Bombshell - Jane Harvey-Berrick Page 23

  How did anyone cope with that?

  I wasn’t a hero, I knew that, but I could make a difference. Sometimes it felt like there was too much weighted against the work we did, but it all mattered.

  I sat alone, lost in my thoughts.

  Night fell suddenly, like the turning off of a switch, and the evening sounds filled the cooling air, the crickets singing and a dog barking nearby.

  I thought about life and I thought about death. Was this the reason that I hadn’t killed myself? Because there was still work to be done? Because I had a purpose? Because despite everything, there was still a place for me in this fucked up world?

  And I thought about Bel. I understood, at last, why she’d gone back to London with her father. Because she knew, because she understood, because she’d already worked out that she had to fix herself first. And from what I’d learned via Clay’s occasional mentions of her name, she’d taken a fundraising job with Halo Trust and was bringing in the big bucks, as well as getting the charity some great publicity. I was happy for her, I really was. I surprised myself when I realized that all the bitterness had finally leached away.

  And I knew that I’d been an idiot. But what else was new?

  Stiffly, I pulled myself up from the dirt floor, muscles cramped and sore, then went to find Clay and Zada.

  Because despite what I’d been telling myself for years, I didn’t want to be alone and I did need my friends.

  Arabella

  “IS THIS REALLY happening?”

  Gray raised his eyebrows and gave me a fatherly smile.

  Over the months that I’d worked for him, I’d learned more about the positive role of a parent than I ever had in my entire life.

  Gray had A-R-M-Y stamped through the centre of his body, a career officer, but at the age of 56, he’d finally met his match in Heidi, a feisty Scottish woman who’d turned him from a Colonel into a father.

  Eight years on, they had a son of five and a daughter of seven, and I’d never seen children more loved. I finally understood what I’d been missing all these years. But it didn’t make me sad—well, maybe a little—instead, it gave me hope.

  Gray was driving me to the airport in his uncomfortable old Land Rover that rattled alarmingly over potholes, and sounded as loud as a tank.

  “Yep,” he said, answering me at last. “It’s really happening and you, Harry, you made it happen.”

  Then he glanced across at me and smiled.

  “Time to finish the job now.”

  I nodded even though I wasn’t sure I could do that.

  “I’ll try,” I said, at last.

  “Nay, lass,” he said, copying Heidi’s accent and making me laugh. “You’ll be wonderful. I’m proud of you, Harry.”

  “Oh my God, don’t say things like that or I’ll be a blubbering mess before I even get on the darn plane.”

  He winked at me, then swerved suddenly into a parking spot in the drop-off zone.

  As I tried to prise my fingers from the seat, he wrapped his arms around me in a hug.

  “You’re stronger than you know, Arabella,” he said.

  And this time, I couldn’t stop a stray tear escaping.

  Gray carried my suitcase into the airport, then left me with another swift hug and an order to call him and Heidi later to let them know how I was getting on.

  He drove away with a loud roar of diesel fumes as I waved him off.

  I was nervous; not because I was a nervous flier, far from it. I loved getting on a plane and being served champagne before nodding off and waking up in a new country ready to shop.

  Well, that was the old Arabella. The new one couldn’t afford to travel First Class as she worked for herself and earned her own money, and she definitely wasn’t the kind of person who’d expect a charity to fork out for an expensive seat.

  But when I went to check-in with my luggage, I found that those lovely Air Miles that I’d accumulated while I had Daddy’s allowance were still valid. As I got upgraded to Business Class, I imagined the look on his face.

  I’d changed, and a thousand times for the better. I’d taken responsibility for myself and my life, and I was spending my days doing something worthwhile that would benefit others. The ‘poor little rich girl’ was in the past. Now, I was just an ordinary working woman, doing my best, not always getting it right, but trying hard.

  I settled into my seat with a sigh, kicking off my pretty-but-uncomfortable shoes and wriggling my toes.

  “Business or pleasure?”

  I opened my eyes to see the handsome man in the Armani suit who was sitting next to me.

  “Definitely business,” I said with a cool smile.

  He got the message and left me alone.

  Eight hours later, I opened my eyes again to bright sunshine.

  My luggage had arrived with me at Dulles airport—always a bonus—and I felt a rush of enthusiasm, a hunger for this day to start.

  Washington D.C. in the Autumn was beautiful. The roads were lined with trees blazing with colour, their leaves in shades of vivid orange, red and gold—a sign that we were coming towards the end of another year. The grand, stone buildings and wide pavements reminded me of London as my taxi moved at a stately pace through the morning traffic. I caught a glimpse of the White House, smaller than I’d expected, but gleaming in the sunshine.

  Tourists were strolling in shorts, heading for the Lincoln Memorial, and diplomats in suits took a moment to enjoy the parks and fresh air, with the Washington Monument pointing upwards like a beacon in the distance.

  I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing pulse. If everything went right tomorrow, it would be the culmination of months of work, a testament to the last year of my life.

  Or it could mean a complete cockup and utter humiliation.

  I closed my eyes tightly.

  Please make this right.

  And I couldn’t tell you who I hoped was listening.

  James

  “ARE THERE USUALLY this many tourists outside the White House?” I asked, glancing through the tinted windows of the limo. “And news crews?”

  Clay threw me a look of amused disbelief.

  “Have you been hiding under a rock, James my man? You’re big news. Huge. The Press were cheated of their hero last time—they’re not letting you get away again.”

  An unpleasant awareness trickled down my spine.

  When I’d received a letter from the White House Chief Staff, an invitation of sorts, I hadn’t thought much about the publicity side of things. I should have. I really should.

  I’d honestly thought that all the nonsense that Bel stirred up had died away. Okay, so yeah, there’d been that film crew shadowing our work for a few weeks, but it wasn’t just me that they’d interviewed: they’d talked to Clay, Zada, the de-miners and Yamba. They’d even interviewed that little girl’s mother.

  Nzingha, that was her name, the little girl—named for a warrior princess. I got a familiar lump in my throat when I thought about her.

  I knew that the Trust regularly sent film crews all over the world to record the work because it was good for publicity—essential for the public to see what a difference their donations made. When Jay and Danny had turned up, I’d just assumed it was business as usual.

  Or maybe the truth was I didn’t want to think about any of that shit; I’d just wanted to be left alone. But that had changed, too.

  Nzingha had become a regular visitor to the compound and spoiled rotten when she came. For some reason, she’d taken a shine to me, which seemed bizarre, but she always yelled for me to pick her up. I couldn’t say no to her.

  “This is going to change your life, bro,” Clay said gently. “Everyone will want to know the hero of Times Square.”

  I shook my head in denial.

  “Fifteen minutes of fame, maybe. But once I disappear back to Luanda or Nagorno or somewhere like it, no one will give a damn.”

  He grimaced, his words at odds with the gesture.

 
“Maybe, I guess it’s possible.”

  “What about you?” I asked. “You were there, too.”

  Clay shrugged.

  “I already got my Purple Heart while I was in the hospital.”

  Zada glanced at him impatiently.

  “Yes, and I had to clear it out of the trash twice.”

  I stared at them both. I hadn’t known. Clay hadn’t shared that last detail.

  “I was having a bad day,” he said with a small smile as he reached for his wife’s hand. “A couple of bad days. But you kicked my butt for me.”

  “Yes, I did,” Zada said, her face softening with love.

  I had to look away.

  Bel’s blue eyes flashed into my mind, but I couldn’t afford to think about her now. Or ever.

  “Maybe they’ll let us leave by the back entrance,” I muttered, eyeing the crowds of journalists and general public as we cruised past in our limo, courtesy of the US Government.

  Clay laughed loudly.

  “Dude, you do know that the Bronze Star with Valor is the fourth highest decoration in the US, right? Only one other Brit has ever received it, and that was in 1946.”

  I turned my head and gaped at him.

  “What?”

  He snorted, choking on his own laughter, while Zada rolled her eyes.

  “Clay, are you yanking my chain, because I’m about to meet the President and get some more chest cabbage pinned on me, and I don’t want to look like the village idiot.”

  But talking to him wasn’t getting me anywhere. Clay was splayed out on the backseat, weak with laughter, tears rolling down his face.

  Zada was half amused, half irritated.

  “No, my husband, who has just regressed to adolescence, isn’t ‘yanking your chain’, James. The Bronze Star with Valor is a very big deal.”

  “Bloody hell,” I grumbled. “No one told me that.”

  “I think most people would have Googled it,” Zada pointed out, a raised eyebrow underlining my stupidity.

  “Is that why you made me buy a new suit?” I asked, light dawning.

  “Dear Allah!” she shrieked. “You’re about to meet the President of the United States! You couldn’t just rock up in jeans!”

  I leaned back against the upholstered leather seat. Yeah, I probably should have looked into all this medal crap before now.

  “Amira would have been proud of you,” she said softly.

  As Clay’s laughter faded, Zada swallowed and looked down.

  Silence filled the limousine and it was several seconds before I could speak.

  “Thanks,” I said, my voice hoarse.

  Would there ever be a time when hearing her name didn’t hurt? Why this death and not another? Because Fate is a random bitch? There was never any answer to that.

  Amira’s parents had chosen to receive her posthumous Meritorious Service Medal in private. Zada had argued with them about that but hadn’t been able to change their minds. They preferred to grieve in private. Zada thought that Amira should be celebrated, too. And her parents hadn’t factored in that Zada would be standing right next to Clay when he received his Bronze Star, so privacy would be in short supply.

  At Zada’s insistence, I’d worn all my British Army medals, too. I had mixed feelings about that because of the way they’d kicked me out, but I’d earned those medals with my blood and sweat, and good friends who should have been buying me a beer had paid the ultimate price. My medals honoured them.

  As we arrived at the entrance, I could see camera flashes before the limo door opened; it was like stepping out onto the red carpet at a blockbuster film premiere. Cameras flashed in all directions and people were calling my name like I was their best friend.

  I kept my head down, refusing to look at the photographers as I helped Zada out of the car, followed by Clay, only slightly awkward on his prosthetic.

  Clay lapped it up, waving to the crowd, a huge smile on his face, his other arm draped around Zada. She stood serene and beautiful, wearing her colourful headscarf that was a twin with the scrap of silk I carried with me everywhere.

  Clay was making a point by highlighting his relationship with Zada, the message clear. See, she’s a Muslim; her sister’s a hero; this is my wife. Deal with it.

  I didn’t have any interest in making a political point, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Clay went into politics a few years down the line. He’d be one of the decent ones. He could be the second black man to be President.

  There was a brief moment of quiet as we entered the White House and shook some hands, names of the men and women who worked there that I instantly forgot.

  We were left in a hospitality area for several minutes, and I studiously ignored the alcohol and miniature pastries, preferring to help myself to a cup of extra-strong black coffee. Or have it poured for me by a guy in a penguin suit.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, then wandered away to look at the photographs lining the room so I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. Coming here was beginning to feel like a huge mistake. Bloody Clay had talked me into it.

  My eyes were drawn to a series of photographs that were tucked away in a quiet corner; something had caught my attention…

  I’d noticed a small black-and-white photograph of former President Barack Obama. I peered even closer, a smile settling on my face.

  “That bloody bastard,” I muttered.

  “Excuse me?!” said a horrified voice.

  I glanced up to see a woman in an expensive dress gazing at me with disgust.

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean him…”

  But she sniffed and walked away.

  “Making friends?” Clay asked with an amused glance at the woman’s retreating back as shook his head at me.

  “Yeah, you know me. Hey, look at this. Recognize anyone?”

  He squinted slightly, then laughed out loud.

  We were both looking at the man by Obama’s shoulder, sunglasses on, earpiece in place.

  “Oh, is that your friend?” asked Zada.

  “Yup, that he is,” Clay agreed. “Nathaniel John Smith—our favourite spook. I guess when he said he ‘knew people’, he really did.”

  It certainly explained how Smith had been able to pull strings and collect favours in so many different places.

  My smile dimmed. Smith had got me into Syria to find Amira, but I’d been too late to save her. Too damned late.

  “Hey,” said Clay, nudging my side. “I’ve just seen someone else you know.”

  “Yeah?” I asked, turning around without much interest.

  The breath froze in my lungs and my heart stopped dead, then began to gallop to a new beat, a faster rhythm.

  Across the room, Bel was smiling at us, her expression schooled into polite pleasure, but I could see the anxiety in her eyes.

  She was a bright column of colour that dimmed the rest of the room, her scarlet dress sweeping across her amazing body, her hair a halo of gold. I wasn’t even sure she was real.

  All the emotions that I’d locked away spilled over, making me dizzy with want and need, lust and hope. And love. I knew what this feeling meant now: I loved Bel. I hated her and I loved her.

  “James,” Zada said quietly, “give her a chance.”

  I stared at her, surprised. She’d been one of Bel’s biggest critics until Clay had told her to leave it alone.

  “You’re taking her side after she outed me?” I asked, completely staggered at the turnaround.

  “People have their own battles to fight,” she said softly. “I, of all people, should have understood that—but my family love me and always have. I didn’t understand what she was fighting. I do now. So you should give her a chance to explain.”

  Clay prodded me in the arm.

  “Go to her, you dick.”

  “I don’t know…”

  He gave me a little push, making me stumble and nearly take out a wine waiter.

  I cursed under my breath as I started to cross the room, shuffling because I was so nerv
ous that I couldn’t feel my feet.

  Bel blinked rapidly, the tight smile still pinned to her face.

  I was within touching distance when a Four-star Army General reached her first, his eyes skimming her body with more than appreciation before he corrected himself.

  A dangerous red mist of rage descended and I was by her side in a second.

  “Ah, the man of the hour,” he said. “Staff Sergeant Spears. Allow me to introduce you to Lady Arabella Forsythe, director of the Halo Trust.”

  “How kind,” said Bel crisply, patting his arm. “But James and I are old friends. Would you be a poppet and excuse us for a moment, General Erikson.”

  “Of course, Lady Arabella,” he said smoothly. “We can talk later.” He glanced at me, his grey eyes steely. “A pleasure, Spears.”

  I nodded absently as he strolled away.

  “Hello, James,” said Bel, her voice low and rich. “How’ve you been? I wasn’t sure you’d be here today. I’ll have to thank Clay. And Zada.”

  With a loud clang, everything fell into place.

  “This is because of you, isn’t it?” I accused her. “This medal shit. You were the one who talked them into this!”

  She cocked her head to one side, smiling.

  “I really couldn’t say.”

  “You’re the one who started the petition in the UK to have me reinstated, not your father, right?”

  Her eyes flashed.

  “My father only cares about himself.”

  “Then how come he got involved?”

  “I persuaded him,” she said, her voice dangerously sweet.

  A tiny block of ice that had kept my heart frozen began to melt.

  “Guess you finally stood up to him.”

  She smiled happily.

  “Guess I did.”

  We stared at each other like a couple of idiots. I had no clue what to say. Luckily, Bel did.