Scales

by Anthony G Williams

  'Unregistered mobile, presumably stolen. From this area.'

  I groaned, then refocused on our targets. 'We have to go – they're moving out of range.'

  The driver started the van and moved off towards the T-junction at the end of the road.

  'Hang on - they've stopped moving. They're waiting for something.' A pause as the driver stopped just before the junction. 'They're moving again – I think they've got on a bus. They're going to cross in front of us.'

  The driver edged up to the junction, then turned right to follow the bus, keeping a few vehicles between us. Richards was talking rapidly into his mobile; several cars were on the way, directed to move in behind us or to get in front of the bus. I looked at a street sign as we went past and discovered that we were on the Kingsland Road, heading south. Richards took his phone away from his ear for a moment. 'It's a number two-four-three bus which terminates at Waterloo. Men are on their way.'

  The bus turned right into Old Street and our driver ignored the 'buses only' restriction to follow, soon afterwards negotiating the large roundabout at the junction with City Road. We followed as the road became Clerkenwell Road, then I detected intention, and movement. 'They're going – no, just one of them is. Not the leader.'

  Richards muttered into his phone and I deduced that one of the cars had stopped to allow an agent to track the terrorist. After dropping him off just before the junction with Farringdon Road, the bus continued its journey along Theobalds Road, then turned left into Drake Street, right into High Holborn and left down Kingsway. At the first stop, near Holborn Station, another of the terrorists disembarked, and another car was detailed to follow. 'Still not the leader.'

  The bus headed down the Kingsway towards the Thames. At Aldwych the bus turned left and a third man got off, leaving just the leader behind. The bus turned right into the Strand before turning left again to cross the river at Waterloo Bridge, heading past the National Theatre to the station. The tension in our van rose palpably as the bus neared the terminus.

  'We have a problem,' Richards said. 'You can't go out in broad daylight – you would cause a sensation. When he gets off, we'll have to track him without you.'

  'We'd better stay in the van. Now that I'm attuned to his mental pattern, I can follow him from quite a distance, even in a crowd.'

  'All right.'

  The bus turned into the Mepham Street terminus and we cruised slowly past, watching the terrorist walking up the flight of steps into the concourse of Waterloo Station. One agent followed, to join the four already in the station. Richards followed their reports intently, then frowned. 'He's just gone to a café out in the concourse and is sitting down, making no attempt to go anywhere'.

  I "tasted" the terrorist's mood and was puzzled. 'He's not worried – seems grimly satisfied.' A terrible thought dawned, and I instantly knew it was true. 'He may be the leader but he's acting as a decoy! One of the others must be trying to get to the van!'

  Richards cursed viciously and barked 'pull him in!', then punched numbers into his phone, demanding situation reports from the detached groups following the other terrorists and ordering; 'arrest them now! Don't wait any longer!'

  Two of the groups reported back promptly and moved in, but the third call had a different response. 'You've WHAT! How did you lose him?'

  'Which one?'

  Richards angrily lowered his phone. 'The first one. Farringdon Road. They somehow contrived to lose him by the station.'

  The van had already turned round and circled the drum-shaped glass Imax cinema before racing off down Stamford Street, then taking a sharp left to cross the Thames again via Blackfriars Bridge. The van tore up New Bridge Street, past Ludgate Circus and up Farringdon Street, under the Holborn Viaduct and on up Farringdon Road, where the driver made a sharp right turn, skidding slightly on the wet road, and screeched to a halt by the combined rail and underground station. I was already scanning, but could detect nothing.

  'Back to Hoxton! The garage is bound to be somewhere nearby.'

  Richards nodded and the van set off again, the chastened agents in tow. A U-turn in front of the Caxton House car park followed by an illegal right turn back into the Clerkenwell Road saw us retracing the bus route, albeit at a considerably higher velocity. Once in Hoxton we slowed and trawled the streets. Much of the area had recently become 'gentrified' as indicated by the appearance of up-market coffee bars, but nearby there were still many poorer estates and we concentrated on those.

  The minutes ticked by as we toured street after street. Suddenly I made contact. 'Got him!' And a few seconds later; 'he's moving!' His mental state had changed; now his mind was locked, somehow both blank and tightly focused with a steady babbling undercurrent. I suddenly realised that he was praying constantly, and shouted, 'he's in the bomb van!"

  Richards suddenly calmed. 'Where?'

  'To the west of us, heading south.'

  He consulted a street map as the driver swung the van into the next turn and accelerated. 'Where now?'

  'Keep going, then turn left at the next major junction.'

  'East Road,' Richards muttered. The driver raced to catch up, while Richards sent yet another stream of instructions over his phone.

  East Road joined City Road, which crossed Old Street – the second time that morning we had been round that roundabout – then at London Wall the terrorist turned left towards Whitechapel.

  'Where is he going?' muttered Richards as our driver wove through the traffic.

  'Don't get too close,' I warned, 'if he knows he's being followed he's liable to blow the bomb instantly.'

  The driver slowed a little. Richards turned to look at me, his face grim. 'We can't stop him in the usual way; he mustn't suspect anything. We'll have to find a way of stopping him which doesn't alarm him, then you'll have to get him. It's the best chance we've got – we'll never get snipers into place in time.'

  I nodded. 'Fair enough. You do your bit and I'll do mine.'

  Rain was falling steadily as we crossed Aldgate High Street and followed the anonymous dull-blue van down Minories towards the Tower of London. Richards made another phone call, giving clear instructions, using what appeared to be some identification code. We waited in silence as we crawled in heavy traffic past the Tower towards Tower Bridge. The stone-clad gateway marking the entrance to the bridge loomed up ahead of us, then the traffic suddenly ground to a complete halt. Richards smiled grimly and said 'Gotcha!'

  I looked at him, puzzled, then looked ahead and realised what was happening. Red lights glowed through the rain as the great bascules rotated, the road decks reaching towards the sky. Tower Bridge was opening – which meant that the road was closed. The traffic was locked in place – there was nowhere else to go.

  'Go boy!' Richards said softly.

  I scrambled out of the back of the vehicle, feeling even sillier in my sunglasses in the rain, which had intensified into a steady downpour. I walked briskly along the pavement and spotted the van, fortunately stopped just before the start of the railings which separate the roadway from the pavement. The driver was in a state of high tension and I realised that he could blow the bomb at any moment. I walked until I was just behind the van, out of the line of sight of the door mirrors, then turned in towards it. I had to get this right, first time, with only a second's grace.

  The clouds were so heavy it was as dark as twilight. Lights gleamed off the wet vehicle. The van door was in front of me – I was just behind it, now hidden from the driver on the other side of the vehicle. I had to assume that the door was locked. The handle was horizontal, of the type fixed rigidly at both ends, the opening catch being at one end of it, on the outside. It would have to do.

  I took a deep breath, seized the handle with my right hand and punched through the side window with my left, using the door handle for the leverage to throw myself across the cabin at the driver. His shocked face turned towards me as he grabbed at the cable lying on the seat next to him, then my outstretched fingers reache
d his hand and he froze in place. His hand was almost touching the plunger contact at the end of the cable.

  I pushed myself back out of the cab window, brushing broken glass away, conscious of the startled attention of the motorist behind. Richards walked up nonchalantly, looked through the van window, spotted the plunger, and winced. 'Too close for comfort,' he muttered. 'OK, let's get this traffic moving again.'

  He made another phone call, and shortly afterwards the bridge began to lower. By then, the comatose terrorist had been pushed into the passenger's footwell and the van was being driven to safety, rather nervously, by one of Richards' men. Richards was unsympathetic; 'serves him right for losing the guy in the first place.'

  We went back to Richards' headquarters where the other captives had already been assembled. Seven were paralysed, the other three had just been picked up by Richards' men. I spoke to Richards; 'let me try something.'

  He looked at me, then evidently decided that he could trust my judgment. 'OK.'

  First I walked up to the active terrorists and painlessly knocked them out. Then I went to each one in turn, placing my hands around their heads, and concentrating intently for several minutes. I focused on their abnormal brain patterns, the solid and unthinking belief that formed the core of their personalities. Probing deeply but with maximum sensitivity, I located the precise patterns of brain activity, noted the blockages preventing any questioning of their beliefs. Then I changed them, clearing the blocks, allowing free movement of thoughts, undermining the solid core of their beliefs.

  Afterwards I stepped away, feeling suddenly tired.

  Richards looked at me curiously. 'What have you done?'

  'Implanted a mental virus – a virus of sanity, reasonableness and critical thinking. An anti-faith virus, if you like. They're all asleep now, but when they wake up they'll be active, so they'll need securing. But they should gradually start to think and act like normal human beings again. Better watch the leaders in particular, though – it may be such a shock to them that they try to commit suicide.'

  Richards considered this in his usual practical fashion. 'Will we be able to turn them? Make them double agents?'

  I sighed. 'Quite possibly. If you think you have, call me and I'll check they're genuine. Now I want to go back to the base.'

  It wasn't quite as simple as that. The occupants of the car behind the van at Tower Bridge had evidently recognised me – I remembered that in hurling myself through the side window my hood had been pushed back for a few seconds. I was greeted the next morning at the military base by newspaper headlines:

  'Exclusive: Cade seen in secret Tower Bridge operation!'

  There followed a lurid account of my assault on the van. Richards had evidently chosen not to publicise the capture of the terrorists for the time being and the reporter's enquiries at the security services had been blandly deflected, so the newspaper didn't have much to go on – which didn't stop them speculating, of course. Had I been recruited by the Secret Service? Was I the new James Bond? The article was accompanied by the inevitable photo montage of 007, in classic pose with his gun, with my face superimposed.

  Despite this, I was able to get on with seeing my patients undisturbed, the Army evidently keeping at bay all press enquiries. Two days of hard work later and I was making good progress with the backlog. Then Karen announced the next patient. 'Sophie Reynolds, continuing neck pain resulting from a whiplash injury.'

  I nodded and went into the consulting room where a young woman was lying face down on the plinth. As I stood over her I realised first that I couldn't detect any pain, and next that something about her mind seemed familiar. 'Sit up.' I said.

  She rolled over and sat on the plinth, looking at me steadily. I recognised her instantly – she was the hackette whose pleasure switch I had innocently flipped, what seemed like an age ago. I looked back at her and waited in silence.

  Her mouth quirked. 'So you're not going to call the MPs to throw me out, then?'

  'Probably – but you've got a few seconds to explain why you're wasting time I could be spending on genuine patients.'

  She shrugged. 'I would have thought that was obvious. I've been following your career with great interest – I don't suppose you've read any of my articles? No, well, never mind. I'm probably the country's greatest expert on you now, and got a better job on the strength of it.' She leaned forwards and gazed at me intently. 'You did something to me, you know – I've not been the same since that day you tampered with my nervous system. You owe me.'

  I raised an eyebrow. 'Sounds as if you've already got your reward.'

  She shook her head impatiently. 'I want to know what you're up to. Was it really you by Tower Bridge? What were you doing?'

  I sighed. 'Sophie – is that you're real name? OK, well if you think I was involved in a security operation, then you should approach the security services for a statement. Because if I was involved, I wouldn't tell you about it, and if I wasn't, I wouldn't be able to tell you.'

  She grimaced. 'Very neat. Alright then, I'll take that as a "no comment". How about a more general interview? I promise not to endanger national security!'

  I sighed, tempted to call Karen to have her escorted off the premises. On the other hand, she was an interesting and attractive young woman, and it had been a long time since I had just chatted to someone. I thought wistfully of Zara. 'Go next door, we can talk after I've seen the rest of the afternoon's patients.'

  She grinned and hopped off the plinth, sauntering into the kitchenette where I waited for patients.

  Shortly afterwards, Karen came in, her expression stern. 'What's she doing in there?'

  'She's a reporter. I'm going to talk to her afterwards.'

  Karen looked horrified. 'You can't do that! I'll get her escorted off the base.'

  I looked at her, suddenly tired of the restrictions, of the narrow focus of my life. 'Do that and I'll go with her. And I won't come back.'

  She stopped herself from saying what plainly jumped into her mind (oh yes, I thought, just you try to have me stopped!), then turned abruptly and marched out.

  I dealt with the rest of the patients myself – nothing too serious, the usual nerve damage cases and some with nervous disorders. The last case of the day was unusual; a woman who had gone blind as a result of old psychological trauma. I reactivated her optic nerves for an instant cure, much to the shock of her sister who had accompanied her. Their joyous noise brought Sophie out of the kitchenette, clutching a mug of tea. She watched with interest as they danced out of the door.

  'They were in my hotel. Was she really blind?'

  'Yep. Nothing physically wrong, she had just wanted to stop seeing.'

  'I overheard what you said to that officious nurse. Thanks.'

  'Nothing personal. I'm just tired of having every detail of my life organised for me. You came along at the right moment to take advantage.'

  She grinned. 'That's a good starting point – let's build on that!' She pulled a Filofax out of her handbag and turned to some note pages, then rummaged for a pen. 'Got to do this the old-fashioned way, I'm afraid. I'd never have got a recorder past the guards. First of all, where does "Cade" come from? It's an unusual name.'

  I smiled. 'That's an easy one. It was my natural mother's surname, and my adoptive parents decided to keep it when they christened me. Peculiar to Lincolnshire, I believe.'

  She nodded and scribbled. 'Next…' she said.

  It was long past dark by the time she had finished. We had spent much time discussing what had happened to me, going through the options which were always in the back of my mind, tormenting me at quiet moments. What was I? The result of some bizarre experiment? If so, by whom – or what?

  I had carefully omitted all mention of my involvement with security and the attempts on my life, explaining away my move to the military base as a result of an intelligence warning that unspecified groups were planning to kill me. True enough – and they were plenty of them to choose from if their
internet publicity was to be believed. Otherwise, I had willingly answered her questions about my humdrum life.

  'Why do you do it?' She asked. 'With your talents, you could be a millionaire, living in luxury on a yacht in Monte Carlo or something, dominating the jet-set. Instead, you're cooped up here as if you're a prisoner.'

  I shrugged. 'You've just seen why. There's no greater buzz than turning pain and misery into happiness. I can't think of anything else I'd rather do. Fancy food and drinks are useless to me, and since my accident, I've found everything else superficial. And while my security is at risk, it's better for myself and my patients that I should stay in a secure environment.'

  She spread her arms wide in incomprehension. 'You could travel round the world, curing people. You'd have a hero's welcome wherever you went.'

  I laughed. 'Not quite. An awful lot of people would like to see me dead. And it's more efficient for the patients to come and see me.'

  'There's a big appeal going on in the USA to bring you over there for a visit.'

  'No thanks. Too many religious nutters after my scalp, for a start. And while I could deal with them, the lawyers are a different matter. As far as I can judge from scanning the websites, a fair slice of the population consists either of lawyers, or of people who want to hire lawyers to sue me. They don't always seem to know what for, but they're sure they'll think of something.'

  Sophie's infectious grin flashed across her face and I suddenly realised that I was beginning to like her – a lot.

  I looked out of the window at the darkness outside. The hotel bus had long since gone, and nothing was moving. The military had obviously decided it was best to leave me alone for the time being.

  'You seem to be stuck here, unless you fancy a walk of several miles along country roads.'

  That saucy grin again. 'Boy oh boy, when did you first use that one? It was old before I was born!'

  I laughed freely, a sudden release of tension. Suddenly, I wanted to keep this young woman with me for as long as possible. I realised that I had been completely starved of any sort of normal human contact, and she was like a lush oasis in an arid, barren desert.