“No you won’t; these things break quite easily if you apply enough pressure. It’s just hard to do yourself when your hands are behind your back.” Waxtead was wide-eyed and skittish, jumping at every sound and unable to sit down for more than a few seconds. It was hard to keep his attention. It looked like the spring had broken in his brain and was unraveling at speed. “Listen. I’m going to kneel down and you’re going to put your heel right over the ratchet—the little box on the outside of the tie. When I say so, you need to kick down hard and fast with all your weight. Got it?”
He wrinkled his nose as if the idea smelled bad. “They’ll kill us if we try to escape.”
“They’ll kill us anyway. They’re going to make me run their time scam soon. It could be any minute. After that they don’t need this place any more. They disperse, disappear down whatever escape routes they have planned, and they torch this place. With us in it. Do you want to be burned alive?”
He shook his head but it was in denial. “I’m a valuable hostage. That’s what Lee said. Damn that shifty, lying little bastard!”
“Rog, focus. Get my hands free and I’ll free yours. Then we stand some small chance of surviving this.”
She knelt on the ground, facing away from him, bracing her arms against her body, ready to resist the weight of a hundred-kilo man.
“It’s crazy,” Waxtead said but he positioned himself behind her and she felt the hard heel of his shoe against her wrists.
“Remember, jump. Push down as hard and fast as you can. Imagine it’s Lee’s face you’re stomping on.”
“Oh God,” he said and jumped.
There was a second when he was in the air and Sandra clenched her shoulder muscles and abdomen. Then pain shot up through both arms. The unbearable slicing weight of him lasted just a fraction of a second before the plastic tie snapped and her wrists were free. Behind her Waxtead stumbled. He fell against her and trampled on her calf before he got his balance back, stammering apologies. She climbed to her feet quickly to avoid being trampled again, and examined her wrists. They were both cut and bleeding but it didn’t look too bad. The chafed and sore skin all around the cuts was testament to her earlier efforts to snap the tie on her own. Her shoulders hurt after being so long in one, awkward position, but she slowly, carefully eased them back into action.
Waxtead was staring at her bloodied wrists and she could see he was ready to turn down her offer of setting him free. She grabbed him by the arm and turned him, refusing to put up with any nonsense and, with a swift blow from her elbow, snapped the tie. The billionaire yelled in pain but a quick inspection showed there was not even a cut. He cradled his arms, obviously feeling very sorry for himself.
“What now?” he asked, but Sandra was already onto it.
She needed to get out of that room and there was only one way. She stood on a chair and rested her palms against the ceiling. She pushed and it gave slightly. Plasterboard. Like most office space, these rooms in the factory had an artificially low ceiling, allowing room above for air conditioning ducts and wiring. Given the height of the rest of the building, she suspected the gap above her was plenty to crawl around in. She checked for where the plasterboard pieces were nailed and joined, faint indentations that could easily be made out from that angle, and picked a spot well away from the wooden beams that must criss-cross above her. Drawing back one arm, she clenched her fist and punched upwards, fast and hard. Her hand went straight through the fragile board, leaving a small dark hole when she withdrew it, wincing as her already-damaged wrist scraped along the board. The noise had been loud but not too loud, she hoped. She grabbed a piece of the edge and pulled, a handful of plasterboard came away.
She climbed down and pulled Waxtead towards the chair. “OK,” she said. “Get up there and make us a hole big enough to climb through. Try not to make any more noise.”
“What? Me?”
“Well, one of us has to guard the door, in case someone comes in. Which job do you think you’d be better at?”
“You’re that MI5 agent Lee told me about.”
“It took you this long to work that out?” She pulled him closer to the chair. “Come on. We don’t have much time.” She urged him up onto the chair and he stood there looking like he might fall off at any moment.
“Why don’t you just scream rape or something and then jump the guard when he comes rushing in?” he asked, as if that too had just occurred to him.
“Why don’t you scream rape, you prat?” She had to wonder how people as stupid as Waxtead could actually survive in the real world. By inheriting money, of course. But even so … “Look, I don’t want to fight anybody. And we don’t know who’s out there. It could be one of your Chinese friends, or it could be one of those augmented monsters. Inviting someone in to beat the crap out of me is not my idea of a great escape plan. Now, will you please get on with it before Hamiye decides to be friendly and send us some food.”
Reluctantly, Waxtead reached up and pulled at the plasterboard. A big chunk came loose and it seemed to encourage him. He set to work, spluttering as dust fell into his open mouth.
“And I’m not MI5. I’m not anything. I’m a single parent, I live in Oxford and I test software for a living. For your stupid company, by the way.” The thought of HiQua started anger bubbling inside her. “What the hell are you doing with these people anyway? You’re a fucking billionaire. You’ve got more money than God. Do you really need more? Or is it killing innocent people that gives you a kick?”
He looked at her, wide eyed. “Killing …? Then it’s true about the tempocalypse?”
“The what? No. That’s just crap. I’m talking about whatever it is Dr Hong’s device does when it sends things into the future. That’s what caused the quakes and stuff the other night, not some idiotic fantasy with a stupid name. I’m talking about the real Apocalypse that you and your friends have been cooking up. The one that’s going to kill more people if we don’t get out of here and stop it.”
“But Lee said—”
“Lee? What, the same guy who wants to kill us? The one who used you to fund his get-rich-quick scheme? That Lee?” She realized that Waxtead was standing on his chair looking stricken instead of breaking up the ceiling and told him to get on with it. He went back to work, absent-mindedly extending the hole one handful at a time.
“So what do you need the money for? Are you running short of yachts or something?”
“It’s the company. Ever since I took over, it’s been sinking. I don’t know what to do about it. Everything I try just makes things worse.” He sounded bitter and not a little sorry for himself. “Lee came to me with a proposition. Said he could guarantee me safe investments and a billion euros on the bottom line. I thought he was mad but he introduced me to Hong and they talked me through the technology. I was getting desperate and I thought, Why not? There isn’t a businessman on Earth who wouldn’t take a peek into the future if he had the chance. It sounds like cheating, I suppose, but really it’s just exploiting a technological edge. It’s what entrepreneurs have always done. And it’s not risk free. I put up five million for that first trial and only about half of the trades went as expected. We only made twenty million but it could have been much worse. Hong said we were very lucky. Of course, that was a two-year shot. If we can get it down to one day, there should be almost no risk at all.”
“Except to everybody in the world.”
The excitement that had been building in him as he told his tale drained away again. “You don’t know it was us that caused it.”
“Don’t be a moron.”
“It was too widespread to be a backwash. It wasn’t localised.”
“You keep telling yourself that.”
Angrily, he ripped at the ceiling and a big chunk came loose. The hole was big enough. She looked up and the void seemed endless. “OK, Rog,” she said. “Time to go.”
***
Fourget and his men set up in the parking lot of a building two hundred meters f
rom the target. The building had a high roof from which they could observe the engineering works and a rear yard in which they could unpack and assemble their equipment without being seen. The owner was there along with a couple of Metropolitan Police officers who were EDF MI’s liaison for the evening. There was also a team of MI5 agents who would operate under Fourget’s command. Or so the agreement was. Fourget’s experience of working with local security services had never been good. As Gerhard briefed them on the plan, Fourget watched their faces, wondering what their hidden agenda would turn out to be this time.
Before everyone went to suit up and move out to their assigned positions, Jay came in briefly to give them a pep talk. He didn’t introduce himself, or even say hello, but jumped straight in.
“We believe there’s a device in that building that is a direct threat to this nation, to Europe, and to the whole world. It isn’t confirmed yet, but we also believe there is a civilian hostage being held there. We have no idea yet what kind of forces are guarding the building but there are at least five hamsters and you can expect them to be entrenched and well armed. It won’t be easy but I have every confidence that, if called on to do so, you can subdue the guards, secure the device, and save the hostage.”
Jay paused and seemed reluctant to go on. When he started speaking again, it was in a different, less confident tone. “I want to add that the hostage is a personal friend of mine. That shouldn’t make any difference. You would do your best, within the parameters of the mission, to rescue any civilian and bring her out safely. I just want you to know that, if you get her out in one piece, you will have my personal, undying gratitude.” And, with a “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he left. Fourget saw a couple of the MI5 people exchanging glances. He would rather Jay had said nothing, but there it was. And could he blame the man for being human and yielding to his fear for Sandra Malone’s safety? He doubted that he would have done it himself. On the other hand, having met the daughter, he was prepared to believe that the mother was something special too.
He had asked Jay about Cara and Jay had confirmed she had been delivered to her grandmother’s door safely. It gave him some relief, which he did not bother to analyse. It also left him anxious.
“What if she just hails a cab and comes back here?” he had asked.
“Then I stick her in another car and send her home again.” Jay had eyed him with a quizzical look. “Any particular reason for your concern, Lieutenant?”
“No,” Fourget had replied. “You should perhaps have that car standing by.”
Women had not figured large in Fourget’s life. He had been a soldier since he left school and spent most of his leave with his parents in Provence. There had been one-night stands—sometimes with women in his various units—and a relationship with a girl from his home town. She had been his first lover and, if he had never moved away, they might have gone on together for many years, but his world had broadened while hers had narrowed, and, in the end, neither could find anything to say to the other.
A number of tables had been arranged in a semi-circle in the room next-door and they now held piles of boxes and wiring. Large, physical displays had been unrolled and mounted above them, showing camera feeds and other telemetry from Alpha Team and the MI5 contingent. There were also maps of the target with overlays indicating plans, troop positions and other intel. Fourget went through there to join Gerhard, who sat at the centre of it all, soaking it up.
“Report,” he said.
“All quiet, sir. Observers moving into position. We’ll be getting live updates any second. The satellite feed still isn’t ready. We’ll be relying on ground-level observations until it gets into position.”
“What delayed it?” A satellite’s orbit was well known and it didn’t get caught in traffic.
“Bit of an admin cock-up, sir. Too many agencies having to sign off on re-prioritising its mission. We should have gone for a high-level drone.”
But that wasn’t really an option: the mercs might have portable radar equipment and a drone would give them away.
“How long?”
“For the satellite?” Gerhard glanced at a countdown on one of the displays. “Seven minutes.”
“We’ll wait.”
They both watched the displays for a while.
“Gerhard?” Fourget said, breaking the silence. “Do you think I don’t talk enough?”
“Talk enough?”
“You know. Am I too reserved, do you think?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Someone was complaining about it. They seemed to find it … annoying.”
The captain grinned. “Put it this way, sir. In the past minute you’ve said more than I’ve heard you say in the past week. So if she’s trying to get you to change your ways, it seems to be working.”
“I didn’t say it was a she.”
The grin widened. “It’s always a she.”
Fourget pulled a sour face. There. That’s what talking too much got you. “Just watch the displays.”
***
Sandra led Waxtead over the ceiling of the office units. The space was high enough for them to walk upright—a second story of offices could have been installed up there—and enough light leaked up from below through light fittings and joints that they could see easily. They had to walk on a wooden framework of rafters across which various ducts and bundles of cables ran. She kept having to tell Waxtead to keep the noise down. The man was so clumsy—at any moment he could misstep and go crashing through the ceiling.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he said. “This is crazy.”
She turned and hissed at him, “Will you shut up?”
“I don’t know why I’m up here. They’re not going to kill me. That’s just you saying that.”
“If you don’t shut up, I’ll kill you myself.”
“Do you even know where we’re going?” He looked around and spread his hands. “There’s no way out of here—no windows, no skylights, just brick walls and a solid roof.”
She grabbed him by the collar and pushed his head in the direction they’d been heading. “There, you moron. An inspection hatch.” The rectangular hatch was quite clear in the ceiling ahead of them. “Do you think they’d just seal this off with no way to get at it?” She let him go. “Come on. Or stay here. Frankly, I’ve stopped caring.”
She made for the hatch and lifted it. It was a simple wooden rectangle sitting in a wooden frame, no catches, no hinges, and, she thanked the gods, no bolt on the underside. It simply lifted into the roof space, revealing an empty corridor below. She glanced back to see that Waxtead was making his way towards her then she poked her head through. The corridor was clear as far as she could see, so she lowered herself through and dropped to the ground. The outer wall she wanted was just one office over on her left. She found a door on that side of the corridor and tried it. It was unlocked and unoccupied. Back in the corridor, Waxtead’s legs had appeared from the hatch and were flailing about helplessly. Cursing him silently, she hurried over and grabbed his ankles, steadying him and guiding him down, even taking some of his weight as he worked his body through the hatch.
When she had him safely down, he glared at her as if all of this were her fault. She bit down on what she’d have liked to say and led him into the office, closing the door behind them.
“We’re going out through that window,” she said, pointing to the only window in the room, just so that he wasn’t under any misapprehension.
“But it’s got bars. How can we …?”
She grabbed a metal ornament from the desk. It was a small Eiffel Tower. “The bars are inside a metal frame. There are eight screws holding the frame in place and they all go into the window frame—which is probably just pine. It’s cheap and nasty security and that’s lucky for us. We dig the screws loose, then we pull the bars out all in one piece. Got it?” She took him to the window and showed him how easy it was to dig into the wood and lever chunks of it up. It would not take long. She found
a pen-knife in a desk drawer and joined him.
“You think I’m a complete waste of space, don’t you?” he asked as they worked.
She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you’ve got loads of really valuable skills,” she said.
“No, I don’t think I do.” The self-pity in his tone made her want to scream. “The only qualification I’ve got is a degree in business administration from Cambridge and I probably wouldn’t have that if Daddy hadn’t built them a new robotics institute. You’d certainly never guess, the way I’ve stuffed up HiQua.”
She glanced his way. He was still digging at his first screw while she already had three loose.
“How do you get to be like you?” he asked.
“Just lucky I guess.”
“No, seriously. You’re beautiful and strong and you can do all this stuff. Is it all just MI5 training, or what?”
“I’ve told you, I’m not MI5.”
“Yeah, well, you would say that wouldn’t you?”
“Suit yourself.”
“So what makes you turn out like you, and me turn out a complete failure?”
“You should ask Dr Trev,” she said, naming a popular TV psychologist.
“I had all the advantages, you know. Nannies, private tutors, Eton, you name it.”
Sandra’s patience snapped. “All right, you’re a useless piece of shit. It was no-one’s fault, you’re just inherently pathetic. Happy now? Good. So, if you’d just focus on getting these screws loose, we can get you to a nice private club where long-legged hostesses can massage your flagging ego. You’ll be right as rain with a bottle of fifty-year-old single malt inside you.”
He threw his Eiffel Tower down and scowled at her for a moment before stalking off to the far end of the room and sitting down to sulk. Luckily the carpet tiles absorbed most of the noise of the statuette hitting the floor. Sandra thought seriously about beating the crap out of him—even if it did get her caught again—then went back to work, attacking the wooden frame with renewed vigour.
Two minutes later, she was ready to try pulling the bars loose.
Foresight: Timesplash 3 Page 21
