“What’s so funny?” said a voice in his ear. Chisholm.
“Fuck off, I’m trying to work.”
“We checked your friend on the legacy systems. Theodore Logan – registered informant with the Taskforces. There’s a report saying you killed his cousin.”
“Logan told me where he was. They had a beef.”
“And you trust him?”
Hooker carried on walking. “If you don’t shut up and let me get on with it…”
“You’ll do what?”
“I’ll fail. That creature Bliss will send you to Chatham. Then, if you’re really unlucky, I’ll find you there myself.”
Chisholm softened his voice. “I just want you to know the system’s working. We can hear you.”
“Great. Now leave me alone, or find the girl yourself.”
When he reached the garages, Hooker climbed onto a nearby roof. Three figures approached, light studs twinkling in one of their faces – Desire. The others were rope-heads, Goon slang for a dread-locked anarchist. They stopped and lit cigarettes, fidgeting from foot-to-foot. The men wore long rubberised coats and galoshes, reminding Hooker of pictures he’d seen of old-fashioned trawlermen. Climbing back down to street level, he walked towards them. “This is the fella,” said Desire, lighting a joint.
One of the rope-heads offered a brawny hand. “Hey. You want to get inside the Commune?”
“Yeah.”
The rope-head’s accent was German. Harsh to Hooker’s ear. “Typical mad English – everyone else wants to get out.”
“He’s got gold,” said Desire. “Lots of gold.”
Hooker looked the German in the eye. “I’ve also got a fifty-shot Hanyang Tactical Pro.”
“You will have no trouble from us, my friend,” the German replied, smiling. “No use having gold if you can’t spend it. Desire, you’ll find us somewhere safe to hide? We have a deal?”
“You can stay with me tonight,” Desire replied, running a fingernail under the German’s stubbly chin. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you both warm. Tomorrow my sister will drive you to the border, or you can take the coach to Dover.”
“I’d get your hair cut first,” said Hooker. “Let’s go.”
“I think he’s right,” the second rope-head smiled, opening the door to a garage. “We need to cut our hair and hurry.”
The garage floor was covered with layer upon layer of filthy carpeting and rotting linoleum. The two rope-heads began peeling them away, finally revealing a panel. It was cleverly camouflaged, fitted flush with the rough concrete floor. “Down there,” said the first rope-head, prising it open with a knife. “Follow me and stay close, ja?”
Hooker nodded. “Where’s the exit? Inside the Commune or outside?”
“Just inside the western perimeter,” the rope-head replied. “There will be guards.”
“That’s my problem.”
The rope-head dropped into the tunnel with a splash. Hooker followed, NVGs painting the world green. “This place has gone to shit,” the rope-head whispered. “Maybe a year ago, it was good. Peaceful. Then Ignacio of The Black Rifles came.”
“They aren’t real anarchists,” the other squatter added. “They’re no better than fascists.”
“How many Black Rifles?” asked Hooker.
“A hundred, maybe more?”
The hatch scraped shut above them, Desire making flap-flop noises as she re-covered it with carpet. The first rope-head slid a heavy padlock through a clasp. The lock was electronic, designed to frustrate conventional picking. “We’ve got to make it look like nobody came through,” the rope-head explained. “This tunnel is secret – strictly controlled by the Black Rifles.”
“So how come you’re allowed here?”
“We maintain it. The Spaniards are too lazy to do it for themselves.”
“They sleep all day,” the other German shrugged.
The tunnel was a full two metres wide, cantilevered with scaffolding poles. The walls were carved through layers of rubble and aggregate, held in place by a mixture of plastifoam, wooden stanchions and chicken wire. Luminous roof tiles provided dim green light. “You built this?” Hooker asked.
“Thirty of us. German engineering,” said the rope-head proudly. “We invented an organic solution to dissolve the debris. It made it easier to dig out. It’s the main smuggling route in and out of the Crosland.”
His friend nodded. “It’s deep enough not to show up on thermal imaging. The pigs have no idea we can get in and out.”
Hooker felt the slab of grey putty hugging his wrist. And you’ve just told the National Security Constabulary. “How often does it flood?”
“Once or twice a year, usually in the spring. In places, we are only a few metres from the riverbed.” They waded along the tunnel, murky river water waist-deep. The rank odour of sewage filled Hooker’s nose.
The first rope-head held up a hand. “Someone’s coming.”
“Who?” Hooker whispered.
“Scheisse! Black Rifles…”
Eighteen
Paolo sat in the dark, awaiting Rourke’s call. His fingers brushed the brainstem injectors in his pocket, each containing MADRIGAL’S secrets. A compelling story, but Paolo knew nobody believed in truth anymore – desiccated by a mixture of cognitive dissonance and Critical Theory. The Crimson Brigade agent remembered a lecture in Bari, a political officer explaining how the babel of technology had deconstructed veracity, like a mortician with a corpse. The Crimson Brigade had used lies to its advantage for many years, but it was a weapon that cut both ways.
No, unless MADRIGAL was corroborated from Damon Rhys’s mouth, the mission would fail. In a world inured to lies, only unambiguous fact would suffice. A confessional, in front of cameras and baying journalists. Damon Rhys’ tears would prove more than a thousand dossiers, his daughter’s grisly fate more compelling than the story of how the world caught fire. Paolo Falcone smiled – had he not taken a mixture of drama and cloying sentimentality and weaponised it? And the siege outside? Perhaps it was the cherry on the cake.
The timer on Paolo’s fob gnawed at the minutes. Yawning, he studied the girl on the omni. Lottie Rhys lay watching the lightbulb in the ceiling, hands resting on her belly. Was she thinking of the foetus gestating inside her? He fobbed Vassa Hyatt. “You have proof of life. When is the conference?”
“Approximately an hour.”
“Too long.”
Hyatt sighed. “You do want the media there, don’t you? They’re all in Lagoon City now. Some of them have even told me I’m trying to spin the news cycle away from the riots.”
“Is that also your job?”
“I’m not a media manager, I’m a security agent.”
Paolo’s voice was scratchy through the doppler. “I want Rhys to announce he’s going to discuss his participation in the CIA Special Access Program known as MADRIGAL. You have thirty minutes.”
Hyatt sounded relaxed. “Impossible. I can’t magically transport the national media across London, can I? I need more time.”
“We know the girl’s pregnant, Miss Hyatt,” said Paolo.
Hyatt paused. Her voice wavered for a moment. “I have no response to that.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” Paolo replied, turning the screw. “The circumstances behind her pregnancy sound quite… disturbing. Maybe I’ll film her talking about it before I execute her.”
Hyatt’s voice was strained. “Do you think interrogating then beheading a pregnant teenager is the way to win support for your cause?”
“Absolutely,” Paolo replied, ice in his words. “Your government bombs children every day, not forty miles from London. So, I think your people will understand why the elite’s brats face the sword. They might even embrace the social justice of it. Oh, and we both know they’ll love the drama of it.”
“That’s your answer? Undergraduate revolutionary bullshit? Very well, I’ll pass your demands onto Mister Rhys,” Hyatt spat, ending the call.
Paol
o lit a cigarette. Hyatt had been composed and professional, until he mentioned Lottie’s pregnancy. Was it a lever they’d not properly pulled? Dammit, why hadn’t Sorcha debriefed the girl properly? He unlocked the door to Lottie’s room. “When we spoke earlier, about your pregnancy, you mentioned you were drugged.”
The girl bared her teeth. Her hair, matted with blood, half-covered her eyes. She reminded Paolo of a cornered fox. “Fuck off, terrorist.”
Paolo crouched beside the girl. “I’m just a soldier, Miss Rhys. I hold the rank of Colonel in the Crimson Brigade. Furthermore, in my world, drugging a woman in the circumstances you describe would never happen. The people who did it would be executed.”
Lottie scowled. “So-says the man with the sword and a chopping block?”
Paolo pulled a protein bar from his pocket. “Take this. I told you, the sword is for show, merely a piece of theatre to scare your father. Now, tell me exactly what happened. It could be important.”
Lottie mashed the bar into her mouth. When she’d eaten it, she shrugged. “Why?”
“If there’s something your family wants to hide, I can use it to get you released more quickly.”
Lottie shook her head.
Paolo smiled. “Alternatively, I could torture the information out of you.”
Lottie glanced around the room. Outside, the occasional chatter of gunfire. She dabbed crumbs from her chin and put them in her mouth. “You might anyway.”
“What other choice do you have, Lottie? This place isn’t safe. I’m the only one who can get you out of here.”
“Are we in Medway?”
“Perhaps,” Paolo lied.
Lottie looked at the space between her feet. Charred floorboards and greasy linoleum. She rubbed her wrists, raw from handcuffs and rope. “Okay, I’ll bite. A few months ago, Dad took me to a party in Wessex. For the Speaker’s birthday.”
“Speaker?”
“Yes, Speaker of the Winchester Parliament. It’s a very important job, like a sort of referee. Dad went to Cambridge with her, she’s my Godmother actually. It was quite a stuffy party, too many speeches about politics.”
“Politics? I thought you were interested. Didn’t you work for the New-Democrats in the States?”
Lottie’s laugh was bitter. “I spent three months going to drinks with senators, most of who just wanted to sleep with me.”
Nothing changes. “I’m sorry to interrupt. Please, tell me about the party.”
“Etta, one of the other girls, had some skanj. So we hid in the garden and smoked it. I don’t often smoke skanj, but I was bored…”
“Was Vassa there?”
“Vassa? She’s everywhere. She came into the garden to see me, so I was worried she’d tell my father I’d been smoking. Turns out she was okay about it. She even brought a bottle of champagne.”
“What happened after that?”
Lottie pushed her hair away from her eyes, bruised and bloodshot. “There was a good-looking guy at the party, Tristian. He was more mature than the others. He’d been to college in America, so we spent ages talking about that. We had a smoke and finished the champagne. Then he kissed me.”
“You’re an attractive young woman,” Paolo shrugged. “Why wouldn’t he?”
Lottie blushed. “There are rules for people like me.”
Paolo found himself laughing. “You’re at a party, smoking skanj and drinking champagne? You chose to kiss a handsome young man. Lottie, those are the rules.”
“I know you’ll find this odd, but Tristian was below my… standing. And I was a virgin. That’s very important in Wessex society.”
“Standing?”
“I have three suitors, all from high families. They’ve been chosen by a professional matchmaker and approved by my father. All of them are genetically, socially and psychologically compatible. Eventually, after I’ve graduated from Oxford, I’ll marry the one I like best.”
Paolo shook his head. “It’s like something out of the 18th Century.”
“Wessex is another world compared to London,” Lottie replied. “Dad says we’re rebuilding the country, so it can be just like Wessex. We need elites. He says there isn’t time for… meritocracy. That comes later, when…”
Paolo sneered. “He sounds like an archangel. What happened with Tristian?”
Lottie studied her fingernails. “I was dizzy, then I suppose I passed out. When I woke up, I was lying down in a room with purple lights. Like ultraviolet. Anyway, Tristian was holding my hand, saying everything’s okay. I was so cold, my teeth were chattering. Then I passed out again. Maybe it was a dream?”
“What happened after you woke up?”
“I was in the garden, with some of the other girls. They said I’d been gone for an hour. Tristian had gone home. The thing is, I didn’t feel like… you know?”
“Like you’d had intercourse?”
Lottie blushed. She nodded and stood up. “May I stretch my legs?”
“Of course.”
“And a cigarette? Please?”
Paolo shook his head. “Smoking? You’re pregnant.”
“Really? Says the kidnapper with an execution chamber?”
Paolo shrugged. “I’m not going to harm you. Carry on with your story.”
Lottie’s forehead creased in concentration. “I might’ve been a virgin, but I understand reproductive biology. There was none of the discomfort I’d expect from my first… time. I began to wonder if I’d imagined it, until I missed my period. Then I took a pregnancy test.”
Paolo tapped another cigarette free. Yes, this might work. I could threaten to reveal the girl was impregnated at a cattle market for genetically-pure aristocrats. Rhys would hate that - the prurient interest would make the whole thing even more sensational. “Lottie, there’s something I don’t understand. If your father had already identified potential husbands, why d’you think this happened?”
“I wondered about that myself. I really don’t know… I don’t talk to him about that sort of thing.”
“Who do you talk to?”
“Evie. Evie’s mother. Evie thought I should have an abortion. There was no way I could go to my doctor for termination meds, he’d tell my father I wasn’t a virgin. So I asked if she knew anyone…”
“Evie knew Roisin was a nurse, of course. And here we are,” Paolo smiled, getting to his feet.
“Where’s Evie?”
“With her mother,” Paolo replied. “She knew nothing of this.”
Lottie walked to the shuttered window. “Who’s shooting outside?”
“Get back from there, it’s dangerous.”
The girl laughed as Paolo grabbed her shoulder. “You need to stay here until things calm down. Now, I’m afraid I’m going to have to tie your hands again.”
“What is it you want from my father?”
“Just the truth, Lottie. The truth sets us free.”
“The truth about what?”
Paolo pulled plasticuffs from his fighting rig. “Soon you’ll watch his confession for yourself. Then everything will make sense.”
Leaving the girl, he returned to the command bunker. General Ignacio was stripped to the waist, a bottle of cognac in his fist. He bawled commands into his fob, eyes flitting from camera to camera. His torso glistened with sweat, hands on hips as he directed the battle. “How many IEDs remain?”
“Only the device on the western perimeter,” said a fighter monitoring a bank of omnis.
“Excellent. Send reinforcements, tell them to fight hard for the palisade – make the fascists want it! When they take it, order a withdrawal. When the fascists advance, blow it up.”
“Yes General. We have thirty guns on that position right now.”
“Send more. The situation on the southern perimeter?”
A girl in black fatigues replied, tapping on her pad. “There’s a sizeable force of leaguers a hundred metres from the gate. Our scouts report generals from three of the biggest leagues.”
Paolo c
leared his throat, and the room fell quiet. “General Ignacio, may I offer my analysis?”
The General nodded. “Go on, Paolo.”
“I believe the higher-echelon leaguers will attack from the south, after their rabble breaches the western perimeter. Part-distraction, part-pincer movement, if you will. The generals want the glory of taking the Commune for themselves.”
The General folded his arms. “I agree, unless the cops or army intervene at the last minute. Do you have any information?”
Paolo shook his head. “None. I suspect the authorities have lost control now their dogs are unleashed. Their only tactical option is to keep drones on station, degrading our defences from the air. Letting the street leagues win is to their advantage now.”
The General grimaced as he paced the bunker. “You think the Government are backing the Leaguers?”
“Without a doubt. Our comrades in Kent will think twice about spreading the insurgency north if leaguers hold the Goons.”
The girl in black’s voice was urgent. “The western palisade is under assault now.”
“Tell the reinforcements to hurry. Keep a live feed on the south,” the General ordered. He tugged a flak jacket over his chest and grabbed a rifle. “Now we all fight.”
Paolo moved closer to the Spaniard. “I need a favour.”
“Just ask,” said Ignacio.
“I need someone for… dark work. Someone with a strong stomach.”
“How dark?”
Paolo shrugged. “I have a prisoner. A class traitor. They require executing, in the event I’m unable to do it myself.”
“You can have Caleb, the Englishman. He’s got blood under his fingernails, I trust him completely.”
Paolo shook the Spaniard’s hand. “This is a glorious moment, my friend. They’ll talk of this battle down the ages.”
The mercenary laughed. “I hope to be there to hear it – I’m not dying today!”
Nineteen
Hooker heard voices. The splash of boots in water. Clamping his smog mask over his face, he slid beneath the surface. The water was cold and sludgy, with a chemical stink.
Dark as Angels: We are the Enemy Page 15