Blackout

by Chris Ryan

  'Can you stand?' whispered the man.

  Josh struggled to his feet. His knees felt soft and flabby, as if the bone had been taken out of them, and his feet were having trouble keeping a grip on the ground. The man Hung an arm around his shoulder, hauling him upwards. Josh clung on to him, as if he was hanging on to a lifebelt in a stormy sea. Slowly, they inched their way across the hole's floor to where the rope was dangling.

  Who the hell are you? wondered Josh. What are you doing here?

  'Think you can climb?'

  I can hardly bloody stand up, pal, thought Josh. But I could climb the sodding Eiffel Tower if it meant escaping from this hell.

  'I don't know,' he said. 'I'll try.' '

  'I'll stand behind you, and help push you up.'

  Josh gripped the rope. He reckoned he'd scaled a million different ropes in his life, and this one was only twelve feet long, lying against a dried-mud wall with plenty of grip in it. It shouldn't be any harder than climbing a staircase. Unless your body had been shot to pieces by two days of torture.

  216

  He clamped his right hand around the rope, followed by his left. His grip was limp and feeble. Summoning up all his powers of concentration, he squeezed hard on the rope and started to drag himself upwards. His shoulders were buckling under the strain, and his bones felt as if they'd been stretched on a rack. You can do this, he told himself silently. One burst of effort and then you'll be free.

  Josh could feel the man beneath him using his back to help support Josh's weight. He gripped harder on the rope, hauling himself upwards foot by foot. He could see the lip of the hole, just two feet away. Kicking down, he rested his feet on the other man's back, using his support to help lever himself another few inches upwards.

  Maybe Kate sent him, thought Josh. Maybe he's one of Marshall's survivalist friends.

  His fingers grabbed up towards the edge. Below him, the other man was now climbing up the rope himself, still using the strength in his back to help propel Josh upwards. For a thin man, he had the toughness of a person twice his size. Josh's nails dug into the hardened mud at the surface. Above him, he could see the night sky. He levered himself up another few inches, bringing his eyes level with the ground. One more heave, he told himself. And I'll be free.

  Josh had no idea what might be waiting for him once he got out of the hole. He didn't even know where he had been imprisoned: he assumed it was in the biker's camp, but he had no way of telling for sure. If there was anyone guarding the site, he had. to assume that he'd be shot on sight.

  I'll take my chances. Right now, a bullet is a fate I'd gladly settle for.

  His gaze swivelled first right, then left. A grunt escaped from his lips as, with one last effort from his tortured muscles, he dragged himself over the edge. The hole had been dug about fifty yards from the main camp. He could

  217

  see the tents and the shacks, and the parked rows of gleaming, chrome-laden motorbikes, but little sign of life. Judging by the position of the moon, it was three or four in the morning: the dead of night. About ten yards from the hole a man was lying face down in the dust. A knife was sticking out of his back. And a trickle of blood was seeping down into the ground.

  The night guard, reckoned Josh. At his side lay the controller used to trigger the stun belt.

  'Go,' whispered the man below him. 'We haven't got much time.'

  That accent, thought Josh. Not quite English, and not quite American either. I can't place it.

  Josh scrambled onto the surface. Within an instant, the man was lying at his side. 'There,' he said. 'There's a horse behind that boulder. Think you can make it?'

  Josh nodded. I'd run right across a bed of razor blades in my bare feet to get out of this place.

  His feet kicked back against the ground. The strength is always there when you need it, he reflected as he started running the two hundred metres towards the boulder. Sometimes it's buried so deep that you don't even know it is there. But if you can dig it out, you can survive.

  Josh didn't look back as he ran. He just sped forwards, ignoring the pain in his legs. The breath came hard and heavy in his lungs but he kept going. The other man was running at his side. A little over fifty yards, he told himself. Then you'll have escaped. A

  The horse was an elegant grey stallion, the side of its neck dotted with brown freckles. Josh didn't know much about horses, but he could tell at a glance that this one was built for speed. A leather rein tethered the animal to the stump of a tree, and the horse was idly chewing some of the weeds sprouting through the rocky ground.

  On this terrain, there could be no better getaway vehicle.

  218

  w

  'Get on its back,' said the man. 'This isn't going to be comfortable, but it is going to be quick.'

  The man got up on the horse first, pulling himself up in one swift, well-practised movement. I've seen him, thought Josh. Somewhere. There was no saddle, just a cloth slung over its back. Nor were there any stirrups, just a leather bridle and rein.

  The man grabbed Josh's hand, yanking him upwards. Again, Josh was impressed by the power he packed into his slight frame. Josh landed on the horse's back and sat astride the animal, clinging on to his rescuer's shoulders.

  'Hold on tight,' whispered the man. Then he delivered a swift kick to the stallion's side and suddenly they were in motion. Josh gripped hard, adjusting to the rhythm of the gallop. He could feel the adrenalin surging through him as he looked backwards and saw the biker's camp receding into the background.

  I'll be back, he vowed. And when I return my hands will drip with your blood.

  The stallion sped over the open countryside. Josh had little idea where he was going. He clung on tight, grateful to be breathing free air again. His body had taken a terrible beating. Hunger and thirst were eating away at him, but he sensed that if he could just get clear of this place then he might survive. Right now, that's all that counts, he thought. Survival.

  The horse was sure-footed and the man was an expert enough rider to steer it through the rough terrain. They were heading north, Josh noted, up towards the heartlands of Arizona. He glanced back a couple of times, but the getaway had been clean enough. If the bikers had found their murdered guard by now, then they hadn't sent out a search party yet. Even if they did, it should be too late by now. The stallion was putting good distance between them and the camp, and taking them across terrain that couldn't be covered on a bike.

  fc

  219

  My rescuer can ride fast, noted Josh. Without stirrups.

  Something sparked in Josh's mind. Without stirrups?

  The animal whinnied beneath them, then halted as the man tugged on its reins. 'Here,' he said, pointing down towards a dark pool of water between some rocks.'He needs to drink. So do you.'

  The horse had already stuck his muzzle into the pool, and was taking huge draughts of the water. Josh climbed down uneasily, careful not to hit the ground too hard. He walked unsteadily towards the pool. His legs were shaking beneath him. Keeping to a straight line required all his concentration. Slowly, he knelt down.The thirst was burning within him, but he knew that after two days without water he had to be careful. Too much, too quickly would be damaging. Just a few sips.

  The man was standing at his side. 'Drink, drink,' he "said. 'It'll do you good.'

  Josh dipped his hand into the water. It felt cool and refreshing. He lifted his hand and let the water trickle across his face. Next, he used his fingers to rub some of the liquid into his lips. The skin was cracked and parched, and stung at the touch of the fluid. Gradually he started to lick some of the water out of his hands, letting just a few drops at a time into his mouth.

  He felt dizzy and disorientated. I haven't slept for two days, he reminded himself.

  The horse was finishing its drink, raising its head from the pool and chewing on a clump of weeds. No stirrups, thought Josh again. Why does that keep bothering me?

  Josh looked again at
the man. He was holding on to the reins of the horse, the leather held tight in his grip. The black bandanna was still strapped tight around the lower half of his face, masking him from view.

  Josh took another sip of water, letting the cool liquid settle inside him. He could feel it affecting his ragged, elec

  220

  trocuted nerve endings, making his body tingle. Arabia, he thought to himself. That's where men learn to ride horses without stirrups. Arabia. Josh looked down into the pool. In a shaft of moonlight, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection. He scarcely recognised the man looking back at him. There was several more days' growth of beard and his hair was matted with sweat and streaks of blood. His skin was pallid, and there were scratches all down the side of his cheek. But it was the eyes that shocked Josh the most. They had a hunted, scared look.

  Suddenly, Josh could see the face of his rescuer reflected next to his own in the pool. I've seen you before, he repeated to himself. The man who'd been staying in the Motel 6, the one who had said he was an Italian, the one who Madge gave me a picture of.

  You're not an Italian. You're alQaeda.

  Josh turned around, looking up into the man's face. He tried to smile, but his lips were still too cracked. 'Thank you for rescuing me.'

  The man raised his hand. 'You won't be thanking me soon,' he replied.

  The hand slammed into the side of Josh's face. He could feel himself growing dizzy. His body wobbled and in the next instant he crashed face down into the cold water.

  in

  221

  SEVENTEEN

  Saturday, June 13th. Afternoon.

  The light hit Josh's face. He struggled to open his eyes, adjusting his vision to the sunshine streaming in through the open window. Blinking hard, he looked around. A white room. A white bed.With white sheets. And a white towelling bath robe wrapped around him.

  Where the hell am I now? A hospital, maybe.

  He sat bolt upright, feeling his body ache as he stretched himself forwards. It took him a moment to collect his thoughts. My name is Josh Harding, he told himself. I am a British soldier. And, right now, I'm in some serious shit.

  His memories came flooding back, filling his mind with a hundred different bits of information at the same time. He had been captured by the bikers. He'd been rescued. But his rescuer was, he felt certain, an al-Qaeda agent.

  I haven't been rescued at all. I've just swapped one prison for another.

  Josh paused, taking a moment to asses the damage that had been inflicted upon him in the las� two days. There were plenty of cuts and bruises where he had been punched by Flatner, but probably no permanent damage there. It was the electricity that had taken the heaviest toll. Any damage that might have done would be internal. It might be days before his nervous system was working properly. Maybe never.

  But it doesn't look like a prison, decided Josh, glancing round the room. It was clean. It was light. There was a glass

  222

  T

  of water by the bed. A television sat on a simple wooden stand in one corner. Nothing was holding him down. No chains. No handcuffs. No bars. But it still doesn't mean you're a free man. The worst jails don't look like jails.

  'Are you feeling better this afternoon?'

  Josh looked up. It was the man who had rescued him last night. He was dressed in cream chinos and a dark blue polo shirt. There were touches of grey in his hair. His face, without the bandanna to mask it, had a harder edge to it. It was tough and craggy, and the cheeks bore the marks of old wounds. It was the face of a man who had spent much of his life in combat.

  I've seen you before, Josh realised. And not just in the picture that Madge showed me.

  'I don't know,' said Josh. 'It'll take a few days to learn how badly I'm hurt.'

  A woman stepped into the room. She was dressed all in white: white tunic, white tights, white gloves, white shoes. And she wore a white linen veil across her face. Her dark brown eyes and black hair were the only part of her body that Josh could see. In one hand, she was carrying a bowl of water, in the other some cotton wool and a bottle of

  i

  ' disinfectant.

  'We need to dress those wounds,' said the man.

  The woman remained silent. She leaned over the side of the belt, removing the sheet. Apart from a new pair of boxer shorts, Josh was naked. The woman dabbed the cotton wool into the water, then pressed the bottle of disinfectant to it. Starting with the neck, she started washing the wounds, bruises and scratches on Josh's body. His skin stung as she did so, but her touch was delicate and gentle.

  'What am I doing here?' asked Josh.

  The man raised a finger to his lips. 'Quiet,' he said. 'You need to recover your strength.'

  'I need to know where I am.'

  Ik

  223

  'No, quiet,' said the man. He smiled, flicking on the television. 'Here, watch some television. Try to relax. Get your strength back.'

  Josh lay back on the bed. There was nothing obvious to keep him in place. The man didn't appear to be armed. He couldn't hear any guards outside. Still, he knew that there was no way he could just get up and walk out of here. Sometimes you didn't need to see your jailers. The strongest chains were the invisible ones.

  There was a weather forecast on the television. It was tuned to CNN. Another bright sunny day for Arizona, Josh noticed. At least they haven't taken me out of the country.

  'Our top story this hour,' started the newsreader as soon as the weather forecast had finished. 'Another terrifying Cities Attack. We'll be back with all the details after this break.'

  Josh stared at the television. His chest was stinging where the woman was dabbing disinfectant into the raw flesh of a wound. Maybe one of the places Flatner had kicked him.

  A dog-food advert faded away, then the news started up again. Three o'clock, Josh noted. He'd been asleep for a long time. 'Our top story this hour: another terrifying series of blackouts, this time in the United Kingdom,' started the newsreader. 'At precisely nine this morning, local time, the power was switched off in four British cities. Liverpool, Harrogate, Peterborough and Exeter. In each city, the power went off at just after nine in the morning, and the blackout lasted for precisely one hour. In ^cenes that have become distressingly familiar across the world, there was widespread chaos in each city as the power shut down. Schools and hospitals were closed, traffic ground to a halt, and factories and offices emptied for the day. In Liverpool there was an outbreak of looting as a shopping mall came under attack from an angry mob. Now, almost ten hours later, police are still struggling to bring the city under control.'

  224

  Luke, thought Josh instantly. He's still out there. He's still operating.

  'There is now heightened speculation that the blackouts that started several months ago with the Three Cities Attack are the work of a terrorist network, suspected to be alQaeda,' continued the newsreader. 'Power industry experts are saying it is impossible that the simultaneous shutdowns of so many networks in so many different cities could be a coincidence. The fact that Britain, America's closest ally in the War on Terror, has been targeted has only fuelled speculation that the blackouts are part of the terrorist campaign waged against the West.'

  'Prime Minister Tony Blair issued a statement this afternoon, saying that the nation would not flinch in the face of these attacks, and saying the outrage justified his decision to support the US in the invasion of Iraq. However, Liberal Democrat leader Charles Kennedy said he believed that Britain should now withdraw its troops from Iraq. We'll be back with more reactions to today's events right after this break.'

  The television suddenly went dead. The man put down the remote at the foot of Josh's bed and turned to him, a half-smile playing on his lips. 'So you see, Josh Harding, there is much for us to speak of.'

  The woman had finished with Josh for the time being, dressing the last of his wounds and applying a final plaster to a cut in his skin. She bowed, staying silent, then withdre
w from the room. Josh shut his eyes. Something was happening. An image was sliding behind his closed eyelids, hazy at first, like an out-of-focus picture, but gradually sharpening. A memory.

  Josh struggled to concentrate as the picture hovered in front of him. A concrete room. He was standing in front of someone. Josh was dressed in white robes, and was dirty and unshaven. The other man was older, dressed in a

  fc

  225

  uniform. He was shouting at him. Josh was shouting back. Bugger it, thought Josh. I can't hear anything. What the hell were we arguing about?

  He kept his eyes closed. He could see himself shouting at the man, then standing up. He was moving across to the wall. A picture was in his hands. He was tearing the picture, throwing the torn strips of paper onto the floor.

  But even though the picture was shredded by his own hands, Josh could see the face clearly enough. The same face that was standing right next to him now. Khalid Azim. One of the most wanted al-Qaeda terrorists in the world.

  'I know who you are,' said Josh, his stare meeting Azim's.

  'I am your rescuer,' said Azim.

  'Your name is Khalid Azim.'

  Azim nodded. 'I'm glad to see that your memory is coming back to you,' he said. 'It should make the next few hours so much easier.' He paused. 'For both of us.'

  'I've tried to kill you once,' snapped Josh. 'Next time, I will "Bloody succeed.'

  Azim laughed. 'You don't have much in the way of small talk, do you?' he said. 'Still, never mind. For what we have to discuss, only a few words will be needed.'

  He walked slowly the length of the small room to stand right next to Josh.'I have been tracking you for some weeks, following you from place to place. Even after you were shot, I stuck to you, watching you from afar. It was only after those idiots on bikes took you captive that I realised I had to intervene. They were going to kill you, either on purpose or just through sheer bloody carelessness. And that I couldn't allow. Why? Because I knew that if I followed you, you would eventually lead me to what you know I want.' Azim paused, rubbing his left hand reflectively over his jowls. 'Luke. I want to know where Luke is.'