by Matt Kruze
The car appeared dark.
Glancing around, he stepped out from the concealment of the house and, keeping close to the walls, approached his vehicle.
* * *
Sammy cut across the churned earth, between the slumbering machinery, having quietly shut the passenger door and hurried away from the grey Ford.
Heart pounding, adrenaline coursing his body, he slipped though the darkness of the construction site back towards his own car and–please–safety.
* * *
Ryle inspected the interior of his car. He tried to tell himself he had not left it unlocked, but in the recesses of his conscious lingered the admission that he had been careless. He was buoyed of late by the overall success of his operation and it was leading to complacency. That was why he had forced himself to take no action that day beyond a stretch of careful reconnaissance. He had seen it happen to others too many times, had watched, detached, as they first grew in the confidence of success, peaking at a level of effectiveness where they became almost invincible, and then, finally, leaving the door to peril swinging wide open until the moment came where they were suddenly and brutally assailed by their own recklessness and bravado. And now it was happening to him, and he knew it. The failure of the previous day had served as a warning, and he forced himself to savour it rather than reject the memory. In future he would lock the car, then double-check it, before walking away.
There was no sign that anybody had entered his little domain. Perhaps the carpet in the passenger footwell was damp but he had been sitting there before leaving the car, for it was more spacious than the driver’s seat, and the dampness–? Almost certainly from his own feet.
But the glow he thought he’d seen, the two soft flashes? Perhaps his imagination, or just the random sparks which occasionally flickered behind tired eyes. Visibility had been at near-zero, he hadn’t even been able to make out the outline of his car, had only identified where the vehicle’s position should have been.
It didn’t matter. If it was kids, they likely would have taken something, and a brief inventory reassured him that nothing was missing. Perhaps they had been scared off before entering the vehicle. More likely though–almost certainly in fact–it had been nothing. There was no one here. He was secure.
January 25th, Wednesday
Sammy woke at 7.30am and, as was his custom, got straight out of bed, went to the bathroom, and then down for breakfast. He never lazed in bed, such was the inculcation of his military career, and generally adhered himself to a sequence of procedures revolving around exercise, meals and study. Today, he feared, would be a break from those routines.
He picked up the little white packet from the dining room table and inspected it. Once again, his focus was drawn to the small black logo on the reverse: Sylexon.
He had Googled the company last night–a pharmaceutical concern with offices in Berkshire and the USA–but there was little information beyond the usual corporate detail. Some data on the price of shares, a rather clinical synopsis of their products which seemed to range from painkillers to alleviants for the symptoms of dementia but, that aside, very little else.
And so he had been forced to consult an expert.
During his course in maritime security Sammy had made acquaintance with a student from a military intelligence background. Like several others on the course, James could reveal but sparse details of his previous career, such had been the sensitive nature of his work. That was commonplace among the students, and the cloak-and-dagger veil of secrecy did not elicit visions of the kind of fantasy world it might have in the average civilian mindset.
Sammy scrolled through his contacts until he reached James–nothing else, just the first name–and pressed call. After a few rings the automated voicemail spoke to him, inviting him to leave a message. He decided against doing so, overcome by a sudden wave of reticence, and laying the phone on the table he returned to his bowl of cereal and pondered his next course of action.
When he had finished breakfast he sent a brief and somewhat insipid text to Celia, asking her to call him if she needed anything, then continued toying with the small white packet, the needle inside gleaming lambently under the ceiling light.
The buzz of his phone startled him and he dropped the sachet.
He looked at the screen, composing himself, and took a breath. ‘James, how’s things?’
‘Hey Sam, sorry I missed you mate. Enjoying the books?’
‘Oh yeah, love being back at school. You?’
‘Ah you know, it’s something different.’
‘You could say that.’ Sammy paused, shut his eyes tight. ‘Listen, I was going to ask a favour, but just say if you don’t have time or anything, okay?’
Silence for a moment, then, ‘Go ahead.’
‘Well I wondered if you could look into something for me, maybe have a little dig around.’
‘Oh?’
‘And James–the thing is, I can’t really tell you why just yet.’
Bemused, James took some details, completely unaware at that moment that his brief return into the realms of espionage would bear such bitter fruits as to shake the world’s perception of public security.
Eleven
January 25th, Wednesday
Sammy stamped his foot into one trainer, then the other, without bothering to unlace them. He reached out to open the front door, hesitated, withdrew his phone and frowned at the screen for the third time in the last couple of minutes. Puffing his cheeks, he kicked his trainers off and went back into the sitting room, slumping onto the sofa, clutching his phone in both hands and holding it towards him. In seconds he was up again, trotting to the kitchen and returning with a charger which he plugged into the wall beside the sofa and then into his phone. He checked the softly glowing display–again–to make sure it wasn’t on silent mode.
He felt incapacitated.
Come on James…
* * *
Construction usually began at first light, so Ryle tended to leave the site during the last hour of darkness, just before the slanting light of winter’s dawn seeped into the day. The night had been blanketed by cloud, extinguishing the stars and moon, and the only illumination had been the dirty orange haze from the bypass. The carpet of nimbostratus had acted as an insulator, holding the temperature above 7°C all night, but its lingering presence was surely a portent of further rainfall.
Ryle’s first port of call was the nearest supermarket, which was less than a mile from his night time retreat, to stock up on food and water and use the facilities, but by 9am he was approaching the outskirts of the village. He would get an early start, assuming the subject was home, and then, once he had shipped the resulting sample, spend the remainder of the day scouting for the next target.
Serus’s rasping, discomfiting voice had instructed Ryle to harvest as much tissue from this location as he could. The safest way to achieve that was to gather it quickly, before anybody raised the flag of suspicion. After today he would increase his activity to a maximum of four subjects per day. It would require some additional planning and perhaps longer hours, but in the space of a fortnight–three weeks at the most–he would have submitted 30 to 40 samples.
40 samples at £12,000 a time. Almost half a million pounds. He smiled to himself.
* * *
Sammy had a pile of literature to study ahead of the second term of his course, but as much as he tried to engage with it he found himself reading entire pages without absorbing a single word, as though the text were laid down in some abstruse code. Surrendering to the tumultuous roil of images and concepts in his mind, he discarded the books and flicked on the TV. He didn’t watch it, but the background noise was a comfort.
He began to speculate on what James might elicit from his investigations. What if there was nothing? What if Sylexon’s clinical facades reflected an equally bland inner sanctum? And yet–
–there was something; the evidence he himself had gathered pointed definitively towards foul p
lay.
At 9.30 he jumped as his phone lit up. He looked at the caller ID, eyes wide, and took a breath.
‘That was quick.’
‘Sam, I need to ask you something.’ James’s tone was immediately grave.
‘Okay…?’
‘Are you involved in this at all? I mean, do you know this organisation, or anyone who works for them?’
‘No. Really–I’ve never heard of them. Till now anyway. What is it?’ He felt his heart begin to hammer, the thrum of adrenaline in his blood.
‘Look I know you asked me in confidence, but I need to call in some help here. Sylexon are concealing something. Something massive. They’ve gone to a whole lot of trouble to cover their tracks, a lot of very expensive trouble actually. I can keep digging but it’s specialist stuff and I need some guidance. So I wanted to know if I can involve a couple of other people. They’re good guys,’ he added. ‘I trust them.’
Sammy blinked as the gravity of James’s words assailed him. ‘Yeah–yes of course, whatever you want to do.’ He hesitated, picking his way uncertainly through his next question. ‘What–what are they hiding?’
‘You wouldn’t know it was there unless you looked for it. I don’t think they expected anyone to start nosing around, because it’s quite apparent that something big is concealed in their files. But there are some international connections, very high level stuff. Mate, if you’re involved in this in any way at all, watch your back okay?’
‘Right,’ Sammy murmured, frowning.
‘I’ll call you back–give me a couple of hours.’ And with that he broke the connection.
Sammy slumped down in the chair, bewildered; scared–
–Jumped, almost dropping the phone as it chimed with an incoming message. It was Celia: Do u mind if I pop round? Just say if ur busy.
He placed his palms on his head, felt the distant pang of guilt that he was unable to focus on her plight.
He typed back: Of course not, see you soon.
He let out a growl of frustration–how could he face her now?
* * *
Ryle drew up to the house and turned off the engine. The subject’s car stood on the gently sloping driveway–good. Clinically, banishing the clamouring nerves which always threatened to break loose from their fragile bonds at this point, he commenced his brief routine: Open the glove compartment. Remove a sachet. Take the device from the briefcase. Open the sachet and attach the needle. Remove the plastic cover. Close the glove compartment and briefcase.
He opened the door and, glancing up at the house, got out of the car. Holding the device by his side in casual concealment he strode up to the front door.
* * *
Meticulous by nature, Sammy had very little in the way of tidying to do before Celia arrived; just a few items of clothing on the sofa and an empty glass on the coffee table. As he emerged from the kitchen there was a knock on the door–she must have been en route to him when she’d sent the text.
He walked quickly through the living room, into the hall and up to the front door, wondering what in hell he should say to her.
But it wasn’t Celia. It was a man with menace in his eyes and a familiar, sinister looking metal device at his side. And behind him, parked out on the road, was the grey Ford.
Twelve
Sammy Faris had developed quick reactions during his time in the military, and a heightened perception to threat. But the man at his front door was a fraction of a second faster, and that was all that mattered.
Lips pursed, jaw set in grim determination, the stranger barged his way into the house, shoving Sammy backwards with such force that he stumbled and fell. He managed to get a hand down to arrest his fall, but his wrist snapped back painfully at the impact, crying out in a sudden flare of pain. The man slammed the door shut behind him, then advanced on Sammy as he thrashed backwards, scrabbling out of the confines of the narrow hallway into the living room.
Sammy had boxed for the Paratroop Regiment and knew how to handle himself in hand to hand combat, but lying on your back was no way to engage an opponent. He tried to get up but the intruder struck out with a savage kick, laying a boot into Sammy’s ribcage and knocking the wind out of him, eliciting a cry of pain from his damaged lung. As his enemy drew back his foot, preparing to land a second debilitating blow, Sammy rolled to one side, parrying it, and launched himself to his feet. Raising his hands, he protected his head and kept his elbows in tight to his vulnerable torso. The stranger tossed the metal weapon-like device onto the sofa, as though to safeguard it.
‘This’ll go easier if you cooperate.’ A low, monotone accent, barbed with the slightest cockney inflection.
Sammy was silent, teeth clenched against the flashes of white pain that beat out with every inhalation. Steeling himself, he launched a swift jab with his injured left hand, catching the man on the nose. The pain in his wrist cried out, then faded; not broken then.
The stranger blinked in pain and shock, pawing at his nose with the back of his hand, inspecting the smear of blood on his knuckles. He looked up, planted his feet.
Sammy saw the charge coming, landed another stiff jab and sidestepped his opponent’s lunge. As the man flew past, Sammy unleashed an overhand right just below the temple. He felt the crunch of his knuckles as they gave way but the new flare of pain barely registered.
The intruder went down like a felled tree, striking his chin on the corner of the coffee table and crumpled to the floor–unconscious.
* * *
For Sammy Faris, former Paratrooper, honourably discharged following injuries sustained in Kabul, there followed a sequence of opposing objectives–at once both hasty and protracted. The police arrived at his home within twenty minutes of his call, where they found the intruder trussed up, wrists bound by a length of cord attached to similarly constrained ankles. They would spend four hours taking Sammy’s statement, but all the while he had the feeling that here was a situation which fell well outside of the jurisdiction of the local constabulary. A sergeant retrieved the metal, skeletal device from Sammy’s sofa, carelessly, without gloves, and took it out to his car. The now-conscious intruder was handcuffed, then released from the bounds Sammy had administered, and taken away by a second police car. As he was escorted to the front door of Sammy’s home, he turned to look back, as though in assessment. He did not say a word, did not answer any questions put to him, only stared out through pale green, febrile eyes–alert despite the recent blow to the head. Sammy shuddered, meeting his eyes once before turning away.
It was almost 2pm by the time the police left, and during that time he had turned Celia away and ignored three calls from James. Now, finally he was alone. He picked up his phone and scrolled through his contacts.
‘James, sorry I missed you. There’s…been some trouble.’
James was immediately concerned. ‘Anything to do with Sylexon?’
‘Yes. A lot to do with Sylexon. What did you find? Anything?’
‘Mate you need to get out of there for a while. Get as far away as possible. These guys are into something very heavy. They have some affiliations with one or two governments around the world, okay? This is way, way beyond your pay grade man.’
Sammy swallowed, felt his throat clot as he fought to summon the right words, to marshal his thoughts. ‘James–I think they sent someone to try and kill me today.’
Silence, then: ‘What?’
‘These people–Sylexon. I think they have some guy…targeting people around here. This morning he came for me.’
‘Sammy, Sylexon are linked to some recent trials into brainwave patterns. I think the results might have been used to aid various government programs in psychic warfare.’ He spoke the words slowly, letting them penetrate. ‘Have you heard of the Stargate Project?’
‘No.’
‘Google it. It’s a CIA initiative, discontinued in the 90s–apparently–but it looks like the threads have been picked up by some white-coats, and Sylexon, for one, seem to be blaz
ing a new trail.’
Sammy listened to James’s patient, if limited, explanation of that facts he had gathered. His account was replete with gaping voids which he had not had the resources to fill in, but what information he was able to impart shook the core of Sammy’s perception of modern combat practice.
* * *
Locked in a dark cell, former SAS Sergeant Major Jason Ryle, dishonourably discharged four years previously after assaulting and permanently injuring a superior officer with whom he had had an altercation, quietly awaited his fate. He had not been fed or given water in almost 48 hours, and had neither seen nor heard from another soul in that time. Since his ejection from the Service, Ryle had turned his skills to more lucrative ends, supplanting his government salary with the much richer stipends available in the private sector. He had quietly, strategically, put word around that his services were available for hire, and within a short time was earning good money in the shadowy realms of industrial espionage and, increasingly, commercial strong-arming.
And then, 18 months ago, a contact had suggested he might get in touch with Sylexon, a pharmaceutical concern ostensibly developing drugs to counter the effects of various neurological disorders. That may have been true but, behind closed doors and strictly sub-rosa, they were simultaneously developing a drug which stimulated the theta waves emitted by the brain. This energy was widely acknowledged by psychics to be the main conduit of telepathic signals. Ryle was familiar with initiatives into that field like the CIA’s Stargate Project which involved ‘remote’ map reading, i.e. the scanning of a map to determine the physical layout of that area, including any camouflaged or underground facilities not visible to satellites. Although the CIA had publicly abandoned Stargate in 1995, Ryle knew similar practices continued there and among other government agencies. Recently the number of ‘remote viewers’ had increased dramatically, as had their performance.
