Leah slid out of the driver’s seat. “North. South. Everything looks the same. Rubble. Big buildings. Smog. More rubble.”
“Yeah, but you’re from Brighton.”
“I suppose a sea view makes the rubble look easier on the eye.”
The cloudscraper’s lobby smelt of boiled vegetables. Hooker found the entry-phone and pressed a buzzer marked 710. No answer.
“Over there,” said Leah, pointing at a woman sitting behind a desk. A sign said DUTY CARETAKER. She studied a book of Sudoku puzzles, chewing on the end of a pencil. A fire bucket leaked sand by her foot.
“I’m looking for McCaffrey. Apartment 710,” said Hooker. “He ain’t answering his doorbell.”
“Go and knock on his door then,” the caretaker replied, not looking up from her puzzles. Neatly laid out on the desk were a fob, a packet of cigarettes and a dosimeter.
“Lift’s broken,” Hooker replied. “You see him today?”
“Can’t say I have.” The caretaker replied, putting down her book and studying Hooker carefully. She took in the revolver on his belt, “anyhow, it’s only fifteen floors. You look like a fit enough fella.”
Hooker folded his arms. “I’m in a hurry.”
“And you are?”
Leah tapped her armband. “Licenced security contractors.”
The caretaker patted her pockets and found a lighter. She lit a menthol cigarette and sighed. “McCaffrey, you say? You know how many people live here?”
Leah flipped a golden guinea on the desk. “Leveller Luke? Come on sister. I bet you call the filth every time he sets foot out of the building.”
The caretaker scowled. “I ain’t no grass. Fucking dross like you, comin’ to the city with your guns and fancy dress. Why don’t you fuck off back to the No-Zone?”
Leah slapped two more coins on the table. “I will, but not before I stick that book up your fat, lazy arse.”
The caretaker pocketed the guineas. “He left ‘bout an hour back. I reckon he’ll be at the old library, just off Kentish Town Road. Near the motor-mart.”
“Thanks,” Leah replied, plucking the pencil from the caretaker’s desk. She scribbled the missing answer to caretaker’s Sudoku puzzle. “There you go.”
“Bitch.”
A shrug. “It’s been said before.”
They drove to Kentish Town. The library was a crumbling building of yellowish London brick, windows shuttered. Leah reversed into a parking space. “What a dump. I didn’t realise how much of the Green Zone is still in ruins.”
Hooker pointed at diggers scooping debris into a row of metal skips. “This area got it bad – suitcase nuke went off in Highgate. The Global Jihad Brigade claimed that one. Just shy of six thousand dead and ten years of cancer weather.”
“Luckily it was only a suitcase nuke,” Leah replied. “Hooker, you okay?”
Hooker peered into the rear-view mirror, lip curled. “See the grey panel van? On the nearside junction behind us.”
“Yeah, I see it. Problem?”
“It’s the only vehicle ‘round here not covered in dents. I smell NatSec.”
“Reckon they’re onto us?”
“Dunno, they might. Then again, it might be routine surveillance on McCaffrey.” They got out of the 4x4 and walked to the library. Hooker pulled a gadget covered in gummy tape from a pocket and stuck it into the doorframe as he entered – a motion-sensitive camera, the kind hunters used. Hooker activated the device, an image of the street appearing inside his goggles.
The library was a place of grimy walls and stained wooden floors. No books, only empty shelves. The place smelt of damp and old polish, corkboards displaying yellowing posters for coffee mornings, children’s play-groups and the local Women’s Institute.
WE’RE IN A JAM SO MAKE SOME! PRESERVE AND SURVIVE!
Leah laughed. “That’s funny - they’ve got time to make jam?”
“I like jam,” Hooker replied. “Reminds me of when I was a kid. Toast and jam, with butter.”
Leah smiled. “Butter? Can’t remember the last time I tasted butter.”
A skinny man approached, stooped and sandy-haired. Hooker saw the sleeves of his sweater were frayed from being chewed. “Can I help?” he said, arranging folding chairs into neat rows. “The rooms already booked for a meeting.”
“You’re Luke McCaffrey?” said Hooker.
The man studied their contractor’s armbands and weapons. “Yes, I’m McCaffrey. What do you want?”
“My name’s Rufus Hooker. This is Leah Martinez. We’re looking for Evie Kendrick and Charlotte Rhys.”
“Oh,” said McCaffrey, taking a sideways look at the fire door. “May I ask why?”
Hooker raised an eyebrow. “’Cuz we are.”
“Has a crime been committed? Aren’t you supposed to caution me or something?”
“That would suggest we suspected you of something,” said Hooker. “Feelin’ guilty, Luke?”
“The girls have gone missing,” said Leah, pulling up a chair. She adjusted her gun-belt and sat down, armour creaking. “We know they came to meetings here. Yesterday, for example.”
McCaffrey pulled at the hem of his moth-eaten sweater, voice rising an octave. “Says who? Besides, a lot of people come to our meetings. I couldn’t possibly know them all.”
Hooker sighed. “The Reconstruction Minister’s daughter turns up in this toilet, all the way from Holland Park, and you don’t know ‘bout it?”
“Stop taking the piss,” Leah added. “We know they met a woman called Roisin. Who’s she?”
McCaffrey opened a box and pulled out a sheaf of leaflets. They showed cartoons of tacticals bayonetting civilians. He began placing them on chairs. “May I ask who you work for?”
“Someone with an interest in the girls’ welfare,” Hooker replied. “No Government, no NatSec and no drama. We just want to find the girls, make sure they’re safe and get paid for our trouble.”
“That didn’t answer my question,” McCaffrey replied.
“Why does it matter?” said Leah. “Or don’t you care two girls are missing?”
“Of course I care,” McCaffrey bristled. A leaflet floated to the floor, a picture of a fighter jet with swastikas scrawled on the wings. “Actually, what I care about are the atrocities taking place in Free Medway…”
Hooker nodded. “Ever been down there?”
McCaffrey looked at his feet. “I’ve seen the videos.”
“I’ve grafted down in Medway,” Hooker replied. “The Black Bloc ain’t the freedom fighters you make ‘em out to be. Just like the Government ain’t the good guys they make themselves out to be.”
“My politics aren’t the issue, are they? In any case, I doubt if I can help,” McCaffrey replied. “I remember Evie, but nothing much about the other girl. She only came to yesterday’s meeting, I think.”
Leah punched McCaffrey in the belly. He doubled up, chin bouncing off her knee. “Bong! Wrong answer, Leveller Luke.”
Hooker shook his head. “Forgive my partner. She’s still learning the basics of conducting investigations in a Green Zone environment.”
McCaffrey sat on the floor, nose bloodied. “You’re as bad as NatSec, aren’t you?”
“Maybe. Then again, we’re nowhere near as bad as your friends in the Bloc,” said Leah, studying her knuckles. “Or the Crimson Brigade.”
Hooker shot Leah a look. Don’t give too much away. “Luke? Tell us about Roisin and the girls.”
“Okay, someone called Roisin does come here now and then,” McCaffrey replied, eyeing Leah’s gauntleted fists. “I think she travels up from Croydonia on the tram. I assume she’s sympathetic to the Bloc, she has that way about her. I leave her alone. My politics are non-violent.”
Leah stood over the activist. “You still let the Bloc sneak around, looking for fresh meat?”
McCaffrey got to his feet, jutting his chin. “Every struggle needs foot-soldiers.”
Leah laughed. “Always the same, ain’t it?
Wankers like you, sittin’ in meetings. Drinking tea and talking about Gramsci. People like me? We take the kickings in the back of a riot van.”
McCaffrey cocked his head. “You were Bloc?”
“Trust me, if you’d joined you’d hate ‘em too. I was there when they razed Nu-Brightonia, after the Crimson legged it.”
“I want you both to leave,” said McCaffrey. “Go now. Please.”
“Or what?” Leah replied, “gonna call NatSec?”
Hooker pulled out his notebook. “I ain’t going anywhere, son. Tell me about Roisin. I need a description. Does she have a vehicle? A fob code?”
McCaffrey fell into a chair, staring blankly at the floor. “I’d say she was thirty-five, maybe older, with an Irish accent. Black hair, squinty blue eyes. She mentioned she was a nurse once, I don’t know what sort. I’ve never had a fob code for her – she didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask.”
Hooker scratched at his notebook with a pencil stub. “What’s her surname?”
McCaffrey shrugged, “that isn’t how it works.”
Hooker rested a hand on McCaffrey’s shoulder and gently squeezed. The activist flinched. “You’re a poor liar. I need something I can work with. Think.”
McCaffrey rubbed his brow, as if trying to squeeze a thought out. “I know it sounds silly, but Roisin has a thing about tea. Old-fashioned tea. She drinks it all the time, even brings a flask to meetings. It smells awful, like perfume. Apparently, you can only get it on the black market.”
“Okay, Luke, that’s better than nothing,” Hooker replied. “Which black market?”
“I asked her about the tea once, and she laughed. She told me she ended up in the Goons once looking for a particular type…”
An image flickered in Hooker’s peripheral vision, the hunter’s camera flickering to life. Dark-clothed figures hurried across the street. “NatSec – Leah, get him out of here.”
Leah grabbed McCaffrey’s arm. “Move,” she ordered, dragging him towards the fire exit.
Hooker faced the door, hands on head. Three plainclothes agents burst into the hall, pistols ready. They were followed by a hard-faced woman wearing a raincoat, three chevrons on the badge clipped to her collar. “Well, fuck my old boots, it’s Rufus Hooker,” she declared. “Where’s Luke McCaffrey?”
“Hanne Tollen,” Hooker replied easily. “You’re a sergeant now? How long did that take, twenty years?”
“What can I say? I’m on the fast-track,” The NatSec officer replied. She turned to her men, “search the place and warn Traynor out back. The girl and the suspect are somewhere ‘round here. They’re armed, remember.”
“We’ve got contractor’s licences and firearms permits,” Hooker replied.
“Don’t mean shit, Rufus. Not where you’re concerned,” said Tollen.
Hooker kept his hands where the cop could see them. “You were a good operator. How d’you end up festering in the back of an obbo van?”
Tollen scowled, making the scar on her cheek twitch. “Like I said, my career’s on fire. At least I ain’t down in Medway. Now, who gave you a gig in the Green Zone?”
Hooker chuckled. “Like I’m gonna tell NatSec.”
“Gordy Rice?” Tollen tapped her ID badge with a gloved finger. “Let me remind you of the Contract Security Outsourcing Act – Section Four, Paragraph Two, sub-section C: independent security contractors will, at all times, cooperate fully with sworn law enforcement. Failure to do so may lead to withdrawal of accreditation.”
Hooker shook his head. “Rules, Tollen? You’ve changed.”
“Stop fucking about, Rufus. You’ve compromised my operation.”
A thick-set agent returned, glaring sulkily at Hooker. “Traynor’s gone missing, sarge. He ain’t answering his fob.”
“Go and find him then, fuck-nuts,” Tollen hissed.
“Yes, sarge.”
“Hooker, you’re pinched,” said Tollen. “Section Twelve. I’m taking you in for questioning.”
“Ain’t my fault you lost your officer,” Hooker replied.
Tollen’s eyes darted around the room. “Tell me, why is Luke McCaffrey of interest to you? You’re all about missing persons, right? This is political work.”
Hooker rubbed his chin. “D’you remember that night in Gravesend? Drinking hooch and watching artillery fallin’ on Tilbury? Sorta romantic, weren’t it?”
“Rufus, if you think I’m kidding…”
Hooker smiled. “You were different then, Hanne. Full of the joys of spring.”
Tollen jabbed Hooker’s neck with a finger. “Ow,” he winced.
“I’m gonna throw you in a containment cell, then you can go back to the Isle of Man. I heard it’s rough over there, lots of mano-a-mano action.”
“Okay, you got me. I’ve got a lead. Luke McCaffrey’s a witness in a people-trafficking case,” Hooker lied. “Green-Zone meat for No-Zone shops. You know the drill.”
“Bullshit.” Tollen keyed her fob, “Nash, Gregory, get in here. Bring the gel-kuffs.”
The fob crackled. “Sarge, Traynor’s kuffed to the toilet.”
“Stay there Hooker,” Tollen ordered. “Try to leave and I’ll have you shot.”
Hooker smiled at the NatSec sergeant. “I reckon your day just got even worse.”
Tollen turned on her heel, angry eyes fixed on Hooker’s. “What?”
Hooker tapped his goggles. “Someone just stole your shiny new obbo van.”
ten
“What an eejit this Peeler is,” said Rourke, eyes fixed on the omni. “Would you look at this ludicrous peacock of a man?”
Paolo swung his feet on the table and lit a cigarette. “He’s the NatSec chief? Probably a uniform fetishist with an inadequacy complex. Let’s see what the dolt has to say.”
The Chief Constable of the National Security Constabulary was taking questions. He glowered from a lectern, face blotched by radiation burns. He wore a smart black tunic and cap, the Emergencies Medal at his throat. “Seventeen officers were murdered today,” he growled. “I’ve got a further fifty-eight injured. Furthermore, we have evidence linking this outrage to the so-called Commune International.”
“What would you say to the Communards, Chief Constable?” asked a journalist.
“Communards? You mean squatters? Anyone illegally occupying municipal premises adjacent the Crosland Estate has twenty-four hours to surrender,” the Chief Constable replied, flipping open a gold pocket watch. “As of now.”
“And if they refuse?” asked the woman from the BBC.
“I shall initiate measures under Section Twelve of the Emergencies Act. NatSec has ample resources. Our tactical options are many, our resolve absolute.”
“Can you elaborate, Chief Constable?”
“I’ll level the Commune,” the policeman replied, eyes gleaming. “The Government has authorised military support. If necessary, Multi-Launch Rocket Systems will be deployed.”
“Artillery?” Rourke snorted. She returned to the kettle, humming as she rifled in a cupboard. “Ah, Earl Grey. He abolished slavery, don’t you know? This is an ethical cuppa, and no mistake. You know how much I pay those wee bastards for Earl Grey?”
“Who’d have thought there’d be more profit smuggling tea than ammunition?” Paolo replied, switching off the omni. The mysteries of Capitalism never failed to amaze him.
“I’ve not many teabags left.”
Paolo studied his cigarette. “Your source dried up, eh?”
“I’m not big on euphemism, Colonel. You know I had to kill her,” Rourke replied. “No more Marlboro for you, either.”
Paolo nodded. “I need to smoke less. You did what was necessary, like the Kendrick girl and her mother.”
“I’ve never particularly enjoyed wet-work,” said Rourke. “What do you think about his threat to bring in the big guns?”
“A hollow threat, I suspect. Although the Chief Constable reminds me of a general I once met.”
Rourke sipped her tea. “A gener
al?”
Paolo nodded. “Generals love firepower. I find these things usually boil down to firepower. I was standing next to Colonel-General Kutuzov when he ordered the nuclear strike on Hamburg. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he realised the warheads were sabotaged and targeting systems hacked.”
“By Archangels?”
“Yes. They wanted a wholly conventional war. The Archangels were whispering in the ears of the Russians and the Americans and the Chinese. Simultaneously. The nuclear weapons capability of all three, completely compromised.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Rourke replied, shaking her head. “They let India and Pakistan nuke each other...”
“That was only a matter of time anyway,” Paolo snorted. “Besides, the Archangels were slaves to a warped logic, way beyond our understanding. RXP opens your mind, in ways cattle like us can only dream of. That’s their excuse, anyway.”
“What happened to General Kutuzov?” asked Rourke.
“Executed for incompetence. He wasn’t the only one – the Kremlin claimed the whole thing was an attempted coup by rogue military elements.”
Rourke began rolling a cigarette. “Were you with the Crimson then?”
“No,” Paolo shrugged, studying the omni covering Lottie Rhys. The girl sat with her back to the wall, next to a boarded-up window. She stared at the camera, red-eyed and snot-nosed. “Although, ironically, our interests were aligned. I spent a lot of time tracking archangels.”
Rourke looked like she wanted to ask more, but instead she brushed cigarette ash from her skirt. “Any news from the Spaniards?”
Paolo glanced at his watch. “It’s in hand.”
“I’m sorry we had cross words earlier,” said Rourke, fussing over the kettle. “I’m sure you know what it’s like, when a job hits a bump in the road.”
No, I don’t. This level of incompetence seems to be your hallmark. “Of course, Sorcha. Think nothing of it. I’ll be back soon.”
Paolo took the lift down to the Spaniards’ lair. He knocked on the steel door, a CCTV camera whirring towards him. A dark-skinned man dressed in camouflage appeared, a Kalashnikov in his hands. “Qué deseas?” he said.
“The General’s expecting me,” Paolo replied in the same language.
Dark as Angels: We are the Enemy Page 8