As he drove out of Laugharne as fast as the old Vauxhall would go, heading away from the coastline through the maze of winding lanes that criss-crossed the countryside like a spider’s web, he had a big smile on his face. He reached out and patted the camera on the passenger seat. Nice work. He’d got some great snaps of the Red Scarf Man. That would teach Them to send some spook out to trick old Lenny Salt. Information on Kammler? Lenny smiled. Yeah, right. As if these people could tell him anything. Nobody knew more about Kammler than the Kammler Krew.
He thought about the man he’d photographed, magnified up close in the long lens. Probably mid to late thirties, in good shape. Almost certainly ex-military. Those guys all had that look about them. MI5 or CIA? he wondered. Then again, what did it matter which agency he was working for – it was all part of the same evil global fraternity.
Them. Lenny thought about Them a lot. The bastards were all in it together.
He’d seen this whole thing coming, for a long time. Had anyone listened to him? Had they fuck. And now look what had happened. Michio and Julia dead, and it was only a question of time before They got to Adam as well.
It’s not paranoia when they’re really out to get you, he thought. That was one of his favourite sayings, and it never failed to make him smile to himself, because he knew he was way too smart ever to let them catch him. He’d been too clever for Red Scarf Man today, same as he’d been too clever to let himself be duped by that girl last year, that German or whatever she was, the one calling herself Luna.
Luna – what kind of stupid made-up name was that?
Lenny grinned to himself at the memory of how he’d fooled her. Same system he’d used today. Agree to the meet, watch them from a vantage point, take the pictures and slip away. Know your enemy. That was another favourite saying of his, one he took seriously. This was war. It was a matter of survival.
As soon as he got back to the caravan he was going to download the pictures onto his laptop with the others: all the people who’d ever tried to follow him, lure him or pinch his ideas. He was still working on a lot of the names, and of course most of them were phoney anyway – that was the way They worked. But he had all the faces memorised, and he was always watching out for them, everywhere he went. More enemies would come for him in the future. He was certain of that – but he’d be ready for them.
They weren’t going to get him. No chance. Not him, not wily old Lenny Salt. Always one step ahead, always on the move, untraceable, checking his emails from a different library or cyber-café every day, always paying cash and giving false names to the farmers whose bits of land he rented. Then, every couple of months, or whenever he felt the heat, he’d move on.
And now that Red Scarf Man was sniffing around, it was going to be time to pack up and relocate again. Away from west Wales, maybe up to Scotland this time. Or perhaps Cornwall. Plenty of places to hide away there, and there was always a hippy retreat or new-age healing camp where you could buy a bit of hash.
After half an hour’s drive Lenny was deep in the countryside. At the end of a long, twisty single-track lane he stopped at a farm gate, got out of the car and opened it, drove through and stopped again to shut it behind him. Cows looked up from their grazing and eyed the Vauxhall lazily as it bumped through the field. Across the other side, he reached the next gate and passed through into the wooded area where his camp was.
A few yards further up the track, half-hidden behind a sprawl of gorse and brambles, was the old Sprite caravan. He’d bought it cheap, in cash, from a secondhand dealer in the Peak District just before he’d left Manchester. As soon as he’d got it, he’d sprayed it with military surplus drab-olive paint to help it blend into the rural environments where he planned on spending the rest of his days. Home might be a box on wheels, but he liked to keep it nice and tidy.
Lenny got out of the car and walked over towards the caravan, avoiding the tripwire that was carefully stretched between two trees and attached to an alarm circuit. His hidden cameras watched him from the foliage.
Next to the caravan was his folding table, his deck chair and the barbecue that he grilled his food on. He fancied some sausages tonight. He climbed the aluminium steps to his front door, took the keys from his pocket and undid the two heavy steel padlocks to let himself in. It was hot and stuffy inside, and he pushed open the windows to let some air circulate.
Still grinning to himself at having fooled Them yet again, he stepped over to the fridge and pulled out a can of Old Speckled Hen. Cracked the ring and raised the can in a toast to his cleverness.
‘I’ll have one of those too,’ said a voice behind him.
The can dropped out of Lenny’s fingers and hit the vinyl floor with a hiss of foam.
Lenny spun around.
The man from the castle walkway in Laugharne was standing in the doorway.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Adam gaped dumbly at Pelham, as if he’d been slapped.
‘That’s right,’ Pelham said, clearly enjoying the look on his face. ‘It’s here. I wasn’t joking when I said you were being given an incredible opportunity, Adam. You should be honoured. Welcome to the inner circle.’
‘You found it.’ Adam’s voice was hushed with awe.
‘It was found. Not by me. I’m just a man with a job to do, the same as you. Mine was to find someone who could make it work. We failed twice. Now you’re here, we’re not going to fail a third time.’ He cocked his head. ‘Are we, Adam?’
Adam was too stunned to formulate a reply.
‘Good. Now, enough talk. I want to show you something that very few people have seen in more than half a century.’
Adam was still speechless as Pelham led him out of the office. The guards were standing outside the door, weapons dangling at their sides. They stood to attention as their boss strode out of the doorway and followed, pointing the guns at Adam’s back. Pelham led the way back towards the hangar, past the corroded hulk of the Me 262 and over to a doorway on the far side of the huge space, where he stopped and gave a sharp command. One of the guards produced a large key and unlocked the door.
On the other side of it was a large circular chamber, fifty yards across. Light streamed in from holes in the rough dome of a ceiling and Adam could make out the marks of picks and chisels in the craggy stone walls. He shivered as he thought of the doomed concentration camp slaves who had carved this space out of the solid rock of the mountain under the watchful eyes and cocked weapons of their Nazi masters. The smell of death was soaked deep into the walls of this place.
Running around the circumference of the chamber was a circular metal walkway, with a rail at chest height. Adam stepped to the rail and peered over the edge. His eyes widened. The centre of the chamber was an abyss, a round vertical shaft about fifteen metres across that plummeted straight down further than the eye could see. A rusted iron gangway led across from the edge of the chamber to a steel cage housing an open-sided industrial lift, the kind Adam had seen in pictures of old mines. Pelham walked briskly across the clanking gangway, opened a mesh door, and Adam followed him wordlessly into the lift. One of the guards accompanied them, and the other went over to a switch panel on the wall.
As the lift groaned downwards and the craggy shaft walls rolled by, Adam saw that the guard was looking down at his feet, fingering his weapon a little nervously. Nobody spoke. Down and down. Adam estimated they must be hundreds of metres inside the mountain. There was no ventilation down here, and the air was thick and foul.
The lift touched down and they stepped out into a circular gallery like the one above. A single arched passage led off it, lit down its length by age-yellowed lamps. Pelham led the way. The passage widened steadily, then came to a dead end.
Facing them, glowing dully in the lamplight, was a giant steel door. It filled the entire wall, tall and wide enough to drive a Panzer tank through. It looked to Adam like the entrance to the world’s biggest bank vault. The rivets stamped into its edges were the size of baseballs, an
d six massive steel deadlocks cut deep into the rock. Painted onto the door’s matt grey surface was a sign with a skull-and-crossbones image and the words ‘VORSICHT: GEFAHRENZONE’ in stark red letters.
The danger warning was loud and clear. Whoever had put that door in place must have known what terrible forces were to be contained behind it. Adam wondered if his captors had even the slightest idea of what they were dealing with.
Pelham gave a command to the guard. The man nodded, unslung his weapon and handed it to his boss. Stepped towards the huge door, dusted his hands and took a grip on the giant metal wheel, crusted with age, that was connected by a system of gears to the bars of the deadlocks. The guard braced his feet apart, paused a beat and then grunted with effort as he put his strength behind the lock. The wheel turned with a squeak, and the deadlocks began to draw back. Another turn, a few more inches.
Standing there with his mouth open and watching the locks slowly grind back across the door, Adam suddenly realised he hadn’t breathed for about a minute. His heart was firing like a machine gun. Pelham watched his face, and a little smile curled at the edges of his mouth.
Adam gulped. He was about to witness something incredible, legendary. Something he’d spent years studying from afar, within the confines of his safe little world, relying solely on his own scientific knowledge and the sketchy evidence of a handful of witness accounts. The mythical Kammler machine. The lost Grail of super-esoteric science. Here he was about to lay eyes on it for the first time.
Now he knew that Michio and Julia had stood on this spot, not so very long ago. Had they felt the way he was feeling now, quaking with terror and yet, somewhere deep inside, burning up with excitement?
The thought screamed at him from inside his head. Can I make this thing work?
The deadlocks had reached the end of their travel. The guard stepped away from the wheel, wiping the rust off his hands, then leaned his weight into the huge door and pushed hard. It began to open.
Adam felt Pelham’s hand on his shoulder, and walked towards the dark doorway. The air wafting out of the shadows smelled dank, and Adam shivered with the cold that suddenly tingled up and down his body.
Then Pelham flashed a torch, found the handle of a switch and yanked it. Lights flickered into life and Adam’s jaw dropped open.
He’d held an ingot of solid gold created inside a nuclear reactor. Watched the child-sized Honda ASIMO robot conduct a symphony orchestra. Stood inside a particle accelerator a mile underneath the ground as electrons slammed into one another at the speed of light. Witnessed the afterglow of a gamma ray burst when a giant star collapsed in on itself and a black hole was born. But he’d never seen anything like this before.
Under his feet, electric wires snaked like pythons towards the device in the middle of the vault. He followed them towards it.
Standing on a concrete plinth, the bell-shaped object was as tall as he was. He walked around its smooth sides, put out his hand and touched the cold steel casing.
Kammler’s secret creation, shrouded in mystery for sixty-five years, the greatest enigma of the twentieth century. Maybe of all time. Die Glocke, the Germans had called it.
The Bell.
And here it was. Incredible.
The scientist in him was already hard at work, his eyes following the line of the joints in the strange metal casing until he’d located the bolted-on access panels in its underside. He had a pretty good idea of what was behind them.
Can you make it work? asked the voice in his head.
He knew the answer. Maybe I can.
But I’m not going to.
He turned. Pelham was standing a few feet away, watching his every move like a crouched leopard watching an antelope.
Wait for it, you bastard. ‘I’m the last one who can help you,’ he said. ‘That’s right, Adam. You are. That’s why we’ve gone to such pains to make this as attractive to you as possible.’
‘Meaning that if I refuse, you’ll hurt my boy.’
‘I hope that won’t be necessary.’
‘So I agree to help you, and then what? You’ll just let us both walk away, go home? You take me for a complete idiot? You think I don’t understand what’s going to happen to Rory and me if I give you what you want? I don’t know what kind of fool would agree to a deal like that.’ Adam took a step closer to him. The guard was watching him with a frown, and the gun was pointing his way. But he didn’t care. ‘So I’m making you a new deal.’
‘A new deal,’ Pelham echoed blankly.
‘That’s right. You’re going to start listening to my terms now. Here’s how it’s going to be. You think those papers I brought with me are my Kammler notes? Wrong. They might be useful if you’re thinking of wiring up some smart house technology into this shithole. But the real stuff is right where I left it in my study back home, securely locked away in a password-controlled safe. And that’s where it’s going to stay until you let my son go.’ Pelham didn’t reply.
‘These are my terms. One, you let me take Rory safely home. Two, you let me see for myself exactly where this cosy little place of yours is. Three, you give me your guarantee that neither my son nor I will ever be harmed or threatened in any way again. Then, and only then, I’ll agree to come back here and help you make that thing work.’
Pelham jutted out his chin and raised an eyebrow. Said nothing.
Adam pointed at the machine. ‘Play fair with me and I’ll give you what you want. But cross the line, and I’ll make sure the authorities will be on this place like flies on Rottweiler shit. And I’ll screw up that machine so bad, you’ll have to sell it for recycling into Coke tins. Don’t think I don’t know how.’
‘Have you finished?’ Pelham asked quietly.
‘That’s all I have to say. Think about it.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
‘Quiet little spot you’ve found for yourself here, Lenny,’ Ben said.
Salt backed away. His eyes were wide and fixed on Ben as he reached his right hand back and fumbled for something on the Formica top behind him. Then his fingers closed on the wooden handle of the long barbecue fork and he snatched it up and pointed it like a weapon at Ben’s stomach.
‘Stay away from me or I’ll skewer you.’
Ben looked at the fork. ‘I think you’d better put that thing down before you go and hurt yourself.’
‘Who sent you? Who are you working for?’
‘Just myself. Sorry to disappoint.’
‘What do you want?’
‘To talk, Lenny. Nothing more.’
Salt clutched the fork tighter, standing there in a puddle of beer.
‘You look like you’ve pissed yourself,’ Ben said. ‘Aren’t you going to put that fork down?’
‘You’ll kill me.’
‘Lenny, if I’d wanted to kill you, you wouldn’t even have seen me.’
Salt blanched.
Ben reached slowly into his pocket, took out his wallet and handed him a business card. ‘This is who I am and what I do.’ He nodded to the laptop on the bed. ‘Check out the website. There’s a picture of me.’
‘I’m not connected here. No email, no internet.’
‘Scared they might trace you?’
Salt nodded sheepishly.
‘You need to do a better job. It wasn’t hard to find you. And your snap-and-run routine needs work too.’
Salt was still frozen there, clutching the fork. The last of the beer had seeped out of the can and was trickling across the vinyl floor.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Ben said. ‘I haven’t got all day.’ He stepped over, snatched the fork before Salt could react, and threw it out of the open caravan doorway. It whistled through the air and stuck juddering in a tree trunk.
Salt kept gaping speechlessly at Ben.
‘Now clean that beer up, and let’s go outside and talk.’
Salt hesitated, then tore off a length of kitchen roll from a dispenser next to the stove. He used the paper to mop up the puddle on
the floor while Ben grabbed two more beer cans from the fridge and led the way outside. Salt joined him, watching him warily, and they sat opposite one another at the picnic table.
Ben snapped open his beer. ‘I’m sorry if I scared you before, Lenny. I didn’t want to.’
Salt grunted in reply, opened his own can with a spit of foam and took a long gulp, keeping his eyes on Ben. The business card was still clenched in his fist, and he scrutinised it carefully, first its printed front, then the blank back, staring at it as though it was the lost map to the secret US Government alien farm at Roswell.
‘No invisible ink,’ Ben said. ‘No holographic cryptograms.’
Salt looked up. ‘Tactical Training Unit? What does that mean?’
‘It’s my business. Just a training school.’
‘Bullshit. It means you’re military.’
‘Was military,’ Ben said. ‘Not any more.’
‘Sure. That’s what you would say, isn’t it?’ Salt sneered. ‘I don’t talk to people like you.’
‘I’m being completely honest with you. I’ve been out of the military for a long time now. I left there to do my own thing, and now I teach people how to do the same. I could give you the phone numbers of a dozen people who’d vouch for that.’
‘Teach them to do what?’ Salt asked suspiciously.
‘To protect vulnerable people and stop bad things happening to them,’ Ben said. ‘And if something bad’s already happened, to help them get out of it. To find people who’ve been kidnapped, or who’ve got into trouble.’
‘So you’re a detective?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘A cop?’
‘Definitely not,’ Ben said.
Salt narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you looking for someone now?’
Ben nodded. ‘Yes, I am. I’m looking for a young woman who might have got herself mixed up in something very dangerous. And I’m hoping you might be able to help me with information. I’ll pay you for your time.’ He dug some notes out of his wallet and held them up so that Salt could count them.
The Shadow Project Page 17
