Within ten minutes, the bodies were locked and sealed hermetically in the crate, the ramp was up, the SAS were back in the body of the aircraft, and it was airborne again, speeding towards the compound outside Brussels for decontamination. The Puma quickly followed.
The pilot of the Chinook transmitted the codeword for success, and the Air Marshal passed on the message to Lord Irvine by secure telephone.
Perhaps now, Professor Forbes could make a positive determination of the exact characteristics of this new strain of the living dead.
They prayed for better news.
***
In St Kitts, two Mercedes 4x4s sped up to the parked hire car that carried the CIA agent, who was waiting and watching at the junction of Chloe’s lane and the main road to Basseterre, the capital.
The sleepy CIA agent was taken completely by surprise.
One 4x4 pulled up at the rear and the other at the front, totally blocking any escape. Two men sprang from each Merc and sprinted towards the target vehicle, and reached the driver’s door just as the occupant attempted to exit. One of Stewart’s men reached forward, grabbed the frame and slammed the door shut, catching the agent full on the head, knocking him unconscious and back into the car. The men instantly re-opened the driver’s door, unceremoniously dragged Czarnecki out and transferred him to the 4x4 parked at the rear. They used a plastic tie to secure his arms behind his back, pulled a hood over his head, threw him into the boot area behind the rear seat, and slammed the trunk closed, hiding his presence completely from any casual observer.
Within two minutes, both 4x4s were en-route to Alpha location. One of the kidnappers followed in the hire car. Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the driveway of a private villa on the outskirts of Basseterre, parked all three vehicles out of sight, and transferred the still unconscious agent to the cellar.
It was a cold and damp space with a bare concrete floor. They stripped the prisoner naked, tied him to a floor-to-ceiling post in the centre of the room, did not remove the hood and said nothing. This task complete, one of Stewart’s men telephoned to confirm that the snatch had been successful.
‘Our friend is in captivity,’ Stewart revealed to Chloe and Brady. ‘We should know shortly exactly who he is and how much he knows. In the meantime, you will need to pose for passport photos. My man will be here shortly and is bringing a hairdresser. Mr Brady will need a trim and she will bring a blond wig for you, Miss De Marco. Once we have the new images, I can get the forger working on the new documents.’
Brady was impressed.
‘You work fast, Mr Stewart!’
‘In my line there is no room for indecision or arrogance. My organisation covers seven of the islands – from Trinidad to Barbados up to the Virgin Islands. My clients expect perfection and I try to oblige – I charge them enough!’
Chloe asked Stewart for advice on where to travel when the new passports and identities were ready.
‘Initially, I wouldn't go to any country in the English speaking world. The United States and their British friends are clearly on to you. If you attempt to enter any country within their sphere of influence, they will take you. I suggest South or Central America and then into Spain or Portugal perhaps - or maybe to an Arabic city. South-east Asia might be a wise choice. If I were you, I'd spend today scanning the net and finding somewhere you can hide from the long arm of the US law and order agencies. You also need to be able to access your funds.’
Chloe smiled.
‘We might have more choice than you would imagine. I have bank accounts in twenty tax havens worldwide, which gives me rights of residence in those countries.’
‘Not with your new identities. You will have to be very cautious. If you leave a trail – the Americans will pick it up. However, the decision is yours. I must now take my leave. I have an ‘interview’ to supervise. The photographer will be here presently. I will contact you later in the day with further information regarding our American friend. Good morning.’
Tony Stewart left Chloe and Brady to make their escape route choices and travelled the twenty minutes to Alpha location.
After they were alone, Chloe accessed her PC and sent a simple two-word message to her mother’s secure e-mail address in USVI. It read:
‘Get out!’
***
Chloe sent the message to her mother via a private, untraceable e-mail address set up specifically for confidential exchanges between the three women. It was midday St Kitts time and Ann Fletcher – alias Carol Leslie – viewed it at 2pm, when she returned from a lunchtime shopping trip.
She immediately realised what the message meant, and knew it was Chloe who sent it, as she recognised the sender’s coded e-mail address. The first thing she did was to try to rouse Suzi – or Hildie as she now preferred to be known. However, as was her habit, Hildie was sleeping off a liquid lunch and was proving extremely difficult to wake up.
‘Suzi; SUZI; for fucks sake – wake up, you stupid drunken bitch!’
Even Ann had grown tired of Suzi’s excesses. She had become tiresome and boring. Pissed out of her head during the day and stoned as soon as the sun went down. Her boyfriend was equally debauched – and they both now lay almost comatose in the bedroom.
‘SUZI – WAKE UP! WAKE UP!’ Ann shook her friend viciously and receiving no response, poured a glass of iced water from the jug by the bed over her face. This finally had an effect. Suzi spluttered awake and complained, shouting bitterly and angrily:
‘What the fuck is going on? Ann? What do you think you are fucking playing at, you stupid cow? I'm soaked!’
Ann was in no mood for histrionics.
‘Suzi. Wake up and listen. Just shut the fuck up and LISTEN, you silly bitch!’
Suzi’s head fell back onto her pillow and stared bleary-eyed at an increasingly angry Ann Fletcher.
‘Okay, okay. Speak your piece and then leave me the fuck alone!’
Ann wasted no more time.
‘Suzi. Listen to me. We have to leave – today – NOW! The authorities are onto us. They know where we are. We must get out or we’ll end up in jail.’
Suzi merely stared blankly at Ann.
‘Says who?’
‘Says me and Chloe, you stupid bitch. Don’t fucking argue. If you don’t get up now, shower, sober up and get dressed – you could well be in jail by sundown.’
Suzi was unimpressed.
‘Don’t be such a fucking drama queen, Ann. No one knows where we are. Chill out, babe. I'm going nowhere. Now piss off and leave me alone.’
With that she turned over and returned to her stupefaction. Ann gave her one more chance.
‘Suzi – I'm out of here in thirty minutes. Either be in the cab, or you are on your own!’
Suzi didn’t reply except to let out a very loud belch.
‘Right, you cow. That's it. I'm off,’ bellowed Ann in frustration and fury.
She stormed out of the bedroom and slammed the door. She called for a taxi to the airport. During the forty-five minute wait she Googled flights out of the USVI. She wanted to avoid going anywhere near the US, so she reasoned that flying from Tortola in the British Virgins would be the safest option. There was a Cape Air flight from Charlotte Amalie in USVI at 5pm and it landed in Tortola on the BVI twenty-two minutes later.
She discovered that from there, if she was lucky, she could catch the 7.05am RIAT flight the next morning to Bridgetown, Barbados. From there she could head away from America, and could also make more definite and specific plans once she was safely ensconced in the relative safety of her hotel in Bridgetown.
Ann gathered up her three passports – Ann Fletcher; Carol Leslie and a new Swiss document in the name of Marie Poitier – her laptop, i-phone and tablet and placed them into a sturdy briefcase. She added some of her more choice jewellery, two hundred thousand US dollars from the wall safe, and a few important financial and administrative documents that would be better in her possession than with the UKRA.
The front
door chimes rang at 3.15pm. Ann checked on Suzi to give her one final chance, and was greeted with the spotty, hairy and very naked backside of her lover pumping vigourously into a willing recipient.
Ann sighed, said nothing and smashed the door closed for the last time.
‘You're funeral, darling,’ she muttered to herself, and made her way to the front door. The driver took her carry-on bag whilst Ann clutched her briefcase and handbag.
‘Airport – Charlotte Amalie – please.’
The run for cover was on!
***
Tony Stewart stood patiently in St Kitts which lay around two hundred and fifty kilometres from Tortola, watching as his security operatives interrogated the US CIA agent. The man, Czarnecki, was in his early fifties and clearly a low-grade foot soldier. His wallet revealed photos of a wife, children and grandchildren. It was clear that the agent was terrified and was actually in tears during the interview. He was shivering with fear and cold and proved to be unusually co-operative, repeatedly begging not to be killed.
He revealed that he had picked up Brady the previous week after contact from his superiors in Langley. He had followed Brady, but as yet had not made any report up the line. He proclaimed that this was his first real job in three years and that he was essentially a CIA ‘sleeper’.
Stewart was not totally convinced by the man’s act.
He instructed that the tip of the small toe on the man’s left foot be removed as a convincer.
So the chief interrogator gagged Czarnecki over the hood, and took a pair of garden secateurs to the man’s foot.
The toe came off easily enough at the first joint and although there was some blood, they tightened a tourniquet below the cut and applied a disinfected swab.
When they removed the gag, the CIA operative was beside himself with terror and pain, and sat in a pool of his own faeces and urine.
‘I’ll ask you one more time, my friend. Who have you told about Brady?’
Czarnecki was literally shitting himself with fear.
‘For God’s sake, I'm telling you the truth. Pleeeeeeease believe me! Don’t kill me!’
Stewart was now satisfied that the man had been truthful and was clearly no hero. They would keep him here for a week or so, and then drop him in a remote location along with his hire car when Chloe and Brady were safely away.
He returned to Coconut Breeze two hours later with the good news and found that the photographer had been and gone. Brady had a sharp military style haircut and Chloe was blonde – courtesy of the hairdresser who had cut and coloured her hair. It was a superb disguise.
Brady confirmed his understanding of the situation.
‘So, this CIA man had NOT reported my trip to see Chloe. I was merely under observation until he could confirm that she was here. He intended to knock on her door after I had left. What luck that your security patrol was on the ball. Thank you Mr Stewart.’
‘Luck had nothing to do with it; it's what we do Mr Brady. Now, where are you heading for? You have a bit of breathing space, but I’d go tomorrow at the latest – if the passports are ready – which I am assured they will be.’
Chloe took over.
‘We've decided to fly Air France to Lisbon via St Maarten and Paris. There’s a 6.45pm flight every evening. When we arrive in Portugal, we shall take stock and make more concrete plans. I would like to contact the Townsends again, if possible.’
Stewart was ambivalent and utterly disinterested regarding Chloe’s future plans. He just wanted them out of St Kitts, the CIA man off his hands and half a million dollars in his bank account - which brought him to the next point.
‘Miss Fletcher, I would be obliged if you could pay my fee today. I have a briefcase.’
Chloe nodded agreement and returned to the wall safe and removed five hundred thousand US dollars and passed the cash in bundles to Stewart, who stashed them safely in his briefcase.
‘Thank you, madam. Are there any deeds for the property, should I need to sell it on your behalf? Also, I assume the house will remain furnished.’
‘Absolutely,’ replied Chloe, ‘and you may as well know the combination of the safe. It will have the deeds inside. Here is the information – of course I will remove the remainder of the cash.’ Chloe passed him a slip of paper with the 20-digit combination.
As Stewart locked his attaché case, he mentioned that he would be back at the villa with the passports by midday tomorrow. They should be ready to move to catch the 6.45pm flight, and could now book it using the two new identities – Kim Steyn and Peter Blindt, both Dutch nationals. He passed a photocopy of the relevant page from the passports required for booking and confirming the flights.
‘Three guards will keep your secure tonight, so have a good nights’ sleep – it might be your last for some time.’
He shook their hands and took his leave. He was a man of few words.
As Chloe sat down at the computer to reserve the flights, Brady poured two brandy sours.
‘With any luck we’ll be safely in Lisbon within forty-eight hours and hopefully the trail will have gone cold.
Thank God for the mega-efficient Mr Stewart. With any luck, they should escape the clutches of the CIA and in turn, Lord Irvine and the UKRA.
Z-Day 133
31st May
Swansea, Wales
'The Rook' stood on a hill overlooking Swansea.
She stood alone.
It was raining heavily but this didn’t seem to affect 'The Rook' one iota.
It didn’t shiver; it didn’t tremble; it didn’t move.
'The Rook' couldn’t see. The pet parrot had scooped out both of Kelly’s eyes back in January, so 'The Rook' stood with its head tilted to one side – shredded nose pointing into the wind, sensing the possible immediate presence of any other ‘life’.
There was none.
Since Z-Day 1 back in mid-January, the undead had grown rapidly in number and had made slow but significant progress.
On 'The Rook's’ skull, just above its left ear, was a vile and thickly veined protuberance the size of a golf ball. This obscene lump was smooth and hairless and glistened with superficial pus, which had seeped disgustingly over it from a deep gash in 'The Rook’s’ temple.
The grisly tumour had developed slowly over the past months and was the true secret of the zombies’ progress.
Conventional Solanum-infected zombies could not communicate or be controlled.
'The Rook' was different.
Kelly had been partially devoured by her two cats and her pet African Grey parrot. The combination of non-human DNA had given birth to a hybrid and when mixed with the protozoa ‘cryptosporidiosis’ which lay in the putrid water of her cottage, caused a unique metamorphosis.
'The Rook' was no ordinary zombie.
The growth on her skull was a sophisticated ESP device allowing her to communicate with, and control her acolytes - the tens of thousands of undead now making their way to the gathering points, where the next phase of their destiny was to take shape.
***
Kilmarnock, Scotland
James Craven had been a retired council worker and lived quietly in his detached bungalow on the outskirts of Kilmarnock, in Ayrshire, central Scotland.
He too had pet felines and a Yellow Crested Cockatoo, which chattered away all day long, keeping the lifelong bachelor company in his quiet road. He didn’t even keep it in a cage, and the brightly coloured cockatoo followed James around the house, often sitting on his shoulder, nuzzling his ear.
When the snow arrived, James was totally unprepared and within days was suffering from hypothermia and dehydration. The storm in that part of Scotland was particularly vehement, and within a week, his bungalow was completely buried, his water supply frozen and all power cut off.
James took to his bed. He left food out for the two cats and the remainder of the birdseed was spread on the floor of his small kitchen. He hoped that the pets would feed themselves.
Indeed t
hey did.
When James Craven – 'The Raven' – died on Day 9, the cats waited less than twenty-four hours before creeping into his bedroom and feasting on their master. The cockatoo attempted to shoo them away by swooping down upon them, fluttering his wings violently.
Nevertheless, the cats won out, as hunger overcame fear, and poor old James Craven became their last meal.
Even the cockatoo eventually succumbed. As he snuggled up to his erstwhile friend, he couldn’t resist a peck here and there, as his appetite won out.
Snow! The Series [Books 1-4] Page 116
