On the morning of the tenth day, weakened from his illness but able to stand, the captain navigated into the Vestmannaeyjar Archipelago, where they found crystalline blue-gray seas dotted with brilliant turquoise and white icebergs. From there, he and two more men took the second skiff. They returned six hours later with new instructions.
"We will head for a private inlet on the mainland," he told her from where he stood in the door to her cabin. "There, you will be picked up and flown by chopper to the bunker. No radios. No phones. Will you be strong enough?"
Though she was too weak to thank him for all he had done and the trouble she had caused, she did manage to grunt out a "Yes."
Chapter Thirty Eight
6X SURVIVAL BUNKER NUMBER ONE
Angel rose from bed on her third morning inside the bunker. It was the first time for a reason other than to use the bathroom or swallow a few microwaved mouthfuls of the bland chicken broth which had been left for her in the apartment's refrigerator.
The illness had taken nearly everything from her. For three days she suffered feverish hallucinations, nightmares populated with monsters rending the flesh from their own faces. Her own skin hurt so badly that she believed it, too, was being pulled off her bones.
The trip to the bathroom down a short hallway was exhausting, and when she got there, she sat herself down on the floor by the tub while it filled with scorching hot water. She still couldn't believe how posh the fixtures were, how thick the towels, how warm the heated marble floors. Everything was made to be as compact as possible, yet it all still seemed excessive to her. It made her sick to her stomach to imagine the arrogance of some people, how they figured they would ride out the end of the world in such fashion, luxury in microscopic scale, while death consumed humanity in the macroscopic.
She dozed as she soaked, reveling in the buoyancy and the tranquilizing effect of the bath oils she found stored beneath the vanity. She'd been liberal in their use, not really caring who they belonged to or her hypocrisy in judging the kind of people who would stock a survival bunker with them. She woke some time later to find herself shivering with cold. When the water drained away, it left a nasty ring in the tub. She padded out to the main room of the apartment in the owner's plush cotton slippers and robe.
The rest of the apartment was just as luxuriantly appointed as the bath and bedrooms, although still just as compact. Every opportunity was taken to create illusions of roominess, including the generous use of mirrors on the walls and ceilings and a more open design.
She was surprised to find that a light breakfast had been delivered. It was accompanied by a note, which she didn't bother to read right away.
The platter's appearance troubled her, signifying that Cheong was somehow aware enough of her current level of recovery to deem her capable of eating solid food. Was he spying on her through secret cameras? The possibility left her skin crawling.
Nevertheless, she collapsed with a tired sigh into the chair at the table and selected a muffin. What she really wanted was a steak and a nice cabernet. Or at least some bread and cheese. But at any rate, the pastries and coffee were beyond reproach. She could feel the energy slowly infusing her body.
Despite her suffering, Farid had never been far from her thoughts. At times, he was a looming specter in the background of her consciousness, other times more substantive. She attributed this to the guilt she felt in bringing him here. The worry had been tempered in part by the ague, as well as by Cheong's assurances to her that he would abide her every stipulation, as long as she told him everything once she recovered.
Now she wondered if he had kept his word. As she slowly dressed into her clothes, which had been laundered and arranged on the dresser, along with everything else she had had on her possession on the boat, she began to imagine that he had taken it upon himself to investigate why she had brought him here. If he had, then he must now know about the nanites. Would he have attempted to extract some from Farid's blood?
Or worse, would he have tried, as Stefan Nordqvist had tried, to figure out how they worked?
She plucked the note from the table and quickly scanned the writing. It instructed her to use the phone when she was feeling strong enough to meet. There were two closed circuit lines, one in the office and a second by the front door. A number was provided. The call would connect her with someone named Emily, who, it was promised, would answer her questions. The note reminded her that phones could not be used to call outside the bunker. It ended with a warning to remain inside the apartment or else risk getting locked out of it: "For security, all doors require use of a pass key for entry, and passage between levels is similarly restricted."
After dialing the number and arranging to meet with the woman in an hour, Angel found the package with the second burner phone that Norstrom had given her and unsealed it. She was surprised that no one had taken it away from her; although, if her instructions had been followed to the letter, there would be no signal. She plugged it in and checked for bars. There were none. Nor did it detect any wireless data signals.
She left it plugged into the charger, then settled onto one of the overstuffed couches to wait for Emily to arrive.
* * *
"I wish to see Farid al-Haddad."
"Mister Cheong is not yet back yet from the capitol," Emily said, her voice muffled by the surgical mask on her face.
Angel briefly considered telling her that she had stopped being contagious when her fever broke a day and a half before, but she didn't think it would make any difference to the woman. She was probably just as much of a germophobe as Cheong.
"In the mean time," Emily continued, "he asked me to go over a few things with you. I can give you a tour, if you'd like, once we're done."
She reached into the leather portfolio in her hands and extracted a sheaf of papers.
"What's this?" Angel asked, when the girl indicated she should take them.
"It's a non-disclosure agreement. It says you promise not to tell anyone about this site, its people, or its capabilities." She set it on the table and followed it with a pen from her pocket.
Angel glanced at it, but didn't move. "I wish to see Farid."
"He is fine. Everything is just as you requested."
"Everything?"
"The cellular network relays on each level have been manually disabled."
"Yes, I know."
"Well, they weren't even in use. It was unnecessary. And inconvenient."
Angel didn't care for the petulant look in the girl's eyes. Nor did she care how much extra work it might have required. "And the wireless internet routers?" she asked, pushing.
Emily slid the confidentiality agreement across the table and waited for Angel to pick up the pen before replying. "The only internet access within the bunker is a router installed in the Command Center on Level One. Its range within the complex is restricted to only that one room, since the walls and floors are thick concrete."
"Has it also been disconnected?"
Emily didn't answer.
Angel quickly skimmed through the agreement and scribbled her signature at the bottom without bothering to thoroughly read it. It didn't matter to her. How would an organization that operated in total secrecy possibly enforce a document requiring secrecy without exposing itself? Why would they even consider taking such a case to trial, if it meant having to testify about those secrets?
"Has the wireless internet router in the Command Center been disconnected?"
Emily made a point of studying the mark for several seconds. At last, satisfied, she slipped the papers back into her case. "Yes."
"And there are no routers in the apartments?"
"What use will the internet be in a global catastrophe? Everyone outside will be dead. There will be no internet, so there will be no need."
"No cellular network, either. And yet you have relays on each level."
The scorn in the girl's eyes grew. Angel still didn't care. "And what about the phones in the apartments?"<
br />
"They are for internal use only," Emily replied, repeating what Angel already knew. "You have to go aboveground to get any cell signal."
"And how far down does the signal penetrate into the bunker levels?"
"It doesn't. You cannot place a mobile call even on Level One, not without the relays connected and turned on. Go ahead and try if you don't trust me. I know you have a cell phone."
"Yes, and I have already checked."
"If you don't mind my asking, Miss de l'Enfantine, why do you require such measures?"
"It's Missus. And they are for Farid's protection."
As well as ours, she silently added, echoing the sentiment Kurtz had expressed in Istanbul, now two weeks past.
Remembering him, she wondered if Norstrom had managed to track Kurtz down. If so, where was he now, and what was he doing? Was he wondering why she hadn't called to let him know she had arrived? He would have expected her several days ago.
There was also the question of the other refugees. What had become of them? Had they also been tracked down by the company or the saboteur and killed?
She suddenly felt an urgent need to call him.
"I understand you want to protect this Mister al-Haddad," Emily said, looking somewhat chastened by the sharp tone Angel had used. "But who exactly does he need to be protected from in here? Or what? No one can get in."
"I will only discuss that with Monsieur Cheong."
Her eyebrows furrowed with impatience. "You should know that he trusts me completely."
"It is nothing personal, but I do not know you. My only responsibility is to Monsieur al-Haddad. So when Monsieur Cheong returns—"
"Mister al-Haddad is perfectly safe and comfortable. And Mister Cheong will be here when he is able."
She stepped over to the door to the hallway and opened it, effectively ending that line of discussion. "Now, as you will find, the power plant has all the most modern technological advances. It serves as a model for sustainable energy production for the entire world. School groups come here from the mainland and the UK. Everything is automat—"
"I said I am not interested in a tour!" Angel snapped. "I only wish to see Farid. I assume this place has a medical facility? A laboratory? Is that where he is being held? I need to collect a blood sample and analyze it."
"Mister al-Haddad is in a residential unit on a lower level. The medical facility is above, on Level Two."
"Fine. Then take me to wherever he is."
"I'll still need to call Mister Cheong and let him know that you are ready." She pointed upward, presumably to the surface.
They exited the apartment into a very long hallway that stretched on for quite some distance in either direction. Lights, which had been dimmed for energy conservation, automatically brightened outside the apartment, but remained dark further away, making it impossible to see the ends of the corridor.
"This way," Emily said, turning left. The lights responded by turning on ahead of them, while the ones behind slowly faded.
The walls were artfully adorned with paintings, many in ornate frames of what appeared to be gold leaf, and narrow tables held sculptures and other fine works of art. The floor was richly carpeted. Spaced about every fifteen or twenty meters was another pair of doors, one on each side of the hall. Angel had noticed that the one they came out of was numbered 369.
"How many apartments are there here?"
"On this level, one hundred and fifty units, all of them single-person studios. Two-person units on Level Four, and three-person and family units in the levels below. There are a total of three hundred and eighty residential units on six levels capable of supporting a total of seven hundred and fifty to seven hundred and seventy-five survivors. And there is enough food and resources in storage to support life for all of them, including a few dozen newborns, for up to five years."
The recitation continued until they reached the elevator, so that by the time they stopped in front of its shiny metal doors, the tension between them had begun to dissipate and the edge was gone from Emily's voice.
She swiped her security badge over the sensor. There was a beep and the light turned green. From behind the sliding doors came the distant sound of the lift's motor shifting the car into position.
"Each resident is provided with their own security key," she explained as they waited. "And each key is coded for specific types of access. A resident of Level Three, for example, will not have access to any of the other residential levels, but everyone has access to the common levels. There are also administrative levels."
"Which level is Farid on?"
"Level Eight, which is the deepest residential floor in the complex. Again, that is per your instructions to Mister Cheong."
The lift doors opened with a whisper, and Emily gestured for Angel to follow her in.
Just inside was a panel of four white buttons arranged vertically. The topmost was labeled P3, the next P2, then P1. The bottommost button was labeled S.
Emily swiped her card over one edge of the wall, and another panel slid upward, exposing a hidden array of buttons, two columns of five. These were red and were labeled from L1 starting at the upper left corner and finishing with L10 at the bottom right. L3 was currently lit.
"White buttons are the power plant?" Angel asked, gesturing at the first panel.
Emily nodded. "S is for subfloor. S and P are all part of plant operations. Are you sure you don't want a tour? Mister Cheong said—"
"No."
She shrugged. "In order for anyone to move around within the bunker and between it and the power plant, you must have a resident card to be able to access the hidden panel. In the event of a lockdown, once the bunker is sealed off, the white buttons will no longer function."
"And how do you get out?"
"Well, you don't, of course, not until it's safe, say, after five years or whenever the bunker manager decides. Then it requires two keys. Only he and one other person can unseal the bunker."
"That is a lot of power for two people to hold."
"It's for everyone's safety. There are other ways to unlock the doors, of course, but even I don't know what they are."
Emily inserted her card into a vertical slot beside the buttons and pushed P1. The car started to rise. "Levels One and Two are the common areas. Nine and Ten are maintenance and storage levels, accessible only by the bunker manager and designated assistants."
"Let me guess, Mister Cheong is the bunker manager?"
She shook her head. "Only temporarily, until the preparations are finalized. In the event of a lockdown, the permanent manager is chosen by secret ballot by the residents."
"What is included in the common areas?"
"The kitchen, dining, library, and meeting areas are on Level One; gymnasium, theater and medical facility on Level Two."
"Theater?"
"Of course. Five years is a very long time to sit around with little to do. You would need to entertain yourself somehow, get exercise, read. The library contains over six million books in digital format and close to ten thousand in print. The theater is stocked with twenty thousand films, newsreels, television series . . . ."
The car came to a stop with a chime, but the doors did not open right away.
"Just so you know," Emily said, turning back to Angel. Some of the hardness had returned to the girl's eyes. "When we go outside, you will see that there is nothing but snow and rock for miles and miles around. The temperature is below freezing during the day right now, and there are dangerous geothermal features all over the place."
The doors finally opened.
"Not that you need to worry about falling into one."
Chapter Thirty Nine
They stepped out of the elevator into an empty windowless room. It was very small, less corridor than lobby, and less lobby than closet. The dimensions of the tight space extended only two or three meters beyond the sides of the elevator and perhaps four meters back. Both ends held a door, which Emily said were locked, and t
he back wall was entirely blank. A small sign beside the elevator call button warned that entry was restricted to authorized personnel only.
"That door," the girl said, pointing to the right, "leads to another hallway and out to the lobby of the power plant. That is where the general public has access. There's even a gift shop out there."
"A gift shop?"
"It is very popular with the children."
The other door had a lit EXIT sign overhead. Angel stepped over and tried the metal bar, but it wouldn't open until Emily swiped her card over the reader on the wall.
Cold air rushed in, taking her breath away. She stepped out.
What she found was a covered runway protected on both sides by unfinished cement walls. The opening, roughly six or seven meters out, offered only a narrow vista, a tiny slice of pristine blue above a bleak volcanic moraine covered in patches of snow. Steam rose from the black earth at dozens of naturally occurring geothermal vents.
Three days ago, when she had arrived, despite it being daylight, Angel had been so sick that she could not recall seeing any of the scenery, though she was certain they must have passed through similar surrounds. It was starkly beautiful.
She stepped out past the edge of the wall and was immediately buffeted by a strong gust of frigid air.
"I told you it was cold," Emily called over, her voice echoing hollowly. She remained in the tunnel by the door. Angel watched as she dug her phone out of her pocket and proceeded to call Cheong.
Angel slowly rotated, taking in as much of the view as the walls allowed. Hidden in her hand tucked beneath her armpit was the second cell phone Norstrom had given her. She blindly slipped the battery into place and waited for it to boot up.
Iceland: An International Thriller (The Flense Book 2) Page 26
