Читать книгу State Of Honour - Gary Haynes - Страница 27

Tom hadn’t wanted to push his luck, thinking that if he kept in the background Crane might be able to get him to go along on the mission. He got a cup of coffee from a vending machine in the lobby, and sat on a pleather chair. He thought about those who’d died already, and those young men who might lose their lives in the next few hours. He just hoped that their sacrifices would lead to a worthy outcome.

He sensed someone behind him and twisted around. It was Steve Coombs, holding the extended handle of a small suitcase on wheels.

“The hell you doing here?” Tom asked.

“Benazir Bhutto got a bomb threat. It’s closed till further notice,” Steve said, referring to Islamabad’s international airport, named after the assassinated female politician. “I’m flying home from Kabul. The CIA said they had a couple more questions; asked me to come in on my way to the airport.”

Placing the cup on the floor, Tom stood up. “Good to see you, Steve, anyhow.”

They shook hands.

“And you, Tom?”

“I’m staying put for now.”

“How’s that?”

Tom shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. You get home safely, you hear. And give Page my love.”

Tom hadn’t seen Steve’s wife in maybe two years, but he admired the woman, and he knew that his friend was devoted to her. Steve was a lucky man in many respects, he thought. His parents farmed three-hundred acres in Eastern Pennsylvania spit into cattle and soybeans. He had six siblings, all of whom were married and doing well. Steve had told him that growing up on a farm was like he imagined heaven to be.

As they parted company Tom thought his own early life couldn’t have been more dissimilar. Up until he was eight, he saw his father about once every three months, if he was lucky. He gave him a toy or twenty bucks. He looked handsome in his Army officer’s uniform. He was six-two with a natural muscularity, his black-onyx-coloured eyes and hair marking him out like a movie actor. He’d never married his mother, and Tom didn’t have his name, Dupree being her surname. His father was uneasy around him, avoiding physical contact, and there would be long silences between them. He was Louisiana Creole, his forefathers being colonial French who’d settled in the southern states. Tom excelled at French at school; did it, he supposed, to make his father proud in some remote way.

He clenched his jaw muscles now and tried to focus on something positive.

“Tom.”

It was Crane’s voice. Tom looked over towards the row of elevators and saw him walking across the tiled floor, his big legs striding out, his confidence restored. Tom stood up.

“It’s a goer. You ready for this?” Crane said, excitedly.

“Hell, yeah” he replied, thinking Crane’s mood had turned a full one-eighty.

“We don’t land until the Rangers have secured the site. You realize that, right?”

“How did you pull it off?”

“Apart from Houseman being sympathetic, which, I have to say, ain’t his natural disposition, I told him that you were the only man suitable to go along who she’d feel instantly comfortable with.”

“Thanks, Crane.”

“You know how to use an MP5?”

Tom nodded.

“I’ll make sure you have one.”

“You getting paid to keep me alive?” Tom asked.

Crane grinned. “If I was intent on keeping you alive, I woulda made sure you went home on that plane.”