The Girl Who Ran. Nikki Owen
Читать онлайн книгу.
look between the two of them. ‘We cannot determine with any mathematical certainty why these men are here. We can only assume.’ I pause, my mind firing at such a rate now, the probabilities and conclusions whip out. ‘We can only assume a level of danger which requires some amount of action on our part.’
Patricia blows out a breath. ‘Shit a brick.’
Chris nods. ‘Too right.’
I scan the busy foyer, the noise so loud, my body wincing at the near physical hurt it causes me. Heads, hats, citrus perfume, detergent, the smell of ice cream and pancakes, a series of buckles and trailing laces.
‘I can see them,’ Chris says.
‘Where?’
He gestures to an area by a burger bar thirty metres away. ‘Right… there.’
I follow his line and spot two men, black jackets, casual clothing, no suitcases, no definable baggage, just coffee bean eyes and steady strides.
‘Doc,’ Patricia says, ‘is it them? Could MI5 be back working with the Project now, you know, running it or something?’
‘I do not know,’ I say, sight missile-locked on the two figures. Flickering fluorescent lights, the clatter of suitcase wheels, the hum of a fan somewhere in a nearby store, the oppressive stench of chip fat. It all collides in my head, making it harder to think straight, but even between the chaos, a cold calm descends and a phrase, one drummed into me by the Project, despite my resistance, enters my head as easy as walking through an open door. Prepare, wait, engage.
I turn to Chris. ‘You are certain it is them?’
He gulps. ‘Yes.’
‘Then we have to go.’
He rubs his face. ‘Oh man, oh man, oh man.’
Bags secured, Patricia moves backwards, her feet stumbling a little, Chris following as the three of us slip behind a large silver pillar that houses neat billboards for expensive Parisian perfumes.
‘Doc, what do we do now?’
I glance to the area ahead and watch the two men. They walk five steps then stop and, as they do, my brain carries out a full and rapid assessment of the immediate threat. Each man is approximately one hundred and sixty-six centimetres tall, the right man blonde, the left brown, no distinguishable facial features, no definable scars, and by quick track of their frames, each appears to be built to endure long distance runs over twenty kilometres, yet still bulked enough to carry the weight of a full army training kit on their backs.
Patricia bites her lip. ‘They’re not real travellers, are they? Oh, God.’ There is a shake to her words. She chews on a nail. ‘You think they’ve seen us?’
Chris risks a glance. ‘Maybe… Fuck.’ He slips out his phone, sets up a fast proxy, starts tapping on a screen I cannot see. ‘Let me… Hang on.’
‘What are you doing?’ I ask, but he shakes his head, taps his phone and does not reply.
I scan the shops to calculate the best route forwards. By the entrance of a chain of toilets, a toddler is squirming in a ball on the floor screaming while his mother flaps around him, coils of hair springing up, shored by sweat, the father nearby, scratching his head, tutting into a smartphone that’s stitched into his hand. The noise of it all ricochets around my brain.
‘Doc,’ Patricia whispers, ‘should we get out of the airport?’
‘No.’ I take a breath, try to count the noise away. ‘We must board our flight and travel to Zurich as planned.’
‘You think that’s wise? Won’t they know where we are going?’
‘Negative.’ I swallow. Someone make the toddler be quiet. ‘We look different. Our email tracks have a high probability of being invisible.’
Chris, head up from his phone, points. ‘They’re moving.’
Patricia bites down harder on her fingernail. ‘Doc, I’m bloody shitting it.’
‘If you soil yourself, you could impede our escape.’
She ceases eating her hands.
The billboard with the perfume advert on the pillar is a rolling one. I observe it. Every six seconds, there is a change of posters, promoting gilded watches, branded clothing, vintage bottled cognac, champagne and truffles, and each time a new poster flashes, the entire board moves from side to side creating one small yet significant space behind it, a scooped out hole. A blind spot.
I turn to my friends. ‘There is a place to hide, there.’ I point. ‘It will provide us cover to plan the next move. When I say go, we all go. Do you understand?’
They nod.
‘Does that mean you understand?’
Two frantic nods. ‘Yes.’
‘Good. I will count to three. On three, we will run to the billboard.’
‘We won’t be seen?’ Chris checks.
‘No.’
‘Okay.’ His eyes flick ahead then back to me, a breath billowing from his chest. ‘Go for it.’
‘Okay. On my count: One…’
Patricia slaps a hair from her face, mutters, for some reason, what I believe is a slang word related to a man’s genital area. The billboard begins to revolve to the side.
‘Two…’
Chris taps his foot. He shields his phone screen with his hand as his eyes dart left and right in the glare and bustle of the concourse beyond.
‘Three. Go!’
We run. Lights, sounds, sharp slaps of heat and noise. They all fly through my ears as we weave in and out of the crowds. The men do not immediately follow us and yet still there is something about the way they move, about the assurance of their steps.
We reach the billboard. ‘Which way?’ Patricia whispers.
To our right is a concourse of cafés and shops, people spilling out of them in various states of speed and urgency. To our left is the open floor, shining, twinkling in a yellow brick road that leads off to the departure gate announcing cities and flight numbers. My brain photographs it all. Istanbul, Melbourne, Washington, Paris, locations that span the world across data lines that lie hidden underground.
‘They know we are here,’ Chris says. ‘I’m certain now.’
I whip round. ‘What?’
He turns his phone to me and my heart starts to race at an alarming speed.
‘I hacked into the Madrid police database,’ he says. ‘You know, to be on the safe side, get some firm intel. I found this.’
‘Oh, holy fuck,’ Patricia blurts. ‘It says wanted. It’s us!’
There are pictures of all three of us. My mouth runs dry so fast that I have to lean against Chris to steady myself.
‘Hey,’ he says, ‘you okay?’
‘They have us in different wigs,’ Patricia says. ‘Shit – they’ll know what we look like!’
‘I have put you in danger.’
‘Huh? What? Oh Doc, no. None of this is your fault. Doc, it’s okay.’
‘Er, no,’ Chris cuts in. ‘It’s not okay.’
We both look to him, mouths open.
‘Why?’ I say.
Very slowly, he guides his eyes to the left. ‘Because they’re looking right at us.’