by David Barker
She logged into the OD system and thought about the investigation into the Canary Island debacle. She realised that the inquiry had not known about the possible link to ESCO at that point. It gave her an idea. She checked the airport logs for the Canary Islands around the time that the Club Of Rome had caught some of the Terror Formers. She focused in on private jets and cross referenced them to arrivals from Sweden. There was one, a Challenger 650, that had arrived from Kiruna airport, landing at the Canary Islands one week before the COR mission. Twelve passengers. It had returned to Sweden the day after the mission, empty. She re-read the investigation into that mission. Ten bodies recovered, two had escaped in hydras. The numbers added up.
Freda looked up a picture of the billionaire founder of ESCO. Mattias Larsson. She stared at the face, memorising every detail. I’m coming for you, Larsson.
Freda spent the next hour ordering as many gin and tonics as she could. She poured half of them away once the cabin crew weren’t watching, but had a couple to taint her breath. And frankly to steady her nerves. As the plane flew over St Petersburg and crossed the Baltic Sea, Freda flipped out. She started swearing. When a steward asked her to calm down, she pushed him out of the way and ran forward. She bashed on the door to the flight deck. Even started yelling about a bomb on board. An armed Air Marshall magically appeared and pulled a gun on her. Freda was handcuffed. But she had got what she needed. The plane was going to make an emergency landing at Stockholm.
As soon as it touched down, fire trucks surrounded the airplane and inflatable slides were used to evacuate the passengers as quickly as possible. Freda was bundled into the back of an airport security van. It took half an hour for the interrogators to believe who she said she was and bother to check her ID with the UK authorities.
“Of all the idiotic things to do, Brightwell, this really takes the biscuit.” Freda had been allowed to make a holive call to Wardle and the small hologram projection of her boss was conveying the full blast of his fury. “The Swedish government will be sending us a huge bill for that stunt. And if the airline presses charges...”
“But—”
“The auditors are hauling me over the coals already. They’re just going to love it when they hear about this. I need you to—”
This time it was Freda’s turn to interrupt. Before Wardle could finish his instructions, she terminated the call. If he ever followed up on this conversation, she would claim the Swedes had made it time-limited. Freda did not care about budgets and spreadsheets. She had the link between ESCO and the Terror Formers. Maybe it would hold up in a court of law, maybe it wouldn’t. She had no intention of waiting around for some legal battle and the risk of a fancy lawyer protecting that bastard. She had the man in her sights. She went shopping in Stockholm and caught a train to Kiruna.
Freda stepped off the train in a new outfit, carrying some improvised kit. She thought about booking into a hotel, to wait while her body dealt with the jet lag. She needed to be razor sharp if she was going to pull this off. But they would probably be monitoring the local hotel registers. It wasn’t worth giving them extra time to prepare. A couple of stim pills would have to do the trick.
She caught a taxi out to the headquarters of ESCO and, when she got to the gate, asked to see Mr Larsson.
“Have you got an appointment?” asked the guard.
Freda shook her head from the back of the vehicle.
“Sorry, no admittance without a prior booking.”
“He’ll want to see me,” said Freda.
“They all say that.”
“Tell Mr Larsson that there’s a member of British Intelligence on his front door step and if he doesn’t let me in right now, I’m coming back with a dozen fully-armed hydras in twenty-five minutes. We’ll tear a nice big hole in his fancy fortress so next time we want to come visit, we won’t have to ask snivelling little shits like you. Capisce?”
A hurried conversation on the intercom ensued and the barriers were raised. The taxi dropped Freda off at the front entrance and Precious Osundare was waiting to escort her into the building.
“Welcome, Ms Brightwell. This is indeed an honour to receive such a distinguished guest. If only we’d had some warning we could’ve prepared you a meal, some entertainment.” She ushered Freda into the main atrium and then down some spiral stairs.
“You Larsson’s secretary, then?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that.”
“Oh, I’ll bet it is.”
Precious smiled with her lips tight. “If you’d be so good as to hand over your gun to Frederik, please. Then we can have a nice civilised chat.” Two armed guards had appeared from a hidden passage and stood blocking the way to a conference room beyond.
Freda reached inside her jacket. The guards raised their firearms.
“Easy fellas,” she said, pulling her gun out slowly and releasing the clip. She flipped the gun around and handed it to the guard on the left. The men retreated and Precious led Freda into the conference room.
“So, I am wondering. To what do we owe this pleasure?”
“I came here to talk to Mr Larsson, in person.”
“What I am saying is that this is not possible.”
“Lots of things seem impossible, until you try. I’m here to talk about the Terror Formers. About Moon Lab One. About Sim Atkins.”
“Was he a colleague of yours? I understand he met with an unfortunate ending quite recently. Such a tragic loss. You were close, once, weren’t you? Before he married.”
“You seem very well informed about Overseas Division.”
“That is our job, Ms Brightwell. Basically, we stay on top of developments all over the world. Protecting our clients. Keeping them safe.”
“Sounds like the mafia to me. Protection money? Oldest con in the book. Only you don’t bother squeezing the little purses, just the big fat juicy ones, right?”
“Nobody forces our clients to sign up. They’re welcome to leave at any time.”
“Enough with the bullshit.” Freda stood up and moved towards the door.
Precious followed her. “Well, this has been fun. Hopefully not a complete waste of your time. Shall I get one of our drivers to take you back?”
“Oh, I didn’t say I was leaving.” As Freda reached the door, she yanked a metallic cord from out of her belt. Turning quickly, she jabbed Precious in the solar plexus. As the other woman bent forward, she lashed her foot out, trying to knock Freda off balance. Freda dodged the attack and wrapped the cord around her neck. Precious gasped and tried to get her fingers between throat and cord. She kicked out backwards with her heels, but Freda was too quick.
“I think Mr Larsson will see me now,” Freda whispered into her victim’s ear. She maintained the pressure on Precious’ throat but did not tighten it further. The woman was not asphyxiating, not yet. Freda could hear her rasping breaths. She dragged Precious out into the corridor outside the conference room.
Two guards appeared, maybe the same two who had taken Freda’s gun from her. They raised their guns and aimed. Freda made sure Precious was between her and the guards. “Stand down,” she shouted.
Another man appeared from a side passage. Freda recognised him at once. Mattias Larsson. “Stand down, or what Ms Brightwell? What will you do if my men refuse to cooperate?”
“She dies.”
“Really? It takes more than a few seconds to crush somebody’s windpipe, you know. Even with a steel cord like you’re using. Our research suggests fourteen seconds, minimum. Plenty of time for the guards to shoot you.”
“The cord’s just holding her in place. The poisoned tip concealed in my bracelet is what’s going to kill her. Unless I get some cooperation right now.” Freda pulled a bit tighter on the cord. Precious gasped and her fingers trapped under the cord began to bleed.
Mattias turned to look at his guards. In a mock whisper, loud enough for everybody to hear, he said. “She’s bluffing.” He turned back to face the British agent. “Go a
head, Freda. Once you’ve killed Precious, let’s see how far you get. We have the whole thing on camera. ‘Mad woman kills at ESCO headquarters. Guards have to use deadly force to protect rest of staff.’ I can see the headlines now. Won’t look good for Director Wardle, will it?”
Freda squeezed the cord again as she stared into Larsson’s eyes. And then she let go. Precious threw the cord down, turned around to face her attacker and punched Freda in the stomach. It was Freda’s turn to double-up. The guards rushed forward and used the cord to bind her wrists.
“So basically, you were going to let her kill me?”
Mattias looked at his partner, deadpan. “Precious, really. We have the most advanced lab in the world right beneath our feet. Developing every conceivable antidote. How much danger were you in?”
Precious sucked air through her teeth.
Mattias approached the British agent. Freda yanked on the cord around her wrists and kicked out. One of the guards hauled back on the wire, while the other crashed a baton into the back of one of her knees. Freda collapsed to the floor, head bowed low. Mattias bent down and lifted up her chin until she was looking into his face. “This does seem all very rash of you, Ms Brightwell. You’re normally so calm and rational. At least that’s what your OD assessments keep saying. Of course, I’ve not read them all… Maybe something has upset you recently? It couldn’t be related to the death of a certain Sim Atkins, could it?”
Freda pulled her chin away from his hand and looked sideways as blood dripped from her wrists where the cord had bitten deep.
“It must have been painful when he chose Rosie McDonald over you. Even more so when he said yes to Elsa Greenwood on Marinus.”
Freda hauled herself upwards. She lowered her eyebrows, pursed her lips together and tried to burrow her gaze straight through the forehead of her tormentor.
Sim was heading out of the building. Exhausted after just a couple of hours sleep. Plagued by indecision about Linnéa, whether he should confess his true purpose in being here in the hope that she would help. All he had to show for the break-in at night was the information about a hidden shelter in the middle of the Norwegian Sea. He needed to relay that information to Wardle as soon as possible. But was it enough? He doubted it.
He’d been walking along with his head down, watching his feet, in a semi-trance. A noise in the corridor up ahead made him look up. A woman was being frog-marched away by a couple of guards. He squinted and then shook his head. Must be seeing things. I’ve got Freda on the brain at the moment. A nosy journalist?
He remembered he had left something on his desk. He jogged back to the office, all the while wondering about the woman he’d just seen. It couldn’t have been, could it? He pushed open the door to his office.
“Linnéa? I just saw a woman being escorted out of the building by a couple of guards. Practically dragging her off. You don’t know what’s going on, do you?”
She looked up from her screen. “Hmm, could be an industrial spy, though they tend to try hacking in these days. Probably just some journalist poking their nose around. Trying for a scoop. You’d be surprised how many we get.”
“What will happen to them?” Sim asked.
“Oh, just driven back to town. Put on the first plane out of here, I expect.”
“That’s all?”
“What do you think we are? A bunch of thugs?”
CHAPTER 32
Sim ran out of the building towards the main gate where a vehicle was waiting to be let out. It looked as though there were two men in the front seats, but no sign of Freda. The barriers were just being raised as Sim got close. Before the vehicle pulled away, he heard a muffled cry and a thump from the boot of the car.
One of the guards at the gate spotted Sim. “Oi! Where do you think you’re going?”
“On an errand, need to pick something up from town.” Sim flashed his staff card to him.
“New, aren’t you? Planning on walking?” The guard kept walking closer, finger resting on the trigger guard of his machine gun.
Sim tensed, ready to leap at the man if he came any closer. He couldn’t afford to lose sight of that car.
The guard reached into his pocket and tossed a key to Sim, nodding towards some cross-country motorbikes off to the side. “You can borrow one of our patrol bikes, mate. But make sure it’s back by six, alright?”
Sim grinned at the man. “Sure. Thanks.” He jumped on the nearest bike, gave it a kick start and span it around with a squeal of the rear wheel. He revved the engine and zoomed off as soon as the guard had raised the barrier. Sim tried to remember his way back to the main road. He hunched himself low over the handle bars and opened the throttle even more. He caught sight of the car just as it was leaving Old Kiruna, pulling out onto the E10. But instead of turning left towards the new town, the car went right. Sim followed, pulling out in front of a large truck that slewed as the driver slammed on the brakes. Lights flashed in Sim’s wing mirrors as he accelerated.
Sim was still trying to blink away the dazzle of the truck’s headlights when he saw the car pulling off the main road again. Left, towards the mining operation. On the near side of the Kiirunavaara peak there was a big wedge-shaped chunk missing, as if some giant had buried a hatchet into the side of the mountain. To the left of the indentation, a gentle slope. To the right, a steep incline and then a plateau. The low evening sun cast long shadows over the left-hand face of the peak. There were some buildings up on the plateau, set just back from the edge. Sim could see steam rising from a few of them.
The car followed a trail around the back of the small mountain. Sim tailed at a distance. There was a train track leading off to the west. It seemed to start inside the large hill, though Sim could not see the hole where it disappeared. On this side, there was a steep slope up towards the buildings on the flattened peak. Sim saw sections of a twisting road that led up to the processing plants. But the ESCO car stopped short of that. The two men got out. Sim threw his bike on the ground and lay flat. Damn this evening sun. The whole side of this mountain was bathed in a warm orange glow. How was he going to get close?
The driver opened the boot of the car and gestured with his gun. A woman struggled out, hands tied behind her back. No doubting it now, it was Freda. Her strawberry blonde hair was much longer than he remembered, tied into a tight plait. But even now, she still held herself with such poise. She probably had some cunning plan to get herself out of this. That would be just like her. But Sim wasn’t going to test that theory. His fists clenched as the guards pushed her towards the hill.
One of the men began to climb the slope, while the other prodded Sim’s old partner in the back with the barrel of his gun, getting her to follow the first man. Sim waited until they had gained some height and ran over to the car. He crouched behind it while the other three continued their ascent. As he watched them climb, Sim searched desperately for a route up that would not be in plain sight of the guards. “Fuck.” There was absolutely no cover at all.
He ran back to the bike, hauled it up and started the engine. Sim raced the bike around the curve of the mountain, until the sun’s rays were casting oblique shadows across its face. He drove off the road and began to climb the slope, bouncing over the rutted surface and skidding on loose scree. He had lost sight of the guards and Freda but that meant they could not spot him either. Sim just hoped that they were heading for the industrial complex. If they shot Freda halfway up the slope… it didn’t bear thinking about.
Even on a motorbike, the hill was hard work, avoiding the boulders and the deep ruts. Sim regularly rode his Triumph Sprint around the sinuous roads of Sutherland, but it had been many years since he had been dirt-biking. The old skills were there, rusty perhaps, but urged on by Freda’s peril he was remembering them fast.
When he got near the peak, Sim left the bike and covered the last two hundred metres on foot. Crouching low, he could see the three people just nearing the peak too, a little to his right. Straight ahead was a series of b
uildings, all laid out along the same North-South axis. The first few formed two sides of a triangle and then several behind followed in a row, as if the whole grey complex described the outline of a ship. The impression was continued by an orange conveyor belt that was feeding rubble into the heart of one of the buildings halfway down the ship’s hull, like a gangplank.
The thugs were leading Freda towards the nearest building. There was a rough-cast car park between them and the building. As they started to cross it, a miner appeared in dirty overalls. The thug behind Freda threw his hand over her mouth and dragged her behind one of the parked cars. The other one ducked behind a closer car and raised his gun. The miner did not see them, too busy trying to light a cigarette while admiring the amber sun, low in the sky. After a few drags of nicotine, he got into a beaten-up black car and headed down the hill.
Sim had crept closer to the man guarding Freda, while their attention had been fixed on the miner. But he was not quite close enough to spring an attack by the time the worker had left. The thugs continued to frog march Freda towards the nearest building and Sim’s chance had gone, for now. At least he had more cover, from the cars, containers and outbuildings that dotted this part of the industrial complex. The noises from the machinery masked any sound Sim was making on the gravel and the guards were watching for movement from the buildings ahead. He stayed close, hoping for another chance to strike.
In the distance, Sim could see more workers entering and leaving buildings at the far end of the processing plant. He noticed the men guarding Freda were proceeding more cautiously too, by now. They made their way to a door in the side of the first building. It looked like a fire escape. There was a window next to it. One of the guards stared through the glass for a few seconds. He raised his gun and smashed it into the window, butt first. After clearing away the shards, he climbed through the opening. A moment later, the door was opened from the inside and Freda was pushed into the building.