Down: Trilogy Box Set

by Glenn Cooper

  “His name is Francis. Pope Francis.”

  Adolphus stood in excitement. “Named for my Francis? Saint Francis of Assisi?”

  “I believe so.”

  The monk looked up into the darkening sky and said, “Meeting you kind men has been the happiest day I have had in Hell. May I travel with you a while?”

  “We’ll find you space in one of the wagons,” Garibaldi offered. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “If you succeed in your mission, I would like to be able to build something. Perhaps you would help me.”

  “What do you wish to build?”

  “I would like to build the first church in Hell.”

  25

  Ben Wellington slumped in Trevor’s office staring numbly at the panel of CCTV screens. He was beyond tired, comically tired, after working flat-out for three weeks, returning home for a few hours here and there only long enough to shower and shave and get a tongue lashing from his wife for abandoning her with the triplets.

  “What’s he on about?”

  “Who?” Trevor asked.

  “Duck. What’s he doing?”

  Trevor looked at one of the screens. Duck was motoring away under his duvet. “He’s wanking off.”

  Ben got up to look closer. “He is, isn’t he? For the love of God, he’s watching The Little Mermaid.”

  “You can’t tell me you never fancied Ariel.”

  “Oh shut up. You’re talking about one of my girls’ favorite characters.”

  They both watched the screen anthropologically until Duck was finished. Ben’s mobile vibrated. He read a message then sighed.

  “What?” Trevor asked.

  “Still nothing. We’ve got four million CCTVs in England, a half a million in London alone, Woodbourne’s face on every news show and newspaper and we can’t find the bugger.”

  Trevor got up. It was time for their meeting with Quint. “As bad as we’ve got it, it’s got to be a damned sight worse for John and Emily. We’re on our home pitch. They’ve got the ultimate away game.”

  “You’re assuming they’re still alive.”

  “If I know both of them they’re not only alive, they’re kicking.”

  Quint listened impassively to the update on Woodbourne. When Ben was finished he said, “In three days we have actuation number three. In ten days we have number four. That will be it. There is no number five. There will be no day eleven. Our respective governments are firm on this. MAAC will be shut down permanently and Dr. Loughty and Mr. Camp will be functionally lost. These are the realities.”

  Ben started, “I’m well aware …”

  “I don’t really care whether you’re aware or whether you’re oblivious,” Quint said caustically. “I’ve poured my heart and soul into this facility and here I sit, helplessly watching all my work turning to shit. That’s what you should be aware of.”

  “With respect, Dr. Quint,” Trevor said, “I think John and Emily should be our primary concern at this time.”

  “Fine, good. I’ll join you in being politically correct but even Dr. Loughty would agree with me that the interests of science are sometimes bigger than the lives of two people.”

  Trevor clenched his jaw, setting his masseters visibly rippling under his tight skin. He asked if the meeting was over and when Quint nodded, he said, “What happens to Duck if we fail? Say it’s eleven days from now and MAAC is shuttered. What happens then?”

  “It’s been discussed,” Quint said. “The ongoing studies on the young man will be completed in due time and he will be eliminated, humanely, of course. When Woodbourne is found the same will be done with him.”

  With Trevor reduced to speechlessness, Ben asked, “And what do the powers that be plan for Emily and John’s families?”

  “Camp is no problem. He told us he’s got no one. Loughty, well, that’s trickier. We’ll say that she died from radiation exposure and that for health and safety reasons her body was cremated. Some one will empty out their fireplace and her family will be presented with ashes.”

  Trevor abruptly stood and said, “With all due respect, Dr. Quint, fuck you.”

  Woodbourne was chain smoking Lucky Strikes, hazing the flat with smoke. When Polly began to cough he allowed Benona to open the windows a crack. Benona thought about making some kind of sign with her hands but the street was dark and empty.

  “You can’t stay here forever,” she said.

  “You’re like a broken record, woman.”

  “This is my life and my daughter’s life. We want lives back.”

  “I’ve got to figure things out, all right?”

  “What’s to figure out? You must surrender to the police.”

  “Not likely. Never did, never will.”

  She lit one of the cigarettes and took a deep drag. “How many people you killed?”

  He arched a brow. “I’m surprised you asked that?”

  “Why?”

  “Most women would be too scared to know the answer?”

  “I’m only scared for Polly. Not for me.”

  “You’re a tough bird, aren’t you?”

  “I told you. I had hard life. I seen a lot, did a lot.”

  “Yeah? What did you do?”

  “Answer my question first.”

  “I killed a bunch. Put it that way.”

  “Why you did this? These people hurt you?”

  “A few did, yeah. Most didn’t.”

  “Then why you did this?”

  He got up off the floor and paced a little, frowning in discomfort. “I’ve got an anger in me.”

  “Many are angry. Most don’t kill.”

  “It’s a bad anger.”

  “What you told me, about Hell. How do I know you’re not crazy?”

  “I’m not crazy.”

  “You can prove what you say?”

  “I don’t know how to prove it.”

  “Okay, what day you say you died?”

  He told her. She went into Polly’s room and got the laptop computer that she’d stolen for the girl from an office.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Computer. You don’t know?”

  “If I knew, why would I ask?” he said. “What’s it for?”

  “To find information. Maybe I can find if you lying to me.”

  She got online off her neighbor’s unprotected router and found an ancestry website. She needed more information—his date of birth, his full name, and once it was entered, she hit the search tab and there it was.

  The death certificate.

  Brandon James Woodbourne, died 8 April 1949 at Dartford Prison.

  Her hands shook as she called him over to look at the screen.

  “Look at that!” he said, excitedly. “That’s me. That’s where they did me. Dartford Prison. What am I doing inside that machine?”

  She lit another cigarette off her glowing stub.

  “Now do you believe me?” he asked.

  “You are dead.”

  He slammed a fist into his palm in triumph. “That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

  Her voice was dull and lifeless. “There is Hell.”

  He nodded.

  “Heaven too?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, would I?”

  She put the computer back in Polly’s room, told her to play a game on it, and shut the door.

  “Tell me what it’s like,” she said, sitting heavily on the sofa.

  He smoked and talked for the next hour, telling her everything he knew, everything she wanted to hear, and when she ran out of questions, he sat on his bedding exhausted. They smoked in silence for a while.

  “I’m having vodka,” she said. “You want one?”

  “Yeah.”

  She half-filled two small glasses, polished off hers in one go and re-filled it.

  “You okay?” he asked. “You look sick or something.”

  “You told me bad things about yourself,” she said. “I will tell you something bad about me
.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Polly’s father …”

  “Your husband.”

  “He was not good man. He got drunk and would hurt me but that wasn’t worst of it. He used to hurt her too.”

  “How?”

  Her voice trailed off even more. “He—he wanted to have his way with her.”

  “Fucker,” Woodbourne fumed and mumbled. “I’ll kill him for you. Where can I find him?”

  “You can’t kill him.”

  “Why not?”

  “I already did. I paid a man in pub to do it. They found his body near the train tracks. Police thought he was in fight or something.”

  “You did the right thing.”

  “So Brandon, can you tell me this? Will I go to Hell for what I did?”

  He stared at her and said, “If you do and I’m there, I’ll look after you.”

  The third MAAC restart came and went. Duck, well acclimatized to the exercise had gone into it confident of the outcome, and when Matthew Coppens gave the reluctant order to power down, Duck smiled broadly and shouted for Delia. She had promised another walk outside and he demanded she deliver the goods.

  “It’s raining today,” she said evenly, belying her exasperation that her charge hadn’t disappeared.

  “Don’t mind the rain. Let’s leg it.”

  Barry, one of the security officers assigned to the Duck patrol as they had taken to calling it, accompanied them out onto the grounds that stretched behind the main building. The hefty guard kept himself within a stride of the young man at all times despite the high perimeter fence and razor wire, though Delia had argued that MAAC was a gilded cage which Duck would not wish to leave. The psychologists were in agreement.

  Duck turned his face to the rain and said he liked a gray day, that he was used to them more than the sunny ones that hurt his eyes. He was talking a blue streak, stoked that the dreaded control-room day was over.

  “Well, only one more of those next week and then the lab will be closed for good.”

  Once the sentence had passed her lips Delia looked like she wished she hadn’t said it for Duck stopped in his tracks and screwed his face into a contortion.

  “Then what ’appens?” he asked. “What ’appens to me? I like me room and me vids and me grub.”

  “I honestly don’t know, Duck, but I shouldn’t worry if I were you.”

  He looked panicky. “Will you be going where I go?”

  “Probably not. Auntie Delia has to go back to London next week. I’m sure they’ll find you a very nice new minder.”

  He started walking again, seemingly deep in thought. “I don’t want to go back to ’ell and I don’t want another auntie neither.”

  “That’s very sweet of you, Duck. I shall pass along your concerns to Dr. Quint.”

  “Is ’e the one always making the clicking sound in the back of the big room?”

  “That’s right, dear. He’s the man with the clicking pen.”

  Duck raised his hand to his mouth to shield the words from Barry. “Between you and me, I don’t like the look of ’im one little bit.”

  26

  On the southern outskirts of Paris a delegation of nobles representing King Maximilien hailed the approaching Italian column. When the chimney smoke of Paris had first become visible on the horizon, John had given Simon the wheel of the car while he hid in the covered wagon carrying Adolphus the monk. Given John’s recent escape from Maximilien’s clutches it was imperative to conceal his presence from the French.

  The French and the Italian automobiles pulled within a few feet of each other, belching steam into the morning air.

  The Duke of Orleans and Guy Forneau led the French delegation. Forneau was scarcely able to hide his pleasure at the sight of Garibaldi. At their only meeting several years earlier in Milan, Forneau, despairing of the pointlessness of war after war, cruelty after cruelty, had swallowed Garibaldi’s message of hope like medicine for his tortured soul. Now, unsure of his bona fides as an actor, Forneau left it to the Duke of Orleans to ask whether King Cesare was present.

  “I must inform you,” Garibaldi said, his spine, military straight, “that Borgia is no longer the king of Italia.”

  Orleans peered over his thick spectacles and asked, “If this is so, who then, is your king?”

  “You are looking at him, my good man. I am Giuseppe Garibaldi.”

  Orleans and the rest of the delegation bowed and he said, “Forgive me, Your Majesty, we had not heard the news. Was there an illness?”

  “Only if you consider losing one’s head to a bomb an illness.”

  There were knowing laughs from the French side and then Forneau made the pretense of a personal introduction. “I congratulate Your Majesty on his accession to the throne. Our king awaits you at his palace for a war council.”

  “Is there any sign of Henry?” Garibaldi asked.

  Forneau said, “This we know: he has landed on our soil and is marching toward Paris. Tomorrow, he will be within striking distance. Your arrival is timely indeed.”

  Garibaldi briefly discussed logistics and found support for deploying the bulk of his column to the northeast of Paris in a position to interdict the British. The disposition of the French army, which was on the ready, was quite fluid and would depend on the council’s deliberations.

  Before driving inside the great walled city, Garibaldi walked back toward the covered wagon and stuck his head through the flap. John was on a bench next to Adolphus.

  “I will enter Paris now,” he told John.

  “Watch your back,” John said.

  “Antonio and Simon will take care of that but for the moment I’m not worried. Maximilien needs Italia too much to attempt any harm.”

  “Was Forneau part of the welcoming party?”

  “He was.”

  “He’s a good man. If you have a private moment, thank him for helping me.”

  “I will.” After a pause Garibaldi said, “I’d like you to do something for me.”

  “Anything.”

  “My army will take its position to the northeast. As I suspected, the French will want to use us as the first line against Henry.”

  “Cannon fodder.”

  “True, but we must minimize the loss. When I enter our camp tonight I will ask my commanders for their tactical plan but the person I most ardently wish to hear from is you.”

  John shook his hand, careful not to squeeze tender joints too hard. “I’ll scope out the lay of the land, Giuseppe, and give you my best recommendations. You can count on me.”

  Garibaldi released the grip and put his hand on John’s shoulder. “Don’t look so worried. Your Emily is probably closer to you than at any time since you arrived.”

  John pulled out his watch for emphasis and said, “I’ve only got one week left. I’m seriously worried about making it back to England in time.”

  “Then you and I must work for a swift victory on the battlefield,” Garibaldi said. “Let’s put Adolphus to work too. Let’s see if prayer works in Hell. Will you pray for us, monk?” he asked.

  Adolphus nodded earnestly. “I will start my prayers now and I will not stop praying until both my new friends have been graced with the favor of the Lord.”

  Maximilien received Garibaldi with a level of suspicion and arrogance that made Forneau wince. On more than one occasion he had to remind his king in a whispered sidebar that like it or not, this man was the new king of Italia and the commander of the army who would help them against more immediate enemies.

  Garibaldi, channeling his old adversary, Machiavelli, let the French king’s slights pass without visible reaction. For now he needed him and if all went well he would feed the bastard to his own guillotine when the time was right.

  “We must not lose sight,” Garibaldi said, “that we will have a battle on two fronts. We have Henry approaching from the coast and Barbarossa from the west. Surely the correct approach is for my army
to take on the English and yours to deal with the Germans.”

  “Impossible! That would leave Paris undefended,” Maximilien fumed. He had heard the argument before from Forneau but he was not convinced.

  “A direct defense of Paris would be unwise,” Garibaldi said, leaning forward in his chair for emphasis. “Firstly, if Paris finds itself in a siege, Henry and Frederick will separately or jointly, pound it to rubble then starve you into submission. The battle must be taken to them on the open field. The only way to save Paris is to crush the attackers before they can do their worst to your city.”

  Several of the French generals standing behind Maximilien nodded at this assessment but they did not speak lest they incur their monarch’s wrath.

  “You have been a king for less than a week,” Maximilien sniffed, “while I have been one for over two hundred years. And yet you seem to savor your own opinions as if they were a fine wine.”

  “It is true I am new to the throne. Whereas you were an esteemed political philosopher, whom I much admired, I was a soldier and a damned good one. As I might prudently defer to you on political tactics, you might do likewise to me on military tactics.”

  At that, Robespierre stood and grimaced from leg pain. He shouted, “How dare you? I have fought myriad wars and defended my realm countless times. I know how to save Paris.”

  “In that case, maybe you don’t need my army,” Garibaldi said. “We would be happy to begin our march back to Italia this very evening.”

  Forneau whispered to the king that perhaps they ought to caucus in private and when the king agreed, Forneau announced a recess, leaving the Italian delegation alone.

  Antonio was about to vent his spleen but Garibaldi put a finger to his lips and reminded him that in these places, the walls had ears.

  When the French returned it was apparent that Robespierre’s military men had persuaded their king to climb down.

  “Very well,” Maximilien said with a pinched face. “We will meet the Germans and you will meet the English. However, I will leave a reinforced royal guard behind in Paris to protect the palace from any rear guard actions by units of either the English or the Germans.”