The Faceless Stratagem (Tombs Book 2)

by Robert Scott-Norton

  “It’s going to explode!” Payne called, and seized his friends’ arms, yanking them back into the garden. He turned to roar at John pressing against the door. “Move it..”

  The blast knocked Payne and the others to the floor. Heat raced up his back and caught the exposed skin on his neck. Debris from the destroyed shed fell around them.

  Carter recovered first and turned to face the blast site. When Payne turned around he realised his warning had come far too late to save John.

  John hadn’t stood a chance.

  22

  7th May 2013

  Linwood lingered at the back of the gallery, metres away from the Cezanne she’d come to view. Against all odds, the National Gallery had opened its doors today and Linwood couldn’t help but be a little surprised. Even with all the uncertainty the crisis had inflicted on the country, normalcy was a natural failsafe setting for many. The capital didn’t shut its doors just because of a little thing like a failed alien invasion—not that the public knew that.

  Linwood used to come here with her grandmother when Linwood was young enough to not have anything to care about other than who was at the top of the singles chart. Her grandmother used to talk about her grandfather who’d never made it back home after the war.

  As a girl with busy working parents, Linwood often found herself in the care of her grandmother and a trip to the galleries was a special treat. Not for the art itself, but for the journey and the attention she’d get from her grandmother just spending time with her. Standing in front of Cézanne’s Les Grandes Baigneuses, she could remember sitting on this exact bench sucking her way through a bag of aniseed balls and listening to her grandmother’s stories.

  Now, though, there was something uncanny about the painting. The smell of the wax from the wooden floor wrapped up her senses and the hushed tones of visitors discussing the qualities of Cezanne’s art melted into her subconscious. Today, as she gazed at the bathers in the painting, the earth tones and the darkening sky, she saw isolation. An assortment of survivors huddling together for protection. Then, as she stepped nearer, passing through the throng, her shoes scuffing the floor, she saw the delicate brush strokes as something different. Not all the characters faced out from the painting, but those that did had rough blurred features. She shuddered at the association her brain had made and rushed from the room and into the next gallery, sitting down on a bench staring at the floor where the light from the window sliced patterns.

  Kingston had been unusually cruel in his assessment but that seemed out of character and made her question her own instinct. Taking on the role of an adviser to Department 5 when she should be leading the investigation was a serious slap in her face but could she really blame him when she had withdrawn from the MI18 situation all those years ago?

  She reached into her pocket and removed the packet of sweets she’d picked up from the newsagents around the corner. She needed time to think.

  Jacqueline Petro was not the model agent that Kingston believed. No one was as perfect as her record suggested. Not a blot on it and yet she was somehow leading one of the most influential and well-funded organisations in the country. But, if Linwood were to stop and ask any of these passers-by if they’d even heard of Department 5, they’d say no. This anonymity was confirmation of the organisation’s success. MI18 may have been there at the beginning when Churchill himself was taking an interest in the unexplainable, but Department 5 had picked up their remit and shown how much they could achieve.

  Seeing funding that she believed MI18 needed get diverted to Department 5 year on year was a factor in her decision to leave her team behind and take up her desk job at Thames House, but it wasn’t the only one. No, those nightmares that refused to fade were a continuous reminder.

  She was interrupted from her tired thoughts by her mobile ringing. Two art lovers glanced in her direction, their hands clasped. Those two had been in the earlier gallery with her. A woman with shoulder-length brown hair, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Her partner, taller, with a belly pushing out his own t-shirt. Close-cropped hair and eyes that were a deadly blue. They hurried past and stopped by the next Cezanne. A dagger of paranoia dug in. It wouldn’t be surprising for Kingston to send a tail after her. Could those two be it?

  She supposed she should be flattered that he thought her an important enough asset to bother tailing. With a practised smile, she glanced at the phone, saw the unrecognised number, and hit answer.

  Chills danced across her neck as a voice from the past spoke to her.

  23

  7th May 2013

  Payne hung up and fetched himself water from the vending machine. The operations room was quiet. Nixon and Carter were both focused on their screens.

  Taylor had been furious as well he might. Another policeman dead. Another inquiry. Another family with a gaping hole.

  Nixon looked up from his desk as Payne crossed the operations room back to his office. The man’s eyes had that glint of steel that implied a result had been had.

  “Sir, I’ve got something you’ll want to see. Carter,” he called across the room to Carter who dropped the Mars bar she’d been eating, and hurried over.

  “What’ve you got?”

  And Nixon showed them. “The CCTV footage has come back from the amusement arcade on the Promenade.”

  The footage had the green tint of night vision and was a low resolution, but there was no mistaking Nixon’s BMW parking in front of the arcade. The timestamp on the footage showed this to be 23:05.

  “Cut to several hours later,” Nixon said. And the timestamp jumped forward several hours as he moved the video to a bookmark he’d already set.

  At first, Payne wondered what it was he was looking at. Nixon’s car hadn’t moved in that time, still parked in front of the arcade where he’d found it with Linwood that morning. But, instead of the sight of his detective, a crowd of drunken revellers broke into shot. The timestamp showed 01:33. Much later than he’d assumed. The camera footage was now showing him events that had occurred after the Jodrell Bank Incident, an hour or so later, two hours perhaps from when he’d left Nixon and Carter at the top of the hatch with the mandate to keep it safe but under no circumstances to enter it.

  His car was still in shot and the revellers had begun to move off frame to the right, heading up the slip road towards the Promenade.

  And as they turned, their profiles caught in the streetlamp and lit their faces.

  They had none.

  Of course they didn’t. They were Faceless not drunks. But, God, there were a lot of them. A couple of dozen must have walked past by now, no three dozen, and they were still coming, drifting in their carefree manner. Potential killers, all of them. He’d seen what havoc these things could cause and how much damage just one of them could accomplish. Hell, one had destroyed the reception area of the police station. Another had blown up half of his house.

  And they were out there, in Southport somewhere, loose and dangerous.

  24

  7th May 2013

  The headache had intensified and no matter what Winborn did to ease the pain it wouldn’t go away. There were probably some pills in one of the research labs that could help, but he was loathed to draw attention to his failing. To have a headache was to admit to a weakness and Winborn couldn’t be seen as being weak in front of his staff. So, he resorted to taking four paracetamol, and several ibuprofen from his desk drawer, swallowing them dry.

  He knew why he was feeling uneasy. It was because he had a scheduled call with the directors in under an hour and he didn’t yet have the information they wanted to hear. Sure, they’d made progress by cleaning up that mess and gained the new asset. But his people were being cautious, and he was willing to give them time to get this right. An accident couldn’t be permitted. It would destroy the reputation of the institute and he would be placed under even more scrutiny from the directors.

  They unsettled him. He’d met all three of the directors only once when they interviewed
him. At the time, he was leading several top teams at CERN in Switzerland and was earning good money. Not that money ever factored into his decision-making process. He spent most of his time at work and only required basic living accommodation. Money was an incidental side-effect of working, not a means to an end like for most people.

  During his interview, he’d been proud of his accomplishments at CERN. Not able to share most of what he’d worked on, he could talk about research that had already made it into the public domain, and only hints about his other projects. They didn’t seem interested in the project work though and it was the shortest interview for such a prestigious role he’d ever had. He’d been in their presence for less than half an hour and when he left, he assumed they’d written him off as a terrible candidate, but they hadn’t. Within an hour of the meeting, he received confirmation of his appointment at double the salary he was expecting. Talk about being headhunted. It was almost like they’d decided he was the man for the job before they’d even spoken to him.

  Once in place as the director of the TALOS Institute, he oversaw the expansion plan and the hiring of over two hundred people, including a large contingent of security personnel. At CERN, security was tight, but everything here was multiplied. They’d designed the bio-signature scanners that authorised access, and the multi-speed quantum computers that ran the security systems.

  The collaboration with Department 5 was a shock. After one of his weekly remote progress meetings with the directors, they announced that TALOS had secured a new government contract to work with Department 5, a clandestine branch of the security service. He’d heard of them despite their secrecy although he knew few people in the country even knew they existed. Like MI18 before them, they had achieved a somewhat mythical status.

  Working with Department 5 had been the most challenging part of his career so far. Not the work, that was rudimentary, supplying them with tools and equipment beyond what any other contractor could offer. No, the most challenging part was working with Jaq Petro. That woman... He’d never had to control his impatience so much as when he was in her presence. Demanding, enquiring. She always wanted to know what was going on under the TALOS roof. Yes, some of her personnel were on permanent assignment here, but that didn’t give her the automatic right to have access to research programs across the board. She didn’t seem to have gotten that memo though.

  He knew today’s meeting with the directors would be an important one. They’d scheduled two hours rather than their usual thirty minutes and asked for an update on all projects concerning the Jodrell Bank Incident and Project Lantern. If he didn’t know any better, he would wonder whether this sudden interest meant anything. It was a coup for TALOS to be working alongside Department 5 on the investigation. This would give them access to some fascinating information. And there was another fringe benefit to this.

  Max Harding.

  The directors wanted hourly progress reports on their investigation into him. They knew more than they were saying; he was sure of it. And he was also sure they knew about Max Harding before he’d ever got to Westminster. He didn’t know what to make of it though and didn’t feel comfortable raising his query with them. He’d learnt from experience to never ask more than he should. The directors had a way of making you want to crawl deep inside your skin.

  But, if Max Harding was special, his team could not determine in what way he was special. It was connected to his wife Cindy, and whatever happened on top of the Lovell Telescope but he didn’t know what it could be. They’d told him he was possibly contaminated with something but they’d been unable to detect any pathogen, nor was Max displaying any symptoms.

  The mystery infuriated him. Still, he vowed that he would get to the bottom of this.

  He suddenly got an urge to vomit and ran to his en suite bathroom. After voiding his stomach, the toilet flushed automatically, and he leant back on the basin, hating the tugging in his stomach. He turned and cupped some water from the tap and used it to swill his mouth out, and then used a little more to splash on his face.

  Just before he left the bathroom, he glanced up at his reflection. It was a face he’d seen thousands of times before but in that instance; it looked unfamiliar like he was looking out of eyes that weren’t his own. And then there was something else.

  A flash of silver washed over the fronts of his eyes and then was gone again.

  25

  7th May 2013

  It was early evening by the time Linwood got back to Southport. She headed straight for the park that Pauline had suggested, and as she walked along the meandering path around the lake she marvelled again at the robustness of the world. Here there were still families out and about. People exercising their dogs. Children playing tag amongst the trees. A family with two young boys were standing at the water’s edge, with a bag of bread they were dealing out to the ducks.

  The air was getting brisk, and she sank her hands in her pockets, locking her arms by her sides as she hurried to the cafe at the far end by the playground. A board outside the service hatch proclaimed the cafe to be shut. Frustrated, she turned around to look for Pauline and spotted her approaching from the opposite side of the playground.

  It had been years since she’d last met Charlie’s wife—widow now—and she was disturbed by how much she’d changed. Her hair was now completely grey with no attempt to mask it. She’d lost a lot of weight too, but she looked no better for it. The plumpness had helped her stay youthful, but without the weight, her skin had begun to sag.

  “Alice?” Pauline said as she drew near. A timid smile flickered on her lips and then went. “It’s been too long.”

  Linwood bent in slightly and the women embraced in a gentle perfunctory hug. “I’m sorry about Charlie.”

  They broke apart and Pauline stepped away, a glistening of moisture at the corner of her eyes. Shaking her head, she shied away and sat on a picnic bench. “I don’t understand what happened. The police have only told me he was shot and died pretty much instantly.”

  Linwood wanted to tell Pauline everything but even if she could tell her what she knew, she had doubts about whether it would help her. “I don’t know what transpired to Charlie. It was all taken care of by the police,” Linwood said delicately.

  “Oh, I know full well the police were involved. I had Payne come around and break the news to me personally.”

  “DI Payne?”

  A hesitation. Pauline sniffed. “Yes. He’s been our friend for years. Charlie worked on several cases for him over the years. Do you know him?”

  “No.” Linwood was dismayed at how readily the lie came to her lips, and at how cruel it tasted.

  Pauline scratched the side of her nose. “I know it was something to do with MI18. It had to be. Charlie called me the day before he died—wanted to chat. He never wanted to just chat. Something was on his mind. Something had frightened him. I haven’t heard him like that since—”

  Linwood nodded. She knew exactly what Pauline was referring to and once again wondered at Charlie’s indiscretion. If the man wasn’t dead, she would have had him charged with violating the Official Secrets Act.

  Pauline went on. “There was the body found under the pier. Charlie told me he’d been on the scene and it was something awful. And then there was the thing at Jodrell Bank.” She broke off and put her hands in front of her face. Her shoulders trembled as the restrained emotions finally burst loose.

  Linwood placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “You know I can’t tell you what you want to know but I can tell you some of it. Charlie wasn’t working for MI18 when he died. I wasn’t either. But, his death was connected with the Jodrell Bank Incident. I understand he died trying to prevent more bloodshed.”

  When Pauline lifted her hands away Linwood flinched.

  And then, suddenly, another person was behind Linwood, a thick blunt object pressed into the small of her back. “I wouldn’t want you to make any hasty attempts to escape. To tell you the truth, I'm very shaken up by what�
��s occurred. So shaken up in fact, that any sudden movement and I might just pull the trigger.”

  That voice. The deep throaty rasps of a man she hadn’t seen in five years.

  “Hello, Dean. Where’ve you been hiding?”

  26

  7th May 2013

  The newcomer straddled a leg over the bench and leant an elbow on the table—the Glock held beneath the table line, pointed directly at Linwood’s middle.

  Pauline gasped and made as if to move from her spot, but Dean shot her a look. “Stay put, Pauline. I wouldn’t want any accidents to happen.”

  “You said you wouldn’t hurt her,” Pauline said. And then, suddenly things clicked into place. This wasn’t a coincidence—Pauline had been expecting him.

  Linwood appraised the man she’d once considered a close ally. His clothes looked ragged like he’d slept in them. His stubble was at least three days old. His hairline had receded considerably since the last time she’d seen him. But those pale blue eyes hadn’t changed one bit. They proclaimed a youthful vigour that the crow lines around the edges betrayed.

  “You’re looking tired,” Linwood said.

  “You’re looking stressed,” he replied. “But not surprised.”

  “After these last few days, I doubt anything will surprise me again.”

  He bobbed his head, the eyes darted across to a young family on the swings. They were getting off, ready to head in a new direction. Linwood prayed they wouldn’t come closer. She had business to finish with Dean and didn’t want to risk any collateral damage. It was at moments like these that she wished she carried a weapon with her. Her status would permit her to, but she’d never felt comfortable carrying a concealed weapon.