by David Barker
The helicopter pilots swung their craft around to give chase, but it was soon clear that their pace was no match for the fleeing vessels. They turned back to help mop up the remaining terrorists. It was only later, after the head count and IDs had been finalised that the Club Of Rome agents came to realise that the two main targets had escaped. Hydras had been adapted to carry humans. This was a first.
At least it seemed like the virus that had threatened to wipe out this year’s wheat harvest had been vaporised. The captured Africans, even after intense interrogation, failed to identify the masked leaders. The black men said that they had paid with diamonds, but there were no signs of these. Divers had even been sent down to search the sea below the lighthouse, but the only thing that glittered down there were the fish.
CHAPTER 5
Russia
Freda threw away the clump of moss in her hands and hoisted up her blue boiler suit. “How come James Bond never had to do that?”
Gopal and Rabten stared at her.
“You must have heard of double-oh seven. Never mind. C’mon guys, we can’t wait for Wardle to send another rescue team. Need to find some different clothes. And that means finding some people.”
“Which way?” said Gopal.
Freda shrugged. There was dense pine forest on all sides, pot-marked with occasional ponds and fractured by faint tracks. Whether the latter had been made by humans or animals it was hard to tell. “We move parallel to the road. It has to lead to a settlement eventually.”
Rabten whispered something to Gopal in a language Freda did not understand.
“Rabten isn’t used to women leaders. The monastery always had a man in charge.”
Freda turned towards the ex-monk. “Welcome to the twenty-first century.”
They approached the road that passed the prison, staying just close enough to keep it in sight but far enough away to stay invisible to any traffic. The prison break had been several hours ago and daylight was starting to fade. There had already been several near-misses with the local police who were trying to round up the escapees. Under the canopy of trees, the ground was dark enough to make travel very difficult. But they had no torches. Rabten asked a question of Gopal. The Gurkha interpreted.
“Shouldn’t we stop and make camp?”
“Can’t risk a fire this close to the prison.” Freda looked up at the sky just visible through the thick canopy. There was no cloud-cover. “The Moon should be up soon enough. We’ll rest now and carry on when we can see where we’re going.” She sat down on a log and rubbed her calves.
Rabten moved off into the woods, saying something to Gopal as he left. Freda turned towards the Gurkha and jerked her head.
“He said he’s going to find some food.”
“Good luck in the dark, with no hunting equipment,” she called out.
Rabten returned just after the Moon had started to cast faint beams throughout the trees. He fetched inside his prison suit and brought out some nuts, berries and a few tubers covered in soil. He said something to Gopal with a grin.
“Err, he says they don’t teach this in the twenty-first century.”
“Touché.” Freda smiled and pressed her hands together, bowing her head.
After the simple feast, they set off again. A stream crossed their path, its waters flowing fast and clear, glinting in the pale moonbeams. They all drank deeply. As moonlight gave way to the dusty pink hint of dawn, and as forest gave way to scrubland, their steps slowed with fatigue and caution. An occasional hut became a steady trickle of houses and eventually the outskirts of a town. It was still only around 5am, but light enough for the agents to be spotted out in the open if they were careless.
“Well, either we wait in cover all day, or we try to break into somewhere before people wake up.”
Gopal and Rabten conferred before the Gurkha replied. “He spouted some nonsense about a patient heron catching fish but I say we crack on. They might be tracking us with dogs or drones for all we know. Got to keep moving.”
Freda agreed and they continued their scuttle between hedges and huts until they spotted a place that seemed to be a clothes store. The back of the building was not overlooked. Ignoring the fire exit they pulled a large bin on wheels over towards a high window. Rabten’s elbow made short work of the glass. They paused for a moment, waiting to see if an alarm had been triggered but the only other noise was the chorus of birds welcoming the new day. The smell of fresh bread wafted towards them from some unseen baker already at work. It reminded Freda just how hungry she was.
Inside the store they rushed around trying to find clothes that would fit. Freda stripped down to her underwear and noticed Rabten staring at her as she got changed. “Djeez, wherever you go, there’s always one…”
She grabbed a messenger bag, stuffed a spare top into it and found a waterproof jacket in her size. Gopal located the office at the back of the store and after several attempts with a pair of scissors, broke open a box that had some American dollars. He kissed the banknotes. “In your face, crypto currencies.”
They climbed back out of the shop and let their noses guide them towards the bakery. Freda left the other two outside and through a smattering of Russian words and lots of pointing, managed to obtain a loaf and some things that resembled a Cornish pasty. The foreign money no doubt helped with the hapless-tourist routine. The baker did not bat an eyelid at making a sale so early to a foreign woman using US dollars. Freda noticed that he gave her the change in Russian currency, but shrugged it off.
The three escaped prisoners nibbled on their breakfast as they walked the still-quiet streets, looking for something to drink. A garage provided a drinks dispenser that used their Russian change and gave Freda an idea. Naturally enough for a country still rich with oil reserves, and a government that put climate change bottom of the priority list, most cars in Russia continued to run on petrol. This particular garage had petrol pumps and a few used cars for sale on the forecourt.
Freda was sizing up their options when a vehicle came around the corner. It slowed as it passed the garage. Freda’s heart began to race and she prayed that the others would not do anything stupid like dive for cover. She just smiled and waved her cup of coffee at the driver, not daring to shout a warning to the others. The vehicle seemed to be a normal, civilian car; its driver a normal, rotund Russian. His rosy cheeks broke into a smile and the man waved at Freda, then quickly disappeared from view.
“Dammit. He’s not going to forget seeing us this early in the day.”
“But maybe he doesn’t know there’s been a breakout?” said Gopal.
“Even with a news blackout, the local gossip will reach the town soon enough. They can’t hide that hole in the prison wall from prying eyes. Besides, some of the other prisoners that escaped are bound to have been re-captured by now.” Freda threw away her empty cup. “No. Sooner or later, there’ll be an appeal for help and that man will say he saw three strangers. We need to get far away from here. Fast.”
Gopal pulled out a penknife from his pocket. The plastic label from the clothes store still dangled from its keyring. He pointed at the cars lined up for sale. “Let’s check to see if any have been left open.”
The oldest, cheapest car at the far end of the row of vehicles was not locked. Frankly, Freda wasn’t sure it was worth stealing but all the other cars were properly secured. Maybe that was no coincidence. The garage owner probably wanted this one stolen so they could put in an exaggerated claim on the insurance. The three agents got into the rust-coloured car and Gopal prised off the ignition cover to fiddle with the exposed wires. The engine spluttered into life like an asthmatic chain smoker waking up.
“Fuel gauge is close to empty,” said Gopal.
“Just drive. That way,” she said pointing to her left. Freda scanned the road for other approaching cars. “Must be an open petrol station around here somewhere.”
The automatic gearbox had a habit of changing up too soon and even managed to stall itself wh
ile crawling up a hill. Gopal gradually got used to its foibles and learned how to help the quirky gear selections with some deft feathering of the accelerator. They drove steadily through the centre of town. Freda told Rabten to lie down on the back seat, figuring that just a man and woman in the front seat looked more natural. And less like the three escaped OD agents being hunted by the authorities.
“Which way?” asked Gopal as they approached a roundabout. The gearbox did its best to select the wrong gear.
Freda noticed the blue stripes of a police car approaching the junction from their right. “Just keep going straight on.”
For a moment, Gopal was confused and panicked. He looked the wrong way at the roundabout and failed to slowdown for the police car that had right of way. At the last moment, he slammed on the brakes, the squeal from rusted pads drowning out his shouted expletive. The car stalled just to show its disapproval at such rash decision making. The police car circled the roundabout and passed in front of them again, while Gopal desperately tried to restart the wretched machine. A grin and a wagging finger from the police officer and then the vehicle proceeded onwards. Freda breathed out hard and turned her head to stare at the Gurkha.
They found a petrol station a few kilometres outside the town, filled up the tank, and bought a bag full of snacks and drinks with the rest of the cash they had stolen from the clothes shop. They all took the chance to use the restrooms with the luxury on offer of toilet paper, sinks and handtowels.
Ten kilometres further on, Gopal spotted another police car, in the rear-view mirror. He sped up a little, but the car stayed the same distance behind. He risked a burst of speed, as much as the rust bucket of a car would manage. But still the police car kept a steady distance. Finally, the blue flashing lights were switched on and the police car moved up alongside them, signalling them to pull over.
Freda’s hands were clammy. She gestured to Rabten to stay down, out of sight. If they could distract the police for a moment, the monk might be able to surprise them. There was no time to co-ordinate and translate a plan.
One of the police officers approached their car and turned out to be a woman. Plans of action whirled around Freda’s head. Even if she could subdue the woman, the policeman had stayed on the far side of the car and rested his hand on top of his sidearm. The woman signalled for Gopal and Freda to get out of the car. They did so, hands held high. The policewoman glanced down the road, in both directions and told the two agents to lower their hands. In English. Freda frowned. And then Rabten burst out of the car, launching himself at the policewoman. He used a judo-like throw and grappled her to the floor even as Freda shouted out “Stop.”
The policeman drew his gun and slowly moved around to the front of the car. Gopal told Rabten to let the woman go. The monk looked up, bemused.
“We’re on your side,” said the woman, still pinned to the floor by Rabten. She gasped for air and the monk finally got up.
An hour later, they were proceeding towards the Kazakhstan border, having hidden the stolen car under a tarpaulin, in a remote barn. The woman explained that she was with the service and had been assigned the job of extracting the three agents for Wardle.
“The trouble is, you guys carried on moving through the night and then went through the centre of town. Difficult to find a secluded spot to pick you up.”
“You’ve been tracking us?” said Freda. “I thought our implants were designed to go silent if we ever got captured.”
The woman nodded. “The insect that visited you before the jail break. Left a homing device on you before it scarpered. We were worried you’d wash your hair and lose the connection.”
Freda ran her hands through her greasy hair, trying to feel for a piece of grit. She wondered what the three of them smelt like to their rescuers. “What’s the next stage of the plan?”
“We get you over the border into Kazakhstan tomorrow. And then across the Aral Sea to Uzbekistan. Less likely that Russian agents will be watching the ports there. New IDs and travel the Silk Road to somewhere safe.”
Gopal translated the plan for Rabten, who nodded and pressed his hands together in prayer, saying something in Nepalese. “He says blessings of ten thousand sunrises on your home. And sorry for sitting on you.”
CHAPTER 6
Qatar
Mattias Larsson was thinking about football. It was a blazing hot Sunday afternoon and he was heading for a business meeting. A normal day of business for the Middle East. Years ago, his dad had insisted on Sunday school every week for Mattias even though he knew it had clashed with football training. Mattias’ chances of making the local youth team had been ruined by his father’s idiotic devotion to the Catholic Church. Even Midsummer celebrations had been deemed too pagan and banned in his household. Mattias’ memory of his teenage years was filled with images of his friends playing football or sneaking out with beers to celebrate solstice in the forest, while he seethed at home.
Even now, Sunday afternoons were filled with pangs of bitterness and thoughts of his favourite sport. A five-year old boy staying up late in his pyjamas to watch Sweden beat Romania on penalties. In a Stockholm bar, spilling beer over his fellow students, when Sweden thrashed England and Zlatan scored that bicycle kick. But also, that sick feeling in his stomach, when the Blågult’s were knocked out of the group stages at the Qatar world cup. Not terribly surprising. The whole tournament had been corrupted by money. Every referee was in somebody’s pocket. Besides, how was a team from Scandinavia supposed to cope in the heat of that tournament? Yes, the stadiums were air-conditioned. But the training grounds weren’t. Just lounging around in this country was an effort.
Mattias and Precious were approaching one of those football stadiums, protected from the afternoon sun by their air-conditioned SUV. There were guards in the other vehicles, ready to protect them from anything worse than a case of heatstroke.
The building rose up out of the desert with no connection to the rest of the landscape, like it had fallen from the sky. The huge car park was now covered in a thin layer of sand. A few plants were clinging to life in the cracked concrete, surviving on the mist blown in from the Persian Gulf. All of the electronic posters were black and lifeless, except for one that kept showing the same five seconds of an advert for aftershave. Every time the model went to splash the product on his chiselled face, the grainy picture flickered back to the start of the film. The solar panels above this poster had somehow evaded the thieves and the grind of a thousand sand storms.
The vehicles pulled up outside the stadium entrance that players and VIPs had once used. Sand piled up against one set of doors. A pane of glass had cracked into a thousand shards years ago, but the pieces still clung to each other refracting the image beyond the door into a mosaic. Mattias’s protection team spread out from the cars and two of them went through the doors that had been cleared of sand. They nodded to the main car and Mattias got out. He approached the doors, pausing briefly to let Precious catch up and then walked into the building. There was definitely no air conditioning left in the stadium. He wondered why his clients had chosen this site. Secrecy, sure. But sweating up a staircase? Mattias didn’t mind, but he knew that heat and exercise were virtually intolerable to wealthy, middle-aged Arabs.
At the top of the stairs, he caught a glimpse of the once-verdant football pitch. Now just a rectangle of brown dirt. Even the white pigment of the lines had bleached into nothingness. What a waste of effort bringing the World Cup here. When was it? He counted back. Twelve years ago. So much for the legacy. A bit like this lot. The Organisation of the Petroleum Exporting Countries. Decades of wealth, when money literally gushed out of the ground. Some people had lined their pockets, sure. But when nuclear fusion and solar panels deliver all the energy the world needs? Who’s going to buy oil then? What are these countries going to live on?
Mattias’ foot slipped as he reached the top of the stairs. Precious grabbed his arm and smiled. He knew he couldn’t hide his nerves from her.
Around the table were some familiar faces. This was the committee that met away from the glare of the press, taking decisions in private that were definitely not for the world to see. But Mattias had met some of these men before, only three months earlier.
The attack on Moon Lab One had been an attempt to disrupt nuclear fusion. It had failed. The first time Mattias’s firm ESCO had not delivered. He had a radical new plan. An even bolder attack. A place perhaps even more inaccessible than the Moon. Would the OPEC committee give him the chance to make amends? For the first time in a long while, Mattias was unsure of the outcome of this meeting and was afraid.
The Chairman of the inner council welcomed him to the gathering. Mattias nodded as he looked around the room, noting the position of the doors and where the guards were standing.
“Please report, Mr Larsson.”
“Thank you, Chairman. As you know, three months ago, Operation Blue Cheese was instigated. A viral attack on Moon Lab One. It failed. The details are sketchy. From the reports and interviews we’ve managed to intercept, it seems that the infected host, Yusuf Abdel Misih, changed his mind at the last minute. Threw himself out of an airlock.”
The men around the table shook their heads in disbelief. One of them spoke up, above the general murmur. “I thought he had been hand-picked by your people?”
Mattias wondered if any of these men were brave enough to even cross the street without a bodyguard, let alone volunteer for the task Yusuf had accepted. “Yes, that’s right. But we had such a very limited choice in the time available. Getting a convert onto the moon base staff was not easy. And don’t forget, nearly one-in-four suicide bombers fail to press the trigger at the last minute.”