by David Barker
“A pleasure meeting you, Ms Osundare.”
“The pleasure was all mine, Professor.” She closed the door after him.
CHAPTER 14
Kathmandu, Nepal
The pang of homesickness that had struck Freda in the Russian prison was gnawing at her stomach again. As she, Gopal and Rabten approached Kathmandu she could sense the eagerness, she could see the joy in her companions. Effervescing, like freshly poured champagne. Fingers being pointed, names being shared. She could not even tell if the men were talking about people or places.
The sprawling mass of the capital of Nepal, with its converging rivers, was laid out before them as they approached from the East, along the Araniko Highway. The truck dropped them off near the centre of the city when it stopped to deliver its consignment. They thanked the driver and walked the last couple of miles.
It had been six years since Freda had spent time in Kathmandu. Back then she had stayed for a month while Sim’s punctured lung had mended. So, she knew the roads they were walking along. The noises were louder than she remembered. Drivers were still shouting ‘jam, jam’ in the midst of traffic chaos. There were more stray dogs lolloping through the gutters, nosing through the bowls that locals put out to feed them. Freda wasn’t sure which smelt worse, the disease-ridden dogs or the gutters.
The tourist season was in full swing, judging from the broad mix of Caucasian and Asian people, along with the meandering stroll of groups whose attention was anywhere but the pavement in front of them. They were impossible to overtake, not without risking life and limb on the roads or wading through the effluence of the gutters.
Rabten offered to stop at the market for some food while Gopal led Freda back to his house. They passed a large group of men who were weaving across the road, singing as they went. Freda thought that they looked a bit different from the locals, perhaps Chinese. One of them bumped into a local on the far side of the road. There was a brief scuffle and then the Nepali man broke free and ran off. One of the drunks picked up a bowl of dog food from outside a house and hurled it after the retreating local. Other people in the street glanced up briefly and then carried on with their daily routine.
“What’s going on?” said Freda.
Gopal grunted. “Started a couple of years ago. When the Chinese factories were busy sacking all their workers, replacing them with robots. Nothing much for the labourers to do. Too many lack the education to re-train. So, they come here to drink cheap alcohol.”
“Don’t the authorities do anything?”
“Yeah, they turn a blind eye. Been in bed with the Chinese since ’25. Can’t even ban them travelling here.”
“That’s terrible,” said Freda.
The Gurkha shrugged. “Brings in some yuan. Better than being paid in crypto-crap.”
Gopal shoved the front door open. It had swollen slightly since the spring. Fortunately, the key had been in its usual hiding place, taped to the underside of the mail box. Freda smiled, wondering how long a house in London would remain un-burgled if the owners ever tried that trick. As they moved into the house, Gopal went around raising the blinds and throwing open windows. Freda watched him look in the fridge. Something that may have once resembled food was hastily discarded.
She remained in the main room, her eyes drawn down to the rug where she had saved Sim’s life. Well, really, where he had saved her life by flinging himself at that traitor, Chung. The knife wound had almost been fatal, but Freda had managed to keep Sim alive long enough for the ambulance to get here. She wondered how he was getting on now.
Gopal came back into the room. He was about to say something to Freda, but there was a noise from upstairs. Freda’s heart started pounding. She slapped her hand over her own mouth to muffle the panicked cry that wanted to escape. This was exactly how Chung’s attack had begun. She looked around the room and, once again, found herself picking up the poker from the fireplace.
There was definitely somebody coming down the stairs. A young Nepali man charged into the room. He was brandishing a curved blade above his head, shouting something that Freda could not understand because her Babel app was switched off.
The man continued to shout, standing in the middle of the room and gesturing towards the front door.
“Hey, that’s my knife,” said Gopal in English.
The young man hesitated for a moment and Gopal used it as an opportunity to dive at him, pinning the man to the ground. Gopal knocked the knife out of the man’s hand. Freda advanced towards the wrestling pair, ready to use the poker if the man wriggled free.
A woman launched herself at Freda from just behind the doorway while Freda was focused on the two men. Freda’s ankle twisted awkwardly. She tried to beat the woman off with the tool but could not swing it properly. The woman backed away from Freda. As she did so, her foot touched the dropped knife. She bent down to pick it up. Freda was hobbling, unable to put weight on the sprained ankle. She swung the poker, but the woman dodged out of the way and grinned as she slashed the knife in front of her.
For a moment everyone was still. The quiet sound of panting breaths was interrupted by a baby’s cry from upstairs. The woman’s eyebrows creased and she glanced back towards the stairs. The young man’s face went bright red as he forced himself out from under Gopal’s grasp.
“What is going on here?” asked Freda.
Gopal said something that Freda could not understand to the man and woman. They replied in the same language and then the three of them conversed a little more. The woman dropped the knife. Gopal turned to look at Freda. “That’s their child upstairs. They thought we’d come to take away their daughter. They’ve been squatting here for a few weeks.”
By the time Rabten had returned with some food, the couple had explained their situation. A relationship that neither family had welcomed. An unexpected pregnancy. And a job that barely paid enough to feed and clothe them. The man had walked home from work many times past Gopal’s house and had noticed it was unoccupied. After the baby had been born, they had run away from their families and had been squatting here ever since.
“What do you think?” asked Gopal to Rabten. They were speaking English so they could discuss the couple’s future openly in front of them.
“They seem nice. Sleeping rough with young baby, not nice,” replied Rabten.
“This isn’t a hotel. We don’t have a spare room.”
“I sleep on couch, it’s OK.” The ex-monk bent down and patted the sofa.
“Maybe they could look after the house when you’re away on missions,” suggested Freda. Rabten nodded.
Gopal’s shoulders sagged. “OK, OK, you win. They get to stay.” He held out his hand to the young man who shook it vigorously. The young woman smiled and wiped away a tear.
For the next couple of days, Gopal, Rabten and the young Nepali couple fussed around the house, tidying and stocking up on essential supplies. The couple had been trying to keep their presence a secret when they were squatting here, so had never dared light a fire, open curtains or even use the lights. There was quite a collection of dirt and rubbish to expunge. Freda spent that time resting. During the brief wrestle with the young woman Freda had sprained her ankle badly.
Although Rabten seemed happy sleeping on the couch, Freda could sense that Gopal was starting to regret letting the couple stay. He had given his own bedroom to Freda, so he was sharing the sitting room with Rabten. On the third morning, Gopal had gone upstairs to wash but returned straight away, muttering under his breath.
“Why don’t you and Rabten go for a hike in the hills? Get some space. Enjoy the weather, savour your homeland,” said Freda.
“What’ll you do?” he replied.
“Stay here and keep an eye on things. Besides, my ankle’s still sore. I can check in with Wardle. See what they need us for next.”
Gopal had not needed much persuading. His hiking gear was packed within half an hour. He left some local currency for Freda and the couple to use while they wer
e gone. Freda warned him to keep a low profile, in case the Russians or the Terror Formers were still searching for them.
Gopal had managed to coax Joanna, his old 4x4, into life and dragged it west to the Annapurna conservation area. The snow on the slopes was surprisingly deep for this time of year. The peaks of the mountains here were white all year round, but there must have been some freak storms while they’d been away to get thick snow at such low altitude.
The pair of OD agents set off from a local village, leaving Joanna behind, to climb the white slopes. As Gopal turned to admire the view down the valley, he noticed an unusual movement. One of the pylons carrying electricity to the village fell, landing almost on top of a building in the centre of the settlement. Rabten turned to watch too as the crashing noise reverberated up the mountainside. There was a blue spark and then flashes of yellow. Gopal and Rabten had already started to run back down the slope when the flames began to lick around the building next to the fallen pylon.
By the time they had returned to the village, most of the residents were crowding around the fire. Women were wailing, tearing at their hair, some having to be held back from the flames by the men. The only entrance to the building had been blocked by the pylon and the fire had taken hold all around the wooden building. Barely audible above the crackle of the flames and the anguished yells of the women, there were more voices crying out. High-pitched, hysterical shrieks. Children were stuck inside, soon to be burnt alive.
Rabten tried to get close enough to smash a window, but the heat from the fire drove him back. Gopal stood there, almost transfixed by the pitiful sight. There were no emergency services that could get here in time. He looked around, desperately hoping for an idea. Something. His face creased and he took a deep breath, nodding to himself.
“Tell the villagers to clear the square. I’m going to bring down the mountain,” he shouted to Rabten, running towards his jeep. He jumped in and revved the engine. “Don’t let me down now, Joanna.”
Gopal drove the 4x4 up the mountainside, skittering along a snowy path that snaked back and forth. He kept glancing back at the village, checking on the progress of the flames and Rabten’s efforts to clear people away. As the path crossed above a large area of virgin snow, Gopal stopped the vehicle. He stroked the dashboard and kissed the steering wheel. Getting out, he tore a strip of cloth from his shirt and wrapped it around a stick. He opened up the petrol cap and poked the stick inside. Once it had soaked up some fuel, Gopal twisted the cloth around the stick once more, angling it to form a long wick. He jammed it into the petrol tank. Lighting the end, he ran for cover.
Before he could get a safe distance, the jeep exploded. Gopal was lifted off his feet and sailed through the air. He landed in a pile of snow, scraping his hands and knees on the stone beneath. He sat up and knocked the side of his head with his hand, trying to get rid of the ringing sound in his ears. Looking up he smiled as he saw the snowfield accelerating down the hill, heading straight for the middle of the village. His view quickly disappeared as fine powdery snow filled the air.
The sound in his ears stopped, and he realised that the noise of the avalanche had stopped too. The air began to clear. Between puffy clouds of white powder, he could see the roof of the wooden building and the end of the pylon sticking out of a new heap of snow. The flames were out. Gopal got to his feet and started to run down the hill. The villagers had re-appeared and were already digging the snow away, desperate to get to their children.
By the time they had cleared an entrance to the building, the emergency services had arrived. And then came the press. The villagers were quick to praise Gopal’s heroic efforts. His hands were scraped raw and there was a trickle of blood coming from his left ear as he stood in front of the cameras, explaining how he’d got the avalanche started. The cameras were there as the children were pulled free of the buried village hall. The men in the village lifted Gopal onto their shoulders and marched him around, cheering their saviour. The short film even made the national TV that evening. Hardly the low profile that Freda had suggested.
A computer on the far side of the world analysed the footage, among the thousands of news clips it examined throughout the world, all day and every day. Its facial recognition software found a match and an alert was pinged to its operator.
CHAPTER 15
North Korea
A convoy of vehicles drove out of a vast underground cavern, through a heavily guarded entrance, into the darkness of night. The Milky Way spread its brilliance across a sky unspoiled by any light pollution. One of the guards at the gate looked up briefly and was shocked when he glanced back down to look through the big glass windows of the truck’s cabin. It was empty. The drivers of the armoured vehicles in front and behind the truck were human, but unable to acknowledge the guard from the slits in their thick-skinned cars. And their passengers were locked inside windowless steel boxes, too busy checking weapons to worry about lonely sentries or the astronomical delights above them.
The driver of the armoured vehicle at the front of the convoy was following the route given to him at the last minute in a sealed envelope. The roads were clear, of course. It had been a long time since non-military vehicles had been given a fuel allowance. UN sanctions still counted for something these days. There had been a brief surge in traffic when sanctions were temporarily lifted in 2020. But then the North Koreans had re-started their nuclear research and the world had noticed.
Rumbling through the countryside, the driver was concentrating on the map and his restricted view of the road. It would have been much easier to drive with the turret fully open, but the orders from on high were typically paranoid. ‘Remain buttoned-up for the whole journey.’ Such paranoia back-fired on this occasion because the lead vehicle simply never noticed when the huge covered truck behind slipped off the designated route.
The computer controlling the truck did not notice the deviation either. The Chinese equivalent of the GPS network, the Beidou-3, had been hastily re-assembled after the Great Flux had destroyed all of the satellites in the `20s. Now the robot driver was using the system to ensure it stuck to the precise route programmed into its software. What the computer did not realise was that the real signals from satellites overhead were being overwhelmed by a powerful nearby transmission. The false positioning data forced the truck to veer off course without even realising anything was wrong.
The plan to hijack this truck had one weakness. The armoured car tailing the truck had not been given route instructions. The driver had been told simply to follow the truck in front. But there was a chance that, as the truck turned off the main road, this driver might notice that the first armoured car had driven straight on. A slim chance, given the limited peripheral vision afforded by the driving slits, and on this occasion a chance that went begging.
The driverless truck continued on its way to a destination that seemed correct, but was by now miles off course. The computer onboard did not care that the armoured vehicle in front had gone. These were not part of its instructions. Finally, it stopped in a deserted lay-by. The tailing armoured car tried to radio to its companion vehicle. But the signal that was overwhelming Beidou-3 on board the truck was also blocking radio communications. The source of all this interference was a black van that had been tailing the convoy for the past 25 kilometres. The van driver’s night-vision goggles ensured there was no need for headlights and without any roadside lights, the dark vehicle was almost invisible under the moonless sky.
The leader in the black van was called Ivan ‘Shagger’ Jenkins and he was used to working deep inside hostile territory. Long-range reconnaissance with the Australian Special Air Service Regiment had been a job once, one with transferrable skills as it turned out. He clicked a button on his wrist tab and a timer began to glow with accumulated seconds. “Right team. Eight minutes, maximum.”
Doors to the black van opened, and the five occupants dropped to the ground in silence. They hurried over to the armoured vehicle and one of the
m threw a gas canister in through the driver’s slit. Another one of the team welded the rear doors shut. As the top hatch of the turret popped open, two arms reached up and dropped grenades into the vehicle. The dull crump of explosions and a slight shift of the armoured car on its wheels were the only external signs of lives cut short.
The now defenceless truck surrendered its cargo in silence. Ivan hissed orders to the rest of the team. Two of the thieves unclipped the cables and threw back the tarpaulin, uncovering a pair of aluminium crates. A third person ran a Geiger counter over the two boxes. A spike registered for one of them; nothing worse than the equivalent of a full CT scan. Dosimeter badges on the robbers’ clothes showed that they would be keeping a careful watch on their exposure. A fourth member of the team had, by now, strapped on an exo-skeleton and made short work of lifting the crates into the black van. Ivan looked at his watch. Seven and a half minutes. He surveyed the scene and nodded. The combination locks on the crates could be dealt with later. Right now, the entire country’s armed forces would be mounting a search for a missing nuclear warhead.
Ivan slammed the rear doors closed and ran to the passenger door. “It is time to disappear, people. Let’s rock and roll.”
CHAPTER 16
Birmingham
Wardle read Captain Hamilton’s report on ESCO. The medical research facilities certainly seemed capable of producing a new strain of the Ebola virus. But proving any link would be nigh on impossible. Their headquarters were well protected. Hamilton’s cover had been blown and his drone destroyed. Another mission heading for failure. Wardle’s counterpart in MI6 would, no doubt, take great delight in pointing this out to the bureaucrats. He could see Wrenshaw’s smug face even now, that caterpillar he called a moustache curled into a grin. The desk creaked as Wardle’s fist crashed onto the surface.
But then the rage subsided. Hamilton had been lucky to get out alive from the sounds of it. Maybe letting him go had revealed a weakness. Perhaps the head of ESCO, Mattias Larsson, was so supremely confident in his own safety that he felt he could toy with members of the British secret service. In hubris there was still hope. Wardle opened up another report.