Executed (Extracted Trilogy Book 2)

by RR Haywood

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Miri said I’m not allowed to carry my sidearm when I come and see you . . . in case you take it off me. I said there was zero chance of anyone ever taking my gun from me unless it was from my cold, dead hands, but she said no. So I don’t have a sidearm. But you try anything and I will kill you with my bare hands. Got it?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Stop gabbling. I hate gabblers. Got it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There is nowhere to run. The portal is shut off and the thing that makes it work is encrypted.’

  ‘Okay,’ Tango Two says, blinking as she tries to keep up, while staring mesmerised at Safa.

  ‘Your nose is bleeding,’ Safa says. ‘Miri will debrief you later. You want some food?’

  ‘Food?’

  ‘Yeah. Food. To eat. Are you English?’

  ‘Yes, I’m English.’

  ‘Stop gabbling then. Doc said it helps to eat.’

  ‘Yes, food would be nice. Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll come back with food.’

  Tango Two stares as Safa about-turns and marches out, slamming the door closed, with that single scrape of metal coming after.

  ‘Miri?’ Safa stops at the door of what used to be Roland’s office and looks in to see the older woman sitting behind the rough-hewn desk reading a newspaper. The rest of the room is bare and sterile. Anything left by Roland is now gone. Out with the old and in with the new. Safa snorts at the thought as Miri folds the newspaper neatly in half.

  ‘Come in. Report.’

  ‘She’s awake,’ Safa says, walking to the desk. She thinks to sit down, but gets the sudden feeling of being back at work in front of the divisional commander and almost comes to attention when she stops.

  ‘Sit down,’ Miri says in that blunt, hard voice. Her own face still bears the marks of the fight. Bruises and swelling, but Miri remains devoid of expression. Simply waiting for Safa to continue.

  ‘Thanks.’ Safa sits down. ‘Seemed fine. I told her what you said.’

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘Yep. Well, I said it in my words, but yeah.’

  ‘In your words?’

  ‘In my words,’ Safa says, locking eyes. ‘In the way I speak . . . With my words . . .’

  ‘I know what . . .’

  ‘Then why ask?’

  Miri concedes the point with a twitch of eyebrows. ‘Did she say anything?’

  ‘Nope. She said yes and no, and said she understood. She’s seen the dinosaurs. Ben’s idea of leaving the shutter up worked. She was polite. Didn’t ask anything.’

  ‘Good,’ Miri says, picking the newspaper back up. ‘Be yourself with her. It is the right strategy at this time. Take her drinks. Take her food. Put her at ease and comfort. Chat with her.’

  ‘I’m not the chatty type, and isn’t that a bit weird for a prisoner? And why did her side try and kill her? And why did she help us? And where’s Roland? And . . .’

  ‘I am working on it.’ Miri unfolds the paper and starts leafing through the pages, as though to find the section she was previously reading.

  ‘The answer in that newspaper then, is it?’

  ‘That is all for now. Thank you.’

  ‘So what’s happening now?’

  ‘I said that is all, Miss Patel,’ Miri says, lifting her eyes back to Safa.

  ‘Where’s Roland?’

  ‘Somewhere else.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sterility to prevent risk of cross-contamination of knowledge.’

  ‘I don’t know what that means.’

  ‘Ask Mr Ryder.’

  ‘Patronising. Is that the same as Bertie and Ria?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right,’ Safa says, rising from the chair. ‘Thanks for the chat.’

  ‘Welcome.’

  ‘Door always open, is it?’

  Miri reads the newspaper. Safa tuts and walks off.

  Eleven

  Footsteps. She turns from the window to face the main door. The footsteps stop. The door swings inwards. She waits, passive and calm, as Safa Patel walks in carrying a tray. Tango Two looks to the door left open and then to the tray and the bowls of fruit, eggs and a steaming mug of coffee. She spots the cutlery too. A stainless steel knife, fork and spoon.

  Hot coffee in the face. Throw the mug. Grab the fork. Stab for the eyes. Go for the door.

  Safa puts the tray on the seat of the chair and steps away to look down at the same things then back up at Tango Two. A second’s worth of silence. Safa’s eyes hard, but the challenge is clear.

  ‘I’d win,’ Safa says. ‘Even with hot coffee in the face.’

  A flash of memory at seeing Safa holding them off on the landing single-handed.

  ‘Thank you,’ Tango Two says, remaining by the window.

  ‘Anytime you fancy attacking me, just have a go and see what happens.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Tango Two says, still remaining by the window.

  Silence. Neither move. Neither speak.

  ‘Eat then.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, now. I can’t leave you with a knife and a fork. You might shove them up your arse.’

  ‘Right,’ Tango Two says carefully, walking gingerly towards the chairs.

  ‘Pack in the acting. You aren’t that hurt.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Tango Two says, offering a submissive look at Safa. She sits down on the middle chair.

  ‘That fruit is nice,’ Safa says. ‘We haven’t got much left now though, because you killed Malc and Kon, so we can’t get any more . . .’

  ‘Wasn’t me,’ Tango Two cuts in quietly, politely. ‘I believe that was in Berlin? I didn’t come into the operation until Hampshire.’

  ‘Still your lot,’ Safa says.

  ‘Of course,’ Tango Two says, reaching for the bowl. She looks at the chopped-up chunks, instantly recognising them from the smell and appearance, then wondering why Safa mentioned the fruit. When did Safa die? It was 2020. The attack on Downing Street. This fruit was developed years after her death. She looks up and smiles politely, stealing another studied glance at Safa.

  ‘Stop gawping at me,’ Safa says, then narrows her eyes. ‘Are you honey-trapping me?’

  ‘No,’ Tango Two says quickly, still averting her gaze.

  ‘Try the lemon-lime thing, that’s my favourite. Ben likes it too. Harry likes the cheesy-feet marrow thing, but that is gross.’

  ‘Melemime,’ Tango Two says, stabbing a chunk of the lemon-lime fruit to hold up.

  ‘What?’ Safa asks.

  ‘Hybrid cross-pollinated from a melon, a lemon and a lime. Melemime.’

  Safa steps forward to look closer. ‘Ben will love that. What’s that plum thing called?’

  ‘This one?’ Tango Two asks, using the fork to push a chunk of fruit in the bowl. ‘That is actually a combination of vegetables and fruit. Potato, sweet potato, plums obviously, nectarine and kiwi.’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Plumtato.’

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘Not at all. That is the name. In English anyway. They call it something else in Germany, where it was developed. Are you Safa Patel?’

  ‘Yeah. So did they make loads of different ones? The fruits, I mean. And are they nutritionally good? I figured they were, but . . .’

  ‘Er, yes. Yes, several were developed, and yes, very nutritionally good. They were designed to get children back to eating fruit after the obesity epidemic. The cheesy marrow thing you mentioned is a very acquired taste. Marrow, yams, fermented beans and . . .’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Marrowyam.’

  ‘Marrowyam? I’ll tell Harry,’ Safa says, stepping back as Tango Two chews thoughtfully on the chunk of melemime.

  Questions whirl and spin through Tango Two’s head. She needs to know what happened, but is experienced enough to go patiently and slowly. Build a bond. Stay passive and non-threatening. She clears her throat, as though wo
rried. ‘May I ask, was that Ben Ryder?’ She speaks as lightly as she dares, even focussing on choosing another chunk of fruit to make the opening test question seem innocuous.

  ‘Yeah, Miri said you’d do this.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Tango Two says, blinking in confusion.

  ‘Cultivate. We got trained in it in the force. Because we guarded politicians, we had people trying to get close to us. Cultivate us. Like, make friends and find things out.’

  ‘Right,’ Tango Two says, still polite as before. She blinks again and forks another chunk of fruit. ‘I apologise. I was just surprised. I mean . . . Safa Patel and Ben Ryder . . .’

  ‘And Harry Madden,’ Safa says with a slight grin at seeing the woman freeze as she lifts her fork.

  Harry Madden. Mad Harry Madden. The Second World War in the mid-twentieth century. She looks up at Safa and allows the surprise to show. ‘Mad Harry Madden?’

  ‘Yep,’ Safa says. ‘Reason I’m telling you that is so you know who you have to get through, if by some divine miracle you get through me. Ben Ryder and Harry Madden.’

  ‘I see,’ Tango Two says, lifting the fork to her mouth.

  Safa sits down on one of the other chairs. Making small talk is not her area of expertise, so instead she just watches Tango Two eat.

  Tango Two takes the positioning in, but shows no reaction. She was expecting instant interrogation. Sleep deprivation, and for food and water to be rationed. That another strategy is being used is jarring and confusing. There should be two guards. One to come forward. One to stay back. She senses something like awkwardness hanging in the air. Like Safa wants to say something, but doesn’t know what to say.

  ‘You train a lot then?’ Safa asks. Looking at her athletic build and the muscle definition in her shoulders and arms. Not bulky, but toned.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Exercise.’

  ‘Oh. Er, yes. Yes, I do.’

  ‘Me too. Go nuts if I can’t train.’

  ‘Same,’ Tango Two says, slowing down in her eating to give time for the conversation to grow. ‘You exercise here?’

  ‘Running outside, circuits . . . Got some combat training equipment in the main room. Basic stuff, but you can train anywhere really.’

  ‘Motivation is a state of mind.’

  ‘Bloody right,’ Safa says in agreement.

  ‘Is it safe to go outside?’

  ‘Yep. It’s nice. View is amazing.’

  ‘I saw.’ Tango Two offers a smile and nods at the window.

  Safa tuts. ‘We didn’t have a clue when we got here. I mean, where we were. Ben said to leave the shutter up so you’d be able to look outside.’

  ‘I see. Seems a good idea.’ Tango Two has no clue if it is a good idea or not, but knows to be agreeable. She chews slowly, thoughtfully. ‘Certainly a jarring place to wake up in.’

  ‘Say that again. You finished?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Thank you. That was very nice.’

  ‘Hey,’ Ben says as Safa walks back into the main room carrying the empty food tray. ‘Alright?’

  ‘Fine,’ Safa says. ‘She seems alright actually. Beardy? How’s the face?’

  ‘Sore,’ Harry says, sitting at the table with Ben.

  ‘Back in a mo.’ Safa dumps the tray and walks through the next set of doors down to Miri’s office. She stops to see the woman reading from either another or the same newspaper, which she folds and places down on the stack on her desk. A bigger pile rests on the floor nearby. Notepads and pens on the tabletop with an old smartphone, the earphone wires stretched across the desk.

  ‘Report.’

  ‘Same as before. Chatted a bit. Didn’t really say anything. Talked about exercise.’

  ‘Good. She may go silent to try and draw you out. That is fine if that happens. Be yourself, as I said before.’

  ‘Weird,’ Safa mumbles. ‘I told her who Harry is. So she knows who she has to get through if she thinks of escaping.’

  Miri doesn’t reply.

  ‘That was it,’ Safa says.

  ‘Thank you.’ Miri lifts the newspaper up.

  Safa sighs. ‘We’re almost out of food.’

  ‘We need money to get supplies.’

  ‘Whatever. Get money then.’

  ‘I am working on it,’ Miri says, reading the newspaper.

  ‘Fuck me, you’re not Roland, are you,’ she mutters as she leaves.

  ‘Correct. I am not Roland.’

  Twelve

  ‘Wake up.’

  ‘Huh?’ Tango Two’s eyes come open as she sits up to stare round in the split-second panic of waking too fast from a deep sleep. She breathes hard. Not recognising where she is until the pennies start dropping one after the other. The first question in her mind is the same as the last thought before she slept. Why did Mother order them to kill me?

  ‘Are you hiding behind the door with the toothbrush?’ Safa’s voice calls through.

  ‘What? No . . . I’m . . . I’m in bed.’ Tango Two says, her voice rough from sleep.

  ‘Hope you are,’ Safa says, overly stating each word as the door handle starts going down. ‘I mean waiting to attack me, not that I hope you’re in bed. Bollocks . . . I am coming in . . . in case you wanted to attack me . . .’ The door opens. Safa looks in. Tango Two stares out. Safa shrugs. ‘Get up, breakfast.’

  ‘Yep. I mean, yes. Yes, of course,’ Tango Two says, blinking and forcing her brain to kick in. She slides off the bed, expecting the same wave of dizziness that kept coming yesterday. It comes, but weaker. Mild even.

  ‘It goes quickly,’ Safa says, seeing her holding the bed. ‘Use the ablutions, as Harry calls them. I’ll wait here.’

  ‘Of course,’ Tango Two says politely, walking from the room as Safa steps back from the door. She notices Safa is dressed differently, in jeans and a plain black T-shirt, with her boots on. She spots two mugs on the tray and glances again at Safa before going into the bathroom.

  ‘No rush,’ Safa calls out, picking up one of the mugs.

  ‘Thank you,’ Tango Two calls out. She goes for the toilet first. Sitting to relieve her bladder and hardly believing how well she slept last night. She expected to be tossing and turning. She expected nightmares, but she slept soundly, and that was after spending most of yesterday dozing. What happened? Why did Mother tell them to kill me?

  How long has she been here? She tries to focus, feeling surprised at the lack of grasp she has on time. Two days? Three? This is the third day. Yes. Yes, it is. She shakes her head to try and clear the fug in her mind.

  Miri visited yesterday. She walked in, looked round and nodded to Safa, who walked out. Then Miri sat down on one of the blue chairs and opened a paper notepad. She said she was called Miri and that they were going to debrief. She asked what happened that led to Tango Two being here, and listened as the agent recounted the events. Tango Two was truthful, but basic. She gave facts, but no opinion. She studied Miri, as Miri studied her. Sitting positions. Posture. Eye contact. Tone of voice. The way Miri held the pen, and every nuance available.

  Once Tango Two finished her account, Miri did not ask any questions, but said thank you and left.

  Later, while Tango Two was dozing on the bed, the doctor came to check her injuries. Safa was present the whole time. He gave her some pills to take and said they were just anti-inflammatories and pain relief. She was given food again too and drinks throughout the day, and every time she felt the jolt of knowing the woman bringing them was Safa Patel.

  She rinses her hands and checks her reflection. The swelling is already going down. The bruises are still livid and she’s still sore everywhere, but healing quickly. She washes her face, dries off and walks out to see Safa by the window, clutching one of the mugs between her hands.

  ‘Have a shower, if you want.’

  ‘I can later,’ Tango Two says politely.

  ‘Sleep alright?’ Safa asks after a time, watching the other woman start eating. Tango Two didn’t think she would be hungry, but her ap
petite is strong and she tucks in. Just fruit, eggs and coffee, but it’s so nice.

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ she replies.

  ‘Does that here,’ Safa says after another brief silence. ‘I sleep like a log. Harry does. Ben didn’t for a while, but he was messed-up on bad meds and . . . some other issues. He sleeps alright now.’

  Tango Two eats, knowing when to stay quiet and hoping Safa will feel the need to keep talking. All information is good information.

  ‘Nice day,’ Safa remarks, looking out the window. ‘Doc said you can go outside later for some air. Said your injuries are fine. I said I can give you some more, but he didn’t find it funny. Ben laughed. Harry smiled a bit, but then Harry doesn’t laugh out loud that much. Sounds like a donkey when he does though.’

  Tango Two eats and listens. Nodding and making noises when appropriate.

  Safa suddenly stops and grins with perfect white teeth showing through her darker skin tone. ‘Miri said that happens too.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Tango Two asks, wishing she had teeth like that.

  ‘Said cultivating can happen without you saying anything. We got trained like that in the police for interviews when we question the bad guys. Something about the use of silence to make the suspect need to speak. I was shit at it. My questioning technique was Did you do it? Did you do it? I’d ask that twice, then get bored and give up.’

  Tango Two laughs. She was ready to force a fake laugh, and is surprised when the real thing comes out instead.

  ‘Yeah, so, stop cultivating me with your silence.’

  ‘Okay,’ Tango Two says.

  ‘At least you don’t make noises when you eat,’ Safa says after a few seconds of being unable to stay quiet. ‘Harry does. He’s a squelcher. Hate squelchers. Ben’s not too bad.’

  ‘The doctor looks like a squelcher,’ Tango Two says, risking an observational comment.

  ‘Fuck yes,’ Safa says with a snort of humour. ‘Mr Squelchy Face, like yamyamyam, with all liquidy noises. I’d actually shoot him at mealtimes and use the time machine to go back and get him if I could.’

  ‘Gross.’ Tango Two smiles while noting the things said. Mealtimes. They eat together. The time machine is normal to them. How long have they had it? How long has Safa been here? Where are Bertie and Roland?