Scales

by Anthony G Williams

  The Galaxy ground to a slow pace as it penetrated north London, eventually passing through an area I recognised as Camden. Despite the cold late-autumn weather, the colourful market was in full flow to one side, while the eclectic stalls of Camden Lock stretched away on the other. I caught a glimpse of the pastel green pub opposite the lock with a pang of nostalgia, remembering hours spent on ale-fuelled creative thinking while an ex-girlfriend ransacked the idiosyncratic clothes and jewellery stalls.

  Shortly afterwards the Galaxy zig-zagged through the streets of Bloomsbury before nosing into a short cul-de-sac between a pair of tall, dark-brick, Georgian buildings. A few pedestrians passed to and fro across the mouth of the alley as we got out and stretched after the long journey. One of them turned in and moved towards us. My attention slid lazily across him then suddenly jumped to alertness – he was fiercely focused – on me! I saw his hand coming from under his coat, the straight dark gleam of a gun barrel and then I moved. Suddenly everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, the gun zooming into my vision as it slowly lifted while I leaped across the space separating us. I touched his hand the instant before he brought the gun to bear and the weapon started to fall from his nerveless grip as I collided violently with his body, touching him again on the neck as he fell.

  Time returned to normal. I recovered my balance and stood over the man as he lay on the ground. My driver was rigid with shock, his mouth open. A side door suddenly burst open and Richards was there with two other men. CCTV covering the alley, I realised – they must have seen what happened.

  Richards stared down at my assailant. 'Is he dead?'

  'No, just paralysed.'

  'For how long?'

  'Until I decide otherwise.'

  He grunted and told the men to carry the assassin into the building, scooping up the gun and glancing around to check that the incident had attracted no attention. In fact, it had happened so quickly and silently that no-one had noticed. I followed them in.

  Inside, the building was as nondescript as the outside but more impressive, with an air of faded grandeur. Richards looked at me searchingly, his genuine concern evident. 'Are you all right?'

  'Never better.' A part of me looked on as if detached from the rest, amazed at my calmness. No-one had ever tried to kill me before, yet I felt little reaction apart from a heightened attention, a slight buzz of adrenaline increasing my alertness. I felt more than ready for anything.

  Richards shook his head slightly. 'I've never seen anyone move that fast. I wouldn't have believed it possible.'

  'The prospect of imminent death concentrates the mind something wonderful,' I paraphrased wryly.

  He was atypically hesitant. 'Are you all right to go through with this?'

  'Of course. Why not?'

  Evidently relieved, he led me through tall, dark corridors to a small, dimly-lit room, one wall of which was of dark glass.

  'I hope the glass won't obstruct your senses?'

  'Not significantly.'

  'Good. The interview will be starting shortly.'

  We sat side by side, staring at our dim reflections in the glass. Suddenly, a rectangle of light illuminated the space behind the glass as a door opened, then light flooded the room. Two men entered; one, short and portly, chatting amiably to the second. The sound insulation between the two rooms appeared excellent, but a speaker relayed their conversation.

  'Sorry to drag you in like this Derek, but I something has come up that we need to clarify.'

  "Derek" raised an eyebrow as he looked at the one-way glass, obviously recognising its purpose. 'In an interview room?'

  'Apologies again,' the rather portly interviewer was affability itself. 'But this has the benefit of being entirely secure.'

  'Indeed.' The note of irony carried clearly through the speakers – Derek was not fooled for a moment. He looked like an up-market banker, I thought; trim figure, wavy grey hair, three-piece pinstripe suit. He was radiating watchful, controlled calm.

  'The fact is, we've had a rather disturbing report from our friends across the pond' – I guessed that he was referring to the CIA – 'who have in turn received some reports from a source which they are rather coy about identifying. Anyway, they claim that you have been more than usually friendly with some wealthy individuals in the Middle East who are not, as they might say, exactly rooting for the good guys.'

  Derek's alertness shot up, his tension radiating through the glass. But he showed nothing on his face and his pulse remained steady, his self-control like iron. 'Indeed? Could you be more specific? If I'm being accused of something I can hardly defend myself unless I know more than that.'

  The portly man spread his hands in a nicely-judged and entirely false mixture of regret, embarrassment and sympathy. 'My dear fellow, I only wish we had more! This is really exasperating, of course, but we must find some way of satisfying our American colleagues.'

  I leaned over to Richards and murmured, 'get him to ask a direct question. This guy is too controlled to let anything oblique worry him.'

  Richards nodded and picked up a small microphone. I could see the back of portly man's head and spotted the small wire of an earpiece. Richards talked quietly into the microphone for a moment.

  'I'm sorry to have to be blunt,' the interviewer said, 'but have you ever had contact with any of the anti-Western groups in Saudi Arabia?'

  Derek waved dismissively. 'Of course not,' he said confidently.

  'Liar.' I said to Richards. 'He is hiding something serious and is getting worried.'

  Richards nodded and murmured again into the microphone.

  'Well, that's that then.' Portly man sounded relieved. 'Unless the Americans can come up with something more definite, I think we can forget all about this.' They left the room, still chatting amiably.

  I turned to Richardson; 'What happens next?'

  'Nothing. He'll be slipped into a suitably prestigious job where he can do no harm.'

  'You'd do that because of one word spoken by me?'

  'Well, not only that,' he smiled wryly, 'there is the small matter of why someone wanted you dead. The fact that you were attacked just before witnessing that interview is highly unlikely to be a coincidence.'

  I mulled over that for a moment. 'Then you've got a leak, somewhere.'

  'So it would seem.' He paused for a moment. 'Could you locate him for us?'

  'With pleasure. But first I'd like to take a look at my assassin'.

  Richards nodded and led me down into a substantial basement and through a very solid and well-insulated door. The man lay on a bare, steel-framed bed, the two men who had brought him there sitting to one side. They stood up as we entered. 'Hasn't moved a muscle sir.' One said.

  I walked over and looked down at him. Now I could see him clearly in a bright light, I was not surprised to see that he was of Middle Eastern appearance. His eyes gleamed with terror at his paralysis.

  'Any chance of finding out who sent him?' Richard's voice was like his mind; the epitome of studied calm.

  I reached down and touched the man's head, freeing his vocal cords. I hesitated for a moment, reluctant to inflict pain even on a killer such as this, then thought of another way. I closed my eyes and concentrated on his mental pattern, extending my sensitivity past his conscious mind and into the subconscious. I burrowed deeply, heading for the horror zone, where all nightmares lurk. I filled him with a nameless, formless dread, which reached up and swamped his conscious control, drowned his beliefs in a sea of terror.

  'Who sent you?'

  His mind gibbered back at me, but I didn't need to hear the answer – it was writ clearly enough in his emotions for me to see.

  'He doesn't know. I sense that he has had training in killing – he has the mindset of a soldier – but I suspect he was given his instructions anonymously.'

  Richards grunted again. 'More or less what I expected.'

  'Do you want him active or paralysed?'

  He considered for a moment. 'Might as
well leave him paralysed for now. He'll be less trouble that way.'

  I spent the night in a nondescript room in the nondescript building, after phoning the hospital to warn that my stay would be a little longer than expected. The next morning, the process of spy-hunting was simple. Richards led me through his organisation, passing through a large and surprisingly ordinary open-plan room; it could have been any commercial office. I had made no attempt at disguise and monitored the various emissions of surprise and fascination radiating from the minds of the staff. Suddenly, there was a flare of alarm and guilt. I turned and followed it to its source, wading through the growing panic as I approached. I stopped at the desk and looked at her, saying nothing. She was staring open-eyed, her pulse beating wildly in her throat.

  'Miss Samuelson, would you come with us please?' Richards was courtesy itself, but the iron command was unmistakable.

  She got up rather jerkily, spilling some papers, and followed numbly behind us as we left the room, accompanied by waves of intense and speculative interest from the staff.

  This was no hardened killer, and my specialised interrogation techniques were not required. All I had to do was sit silently facing her, commenting, 'that's a lie,' from time to time, and she soon cracked under Richards' persistent questioning. It was a predictable tale of a single, rather lonely woman approaching middle age, who had been swept off her feet by a handsome and wealthy Arab.

  After she had been taken away, Richards sighed wearily. 'Terrible shame, she was a competent officer. You'd think that a woman in this business would know better than to fall for a classic honeytrap, but it keeps on happening. I'm beginning to think that we shouldn't employ staff unless they are always engaged in at least one active sexual relationship that we know all about.'

  I smiled wryly, 'I can just see that one getting past the Equal Opportunities watchdogs in Human Resources!'

  The journey back to the hospital later that day was conducted in a more sombre mood, with elaborate precautions being taken to ensure my safety. I left the building via a service tunnel, emerging heavily disguised into another street before being bundled into a car – and switched to another one a short distance away. The rest of the journey was uneventful but despite the bright sunshine my mood was dark. A newspaper had been left in the car for me and I read through it in the hope of gaining some distraction, but it was full of stories about environmental deterioration, water shortages and mass-migration from famine areas in Africa. I thought of Luke and wondered what he was doing.

  I was left with much food for thought. I had been identified as a target by a hostile organisation, which meant not only that my life was in danger, but that others around me could be as well. The hospital was a fine place for keeping out the idly curious, but a trained killer was a different matter. I would have to be much more careful.

  I was used to shutting out the mental signals from those around me, unless I had to focus on a medical case, as they caused too much distraction. The situation had changed drastically, however. As the car dropped me off close to a rear entrance to the hospital, I tried extending my sensitivity and scanned the area. The babble of mental noise from the hospital roared like surf, containing all of the varied emotions of humanity. I tried to tune that out and swept my attention outwards, towards the surrounding countryside.

  Contact! The mind was cold, clear and deliberate, the attention focused on me, the pressure on the trigger tripping the sear NOW! I dived to one side as the bullet cracked past, instantly followed by the flat 'bang' of the muzzle blast. I was immediately on my feet and racing towards the gunman who was concealed in a small copse less than a hundred metres away. I sensed his dismay and growing alarm as I hit a speed which Olympic sprint champions would have traded years of their lives for. He fumbled with the rifle's bolt action, chambering another round and hastily taking aim as I rushed towards him. This time it was easy, I jerked to one side as he fired and came straight on. He was now in a complete panic and dropped his rifle, pulling out a pistol as firing almost blindly as I hurtled through the air, sending him into oblivion as I knocked him to the ground.

  I dropped to my knees to examine him but as my reactions slowed to normal I felt a sudden, deep pain. I looked down and realised that the pistol bullet hadn't missed after all – there was a hole in my tee-shirt, and the material was darkening with blood. As if following some basic instinct I immediately lay down so I could focus entirely on the wound. The pain was dismissed easily enough and I concentrated on the deep wound channel which penetrated my body, passing through my liver. I found I was able to stop the blood flow, sealing off the countless blood vessels sliced through by the bullet. The liver repair took a little longer.

  I was then left with a bullet buried in my body, and a hole running through me. Still not sure what I was able to do, I focused on the flesh around and in front of the bullet, and forced it to close, slowly pushing the bullet backwards. After ten minutes of effort, the bullet popped out of my abdomen, and the hole sealed behind it. I slowly got up, feeling a little weak and tired but otherwise unaffected, and examined the bullet. It had a coppery-coloured base but the nose was of lead and had been expanded into a broad star shape by the passage through my body – a hollow-point, I guessed.

  I knew something about guns from friends in America who had taken me down to a firing range on more than one occasion to try out different weapons. I picked up the rifle and worked the bolt, ejecting the fired cartridge case. I examined the headstamp and winced. The lettering spelled out "norma 7 MM REM MAG". I recalled that the 7mm Remington Magnum was a high-velocity hunting round which normally fired expanding bullets. A hit from that would have been much more difficult to repair – it would have blown a large hole right through me.

  I looked down at the paralysed assassin, who was clearly going nowhere, and went to the hospital to find a phone.

  Richards came personally that night, accompanied by the usual pair of silent men who quickly loaded the assassin and his weapons into the back of their vehicle. He was full of concern and apology for the danger he had exposed me to, and anxious to make amends.

  'I need to get away from here, quickly.' I said. 'I'm putting my friends in danger by staying here. I need to leave tonight.' I had had time to think this through, and knew that my stay at the hospital had to end.

  He blinked in surprise, then thought quickly. 'Very well, we have some discreet accommodation we can offer until we can sort out something more permanent. You'd better come with us.'

  'First I have some people to see.' I went into the hospital and, after warily scanning the area, entered my room. No-one had been there, I could somehow tell. I picked up my spare clothes and stuffed them in a bag, added some fruit and nuts, glanced around, then left. There was nothing more I needed.

  Brian had gone home for the night but Zara was still on duty and after tracking down her mental signature I met her in a quiet corridor. She gasped when she saw my bloodied and perforated shirt but I pulled it up to show my unmarked skin and she relaxed a little.

  'Zara, I'm afraid I have to leave, now. I've become a target and I'm putting everyone in danger just by being here. They've tried twice in two days with guns, the next time it might be a bomb.'

  She grimaced, shocked and angry. 'Who's "they"?'

  'I didn't stop to ask. I expect I've accumulated quite a range of enemies. But whoever it is, they've taken a serious and determined dislike to me.' I was reluctant to involve her in any speculation about security services; as far as she knew, I had gone to London to advise on some medical issue.

  'What about your patients? We've got the usual week's worth stacked up in a holding pattern around the hospital.'

  'I know, and I will get to them, I promise. They'll just have to wait until I can operate from somewhere more secure.'

  She looked at me, radiating anger and sadness – and something more. 'I knew this would happen some time, but not so soon. I'll miss you,' she said softly.

  'Me too.'
/>   She was suddenly in my arms, hugging me tight and trying not to cry. I held her for a while, soothing her mental turmoil, and she gradual relaxed into acceptance.

  'I hate goodbyes. Just be very careful, all right?'

  'All right'.

  She turned suddenly and walked away down the long corridor without looking back. I stood and watched her go, realising with sadness that yet another turning point in my life had been reached. And the next stage was likely to be a lot less pleasant.

  3

  The military base was sited in the Brecklands, a part of East Anglia whose sandy soils were mainly covered with heathland and conifer woodlands. The base was in some ways not dissimilar to the hospital: the same sprawling buildings with the anonymous cubism of 1960s construction, the same institutional feel. In other respects it was quite different; the extensive grounds were surrounded by a double row of fencing topped by a thick coil of razor wire, covered by sensors to detect any attempt at penetration. Set back from the fence was a belt of pine trees which screened the activities within. The only entrance was an elaborate controlled gateway, with a chicane of concrete blocks to thwart car bombers, and several men always on duty. As we first drove through I glanced into the open doorway of their guardhouse and spotted grenade launchers as well as machine guns. They clearly had no intention of letting any unauthorised visitors enter, and were prepared to do whatever it took to stop them. I wondered what would happen if I decided to walk out of the gate.

  These defences seemed to be to rather more thorough than at a typical military base, but I was not told what went on there and the sign at the entrance was singularly bland and uninformative. I was assigned a house not far from the entrance, standing by itself in its own copse of trees. The downstairs rooms had been rapidly refurnished as a pair of consulting rooms and my living accommodation was upstairs. It was made politely clear to me that wandering around the base was not encouraged. A businesslike and efficient army nurse called Karen was assigned to me; I was already missing Zara's warmth and good humour.