by A. D. Winch
“As long as you’re back down here before bed time, I trust you.”
The last three words stabbed Ursula right in the heart. Her grandparents had brought her up to be honest and on the rare occasions that she wasn’t, it hurt.
Eric slipped out of the living room and sprung up onto the balcony wall. No matter how many times Mémé had seen Ursula and now Eric do it, her heart still skipped a beat. She remembered clearly the first time she had seen Ursula up there.
Ursula had been five years old, and she had opened the door to the balcony. She had shouted to Mémé to leave the kitchen and come and see. Mémé had entered the living room and seen Ursula tight-rope walking on the balcony wall.
“Ursula! No!” she had shouted and had run towards the balcony, her arms outstretched.
Ursula stepped back, lost her footing and disappeared from view. Mémé ran to the wall and looked over the side, but there was no trace of Ursula. Then her smiling face had appeared from the balcony below and Mémé nearly had a heart attack. This was the first time that Mémé had considered that her granddaughter was not quite like other children. The idea had crossed her mind on many other occasions since then, but she tried not to dwell on it.
Ursula joined Eric on the balcony. They threw their umbrellas above them and in one coordinated and fluid movement they leapt up to the roof; gripped it tight and then swung themselves upwards.
Once on the roof, they could see that the storm clouds had covered Paris. Behind them, the Stade de France had switched on its floodlights and lit up the sky.
“You’re not going to wimp out, are you?” asked Eric, sensing Ursula’s doubts. “You can stay and cover for me if you don’t have the balls.”
Ursula shook her head, picked up the travel umbrella and walked off across the rooftop to the far side of the apartment block. Eric picked up the large, tennis umbrella and followed. It soon began to rain, and they both pulled their waterproof hoods over their heads.
On the roof edge was a rusty gutter attached to a drainpipe leading down. Ursula slid over the edge and nimbly climbed down eight floors to the ground below. Once again Eric followed but with a large umbrella in one hand it was not as easy to hold the drainpipe. He considered dropping it but did not want to risk hitting Ursula and ruining their excursion before they had even reached their destination. Halfway down, he heard a crack and saw the drainpipe below him come away from the wall.
He looked down to find an alternative route but there was none, so he slowly continued his descent. As he neared the broken pipe, it started to shake, and another section came away from the wall with a loud snap. He was still too high to jump without injuring himself, but he felt sure he would be fine.
“Come on, slow coach,” shouted Ursula from the ground below, oblivious to the dangerous assault course she had left behind.
Her words were followed by the sound of the drain pipe breaking clean away from the wall and throwing Eric into the air.
As if he had planned it, Eric instantly opened up his umbrella, held tightly to the handle and speedily, but relatively safely, fell downwards. A metre above the grass he let go, hit the ground, did a controlled roll, jumped up again and caught the umbrella.
“Show off,” muttered Ursula and walked off.
Inside his hot and stuffy TV observation room, Agent Hoover was glued to the screens. He had missed Ursula’s descent but caught the end of Eric’s. Eric’s hood and umbrella had shielded his face, but Agent Hoover’s interest had been piqued.
“Geez, would you look at that! That is one lucky kid,” he said to himself and widened his focus again to take in all the screens.
The journey to the Stade de France was uneventful. Both Eric and Ursula kept their hoods and umbrellas up as the rain poured down. In the days leading up to their excursion, they had pinpointed as many CCTV cameras as they could, in order to avoid them. This meant taking a longer route, including crossing a bridge further away, but it was safer.
When they finally arrived at the stadium, Ursula stopped to take it all in. She had always lived near the Stade de France, but she had never been this close to it. There had been times when she would have loved to have attended a sports game or a big concert, but she never had. Residents of les banlieues just didn’t go there, except to sell hotdogs or clear the rubbish away after the event. Until Eric put the idea into her head, she had never considered visiting.
From the rooftop above her grandparents’ flat, the stadium was an impressive construction. It was almost a perfect oval, crisscrossed with huge steel cables and glowed like an enormous halo when lit. Now, however, as she stood looking at the large lumps of concrete blocks and metal girders she wondered what she was doing here.
Eric joined her with the tickets and she followed him into the stadium. As she questioned whether they should turn back and go home, Eric spun around.
“Don’t think like that,” he ordered. “Wait until you get inside and then you won’t want to go home.” He paused and pointed towards the gate leading to their seats, “Listen to that.”
It was only then that Ursula noticed the low roar of thousands of voices. Eric didn’t wait for her response and sped off towards the entrance with Ursula running after him. The moment they walked through the gates and towards their seats Ursula knew she had to stay. She had never been in an arena so large. All around her she could see and hear thousands of people, and she could feel the expectant atmosphere. All eyes were watching the pitch as the two teams entered, walking into the pouring rain under the bright floodlights.
A steward impatiently motioned the children towards their seats. They sat down and placed the drenched umbrellas on the floor in front of them.
National anthems were played; the teams took their places and just before the evening kick-off sixteen television cameras panned over the capacity crowd.
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***
Chapter 7 – Turbulence
At fourteen hundred hours, Professor Schwarzkopf was shown into Agent Angel’s quarters. The room was unique on the base. Wood panels lined three walls and the fourth was covered in shelves crammed with books. In front of these were a solid oak desk, two red leather armchairs and a carved coffee table.
Agent Angel was sat in one of the chairs still wearing desert fatigues and smoking a cigar. He had a bottle of bourbon, ice and two glasses on the table in front of him. He motioned Professor Schwarzkopf to sit down and dismissed the soldier who had led him in.
“As I said earlier, John, a drink for old time’s sake,” he said, adding ice and bourbon to the glasses.
“What old times are they, Buddy?” replied Professor Schwarzkopf sceptically, taking the glass and sitting down.
“Oh, you know, the times when you were more willing?”
Professor Schwarzkopf wasn’t sure where the conversation was going, but he had a strong feeling that he would not like it.
“Willing for what?”
“Oh, you know,” Agent Angel said, taking a sip. “Willing to do anything. Anything that was asked of you. A time when you were a little less,” he searched for the word, “confrontational, shall we say?”
“Just because I don’t like what you’re doing here, doesn’t mean that I’m confrontational. I don’t know what your plans are exactly for those children…”
Agent Angel interrupted, “Don’t worry, you will.”
“No, I won’t,” stated Professor Schwarzkopf firmly, holding back a cough. “Whatever plans you have for those children will be wrong. They’re children and it’s morally wrong to kidnap children! Forty, fifty years ago I thought differently. If anyone had given me a good enough reason, I would have said yes. If these reasons were for the advancement of science or benefits to mankind, I would not have seen anything morally wrong with what I was asked to do but I’ve changed. I’m older, wiser and more experienced. I look back at some things I did with no pride, only regret. I think you’re wrong, and I won’t be part of that.”
“C
heers,” said Agent Angel raising his glass before taking a mouthful.
He had either ignored, or was pretending to ignore, everything that Professor Schwarzkopf had just said. He savoured the bourbon and gently rotated his hand; the ice circled the bottom of the glass. For a while nobody spoke, both men lost in their own thoughts. Agent Angel stood up and took a long drag of his cigar. He turned away from Professor Schwarzkopf and scanned his library of books before turning back.
“You’re either with me or against me, John.”
Professor Schwarzkopf waved a hand at him as if he was batting away a fly, and stood too.
He looked up into Agent Angel’s eyes and said, “You’re a powerful man, Agent Buddy Angel, and I’m not going to deny it. You could probably do anything you want to me if you wished, but I’ll be honest with you, I’m beyond caring what happens to me. You can make all the threats you want. You can even carry them out, but I don’t care. You could even try to bribe me with gifts or money, but I don’t want anything nor do I need for anything. You can say whatever you wish to try to convince me, but you’re not going to change my mind. I’m retired, and I’m going home to enjoy what is left of my retirement.”
Professor Schwarzkopf turned around and walked towards the door. Just as he was about to leave the room, Agent Angel spoke.
“But what about Ingrid?”
Professor Schwarzkopf stopped dead. He did not turn to face Agent Angel but stood rooted to the spot.
“Ingrid’s dead,” he said quietly.
“Come back and sit down,” urged Agent Angel. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Professor Schwarzkopf’s head told him to walk away. To walk away and never come back. His heart told him otherwise. Fearfully, he turned around and returned to his chair. Agent Angel sat too, put his glass down on the table and refilled it.
“You still love her then, John?”
“What kind of stupid question is that? Of course I do!” replied Professor Schwarzkopf raising his voice, resulting in a coughing fit.
Agent Angel leaned forward and in a voice uncharacteristically low said, “I can bring her back.”
A smile gradually appeared across Professor Schwarzkopf’s face that changed into a disbelieving laugh.
“You may be powerful, and I would not be surprised if you are the most powerful man on the planet but, and this is a big ‘but’, you are not God and not even you can bring people back from the dead.”
Agent Angel leaned forward and whispered, “She’s not dead.”
For more than a minute, neither man said a word. Agent Angel enjoyed his cigar and looked victorious.
Professor Schwarzkopf considered exactly what had been said before finally replying, “You’re a liar.”
“That’s strong language, John, but I’ll let it go this time. Just let me tell you a story.”
“I’m too old for bedtime stories!”
“Not this one. It won’t take long, and I promise you’ll be desperate to find out how it ends. Once upon a time there was a North European scientist with dubious political ties who was brought to a new country, given a new life and a new start. She was not judged on her past Commie sympathies nor was she made to suffer because of it. She was intelligent, highly skilled and dedicated to her work. For the next twenty years, she was well looked after in her new country; she was given a job, a home, she even got herself a husband.” On ‘husband’ Agent Angel paused and looked at Professor Schwarzkopf, who said nothing.
“And then one day, without warning, without provocation, she turned her back on her hosts and stabbed them in the back.
“She steals explosives from the ammunitions store, plants them in an underground lab where her husband is working, steals alien DNA, leaves and then detonates the explosives. At the time, no one knows that this is what happens. No one even suspects. Why would they? There is no reason for someone to do such a thing. Everyone assumes a gas canister exploded and that she was the only fatality. People mourn for her. They miss her. They shed a tear, some even say the base will never be the same again without her.
“A few weeks later the Supplies Officer is conducting a routine inventory in the ammunitions store and he discovers that some explosives are missing. He tells his commander, but it is assumed that they were legitimately taken by soldiers. ‘Perhaps they had not been signed for, or the chit has been lost. These things can happen when it’s busy,’ says the commanding officer. Why would anyone steal explosives on a base? It is forgotten about until a year later when this photo is taken by an operative working in the former Soviet Union. The Communist USSR.”
Without rushing, Agent Angel put his hand into his pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. Carefully he unfolded it and handed it to Professor Schwarzkopf. In the middle of the paper was a scanned black and white photograph. It was grainy and a little blurred but it was still clear enough to make out the content. On the edge of the photo, walking down a road passing people queuing outside empty shops, was a woman. She was wearing a long, drab-looking coat and a shawl over it. Close behind her were two men. Professor Schwarzkopf didn’t have to look twice; her eyes told him all he needed to know – it was Ingrid.
“Of all the low-down, dirty tricks you could pull, this has to be the worst. I may not be highly experienced with modern computers, but I do know how to use them, and I do know about photo software and how skilled people can fake photos,” Professor Schwarzkopf’s face had turned red and a cough exploded from his chest.
“It’s genuine and I can assure you that I can show you plenty more and also tell you plenty more. We don’t know everything, but we have a pretty good idea about what she was doing with the skills she acquired with us, and the alien DNA she stole. Once we found her, we had this traitor continually watched.”
Professor Schwarzkopf looked as if he was about to blow.
An alarm went off on Agent Angel’s desk, and he calmly stood up.
“I’ll leave you to your thoughts,” said Agent Angel smugly. “There’s something important that I need to attend to.”
He marched away, and there was almost a skip in his step. At the door, he paused and turned back to Professor Schwarzkopf.
“Gram Parsons once sung, ‘love hurts.' I guess you understand that better than me. But there is one thing that I do understand about love. Do you want to know what this is? People go out of their way to make sure their loved ones are safe and out of danger.” He paused. “Now you’ve found Ingrid again it would be a crying shame if anything happened to her.” He put his hand on the door handle. “I’ll see you when I get back, John. I’m sure you’ll be thrilled when I tell you what I’d like you to do for me.”
An alarm beeped annoyingly on the computer in front of Agent Hoover. In the thirteen weeks since the machine had been installed on his desk, it had made no sound except the gentle whir of its fans.
Agent Hoover looked down at the screen. In big red letters the words, ‘Suspected match,’ flashed across the screen. Behind it, TV5 Monde was broadcasting a live soccer game from the Stade de France. For a moment, Agent Hoover wondered whether the computer was having a joke with him. These thoughts soon disappeared when the footage rewound and paused on a wide shot of the full stadium. Slowly the people in the crowd got larger as the computer zoomed in, scanning left and right as it did so. When it came to a halt, two faces filled the screen. One face was black and female; the other was white and male – the most wanted children on the planet. Without thinking any further, Agent Hoover hit the alarm button and sat back in his swivel chair taking in the two faces.
They look happy, he thought, free as two birds!
“Enjoy it while you can, kids,” he said to the screen and then, under his breath he quietly sang to himself, “nowhere to run baby, nowhere to hide…”
By the time he had finished the song, every screen in front of him was showing footage from every CCTV camera in a five kilometre radius of the stadium.
Before the referee had blown the
final whistle, Agent Angel was also standing in front of the screens. A friendly, yet intimidating, hand rested on Hoover’s shoulder as he watched the two children intently.
“It is likely that we will lose them when they leave the soccer game, Sir,” warned Agent Hoover. “There are eighty thousand people in that stadium.”
“Do your best Hoover, but don’t worry too much. We know where they are now. They’ve made their first mistake. It won’t be their last. All we need to do is smoke’em out. Team Jupiter is on their way to Paris as we speak. It is time for some extreme rendition.”
“You mean kidnapping, Sir?” asked Agent Hoover nervously.
Agent Angel chuckled to himself and answered, “Kidnapping is so old-fashioned. Now we call it rendition. People don’t have such negative connotations with new words, so you can use them more freely and without the same amount of damaging press.”
Agent Hoover did not know how to reply to this so said nothing and watched the screens instead.
Exactly as he had predicted, Eric and Ursula disappeared into the post-match crowd. The loss didn’t dampen Agent Angel’s spirits, and he lit a big, fat, Cuban cigar which he smoked happily as he walked away from Hoover. Occasionally, he did not leave the room straight away but walked towards the back of it. This was one of those occasions.
Agent Hoover looked over his shoulder and watched Agent Angel disappearing into the dark. He could see nothing but could hear a rasping wheeze becoming quicker and quicker followed by a quiet, retching sound. It was followed by Agent Angel briefly gagging and then nothing.
A short while later, the door to the surveillance room opened and Agent Hoover welcomed the incoming draught. When it closed again, Hoover knew that Agent Angel had left the room.
A bright flash of lightning startled Alexander. He looked up from his microscope as a loud clap of thunder boomed, and Andrea entered the room. She was carrying a large box, and her leathers were covered in rain drops. Water dripped off her jacket, trousers and white hair, leaving a puddle on the floor where she stood.