by Dc Alden
Roy saw Sammy waiting a short distance away, oblivious to the rain.
“No one. An old friend.”
“He looks upset.”
“He was born that way.” Roy leaned over and kissed Max on his head. “I’ll see you soon, Max, I promise.”
Vicky forced a smile. “We won’t hold our breath, will we, Max? Say bye-bye to Daddy.”
He watched her hurry away.
Between him and his pushbike, Sammy stood immobile, hands thrust into his pockets, shoulders damp from the rain. As Roy approached Sammy produced his mobile and speed-dialled a number. “Start the car, Tank. I’ll be there in five.”
Roy swallowed hard. Sammy wasn’t going to let it go. They faced off in silence, in the rain, until the playing fields were empty. Then Sammy closed the gap between them.
“That was a bit naughty, walking off like that. You didn’t even hear me out.”
“Listen, Sammy, I don’t — ”
The punch landed just below the rib cage, expelling the air from Roy’s lungs and dumping him on the wet grass. Roy flinched as Sammy grabbed the collar of his combat jacket and dragged him beneath the shadow of the tree. He yanked him up and kicked him hard, sending him careering into the pushbike. Roy fell to the ground in a painful heap, bike wheels spinning on top of him. Sammy grabbed it and threw it to one side. He wasn’t out of breath, his face showed no signs of anger; this was Sammy French, taking care of business. He slapped the dirt from his hands.
“I don’t like being disrespected, Roy.”
“Jesus Christ, take it easy, Sammy.”
Roy touched his lower lip, muddy fingers red with blood.
Sammy loomed over him. “Like I said, I need a favour. It’s not a request.”
He squatted down and pulled a hankie from his pocket. He handed it to Roy, who pressed it to his lips. Blood blossomed. Sammy spoke.
“I might’ve moved up to the big house, but I like to keep my ear to the ground, find out what the old Fitzroy faces are up to, who’s been banged up, who’s dead. Who’s working, what they do.”
Oh shit.
“You work at Heathrow, right Roy? Borders Agency, Terminal Three?”
Roy shook his head. “I won’t do anything dodgy — ”
Sammy whipped his arm back and cracked Roy around the face with an open-handed slap. He grabbed him by the collar and twisted the material in his large fist. “You’ll do as you’re told, you little cunt. Understand?”
Roy nodded, withering before Sammy’s icy glare. The big man suddenly thawed, veneers like pearls in the gloom.
“In the meantime don’t do anything stupid, like change your job or go on holiday. Business as usual, got it?”
Roy nodded again.
“Good boy. I’ll be in touch.”
Roy watched him duck under the branches and head across the playing fields in long, loping strides. He pulled himself up, swatting the wet grass and mud from his clothes. His lip stung and his hand shook when he dabbed his mouth. He never imagined he’d cross paths with Sammy French again.
And he was frightened.
He wheeled his bike from under the tree and headed across the grass towards the distant gates. His legs felt too weak to pedal. When Sammy wanted something, he got it. Roy’s immediate thought was drugs; Sammy must be sending a mule through customs, and Roy would have to turn a blind eye. What else could it be? And what if it went wrong? Arrest, a lengthy prison sentence, his security clearance gone, which meant no job and no future worth thinking about. He’d be trapped on the Fitzroy forever, scraping by on benefits.
He thought of Jimmy then, longed for the comfort of his brother’s company, his wise counsel. But Jimmy was gone. Roy had no one to turn to.
The wind picked up, rain lancing across the playing fields in cold, silver sheets. He mounted his bike and pedalled out through the main gates. He barely noticed the weather, the passing traffic, the clouds of cold, fine spray. As he neared Kingston town centre the traffic began to snarl, brake lights blooming, windscreen wipers beating off the rain. Roy weaved through it at speed; with any luck someone would jump the lights and hit him, or maybe he’d slide on a manhole cover and break a leg. No Roy, no favour.
Then he thought about the pain he’d have to suffer, the potential for serious injury, disability, or even death, and that scared him even more.
Roy kept moving, heading for the grimy cluster of tower blocks that loomed in the distance.
Capstone
Located thirty miles east of Denver, the Golden Gate Canyon State Park is an area of breathtaking natural beauty, comprising rugged mountains, pine forests and lush meadows covering over twelve thousand acres of pristine real estate.
For the average visitor there’s plenty on offer: hunting, fishing, trekking, and when the snows sweep down from Canada in late November, a whole host of winter sports, triggering the seasonal stampede to the Rocky Mountains.
Just over half a mile northeast of the park’s visitor centre, a hard-packed dirt road intersects a gentle curve on the Crawford Gulch Road. Staked out with Private Property, No Trespassing signs, the road runs straight for a hundred yards then bends right into a narrow, steep-sided and densely wooded valley.
Josh Keyes knew that from the moment he turned off the blacktop and onto that road his approach was being monitored. As he powered the Grand Cherokee Jeep up the first mile he knew he’d already passed at least a dozen cameras. He also knew that the mountain he was driving towards was sown with motion sensor systems, thermal imaging cameras, pressure pads, optical beams and ground radar. To back up the technology, security teams of private military contractors were on standby to ward off any trespassers.
But it hadn’t always been like that.
As he rounded another bend high above the valley, Josh recalled the first and only breach, back when they were still breaking ground.
A moderately influential conspiracy blogger had turned his spotlight on the curious project underway at Blue Grouse Peak. He’d encouraged his followers to ask questions, apply pressure, to find out why the FAA had issued a Prohibited Airspace order above the area. The blogger himself had hiked up through the forests and went to work with his video camera for two days before a security team rumbled him. His body was eventually discovered sixty miles away, at the foot of a popular mountain trail. An autopsy found traces of cocaine and marijuana in his bloodstream. A search of his home computer uncovered hundreds of pornographic images of children. The story soon died.
The Committee didn’t screw around.
But the episode had unnerved them. That’s why security was paramount, why they kept the legend of Bohemian Grove alive, the annual frat party in the Californian woods that attracted the attention of every conspiracy nut in the country, and drew attention away from Blue Grouse Peak. Smoke and mirrors, Josh smiled. The Committee were masters at it.
He rounded another bend, and then the plateau opened up before him, a wide, snowy meadow dotted with Scots pines that sloped up toward the magnificent lodge built beneath the jagged bluffs. Josh was always impressed, not just by the architecture or the way the facility blended in with the surrounding landscape. No, it was what lay behind those thick granite walls that impressed him most.
He followed the road until it dipped beneath the building into a huge underground parking lot. It was almost empty and would remain so until closer to the Transition. That’s when they would come, to escape the death and anarchy of the cities. He parked the Jeep, swiped and scanned his way through the security cage, and took an elevator to the complex above.
The lobby of The Eyrie reminded Josh of the Park Hyatt in Chicago, all polished floors and thick rugs, expensive furniture, discerning artworks, and long-drop light clusters hanging from the cathedral-like ceiling. One wall was all glass, offering a spectacular view of a snow-dusted valley. And that was just the lobby.
The Eyrie boasted a hundred lavish suites, three restaurants, two bars, a cinema, gymnasium and health spa, and a host of
other luxuries. There was a state of the art communications centre, conference rooms, a barracks for the security force and two, all-weather helipads. It was more than a luxury retreat; it was a redoubt, a command and control hub, one of several dotted across the globe, built by the Elites, for the Elites. Or it would be, once the Transition began. Right now, it was pretty empty.
As he cut across the lobby Josh recognised a couple of faces: the current Defence Secretary, the Chinese wife of a billionaire computer mogul, a Nobel Prize-winning geneticist, a British blue blood. No one paid Josh any attention, except for the uniformed clerk behind the sweeping reception desk.
“Good afternoon, Mister Keyes. They’re expecting you in conference room three.”
“Thanks.”
He took the elevator back down a couple of levels. He checked his reflection in the elevator doors, smoothed his neatly trimmed black hair, a legacy of his Navajo ancestry. That, and his hunting skills of course.
The doors swished open. He walked along a polished granite corridor to conference room three. He paused outside the door and cleared his throat.
A man and a woman waited for him inside, both middle-aged and suited, trusted advisors of the most senior Committee members. And both very pissed off.
No words were exchanged as Josh took a seat. He produced a memory stick and inserted it into the tablet waiting for him on the table. The lights in the room dimmed. CCTV footage began to play on the room’s huge projection wall.
“These are the latest images of Frank Marshall,” Josh began.
On the wall Frank was seen from several different camera angles entering a bank, crossing the lobby, speaking to an employee.
“Where was this taken?” Freya Lund inquired in her lilting Swedish accent. She was a severe-looking broad, snow white hair swept back off a thin, tanned face, wrinkled neck protruding from a starched white shirt beneath a black suit jacket. She reminded Josh of a Quaker. Probably hadn’t been laid in decades.
“Yesterday, nine-oh-two am, Bank of America, Manhattan. He accessed a personal deposit box in the vault.”
“Why didn’t we know about it?” the man next to her barked.
His name was Beeton. His boss was once a blue-collar guy too, his construction business growing from a single mall in Cincinnati to one of the world’s largest commercial construction empires. It was the billionaire’s company that had built The Eyrie, and Beeton was his consigliere. With his gnarled hands, shaved head and flattened nose, Beeton was a man not unfamiliar with physical violence, a Teamster leg-breaker in his younger days. Or so the rumours went.
“I guess he never declared it,” Josh said.
Lund tutted. “This is a clear breach of policy.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How did we detect him?”
“He used a fingerprint reader to gain access to the vault. The bank’s entry-point system is interfaced with the Homeland Security network and we got a hit. A security team was scrambled, but Frank was back on the street and gone in less than ninety seconds.”
Lund scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad. “Do we know what was in the box?”
Josh shrugged. “Hard to say.”
“Humour us,” Beeton growled.
He reminded Josh of a city detective, tie askew, sleeves rolled up, thick forearms folded in front of him. The sort of guy who would enjoy beating out a confession.
“Knowing Frank, I’d say cash, credit cards, a passport or two. Rainy day stuff.”
“The box is not the problem,” Lund said. “It’s Marshall himself. He’s been on the ground since TWA eight hundred. He has intimate knowledge of our organisation and its operations. Especially Messina.”
Beeton slapped a gnarly hand on the table. “Why in God’s name haven’t we picked this maniac up yet?”
Because Frank Marshall is a smart guy, Josh didn’t say.
He glanced at the footage looping on the screen, saw Frank push his way through the bank’s revolving doors out onto the street, a large black holdall slung over his shoulder. The sidewalks are packed with commuters, a sea of umbrellas tilted against a heavy rainstorm. Frank pulls on a cap, unfurls a plain umbrella and plunges into the human tide. Within seconds he’s lost. Smart. His former boss looked pale and thin, and Josh found the ponytail faintly amusing, but looks could be deceptive. Frank Marshall was one of the best, totally ruthless.
Or had been.
“What about the city’s surveillance network? The MTA systems?”
Josh shook his head. “Nothing yet.”
Beeton ran a hand over his shaved head. “Help me understand this, Keyes. One of our most senior security guys bolts from a highly sensitive installation, flies back to the States, disappears in Texas, then stages his own suicide. A few years later he waltzes into a downtown bank, helps himself to the contents of an undeclared strongbox, then disappears like a ghost. Again.” He held up a couple of thick fingers. “I got two questions; how did he stay off the grid that long, and why is he back?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“That’s real helpful.”
Lund said, “Tell us about Marshall’s suicide.”
“Three days after Frank landed at San Antonio, his clothes, wallet and driving licence were found on the shores of the Amistad Reservoir. His RFID implant went cold about the same time. He was presumed dead after the subsequent investigation.”
“You failed to notify your superiors that Marshall had absconded from his post in Iraq. Why?” Lund tapped her pen on the table like a schoolmistress. “His seniority and deep involvement with Messina should have prompted your immediate action.”
Josh shifted in his chair. “Like I told the inquiry, Frank was deeply upset. I figured he’d calm down, call me from Kuwait. It was a mistake.”
Lund brought the lights back up and scribbled a few more notes on her pad. Then she leaned back in her seat and fixed Josh with cold grey eyes.
“I’m finding it difficult to understand how we got here, Mister Keyes. Specifically, how you were unaware of Marshall’s mental state prior to his disappearance.”
Josh glanced at the wall, at the frozen image of Frank Marshall. The compound at Al-Basrah was the last place he’d seen Frank, alone in his office, mumbling incoherently, cuffing tears from his eyes. While Josh had wrestled with his conscience, Frank had left Iraq without warning.
“I worked closely with Frank Marshall for many years. In all that time his conduct and behaviour never gave me any reason to doubt his mental health. In my view, he was a highly professional, dedicated and respected leader. I trusted him completely.”
Lund arched a pale eyebrow. “A misguided trust, it would seem. Perhaps you were too close.”
Josh recalled the impossibly blue sky, his pale reflection in the elevator doors as it transported him far above the streets of Manhattan.
“I was twenty-four years old when I was assigned to the New York office. My second op put me in the North Tower on the morning of Nine-Eleven. I was in a washroom on the hundred and seventh floor when we got word the planes had gone dark. The truth? I was terrified. Every fibre of my being screamed at me to get the hell out of that building. But Frank was in my ear, coached me all the way. He got me through that morning, and every operation after that. Do I feel a sense of loyalty towards Frank Marshall? Sure I do. Does that loyalty extend to covering the ass of a man who has betrayed me? Who has undermined The Committee’s confidence in me? No, ma’am, it does not.”
Lund made a hmmm sound. “Is there anything else about Marshall you can tell us? His motivations, intentions, anything?”
Josh shook his head. “No, ma’am. If Frank Marshall had secrets, he didn’t share them with me.”
Lund put down her pen and leaned into Beeton’s ear for several moments. Beeton, his eyes never leaving Josh’s, nodded in agreement.
“Marshall’s intimate knowledge of Messina poses a considerable risk,” Lund announced.
“I doubt Frank would do anything to expose u
s, ma’am. In my estimation — ”
Beeton rapped his knuckles on the table. “This isn’t a debate, Keyes. We’re not asking for your opinion here.”
“Understood, but with all due respect, Frank can’t stop the Transition.”
Lund shook her head, as if explaining to a child.
“You’re missing the point, Mister Keyes. Before or after the Transition, it doesn’t matter. What troubles our leaders is the message that Marshall’s continued liberty sends to others in our organisation. Word has spread; a senior figure has abandoned the cause, a man who has intentionally deceived us, and who has managed to avoid detection and capture for some time, despite our efforts and considerable resources. He has challenged our authority, made us appear impotent. This is unacceptable. Do you understand?”
Josh nodded. “Absolutely, ma’am.”
“This is a critical period for our organisation,” Lund continued. “As the Transition approaches, some of our people may begin to question their faith in Messina, their role in its implementation, or indeed their very humanity. These are natural reactions, but doubt and uncertainty can do us great damage. What we need now is stability and, more importantly, an unswerving conviction in the path our leaders have chosen. We must be as one, Mister Keyes. Marshall’s continued autonomy jeopardises that.”
Josh sat in silence as Lund swiped at a message on her phone. She folded her arms, gave Josh a cold stare. “You are to track Marshall down and return him to us for evaluation.”
Josh raised his eyebrows. “You want him alive? All due respect, I don’t think — ”
Lund silenced him with a raised hand. “Marshall’s capture will send a strong message. Fears will be calmed, faith restored.” She tapped her notes on the table. “A replacement has been found, and your FEMA workload reassigned…”
No!
“A field team, plus any additional resources, will be made available to you. Is this understood, Mister Keyes?”
Beneath the table, Josh balled his fists. This was a demotion, plain and simple. He was out of the loop. He wanted to punch the walls. Instead, he remained poker-faced.