Cry Darkness

by Hilary Bonner

  He grabbed his phone and made a call from the top of his favourites’ list. After several rings a familiar voice answered.

  ‘It’s the middle of the night, Mikey.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Johnson,’ replied Mikey trying desperately not to let either the pain or the panic he was experiencing show in his voice. ‘I have an emergency situation here, sir.’

  Mr Johnson had been in bed with his wife, at their home in a peaceful residential district of Washington D.C., when he took the call. His mobile phone was always with him and he was prepared to answer it at any time of the day or night. He had to be. Mr Johnson was unique. A one-off. He operated in areas almost everyone he came into contact with, including his superiors, preferred not to know about.

  Mr Johnson could never be off duty. He didn’t mind. He liked being in a position of almost absolute power. When even the senior echelons of government in your country prefer not to acknowledge your existence, then you can pretty much do what you like. As long as you don’t get caught out.

  The power Mr Johnson was able to exert on his sole authority was actually rather shocking. And he had never been caught out yet.

  Mr Johnson was used to waking up quickly. He had to be. He climbed out of bed and carried his phone into the bathroom so that he could talk freely. Mr Johnson trusted nobody. Not even his wife.

  He sat on the toilet seat and reached into the cabinet beneath the washbasin for the packet of black cheroots he kept there, tucked away at the back. It was not uncommon for him to find it necessary to retreat into the bathroom in this manner in the middle of the night, and he believed that the little cigars helped him think more clearly.

  Holding the phone in one hand, he removed a cheroot with the other and lit up. Acrid smoke almost immediately filled the small room. With the cheroot still between his lips Mr Johnson leaned sideways to open the window as wide as possible, otherwise, in the morning, his wife would make his life a misery. All the while he murmured soothing noises into the phone. It was vital that he calmed Mikey MacEntee down, assured him he would be taken care of, indeed told him almost everything he wanted to hear. And Mr Johnson was good at that sort of thing.

  But when he ended the call Mr Johnson felt unusually ill at ease. Mikey was not going to be any use at all from now on. That was patently obvious. In any case Mikey was a lightweight, a Bureau joke, who had only ever been of use because of his connections with areas of scientific innovation the US government had always liked to keep under close observation. Which, of course, the Bureau had known about when they’d hired him. And this operation was not turning out the way Mr Johnson had planned at all. It had originally seemed so simple, in his mind a perfectly straightforward case of confronting anything or anyone that might ultimately constitute a threat to America. Of putting a stop to the enemy within. But the initial mistake, of somehow allowing that mad woman scientist Connie Pike to escape the RECAP explosion, had led to a catalogue of disasters. Not least the continued interference of the troublesome Englishwoman.

  Extreme measures were called for. Radical decisions must be made. Drastic action had to be taken. And quickly.

  Mr Johnson was used to working alone. But sometimes he was confronted with matters of such international import that even he knew better than to even attempt to do so.

  Mr Johnson stood up, flushed the end of his cheroot down the toilet, and sprayed the bathroom with air freshener. Then he sat down again on the toilet seat and lit another cheroot.

  There were several phone calls, all overseas, which he had to make before giving the orders he hoped would end this affair once and for all.

  Mr Johnson checked his watch. It was two a.m., outside normal office hours in Europe as well as in the US. That didn’t matter. Mr Johnson first dialled a number in the United Kingdom of someone who could be regarded as his British equivalent, or as near as would ever be possible. A lone operator who believed the security of his nation rested squarely on his shoulders. A patriot of the old school. A man who also was never off duty.

  SEVENTEEN

  Meanwhile Jones and Ed headed northwards out of New York City towards the New Jersey Turnpike and the succession of freeways which would take them virtually all the way to the border and on to Montreal.

  Jones had done most of the journey before, from Princeton, when as one of a group of impoverished post-graduate students she had driven to Montreal for a weekend convention. But that had been long ago. She knew, however, that the drive should take little more than six hours, particularly as they were travelling during the early hours of the morning, however, not daring to use satnav in case they were tracked, it was not out of the question that they might take a wrong turning. They were both bone tired too.

  They set off from the centre of Manhattan around two a.m., at almost exactly the same time as Mikey made his call to Mr Johnson, and three hours later had not quite travelled halfway when Jones decided that she just had to turn into a rest area to sleep for a bit.

  Ed seemed even more wiped out than she was, and although he offered to take a turn at the wheel Jones declined. Ed had never been much of a driver, and, judging from his earlier spell at the wheel, the stress of the night’s events appeared to have turned him into a liability. In any case she saw no reason not to stop for a while, as she was pretty sure there wouldn’t be any flights back to the UK from Montreal’s Trudeau Airport until late afternoon or early evening.

  They also needed fuel, and Jones congratulated herself on having drawn so much cash out of that Manhattan cashpoint two days earlier. It was more important than ever not to leave a credit card trail. She just hoped she had enough to also pay for their air tickets in cash.

  Ultimately they arrived at Trudeau just after noon. Crossing into Canada from the United States had been as easy as Jones had remembered. Immigration and customs procedures between the two countries remained cursory. Border control on the freeway felt and looked much the same as passing through a toll road pay station. Jones and Ed had briefly shown their passports to the Canadian officials, confirmed they were not carrying illegal drugs or livestock, and been waved on their way.

  Jones thought that the airport also felt much more relaxed than either US or British airports, since 9/11 certainly. There was little visible sign of armed security presence, and nobody took the slightest notice of her or Ed.

  The street shoot-out involving Gaynor, and the revelation that she was a cop, had been the final straw for Jones. Her nerve had gone and she just couldn’t wait to leave North America.

  Ed desperately wanted to try to contact Mikey, and also his Princeton neighbour to explain, as best he could, about the car, and to ask him to keep Jasper a little longer. But Jones talked him out of it.

  ‘No unnecessary risks, not at this stage, please,’ she said. ‘Let’s not contact anyone until we’re safely in the UK.’

  To her relief, she did indeed have just enough cash left to buy the cheapest tickets for the next available flight to Heathrow, which she was told would arrive just after six a.m. the following morning. She waited until the last possible moment before booking, so that her and Ed’s names would be on the Air Canada passenger list for only a short period of time before departure.

  Nonetheless, they were both on tenterhooks going through security and passport control, but everything passed without incident.

  Only when finally aboard, and the aircraft had begun taxying for take-off, did Jones breathe a huge sigh of relief. She really was going home.

  The aircraft was packed, and Jones realized that she had become somewhat spoiled. She wasn’t used to flying economy any more. In addition her entire body was still sore from the battering it had received over the last few days. Yet in spite of her discomfort, her exhaustion was such that she quickly fell asleep, and did not waken until shortly before arrival at Heathrow, when she was disturbed by the dubious antics of some of her fellow passengers who had learned that a certain Hollywood superstar and his new bride were travelling in first class. One
young woman actually sank to her knees in the aisle, as she begged a flight attendant to acquire an autograph for her.

  Jones couldn’t wait to disembark, and being on British soil again almost magically restored at least a degree of her usual self-confidence. Her unfortunate experiences in Princeton and New York began to acquire a veneer of unreality. Suddenly she felt ready to deal with almost anything that needed dealing with. She was Dr Sandy Jones, celebrated academic and media personality, and this was her territory.

  Ed walked silently by her side through UK immigration and customs. Jones noticed how white and drawn he still was. He’d always been such a gentle man. It was no surprise, really, that he’d proved to be even less able to deal with violent mayhem than she was. She felt a rush of concern and affection for him.

  Impulsively she took his hand in hers and squeezed. He glanced at her in surprise, but did manage the ghost of a smile.

  And it was at that moment that the two of them were engulfed in the blinding light of a host of camera flashes. A group of photographers gathered in the arrivals hall were rattling off shot after shot.

  ‘Who’s the new man, Dr Jones?’ shouted one.

  ‘What about a kiss for the cameras, Sandy?’ called another.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ muttered Jones under her breath.

  ‘What’s happening, Sandy?’ asked Ed, leaning to whisper in her ear, thus causing the photographers to snap away all the more furiously.

  ‘Have the FBI put these guys onto us or something? Or MI5? Why are they photographing us?’

  Ed’s mind was, perhaps understandably, still back in the place they had come from, a place occupied by spooks, special agents, and unidentified hitmen. He appeared to have no awareness at all that the two of them had stepped unwittingly into a completely different world.

  ‘Paparazzi,’ muttered Jones through clenched teeth. ‘Just keep walking. Fast as you can. My car should be outside by now. I called the valet service as soon as we landed.’

  One snapper leapt in front of them then, thrusting his camera so aggressively close to Jones that she was nearly hit in the face by the protruding lens. Her nerves were still not in a good state. It was only with difficulty that she resisted the urge to lash out, but she knew perfectly well that a loss of control was what paparazzi photographers sought more than anything else. Jones was not only a public figure in the UK, but also a highly eligible single woman. She was used to any hint of romance in her life attracting attention. She had never before, however, faced a barrage on quite this scale – the Nikon choir, as a former Fleet Street picture editor of her acquaintance referred to it. And she’d had absolutely no reason to expect such a reception on her unannounced return to the UK. Then it dawned on her.

  The assembled paparazzi were not there to meet her. They were after the Hollywood superstar and his new bride. To them Sandy Jones and a mystery male companion were merely a bonus.

  But for her and Ed, this now almost certain imminent exposure in the tabloid press could spell potential disaster.

  Once in the Lexus Jones explained to Ed what had been going on and why she thought it had happened.

  ‘I didn’t know you were such a big star,’ he remarked.

  ‘The power of television,’ she replied. ‘But only by default in this case. Same result though, unfortunately.’

  ‘Will we be in the papers here tomorrow, then?’

  ‘Almost certainly,’ Jones muttered. ‘And on line before that.’

  ‘So it will be common knowledge that we’re here. Won’t we be in just as much danger as in America?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ replied Jones, hoping she was speaking the truth. ‘We’ve no reason to think anyone followed us here, or even that whoever is trying to kill Connie is set up to hit on us here. This is Britain, Ed.’

  ‘Yes,’ he riposted. ‘One of the world’s greatest terrorist targets. The Russians even splashed a deadly poison around one of your great cities. Or do you still believe in an England where bobbies ride bicycles and criminals say: “It’s a fair cop, guv”?’

  Jones flashed a grim smile.

  ‘Touché. We do have a secret weapon, though.’

  ‘We do?’

  ‘That lot back there,’ she said, cocking a thumb in the direction of the terminal building they had just left. ‘We’re almost certainly going to have a press presence at my place soon. I put it to you that we might be slightly less likely to be murdered or kidnapped with Fleet Street’s finest on watch outside our front door. And dodging the press sure beats running for your life.’

  Ed looked startled.

  ‘Is your love life of that much interest?’ he asked.

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘And you really believe there’s no other reason for the paparazzi to mob us? And that it has nothing to do with Connie, and RECAP, and Marion, and all of that?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I see,’ said Ed, although Jones doubted that he did.

  By the time they got to Reading, Ed was asleep. Jones switched on the radio and tuned in to BBC Radio Four in order to help keep herself alert. They had a clear run and, even though Jones stopped for half an hour so that they could stretch their legs and buy coffee and sandwiches, arrived at Northdown House well before midday. So far there appeared to be no press presence.

  ‘Not a bad little place,’ murmured Ed as they motored through the electric security gates. ‘What views!’

  Jones remembered Ed’s unprepossessing Princeton apartment, and thought there might be a little edge in his voice, but ignored it.

  As she pulled the car to a halt, she used the fob on her key ring to disengage the burglar alarm.

  ‘I see you don’t rely entirely on press protection,’ Ed continued.

  ‘You can’t depend on them being around 24/7,’ replied Jones wryly. ‘And TV exposure does lead those with an inclination toward burglary to think your house must be Aladdin’s cave.’

  Once inside Ed asked straight away if he could use her computer to email Mikey. Jones saw no harm in that. Not now they were out of the USA. And, after all, their whereabouts was already in the process of being made public by the great British press.

  ‘In spite of everything, I can’t help still wanting to know if the little bastard is all right after the shooting,’ said Ed. ‘And I also want an explanation. I want him to tell me what is going on, and exactly what part he has played in it all.’

  Jones didn’t think that there was much chance of that, but none the less showed Ed to her office and switched on her desktop Mac. He said he’d better email his long-suffering neighbour too.

  ‘Tell him I’ll pay for a recovery service to get his car back to him,’ said Jones. ‘It’s the least we can do.’

  When Ed had finished his emailing she escorted him to her best guest room.

  ‘You may like to have a shower and a rest,’ she said. ‘I’m going to the university to check if the package has arrived. Help yourself to anything you want from the kitchen. I’ll make sure all the alarms are on. You will be safe here.’

  Everything at the university seemed almost disconcertingly normal. Clearly nobody had any idea of what Jones had been involved in on the other side of the Atlantic. But she had known they wouldn’t. Not yet. She’d tried again to camouflage the injuries to her face with make-up. Nonetheless one or two people commented on her bruised and battered appearance. She muttered something vague about being involved in a freeway pile-up. Other than that it was just like any other day. On the surface.

  The package hadn’t arrived. She supposed it had been overly optimistic to have thought it might have done. She was just going to have to be patient. She tried to deal with some of the messages and other mail awaiting her, but found it virtually impossible.

  She decided to check if her and Ed’s arrival at Heathrow had made it online yet. The Mail had indeed already posted a picture of the two of them, alongside a headline asking: ‘Is this Dr Jones’s new love?’

  ‘Shit!’
muttered Jones.

  She knew that as ‘the thinking man’s crumpet’ she was very much Daily Mail fodder. All the same, it must be a really poor news day, she reflected. There was also a close up of her battered and bruised face next to a strap-line asking: ‘Whatever happened to Sandy?’

  Her and Ed’s whereabouts was certainly public knowledge now. Which was only as she had expected. But, in spite of her assurances to Ed, she could not imagine that they would be totally safe anywhere in the world.

  However, within the next day or so Jones would hopefully be studying Paul Ruders’ theory of the mystery of consciousness. She would have access to probably the greatest scientific work of her lifetime. Maybe, even, the greatest and most far-reaching scientific work there had ever been. In spite of everything she could not suppress a certain excitement rising within her.

  But somewhere in America, Connie Pike was in hiding. Her safety, if indeed she was still safe, at least partially depended on Jones and what she did next. On how she handled the revelatory scientific discovery which might soon be in her grasp. And at that moment she had absolutely no idea what she was going to do.

  She returned to Northdown not long after six. Ed was still in his room. He emerged about an hour later.

  ‘Did it arrive?’ he asked.

  Jones shook her head. ‘I’d have called you straight away.’

  She asked if he had received a reply to either of his emails.

  ‘Nothing from Mikey, unfortunately,’ he said. ‘Heard from my neighbour. I only told him the barest details, obviously, but I think his involvement, by default, in our dash to Canada and then back to the UK, might be the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to him. He took it all rather well, and is happy to look after Jasper for as long as it takes.’