost comfortable, but above all safe. Surely it was safe?

Unable to order her thoughts, she unpacked her grab bag and dug out the unused laptop. She plugged it in, watching the screen flicker into life. Her fingers hovered over the keys for several seconds before she began to type.

Starting with a timetable of everything that had happened, she then brainstormed some possible theories as to who the men in her cottage had been: theories that became weirder and wilder as she wrote. Then she re-read them several times, deleted a few lines, before concluding with a list of questions to ask Charlie when he woke up. It helped her dazed equilibrium to find a routine she understood in this bizarre and disturbing situation.

When she was reasonably satisfied with what she’d written, she dragged out a wrinkled Tee and some clean underwear from her bag. Her jeans were covered in green moss stains, but unless she was going to wear her evening dress, dirty jeans would have to do for now. Even if there had been a washing machine in the den, which there wasn’t, she would have felt too vulnerable, too exposed, to sit around in her underwear. It was just too intimate.

The tiny shower cubicle was functional and very clean. She had no idea if there was any hot water but decided a cold shower would do the job almost as well. She’d undertaken ablutions in far seamier surroundings.

But the water was deliciously hot and Helene basked in the steady, massaging stream, luxuriating as the water poured down her face and sore, stiff back. After many minutes, she turned off the shower reluctantly and dressed slowly; she was relieved her grab bag had supplied a small pot of face cream as well. Without its daily dose of moisturiser, she rather suspected her face would succumb to gravity rather more than it already did.

She was reminded of the day when she’d bought the travel-sized moisturiser with its trumpeted anti-wrinkle properties.

“Have you used this product before?” the sales woman had asked.

“Yes,” Helene had replied, rather sourly.

The memory depressed her.

She left the shower cubicle in a cloud of steam. It took her a couple of seconds to realise that Charlie was sitting at the table reading the file on her laptop. He was looking considerably more alert, a thoughtful expression on his face.

She was annoyed.

“Interesting reading?” she said waspishly.

He wasn’t the least abashed at having been caught reading her files. She even suspected that it was deliberate.

“You’ve got some pretty far out theories,” he said, looking up at her. “That doesn’t mean they’re wrong, of course.”

“Perhaps you’ll share your ideas then,” she said thinly.

“Yah. It’s possible.”

She couldn’t tell if he meant that his ideas were possible, or that sharing them was possible. His cryptic replies were aggravating.

“I hope you didn’t use all the hot water,” he said at last.

“Probably,” she said, spitefully.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll risk it.”

His equanimity seemed designed to rub her up the wrong way, too.

He was gone for some time and Helene was so absorbed in her work and the steady stream of her thoughts, that she was barely aware of him until she felt him peering over her shoulder.

He was wearing just a towel and she could smell his warm, damp skin and the spicy scent of the same shower gel that she’d used earlier.

She shifted her chair away from him so he could read what she’d written more easily. She couldn’t help noticing that his chest was taut and well muscled with a pale scar across his left shoulder. She couldn’t tell if it was from injury or operation but it added rather than detracted from the overall picture.

He looked up and Helene held his gaze, forcing her thoughts in a more profitable direction.

“We need to talk, Charlie.”

He smiled suddenly. Helene was forcibly reminded of the cocksure arrogance she’d witnessed on the train, so very long ago.

“Usually when women say that to me they mean, ‘where is this relationship going’?”

“That’s exactly what I was going to ask,” replied Helene, also relaxing into a smile. “But as I’m nearly old enough to be your mother, I think it’s going to be a quite different sort of conversation.”

“You don’t look anything like my mother,” he said.

Helene turned back to her computer, irritated.

“I’ll make some lunch – or possibly breakfast – while you get dressed,” she muttered.

“Okay, Helene,” he said easily.

She was relieved when he left the room again, a handful of clothes in his arms.

“Get a grip,” she told herself severely.

She rummaged through the freezer and found a couple of microwaveable ready-meals. Suddenly she felt very hungry; cereal bars were a poor substitute for real food. Or as real as a microwave meal could be.

A set of plain, white plates were stacked neatly in another cupboard and some handsome cutlery was located in a drawer underneath the hob.

Everything in the den was carefully designed to maximise the minute space. It reminded her of a yacht, but happily without the unpleasant rolling sensation of being below deck.

She laid the table and then decided it looked too prim. Instead, she pushed the cutlery into a pile and when the microwave pinged, gratefully heaped the steaming food onto the plates.

He reappeared fully dressed in a long-sleeved grey T-shirt and jeans.

They ate quickly and in silence, their hunger taking them by surprise. When they’d finished, he leaned back comfortably and she carried the plates to the sink, dunking them in a bowl of soapy water.

She turned round and looked at him. He stared back, gaze even, if slightly guarded.

“Cards on the table, Charlie,” she said. “What’s going on? Why are we here?”

He gazed at her thoughtfully, blue eyes unblinking.

“Cards on the table: I don’t know.”

Helene was taken aback.

“What do you mean, you don’t know? You must know!”

She sounded far more shrill than she would have liked.

He shook his head.

“I’ve been trying to work it out, but it doesn’t make much sense.”

Helene refused to believe him. Because if he didn’t know...

“There must be a reason why men have been to my house – twice,” she stuttered. “And there must be a reason why we’re here – why you came to get me.”

She rubbed her temples, hoping to push some order into her thoughts. “So, let’s start at the beginning.”

“Shoot,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “I was living pretty much trouble-free until I met you.”

He looked aggravated enough to mean it. If that were true...

It was against every impulse and training that Helene forced herself to speak first, to explain to him what had brought her to his door. As a journalist she was far more comfortable being the one who asked the questions: the one who was in control. But this situation was far from usual. And she did owe him an explanation.

She took a deep breath.

“You were right about me being a journalist. I used to be a pretty good one. For over 20 years I covered every major conflict from Kosovo to the First Gulf War. I’ve broken stories on five continents... but... I just stopped getting that buzz from it. Or rather... I was getting too much buzz from it, from the adrenalin, rushing from one conflict to another. Nothing else felt real but I’d got… I don’t know, complacent, bored even, and I started taking risks. They say when you stop caring, it’s time to get out. So I did: I worked on the dailies for a while then went freelance: did some work in Angola and a few other places but I couldn’t go on like that. It was becoming… harder. I haven’t worked for a while and then...”

She paused, embarrassed by the admission she was about to make.

“And then I overheard you talking on the train. I was sitting a couple of seats in front of you when you got the Paddington service two days ago. Do you remember? You were talking on your mobile about an incident somewhere – police and guns were involved – and it gave me an idea for a story. One last story, I suppose.”

She looked up, feeling like she’d been in a confessional. He was watching her closely. Then he smiled.

“I knew I recognised you when I saw you in the pub yesterday. I wasn’t sure if it was coincidence or if you’d been following me. I decided to find out. But later that afternoon I spotted a couple of spooks checking out Susan’s place. I knew it had to be connected to you; I just wasn’t sure how.”

“Why did you assume it was to do with me?”

“Because I don’t believe in two coincidences in one day,” he said, leaning towards her.

She automatically leaned away from him.

Fair enough: his logic was inarguable.

“And how did you find me?” she asked, frowning. “The business card I gave you only had my mobile and email on it: I’m ex-directory.”

He rolled his eyes.

“That’s pretty straightforward, actually. Most people are clueless about how vulnerable they are: we’re watched, heard, listed, catalogued, checked on a thousand times a day.”

He shrugged.

“But before I even got near you, I heard the report about your break-in on the police frequency. I knew then we didn’t have much time. I was almost too late.”

Helene felt a strangled scream building up in her throat at the emphasis he put on ‘too late’.

“But I still don’t get it: who were those people?” she managed to choke out.

He shook his head slowly.

“NSA, CIA, MI6, some other spook squad, who knows.”

He locked his eyes on hers.

“Helene, I’m pretty certain they were there because of something you said: someone you spoke to. So, you tell me. What did you do?”

She swallowed.

God! she thought. I feel such a fool.

“I... I told my agent, my booking agent, that I had something big. I may have mentioned ‘Langley’ and... um... the White House.”

She looked down, cringing away from the derision in his gaze. She knew she deserved it – and much worse.

“And... what?” he said angrily. “You were just making that up? You thought you’d lead them to me? Unbelievable.”

His look was scathing.

“But you knew that already,” she said shakily. “I can’t begin to imagine how you knew either. Look, I don’t know what came over me... I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

He raised his eyebrows at this. But he had another question for her.

“How much are you getting paid for this story?”

She was startled, unwilling to admit the unpleasant truth.

“Well, I don’t....” she began.

“Helene,” he said softly, his voice barely louder than a whisper, “whether you meant to or not, you’ve sold me down the river. How much?”

“Enough to retire on,” she said defiantly.

He nodded slowly. She couldn’t meet his gaze.

“How are you involved?” said Helene, hopelessly trying to keep a grip. “Obviously you must be on a watch list somewhere. Are you ex-military? Ex-SAS?”

He didn’t answer. She began to feel desperate.

“Charlie, I’ve told you everything. Clearly these people are afraid that we know something and we’ve just established that I know sod-all; so it must be you – something you know. The only way we’re going to get out of this mess is if we’re open with each other.”

He stared at her.

“So how much are you being paid?”

“Oh, for goodness sake!” she snapped. “One hundred thousand pounds. okay? Plus serial rights. Plus my per diem of £150 a day. That’s it. Do you want a cut of it, is that it?”

He smiled maddeningly.

“No. I just want you to be open with me: like you said.”

He was infuriating!

“Okay, so now you know.”

She was embarrassed and irritated in equal amounts.

He smiled again. “Thank you, Helene.”

The smile faded slowly and he shook his head wearily.

“I still can’t figure out why I’ve been targeted and why now.” He looked up, his blue eyes appealing. “I’m being honest here. I haven’t worked for a couple of years either. I was pretty ragged after my last op and I needed some down time. So whatever it is, whatever’s going on, it’s a slow burn.”

Helene tried to put all this together.

“When I made that stupid phone call,” she said cautiously, “I only mentioned places in America because my agent is in New York and I thought that would be of more interest to him. So I said: DC, Langley, the White House.”

She looked up. “Well, you know that bit already. Have you ever worked in any of those places? I know it’s a long shot, but if you have, that could be the connection.”

“Yeah,” he said slowly, “I have. Just once.”

“Go on,” she said gently, trying to hide the sudden interest in her voice.

His gaze drifted away, remembering something in his past.

“Mostly I’ve worked in Africa or South America but there was one op stateside about three years ago. It was kind of a weird one, too. Top, top secret stuff.”

Helene’s antennae twitched.

“Weird how?”

“Well, for one thing, I was booked as a solo, which is unusual. Normally it’ll be a group booking: a team I often work with, guys I know – the usual suspects, you could say.” He smiled at some private joke. “But this was different: all the operatives were solo and all from different backgrounds. I think the idea was that none of us knew each other so we wouldn’t be able to have too many pieces of the puzzle. All I had to do was get my bird in and out. The other two picked up the package.”

“So you did what… the flying?”

He nodded. “Yep. That’s my speciality, you could say.”

“Hmm. I’d noticed!” said Helene shortly.