Exposure (37 page)

There was a heated debate between Hank and Barbara about whether or not Helene should mention Smiling Clive Jackson’s role. Hank had been all for it, but Barbara had been more circumspect.

“There’s no evidence,” she said. “It’s just Helene’s word.”

“That’s good enough for me,” yelled Hank, bristling like a grizzly bear.

“But there’s no damn evidence,” snarled Barbara. “If she tries to publish
anything
without evidence they’ll have her labelled as a loony and the story will be killed stone dead.”

Hank growled a bit more but they all knew Barbara was right.

“Don’t worry about that s.o.b. Jackson,” she told Helene. “We’ll be watching him.”

“And then we’ll fix his wagon, but good!” bellowed Hank.

Helene wanted to hug him. It was so wonderful to have someone fighting on her side so vociferously.

Following Barbara’s suggestion – or was it an order – Helene deleted all references to Smiling Clive. For now.

Barbara, herself, was at times detached and at times in the thick of the plotting: it was like she was two different people. Maybe the last three years had taken their toll in more than one way. Helene wasn’t sure she understood either part of Barbara’s personality and, for her part, Barbara treated Helene with the kind indifference you might give to an inherited pet who was a bit old and past it.

Helene couldn’t help noticing that Charlie avoided being alone with her. At first she was hurt, but then she became irritated.

Damn him! After everything they’d been through together! Why was he avoiding her? Why couldn’t he look her in the face?

Chapter 26

It was time to leave.

Helene was appalled by how vulnerable she felt. As the front door swung open, it seemed to hover over a cavernous pit, a dangerous open space filled with faceless and un-named enemies.

Crossing the threshold to the drive, she started to perspire, her palms greasy with sweat, her legs trembling.

“It’s okay, honey,” said Hank worriedly, squeezing her hand, “you’re bound to feel a bit shaky. You’ve been through a lot.”

Then he gathered her to him in a huge bear hug, holding her tightly. Helene leaned her cheek against the familiar bushy beard, softly scented with lily of the valley. In her honour Hank was wearing a pretty rose-coloured tea-dress. Where he’d found such a thing to fit his vast frame in Shiloh, Helene couldn’t imagine. Surely mail order would have been too risky? But then again being a super-hacker must come with some fringe benefits. Or frills.

Hank took her arm and helped her climb up into the beige SUV that had been acquired for the journey.

Charlie was already sitting in the driver’s seat, sunglasses in place, eyes hidden, face without expression – a soldier on duty.

“You take care, honey,” said Hank who was clearly trying not to cry.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” whispered Helene, feeling a constriction in her throat as she stroked his beefy arm. “Goodbye, Hank.”

“Aw, honey, don’t say that,” the big man pleaded. “Don’t say ‘goodbye’, more like ‘see ya’ or ‘au revoir’ as the Frenchies say. One day when you don’t expect it I’ll be there – I promise.”

“I do hope so,” said Helene trying to smile. “Thank you. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

“Vaya con Dios, honey!” he called as Charlie pulled out of the drive.

Helene twisted round to watch Hank waving frantically and the little house disappearing into the distance. Barbara had said her goodbyes indoors. Charlie, it seemed, had none to say.

Gloom seemed to settle over the car as they swept out onto Interstate 76.

“Just you and me again,” said Helene at last, trying to break the tension

“Thank god!” said Charlie in something like his old tone. “I couldn’t take another night of Hank’s meatloaf with Country and Western on the side. That man has problems.”

Helene smiled.

“Possibly, but he was a good friend to me – to us.”

Charlie didn’t reply.

After a short pause he said, “We’ve got a ten hour drive ahead of us: I suggest you get some rest. You’re still not back to full strength.”

It was true: Helene’s once reliable stamina had been utterly drained and she tired easily. But there was a confession she had to make – and something that she’d long been wanting to ask him. Now she had a captive audience.

She phrased her question carefully.

“You know that when I was being questioned,” she said softly, “I gave them your name: or rather confirmed what they already knew… I am sorry about that. Truly…” She paused, waiting for the anger to come, but he didn’t comment.

“Well,” she continued, slightly encouraged, “they said that they couldn’t find any trace of you on any MoD database: no-one with the name Charlie Paget existed.”

He shrugged. “And it didn’t occur to you that they said it to shake you up so that you wouldn’t trust me?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “It did occur to me, but still… I wondered…”

He grimaced.

“They said it so you’d be more likely to give me up. So that you’d be more likely to turn to them. Classic interrogation tactics, Helene. I would have thought you’d know that… and I would have thought that after everything that we… I would have thought that you’d trust me.”

He sounded really angry now. Almost upset.

“I do trust you,” she said, aware how feeble and insincere the words sounded. Somehow trust between them had been suspended. She didn’t know how or when or why, just that it had somehow happened. Maybe it had been his silence amongst the Gene Genies. Maybe…

“I do trust you, Charlie. But… you’ve been so… distant and… and quiet since… well, since…”

She trailed off, unsure how to continue.

He looked at her sideways.

“I prefer to pick my own team,” he said.

Helene wasn’t certain what he meant by that. Sure, they’d rather stumbled into a group encounter with the Gene Genies, but it had been enormously beneficial. Unless, unless he meant that he’d preferred it when it had just been the two of them. Helene felt irritated with herself.

She still wasn’t convinced by his answer, but she knew she couldn’t ask him again without causing a serious and maybe permanent rift. Besides, once she got back home, she could check the information herself.

Home. That still seemed an impossibly long way away.

“What will you do when all this is over?” she said, neutrally. “Will you go back to Suse?”

He smiled. “I rather think that boat has floated.”

“Then what? Will you go back to… to work?”

“Let’s get you to New York first,” he said.

Helene sighed. If he didn’t want to talk, there was no way she could make him.

“Maybe I’ll come and see you in Cornwall,” he said, quietly. “After all, I know where you live.”

Helene laughed out loud. It felt good to laugh. Charlie smiled quickly, glancing over at her, his eyes crinkling the way they did when he was happy.

“Yes, you certainly know that. I shall expect a knock on my door when I least expect it.”

She turned her head and gazed out of the window, smiling to herself.

The traffic flowed by as they oozed onto the I-80 and Pennsylvania swept past in a haze of autumnal grey.

Helene fell asleep and only woke when she felt the car slowing down, several hours later.

Clearly there hadn’t been a lot of choice for places to eat, but Charlie had found a Buckhorn truck stop that looked clean, if not fancy.

Helene climbed out of the car stiffly. The high foot-plate gave her some trouble but she managed to get down without being helped. She treasured the hint of independence: it had been too long. Limping slightly, she followed Charlie into the diner.

“I hope you’ve got a bit more of an appetite, Helene,” he said, “because all these meals look enormous.”

Helene glanced over at a well-padded family who were giving serious attention to a bucket-sized dish of barbeque ribs. Just the sight of it made Helene feel queasy.

“I think I’ll stick to the soup and salad,” she said, running her eyes and up down the grease-spotted menu.

“You sure that’s enough,” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Hank gave me quite a long lecture on making sure you eat properly. I’d hate to have a man like that come after me.”

The words weren’t entirely ironic. But despite Charlie’s admonishment, she decided to stick with the light meal. The waitress, however, had other ideas.

“The pancakes are real good,” she said, “if you don’t want fries. And I can do bacon on the side.”

Letting Helene squirm for a while, Charlie finally came to her rescue and ordered bacon, waffles and eggs, sunny side up for himself. The waitress also pressed him to have the fried green tomatoes and southern-style grits. He agreed, accommodatingly.

“I have no idea what a ‘grit’ is,” he admitted to Helene, “but I could never say ‘no’ to a woman.”

“Even one old enough to be your grandmother?” queried Helene.

He leaned back smiling and Helene shook her head in amusement.

When the food arrived it was well cooked and hearty. Even Helene’s salad was surprisingly tasty and fresh, although rather too drenched in blue-cheese dressing. She scraped off what she could and enjoyed the thick, crusty bread and spicy soup.

She waved away the offer of a jug of coffee and sipped a glass of tap water instead. Her body was still on the mend and the thought of a stimulant, even a mild one such as caffeine, was a bit too scary at present.

When they got back on the road, Helene felt sleepy, but something about Charlie’s demeanour had changed. Tension was in the air again.

“What’s up?” she said.

“Mmm, not sure,” he said, his voice wary. “There’s a car behind us that was at the truck stop.”

Helene felt a lurch in her stomach that made her regret the spicy soup. She sat up straighter and cautiously looked over her shoulder.

“Is it following us?”

Charlie shrugged. “Not sure yet. I’ll try changing lanes a few times; see if they do the same.”

Several more miles fell behind them and it still wasn’t clear if the grey station-wagon was tailing them.

Helene felt increasingly anxious and Charlie remained alert, his eyes flicking to the rear view mirror more frequently than usual.

As they began to see signs for New York City, Helene almost dared to feel hopeful.

But when they merged onto the Newark Turnpike, they began to hit heavy traffic. The grey station-wagon was still two cars behind them but that didn’t necessarily mean they were being followed. After all, it was a safe bet that New York City was the destination for most of the vehicles on the road.

Charlie didn’t say any more, but Helene noticed that his lips were pressed tightly together.

The traffic began to slow perceptibly, despite a small proportion being siphoned off into the Jersey City suburbs. The majority began the stately crawl down from the toll plaza to the Holland Tunnel, the twin concrete tubes that ran under the Hudson River.

Charlie was noticeably tense now.

“Helene: be ready to move if I say so,” he said, quietly.

“What? Are you serious?” she stammered nervously. “Surely we’re not going to bail out in the middle of the tunnel?”

“Hopefully not. But that car is definitely following us. If they’re going to try and hit us before we get to the newspaper offices, they’ll have to do it soon.”

“How do you know?” she said queasily, hoping against hope that he was wrong. “I mean, how do you know they’ll try to stop us getting to Frank now?”

“Because that’s what I’d do,” he said shortly. He glanced over at her. “Take only what you need: leave your bag. Get ready to run.”

Helene’s heart began to gallop and she thought she was going to pass out. But his instruction gave her something to focus on. She emptied her shoulder bag and took out the memory stick with all her work on it and her mobile phone. She also had two fresh passports that somehow Charlie had managed to secure: one in her own name, and the other in the name of Ellen Fitzgerald, citizen of Ireland. How, she had no idea. Well, some idea: the Gene Genies were in their element at that sort of thing. So was Charlie.

Cars around them were putting on their lights, ready for the dim lighting of the tunnel. Suddenly there was a full-beam flash of lights in the rear view mirror.

“This is it,” he said calmly, his eyes bright with anticipation. “They’re coming.”

Without further warming, Charlie slammed on the brakes and wrenched the hand-brake, forcing the car to spin 270 degrees in a slow turn. The car following hit them side on, pinning the driver’s door tightly. The front and back were hit simultaneously by cars in the other lanes.

Helene had braced herself tightly against her seat, avoiding some of the whiplash. But the second and third strikes stunned her.

Shaking her head like a dog coming out of water, she ripped open her door.

“Get to the side of the tunnel,” shouted Charlie. “Run! I’ll be right behind you!”

Helene threw herself from the car and half ran, half crawled to the narrow sidewalk that edged along the tunnel. She hunched down, covering her head with her hands and sprinted awkwardly in a half crouch. Bewildered drivers were starting to exit their mashed cars when the first bullet whined over her head. Someone screamed and a thunder of shots echoed through the tunnel. She kept running, heart hammering, adrenalin spurring her on.

In the distance, she saw the telltale pin-prick of daylight that indicated she was nearing the exit.

A squeal of tyres made her dodge into a small recess in the wall and every second she expected to feel the punch of bullets smashing into her. Then she recognised the mop of short, blond curls.

“Get on!” yelled Charlie.

A squat, heavy-looking motorbike was clamped between his knees, the original owner probably crudely dismounted somewhere in the tunnel beyond.

Without a word, Helene staggered to the bike and wrapped her arms tightly around him, pressing her face into the soft suede of his non-descript jacket.

She ducked lower as she heard more gunshots. Charlie twisted the accelerator and the bike leapt forwards, jerking Helene roughly.