by Mark Lingane
Hubbard’s face darkened. “They’re unsecured. The enemy may be listening.”
“If we have an enemy that can knock planes out of the sky at their own discretion, then listening in on any phone call will be a walk in the park.”
“If you think so highly of them, then we must act now.”
“No, we will not be manipulated into situations where we don’t belong,” Norton snapped.
“With all due respect, Field Marshal, this is what we’re here for, just this kind of situation.”
Norton spun around and pointed at Hubbard. “Get me intel. Is it planes falling or actual strikes? Someone’s got to know what’s bringing down the planes. Seven billion people on this planet … someone must have seen something. Find them. Do what it takes, but get me results. I will not attack anyone without sufficient cause.”
“May I suggest that you talk to the U.S. first, get some perspective and then decide?” Hubbard glanced at his watch and stormed out of the office.
Norton slumped down in his chair. “What I need are pieces for the chess game,” he said once he was alone.
22
HE PULLED OUT the small black device. The numbers had changed. They hadn’t told him this would happen. Everything else seemed to be going to plan, so maybe it was the right result. He watched the numbers tick up, swinging around. What did they mean?
The object had gone missing one day. At first he hadn’t noticed. There was only an itching at the edge of recollection hinting at something wrong. The tension built and his palms started their familiar sweating. It had all come back when he’d wiped them on his trousers, and blind panic had gripped him to such an extent that he felt physically sick.
When he had found it sitting blindly in the middle of his small dining table, he had clutched it to his chest and wept. He hadn’t done that since he was eight and the scout leader had belittled him, humiliated him, in front of the other children. And after what he had tried to do. He had never recovered, and never forgotten the stinging names. He left after the incident of the scout leader’s unfortunate accident. Even though he had proved it had nothing to do with him.
He could never stop his palms from sweating whenever he opened the box. The object was both the most substantial thing in the room and something so hard to focus on he could easily forget it was there. The strange surface, somewhere between metal, plastic, and living, was indestructible.
His questions and experiments had increased in intensity. The numbers under the lid worried him. They said it would be stable. It wasn’t. Was that going to change anything?
He had failed with the third target; the boy had survived. But it was just a boy. He had been one once himself. Granted, it hadn’t been a pleasant time, but he’d managed to twist his way through the challenges life had thrown at him. Scouts. Services. Military. Every stage of life had been bitterly complicated. But there was always someone who considered themselves a leader and needed to prove it by bullying others weaker than them.
But one by one he had shown them he was not one to be messed with. The scout leader, who had slipped and fallen to his death. The fire chief, who, ironically, had died in a home fire. The brigadier, who had taken poison from the unexpected assassin and slowly crumbled.
The risks had been astronomical, and he had barely slipped under the radar. The net was always drawing in. People continued to be prejudiced and biased against him.
Then the device had arrived in his hands and everything had changed. He had earned the place. Now it was promised to him, and he was not going to fail. The world would be his.
But the box was not doing what it was supposed to. It was still here. And it was smaller. He wasn’t sure how that was physically possible. The components wouldn’t reduce or wear out. Did that mean something else needed to be done? Was the mission not complete? Was there another target? Was the new target something he had to work out?
He blinked. The numbers decreased. He stared at the flickering images. Was there someone else he had to kill? The numbers went down. He reached for the sniper rifle. The numbers went down. Before his eyes, the box reduced in size. He smiled.
The murders still haunted him. He’d killed people, naturally, but they had always been enemies, foreigners more often than not, not a couple of middle-class parents who didn’t even believe in speeding, let alone doing anything illegal that mattered.
Could you be guilty of something you hadn’t done yet, and that you didn’t even know about? Could you be guilty if it wasn’t even you that was going to do something bad? The philosophical conundrum weighed heavily on him. They said you could be guilty before the crime. It was always in you, if not at one moment, then another. People would always be who they were going to be. Destiny was destiny.
And that was the part that didn’t make sense. Intellect wasn’t his strong suit, but surely that conflicted with their ultimate goal. Nothing could change the person; they were always going to do what they were going to do. So why were they so keen to prove it wrong?
All he knew was that you could feel very bad about something you had done wrong. And this had been wrong.
23
THE BLACK CAB pulled up to the sidewalk, its wheels skidding to a halt. After a quiet moment, shouts erupted from the car. The door was flung open and Chambers dragged Hanson out, kicking and yelling.
“Leave it, DCI,” Chambers said.
“Leave it? It’s criminal. You can’t charge a tenner to go four blocks,” Hanson shouted.
The cab took off with its wheels squealing.
“You can in the rain and when you’re driving through Kensington. We’ll claim it back on expenses.” He released her from his grip and she pushed him away, then threatened to punch him. He ignored her.
“We’re not here to be a burden on the force. We could’ve walked,” she said indignantly.
Chambers rolled his eyes. The cab had been her idea.
The broad street was impressive with its grand, double-fronted residences. Expensive cars were backed up along the curb, glistening in the wet night, twinkling as the streetlights flickered. They turned to face the building. Rain tumbled down on them.
Hanson wiped away the cold water from her face. “You could offer me your coat or something. Be chivalrous.”
“Yeah, I could.” He placed his hands in his pockets. “Hopefully this will be more fruitful than your other contacts. Who knew old men could have mush for memories?”
Hanson ignored his sarcasm.
“It’s a nice place. Do all you military types live in the leafy west?”
“No. You only get the good pay once you get the nod from HRH,” she replied.
“So, what honor did your father get to live in Mayfair?”
Hanson hesitated before pressing the doorbell. “None.”
A man in his early seventies, wearing an ancient, almost comical, smoking jacket opened the door. His stern expression softened when he recognized his guest. His gaze shifted to the dark young man standing behind her.
“Young Tracy. It’s an unexpected surprise to see you. And your gentleman acquaintance.”
“Thank you, Colonel Carter. This is DI Chambers. Could we come in please?”
He held out his hand, a gnarled and twisted appendage. Hanson shook it. His other hand was normal, the long fingers flowing as he stepped aside and waved them in.
“Oh my, certainly. Where are my manners? That did sound formal. I hope you’re not here to arrest me.” He let out a deep chortle.
They entered the small foyer of the building, elegant and ancient, a time capsule from an imperial age. Hanson glanced into the reception room, it too mirroring colonial trappings. They removed their jackets and pegged them on the ornate stand. Water pooled on the polished floor.
“Colonel, you’ve secured an excellent establishment.”
He smiled. “One does one’s best.” His eyes darted over to Chambers. “Please, come upstairs to the more civilized part of the house. I’ve just started a fire.�
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Carter slowly made his way up the carpeted stairs, his footfalls quiet and methodical. The wall was decorated with several large pieces of art interspersed with framed medals, their precious metals stark against dark-green felt. A landing opened up the floor, and he led them into a dark and oppressive study.
Chambers stood awkwardly in the doorway, taking in the surroundings. The walls were lined with photographs of the colonel with various dignitaries. There were medals here, too, but displayed more prominently: medals of honor, victory, and duty. Several decanters sat on the mantel above a small fire. A vast library wall stocked with, among other volumes, an early edition of Encyclopedia Britannica soaked in the sound, leaving the room distractingly quiet. A half-written letter lay on the desk, a fountain pen pointing from the center of the fanned sheets of paper.
The curtains on the window facing the street were drawn. An open window at the rear of the room allowed a fresh breeze into the stuffy space, helping to disperse a disturbing musk.
Carter pointed to a small television. “I saw you on the news program with a child. It looked brave, I’m sure your father would have been proud.”
“Possibly.” She didn’t smile. Her eyes wandered over the scene. She caught herself. A scene. Why do I think there’s a crime here?
“He was never one to let you know what he was thinking.” Carter finished the sentence with unexpected emphasis. “How are you progressing? Any regrets?”
She returned her focus to the colonel. “There are good days and bad.”
“As with all of us. I miss old Harold. We had many good times together. Even with you, before—”
“Yes, everything was better before.”
Chambers picked up a rare intonation in her voice.
“Look, Colonel—”
He held up his aged hands. “Please, a colonel no more. Call me Frank.”
“I need some network information. Snipers. I’m after someone exceptional, one of us. Someone who’s morally flexible.”
“As in?”
“As in happy to kill a child.”
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the occasional crackle of the saplings in the fireplace. Even the street noise had vanished.
“I see, this is how it plays out,” Carter muttered. “I’d always hoped there would be some warning.”
A sorrowful laugh slipped from his lips. He moved to the shelves and slid several volumes aside to reveal an ancient safe. Hanson noted it was an old rotary Cobb, unusual in a modern world. Carter rummaged inside and extracted an envelope from the collection of papers and folders. He closed the safe but left it unlocked.
He held the envelope oddly in his clawed hand as he stepped toward the fire, halfway between sorrow and disgust, before folding it in half and placing a corner in the flames. As it caught, he held it up and watched the flames lick the edges. The light danced across his face, accentuating his aged and hardened features.
Carter gave a wry smile. His voice became cold and clipped. “If these walls could talk. Don’t you think moral flexibility is at the core of every professional soldier?” He threw the flaming letter into the hearth, and turned quickly to face Hanson.
“No,” she replied.
“Of course, you wouldn’t.” The stopper on the crystal decanter popped as he poured himself a large drink. “Shame about the child,” he muttered, then downed the drink in several gulps.
“What was that?”
“You’ve done such an exceptional job, Inspector. I hope Stanley fully appreciates that.”
“Actually, it’s DCI. I didn’t know you knew the police commissioner.”
“Yes, I watched him grow as a man, guided him when required, provided the information he needed to get to where he wanted to be. That’s what I liked, a man with ambition. Morally flexible.” He said the last words with a smile. He leaned against the mantle, watching the lights bounce through the cut crystal of the glass as he twisted it in his fingers.
Chambers moved toward the desk, keeping an eye on the old man.
“Frank,” Hanson said, “if we can get back to my question. Do we have anyone special for internal use? Someone who’s too good to get caught? Someone for when we need it to be quiet?”
“We always have.”
“Yes. But I need a name.”
“I can give you a name, but do you really want it?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” She found his obtuseness beginning to grate.
“Sometimes a path can lead you into dark woods. And who knows what you’ll find there? Sometimes it’s best to leave those wriggling horrors alone under the fallen trees.”
“The woods no longer hold any fears for me, Colonel. Can I have a name?”
“Then you’re looking in the wrong direction, because I can tell you that lying in the shadows are darker things than the fears of your past. These are terrible times.”
“You seem to be doing all right for yourself on a military pension,” Chambers pitched in.
“Does your jungle friend feel confronted by civilization?”
Chambers stepped toward the colonel. “Who are you calling—?”
“Chambers, do not inflame the situation. Step back.” She held a raised finger toward him.
“That’s right, do what the nice white girl says, even if she is a media whore. We had boys like you in our regiment, so eager to get ahead.”
“Colonel, this is not appropriate language,” Hanson said.
“As you young people say, I’m just saying how it is,” Carter sneered.
Hanson felt an urge to snatch at the remains of the letter. What was so important that you would dare burn it in front of the police?
“It’s not really like that anymore,” she said, “we’ve moved on. We respect each other.”
“Now you sound like your father. He didn’t see things the way the rest of us did.”
“Meaning?”
“What an interesting word. ‘Meaning.’ What did the fool always go on about? Duty. Honor. Responsibility. As if those words had meaning.”
Hanson’s expression hardened. “Colonel, your words—and apparently we—are not welcome. Give me a name and we’ll be gone.”
“Allow me a last dalliance, Hanson.” Carter paused. “Alan Henderson.”
“The decorated sniper? He’s hardly quiet.” She paused. The images of the medals on the stairwell flashed in her mind. “You were a sniper. The medals. Your hand.” She paused as the thoughts cascaded through her mind. “What have you done?”
Carter turned to face the rear window, catching the breeze on his face. He closed his eyes. “You wanted an answer, but it isn’t the obvious one. You need to—”
A loud crack shook the room. The rear window exploded, raining glass over the furniture. The colonel fell backward, his eyes vacant. Hanson’s own eyes went wide with shock at seeing the old family acquaintance assassinated. Chambers leaped toward the window. Another shot sliced through the glass, forcing him back.
“I see him.” He glanced below the window, kicked out the remaining glass and jumped out.
“Reggie, no!” Hanson shouted, but he had gone.
24
CHAMBERS LANDED HEAVILY on the lower-level roof, his feet skidding on the wet surface. The silhouette of the sniper, faintly illuminated by a soft green glow, moved across the top of a nearby building. Chambers estimated that the figure was two buildings away. He rolled off the roof and ran down an alleyway. He counted the buildings and stopped at the third, at four stories the tallest of the surrounding structures. It was completely dark inside.
He tried the door. Locked. He kicked at the handle. Then kicked again. The wood started to fracture. Several more solid kicks from his heavy boot and the door smashed open. He dashed through the dark entranceway and stumbled up a staircase. The stairs flew past three at a time. Bouncing off the walls, he struggled up the dark stairwell, feeling his way with one hand on the wall.
Another shot rang out from the rooftop above, and his
mind flicked back to Hanson, alone in the study. Zero. One.
He crashed his way up the remaining levels and burst through a doorway onto the roof. He had an unobstructed view directly into the colonel’s study. He couldn’t see Hanson.
A piece of metal smashed into his forehead and he collapsed. His stomach reeled as a boot thudded into it, knocking the wind from him. Another kick followed. A boot came in toward his head, but Chambers managed to deflect the blow. His lungs burned as he tried to regain his breath. He struggled to his knees, but there was a shout followed by a painful blow to his back, knocking him back onto the sodden roof. His face fell against a chalk outline on the roof.
The assailant placed one boot on Chambers’ back and pressed down. For a split second, the man lost his balance. Chambers flipped over and punched into the man’s inner thigh. There was a yelp and Chambers lost sight of his attacker. He slowly got to his knees and was met by another kick, this time to the chin, which knocked him onto his back.
Lightning cracked across the sky. The figure stood over him, wearing a military uniform and balaclava. Then they were both in the dark once again. The soldier aimed the rifle down at Chambers. A green laser point danced over his eyes, blinding him to everything. The soldier pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing happened. The soldier stared at the gun and grunted. He checked the bolt.
Chambers leaped up, but was instantly smacked down by the rifle butt, the shock blurring his vision and leaving him disoriented, slipping into unconsciousness. The soldier aimed again and pulled the trigger, just as Hanson burst through the door and tackled the man to the ground. The bullet went wide. The rifle clattered away as Hanson landed a sharp blow with her elbow into the soldier’s ribs. He grunted under the attack. She clasped her hands around his throat, but he crossed his arms and broke her grip.
The two rolled through the puddles as each one tried to get the upper hand. She caught the hand, twisted the wrist and kicked out the side of the man’s leg, forcing him to his knees. She recognized his moves. Close combat, restrictive-movement training. But for every lock there was a counter.
