On the Back Foot to Hell

by Roland Ladley

  ‘Four.’ Sam replied.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘I should have more up to date imagery coming in from London at three. That’ll give me an hour on the new stuff. Please.’

  Vlad scrunched his face up.

  ‘OK. Four. But you’ll let me know if you get anything in the meantime?’

  ‘Sure. Where will you be between now and then?’ She asked.

  ‘I’m popping home for half an hour, and then I’ll be in my office supplying you with coffee.’

  Sam was back on task now. Pleasantries were over. Her mind blocked out the rusty gas canisters and her eyes filled with the pixels on the screen.

  ‘Good. And keep those lovely biscuits coming.’

  Sam glanced at the digital clock on the bottom right of the screen. It read 1.30 am. It would be another 90 minutes before the Langley overheads arrived. She really needed them. She’d completed a strip review (starting top left corner and then ‘reading’ the images like a page, ten metre line by ten metre line) of all of the 202 blocks. Twice. She’d been able to discount 75 percent of the terrain where it was clear there was no habitation. Five blocks of the remaining 25 percent clearly contained buildings. Tick. The remaining blocks had so much tree cover it was difficult to tell if there were buildings under the canopy. That’s why she needed the infrared imagery from Frank. It would look under the leaves and show stuff that was currently obscured.

  But that may not be enough. Even with the buildings she could see, she hadn’t been able to discount 16 of them as potential targets. She was looking for a house/building of at least 25 metres by 15. Something village hall size. She had 16 potentials. And who knew how many additional ones under the canopy?

  Shit.

  She stood and stretched. She walked to the window and looked out at the gloom.

  Come on.

  She thought. Stared at the dirty glass; condensation eating at the putty of the single-glazed windows. Eight panes. Two-above-two, twice.

  Window. Panes of glass. Two-above-two.

  Hang on.

  There was something peripheral. Something oblique. It was nagging her. Something she part-saw. A glimpse. Something that would unlock this puzzle.

  She sat down and moved the keyboard away from her to create some space. Then she reached for a notepad and a biro.

  And started to draw.

  The image came from nowhere. Accessed from the most bizarre of corners of her mind.

  She scribbled frantically, like a fax machine on three-phase power.

  It was all blue. The colour of the pen. A rectangle. No, not quite all blue. Blue squares.

  Like?

  She wasn’t sure, but it was free-flowing now. The drawing child-like but accurate. It took her a couple of minutes to complete the picture.

  She put the pen down and stared. In front of her were six blue squares. Portrait. Two on top of two, on top of two. But there was a slash across the middle and bottom squares. A diagonal. Forty-five degrees - ish. Top right to bottom left.

  She stood again. And walked back to the window. It was raining now, so heavily she couldn’t make out the other side of the quad.

  Think.

  What was the picture?

  Think.

  ...

  Got it!

  Yes ... that’s it.

  I know what I’m looking for.

  Sam rushed back to the seat, sat, pulled the mouse and keyboard back towards her and started again.

  Sixteen buildings.

  Sixteen potential targets.

  Sixteen. Just maybe one of them might have a child’s swing or climbing frame in the back garden. Lit up by a fleeting outside security light, probably activated by an animal. A snapshot through the back door of the village hall. She’d seen it, or something like it.

  But it hadn’t registered at the time.

  Ten minutes later and 16 buildings down she was no wiser … and much more frustrated.

  She looked at the clock. It was 2.14 am.

  She half stood. And sat down again.

  Relax. Wait for the Langley images.

  Watch the news.

  She clicked on the Google icon, typed in ‘BBC news’ which threw up a live feed. The red ticker tape said the talking head was Bradley Smyth: Head of Counterterrorism Police. He was finishing off.

  ‘Please, therefore, could every member of the public be particularly vigilant in these difficult times. Thank you.’

  That must have been in response to what Jane had told her this morning.

  Following that the BBC switched to a reporter in Hungary. The headline was ‘Hungary to follow the UK out of the European Union’. The presenter described Hungary’s continuous anti-EU leaning fuelled by the refugee crisis and the rise of nationalism supported by popularist politicians. Sam could have written the report herself. There was nothing new about Hungary’s growing disdain for the EU, but as far as she was concerned it was bravado - playing to the home crowd. Hungary received far too many benefits from the EU for any sensible politician to follow through and leave the pact.

  The screen switched to a clip of the Prime Minister, Viktor Molnár. He was a member of the right-wing, Fidesz party. Sam thought he was a more moderating influence in that party, and rarely offered anything more than jingoistic commentary for his base.

  She thought she knew what was coming and almost closed the video box.

  Then Viktor Molnár said something that surprised the hell out of her. She didn’t catch all of it, and she could have been mistaken. But she was pretty sure …

  The clip closed. The news switched to a minor terror attack in Namibia. A knife attack in a popular coastal town. Three dead …

  But she wasn’t interested in that. She needed to hear the Viktor Molnár clip again. To be sure.

  She typed into Google: Viktor Molnár - leaving EU - and today’s date.

  There it was, at the top of the listing. She opened the link and pressed play. In among the anti-EU diatribe, Sam heard what she thought she had heard a few moments before.

  ‘… We are a people. We will not be confined by the vagaries of others. We will do as we wish. We will do what is right.’

  What?

  That was nonsensical.

  Ping!

  Sam’s spinning mind was stopped abruptly by an alert from her machine.

  A dialogue box had popped up in the middle of the screen. She had new mail - from Frank. It had a link.

  Let’s get on with this.

  She opened her mail and clicked on the link. A door in the firewall between SIS and FSB opened, and there they were. Daylight and IR. Seventy-two files.

  It took her ten minutes to sort through the imagery, and a further five to pick out the areas where she needed the IR to look below the canopy.

  Twelve minutes later she had it. A solitary building, accessible by road. Room for five cars. A single pitched roof.

  And a swing and a slide in the back garden.

  To be sure she measured the building and compared it against what she remembered. There was easily enough room for the hall and the armoury. Plus some other, smaller rooms. The measurements fitted.

  She checked the route her driver might have taken. There were two possibilities. One was 12.3 klicks; the second, arriving from the opposite direction, 21.6 klicks. Both worked, depending on how fast you drove. The building was the right distance from the rusty gas bottle.

  That was it. She had the village hall.

  ‘Vlad!’

  Port of Dover, Dover, UK

  ‘Toffer’ Hawley gazed out of the side window of his Volvo. There was a slightly battered white van in the lane next to him. Ahead of the van was a motorhome of some description, then a coach full of kids. In front of them was a man with a high-viz vest and a walkie-talkie. Holding them in place.

  He looked to his front - his lane. Six cars. In the middle distance a recently arriving ferry.

  The cars were various makes and colours. He wasn’t a car buff, s
o he couldn’t tell what they were. He guessed, like him, they were packed full of kids, suitcases, grips and the odd cool box. It was the first day of the autumn half-term. Exodus-day for those lucky enough to have the wherewithal to head onto the continent to find some sun before the reds and browns of autumn became the greys and blacks of winter.

  Radio 4’s News at One programme was reminding him of the state of the world. There had been three more unattributable terror attacks in far-off corners of the globe; places like Montevideo, where the city’s metro had been hacked causing a train to run into the back of another. Result - 12 dead. He guessed that even Radio 4’s discerning listeners would struggle to find the capital of Uruguay on the map. After the world update, the programme’s lead had been the replaying of a senior policeman’s call for vigilance among all the public. A terror attack was imminent in the UK. Everyone needed to report anything they thought was suspicious. As soon as they could.

  He was so glad he was taking his kids to France for a week. Away from the madness.

  He checked in his rear-view mirror.

  Two kids. Two beautiful kids. Amy and Sophie. Twelve and nine. The only thing in his life that mattered. They were going to have a great time. A French farmhouse gîte, a pool, fizzy drinks and croissants … and a couple of bottles of decent white wine. Perfect. The two girls were both ensconced in something on their tablets. Earphones in. Them and their machines. Everything else was peripheral. A tunnel of focus - eyes to screen. The whole world was on the back foot to hell and they didn’t care. He wasn’t sure they noticed.

  He smiled to himself. They were in the best place.

  It would be different in France: the pool, barbeques, smoothies in coffee shops, Moorish castles with imaginary princesses, a trip to the sea. The first act: ending with iPads exiting to muted applause. Second act: Dad would enter stage-left to rapturous cheering. It would be a short second act. Just a week. But it would steal the show.

  Toffer looked left, through the passenger window and slightly behind: a newish 4x4. A Range Rover? He commended himself for recognising the marque. The tailgate was open. An older couple were standing at the back. The man, dressed as if he were about to get on a yacht, had a glass of fizz in his hand. Toffer strained his neck to see better. The woman had a glass too. She was passing the man a sandwich. Brown bread and something. The man was smiling. He leant forward and gave the woman a peck on the cheek. She smiled back. They were in love.

  A lump grew in Toffer’s throat. He swallowed and snapped his head back to the front. He closed his eyes; breathed out. He realised he was gripping the steering wheel tightly. Tears were not far away. He relaxed his grip.

  He could feel the emptiness of the passenger seat. It was tangible, as though, with Chloe not sitting beside him, there was a vacuum into which he was being pulled. The void hurt. It hurt so much.

  This time last year it was different. The four of them. The team. Off to the gîte. It wasn’t their two week summer break, flying somewhere exotic. Or to Florida to immerse themselves in a world of cartoon characters and rollercoasters - the kids’ favourite. But this week in France had become a family ritual. It had always been special. And it was his favourite.

  Even more so just now, with Chloe no longer part of his life. Initially at her Mum’s, and then into a flat. The kids too. She couldn’t live with him anymore. Not after what he had done.

  He got that. What he’d done had been stupid and reckless. Heartless. It was more than a one night stand. But it had never been a substitute for what he and Chloe had had. Never. It was the act of a fool. A selfish and self-centred idiot. Driven by an uncontrollable lust. Downwards and away. Away from the family - from the loves of his life.

  He’d got what he’d deserved. And, having received a letter from Chloe’s solicitor a couple of days ago, he was going to pay for it.

  Bloody fool.

  This was probably the last time he could afford to take the kids away to France.

  So he was going to enjoy it.

  They all were.

  Noise. Something mildly incomprehensible over a tannoy. Their boat had docked. They would be boarding in 20 minutes. Could all passengers return to their cars.

  News at One had moved on. It was an editorial of sorts. Some reporter he didn’t recognise was talking about a series of rallies planned for Sunday. There was one in London. Sister ones were planned in many cities across the world: New York; Toronto; Tokyo. There was even one planned for Beijing. The reporter said there didn’t appear to be any central organisation making these things happen. It seemed to be a benign uprising against the wave of terror that had gripped the world. One of the unifying hashtags was #enoughisenough. A second was #orderfromchaos. They expected hundreds of thousands in London, even though the police were strongly advising this was the wrong time for a major public gathering when the threat of a major terrorist event was so high.

  Apparently, whilst they could expect the rally in London to attract the usual fringe groups, the reporter had just interviewed a ‘millennial’. The young woman had said that their generation had had enough. They were disenfranchised and being led by an age group who didn’t understand - or care. And now she and her friends couldn’t even guarantee to live their lives free from terror because the so-called leaders of the world were incapable of providing even the most basic of necessities.

  ‘Do you think they are responsible for the terror attacks?’ The reporter had asked.

  ‘Well, they’re not pulling the trigger, so to speak. But, yes. And d’you know what? It wouldn’t surprise me if they weren’t secretly encouraging the terrorists. To keep us in our place.’

  That didn’t make sense to Toffer, but he could understand how they had all got to where they were.

  And, as for the madness, these people didn’t know the half of it.

  He was a banker. In the thick of the markets. And it was a system on the edge.

  The FTSE was down another 70 points this morning and the fall would continue until trading stopped at 4.30pm. Unless things improved his firm reckoned on another 300 point loss next week. Maybe a further 200 the week after. And then, unless the economic factors changed, they would hit the bottom. That’s what they were telling people, anyway.

  But he had insider knowledge. He sat on the bank’s emergency futures committee. And their analysis painted a much more dystopian landscape.

  From its height in the New Year, the system had liquidity enough to stand a shock of losing 20% of the value of all stocks. Maybe 25%. They were already at 20%. And 25% was where they predicted the bottom. But the housing market in most western countries was overvalued and household debt across first world economies was unnaturally high. GDP had flatlined and was set to fall as consumer confidence look likely to plummet. And whilst unemployment was low, around ten percent of those employed worked in the gig economy - their positions were not safe.

  And government borrowing, especially in the US, was a huge burden on the system.

  It was a tinder keg waiting for a spark.

  The committee’s view was all they needed was one spectacular terror event and the 2008 crash would appear a minor tremor in comparison.

  Their bank wouldn’t be able to stand the jolt. It would follow maybe ten others in the city not strong enough to cope. There would be chaos. Trillions of pounds would be lost. And the rally at the weekend would be a shadow in comparison to the uprising that would follow.

  Chaos.

  Maybe the beginning of the end. Whatever that meant.

  Just before he’d left to pick up the kids this morning, he’d had a chat to a long-term client of his. Obviously he wasn’t able to share the committee’s most gloomy predictions. But he was able to tell him what he was doing with the money he’d taken from his own share portfolio.

  Buy gold.

  The price of gold had shot through the roof after the banking crisis ten years ago. For three decades it had fluctuated between five and ten pounds sterling a gram. The collapse
of the Lehman Brothers had put a rocket under the price; it reached a peak of just below £35 a gram in 2012, dropping briefly below £25, before rising again above £30 a gram last year. This morning it was at £39.53; a 420 percent rise in just over ten years. In the same time the stock market had risen just 37 percent. Even the most speculative of stocks would struggle to match a 400 percent rise in ten years.

  Any sensible investor would have thought the price of gold had maxed. In 2008, with gold hovering at £15 a gram, they all talked about the £20-a-gram ceiling, as if there were no way their generation would ever see gold at those heady heights. Now the talk was of £50. A new ceiling. Unreachable. Unbreakable.

  Unthinkable.

  But Toffer didn’t think so.

  You just had to look at the stats. If market forces could affect a 400 percent rise in ten years, then anything was possible. You just needed one almighty shock on top of the current political situation and gold would go nuclear, whilst stock markets melted.

  This morning he’d told his client to put all his cash in gold. All of it.

  His daze was broken by movement to his right. It was four men and a woman walking down between the row of cars, vans and buses. They were headed for the battered white van. As they got close he couldn’t not stare at them.

  The five were black. In an earlier life he and Chloe had been on safari to Kenya. To him most Kenyan’s looked ‘normal’, like the black men and women who worked in his bank. Like Kyle, a good friend of his.

  But in Kenya’s hinterland, where they travelled for the safari, the indigenous tribes were different. They were taller - less bulky. More like long distance runners.

  The four who were now getting into the van looked like the rural Kenyans on the safari - except they were taller still. The woman, who was strikingly beautiful, was a young Grace Jones. Tall, angular. Distinctive. The men were similar. And a little bit scary.

  The woman and a man got into the back of the van via a sliding door. The driver was already behind the wheel.

  The man in the passenger seat had the door opened, but hadn’t got in. He was looking directly at Toffer, his head to one side. No sign of emotion.