Ripples of the Past

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Ripples of the Past Page 26

by Damian Knight


  ‘And then what?’

  ‘The answer to that is a little more complicated.’ Humboldt ran his hand over his head and smiled, leaving little doubt that he was enjoying every moment. ‘With you in captivity, a cure for my tumour in development and a working formulae for Tetradyamide in my possession at long last, I already have everything I need. I guess I could spin some yarn about setting you free after your meeting with Dr Claybourne, but I think we both know that’s not going to happen. Here’s the problem, Sam – once your body has fulfilled its task, I’ll no longer have any need for it. Or, for that matter, you.’

  3

  Sam now saw that Humboldt’s promises had been nothing but lies, and like a gullible fool he’d gobbled them up. Once he had kept his appointment with Dr Claybourne in August, Humboldt would kill him. He would never see family and friends again, never find Eva and never bring his dad back to life or return his mum to the person she had once been.

  In that instant he wanted nothing so much as to throttle his first cousin twice removed with his bare hands. He began thrashing against his seatbelt, kicking his feet and swaying from side to side in a desperate bid to free himself. It was useless, though; the seatbelt held firm and, if anything, the cable tie cinched tighter around his wrists.

  ‘I could have you sedated, if you’d prefer,’ Humboldt said. ‘Only it might make the whole experience less distressing on your part.’

  Sam slumped back against his seat, the pulse behind his ears thumping. Suddenly the car crested a hill and he could make out the control tower and single hanger of a small airfield in the distance, the sort of place where people learned to fly in single-engine planes or took skydiving lessons at the weekend. Today, however, a small private jet stood waiting on the strip of runway beside the hanger.

  ‘So that’s it then,’ he said. ‘You’re going to keep me until you don’t need me anymore and then kill me? What about all that crap about family you spouted back at the house? I suppose that was all lies too, was it?’

  ‘Not in the slightest,’ Humboldt said. ‘It’s the fact we’re family that makes you such a threat, Sam. You don’t honestly believe I’d let someone who has the ability to undo all of my good work in an instant live, do you? And besides, I had to gain your trust somehow, otherwise you would have only used the Tetradyamide I gave you to fix your own problems instead of saving my life.’

  Sam could do nothing but glare back. While at one time he might have caved in, the events of the last few months had hardened him, and he wouldn’t give Humboldt the satisfaction. He realised that once they boarded the plane he was pretty much done for, but until then he still had time on his side and a lingering glimmer of hope. At some point they would have to undo his seatbelt in order to get him out of the car, and even with his hands tied, his head humming from the antiserum and his ability to turn the pages of time blocked, making a break for it might be the best and only opportunity he was going to get.

  As the gates to the airfield loomed into view, the car slowed before turning off the road and coming to a stop.

  ‘We’re here,’ the driver said and twisted round in his seat.

  Sam’s breath caught in his chest: it was Agent Steele, the man who had shot his sister in the timeline he had altered on Christmas Eve. ‘Y-you!’ he spluttered.

  ‘Hello, Sam,’ Steele said, fixing him with a cold blue gaze. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

  4

  As the people carrier stopped at the gates of a rundown airfield, Frances pulled over and climbed out of her car. It was now late afternoon with less than an hour of daylight remaining, but the moment she had laid eyes on the cufflink found at the scene of Esteban Haufner’s murder that morning felt like a lifetime ago, and she barely remembered the garbled excuse she had given Campbell before driving back to London.

  Dawn was breaking as she’d parked across the road from George’s grand apartment building in Fitzrovia. She had sat there for half an hour, her fingernails digging indentations into the steering wheel as theories fizzed through her head like electric sparks. All of a sudden a light had switched on behind the drawn curtains of George’s fifth-floor flat. Another twenty minutes had passed before it went dark again, and then a short while later a white hatchback had emerged from the underground car park with George behind the wheel. Frances had briefly considered pulling him over and arresting him on the spot, but it was unlikely she’d ever get to the bottom of what he was up to that way, so she’d begun tailing him instead.

  Rush hour had made it easy to hide amongst the traffic as she followed him out of the city. When they’d reached the greenbelt the roads grew quieter and she was forced to pull back to a safer distance. George had kept away from motorways, sticking mainly to back roads and country lanes as he wove his way in a north-westerly direction, crossing into south Wales by mid-morning.

  Another hour had passed before his car finally slowed and turned through the moss-and-lichen-spotted gateposts of a country estate. Frances had parked a couple of hundred metres down the road, located the pair of binoculars she kept in the boot and then skirted around the property until she came to a slight rise that gave her an uninterrupted view over the wall. From the cover of a rain-dampened bush, she had observed the hatchback parked next to a black people carrier in the weed-knotted drive of an apparently derelict house.

  After a few minutes George had emerged through the front door with an unconscious young man slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift. Frances had turned the dial on her binoculars, sharpening the focus and catching a glimpse of Sam Rayner’s face as George bundled him through the rear door of the people carrier. After everything else that day she was hardly surprised, but whatever Rayner’s role in the whole game was, it didn’t appear to be a willing one.

  Before she could swallow the lump in her throat, George had doubled back to the house, returning a minute later with a suitcase in either hand, an old woman and two old men in tow. Frances had turned the dial on her binoculars once again, adjusting the focus. One of the men had been immediately recognisable: a face she had seen in countless photographs during her time at CT Command. It was Michael Humboldt, otherwise known as Michael Harrison, the man who had turned Esteban Haufner. And also, it appeared, George.

  It was then that Frances had finally come to her senses. George had obviously been manipulating her all along, winning her affections in order to get to Rayner. Over the last week she had allowed her emotions to get the better of her judgement, making mistake after mistake, but here was a chance to put things right, not to mention restore her damaged reputation. She had raced back to her car, her phone pressed to her ear as she filled Campbell in on everything she had seen.

  5

  George fought to keep a straight face at the sight of Rayner’s stunned expression. The boy had, of course, been in the midst of one of his seizures when George had snatched him from a prison cell three days earlier, so this was technically the first time they had met since George and Hinds had interviewed him in connection with Flight 0368 at the end of last year.

  Feeling goosebumps prickle his neck at the strange twist of fate that had conspired to bring them all together again, George left the vehicle idling in neutral (his injury regrettably made operating a manual gearstick impossible), clambered out and went to open the gate. After climbing back in, he guided them through and followed the muddy, pot-holed path up to the airfield’s two buildings: a rusting, corrugated-iron hanger and a low, 70s-built concrete tower.

  During the drive a new plan had begun to take shape in his head, in part seeded by what Esteban had told him the night before. The offer of permanent employment at ten times the salary of what he made at the Security Service was tempting, but once they were out of harm’s way, George’s role would be fulfilled and Humboldt would hold all of the cards. The way in which the man had just played Rayner for a fool was ample proof there were no guarantees he would make good on his promise to undo the Thames House bombing and return George’s leg. B
ut Humboldt was still weak and, as Esteban had correctly surmised, his empire there for the taking. Once they reached Swordfish Island there was nothing Humboldt could offer that Rayner couldn’t be forced to provide and, now that he had a taste for criminality, nothing to stop George taking the man’s throne.

  Doing his best not to outwardly grin, George parked by the hanger, climbed out again and opened the sliding rear door. Humboldt stepped onto the age-cracked tarmac and, using his stick for support, straightened up before taking a deep breath of the crisp winter’s air. He was followed by his scientist, Sebastian, and the old dear employed as his assistant, Donna.

  ‘Thank you, George,’ he said, raising his voice to be heard over the drone of the aircraft’s engines. ‘Do me a favour and get the kid out too, would you?’

  ‘Certainly.’ George bowed his head in suitably deferential manner and climbed into the rear compartment, where he found Rayner staring up at him, his face ashen.

  ‘I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing working for a man like Humboldt,’ he said, leaning forward to unclip the boy’s seatbelt. ‘Rest assured, my motives are entirely honourable. I’m driven purely by self-interest, you see. That and a little financial remuneration.’

  The buckle clicked open. As he attempted to haul Rayner up, the boy sprang from his seat, swinging his bound fists into George’s chin with such unexpected speed and ferocity that he was knocked off balance and sent sprawling onto the seat opposite.

  6

  In the second it took Steele to topple onto the rear-facing seats on the other side of the compartment, Sam was up and out of the people carrier. Humboldt and his entourage were standing a few feet to one side, but they barely had time to look up as he shot past them in a blur.

  The airfield was set on a desolate strip of coastline with the sea just about visible as a grey smudge on the horizon. Turning away from the private jet near the hanger, Sam began bounding down the path towards the gate onto the road.

  The antiserum was still clouding his senses, leaving him unbalanced on his feet. He managed a total of six lumbering strides, his cable-tied hands swinging loosely from side to side, when a deafening crack rang out behind him, stopping him in his tracks.

  He turned back to see Steele leaning against the side of the people carrier, one hand rubbing his chin and the other holding a pistol pointed straight at him.

  ‘Don’t try anything stupid,’ Steele said, and took a step closer.

  Sam froze, paralysed by indecision as a cold wind tugged at his clothing. If he was in that plane when it took off, he was as good as dead, but there didn’t seem much chance of Steele missing again, if that was actually what had happened the first time. Shakily, he raised his hands over his head.

  Steele lowered the gun, strode over, grabbed Sam by the neck of his hoodie and began dragging him back towards the people carrier so roughly that the toes of his shoes scraped over the ground. Humboldt was standing with both hands on the handle of his walking sick, shaking his head like a teacher who’d just caught Sam cheating in a test.

  ‘Do you want me to tie his legs?’ Steele asked.

  ‘No,’ Humboldt said. ‘No need. How long does a bullet wound to the leg take to heal?’

  ‘A few weeks,’ Sebastian said.

  ‘Good, plenty of time till August then. George, feel free to shoot him in the leg if he tries to run again.’

  ‘Gladly,’ Steele said, eyeing Sam in a way that left him no doubt that this was true.

  A hatch on the side of the plane opened, swinging down to reveal a flight of retractable steps on the other side, and a man in a pilot’s uniform poked his head out.

  ‘Good afternoon, Captain Litchfield,’ Humboldt shouted. ‘How go the preparations?’

  ‘What was that noise?’ the pilot called back, glancing about nervously. ‘It sounded like a gunshot.’

  ‘Nothing to worry about, my good man. How soon can we leave?’

  Litchfield pushed his cap back and rubbed his forehead. ‘Just completing the final checks, sir. Another five minutes or so, I estimate.’

  ‘Excellent!’ Humboldt turned back. ‘George, help our young friend on board, would you? Then give me a hand with the cases. In a few hours’ time we’ll be sipping cocktails in the sun. Or you and I will, at least.’

  Sam let out a groan, when all of a sudden a blue car sped up the path from the road, veered around the side of the people carrier and screeched to a stop, blocking the way to the plane.

  7

  Frances threw open the door of her car and jumped out. Apparently Campbell and his reinforcements were only minutes away, but the question of whether she should wait for backup had been rendered irrelevant by the shot George had fired, and she’d realised that if she didn’t act immediately the chance would be lost. Thankfully, the jet’s engines had masked the sound of her approach, letting her gatecrash the party unannounced.

  An eerie calmness settled over her as she faced George over the bonnet, her muscles taut in readiness. There was something liberating about the feeling, as though with fear and uncertainty stripped away she could at last think clearly. This was her moment, her chance to turn the tables on the man who had tricked her, and nothing would stand in her way.

  ‘Frances?’ George said, his features contorting into an ugly snarl.

  She stared back, her jaw set; she needed to stall for time. ‘It’s over, George,’ she said. ‘I know you killed Esteban Haufner.’

  ‘Who is this annoying person?’ Humboldt demanded.

  ‘One of the police officers investigating the Malcolm Fairview murder,’ George said. ‘I had to, um, befriend her in order to get you your pills.’

  ‘I see. So she’s no longer of any use to us then?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘Good,’ Humboldt said. ‘In that case she’s in our way. Eliminate her.’

  George released the collar of Rayner’s hooded top and shoved him in the back, sending him stumbling. As he raised his gun and took aim, Frances realised that the few seconds by which she’d delayed their escape were about to cost her life. She lowered her gaze, but before George could open fire, Campbell’s car raced up the path and skidded to a halt beside her own. The door flew open and he clambered out, his hands raised.

  George frowned and swung the sights of his pistol from Frances to Campbell.

  ‘Mark, what the hell are you doing?’ she asked out of the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Saving your bacon, I think,’ he said, edging towards her.

  ‘Where’s the cavalry?’

  ‘Right behind, they’ll be here any minute.’

  Humboldt glared at George. ‘What are you waiting for, imbecile? Shoot them already! Shoot them both!’

  George hesitated, visibly bristling at the insult, then directed his gun back at Frances.

  Instinct took over, banishing all rational thought from her mind. Without really knowing what she was doing, she dived onto the bonnet of her car and slid across towards him. He got a shot off and, as she hit the ground on the other side, the window of the passenger seat exploded in a shower of broken glass.

  If Frances was cut, she didn’t feel it. Springing nimbly to her feet, she charged at George as he took aim again. There were still several feet between them when he squeezed the trigger, the gun levelled directly at her.

  She was too late.

  She wasn’t going to reach him in time.

  Twisting her head to one side, she raised her hands in self-defence, as if that would make a blind bit of difference. And then Campbell tackled her around the waist, knocking her clean off her feet and slamming her to the ground.

  8

  After everything that had happened over the last couple of weeks, Sergeant Hinds wasn’t high on Sam’s list of favourite people, but that had changed the moment he saw her climb out of the car blocking their way to the plane. At some point Steele must have released him, because out of nowhere Sam had found himself staggering. Unable to balance with his hands
tied, he’d stumbled to one knee just as a second car arrived and Detective Campbell had jumped out.

  What happened next took place too quickly for Sam to fully make sense of, but sensing a window of opportunity open before him, he had heaved himself up and run for it again. In the confusion no one seemed to be paying him any attention, and with each stride towards freedom his spirits rose.

  Ten metres became twenty, then thirty. Still no one stopped him. It was going to happen; he was going to make it.

  Suddenly another gunshot rang out.

  Without breaking stride, Sam stole a glance over his shoulder. He saw Steele pointing his gun at Hinds while Campbell threw himself at her from one side. What he didn’t see was the pothole into which his front foot was about to land, sending him face-planting onto the runway.

  9

  Never for a moment had George believed that he would see Frances Hinds again. But somehow, inexplicable as it seemed, here she was, charging towards him with a crazed, animalistic look on her face. As he pulled the trigger a second time, she recoiled, her arms raised to shield her face. From this distance it was nearly impossible to miss. His gun barked and the muzzle flared, but at that precise moment the new arrival on the scene rugby tackled her to the ground, an angry red slash opening in the side of the man’s neck.

  George lowered his pistol. After his sweet revenge the night before, the gifts seemed to just keep on coming. And then he heard the wail of sirens over the rumble of jet engines. Glancing towards the gates of the airfield, he saw a police car blaze up the road on the other side of the hedgerow, followed by another and another.

  ‘Quick!’ Humboldt bellowed, pointing to where Rayner was lying face down on the runway. ‘Help me with the kid!’

  George ignored him and stalked towards his stricken prey, bloodlust thrumming through him like a drug. Hinds lay on her side, trapped under the body of her gallant protector. Blood flowed freely onto the runway; the bullet had passed straight through the man’s neck and out the other side, severing an artery and leaving a wound that gaped like the mouth of a grisly Halloween pumpkin. Death must have been disappointingly quick.

 

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