by Will Hill
“Look at me,” she said, as firmly as she was able. “Look at me, John. It was an accident. An accident. It could have happened to any of us. Do you hear me?”
Morton stared at her, uncomprehending. She hooked her hands under his armpits and tried to lift him to his feet, but nothing happened; he was immovable, a dead weight.
“John,” she said. “Get up. Come on, John.”
She was suddenly aware of movement behind her and looked round; the inhabitants of the tunnel were slowly approaching, looks of abject misery on most of their faces. Aggie was at the front, her eyes narrow.
“Get out of our place,” she spat. “Leave us our dead. Don’t come here again.”
Ellison looked at Aggie, trying to convey without words even a fraction of the sorrow she was feeling. Jackie had not deserved the fate that had befallen her; she had simply been caught up in the tornado of blood and death that seemed to follow Blacklight around. Aggie stared back at her, her expression not moving so much as a millimetre, until Ellison nodded.
“OK,” she said. “It’s time to go, John. Get the hell up. Right now.”
Morton said nothing; he climbed slowly to his feet and looked at Ellison with a broken expression on his pale face.
“This is the second time we’ve talked about John Morton, sir,” said Jamie. He was standing in front of Cal Holmwood’s desk, his helmet under his arm. He had messaged the Interim Director before their van was even out of London, telling him he needed to see him the moment they got back to the Loop. “And this time a civilian girl died. It was an accident, but it happened because he panicked. I’m telling you for the second time, sir, that he can’t handle this. Not yet anyway.”
Holmwood closed his eyes for a long moment, then regarded Jamie with a weary expression. “Did Surveillance pick Dempsey up when you called it in?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “They’ve still got him.”
“Good,” said Holmwood. “That’s something at least.”
“It’s something,” agreed Jamie. “What about Morton, sir?”
The Interim Director sighed. “You still want him placed on the inactive roster?”
“Yes, sir. More than ever.”
Holmwood said nothing for a long moment. He looked barely awake, like a man running on empty. “OK,” he said, eventually. “Do what you think is best. If that means making him inactive, then you have my authorisation.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jamie, feeling relief wash over him.
“That’s OK. Is there anything else?”
“No, sir. There’s nothing else.”
“Thank God for that,” said Holmwood, and produced the thinnest smile Jamie had ever seen. “Go and get some sleep.”
38
JOINING UP THE DOTS
LINDISFARNE, NORTHUMBERLAND
Pete Randall walked along the edge of the cliffs at the northern edge of the island that he had called home his entire life, lost in a world of his own.
In the distance, rising up against the afternoon sky, stood the stone buildings of the Lindisfarne monastery. The ancient seat of religious learning had withstood two Viking invasions, but had been destroyed in a single night by monsters that Pete Randall was forbidden from ever talking about, that he had been told repeatedly that he had never seen, despite the evidence of his own eyes.
The small number of monks who had survived the night his daughter was lost had left the island in the days that followed. Now the ancient building stood empty; it would probably still be standing long after the last of the houses built above the harbour had fallen into ruin. Pete inched his way to the cliff top and sat down, his legs dangling over the edge. Below him, the North Sea crashed against the cliffs; spray, cold and salty and sharp, was thrown up in great explosions, dampening the legs of his jeans. He barely noticed.
His mind was lost in the past.
When Kate had been six, he had brought her up here on a cold January night to watch the plumes of fire that rose from the distant oil rigs. The Lesters had recently moved to the island and Kate had immediately become best friends with their daughter Julie, a friendship that would last until Julie was left lying on Lindisfarne’s dock with her mouth full of blood and her head twisted almost all the way round.
Andy Lester worked the rigs; every three months or so he flew by helicopter to Aberdeen and made his way down to Lindisfarne to spend two precious weeks with his family, before heading back out to sea again. This lifestyle, which Pete knew was a hard, dangerous way to make a living, had seemed almost unthinkably glamorous to Kate, a girl who, at that point, had only left Lindisfarne a handful of times. When he had told her that on a clear day you could see the rigs themselves, that on a clear night you could see great pillars of fire as the waste gas was burned away, she had refused to believe him, demanding to see for herself. He had waited for a clear night, the kind of night where the dark water seemed to go on forever, got permission from his wife, who was unwell again with what would eventually turn out to be the cancer that killed her, wrapped his daughter in warm clothes and led her across the island.
They had sat roughly where he was sitting now, drinking hot chocolate out of plastic cups he filled from a flask, and watched the horizon. For ten minutes or so, nothing had happened. Then a pillar of orange burst up from the horizon, a flare of crackling fire that seemed impossibly huge, even across the miles of freezing water. Kate had screamed with delight; he had taken a tight grip on the back of her jacket, in case her excitement took her too close to the treacherous, crumbling edge. They had stayed for more than an hour, Pete waiting for the novelty to wear off, before gradually realising it wasn’t going to; Kate greeted each flare with the kind of joy that he had only seen from her on Christmas morning.
He had never known why the distant fires had filled her with such pleasure, and now he would never get the chance to ask her. He had come to believe that she saw them as proof of things happening beyond their small island, things that were different and bigger and brighter than those happening around her. There was something in her bones, a wanderlust that he had been proud to see grow and flourish, but which had nonetheless filled his heart with sadness.
He had always known that his daughter would eventually leave, that Lindisfarne would never be big enough for her. He and his wife had reconciled themselves to that awful prospect: Kate would visit and they would still have each other. But then Annie had died, and he and Kate had been left alone, and he had come to realise that her plans, her desire for a bigger, wider life, had been put on hold, possibly indefinitely. He knew she would not leave him on his own, and that realisation had filled him with a sadness far greater than he had felt at the prospect of her doing so.
But now she was gone, and he was alone.
His mobile phone buzzed and he pulled it out of his pocket. The screen showed a text message from SOUTH and he felt a small tingle of excitement flutter up his spine. They’d been emailing all week, several times a day, and had finally plucked up the courage to exchange numbers.
He thumbed open the message.
LOOK AT THIS ASAP. http://www.kevinmckenna.wordpress.com/blog/news/032154
Pete read the text twice, searching for any hidden meaning, then pocketed the phone and headed for home. He didn’t hurry; he doubted the link would contain anything life-changing.
He had no way of knowing exactly how wrong he was.
KEVINMCKENNA.COM – the online home of award-winning journalist Kevin McKenna
RED EYES AND BLACK UNIFORMS
Posted by KEVIN
I thought long and hard before writing this post. Believe me, I did.
I thought about the risk, about whether I might be endangering myself by writing it. I thought about the men and women who might read it, and whether they’re better off in the dark. I thought about the government and the security of the country, although I understand if you don’t believe me. I thought about it all, and I arrived at the most unshakeable conclusion of my life.
&n
bsp; It’s worth the risk. It’s too important.
Right now, I’m not going to explain anything more than I have in the title of this post – if you don’t know what I’m talking about, be grateful, carry on with your day, and don’t give this a second thought. But if you do…
If you do, I want to hear from you. I want your stories. I want to know how many of you are out there.
Proxy up and post your stories in the comments below – I guarantee your anonymity. No one else needs to put their head above the parapet, at least not yet. If I get the response I’m expecting, if people are brave enough to talk about the things they’ve seen, I think we’ll see this start to move fast. But let’s wait and see.
Red eyes. Black uniforms.
Tell me. I believe you.
Kevin McKenna
39
PRIME SUSPECT
Valentin Rusmanov’s appearance at the ISAT compound caused exactly the reaction among the men and women of the Intelligence Division that the ancient vampire lived for.
He walked through the open-plan desks of the Division as though he was taking a casual morning stroll, despite the Security Division Operators flanking him with their T-Bones drawn. Valentin was a superstar, one of the oldest vampires in the world, turned by Dracula himself, and opportunities to see him up close did not come along very often.
He was as immaculate as ever, the result of the attentive skills of Lamberton, his valet. His pale, handsome face was smooth, his charcoal suit crisp over a bright white shirt, his shoes gleaming like mirrors. Every single member of the Intelligence Division stopped what they were doing when he entered and stared openly at him; Valentin smiled back expansively, nodding at the Operators whose desks he passed closest by. He loved few things in the world more than attention, and the rapt expressions on the faces of the men and women sitting at their small grey workstations were an utter joy.
Kate Randall was waiting for him outside the security door that controlled access to ISAT. She watched him make his way towards her, disgusted by the reactions of her colleagues.
He’s a rock star, she thought. Despite all the thousands of people he’s killed. They’re like star-struck kids.
Valentin picked his way through the last of the desks and favoured her with a wide, dizzying smile. “Miss Randall,” he said, extending his hand. “What a pleasure it is to see you again. I trust you’re well?”
Kate shook the offered hand briefly. “I’m very well, thank you, Mr Rusmanov. If you’d like to follow me, we’ll get this over with as quickly as possible.”
“How professional you are,” said Valentin, his smile widening even further. “Even though one of your colleagues tried to kill you yesterday. Bravo, Miss Randall. Bravo.”
Don’t rise to him, she told herself. Don’t give him what he wants.
“As I said, Mr Rusmanov,” she replied, forcing a narrow smile, “if you’d like to follow me.” She typed a code into the panel beside the door, which unlocked with a series of clicks and thuds. She pulled it open and Valentin stepped through, followed closely by his guards.
Kate closed her eyes and took a deep breath, steadying herself in preparation for what she had to do. When she opened them, she saw the silent ranks of the Intelligence Division staring at her.
“Haven’t you got any work to do?” she snapped, then walked into ISAT, pulling the door shut behind her.
Kate showed Valentin and his escorts into the interview room, and left the technicians wiring him into the chair. The vampire appeared to be taking it all in good humour, viewing the whole thing as little more than an amusing diversion, but she wasn’t quite convinced; she believed that, deep down, Valentin had to be finding this demeaning, or at the very least annoying.
I hope so, she thought. I hope it’s really pissing him off.
She pushed open the door to the lounge and nodded to Paul Turner. The Security Officer was sitting on the sofa, reading Valentin Rusmanov’s file. The document had been compiled from the interrogation that had been conducted when the vampire first defected to Blacklight and was almost as thick as a phone directory.
“Two minutes,” said Kate.
Turner closed the file, and smiled at her. “Good,” he said. “You don’t mind me taking this one, right? I think it’s for the best.”
“It’s fine,” said Kate. “How deep are you going to go?”
“We’ve covered everything useful that he’s prepared to tell us,” said Turner, tapping the cover of the file. “Double-checking it all would take about a week. There are a couple of things I want to ask him again now that he’s hooked up, but mostly it’s about yesterday.”
“Do you think he did it?” asked Kate.
“No,” said Turner. “I don’t. Do you?”
Kate shook her head. “Part of me hopes that he did,” she said. “It would be a lot easier for everyone if his defection was a lie and he was still working for Dracula. But I don’t believe that’s the case.”
“Me neither,” said Turner. “If he was still working for Dracula, I don’t believe that he would waste his time targeting you and me. But a lot of Operators do, for now at least. So we need to get this done and get on with our job. Someone out there is hiding something and we need to find out who.”
Before they attack someone else, thought Kate, and shivered.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s get on with it.”
“Before we go in there,” said Turner, standing up, “I want you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“That you won’t let him get inside your head,” said Turner. “Whatever he says, whatever he asks you. Don’t give him what he wants.”
“Don’t worry,” said Kate, with a tight smile. “I won’t.”
Valentin was sitting in the chair as they entered the interview room, one foot resting casually on his other knee. His escort stood on either side of him, their T-Bones raised.
“Major Turner,” said the vampire, smiling broadly. “I honestly believe that, with the exception of Lamberton, I have conversed more with you than I have with anyone else in the last century or so. Surely there can’t be anything else you wish to ask me? My sexual proclivities perhaps? The regularity of my bowels?”
“Mr Rusmanov,” said Turner. “Thank you for coming.”
“You’re most welcome,” replied Valentin. “Although your thanks imply that I had some kind of choice in the matter. If so, it wasn’t made clear to me.”
“We both know full well that if you had refused to leave your cell, there would have been very little we could do to compel you,” said Turner. “I was being polite. I can stop, if you would prefer?”
Valentin grinned. “Politeness is a rare commodity in this day and age, Major Turner, and I respect you enormously for keeping tradition alive.”
“Thank you,” replied the Security Officer. He took one of the seats at the desk, as Kate slipped into the other. She looked down at the screen set into its surface and saw the system was live.
“This is ISAT interview 072,” said Turner, his voice flat and even, “conducted by Major Paul Turner, NS303, 36-A in the presence of Lieutenant Kate Randall, NS303, 78-J. State your name, please.”
“Is this it?” asked Valentin. “Are we officially under way?”
“We are,” replied Turner. “State your name, please.”
“Valentin Rusmanov.”
Green.
“Please answer the following question incorrectly,” said Turner. “State your gender, please.”
“Female,” replied Valentin.
Red.
Kate took a deep breath.
Let’s go, she thought. Let’s do this.
“Mr Rusmanov,” said Turner. “Yesterday afternoon explosive devices were planted inside two rooms in this facility, with the clear intention of causing harm to members of this Department. Did you plant the devices in question?”
“Do you actually think I did?” asked Valentin, frowning. “Would you think so litt
le of me, Major Turner? After all the time we have spent together?”
“Answer the question, please. Did you plant the devices?”
“Of course not.”
Green.
“Do you know who did?”
“No.”
Green.
“Do you have any information that could be relevant to identifying the perpetrator of this attack?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Green.
Kate breathed out heavily. The results were exactly what she had expected, but it had still been a relief to see the green lights on the screens; there had been an elephant in the room since the Zero Hour Task Force meeting the previous day.
If it had been him, what the hell were we supposed to have done about it?
“Thank you, Mr Rusmanov,” said Turner. “Now. I want to ask you about—”
“You didn’t think I did it, did you?” asked Valentin, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankle.
“Mr Rusmanov, I am not—”
“I’m sure many of your colleagues think I did,” continued Valentin. “For no other reason than it’s the obvious conclusion, and the majority of them are not terribly bright. So I understand why I was summoned to answer your questions, but I must confess I’m now somewhat intrigued as to why you had already concluded I was innocent. Would you indulge me? For politeness’ sake, if nothing else?”
“Mr Rusmanov,” said Paul Turner. “We are not here to satisfy your curiosity. We’re here to—”
“Excuse me, Major Turner,” interrupted Valentin. “But I’m afraid I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to Miss Randall.”
Kate frowned. “Me?” she asked. “Why would you care what I think?”
“Because I know why Major Turner didn’t believe I was the culprit,” said Valentin. “He is a man of evidence, of probability, and I have no doubt he concluded that I was innocent by applying sound, no doubt deeply boring, logic. You, on the other hand, have not yet had the life drummed out of you by this drab, grey place. So you interest me, just as your colleague bores me to tears.”
