Exposure (24 page)

She turned to Charlie, her face crumpling. Wordlessly, he scooped her into his arms as tears washed down her face.

“We’re going to get those bastards, Helene,” he whispered into her ear. “I promise you, we’re going to get them.”

Chapter 16

Half way back up the drive Charlie had to pull over so Helene could vomit over the well cut lawn.

She staggered back towards the car and rinsed her mouth out with a bottle of water, made tepid by the hot sun.

“I feel so dirty, don’t you?” she said, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to force away the dreadful images inside.

Charlie nodded, his eyes tight.

“I’ve seen some bad things in my time, Helene, things I wouldn’t tell anyone, not even you, but this… this is some sick shit.”

Helene rubbed her temples, wishing she could rub away the pounding headache that sunshine, sickness and heartfelt disgust had brought on.

“We have to get Barbara Manfred to tell us what she knows,” said Helene, trying to think clearly through the miasma of shock that clouded her brain. “She knows this poor man isn’t her father, so that must mean she knows that her dad is alive somewhere, in all likelihood being held against his will. Her silence is proof of that.”

“Yah, maybe, or else she’s scared they’ll do the same thing to her.”.

“No, it must be more than that,” said Helene. “Otherwise they’d have brought the real Wally Manfred here and treated him to the chemical cosh. They just couldn’t risk that this man would speak.”

“So who is he?” said Charlie.

Helene shook her head.

“I don’t know. Probably some poor sod who just happens to look like Wally Manfred, is my guess. I reckon they keep him there as a reminder to the Gene Genies about what could happen. But it would also discredit any work that Wally Manfred did while he was still playing with the full complement of marbles. Anything that he wrote or said in the year before the kidnapping would be discredited because anyone looking now would think it was just the onset of dementia. They – the US government – wanted to make sure that no-one listened. Remember what the message on the website said: ‘No-one will believe you’. Maybe they said the same thing to Wally Manfred. Maybe he didn’t listen.”

The thought made her shiver.

“No,” she said, “we need to go back to the research that Hassan started: well, the research Wally started. America’s debt at the end of World War One and the 1929 Wall Street Crash. Somehow, that’s the key – I know it is.”

“Okay,” said Charlie, who didn’t look convinced. “Let’s find a motel and take a break. You can spend some time online and I’ll get some kit for our sortie tonight.”

“Oh?” said Helene. “What sort of kit did you have in mind?”

“Hiking boots, torches, warm jackets. It gets cold in the mountains at night and it’s pretty rough terrain out there from what I could see.” He smiled. “I was a Boy Scout, remember?”

Helene still didn’t know if that was true. She sort of hoped it was.

Ten minutes further up the highway they found what they were looking for. Charlie pulled up in the parking lot of a small, but tidy roadside motel.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” said Helene, staring about her in amazement.

“Well, it’s a bit of a come-down from the Manama Ritz,” agreed Charlie, “but it has a certain bijou charm, don’t you think?”

Helene gazed at the bizarre collection of buildings in front of her.

The Wigwam Motel was certainly unusual. Helene had never seen anything quite like it. Nineteen 30 foot high teepees were arranged around a kidney-shaped swimming pool and barbecue area. On closer inspection Helene could see that instead of wood and skin, the teepees were made from a frame, clad in concrete and rendered with stucco.

“Pity though,” he said, “the Ritz suited you.”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Helene, “although I’m strictly champagne aspirations on beer money.”

“But this is rather colourful, don’t you think?” he said. “It could even catch on in Milton Keynes.”

It was certainly novel, Helene had to agree. She sat staring at the parody of Native American culture while Charlie went to book them a teepee.

“Small, but perfectly formed,” he smiled after checking them in. “May I escort you to your twin-room wigwam, madam? Pow-wows after dinner.”

“Geronimo,” said Helene.

It was good to have something to smile about after the shocking encounter with ‘Wally Manfred’.

Once they’d settled in, which took about 30 seconds as they were down to the bare minimum of luggage, Charlie went to explore the town and get the supplies he said they would need.

The teepee was homely but clean. Helene made herself comfortable, wagon-wheel headboard notwithstanding, sitting cross-legged on one of the beds, and pulled out the laptop.

The first thing she did was to log onto the Helene of Troy website. There was one message. It was amazing how nervous she felt opening it up – it was sinister to think that external forces were arrayed against them. And right now the only people who could help her were a mercenary on a need-to-know basis and the terrified daughter of a kidnapped man.

She opened the message: YOU CAN’T TRUST HIM.

Her heart missed a beat, an unpleasant thrill fluttering through her body. The message could refer to Kazuma, Hassan or even Wally Manfred, but she couldn’t help thinking that they had someone else in mind; the message was to her and she was pretty certain they were referring to Charlie.

She tried to ignore it. Of course they want to rattle me, she told herself. That’s how they operate: divide and rule.

But… a voice whispered, the devil at her elbow, what if it’s true: what if they’re right? You don’t really trust him, do you?

She exited the site and closed her eyes.

Think, she told her tired brain. Think. What had Wally Manfred found out that had put him and his daughter in such danger? What was the connection between the way the US financed the First World War, the 1929 Wall Street Crash and Wally’s disappearance? Well, money, obviously, but what else? And what had something that happened nearly a hundred years ago, have to do with – well, everything else?

Helene was still staring at the laptop screen when Charlie returned. She may have had the screen in front of her but in her mind’s eye she was seeing the poor creature kept insensible at the Warm Creek Nursing Home.

“We need a plan,” she said, without looking up.

“Yah, we really do,” he agreed. “We need to go back to see Barbara Manfred and find out what she knows; and we need to find out what Wally knew.”

Helene looked up at him curiously. “And we have to find a way to help that poor man at the nursing home, don’t we?”

Charlie shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “He’s not the priority.”

Helene felt the heat of sudden anger surge through her.

“Not the priority? How can you say that?” she gasped, her voice shrill. “You saw what they’d done to him!”

“He’s collateral damage,” he said, coolly.

“Damn you, Charlie!” she shouted, nerves frayed, senses bludgeoned. “Don’t you have a soul?”

“Listen!” he said, lowering his voice to a furious whisper. “Number one priority is to get out of this damn mess alive. Do you understand? We’re not bloody crusaders. We’re not here to save the world: we’re here to save our own damned hides – got it?”

“No!” Helene flashed back. “No! You’re wrong! We’re here to do the right thing!”

He glared at her, contempt in those blue eyes.

“Oh, get off your high horse for one fucking moment, will you?” he sneered. “You’re the one who’s getting paid £100,000 for this ‘story’ or had your forgotten that? Maybe you should donate it to the welfare of puppies and kittens, if you’re so damned holier-than-thou. You know, you’re so bloody self-righteous but you’re making money out of this. You’re just a journalist who has stumbled on the story of a lifetime, but you’re too damned pathetic to see it through. Who the hell are you to judge me?”

Helene felt the blood drain from her face. She couldn’t believe he was attacking her like this.

His gaze softened as he stared down at her.

“Helene, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that…”

But she brushed away his outstretched arm and stumbled outside.

She leaned against the side of the tepee forcing herself to take deep breaths. Slowly, the wind knocked out of her, she sank to the ground and rested her head on her knees. She felt very old and very tired.

Charlie followed her outside and crouched down next to her. He was close but he didn’t try to touch her.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I really am. But sometimes you’re so naïve: you don’t seem to understand the level of danger that we’re in. This is no game and we’re not going to wake up and find it’s all a terrible dream. We’re deep in the NSA’s back yard, finding out things they’ve kept secret for a hundred years, perhaps, and I’m just trying to keep us alive – if that means I put you – and me – before that poor bastard in the nursing home, then I make no apologies for that. I care about you, Helene.”

Helene shook her head wearily.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, too. I know you’re right. And you’re right about me, too – about my motives, I mean. It’s just when I saw him there – I keep seeing him – when I saw what was being done to him, I promised myself that I’d do everything I could to stop it. But you’re right: I can’t save the world, even if I want to sometimes.”

She smiled sadly.

“Come on,” he said. “Come back inside and I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. It’s my mother’s remedy for all ills. Who am I to gainsay a lady?”

“Who indeed?” whispered Helene.

Charlie helped her up and, holding her hand in his, led her back inside the tepee. She lay limply on the sofa, whilst he boiled the kettle.

“Look,” he said, “holding up a small package. Proper English breakfast tea. Don’t say I never give you anything.”

“My knight in rusty armour,” she said softly.

He poured the boiling water over the tea and let it brew for two minutes before he brought it to her.

“Proper English tea,” he said, “made with boiling water, not boiled water. Two sugars and no milk.”

“Thanks,” she said.

They sat in silence, sipping the hot, sweet tea. Helene began to feel revived. No wonder it was recommended to people who’d had a shock.

Her brain was still churning away, but she felt she was on an even keel again.

“I know you’re right,” she said again. “I am earning money out of all of this.”

He smiled. “I’m glad one of us is.”

Helene frowned.

“Well, at least let me share it with you.”

He brushed a strand of hair from her eyes.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s cool.”

Helene felt unable to continue that line of conversation so she sat up, moving slightly away from him and simply said, “What’s the plan for tonight?”

“I bought a map of the terrain,” he replied, dropping his hand, “and I’ve found a way in but it means climbing up the escarpment behind the house. It’s not an easy climb in daytime, but it’ll be even harder at night.”

He paused.

“And you’re wondering,” said Helene, “if the old girl is up to it.”

He looked at her wryly.

“Well, I
was
wondering, but then I decided that if you had to tunnel your way through with your bare hands, reinforced steel girders wouldn’t stop you. Not that I’m saying you’re stubborn or anything, of course. One wouldn’t wish to be ungentlemanly.”

Helene laughed out loud.

“You’re good for me, Charlie,” she said. “God help me for saying so, but you make me laugh.”

He grinned. “It’s my magical way with women – or something.”

“Definitely ‘or something’,” agreed Helene.

His smile faded.

“Once we’ve climbed the escarpment, we have to get down the other side. It’s loose scree so it could be tricky. I’ll have you roped up and we’ll take it easy: it should be okay. Besides, it’s a waxing moon so that’s in our favour.”

Helene nodded.

“I’ll be fine. I’m more worried about how we’re going to convince Barbara Manfred to talk to us. Any ideas – other than terrifying her even more than she already is?”

Charlie shook his head. “The only plan I can come up with is some way of… I don’t know… showing her that we’ve got a real chance of getting her out of this… some way of…”

“Giving her hope?” Helene finished his sentence.

“Yah,” he agreed. “Bit of a long shot?”

“I guess that’s what we’re used to,” said Helene. “What other kind of shots have we ever had?”

She pushed herself off the bed and inspected the rest of the supplies Charlie had bought: some basic climbing equipment, a pair of soft hiking boots in her size, a warm fleece, head torches and two pairs of thin, leather climbing gloves: one large, one small.

There was also a grocery bag with pasta, sauce, bacon, some bread and cheese, a couple of cartons of fruit juice and a large bar of dark chocolate – Swiss.

“Good hunter-gathering,” she said.

“Just call me the Galloping Gourmet,” he replied.

“Nah, you’re too young to remember that!”

“My mum used to like that programme,” he said. “Not that it ever improved her cooking. Moi, on the other hand, I can cook up a storm.”

“Talented and modest, too,” said Helene dryly.

“Absolutely,” he said, rattling the dried pasta into a tiny saucepan and covering it with water. “Modesty is an over-rated virtue, don’t you think?”

“Hmm, over-something,” she replied.

“By the way,” he said, “have we had any more contact on the website?”

Helene couldn’t say why, but for the first time she lied to him.

“No,” she said. “No messages.”

Chapter 17

After a couple of hours spent eating and resting, they left the concrete teepee and headed out of town once again, passing several families who showed little expertise at the barbecue, if the clouds of carcinogenic black smoke were anything to go by.

Helene wriggled her toes in the walking boots. They were wonderfully comfortable despite their newness. Charlie had also bought her two thin pairs of walking socks which he insisted she wear together to cut down on any potential blistering. He also made her rub Vaseline over her feet. An old army trick, he’d said. It felt rather peculiar; faintly insalubrious, definitely unpleasant.