Prologue
Devon, England, 1996
The tail lights of the Ford Sierra disappeared around a bend in the distance, leaving the driver of the Rover 800 following it cursing.
‘Bloody lanes,’ he spat and tugged on the steering.
The beam from his headlights swept along a tall hazel hedge and illuminated a four-way junction a hundred yards in front of him.
At the intersection, he slowed, sat forward in his seat and glanced left and right checking the dark, tree-lined lanes.
‘Where are you, Danny boy?’
He stopped, rolled down his window and listened.
Up ahead the Sierra’s customised exhaust note roared and he accelerated after it.
Seconds later, he saw its headlight-beam flash across the night sky on the next rise then drop out of sight as another heading toward it on the hill beyond that did the same.
He rounded a bend and hammered up the slope. ‘You don’t get away that–’
A screech of tyres and crunch of metal punched through the warm night air and he slowed as he crested the brow of the hill. He crept the car down the other side and stopped in the entrance to a field, his heart pounding.
Skewed across the narrow bend at the start of the next incline, the Sierra and a white Transit van were locked together – a steaming mist rising from the mangled fronts of both vehicles.
He jumped out, ran round and opened the Rover’s boot, grabbed a small fire extinguisher and darted to the Sierra.
He looked down at the unconscious eighteen-year-old driver – steering wheel impacted against his chest, head resting in a pool of blood on the collapsed windscreen, face sliced by broken glass.
Slamming the extinguisher onto the buckled bonnet, he unclipped a radio from his shirt pocket. ‘This is Alpha Six Zulu. RTA. Subject is down. I repeat. Subject is down. I need urgent medical assistance.’ He winced at a smell of petrol. ‘Fuel’s leaking. I need fire services on site. Do you have location?’
A female voice responded, ‘We have your position. Is subject alive?’
He reached in through the Sierra’s broken side window, placed fingers against the young driver’s bloodied neck. ‘He’s unconscious. I have a pulse, but it’s weak.’
He clambered around the car, tugged open the passenger door and pulled at the driver’s legs folded up behind the steering column. ‘I can’t move him. He’s trapped.’
‘Are other vehicles involved?’
‘A van.’
‘Condition of that driver?’
He glanced at the overweight body slumped half-out of the cab’s shattered screen – blood pumping from a deep gash in the driver’s neck. ‘Unconscious. Losing blood fast.’
‘Have you been compromised on site?’
He looked back along the empty lane – then past the van to a torchlight beam appearing from a cottage in the distance. ‘Not yet.’
‘Alpha Six Zulu, you are to leave the scene.’
‘But ...’ He stopped and frowned at the young driver’s semi-conscious gaze on him. ‘Wright?’ He grabbed at the driver’s shoulder. ‘Daniel Wright, can you hear me?’
‘Say again, Alpha.’
The driver’s eyes closed and he watched him sink back into unconsciousness.
‘Alpha Six Zulu, repeat.’
‘Nothing. What’s the ETA on emergency services?’
‘You’re to obey the last command. Return to base. Acknowledge.’
‘If this lot goes up before they get here, he’ll fry.’
‘Alpha Six Zulu, you’re to leave site immediately. Confirm.’
‘Didn’t you hear me? He could die. Is that what you want? Is that why I’ve been trailing him for the last three months?’
‘Subject is incapable of activation.’
‘When was that decided?’
There was a silence broken only by the crackling of the Sierra’s electrics shorting.
He rammed the radio against his mouth. ‘When?’ he demanded.
‘Before you were assigned to the subject.’ The female voice had been replaced by a staccato male tone.
‘So I’ve been following this guy for nothing?’
‘Return to base Alpha Six Zulu. Subject is expendable.’
‘Aren’t we all,’ he muttered. ‘I still need an ETA on Emergency services. Have they been notified?’
‘Subject is no longer your concern. You are to leave site immediately.’
He shot a look at sparks, dropping from under the Sierra’s dashboard, smoking their way into the carpet. ‘No. I can’t just leave hi–’ His face contorted, the veins in his neck bulging, body bent double.
‘OK. OK.’ He sucked in a breath, straightened up and gazed skyward. ‘I get the message.’
‘Good. Now get out of there.’
‘What about the transponder?’
‘Is it exposed?’
He separated the back of the young driver’s black hair and ran a finger over the base of his skull. ‘No.’
‘Then we’ll deal with it.’
‘More collateral damage?’ he said.
‘Just get out of there, Alpha Six Zulu. And don’t question our orders again. You know what we can do.’
‘I know what I’d like you to do,’ he said under his breath.
He grabbed the extinguisher, directed a burst of foam under the Sierra’s dashboard, climbed out of the car and shot the rest over the Sierra’s engine.
He began walking back to the Rover, the extinguisher hanging loosely in his hand – the sound of urgent voices and footsteps along the lane the other side of the van quickening his pace.
He raised the radio to his mouth and his eyes to the sky. ‘This is Alpha Six Zulu. Leaving site.’
Chapter 1
Plymouth, England.
2016
A series of bleeps penetrated the air and Dan Wright stopped running. He grabbed his mobile phone off the band on his left arm and gulped in air as he answered it.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Wright? Daniel Wright?’
He could hardly hear the voice for the noise of lorries and cars passing on the road beside him. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘It’s HR at Luchto, Luchto and Tragi.’
His eyes widened. They said they’d get back to him in a week – that was three days ago. He must have impressed them. He pushed a finger to his right ear and turned his back on the passing traffic. ‘Yes,’ he said again.
‘I’m sorry – your application hasn’t been successful. We won’t be shortlisting you for the exec role.’
Dan’s heart sank. ‘But I thought the interview went well.’
‘The competition level was very high.’
‘But, I’ve been in asset management for years. I know the business inside out.’
‘The news is a disappointment for you. I’m sorry, Mr Wright. Thank you for attending the preliminary interview. Good afternoon.’
‘Good?’ he muttered wiping a hand across the sweat on his brow. ‘What’s good about it?’
He bent, hands on bare knees, dragged in a breath and blew it out. He knew L L and T’s business – he’d managed portfolios twice the size of the one they were offering. He’d been banking on this one. His wife Jayne had been, too. He stared down at the hole in the front of his left trainer. He needed a new pair … sometime.
Another series of bleeps cut through the air and he rammed the phone against his ear again as he raised back up.
‘Yes,’ he demanded.
‘It’s Grant. You OK?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You sound pissed off.’
‘I’m not pissed off.’
‘What’s that noise? Where are you?’
‘I’m out running.’
‘It’s Friday afternoon. Aren’t you supposed to be at your job club?’
‘It was a six week cross-fertilisation programme for professionals. It finished last week.’
‘Pity they couldn’t cross-fertilise a job for you.’
‘You should be a comedian,’ Dan sniped and began walking along the pavement. ‘Look, what’re you going to do about that prat in the taxi?’
‘That’s why I rang. I’ve had a chat with Traffic. They’ll try to send a car along.’
‘Try?’
‘They’re busy doing a blitz on vehicle checks, and the Lord Mayor’s out and about today, too. Anyway, your man’s not exactly a priority.’
‘Not a priority? His exhaust leaves a trail of stinking blue smoke … and he’s got no consideration for other people.’
‘He breaks the rules.’
Grant’s remark sounded like sarcasm.
‘I’m amazed he can see past that beard,’ Dan said.
‘We can’t pick him up for having rampant facial hair.’
‘He’s a dangerous driver. He races down that third lane, the one for the cemetery, then forces his way back in and–’
‘I know. You’ve told me before.’
‘He’s going to cause an accident. Kids are coming out of school at that time of day. Crowds of them dart across that lane and the dual carriageway to get home. The way he drives, someone’s going to get hurt. Killed maybe.’ A memory of blazing arc lights and a road running with burning petrol, deepened Dan’s heartbeats. He drew a hand down the thin scar from right cheek to chin and took a breath. ‘I don’t know where he comes from or where’s he’s going, but he’s shot past me the last three Friday afternoons when I’ve been coming back from my meetings. With any luck he’ll be there today.’ Dan glanced at his watch. ‘He could be there now.’
‘A black BMW. I’ve told Traffic.’
‘Good. He needs teaching a lesson.’
‘Like I said, they’re busy. They’ll do what they can. I’ve got to go.’
‘Wait. Are you coming to the game tomorrow?’
‘I can’t.’
‘But I thought you weren’t on duty. It’s for charity. Old Boys’ against Bristol.’
‘Well, it’s not as if you’re playing in this one. The referee saw to that last time.’
‘That prop had been in my face from the moment the whistle sounded. He’s dirty and known for it.’
‘Another rule breaker?’
‘Man’s a tosser.’
Grant laughed. ‘You could have floored him blind-side to the ref.’
‘Forget about him. Why aren’t you coming to the match? I thought we could have a couple of beers after.’ Dan heard his police sergeant brother-in-law clear his throat. It wasn’t like Grant to pass on watching rugby, or a having a beer. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve got a meeting.’
‘Alcoholics Anonymous?’
‘Now who’s the comedian?’
‘So what is it? This meeting,’ Dan asked.
Silence.
‘Grant?’
‘Karen’s booked us in for a session.’
Dan pictured Jayne’s younger sister. Mid-thirties, slim. Attractive. ‘You’re on a promise?’
‘No, you prick. A session at Relate.’
‘Ah. Bad timing.’
‘Tell me about it. Look I’ve got to go.’
The line died and Dan stopped walking. He clipped the phone back onto his arm band and stared at his twelve-year-old Vauxhall Vectra parked in one of the bays next to the yard high perimeter wall of his old gym. He glanced at the dent in the front wing and sighed as an image of his company car, a white Audi A8, materialised in his mind. He wondered who was driving it now.
He vaulted the wall and opened the Vectra’s door.
‘Excuse me …’
He stared across the car’s roof at a woman in a trouser suit walking quickly toward him, her dark hair in a bun, her right hand outstretched, finger wagging.
‘You’re not allowed to park here. This is a private members’ club.’
Dan rested an arm on the door. ‘I know. I used to be a member.’
‘When?’
‘Six months ago. But the manager said I could still park here when I was running.’
‘He left last week. I’m the new manager.’ She glanced at the Vectra, then at the Porsche 911 turbo parked the other side of it, before looking back at Dan, her expression sour. ‘I’m afraid you can’t park in here, anymore.’
Dan didn’t like the look. He couldn’t afford to re-join the gym, but she didn’t know that. ‘What if I renewed my membership?’
She glanced again at the Vectra then at him. ‘The city council runs a gym near the rugby ground. It’s always looking for new members. You might feel more comfortable there.’
He nodded slowly and slipped into the driver seat. ‘I reckon I would,’ he said slamming the door.
Five minutes later, he joined the outer of two lanes of slow-moving traffic heading toward the Parkway and silently cursed the lights at the intersection changing to red as he approached.
He braked, ran down his window and glanced right at a group of school children standing on the opposite corner – more bringing up the rear, mobile phones in hand. Four dashed across the opposite carriageway and onto the central reservation next to the empty lane alongside him – its solid white line and right-turn arrows designating it for the cemetery entrance a hundred and fifty yards ahead.
His view of the entrance became blocked by a fully-laden car transporter entering the junction from the left. To the right of that he saw youngsters launch themselves off the far corner, cross the road and squeeze onto the central island before making a run for it past the front of his car, the one next to him, and onto the pavement.
He looked into the rear view mirror at more kids swarming across behind him and glimpsed the headlight pattern of a black BMW taxi a half-a-dozen cars back charging out into the lane for the cemetery – a cloud of blue smoke trailing behind it.
Another wave of youngsters squashed onto the central reservation, more piling up behind them teetering on the kerb edge. Two stumbled forward into the road.
Dan pushed a hand at them. ‘Stop!’
The taxi screeched to a halt a couple of feet from the kids scrabbling back onto the island.
Dan narrowed his eyes at the driver – his beard like a big, black scarf hiding most of his dark-skinned face. ‘Slow down, you twat. You’ll kill someone.’
The man raised a middle finger and, as the lights added amber to red, powered off along the road, another trail of smoke in his wake.
A mental image of the taxi driver meeting a posse of waiting police made Dan smile. ‘Gotcha!’ he said
He bent his neck and tried to stare past the car trailer as he moved off.
He couldn’t see anything and steered the Vectra halfway over the white line into the cemetery lane to get a better view.
Fifteen cars ahead, to the sound of horns blasting, the BMW forced its way back into the second lane.
Dan clicked his tongue and gave a frustrated groan.
No Traffic Division. No reprimand. No justice.
‘I thought they’d have at least one car avail–’ A double blip on a siren stopped him.
He glanced into the door mirror and saw two policemen in a white Range Rover wave impatient hands at him. ‘Better late than never,’ he sniped and steered back into his lane.
The police car pulled alongside and the passenger window slid down.
‘Do you need to hog two lanes?’ snapped a policeman pointing a finger at him. ‘Learn the rules of the road.’
The window rolled up and the Range Rover moved off – a hearse, the Lord Mayor’s chauffeured Jaguar and a cortege of mourners in its wake as it turned in through the cemetery gates.
Dan thumped a hand against the steering wheel. ‘I don’t believe it!’ He reports a dangerous driver and ends up being the one ticked off.
‘Don’t know why I bothered. They’d have probably let him off, anyway,’ he muttered and pictured himself as a judge, handing out tough sentences on the spot – none of this waiting for months for the case to come to court rubbish.
He mused on the reputation he would gain ... Judge Wright. Rights wrongs. Instantly!
Chapter 2
Bunker room 7
Edwards Air force Base
California, USA
‘Now, gentlemen, before we close, I want to mention something else on the Franklyn situation.’
Simon Blake looked up from his papers, focused on the chairman, Kirk Shapiro, Director CIA, and wondered if he was having second thoughts.
‘Since his death, none of you has had any other candidates mentioned to you?’ Shapiro asked.
Blake watched as the other eight members of the Holloman committee shook their heads.
Shapiro turned, his gaze on Blake.
‘D’you think they’re planning another batch?’
The question gave the impression to Blake that Shapiro thought he had inside knowledge. He didn’t. ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ he said.
‘We don’t do guesswork here, Simon, you know that.’
Blake shrugged. ‘What d’you want me to say?’
‘Franklyn was yours. You’ll have had the last direct contact with them about the programme. What did they say when you told them he’d died? What was their mood?’
Blake shuddered internally. ‘Not good.’
‘In what way?’
‘They did what they always do when they’re pissed with someone.’ He glanced around the rest of the committee passing each other knowing looks. ‘Although, I got the impression Kray was more scared for his and Sera’s safety than wanting to take out their angst on me.’
‘So, last contact?’
‘Two weeks ago,’ Blake said.
‘Right.’ Shapiro leaned forward onto the oval table at which they were seated. ‘Then, as none of you has been approached individually – and I’m sure you would have been if there was something … someone else in the pipeline, it looks like we’ve come to the end of the road on this particular element of the treaty. And, I have to say, I’m relieved.’
A murmur of agreement crept around the room.
‘Now, unless there’s any other business, gentlemen, I think that’s all for today.’ Shapiro waited for a moment, then picked up his briefcase from the floor, stood and began packing away his papers.
Blake watched the others stand and begin talking to each other. He’d been a member here for ten years, but still felt like an outsider.
Clinks of metal on glass made him look across at Shapiro tapping a silver ball point pen against the jug of water on the table in front of him.
‘Gentlemen,’ Shapiro said. ‘Don’t forget. Any form of contact still needs to be recorded with us all. Night or day. Let’s not become complacent on this.’
The others nodded and slowly began leaving the room.
Blake pushed out of his chair. Walked round to where Shapiro was closing his briefcase. ‘So, that’s it?’ he said. ‘Fifty years of forced collaboration on this programme ends just like that? What’re they going to do? Walk away? Pretend the programme never existed? Pretend they never existed? Or hit us with another demand?’
Shapiro shrugged. ‘We won’t know until it happens. Why? What’s on your mind?’
Blake rested against the table, folded his arms and glanced around the room. ‘Every couple of months we meet here, in secret – a hundred feet underground, surrounded by lead-lined walls, the latest microwave jamming technology stopping our conversations being heard anywhere in the world … and by them. And all of this security’s in place, because no one knows their true agenda.’
‘What would you have us do? Nuke them?’
‘No. Of course not.’ Blake huffed. ‘Even if we could.’ He drew in a breath, let it out slowly. ‘Look, I know I was the last to be introduced onto this committee, but all we seem to have done is fire-fight whatever they’ve thrown at us.’
‘So, what’re you saying?’
‘You’ve been part of this from the beginning. Fifty years ago.’
‘Sixty,’ Shapiro said.
Blake smiled. ‘The chip’s doing a good job for you.’
‘You didn’t stay behind to compliment me on my lack of wrinkles. What’s eating you?’
‘I’m asking if it’s ever been any different?’
Shapiro thought for a moment then shook his head. ‘No. They came, they saw, they duped.’
‘So, when are we going to make it our game?’ Blake asked.
Shapiro sighed, shoulders dropped. ‘I wish I knew.’
Chapter 3
Ops Room
Substation 1049
A dark-haired, uniformed woman watched a hologram of a news update sink back into a circle of light on her desk and raised her head.
‘Kontrol, notify me of any other reports on this situation as they occur.’
‘Yes, Captain Sera.’ The non-gender reply emanated from a small speaker in the ceiling and echoed around the large, white, windowless room.
Behind the woman, the sound of a door sliding back made her turn.
A tall muscular man in dark blue fatigues exited a doorway marked Transition Unit and flicked a hand across a beam of light issuing out of the floor beside him.
The door slid closed and he looked at her. ‘Anything new?’ he asked.
‘No, they’re still searching for the brains behind it. But who in their right mind would attempt a coup against the State?’
‘Whoever doesn’t agree with the old guard.’ He walked to a desk a couple of feet from hers and sat. ‘There’s always been an element of dissention at the capital.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘That’s because it was kept in check by the President’s goons. The wrong word in the wrong ear and …’ He drew a finger across his throat. ‘But I guess we should be grateful for the distraction. It’s kept the Justice Department off our necks.’
She sighed. ‘How many times, Franklyn wasn’t our fault.’
‘He was the last active asset in this sector and he died on our watch.’
‘Kray, the man had a heart-attack. He couldn’t take the enhancements. None of them could.’
‘The State doesn’t do excuses. You’ve seen the reports. Nine substation officers decapitated. Red-lined where they stood. No investigation. No trial. And they failed on just five or six assets apiece. We lost twenty-three.’
‘Twenty-two,’ she said. ‘The last one didn’t activate.’
He glared at her. ‘Twenty-three, twenty-two, what’s it matter? We have no weapons, no transport, nothing. If they come for us we’re dead.’
‘So, what’re you suggesting?’
‘We need to get away from this place.’
‘You’d really want to be back home, now, with the State’s interrogators questioning everyone? You know their methods. We’re better off here.’
‘I didn’t mean home.’
He glanced back at the transition unit’s door.
‘You’re not serious,’ she said
‘Why not?’
‘We don’t have clearance to go there.’
‘We have people there. They could hide us.’
‘They have enough problems hiding their own identities. The Justice Department would find us – punish us. Our role is here, running this place … running the programme.’
‘The programme’s finished. Franklyn was the last.’
‘There might be others.’
‘D’you think any State minister is going to trust us with more assets?’ She opened her mouth to respond and he held a silencing hand at her. ‘If the old guard is overthrown this softly, softly programme will go with it.’ He glanced around the room. ‘This place would become the base for an invasion.’
She shook her head. ‘The ministers wouldn’t risk that much carnage. It’d destroy all they’d worked for this last sixty years. They want it in one piece – a working operation. Not some desolate nuclear wasteland.’
‘Then why the overthrow attempt? What was that if not a warning that the programme isn’t working? And, if it goes …’ He pulled a finger across his throat again. ‘Then so do we.’
‘But we have the networks. Blake … Shapiro, the others. The State needs us here to service them.’
‘The State can keep the networks running from the capital. They don’t need us to do it. That’s why we need to make plans for an escape. Before it’s too late.’
‘Look,’ she said. ‘With what’s happened, the Justice Department will have more important things to do than come after us.’
Chapter 4
North Plymouth
Bordering Dartmoor
Dan arrived home, parked in the garage alongside his wife Jayne’s Ford Fiesta and, as the garage door rolled down, stared at their detached house. They’d worked hard to get it – he wouldn’t want to lose it.
He opened the front door and crossed the hall into the kitchen where Jayne was unloading shopping from a bag onto the work surface.
She turned to face him and her gaze shot up and down his body. ‘Did you remember to ring Marcos about the key for the cottage?’
He winced and shook his head. ‘Sorry, forgot.’
‘You didn’t forget to go running.’
‘I’ll ring him later.’
‘Make sure you do, otherwise he might think we don’t want to use it. And I can certainly do with a few days away, free.’
‘And I can’t?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ She delved back into the bag, pulled out a brown packet and dropped it onto the kitchen counter.
‘Donuts?’ he said. ‘Keep Fit sessions finished for the summer recess?’
She shot him a look. ‘One won’t hurt me.’
He pulled two from the pack, dropped them onto plates and gave one to her.
Jayne took a bite and rested back against the worktop.
‘Grant and Karen are going to marriage guidance tomorrow.’
She stopped chewing. ‘Who told you?’
‘Grant.’
‘When did you talk to him?’
‘This afternoon. He called about that taxi driver. Said he’d get Traffic division to deal with him.’
‘Karen said you’d been badgering him again about that.’
‘I asked him to deal with the guy. That’s all. Anyway, no one from Traffic turned up.’
‘I’m not surprised. Christ, Dan, they’ve got bigger fish to fry than getting someone booked for a minor traffic offence.’
‘Minor? The bloke’s dangerous. He almost ran down a couple of school kids. No consideration for other people.’
‘So, you ask Grant to arrange for a task force to catch him, because he’s an inconsiderate driver?’ She put down her plate. ‘You and your rules.’
He flicked her a look. ‘Anyway, their Relate meeting means he can’t come to the game tomorrow.’
‘Well, you’re not going.’
‘I am.’
‘You can’t.’ She put down her plate, lifted a calendar off a hook on the wall, placed it on the worktop and pointed to an entry for the next day. ‘You’re driving us. Or have you forgotten?’
Dan looked along the line of her tapping finger: 11.00 – 1.00 Keep-Fit lunch – Pick up Aunt Marcia 10.45. SC after.
He pictured Jayne’s elderly aunt: thin as a rake, five feet two, a blue rinse and language to match. ‘You’re taking Marcia to the lunch?’
‘Yes. She doesn’t get out much. She’ll enjoy it.’ Jayne picked up her plate and took another bite on her donut.
‘That’s OK. Your do’s in the morning, the match is two-forty-five.’
‘Which is when you promised to take me and Aunt Marcia onto the moors.’ She pointed again at the calendar. Her finger jabbing against the writing.
‘SC after?’ he asked frowning. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Stone Circle?’
He closed his eyes for a moment as a distant conversation about the outing seeped back into his mind. ‘But that was last Christmas when she mentioned it.’
‘Well?’
‘I’d had a couple of beers. The match was only arranged–’
‘It’s where she and Uncle Bill met. It would have been their sixtieth wedding anniversary tomorrow. She wanted to spend some time there and leave some flowers.’
‘Does it need me to be there?’ he said.
She stared up at him. ‘She might be my aunt, but she’s the closest thing you have to a relative. She was overjoyed that you offered to take her – even if you were pickled at the time.’
‘But it’s a charity match,’ he said.
‘Charity begins at home. Well, in your case, at the Stone Circle on Dartmoor. You can’t let her down.’
He blew out a breath.
‘Is that a yes?’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘Good. Now, go have a shower. And don’t forget to ring Marcos.’
Chapter 5
Ops Room
Substation 1049
‘Take them out and deal with them!’
‘We don’t deserve this, Minister Rotak.’
‘Deserve?’ The tall, thick-set, suited man’s gaze focused on Sera being held by two heavyweight, uniformed guards, guns slung across their shoulders. ‘You deserve nothing, Captain.’ He jabbed a finger at Kray standing next to her, two more guards holding his arms. ‘As for your so-called second-in-command ...’ Rotak sniped. ‘You both failed.’
‘But we did what was asked of us,’ Sera said, her voice cracking. ‘We ran the programme. We’ve been running it for–’
‘Too long. And you have nothing to show for it. ’
‘We have networks there. Powerful political networks. We’ve cultivated them.’
‘You’ve cultivated nothing. The chip does all the work.’
‘Yes, the chip’s important, but it’s ancillary in the overall–’
‘Ancillary? Ancillary to what? The chip is a state of the art frequency resonator that tells their brain they’re happy, high – ecstatic. It makes them fuck like studs and keeps them well. And when you want rid of them, you programme it to give them a heart-attack, cancer, a stroke … and it does. All you do is flick the switch. So, don’t tell me it’s ancillary. You’re the ancillary element in this set-up. You couldn’t even hold onto Twenty2, our star asset, Franklyn.’
‘That wasn’t our fault. His mind couldn’t cope.’
‘It was your job to ensure it did.’
‘I know. I know. But it wasn’t just him, none of the activated progeny could cope with the enhancements.’
‘No, Captain. You and lover boy, Kray, there, lost them all. You lost every single subject allocated to this sector.’
She struggled against the grip on her. ‘No, listen to me. Please. Those who didn’t die before puberty, ended up a mixture of savants and manic depressives. They either committed suicide or were sectioned. Franklyn was the only one who behaved anything like a normal human being. But …’ She sighed. ‘He wasn’t normal. Eating insects isn’t normal behaviour, there.’
‘No more excuses. Your role here is at an end. You are at an end. Take her away.’
The men dragged a protesting Sera out the door into the docking bay.
Rotak flicked a hand dismissively at the guards holding Kray. ‘Take him too. We only need their heads. Don’t hack them off.’ He pointed to their rifles. ‘Use your red-liners.’ He smirked. ‘The State doesn’t like loose ends.’
‘There’s another candidate.’
Kray’s comment had Rotak stare at him.
‘What?’ he demanded.
‘Franklyn wasn’t the last. There’s one more.’
Rotak frowned. ‘Who?’
‘Twenty3.’
‘Of the Paradigm culture?’
‘Yes. Same batch as Franklyn.’
‘Why didn’t Captain Sera tell me?’
Kray shrugged.
Rotak pointed at one of the men holding Kray. ‘Bring her back in here.’
The man lumbered out through the doorway.
‘I asked you a question, Kray. Why didn’t I know? Why didn’t she say anything?’
‘Maybe she forgot … or was scared. With respect, you and visits like this can have that effect on some people.’
‘But not on you, Kray? Hmm? Not on you.’
‘I just want to serve the State, Minister.’
Rotak’s eyes narrowed at him for a second. ‘We all do,’ he said.
‘Except those who were behind the coup. I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes when the State catches up with them. Its interrogators can be inventive with their methods of extracting confessions. But of course you’ll know that being one of its Ministers.’
The door to the docking bay swished open and the guard returned, behind him a subdued Sera being marched back into the Ops room.
‘Progeny Twenty3? Why didn’t you tell me, Captain?’
Sera frowned, shot a look at Kray being held by both men again.
‘I told him, after Franklyn, you probably weren’t thinking straight,’ he said.
She glanced at Rotak, held her breath for a moment and nodded. ‘Yes, I panicked. Your visit was unannounced.’
‘We don’t announce State death sentences. We just carry them out.’ He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Twenty3, how soon can he be ready?’
‘After Franklyn we felt it wasn’t right to push him too hard,’ Kray said. ‘We didn’t want to risk it.’
‘That’s right, Minister. He’s too valuable an asset to lose. A last chance you might say.’
‘Your last chance, Captain.’ Rotak raised his head and breathed in slowly – exhaled audibly. ‘I want to see him. I want to meet this man on whom your lives now depend.’
Sera swallowed. ‘Of course. We’ll arrange it for your next visit.’
‘No. I want to see him now.’
‘Now?’
‘Either he’s on stream or he’s not and, if he’s not, then you’re dead.’
She hesitated.
‘What’re you waiting for?’ Rotak snarled. ‘Show me Twenty3.’
‘She’ll need me to input my data first. Security. I’m sure you understand, Minister,’ Kray said. He looked at the men restraining him, then back at Rotak. ‘I can’t do it with these two holding me.’
A buzz pulsed out from a silver disc attached to the thumb and little finger of Rotak’s left hand and he shook his head frustratedly. ‘Release him.’
The men dropped their grip and stood back.
Rotak pressed the thumb to his ear – finger to his throat. ‘Yes?’ he said, impatiently.
He stood still, his gaze darting between Sera and Kray. ‘Yes, President. One moment, please.’ He dropped his hand from his ear and looked at the guards. ‘Cover both doors. Don’t let anyone leave this room.’
They nodded and, as Rotak returned his hand to his ear and walked toward the docking bay, one pair doubled after him to stand each side of the doorway as he passed through, while the other two covered the transition unit door at the far end of the room.
Sera watched the door to the docking bay close, her eyes widening at Kray as he joined her behind her desk. ‘Twenty3? Wright?’ she said through gritted teeth.
Kray nodded.
‘We’re dead. We’re fucking dead,’ she said.
Kray glanced around at the guards, their stern expressions back deepening his breathing. He bent and placed two hands on the desk. Sera did the same – the two of them staring sideways at each other.
‘He wasn’t capable of activation,’ she said under her breath. ‘He’s a dud.’
‘Listen to me. Wright still has the transponder implanted. I’ll just open up the frequency that we shut down when he crashed. His progeny number and vital signs will come through, but nothing else will happen.’
‘But, if anything goes wrong, he could drop dead as Rotak’s watching. And we’ll be dead too.’
‘Nothing will go wrong. I doubt Wright will even feel it. But it’ll look like he’s on stream.’
She said nothing.
‘Yes?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘D’you have a better idea?’
She shook her head. ‘No. It’s just–’
‘So, where is he? This Twenty3?’
Rotak strode back into the Ops room and Sera and Kray straightened.
‘Have you lost him, too?’
‘No, Sir,’ Kray said. ‘I need to input it on my station.’ He walked across to his desk, swiped a hand across a circular pad on it and a column of numbers rose into the air. He pressed a finger against the last on the list: Twenty3.
The column disappeared.
He ran a hand across the pad again. The list reappeared and he glanced at Sera before pushing a finger back against Twenty3.
The column turned green for a moment, then became red and collapsed.
‘Doesn’t look too good, does it, Kray?’ Rotak said. He gestured his men forward. ‘I have the feeling heads are going to roll.’
‘Wait …Minister. There may be interference. We’ve been getting a great deal of that recently.’ Kray slid a hand slowly across the pad.
The column rose.
He tapped Twenty3 and the column turned green, faint signs and numbers scrolling up through the centre of it.
A second later it faded.
Kray flashed a hand over the pad again. The column half-rose then disappeared. ‘It’s probably this old equipment, a bad connection, or–’
‘A bad operator?’ Rotak sniped.
‘I just need one more shot at it.’
‘No.’ Rotak stomped to Kray’s desk. ‘Get out of the way. I’ll do it. Is he on the same frequency as the others?’
Sera lunged forward, grabbed Rotak’s arm. ‘Kray can do it, Minister. Let him do it.’
He unclipped her grasp and barked an order at his men, ‘Get them over there, against the wall.’
The guards grabbed Sera and Kray and pushed them to the back of the room.
‘Frequency?’ Rotak snapped as he sat.
‘The same as the others,’ Kray said.
‘Good. Now, watch and learn.’
Chapter 6
Dartmoor
Dan rubbed sweaty fingers over a tingling sensation in the back of his neck and returned his hand to the steering as a steel cattle grid thudded under the car.
Just ahead four brown, pot-bellied ponies wandered off the grass verge to his right and began walking across the moor’s narrow road.
He slowed and watched as the last one ambled up the opposite verge and joined the others staring at his car as it passed.
‘They’re looking at us,’ Marcia said from the back seat, adding, ‘I don’t mind them. It’s goats I don’t like. They’ve got mad eyes.’
Dan glanced into the rear view mirror at Jayne, sitting next to her aunt, trying to hold back a grin, and smiled to himself as he refocused on the road ahead.
He felt comfortable out here on the moors. There was something peaceful about sheep grazing on undulating grassland, wind-bent hawthorn trees and gorse bushes punctuating the landscape below huge tors rising higher as the road dipped and turned toward them. When he was working, colleagues from London used to tell him that he had it easy living in Devon. His subsequent transfer to the Bristol Office the company blamed on the economy – the irksome two-hour each-way drive five days a week, they blamed on he and Jayne not wanting to move.
‘It’s getting dark.’
Marcia’s words brought Dan out of his thoughts and, as they crested the brow of the last hill before Stone Circle Tor, he glimpsed dark clouds making their way up from Cornwall. ‘We’re almost–’ He grimaced, his head twitching to one side at a hot pain in the back of his neck. ‘Shit,’ he mumbled.
‘What is it?’ Jayne asked.
He rubbed a hand over the spot and ran his window up. ‘Thought I’d been stung.’
‘Spit on it,’ offered Marcia. ‘It’s an old wives tale, but it works.’
Dan smiled, spat onto his fingers and smacked them audibly against his neck, then pointed up ahead at the summit in the distance, the tops of the Stones standing like grey fingers, their tips lost in a thin mist.
‘We’re almost there,’ he said as they drove down the other side of the hill.
They turned right onto the tor’s narrow road and entered a long dark avenue of overhanging trees.
He switched on the Vectra’s lights and, as they drove, glimpsed the glow of daylight at the end of the foliage tunnel begin to dim.
A hundred yards further on, they left the cover of the trees to drops of rain gently blurring the windscreen.
He flicked on the wipers. ‘This doesn’t look too promising.’
‘I’m sure it’ll brighten up in a while,’ Jayne said.
‘You reckon?’ He sat forward and watched as the rain became harder the further up the tor road they travelled. This was all they needed, he thought, they’d get soaked if they got out. ‘Did you bring an umbrella?’
Jayne tutted. ‘No. Just get us as close to the circle as you can.’
As they rounded the last bend, the huge misty silhouettes of the Stones, fifty yards ahead, disappeared behind the full headlight beam from a Volkswagen camper van heading toward them along the middle of the narrow road.
‘Move over,’ Dan said.
The van maintained its central path, its lights blinding him as he swerved left out of its way. ‘Inconsiderate so–!’
A heavy thud shook the nearside of the Vectra and jerked the steering from his hands as the van careered past.
The Vectra juddered to a halt.
‘What was that?’ Jayne asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he said.
He grabbed his jacket from the passenger seat, thrust it on and got out.
In the distance the Volkswagen, its D sticker just visible in the downpour, rounded the bend out of sight.
‘Twat,’ Dan shouted after it and darted around to the front of the car.
He rested a hand on the nearside front wing and stared down at a flat tyre – a rip in the side wall.
Flicking wet hair away from his eyes, he looked past the car a few yards to where a sharp jagged rock protruded from the verge.
He guessed, had it been a clear day, he’d have seen it. Not that it mattered now, he had bigger problems – the adverse camber where the road met the grass bank for one. He was going to have difficulty keeping a jack in place here and he couldn’t pull further out into the narrow road as he’d block it.
‘What’s wrong?’ Jayne’s question came at him from an opening rear window.
‘It’s a puncture,’ he said padding round to the boot.
He released the spare wheel and jack and hauled both to the side of the car.
The jack in place, he sat uncomfortably on his haunches, loosened the wheel nuts and began winding the handle.
A flash of lightning lit the ground.
Dan snapped a look up and the jack slipped back on the wet tarmac.
‘Shit!’ he cursed and tried winding it again.
It slid sideways.
He glanced around, picked a flat stone off the grass verge and wedged it under the jack’s base.
He turned the handle.
The car body began to lift.
He raised himself above the level of the Vectra’s wing and shouted to Jayne. ‘Won’t be long now.’ He dropped back and continued to crank. The front wheel left the road and rotated slowly.
He moved from the jacking point, positioned his knees against the ripped tyre, unscrewed four of the nuts and placed them on the road. He reached out to grip the fifth when a pain in his neck and a metallic crunch jerked him back onto the verge.
End of sample
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