by Gary Baker
'This is … ' he began but a lightening fast punch to his throat from Mr Grey Hair stopped him. The young soldier was momentarily paralysed, more than enough time for Miss Scotland to push an eight inch blade deep into his heart. Mr Grey Hair caught him as he fell, dragged him across the floor and used his body to block the door they had entered through. Anyone following them would have a hard time opening that one.
Roger stood rooted to the spot transfixed by the ooze of thick blood draining from the body. Roger B marvelled at how quietly and how fast the young soldier had died when the blade had sliced through his heart. Roger C could only think; Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
A slap from Mr Grey Hair rattled Roger's head leaving a fierce sting on his cheek.
'I'm okay,' said Roger.
Mr Grey Hair repeated the question that Roger had missed; 'Can you confirm: left down the tunnel, fourth door on the right.'
Roger relayed Jennifer's instructions, 'Left down the tunnel, fourth door on the right.'
The four moved cautiously along the tunnel in single file. They synchronised, in step, heads pirouetting in unison. There's that word again, thought Roger. Comical.
The tunnel smelled of wet concrete. A light breeze from behind urged them on. Distant voices and harsh clangs galloped along the overhead pipes. Their soft rubber soles crunched on the gritty floor.
Mr Grey Hair led the way, counting doors under his breath.
Four! The door was locked but once again gave way to the persuasive Mr Grey Hair and Miss Scotland.
This room looked familiar. The smell of hot electronics, the low humming noise, Roger recognised this room filled with equipment. The cabinets with the PDMX's were on the far wall. Roger opened the floor to ceiling cabinet door. There they were. He would need a … Roger opened his rucksack and found what he needed with surprise.
'Excellent,' he said. It was a small hand held computer with a cable and plug attached. Roger inserted the plug into a socket on the front panel of the top PDMX. He tapped some keys as the small screen sprang into life.
'Do you have the ID?' asked Miss Scotland.
'The Mux ID,' said Roger, reading from the small screen, 'is 8801'
Miss Scotland pulled out several envelopes settling on one with 8801 printed on the front. She opened it and handed the single sheet to Roger. Roger scanned the page.
'A four hour delay? Okay,' he said turning back to the small computer screen. 'I need the telemetry bit number for bid 7 on slot 23'
'Four,' Jennifer said into Roger's ear piece.
Roger entered the number. A stream of encrypted data flowed across the miniature screen. Roger inserted numeric codes into key portions of the list of symbols. An alarm sounded. The lights turned red.
Mr Auxiliary made a low noise at the doorway that could have been a curse.
'You've tripped the alarm!' said Mr Grey Hair.
'No, I definitely haven't,' said Roger. 'They must have found the body.'
'We must extract to room two!' said Mr Grey Hair urgently.
'One second,' said Roger tapping the keys, 'If I don't update the E-Squared the new instructions will be lost on re-boot.'
The three stood by as Roger tapped on the keys. Mr Auxiliary inhaled audibly several times as if to speak but said nothing.
'Done!' Roger said at last. He packed away the hand held computer and closed the cabinet doors. 'Ready,' he said.
The tunnel, now bathed in red light, was empty save for the sounds of shouting, stamping feet and a distant klaxon. Noises that were seemingly far off but getting closer. Miss Scotland closed and locked the door while Mr Grey Hair and Mr Auxiliary moved to the next door along the tunnel. Without pausing, the two men raised their booted feet and kicked open the door, smashing the lock and splintering the frame. Roger felt the hideous noise was snatched up by the overhead pipes and flung away in both directions down the tunnel to shout: 'They're here, they're here!' Mr Grey Hair went inside and Roger could hear the crash of equipment being thrown to the floor.
Mr Grey Hair emerged. 'Red herring in place,' he said. 'Now let's extract.'
Adrenaline was making Roger's left knee shake. What a strange turn of phrase these guys have, thought Roger, stiffening his leg to calm its motion. The tension in his face made the side of his head hurt.
*
Pursued by shouts and stamping feet, the four jogged further along the tunnel. Mr Grey Hair took point with Mr Auxiliary at the rear running backwards for the most part. Roger followed closely behind Miss Scotland who had, he noticed, a very acceptable arse. But what was she carrying. Bloody hell. They were all carrying a short assault rifle. Roger felt in his rucksack. No gun. He was about to complain about his lack of weapon when a familiar chuck, chuck, chuck sound caused his heart to miss a beat. He recognised that sound from the firing range. That was only yesterday. Mr Grey Hair was firing his weapon in shot bursts. Jesus, Jesus. Stay calm.
They did not slow their pace, coming at last to a fallen uniformed figure. Roger tried to step over his bloodied form but the soldier opened his eyes and grabbed Roger's ankle in a grip of astonishing strength. Mr Auxiliary brought the butt of his rifle down hard into the young man's face smashing through his teeth and left cheekbone. The grip released and Roger was free to catch up with Miss Scotland. Behind him, the noise of pursuit seemed only yards away.
Chuck, chuck, chuck. Mr Grey Hair was firing again.
They were running at full stretch now. Roger jumped over another fallen soldier. Twisting and turning through the maze of doors and tunnels. Mr Grey Hair led the way knowing exactly where he was going.
Miss Scotland stopped in her tracks, spun and hauled Roger back as they ducked into an alcove. Pushed their backs against the wall. Weapons ready and breaths held. Six or seven armed soldiers ran past them.
The crunching boot steps faded and the four carried on for another twenty yards or so, stopping at a large green metal door. Miss Scotland pushed what looked like a cordless drill into the lock. A grinding whirr and the door popped open.
Through the door was a dead soldier, his eyes, mouth and throat open to the damp air.
A familiar figure leant and wiped blood off his knife onto the dead soldier's fatigues then stood and led them up some stairs, through three doors, collecting other team members as they ran. Finally, with daylight ahead, they stowed all weapons in their rucksacks and sauntered into the open air.
Roger recognised Horse Guard's Parade. I think I may be getting the hang of this staying calm business, he thought as his heart rate began to subside and he got his breathing under control. Wish I'd brought my camera.
Miss Scotland had brought hers. Mr Grey Hair posed next to a mounted Guardsman as Miss Scotland took his picture. Roger could see the back of Mr Auxiliary heading down Whitehall. The others had gone, dispersing among the evening tourists.
Roger felt an uneasy calm, told himself he'd enjoyed the excitement, pushed away images of dead and dying young Englishmen. Dismissive thoughts that rubbed and pressed like someone else's shoes.
He listened to the sirens crying around Trafalgar Square and watched Mr Grey Hair and Miss Scotland do the tourist thing. His thoughts turned back to the pictures the encrypted data from the PDMX had conjured in his mind and to what he had done with the data. That PDMX was a primary, secure node on the Internet Backbone as it passed through the United Kingdom. Hundreds of millions of transactions passed through it; and devices like it at other key locations around London. A significant proportion of the World's trillions of dollars of transactional revenue carried out on the Internet was now being diverted to a set of Swiss Holding accounts and held for four hours before being released back into the transaction stream. This additional delay, on top of the deliberate delay introduced by the banking systems themselves, would go unnoticed. Perhaps for years to come. The interest accruing would be … a number popped into his mind.
Roger was impressed. The KOPALDA had prepared, organised and, of course, recruited, with exceptional skill. Tha
t had been a very interesting exercise, but there had to more to it than he was privy to.
An unease crept into Roger's thoughts. Would they need him from now on?
A voice disturbed him. 'Do you need me anymore?' Jennifer asked.
'I don't know,' he replied. 'I really don't know.'
*
A tube journey, train and taxi ride, found Roger, Miss Scotland and Mr Grey Hair at the rear of a very dark Biggin Hill Airfield.
During the trip from Central London, the image of the young soldier's face replayed across Roger's mind. The moment when Miss Scotland's blade entered his heart, when life turned to death. The young soldier's teeth bared like a grimacing dog.
Roger briefly considered making a run for it. But the thought of hiding from an organisation with the resources that The KOPALDA clearly commanded would be foolish. Better to stick around. Maybe make himself useful again.
They dismissed the taxi and, when it had disappeared, Mr Grey Hair pulled out a small torch. The beam picked out a four bar gate. They clambered over and approached a prefabricated hut with a single glowing window.
A door on the side opened before they got there and a dark figure stood outlined against the yellow interior. 'There's an hour to kill yet so there's coffee in here for you.' It was Meadhill.
Roger was last into the hut and took a seat beside Mr Grey Hair and Miss Scotland.
'Let me take those,' said Meadhill, holding his hands out for the rucksacks. They all handed the bags over and Meadhill placed them on a table on the other side of the hut. A small television on the end of the table was tuned to the news. Pictures showed police cars parked haphazardly around the Admiralty Building and ambulances sirening away past Admiralty Arch. A moving headline along the bottom of the screen said: Terrorist attack on MoD foiled. The voiceover explained how an armed gang of terrorists had killed three brave young soldiers and critically injured two others while attempting to steal mortars and rocket propelled grenades from secure bunkers beneath the MoD buildings in Whitehall. Questions were being raised as to why such weapons were being kept in the centre of London. Meadhill clicked a button on the front of the television. The channel changed and a programme playing old popular music favourites had Lulu belting out her signature song.
'Say!- Say that you love me
Say!- Say that you need me'
When Meadhill turned round he had an automatic pistol with silencer in his hand. Without hesitation he shot Miss Scotland in the face.
'Say!- Say that you want me'
Mr Grey Hair was half way across the floor to Meadhill when a bullet hit him in the sternum punching a large black hole as big as an open hand out of his back splattering Roger with blood, flesh and bone fragments.
Mr Grey Hair crashed to the floor skidding on his face to within an inch of Meadhill's boot.
'Say!- Aint gonna grieve me'
Meadhill shot him unnecessarily through the back of the head. Mr Grey Hair's mangled head bounced and lay still. Mr Grey Hair no longer. Mr Red Hair.
'Say!- Oh come on now'
Meadhill noisily sucked excess saliva through his teeth, switched off the television and turned towards Roger, saw the look on his face and quickly placed the gun down on the table behind him.
Roger believed he was going to die. In the moment before Meadhill put down the gun, Roger thought that no matter what he did now, it was the end. In a moment of epiphanous clarity, Roger saw himself embedded in a Universe whose only hope to continue, was in the lives and minds it created, which could somehow, sometime, figure out how to carry the seed of this Universe into another place. Intelligence was the Universe's way of trying to guarantee its own survival. I thought your life was supposed to flash before your eyes, thought Roger B, what the hell was that? Roger C screamed, say something! in his head. Tell him you know how to win the lottery! Anything!
Meadhill held his hands in front of his body, palms turned down. 'Don't worry,' he said. 'Just tidying up … loose ends. You are not, and never will be, a loose end. Okay?'
Roger blinked back from the abyss and looked down at himself. 'I'm covered in blood,' he said. 'Can I wash somewhere.'
'No problem,' said Meadhill, 'There's a shower and a full change of clothing through there.'
Roger went to a door where Meadhill pointed. There was a shower, towels, clothes and a toilet into which Roger vomited.
When Roger was ready, Meadhill led him out onto the dark airfield to a small Cessna aircraft. Meadhill climbed into the pilot's seat instructing Roger to take the co-pilot's position. Meadhill started the engine and taxied out onto the runway. Without requesting clearance or making radio contact of any kind, Meadhill gunned the engine and made the little aircraft roar into the night sky.
'Can we get to Blackpool non-stop?' asked Roger looking down at the speckled islands of light below him.
'And back if we wanted to,' said Meadhill. 'You relax, Mr Peerson' he said. 'Try and get some sleep.'
Chapter 9
Jennifer Penrose looked at herself in the mirror. Her head was healing. Her hair was starting to grow back. Loki was behind her! She froze, one hand touching her new hair.
How did he do this new terror? How did he manage to get in without making a sound?
'Didn't mean to startle you.' His tone said the opposite of his words. 'I've brought you something. By way of a thank you.'
He reached round to Jennifer's left and placed a box of milk chocolates on the dressing table in front of her. He reached round to her right with a Champagne flute and an open bottle of Champagne glistening with condensation.
Jennifer looked from the Champagne to the chocolates. Listened to the door closing. The lock turning.
I must still be useful, she thought.
Chapter 10
Sat with his knees clenched and arms folded, Roger slept fitfully in the little plane. During periods of full wakefulness, he looked down at the lights moving slowly below. At times, it seemed as though the droning, bumpy little cockpit was all there was. All there would ever be. The past was a dream. The cosy, secure little cocoon would carry him droning through space forever. No tomorrow. No problems.
Roger sneaked looks at Meadhill. Once again, Roger couldn't help but think of the dandruff problems Meadhill left himself open to. The greenish glow from the instruments gave Meadhill an unnatural pallor, a pallor exacerbated by black hair, black polo-neck, black trousers. His watch-strap was black. Straight nose, superman chin. Would he be considered handsome? Don't know, but he's a cold killer, no doubt about that. Seemed to kill those two without raising his heartbeat. Paused only to wipe the blood off his shoes, with a piece of kitchen-roll. A cold, sterile killer. The Sterilizer.
Blackpool airport arrived spread out ahead of them. A harsh line of white lights served to underline the jumble of orange street lighting to the North. To the East; subdued lights, a smattering here and there with a hint of dark texture, to the West; the black flat sea.
Meadhill chattered away into his microphone getting permission for this, confirming that.
There was a crosswind and, as they got closer to the landing lights on the ground, Roger realised they were swerving and pitching rather too much for comfort. They bounced once on landing before sticking to the ground and rolling along. Roger was surprised at how bumpy the runway was and could feel every crack and stone shocking up through his seat. What did they say? Any landing you can walk away from is a good one?
Meadhill taxied the Cessna into a hangar and turned off the engine.
Roger thought of the cliché 'deafening silence' as the high buzz in his ears replaced the roar of the aircraft's motor.
He shouldered open the door and jumped down on stiff legs. He walked around the front of the plane, smelt and felt the heat coming from the engine casing. He gingerly touched the propeller surprised at its coolness and offered a silent thank you to the little craft for bringing him safely back to land.
A large man in a dark suit waited outside the hangar. He le
aned casually against a black Jaguar, nodded silently to them and got into the driver's seat. Meadhill and Roger got into the back seat.
They drove, unchallenged, out of the airport then north along South Shore.
To their left, tram lines. And beyond the promenade, barrier lights picked out the piers as they strode confidently into the black seas over beaches that Roger knew were rippled by tides and currents. Undulations in the hard sand that were uncomfortable to walk on with young bare feet.
To their right the bright lights of amusement arcades, bingo halls, fish and chip shops and ice cream parlours.
Eventually they turned into an underground car park beneath a building imaginatively named The Sea View Hotel.
The driver gave Roger keys for room 608. He gave keys for room 609 to Meadhill with instructions to attend a meeting in room 808 within the hour.
Roger expected, and found, a change of clothing, a new toothbrush and a selection of toiletries. He showered for the second time in as many hours, changed into the dark clothing he found in his cupboard. The mundane activity was achieved with barely a thought passing across Roger's mind. He was ready and about to leave his room when someone knocked at his door. It was Meadhill.
'Ready?' asked Meadhill.
'Perfect timing,' said Roger.
They took the lift to the eighth floor in silence.
Room 808 turned out to be a suite. The door was answered by Mr Auxiliary.
Roger extended his hand. 'Mr Auxiliary,' he said. 'Good to see you made it okay.'
The man looked at Roger with the air of someone tolerating a small child's amusing antics. Roger's hand hung, unshaken, in midair.
'I don't know what else to call you,' explained Roger dropping his hand. Mr Auxiliary gestured for Roger and Meadhill to proceed into the lounge area of the suit.
The Captain stood up from a laptop computer to greet them. He fastened two of the buttons of the jacket of his dark suit around his generous belly.