At 7 A.M. I pack the car and go. The road to Norfolk is nearly empty, the soft mumble of Radio 4 filling the car as I work things through in my head. Norfolk, I figure, is my safest bet. It’s isolated. There’s no real police presence. I know my way through those woods. And there’s no CCTV. No one will be watching me. If someone follows me, I’m sure I’ll know it. I pull over on the hard shoulder of the motorway and text the number again from the phone. I specify only a time for tomorrow and general location. I will send more detailed GPS coordinates on the morning of the meeting.
Mark’s not leaving from New York until this evening and he won’t get back to our house until after midnight tonight. I try not to picture his face, his eyes when he sees me tomorrow morning, when I finally get home, after this is over. He’ll know I’ve been lying to him. He’ll know I wasn’t at Caro’s; he’s not an idiot. And I’ll have to tell him everything. I promise myself that once this is all over I’ll be honest; I’ll never lie again. I’ll be the best wife in the world. I promise.
I’ve booked a hotel room. It’s not the same hotel we stayed in before; it’s one I’ve never been to. I plan to stay just one night. I’ve set the meeting time for six tomorrow morning and they’ve confirmed. I also received a new voicemail. The same male voice as before. He wants me to hand over the coordinates for the downed plane tomorrow too. That’s part of the deal now. Luckily, I have that information.
They’ll be able to get here by the meeting time tomorrow, wherever they are. A private jet flight from most places in the world would only take a few hours, not days. Russia is a four-hour flight. They have more than enough time to get here, wherever they’re coming from.
I’ve chosen an isolated area to meet, in the woods, and I’ve chosen 6 A.M. because the earlier the better. I don’t want any interruptions; I’ll have enough to worry about as it is. My backpack lies across the back seat of the car, my thick coat draped protectively over it. Inside, a small bag of emergency food and a bottle of water. It’s cold out and there’s a lot to be done today. The memory stick is nestled in the rucksack’s front zip pocket, safe, easy to access. In the internal computer compartment of the rucksack, the gun waits in its case, next to the bullets and the phone. Everything I need for tomorrow.
I get to the hotel at 10 A.M. I have no more voicemails. Check-in runs smoothly. The receptionist is sweet but this is obviously a gap-year job. She’s totally uninterested, which works out perfectly for me with the hours I’ll be keeping.
My room is small and cozy. The bed is a thick, deep nest of crisp cotton sheets and down feathers. There’s a gleaming copper tub in the bathroom. Very nice. Perfect.
I double-check I have the flash drive and gun, slip on my thick outdoor coat, pull on my backpack, and head out. I’m going to walk the route for tomorrow’s meeting.
According to my own phone’s GPS, I can get the whole way to the woods without using any roads. That’s the safest option, if I stick to the fields and woods.
It takes me an hour at a brisk walking pace to reach the woodland area I’m after. I’ll need to make a note of two sets of GPS coordinates on my phone for the exchange. I’ll send the first one, the meeting point, once I’ve set off tomorrow. It would be silly to give them extra time to look around before we meet in the morning. The second set of coordinates is for the exact location of the USB. I’m going to bury the USB today near the meeting point. Once they give me the money, once it hits our Swiss account, I’ll text them the second set of coordinates, just like Eddie said. This way I’ll avoid a direct face-to-face confrontation. After that I will finally text them the plane coordinates, and then we’re done.
I chose this area because I know it’s isolated. Mark and I have hiked through these woods enough times. You can walk half the day without ever coming across another person. The only noises this far from the village are the sounds of things scuttling in the undergrowth and the distant crack of rifle shots carried on the wind. No one thinks twice about gunshots out here. It’s part of everyday life. Another reason I chose this spot.
I’m deep in the woods, about twenty minutes’ walk to the nearest B road. I shrug off the backpack and carefully remove the gun box. I take an A4 sheet of paper out of the back section of the bag—the hotel welcome letter—and a thumbtack that I pocketed from the tourist information board in the hotel lobby. I pin the sheet of paper to the widest tree in the clearing.
I need to practice. I need to at least fire the bloody thing before I point it at a person.
Eddie mentioned backup. Don’t do it without backup. Well, this is my backup.
I have one magazine preloaded with fifteen bullets, plus another fresh pack in a little cardboard box. That makes twenty-seven bullets. Simon didn’t scrimp on bullets, thank God. Perhaps he guessed I’d need the practice.
I’ll need a full mag for the meeting. In case I do actually need to use the gun.
So here’s a math problem for you: if Erin wants to keep a mags’ worth of ammo, for tomorrow, how much ammo can Erin use today?
Erin can use twelve bullets today. Twelve practice shots to work with. I carefully remove three bullets from my full mag and place them safely with the fresh twelve-pack in the pocket of my rucksack.
Hopefully, I won’t need to put this practice session in use at all tomorrow, but I’d rather be over-prepared than under.
I slide the mag back in, hold the gun out in front of me, arms extended, the gun leveled in front of my dominant eye. I line up the white dot and the box that make up the Glock’s sights with the paper target on the tree ahead.
I’ve been warned in the videos about the kickback on Glocks, but the stance you’re supposed to adopt to counteract it isn’t what you’d expect. Not like you’ve seen on TV. Not like you’ve seen in films. You stand straight on, not to the side, not like a sidestepping, flashlight-carrying FBI cadet. Your feet need to be hip-width apart, knees soft. My right hand on the grip, my trigger finger along the barrel, safely away from the trigger, my left hand held high, bracing the right on the grip, shoulders forward, elbows locked. You might not look cool but you will hit what you’re aiming for. At least that’s the idea….
I breathe. Slow in. Slow out. It will be loud. So much louder than you’d expect. It will kick, buck back against you like a punch. But you need to stay solid, give slightly but hold your ground.
I inhale deeply. Slide my finger into the trigger well. Exhale and pull.
The crack rips through the woods around me. The gun kicks back like a grown man slamming into me. My heart explodes with adrenaline, my eyes are dazzled. Astonishingly, I hold my position. I am fine. Ahead of me I see the very edge of the paper shredded, a large clump of bark splintered upward at a crazy angle. I got it. If that were a man, I’d have got him. An odd flush of joy. I shake it off and focus. I realign.
And then I pull the trigger eleven more times.
By the end of the afternoon there is no paper left and the tree is a mess. I decide perhaps I’ll walk a little farther before I note down a GPS location. I definitely don’t want them to see this tree. I find a good spot another five minutes in, a small muddy clearing. I jot down the GPS coordinates from the app into my iPhone notes. Then I try to find another location where I’ll actually bury the USB in a plastic bag. I choose a distinctive oak tree, away from the clearing, near a ditch. I should be safe to hide there unseen tomorrow. I squat down by the oak and dig a small hole in the topsoil with my bare hands; I place the USB in its little plastic bag in the ground and cover it over with soil and leaves, blending it back into the forest floor. I note the coordinates of where it’s buried on my iPhone. And then I head back to the hotel.
In my hotel room I lay everything out for tomorrow. I test my travel alarm clock a couple of times, and miraculously, it still works. I set it for 4:30 A.M. and place it on the nightstand next to the hotel’s ornate bedside lamp. I place the gun and remaining ammo in the safe.
After ordering room service, I ring Mark’s mobile but it runs straight to voicemail.
“Hi, Mark, it’s me. I guess you’ve already taken off but I just wanted you to know everything is fine. I’m fine. I miss you. I love you. Um, listen, the house is an absolute tip, by the way. Just to warn you. I’ll tidy it tomorrow. Safe flight. Love you. See you soon. Can’t wait.” I hang up. When he gets home he’ll get my note on the stairs saying I’m staying over at Caro’s tonight. I hope this all works. I really do.
My food comes and I eat in silence. No TV or music for company. I think of Eddie and Lottie, of Holli and her friend Ash out there somewhere, who knows where. I think of Mark in his plane high over the Atlantic, of the people in their plane deep under the South Pacific. I think of Alexa and her potential pregnancy. How happy she must be. I think of what I am carrying inside myself. I’m in a kind of daze but I force myself to eat, for what’s growing there. I need to look after us both better. With that in mind, after dinner I run a hot bubble bath in the roll-top tub and lower myself slowly into its soft warmth. I let the heat soak in and I let my mind wander as I stare absentmindedly at the etched frosted-glass section of the bathroom door: entwined climbing flowers and engraved wild birds, a forest scene. It’s pretty. This is a lovely hotel. Mark would like it here. Or maybe he wouldn’t. After all, right now I’m doing the exact thing I absolutely promised him I would not do. And with that thought I rise red-skinned from the water, towel myself off, and prepare to get an early night.