‘Mr Masterson, don’t take me for a fool. No man hides from the world for fifteen years, unless he has a secret so vast he daren’t share it, and doesn’t know who to trust. Doesn’t that more accurately sum up your life?’
‘It might have if your friends hadn’t killed David Runyon.’
Let them chew on that. He stood up. ‘I’m happy to work on the files for all the good it will do. It was David who was the lynchpin. He encrypted key parts, to stop people like you accessing them. You killed the wrong guy. Meanwhile, I suppose I’d better make myself at home. I sleep where?’
The atmosphere had become glacial, and a distinct pallor appeared on the tanned cheeks of the men in the room.
It was Wayne Seagar that answered, his voice strained. ‘Not the room you occupied last night. That’s kept for visitors. You will be given a comfortable room in the facility. Arnulf will show you.’
‘Mr Masterson?’
Bill looked slowly back at the screen, the statement: a quick bullet to the head, running through his mind like a record stuck in the groove; aware that the shadow had the advantage, able to study his every expression, even to the involuntary muscle flicking in the side of his cheek.
‘I am sure you will think of someway to unlock the information. After all, you will be here a while.’
‘A prisoner?’
‘Don’t sound so disappointed. What I am offering is not so very different from the way you would have lived, had you accepted the hospitality of the Americans.’
‘I rejected that,’ Bill said harshly, a sudden surge of dizziness almost overbalancing him. He grasped the back of a chair, quickly sitting down again.
‘And escaped fifteen years of imprisonment. Those men, in all probability, are even now asking themselves whether their knowledge was worth the sacrifice. Unfortunately for them, it won’t be for much longer. It has taken me almost that length of time to locate them and get an assassin into place.’
The pitch of voice had dropped, becoming low and level, almost pleasant sounding, except for its underlying self-satisfied tone, which the man had used to outline his plans for global supremacy. Bill disguised a shiver of disgust. Governments were frequently corrupt but at least they did, for the most part, represent a quasi-honest if somewhat bungling and ineffective attempt to improve the lot of their people. Crackpot dictators always put the evolutionary process back half a century and cost thousands, if not millions, of innocent lives before the world was rid of their polluting presence.
Bill kept up his casual tone. ‘So even they are not safe. Doubtless, I am much safer working for you.’
‘Exactly, Mr Masterson. I am so glad you understand.’
Bill pushed himself to his feet and, taking care to keep his head still, walked slowly towards the door. ‘Have you any objection to my taking a look round?’
‘None at all, Mr Masterson. Is there anything else you require?’
‘I’d quite like to have my watch back. It was the last thing my wife gave me before you blew up her hotel,’ he guessed and went out shutting the door behind him, hoping he’d called it right.
The silence, palpable as dough, lasted several minutes, not one of the three men left sitting round the table daring to break it.
‘Is that true about his colleague?’ The voice on the screen still sounded the same, its tone smooth, urbane even.
Wayne Seagar swallowed nervously. ‘Yes, sir! I had the report in two nights ago.’
‘And you said nothing?’
‘In my judgement he was the link man, not a scientist.’
‘So who killed Runyon? You know I dislike unauthorised killings.’
‘Runyon was armed and opened fire. Despite orders, one of the foot-soldiers shot him.’
The shadow stayed silent, a mere blur on a screen, yet the sense of power emanating from it still controlled the room.
‘He’s already been taken care of,’ Seagar hastily added. ‘Got himself captured by the US Secret Service – our agent disposed of him before he could talk.’
The atmosphere relaxed as if the three men had exhaled at the exact same moment. Davois picked up his coffee and took a sip, the large breakfast cup hiding an expression of pure relief.
‘So is Masterson lying? Could Runyon have encrypted the files?’
‘My guess is he’s bluffing.’ Aquilla pushed his plate to one side and took out his cigarette case.
‘ Davois? ’
Davois anticipating the next question hastily swallowed his coffee. It headed down his windpipe, making him choke. He mopped his face. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Where is the boy?’
‘’E gave the men following ’im the slip. Stupidly, they did not anticipate ’is companion, who was efficient with a gun.’ The words were reluctantly said.
‘Careless?’
‘Yes, sir, very. They won’t make that mistake again,’ Davois shrugged. ‘We ’ave Anew team tracking ’im now. ’E’s headed north. They will keep me informed.’
‘Why north?’
Davois shrugged, the expression betraying his Gaelic origins.
‘We now have both processors, sir.’ Aquilla blew a circle of scented smoke into the air. ‘Hopefully, within a few days, one of them will give up its secrets and lead us to the next link.’
‘Runyon led directly to Masterson?’
It was a question.
‘Hence my conclusion that Runyon was simply a link in the chain,’ Aquilla answered. ‘And that Masterson is the main man.’
‘Find the boy and bring him here. Then we shall see if Mr Masterson is lying or not. In the meanwhile …’ the man of power waved his fingers, like the Pope bestowing a blessing, ‘he is an honoured guest – make sure he is treated like one.’
FIFTEEN
Scott needed help and for the present he, Bill, was helpless. The boy was bright but how could he keep one step ahead of such ruthless men, who killed on a whim and thought nothing of it? And no way would they stop looking for the boy. His only chance lay in finding a way out or his friends finding a way in.
The biggest problem Bill faced was time. He wasn’t particularly bothered about the threat of a bullet, although it was a brilliant piece of psychological brain-washing, transforming seared fingertips into a luxury weekend at a health farm. No, if he really was in the hands of the people that had started it all off so many years before, they had proved both patient and unrelenting. Now they’d caught up with him, they would consider him valuable merchandise, knowing if they couldn’t use the virus, neither could anyone else.
So how long did he have? Long enough for someone to rescue him? Long enough for him to escape?
Bill closed his eyes as yet another wave of dizziness overtook him, only too aware of the utter futility of his situation. Ye t buried in the darkness was a microscopic gleam of light. David had been their conduit, linking the scattered fragments of research into one cohesive structure, nursing each area carefully inside his own memory, their calculations kept solely on discs; hidden where no one could find them, except him. Even David didn’t know the whereabouts of the entire team – no one did. The elaborate method of communication, worked out amidst disbelief and laughter, had finally proved itself. Mobiles or pay phones, no addresses, no friendly chats, communication on Aneed-to-know basis; mobiles changed over every time someone got nervous, personalised computers with warnings built-in for emergencies. A link back to David; yes, that had been unavoidable – but no one except the person concerned party to the method of communication. Damage limitation he had once jokingly called it; none of them really believing they could be traced with all the precautions they were taking. They’d been proved wrong and David had surrendered his life protecting what he believed; a man of great courage, although in doing so he may have saved everyone else.
He returned to the communal lounge, his sense of desperation momentarily overwhelming. He might have been given freedom to roam and, since the best way to divert suspicion was to do exactly that, he woul
d explore every inch of the city.
The place appeared empty. Yet he still felt cornered and pursued. He swung round, Arnulf was leaning against a wall six paces away, his arms folded, his eyes unwavering. It was like the man’s face was set in stone, nothing moved; even a robot appearing more lifelike. And yet on some level there had to be something behind that expressionless mask; he couldn’t simply be a collection of bones, sinew and muscle. Bill remembered the fleeting look of anger that had swept across the man’s face on being excluded from the boardroom. Yes, there was something more.
So the German had been ordered to follow him. Strange in a building that was supposed to be escape-proof. The thought offered a spark of hope and Bill grabbed it with both hands. There had to be more than one way out. Food and water had to come in, so did light and heat, while sewage had to go out.
Eight evenly-spaced corridors revolved round the lift shaft like spokes in a wheel, and he had to check them all. Taking the corridor to his left, he set off. An hour later he was back where he started. He plunged exhausted into a chair, praying he wouldn’t be called upon to do anything strenuous – like climb up a ventilation shaft – until he felt fully recovered. He eyed the one above his head, the tall fronds of a palm tree brushing against its grating.
The corridors had held no secrets; his shadow only bothering to follow him as far as the first doorway – a small room where linen was stored. He leant against the wall, his face impassive, watching Bill trudge down their endless length, discovering nothing but bedrooms and bathrooms. Only sheer bloody mindedness had kept him going. He had met a few people, all young and cheerful, dressed in the global uniform of jeans and T-shirt; those busy cleaning sporting the addition of a brown armband. He had interrupted work sessions, with a handful of teenagers peering diligently into computer screens, and watched a game of squash. But apart from having a map of the city indelibly printed in his memory, there’d been nothing.
‘May I join you for dessert?’ Ferdinand Aquilla stood there, a tray in his hand.
‘I had thought the boardroom more your style,’ Bill gestured to the seat on the opposite side of the table, his dish of vanilla ice cream already beginning to melt in the warmth of the little restaurant.
Aquilla pulled out a chair, sitting down. ‘Normally, yes, but I’ll let you into a secret. The chef in the communal restaurant is the most superb pastry cook.’ He pointed to the substantial slice of Tartes aux pommes on his plate, a jug of cream on the side. ‘So when tartes is on the menu I eat here.’
Bill laughed, the sound making him feel altogether more positive.
He must have dozed away the remainder of the morning, because when he awoke it was lunchtime, and groups of young people were heading for the cafeteria. The sleep had done him good. He was still thirsty and a glass of sparkling mineral water stood at his elbow, although the dizziness had now abated and he was now only aware of it if he moved too quickly. The food was extraordinarily good too, providing absolute proof – if any were needed – that he was in Europe; mass cooking in the schools and universities of America and England edible – but only just. He spun out his lunch of escalope of veal, salad and sautéed potatoes as long as possible, studying the faces that passed by his table in the hope of memorising the majority of them.
‘Are they all devotees to the cause?’ Bill asked the question, indicating the occupied tables.
‘They will be. Simply a question of grooming. There is no shortage of willing recruits. After all with twenty-seven countries in the Federation, most of them overflowing with the unemployed, they provide a perfect breeding-ground for the discontented. Our policy is to encourage those most strongly adhering to our cause to mingle with the newcomers; it helps the process of assimilation.’
‘Drugs?’
‘If necessary, although teenage minds are extraordinary pliable. Repeat something often enough and they believe it; not only that, their belief becomes so powerful it remains impervious to argument, however logical.’
Bill closed his eyes remembering the tragedies at the end of the last century, from terrorists who clutched religion to their heart. No different from now, except the cause. ‘So what’s your role? Your boss … what’s his name … failed to say.’
‘Mine is research and he doesn’t have a name, Mr Masterson, so I wouldn’t bother trying.’ Aquilla tilted his chair backwards and, stretching out an arm, dropped his empty tray on the table behind. ‘Wayne Seagar’s in charge of security.’
‘You don’t look as if you have any problem there.’
‘We don’t and Wayne intends to keep it that way. He’s concerned you might try to escape.’
‘What with?’ Bill grinned, holding up the knife and fork he had just discarded on his plate, a second set already in the pocket of his jacket. His new clothes had fitted perfectly and, judging by their label, had come from a fashionable prêt à porter establishment in Paris.
‘You know we’ve met before.’
Bill looked at him startled.
Aquilla sipped at his coffee, cutting his apple tart with a fork. ‘You’ve changed very little. Our paths crossed at seminars and conferences. You wouldn’t remember.’
Bill stared at the man, trying to place him. ‘No I don’t,’ he admitted.
In any other situation Aquilla would have been considered elegant, if not down-right handsome; Bill was certain women would think so. His face was aquiline with high cheekbones, his nose straight with perfect teeth; but knowing he might have been responsible for the death of thousands, in Bill’s eyes he was gazing at a monster.
Aquilla relaxed the muscles of his mouth, smiling briefly. ‘I would have been disappointed in my plastic surgeon if you had. No, I changed somewhat after the earthquake. I was one of a group offered new lives in exchange for our old; Anew and very generous employer, a huge increase in salary with no taxes to pay, a playboy lifestyle … in exchange for what … loyalty?’
‘There were others?’
‘Of course, unfortunately only one from your section – Harry Bentley. He retired this year – but, again you wouldn’t recognise him. Pity so many were killed. They should have accepted the invitation.’
‘And was … Oh, for God’s sake, he has to have a name. He who must be obeyed sounds a bit theatrical to me.’
Bill expected to see an expression of some kind, possibly a shrug, a grimace, but nothing was forthcoming.
‘It hardly matters. Schmidt … Smith … what you will.’
It was strangely surreal how Aquilla limited the use of the muscles of his face, as if emotion might prove a deadly enemy.
‘Okay then, Smith, was he behind the earthquake?’ Bill said, immediately regretting the impulse that had driven him to ask the question. Questions led to more questions and he couldn’t afford the answers. But the Argentinean seemed content to talk.
‘Of course, but naturally not the tsunami – that was a byproduct created by the forces of nature.’
‘And the earthquake?’
‘That was Russian technology. With Boris Yeltsin in charge everything had its price.’
Bill could have sat there debating the moral argument about the end justifying the means. He didn’t, knowing it to be a waste of breath. ‘And, do you know who he is?’
‘That’s all the information I’m prepared to give you, despite knowing you can’t get away from here,’ Aquilla’s tone changed abruptly.
Bill ignored it, pushing on. ‘And Seagar?’
‘He came along later. A disaffected FBI agent with useful contacts. Now, if you’ve finished …’ Aquilla eyed the pool of cream-coloured liquid on Bill’s plate with distaste and got to his feet. ‘I’ll show you to your workstation.’
‘I was hoping for a game of tennis or squash at the local club. At the very least, a stroll in the country to walk off my lunch,’ Bill said, joining his host at the door.
‘I’m afraid all our scientific staff remain indoors, at least until we’re certain they won’t stray. Think of it th
is way; European farmers rear their prize stock in barns to keep them healthy. And we want you to stay healthy.’
SIXTEEN
Scott woke with a start, unsure of where he was. His dream had left him struggling among a city of houses, all identical, trawling his motorbike up and down, row after row, calling out: ‘Dad where are you?’ Once he’d caught a glimpse of his dad’s face peering from a bedroom window, but then the road changed into a maze and he couldn’t find the window again.
He rubbed his eyes. Of course he was in Scotland. He leapt from his bed, making a dive for the window, eager for the promised sight of the loch – only to be disappointed, his view blocked by the chimney on a nearby roof.
Anxious now to get moving, Scott quickly showered, his surroundings of no interest as long as there was hot water, for the day was chilly.
Had he been interested in old buildings, he might have noticed the remnants of blue-patterned wallpaper still clinging to the walls, left over from when the bathroom had been the dressing room of some rich person. In an era dominated by global warming, the building, with its lofty ceilings and oversized rooms, had quickly become both unfashionable and impractical. After standing empty for many years, it had eventually been re-opened as a hostel catering for groups of youthful walkers, eager to pit their legs against the Scottish hills. Six bunk beds fitted comfortably into the second-floor room, its high ceiling and heavy walls keeping the temperature to a chilly maximum; although only four of the beds had been occupied when Scott had fumbled his way in through the darkness.Crashing out in the first available space, he hadn’t even heard his room-mates get up.
Scott checked his watch. It was gone ten. They had bought toothbrushes and clean underwear near Manchester, Hilary swearing she might be happy to wear her jeans for a week but not her knickers. She had stuck the tube of toothpaste in her jacket pocket, forgetting Scott might need it. Which brought him right back to the main problem, did he trust her?
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