Torchwood_The Men Who Sold The World

by Guy Adams

  Why wasn’t he walking, she wondered, knowing she should reach out and help him up. But the old guy just wailed and Cortez couldn’t deal with that, however much it shamed her.

  ‘Sir?’ she said. ‘Sir, what happened here?’

  But young Mikey Gulliver had never learned to talk, and all he could do was cry for his father, both hands splayed out towards her.

  Jazz hands.

  Eighteen

  To begin with, the TV news kept playing the same, flat footage: an aerial sweep of the Mousetrap, showing lengths of crashed cars. After a while, they stopped. However much the anchors talked the situation up, there was no story until they found a face. Finally, they found a family member who was happy to cry on screen. She would become a media star for a week or so, while the rolling voice of America waffled away beneath her on a scrolling banner of texts, emails and tweets. Needless to say, the majority of comments would deplore the Muslims who had likely perpetrated this horror. The news networks would be happy not to correct them, as would the government. Many extremist groups would also be happy to take the credit for the awful loss of life. Eventually, an easy target (the Freedom Voice of America, a white-supremacist movement run from a bus depot in Michigan) would be selected for the prize. The security services knew where to find them and, once assured that there would be no more unpleasant incidents, they would release proof of the Freedom Voice of America’s involvement and promptly smack them hard, live on camera. And while that blatant piece of misdirection was going on, they would mop up after the real cause of what was now being called the ‘Rush Hour Massacre’. They would do it quietly, ruthlessly and with no mention whatsoever of the truth.

  They would particularly not mention Mr Wynter, currently sat on a bench overlooking the Constitutional Gardens Pond, not a heavily vetted stone’s throw from the White House.

  He was eating sushi from a polystyrene box. He hated its cold, bland flavour, but his doctor had given him strict instructions to cut down on red meat. He had been allowing himself a few indulgences too many. Oh, to still have a young man’s constitution.

  ‘Two meetings on one operation,’ said the voice behind him. ‘Both with their fair share of recrimination.’

  Mr Wynter had no need to turn around. He knew his employer’s voice well enough. Besides, when meeting in public it was common form to avoid eye contact, just two gentlemen strolling in the park looking at the ducks. Mr Wynter imagined most of the park’s strollers were secretly plotting the downfall of governments. Spies were amongst the most predictable people on earth.

  ‘There has been more than the usual amount of ill-fortune in this matter,’ Mr Wynter agreed. ‘But I am confident that it will soon be resolved.’

  ‘Oh, you’re confident, are you? Well, that’s a relief. I wake up to a shit-storm of dead motorists on the news but you’re confident it’ll all be fine.’

  ‘Don’t pretend a few fatalities matter,’ Mr Wynter replied. ‘You know as well as I do that, with enough spin, Gleason did you a favour. There’s nothing the voting public like better than a strong government, smacking down the aggressor. If the Republicans had their way, you’d be paying people like me to kill that many civilians every week.’

  ‘Your age has made you so cynical.’

  ‘It has made me aware.’

  ‘One hopes it has made you sufficiently wise to finally resolve matters. Just in case, I feel it’s only fair to warn you that there have been discussions as to your possible replacement.’ There was a long pause at that. ‘Perhaps, in truth, we should have done it years ago. A man can only fight for so many years.’

  ‘Some of us can do nothing else,’ Mr Wynter replied.

  ‘Then I look forward to your proving as much.’

  Mr Wynter stared at the ducks for a few more moments, allowing his employer time to walk away. He popped another piece of sushi in his mouth. It tasted of compromise.

  ‘I think I just heard my career roll over and die,’ said Rex, sat next to Shaeffer on a red-eye from Colorado Springs to Washington.

  Shaeffer spun the ice in his plastic glass of scotch and coke, trying to make its coldness infect the tepid fizz of the soda. ‘I think it was just wind from that guy three rows behind us. The one that’s going to force me to kill him with a rolled-up inflight magazine if he snores any louder.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ came an irritated voice from behind them. ‘Would you mind keeping it down? I’m trying to sleep.’

  ‘Tell that to the Manatee with allergies in seat 4B,’ Shaeffer replied.

  ‘We’re discussing governmental business,’ said Rex, poking his face between the seats. ‘Matters of international security. I suggest you ask the stewardess for earplugs, as I will have to have you deported as a security risk if I think you’ve been listening in.’

  ‘You’re drunk.’

  ‘Damn right I am. There’s nothing I won’t do in the name of my country. Now wrap that blanket around your head and go to sleep.’

  The passenger mumbled to herself but turned over and pretended to doze off.

  ‘You really think there’s nothing we can do?’ Schaeffer asked.

  Rex shrugged. ‘Who knows where he is? Unless he slips up – and he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy that does – we’re only ever going to hear where he’s been.’

  ‘And when we do hear that…’

  ‘Then it means we’ve blown it. Again.’ Rex shuffled in his seat and gestured towards the flight attendant for another pair of drinks. ‘Not that it matters. After the last few days, I’m about as popular as Gleason. I’ve been acting way out of my remit and I’ve got nothing to show for it but a few expense receipts and an ex-special-forces grunt who refuses to stop following me around. At this rate, I’ll be lucky to get a post filing paperwork.’

  Gleason and Mulroney had found themselves overnight accommodation in a small cottage on the fringes of Arlington County. It had taken some time before they had found a suitable place, somewhere with enough private, off-road parking to stash the truck they had appropriated north of Denver. The previous inhabitants were wrapped up in bed sheets and dumped under a pile of firewood in the outhouse.

  ‘Transporting that much stuff,’ said Mulroney as they sat in the cottage’s front room eating a stew that Mulroney had prepared from what he could find in the kitchen, ‘it draws too much attention. We need to find somewhere remote, a new base of operations.’

  ‘What we need to do,’ Gleason replied, ‘is keep the pressure on until they’re forced to give in.’

  Mulroney sighed and shuffled chunks of lamb around his plate. ‘You really think they’re going to?’ he asked. ‘You and I both know the standard response to terror threats. What makes you think this is going to be different?’

  ‘Scale,’ said Gleason. ‘We’re going to hit them so hard, so publicly, that they’ll be begging for a way to make it stop.’

  Mulroney shrugged. ‘Ask me, it’d be a hell of a lot easier just to sell the weaponry off. It’s not like it would be difficult to find a buyer. Hell, most of our professional life has been building a list of contacts. A nice, quiet private sale and we vanish off the radar. Wouldn’t that be better?’

  ‘I’m not handing weapons like this over to the enemies of America.’

  Mulroney almost laughed. ‘You suddenly found a streak of patriotism?’

  Gleason gave him a look that made it quite clear Mulroney had gone too far.

  ‘I never lost it,’ he said. ‘I wish I could say the same of our leaders.’

  Mulroney raised his hands in a placatory gesture. ‘OK, so we don’t sell outside the country. Forget I mentioned it.’

  Later, as he was fetching the video camera, Mulroney began to wonder if there was an escape route open for him. He’d always known Gleason was a little flaky round the edges, liked the feel of a trigger too much. But, in truth, Mulroney could relate to that and, over the years, the pair of them had looked after each other and built a future for themselves in case they ever wanted
to leave the life behind. But now Mulroney’s future was compromised. When he’d abandoned his ranch, he’d also been leaving all the money he had hidden there over the years – if anyone were to dig in his vegetable patch, they would find a far richer crop than potatoes. The chain of vacuum jars filled with banknotes had grown vast. That loss was acceptable when he had believed it would be replaced – and more – by the spoils of their current actions. Now he wasn’t sure he believed any such thing.

  Gleason wasn’t in this for the money. When they had flown over the Mousetrap in Denver, Mulroney had seen the relish on the man’s face as he looked down on the destruction. Gleason had fallen in love with the power these weapons offered. Mulroney wasn’t convinced he’d give them up for any price. He thought Gleason would hold on to them until there was nobody left to point them at. Which left Mulroney as little more than a future target, and that was something he had been working to avoid once and for all.

  He took the camera through to Gleason. ‘You ready?’

  Gleason nodded and Mulroney began to record.

  ‘Wise Men of America,’ Gleason began. ‘I have once again proven our power over you.’ Mulroney began to zone out, Gleason’s speeches were beginning to take on the air of the zealot, not the voice of a business proposal but the sabre-rattling of a vengeful god. He kept the camera steady and began to wonder how he might extricate himself from all of this.

  ‘This will be my final demonstration,’ Gleason continued. ‘One that will strike at the very heart of your corrupt, shadow-puppet government. When we talk again, it will be your one and only chance to make this end. Think about that, and make your decision wisely.’

  Gleason nodded, and Mulroney stopped recording.

  ‘You want me to send it straightaway?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Gleason. ‘Let them have a few hours to be afraid. Then get some sleep, we’ve got one hell of a day tomorrow and we’ll need to be sharp.’

  ‘Roger that,’ Mulroney replied.

  The message was sent, received and discussed, nowhere more exhaustively than in a small room in a shabby-looking office block in downtown Washington. The office block was registered to a toy company that specialised in pre-school learning games, but the major shareholders had no interest in colourful plastic bricks or large, wooden animals. They just liked having somewhere innocuous to meet that paid for itself.

  ‘So what do we do?’ asked the man Mr Wynter would have recognised as his employer. ‘Wait for him to make his move?’

  ‘Unless your man has any better ideas, I don’t see that we have much choice,’ an older voice replied.

  ‘Have we no clue as to Gleason’s location?’ asked a woman sat near the window. She was watching her car parked below, convinced that somebody would steal it while she had left it unattended.

  ‘He must be in the vicinity of Washington,’ said another voice, a young man with a hint of an Irish accent, ‘given his target.’

  ‘The real question,’ said the older man, ‘is what we do with him when he does make his move. What deal are we willing to offer?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Mr Wynter’s employer, ‘and it occurred to me that we might want to offer him a job.’

  *

  Rex woke to an overcast Washington morning and a hangover that loitered at the back of his forehead and waited to pounce. His phone was ringing, which, in those first cumbersome moments of waking, seemed entirely unreasonable on its part.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Jesus, Rex.’ It was Esther. ‘You sound rough.’

  ‘Feel it, too. What can I do for you? You got some coffee orders I need to work on? Or maybe some mopping up around Langley?’

  ‘Mopping up hits it. I shouldn’t be telling you this, officially you’re no longer in the loop, but there’s been another video from Gleason.’

  ‘Because watching that bastard gloat will improve my morning no end.’

  ‘There’s something else.’ Esther’s genuine excitement was finally overcoming her insecurities, Rex could hear it in her voice, even over the sound of his own pulsing temples and churning stomach. ‘We’ve had communication from Mulroney. He wants to cut a deal.’

  On his way to the shower, Rex woke Shaeffer. He’d let the man stay over, neither of them being sober enough to even conceive of booking a hotel room.

  ‘Get your head straight,’ he shouted. ‘Make coffee, make breakfast… today will be a good day.’

  ‘I’m having trouble believing that,’ Shaeffer admitted, rubbing his face. There was a burst of water as the shower came to life, and he shuffled through to the kitchen. He put the coffee machine on then stuck his head in the cooler. It felt nice in there, he was almost tempted to rest his cheek on a pack of bacon and snooze for a while under the soft orange light. Instead, he decided to see if he could drink all the juice he could find, a challenge as well as a restorative.

  By the time Rex got out of the shower, Shaeffer was feeling marginally better. His mouth was no longer filled with what had felt like dead slugs. ‘What’s all the excitement, then?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve had contact from Gleason and Mulroney,’ said Rex, ‘separately. Gleason is dishing out the usual threats, Mulroney wants out. Looks like we may have a chance to stop this bastard, after all.’

  ‘What’s the deal?’

  ‘Mulroney wants immunity and cash, nothing too inventive.’

  ‘All the more believable. He say why?’

  ‘He’s convinced Gleason doesn’t want to deal, thinks the power’s gone to his head.’

  ‘I could believe that, too. So what’s the next step?’

  ‘The security service is waiting on a location from Mulroney. He’s given them the number of a cellphone that he intends to turn on once he’s ready to be picked up.’

  ‘What? And he’s just trusting them not to shoot him on sight?’

  ‘I guess he doesn’t think he has much choice.’

  Shaeffer shrugged. ‘Maybe, just doesn’t sound like the Mulroney I know. So what’s this got to do with us? Even if you were still popular with your section chief, which you’re not, this isn’t CIA.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Rex grabbed some coffee and tried to hide his irritation. ‘But that doesn’t mean the CIA can’t tag along.’

  ‘Have we at least got an idea what the target will be?’

  ‘A pretty good one. Remember what you said about striking at the heart of America?’

  Shaeffer nodded. Rex turned his phone towards him and played the media file Esther had sent.

  ‘Wise Men of America,’ said Gleason, staring into the camera, ‘I have once again proven our power over you. Now I come for your leader. Please,’ Gleason smiled, ‘raise your armies, do your best to stop me. But I promise you – within twenty-four hours, he and his loved ones will be dead. That will be my final demonstration. One that will strike at the very heart of your corrupt, shadow-puppet government. When we talk again, it will be your one and only chance to make this end. Think about that, and make your decision wisely.’

  The video ended and Rex put his phone away. ‘Not a lot of ambiguity there,’ he said. ‘The nut-job’s planning to assassinate the president.’

  Nineteen

  Gleason and Mulroney woke early and prepared for the drive into the capital.

  Gleason had decided they should take the cottage owners’ car rather than the truck. It was good to keep switching vehicles, and this time he had no intention of taking everything with them. The key was to travel light, get in and out of the theatre of operations and be on the move before the enemy even had time to react. He spent twenty minutes cherry-picking equipment from the weaponry crates, packing them into a long shoulder bag and storing them on the backseat of the car.

  ‘OK,’ he said to Mulroney, ‘time to get moving.’

  Mulroney nodded and reached for the car keys.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Gleason. ‘I’ll drive.’

  Mulroney thought about arguing but could tel
l it would be pointless – Gleason was in no mood to negotiate. Today was set in stone. He ran his thumb across the pocket of his jeans, feeling the solid rectangle of the phone he had stashed there. He’d found it in the house and, like Shaeffer before him, had recognised it for what it was: a slim line of escape. At the moment it was turned off, but if at any point he decided that should change… He now had an escape route.

  They drove past Arlington cemetery, and Gleason looked out over the rows and rows of dead soldiers, wondering how many he had put there.

  ‘You’re quiet this morning,’ said Mulroney, cutting through Gleason’s thoughts and bringing his attention back to the road. ‘Having second thoughts?’

  ‘Never,’ Gleason replied. ‘Can you say the same?’

  Mulroney shrugged. ‘I have doubts,’ he admitted. ‘Of course I do. Who doesn’t when they’re going off to fight?’ Especially when they’re not sure what they’re fighting for, he thought.

  Gleason nodded slightly, pushing the car along Memorial Bridge. They cruised over the Potomac River, a morning sun bouncing off the water in crystalline explosions of white light, like the distant flashes of a strafe run in the desert. Gleason imagined the sound of shellfire, the soft crump of ignition and the spray of bricks and earth. He would bring that here. Turn this green and white slice of heritage and navel-gazing into a place of flame and noise, a timely reminder of the reality of war.

  ‘Can I trust you, Mulroney?’ he asked, his voice deceptively gentle. He had known the man many years and had never had to ask that question. But now he did. Because there was a look in Mulroney’s eyes, a mixture of fear and deception. It was the look of a man who said what he thought others wanted to hear. Gleason knew that face, had seen it writ large in countless battlefield interrogations. The placatory look of a man who knows his time is almost at hand.

  ‘Why are you even asking me that?’ asked Mulroney. ‘After all the years we’ve served together you don’t know the answer?’