by Frank Tayell
Henry waited, watching the man bleed to death. He waited, expecting the last assassin to step into the gap. He waited, expecting a hail of gunfire that would mark his death. The assassin didn’t appear. Henry blinked. He listened. There was no sound at all. The killer had gone. Of course he had, he’d gone to find Isaac and the professor.
Henry wanted to stay behind the desk forever, but he couldn’t, so he stood, and took a step towards the two dead men. He heard something in the hallway just before the assassin stepped into the phone’s pool of light. Henry had the gun raised. He pulled the trigger. It clicked, jammed. The assassin grinned. Henry dived forward, slamming his entire body into the man. There was a staccato rat-a-tat as the assassin’s gun went off, a soft patter as the bullets thudded into the carpet. Henry roared, punching and kicking, shoving and jabbing, screaming and butting while the assassin tried to bring his gun to bear. Henry pushed his forearm against the assassin’s throat. The man let go of his weapon, and jabbed his own hands into Henry’s sides.
Henry screamed, as much in fear as pain, and punched his palm into the man’s face. He felt the man’s nose break. The assassin backed off a step, reaching for something inside his coat. As he did, Henry reached out, grabbed the man’s bandaged-covered head, and slammed his face into the door. The glass window was reinforced with wire mesh. It cracked but didn’t break. The man pushed himself back, but he was still trying to draw something from his coat. Henry slammed the man’s face into the reinforced window again and again. The wooden frame split as the assassin’s face was lacerated on the glass. The man finally gave up on his concealed weapon, and threw a wild punch. Henry ducked, and swept his leg out. The man stumbled, but didn’t fall. Henry grabbed the back of the man’s bandaged head, and brought it down onto his rising knee. The man collapsed.
Henry stepped back. The assassin’s face was covered in small scars, a crisscross of bloody lines where the reinforced mesh had cut deep into his skin. Not checking to see if the man was dead, Henry grabbed the submachine gun from one goon, and then the next, and then took their ammunition and the night vision goggles, and then the jammed pistol. He was uncertain which way to go. Outside? And then where?
The assassin groaned. Henry aimed the submachine gun at the man. Self-defence was one thing, shooting a barely conscious man was something else. It was a line he couldn’t cross.
There was a beeping noise. It came from the assassin’s belt. It was an odd device, not quite a smart phone, not quite a sat-phone, but it was receiving an incoming call. Henry picked it up, and pressed the green button.
“Is it done?” a man asked. He sounded old, speaking in cultured English.
Henry didn’t reply. He didn’t breathe. He waited.
“Who’s there?” the voice asked.
“It’s done,” Henry said, in his best impersonation of the assassin.
There was silence on the other end, and then a short bark of laughter before the call was disconnected.
Henry tried the number pad. The phone didn’t work. He dropped it, and returned to Isaac and the professor.
“Where’s the— What happened?” Isaac asked.
“That assassin,” Henry said. “He came back. He wasn’t alone. We need to go. Right now. What was it you said, that there’s a road, and if you followed it, you would find them? Well they followed that road back to you.”
“I got through to them,” Isaac said. “To one of them, at least. I got a—”
“Later,” Henry cut in. “This isn’t the place, and we haven’t got the time. We need to get out of here and find the authorities. Whatever this is, it’s bigger than us.”
“Agreed,” the professor said. “It’s a short walk from here to Thames House. MI5,” she added.
“There’s no other option?” Isaac asked.
“No,” the professor said. “This… this is something beyond our ability to manage. It’s time to admit defeat, before it is too late for us all.”
Isaac led them through the building, heading in the opposite direction to that in which the assassins had come.
Outside Senate House, the city was dark. An orange glow was reflected off the clouds, but it didn’t come from streetlights. As the smell of smoke spread through the air, they jogged down the road until they reached the junction.
“Which way’s MI5?” Henry asked. There was a roar in the sky. A plane soared low, barely above the rooftops. A fraction of a second later, it crashed into the university building they were just in. A cloud of brick and dust, sound and flame erupted behind them as the building was destroyed.
“Strike a match,” Isaac said, “and hope the world doesn’t burn.”
Chapter 15 - Twenty Years Later
13th November 2039, Twynham
“We didn’t make it to Thames House,” Captain Mitchell said. “At first, I thought that plane had been deliberately flown into Senate House. Perhaps it was, but as the night wore on, more planes dropped out of the sky. We took shelter, hoping that when dawn came and we could properly see the world around us, we’d gain a better understanding of what was going on and how to face it. By the time the sun rose, it was already too late. The virus had… mutated is the best word. It was clearly beyond its creator’s control. Thames House was destroyed, along with so much else. Isaac saw what was going to happen. Saw, or read, or heard, because he spent half his time online and the other half searching for a connection. Before the networks went down for the last time, he sent a warning to some people on a government list. People with useful skills. People who— well, no, that’s another story, and one that ended with us and a few thousand others sheltering in a deep-level underground station when the nuclear bombs went off above our heads. That’s when the world ended.” He shrugged.
“Oh.” Ruth said. She turned to watch Ned Ludd, still painstakingly raking a lawn that had virtually no leaves on it. “I’ve a question.”
“Yes?”
“Actually, I’ve got lots.”
“Ask them,” he said. “I’ll answer.”
“The assassin, that was Emmitt?”
“I think so.”
“And the man you heard on the phone, that was his employer?” she asked.
“Maybe. Maybe his employer, maybe just someone co-ordinating the attacks.”
“Who was he?” she asked. “Or them, or… well, who was behind it?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve thought a lot it over the years. Someone who was rich, but money will only get you so far. Emmitt managed to get weapons into Britain, and if you don’t know how difficult that used to be, ask Weaver. My theory is that he had the backing of a major government. I doubt they knew what he was actually doing, but they gave his people diplomatic cover. Precisely which government, I don’t know.”
“But they survived? I mean, are they still out there?”
“You’re thinking about what Emmitt said about your parents?”
“Yes… no, not really,” Ruth said. “I don’t know.”
Mitchell frowned. “Well, there’s no way for Emmitt to have known about the hotel or the sub-basement without him being the assassin who tried to kill us. I suppose it’s possible that Isaac or Maggie told someone, but… no, I think that assassin was Emmitt. In which case, he escaped from London. He would have returned to his employer and then, probably, he killed the man for causing a plane to crash into the building he was in.”
“Except Emmitt was loyal, wasn’t he?” Ruth asked. “I mean—” She stopped. “He still is, isn’t he? He’s loyal to someone, otherwise why is he risking his life to do any of this? From what he said, if he’s to be believed, he thinks he’s part of a cause. If he wasn’t, if he was just a lone survivor, then having printed all that counterfeit currency, why didn’t he buy himself a comfortable life, or a seat in parliament or, well, anything?”
“Yes, and that’s what I’m now wondering. Up until today, I thought he was the man running the conspiracy. Perhaps for Longfield, perhaps for himself. Now, I’m not so sure. It�
��s Calais. Everything else, from the counterfeiting to the sabotage could be viewed as a path to political power in Britain. Calais, though, is different. It has the effect of tying up our military resources, but it feels like it’s part of something bigger.”
“The assassination, too,” Ruth said. “I mean, that wasn’t just about killing the prime minister, that was about disrupting the relationship between Britain and the U.S.”
“A good point,” Mitchell said. “Then there is someone behind all of this who’s playing a very long game. Perhaps it is Emmitt, but perhaps not. Perhaps Emmitt is working for someone, but more likely he’s working with someone. Either way, he’s a true believer in this cause, and there is no one more dangerous than that.” His eyes went to Ned Ludd who’d finally stopped raking and was now watching a robin that had landed on the sundial.
“I’ve another question,” Ruth said.
“I said I’d answer them all,” Mitchell said.
“Do you think Isaac was working for… for him, whoever he was?” she asked.
“No. I did, at first. That would have been the simplest explanation. That he’d stolen some code and taken it to the professor to complete the work. But no, Maggie has known Isaac all her life. She vouched for him. And no, she wasn’t working for them, either. On their own, driven by their own demons, those two created something utterly new under our pale sun. It would have changed the world. It did change the world, just not how they’d imagined it.”
“I’ve got more questions, but I think I’ll keep them for later. I suppose what I really want to know above all else is what do we do now? I mean, this changes everything, doesn’t it?”
“It might do,” Mitchell said. “Emmitt’s old employer might be alive. He might be behind the assassin. Their lair, wherever it is, might be where the ammunition we found in Dover came from. It might mean that, when we catch this sniper, there’ll be another waiting to pick up the gauntlet. Or it might not. I’m going to make no more assumptions, they’ll only lead us into danger.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“Tonight, I’m going to warn Isaac. Tomorrow, I don’t know. I might need to speak to Atherton and tell him what Emmitt said. That would involve telling him the truth about Isaac, and that will surely complicate matters.”
“The prime minister doesn’t know about Isaac?”
“Yes and no,” Henry said. “Atherton knows what happened in the Tube station, and about Isaac leading us to the coast to find the ships with their supplies. The old PM knew, but I don’t know what she told Atherton except that she didn’t tell him everything. Isaac has been allowed some latitude because any jury would have been filled with people whose lives he saved. No one would have found him guilty, and thus he has been left alone. The proviso was that he didn’t put himself in a position where he’d end up in court.”
“I don’t like all these secrets,” Ruth said. “And I don’t think they should have been kept in the first place, but I don’t see how telling the prime minister would help now.”
“Nor do I,” Mitchell said, “but he is the prime minister. If I’m going to call myself a police officer, there are some laws that have to be followed.”
“Well, fine, but it won’t help us catch the sniper, will it?”
“Maybe it does,” Mitchell said. “Emmitt could have told me who he was when we arrested him, or at any point since. This is the secret he’s been holding back. This is why he knew he wouldn’t be executed. This is his bargaining chip, and it’s staked on a very weak hand.” He stood. “I’ll speak to Isaac. When Mrs Zhang arrives, go home. Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.” He left.
Ruth turned to face Ned Ludd, though she barely saw him. She replayed the captain’s story. It was obvious that he’d not told her everything. He had told her about killing those two assassins, so she wondered what he’d left out.
It was only twenty minutes before Mrs Zhang arrived. She was dressed in a smart old-world suit but carrying a battered canvas bag that clinked as she put it on the table. She nodded to Ruth, turned a full circle, and surveyed rooftops and walls.
“He will be safe,” she said. “Go. You will be safe, too.”
There was a calm professionalism about the woman, one that begged more questions, but Ruth’s brain had no space for them.
“Thank you. Goodbye, Mr Ludd,” she called to the man.
He looked up from his rake, and frowned. “You’re leaving?” he asked, and he sounded almost upset. “Then watch. Keep watching. Always watch, because they are watching you. Watch. Yes, keep watch, it is the only way to be safe.”
Ruth smiled. “That was almost coherent. I think he’s getting better.”
She left Religion Road, and took a slow walk through the city. It wasn’t that she was revisiting old haunts, as she’d seldom come into town while she lived in the refugee camp. During her brief time in the Serious Crimes Unit, the only places she’d visited had been full of death and violence, and there had been too much of that today. Instead, she wandered the roads almost at random until she found herself at the radio antenna on the cliffs of Southborne. The antenna itself was a tranquil monument amid a bustling hive of activity. Scores of builders swarmed over the apartment buildings, houses, and shops being redeveloped. The building in which Emmitt had attempted to assassinate the old prime minister and Ambassador Perez now had the Stars and Stripes flying from its roof. The absurdly long flagpole was dwarfed by the antenna, but the first thing any ship would see when approaching the harbour would be the American flag. She’d thought it strange that the U.S. embassy was moving to that particular building. Perhaps that was part of the reason why. Standing outside the embassy were a pair of U.S. Marines in their old-world dress-blues.
Ruth considered going inside, or at least seeing whether she would be let inside. Perhaps the ambassador would want to play another game of chess.
That idea sprang into her mind fully formed, and it was such an odd one, it made her stop in her tracks. She stared at the building, confused until she realised why the thought had come to her. She wanted someone to talk to. The ambassador wasn’t a friend, but that was the problem. She knew so few people. She could hardly discuss what Mitchell had said with Isaac or Maggie. For the same reason, she couldn’t discuss it with Mrs Zhang or Kelly. Aside from her feud with Mitchell, Weaver was an assistant commissioner. There was Riley, of course, but she was, in every way that mattered, Mitchell’s daughter. And then there was Simon. He was the last person in whom Ruth had confided, and he’d betrayed her. No, there was no one with whom she could talk, though she desperately wanted to.
Feeling suddenly alone in the world, she went back to Riley’s cottage.
Chapter 16 - Watching The World Burn
14th November, Twynham
Ruth couldn’t sleep. A soft amber glow eased its way beneath the dining room door showing that Riley was still awake, but Ruth wasn’t in the mood for conversation. When she’d returned to Riley’s cottage, Ruth hadn’t mentioned what Mitchell had told her about the Blackout. Instead, she’d let Maggie and Riley assume she was dwelling on the murder of the five Luddites. Ruth had said little during the evening, but Maggie had been more than happy to do most of the talking. She’d enthused over how she and Riley had spent the day sifting through telegram reports and interviewing messengers. To Ruth it had sounded tedious. Judging by Riley’s expression, the sergeant had thought so, too. Maggie, though, had spoken as if it had been one of the most enjoyable working days of her life. It was puzzling, and even more so when taken with what little they discovered.
They’d learned that a message had been sent from Dover at just before seven p.m., approximately four hours after Adamovitch and Yanuck had been arrested. The message read: No fish today. The boat has sunk. Catching the train tomorrow. Maggie was certain there was a coded message hidden within the words. Riley thought it was simply a pre-arranged signal to indicate that Adamovitch had been arrested and would be on a train ‘tomorr
ow’.
What was more illuminating, and how they had concluded this message was the signal to the sniper, was that the telegram had been sent to Wallace Fairmont, a composite of the names of two of the now-dead conspirators. No address had been given, and so the message had been pinned to the board outside the telegraph office. That was hardly rare since it was half the cost of having a telegram hand-delivered. As the board was prominently placed outside the telegram office, anyone could have read it, but one of the clerks had remembered seeing a bearded man with a limp lingering outside. It wasn’t much to go on, and as clues went, it didn’t take them very far. Nevertheless, Maggie had been genuinely excited at being involved in police work. Or perhaps it was trying to find the code hidden in the telegram. Maybe that reminded Maggie of her life before the Blackout.
The sofa squeaked as Ruth sat up. The past didn’t matter. What mattered was catching the murderer before he struck again. The fire was burning low. She stood, crossed to the small basket filled with split logs, and placed one in the grate. There was a crackle of sparks, a soft whoosh as ash fell into the hearth, then a rocking of springs from the dining room. A moment later came the sound of wheels turning, the door opening, a gentle thud as Riley banged into the wall, and then the sergeant wheeled herself into the living room.
“What’s keeping you up?” Riley asked.
“Emmitt,” Ruth said, mostly truthfully.
“He can’t be trusted,” Riley said. “What did he say to you?”
“Some stuff about my family,” Ruth said. “It’s a long story.”
“So tell me,” Riley said, wheeling her chair close to the fire.
“It’s nothing,” Ruth said, feeling uncomfortable sharing it.
“Emmitt’s got inside your head,” Riley said. “Talking about it might get him out of there.”
“I don’t believe him,” Ruth said. “But the thing is, I think he does. It’s weird, but he actually seems to think I’m called Sameen, the daughter of someone he used to work with, or maybe for.”