Department 19, The Rising, and Battle Lines

by Will Hill

  “All right then,” said Jamie, slowly. “Thank you.”

  Paul Turner got up and unlocked the interview room door. The Intelligence Division Operators reappeared; they began to disconnect Jamie from the monitoring equipment as Turner held the door open, waiting for Kate. She climbed slowly to her feet and exited the room, taking great care not to make eye contact with Jamie as she did so. The Security Officer stepped past her, held open the door to the ISAT lounge, then followed her inside.

  “He’s clean,” said Turner, as soon as the door was closed behind them. “Who’s next?” His tone – businesslike, almost casual – was utterly maddening.

  “What was that?” Kate asked.

  Turner frowned. “What was what?”

  “You know what,” she said, her voice rising. “That. All that stuff about his mother and Frankenstein. Why the hell did you bring all that up?”

  Turner looked at her, and seemed to suddenly notice just how angry she was. His eyes widened and his expression softened.

  “It wasn’t anything personal, Kate,” he said. “I know Lieutenant Carpenter and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, but I have no secret desire to torment him, I promise you. I know he doesn’t believe that, but it’s the truth.”

  The Security Officer poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the desk, then poured a second and handed it to Kate. She took it without a word and waited for him to continue.

  “ISAT isn’t only about finding out what people might have done in the past,” he said, lowering himself on to the sofa and sipping his coffee. “It’s also about the future. Part of the purpose of this project is to assess whether any Operator presents a potential security risk, and the questions I asked Jamie were with that purpose in mind. I don’t believe for a second that he is, was, or is ever likely to be a traitor. I never doubted he would pass his interview, and I’m glad he did. But his circumstances present possible opportunities for leverage and I had to investigate them. Tom Morris betrayed us because Alexandru was able to offer him something that was more important to him than Blacklight. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t actually deliver it. There are things that our enemies could offer Jamie that he might want, possibly desperately, and I needed to make it clear that we know what they are.”

  “I get it, sir,” said Kate. “But that doesn’t mean I like it.”

  “I don’t either,” said Turner. “I warned you they would hate us for this, Kate. Did you think I was joking?”

  “No,” she sighed. “I knew you weren’t.”

  Turner looked closely at her. “We’ve got three more interviews before lunch,” he said. “Then eight more this afternoon. Once they’re done, I want you to take the evening off. And I mean off, you understand? Go to the mess, go for a run, go and get some sleep. Go and do anything you want, as long as it has nothing to do with all this. Now go and get your head straight; we start the next one in twenty minutes.”

  Kate nodded and headed straight for the door. She was intending to head up to Level 0 and grab a few lungfuls of fresh air, perhaps even stretch her legs for a minute or two, so she let out an audible groan when the receptionist called her name as she laid her hand on the handle of the security door.

  “Yes?” she said, turning back.

  “Someone’s asking to see you,” said the Operator behind the desk, an apologetic look on his face. “I told her you were busy, but she wanted to wait. I’m sorry, Kate.”

  “It’s OK,” she said, and forced a smile. “I’ll see her. I need a break anyway.”

  On the level below, a dark figure crouched in the centre of room 261.

  On the floor sat a plastic tub filled with a precise mixture of diesel and farm fertiliser, a combination familiar to terrorist groups throughout the world. Hanging from a metal tripod were the explosive charges of half a dozen hand grenades, carefully spaced and resting in the clear liquid. Wires ran from them to a simple trigger: a piece of copper on a hinge that would close an electrical circuit and allow current to pass into, and fire, the charges. The trigger was attached to a radio receiver; when it detected a particular aural input, it would wait three seconds, before closing the circuit.

  The dark figure armed the device and turned on the receiver. Then it slipped silently out of the room and disappeared along the corridor.

  Ninety minutes later the lift doors at one end of Level B slid open.

  The corridor in front of her was long and curved, and it took several minutes to reach the door. She unlocked the door, then paused for a second, considering, not for the first time, what a strange series of turns her life had taken in the last few months.

  She pushed the door inwards. Blinding white light filled her eyes, a tidal wave of heat and noise threw her backwards across the corridor, and everything went dark.

  24

  THE WAR ON DRUGS,

  PART THREE

  NUEVO LAREDO, MEXICO

  YESTERDAY

  “Larissa.”

  The voice was distant, floating towards her from somewhere in the emptiness. She tasted copper as she drifted back into herself, felt solid ground beneath her, and forced her eyes to open. A dark shape filled her vision, before gradually coming into focus. It was Tim Albertsson; he was looking down at her with worry on his face.

  “Tim?” she managed.

  “You’re OK,” he said, relief rippling across his features. “You’re fine, don’t worry. It’s OK.”

  Behind him, Larissa saw the rest of the Special Operations Squad. They were gathered round their squad leader, staring down at her. She pushed herself up on to her elbows and looked slowly around. She was lying on the warm grass of the walled garden, the night sky hanging low above her; she smelt the thick, coppery scent of blood, and then everything came back to her.

  The cutters. Rejon. The shotgun.

  Her eyes widened, and panic rose through her as she looked down at herself. Her uniform was shredded, blown open by the shotgun’s heavy shell. But beneath the torn fabric was only the skin of her stomach, flat and white. She touched it hesitantly with one pale hand, feeling its firm surface beneath her fingers.

  “What happened?” she asked. She felt as though she might cry with relief.

  “You passed out,” said Tim, smiling at her. “There was a hole right through you, Larissa. I’ve never… none of us has ever seen anything like it. We could see through you.”

  “Lovely,” said Larissa, softly.

  “Thankfully, Rejon had a fridge full of blood in his bar,” said Tim, holding up two empty plastic bottles. “I tipped them into your mouth. You were unconscious, but you managed to swallow it. Automatic, I guess. And then…”

  “The hole just closed up,” said Flaherty, her eyes wide with wonder. “Everything grew back, all the bones and the organs and the muscle, then new skin, and it was suddenly like nothing had ever happened.”

  “Yeah,” said Larissa. “It does that.”

  “That shot should have killed you,” said Tim.

  “But it didn’t,” said Larissa, pushing herself up on to slightly unsteady legs and smiling at her squad mates. “Believe it or not, I’ve had worse.” She was remembering the sensation of being burned alive by the ultraviolet bombs that had risen out of the grounds of the Loop when Valeri Rusmanov’s attack had seemed on the verge of success.

  “Christ,” said Rushton. He was looking at her with an expression that she thought was weirdly close to adoration. “I would not want to see what that looks like.”

  Larissa’s smile widened. “It wasn’t pretty.”

  Tim grinned, as the rest of the squad seemed to visibly relax before her eyes; their concern for her now allayed, they could belatedly enjoy the success of their mission.

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Tim. “Flaherty, take Rushton and Rios back downstairs and clean up. I want no trace that we were ever here. Then go up the way we came and relieve Frost. Rendezvous in the lobby in four minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Flaherty, and led Ru
shton and Rios back down through General Rejon’s improvised escape hole. The second they were gone, Tim stepped forward, took Larissa’s face in his gloved hands, and kissed her.

  For a long moment, she was too shocked to respond; his lips mashed furiously against her own, and she felt heat begin to creep into the corners of her eyes once more. Then clarity rushed through her and she pushed him away, harder than was necessary. He stumbled backwards, but quickly righted himself and looked at her, his cheeks flushed a deep pink.

  “Don’t do that,” she warned, her voice low.

  “I’m sorry,” he replied, staring hungrily at her. His breath was short and his eyes gleamed. “Actually, I’m not. Not in the slightest.”

  “Well, you should be,” said Larissa. “Don’t do it again, Tim.”

  “All right,” he said, but didn’t drop his gaze. The intensity of his stare caused a flickering warmth to bloom in her stomach, which she instantly extinguished.

  Jesus Christ. What the hell are you thinking?

  “Is this going to be a problem?” she asked, as calmly as she was able.

  “Not for me,” replied Tim. “I can’t speak for you.”

  You arrogant prick.

  “Good,” she said, fighting to keep her temper. “In which case, it’s probably time to head home.”

  “Let’s do that,” replied Tim, smiling broadly at her.

  25

  FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE

  WAPPING, LONDON

  Kevin McKenna was in a foul mood as he made his way down to the garage beneath The Globe’s offices.

  His day had started with the police at his door, warning him that an escaped prisoner might try to contact him, and ended with his editor calling him into his office just after five o’clock, a classic end-of-the-day ambush that he had seen coming a mile away, and telling him that while his general reportage was as bitchy and lowbrow as ever, two adjectives that Colin Burton meant as compliments, both the investigative pieces he had turned in the day before were unacceptable. McKenna had asked why, although he already knew the answer.

  “Because you’re not hot shit any more, Kev,” said Colin. “I know you were once, and I know you wish you still were, but you’re not. You don’t work for The Gutter, you work for me. And my readers don’t give a damn about any of this bollocks.” He picked up one of the pieces, entitled DIY ART INVADES MOSCOW, and waved it in McKenna’s face. “Celebrities, tits, gossip, crime, football. They’re our bread and butter. Got it?”

  “Got it,” said McKenna. “Sorry, boss.”

  “It’s all right,” said his editor, and sighed. “The writing’s bloody good, Kev, I’m not saying it’s not. But our readers don’t give a toss about good writing, and they’re going to be bored shitless by the end of the first paragraph. Spice it up a bit, all right? Arty blonde birds with their kit off, a bit of Russian gang violence, something like that. You know?”

  “I know,” said McKenna, his stomach churning with self-disgust. “I’ll get on it. Cheers, Col.”

  In truth, he had known the pieces weren’t really Globe material as he was writing them; they were too like his old work, the kind of stuff he had long since given up trying to get past The Globe’s editorial board. In his first year on the job the editor at the time, a kindly old alcoholic called Bob Hetherington, had taken him aside and told him not to bother.

  “I don’t need anyone trying to reinvent the wheel,” Hetherington had said. “Just keep ours turning. That’s your job.”

  In the subsequent years, he had thrown in the occasional feature on fashion or music, but had never really fought for them, or protested when they got spiked. He knew he was really writing them for himself, in the hope that whatever remained of his talent might not fade away completely.

  It was quiet in the garage when McKenna exited the lift; the heels of his shoes clicked loudly on the concrete ground, as the cars and pillars and posts that separated the bays cast long shadows beneath the bright yellow lights. He was halfway to the black BMW he had treated himself to after he had been promoted to associate editor two years earlier, when an odd sensation filled him: an unmistakable certainty that he was not alone in the garage.

  He stopped walking and stood absolutely still, listening intently.

  Nothing.

  There were no more than a dozen cars in the garage, which had been built to accommodate ten times that number; the wide space was almost empty. But there were plenty of places where a mugger or a crackhead could hide themselves from view if they wanted to, in the shadows behind the pillars, or crouched beside the cars.

  “Hello?” he shouted. “Who’s there?”

  Silence.

  McKenna felt a chill creep slowly up his spine. He was suddenly scared; the feeling that he was not alone twisted in the centre of his gut, cold and determined.

  An awful sensation of vulnerability overcame him and he ran for his car, his footsteps echoing loudly through the concrete space. Part of his brain, the rational part, shouted at him as he ran, branding him a coward, but he ignored it; he was focused only on getting into his car and locking the doors, shutting out whoever was in the garage with him, crouched low behind one of the cars or standing statue-still behind one of the concrete pillars, listening and watching and waiting.

  McKenna pulled his keys from his pocket as he ran and pressed the button on the plastic fob. The BMW’s locks disengaged with a beep that sounded loud and inviting, an announcement of his location and his intention. He grabbed for the car’s door, felt the reassuring smoothness of its plastic handle, and was about to pull it open and throw himself inside when cold fingers closed on the back of his neck and lifted him into the air.

  He screamed long and loud, his legs kicking beneath him, and felt his bladder let go in a warm rush of shame and terror. Then he was airborne, his body seeming to float momentarily as whatever had grabbed him threw him across the garage. He watched the floor rising up to meet him, his mind paralysed by crashing waves of terror. He saw white ovals of discarded chewing gum, a small patch of oil, and a discarded paper coffee cup. Then he hit the concrete, his shoulder exploding with agony, and skidded across the ground, the heels of his shoes squeaking.

  McKenna slid to a halt in a crumpled heap beside the emergency door that led to the stairs, his shoulder on fire, the air driven from his lungs. His first thought, the only cogent thought in his reeling, panicking mind, was to drag himself through it and up the stairs towards the office. But he made the mistake of looking behind him; what he saw froze him where he lay.

  Gliding towards him, his feet a clear ten centimetres above the ground, was a man in an elegant navy-blue suit. His face was pale, his hair thinning, but his eyes glowed the colour of burning coals and his mouth was open in a wide smile of pleasure.

  Not real, he screamed, silently. Can’t be real. Not real.

  The man cocked his head slightly to one side, then shot forward at a speed that McKenna could not comprehend; one second there was five metres between them, the next his hands were gripping the lapels of his suit jacket and lifting him easily into the air. He tried to turn his head away from the terrible red gaze that was now only millimetres in front of him, then cried out as he was driven into the concrete wall of the garage. The back of his head cracked against it and his vision greyed. When it cleared, the man was peering at him with an expression that seemed almost curious, the way a spider might regard a fly that has become stuck in its web. The dreadful red eyes roiled and burned, and McKenna felt consciousness start to slip away as his mind shut down, unable to process the horror that confronted it.

  One of the man’s hands appeared from nowhere and slapped him hard across the face; the impact sounded like a rifle shot in the empty garage, reverberating around the thick concrete walls. McKenna’s eyes flew open and his mouth formed a perfect O of shock.

  “Are you Kevin McKenna?” asked the man.

  He stared, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, incapable of speech. The man slapped him
again, harder, and McKenna tasted his own blood as it spilled from the corner of his mouth, galvanising his paralysed brain.

  “Yes,” he gasped. “I’m Kevin McKenna.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” said the man. “Did you receive an envelope from a lawyer acting on behalf of the late John Bathurst?”

  Dear God. Oh my dear God.

  “Johnny?” asked McKenna, smiling drunkenly. “Johnny’s… dead.”

  The man with the red eyes growled, a guttural noise that rose from somewhere deep inside him, and bared his teeth. Two long, razor-sharp fangs emerged from the man’s gums, sliding down over his canines.

  “I’ll ask you once more, Mr McKenna,” said the man. “Then I’m going to tear your face from your skull. Did you receive a letter?”

  Kevin McKenna fought to clear his reeling mind as terror more profound than anything he had felt in his entire life gripped him. True, whispered a distant voice. What Johnny sent you. All true.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice cracking. “I got… a letter. From Johnny.”

  The man broke into a huge, cheerful grin. “Splendid,” he said, his voice suddenly as light and jovial as a daytime newsreader’s. The grip on McKenna’s chest was released; he slid to the ground in a heap and began to cry, as the man stepped back and looked down at him.

  “No more lies, Mr McKenna,” he said. “There should be no lies between friends, which I am sure you and I are to become. May I help you to your feet?”

  McKenna tried to compose himself, to halt the crying that felt on the verge of becoming hysterical; he failed, but managed to force himself to nod. The man strode forward, still smiling broadly, and extended a thin, pale hand. After a long moment, McKenna reached out and took it, his mind screaming warning after warning. But the man merely pulled him gently to his feet; he stood on unsteady legs, his chest heaving up and down from the sobs that had wracked his body, and stared into eyes that glowed far less fiercely than they had only minutes earlier.