He’d just spent twelve minutes finding out that he wasn’t clean and now he had around seventeen minutes of natural walking to get to the lobby of the Marriott. From there he’d have a three-minute turnaround, in which time he’d pretend to be going back to his room for the night but instead get into a car and clear the Pakistan border.
The job was to do nothing, to act as if nothing was wrong, when his brain was running several dozen scenarios that involved basements, tractor batteries and pliers. He focused on his breathing once again, keeping the oxygen high and using his brain to put the followers to sleep.
After an eternity he arrived at the Marriott, and checked the time: 6.59 p.m. He had three minutes to make his exfil rendezvous, with a hard cut-off of five minutes. His team was now running a clock and he went straight up to his room. The hotels they used always required rear exit points, which at the Marriott was a long corridor down the side of the kitchen and administration areas, ending in a rear lane with a loading bay, his pick-up point. Now he mentally focused as he quickly packed his suitcase. He thought about the corridor, the fire stairs, and the hallway to the hotel’s rear entrance. He would hurry but not run, and it would take one hundred and thirty-five seconds, from room to pick-up. He knew this because he had walked it in a dry run the day he arrived.
De Payns closed his wheelie case and stood by the door. He checked that his Nokia pieces were in his windbreaker, and he checked he had his wad of euros in his Levi’s pocket. His case was in his left hand, leaving his right free. Breathing out, he opened the door. The corridor was clear. He slipped out, shut the door carefully, and walked to his right, past the elevators, where he dropped the Nokia pieces in the rubbish bin, saving the SIM card. For all his urgency to get out of Islamabad, he might need to contact Raven again.
De Payns walked through the fire door, closed it quietly, and moved down the concrete stairs, the sound of his sneakered feet and his breathing deafening in the echoing space. He concentrated on rhythm rather than speed, which reduced sound, and he covered the ten flights without tripping or shoes squeaking. De Payns felt trapped, as if at any moment he would round a corner and come face to face with the ISI who—according to his red sticker with a cross—were following him with intent.
At the bottom of the stairs he paused in front of the ground-floor door. The door opened into the hallway to the hotel’s rear exit, which meant it was not in the line of sight to where his followers had sat in the lobby. However, he was more concerned with a night reception woman standing at the desk as he emerged from the stairs. If she was an asset for the ISI, she would call them immediately. He couldn’t control that.
He looked at his watch—twenty-six seconds till ‘go’. Pulling back the fire door, he peered out into the lobby—one person checking in, occupying the reception woman. He slipped sideways into the hallway, and as he walked he saw a cleaner to his right who was looking straight at him. De Payns smiled and walked swiftly down the hallway to the door at the end, which stood like a beacon. His heart banged, every touch of his feet on the lino sounding like an alarm. He walked past an opened door which held all the cleaner’s equipment, and then he hit the horizontal locking bar on the door and pushed through into the loading bay area. There was one night-light over the receiving stage, but the rest of the turning area and the rear lane were dark. As the door swung shut, de Payns looked down the hall and saw the cleaner had come into the hallway and was peering at him.
He was on time but there was no car, no support team. He walked to the kerb and looked both ways, even though it was a one-way street.
Darkness, no movement.
Behind him the door creaked and de Payns turned. The cleaner stared out. He was in his early fifties, short and fit-looking. De Payns looked the man in the eyes, and saw fear. It was a sensible reaction because de Payns was calculating whether he could reach the cleaner and incapacitate him. As de Payns read the distance—about eight metres—the cleaner smiled; he had no French and de Payns had no Urdu. De Payns edged towards him; all he had to do was get his foot in that door and get his hands on the cleaner before he yelled.
De Payns edged closer—six metres—and the cleaner found some English. ‘Your bag,’ he said, holding out something in his hand. It was hard to see. He got to four metres and dropped his case, ready to pounce, when he realised what was in the man’s hand.
‘For the bag,’ said the man, offering de Payns’ leather name tag from the wheelie. De Payns breathed out with so much relief that he almost choked.
‘Fuck,’ he said, wiping spittle from his mouth. He reached out and took the name tag, returning the man’s scared smile. De Payns realised his face must have been a neon sign of impending violence.
‘Thank you,’ he said in English, taking the name tag.
De Payns was close enough to ensure that the cleaner never spoke to anyone, ever. But a car engine sounded behind him, and the cleaner closed the door and disappeared back into his hotel.
When he turned back, Templar was at the wheel of a white Toyota Camry, another support team operative—Danny—was at the trunk, opening it. De Payns grabbed his bag and walked to the Camry. He slid into the trunk, feeling a rubber yoga mat beneath him. Danny arranged boxes and suitcases over and around him, and pointed out a bottle of water, two apples and a bunch of muesli bars jammed up against the transom. There was also a black 9mm handgun that looked like a SIG. Danny tapped an empty bottle with a screw top, and de Payns nodded. It was going to be a long drive, no toilet stops.