I should have known the Brits in general, and Z5 in particular, better. We ignored the sign to Brett Hall and turned left through an eighteenth century gate towards former stables.
The Clock House was an E-shaped, west facing, two storey building where the centre line shot up into the sky housing a grand wooden clock house on the top. The north wing had just been refurbished especially for me. What was once a stable had been converted into a super-sized studio, but for now — a dust-free storage room.
“That was quick.” Even Sofia seemed impressed that Wallace Movers’ large removal truck was already being unloaded.
On the upstairs floor a spacious studio apartment, which overlooked the orchard, dispelled any remaining insecurities.
“Better than a hotel?”
I nodded and hugged her. “Much. Thank you. All of you.”
“Am I interrupting something?”
I released Sofia, wiped away a tear before somewhat woodenly stretching out my right hand.
But Marion ignored it and gave me a firm but gentle hug. “Welcome to England.” She turned to Sofia. “Any news of Tom? I gather he got himself into another scrap.”
“Benadir assures me he’s repentant and fine.”
“Repentant? That’ll be the day.”
*
It didn’t take long for me to understand why everything had been shipped here from Geneva under the watchful eye of Charles, who I should have realized was a Z5 operative. Indeed all three removers were Z5 agents.
“Give us another hour and everything will be unloaded and set up. That side okay?” Charles pointed to the right hand wall.
An hour later, I had unpacked my one travel bag and Marion, Sofia and I had finished tea — cucumber sandwiches with the crusts off — in Marion’s temporary flat, directly opposite mine on the south wing of the Clock House.
I’d see the house later but first my eyes popped wide open when Sofia and I returned to the former stable below my studio flat.
The right-hand wall was now supporting a giant screen, and below it a huge X-ray machine double the size of those used by airport customs.
“We’ll start with the buffet.” Charles pointed to the nineteenth century, French Renaissance style, oak buffet that Father had bought cheaply at an auction and had restored. “Heavy.”
As the buffet was slipped into the X-ray machine, its innards were beamed onto the screen. The paper files fitted perfectly and the screen showed the hidden locks and catches — the keepers of the antique buffet’s secrets.
“It’s all steel-lined.” Charles pointed to the telltale signs on the giant screen. “And I’ll lay odds that all these restored antiques were filing cabinets of a sort. And most are fireproofed.”
Before the day was out Sofia had returned to Milan and I’d learnt more about Father than I’d ever dreamed of, or ever wanted to.
The piles of files were subdivided into locations that dotted the Pacific. But few were connected to Siberia.
*
The clapper struck twelve times on the seventeenth century bell in the Clock House. I glanced out of the window and up to its face, situated high above the rooftop. Time for a stroll and a chance to collect my thoughts.
“Back soon,”
But Charles just nodded as his eyes remained fixed on his monitor and his brain absorbed the constant stream of data that was emerging from Father’s hidden files.
I slipped towards the door glancing around at the ancient and modern that now filled the former stables. My mind was a kaleidoscope of random thoughts: of father; of his fellow trustee board members; of the absurdly dysfunctional League of Enlightenment and of Jean-Pierre Durand.
Gagan Setty, read one, is determined to look after number one by providing free energy to his own factories first.
Another note read: My interest in nuclear is being manipulated by Durand. Only the trustees as a whole can overcome this.
And Durand is committed to developing inexhaustible supplies of energies, but it has never been clear what he wants to do with it.
My eyes welled with tears as I’d read: What have I got myself into? It started so well.
As I walked out of the Clock House courtyard up the gentle slope that went past the north-facing kitchen quarters of Brett Hall I could see Father as he wrote and worried.
What had he got himself into?
At first his fellow trustees had taken it in turns to run the organization to coalesce the efforts. The problem was that each was primarily absorbed in his own interests and, as a consequence, was unwilling or unable to give up all their energies to the League.
And then along came Durand. Rebel teenager. Former French Legionnaire and commander of a nuclear submarine. And now de facto boss of the League.
What was he doing?
The superficial answer was clear. He was using up the trustees’ billions. But what for? What was he going to do next?
Gandhi, I remember from a visit to India always insisted The means doesn’t justify the ends and A violent beginning leads to a violent end.
Since Durand had seized control, violence had been the mark of his authority. It had certainly started with a violent beginning for me.
I shuddered as I walked towards the summerhouse and the natural pool.
Reeds rustled in the wind.
In the field to the south side of it stood a Sikorsky helicopter. Where does Z5 get its money? I asked myself.
I entered the summerhouse to look for a swimsuit and was still searching when I heard the door open.
“Who’s that?” If only it was Max.
It was Jean-Pierre Durand.
Beside him an armed thug wearing a camouflage suit and balaclava.
Durand shook his head in feigned sadness.
The balaclava thug clamped his gloved left hand over my mouth, stifling a scream. He picked me up like a yoga bolster and tucked me under his right arm.
Ineffectively kicking and thrashing I was carried out of the summerhouse door, just in time to see Charles break into a run, his shocked expression registering what was happening.
The Sikorsky helicopter took to the bright blue sky while its massive cargo door was still open.
Seconds later we where flying over the Courtyard and I saw the north wing of the Clock House explode in a ball of fire.
Everything that we had just been working on went up in smoke.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Z5’s encrypted network spread word of Lucille’s kidnapping faster than Twitter. Dame Marion at Brett Hall put Digby Mews in charge of locating her. They discovered that Durand and two passengers, one male the other female, flew out of Luton on a Gulfstream V heading northwest before leaving controlled airspace and losing radio contact. The Gulfstream V is a long range intercontinental. A lookout was ordered at every North American entry point.
Z5 was also checking all Durand’s known American hideaways. These included a large warehouse apartment in Soho, Manhattan; a luxury, marina penthouse in Clearwater, Florida; a working ranch just north of Tucson, Arizona and an eight-bedroom cabin outside Teton Village, Wyoming.
Sofia in Milan scrutinized the data, which had come from Schobinger’s Geneva house. Very little had been lost as a result of the Clock House bombing, the data had been continuously backed up to secure servers.
Benadir and Doc concentrated on gleaning any information they could from the trustees.
Everyone sensed the clock was ticking towards the end game and that Durand wanted his victims to witness it.
Why else would Durand risk kidnapping the VIP trustees, knowing that at least a hundred of the best-paid security guards in the world would be hunting for them? And why else would he have kidnapped Lucille knowing Z5 would be scouring the planet in its search for her?
*
Doc, in the container ship’s sickbay was bruised but better. Benadir, still in black but without her hijab, was perched on the side of his bed.
Singapore was behind them and they were enter
ing the South China Sea. Both were exasperated at what felt like a wasted two weeks. Although Max had been successful, he discovered a series of compact nuclear power plants and massive generators in the mines capable of delivering huge energy.
“But for what purpose?” Doc couldn’t get the question out of his head. “To power the world or threaten it?”
“If Durand planned to attack the world from the mines Max would have discovered a weapons factory, nuclear weapons. But he hasn’t.” Benadir was equally puzzled.
“The trustees are rattling their brains about what Durand is doing with their cash. They’ve invited you to share their thoughts on it. Today.”
“Are you still sure you were right to tell them I’m a spy?”
“They asked after you, have done ever since you were beaten up. Fadeyka Semyonov was very impressed with your spirit. Wanted you to join up as an avenger.”
Using a couple of crudely fashioned crutches, Doc hobbled out of the sickbay for the first time since his beating. Gideon escorted him to the starboard container and jostled Gagan Setty out the way, making room for Doc on the lower bunk nearest the door.
“He comes out when I say he comes out. Don’t bother to call.” Gideon had been instructed to act as a Durand guard.
Fadeyka Semyonov screwed up his eyes. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”
“At the meeting on your modest little yacht. That was me standing by the door, disguised as a steward.”
“Disguised?” Fadeyka Semyonov seized on the word and Doc told a tale that was, as all hoodwinking should be, only close to the truth. An undercover agent on Durand’s tail. Doc, of course, couldn’t disclose what agency he worked for, which encouraged everyone there to presume it was MI6.
A jumble of ideas splashed through the opened floodgate. They fell into three broad categories:
The Trustees tangled lives.
Their dreams for changing the world.
Durand the manipulator.
The five trustees’ lives and dreams were a complex weave. Mixing their stories with knowledge gleaned from Z5 research, Doc began to decipher a clear pattern.
All had climbed to the top of the millionaire’s ladder via a variety of illegal means ranging from bad (fraud) to worse (business thuggery) to the very worst (sanctioned murder).
All obsessed with the potential of unlimited energy as a means to wealth and power. They’d become disillusioned with the inadequacies of democracy and resolved to turn back the clock to those days when the rich ruled and the poor were patronized.
They’d teamed up under an elaborate plan of public openness, some serving on relevant charities, and all putting their millions where their mouths were. They were convinced the overwhelming benefits of their energy plan would persuade fellow trustees that theirs would succeed. After much talk, all had agreed to convert to action by hiring one Chief Executive who would chose the best plan and make it work.
Jean-Pierre Durand was that person. No one could explain how that had been agreed.
To break the ice, Doc decided to glean their energy plans. Reticently at first, the trustees laid their pet projects on the table.
Mini nuclear power plants were somewhere — top, bottom or middle — on most of their lists.
Yori Narita highlighted Rapid-L, a 200 kilowatt reactor funded by Japan's Atomic Energy Research Institute that would fit into the basement of a block of flats.
Fadeyka Semyonov, swore by a floating nuclear plant, designed for remote areas produced by Rosenergoatom in partnership with Sevmash and overseen by Minatom Russia’s Atomic Energy Ministry.
No one in America’s Los Alamos, Japan’s Atomic Energy Research Institute or Russia’s Minatom was aware that the League of Enlightenment had the plans and people needed to build these experimental projects.
Victor Pereira had no time for nuclear reactors. He farmed 30,000 acres of soy on his vast estates in the south of Brazil determined to position his much-loved country as the Saudi Arabia of bio fuels. He smugly reported that he’d ordered Durand to develop soy bio fuel for aviation and power stations as well as tractors, lorries and cars.
“In Siberia? It’s a permafrosted deep freeze, except for a brief, very brief summer when it’s a swamp.” As Fadeyka Semyonov raised his voice the container’s steel door burst open.
“Time’s up!” Gideon threw Doc his crutches and seconds later clanked the door shut.
“What’s happening?”
“We’ve got your mother on the screen with Benadir.”
Marion exploded into her encrypted iPhone. “These people know nothing! They’re just greedy, scheming billionaires who have entrusted their energy dreams to Durand.”
“Marion thinks we’re wasting time,” chipped in Benadir as Doc returned to his bed.
“I know you’re wasting your time. You’re nearing Japan. But don’t worry. I’ve got a helicopter, courtesy of the Thailand coast guard coming to collect you and Benadir. We’re calling it a mercy mission.”
“Cancel it, Mother. I’m staying put.” Doc was adamant.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
As Joy rose from peeing by the south side of the underground lake, she looked at Max for the answer.
“Soy bio fuel, developed from algae.”
“Why would Durand want bio fuel when he’s got all the power he wants from nuclear reactors? We’ve counted five of them, at least.”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. I’ve been here over three months and still haven’t got a clue what’s really going on. It’s frustrating as hell.”
Joy saw the turret and then the topside of the mini sub break through the water, controlled remotely by Max. “So where are we going now?” She hated the idea of getting back in the sub.
“To find our nuclear sister ship.”
“Boris Kuznetsov’s?”
“I hope not, for Boris’s sake.”
Joy was getting agitated as Max guided her into the squat back seat.
The fly-by-wire controls simplified the submariner’s job. Max set avoidance at its highest level, which slowed the sub to walking pace and selected the sonar X-ray on his six-inch monitor.
Joy allowed exhaustion to smother her claustrophobia.
Max dozed too but a reddening dial indicating heat alerted him again. As he closed in, the intensity of red increased. A nuclear reactor?
As the sonar outlined the source, it was clear they were inching towards a giant nuclear submarine. A vessel warmer than the heated lake.
Silence was now critical, and so, very gently, he woke Joy, gesturing for her to be quiet.
“What?” she whispered.
Max pointed to the screen.
She concentrated on the screen and what it meant. “Workers. Hundreds of them.”
“So, how do we check it out?”
“We? You don’t mean you and me are going there?” Joy was incredulous.
Max, expressionless, nodded. “There’s an empty warehouse to the north.”
Max identified a scarred warehouse on the screen and eased the submerged mini sub towards it, one of two giant structures that overlooked an underground, apparently abandoned, dockyard.
“The whole place looks empty.”
“Never trust what you see on a screen.” The trace of a smile curved across Joy’s face.
Max inched his mini-sub to the dockside and, at Joy’s hand-on-shoulder request, sat silent for a full minute.
“Forward twenty metres.”
Max inched the mini sub forward. “Okay?”
Another silence before Joy indicated Max should raise the turret above the waterline. And then open up their exit.
Max stared around at the site of a devastating fire. Joy had steered them to a tangle of iron that hid them from easy observation. Max climbed out and turned to give a hand to Joy.
“What happened?”
“Explosion. Hundreds died.” Joy quickly put the horrible thought to the back of her mind “There’s a dock next door.�
��
“Let’s check it out.” Max turned to leave the shattered remnants of a site that once stood as a monument to man’s ingenuity, a submarine dry dock, now filled with water, hewn out of an underground canyon that had been formed over millennia in this giant cave.
Joy stayed by the mini sub for a confused second. “You’re going to submerge her?”
Max shook his head. “Better for a quick escape.” He and Joy picked their way through arches of buckled metal, charred wood and scorched debris, the leftovers of a catastrophic explosion.
At the rock wall Max glanced around for a tunnel linking the two dry docks.
“Up and over,” said Joy.
Even Max was startled by what emerged after they had edged their way up the hewn rock wall to the plateau, which once linked the giant cave’s two canyons.
Beneath them hundreds of workers, illuminated in the startling orange, white and blue of strobing welding torches, concentrated their firepower on the hull of a massive submarine. Avoiding the light strobes became their main concern. Max and Joy sped from shadow into shadow as they climbed down to another chamber of hell in this grotesque, former gulag.
Max stopped in a dark corner, slipped off his backpack and took out a night vision camera.
“What are you doing?” Joy was impatient to keep moving. That’s how she survived: once her course was set, she moved forward until the end.
Max, while clicking the shutter of the night camera, nodded to a sleek Predator powerboat, camouflaged in matte black, slide alongside the quay, its searchlight piercing the gloom.
A five-strong group emerged from the cabin, each dressed in what looked like surgical gowns.
The Predator slowed, turned and was reversing towards the quay when it was lit by searchlight-strength brilliance. It spilled from a door that opened directly from the side wall of the quay, below the topside and above the waterline.
Eternity's Sunrise (A New Doc Palfrey Thriller) Page 17
