by Matt Stark
“I don’t intend to – at least not yet. But I do need to know what’s going on inside the PM’s office.”
“How?”
“I want to send in a negotiator. At least Glaser will think he’s a negotiator, but he’ll actually be there to tell us what’s going on in Number Ten. I need to know how many people are in Glaser’s team. How many weapons he has access to – and exactly where in the PM’s office Glaser is holding the PM.”
Sam drummed his fingers on the table.
Peter was making some sense at last. The kind of details Peter had described could mean the difference between success and failure. But even if Glaser allowed a negotiator inside the building he most likely wouldn’t let him out again – because he’d want to control every scrap of information coming out of Number Ten. And while the negotiator was with him Glaser would watch his every move. There was no way he’d be able to tell Peter anything Glaser didn’t want him to.
“He’ll be wired,” said Peter, interrupting Sam’s thoughts.
Sam raised his eyebrows and glanced at Suzie – but she managed to keep a poker face. He was surprised, because Peter’s idea was the dumbest he’d heard in a long time.
“And you expect Glaser not to search him,” he said, turning back to Peter.
“He’ll search him but he won’t find anything,” replied Peter – a half smile at the corner of his mouth.
Sam had the feeling he was ten steps behind everyone again. He glanced at Suzie. Her blue eyes looked at him with compassion but she said nothing.
“How?” he said, beginning to feel like an Indian chief.
“A bug will be implanted under his skin,” replied Peter. “It’s ceramic and the data is sent in highly compressed bursts a few milliseconds long. So even if Glaser has scanning equipment he won’t pick anything up. The device even has a component that blocks telepaths – so if Glaser has any functioning mind readers with him the negotiator will still be safe.”
Sam ignored Peter’s stress on the word “functioning”.
“Okay. So who are you going to get to do it?”
There was a silence – during which Sam began to feel like the dumbest man in the world as the penny dropped. Peter hadn’t pushed him when Sam had told him his ability was still off, and he’d taken it as a sign: that was that. Peter would have no interest in him without his telepathy; even though Sam still thought he was a good agent he knew Peter was only interested in what made him special. But now he thought about it he was the perfect man for Peter to send into Number Ten. Who could be better than a man Glaser had known and worked closely with for years? Sure, it would have been nice if Sam remembered something about Glaser – but it probably wasn’t necessary. All Peter needed was someone who could make Glaser let down his guard. And his long-lost partner from back in the day might just.
By the time Peter said, “I’m sorry Sam. It’s you,” Sam was already half out of his seat.
His enthusiasm surprised even himself but it also made sense. Peter was asking him to do the impossible but at least he didn’t want Sam’s power. The memory of Waterloo still burned in Sam’s mind. He could not go through that again. He wouldn’t put himself in a situation where everyone was relying on his damn ability – because he’d only be setting himself up to fail. And he didn’t want yet more blood on his hands.
But Peter wanted him to be a JIS agent. That he understood. It felt solid and reliable. And it was something – despite his ten years in prison – that he was still good at.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
Chapter 22
8.00 a.m. Sunday 1st February; Downing Street
Sam stopped next to a portrait of Winston Churchill smoking a cigar, and listened.
He’d been let into Number 10 by a JIS Special Forces agent in full Nuclear Biological Chemical kit, making him feel underdressed in his jeans, tee shirt, and leather jacket. Sam would have liked his own NBC suit, but was sure Glaser wouldn’t appreciate the Star Wars Stormtrooper look. Anyway it would only protect him from gas or radiation, not bullets or TNT, which he was far more likely to face. The Special Forces agent had led Sam across a small black-and-white-chequered hall to Number Ten’s grand staircase, reminded him the PM’s private office was on the second floor, and left.
Sam took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, relaxing the tension in his muscles, and letting his arms fall to his sides. He kept completely still, trying to tune into his environment. Movement would mask the subtle sounds that could give him some idea what he was walking into. It might seem over the top. It wasn’t a covert entrance – Glaser was expecting someone, but that didn’t mean he was going to play nice, especially when he found out who that someone was. Peter had gone ahead and contacted Glaser after Sam agreed to be his negotiator. But Peter had insisted on keeping Sam’s identity secret. To Sam it made no sense at all. Glaser would be expecting a stranger – a government JIS negotiator – and he’d get Sam Barrick, his old partner. It wasn’t that Sam had changed his mind about using the connection between Glaser and himself. He hadn’t. It was still their best shot at getting the PM out. But Glaser should have known in advance. Surprising a man like him in a situation like this was at best dangerous and at worst fatal. But Peter wouldn’t change his mind. He’d agreed that seeing Sam appear without any advance warning would unsettle Glaser. But only enough to put him on the back foot – maybe enough so he’d start making mistakes. So Sam was on his way to give Glaser – an armed, highly volatile terrorist – the biggest surprise of his life.
He listened for two minutes, but only heard his own breathing, and the faint ringing in his ears from the bomb blast in Waterloo. He knew there were scores of people outside, just metres away, but Number Ten’s triple-glazed windows completely blocked out all external noise. And the building was deserted. After getting the call from Glaser, Peter had cleared Number Ten – in case Glaser hadn’t used all his TNT in Waterloo. Later a small Special Forces team occupied the ground floor only. So Sam was on his own.
Satisfied he could hear nothing, Sam wiped his brow with the back of his hand. It came back wet. Maybe he was more nervous than he thought. He put his hand on his Glock, stuffed down the front of his jeans. He planned to stash it outside the PM’s office. At least he’d have a weapon near at hand if the shit hit the fan. He tightened the straps of the canvas Berghaus rucksack on his back. It was packed with bottles of water, sandwiches and medical supplies for the hostages. He started up the stairs again.
Sam knew he should be concentrating on his environment, listening and looking for danger, but his mind was racing. He couldn’t quite believe he’d let Peter talk him into this. He’d just got back from ten years in a Chinese prison, where he’d been tortured so badly his mind had blocked out his memory of what happened, along with his memory of most of the rest of his life. He’d discovered he was supposed to be some kind of superhuman – only he wasn’t. And he’d found out Peter and Suzie, the people closest to him, had been lying to him all along. Mentally he wasn’t ready to be on active duty yet. He knew that. He wasn’t ready to have people’s lives in his hands.
He’d proven that by the way he’d fucked up the mission at Waterloo. He’d failed to convince Irfan not to blow himself, and a bunch of innocent civilians, to pieces. He supposed Irfan’s vest could have been detonated remotely by a mobile phone call, or it could have been on a timer set to blow automatically. It was a sensible precaution in case the suicide bomber had second thoughts. But that hadn’t happened. Irfan might have had doubts, but in the end he’d done it. Sam had seen Irfan’s face relax and the hint of a smile a split second before the shock wave hit. That smile had given Sam enough time to save himself, but not to stop twenty people’s being turned into mincemeat. He should have been able to stop Irfan. If not change his mind, then physically stop him. But he’d failed and people had died.
He made his way very slowly up the stairs, keeping his breathing slow and regular, and pausing every few steps to listen again. It was
tedious and exhausting but worth the effort. At one point an image of one of the bomb victims flashed into Sam’s mind. A boy of about twelve who’d been torn in two by shrapnel – bolts and screws, packed into the vest – designed to cause the maximum amount of damage. The boy had been just a few feet from Irfan getting a cola from the coffee shop when the bomb detonated.
Sam stopped dead as his stomach clenched and bile hit the back of his throat. He pushed the image away before it distracted him anymore. He couldn’t afford to think about that poor kid, or any of the other victims, or worry if he was up to the job. He was here. He’d agreed to do this, and if he didn’t want more people to die because he’d fucked up, he needed to pull himself together.
Sam was on the first floor now. Corridors led off to the left and right, and straight ahead. This place was like a rabbit warren. He pulled the top of his tee shirt over his face, and wiped his sweaty brow. Then he took another deep breath in and out, made himself still and listened. This time, as well as his breathing and the ringing in his ears he heard his heart hammering in his chest. He waited for a couple of minutes letting it settle down, listening to the sounds of the building. Glaser was in the PM’s private office on the second floor. Still too far away for Sam to hear anyone unless they were screaming – or shooting. Sam didn’t want to admit it to himself, but he was listening for Glaser’s thoughts as well. To know what Glaser was thinking, before Sam went into the PM’s office and exposed himself to a world of unknowns, would be incredibly useful. But Sam heard nothing – his telepathy was still switched off. Feeling stupid for even trying he started up the stairs again, moving toward the second floor.
After a dozen or so steps Sam stopped again and listened. He was struggling to focus but it was his thoughts, not the ringing in his ears, that were the problem.
He was here to protect hostages and get intel. So far so good. Only it wasn’t as simple as that. Because he’d been lied to by the people who should have been looking out for him. And because he still didn’t know what was true or not. He was a post-human. Sam still felt stupid thinking it, but accepted it – for now at least. Because of a single mutation on his fifth chromosome, Sam’s innate capacity for telepathy, something that all humans had, had been switched on. And he wasn’t the only one. There were maybe fifty others, some in government custody, others free – but all of them terrorists. And these post-humans were waging a war against the norms. Sam, it seemed, was the only post-human on humanity’s side. The only good guy. Every other post-human was an anarchist. A danger to society. Could that really be true?
Peter said the post-humans believed they were better than norms. They thought they were here to replace humanity like Homo sapiens replaced Neanderthals. They considered themselves mankind’s next evolutionary step. And because they hadn’t gotten the recognition they deserved they’d started a guerrilla war. Sam blew out a breath. It just didn’t add up. Sam knew New Dawn were post-humans and terrorists. But did he believe post-humans wanted to replace norms? He wasn’t sure.
He pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead. Peter and Suzie had lied about New Dawn’s being a post-human group. They’d lied about the government imprisoning post-humans, and about Sam’s old buddy being their ringleader. Were they still lying? And if they were, was Sam on the right side? He was a post-human just like Glaser, Serina, and Irfan. Irfan had said Our people are being persecuted. You have to save them. Was Sam betraying his own people by working for Peter?
When Sam realized what he was doing he gritted his teeth, angrily. What was wrong with him? He’d seen Irfan blow up himself and twenty innocent people. Sam still had the tinnitus and the stiff muscles to prove it. It was real. These people were killers. The fact that Sam shared the same genetic mutation was irrelevant. He was not one of them.
He had to stick to the facts. Anything else would send him crazy. The PM of Great Britain had been taken hostage. Even if New Dawn had a genuine grievance Sam couldn’t condone that. He wasn’t a blind loyalist, but he was a JIS agent. The British government and Peter had pulled out all the stops to get him back from Beijing. No – despite all the lies, he owed Peter. And Suzie? She loved him; that was all he needed to know.
Sam set off again. When he reached the second floor he stopped.
Peter might be one of the good guys but his plan sucked. Chances were Glaser would find the comms device, believe he’d been betrayed, and start killing hostages. It would be carnage – and after Waterloo, Sam already had enough blood on his conscience. He wiped his still damp forehead with the back of his hand. He’d do this his own way. That meant losing the comms device. Peter would go crazy, but there was fuck all he could do about it now Sam was in Number Ten. And he wasn’t worried about hurting Peter’s feelings. He’d explain himself later. But Suzie was different. She was probably with Peter now, eyes glued to a TV screen showing the flashing dot that represented Sam. What would she think when she saw it blink out? Sam shook his head. She’d be scared to death – think she’d lost him again. But the bottom line was, Sam couldn’t help that either.
But there was one big problem with his plan. He still needed Peter to call Glaser and tell him he was in position. That was the arrangement. And Sam couldn’t break it. If he knocked on the PM’s door unannounced, Glaser would most likely start firing before waiting to see who was calling.
He was supposed to call Peter when he’d reached the second floor – where he was now. The PM’s office was just twenty yards down the corridor off to Sam’s left. Once Peter received confirmation Sam was in position, he’d call Glaser, who’d then come out and check Sam was alone. Peter would be pissed with Sam but he’d still call Glaser. He had no option – at least that was what Sam hoped.
But Peter wasn’t Sam’s only problem. The comms device was implanted under his skin in his neck. He didn’t know why Brian had insisted it go there. Sam would have thought somewhere under his collarbone would have been a whole lot safer – like a pacemaker. But Brian had insisted. Unfortunately there were a bunch of very important arteries and nerves in the neck right next to the device, so Sam was going to have to be very careful when he cut it out.
He looked left and right and spotted a leather-studded chair a few yards down the corridor leading to the PM’s office. He wondered if the PM’s staff waited there, or maybe it was a seat where exhausted Prime Ministers could escape for a few minutes. Whatever; for now it was to be Sam’s operating chair. Because if he was going to dig around in his neck with a great big knife he’d better do it sitting down.
Sam sat in the chair, and pulled out his Gerber. He rubbed his finger on the skin running over his sterno-cleido-mastoid muscle and found the small hard disc – about the size of a ten-pence piece. He pinched it between the finger and thumb of his left hand, holding the Gerber in his right, and took a deep breath. He wasn’t looking forward to this but the device had to go. Still holding his breath he sliced along the skin for about two centimetres then, gritting his teeth, opened up the slit with the point of his Gerber. He’d ended up, he hoped, with the smallest, least visible hole in his neck still big enough to get the damn device out of. And using the Gerber would hopefully create less mess than trying to dig it out with his fingers. When he thought the hole was wide enough he thumbed the device out through the hole. He looked at it for a moment. A thin black disc. Then he dropped it on the wood floor and stamped down, until he heard it crunch.
Sam put the Gerber away and wiped his forehead again. It was time to call Peter.
Sam pulled the Motorola out of his jacket pocket and thumbed Peter’s number. Then he paused. Something didn’t feel right. He wanted to check out the PM’s office – get a better idea what he was walking into before he called Peter. He put the phone on silent. It was standard operating procedure for Peter not to phone Sam in case he compromised him. But Sam would rather be safe than sorry.
He got up from the chair and crept toward the PM’s office, past more pictures of ex-Prime Ministers. His only goal now, he
reminded himself, was to stop Glaser killing the Prime Minster and the other hostages. All the other crap in his mind could wait. Sam knew Glaser wanted the post-human prisoners released, and he’d keep the PM alive while he thought that was still a possibility. So Sam had to keep that illusion alive. He had no other plans. He’d just react to the situation as it developed.
Halfway to the PM’s office Sam stopped and listened. After thirty seconds he moved off again. At this point he would have given his right arm to read Glaser’s mind. If he knew what Glaser was thinking he’d have a much better chance of getting himself and the hostages out alive. It was so frustrating. He was supposed to have an amazing ability, but Sam had seen little of it. At least little that he had any control of. Yes he’d heard Serina’s thoughts, and picked out Irfan at Waterloo. But since then – nothing. This ability seemed to have a will of its own, and the bottom line was he couldn’t rely on it. If he wanted to stop Glaser he was going to have to use his human abilities – his JIS training and his brain.
But one thing made Sam particularly uneasy. He’d be surprising Glaser. He was expecting a negotiator – not his old buddy, Sam. And people in Glaser’s position didn’t usually like surprises. Peter said the connection between them gave Sam an advantage. He thought Glaser would implicitly trust Sam, and so let his guard down. But that seemed like bullshit to Sam. He and Glaser hadn’t met for over ten years. In that time Glaser had changed beyond recognition. He’d gone from a JIS agent to a terrorist with a cause he was willing to die for. Why would he let some ghost from his past distract him from that?
Sam stopped at the door to the PM’s office. He gripped the Glock’s handle pocking out of his jeans, and pressed his ear to the door, and listened.
He made his body as still as possible. He might not be telepathic at the moment, but he still had a good pair of ears and a brain. He wanted to pick up as much information as he could before he went into the room and put himself in danger. He focussed his attention solely on what was going on behind that door.
