by Greg Barron
Confronted by two targets at once, Eddie drives the butt of his shotgun, for which his ammunition supply is almost exhausted, into the mouth of one man, feeling teeth crack beneath the blow, then goes for the neck of another.
A baton collides with the side of his head, rattling his skull. Eddie ducks and punches at the man’s sternum, then goes for his neck with straight fingers, a blow that will immobilise him.
A moment later he hears a shout, looks across the street and sees Alex, obviously frightened, shrinking back against a building. He feels a moment of fear, but leaves the fight, runs across the pavement, away from the melee.
‘Alex, you came!’
‘I didn’t come here to fight.’
‘This is man’s work, if you’re not up to it then …’
‘This isn’t men’s work, it’s coward’s work, and I came to tell you that. You disgust me. I’ve been up watching what’s happening on television. It makes me sick — people have died, lots of them.’
‘They’re going to poison us …’
‘You think shopkeepers and mothers and children are going to poison you? What rubbish. The people with the poison are the same tyrants who turned these people into refugees in the first place. They are victims too. Of men like you.’
In the periphery of Eddie’s vision he sees a young man come around the corner, out of the alley. He wears a flannelette shirt and sports a dark beard but no moustache. His face displays the anger of someone who has seen his home burned, his family beaten, and in his hand he holds a hardwood club.
‘No!’ Eddie shouts, and tries to raise the shotgun he carries in time to stop it from happening.
It’s too late. The club smashes down onto Alex’s head. His skull caves in with no more resistance than a birthday piñata. His body falls to the ground, and the look on his killer’s face is of elation as he ducks away into the crowd. Eddie lets the shotgun fall from his grip. He drops to his knees.
Oh Jesus, Alex, this wasn’t meant to happen. I’m so sorry. Why did you have to come down here?
SEVENTY
LONDON
LOCAL TIME: 0600
Captain Walid feels no fear as they bring him into the interrogation room. The experience with the helicopter was harrowing, but it is over now. This is England, and he knows how things work here. They will pussy whip him for a while, he will say nothing, and they will take him to some cushy cell somewhere for a few months. Then he will fly far from here and access an account in his name at a bank located in the Cayman Islands. For the rest of his life he will spend his new-found wealth.
The man who walks into the room is in his fifties. Very English looking. Probably a lawyer, Walid decides.
‘My name is Tom Mossel.’
The Englishman’s voice is polite, but his ice-blue eyes are hostile. Not a lawyer after all.
Walid crosses his arms in front of his chest. ‘I want … register protest. OK? Your man held me out of helicopter to make me talk. He violate my human rights.’ He grins smugly. The English love human rights.
‘In general terms I agree with you. That was out of line. I may even pursue it further, but not very hard because that single act has already saved millions of lives. Because you told him the locations of the drones … we might not even get them all, but we’ll get some of them.’
Walid stops smiling. ‘Why you in here by yourself? I want lawyer, OK? I want legal aid.’
Mossel shakes his head slowly. ‘I’ve been in Intelligence for a long time. Too long. In that time I have seen every extreme of human behaviour. Warlords, revenge killings, suicide bombings. I’ve helped pick body parts out of trees, and I’ve seen footage of my own agents on their knees taking bullets through the back of their heads from fanatics. But in that time I have never seen a plot as ugly, as evil, as horrible as this, and you are part of it. If I have anything to do with it, you will never leave prison, you will never spend the money you’ve been promised. Do you understand?’
Walid spits.
‘There is only one way you can help yourself now.’ The door opens behind him and two men walk in. ‘And that is to talk to my colleagues. First, you are going to tell them where Badi al-Zaman al-Hamadhani al-Assadi is headed with his entourage. We know he has more spores, and that he has kidnapped one of our agents. You are going to tell us where he is heading.’
Walid grins back at him. ‘Complaint, right? You bring lawyer. Human rights lawyer for me to talk to, OK?’
‘Of course,’ Mossel says. ‘Now I’ll leave you to it, but I must warn you, if this doesn’t work I’ll be forced to try another way.’
Walid’s shrug is that of a man who is no longer afraid for his life.
SEVENTY-ONE
WATERFORD, IRELAND
LOCAL TIME: 0700
The S-Class Mercedes drives along the smooth new freeway from the ferry stop at Rosslare Harbour towards Waterford, crossing the River Barrow at New Ross, past some of the most productive mixed farming land in the world.
The 228kw V6 engine changes note, responding to the six-speed automatic transmission, as the speedo flicks to one hundred and ten kilometres per hour. Marika is sitting up now, watching the van in front of them barrel along, the two vehicles working in concert, changing lanes together, overtaking together.
Marika’s wrists are sore from more than an hour of unsuccessfully rubbing against a stamped-metal jack that was the only mildly sharp implement in the boot of the car. She does not remember passing out, but a pounding headache reminds her of the unpleasant sensation of having no air.
They turn off the freeway and pass through the city of Waterford. No one seems very interested apart from Cassie, who squeals, ‘Hey, this is that place where the expensive crystal comes from.’
Marika looks down, her hands are turning blue from lack of circulation. ‘Sounds like the kind of thing you’d be interested in, Cassie. What’s your story, by the way? I’m a little confused how an American girl ends up with a Syrian gangster.’
Badi’s head turns swiftly. ‘I am not a gangster, but a saviour.’
‘We could argue about that,’ Marika says. ‘But I want to hear what your girlfriend has to say.’
The redhead simpers and reaches back to take Badi’s hand. ‘I’m a princess, aren’t I?’ Her voice is baby-doll American, not entirely put on.
‘You’re lucky,’ Marika says, ‘not everyone has a real live mass murderer for a boyfriend.’
Badi snaps, ‘You are only still alive because I want to show you the real breadth of what’s happening today — so you know the extent of your own failure — but I assure you that if that idea ceases to amuse me, you will cease to exist.’
Cassie widens her eyes theatrically. ‘I’ve seen what happens to people who annoy him. I wouldn’t do it if I was you.’
‘Proves my point, doesn’t it?’
Waterford Airport is relatively minor, but with an increasing role in tourist, charter and pilot-training operations. Traffic is heavy on the approaches, so the driver cruises around it on the grass verges until they reach the exit leading into the airfield.
The business park and industrial complex is a maze — acres of factories, hangars and distribution centres. Marika watches as the two vehicles cruise along a row of galvanised-steel hangars, slowing down outside one with the name Courtrevolt Aviation on a billboard-sized sign over the front door.
‘I suppose this is some kind of EMK subsidiary that no one has managed to unravel quite yet,’ Marika comments.
Badi ignores her, issuing instructions in Levantine Arabic to the man on Marika’s other side. A chain-mesh gate opens and the Merc drives around the other side of a hangar, stopping outside the gaping hangar doors. There are more men here, Marika notices. Badi steps out quickly to talk to them.
They leave her in the car until one of Badi’s men removes the cuff joining her ankles. Able to walk for herself now, flexing to return the circulation, she finds herself in a huge space, at the far side of which is a Grumman AT-
560 jet, with the logo Courtrevolt in huge letters down one side.
Marika cannot help admiring the depth of the web of deception. A French-registered aviation company — corporate jets for hire, in an Irish depot. There are simply not enough law-enforcement personnel in the UK to search down so many levels of subterfuge.
Two men holding plastic machine pistols guard her, standing at forty-five degree angles on either side. They look like competent men, and she wonders if they have Special Forces training. They certainly handle their weapons as if they have, holding them at ‘low ready’, able to deploy and fire in a fraction of a second.
The hangar is vast, with a rack of tools along the far wall. A red spanner locker. Spare parts. Marika’s eyes never cease moving. This is her best chance. Once she is on that plane her options will be limited.
Badi walks across to her, Cassie at his side. ‘There will be a short wait while preparations are made,’ Badi tells Marika. ‘You will be under heavy guard so don’t try anything.’
Marika watches the van back up, close to the aircraft. In the rear, under a load of cartons of mixed fruit and vegetables, are two gleaming stainless steel tanks. They are carried into the baggage hold of the aircraft where there already appears to have been an installation of ancillary equipment.
Badi turns to her. ‘Do you love America, Miss Hartmann?’
‘I love people who live their lives without killing others, who don’t feel the need to impose their will on others.’
‘But Americans are not like that, are they? They fly their machines around the world and rain death on their enemies.’
‘Just like you’re doing. What a hypocrite.’ She sees that she has scored a hit. ‘And that’s not the American people who do those things — not mums and dads. You’d better be damn sure about who your real enemy is before you start wiping out families and children who have never, and will never, do you any harm.’
‘Little boys grow up to be soldiers — and pilots.’ Badi stares at her balefully, then strides across to the aircraft to supervise, calling instructions in his strident voice.
Cassie stays where she is, eyes fixed on Marika’s face. ‘Having fun watching it all happen? Exciting, isn’t it?’
‘Not my idea of fun.’ She pauses, studying the beautiful American woman. ‘Who are you, really, Cassie?’
The redhead’s face lights up, and she lowers her voice. ‘Maybe I’m a CIA agent, deep undercover. Maybe in a minute I’ll pull out my gun, pow pow, and shoot these people. But then again, I won’t ’cos I’m just an ordinary girl.’
‘An ordinary girl from where?’
‘The sunshine state, Florida.’
‘Good. They’ve still got the death penalty.’
‘And where are you from? Australia? A total backwater. Worse even than Canada. Just some stupid desert full of snakes. Puh-lease.’
The Grumman’s port engine whines into life, then the other, making any further conversation impossible. Cassie gives Marika the finger and wanders off, just as the jet starts to move out through the gaping hangar opening in preparation for take-off.
Marika knows that she needs to do something, and fast. Her hands are shaking, probably as an after effect of the sedative she was given earlier. She looks around. The nearest item of machinery is a compressor. The motor is shielded by a sheet of stainless steel that looks sharp.
The guards are distracted — looking away. She bends, and places the join in her flexicuffs on the edge of the sharp steel sheet. Pushes down and saws with all the effort she can bring to bear on it. It is sharper than she dared hope. The plastic shears off, leaving a cuff still on each wrist, but her hands are free to move.
Aiming for the nearest of her two guards, she uses the explosive power of her thighs to launch herself into a sprint, heading directly for him. Seeing her coming, however, the man presents his shoulder. She barrels into him, her lesser weight causing her to bounce back, yet she recovers instantly, spinning three hundred and sixty degrees, back-fisting him in the face with her clenched left knuckles. He flinches back, grunts with pain, trying to lift the machine pistol so it will bear on her. Marika balances onto her right foot, jabs into his face. The blood, already running from his nose, smears across his lips and teeth.
An uppercut finishes him, half-lifting his body and sending him spectacularly to the tarmac. This, her old instructor at Duntroon told her years ago, is the best punch for clearing a fighter’s defences and sending him to the deck.
She turns just in time to see the other guard running for her. His gun butt slams down onto the base of her neck, striking with the force of a sledgehammer, sending her to her knees, blurring sound and slowing time. Bile floods the back of her throat.
They give her no time to react. A shout, running footsteps, then men on either side, one lifting her by the hair, one by an ear on the other side. Then her arms are pulled roughly behind her. She feels the muscles stretch.
They dump her back onto her feet and steer her towards the cabin door. At least one of the two knows what he is doing, using his thumb on her elbow to squeeze her ulnar nerve, a hold that renders her virtually helpless.
The pressure becomes almost unbearable, but she forces herself to concentrate — looking across the apron to the main airport terminal. There’s no activity. Airports are noisy places. No one appears to have heard anything. Her training tells her to attract attention — somehow.
The killers sense her desperation and the barrel of a gun bores into the side of her head. ‘Not a sound,’ one of them urges through clenched teeth, and her feet move helplessly on, up the ladder and inside, so close to a screaming engine that it seems to squeal into her ear.
The grip on her elbow still doesn’t slacken, all the way to the middle of the aircraft, where she is roughly pushed down. One man sits beside her and the facing seat remains vacant. The other man stands with the barrel of his silenced machine pistol fixed somewhere between her torso and neck.
Finally the last man to enter the plane walks down the aisle — Badi — barking orders as he comes, Cassie beside him.
Marika stares with hatred as he plays the gentleman, waves Cassie into a seat, then takes the one beside her, facing Marika with a table between them. The whine of the engines becomes louder and higher pitched. The door slams closed, a steward turns the locking levers. Air starts to hiss from the vents.
Marika tries desperately to look out the window, but they force her head down.
No alarms sound. No police cars race across the runways. No one knows what has happened. Marika feels helpless and ineffectual as the plane begins to move down the tarmac, and now there is the first note of relief and self-congratulation from the gunmen, letting their weapons hang in their slings. Banter and laughter, white teeth showing.
Marika hates their excited chatter as the plane begins to hurtle down the runway, gathering pace before they lift off into the sky. Apart from the vague notion that America is the target, she has no idea where she is heading and what will happen when they get there. Most of all she has no idea how to stop it happening.
SEVENTY-TWO
LONDON
LOCAL TIME: 0730
Greater London covers an area more than fifty kilometres square, and the GermCat, starting at the middle, flies an erratic search pattern. Apache gunships fly in loose formation on either side.
‘Why aren’t we seeing them?’ Ronnie growls.
‘Phantom Eye hasn’t found them yet.’
‘Maybe they’re not here, but somewhere else,’ Julian says. ‘Maybe the informant wasn’t telling the truth.’
Ronnie’s face darkens. ‘He’d better have, or I’m going to go down there and beat the truth out of him. I can picture it now — he’ll be sitting being coddled by freaking solicitors and counsellors.’
The chopper is rocketing back over the city from Wattisham base after refuelling. The three cluster drones that will leave a trail of agony and death across England’s major cities are just minutes away from
beginning their trail of destruction.
‘Hey, Phantom Eye is doing its job. I’m picking one up now,’ Julian says. ‘You got it on radar?’ he asks the pilot.
‘Yep, bright and clear now. But only one.’
‘Yep, tracking now — directly over the city. Nine clicks to go.’
‘What’s the range on those Stingers?’
‘Four clicks and we’ve only got two left.’
‘Now this is London, people,’ Ronnie says. ‘This is our city. We have to save it.’ The metal song continues in his head. Guitar chords like Greek columns, solo notes weaving and dancing in between, spacious with reverb. The words are medieval, prophetic. Visions and symbols combining with that soaring voice.
‘We’re going to knock these drones out — just like riding on horseback into the fray,’ Ronnie muses through the comms. ‘The weapons and the nature of the battlefield have changed, but we, the warriors, are just the same. If you listened to metal you’d know.’
‘You getting anything onscreen yet from the other two drones?’
‘Not yet. Just the one.’
‘Hey, we’re too low, it’s up another thousand feet.’
The pilot: ‘Almost at our max operating height now.’
‘A thousand feet. Not much more.’
‘I’ll try.’
The engine revs climb until the chopper fuselage vibrates and the whine of the turbines becomes a howl.
‘Hey, that cloud up there.’ The co-pilot’s voice. ‘Ten o’clock, thirty degrees.’
‘They have to be nearby, I’m picking up the network’, Julian shouts excitedly. ‘God, finally, we’re close to a crack on this.’ He looks down at the screen, the number of ‘found’ digits in the p value column is growing at the rate of two or three per second. ‘If I can take control I can stop them fighting back.’
‘Watch them,’ someone shouts. ‘Not one but three of the damn things.’
‘Holy fuck,’ Ronnie breathes. ‘They must have been so close together they looked to that Phantom Eye thing as just one unit. How did they know to do that?’
