The idea of maintaining a zoo seemed preposterous to Riley. “Things must be very different on the island if you have enough spare to feed exotic animals. The rest of the world is starving of hunger. No, it doesn’t seem right.”
“The zoo is a symbol of hope and continuity. Proof of a world outside where life still flourishes. We want children to see the animals they’ve read about in books, not let lions and tigers become mythical beasts like unicorns or dragons.”
Riley nodded. Scottie kept reminding her that everyone needed to look beyond the here and now to maintain hope that life would get better. That their hard work would some day pay off. “Scottie talks about art in the same way. He’s spent the last two years salvaging paintings and statues from large country houses round here, less for their intrinsic value than what they stand for: culture, civilisation, human achievement.”
“And you know he’s right. Heather’s generation and those that follow will thank us. There’s more at stake than day-to-day survival,” insisted the sister. “It’s our duty to inspire and educate. After all, we are the new custodians.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” admitted Riley, with a shrug. The sister turned to face her, a question on her lips, seemingly unsure how to ask. Riley was naturally intrigued.
“I wanted to tell you before, but it didn’t seem the right time. I talked to Zed when he came to Ventnor.”
“Zed? My God. How is he?” she tried to make her response sound as casual as possible, but inside her heart skipped a beat.
“He seemed well, as much as I could tell. Working all hours, shadowing Doctor Hardy on the clinical trials. When was the last time you saw each other?”
“Seven weeks, four days, give or take.”
“But you’re still close?”
“Good friends, yes. I honestly haven’t thought about him in ages. Out of sight, out of mind,” she lied. In truth, he was in her thoughts most days, wondering when he would return to Hurst.
The sister studied her reaction. “I’m sorry, perhaps I got the wrong end of the stick. I thought you two were...” Her voice trailed off. “Maybe my radar needs adjusting. Perhaps we should be talking about Corporal Carter instead?”
“I’m too busy for romance, Sister. It’s strictly professional with me and Carter,” she protested unconvincingly. “Anyway, he’s just a boy.”
“Did you get the letter Zed wrote?”
She smiled in response, the envelope tucked in the breast pocket of her jacket. She had memorised every word, every phrase. Come to think of it, some of the language had seemed a little flowery for Zed. Now it made sense. The sister must have helped in the drafting, perhaps even dictated entire paragraphs.
“I get the impression he thinks of you often,” the sister continued. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, isn’t that what they say?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she deflected, embarrassed at having to explain how she felt to a relative stranger. “Jack always used to say that it doesn’t pay to dwell on the past, nor things outside your control. I find it’s easier to bury feelings where they can’t hurt you.”
From high above them on the roof of the Gun Tower came the urgent ringing of a hand bell, warning of one or more vehicles approaching the castle.
“We should go back inside,” shouted Riley as they hurried back towards the castle entrance. Once the last of them were across the drawbridge, Tommy began cranking the mechanism closed. She raced across the grass to the western wall of the compound, where a small crowd had gathered to assess the threat, issuing instructions as she went, sending all hands to their stations.
She raised the Zeiss binoculars in her trembling hands, staring down over the battlements back along the shingle spit, trying to focus on the convoy of vehicles making slow progress towards them. She recognised Salieri’s colours flying above the armoured Toyota pick-up truck at its head, windscreen replaced with sheet metal, protecting the occupants from incoming fire. A narrow horizontal slit permitted the driver a limited field of view. Behind the cab protruded the barrel of a mortar fixed to the truck’s flat bed, aimed in the direction of the castle. The second vehicle carried a heavy machine gun, boxes of ammunition stacked either side, that called to mind the improvised vehicles used by the Taliban or freedom fighters, seen firing on the evening news.
“That’s a war party, not a peace mission,” cautioned Scottie.
Terra had warned Riley that Salieri might try to blame Hurst for the smallpox outbreak. She preferred to believe the Italians were keeping their end of the agreement, delivering the girls home and collecting the equipment and stores recovered from the Bunnies’ compound in Barton, now stacked in the covered entrance. Why they had left the exchange this long was a mystery.
The convoy passed the outer marker, still some four hundred metres out. Scottie clambered on top of the sandbags and waved his hands above his head, cautioning Salieri’s men to stop. The vehicles continued their relentless advance, ignoring his warning.
He retrieved the remote detonator from a waterproof storage box next to the machine gun nest, flicking on the power, placing his finger over the pulsing red button. “Armed and ready,” he confirmed.
The mines were one of many improvised defences installed at the castle by Flynn’s soldiers during their occupation, designed to prevent an attacking force reaching the compound. Of course, there was no guarantee the charges would actually detonate.
The sister joined Riley at the rail, peering over the battlements. “Why don’t you let me try talking to them.”
“Range?” Riley called out, ignoring the sister’s appeal for calm.
“Two hundred metres.”
To her right, Tommy removed the tarpaulin covering the machine gun, running through his weapon checks, pulling the bolt back and forward, opening the feed tray, inspecting the chamber, positioning the first round and snapping the cover back into place, ready to fire. He took careful aim at the lead vehicle, targeting its radiator and front tyres as it came within range.
“Wait for my command,” cautioned Riley.
“One hundred and fifty meters,” shouted Scottie, monitoring their progress via the posts dug into the shingle at twenty-five metre intervals.
“One hundred and twenty-five metres,” he called a few seconds later, almost within range of the battery of IEDs.
To everyone’s immense relief, the convoy came to a halt just short of the next marker. Within the blast zone, thought Riley. “Now what?” she muttered under her breath. There was a pregnant pause as both sides studied each other through binoculars. No one dared exit their vehicle.
Finally, a tall figure with slicked-back hair stepped out of the lead truck, clutching a loud hailer. It was Marco, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun.
“We come in peace,” he called out, raising both hands in a gesture of friendship. “To collect what we agreed.”
“Where are the girls?” shouted Riley, cupping both hands.
Marco blinked back at her, unsure how to respond. “I assumed they came here already.”
“What are you talking about? Salieri gave his assurances they would be well looked after.”
“Where else would they have gone? They were last seen heading this way along the cliff tops.”
“You just let them go? Walk out into the night? They’re children.”
“Not exactly,” he explained, as if that was the understatement of the year. The fact remained, he didn’t have them. That’s all Riley cared about. “Please, Riley, be reasonable. Salieri already blames Hurst for stealing, now the outbreak. I can’t go home empty handed.”
“We had a deal, Marco. No girls, no stuff. It’s only fair.”
“No,” he said with some finality, crossing his arms like a toddler. “We are not leaving until we get what we came here for.”
Riley turned to face Tommy. “If he takes one more step, shoot him.”
“Riley, please,” implored the sister. “I’ve known Marco since he was a boy. He’
ll listen to me.”
“Be my guest,” agreed Riley, making way.
The sister approached the rail, looking down over the castle walls, where Marco and his men now stood squinting into the sun at the incongruous sight of a nun with a megaphone.
“Sister Imelda?” he replied, not quite believing. “I thought you were on the island.” He already sounded ashamed of his prior belligerence.
“The girls are not here. Go home, my son. Tell Signore Salieri that I sent him my regards.”
“But, Sister, if you knew the full story.”
“God is watching you, Marco.”
“Giuseppe nearly died. One of the girls stabbed him in the back.”
Riley rolled her eyes, wondering what could have happened. Heather was capable of defending herself, but would not do so without provocation.
“If anything has happened to those girls,” began Riley, clenching her fists, as the sister appealed for calm on both sides.
“We’ll get to the bottom of this, when the girls are found. I will make sure they answer for whatever they did, or didn’t do. Now go home and tend to your sick.”
“Yes, Sister,” responded Marco rather meekly. From their high vantage point, he seemed momentarily lost, like a schoolboy searching for his parents. He climbed back into the vehicle and signalled for the convoy to reverse back up the raised roadway.
“He’ll come back, you know that,” warned the sister.
“We’ll be ready when he does.”
“Really, Riley. I’m surprised at you,” rebuked the sister. “Picking fights with the Italians,” she continued to Riley’s astonishment. “Neighbours need each other. We must all learn to get along.”
Chapter 43
Riley reread the colonel’s single-sided letter, delivered earlier by a messenger, struggling to make sense of it. A boat would pick her up at dawn to take her to the USS Chester. Apparently, Zed had suffered some kind of breakdown and needed a trained counsellor to guide him ‘back towards the light’. It all sounded terribly cryptic, even to Sister Imelda. The hand-written note said nothing of the circumstances. Riley was unclear whether the colonel was asking her in a professional capacity or because of her long-standing relationship. Either way, she didn’t plan to pass up the opportunity to see Zed after all this time.
After an uneventful run down tide in windless conditions, the Chester’s fast inflatable bumped against the towering hull of the American missile destroyer. A crewman’s outstretched arm reached down to haul her up on to the stairway lowered for their arrival. Two uniformed marines greeted Riley as she stepped on deck with a stiff ‘Welcome on board, ma’am’. She nodded her head, unsure of the correct etiquette.
“You must be Riley,” purred an attractive English woman in a lab coat. She extended her hand, looking Riley up and down. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Sorry, you have me at a disadvantage,” replied Riley, self-consciously.
“Gill Stephens, I’m one of the scientists from Porton Down. You mean Zed never mentioned me?” Gill tilted her head, as if wounded by the oversight, her sandy-coloured hair falling over one eye. She wore eyeliner and foundation, but no other make-up.
“Of course. Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting you to be here.”
“It’s a long story,” she laughed. “I’m helping the Americans with their testing programme.” She pointed towards the hangar doors. “That’s the lab in there.”
“I see. How’s the patient?”
“Zed? He’s resting upstairs. In my cabin,” said Gill very deliberately, enjoying Riley’s flushed cheeks. “My old cabin, I should say,” she added, perhaps realising she had taken the joke too far. “Me and Zed go way back.”
If Gill was trying to make Riley jealous, it was working all too well.
“Can I see him?”
“He’s sleeping right now.”
Riley checked the time. It was almost eight-thirty. By military standards, that was mid-morning. “The Colonel’s letter didn’t say much about what actually happened to him. Is the Colonel here?”
“No, he left this morning. But I can fill you in, if you like? Why don’t I show you around while we’re waiting?”
“Thank you. I’d like that.”
Gill rested her hand on Riley’s shoulder, grimacing. “Sorry about earlier. I can be a real bitch sometimes. Force of habit. Ignore me. I know you and Zed are close. He talks about you all the time.”
Riley nodded, not sure what to make of Gill, as they walked the length of the ship, side by side, stopping to admire the different weapon systems, missile hatches and other salient features.
“How come you know so much about this ship?”
“You have no idea how many times I’ve done the tour. It’s about the only exercise I get.”
“It must be hard living on a ship.”
“No kidding. I get sick on the Isle of Wight ferry. I can’t fault their hospitality. They’ve made me feel very welcome.”
“I’m sure you’re very popular,” said Riley, with a hint of sarcasm. A young crewman stepped aside to let them pass with a curt ‘mam’.
“Most of this lot get tongue-tied talking to a woman, let alone a scientist. Totally institutionalised. ”
“Remind me what it is you actually do at Porton Down?”
“I’m an epidemiologist. A disease hunter. We spend our time modelling outbreaks, trying to determine optimal strategies to combat their spread. If I’m honest, it’s all pretty nerdy.”
“You and Zed must get on like a house on fire,” she fired back, earning a wide-eyed flash of surprise.
“Even my eyes begin to glaze when he talks about bio-terrorism and endless conspiracy theories. I’m more of an empiricist.”
“Did you two never date?”
“Not officially. I’m not going to lie. I held a torch for him for a few years, but he never reciprocated. Then he got married and that was that.”
Riley had been trying her hardest to hide the growing jealousy bubbling up inside her. Now she understood why Zed said so little about Gill.
“I’m so sorry,” she sympathised. “Some men can’t see what’s right in front of them.”
“I guess some people are luckier than others.” There was a slight edge to her comment as if she resented Riley’s good fortune. “Zed’s told me all about you.”
“You must be good friends. I can’t imagine Zed ever talking about his feelings to anyone. He’s not exactly the demonstrative type.”
“That was half the problem, he only ever saw me as a ‘mate’,” Gill replied bitterly. “But, no question, Zed’s crazy about you. I haven’t seen him this love-struck since he was at Porton, dating my best friend. I guess he’s just too emotionally backward to tell you.”
Riley was beginning to think her radar was dysfunctional. This was the second time in two days someone had told her Zed had feelings for her.
“So how is he, mentally, since this breakdown? I only know what the Colonel put in his note. What actually happened?”
“The Doctor said he suffered some kind of psychotic episode. Apparently, there is some prior history of depression, mental illness.”
“He’s always been a bit withdrawn and uncommunicative. I assumed he was on the spectrum. Mild Asperger’s.”
“Sounds about right,” she giggled mischievously. “He’s definitely not been himself since he got here. The court martial is casting a long shadow.”
“Court martial?”
“I’m sorry. I thought you knew. He’s facing historical charges of espionage, collaboration, even fraud.” The colour must have drained from Riley’s cheeks. “The Colonel has agreed to defend him.”
“I had no idea.”
“They say the pressure got to him. I can’t say I’m surprised. Major Donnelly really worked him over.”
“In what way? On the stand, you mean?”
“No, before then. Solitary confinement, daily questioning until he told them everything. I overheard someone s
ay they drugged him to make him talk, to sign some confession admitting everything, but there was no lawyer present, so the court ruled it inadmissible.”
“Poor Zed.”
“I heard you worked with veterans, post-traumatic stress and the like.”
“Well, yes, but nothing like this. PTSD affects people in distinct ways. Breakdown, alcoholism, addiction, especially those with a history of depression.”
“You know him better than me. All he wants to do is get back to work. Pretend everything’s alright. He’s not giving himself a chance to recover.”
“It’s a classic coping mechanism. He’s been doing this for years. Staying busy keeps the demons at bay.”
“Yeah, well Doc’s no expert, but he said Zed just needs time to process what’s happened, to heal, to come to terms with what he’s being accused of. Zed’s insisting on finishing the investigation. I suggested to the colonel he goes back to Hurst Castle for a period of convalescence.”
“Perhaps you’re right. He’s never going to heal unless he takes time out.” The thought of getting him back to the castle earlier than expected gave Riley butterflies. “A change of scene might be just the tonic he needs.”
“Did he ever talk to you about his investigation: Project Wildfire?” Gill asked casually. Riley hesitated before answering, wondering how much she could trust her.
“Only a little,” she dissembled to Gill’s obvious disappointment. “Above my pay grade.”
Gill checked her wrist watch. “Why don’t I take you up to see him? He shouldn’t sleep too long.”
The officer’s quarters were more claustrophobic than Riley expected. Tiny bunk rooms and narrow corridors reminded her of a floating boarding school. At least it was quiet up here, far away from the busy rhythm of the ship. Gill paused outside one of the cabins.
“Why don’t we surprise him?” Gill whispered mischievously.
“If it’s alright with you. I’d prefer to see him alone. It’s been a long time for us.”
The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger Page 32
