Camden, Maine
Donoghue waived the speeding ticket, so all Tate had to do was sign for his watch. He left the air-conditioned cool of the police station. Outside, the late afternoon was still warm, and particles of dust danced in the sun as he opened the driver’s door of the Tahoe. The built-up interior heat hit him. He sighed. It hadn’t been parked in the shade. He climbed into the stuffy cabin, powered down both front windows and switched on the satellite navigation. He was finally on holiday again.
Fresh air blew on his face as he took Mechanic Street and then Elm before arriving at the inn minutes later. Elm Street Inn consisted of three white buildings, clad, as was the norm in New England, in white wooden planking. Two buildings were long two-storey accommodation blocks sitting at right angles to each other across a parking lot. The third, which had been the original house on the property, sat squat and heavily extended, facing the street. There was a grassy area to the right of both accommodation blocks with a screened-off section concealing a pool.
Tate brought the SUV to a halt at reception and stepped out. Having lost most of the day at the pleasure of the local police, he’d arrived much later than planned. He stretched and gave the inn a quick 360, noticing a large figure in jeans and a black polo shirt who seemed to be taking photographs of the parking lot. Tate squinted in the sunlight … no, the man was taking photos of the cars. Tate raised an eyebrow, entered reception and gave the old guy behind the counter his name.
‘Ah, our guest from England?’ the elderly guy asked in a chirpy voice and not waiting for Tate to answer said, ‘Been over a few times myself; Pop was stationed there in the war. Very pretty place, England. Which part are you from?’
‘Camden.’
‘Camden?’ the old guy said with a frown.
‘Camden, London. And it’s not as pretty as Camden, Maine.’
The door behind Tate swung open and the photographer entered. He nodded at the receptionist and said in Russian-accented English, ‘Number seven.’
‘Right you are, sir.’ The receptionist handed him a key.
Tate eyed the large man. And large was an understatement – he was huge. He had several inches on him in both height and shoulder width. His hair was cut short, but not in any way that could be called stylish. It certainly wasn’t the work of a trained barber. Tate noted his boots were well worn, whilst there were still shop-creases in his dark blue Levi’s and black Ralph Lauren polo shirt. The man nodded curtly before exiting again. Tate watched him stride away. He recognised his upright, chest-first bearing as that of a soldier, or at least someone who had until recently been one. Questions formed in Tate’s mind and as if to answer at least the first, the old man spoke.
‘We got a pair of Russians staying with us; came up from Portland way the day before yesterday. He’s the biggest. I’m Joe.’
‘Jack, Jack Tate.’
‘That’s lucky, because we have a reservation in your name.’ Joe smiled at his own joke as if it wasn’t the first time he had told it. ‘Well, Jack, if you’ll just let me take a look at your passport and credit card, I’ll see about giving you your room. Oh and if you can write the details of your vehicle on this form here?’
‘Is there anywhere to eat around here?’ Tate asked as his details were tapped into an ancient-looking computer.
‘Sure is; didn’t you see “Eric’s” on Elm? It’s the restaurant and bar attached to this place. Same owner, great food, great chef – I’m the chef. You like oysters?’
‘I do, but the last lot I had were faulty.’
‘Faulty?’ Joe repeated.
‘Yep, I had five but only three of them worked.’
Tate watched Joe’s face go blank for a moment before he started to snigger. ‘At my age, I imagine most of ’em would have been faulty.’ He handed Tate a key. ‘Here, room number six, next to our Russian friends in the building on the left. Now you go and drop off your things, and I’ll see you a bit later at Eric’s.’
‘Thanks.’
Tate returned to the parking lot and drove the fifty feet to the accommodation block. Hefting out his bag from the trunk, he scanned the doors for number six. A few minutes later, he had located his room, thrown his bag on the floor, and was looking out of the window, across the car park to the view of the dense woodland. Tate shook his head and smiled; Camden, Maine, was definitely more to his liking than Camden, London, even if a rogue gunman was on the prowl.
Tate stayed motionless and took in the scene for a minute before undressing and stepping into the bathroom. He pulled the cord for the light. The bulb flickered for a moment before it went out with a small clink. Tate sighed, relocated the waste bin, and used it to prop the door open before turning on the shower.
*
Oleg sighed as the bartender plonked a plate piled high with food in front of his colleague.
‘Double bacon cheeseburger with slaw and fries. Extra onion rings.’
‘Thank you.’ The large Russian rubbed his hands together in appreciation.
‘Will that be all?’
‘Yes, it is all.’
‘Enjoy your meal.’ The bartender retreated.
‘You eat far too much. You’ll be fat and unfit by the time you hit fifty,’ Oleg stated.
Sergei sneered at his older colleague. ‘In twenty more years, Oleg, when I am old like you, I will worry. But today I will eat good, hot American food because the day after tomorrow I will not be able to.’
Oleg glanced warily around the room. ‘You are also as discreet as a T-62 battle tank!’
‘I am sorry. Now can I finally eat?’
The pair lapsed into silence as the large Russian devoured his meal. Oleg slowly drank his beer. The quality was good, and he had to drink it to keep up the appearance of a man on vacation, but he also knew that it dulled his senses and he did not wish to miss anything that may be of note for his mission.
‘And nothing has changed?’ Sergei asked, wiping his mouth with a red paper napkin.
‘I’ve received no call. Everything is going to plan. We stay to observe the attack and then we pull out six hours afterwards.’
‘And then we shall return to Russia as national heroes whilst America falls to its knees.’
Oleg’s eyes widened. ‘You must say no more!’
Sergei chuckled. ‘You think anyone here speaks Russian?’
‘They may! For the next thirty-five hours we must not let our guard down.’
‘In thirty-five hours, no one will be worrying about anything they overheard you or I say, even if they could understand Russian.’
For once there was logic in Sergei’s words, but Oleg did not want to tempt fate. The man made him feel uncomfortable. Oleg drank his draught beer and continued to observe the bar and its patrons. What would happen to this place and the many thousands like it, he wondered, not just on a technical but also on a societal standpoint? A myriad of unanswered questions trooped through his mind, like soldiers at a Moscow military parade. Would the local grid or emergency generators turn on? Would the bar be used as a meeting point? Would the bar share its food and water supplies with stranded guests and needy locals? And what about criminal gangs? Would they take over and jockey for power with the powerless authorities?
These questions were his concern. These were his part of the mission.
*
Refreshed after a nap, Tate entered Eric’s and took a stool at the end of the bar. It was early evening but a Saturday night nonetheless, yet fewer than half of the dozen or so tables were occupied. He spotted the big Russian sitting at a corner table with another man. They were facing out across the room. It was the exact spot he would have chosen, out of habit. It provided a clear line of sight to the exit; no one could approach without being seen. But the Russians had taken it first. It was puzzling, especially the way they were not facing each other but out across the room, almost as though they were waiting for a cabaret show.
If the large man was military, or military trained, was the second? He was older, grey-haired yet from Tate’s swift analysis seemed too soft to be an officer. He eyed Tate suspiciously. So what did that make him? Tate sighed and shook his head a little. He was on holiday, and by the look of the large Russian’s brand-new clothes, so were they. Tate needed to relax and enjoy his downtime. He’d been ordered to take a month off to relax, unwind, and if he didn’t, he knew his boss wouldn’t be happy. He turned his head away slowly, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself.
‘What can I get you?’
Tate was taken aback for a moment by the barmaid. He made a conscious effort not to stare at her cleavage. ‘Just a beer will do for now.’
‘Draught or bottle?’
‘What’s best?’
The barmaid popped a bottle and placed it on a mat in front of him.
‘Thanks.’ Tate studied the bottle. The beer was labelled “King Titus” and brewed by the Maine Beer Company. Tate took a sip and nodded in appreciation. ‘Will you have one?’
She shook her head. ‘Too early for me. Are you staying here?’
‘Yes.’ He took a greedy slug of his beer.
The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re the guy from London.’
‘Close. Camden.’ She frowned and Tate explained, ‘Camden’s a borough of London.’
‘Funny, I never knew that.’
Tate took another swig. ‘There’s probably a word for people who travel to find their town’s twin. I don’t know it though.’
‘There’s another Camden in New Jersey, but that place is apparently the second most dangerous city in the US, and the poorest, according to an article I read.’
‘A bit different from here then.’
‘A lot different.’
‘I’m Jack.’
‘Sara.’
‘Nice to meet you.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’ Sara turned away and served another customer.
‘Have you seen the menu yet, Jack?’ Joe asked, entering the bar from the kitchen door.
‘Nope. Sara didn’t give me one.’
‘You said you just wanted a beer,’ she snapped from the other end of the bar.
‘To drink, but I’m also hungry.’
Sara smiled without sincerity and handed him a leatherette folder. ‘Here we are, sir. Please let me know what you would like to order.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Joe, can you take over for a minute?’
‘Sure.’
Sara exited the bar and Joe shrugged. ‘She’s a bit … what’s the word? Agitated at the moment.’
Tate nodded; it was no skin off his nose. ‘So what would you recommend?’
Joe leaned forward and placed his index finger on an item. ‘That. It’s something I concocted myself. Seafood stew.’
Tate nodded. ‘What’s in it?’
‘Scallops, haddock, and shrimp … with a dash of chilli. It goes surprisingly well with a bottle of white wine.’
‘Sold.’
‘On the stew?’
‘On both.’
‘Great, but I thought you were drinking beer?’
‘I’m on holiday. I’ll throw caution to the wind.’ He finished the beer in two gulps.
Sara reappeared; Joe gave her a mock salute and returned to the kitchen.
‘So what do people do around here for fun on a Saturday night?’ Tate asked.
‘Go into town, drink too much and fall over, or get on their boats, drink too much and fall overboard. You want another?’
‘Nice, you should work for the Camden tourist board.’
‘I’ve had a long day,’ Sara said.
‘Tell me about it.’
‘OK, I will.’ Tate rolled his eyes, but she continued to talk. ‘My ex-boyfriend woke me up drunk at four a.m. like he has done nearly every morning for the past week. Hollering at my window and ringing my bell. Then, when he finally decided to leave, he slashed the tyres on my car, which meant I had to take a taxi to the grocery store. Then when I got back, I found out the meat supplier hadn’t made his delivery, so I had to then spend an hour calling other suppliers to be able to serve my guests this evening.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Sara folded her arms. ‘So tell me about your day.’
‘I drove down from Bangor, and then got arrested and thrown in a cell by your very efficient Camden PD.’
‘So are you a dangerous criminal?’
He smiled. ‘A case of mistaken identity.’
Sara exchanged his old bottle for a new one. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just tired.’
‘Hey, I’m a Londoner. Anything less than a slap in the face is viewed as politeness in my local boozer.’
‘Boozer?’
‘Pub.’ Tate swigged his beer. ‘Did you get your tyres fixed?’
‘Yes. Why, were you offering to fix ’em?’
‘I was.’
‘Are you a car mechanic?’
‘No, but I can have a look.’
Joe appeared with a plate. Sara pointed across the room. ‘Take that spare table over there. I don’t encourage eating at the bar. It makes the place look messy.’
‘Fine,’ Tate said with a shrug and shifted to the table. It was nearer to the Russians.
Joe deposited a large bowl. ‘Enjoy.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Here.’ Sara placed a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a glass on the table.
Tate watched her walk back to the bar. There was a noise from the corner and he saw the large Russian also assessing Sara. He nudged the second Russian and said something Tate couldn’t quite make out. The older man remained silent.
Tate started to eat. He’d always liked fish and chips and, as a teenager, had a Saturday job at the local chippy. Back then some places still used newspaper to wrap the food in, well the outer layer at least. He remembered wrapping his brother’s order in page 3 of The Sun on more than one occasion to try to embarrass him. Whether he noticed the bare breasts of the page 3 girl or not he never mentioned it. Tate hadn’t been the best younger brother in the world and certainly far from the best son, but he and his brother had a strong bond. Tate took a sip of wine then continued to eat. What he was eating now shamed the simple fish and chips, and there wasn’t a mushy pea in sight.
A group entered the bar. A family. The parents appeared to be in their late fifties. Their two daughters, tall, mid to late teens. All four were dressed in matching blue hiking shirts, khaki shorts and sturdy boots. Tate noticed the big Russian obviously ogling the girls as they took a table.
‘Dad, can we order now? I’m hungry,’ one of the two girls said, from behind her iPhone.
Tate ate his meal and thought again how the world had changed since he was a kid. They hadn’t had iPads and iPhones; they’d had to make do with conning their parents out of change for the pinball machine or the pool table whenever they’d been treated to a pub lunch. He frowned; actually at the girls’ age he’d already joined the army whilst his brother had studiously studied for his A levels. Tate looked at the family again. The two kids absorbed in their screens, seemingly oblivious to where they were or who they were with, whilst the parents checked a large tourist map. Meanwhile the eyes of the smaller, older Russian continuously roved the room.
Tate finished his meal and wiped his mouth on a napkin. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the older Russian jerk, as though poked with a cattle prod, and then thrust his hand into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a mobile phone, pressed it to his ear and turned away from the room. Moments later he rose to his feet and said something to the big Russian who stood and towered over him. They exchanged a few words. The older Russian’s voice was low, almost inaudible, but Tate caught the other say in Russian, “That is why he is needed on this mission.” He slapped the older Russian on the back and they left the bar.
There was something odd about the Russian’s coded language and their behaviour, something that brought back bad memories. Tate drained his wine glass, left cash for his food and drink on the table, waited for a minute and then, on impulse, followed the men. As he stepped outside, he saw the duo reach the other side of the parking lot. They inspected a Winnebago belonging to another guest. After some finger pointing and gesticulation, they moved towards an SUV. In the dim sodium lights, Tate could just make out a second Chevrolet Tahoe, which was the same colour as his own, parked next to his.
His brain, although fuzzy from several beers and the best part of a bottle of wine, tried to remind him of something. It came to him suddenly. The police had stopped him because he was driving the same car as the suspected killer … No. Tate stopped himself. He was overthinking the situation again, chasing ghosts, allowing thoughts of his last operation in Ukraine to get the better of him. He was on holiday, and besides, neither of the Russians bore any resemblance to him.
The stench of cigarette smoke filled his nostrils and he heard a voice. ‘What are you looking at?’ Tate turned as Sara stepped out of the shadows by a rear door. ‘Are you spying on them?’
‘Just getting some fresh air.’
‘I know, I know. I’ve been meaning to quit.’ She dropped the cigarette on the tarmac and ground it into the path with her foot.
‘It’s bad for your lungs.’
‘Mine look pretty healthy, don’t ya think?’
‘I can’t give you a medical opinion.’
‘Huh.’
The pair stood in silence staring at each other for a long moment before Tate spoke. ‘I’m going to take a walk, then go to bed.’
‘A walk, at night?’
‘Yeah, I’m English; we like to walk.’
‘There’s nothing to see. At night I mean. Drop by the office in morning and I’ll give you a tourist map.’
‘OK, I will.’
‘Goodnight.’
Tate watched her step back into the inn, stood for a moment then headed for the road. The inn was a way out of town, unlike the other places he could have booked, which were both more expensive and touristy. It was a fifteen-minute walk, he imagined, straight down Elm Street to the town centre. Directly across Elm he saw ornate sweeping gates standing either side of a road that curved one way then another. He could see houses set back from the road with drives and lawns. It looked respectable, and he remembered Chief Donoghue saying he lived opposite the inn.
Tate turned and started walking towards town. He breathed in the cooling evening air and tasted both the sea and the trees, or was he just being fanciful? He’d gone no more than a dozen steps when bright headlights appeared from the direction of town, accompanied by the whine of a turbocharged engine and the rhythmic throb of music. The lights were lost momentarily in a dip before the car crested the top. There was no pavement on his side of the road and Tate was forced to scamper backwards onto the grass as the Nissan flew past, well in excess of the speed limit.
Its exhaust banged and popped as the car slowed and came to a tyre-squealing halt and then reversed back the way it had come until it was level with him. It was a cobalt blue, highly customised Skyline straight out of a “Fast & Furious” movie. The windows were heavily tinted. The driver’s powered down. From the gloom inside a head peered out. The driver had long hair, tied back with a bandana with a back-to-front, black baseball cap crammed on top. Tate met the driver’s red-rimmed eyes. The driver glared at him, as though assessing him before he snickered, floored the gas to spin the tyres and roared towards the road directly opposite the inn, the quiet respectable road where Donoghue allegedly lived.
Even here in quiet, picturesque Maine it appeared there were idiots marking their territory, and marking the road with rubber, but he didn’t care why. Tate carried on walking, away from the smell of gasoline and rubber. He wanted to make the most of the last light of the day, but his mind wanted to go back to the Russians at the inn. Who were they and why were they there? He remembered the last time he had seen Russian military officers; it had been in Ukraine several years before, and they hadn’t been friendly.