SEEN
AND NOT SEEN
William Bowden
Self-published by William Bowden in 2015
Text copyright © 2015 William Bowden
All Rights Reserved
The right of William Bowden to be identified as author has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This is a work of fiction. All characters in this work are fictitious and any resemblance to any real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover art by Vladimir Arndt/Shutterstock.com
SEEN
The United Nations building dominates the street scene, lit up like it might be any other night, the light traffic passing it by punctuated only by the occasional pedestrian. A town car peels away from the center lane to the curb, a passenger window lowering to reveal the face of Lucius Gray looking up at the structure. His eyes drift down to the General Assembly Hall and with a fixed gaze he gets out, shoving the door shut behind him.
Lucius glances after his ride as it slides back into the night traffic. Alone on the sidewalk his attention turns to the security gates. A suited figure lurks. Surely this is some mistake. He’s only been on the List a month. And the brief, such as it was, sounded like the stuff of—
The groan of heavy metal hinges. For some reason Lucius finds this almost funny. Laughing in the face of adversity perhaps. Or maybe the gates of hell. Abandon hope all ye that enter here. Nevertheless, he stiffens his resolve into action and strides to the gates. He’s already made up his mind to give the fellow a good stare as he passes through, but when it comes to it he finds a rather disconcerting set of dead-eyes staring back, tracking him with an unnaturally steady gaze.
Having left the United States of America and entered the United Nations, Lucius is perplexed by his apparent solitude. The various shadowy figures positioned around and about don’t count in his mind. Where is everyone? The place should be crawling with UN security and they are not them.
The clack of his shoes echo around a deserted lobby. Lucius’s nervous eyes find directions to the General Assembly Hall. He has purpose again. Anything to quell the increasing sense of dread that he cannot immediately account for, despite his obvious circumstances and what he has been told thus far. Where is everyone? This must be a mistake.
The lounge area outside the General Assembly Hall is a frenzy of activity. Agents in body hugging hazmat suits attend to a large mobile containment device—a sort of stainless steel tank. Lucius steps through the melee without so much as a glance his way as equipment is unpacked from crates and agents check each other’s gear. From the crowd a pale, gaunt man in a hoodless hazmat suit heads straight for Lucius.
“Are you the psychologist?” the gaunt man asks.
“Gray.”
“Felton. Follow me.”
Felton leads Lucius past the large steel tank. There is an odd stiffness to Felton’s motion. That and the manner of his speech leads Lucius to conclude that this is a spook with a military background.
“Sorry about the hour,” Felton says. “Needed someone quick and you were the closest on the Agency’s List.”
The Agency. Just six week ago, taking a quiet moment on a park bench, a man and woman had sat down next to Lucius. He had sat in the middle of the bench so as to deter such invasions, but there they were, either side of him. And that was the only interview he had. True, he had been flattered by the approach and it did pander to a deep-seated need to be useful in some patriotic way, but mostly it filled a hole in his life, one that had been filled with a different purpose, a purpose that had been wrenched from him. So although his heart ruled his head that day, what harm could come of it? They said it would only be consulting on the odd rare occasion, there would be no field work and certainly no danger. So here he was, in a room full of hazmat suits and the only person not wearing one.
Felton and Lucius dodge a couple of agents sealing their suits.
“Should I be wearing one of those?”
“You won’t be going in.”
“In? In where?”
“In there,” gestures Felton.
They have arrived at a bank of monitors. A forward operations position just outside the General Assembly Hall. As Felton attends to the displays Lucius’s eyes are drawn to two nearby agents. Each carries a rod-like device with a blue plasma flame at one end. Felton follows his gaze.
“A modified thermal lance.” Felton returns his attention to the monitors. “The power’s out in the main hall, but we have a remote in.” Felton taps one of the touch screen monitors. “That’s what you are here for.”
He looks to observe Lucius’s reaction. Muted shock manifests on Lucius’s face. A confirmation of some expected horror.
“Christ, it’s real.”
Felton’s gaze lingers until Lucius’s eyes find him. Then, to the two agents, “Secure it and its location. If there is any sign of trigger activity, incinerate it.”
The agents test their thermal lances. A long needle of blue flame stabs out from each. Satisfied, they head through the doors. Felton turns to the bank of monitors to track their progress.
“Maybe I should be here for them instead,” Lucius says, drawing a sideways glance from Felton. “Not to mention yourself.”
* * *
The General Assembly Hall is drenched in a gloom, the only illumination a source of light at the distant podium. Above the podium the United Nations emblem gazes down from its golden wall like some all-seeing eye as the two agents make their way forward.
A wheeled remote sits at the base of the podium steps. Spindly arms stretch out and arc over the podium, one carrying a light and the other a camera, peering at something unseen behind the green marble of the Secretary General’s grand desk.
The first agent arrives at the base of the steps, breathing heavily in anticipation over his suit radio. He mounts the first step. A distinct gravelly crunch from his boot halts his breathing for a heartbeat. A coarse grit covers the step. He takes a moment to grind his boot in some more.
“Looks like sand.”
From the steps on the other side of the podium the second agent scans the area. There is only an empty pool of light. His breathing quickens. “It’s not there!”
“It’s moved under the Secretary General’s desk—it’s in the seat recess,” Felton says over the radio link.
The two agents reach the top of the steps from opposite sides. White sheets of letter-size paper are scattered all about. They both step forth onto the podium floor, the sand crunching under their boots. An exchange of glances and they swing their thermal lances toward the huge marble desk, its recess in deep shadow. Crouching down they point their weapons in, the flames illuminating what hides within.
Huddled up against the back of the recess is a small African child, painfully thin and dressed in little more than rags. Her clutch tightens on a pencil, hugging it closely to her chest. Scattered about her are spent pencils and sheets of paper. The first agent picks up one of the sheets. It is covered in a pattern of neat, gently curving lines, intricate in their detail. He looks up to find the child staring back at him with big, bright eyes. She smiles.
NOT SEEN
Manhattan. A new day, bright and sunny, greets New York City as the morning rush hour gets underway, filling its streets with a sea of faces. Amid all this bustle is a forgotten corner of green—a small, gated park lush with densely packed trees and shrubs. A solitary bench is occupied by a man lying along its length, a heavily creased, ill-fitting off-the-peg suit loose on his slim frame. A tired pair of brogues. Unkempt, but clean hair. Manicured hands. He stirs. Sad eyes and an unshaven face acknowledge a
reality he’d rather not return to. His eyes find something and freeze. A startled little girl stands before the bench.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Her father is searching for her. She hasn’t wandered far and he calls out from nearby.
“Libby!”
He appears at the park gate and spots his daughter just as the unkempt man rises to a seated position.
“Jesus! Libby!”
He rushes to his daughter, snatching her up into his arms, staring down at the man with a look of fear and anger. The man sheepishly looks back, a pitiful sight. The father’s emotions abruptly melt away, to be replaced by an astonished gawp.
“Oh, man.” A furtive look about the park. “Robert, what are you doing here?” The man, Robert, slumps with a silent despair.
“Is he a friend of yours, Daddy?”
“No, sweet pea.” The father fishes around his pocket to retrieve a cell phone, which he offers to Robert. “Look, take my phone.” Robert waves the phone away. Libby is perplexed.
“Why can’t he use his own phone?”
“Because he doesn’t have one.” And somewhat pointedly, “Do you, Robert.” A despondent Robert can only stare at the ground.
“But everyone has a phone.”
“Not everyone, honey.”
“How come you know his name?”
“Do you need any money?”
“No. Thank you,” replies Robert, with a clear, British accent.
“Daddy! How come you know his name?”
The father looks anxiously to the gate. “Not now, baby.” Returning his gaze to Robert, “You need to end this.” Robert raises a solemn gaze to the father who returns it.
* * *
Outside the park gates the father leaves, holding his daughter. As he makes his way down the street he makes a phone call.
“Just seen your man.”
Father and daughter vanish into the crowd.
FIVE EARTHS
The blue orb of Earth looms large.
“Pretty, isn’t it.” A steady, confident female voice. “But to sustain it that way will require the resources of five Earths, not one.”
The view shifts to reveal the skeleton of a huge spacecraft under construction in low orbit. Advanced twenty-first century technology bearing the name ‘Afrika’ and sporting the logos of space agencies and aerospace companies from across the globe. One stands out—Cantor Satori.
“The Afrika. A solar system mission to prospect for those resources. Earth’s great hope. The Promise. And the lie. Our lie.” The woman’s face appears, hanging in space as her unreadable eyes peer at the Afrika.
It is a three-dimensional projection of the Earth, the projection itself ringed by a vast boardroom table. Standing within the ring is a tall woman of athletic stature, dressed in a chic business suit—Monica Satori. The image of the Earth fades away and in the gloom that remains a ribbon of images appears as an outer ring encompassing the boardroom table. Each image is a piece of muted streaming video—news broadcasts, interviews, documentaries, and the like.
Monica turns to her audience, who occupy a one-third arc of the boardroom table. Five men and three women in a range of international business suit styles, each with a leather folio before them, each folio embossed with five symbols of the Earth. Further around the arc sit two other individuals, spaced far apart—an older woman in a conservative outfit and a sinewy, thin man in a gray tunic suit, his lips pressed tight to form a somewhat severe expression. They watch on silently as Monica proceeds with her discourse.
“To date we have siphoned off some seven hundred billion dollars from the Afrika Project to secretly fund the Trinity Program. In addition to misappropriating tax dollars we have infringed upon all six clauses of the United Nations Biotech Accord, violated sixty-one Federal statutes and broken one hundred and fifty-three international laws.”
The ribbon of images encircling the table collapses to one. A silent interview with a silver-haired statesman, at which Monica now points, “And you’re telling me you won’t stop that man from finding out?”
The five men and three women remain unfazed.
“Not everyone remains convinced of the need for Trinity, Dr. Satori,” a terse, French-accented response, immediately countered by Monica.
“The solution to Earth’s problems rely on the Trinity Program more than ever. If Senator Blake persists with his investigation into the Afrika, he will find the Five Earths initiative and then Trinity.”
An awkward, if not polite, silence from the group. One fumbles with his folio with a look of disinterest. This time it is a Chinese response.
“It has always been our intention to reveal Trinity and the reason why it exists. When that happens, no matter how, all of these transgressions will be forgotten.”
Monica finds herself tested. Not by reasoned argument, but by a distinct air of ambivalence. This she will not show. Not to politicians playing the angles, watching their backs. They’re not going to get off that lightly.
“No. If Trinity is exposed before it has done its job the world won’t understand. It will be shut down out of sheer ignorance,” she says.
“Intervention in the investigation will simply arouse suspicion. Due process must be seen to be done,” argues a Japanese diplomat.
The hastily arranged and somewhat clandestine debate is going nowhere and the American member of the group has heard enough. He makes to leave.
“We can’t stop Blake,” he says. “We aren’t even going to try and stop him. It’s time to throw the dog a bone, Monica. Hell, it’s not like you don’t have one.”
The American ends the proceedings by heading for the door, the other delegates following suit. As he exits, the American catches the eye of the other two individuals still seated at the table.
“Justice Garr.”
“Henry,” the older woman acknowledges.
“Dr. Ellis.” A more formal goodbye for the man in the gray tunic suit, whom he knows only by reputation. Ellis, for his part, just gives a slight nod.
Monica turns to Dr. Ellis.
“Jerome?” He has nothing for her other than a cold stare. She shifts her gaze to the older woman.
“Alka?”
Supreme Court Justice Alka Garr is no less a player than any of those politicians and she has a whole lot more angles, but unlike a politician she can play the long game. She has only pointedly phrased words for Monica.
“Let the people see, so that they do not see.”
FOUND
Special Agent Deborah Landelle stands at the window of an anonymous office staring out at the city, arms folded across a dark business suit. She wears a very late night, very early morning face, a weariness in her eyes as they gaze at the busy world in the streets below. A young American agent bursts in.
Landelle snaps around, “Can’t you bloody well knock!” The young agent is immediately subservient to Landelle, but that does not diminish the youth’s exuberance.
“We’ve got a sighting.”
It’s all Landelle can do not to roll her eyes skyward, “No, you haven’t. What you’ve got is another crank caller. One of fifty we’ll get today.”
“Not to us. On the S T tap.”
Landelle’s folded arms unbundle themselves. “Is she on the move?”
“She sure is. Just left the building on foot.”
“Get me an unmarked car. And for God’s sake, don’t spook her.”
The agent gone, Landelle puts a phone to her ear. A moment as the call is placed, answered and, “Looks like we’ve found him. He’s here in New York.”
* * *
The sidewalk is busy with pedestrians, but one soon stands out. A starkly handsome Sikh woman in her late thirties strides confidently along in an expensive, but conservative, executive suit. Her is demeanor cold and businesslike, her gait unnaturally smooth, like that of a model on a catwalk. But this is no fashionista. This is Sharanjit Toor.
Toor does not notice the black SUV pull
up alongside. It cruises to match her walking pace, before a chirp of its siren gains her attention. The rear passenger door opens and out hops Landelle, to Toor’s immense irritation. She squares up to Landelle aggressively, but Landelle has only a sly smile for her.
“Sharanjit. Mind if I tag along?”
“Well, it’s not as though I have any choice, is it?”
A CHILD
Felton and Lucius pensively observe the child through an expansive observation window. She is more of a little girl now, cleaned up and in a medical gown. Perhaps six or seven years old, but so thin it is difficult to tell. With her is a nurse in a sealed body-form suit, no part of her exposed to the air. She shows the girl some toys. The girl takes one, eyeing the nurse suspiciously.
“No obvious signs of weaponization,” says Felton. “Blood work will throw up any viral pathogens or macrobiotics. Will take time, though.”
Lucius bristles at Felton’s cold manner. “And her general medical condition?”
The muted condescending tone is lost on Felton, “Unusually healthy, despite the apparent starvation. There are healing sores on her skin—we’ve taken a biopsy.” Returning his gaze to the child, “The sand around the podium is from the Sudan. She must be a refugee.”
“What we are seeing here—there could be more?” Lucius says, transfixed by the child.
“This one will likely be a sample. A tip off. But she is going to be missed. We need to find out where she has been and with whom as a matter of urgency. The nurse can translate.”
Lucius is not convinced by their approach. “You realize we can’t question her directly about it. You need a specialist in child therapy. I can make a recommendation.”
“No time for anyone else. You’re it. Besides, there’s no sign of mental trauma, she’s lucid, talking, and engaging in play.”
A wide-eyed Lucius confronts Felton, “That’s what bothers me.”
Seen And Not Seen (The Veil Book 1) Page 1
