Thomas nodded where he was supposed to, or feigned shock, or interest. Truth be told, he didn’t give a shit one way or the other. He let Schaefer ramble on while entertaining fantasies of crushing his head in the car door. It helped to pass the time.
* * *
Schaefer finally shut up when they reached the Larksford perimeter. After the security check, a Land Rover escorted them to an enclosed compound. There was no sign of Karl’s car.
“What time are we leaving?” Might as well see how the land lies.
“Yeah, about that, Tommy, you may have to make alternative arrangements — I have a flight to catch first thing tomorrow morning. I’m due a little R & R.”
Nice. He got out of the car. Schaefer sat there and it took Thomas a moment to realise he was waiting for the door to be opened for him.
Have it your way. Maybe Karl could tip off passport control.
“Take the boxes through and then you can start setting up the chairs. The guests won’t start arriving here till noon. I’ll be back in an hour.”
The floorplan revealed that seventy people were expected; the rows of seats set on a graduating dais so that none of the attendees risked missing the excitement. It was a spacious room, strangely corporate for an army base.
From outside, Thomas could hear the background noise of day-to-day soldiering, but inside it was unnaturally quiet. One of the fluorescent strips hummed rhythmically, buzz-clicking every minute or so.
With the seating in place, he positioned the lectern and donned the wireless mike for a sound test, skirting the rim of the room and running through the numbers. Then he moved on to the portfolio boxes, carefully positioning a sealed folder on each chair in the upright position, as per the plan. Michael Schaefer’s copy he opened, to insert his printed notes as a back-up in case the comms failed — tragic as that would be. He was still digging through the last half box of spare folders, when the double doors swung in behind him.
“I’m sorry,” he lifted his head out of the box, but couldn’t be bothered to look round. “The presentation isn’t due to start until noon. Refreshments are available in the hospitality suite — you passed it on the way here.”
“Away with you, Tommo! They’ll check for peasants — I’d never get past the waiters.” Karl rested one hand flat against the door. “Listen, I can’t stop — I’m not really allowed out. Just wanted to show my face.”
“How d’you know I’d be alone?”
“It’s called surveillance, Thomas,” he winked. “I’ll catchya later.”
Around eleven o’clock, Sheryl called Thomas on his mobile. “Hey, I can’t talk long. Miranda’s just nipped out. I gather you were asking about Jack Langton and it kinda killed the mood.”
“Yeah,” he sighed heavily, signalling he wasn’t up for any righteous piss-taking today.
“I won’t be making a habit of this — just wanted you to know that he’s been refused bail in case he skips the country. His lawyer keeps me informed.”
“Does the lawyer know . . . ?”
“He just does whatever Jack tells him to, like everyone else.” There was a short pause. “Well, not everyone! Anyway, gotta go — I’ll put in a good word for you with Miranda. Bye.”
He walked the chairs for the third time, straightening the line, and rechecked all the comms connections. There was nothing left to do but await Michael Schaefer, only he wasn’t the waiting type. Schaefer answered his mobile, apologising to companions in the background.
“The room’s ready. And I haven’t eaten since seven o’clock this morning.”
“That’s terrific,” Schaefer’s voice rattled from two doors away. “Wait for me.” He rang off.
Thomas was admitted into the corporate suite on condition that he didn’t speak to anyone. Schaefer allowed him a toilet break, and a soft drink and some sandwiches — to be taken back to the presentation room.
Half an hour to go, and sadness consumed him. The emptiness in the room was Amy, a voice that no one else could hear. Sod it, he’d take one of the folders with him, from the spares. As he crossed the room, he spotted a brown envelope by the door. He walked over quietly and inched the door open — there was no one there. The cacophony from the hospitality suite seemed to rise and fall like the thrum of a wasp’s nest.
He picked up the envelope and slit the seal with his finger. There were three pages inside, each one a four-photo display. The backs were adhesive. It didn’t take much to add them to the last pages of Schaefer’s personal presentation pack. Maybe that, and shoving a glossy folder in his jacket, was all he could do, but at least it was something.
* * *
The stream of worthies flowed in like a tide of effluent. He nodded to Michael Schaefer and stood by the door, like a good servant. If he really concentrated, Thomas could still hear the strip light’s tinny protest. All Schaefer seemed aware of was the horde, susceptible to his charm offensive — with the emphasis on offensive.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Michael Schaefer, Engamel project director for the urban utility armament — The Scavenger.”
Cue carefully chosen music and polite applause. Thomas let it all wash over him. Schaefer sounded every bit the consummate professional, somewhere between Samuel Colt and PT Barnum. It must have been an easy audience, judging by the way they applauded whenever Schaefer took a choreographed pause. He asked them to hold any questions until the very end, so as not to spoil the chilled champagne in the break. Cue more applause.
Thomas watched from the safety of the wall, wishing he’d rigged up a private camera. This was business with a diamond edge. Sure, armies needed weapons, but the way these people talked about product deployment, concept realisation and marketing strategy, they could have been discussing a games console. And let’s face it, to this lot — who had as much chance of seeing active service as Sir Peter Carroll had of being called up again — it was all a game. And the game was called profit.
Break time. Schaefer led the guests past Thomas, on their way to the executive trough. No one said a word to him; he was invisible. He knew the schedule — everyone back in thirty minutes. Which didn’t prepare him for the large, ominous shadow he saw, approaching through the glass. Sir Peter nodded curtly to him, the way Thomas imagined a lord might acknowledge a servant at Christmas time. “Go outside and help Mr McNeill.” Friendly as ever.
Karl was wheeling a large grey box, very carefully. “Thanks, Tommo. The major offered, but he’s only the one good arm — hairline fracture in two places.”
Another PR triumph for Michael Schaefer and Engamel. Once they were inside the room, Sir Peter took his leave to go join the champagne set. Thomas stared at the heavy-duty grey box. Karl didn’t venture any clues.
“Nice suit.” Karl gazed out at the empty seats.
“You too.” Thomas nudged him. “Nervous?”
“Nah. I got a good feeling about this.”
“Jack Langton didn’t make bail, by the way.”
Karl hummed thoughtfully. “. . . Everything’s going my way.”
* * *
Sir Peter was first through the door, followed by a worried looking Michael Schaefer.
“Of course you’re welcome here, Sir Peter — I just wasn’t expecting you,” he insisted, hastily dropping the subject in front of the staff.
Thomas stood at the opposite side of the room to Karl. He counted everyone back in — plus two. Major Eldridge had his arm in a sling. It suited his uniform, somehow — like a reminder of what the job was really about.
Schaefer said a few encouraging words about Sir Peter Carroll and thanked Major Eldridge for his support, even making a joke about the major’s injury. Thomas would have given a month’s wages at that moment, just to have a decent lens on the major’s face.
The good major smiled and told the audience some fabricated bullshit about a riding accident. Schaefer applied his rapier wit again and recommended the major stick to tanks. Everyone lapped it up, except anyone that mattered.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, if we look at the costs — projected over a five year model, we will see . . .”
Schaefer stopped talking. It took the audience a few seconds to catch on, but he was soon the main attraction. Thomas glanced, sideways on; he knew what Schaefer was thinking. Sure he did. Was everyone now looking at pictures of a dead girl? Were they also being confronted by crisp images of her flesh charred and scattered, her bone fragments embedded in the wall like human shrapnel?
Schaefer cleared his throat and it sounded like a squelch over the mike. He gripped the lectern with one hand and flicked through his notes. “Let’s skip that page for now. Moving on . . .” He flipped to the next page: another set of photos. The sweat was gathering on his fret lines, beads of panic. By the third page, his breathing was the only sound in the room.
He closed the folder. “You know what?” he waited a moment, judging their reaction, never once looking in Thomas’s direction. “Let’s take some questions.”
Sir Peter Carroll raised a hand. “Is there a 3D model available today, to show us what the Scavenger looks like in the flesh?” He seemed to cling to the last word.
As Schaefer opened his mouth to speak, Thomas looked over at Karl and caught his nod. Then he looked back at Sir Peter, who smiled right at him. And he finally understood. Even Sir Peter had a line that couldn’t be crossed, and that line was the armed forces themselves. So the dagger had passed to Thomas to make the first incision.
He coughed aloud and walked towards Michael Schaefer, closing in on him like a hawk. When he reached the lectern, he turned and addressed the audience.
“We can do better than that — we can show you a working mechanism.”
There was a ripple of excitement from the seats. Schaefer’s gasp seemed to catch in his throat — with any luck it would choke him. Karl unclipped the sides of the box and lifted them away to reveal the Scavenger firing mechanism, built into a weapon.
Schaefer wasn’t about to give in without a fight. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is a prototype, of course. But it’s an accurate approximation.” He crossed the floor, half-prowling, half-galloping. “We’re all very proud of this.” He touched the barrel, tentatively at first, then spread his hand wide as if claiming it.”
“And when will the Scavenger be available to order?” one audience member couldn’t contain her enthusiasm.
“You can order it now,” Schaefer was gaining ground by the second. “As we Americans say, it’s basically in the bag. We’re just making some minor adjustments, based on test user feedback.”
That was a low blow, and Thomas felt it in the pit of his stomach. One look at Karl’s face told the same story. No, he couldn’t let Schaefer get away with that.
“Mr Schaefer,” Thomas put on his best deferential voice, “you’re welcome to perform some test firing.”
“I . . . er . . . don’t think that’s necessary today.”
But the audience had other ideas. Thomas had played to the gallery and now the gallery wanted to play as well. A woman rose up from the audience and tucked her folder under her arm. “Actually, I’d like to see what we’re getting for our investment.”
Michael Schaefer swallowed. “Erm. Ladies and gentlemen, we . . . er . . . didn’t envisage firing a live weapon in a roomful of people.”
Thomas had to fight the urge to smile. He dug his nails in and thought of Amy; that hardened his mood perfectly. Now a different emotion spiralled inside him. He straightened up and faced Schaefer. Karl was watching; Karl was always watching. But he could live with that.
Karl turned towards Sir Peter Carroll. Thomas missed the beginning of the exchange, but not the conclusion. Karl walked over to the Scavenger and bent down to retrieve a large box. He crossed the room, drawing their attention like a magnet. He went straight to Thomas and stood with his back to the audience, presenting the box to him.
Thomas undid the two latches, snapping them free with sudden movements to generate the most noise. The lid groaned open. Inside was an ammunition magazine, set into a foam surround. On top of the magazine was a taped note that read: WARNING: MIXED CALIBRE CONTENT — RANDOMLY SELECTED. He felt his heart smashing against his ribs, vibrating up to his Adam’s apple. Karl’s face was stoic. It was all up to Thomas now.
He lifted the magazine up and held it high, as though it were an icon. There was instant applause. Those poor bastards must have thought it was all part of the show. The note was on the shadow side, only visible to Schaefer and Thomas. He turned towards the lectern and saw the strain on Schaefer’s neck as he carried the magazine towards him. There was no way Schaefer could have missed the warning about the ammunition.
Thomas kept on walking, parading the magazine back across the room so Karl could snap it into place. Sir Peter left his seat and strode towards them. It could have been Thomas’s imagination, but it looked like a march — straight and synchronised.
“That will be all, gentlemen,” Sir Peter saluted them and, without a glance between them, Thomas and Karl both returned the compliment.
Thomas led the way through the oncoming surge of people, numb and deliriously happy. This had to be one of the best days of his life. He got it now — why Karl and the others needed someone like him on the team, someone without any competing allegiance, who wasn’t beholden to a chain of command outside the SSU. He could do the things they weren’t able to — as a civilian, as a person of conscience. No one had bought that from him, because it wasn't for sale.
As he and Karl reached the door, Thomas turned to see Schaefer and the Scavenger surrounded. Sir Peter’s voice rang out, clear above the throng. “Shall we take this outside — do you want to do the honours, Michael, or shall I?”
That was it; Schaefer was fucked. Even he wasn’t crazy enough to risk a bloodbath in front of the Scavenger’s backers. It was tempting to stick around for the punchline, but Thomas was an SSU man today and orders were orders.
He turned to Karl and shook his hand, hard and tight, cementing their bond. As if to say, ‘It’s us and them, amigo.' But the only words out of his mouth were, “Any chance of a lift? I need to pick my car up from Engamel HQ. I don’t think I’ll be needed there again.”
Chapter 43
“I think this might be her,” Miranda got up from her chair and craned her neck towards the trail of souls meandering through Arrivals.
The hard-core travellers had bustled through a good ten minutes ago — these were the waifs and strays. Thomas didn’t comment. He stood up and straightened his jacket, standing close enough to Miranda to sense the heat between them. It was time.
“Come on,” he set off briskly, dulling his own excitement; this secret squirrel stuff was addictive.
The woman looked lost. Scratch that, she looked weighed down and in need of a friendly face. He waved, continued walking and introduced himself and Miranda as the welcoming committee.
“Did you have a good flight?”
She nodded. What was she supposed to say? She looked like she wanted to cry. He picked up her bag and led off towards the car park, leaving Miranda to work her magic. By the time they got to the car, he could hear laughter behind him — the kind that dissolved barriers and healed wounds.
Traffic was a pig of course, but that was fine. It gave them all space to make the adjustment. By the time they reached the mean streets of Kilburn, he’d decided how to play out the last hand. He pulled up and asked Miranda to do the honours.
As their passenger got out, she leaned forward to Thomas and kissed him on the cheek. “For your trouble,” she placed a bottle of whiskey in the car.
“It was no trouble at all, Jacqui,” he smiled, wiping away her tears from his face as if they were his own.
Miranda walked her up the path and knocked on the door, but she didn’t hang around. Thomas got out and stood
beside her, felt her arm circling around him and mirrored it.
Karl opened the door, saw Jacqueline and gazed at her. Then he turned and raised a grateful hand to the couple. Thomas nodded and got back into his car — job done.
THE END
LINE OF SIGHT is the sequel to the best-selling thriller STANDPOINT
The woman he's always loved is in danger
Thomas Bladen works in surveillance for a shadowy unit of the British government. During a routine operation, he sees a shooting which exposes a world of corruption and danger. When his on-again, off-again girlfriend Miranda is drawn into the conspiracy, Thomas must decide who he can trust to help him save her life
http://www.amazon.co.uk/STANDPOINT-gripping-thriller-full-suspense-ebook/dp/B00UVQBVVU/
http://www.amazon.com/STANDPOINT-gripping-thriller-full-suspense-ebook/dp/B00UVQBVVU/
Follow @DerekWriteLines for news on the next book in the series!
The author would like to thank the following people:
Anne Derges, Cathy Lake, Christine Butterworth, Clive Aplin, David Brown, Elizabeth Sparrow, Helen Rathore, Jasper Joffe, Jeremy Faulkner-Court, Kath Morgan, Kelly Aplin, Martin Wood, Sarah Campbell, Sue Louineau, Susie Nott-Bower, Villayat Sunkmanitu and Warren Stevenson.
Glossary of British Slang Terms
British slang: US equivalent
’appened: happened
’ead: head
’eck: heck (expression of surprise or emphasis)
’em: them
’un: one
aggro: stress
arse: ass
arseholes: assholes
arsed: bothered
Line of Sight Page 32
