by Glenn Cooper
“On what grounds? My solicitor will be most interested in hearing about any alleged grounds,” he said, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth. “We are a law-abiding company.”
“I’ve no doubt you are. We needed to know your turnover in order to take full advantage of incentives. And in that spirit, I can offer you this if you can fulfill our order to our exact specifications and timetable.”
From his breast pocket he pulled out a Treasury check and handed it across the desk.
Locke glanced at the check, shook his head as if something in his brain wasn’t working and looked at it again. His chair was a recliner and he took full advantage of the feature.
“One million pounds,” he said quietly.
“Twelve books, two days, one million in sterling,” Ben said briskly. “Now, five of the books are clearly in the public domain but one is not. We don’t have time to get the customary permissions so I have a letter here from the Ministry of Justice, fully indemnifying you for any costs and damages which might result from copyright breach, which, I must say, is unlikely to occur since you and all your workmen will have to sign the Official Secrets Act. No one will know about your work. So, Simeon, will you be able to satisfy this order?”
The printer reached over the desk to extend a hand. “Ben, it will be a pleasure doing business with you. Welcome to the Midlands Green Printing family.”
9
John wandered around his flat in a mild daze. Trevor had driven him back from the hospital and had left him there to run off to his final dental appointment.
He had only been away for just over a month but he felt like someone coming back to tour an old domicile decades later. There were his books, his clothes, his lager-stocked fridge, his dirty dishes in the sink, his ridiculous mound of mail pushed through the slot as he’d forgotten to suspend delivery, but everything seemed oddly detached from memory. He sank into the sofa and had to think for a moment to recall his email password. At the sight of hundreds of unopened messages he closed the laptop.
He was on his second beer when the entry doorbell sounded and he buzzed in his visitor.
Emily had a carrier bag with Indian take-away and a six-pack of lager.
Peering into his fridge she said that bringing him beer was like bringing coals to Newcastle.
“You can never have too much money or too many beers,” he said, wincing when he sat again.
“Are you done with your antibiotics?” she asked, placing the tubs of food on his coffee table.
“A few days of pills to finish before we’re off.”
“And your stitches?”
“Too soon. They want them in for another week.”
“Will they make it through?”
“They’re silk so they should be okay. You might have to do the honors on the other side.”
“I’m not squeamish.”
“So I noticed. You saw enough blood and gore over there for a lifetime.”
She sat beside him and fixed him a plate but he wanted to talk first.
“Do you know how many times I thought about seeing you here again during those long, dark nights a million miles away?”
“Me too,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “We had some good times here.”
“It wasn’t just the good times, though they were very, very good. I wanted to erase the memory of the one bad time.”
Emily laughed and did her broadest American imitation of the seminude femme fatale she’d happened upon that night: “Hi. I’m Darlene. I’m an old friend of John’s.”
“Ouch. Too perfect. I hope you still believe me that I was never …”
“Yes! I believe you.”
“Good. I want to be sure that particular dragon’s been slayed.”
She kissed him and said, “Dead and buried.”
“Good. Wait for me here. Don’t go. I’ll bring Arabel and the kids back.”
“Who’ll remove your stitches?” she asked lightly.
“Trevor’s learning how to use a knife.”
She turned serious. “I can’t bear thinking about where they are, how they’re holding up.”
“Dirk probably has them safely inside his house, waiting for us to come and get them.”
“God, I hope so. If that’s the case we’ll have to lie low for a month before the next restart.”
“Beats every other alternative. So what do you say? Trevor and I will bring them back and you can do what you do best: the science.”
She raised her voice. “Please don’t ask me again. I’m going. It’s non-negotiable.”
“Okay, you win,” and changing the subject, he asked, “Can you stay the night?”
“Yes. But we can’t have a lie in. Too much to do.”
“And that troll Trotter’s called another meeting for nine. Did you notice he had a shoulder holster under his perfectly tailored suit jacket?”
“Are you sure?”
“Believe me, I’m sure. What kind of insecure jackass comes packing to a meeting in a lab?”
“James Bond carried a gun, didn’t he?”
“One, he was fictional. Two, his character was a real spy, not some desk-monkey like Trotter. Anyway, you know what they say?”
“What do they say?”
“Big gun, little dick.”
She pushed him. “Don’t be so crude.”
“I apologize unreservedly.”
“Good.” Then she whispered in his ear, “You must have had the tiniest gun in the army.”
The MAAC restart was a day and a half away. John was in the lab, going through his pre-campaign checklist when he decided to take a break and amble over to see how Trevor was getting on. One of the security men told him he was over at the recreation center doing some training but when John got there, the gymnasium was filling up with tables, computer terminals and a spaghetti-tangle of cables. He remembered that a decision had been taken to minimize the chance of collateral damage by moving the control room operations and personnel to another building, and the recreation center was filling the bill.
“Have you seen Trevor Jones?” he asked one of the techs.
“We booted him out. I think they went to the tennis court.”
The afternoon was warm. Pale, spring leaves shaded the courts. As John got closer he heard the cracks of polypropylene training swords striking each other repeatedly. Trevor and Brian were going at it near the service line of the court unaware he was watching even as he leaned against the fence.
Brian abruptly switched tactics, landing a stinging blow to Trevor’s upper arm then, when Trevor was distracted by the pain, he thrust into his gut, declaring him as good as dead.
“Never stop, never stop, never stop! You’ve got to keep going through the pain. That was a love tap. No blood, no exposed muscle, no severed nerves. Even then you’ve got to keep defending and attacking or you’re going to be a grim statistic.”
“Gotcha,” Trevor said, dejected.
“Now mind you, unless you’re swinging a broadsword from horseback I don’t ever recommend going to battle with a free hand. You should always have a second sword or a shield in your non-dominant hand, all right? And your shield’s going to be as much an offensive weapon as a defensive weapon. We’ll do some shield work next.”
Trevor noticed John and welcomed the excuse to take a break.
“So this is the boss man,” Brian said, beckoning John to come inside the court. “Heard a lot about you, mate.”
John ambled in and was soon chatting away with Brian as if he’d known him for years. He liked the man’s big, open smile and his quick wit and told him he was a fan of his TV shows.
“Trevor tells me you’re quite handy with medieval weaponry,” Brian said.
“Not like you, but I can hold my own.”
“Care for a tumble?” Brian said, tossing him a practice sword.
“I’ll have to pass,” John said. “I’m just out of the hospital.” He lifted up his shirt to display his wound.
“A knife, about half the length of that sword of yours.”
“You don’t say.”
John grunted. “You should have seen the other guy.”
“Must’ve missed the news report on the incident.”
“Didn’t make the news.” John was keen to change the subject. “So how’s our student doing?”
“He’s a quick study, a capable young fellow.”
“That’s the first compliment this week,” Trevor said.
“You’re cheeky enough without a big head.”
“So rate him for me on various skills,” John said.
“Full marks on black-powder firearms. Not terrible on long and crossbows, though we weren’t able to do any distance work. We haven’t gotten to spears and pikes. Maybe later today. His swordsmanship, well, I wouldn’t call it passable yet. Let’s see …”
“Tell him about the horses,” Trevor said. “Go on, have a laugh.”
Brian cast his eyes heavenward. “Oh Gawd! We went riding at a stable last evening. Bloody disaster. Didn’t know the mane from the tail. I’ll be charitable. He stayed on the saddle. Barely.”
John patted Trevor on the back. “Nice work, buddy. Brian, you’ve got him for today and tomorrow. Don’t go easy on him. His life may depend on it.”
The comment drained off any levity in the air.
“Take a break,” Brian told Trevor. “I want to have a word with the boss man.”
The two men left the tennis court and strolled the grounds, John towering over him and bending slightly to hear him over the rustling trees.
“You know, John, I was never in the military like you and Trevor.”
“You didn’t miss much. It’s highly overrated.”
“I’m not sure I agree with you. You lads have character. Gobs of it. I’ve spent years teaching poncy actors how to fake their ways through fighting scenes and I’d trade the lot of them for one of you. You’re the genuine article, mate.”
“How’d you get into your line of work, Brian?”
“I grew up on a farm in Northumberland so I was good at riding from a young age. One fine day I saw some jousters at a country fair and thought it looked like mad fun so I applied myself to learning the skills. That led to an interest in armor and from there I followed my nose. I fell in with various re-enactor types and then, when I was in my thirties, I discovered the holy of holies. Some bloke from the BBC actually gave me a paycheck to do some work on a men-in-tights show. The rest is history. I’ve been mucking about in Hollywood for over twenty years and well, you’ve seen my own shows on the tele. Ancient soldiering’s been very good for yours truly.”
“That’s quite a story.”
“Not a fraction as good as yours.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, contrary to prevailing opinion, I’m not a stupid man.”
“Didn’t for a minute think you were.”
“Apparently you haven’t spoken to my ex-wives. Here’s the thing, John. The Internet’s been buzzing with all manner of conspiracy theories about your MAAC and though I’m not, as a rule, big into the rantings of my fellow netizens, since they’re usually a fat load of bollocks. But I’m not inclined to reject one particular line of thought, purveyed by an alleged loony named Farmer.”
“Never heard of him. His line of thought?”
“All right, follow along with me. A month ago with trumpets blaring and press releases flying about, you lot fire up your multi-billion-pound gizmo intended to unlock the secrets of the cosmos and what not. But what happens? You immediately shut it down and put out some half-baked tale about an armed intruder who proceeds to go on a killing spree in the general environs, a story that’s gone remarkably quiet given its sensational nature. Now, I’ve seen your security around here and it’s very comprehensive. You’re crawling with armed lads, Trevor’s a good man, and I suspect you’re a very competent boss man, so a major security breach? It’s possible but not so very likely, in my humble opinion. Then, a week ago, amidst reports of a power dip in the south’s electricity grid, which can indicate collider activity, so I’m led to understand, there’s this very curious incident in South Ockendon, all mysterious and shrouded in secrecy, with everyone hiding behind terrorism this and biohazard that. Thing is, South Ockendon’s right over the collider tunnels, isn’t it? Coincidence? Maybe. Then yours truly gets stitched up by the Official Secrets Act and gets paid a boatload of cash to teach a highly competent modern warrior, one Trevor Jones, to be a slightly competent ancient warrior and I’m given less than a week to make that happen. And finally I meet the boss man who’s nursing a fresh knife wound.”
“Where’s this taking you, Brian?” John asked with a crooked smile.
“It’s taking me here: I think you lot have stirred up a shit storm. I think you’ve got a very naughty supercollider. I think you’ve gone and poked a hole in our nice, tidy universe and have yourself a wormhole or what have you, into another dimension. And that dimension’s got a decidedly ancient tilt. I think that you’ve been there. I think you’ve got an urgent need to go back. I think Trevor’s going with you and you need to improve his chances of surviving. And since tomorrow’s my last day of hire, I think you’re going in two days’ time.”
John arched his brow. “You’ve got quite the imagination, Brian, I’ll give you that.”
“I do actually but this isn’t all in my mind. I know I’m right. I’d bet my ex’s alimony checks on it.”
John pointed over at Trevor, knees up to his chest, sitting on the tennis court. “I think he’s ready for you.”
Brian ignored him and jabbed a finger into John’s chest, once for each word. “Take me with you.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Take me along. Whoever you’re bringing, whatever your mission, your odds are going to be better if I’m there. There isn’t an ancient weapon system I’m not expert in. And I’m not just a warrior, I’m a craftsman. I can make bows and arrows, I can forge and shape a sword, I can fight on land, sea, and horseback. I can do miracles with black powder. I’m fit and I’m strong and I’m mentally tough. You’re not going to find a better man for the job.”
“Look, Brian …”
“I know what you’re going to say so hear me out. I’m unattached and my three ex-wives are only going to miss my money. I’ve got no kids, at least none that I’ll admit to. I’ve lived my entire life fantasizing about the past. I’m convinced I was born hundreds of years too late. I want this, John. I want it so bad I can taste it. You’ll be happy to have me, I’m sure of it. With your wound, you’re not going to be at full strength. Trevor’ll do you proud, but he’s not going to be able to hold his own against experienced swordsmen. I’m sure the decision’s not going to be up to you alone. I expect all manner of government departments will have their fingers in the pie. Argue my case, John. Do it for me and do it for your mission. I want to go. I’ve got to go.”
There was no appetite for a press conference but the government decided they couldn’t dodge the media forever. It had been six days since the incident at South Ockendon. The housing estate was still cordoned off and the residents had not been allowed to return. Reports were circulating of missing persons—a crew of builders, last seen at the estate, a council worker, a doctor, an architect, a mother whose child had been at school that day. All the while the police and security services had remained mum.
Ben Wellington had not been pleased to learn that the powers had designated him as chief spokesman for the press event. When he protested, his chief, Sir George, had asked him, “Can you dance, Ben?”
“Dance? Yes, I’ve been known to take to the floor once lubricated.”
“Then get out there and dance your tail off. You have a reputation as a clever boy. Be clever.”
Flanked by senior members of the Metropolitan Police he peered at the sea of faces in the auditorium at New Scotland Yard an
d waited for the press secretary to give him the sign to begin. Then, leaning into the bank of microphones he introduced himself and said he had a statement to make.
The statement unleashed a collective groan through the press corps who anticipated that he would effectively deliver an apologia that all that followed was going to be a colossal waste of time, that because of security concerns and the need to protect an ongoing investigation, few definitive answers were going to be forthcoming. And that is exactly what he did. That didn’t stop the questions from flying and Ben, true to his word, sidestepped all of them except for the one that terminated the briefing.
What was the nature of the biological agent found on the estate?
We’re not commenting on that at this time.
Is the public at risk?
The risk has been contained.
Where were the missing residents of the estate?
We’re not commenting on missing persons reports.
Are the missing residents in quarantine because of exposure to a biological agent?
Again, no comment.
Family and friends of the missing are saying they’ve been asked to avoid speaking to the media. Is that true?
I wouldn’t want to contradict their statements.
Had any terror suspects been apprehended? Were any on the run?
I’m not at liberty to say.
Has any foreign or domestic terror group claimed responsibility?
Not to our knowledge.
And so it went for almost half an hour. Ben had been avoiding one questioner because there was something about him that made him uneasy. He seemed out of place. He was younger than the rest, awfully fresh-faced and earnest-looking for a member of Fleet Street or the broadcast corps. And something about his expression told Ben he wasn’t going through the motions like the others, that he really cared about the truth. He called on a fellow a row behind him but the young man seized on the ambiguity and stood.
“Not you,” Ben said. “Behind you, in the brown jacket.”
“I’ll be quick,” the young man said, unyielding. “Why is there no one here from the Massive Anglo-American Collider?”