by Mark Lingane
Below lay London. The satellite calculated its target and twisted its trajectory until it pointed into the heart of the city.
27
FIELD MARSHAL NORTON strode back from the cafeteria. It had been a frustrating half hour without anyone being able to patch a line through to the United States.
“Field Marshal, we’ve secured a line to the U.S.,” the lance corporal called from the adjoining office.
“Finally.” Norton clapped his hands together. He was going to enjoy telling Ted Holmes that not everyone was on the U.S.’s side today. Norton had felt betrayed by the situation—the way Holmes had relied on goodwill to deceive. It wasn’t honorable.
“He’s on the gray phone.”
“Old school.” Norton opened his bottom drawer and withdrew a large square communications device. Its gray plastic surround was aged and cracked. “Ted, what’s going on?”
“It’s over, Field Marshal,” Holmes said. “The vote has come down. You have no supporters.”
“Wrong. I have the French marshal, Phillip du Merle. The German commander, Jenell Schaffrath, will join the axis after I’ve finished explaining the alignments. They’re all I need in NATO.”
“You haven’t heard? Your French buddy is dead. You’ve got no one.”
“Rubbish,” Norton said, “I just spoke to him.”
“Believe what you want. I’m sorry, bud. The CiC has spoken. He wants to go war.” The line surged with static, leaving Holmes’s voice only vaguely recognizable.
Norton knocked on the office wall, and the lance corporal hurried through and stood to attention.
“Your commander-in-chief is being an idiot,” Norton roared into the phone. He picked up his pen and wrote on a Post-it note: Check if the French marshal is alive. The lance corporal nodded and left the office.
“He always was. He’s known for it, runs in the family. Look, I’ll lay the cards on the table. As soon as he heard MEK he flipped out,” Holmes said, referring to the People’s Mujahedin of Iran. “You know the history with his father’s involvement. If he didn’t jump all over it the press would rip him to shreds.”
“There’s more to this than PR. It’s a foolish endeavor.”
Holmes’s response was masked by static.
Norton slammed his fists on his desk. “Ted, Ted, are you there? For God’s sake, what’s going on with the tech?”
“Hey, Andy,” Holmes said, “you’ve gotta relax. This thing’s going to go and you’ve gotta be on the right side. Don’t do anything foolish.”
“Me? Do something foolish? I’m not the one wanting to start a world war.”
“Bud, we’re already at war. We just don’t know who we’re at war with yet.”
“It’s field marshal, thank you,” Norton replied coolly. The informality smacked at him; at a time like this, it showed arrogance and complete indifference to the chain of command.
“Have it your way, but you’re making a mistake. You’ll be left behind, and you know how quickly sentiment can change. The people need to see action. We can find new enemies later, but people need to see something happen now. They’re scared. Scared people often take measures into their own hands.”
“The last twenty years, if nothing else, have taught us that overreacting on instinct leads to more enemies. It doesn’t diminish them.”
“Andy, look at it from the peoples’ point of view. This isn’t one plane falling out of the sky. It’s not even two or three. Aircraft have fallen onto every major metropolis in the world. We’re under attack. Every city. Check the news from any source and you’ll see the message is the same. We need to defend now.”
“By attacking? I won’t be allied to this,” Norton said. “Not without more information.”
“You’ve gone to war on less, bud. We’ve got a target, we’ve got the motivation, and we’ve got the authority. The rest of NATO’s mobilizing, I suggest you do the same.” The line went dead.
Norton picked up a speaker-coil magnet and hurled it across the room. The phone rang again. It was Number Ten.
“Norton, it’s Anderson here. I’ve been speaking with the rest of the House and we want answers to the situation. What are you doing about it?”
“What do you want me to do about it, Prime Minister?”
“We want the people to see that something’s happening, and we want them to not be worried. Do we understand each other?”
“May I remind you that the prime ministers people tend to remember are the ones that protect rather than attack,” Norton said. “People don’t like war.”
“Winners write history, Norton. I’m not being a bloody Neville Chamberlain. I expect we understand each other.” And with that the line went dead.
Norton fumed, pacing around the room clenching and unclenching his fists. The pain in his leg had peaked, adding another level of frustration to his day.
“Field Marshal, how did the call go?”
Norton spun around and stared at General Hubbard. “Are you all right? You look out of breath.”
“You told me to get here as quickly as I could,” Hubbard replied.
“Did I?” Norton threw his hands in the air in despair. “They all want to go to bloody war. And here we are, completely unprepared for it. We’ve got no Joint Forces Command. All the senior staff members are young enough to be my children, each with about a thimbleful of experience. Funding’s been slashed. Numbers are down. Resentment is up. We have little in the way of firepower. And they say ‘do something’.”
“But if sentiment’s leaning toward an eventuality …”
The lance corporal appeared at the door with a piece of paper in hand. He stepped back when he recognized the senior officers deep in conversation. Norton saw him, waved him in, and accepted the note.
“… and we have a history of this. We’re being attacked.”
Norton raised his hand to Hubbard and looked toward the lance corporal, waving the paper. “When did the embassy say this?”
“The news hasn’t been issued yet, Field Marshal,” the young man said. “To anyone.”
Norton dismissed the lance corporal. He stood staring at the door. “How did he know?”
“Who?” Hubbard replied. Confusion crossed his face.
“It doesn’t matter. The lance corporal was finding out some information for me.”
“Field Marshal, put me in the Joint Forces Command. I have decades of experience. It’s something I’ve trained for, been educated for.”
“Not now, General.”
“But if it comes to the point where we need to do something, who will do it?”
“I’m hoping to avoid that scenario.”
“You’re being idealistic when earlier you called yourself a realist. You must plan for all eventualities and going to war is one of them.”
Norton paused and looked into Hubbard’s desperate eyes. Was it a good idea? To Norton the man had always appeared too eager. And history had shown that you had to watch out for the eager ones. But when your hand is weak, and the stakes are high, whom can you turn to?
“I’ll give it some serious thought, Hubbard. And that’s the best bit of news you’ll get from me today. Dismissed. I need to plan.”
28
CHIEF INSPECTOR PERCY Booker struggled through the endless verbiage of DCI Hanson’s report. He’d tried to tackle the monstrosity several times. It was worse than Tristram Shandy. It all added up, however, except for the fact that it was totally ridiculous. He didn’t understand why it had to be transcribed into the lessons-learned database. It belonged in the trash.
He turned back to the first page and started again just as the phone rang, providing a desired procrastination.
“Booker speaking,” he grumbled.
“Booker, Field Marshal Norton here. I need an officer to look at a politically delicate case.”
“Jesus!” Booker half stood, unsure how to address such a senior official on the phone, before realizing that swearing at him wasn’t the best start.<
br />
“No. Norton. I’m certain I was clear about that.”
“Yes, Commander, I mean Marshal. Field Marshal. What can I help you with?”
“There’s been an incident at the French embassy. A murder.”
“Don’t you have military police at your disposal?”
“For this I need something else. I need someone smart, maybe off the books.”
Booker squinted out into the open-plan cubicles, searching for someone suitable. He placed his hand over the mouthpiece. “Stephanie, could you get Dan Holloway?”
“He’s out, sir. He’s got the rest of the week off. You said he was being too annoying.”
“Any of his team?”
“No, sir.”
“Damn it.” Booker glanced down at his desk. The ponderous tome glared up at him. He sighed. Hanson was undeniably smart, but currently as unstable as a top. Mind you, he reminded himself, a top only fell when it stopped spinning.
“Can you tell me anything about the situation?” he asked Norton.
“Look, I’ll lay it open for you,” Norton said. “I had a confidential discussion with Phillip Du Merle of France. He made a decision that conflicted with the wishes of some existing allies. He was immediately shot. This happened on our soil. To me, it sounds like he was being monitored, and I want to know who by. Our military police would escalate a rather delicate situation, whereas a quiet police investigation, with the results relayed to me personally, would allow me to be a bit more diplomatic about things.”
“Gosh. You think spies?”
“I don’t know what to think. That’s what I’m contacting you for. I would really like a result that wasn’t spies. International espionage would send the whole world to hell in a handbasket.”
“I’ll send my best and brightest.”
The dial tone echoed out of the small speaker. Booker waited patiently for the call to be accepted. He tapped his fingers on the desk. Would she answer the phone? Hanson could be literal at times. She’d know it was HQ and would probably use the excuse of her suspension to ignore it.
The call was answered. Booker smiled. She was never able to resist.
“Hanson. Update me on your location.”
“I’m at home, Chief.”
He could hear the desperation in her voice. A top falls if it stops spinning. “I’ve had a specific request from a senior figure who requires a discreet inquiry. Get here now.”
He disconnected the line. His Rolex lay to the side of the phone. He switched on the stopwatch function and pressed a small button. It should take her ten minutes.
It took her ten minutes. Booker was puzzled. What did that mean? Surely, if she was desperate, she’d have been there in five.
Hanson entered the room and sat down before him. “You said a case?”
“Yes.”
“Can I be un-suspended, Chief?”
Booker knew she was going to be nothing but trouble. Her status was more important to her than her actual work. But when you were playing an invisible game of chess, you needed your best troublemaker at the heart of things. Hanson would either uncover something, or be a scapegoat if required. And the commissioner had been very pointed about that.
“Let me be extremely clear about this,” he said. “Under no circumstances are you to interfere with, or even be vaguely involved with the plane incident. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Chief. Plainly.”
“Because there are some damn high people looking at the crash, way above our pay level, and if we muck things up, if you muck things up, the damage will be catastrophic. They are watching and they are listening.”
“That certainly was a lot of emphasized words.”
“It needed to be done.”
“I understand, Chief.”
He glared at her. Had she got the message? You could never tell with bloody Hanson. “Confirm to me that you understand.”
“Confirmed. I will not get involved in any way with the plane incident.”
“You’re officially back on the job under limited scope as defined by me, got it?”
“Got it.”
“Get down to the French embassy in Knightsbridge. There’s been a murder, sniper assassination of Phillip du Merle, the French marshal. That’s the commander of the French forces.”
“I’m aware of the title, Chief.”
“Take a look at the scene. High command thinks it’s highly suspicious, and believes allies could be involved. So it can’t be military police. They want outside eyes. I’ve scrambled support. Don’t mess it up. I’ll get Chambers down there to the embassy as well.”
She didn’t move for a moment. She didn’t look happy. He thought she would be skipping down the hallway.
“You all right? Your eyes are a bit intense.” He took a sip of coffee.
“Sniper,” she whispered.
29
HANSON STEPPED SLOWLY over the scene. The luxury stateroom reeked of French style.
“See if you can find the bullet, Chambers. It went through his head, so it’ll be embedded in the wall.” She indicated the wall opposite the broken window.
It was a simple find. It took several minutes but he eventually dug out the compacted remains. “Don’t we have people who do this?” he said, placing the bullet in an evidence bag and dropping it into her open palm.
“We can’t wait,” Hanson replied. She held the bag up to the light, twisting it in her fingers. She threw it to him. “It’s the same person. Same bullets. Same style. Let’s move.”
“Where to first?”
“This was a close-range shot, no more than a hundred yards. Over there.” She pointed out the window at the opposing building.
They went downstairs and out through the assembling police presence. Hanson noticed a man recording them on his cell as they passed. He was wearing a black cap and all black clothing, but he was too old to be a Goth. He seemed out of place. Chambers lifted the yellow tape roping off the area, and they ran across the intersection to the downmarket building the shot had come from.
“It’s a cheap carpet store,” Chambers said.
“Was.”
“I guess the closing-down sign confirms your assumption. It’s a bit tatty for a Knightsbridge shop. Right scruffy.” He ran his hand over the waterlogged wood boarding up the windows. It wasn’t at the point of crumbling, but strength wasn’t its strong suit.
“It’s been closing down for some time. We should look inside.”
“Without a warrant?” Chambers said.
“Who’s going to complain? It’s a vacant store.”
“But someone owns it.”
“If it’s locked, then we’ll do it by the book,” Hanson replied.
Chambers tried the handle. It twisted, but the door didn’t open. “Locked,” he said as he turned away. “We should get authorization.”
Hanson kicked the door, grunting under the force. The latch broke free of the ancient wood, and the door swung inward.
“Unlocked,” she said, and walked into the dark room. Nothing in the building had been locked. Or used. Built and abandoned.
“Jeez, you’re going to get us into so much trouble.” Chambers pulled his phone out of his pocket and switched on the flashlight. The beam swept over the floor. The ancient wooden boards were covered in dust, except for a recent set of footprints. The small room was completely empty.
“Another empty building with a sniper,” Hanson said.
They followed the footprints up the narrow stairway to the top of the building. They could see the chalk outline marking out the place the sniper had laid and targeted. Several bullet shells were scattered around.
“Shot and run.”
“Indulge me, Chambers. Chalk can be resilient stuff. It’ll survive for several days, right?”
“Generally. It was a task to clean the school blackboard.”
She squatted down and ran her finger over the weathered and faded tracing. It didn’t smudge. “The marksman was here only a c
ouple of hours ago,” she said. “Why does the chalk look like it’s been here longer than that? It’s deeply ground in—it looks years old.”
“You mean like someone was expecting the French toff to change his mind and had planned ahead for it.”
Hanson sat down and looked out over the city skyline. She could see the top of the London Eye. Was it spying on her?
“What are you thinking?”
“A sniper knew in advance that a particular building wouldn’t fall down when the plane crashed. A sniper knew in advance that the old colonel would tell us something. A sniper knew he had to be here, today, at this time—in advance. You know what the important phrase in all of that is?”
“In advance,” Chambers replied.
“What’s another way of saying that?” She looked over at Chambers.
He stared back at her. Eventually he shrugged, after no further dialog came forth.
“Who knows the future better than someone who has been there? We have planes that defy the laws of physics. We have a car that would fly if it weren’t stapled to the ground. We have alien technology. Do we have a sniper who knows the future? And if so, what is he planning?”
30
NORTON SLUMPED BACK in the chair and placed his forehead on the desk. The world was rallying against him today. The early information coming in from the police about the French assassination was terrible; one of their own military men was the culprit. There was a cough at the door.
“This had better be good news,” he mumbled. He didn’t raise his head.
General Hubbard entered the room. Norton slowly looked up and stared at him. At the very least, Prime Minister Anderson wanted the appearance of action. And sometimes the best options were the ones directly in front of you.
“Did the coordinates from the U.S. match up with anything?” Norton asked.
“Yes. With some of the information extracted from Camp Echo.”
“Hmm. What do you get when you scream into the void? An echo.”
