Scales

by Anthony G Williams

  'There's a spare room upstairs. You can have my bedclothes – I never use them.'

  She slipped out of her chair and walked slowly towards me, swaying her hips slightly, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. 'That's no way to treat a lady.'

  'What lady?'

  She was suddenly pressed against me, arms around my neck. 'You started something with me,' she said softly, 'and I've been waiting for months for you to finish it.'

  My mind was filled with the sight and smell and feel of her, and the enveloping warmth of her mind. I picked her up, and headed for the stairs.

  I woke unusually late, puzzled for an instant until I sensed the mind next to mind, still deep in sleep. I turned and looked down at Sophie, sprawled across the bed, auburn hair tumbled over her face. I thought of the night, slowly savouring the memory. It had been the first time for me since my accident, the first time I had made love with the powerful intensity of mental contact and feedback, always knowing what she wanted, gradually stimulating her, my mind saturated with her intense pleasure. Only total exhaustion had eventually stopped us and dropped us into sleep.

  I slid off the bed and walked over to the window. The pale blue of an early summer dawn, the eastern sky striated with clouds. Behind me, I sensed her wake. I turned and looked at her as she drowsily sat up. She looked back at me, her mischievous smile gradually spreading across her face.

  'Well sir, you've test-driven the new model, what do you think of her?'

  I considered that for a moment. 'Smart styling and great performance, but what about reliability?'

  'Comes with a lifetime guarantee.'

  'Great. What about servicing?'

  'Ah, this model needs that every day.' She laughed and held out her arms.

  Much later, we lay entangled together, spent and breathless. 'This is not good.' I mumbled. 'I have no energy at all left for patients today.'

  I felt her chuckle. 'You're forgetting – it's Sunday. Your one and only day off, right?'

  I raised my head and grinned blearily at her. 'Right.' I said, and reached for her again.

  4

  When we finally went downstairs, I was somehow not surprised to see Richards sitting in the waiting room, sipping a cup of tea. He smiled wryly as we appeared.

  'You must be Miss Reynolds I presume. May I be the first to offer congratulations?'

  Sophie curtsied ironically. 'Thank you, kind sir. And you are?'

  'My name is Richards. From the Home Office.'

  Sophie took a shot in the dark. 'You wouldn't happen to be the well-dressed gentleman seen with Cade by Tower Bridge, would you?'

  Richards looked thoughtfully at her. 'I am prepared to answer various questions, but only if you first sign this.' He pushed a piece of paper at her. I could see that it was headed "Official Secrets Act."

  She glanced at it. 'But if I sign that, I won't be able to write anything about it.'

  'I'm afraid that rather goes with the territory. You have to decide, now, whether you are in or out. If you are in, you will learn what is going on but will only be able to write that which I first approve. You will also be the first to know when any news is released. If you stay out, you will learn nothing from me, and should you discover anything your editor may still be required not to publish in the interests of national security.'

  Sophie thought hard for a long minute, clearly reluctant to trammel her journalistic freedom. The she reached a decision. 'I wouldn’t want to publish anything that affected national security. And I'm limited in what I can publish about Cade anyway, since last night. In a way, I'm already "in". OK, I'll sign it.' She pulled out a pen, sat down and scribbled her signature on the document. 'My first article about Cade won't concern any security issues – it will be based on yesterday's interview in which he told me precisely nothing about what's going on, you'll be pleased to hear. Now, what is it that you won't allow me to print?'

  Richards briefed her on the events of the past few weeks; my visit to London as 'witchfinder', the two attempts on my life, the operations against the terrorists. Sophie was astonished. 'There was a bomb in that van?'

  'Yes. Big enough to flatten a considerable area. It appears he was planning to detonate it in the middle of Tower Bridge – a very visible national symbol. It would have put the bridge out of action for a long time.'

  Sophie sat back and puffed her cheeks out in thought. 'When are you planning to release the news about the attempted attacks?'

  'Not just yet. The organisers of the attacks still have no idea what happened. As far as they're concerned, their men have just disappeared. No explosions, no word from them, no police activity. They will be completely baffled. Two of the men have already responded to Cade's treatment. They have promised to work for us in return for British citizenship. We are now putting together the details of an operation to reinsert these men into the organisation with a credible cover story which we can arrange to substantiate. It will, of course, cast the cell leaders as traitors.'

  'Then what?'

  'We keep them there until we've learned as much as we can. Then we roll up that organisation, and with Cade's help turn some of their men and reinsert them into the next level, and so on.'

  This was the first I'd heard of it, but I had to admire the ruthless logic.

  Sophie turned to me. 'Cade, how did you come to be involved with this? I thought all you wanted to do was to heal people.'

  'True enough, but preventing them from being damaged in the first place is even better, and with the threat of two massive bombs due to be detonated here, I really had no choice.'

  Richards looked at her. 'You could actually be a positive help to us.'

  She looked wary. 'Don't forget I'm a journalist, believe it or not with some scruples. I'm not going to write anything I know to be false.'

  Richards steepled his hands and smiled benignly at her. 'Well, it won't be exactly false. It's just that a report to say that several members of a terrorist organisation have been arrested along with bomb-making equipment might be helpful, along with a hint that the arrests were possible because of a high-level tip-off within the organisation, and that two other men are believed to have escaped the net and are still being sought by the authorities. That sort of thing. Once you'd published it we'd come out with a suitably reluctant and guarded confirmation, and issue photofit pictures of the men we still want to interview.'

  'Which will be your two stooges, except that the photofits won't look quite like them.'

  He winced 'Quite.'

  Sophie sighed. 'All right then, I can see the need. I'll just have to remember to carry a long spoon with me when I meet you in future!'

  Sophie's articles hit the press on two separate days. The first was about her interview with me, which was suitably anodyne. The only real news was that I had taken the opportunity to launch a torpedo at those who were exploiting the gullible in my name, by releasing my own philosophy. Sophie had rather pompously dubbed it "The Three Principles of Cade" but the text was exactly as I had given it to her:

  "There are three key principles which should be followed in life: respect others; respect the environment; and respect yourself.

  Respect other people, regardless of sex, age, nationality, culture or beliefs. Treat them as you would like to be treated yourself. If they abuse your trust, then ignore them. If they attack you or other innocent people, then act proportionately in defence.

  Respect the environment, in large and small ways. Try to ensure that the world you leave to your successors is better than it is now. Wherever you go, ensure that when you leave, the place is at least no worse, and preferably better, than when you arrived.

  Respect yourself. Look after the health and fitness of your mind and your body. Always remain willing to learn. Avoid behaviour which would cause you shame if it became public. Ignore all those who try to interpret these principles for you; make up your own mind about how to apply them, and live accordingly.

  Sophie had been dub
ious. 'Bit motherhood-and-apple-pie-ish isn't it?'

  'Yep. That's the whole point; it's the KISS principle – keep it simple, stupid! Up to now, the public have had little or no idea what kind of person I am or what I believe in – only what I don't believe in. This is simple enough to be easily understood by anyone, and inoffensive enough that my religious opponents will have some trouble making anything of it. And put that last sentence in bold – it's the key to knocking the exploiters on the head.'

  The article about the terrorists, which appeared a couple of days later, was carefully distanced from the first as we didn't want any reference to my involvement to appear – although as events were to prove, someone made the connection. Richards duly followed up with his press release, and Sophie's journalistic stock went up another notch.

  Every week she worked at her job – helped by a steady trickle of information from Richards – while I healed my patients, but at the weekends she came to me.

  Several weeks later, Richards sent a car for me after my patients had left. It was now allegedly summer, the daylight hours spreading well into the evening, so I was thankful for the dark-tinted windows as we crawled through London. A few sudden changes of direction, a little interference run by another security vehicle, a quick bit of last-minute deception and I was in Richards' lair once more.

  He had thoughtfully provided a bottle of my favourite spring water – you have no idea what subtle flavours there can be in water unless you drink nothing else – and was looking immoderately pleased with himself.

  'So far so good. Our "stooges", as your delightful inamorata calls them, are back in the fold and keeping us informed. We're now ready for phase two.'

  'Knocking out the next level?'

  'That's it.' He looked approvingly at me. 'The organisation has moved a senior man to London to try to re-establish their cells – after the "betrayal", they don't really trust anyone who was here. We know there are now six of them altogether, plus our two, we know who they are, where they live and where they meet. We can pick them up at any time.'

  'So why don't you?'

  'Timing is all. And we must do it in such a way that we secure them before they have a chance to kill themselves. They are all armed, and very wary. If we just went up and gave their front doors a "heavy knock" as usual, they would either open fire or blow themselves up. Which would mean that their organisation would immediately know what had happened. So we must take them quickly and silently.'

  'I feel that you are at last arriving at the reason you called for me.'

  Richards beamed at my perspicacity. 'How right you are. It has not been unremarked that you have a certain talent for moving quickly and silencing people instantly. The fact that you know exactly where people are, even in the dark, is also a big help. I'm sure that you can pull this off and thereby avoid much risk to the security people and of course any members of the public who may become caught up in this.'

  'No doubt.' I sighed, the sound of inevitability. 'Where are they then?'

  Two days later I was back in London. It had been decided that it was too risky for me to try to get at them in their flats (too many locks on their reinforced doors, according to their "postman"), and also to try to take them when they were all together (six at once would be long odds, considering they were all armed). That left the few minutes while they were moving from their flats to their meeting place in the apartment occupied by two of them – fortunately, one of them being one of our "stooges". A meeting had been scheduled for tonight.

  They lived in pairs at varying distances from the apartment and we could not be sure exactly when each pair would start to move, so their interception would have to be carefully choreographed. At my suggestion, I was mounted on the pillion of a motorbike as being the fastest way to reach them all. It had the additional benefit that I could be completely covered by leathers, a helmet and a mirror-finish visor. The only unusual detail was that the very tips of the gauntlets had been snipped off, to ensure that my fingers obtained a good contact.

  The meeting was due to take place at 22.00 hours. By 21.40 I was in place on the back of the bike, waiting. Each flat was staked out, and my helmet concealed a miniature radio.

  'Target Alpha, both leaving now,' the headphones crackled abruptly. The engine roared into life, and I squeezed the rear handgrips as the bike took off.

  'Target one wearing black leather jacket, brown combat trousers, dark blue baseball cap. Target two a brown leather jacket, black jeans, black baseball cap.'

  Not fashion victims then, I thought irrelevantly. The bike had been stationed close to the flat furthest from the apartment, on the reasonable assumption that they would leave first, so we soon caught up with them. The leather jackets loomed into view, gleaming in the streetlights. The motorcycle cruised smoothly up behind and I scarcely had to slip off the saddle in order to reach out and touch their necks. Immediately behind came a paramedic vehicle, which screeched to a halt, a couple of uniformed men leaping out and bundling the prostrate men onto stretchers before loading them into the back as we sped away to the next target.

  The motorcycle stopped at a pre-selected place, close to but out of sight of the next furthest flat. There was a long pause, before the radio crackled into life again.

  'Target Gamma moving now.'

  Not the pair we had expected to move next. It would take a quick chase across the streets to reach them before they arrived at the apartment. The bike roared into life again and accelerated rapidly after the new targets. As it went straight past "Flat Beta" I gave it a quick scan to check if they were intending to move soon. What I discovered shocked me.

  'This is Lover' – I cringed inwardly at the code name Richards had sardonically bestowed – 'Flat Beta is empty, repeat empty.'

  A few seconds of silence, then Richards started to speak before being suddenly interrupted.

  'This is Para 1 – warning! The patients were wearing fall alerts.'

  'Fall whats?' Richards' voice was impatient but I felt a faint chill of premonition – I had seen such devices on some of my patients.

  'Fall alerts. They're meant for the elderly. If someone falls over and doesn't get up for a while, they send an automatic distress signal.'

  Another silence while we grappled with the shocking implications. Then Richards again. 'They were expecting us. They must have turned or broken one of our stooges.'

  'They've jumped into a taxi!' The cry came from the agent trailing the Gamma pair. His car roared forwards to pick him up, and our motorcycle leaped ahead with a burst of speed but the timing of the terrorists had been carefully calculated. By the time the taxi was spotted, the passengers had fled.

  'Flat Decca, now!'

  We converged on the venue for the meeting, one of the men carrying a strange rod-like instrument which he pressed against the door. 'Stand clear!' A loud "bang" followed and the door swung open, the lock shattered by the blast of some kind of specialised gun. We piled into the flat and found only one man – one of our stooges, very dead, very horribly.

  Richards cursed through his teeth. 'Our other man was in Flat Beta. We'd better get over there.'

  None of us wanted to rush, and we found what we feared. We gathered in shock in a room in Flat Beta, out of sight of the body.

  Richards was as grim as Death himself. 'Somehow they got onto one or other of our men, and "persuaded" him to talk.' He looked at me. 'One of them must have seen you when you knocked them out. He must have told the others about you, and they reasoned what you could do.'

  'I should have gone round the flats beforehand, scanned them all. I would have picked this up.'

  'No point in labouring it. They were all right yesterday, and everything seemed to be in hand. The question is, what are they up to now?'

  I tried a pillion scan of the area, but picked up nothing. They must have travelled far away, as quickly as possible. Two of them, in the flats containing the bodies, had probably left the night before. Where had they gone?

&nbs
p; There was nothing we could do to salvage the disaster, so I went back to the base, feeling depressed and dirty, as if I had been soiled by the deaths. I didn't have to wait long to find out what the two men had been up to.

  The phone rang and I picked it up. The sound of the soft voice raised my spirits – before they tumbled into shock and horror as I listened to her words. She was trying to be brave, but I could sense her terror. I listened numbly as the man told me precisely what to do, and what would happen if I did not.

  I stood for a long time with my mind in turmoil, then made my decision and called Richards.

  'They've got her.'

  Stunned silence for a moment. 'Is she alright?'

  'For now.'

  'They must have found out about the two of you somehow – possibly her articles gave them the idea.'

  'Whatever. It hardly matters now.'

  'What do they want?'

  'You – or to be precise, your death. I expect that's just for starters.'

  'So I take it you don't intend to deliver.'

  'What's the point? We both know they'd keep using me for as long as possible. Then they'd kill her anyway, and me too, and if I wasn't dead already.'

  'Very well. What do you want me to do?'

  'I need an aircraft – one with a decent range. I'm more sensitised to Sophie than anyone else and I can normally pick her up many miles away. But I can't sense her now. In an aircraft, I could scan a lot of ground at high speed. It's the best chance I've got of finding her.'

  'Very well. A helicopter will pick you up from the base within the hour. It'll take you to an airfield. Anything else?'

  'I'll call you if I think of anything.'

  The Army Gazelle took me to RAF Northolt where a twin-jet BAe 125 of 32 Squadron, Transport Command, was waiting. I had scanned constantly en route, but detected no sense of Sophie. The pilot was in the cabin, studying plans. He greeted me politely and restrained his obvious curiosity about me, and about the top-level pull which had put his plane at my disposal.