Running

by Barbara Spencer

  ‘He’s my boss – so explain.’ The tone matched the look, no longer casual, leaving Scott in no doubt that the hundreds of muscles in Pete’s body had woken up ready for action.

  Scott hesitated, watching the door open and shut, with one labourer being exchanged for two shop assistants; both girls ordering lattes and croissant, before taking up the free table in the window. They immediately wiped the window clear so they could have something to look at while they chatted.

  ‘You found Dad the sensible way, I took the long way round,’ he admitted and blinked, remembering the hundreds of miles he had ridden pursuing fragile clues. ‘But always the bad guys found us. Do you know who they are?’

  ‘Nope!’ Pete cradled his coffee cup in his hands. ‘Never had the pleasure.’

  Although Pete gave the appearance of being relaxed, only interested in the bottom of his cup, Scott was only too aware the agent wasn’t missing a trick.

  ‘We discovered I’d been bugged and although Hilary keeps trying to be loyal, even she was finally forced to admit only Sean Terry could have done it.’

  ‘No way!’ Pete shook his head. ‘Sean’s one of the good guys.’

  ‘How do I prove it to you?’ Scott argued.

  ‘You can’t.’ Pete got to his feet. ‘I need more coffee. You?’

  Scott drained his cup. ‘Wish it was tea but yes, thanks.’ What should he do now? What if Pete refused to believe him and contacted Sean Terry.

  He gazed bleakly at the row of blue tiles on the wall, the stylized scenes of milkmaids carrying wooden churns staring back at him, horribly aware that he should have left while he still had a chance. He fixed his eyes on Pete’s back, daring his hand to reach for his mobile and alert his boss.

  A second later Scott’s heart skipped a beat, his feet ready to break into movement as the agent’s hand reached down into his pocket. It reappeared clutching a fistful of change.

  Pete angled his body into a V-shape slithering past the table edge, a couple of croissant on a plate clutched in one hand. ‘Food’ll help,’ he said, pushing the plate across the table. ‘So how did you get here?’

  ‘Travers, a friend from school, his brother owns a plane.’

  ‘Nice! And?’

  ‘Well, yesterday afternoon we saw this man. I recognised him as one of the men checking the sheep.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Positive. Remember, I spoke to them. He told me they’d found radiation in one of the fields. But they couldn’t have, because that’s where the sheep were all winter. I even asked the farmer. And, if the sheep were clear, it wasn’t possible for the field to be contaminated. I guess they were keeping an eye on Dad.’

  ‘So why didn’t you tell us any of this?’

  ‘I didn’t trust you,’ Scott said frankly.

  ‘Okay!’

  ‘We followed him. He left his bike at a factory in the outskirts and went into this field. He disappeared but we found this manhole with a ladder. At the bottom was an underground city. Trees and stuff. People …’ Scott gazed round the busy space, conversations with occasional bursts of laughter floating into the air, despite the early hour. ‘There was even a coffee shop, like this one. I was going to explore further but Travers dragged me back. Still I’m positive that’s where Dad’s being kept. I saw this room. It had computers in it.’

  ‘And you were going to rescue him, with what?’ Pete’s tone was relaxed.

  Scott held up his half-eaten croissant.

  Pete laughed. ‘Unusual weapon, I’d prefer a Colt or a submachine gun.’

  ‘The people I saw, they were wearing jeans and T-shirts – you know ordinary stuff. I thought I could mingle and have a look round, without being noticed. I mean the way I got in …’ Scott frowned. ‘It was more like an emergency exit. I bet no one knew it existed.’

  ‘So why not get help?’ Pete’s tone was mildly curious.

  ‘We have.’

  Pete sat up straight. ‘Much more sensible than going it alone. Who’ve you called, the police?’

  ‘No, Travers contacted his dad. Travers said, knowing his dad, he’ll bring the cavalry.’ Scott broke off a piece of his croissant, crumbling it between his fingers. ‘Only problem is, it’ll take them a few hours to get here; and I can’t wait that long.’

  Pete pulled out his mobile.

  ‘No! Pete! Not Sean Terry, you can’t!’

  Scott’s voice was loud enough to stop all conversation in the café. Pete held up his hand nodding amiably at the occupants of the other tables.

  ‘Relax, kid! It’s not Sean, though it would be better for you if it was.’

  ‘Please, not till Dad’s safe.’ Scott begged.

  Pete shrugged. ‘Have it your own way. But you can’t go alone. I was ordering us Ataxi, that’s all. But I’m not promising anything. At best we might have a look round, okay?’

  Scott nodded, his fingers pushing the crumbs round his plate.

  Pete dialled, speaking casually into the handset. ‘Travelight? Ataxi to one-two-seven Centrestraat. Okay. Five minutes, two passengers. Thanks.’ He snapped the mobile shut. ‘What the hell we did before we had these, I don’t know.’

  ‘Pay phones, I think,’ Scott said.

  Pete’s slid along the seat and got to his feet. ‘Okay, kid, if we’re going to do a spot of rescuing, we’d better go. Finished?’

  Scott’s middle griped nervously at him, the croissant in his mouth like a block of concrete. He hastily took a sip of coffee, almost choking in his efforts to swallow it.

  Pete waited by the door, eyeing up the shop assistants. Something about his casual manner made Scott think of Hilary. She’d been excited, hyped up with adrenaline when they’d been escaping the bullets at the motel. But not Pete. This visit could end in bloodshed or with his dad safe. Whatever was going to happen appeared of no consequence, the agent more interested in the two girls. Would Hilary change? Would she become so used to danger that she became blasé about carrying a gun? Or using it?

  In the time it had taken Scott to drink two coffees, a line of market stalls had sprung up, their green and white shells waiting for the flower sellers to arrive and festoon the air with perfume. Nearby, talking to the workmen, was a young woman.

  A taxi – its engine still running – was waiting for them a little way down the street. Pete spoke to the driver and was about to open the back door when Scott grabbed his arm.

  ‘There’s Hilary!’ he exclaimed, pointing towards the square. ‘She must have followed me.’ The American brushed Scott’s hand from his jacket, swivelling on the balls of his feet to see where Scott was pointing. ‘I’m still not sure about her. Mostly I believe she’s okay but if she came with us, you could keep an eye on her.’ Scott smiled apologetically. ‘And if she is okay a second gun would be …’

  ‘Sorry, kid, not today.’

  A heavy blow in the centre of his back knocked Scott onto the floor of the cab, the driver speeding into gear long before Pete had closed the door.

  Scott looked up, winded and unable to speak, seeing the muzzle of the Colt not a foot from his chest.

  ‘Sorry for the dramatics,’ Pete indicated the gun. Dropping his arm, he rested the black steel on his knee. ‘You can get up now. Hell! Of all the bad luck, seeing Stone.’

  Scott hid in the corner of the cab. ‘I don’t understand,’ he gasped, trying to drag air into lungs that were still hurting.

  ‘Look, Scott, I like you. Full of spunk! I don’t know many kids your age that would have gone on and on till they found their dad; most would have given up ages ago. So this is nothing personal. I have a job to do. Deliver you.’

  ‘Deliver me … to who?’

  ‘My boss. He already has your dad.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘You thought it was Sean Terry.’ Pete shrugged. ‘You’ve only got yourself to blame. I kept telling you, he’s one of the good guys.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘We’ve been trying to get your dad for fifteen years, Dav
ois and me,’ he added. ‘He’s the bloke you followed – stupid bastard,’ he swore, his tone savage. ‘We traced him to Sacramento, but no sign.’

  ‘Why me?’ Scott managed to spit out.

  ‘Because your dad will never work for us without. But I can promise you, no one means you any harm. Once your dad sorts out their little computer problem, you and he will be living the life of millionaires. Nothing will be too good for you.’

  The taxi had slowed, now travelling the empty streets at a speed unlikely to attract attention. Scott wondered if he could reach the door handle and leap out before a shot could be fired.

  ‘Don’t try it, kid.’ Pete warned, his glance homing in on Scott, his pistol moving at the same time.

  ‘Okay!’ Scott sighed painfully. He’d got it wrong, so bloody wrong. Sean Terry was okay and Hilary had been telling the truth. He should have believed her right from the start.

  He stared helplessly out of the window. The taxi was now travelling in a straight line, mimicking the red line on the map that ended at the traffic island. He felt like an animal in Atrap, terrified, despite the assurance that no harm would come to him. But it could to his dad – and he was responsible – responsible because he’d got it wrong.

  ‘Why didn’t you kidnap me at the cottage?’ he said.

  ‘Thought about it, but Stone was there. Only a kid herself. I would have had to kill her. I hadn’t a problem with that …’

  Scott shivered.

  ‘But most likely, I’d have blown my cover. Terry’s no fool. He’d have guessed if I survived an attack it was because I was part of it. This is different.’

  ‘You must have thought me a real patsy, I even liked you; it’s laughable.’ Scott said, the bitterness in his tone carrying across the partition to the driver. He tilted his head back listening.

  ‘This doesn’t change anything. It’s not personal. I told you, I think you’re a swell kid. This is politics. I happen to work for someone who dislikes the way the world is going. And in politics there has to be casualties.’ Pete ended the sentence on a shrug.

  ‘You killed that man?’

  Pete nodded. Dropping his pistol into his lap he removed his sunspecs, wiping them on Atissue; his eyes the ice blue of an artic sky, his tone of voice once again as casual as it had been when sipping at his coffee. ‘Couldn’t take a chance on his talking. You can’t spill the beans if you’re dead.’

  Scott’s mind stopped working; his eyes automatically absorbing the images of places as they passed by, his subconscious unscrambling them into recognisable objects – fields dotted with an occasional tree, a traffic island ahead; on its far side ornamental gardens belonging to a factory.

  The taxi slowed and drove in through its gates, the elegant white shape of the building looming over the black vehicle, like a preying mantis devouring its prey. A line of young people hurried out of the building towards them.

  Scott blinked and a thought leaped through the frozen conduits. Ordinary people finishing their shift. Help! They could help.

  He felt Pete’s eyes move and focus on the line. ‘You said an underground city with kids in T-shirts and jeans.’

  It wasn’t a question.

  Scott shut his eyes hoping that Travers would wake early, see he was missing and follow. Except they weren’t going to the field. Why not? He opened them again and pushed the thought into speech. ‘Why here? If you’re taking me to my dad, the place is further on. So why are we stopping here?’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  For Bill the four days of captivity seemed endless. Not being able to stretch his legs in the open air a worse punishment than he realised, leading to sleepless nights from lack of exercise; while the knowledge of being trapped underground was something he found impossible to shake from his thoughts. It wasn’t fear for himself; it never had been. His nightmares about the tsunami had never involved him. After all, he hadn’t been there. But his friends and colleagues had, and it was these faces that wakened him sweating in the night.

  Surprisingly, no one bothered him. No heavy mob, with baseball bats, threatening him to hurry up and unlock the secrets of his computer. This lack of urgency was in itself a clue; an acknowledgement that the people he was dealing with had aeons of time.

  It was ironic that despite losing all their data and half his colleagues, it had only taken seven more years to recreate the project and bring it to fruition. Styrus did work, although now Bill wished they had destroyed it. But a desire for the world to acknowledge their efforts had overridden common sense. In the right hands, like the Internet, it would have been of immense value, particularly for the United Nations committed to fighting terrorism wherever it reared its head. In the wrong hands, Styrus could destroy the world as they knew it. And if Scott were found, he, Bill, would be forced into wielding this weapon of destruction.

  Now it was Saturday, and a repeat of the previous four days.More coffee than was good for him, fretting about Scott, living in dread of the announcement that he’d been found; exhausted from lack of sleep and the constant search for a way out – all of it useless. Mr Smith had been right. There wasn’t one – if there was, he hadn’t found it yet. In the daytime too many people about; at night, his bedroom door locked from the outside to stop him finding a way into the conduits, the heavy galvanised tubes that carried the air-conditioning.

  ‘Bill. We’re leaving. Come on.’

  The crossword, Bill’s only means of whiling away the endless hours of the morning, slipped from his fingers. Aquilla was standing in front of him, as fastidiously dressed as always. He was carrying a small briefcase.

  ‘Luggage!’ he nodded towards it. ‘But you won’t be needing any.’

  Bill suddenly became aware of activity; a hurried crisscrossing of the lounge area by numbers of young people. Most appeared to be making for the boardroom; uniformed firemen heading the opposite way, trailing wire behind them.

  ‘Fire?’ he said hopefully.

  ‘There will be if we don’t leave now. By the way, we have your son. He’ll be with us shortly.’

  Bill felt sick, his face stiff with shock; the frank and open demeanour that he’d worked so hard to maintain, wiped off.

  ‘He didn’t do badly though, did he?’ he managed. ‘A kid, not yet sixteen, on his own out there. Led your lot a merry dance.’

  Aquilla smiled. Not his usual tight-lipped Teutonic offering that never reached his eyes; this was a genuine gold-plated smile which, if repeated daily, would lead to laughter lines round the eyes and deep groves permanently etched on either side of his mouth.

  ‘If I had a son, I’d be proud to have yours,’ he said.

  Bill started.

  Aquilla waved an arm nonchalantly, embracing the activity. ‘He’s responsible for this little lot.’

  ‘How …?’

  ‘Only found out where you were and brought a rescue party. Picking him up now is rather like locking the stable door after the horse has bolted, wouldn’t you say?’ The smile disappeared. ‘Unfortunately, his success necessitates a change in our direction. We have a helicopter waiting, after which this place will disappear under several-hundred tons of water. Anything caught in it will disappear, too. But don’t be fooled, Bill. In the big scheme of things, this doesn’t even register. Let’s get moving.’ A gun appeared in his hand. ‘This way.’

  At the far end of the boardroom, tucked away behind the video screen, appeared a corridor. Brightly lit along its entire length, it sloped steadily uphill, Anumber of figures already hurrying along its walkway towards safety; aware that the trailing lengths of wire meant an imminent explosion.

  All at once Bill felt like bursting into song and risking the shocked expressions of the youngsters walking alongside, their eyes flicking curiously from the gun barrel to his face. He stopped himself in the nick of time. Superfluous gestures would take energy and, before long, he was going to need every scrap he could summon up. If Scott could wreck their operation, he could find a way out. This sudden exodus was
something the enemy hadn’t planned for. There would be mistakes. Adrenalin surged through his body wiping away the inertia and fatigue of the past few days, stretching his muscles ready for action at an instant’s notice.

  At the end of the corridor, double doors opened into a concrete-clad lobby housing a lift and emergency stairs, a young man politely holding them back for the two men to pass through. At the far side of the lobby, heavy glass doors led out onto a driveway, with shrubs and grass.

  ‘Up!’ Aquilla indicated the open doors of the lift with his gun.

  Bill eyed the weapon cautiously. When purchasing it, Aquilla’s primary purpose may well have been to buy something small enough not to damage the elegant cut of his suit. Despite that, it was still likely to be deadly at close range.

  Aquilla followed the direction of his glance and gave an abrupt laugh. ‘Don’t think for one second you’re going to make it through those doors to freedom.’ He inclined his head towards the glass doors. ‘You may be invaluable but that wouldn’t stop me killing you. And I’m a good shot.’

  ‘I thought you probably were,’ Bill said agreeably. ‘But what about those poor beggars?’ He pointed to the youngsters, a continuous line passing through the glass doors. ‘Unless you’ve got a coach waiting outside for them.’

  Aquilla punched the button for the roof. ‘They simply walk out into the sunset. Regroup in another country and start again, working for the cause.’ Behind him the doors swung silently into place, a low whining noise accompanying the lift on its ascent.

  Bill felt the gears slowing the heavy machinery to a stop, then the doors opened and a blustery wind blew in. With every sense on high alert, he stepped out. He glanced down at the emergency stairwell – listening intently for the telltale sound of footsteps echoing against the concrete – but heard nothing. Then, leisurely, as if making an entrance to some party on the cocktail circuit, he slowly ascended the four steps to the roof, stopping on the last one to take a deep, lung-filling breath – the swirling expanse of oxygen-laden air tugging at his jacket. He moved out on to the exposed deck and was instantly blasted backwards by the fierce wind. Aquilla, leaning into it, indicated for Bill to keep tight-hold of the safety rail, securing the perimeter of the bitumen-covered platform.