Identity X (26 page)

“I said get back to the wall.  When I
close my door, you will press that button,” he said, pointing the gun towards
the activation button.  “Then, you will come back here and drive this car
towards the dock.  I will let you go, with Matthew,” he lied, “just as soon as
I have Ben.”  She knew he was lying, and it was only now that she considered
the likelihood that the car was reinforced and that his bullets would not have
penetrated the glass work had she refused to get out.  She wished again that
she had killed him, or at least ran him over repeatedly instead of blithely and
convivially stepping out of the car.  Her thoughts flipped back and forth
between Matthew and her wasted opportunities to put this to bed. 
I should
have killed him. 
He sat back into the car and closed the door.  She saw
Matthew’s face pushed up against the window, steam forming as his hot breath
passed against the glass.   She had no choice but to follow his instruction,
and she hit the button with her palm, and walked back to the car.  As she sat
back down in the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut behind her, she paid no
attention to Mark at first.  She turned to Matthew and looked at him. 

“Come here, climb over,” she said as she
beckoned him into the front seat.  Mark raised his arm as if he was about to stop
him, but she was quicker, and she blocked his reach.  Matthew did as his mother
said, stepping over into the front seat as if he had been sat on a spring ready
and waiting.  She reached over and fastened his seat belt, kissing him on the
cheek, and stroking her fingers down the side of his face.  She tried to place
all of her fear, and all of her worry to the back of her mind, and allow
nothing but positivity and strength to move across her face in the warmest most
honest smile she could muster.  Matthew smiled nervously back, and she planted
a soft kiss on the tip of his nose.  She placed her hands over his ears, and
just before she sealed them shut, she told him to close his eyes.  He did so,
and as she pressed down against his small ears she turned to Mark.

“If you hurt a single hair on his head, I
will fucking kill you.  I promise you that.”

 “And yet it’s me that is holding a gun
to the back of your chair.  So I think it is up to you to do as I say.”  She
considered the concealed gun that she could feel pressing uncomfortably into
her back, but realised there was no hope to use it now with Matthew in the
car. 
Not in front of him.  I can’t.  I just can’t. 

She couldn’t risk it. 

What if it goes wrong?  What if he gets
hit? 
More
than any other question though, she thought about how Matthew could ever love
her after seeing such a thing. 
What if he can never forgive me?  What if
that is all he sees when he looks at me?  I’m more than that, more than just an
assassin, a destroyer of lives.  I’m more than that. 

Am I more than that?

“Take us to the docks.”  She looked down
at her son, who was staring back at her and pushing back further and further in
his seat and towards the door to keep as much distance as possible between him
and Mark, a man who until only minutes before he had trusted implicitly.  She
smiled again, and as she released the handbrake and heard Mark’s sarcastic
congratulatory remarks regarding her submission to his will, she thought of
Ben, and how she hoped that he was already at dock two and waiting on the
boat.  She trusted his keeper, and knew that he would do all he could to keep
her husband safe.  It was her time now to focus, and her only job was to
protect Matthew.

Ben drove the
car towards
the elegant and detailed Victorian gateway which
marked the entrance to the old docks.  Turning in through the red brick columns
between which would have at one time stood a wrought iron gate but was now
absent and unmanned, he saw one of the last workers leave, driving his car in
the opposite direction.  The docks were quiet now, and had been for years,
receiving only one or two small deliveries or exports a day.  He knew that
there was another dock yard across town, over half an hour away, and as he drove
through the deserted road over the broken tarmac and labyrinth of sewerage
covers, he couldn’t quite shake the thought that this might be the wrong place.

As the car toppled over the bumps in the
largely disused road, he passed the near derelict buildings on his right.  The
once terracotta coloured bricks were now thick with a layer of dirt, covered in
the filth from the industry that once made this a thriving town within a town. 
Many of the windows were broken, and there were remnants of graffiti that had
been left as the mark of the wayward teenagers who would break in and stake a
claim on the place overnight.  In the centre of the building a striking tower
rose up, the merlons and crenels that created the saw tooth pattern of the
parapet more suitable for a medieval castle fortress than an old disused
building at the docks.  There was a small round space on the tower, free of
grime where a clock had once sat proudly and guarded the working hours, but it
had long since been removed. 

As the manmade ground gave way to the
natural landscape that pushed its way up from underneath, and where in places
had become smothered by a mixture of grass and moss from above, Ben became lost
in the thoughts of his possible mistake, and replayed frantic notions that in the
newer and more luxurious port there was somewhere a small white boat waiting
for him, and here nothing but an endless journey until his eventual capture. 
He saw no signs, no guidance. 
Surely she wouldn’t have sent me here to look
for dock number two?
 He pushed the occasional tormented theory that it
could all still be an elaborate trap to the back of his mind and kept a look
out for a signpost.  Just as he began to contemplate the idea of turning back,
the wheels of the car jumped as he drove over the old disused train tracks that
lead to the old wheat store.  The looming image of an old Caisson, once used to
float or sink in position to close the mouth of the docks formed an impressive
shadow as he drove past the wall of steal, rusted and defaced with more
graffiti.  As he passed the old ship, he finally saw a sign that read ‘Dock
One’, and figured he must be on the right track.  As the light was fading, he
pushed down harder on the accelerator and picked up his speed which propelled
him in a much jumpier fashion than should be considered safe for such a bulky
car and bumpy road.  Soon, after passing more broken lumps of concrete and
discarded metal implements for which he had no clue of the purpose, he saw the
sign for dock two.  The car splashed through a series of puddles, and sure
enough as he neared the end of the broken land, marked clearly with a  series
of steal lumps fixed solidly into the ground, he saw a small white boat,
tethered onto a set of broken white railings. 

Pulling up the car a few meters from the
edge and killing the engine, he picked up the three passports, and regarded the
boat for a moment.  There was utter silence in the dock yard, with not a single
worker left to interrupt the peace.  Everything around him was cast in a deep shadow,
courtesy of the disappearing sun, achieving nothing but to make the whole
scenario seem even more terrifying.  Nobody questioned him, and nobody called
out to complain at his intrusion.  There was not a soul around but for the man
on the boat, whom he had no idea if he should trust or not.  From his
appearance he guessed that it had to be the man who had delivered the car, and
therefore also the provider of new identities for him and his family which he
was clutching in his sweaty palm.  His best option was to give him the benefit
of his incredible doubt. 

As he stepped out of the car, he
instinctively kept his body behind the door, shielded from view.  He looked
down at the passports and squeezed them, taking courage from Hannah’s planning
and help.  Her track record in trust had proven to be less than flawless, and
images of the four agents lying dead on the ground with their blood seeping
into the dirt were at the forefront of his mind.  He reminded himself that he
believed that she loved him.  Without that belief there was nothing left; no
hope for the plan to work and for them to find an escape, no hope for Matthew
or his chance to savour another day with him, no hope at all for a future.  Any
future.  He had lost all of his work for NEMREC and the ideals by which he had
lived his life for so many years had been idly stolen from him with barely a
glimmer of conscience.  He knew he was struggling to conceptualize the prospect
of having to discover new ideals in the mysterious and unknown future offered
to him, but in the face of having nothing left it wouldn’t, he anticipated, be
hard to find something worth living for.  He had to remain strong in his belief
that she loved him, otherwise he was left with nothing but a past full of lies
and a meaningless chance at a life without worth.  He didn’t want to lose
anything else.  Or anybody else.  He reached down to his hip and patted the gun
that he had placed there earlier and felt in some bizarre way reassured by its
presence, as if carrying a gun was a normal thing for him. He thought back to
the bag of weapons in the boot of the car, and wondered how a person might
react, and in particular the man stood before him on the boat, if he opened the
boot and pulled a machine gun as his backup plan.

He closed the door and took a tentative
step towards the boat, moving around to the front of the car.  The engine felt
warm to him as his hands rested onto the bonnet as he crept his way forward,
whilst the man on the boat remained cool and as motionless as an ice statue. 
The temperature was starting to fall, as was expected in early April when the
days are still short and the weak sunshine lingers lazily on the horizon, never
quite sufficient to heat the ground or warm the early evening air.

The sign on his left clearly indicated
that he had arrived at Dock Two, and it also seemed that he had reached the end
of the available road.  There was nothing but open water ahead, the only
interruption to the heaving mass of the endless ocean the illumination of the
scattered patches of sea foam by the rising moon.  There were no street lights,
and the first stars flickered into view above him, which in any other situation
would have gained his attention and praise.  It was hard to make out if the man
was holding a gun in the shadow of dusk, or if he just had his hands on the
controls of the boat, but it unsettled Ben and he could feel himself hanging
back.  He knew he must look as suspicious as he felt.

“Where is Hannah?” the voice called from
the boat.  It was a soft voice, firm but the edges were rounded into a southern
Irish accent.

“She got delayed in Headquarters.  She
told me to meet her here.”  Immediately the man held his hand up and for a
panic stricken moment Ben thought that his worst fears had been confirmed and
that there was indeed a gun in his hand, but instead he immediately raised his
hand to his ear and Ben realised that for his own good fortune, the boatman was
holding nothing more threatening than a telephone.  He could barely hear the
words as the man on the boat spoke quietly into the mouthpiece, but he was sure
he could make out the name Hannah.  Ben stood waiting at the car, not wanting
to assume a rite of passage towards the boat, and not wanting to risk
disrupting any plan that Hannah may have put in place.  He was not supposed to
be here on his own, and he reminded himself to tread with caution.

The man on the boat removed the telephone
from his ear, and in one swift motion tucked it in his pocket, before proceeding
to climb from the boat and onto the dock.  He walked fast, and straight towards
Ben, almost as if he were set to embrace him and offer comfort, but as he
approached he swerved around the side of him and headed straight towards the
back of the car.  He was heading for the boot which contained the concealed
armament.

He remembered Hannah placing the bag in
the car, and he remembered quite clearly what was in it.  The idea of this
stranger suddenly having control of the multitude of weapons was a frightening
concept and a new thought came into his mind.  It was strong and superseded all
others in that moment. 
Escape.  How am I going to escape?
 
Into the
water?  The car?  Under the car?  Use the gun?
  He saw the lid of the boot
open and the man from the boat disappeared behind it.  Ben felt instant fear
and became paralysed to the spot as if his toes had sprouted roots. 
Fortuitously his terror induced paralysis prevented him from employing any one
of the random acts of restraint that had taken over the ideas of escape, and
instead he watched as the man pulled the bag of weapons from the boot and
closed the lid.  He didn’t take out any of the guns or threaten him.  He
started to walk back around the front of the car towards Ben whereby he stopped
and stood in front of him to speak.

“Hannah is in trouble. She's on her way
and she has Matthew, but something is wrong.  I think Mark is with her.”

She has Matthew.
This was the first thought
that Ben processed, but the joy of the boatman’s words was short lived, and
soon everything else that he had said registered. 
Hannah is in trouble.
Something is wrong.  Mark is with her.

“What’s wrong? What did she say?” Ben’s temporary
paralysis was overcome by the vehemence to protect his wife and son, and with
renewed vigour he reached out and snatched at the man’s jacket sleeve.  The man
looked up, startled by the tenacity of the grip, but Ben stood his ground and
he firmed up his hold of the man’s arm.  His fear of this unknown character was
outweighed by that which he suddenly felt for the safety of Hannah and
Matthew. 

“When I asked her if she was OK, she
answered by saying yes twice.  And quickly. It means she is in trouble, that
something is wrong.” He paused for a moment and trained his eyes
unsympathetically towards Ben.  “Again.” 

As Ben caught sight of his face, he knew
that he had seen it somewhere before.   The cap pulled over his forehead and
the light beige coloured coat reminded him of the underground station earlier
on today, when he had shot the agent and agreed to go willingly with Hannah. 
This man had stood at the other end of the platform, relaying guidance and
instructions.

“Wait, I know you.  You were at the
underground station.”

“Yes I was there.  I work with Hannah.”

“But you didn’t come with us.  You
weren’t at the safe house where Hannah took me to.”

“No,” he said, as he tried to free his
arm from Ben’s grip.  “I don’t work for The Agency.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I would have thought that was fairly
obvious by now.”  Snatching away his arm from Ben’s grip, the boatman continued
to walk towards the vessel, his arms outstretched to balance out the weight of
the laden weapons bag.

“What does that mean?” Ben said as he
started after him, deciding not to push him any further on his presence at the
underground station.  “What are we going to do now?”

“What are we going to do?” the boatman
replied, emphasising the
we
in his sentence with near sarcastic perfection. 
Continuing with the same cynical distain, he asked Ben, “What do you suggest? 
This whole plan was to get you out.  That’s what we are going to do.”

“And Hannah?  Matthew?”  Ben couldn’t
believe his ears as the words assaulted his new sense of unflinching ability
and purpose.  Would they really just leave Hannah here to face up to what had
happened in the knowledge that The Agency knew that she was a traitor. 

“Hannah told me back at the cottage,” he
said as he walked back to where Ben was standing with a more sympathetic and
amiable approach, hinting at his personal resentment to the proposed course of
events.  “My aim is to get you out and that if anything was to go wrong, I
should continue as planned.  Listen,” he said, as he looked at Ben properly for
the first time, with his dishevelled and sweaty hair falling lankly onto the
creases in his forehead partially covering his cuts.  He still had the marks
across his cheeks from where the blackout goggles had been forced on earlier in
the day, and he smelt unmistakably like the metallic rusty stench of cold dry
blood.  Some of it was still on his cheeks, but it had been smeared into the
sweat giving him an all round rosy glow which concealed his physically
exhausted state.   His arms were trembling and hanging at his sides.  He had
the expression of a man determined yet frail, keen to make his last stand, his
last charge in a battle where the odds were stacked so high against him that he
was certain it would also be his last act in life.

“There is nothing I can do for Hannah
right now.  It’s you they want.  Not her.  Not Matthew.”  The boatman shrugged
his shoulders a little bit as if to suggest he was incapable to help or resolve
the situation.  “If they come here with Matthew and you are here, there is
nothing that Mark won’t do to capture you.  Your escape is his ruin.  Don’t you
understand that?”