Solomon's Keepers

by J. H. Kavanagh

  ‘He said it was a big decision. He was trying to make his mind up. I knew it meant special equipment that could interact with his thought processes, more advanced than anything now. I knew he’d be able to do stuff no one else could do. It terrified me and I told him so. I knew it was bad news. He couldn’t let go of it though. I actually thought he was going off the idea. Stupidly, I thought we were going to be together. We hadn’t known each other long, I know, but I thought he would have found a way. Then no calls, no letters, nothing. I tried everyone. Do you know the next thing I got was a message from his family saying that he’d died.’

  ‘I really am sorry, Eva. They didn’t let them communicate. It was too important. They really did try to avoid this situation, tried to make sure it was single guys without attachments. Nobody would have wanted this. Nobody.’

  ‘It happened so fast. He just disappeared. What happens now?’

  ‘Good question – I think we’re breaking new ground. But if you will trust me I’ll get you through this. We’ll get Rees back and we’ll find a way. I promise.’

  ‘Is that a promise you can deliver?’

  ‘I have a lot of influence. If I don’t, go public on me.’

  ‘What? Are you serious?’

  ‘Absolutely. I never came across anything as crazy as this and I don’t ever want to again. But I know what’s right here. And you have that option, don’t you?’

  ‘Careful. You’re sounding like a human being.’

  ‘Shit. Is that what you think of me?’

  ‘You said he talked about me, right? And you think he’s alive, you really believe that, right?’

  ‘We just have to be very careful not to blow it.’

  They are interrupted by a loud knock at the door.

  Shaw looks at Eva. He’d like more time to consolidate his position. It’s nearly six. Can he have been there an hour?

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It’s them.’

  ‘It’s who?’

  ‘Them. Network One – they want to take me to meet him. To meet KomViva. To prove he’s not Rees.’

  ‘You joking?’

  ‘Really. I’m deadly serious.’

  Shaw shushes her and ducks down, pulls her down too. Then he beckons and they scuttle into the kitchen. The back garden comes to life as shadows and grey light around the straw blind on the glazed top half of the door. It has gone dark as they talked.

  Keep quiet.

  Another knock. Louder.

  ‘Eva watches his face. What do you think they’ll do?’

  ‘Where were they going to take you?’

  ‘I don’t know – it’s a secret. I had to promise to keep it quiet, to go alone.’

  ‘Jesus! You really have no idea, do you?’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘What’s round the back? Can they get through from the front?’

  ‘You walk round the side. There’s a gate – but not very secure.’

  Shaw is scanning the kitchen. A block of knives, a breadboard.

  Then her phone goes again out in the front hall.

  ‘Shit – shall I get it?’

  ‘No, leave it.’

  ‘What will they do?’

  ‘What else is here? What’s through there?’

  ‘Bedrooms.’

  ‘Tools, you have any tools, he whispers – for the wood? A hammer? Anything big and heavy and hard?’

  ‘Oh my God!’

  He’s on his feet, slipping the biggest kitchen knife under his belt and pulling a wine bottle from a rack on the floor.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Keep still, stay down in here. Don’t open that door or move until I tell you.’

  ‘He steps quietly across the floor and is gone from view into the lounge. She hears a faint rustle as he negotiates the table and a subtle squeak of floorboards.’

  Her phone squeaks. A message.

  Shaw is in the hall. There’s a fanlight above the door but no glass to see through low down.

  He sees the handle turn as someone tries the door and feels the lock. There’s another knock. A man’s voice calls out. Then a few seconds later a car door closes and footsteps come to the door. A quiet conversation. The footsteps retreat. Someone is still outside. Shaw can sense him there. He stays still.

  He looks at the door. There is a bolt and chain hanging down.

  He wonders if they’ve been watching. The car hadn’t been there. He reasons they have just arrived. Now he hears noises from the back. Someone is on the back terrace. That’s the easier door to force. He steps back across the hall and covers the lounge on all fours, back to the kitchen. He’d like to kill the lights but knows he can’t. He can see Eva as a shadow and she’ll see him as he crosses the light. He puts a finger to his lips as he steps back into the kitchen.

  The back door moves slightly as the handle is turned from the outside. It’s locked but not strong. Shaw steps into the middle of the floor, just outside the door’s radius. Eva hears the door give a little under the man’s weight and stifles a gasp. There’s a pause. He’s listening. Breaths seem so loud. Another knock at the front door and then a low whistle.

  It seems like one movement. A second knock at the front and the back door yields under sudden pressure. A short jab and it swings open. Eva breathes in sharply but doesn’t scream. Shaw doesn’t move. A shadow moves in from the terrace and Shaw explodes into action. The bottle makes more of a squelch than a smash as it hits the intruder’s collarbone. He reels back and Shaw kicks him down. He’s over the still body on the terrace, hunched, working. Eva can’t see what he’s doing.

  Shaw checks his pockets. The man groans and Shaw does something sharp and savage, then rolls him. Eva watches him turning and jerking the inert body. When Shaw stands up he has the man’s coat and woollen hat in his hands. Silence.

  ‘This way,’ he says. ‘In the bedroom.’ She does as he says.

  Shaw slides into the man’s coat and hat. He walks back through the apartment and listens at the front door, then swings it open. It’s raining outside. He takes the steps quickly. The man at the bottom is watching the street and turns as Shaw comes down. Too late. Shaw has him down. A cry of pain and then Shaw’s voice steady. Command tone. The man hands over his mobile.

  Shaw doesn’t leave him on the pavement, he pushes him into the car and watches him struggle and then drive away. Eva hears the footsteps as Shaw hurries back, calls out to her and returns to the kitchen. Lights on, he steps out and rolls the fallen man, smacks him awake and gets him to his feet. He takes a mobile from him too and has him out the front, stumbling down steps and then reeling away down the street.

  ‘It won’t be safe here. Pack a bag – five minutes.’ Shaw says. He shoulders the back door closed and props it shut with a chair.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Going to get your man back. May have to camp out for a while but it’ll be worth it.’

  Then he’s talking into his mobile and waving hands at her to hurry up.

  She hears only ‘yes he is, yes, I’m sure.’

  They take Eva’s car. ‘You up to driving,’ he asks. She is.

  All of a sudden she feels exhilarated. She doesn’t care about anything now except the realisation that seems to have only just dawned; this man at her side has confirmed that she is not mad, not dreaming and not mistaken. The city glides by, the rain slides off the windscreen and the wipers seem to be whispering. Rees is alive. Rees is alive, Rees is alive.

  ‘Where did you say we are going?’ Eva says as she turns out into the traffic on Holland Park Avenue.

  ‘A hotel where you’ll be safe. With some friends to look after you.’

  ‘I thought you said we’re getting Rees back.’

  ‘That’s right, we are.’

  ‘And "we" in your language means…you and me, right? Together as a team, right?’

  ‘You have to trust me, Eva; you have to go with this.’

  He’s obviously uneasy and it�
�s not just the way she’s veering around the roundabout and changing lanes as she hits Park Lane.

  ‘I haven’t done very well trusting people, have I? New policy: trust is earned.’

  ‘I just saved your neck. Doesn’t that earn something?’

  ‘It earns my attention. It earns a lift. It earns my help. It doesn’t earn the right to lock me up or stop me getting into this. It doesn’t earn the right to leave me in the dark. I have to be a partner. You get that? Are you okay with that?’

  ‘Left here, in the middle, the underpass. That’s it. Yes I’ll keep you up with things. But I have to keep you safe. There’s a limit…’

  ‘No! My rules or no deal. Equal partners.’

  ‘You and the United States Army, The British Government, equal partners?’

  ‘Yes. Now do we have a deal?’

  ‘If you can trust me and guarantee to keep this secret, whatever the outcome, and just do one or two goddam things I ask…then yes, we can.’

  ‘Done. So what do we do now?’

  ‘Well, we now know that Brodzky has regular contact with someone at Network One, an old flame, maybe a current flame. My next job, our next job is to figure out whether she’s involved in this, whether she’s a link and how to use her if she is.’

  ‘Who’s Brodzky?’

  ‘Chief Scientist on the programme. He’s our link to Matzov.’

  ‘And you think they work together?’

  ‘Oh yes, we know so. We’re tracking her. I have some people checking. We have her address, her car registration, phone…We have a lot. There aren’t many experts in this field and she checks out as one of them. She’s worked with Brodzky too long for this to be coincidence. We have the whole footprint for both of them. I think it’s time we got to her.’

  ‘Won’t they anticipate that? Won’t she disappear?’

  ‘We need to get to her first.’

  ‘And you think she actually works with Rees?’

  ‘I’d bet on it.’

  ‘I want to meet her.’

  ‘Can’t do it that way, Eva.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re a civilian. This is risky. Damn it, it’s also a matter of national security…’

  ‘Excuse me – whose home have we just abandoned – and why? You think I’m letting someone else handle this and risk letting this woman off the hook?’

  ‘Didn’t you get it yet? They will try to kill you. You are the one person who has messed up their very successful cover up here – their multi-billion dollar monopoly. They don’t like you very much, Eva.’

  ‘I bet they’re wild about you. Besides, I know Rees. I’ll know if she’s lying or telling the truth. I’ll find out stuff you can’t.’

  ‘Yeah, like what?’

  ‘Like why he did it. Like what shape he’s in. Like what she’s done to him. Like why he never contacted me. Like what he’s going to do next. Like how we get him out of there. Like how she saves herself. You know – women’s talk.’

  ‘Just can’t let you do that, Eva.’

  ‘She brakes hard. They are at a traffic light. It’s green and the stream of traffic behind is orchestral in its disapproval of the delay. Eva turns to him.’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something? You need me – to keep quiet.’

  ‘I need you to damn well drive. Will you get this thing moving, Eva?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What is this? I’m saving your ass!’

  ‘You’re saving your asset. You think you’re being smart – with me in your debt and probably shut up in a safe place while you clean up. You can get out here. You seem to know your way around.’

  ‘Eva, be reasonable. We’re on the same side – we’ve just been through all this. Look, Okay, we’ll find a way. We’ll keep talking and work it out – now let’s move!’

  ‘Someone is rapping on the window. She gives a start and then puts a finger up against the rain streaked glass. Muted swearing outside is drowned by the horns.

  ‘I’ll take a photo of Rees and me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I still have one. A photo. What’s she going to say? You’ll be plan B. If she doesn’t talk to me then she’s all yours.’

  ‘Okay, okay – will you just DRIVE?’

  Twenty-three

  The air in the hotel is cheesy and heavy. It skulks in the lobby and down the corridors, leans against the walls, the curtains, turning everything into locker rooms and laundry. The potpourri they put in the room acknowledges but does not alleviate the problem. It is sumo air, malevolent and fat, groaning in the dark corners, gathering recycled farts and sweat and spillage to run up its bulk. Rees takes a lungful of lavender and rose but the fragrances jink away as soon as he lifts his head. The windows don’t open; the aircon rumbles and reeks; He’s in a tank full of dust and scurf and pellets of grease. If this goes on he’ll suffer some form of particulate drowning.

  He’s been moving around this past week. His body hurts from long hours of semi-consciousness in the van. Myron has become obsessive about completing every minor activity to some revised schedule. He can’t put it all together. For some reason that no one shares, there has been constant activity, constant movement. Myron seems strained and snappy and far less enthusiastic than of old. The team is changing. The new guards keep looking in on him, woke him up in the night and said just checking. Checking what? Some of the supporting hands have gone. This morning, recently anyway, he caught Zena staring at him as though he were ill. Perhaps he is. More and more he feels it. What had she asked him? Something about his old life. He had the feeling she was going to say something momentous but she never did; just started whispering with Myron. Stroppy Myron, like a little Jewish mosquito. Imagine zooming in close and seeing that silver goatee around all the spikes and antennae and other insect annoyances. Something is going on. He’ll have to do something about it. But not now. He wants to sleep again. The air is pushing down on him, an airbag inflating from the ceiling and flattening him against the bed.

  He wakes up again in darkness. It’s cooler. The aircon drone is supplemented by a new rumbling sound from the room next door; like someone rolling logs along a wooden floor. The door opens and the light flings on. One of the new heavies leans in. ‘You awake Rees? It’s time to go.’

  ‘Where now?’ He catches a glimpse of Myron passing beyond the door towing a black suitcase.

  ‘Big day, huh? You’ll need to be on form.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Come on, time to move.’

  He stands up. Who is this arsehole anyway? Who makes this whole fucking show happen? He feels unsteady. There are two of them squeezed into the narrow hallway by his bathroom. Black clothes as always. ‘Gonna have to give you a shot, Rees.’

  They walk alongside him down the corridor. It lists a bit, like a ship, but he gets used to it. Something smoky floats in the air, staying always a few yards ahead of him, in his eyes maybe. The carpet sucks at his feet like a sponge. He notices his boots are back on. They’ve backed the van up to a fire exit on a downstairs corridor and he sees the doors open as he approaches. That feeling when you get on a plane, the gap, the outside that is almost concealed; tunnel, tunnel, tunnel and then the crowded entrance and the new smaller reality. The one-wayness.

  Someone gives him his music player and helps with the headphones. The music starts up in his head. The engine comes to life as a judder down the seatback. Out on the road, beyond the tinted windows, other headlight beams flash and then sweep past indifferently, occasional other vehicles scouring the planet floor under night’s ocean, like bathyspheres.

  ‘Rees, are you listening?’ Myron’s lips are moving. The sound seems to come later. ‘It’ll handle differently with the load. We’ll need a practice run with the tank on. Don’t worry about the route, you follow the river and then there’ll be so many people it’ll be like a trail. Just a couple of key points. Are you with me?’

  The thing is that he can remember. It
’s just hard to ride with the rhythm of Myron’s delivery, the exclusivity of attention he expects. He isn’t saying anything interesting; he isn’t going to be doing any of this himself. They’re sitting in a stifling underground conference room. The strip lights are harsh. Several crew members listen in rapt attention. So many seem new now, always more of them. They are given over to it; bodies stiffened and leaning – holding silent and still as though willing the information to settle on them like some shy bird. Zena sits opposite Rees across the table and fidgets. They ought to give her something. Yes, he remembers the route map. Yes he knows London, the river, the landmarks. Do they think he’s an idiot?

  Myron is talking about the Sensomandos, a party, a big bash after the march, the old and the new, the public and the secret. On he goes. Something about a new era.

  Rees watches the show sometimes. The final four are never out of the papers, never out of Matzov’s papers anyway. He can’t avoid their faces. It’s all pop trash. Like all those talent show bands they create. He never hears what scats they have planned. He’s not even sure he believes it. Where have they come from? Where’s the training? What have they got compared to him? Myron doesn’t seem to know much either. Maybe he doesn’t like to tell. Once or twice he’s said something about ‘those kids.’ That they hadn’t had the experience he’s had. Soft kids. How could they bring on two, let alone four of them at the same time? They couldn’t really be ready. How long had it been? Lately he doesn’t keep much track of time. A matter of months. They’re not talking two years yet, are they?

  He straightens up and pays attention. Never mind the next generation. This briefing is about him. They are asking him questions and looking at him as though he’s not there. Does he remember the election? Yes, he remembers. A rally? Yes, lots of people. It’s an opposition rally – which seems quite a good idea. They will gather along Victoria embankment and will march around Whitehall and away to Victoria. Lots of chanting and singing and waving of placards against Matzov. Leave ’em be, Rees thinks. Let them oppose. But Matzov wants to make a shambles of it. Ah well. He wants Rees to listen to this bit: Crop-spraying tanks, spray paint….