by Tony Moyle
“Let’s backtrack,” appealed Byron. “How do you know this?”
“This is where it gets truly strange. Our friend, Nash Stevens, met with Fiona Foster…”
“Stop. This would be the Nash Stevens that is the main suspect in an international murder hunt. The same Nash Stevens that slept with my daughter and the Nash Stevens who would appear to have absolutely nothing in common with Tavistock?” interrupted Byron, losing his patience.
“It would appear to be the very same, although I think there must be some connection. He told Fiona Foster that a John Hewson had told him that he’d been in contact with Sandy and Ian.”
“And you believed him?”
“No, not at first, but then I asked the Scientific Intelligence Agency to investigate and…”
“I’m sorry, but who the sodding hell are the Scientific Intelligence Agency?”
“Right,” hesitated Agent 15, “this is a bit sensitive. It’s a secret laboratory that explores some of the stranger cases that the government uncovers.”
“Oh I see. This’ll be the one that NO ONE has told me about,” thundered Byron.
“With respect, sir, it’s above your security clearance…”
“I’m the bloody Prime Minister, how can something be above my security clearance? Can I remind you at this point that not only is your job on the line here, but also quite possibly your life,” warned Byron. He knew it was an idle threat, but when you back a vicious creature into a corner don’t be surprised if you return missing significant and valued bodyparts.
It was a paradox that, although he worked for the Prime Minister, Agent 15 knew far more about the way government worked than Byron did, and he wasn’t alone. There were hundreds of people that really controlled the country, silently manoeuvring it into position like the path of a giant container ship. Quite often the captain at the helm knew little about what was going on in the engine room, unless it was impossible for him not to know. This was one of those occasions. All concerned would have preferred if their activities remained concealed from the other in case the situation was made permanent. The Prime Minister knew now, and he did have the power to change it permanently. Unbeknown to him, they also had the power to remove him if they so wished. In a battle of hundreds against one, the power of one will generally lose. It was the first time in Byron’s premiership that he realised that the well-run ship was not being powered by him, just steered.
“As I was saying, the SIA…”
“SIA?” Byron asked in a much less aggravated fashion.
“Scientific Intelligence Agency,” Agent 15 repeated slowly.
Byron nodded to confirm his acceptance of this new department.
“Anyway, they ran every known test on the DNA samples of Sandy and Ian. What they found was most definitely their DNA, but the samples were found to be mutated.”
Byron and Agent 15’s facial expressions had traded places in the last ten minutes.
“Now, we already know that they found a large quantity of bird DNA, probably pigeon, amongst the remains of the bombing. What we didn’t know until now is that these aren’t separate samples. It’s one sample. The two strands in the double helix come from each creature, one human and one pigeon. We also didn’t know that there were missing links in the DNA structure,” stated Agent 15 regaining his composure, sure that Byron was still reeling from not knowing about the SIA.
“So, what conclusions have they come to?”
“There’s absolutely no way of categorically proving this as there’s only ever been one suspected example in the past. But the portion of DNA that’s missing is the part they associate with the creation of emotions. You could say it’s the part that determines the make-up of the soul.”
Calmly Byron sat contemplating what all this meant, being careful not to ask any stupid questions yet still interrogate the truths that Agent 15 was presenting to him. The revelation of the SIA had already damaged the level of trust he felt towards his ally.
“How can DNA govern the soul? I thought that was all about how you were moulded by society, by community?”
“Apparently, although I’m no expert, it’s both. You can’t escape your genetics completely. If you have been built with fundamental weakness, there’s not much you can do about it.”
“I should have guessed that, given what I know about Emorfed. So what has happened to them?”
“SIA believe that Sandy and Ian have been reincarnated,” announced 15. “In all likelihood they would have been reincarnated as pigeons, if the last case is anything to go on.”
It was the conclusion that Byron had already made in his own head. Although this outcome was unlikely, so was the idea that there were government agencies that he knew nothing about. His concern was not for the why or the how, but the what. If the only people outside of the government that knew about Emorfed were still alive, what repercussions would it have on the plans he’d already set in motion?
“You don’t look as shocked as I thought you might.”
“My only concern is for Emorfed. If there is even the remotest chance that you are right, then we need to find them. They must be destroyed,” replied Byron.
“If I’m to do that, sir, then I need to know more about Emorfed. What is it exactly?”
Byron paused. Like the captain of the container ship, he was uncomfortable giving someone from the engine room unnecessary information, although he accepted that without the engine room the ship would hit the rocks and Byron could not afford for that to happen. Whether he trusted him or not, he had no choice but to secure his help.
“Imagine a world with no crime, no murder and no war. Imagine a world of harmony and peace. A world in which you would feel safe every time you left your home. A world in which every race, religion and creed lived without prejudice. A world in which human beings had no dependence on anything other than themselves. There would be no reliance on cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, sex, power or control. This government could really govern. It could set the human race on the right and proper path. In a world like that we would save billions of pounds of pointless expenditure previously destined to fail. That is the world that Emorfed will bring. A new utopia,” Byron said calmly.
“It’s the ultimate nanny state,” replied Agent 15, with more than a touch of anxiety in his voice.
“Who wouldn’t want to live in a world like that?”
“But could people really live in a world like that? Isn’t it those conditions that make us human?”
“NO. Those conditions, as you call them, have limited the human race’s potential. It’s the wrong side of human nature that has destroyed millions of lives and could quite possibly destroy this planet if we carry on without action.” Byron’s eyes burnt with a fire of conviction so fierce you could have toasted marshmallows off it.
“Why do you want to do it?” asked Agent 15, shocked by the words coming out of the Prime Minister’s mouth, as if some invisible hypnotist was orchestrating him from afar.
“Without addiction and human frailty the world will be free. Imagine the society we would live in if it was devoid of jealousy or desire. The savings for the Home and Health departments alone would be enormous. On top of that the people will reward me for this freedom by keeping this party in power, and you will be rewarded for your support, Agent 15. You will not be forgotten.”
Agent 15 held his own counsel. The whole idea scared and intrigued him in equal measure. Maybe this therapy would rid him of his OCD affliction, but at what cost to who he was?
“How was this substance discovered?”
“It wasn’t discovered. It was given to me.”
“Who gave it to you?” questioned Agent 15, whose natural curiosity for the truth was searching between the lines. The inference was that this was a natural, rather than a man-made substance.
“That will remain mine to guard, it is of no consequence to you. Will you support me or not?”
“I will support you, but I expect to be rewarded well for m
y efforts.”
“You will be. Now tell me how Nash Stevens came to know that Sandy and Ian were alive.”
“Not dead.”
“Whatever.”
“That part is the biggest mystery. Nash said a John Hewson had told him. There appears to be no connection between the two of them. However, there is a connection between John Hewson and Sandy Logan.”
“Go on…” prompted Byron.
“In the mid-nineties they were both involved in the animal rights movement along with another friend of ours.”
“Violet Stokes,” answered Byron correctly.
“Our missing link,” said Agent 15. “I have Foster in my care but she refuses to give me anything that would lead me to her, or anyone around her.”
“Well, let’s bring in John Hewson, let’s see what he knows.”
“That’s not possible, sir, he’s not alive either.”
“Hold on, does that mean he’s dead? I’m getting confused,” asked Byron.
“Maybe,” answered Agent 15 cautiously. “It was a very unusual case. He appears to have died in an accident that, according to eyewitnesses, involved an elderly gentleman who was never formally found or interviewed. The suspect disappeared without trace. John’s autopsy states that he died from a gunshot wound, which suggests it wasn’t an accident. We had his grave exhumed and I passed the results on to the SIA for tests to be done. Want to know the results?”
“There was a piece of DNA missing. I’m guessing it’s the same piece that was missing from Logan and Noble?” replied a perceptive Byron.
“Dead on. So it’s possible he is not altogether dead either.”
“Reincarnated as well? Jesus, I’m worried about walking the dog tonight in case he asks me if I want to go for a pint.”
“Not this one, sir. There was no other alien material in his DNA. We just don’t know what has happened to him.”
The clock on the Prime Minister’s wall had just clicked past 10.45 a.m. He’d missed four meetings. What worried him more was that his paradigm on life had been flipped on its head in just over an hour. The one thing that hadn’t changed was his desire to deliver Emorfed and make the world a better place.
“You mentioned a piece of paper,” said Byron.
“Fiona Foster passed a piece of paper to Nash Stevens. We couldn’t see what it said from our surveillance positions and she won’t tell us what was on it. We know from her conversation with Nash that it’s linked to Fiona’s contact, and it might lead to Sandy and Ian. We had Nash followed so we know where he is. Do you want me to bring him in?”
“Not yet. If we want to know what’s on that paper we need to find another way. If we bring them in, they won’t be able to lead us to Violet.”
It was often said of Byron that he would have sold his own grandmother if it worked in his favour. It wasn’t just a figure of speech, he really would have. Byron knew that there was no obvious connection between Nash and Sandy, but there was a connection between Nash and him. She was called Faith.
“Where is Nash now?” Byron asked.
“Kensington. Flat B, 106 Gloucester Road.”
Byron reached inside his jacket pocket to remove a mobile phone at least ten years old and the size of a house brick. It was nothing like the type of mobile phone that was widely available. Byron was a technophobe who hated even having a mobile, even if it was a useful device from time to time. He’d refused to upgrade it to something more advanced with fancy applications and time-consuming features. Why did he need to know where he’d parked his car? He could just remember where he’d parked it. Why did he need to know what was on TV tonight? He never got time to watch it. Why did he need to know what the weather was like? He just looked out of the window. All he wanted to use his phone for was…calling people. That was the point with a phone, wasn’t it? It didn’t matter to Byron that it was the weight of a gold bar.
Faith’s phone was a little different: in her view it could do anything. It could find out who won the 1978 FA Cup final, get traffic reports for the M25, and tell her the time in Taiwan. All of which were utterly pointless to a seventeen-year-old who had no interest in football, couldn’t drive and didn’t have the remotest idea where Taiwan was. It also had as many ringtones as money could buy. At the moment it was humming ‘Papa Don’t Preach’ by Madonna, the ringtone she had purposely chosen for her father. She considered not answering. Her father didn’t often ring but when he did it was important, usually more important to him than to her.
“Hi, Dad, I’m just about to go into a class,” she lied. “Can I call you back?”
“I’m sure you can be a little late, how often do we get the chance to talk these days?” replied Byron in an uncharacteristically friendly tone. They both knew that he would never willingly suggest that she was late for anything. Lateness was something Byron hated almost above all other things. “How’s college?”
“It’s fine, I’ve got a sociology lecture next.”
“Ah very important, learning about the world and how society should work,” he replied, hoping that there would be no need for such lectures in the future if Emorfed worked as planned.
“Dad, I’m not being funny, but you never ask me about college, are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Just because I don’t normally doesn’t mean that I can’t, does it? How’s your friend, Nash, have you heard from him recently?”
“That would be quite difficult. He’s on the run from the police and I think you said you would have him shot by the SAS if he came within a mile of me,” she replied sarcastically.
“I know I did, I think I might have overreacted a wee bit there. I know from what your mother told me you’re really very fond of him?”
“I am, Dad, but I can’t believe Mum told you that.”
“I also understand that he is in the clear now. The police in Geneva have arrested a suspect.” Byron thought nothing of lying to his own daughter: he lied to the whole country on a daily basis and after all she was one of them. “Why don’t you go and see him?”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“Well, I do. I thought as an apology I would tell you, as long as you did something for me?”
The bait was on the hook.
“What do you want me to do?” Faith asked hesitantly.
“He has a flatmate called John Hewson, who has, by accident, received some very important government information. It’s written down on a scrap of paper, which was planted on him by one of our agents, by mistake. It’s very important and it mustn’t fall into the wrong hands. I need you to get it for me,” asked Byron, his ability for thinking on his feet on overdrive.
“Why don’t you just go and get it yourself?”
“I think, given what Mr. Stevens has gone through in the last few weeks, it would be a little insensitive of us if we sent a crack squad of agents in to recover a scrap of paper. On top of that I thought you might like to see him. But if you don’t we’ll go with the crack squad idea.”
Faith couldn’t escape the fact that she was being used, or the fact that she was desperate to see Nash. After all, how else was she going to get the chance to see him. She didn’t have to find the piece of paper, she just had to look for it. If she failed, she failed.
“Okay, Daddy, I’ll do it for you, but I might have to stay with him overnight so that I can get the information whilst he’s sleeping. It’ll be easier that way,” she replied, knowing if she was going to lose the battle she might win the war. Faith had inherited more than a bit of her father’s ability for game-playing.
“So be it, call me in the morning when you have what I need, and Faith, if he takes advantage of you in any way, I’ll still have him shot,” replied Byron as he turned off the phone. “I’ll do more than that if I get my hands on him. Agent 15, set up a surveillance team outside the house. Once you have what you need, make sure you keep her somewhere safe.”
“Consider it done, sir. I’ll lead it myself.”
Of all the m
issions that he’d been given over his career, none had been so interesting, yet so surreal. Torn between his loyalty to the Prime Minister and his concerns as to the whole Emorfed strategy and whether it was really in the interest of the British people. He reminded himself his job was to do, not to grow a moral compass.
As he reached the door a flash of blue light hit the twelve-foot-high windows with a dull thud, basking the room around him. Before investigating the curious light, a voice, rather than a door, stopped him from leaving the room.
“One more thing before you go. My hand has been forced and I need to move my plans forward. Go to the Party Chairman and ask him to announce an election for June the 19th. It’s time to get re-elected, and by the time the election comes around the people will do exactly what I tell them,” announced Byron.
- CHAPTER SEVENTEEN -
THE POPSTAR AND THE POLITICIAN’S DAUGHTER
“We’re probably homing pigeons,” Sandy tutted to himself in mock impersonation of Ian, as he caught his breath perching precariously on the top of a statue.
For two straight days they had flown, each route influenced by Ian’s intuition that this time they were definitely heading in the right direction. So far, Ian, Sandy and their uninvited flock had reached no fewer than four incorrect destinations. Twice Ian had led them back to the large oak tree in the valley from where they had started. Once, he’d taken them to the blackened remains of the Tavistock Institute, whilst the highlight of his ineptitude was their two hundred-mile journey to Bristol Temple Meads train station. Sandy understood the first three errors of judgement: after all, they had been home for Ian at some point in his lives. Ian’s only explanation for the Bristol disaster was that he’d been delayed on a train there for eight hours in nineteen ninety-three.
It was after this explanation that Sandy took charge of navigation in order to reduce the potential of Ian leading them to another part of the world where his twisted mind recalled a randomly insignificant event. Whether it was by design, utter fluke, or a little of both, they had finally reached their destination, London. In the end they’d simply followed the M4 motorway, hoping that they’d eventually find the capital of England and not Swansea.