It was a wise move. Although she roasted half a dozen chickens, made an enormous beef stew, grilled dozens of sausages and boiled dozens of eggs, she could not dispel the feeling impending doom creeping up on her.
After eating a meal of steak and chips with green beans with a glass or two of Chardonnay she’d pilfered, she laid out the cooked food to cool and returned to her office.
It was certainly cold up there and even though the central heating system was still functioning, it was barely coping with the freezing temperatures creeping in from outside. The offices had no double- glazing and the blinds afforded no protection at all. She rushed around the adjoining offices turning up thermostats, hoping that the heat would spread.
By 10pm, Suzi was exhausted by the trials of the day and dreaded the prospect of another snowy morning.
By 11pm she was wrapped up in her Burberry and sound asleep under the camp bed duvet covered with lab coats.
***
By 3pm on the Tuesday afternoon, Suzi had watched the Prime Minister’s broadcast on television, and was shocked to the core.
She could not believe that nobody had seen this disaster coming.
Nobody at the Met Office, nobody in Europe, nobody anywhere had been able to predict this potential catastrophe.
It was unbelievable – yet it had happened, and in a few short hours, a proud and powerful nation was on its knees.
Suzi sat and ruminated. There wasn’t much else she could do. Luckily, the electricity was still on and hot food available in the kitchens. She had prepared two good, hot sustaining meals during the day and cooked up a deal more meat and veg, which was now cooling for when the power failed. Of course, once it did, then temperatures would plummet and fridges wouldn't be necessary.
She wondered how long she would be able to withstand the cold.
How long would it be before rescue came?
How could it be that her wonderful life could end so ignominiously?
She wept.
***
After cooking up another hot meal in the kitchens, she decided to write a farewell message to her parents and family. It would be a short record of her experience, and would testify to her love for them all.
She returned to the office and typed out the letter on the computer, printed it, signed and sealed it and decided that the best place for it was her wall safe. So she opened it, and slid the testament inside.
As Suzi went to close the safe, something caught her eye.
Something sparked a vague memory going back two years, when promotion brought her to this office.
What was it? Emergency? Instructions……something.
She reached into the safe and pulled out a large A4 sized manilla envelope. It was sealed with wax and had precise instructions printed on the front.
CONFIDENTIAL – EYES ONLY
“To Be Opened by Dame Susan Macintyre CBE RVO
ONLY IN THE EVENT OF A NATIONAL EMERGENCY’
CONFIDENTIAL – EYES ONLY
Suzi stared at the envelope in puzzlement. She could remember a vague reference to such an envelope way back in the past, but had promptly forgotten it.
Was this a National Emergency?
It seemed like it to her!
She broke the seal and opened the envelope.
The instructions contained within were like something out of ‘James Bond’ or ‘Mission Impossible.’
Nonetheless, Suzi read the letter carefully:
“Dame Susan,
For you to be reading this message means that a grave danger threatens our nation. You are to follow the instructions below exactly.
The ink on this paper when exposed to light will fade in thirty minutes, so do not delay.
In your private washroom, under the third floor tile from the left, in the fourth row from the door, you will find a key. You will need to break the tile. Improvise.
Take the key, your overnight bag, your personal computer and any other documents you deem necessary, and proceed to the lift in the corridor.
Enter the lift and insert the key in the lock at the base of the control panel, and turn it clockwise one quarter of a revolution.
Press button ‘B’ on the floor selector.
The doors will close and the lift will operate.
On opening, you will be met by an armed military officer, who will demand instant and undeniable confirmation of your identity.
Follow his instructions to the letter.
Good Luck.”
Suzi was flabbergasted, yet glanced at her watch to check the time, and back to the letter to check the fading ink.
She wasn’t sure what to do.
If she ignored the letter and remained in her office, she’d surely freeze to death.
She had no real choice.
Suzi sprang up and grabbed a large metal paperweight of the Eiffel Tower from her desk, and strode determinedly into the washroom. She counted three tiles forward and four from the left, knelt down and brought the paperweight down with all of the strength she could muster.
The tile cracked but there appeared to be no cavity underneath. She scraped up the broken fragments and examined the underside of each.
There was no key!
It was all just a cruel joke.
She sat on the floor and cried.
‘Shit, shit, shit!’
She read the letter again, the ink beginning to fade.
Four tiles forward and three from the left.
‘Stupid bloody cow!’ she screamed in huge relief, ‘you’ve got the wrong tile.’
She knelt up again, raised the paperweight, and smashed it down on the correct tile.
This time it shattered and revealed a small hole in which lay a key in a plastic packet. She scrabbled to grab it, and stood up.
‘Thank Christ,’ she muttered with abject relief.
Suzi hurried into the office, snatched the overnight bag from the wardrobe, packed up her computer, recovered her passport from the safe, shouldered her handbag and marched out into the corridor. She approached the lift and pressed the call button. The doors instantly opened, as she was the last person to use it, and she stepped in, placing the computer and overnight bag on the floor. She took out her passport, inserted the key in the lock, and turned it as instructed. She then pressed button ‘B’ on the floor selector assuming that ‘B’ stood for basement.
Nothing happened for a good ten seconds and then suddenly, the lift jolted and descended.
It travelled down through the floors and clearly beyond the basement and clunked to a halt with a judder.
She waited, passport at the ready, facing the door.
Suddenly, behind her, a secret door slid open and a male voice gave calm instructions.
‘Please stand still. I am armed. When I instruct you to do so, turn round, identify yourself and then be silent.’
Suzi was petrified.
‘Now,’ stated the voice, ‘turn round, and state your name and date of birth.’
Suzi swivelled slowly round to her left, and was confronted with an extremely solemn-faced army Major pointing a pistol directly at her head.
Day 39
Wednesday 22nd January – 2000
Cologne Transit Camp - Germany
Jim and Carole Planter had been on an escorted tour of India when the snowstorm took hold. It had been a long-planned pre- Christmas holiday, taking in the Taj Mahal, the Red Fort, Kerala and Mumbai. The trip was tiring but enjoyable, and they planned to return to their holiday villa in southern Spain via a family Christmas in Denham, near London.
Jim was a retired brain surgeon and dedicated Watford supporter, and he relished the thought of catching a few matches over the Christmas season. Carole had been one of the first female Captains on British Airways 747s, retiring five years previously with a hefty pension and a desire to travel on her own behalf – not ferrying passengers and living vicariously.
Their First Class flight back to London from Mumbai was planned for the twentieth o
f December, but the snow put paid to that. They picked up news of the disaster in the Indian Press and from international TV in their hotel, and soon became frantic with worry about their family back in the UK.
Carole had managed some phone calls and a Skype on the fifteenth, but after that, they met with silence. It was a terrifying and distressing experience, which understandably, totally ruined the holiday. They had made their way to Mumbai, extracting themselves from the tour and setting up in the exclusive Taj hotel, which they reasoned would best serve their interests in the circumstances.
However, when the computer and banking system in the UK collapsed, money – cash – became a serious issue. The couple had a couple of thousand British pounds in cash and some Travellers Cheques – but they soon found that very few institutions or traders were prepared to accept sterling any more.
They were obliged to find more reasonably priced accommodation, and eventually had to rely on assurances from the British Embassy that hotels would be reimbursed for their UK based customers.
The flight back to Heathrow was cancelled, and like many thousands of other British citizens abroad, they were left high and dry.
Both were in their mid-sixties, and the strain gradually began to take its toll as the days crept by, with no real hard news of the events unfolding in the UK and Europe. The Embassy tried to be helpful, but it was overwhelmed with requests for assistance, and could only provide printed hand-outs repeating the advice from Brussels – wait!
So Jim and Carole waited – and waited – and waited.
Eventually, the new British administration in Brussels offered them an alternative. They could remain in India until further notice – and that could be several months, or catch a flight back to Europe and join the thousands of other stranded holidaymakers.
It was the sixth of January by now, and although the snow had finally stopped, a return to the UK mainland was deemed impossible.
Jim and Carole reviewed the situation carefully.
They decided almost instantly that remaining in India was not a viable option. The food, heat and general conditions were not conducive to long term survival for elderly Europeans – especially not with Jim’s stomach!
They could easily return to Spain and take up residence in their holiday villa. However, finance was an issue. They were not fully integrated into the Spanish tax, NI and monetary system. The villa was only a holiday facility, which they used for three or four months of the year. With no bank account, they would be financially bankrupt, and would be unable to survive for more than a few days. They had already been in touch with friends who lived on Spanish campsites for the winter months, and they related tales of extreme hardship and misery.
For the immediate future, Spain was out of the question.
That presented only one option. A flight back to Europe and accept the cards that the British government dealt them. Essentially, it was Hobson’s choice – that is – no realistic choice at all!
Consequently, they took their place in the metaphorical airport queue, and caught a flight back to Cologne airport in Germany on the sixteenth of January.
Like the Stubbins family and many other thousands before and after them, they arrived into hell on earth.
Overcrowded refugee flights were pouring into Germany from all over the world, bringing destitute holidaymakers from the relatively comfortable surroundings of their vacation resorts.
From day one queueing became a way of life, standing around for hours waiting to be processed by the administrators. The staff were short tempered, overworked and uncooperative. Food and drink were in short supply, as was information about their ultimate fate.
Jim and Carole became stressed, anxious and fatigued; continuously filling in forms, queueing for ration coupons, re-filling yet more forms, queueing for sustenance, scrabbling for seats - and using the airport toilets was a revolting experience never to be repeated.
After two long and arduous days, the Planters were finally allocated to a transit camp. Although Jim had vast experience as a surgeon, arthritis in his hands precluded employment in that field – and there wasn’t really a call for seventy-year old Jumbo Jet pilots. Consequently, they were sent to ‘Cologne Number Three’ transit camp, where they were assigned to a large eight-man tent, which they shared with six other fragile and exasperated OAPs. There was a set of bunk beds, a small chest of draws and two folding garden chairs. A small gas heater stood in the middle of the tent and their six companions sat on their garden seats in a sort of stupor. An irritable little man came round after about two hours and presented Jim and Carole with a folder, which contained the Camp Rules, ration cards, a map of the site and a copy of GB News. Their meal times were specified and inflexible. The irritable little man was not at all helpful.
However, Jim and Carole were so tired that they couldn’t be bothered to argue or even ask a question. They collapsed onto their beds and promptly fell asleep.
Hours later, they awoke and found themselves alone and in the dark. Jim checked his watch and realised that their evening mealtime had already passed. They'd missed it and would go hungry until breakfast.
Their six companions reappeared having fed and watered, and an incensed Jim asked them why they didn’t wake him and Carole for dinner.
‘You looked so tired, dear,’ mumbled an old lady, who promptly burst into tears.
‘Oh dear,’ cried Jim in alarm, ‘I wasn’t blaming anyone, sorry.’
‘Don’t worry,’ answered an old man, ‘she cries at the slightest thing these days. She lost all of her family in the snow. Over sixty close relatives unaccounted for. It's the same for all of us – and you I suppose?’
Jim looked at Carole, who had started to weep as she realised the harsh reality of their situation.
The man continued:
‘We get twelve or fifteen suicides a day in this camp alone. People can't face the future or what it may bring.’
Jim was aghast.
Just what the hell did the future have in store for him and Carole?
Day 39
Wednesday 22nd January – 2000
Cheltenham, England and Brussels
Dame Susan Macintyre froze, and stared at the man holding a pistol which pointed straight at her head.
‘Quickly now, ma'am, your ID please?’
Suzi held out her left hand and handed the passport to a female sergeant who accompanied the man, who appeared to be an Army Major.
‘I'm Dame Susan Macintyre and I work as a deputy Director at GCHQ, date of birth 25 March 1970.’
The sergeant examined the passport, consulted a folder, thumbed through a few pages, read a few lines and nodded at the Major, who promptly lowered his weapon and stepped forward.
‘My apologies, Dame Susan. We needed to be sure that your name was on the list and you are who you say you are. We are now satisfied and would invite you to follow us.’
Suzi was dumbstruck as the sergeant approached, picked up her computer and baggage, and strode off down a corridor.
The Major gently took her arm and led her out of the lift and into the corridor. He leaned in, retrieved the key and selected floor five before stepping out smartly. There were two sets of doors on this exit, the outer one appeared to be very thick and sealed hermetically as it closed. The inner door shut and up it went.
‘Someone else might need it,’ he observed.
‘I don’t think so,’ replied Suzi, ‘I was the only person in the building.’
‘Well, we’ll wait and see ma'am,’ he advised.
Suzi was totally bemused.
‘Where the fuck are we, Major, if you’ll excuse my French!’
The soldier smiled as he led Suzi along the corridor, through a seriously thick automatic door, an airlock and then another. Once on the other side they walked for about one hundred metres in a straight line along a brightly lit and warm corridor lined with rooms and offices. At the far end, they stopped outside room number seven and the Major opened the door.
Inside was essentially a hotel suite with her name on the door! Double bed, furniture, private bathroom, DVD player and TV. It was spacious and luxurious. There were bookshelves, a desk and chair and thick carpeting.
‘This is your suite, ma'am. May I suggest you take a shower, change into something more comfortable – there is leisure wear in your size in the wardrobe. It is 8pm now – I will return in an hour and brief you on the situation. Be assured, you are completely safe and secure. I will answer all of your questions in an hour. Ma'am,’ he saluted and departed closing the door behind him, which had a key on the inside.
Suzi slumped into an armchair and gazed around the suite. She had to pinch herself to make sure that she wasn’t dreaming.
‘What the hell was this place?’
She’d heard of secret bunkers under 10 Downing Street, but this place was something else – something remarkable.
After about five minutes, she recovered some of her composure, stood up, undressed and showered. She towelled off and found a very smart tracksuit and underwear in a closet – in her size – and got dressed. She unpacked her overnight bag – but it really seemed superfluous, as everything she might need had been miraculously and efficiently provided.
It must be a dream.
However, it wasn’t, because spot on 9pm, the gallant Major rapped on her door.
‘Come in,’ Suzi called, and the handsome young officer entered the room.
‘Good evening again, ma'am, if you are ready, perhaps you would accompany me to the dining area, where a light supper has been prepared, he ventured casually.
Suzi stood up followed the Major into the corridor and through a connecting door, which led to a much larger space with a higher ceiling and must have measured one hundred metres square. At the far end was a dining area for about fifty people and at this end comfy seating and coffee tables set out like a military anteroom. Around the sides were doors leading to …well she couldn’t tell, but no doubt would find out.
They strolled up to the dining area and passed half a dozen officers and NCOs sitting in the chairs, sipping drinks. They all stood up as she passed and greeted her politely. Suzi was embarrassed:
Snow! The Series [Books 1-4] Page 93
