Still Abraham would not lessen his potentially fatal hold.
Forbes chopped away in growing panic and fear.
Still Abraham would not release the iron-like grip.
In desperation, with Abraham’s hand all but severed, Forbes jerked his own hand upwards and away from the bed and at the third attempt it gave way.
The hand parted from the arm and Forbes tumbled backwards onto the floor – Abraham’s bloodied dismembered hand still grasping his wrist.
Forbes lay panting on the floor, exhausted, tears of frustration, terror and relief in his eyes. The technicians were frozen to their places at the observation window, hardly able to believe the macabre tableau being enacted below.
Forbes slowly turned his head to look at his wrist. He was aghast and it took a full two minutes for him to regain some self-control and to manage to sit up.
He needed help.
‘Phillips,’ he gasped, ‘clear the shower cubicle and prepare for a full decontam procedure. Nobody – I repeat nobody is to leave the observation area, enter this room or do anything with Abraham until I'm in isolation. I’ll think this through over the next hour. Am I clear?’
There was a brief silence, but Phillips eventually acknowledged the order and released the electronic lock on the bedroom, allowing Forbes to proceed on his own to the decontam chamber.
It was when he reached to shower room that shock took hold and Forbes began to shake uncontrollably.
He sat on the floor in the centre of the room and tried to calm himself by taking a series of long, deep breaths. This helped a little – enough for Forbes to commence an attempt to release Abraham’s bloodies hand from his wrist.
It resembled a pound of rotting liver.
Forbes smothered his disgust and pried the fingers away from his wrist one by one – and was almost sick as the middle finger came clean away. It took five minutes of manoeuvring to release the hand, after which Forbes stacked it tidily in one corner for later examination.
His next job was to undress and seal his clothing in the waste trolley, and when he was naked and still trembling, he requested that the showers be turned on.
The steaming hot jets were wonderful.
He stood motionless for ten minutes as the hot water warmed his body and soul, helping him to recover some of his poise and dignity. He had panicked in Abraham’s bedroom – but who could really blame him. He was fast succumbing to fatigue and stress and the ‘wrist’ incident had all but overwhelmed him. He needed sleep, and sleep he would get when locked securely away in the private decontam room.
Twenty minutes later, he lay in bed, dressed in the standard decontam overalls, sipping a cup of hot coffee. He had briefed his team to recover the ‘hand’, blood and other samples from Abraham’s room. He suggested that Abraham was re-restrained before he gained the ability to move about. If possible he should be anaesthetised – either by injection or gas – and then very securely re-strapped to the bed.
He became irritated when Phillips asked for detailed instructions and bellowed in frustration:
‘For Christ’s sake man. Try thinking for yourself. And while you are at it, recover my protective suit and examine that. Now, I'm going to get some sleep. Wake me at 0800 – and one more thing – get the Director over here ASAP. Wake him if you need to and bring him up to speed. Show him the damned video.’
Professor Forbes fell into a deep and undisturbed sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
By 0400, his team had carried out all of their duties.
Abraham had been strongly sedated and the restraints carefully checked and tightened. Abraham was conscious but tranquil, his severed hand appearing not to cause him any distress whatsoever. The hand itself had been recovered from the shower cubicle and examined and the ‘blood’ was analysed. DNA results would arrive by 0600. Finally, Forbes’ clothing had been fully decontaminated and examined.
The video of the incident was reassessed, edited and transferred to CD and to files for e-mail transmission when Forbes woke up.
It had been a close call.
Too damned close.
On detailed inspection of Forbes clothing, Phillips discovered a miniscule slit, probably made by a scalpel, in the plastic outer glove of the right hand.
Day 189 / Z-Day 154
Friday 21 June – Noon
HQ UKRA – Brussels
Lord Irvine and his three main assistants had been at work since 7am.
They had occupied the First Minister’s private office and reposed in comfortable armchairs as they discussed several pressing issues that required immediate action. A private secretary sat to one side, making notes and recording the meeting for later compilation into minutes for distribution to all interested parties. As Lord Irvine had already stated – secrecy and deception were not options any more.
The world’s media were having a field day. The papers, internet and TV were awash with developments in Western Europe. They had picked the ‘Tennessee’ incident to pieces and were on the verge of openly ridiculing Irvine and his band of ‘incompetents’. To this end, he had arranged an extensive press conference at 5pm to explain progress and to outline future action. He had a provisional meeting with all of the major political and military players at 1500 hours, and had already taken a myriad of phone calls during the morning to discuss their views.
Not least of all from the Director of the CIA.
The news from the decontamination centre was devastating, and even more distressing was the revelation that Professor Forbes was in strict isolation – and would remain so until he was declared clear of possible infection. The prognosis was not good. His protective suit had been clearly compromised, and it was highly likely that mutant gore had come into prolonged contact with his skin.
There was a remote chance that the gore had not permeated through the dermis into his bloodstream, but only time would tell.
The Director had been particularly downbeat at the prospects of Forbes’ survival.
‘I will be taking over at all further briefings, sir, assisted by a Dr Phillips, one of Forbes senior assistants. Unfortunately, we must assume that Forbes will inevitably succumb to the same fate as Abraham Da Silva.’
The First Minister and his close colleagues had already seen the video of Forbes’ accident and the terrifying amputation of Da Silva’s hand. They were still in shock!
It was a tremendous loss to the cause, but the fight would have to continue, with or without the formidable Professor.
He was now just another casualty of war.
***
Lord Irvine wanted to cover several issues with his closest aides and was determined to address these without delay, so all interruptions from 10am were forbidden. The group required privacy and time to think and prepare for the days ahead. He kicked off the meeting:
‘First of all, the gold at the Bank of England. It seems that this vital aspect of our plan to transfer to Breton has been side-lined. What's the latest update, Field Marshal?’
‘In short, the operation is complete. We’ve transferred all of the gold to freighters and it awaits final disposal to a depository in Breton – when we’ve decided on a secure location. I think we can safely put this issue on a back burner. The current, er…distractions…are deflecting foreign interest in the gold. We have the gold and if not for us, the mutants would have overrun the area and the gold would have probably been lost forever. Our troops have evacuated the Bank premises and there is no intention to return. The soldiers and airmen involved have been transferred to Breton for some well-deserved R and R. We lost forty-two people during the upload – regrettable, but necessary. If we get through the coming weeks and months, we will need that gold. If we don’t – then it's a moot point. We’ll have other, more important things on our minds.’
‘Agreed, Sarah. Thank you and pass on my thanks to your people. If it weren’t so crass, I'd recommend and approve promotions and awards.’
The Field Marshal smiled:
> ‘Already done, sir.’
Lord Irvine returned her smile and continued.
Now, the traitorous thieves. What are the current locations of Brady, his daughter, that bloody woman Fletcher and her girlfriend and last but not least, Bryant and Silver? Have we any idea of their movements. I simply haven’t had the time to keep abreast of intelligence – as you can imagine!
Admiral Drake responded by opening a deep red file marked Top Secret.
‘Brady and his daughter were in St Kitts. The CIA almost had them, but dreadful incompetence allowed them to escape. There is a story indicating that one of their agents was kidnapped, assaulted and dumped after Brady made his escape. Present location – unknown. I suspect that they have fled to the Far East or some other such far-flung location and have changed their names several times. Money can buy almost anything!
That woman, Ann Fletcher, has also vanished. There has been no trace of her alias, the ill-fated Carol Leslie either. She was in the Virgin Islands – which is where Susan Macintyre was picked up, and she currently resides in a small prison cell in Langley awaiting extradition. However, I have given permission that if our American friends can pin anything substantial on her, then to go ahead. Frankly, we don’t have the infrastructure to deal with her – she's merely small fry at this stage. If the US Authorities can get her to court or even just hold her for a few years, we can deal with her in due course, if indeed we all survive.
As for Silver and Bryant. They are gone. They clearly have arranged alternate identities and we cannot trace them. With your permission, I’ll give orders to give up the search.’
Lord Irvine rubbed his eyes, yawned and took a sip of coffee.
‘Apologies, I'm exhausted. I would agree that Dame Susan be left to stew in her own juice. Let the Americans deal with her. Also, allow Bryant and Silver to keep on running. We shouldn’t waste resources on them. However, that bloody woman must be bought to book. I’ve already rescinded all of her awards and decorations. In addition, Brady and his daughter should remain on our radar. Find them, Bill. Find them.’
The Admiral made some notes as Lord Irvine continued:
‘The main topic of our discussions can now commence. We must address the move to Breton; how we find the mutant leaders; how we conduct bombing operations and what we say to the media at five o’clock. Let's start with the location of their leaders……’
The four ministers entered into a long and frank discussion concerning the major issues that lay before them. It took two long hours, but by the end of their deliberations, they had the bare bones of a plan that could be presented to the world via the media, and in turn to the political leaders around the globe.
There would be a tremendous amount of refinement, agreement, compromise and planning required, but a proposal for a framework to defend Western Europe was complete by midday. They would have the proposals typed up as they lunched and would explore the possibilities with POTUS and the others at 1500.
It wouldn't be an easy meeting.
Day 189 / Z-Day 154
Friday 21 June – Midnight
The Panama Canal
That bloody woman, now just plain old Ann Fletcher, alias Carol Leslie, alias Swiss citizen Marie Poitier had enjoyed a superbly relaxing cruise on board the ‘Aurora’ since she had boarded on the tenth of June.
The huge luxury cruise liner had departed Bridgetown, Barbados and had continued its idyll via Trinidad, Tortuga, Curacao and Aruba. She had bravely ventured ashore in Curacao and Aruba – non-US/UK territories – as her confidence grew. The ship provided all she desired, and for the first time in many years she mixed with ordinary people – rich perhaps – but the hoi polloi nonetheless. Many were retired and self-made, but few had political interests. She was able to enjoy idle chit-chat and had made up a four with a group of similarly aged ladies at the Bridge tables.
Nobody took any real notice of her, although some were intrigued that such an attractive, single lady was occupying such an expensive stateroom. A few single old codgers had asked her to dance or offered to buy her a cocktail at one of the numerous bars, but she kept her distance, without causing offence.
A Cypriot woman – also single – had attached herself to Ann and she allowed the friendship to blossom, as the woman was intelligent and amusing with no apparent agendas. Stephanie Droumos occupied a moderate cabin and Ann took her under her wing. Stephanie was shy and didn’t pester Ann with questions about her past, which suited her admirably.
As they floated at a snail’s pace along the Panama Canal, with just inches to spare on either side of the ship, Ann contemplated another couple of months soaking up the sun and atmosphere. Bliss – and no damned Snow!
Nevertheless, she really missed Chloe and had heard nothing of her since receiving the message advising Ann to flee from the Virgin Islands. However, she was sure that contact would eventually be re-established. So she continued to send twice daily e-mails to their shared secret account – but with no response as yet.
Until today.
When Ann checked the account at midday, she was overjoyed to see a one-liner in their secret code.
‘Houdini. Picasso. Da Bruno.’
To any casual reader on intercept, this message would reveal little. But to Ann it meant the world.
‘Houdini’ meant just that. She had escaped and was secure.
‘Picasso’ revealed her general location. Eastern Spain.
‘Da Bruno’ gave her more specific location – the Costa Del Sol. There were a group of Da Bruno restaurants in the Marbella region, which she had visited with Chloe several years ago. It wouldn't take much detective work to find her again when they eventually docked in the Canaries, and she flew on to Malaga in two months time.
Ann replied in a similar fashion.
‘Blaine. Sunhat. Rod Stewart.’
Hopefully, the secret hints would not defeat Chloe, who enjoyed the cryptic clues in the Daily Telegraph, but may mystify the authorities if they traced the e-mail, which was highly unlikely in her opinion. They were far too busy fighting zombies!
‘Blaine’ for her escape from the authorities.
‘Sunhat’ for Panama.
And ‘Rod Stewart’ for ‘Sailing’, his famous hit song.
Ann repaired to luncheon and whiled the afternoon away as the ‘Aurora’ exited the Canal at sunset. It was a truly beautiful vista, and she enjoyed several champagne sundowners with her new best friend from Nicosia.
Later that evening after dinner, a cabaret and a round of Bridge, Ann sat in the casino, which was her custom each night. She would spend an hour at the roulette table attempting to outwit the croupier, accompanied by a large gin and tonic.
At around midnight, a hefty pile of $25 and $100 chips lay on the baize before her. She had won several thousand dollars and had caused a minor stir at her table. She didn’t relish this attention, so was about to cash in when a female voice chirped up in her left ear.
‘Ann, Ann, is that you?’
Her heart missed a beat and she tried to ignore the fellow passenger standing just behind her. However, the slightly tipsy woman persisted and tapped her on the shoulder.
‘Ann, Ann Fletcher. It is you, isn’t it? It's me, Claire Gibson. You must remember – Rome - in the nineties?’
Ann took in a deep breath and as was her nature, thought very quickly and acted with supreme aplomb. She gathered up her chips, stowed them in her handbag and turned to look at her assailant.
‘Oh my God,’ she thought, ‘it is her. Bloody Claire Gibson. What were the fucking chances?’
Ann stood up and spoke to her potential nemesis.
‘Excusez-moi, madame. Je ne comprends pas. Est-ce que tu me connais? Je pense que vous vous trompez.’
Claire Gibson was slightly taken aback, but the alcohol took over.
‘Ann, it’s me. Surely you remember, Rome, the Embassy.….1995!’
Ann decided to adopt another defence and switched to Franglais.
‘I
am sorry, madame. But you must make a mistake. I do not know you. Sorry, but I go to bed, bon nuit.’
Claire Gibson was non-plussed. Perhaps she had made a mistake. She backed off slightly, puzzled.
‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I thought you were somebody else. Somebody I knew a long time ago. Excuse me, madame.’
Ann smiled sweetly, nodded in deference and walked firmly away. She had started to perspire and her face was reddening. Her pace quickened as she slid through the casino doors and made her way up to her stateroom.
‘Shit,’ she cursed silently, ‘I can't fucking believe it. What bad bloody luck. I need to get off this fucking ship!’
Snow! The Series [Books 1-4] Page 129
