Meanwhile, Claire Gibson watched Ann leave the casino and her companion smiled:
‘Someone you knew? She seemed to be French. Maybe you’ve got it wrong.’
But Claire Gibson was having none of it.
‘There's no mistake, Sally! That is exactly who I think it is. That is Ann Fletcher. I knew her in the nineties when my husband was stationed as an Air Attaché at the Embassy. And don’t you recognise her – the bloody ex-deputy Prime Minister. Surely you must remember her? I know she’s coloured and cut her hair and is wearing glasses, but it is definitely her!’
Claire’s friend wasn’t convinced.
‘Oh come on, Claire, how could the ex-Prime Minister be swanning around on a World Cruise. She’s back in Europe dealing with the crisis – in fact wasn’t she killed or something? Admit it, you’ve made a mistake. Too much brandy, that's the culprit.’
Claire looked at her friend and was suddenly sober:
‘Oh shut up, Sally. That is definitely Ann bloody Fletcher. I will never forget that face. When we were in Rome she was sleeping with my bloody husband! It's not something I could forget or forgive. And tomorrow morning I’ll be phoning the bastard and letting him know. Oh yes, Ann bloody Fletcher, the game is up!’
***
Ann was not one for letting the grass grow under her feet.
She headed straight for the reception desk and requested an interview with the duty officer:
‘And not some underling,’ she emphasised, ‘I want someone who can make a decision.’
As she waited in her stateroom for an officer, she made plans to escape. She had to get off this boat and away as quickly as possible.
Ann checked the itinerary and confirmed that the next stop was San Jose in Costa Rica. She scanned the internet for flights. The ‘Aurora’ was scheduled to dock at 0900 and spend one day and one night in port to enable passenger sightseeing.
Perfect. San Jose had an international airport and an Iberia flight direct to Madrid departed at 1720, arriving in Spain at 1030 on Sunday the 23rd. When she reached Madrid, she would hold up and then probably head for Malaga and try to find Chloe. It was sooner than she had planned, but there was no choice. Claire Gibson would see to that. She had no doubt in her mind that the bitch would speak to her ex-husband – an Air Marshal working in Brussels and spill the beans. If Ann didn’t get off the liner PDQ, the trail would become extremely warm and it was highly likely that the Americans would intercept her very quickly indeed.
Desperate measures were now required.
A knock came on the door and she let in the Senior Duty Officer, a three striper, who she knew from dining at the Captain’s Table.
‘Good evening, Madame. How can I be of assistance?’
Ann smiled sweetly and explained that she had just received very bad news from Switzerland. A close relative had died suddenly, and she must curtail her cruise and return home immediately. She required help with packing and would leave the ship at San Jose in the morning. She required a car at the dockside and wanted her cabin to be retained as she intended to re-join the ship at a later date. It may be that one of her companions may use the stateroom on occasion, as she would be leaving some clothing and other personal items, and her friend would be keeping an eye on the cabin.
The officer was suitably sympathetic and agreed to make all of the necessary arrangements. He departed within minutes and Ann hit the internet. She logged on to the Iberia website and booked a first class seat in the name of Marie Poitier and paid top dollar for the late reservation.
However, money was not an issue – but her immediate liberty was. With a bit of luck, she would be off the ship by 9am in the morning without the knowledge of Claire Gibson. If, as expected she rang her ex at say, 10am, it would be almost 5pm in Brussels – if not later. The chances of UKRA reacting in time would be miniscule. Allowing for the zombie menace and the panic surrounding it, it would take them several days to pick up her trail – she hoped. However, if she could lay a false trail – every little helped.
***
Ann was off the ‘Aurora’ at exactly 0905 and slid into a Mercedes 500 series and was whisked off to an airport hotel, where she would spend the day in cognito until her flight was called at around 1600.
She had contacted her Cypriot acquaintance and explained the reasons for her departure and that Stephanie could use her stateroom whilst she was away. Her friend was sympathetic, but also delighted at her own good fortune and wished Ann well.
Ann reasoned that it was possible that the Cypriot woman may be mistaken for Ann and the delay might help. In any case the authorities would have to first identify the ‘French’ woman at the gaming table, discover her name and then confirm it was indeed Ann Fletcher. It was convoluted and would eat up precious hours or even days. There was a better than even chance of getting clean away.
***
Claire Gibson slept very well and rose for breakfast at around 9.30 am. It wasn’t until she met up with her companion from the night before that the subject of Ann Fletcher was raised.
‘Oh God, yes. Well first of all I need to find her again. Did you recognise her?’ she asked her companion again.
Her friend was mildly disinterested:
‘Nope. Never seen her before. In any case, passengers are streaming off the ship on local tours to San Jose. She could be off the ship by now. I don’t see how you are going to find her. You don’t even know her name for a start. She was French and you can't just stroll up to reception and ask for all of the names of French women on board. They'd laugh at you.’
Claire reluctantly agreed as she supped her third coffee of the morning.
‘However, I can ring my ex. At least he might have an idea what to do.’
‘It might be a bit late for that today. It's already past five o’clock in Europe. You will have to wait or leave a message.’
Claire agreed once more. Nonetheless she would try to call the Air Marshal and pass on her suspicions.
However, that was not as easy as one might think. Just obtaining his telephone extension in Brussels was a nightmare. It took a dozen calls to get through to the right department and when she left a message, it was almost midnight in Europe. By the time she had partially achieved her spiteful aim, Claire Gibson was mentally exhausted and spent the evening trying to forget the entire episode, lost in a bottle of Krug champagne.
She never did see Mme Marie Poitier ever again.
***
On Sunday morning, the Air Marshal was at his desk bright and early, catching up on mail and phone messages. He had twenty three. His current job was involved with planning the air strikes on five major British cities, so when the message from his wife came through, he listened for two seconds and hit the delete button. Claire was a class one cow, and had almost beggared him in the divorce settlement. He had absolutely no time for the woman.
The message regarding the possible sighting of Ann Fletcher never got through.
In any case, at 10:30am that morning her Boeing 777 landed in Madrid, and by lunchtime Ann was enjoying tapas and Rioja at a swish city restaurant, planning her next move.
Ann Fletcher, that bloody woman, was back.
Day 189 / Z-Day 154
Friday 21 June – 1500
UKRA HQ Brussels
Lord Irvine had snatched an hour’s sleep in his private office prior to the 3pm meeting with the main advisory committee. He had showered and shaved and put on a new shirt and tie. If the truth be told, he was exhausted. When he took on the role of First Minister, he hadn’t signed up for this ‘zombie’ nonsense. He still couldn’t really believe what was happening. His instincts told him that the entire episode was a complete fiction and that like Bobby Ewing in Dallas, he would wake up in the shower and none of this nightmare would ever have occurred.
However, in the real world he was now obliged to accept the reality of the situation, and the biggest decision he faced was to decide on national priorities.
Should he diver
t all of his energies into setting up the Breton project, or should he attempt to save mankind by fighting the mutant threat at the expense of resettling his countrymen?
It was an intricate and extremely complex ethical dilemma.
Selfishness or survival – or perhaps - just perhaps - both were possible.
Did he really want or need to embroil his shell-shocked nation in yet more chaos and suffering? Did they not truly deserve some modicum of respite? Could he really find a solution which solved both problems?
Was pure self-interest the most practical solution?
Should he hand over responsibility for the mutants to the Americans or a European Alliance and concentrate purely on establishing the Breton bridgehead?
Yes, it was a thorny problem and one he must resolve before the press conference at 5pm.
***
As Lord Irvine sat down at the head of the UKRA conference table, he surveyed and mentally assessed the other delegates and emissaries. It was a mixed bunch:
It consisted of the President of the USA and his plethora of advisors; numerous Prime Ministers and Presidents of European nations; representatives from India and China; various military advisors and a swathe of secretaries at the rear for taking notes.
It was a hefty group of interested parties – and growing each time they convened.
Perhaps the management was outgrowing its effectiveness.
Perhaps it was time to step back.
As everyone settled, he made an announcement.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending. Before I commence our detailed discussion of the main issues, perhaps my military advisors and the CIA could present the latest intelligence. When we are all fully up to speed, we will address the agenda lying before you.’
He turned to Lord Harris, the RAF supremo and signalled for him to commence. The agenda to be addressed in due course was short and to the point:
Military Interdiction
European Defences
Breton
Press Conference
Lord Irvine had made up his mind, but would bide his time and wait for the right moment before dropping his bombshell. Perhaps he could manoeuvre his colleagues into pre-empting his plan?
***
The UKRA Air Advisor remained seated as he updated the executive mini-conference.
‘I won't beat about the bush, but will merely deliver the headlines concerning the mutant threat.
Firstly, I should like to confirm that we are all in full agreement. The mutant threat is real and there is no doubt that it exists. You have all been privy to documentary and video evidence which confirms beyond all doubt that we face a formidable danger to human existence.’
He waited a few seconds and was met with silence, which he took to be a signal to proceed with no dissention – not even from Russia or China.
‘I can now confirm earlier photographic evidence supplied by US satellites that the enemy is on the move. Since the ‘Tennessee’ incident, the majority of mutants have moved away from their five main areas of concentration – Swansea, Manchester, Glasgow, London and Brighton. They move openly at night and hide during the day. They have spread out over a wide geographical area – and if what the unfortunate Professor Forbes tells us is true, they are being directed and as far as we can tell, they are heading for the south-east of England. We assess that their leaders learned a valuable lesson at Swansea when the HMS Windsor attacked the Tennessee with missiles. Whoever or whatever controls this horde has been spooked and has decided to deploy and disperse the mutants – perhaps in an attempt to avoid the bombing we are planning for Monday morning.
My military staffs have planned and co-ordinated mass airstrikes on the five cities for first light on Monday morning, the twenty-third. Even if the enemy is dispersing, we can at least attack the remnants and some of the shipping they appear to be amassing. The Royal Navy continues to patrol the UK from its new bases in Brittany and will shell specific targets from offshore. We will not be landing any land forces. We will NOT be engaging these things hand-to-hand until we have no other choice. Finally, the US have agreed to drop Massive Ordnance Air Blast weapons from specialised C-130 Hercules transports on the five cities. These will cause enormous amounts of structural damage and will certainly slow them down. We will not, as previously explained, be deploying Nuclear, Biological or Chemical weapons. Although, this is an option we cannot totally discount for the future.
As for their leaders, Professor Forbes was convinced that the horde had specific leadership. He identified large cysts on the heads of mutants he examined and he believes that they can be controlled via electric impulses transmitted telepathically. Indeed, Mr Da Silva, the agent infected last week, has such a cyst behind his left ear. If we can find and destroy this controlling force, then it may be that half the battle could be won. Indeed, in Ireland, we are investigating a theory that a leader was destroyed at precisely the same time as the mutant advance inexplicably ceased.
Now, for specific news on the condition of Professor Forbes, I’ll hand over to the Director of the CIA.’
The glum faced Director could barely raise a smile. He described the events leading up to Forbes’ confinement and added a note of even worse news:
‘The man Da Silva has fully transformed into a mutant. It is clear evidence that if a non-infected human is exposed to the enemy and is scratched, cut or even touches the gore with bare skin, he or she is prone to transmutation. It's very bad news indeed. If our troops learn of this, then we are going to encounter an unmanageable morale problem. Ask yourself – would you fight hand-to-hand under these conditions. No, you probably wouldn't. And, God forbid, if the general population get wind of this, then we will encounter terror-fuelled panic on a scale never seen before. We already have millions of Europeans moving eastwards.’
He paused to let these dire facts sink in.
The Belgian Prime Minister interjected:
‘Is there no antidote or remedy to the infection? Can we not inoculate our armed forces against this horror?’
‘No sir, we cannot,’ replied the Director, ‘this is such a new syndrome that it could take years to find an antidote or cure, let alone the panacea of a magic potion. No, we face an enemy of such potency that it is inevitable that many of our troops will be sacrificed in the fight for survival. And this new revelation apropos Da Silva is devastating. Dead troops could well rise up and join the enemy.
And that brings me sadly to the unfortunate Professor Forbes. It appears that Da Silva did infect him, and he has lapsed into a coma. This is the first stage of transmutation. In effect, he is lost to us. From now on, I shall be handling affairs at the decontam centre.’
The Director asked for questions, but was interrupted by Lord Irvine who had clearly decided to address the gathering.
The bombshell was imminent!
‘I believe that you will all join me as I express my dismay and regret at the loss of Professor Forbes. If not for his diligence, our knowledge of the threat and consequently our preparations to combat it would not be at this advanced stage.
Notwithstanding his own enormous personal sacrifice, we must continue the fight. Many, many of our friends, colleagues and compatriots are going to die in this struggle.
Which brings me to my next point.
I have considered and agonised over all of the issues very carefully, and decided that it is time to hand over the leadership of this war to someone else. No, I am not resigning or abrogating my responsibilities, but I have a duty to the remnants of the British population that has been all but destroyed by the Snow! and its aftermath. They have suffered enough.
I propose, with your agreement, to hand over leadership to the United Nations, and for the Secretary General to convene a War Alliance of the interested parties, which will plan and conduct the coming battle. I cannot and will not desert my people at this late stage. We have come a long way since the initial disaster, and I owe it to all Britons to try to get them to their new
home. I am now convinced that this mutant threat can be repulsed and that Breton and the rest of Europe has a firm future.
I propose to move my HQ from UKRA to Brittany – Breton – and mount a defence from there.
The British will not be running or heading eastwards.
We will make a stand in our new homeland.
The decision is made!
Secretary General, I hand over the Chair to you.’
Lord Irvine stood and moved to a seat at the side of the room.
The room was silent for several seconds and then erupted with a cacophony of protests and objections, interspersed with calls of ‘hear, hear’. The Russian and Chinese representatives sat in silence, both men, as ever, inscrutable.
The UN General Secretary stood up and he'd up his hands, requesting a modicum of calm and composure. As the hubbub died down, he made a brief statement.
Snow! The Series [Books 1-4] Page 130
