Fault Lines

by Mark Lingane

  “How did your calls go?”

  Norton closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Not well, General, not well.” He put his head in his hands then looked up. “Everyone’s determined to go to war against an unknown enemy with unknown strength. It’s the worst decision I’ve heard in decades.”

  “I can understand your frustration, Field Marshal, but this is our job. This is what we’re here for. Our job gets harder each year. The enemy becomes harder to spot as they disappear into the shadows. They live among us. They are us. And it’s our duty to keep the people of this country safe from the enemy—whoever they may be. You told me that once.”

  “Exactly who, Hubbard, is our enemy? I said that twenty years ago. I said it ten years ago. I could probably have said it last year, but each year our enemy becomes more invisible. It’s our job to become better at spotting them, and what’s happened now has highlighted our failure. We need an enemy.”

  “You heard the Americans, the MEK.” Hubbard slapped the side of his hand into his palm.

  “God preserve me. You don’t believe that?” Norton took out his pass and threw it on the table. It skipped over the surface and bounced off the phone, it’s peculiar razor edges catching the light.

  “Who else has anything near this capability? The Turks have a history of this.”

  Norton stood and moved over to the large map adorning one of his walls. He slapped his hand against the Middle East. “You want to bomb Turkey? Istanbul. Constantinople. Byzantium. Lygos. Seven thousand years of culture. The heartbeat of history for two and a half thousand years.”

  “History is nothing. Civil unrest has been building for a decade with the conflict of East and West. We fight for the future.”

  “Turkey is not the Ottoman Empire.” Norton smacked his hand against the map in time with his words.

  “But it’s still in a position of military significance.”

  “And we can’t merely ask to use their airspace? What happened to diplomacy first?”

  “Turkey hasn’t taken the MEK accusations from the U.S. well.”

  Norton shook his head. “I feel that pushing this agenda will not end well.”

  “You feel? Field Marshal, you cannot rely on feelings. This is a straightforward decision based on the blindingly obvious facts in front of us. You know them well, and the protocols we must follow when we’re in this position.”

  “And I know, firsthand, what could go wrong if we attack without knowing the full facts.” Norton’s old war wound twinged as a reminder of his firsthand time in battle.

  “We’re not attacking. We’re retaliating. They knocked our planes out of the sky. We were living ordinary lives.”

  “That’s what concerns me. Ordinary life appears to offend so many people these days.”

  The room fell into silence. Norton watched Hubbard. Time stretched out.

  Eventually, Norton sighed. “I’ve given serious thought to the JFC position,” he said. “I’m still not happy with any of the candidates. But in the interim, I’ll make you acting commander. I can’t stress the word ‘acting’ enough. Don’t get comfortable with it.”

  “Do you have any instructions?”

  “I sanction the initiation of targeted air strikes. Mobilize the air force. You’d better be right, General.”

  “You won’t be sorry, Field Marshal. You’ve made the right decision.”

  “There is never a right decision when it comes to aggression. Get down to Naphill. Dismissed.”

  Hubbard saluted and smartly turned about. As he placed his hand on the door handle, Norton called out.

  “Hubbard, do what you need to do, but watch how you go.” He watched the general carefully as he barely offered an acknowledging salute in his haste to get away.

  31

  “GIVE ME THE mouse; you’re too slow,” Hanson shouted.

  Chambers lifted it up behind his head and out of her reach. She lunged across the desk after it, pressing her body against his. He laughed as she thrust her chest into him. She moved back, feeling self-conscious about their contact.

  “Okay, you have it if it’s so important to you,” she said curtly. “Tell me, are you like that with the TV remote?”

  She felt her face flush as she thought about their body contact. Her eyes flicked over to his face to see if there were any hints about his own feelings. Chambers was staring impassively at the screen. She returned her focus to the monitor.

  “I’ll have to type it again unless it’s in your browser history,” Chambers said.

  “No! Don’t look there. Just type in the address on the second line. No, the second line.” She sat in silence, fidgeting with her feet, as Chambers slowly tapped out the location. “Great. Now click on the search button. Bottom right, no, the other right. Down. Down. Down. Down …” She sighed and pointed to the screen. “Yes, there. Click on the big blue button that says Search.”

  The results flashed onto the display.

  “Look at that,” she said.

  Chambers nodded. “Three empty buildings all owned by the same company. You ever heard of Times Squared Industries?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’ll do a Google search on them.”

  “Good Lord, no. That’ll just return Range Rover ads and local sexy dates. Can I have my private, personal keyboard back?” She gave him an emotionless smile. “Please.”

  He moved his chair over and she sighed in relief, stroking her hands over the keys.

  “You all right?” he said.

  “I just prefer to be the one typing.”

  “In control, more like it,” Chambers muttered.

  She flicked over to the police database and entered the company name. No results returned. She chased the name through the social-media filters. No results. Glancing over at Chambers, she used Google. No results other than two million ads for sexy firemen in the local area.

  “That can’t be right,” Chambers said.

  She turned to him and covered her mouth. “We’re being watched,” she whispered.

  Chambers glanced around the office. It was quiet, with only a skeleton nightshift on duty. They were all occupied with their paperwork. She grabbed his hand and brought his attention back to her.

  “Don’t look, but the camera light on the monitor came on when I searched in freaking Google.”

  His eyes flashed over to her and he nodded.

  “No results,” she said loudly. “Let’s call it a night.”

  She switched off the monitor and stood up. She signaled for him to follow.

  The sky was clear of clouds. The almost-full moon shone brightly above. The air was cool. Several cabs and buses crawled down the street. Hanson walked along the pavement until she reached the corner of Police HQ. Chambers stood nearby, quietly waiting for an explanation for her behavior.

  She glanced down the street. There were people about. Did she trust them? She stepped in close to Chambers, pushing him against the wall. Her stomach quivered as their bodies touched. She closed her eyes and pulled his face toward hers. She brushed her lips against his ear.

  “We’re being followed. Meet me at The National Archives in Kew in one hour.”

  She hung onto him, inhaling his scent, feeling her emotions tumble. She closed her eyes. His image burned into her fantasy, two bodies lying together, stroking his body, his strong lean lines tingling under her touch … She rubbed her head against his, arched her back and opened her lips.

  “I need to go,” she croaked.

  A double-decker passed by. Chambers found himself alone.

  Hanson sat in the back of the bus, feeling the wind on her face. She had to shake the gorgeous image of Reggie out of her head. It was driving her crazy. She closed her mind, trying to distance herself from the boiling inside. He’s not interested, she told herself. God, what am I saying? I’m not interested. I have a—

  She caught sight of a man reading the paper and taking glimpses at her. He rustled the pages to hide his face. Did she imagine it?
They couldn’t know she would be on this bus. Another passenger was playing a game, or watching a video on his phone, but the angle seemed wrong. Was he recording her?

  They’re watching and they’re listening. That’s what Booker said. But who was ‘they’? She suddenly felt vulnerable, with nothing to use as protection. Or deception. She glanced up at the CCTV in the bus. It was directed straight at her. I’m being too sensitive, she thought. My emotions are on edge, that’s all.

  The bus pulled into the next stop. She jumped off and quickly walked down the street. She glanced over her shoulder. The newspaper man had also got off the bus, and was walking in the same direction. Coincidence?

  Hanson slipped into a narrow alley. It was a shortcut through to the tube station. She rounded the corner at the end and saw the familiar blue circle. As she headed down to the underground, another man appeared at the base of the steps, dressed all in black. A CCTV camera turned in her direction.

  A small group of people, presumably friends, bumped into her on the way down the stairs and she pushed her way among them, past the waiting man. She caught him watching her pass by. The group made their way to the ticketing machines and one of them fought theatrically with the dispenser.

  She swiped her oyster card, rushed through the turnstiles and onto an escalator, glancing over her shoulder. The man was jumping over the turnstiles as she descended out of view. She ran off the escalator and ducked into a service closet with a thick metal grating for a door. The man ran past. She stepped out and scanned the area. There was a CCTV camera, but it was facing in the opposite direction. The fear from her suspicions gripped her as she made her way underneath it, keeping out of the sweep of its view.

  Hanson felt small and alone in the vast tunnel network. The station was unusually quiet. She emerged onto a platform and felt the familiar rush of warm air from the tunnel as a train approached. She ran along the empty platform as the train pulled in. A handful of travelers emerged. She glanced down the platform and saw the man. He stood half watching her, half looking at the clock. She stepped into the coach. The man entered another carriage further down, and she knew he would be making his way toward her. The clock added a minute.

  ‘Mind the Gap’ chorused from the tinny PA in the train. She waited for the hiss of the closing doors. The man entered her carriage and strode toward her. The doors shook as they began to close and she leaped through them. The man charged after her and frantically tried to lever the doors open. He glared at her through the glass as the train departed.

  She turned and came face to face with another similarly dressed man, with a long scar on the side of his face. His hand snapped out and clutched her right wrist. She twisted her arm and lashed out with a left hook, catching him squarely on the jaw. Her speed had surprised him, and Hanson felt she had a momentary advantage. She charged at him and they both crashed into the side of the accelerating train. They bounced back and tumbled to the ground. He released his grip on her. She leaped to her feet and charged toward the exit.

  She sprinted down the passageways, up the escalator, bumped past the shuffling commuters, and leaped over the turnstiles. A rail attendant shouted at her and began to give chase, but scarface-man knocked him to the ground and leaped over the turnstiles behind her.

  Hanson rushed out onto the street. She got her bearings. Tottenham Court. She took off at full speed to the south until she ran out of breath and was forced to slow and take stock of her situation. Why do we run? Because we’re being chased. Why do we defend? Because we’re being attacked. Why are we chased? Because we run.

  She wished Chambers were there. Those strong legs and back. Her breath caught. She shook her head. Focus, Hanson. Game face on. This is serious.

  Change the rules.

  She turned into a short street and ran to the end. Glancing back over her shoulder, she spotted scarface entering the far end of the street. A cheap clothes shop was shutting up for the night and the roller door was partially lowered. She quickened her pace and ducked under it.

  “Sorry, love, we’re closing,” called the shop assistant. “Come back tomorrow.”

  Hanson waved at the young woman. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  “I’m serious. The till’s closed. I’ve got to be gone in five.”

  Hanson grabbed a light jacket, scarf and hat. She pulled the security tag off the hat and threw it under the roller door, setting off the alarm. She ducked down out of sight behind the clothes racks.

  The woman scanned the store and, seeing no one, assumed the customer had stolen and legged it. She swore. She ducked under the door and crashed into scarface running down the street. The two collapsed to the ground. His hands groped over her, looking for purchase.

  “Get off me, you perv,” she shouted.

  The two staggered up. The man dashed into the shop then ran out again. He grabbed the young woman by the throat and pushed her against the brick wall.

  “Where is she?” His accent was thick and barely understandable.

  “Help!” the woman screamed. “I’m being attacked.”

  People stopped and turned, some making their way toward the confrontation.

  The man thrust her away and ran off down the street, raising his phone to his ear.

  Hanson stayed off the main streets, keeping an eye out for CCTV. She tagged onto the back of small groups when she could, mingling with strangers. The clothes, cheap and tacky as they were, had given her a temporary new identity. She was able to be someone else. She had to become someone else. For the moment she felt free and invisible.

  Hanson ran up the stairs to her flat. Rod’s keys lay in the bowl. He was in. Adrenaline was still pumping through her veins, and her emotions were on fire.

  “How was work?” Rod called out. He was sitting in the lounge, reading a Scientific American magazine.

  She picked up the magazine and threw it away.

  “Hey, I was reading that.”

  She pulled off his glasses and threw them on the floor. She straddled his body, peeled off her top, grasped his shirt and ripped it open. The buttons scattered in random directions. She leaned forward and sank her teeth into his neck.

  32

  THE DEVICE SAT there looking at him. He could feel it staring, mocking him. He had failed with the boy, and the woman was still running free; the plans were slipping and snapping. He was a failure, just like the others. He picked up the device and crushed it within his fist. It burned and he screamed out in pain, flinging it back onto the desk.

  You’re not worthy.

  “I am worthy,” he mumbled. “Life’s never been fair, never given me a chance.”

  Failure. Time is running out and you’re a failure.

  “I’m doing my best,” he whimpered.

  The device sat quietly.

  “Why couldn’t it be me? Just once pick me.”

  He could hear the laughing. It was like a child’s. It derided and belittled him. You’re not worthy. The words echoed in his head in a taunting tune. You’re not worthy. He went to throw the device out the window, but his arm collapsed by his side. Tears rolled down his face. It fell to the floor, bouncing out of view.

  You’re not worthy. You should be ashamed of who you are.

  “I’m not ashamed.”

  Liar. Failure.

  “Why can’t I be me?”

  He clenched his fists. The device … the device. He stared at his hand. Where was it? He swung around and swept his hand over the table, knocking away the paperwork. Photographs scattered onto the floor. The device was missing.

  “Don’t leave me.”

  He dropped to his knees and searched the concrete floor, sweeping his hands over the red chalk dust. His hands knocked against a sharp edge and the device skidded into view. He clutched it to his chest.

  “Don’t leave me. I’ll do what you want, be who you want me to be.” A tear rolled down his face as he rocked back and forth.

  Get it right and you can be whomever you want.

&nb
sp; 33

  “YOU LOOKED FLUSHED,” Chambers said. “You all right?”

  She glared at him in the night air. Her thoughts were running out of control as she pictured them together. Her moment with Rod had not ended well, unfulfilled and embarrassing. Midnight was approaching and the courtyard in front of The National Archives was open and empty. The lights were out. They were alone. She could jump him. No one would know.

  “Fine,” she squeaked.

  “Why are you wearing the hat and scarf? Don’t tell me. Why are we here?”

  She cleared her throat. “Electronic records are easy to delete or alter from anywhere in the world. These old, dusty parchments can’t be tampered with.”

  “We’re not on a date?”

  “Why would you say that?” She felt her face redden. Lucky it was dark.

  “Your moves back in the alley.”

  “No. Never. Good Lord, no. That was just a ruse to throw them off the, er, scent.” She almost hissed the word.

  “What am I going to do with all these condoms?” He patted his pocket.

  “Eh? What? You didn’t bring—”

  “Just having a laugh. You should see your face.”

  “That’s not the kind of protection we’re going to need tonight.” She scowled and stalked off.

  “Pity,” Chambers whispered. She didn’t hear it and didn’t see the flash of disappointment.

  Hanson knocked on the service door at the rear of the large building. A minute later it was opened, revealing half the round face of a young woman. Her expression was framed by long black hair. A set of oversized glasses perched on her nose.

  “You didn’t say you’d have company.” The woman’s eyes glittered in the moonlight as they roamed over Chambers’ muscular form.

  “Maud, this is DI Chambers. He’s assisting with the case.” Hanson felt a little put out having to explain herself.

  Chambers gave her a glare. “Assisting?”