by Will Hill
“I heard.”
“He’s a friend of yours, right?” said Danny. “Jamie Carpenter?”
Matt considered this for a moment, long enough for the beginnings of a frown to emerge on Danny’s face. On one hand, he regarded Jamie as his best friend, the best he’d ever had; they had been through so much together, a lifetime’s worth of victories and defeats in barely more than six months. On the other, he wondered how much he really knew Jamie, if at all.
He had repeatedly tried to get hold of his best friend the previous day, had sent him messages and knocked several times on the door to his quarters, but to no avail. He had wanted to tell him about the mission he was now on, but more than that, he had wanted to know if his friend was all right; there had clearly been something going on with him, and Matt had wanted to see whether there was any way he could help. He had got nothing back, though; not so much as a message saying that Jamie was fine.
“Matt?” asked Danny, a small smile on his face. “It wasn’t meant to be a trick question.”
“Sorry,” said Matt. “Supersonic jet lag. Not a lot of fun. Yes, Jamie’s a good friend of mine.”
Danny nodded. “A descendant of the founders,” he said. “Pretty cool.”
“You’d never know it,” said Matt. “He’s proud of what his family did, but he doesn’t think it makes him special, or anything like that. And even if he did, Larissa and Kate would slap it out of him.”
Danny laughed. “I can believe that of Larissa,” he said. “Really, really easily. Kate’s the girl who helped run your ISAT, right? I heard that was rough.”
Matt shook his head. “You have no idea,” he said. “One of our own Operators tried to kill her over it, and I don’t think the rest of them have forgiven her yet.”
“That’s bullshit,” said Danny. “It needed doing. It clearly needed doing, given what happened.”
“People didn’t like having their loyalty questioned,” said Matt. “Even the ones with nothing to hide.”
Danny nodded. “We’ve still got it all to look forward to,” he said. “Our ISAT starts up in three days. I hope the team doesn’t get the same treatment your friend did.”
“What was that, Lawrence?” shouted Major Simmons.
“ISAT, sir,” said Danny.
“What the hell is ISAT?” demanded the squad leader.
“Internal Security Assessment Team,” said Danny. “A friend of mine in Security told me they’re starting up at the end of the week. Background checks, polygraphs for every serving member of the Department. It’s a rat hunt, sir.”
“Nobody tells me a damn thing around here,” growled Simmons.
“Can’t be too careful, sir,” said Danny. “Right?”
There was no response.
Twenty minutes later the Operational Squad climbed out of the SUV and stretched their arms and shoulders. Matt watched them, trying to suppress a smile; they were doing their best to look inconspicuous, in their T-shirts and jeans and trainers, but he could still see pistol grips sticking out above belts and tasers sitting in pockets. He had no doubt the illusion would be good enough, however; he had come to understand that there was a general reluctance among the wider populace to look for the abnormal or the out of place, for anything that might disrupt the tiny corner of the world they had carved out for themselves.
They don’t see because they don’t want to, he thought. Because it’s easier not to. That’s why we were able to stay a secret for so long, to lie to them about the vamps for so many years. Because they didn’t want to know.
Matt stretched his neck, closing his eyes as the muscles tensed then relaxed. When he opened them again, Major Simmons was pointing at him. “You stay in the car,” he said.
Matt frowned. “Sir?”
“Simple enough concept,” said Simmons. “We find the target, you stay here and wait for us to bring him back.”
“Those aren’t my orders, sir,” said Matt.
“They are now,” said Simmons. “I just gave them to you.”
“I’m supposed to accompany you in the search for Adam, sir.”
“And I’m telling you that isn’t an option,” said Simmons, his face colouring as his temper began to fail him. “You’re not an Operator, and I don’t need you getting under everyone’s feet. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” said Matt, trying not to let the nerves fluttering in his stomach appear in his voice. “So perhaps I’m not being clear. The Interim Director of Blacklight ordered me to accompany you on this operation as a representative of the Lazarus Project, at the request of General Allen, and I don’t believe that what he intended was for me to wait in the car. Maybe you should call him and get clarification?”
Simmons stared at him for a long moment, then grunted and turned back to Landsman, who was looking at Matt with a mixture of surprise and admiration on her face. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the horrible weight of the pistol under his armpit, the tremble in his legs that he prayed wasn’t visible; he forced himself to move, to turn away from his squad mates and take a look at where they were.
The block of Twenty-First Street they were standing on rose at a steep angle from the east and plateaued as it approached Dolores Street to the west. It was a clearly affluent residential road, the homes tall and narrow with garages beneath them and sets of steps that led up to their front doors. Trees grew out of the pavements and, apart from the distant, steady hum of car engines, the street was quiet. Their black SUV pulled away, heading slowly down the hill as Major Simmons ordered the squad to gather round him. Matt watched the car make a left at the end of the block, feeling a strange sense of loss as it disappeared from view, then did as he was told.
“Operators,” said Simmons, his voice low, his icy gaze momentarily settling on Matt. “This is our primary target. 3338 Twenty-First Street. I don’t think anyone here is dumb enough to think that we’re going to knock on the door and have Adam come quietly, but this is where we start. Lawrence, you’re going to the front door. Andrews, I want you in the yard behind the house in case he runs. Landsman, take position at the eastern end of the block, I’ll take the west. Browning, you stay here and watch the street. Move out.”
Simmons jogged away up the hill, as Landsman headed down towards the junction with Guerrero. Andrews crossed the street and disappeared down the narrow gap between 3338 and its neighbour, leaving Matt and Danny alone on the pavement. Danny nodded, flashed a brief smile in his direction, then walked across the road towards the target location as though he didn’t have a care in the world, just a man out for a stroll in the late afternoon sun.
Matt walked down the block and leant against the trunk of an acacia tree that had sprouted up through a square of cracked paving slabs. From the cool of the shade, he watched as Danny climbed the steps and knocked lightly on the front door of the narrow house; he heard the series of thuds clearly through the flesh-coloured speaker nestling in his ear. Taped to his left wrist was a tiny microphone, through which he could communicate with the rest of the squad, although the thought of actually speaking into it made him feel faintly ridiculous, like a Secret Service agent in a film.
As predicted, there was no response to Danny’s knock.
“Try again,” said Major Simmons, his voice low and deep in Matt’s ear.
From across the street, he saw Danny nod, then knock on the door a second time, harder.
Again, nothing happened.
There was a long, pregnant pause, until Simmons spoke again.
“Crack it.”
“Yes, sir,” murmured Danny, and slipped something short and narrow out of one of his pockets. He leant against the door, shielding what he was doing from anyone who might have been watching, then turned the door handle and slipped inside the house. Matt watched, a shiver of excitement rushing up his spine.
“House is clear,” said Danny, in a low voice. “Downstairs is empty, but there’s food in the kitchen. There’s a suitcase and clothes in the upsta
irs bedroom. Nothing else sir.”
“Anything with a name on it?” asked Simmons.
“Not yet,” said Danny. “Let me finish my sweep.”
Matt’s heart sank. The food implied that someone was living in the house, and the suitcase of clothes was encouraging; a man on the run would presumably want to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice, and would likely not have wasted time on home comforts. But without confirmation that they had the right person, and with no new information to go on, all they would be able to do would be stake out the house and wait for whoever lived there to return.
Movement caught the corner of Matt’s eye, and he looked up. A woman in her late twenties was emerging from 3340, navigating a pushchair through the door before turning round and pulling it carefully down the steep steps that led to the pavement.
Matt looked back at the house that was their target location. There was no sign of Danny, the other members of the squad, or anybody else. He took a deep breath and stepped out of the shade of the acacia. As he crossed the road, he summoned up his friendliest, most non-threatening smile, and met the woman as she reached the bottom of the steps.
“Hello,” he said. “Can I ask you a question?”
The woman spun round, her eyes widening with surprise, then narrowing with immediate distrust. “What do you want?” she asked, manoeuvring herself between him and the pushchair. “I have to be somewhere in five minutes. My friend is expecting me.”
Jesus, thought Matt. She’s scared of me. Is this what happens when you have kids? Are you just scared of everyone?
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to bother you, and it won’t take a minute. I just wanted to ask you about your neighbour. The man who lives in 3338?”
The woman frowned. “You mean Johnny?”
John Bell, thought Matt. Bingo.
“That’s him,” he said.
“Are you a cop? What’s he done?”
“No,” said Matt, raising his hands in what he hoped was a placatory gesture. “Nobody’s in any trouble. I just need to talk to him. Do you know where he is?”
“Why would I?” asked the woman. “I stay out of other people’s business.”
“Of course,” said Matt. “Does he have a job that you know about? Or any friends he might have mentioned?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed even further. “Are you sure you’re not a cop?”
“I’m not a cop.”
The woman looked him in the eye for a long moment. “I’ve only talked to him a couple of times,” she said. “I said hello when he moved in, and then we walked to the store together last week. He told me he works at SafetyNet, on Balboa.”
“What’s SafetyNet?” asked Matt.
“It’s a charity,” said the woman. “A suicide helpline. I have to go.”
She walked rapidly away down Twenty-First Street, casting suspicious glances back over her shoulder every few seconds until she turned on to Guerrero and out of sight.
“Browning?” asked Major Simmons. “Are you talking to someone?”
Matt raised his wrist to his mouth. “I was, sir,” he replied. “A neighbour. She told me someone called Johnny lives at 3338 and works at a charity called SafetyNet.”
“That tallies, sir,” said Andrews. “Our source claims that Adam’s wife killed herself. Apparently, she couldn’t handle the idea of living forever.”
“Shit,” said Simmons. “All Operators, regroup on Browning’s position. Andrews, get on the line to Dreamland and get me an address for this SafetyNet. We’re moving.”
Matt put his hands back in his pockets and watched as Danny exited 3338 and jogged over to him, a smile on his face.
“Good work,” he said, clapping him hard on the shoulder. “If you’d stayed in the car, we’d have missed her. Now we’ve got a lead.”
Matt grinned. He knew that being the lone member of the squad still on the street when the woman emerged from 3340 had been nothing more than luck, but he was proud of himself for having stood up to Major Simmons, and for forcing himself to talk to her. Such action did not come naturally to him; under normal circumstances, talking to strangers filled him with an unease that bordered on panic.
Landsman and Simmons converged on Matt and Danny at the same moment, having made their way back from the ends of the block. Simmons nodded brusquely in Matt’s direction, a gesture he was sure qualified as high praise from the Major, as Andrews emerged from the space between the houses and walked quickly across the road to join them.
“6350 Balboa,” she said. “Ten minutes, maybe fifteen.”
“Is he there?” asked Simmons.
Andrews shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “Intelligence is on it, sir.”
“Of course they are,” said Simmons. “Get the car, Lawrence. Let’s go find out for ourselves.”
The man no longer knew how long he’d been walking.
He believed it could still be measured in hours, but he was far from sure; it could have been days, or even weeks. The cold made clear thinking impossible, made thoughts drift apart and float away, as insubstantial as smoke, and it took all his remaining strength to focus on the two things that still mattered: his destination, and a deep, primal urge to keep moving.
He raised a foot clad in a heavy waterproof boot, dragging it free of snow that reached almost to his waist, pushed it forward with all his strength, and watched it disappear back into the white powder. Inside a huge sealskin coat, sweat poured down his body, pooling at the crooks of his elbows and the small of his back. His breath came in shallow rasps behind the mask and goggles that were keeping frostbite from the skin of his face.
The man took another step, then another, and another, then flopped down into the snow on his back, fighting to catch his breath; air billowed from his mouth and rose in a cloud so thick it seemed almost solid.
Four steps. Three metres closer.
With a gloved hand, he pushed back the sleeve of his jacket, exposing a GPS locator fastened round his wrist. He checked the red numbers that glowed on its screen for the hundredth time, and let them settle over him as he gazed up into a beautiful, darkening purple sky.
One point one five miles north-east, he told himself. Another mile. Just one more mile.
The man had made his way to Russia by a long, circuitous route, doubling back on himself time and again even as his brain screamed at him to hurry, to get moving. In Munich, he had destroyed everything he owned, burning his clothes and documents in a brazier that he paid a homeless man twenty euros for permission to use, having retrieved a completely new identity from a locker in the train station, a locker he had filled five years earlier, during a supposed holiday to Bavaria.
Getting to Munich had not been difficult; a combination of regional French trains, boarded at stations that had no CCTV cameras, and thumbed lifts from the endless stream of cars and lorries trundling north. Crossing the Channel had been easily the most dangerous part of his journey so far; he knew that he was being hunted, that the clandestine machinery of the British Intelligence Services had rumbled into life in pursuit of him, and he knew from long experience that the first thing to happen would be the circulation of his photograph, name and description to every airport and port in the country.
He had lain low in Dover for several weeks, in a safe house he had procured for exactly this eventuality, waiting for the worst of the heat to die down. When he could wait no longer, he had boarded a ferry for Calais with a fake passport in one pocket and a cyanide pill in the other. His orders were absolutely clear on this point: Do not, under any circumstances, allow yourself to be taken alive.
From Munich, he had made his way north, travelling at night, avoiding contact with anyone other than the kindly souls who pulled over to the side of the road and offered to take him closer to his destination. He skirted round the edge of the Czech Republic, even though it was a longer route. He had no desire to cross more national borders than was absolutely necessary; they represented by far t
he likeliest point of capture, even the sleepy backwoods crossings of eastern Europe. He crossed into Poland at Görlitz in the late afternoon, trying not to visibly hold his breath as his passport was scrutinised. It was fine work, the best that money could buy, but it was not flawless, as no forged document ever is.
The border guard had examined the passport, held on to it for a moment that seemed to last forever, then grunted and handed it back.
From Wrocław, the man caught a dilapidated but surprisingly comfortable train north-east into Belarus, sleeping in short bursts with the straps of his bag wound tightly round his wrist and ankle to deter potential thieves. In Orsha, he bought gloves, goggles, as much thermal clothing as he could wear, the sealskin coat, and found a farmer who agreed to take him to the Russian border, but would go no further. The man didn’t try to persuade him; instead, he offered the farmer two hundred euros for the shotgun that was lying in the back seat of his truck, a deal to which he readily agreed.
A mile from the edge of Belarus, the man slung the gun over his shoulder and hiked east into the deep forest.
The trees were tall and packed tightly together, the darkness between them absolute. There was no way for the man to see whether anyone was pursuing him, so he pressed ahead, his breath hot behind the mask, the shotgun resting in his shivering hands. For long, silent hours, he hiked through falling snow, until, as dawn began to break in front of him, he crossed the border into Russia.
Frozen to the bone, barely able to keep putting one foot in front of the other, the man had stumbled on to a farm as the sun climbed overhead, and paid the hard, taciturn woman who owned it to drive him into Smolensk. From there he caught a sleeper train to St Petersburg and boarded a second train north.
The train was full of Russian soldiers and sailors, carrying order slips in their gloved hands as they headed for postings at Murmansk and Polyarny. They eyed the man with outright suspicion, but none went so far as to ask him what his business was in the Arctic heartland of the Russian military. The man kept his gaze trained out of the window, watching snow slowly obliterate the landscape, until ice coated the glass and he could see nothing but his own fractured reflection.
