Sure enough his email lit up with a new message from his main GCHQ contact, Harry. He clicked on it.
He had just started reading the message when someone cried ‘Havoc!’, immediately prior to letting slip the dogs of war.
The noise and vibration from, what Frank assumed was, an explosion was deadened by the steel and concrete casing of the cellar. But it wasn’t deadened enough not to shake Wolfgang’s chair so much he fell to the floor.
Frank knew immediately that something was very wrong. It wasn’t because he had experience of real-life explosions, or had trained with the army or the reserves. It was because he watched a lot of big-budget action movies - and spent twice as long playing Call of Duty on his PlayStation. Germany wasn’t renowned for earthquakes - and the shaking was short-lived and accompanied a loud bang from upstairs.
Frank was very clear. They had been hit by something - just as he was halfway through an email which was as incendiary as the likely attack that might be being waged above them.
His Call of Duty training kicked in. He was mission-oriented. Task-focused.
As Wolfgang, who was still on the floor, shook his head and started to say something, Frank’s mind cleared. He was back on the screen.
Call terminated.
He checked the Wi-Fi connection icon. There was none. The system was down.
Shit. Where’s my phone?
‘Frank. Was ist los?’ Wolfgang was back on his chair.
Frank ignored him. He had his phone out of his pocket, and he’d switched on the camera.
He snapped a photo of the screen …
… just as a second explosion shook the cellar.
‘Mein Gott!’
The lights went out. It was totally dark for a second. Then a set of pink, low-light lamps lit up the room. It was difficult to see anything. Frank’s eyes struggled to adjust to the lower level of light.
Wolfgang was on his feet.
‘Ingeborg! Elisabeth! Frank - we must go and help them!’
Frank knew they had to do that. He also knew he had to send the screenshot to Jane. GCHQ had found the control centre. Not exactly. Not down to the last coordinate. But good enough for government work. And he had to get it to Jane.
‘Let’s go!’ Frank shouted.
It took them a few seconds to get to the top of the stairs. Wolfgang led - pausing at the top. He opened a waist-height small hatch. Frank couldn’t see what Wolfgang was doing with his hands, but he heard a clunk as the door popped open.
Manual override?
And then the smell hit them. Smoke. Acrid and sickening.
There was another hatch in the airlock. Wolfgang did his thing.
Clunk.
Heat seeped in through the gap between the door and the frame. Wolfgang put his hand on the door handle, and smartly pulled it away.
Hot?
At that point Frank realised that the cliché of your life flashing before your eyes when you were on the brink of death wasn’t such a cliché after all. But he didn’t have time for a full viewing. The door was open. Followed immediately by heat and light. Orange and white in the middle. Black at the top. Clear at the bottom.
Fire and heat.
And death.
Frank dithered. Wolfgang didn’t. He was on his knees, out left, crawling below the level of the smoke towards the hall.
Shit!
Frank followed him.
Shit!
He crawled.
Shit!
He felt tremendous heat on his exposed forearm. Wolfgang was ahead of him. He had reached the main hall. Frank was just behind.
Shit!
The heat was intolerable. Almost unbearable. He knew he was burning. He knew his hair was singeing. Fear of death pushed him on.
Wolfgang was on his feet. Towering over him. Seemingly immune to the heat and the flames. Hephaestus. He’d met the man in a computer game somewhere. A Greek god. Surrounded by fire.
The hall was burning. Everything was alight. Hang on! The hall was missing its front. Where there had been a door, a wall, windows either side - now there was a black, gaping hole. The wind was rushing in, filling the void left by the hot air that was climbing the staircase, which itself was broken - mauled by whatever shape the attack had taken. Halfway up, as the stairs split left and right, one of Wolfgang’s framed ancestors was still standing proudly by a piano. But the painting was at an angle, a shrapnel rip cut across the canvas severing the man’s legs.
Frank’s immediate thought was to stand and make the gap. Into the fresh air. Away from the burning; away from impending death.
‘Elisabeth!’ Wolfgang was pointing to a woman-shaped object that was on the ground next to the leftovers of a priceless, Louis XIV table. It was on its side, a leg broken - flames having taken one corner. Frank picked out Elisabeth behind the mess.
He amended his escape. He wasn’t quite sure what Wolfgang’s plan was, but he thought his part in it was to pick up Elisabeth and take her with him.
He crawled to her. In the larger space of the hall the heat wasn’t so intense. But it wasn’t a safe place. As he briefly studied Elisabeth for vital signs, something, somewhere came crashing down. He flinched.
Breathing, bleeding, breaks and burns. He’d learnt that as a cub scout. First aid. The order you check for vitals. Breathing was key.
Elisabeth was breathing. Her arm was at an odd angle, but he couldn’t see any bleeding.
Do this!
He was on his feet. She was as light as a feather. As he picked her up she let out a weak cry. He looked down. Her eyes were still closed.
Crash!
Something from the ceiling fell down. It smashed on the ground in front of him. He thought an object had probably hit him. He felt something on his shoulder, but he couldn’t be sure. He changed his direction. The piece of fallen ceiling was too big to clamber over. He ploughed on.
Two paces.
Three. Four.
The cooling wind was such a relief.
A crash from behind him.
Where was Wolfgang?
Eight. Nine.
Onto the steps that led to the front door. Down the steps.
Now the gravel.
He was jogging. There was a light ahead. Some people. A neighbour?
Yes. It was an elderly couple. They were speaking an incomprehensible language.
He stood facing them.
Wolfgang was the only word he understood.
He turned.
Where is Wolfgang?
The sight that met him was worse than anything he’d seen on Call of Duty. It was worse than any action movie he’d ever watched. The middle of the house was missing. Replaced by a black, white, orange and red kaleidoscope. Flames and smoke swirling, lashing, engulfing. In the windows of the rooms either side of the smashed middle section, Frank could see more flames. More orange. It was as though the whole place were alight.
Wolfgang was still in there.
He was dead?
Hephaestus was dead. Nobody could survive that.
He walked towards the house, without any thought as to what he might do when he got close. He then realised that he was still carrying Elisabeth. He quickly turned. Now the group was six, maybe seven. He chose a middle-aged man. Without any communication he gently passed Elisabeth to him. ‘Thanks.’ He turned again.
As he walked back to the building he heard the far-off call of emergency vehicles. The experts would be here soon.
But not soon enough?
He was maybe five metres from the fire now. The heat was intense again, but what surprised him was the wind. It blew so strongly from behind him that he had to take one pace forward to stop himself from being blown over.
The noise was also deafening. Crack! and smash! Roar! and fizz!
It is hopeless.
Hopeless.
He couldn’t go forward. It would be madness; ….
… but he did. Slowly. A half pace at a time. He put his non-burnt arm up to shiel
d his face from the heat.
He got closer. Now at the bottom of the steps.
And then.
Out of the cauldron a black figure haloed by the brightness of the fire emerged. Step-by-step. Indefatigable. A man carrying a woman’s body. A giant of a man. An aristocrat. A man of honour and courage.
The man stumbled, but managed to remain upright.
Frank moved up the steps.
The man stumbled again. This time he fell forward, the woman slipping from his grasp.
Frank was there. He was at Wolfgang’s feet. Ingeborg's body was now in his arms. Wolfgang had collapsed on the top step. He had rescued her from the inferno. Frank would finish the job.
And then come back for Wolfgang.
Frank turned quickly, Ingeborg's loose legs lifting such was the speed of his spin. He blindly stepped off, but was abruptly halted.
A fireman. All togged up. Frank was dazed. The man in red and orange with the mask had already taken Ingeborg from him.
‘Gibt es noch jemand im feuer?’ The fireman shouted to be heard through his mask.
No. Frank didn’t get that.
‘Wolfgang!’ He pointed over his shoulder. A second fireman had beaten him to it. Wolfgang was safely in the arms of another man in red and orange.
Frank was now being led away. A cooling wet blanket had been placed over his shoulders.
‘English!’ Frank shouted.
‘In fire - any man?’ Was the fireman’s broken response.
‘No!’
I don’t think so.
They were at the end of the drive. He was exhausted; getting confused. A paramedic was on him. All in dayglo yellow. Fussing. He was being sat down on a canvas stool. The yellow man had a pen torch out. He was shining a bright light in Frank’s eyes. Then a cold, metallised bandage was placed on his arm. Another yellow man offered him a drink of water in a clear plastic cup. The first yellow man put a cap with wires coming out of it on his index finger. The noise was constant. The pulsing blue lights mesmeric; off-putting.
Shit!
The photo. The screenshot.
I have to get it to Jane now.
It took him all of his energy to stand, but he was gently, but firmly pushed down again.
Tiredness was enveloping.
No!
‘I must make a call!’ He shouted, but his words were weak.
The first yellow man turned his back to reach for another piece of equipment Frank took the pulse-reader off his finger and reached in his pocket for his phone. Relief, it was there.
He took it out.
Further relief - it was working.
Yellow man one was back.
He tried to take Frank’s phone. Frank hid it to his side like a petulant child.
‘I … must … make … this … call!’ He was insistent.
That was only if overwhelming tiredness didn’t take him first.
The yellow man got it. He stood back.
A second later Frank had the screenshot open. His fingers weren’t working as quickly as he thought they normally did. He couldn’t remember. He found the ‘Forward’ icon. He chose secure mail. He typed in Jane’s details - the text recognition beating him to the end of her email address.
He pressed ‘Send’.
He watched the mail go.
‘Sent.’
Then he passed out.
Chapter 17
Terminal de Pasajeros Melecio Pérez, Puerto Ayacucho, Amazonas, Venezuela
Austin woke to the bus shuddering to a halt. He yawned and wiped sleep from his eyes. Involuntarily his tongue cleaned the front of his teeth, and he stretched. His neighbour, who was sitting by the window - a thin, elderly woman dressed for the cold in multiple layers - was already on her feet. She squeezed past Austin and then stood on the edge of his seat in order to reach for her bag. Her crotch was very close to his face. He turned and stared out of the window.
There was a signpost which told him that they were at the end of their journey: Puerto Ayacucho. He’d find a hotel and then search for someone who’d drive the hour or so it would take to get to the coordinates he had for the buildings in Rick’s report. That would be tomorrow’s task. Whoever took him would need a 4x4. The view from the window showed that there were a lot of those around.
The woman’s crotch dropped back to an acceptable level. Then she was gone.
He was happy to be one of the last passengers off - he wasn’t in a rush. He’d got the details of two possible hotels on a piece of paper in his pocket. As, who he thought was the last passenger brushed past him, Austin stood and retrieved his response pack, catching a glance to the rear of the bus. His new friend Annie was still sitting in the middle of the back seat. She was leaning to one side peering out of the window. She looked uncomfortable. Ill at ease.
He was just about to call out and ask if she was OK, when two men got on the bus. They were both younger than him, one black man and one local. They were dressed casually - tans and khakis; slacks and shirts. Both wore cotton gilets. The black man led; the second man just behind him.
As they got close there was a glint; light against metal - just under the black man’s gilet. A handgun. Austin was sure of it.
Two steps later and the man was next to him - in his personal space. Too close. He could smell him. Expensive aftershave.
‘Get off the bus.’ An order. The man motioned with a jerk of his head which way Austin should travel.
The man then pulled into the seat opposite, using a hand to direct Austin down the bus to the exit. The second man had also moved into a space. The route out was clear.
Austin shot a glance behind. Annie was watching the episode play out. Then he saw her eyes dart to an emergency window, one pane down from where she was sitting.
The black man was also watching. He drew his pistol so quickly Austin was almost caught by the barrel.
A straight arm: the man’s eye, the rear sight, the foresight, the target. Good drills. Austin would be pleased with his soldiers if they held a weapon like that.
‘Don’t … even … think … about … it.’ The black man’s voice filled the bus. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to.
Annie seemed to visibly shrink at the sound of his voice.
The man didn’t change his stance. Instead, he spoke out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Are you stupid? Get … off … the … fucking … bus.’ Uncompromising. Edgy.
Austin was caught. The woman was in trouble. The black man had a gun.
What should I do?
The second man made the decision for him. He snatched Austin’s bag and grabbed him by the upper arm. He had strength that Austin used to have when he was a sergeant - all muscle and brawn.
But not now.
The man dragged him down the bus and threw him through the open door. Thankfully his feet hit the ground first and he was able to stop his head from smashing into the ground with his outstretched arms.
Shit, that hurt!
He was dazed, but nothing was broken.
What was this all about?
He turned and picked up his bag. He squinted to the rear of the bus. He couldn’t see enough of what was going on, so he walked towards the back until he was level with the end seat.
And what he saw horrified him.
The English woman was taking a beating. Much of the detail he missed - there were too many thrashing arms and legs to get a good picture. But it was clear that Annie was in deep trouble.
His mind spun.
Rick - my wife - my own safety - a woman I have just met? Rick - my wife - … Annie.
The sequence ran through his brain as if it were numbers on a roulette wheel. The ball rolled and rolled. Then teetered - and dropped.
Help Annie.
He didn’t know how, but he had to do something.
He dropped his bag and walked nervously, but purposefully to the door of the coach. As he walked he kept an eye on the innards of the bus. It seemed the men had fini
shed the beating - they were dragging Annie back down the coach.
He met them as the second man jumped off the step onto the tarmac. The man looked confused. And angry.
‘What the fuck are you doing, motherfucker? Get out of my face!’
That was too much for Austin.
He wound up to punch the man. A solid right hook. Show him who’s boss. But never made it. The guy was much quicker than he was. Austin took a jab to the jaw, his head jerking sideward - his body pivoting, following the trajectory. Then he was a bundle on the floor, spitting tooth and blood. But he was conscious.
He looked back in the direction of the man. He had been joined by the black man, who was holding Annie in a lock - her head sticking out from under his arm. One of her eyes was already completely closed. Blood was dripping from her mouth. She was barely conscious.
But she managed to mouth at him, ‘Go away. Run. Now.’
But he didn’t. He was angry; he had the fire of injustice burning deep inside. He stood - God, that hurt! - and went to punch the man again. The second man sidestepped and Austin found himself falling helplessly to the ground. For an observer it must have been comical.
The second man sighed heavily. And in a movement so quick Austin only saw a flash, he drew a gun that had been hidden behind his back. And then he shot Austin in the thigh.
The noise was deafening.
The pain excruciating. His reflexes kicked in and he reached for the wound.
‘I told you, motherfucker, to get out of my face!’
Austin tried to say something in response but his mouth had stopped working. And then there was black.
Sam felt every bump. She knew where she was - in the back of a blue Toyota Hilux. She could tell you the model, engine size and year if you were interested. It was useless information. Useless. What she didn’t know was where she was going. More accurately, where they were going. Austin was in the back of the small truck with her.
She’d been awake throughout. She’d felt every blow. Sensed every broken bone. Her cheek was definitely shattered and she had at least one broken rib. More likely two. One eye was completely closed. And she’d lost a tooth. But the beating and the agony hadn’t stopped with Ralph Bell. As the Toyota bounced its way to who knows where, the pain spiked on every bump. Tears came. Lots of them. She wanted to cry out but, as well as expertly tying her feet and hands, they’d gagged her. Instead, she bit into the gag and smashed her feet against the tailgate. Like a testy child. It was pathetic - adding to, rather than taking away from, the pain. But it released some of the frustration.
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