A shanty hugged the Green Zone checkpoint. Beggars and refugees loitered by tavernas, looking to cadge a few RDs or an evernet tab. Aid workers, pimps, mercenaries and mafioso sipped nettle-vodka mojitos, puffing on skanj pipes. Two Clan pimps, bedecked in gold, recognised Hooker and muttered curses. The hem of Hooker’s coat blew open in the breeze, displaying gun and blade, and he made a come-and-get-me smile. The pimps looked away, knowing the she-demon sniper might be covering his every move.
Inside the dome, Hooker passed scanners and sniffer dogs, picking up a pass from a uniformed clerk. Beyond lay a jetty, a tactical directing him to an open-topped river launch. The other passengers were Lagoon City dwellers, lucky enough to have a Green-Zone job. “Here you go, mate,” said a skinny man in overalls, shuffling along a bench to make room for Hooker. He nodded his thanks and handed out cigarettes. Hooker didn’t smoke anymore, but tobacco was the surest way for an investigator to make friends. There was always useful gossip on the Green Zone launch.
They chugged upstream, the launch churning muddy water. In the BluSky’s glow, they passed Canary Wharf, American diggers clearing rubble inside a geodesic dome. Commuters gossiped about the war in Kent, which was being won, and the war in Scotland which wasn’t. Across the sea, the Irish were at each other’s throats (no change there, said a haggard Ulsterman). An African woman with a sing-song voice clutched a bible. “The news from Italy is grave. The Crimson Brigade marches from Sicily, where an unholy alliance of Arabs and Reds threatens the Vatican’s gates! The Holy Seer itself might fall.”
People muttered and nodded. A few crossed themselves, as religion had made a comeback of late. Archangels (it was always Archangels) were behind it all, they said, weaving their web. The true power behind every throne, in America and Muscovy both. NATO’s threadbare armies were in retreat, running out of men and supplies, the once-mighty French and German governments reduced to cowering behind castle walls.
And they spoke of Wessex, as Hooker knew they would. Land of plenty, of milk and honey - faraway Wessex, beyond the Heathrow Gate. Peace and jobs and unlimited evernet access. “They say London will be like Wessex,” said a high-cheeked Somali nurse, a Koran clutched to her bosom. The little group nodded and hummed and hawed, and hoped it would be so.
They reached St. Paul’s Cathedral, the launch bobbing on the wakes of larger vessels – merchant dhows and NatSec patrol boats, commuter launches and barges moving tonnes rubble. Hooker gave the last of his cigarettes to the river pilot and jumped ashore, mingling with the worshippers crowding the Cathedral’s steps. The faithful waved banners, demanding a Crusade to liberate Rome from the heathens. All the while, a wild-eyed man thrashed himself with a flail.
Ducking into the maze of streets off Ludgate Hill, Hooker saw his ride idling by a tram stop. An old electric truck, WESSEX QUALITY PROVISIONS emblazoned in Olde English script. He slid inside, amidst apples and potatoes and sacks of flour. The driver, a wizened man smoking a pipe, accelerated away. “More dark work, Rufus?” he said over his shoulder.
Hooker helped himself to an apple. “Reckon so, Arthur,” he replied, stuffing his pockets with fruit. Leah loved apples.
“NatSec’s watching Gordy’s office,” said Arthur, peering nervously in the wing mirror.
Hooker chewed the apple core, spitting pips. “Ain’t they always?”
“Mebbe, but Gordy’s twitchier than usual. It ain’t just the usual watchers. He reckons this is the heavy squad. OCS, mebbe?”
“Gordy’s paranoid,” said Hooker.
Arthur laughed. “It ain’t paranoia if you really are being spied on.”
Hooker ate another apple. He doubted the Office of Counter-Subversion had officers to waste, not with civil wars being fought on two fronts. And although Gordy was a greedy bastard, he wasn’t a subversive.
The truck whined as it traversed Smithfield Market, farmers herding muddy cattle along Snow Hill. The van finally glided down a ramp, emerging in a subterranean carpark. “There you go,” said Arthur. “Now stop stealing all the fucking apples.”
Hooker took a lift down to Gordy’s lair. Low-ceilinged and gloomily lit, decorated with pictures of faraway places in happier times. Hooker picked pieces of apple from between his teeth. “Hello Gordy,” he said. “You called?”
Gordon Rice was sixtyish, with a gnarly, seen-it-all face. Hair the colour of ash, oiled and slicked to his skull. His suit was black, in the Nehru style. “Take a seat, Rufus. This is Miss Hyatt.”
Hooker studied the woman. Thirties. Business suit. Honey-blonde hair and a wisp of makeup. Wide-spaced eyes, bluer than the BluSky. An expensive face, surgeon-perfect. “Rufus Hooker,” he said, dumping his kit on the floor. “Missing Persons Investigator.”
“Vassa Hyatt,” the woman replied, voice as firm as her handshake.
Gordy sipped coffee from a thin china cup, giving nothing away. “Vassa represents a high-value client. Sensitive, matter, Rufus. Need my best man on it, so of course I called you.”
“You mean deniable, right?” Hooker shrugged, flipping open a dog-eared notebook.
“My employer’s daughter’s missing,” Hyatt replied. “And, yes, we require an element of discretion.”
“Let’s find her then,” said Hooker, licking the end of a pencil. “Let’s start with the basics – name and circs of disappearance? I’ll also be wanting comms data, recent images and a DNA sample.”
Hyatt’s smile was as tight as the skin across her face. “In a moment, Mister Hooker.”
“A moment? The first couple of hours are critical.”
Gordy handed Hooker a pad. “You need to sign a non-disclosure agreement.”
Hooker confirmed his digital signature with a thumb print. They loved shit like that in the Green Zone, even though Hooker was unlicensed and on the Sanctioned Persons Index. “What’s the score? Has the girl got a No-Zone boyfriend? Cotics habit?”
Hyatt wrinkled her nose. “Mister Hooker, Gordy says you’re the best off-the-books investigator available. He says there’s nobody more familiar with the No-Zone and Lagoon City.”
“Yeah, I know my way ‘round the Goons.”
Hyatt steepled her fingers. “How?”
Hooker raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me you haven’t seen my file? You’ve got government written all over you.”
“Files usually tell half-a-story, and I’m not from the Government,” Hyatt replied. “I’d prefer to hear your version.”
“Okay. I grew up in southeast London, before The Emergencies. I fought there, after I came back from Libya. Reckon I’ll prob’ly die there too.”
“You were in the army? That’s not in your file.”
“Files get lost,” Hooker shrugged. “I was in the Military Police. Nothin’ special – I directed convoys and guarded prisoners-of-war. I was wounded in Tangiers, then went back to civvy street. I joined the Taskforces after they declared The Emergencies.”
“He was a team leader on my Taskforce,” said Gordy, as if that explained everything. “Taskforce-17.”
Hooker never took his eyes off Hyatt. “What Gordy doesn’t mention is most of TF-17 are dead. Quite a few died in prison, after the Government shafted us.”
Vassa Hyatt nodded. “Yes, Taskforce-17 creates reputational issues for us…”
Gordy opened his mouth, but shut it when he saw the look on Hooker’s face. “I was paroled from prison, Miss Hyatt. That’s the point, right? I did my time, paid my debt…”
Hyatt smiled. “Weren’t most of you given early release? A political decision, red meat for the National Alliance?”
Hooker’s lip curled. “Are you saying locking us up for doing our duty wasn’t political? The Archangels weren’t National Alliance, so I remember. They were Coalition all the way…”
Gordy cleared his throat. “Why are we wasting time with politics, Vassa? This is about the girl, and you’re forgetting where we’re operating on this piece of work. There are a dozen blue-chip security outfits in London, but none o
f ‘em have Rufus Hooker on the books. Most would like to, but he’s contracted to me.”
Vassa Hyatt looked the older man up and down. “Of course, Gordy. Mister Hooker, what do you know of Damon Rhys?”
Hooker shrugged. “Damon Rhys? Minister for Reconstruction. Peacemaker of The Emergencies. All things to all people - soft on Reds and Archangels.”
“Ah, a political expert,” Hyatt replied. “I’d suggest posterity will remember Damon kindly, not least for masterminding the Wessex Accords.”
“Wessex – where archangels call the shots?” said Hooker. “If archangels are involved, I’ll stick to the No-Zone.”
“People want security. Running water. Evernet access. And if the price is coexistence with a handful of supremely gifted transhumans?”
Hooker grimaced. “We blew up our own cities to stop those freaks. RXP makes ‘em crazy, it’s a scientific fact. Now they get to give the orders?”
Hyatt crossed and uncrossed her legs. “Not all archangels were part of the December 13th clique. And your views on RXP are hopelessly outdated. Instances of psychopathy are almost unheard of with the newer iterations of the procedure.”
Hooker grimaced. “We never learn, do we, Miss Hyatt. What’s your role in all this?”
Hyatt’s smile was thin. “I’m Mister Rhys’ security advisor. His private security advisor.”
“Let’s talk about the girl,” Gordy interrupted, tapping his watch. “Vassa, what’s the latest information?”
“Lottie, Damon Rhys’s daughter, was kidnapped yesterday afternoon,” Hyatt replied, tapping on her pad. “Delicate ceasefire negotiations with the Black Bloc are due, and Mister Rhys is leading the Coalition delegation.”
“So the kidnap ain’t a coincidence?” said Hooker, taking another bite from an apple. “Besides, you can’t negotiate with the Black Bloc. They’re fanatics.”
“I’ve some sympathy with that point of view,” Hyatt replied. “However, Damon thinks otherwise. He’s established a dialogue with the Bloc’s leadership in Kent.”
“Here’s the ransom demand,” said Gordy, offering his pad. “It’s the bloody Crimson.”
Minister Damon Rhys.
A heroic Special Action Group of the Crimson has taken Charlotte. Do not squander precious time attempting to find her. You will announce a press conference within 48 hours. We demand that you ***REDACTED*** Comply and your daughter will be returned unharmed. Failure will result in her public execution, broadcast via LibNet, Evernet, Darkwire, Net4.0 and similar platforms.
¡Ya basta!
By order of the Command Committee of The Crimson Brigade
Hooker shook his head. “Crimson Brigade? They’re worse than the Bloc. You’ve been given proof of life?”
“We received a timed image of Lottie an hour ago,” Hyatt replied. “My technical people were unable to scrape location data from it.”
“Keep demanding images,” Hooker replied. “They might make a mistake, give us something to work on.”
“I’m asking for them hourly,” said Hyatt, frowning. “In any case, MI5’s assessment is Lottie’s most likely to have been taken to the No-Zone or the Goons. My own analyst has done probability modelling – he thinks MI5 are onto something. I happen to agree – it’s easier for a Crimson Brigade cell to operate there.”
“That makes sense,” Hooker agreed. “Look, Miss Hyatt, here’s my advice if you want to go and play in the Goons – you need a NatSec PersonHunt syndicate, a technical support group, a battalion of tacticals and an Apex Team. Maybe military too, ‘cuz they’ve got the best SIGINT and aerial recce.”
Hyatt sighed. “You’re not the first man who invited me to suck that egg today, Hooker. Besides, it’s imperative we find Lottie without any NatSec involvement.”
Hooker tried not to look surprised. A government minister, concealing a kidnap from the authorities? Green-Zoners. Always plotting.
“We only need a location for the girl,” said Gordy, leaning back in his chair. Hooker thought his smile was oily, the one he made when a job was raking in coin. “We’ve got contractors on standby. The very best, Tier One fighters. Americans and Israelis.”
Hooker shook his head. “For all we know, the girl’s already in Kent. It’s a warzone there, so you’re gonna need more than mercenaries, no matter how gnarly.”
“Your opinion is duly noted,” Hyatt replied, smoothing her skirt across her knees. “However, it’s non-negotiable. The National Security Constabulary are to have no involvement in, or knowledge of, this operation.”
Hooker sipped from a glass of ice water. “Why?”
“Politics of course, what else?” said Hyatt. “Many are bitterly opposed to compromise with the Black Bloc - especially NatSec. If we tell them, they might well frustrate any rescue attempt.”
“Frustrate?”
“They might even let the girl die, so Damon Rhys would cancel negotiations. Or perhaps you consider NatSec above that?”
Hooker knew a few NatSec cops. “No, that’s exactly what they’d do.”
“Not to mention the Crimson Brigade,” Gordy added. “They’re dead-set against negotiations with any government. They want the Bloc to keep fighting ‘til the bitter end.”
Hooker gathered his stuff. “Thanks for the offer, but this job’s got aggravation written all over it. I owe Damon Rhys nothing. On the other hand, he owes me six years of my life back.”
Hyatt smiled, revealing perfect teeth. Wessex teeth. “We don’t have a time machine, Mister Hooker, but I guarantee you’ll receive an official pardon. I understand your rancour, but if you find Lottie any convictions from the Reconciliation Tribunals will be expunged. You’ll also be removed from the Sanctioned Persons Index.”
“How much money we lookin’ at?” said Hooker, thinking of Leah. The girl was coin-operated.
Hyatt examined a fingernail. “The bounty for locating Charlotte Rhys? Two million guineas, just for confirming Lottie Rhys’s location.”
“Think about it, Rufus,” said Gordy. “Get off the SPI. I know you need to visit Wessex, that you’ve...”
Hooker touched the mezuzah. Beatriz. There were ghosts to be confronted in the land of milk and honey, but not for those on the Sanctioned Persons Index.
Vassa Hyatt put a hand on Hooker’s. It was cold. “Damon Rhys has a daughter too. I know the circumstances are very different, but find Lottie and you’ll get to visit yours.”
“Leave it,” Hooker growled.
Gordy locked eyes with Hooker. “It’s a good offer, Rufus.”
Hooker stood. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Gordy tapped a file on his desk. An old-fashioned folder, stuffed with papers. Impossible to hack. “Lottie’s best friend is a girl called Evie Kendrick. I’d start there. She lives in Barnes with her mother.”
“Was Evie the last person who saw Lottie?” said Hooker.
“We don’t know,” said Hyatt. “Lottie’s been secretive recently.”
“I’d start with the Kendrick girl,” said Gordy. “I’ve got a daughter the same age.”
Hooker nodded. The old detective could sniff a lead like a shark. “I’ll get over there,” he replied. “I’m gonna need assets an’ such.”
Hyatt rolled her eyes. “Money?”
“Yeah, but gold – not RDs. Information ain’t free, especially if you need it quick.”
“Of course,” Hyatt replied, unzipping her bag. She put a neoprene pouch on the table and tapped it. “You’ll find a handsome sum in there, in Wessex Guineas. There’s also a sterile Darkwire fob, contact me using nothing else.”
Hooker took the pouch and nodded. It was agreeably heavy. “You’ll provide two security contractor’s licences, along with open-carry firearms permits for me and my business partner. Gordy has her details. Plus, a vehicle. None of that Green-Zoner ‘lectric shit, either. Get me something very fast. Something that can shovel.”
Hyatt tapped the fob melded onto her wrist. “It’s done. Tell your partner to prese
nt herself at the North Greenwich gate within the hour. She’s to contact the duty clerk and ask for Miss Haversham.”
“I’ll get started,” said Hooker.
Hyatt offered her hand, but he’d already gone.
four
Lighting a Marlboro Red, Paolo Falcone parsed the terrain like a soldier. He stood atop a tower, the Goons lay before him like a staff college diorama – water features and building lines, trees and obstacles. To the west graffiti-covered housing fringed the marshes, interspersed by bomb-sites and bisected by the PROTEX. Beyond lay London, marked by the BluSky’s neon glare. Most likely route of any security force assault, straight along their main supply route.
To the north was the ever-swollen Thames, bleeding into a network of fetid inlets. Then the No-Zones, stretching all the way to Essex and the Sharia Reservations. Possible route for amphibious forces or recon elements.
South and east? The battle-scarred conurbations beyond were Black Bloc territory, bullet-riddled signs promising minefields, snipers and drones. Not an obvious direction from which to launch an attack – even more reason to keep an eye on it.
Paolo had no reason to believe he was compromised. But Africa had taught him whatever could go wrong usually did. It was best to have a plan. Stubbing out his cigarette and lighting another, he descended the stairs. Two squatters greeted him, a stringy, spaced-out girl and a pasty-faced boy. They wore multi-coloured rags and rubber sandals. “Ciao,” said Paolo easily. “How goes it?”
“The Bloc will topple London,” the boy declared, his accent German. “The intifada is close. Can you hear it?”
“The sweetest sound,” said the girl, hugging herself. She took a draw on a pencil-thin joint and passed it to the boy.
Paolo heard the distant thump of artillery, math swarming his brain. 120mm mortar line, six tubes. High Explosive rounds. Range fifteen-aught-six kilometres, south-south-east. “The Bloc over-extend themselves,” he said. The Bloc are dolts. They need the Crimson Brigade. Instead, they plot Class betrayal and parley with fascists.
Dark as Angels: We are the Enemy Page 3