Lightning flashed the light on examining Scott’s face intently. ‘This old thing?’ he said carelessly. ‘You have to have friends in high places to get one of these.’
‘But they searched us?’
‘It fits into the toggles on my jacket.’ The lilt in the voice sounded familiar.
‘Beau?’ Scott gasped in a startled whisper.
‘My godfathers! Is my disguise so feeble that a mere babe-in-arms can penetrate it?’
‘No! But I…’ Scott exclaimed, forgetting to keep his voice low. Instantly, he felt the hand across his mouth, stopping his words.
‘If we’re trying to keep our visit secret, exclamations of joy are likely to prove detrimental to our cause,’ Beau rebuked softly, his voice light and mischievous, all trace of accent gone. ‘In this case, silence is definitely golden. No cosy chats – got it?’
Scott nodded his acceptance.
‘Okay, I’ll tell you what I’m doing here, if you promise to go back to bed.’ Scott felt the warm breath on his neck and shook his head. ‘You always were a stubborn cuss…’ Beau mumbled. ‘Can’t you see, I’m trying my best to keep you in the land of the living?’
Scott whispered, ‘Thanks, but… ’
‘No thanks! Okay, I get it. You aren’t moving till you know,’ Beau sighed dramatically. ‘I am trying to discover who’s behind the riots and if it’s linked to your Mr Smith.’ He kept his voice to a whisper. Automatically, Scott leaned forward raising his hand to his ear to catch the words spilling out at speed. ‘After Holland, he and his cohorts vanished. Couple months later, the riots started, peaceful rallies turned sour. Then, surprise, surprise, the European parliament brought in a new law to deal with the worst offenders, sending them to these special camps. Every time there’s a demonstration, I hang round the edges hoping to get arrested and sent to Europe. So far it’s been a dead loss.’ He sounded fed up.
‘But…’
‘But not as Beau Randal.’ Scott caught the movement and sensed he was holding up his hands, unable to see them in the dark. ‘I have a different identity and fingerprints.’
‘How many times have you done this?’
‘This is my fourth place in five months.’
Scott stared at the shadowy figure, his mouth dropping open. ‘You’ve gone through this every time?’
‘I may be a lot of things but no way am I into self-harming.’ Scott caught the teasing note in Beau’s voice. ‘I promise you, this is by far the worst. The other places were harsh not brutal. Now will you go back? If it is the people that kyboshed your dad, they let you escape once before. They’ll not make the same mistake twice.’
Scott shuddered then shook his head. ‘Hilary’s here somewhere.’
Beau pointed back up the slope. ‘She’s in the unit parallel to ours. I found her last night, and she’s fine. But don’t even think of trying to rescue her.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Come on then, if you’re coming, we’ve only got an hour.’ Beau flashed the pinpoint of light into the tunnel ahead.
‘But where? ’ Scott argued, instantly forgetting the need to be quiet. Beau glared. Scott pointed downwards, saying in a whisper, ‘There’s nothing behind the building except rock and dirt. If there had been we’d have seen it. This place might be gross but it’s too small to hide anything.’
‘Yeah, isn’t it just.’ Scott picked up on the sarcasm. ‘Except, doesn’t it make you wonder why a small building needs air-conditioning on this scale, unless they’re planning a huge extension. Besides, haven’t you wondered where the staff live? I can promise you, it’s not the local village.’ Without waiting for Scott’s reply, he slid his long frame noiselessly into the tunnel.
Scott followed, a million unanswered questions zinging round his head like the debris from a meteor shower. Who was Beau working for? Last time Travers had spoken of him he was into athletics. Was it the government? Was somebody, at long last, taking Mr Smith and his ambitions seriously?
The shaft sloped gently downwards, the incline steeply increasing until the air flow formed a tangible barrier, making it difficult to move fast, like swimming against a current. On both sides, tunnels spiralled left and right into the darkness, minute variations in the strengthening stream of air marking each intersection. Scott began to feel rather like a snake lost in the middle of a motorway with roads constantly cutting into it. He tugged the hem of Beau’s track suit. ‘How do we get back?’ he hissed, aware the route back would be tricky without a current of air blowing directly into their faces. ‘There’s dozens of tunnels down here.’
‘No worries,’ Beau murmured, not hesitating in his forward movement. ‘I’ve done this before.’
‘How many times…’
‘Try three. I have a job to do, and it’s not finished yet. In case you didn’t notice, I left my jacket back there, where I picked you up.’ It had been too dark for Scott to notice that Beau like him was only wearing his T-shirt. ‘Come on.’
Ahead, the darkness extended as if to infinity. Nervously, Scott flicked a glance behind him. Where on earth were they? ‘Beau…’
‘Shush!’ Beau paused. ‘Can you hear it?’
Very faintly in the distance Scott caught the sound of music overlaid with voices, like a TV advertisement.
‘But… that’s impossible.’ His tongue fell over the words. ‘Not impossible, though I agree it’s a puzzle. So why does Agatha Christie spring to mind? Ah, yes, mirrors.’
Scott caught the excited tone although he hadn’t a clue what was meant by it. Typical Beau – if the tales Travers told about his brother were even halfway true, anything impossible or dangerous he devoured for breakfast. Scott swallowed, his throat aching and sore. If they really were venturing into the lair of Mr Smith, it was beyond scary even for someone like Beau. Thousands of people had died because of this man’s ambition to control the world, Tulsa and his dad among them. Scott hovered over the word dead. Did Beau already know they’d been killed? Was that why he had urged Scott to go back, because his mother and sister were all that were left? He’d only met with them a few times, before Sean Terry had whisked them away some place no one knew about; still amply long enough to want them as part of the family he and his dad had created.
Beau began moving again, his stocking feet sliding easily across the metal. Scott struggled to keep up, the blurred noise from the television increasing as the ventilation shaft flattened out, its darkness surrendering to shafts of light filtering through mesh screens. Abruptly Beau stopped and curled up into a ball on one side of the grille to let Scott see down.
At first glance they seemed to have blundered into a posh hotel. A vast deserted lobby, its sofas and chairs festooned with scatter-cushions and patterned in muted shades of burgundy and grey; tubs of greenery making an eye-catching splash of colour. Scott counted the squares of light ahead, those in the distance fading into mere pinpricks of brightness. He glanced down at the luminous dial on his watch. It had taken twelve minutes to travel, what… fifty, sixty metres? And they weren’t even halfway yet.
Figures drifted into view, a quartet of guys and girls chatting amiably in a foreign language, oblivious to the spectators a mere three metres above their heads.
‘What are you looking for?’ he whispered as they passed out of sight.
‘Know it when I see it.’ Beau flipped his finger, pulling forwards to the next grille. He pointed downwards. ‘That answers one question, anyway,’ he mouthed into Scott’s ear.
Scott spotted the flickering screen of a television on the far wall, only its lower half in view. A group of figures were slumped in chairs watching a programme in English. Astonished, he recognised the missing faces from the coach. Catching the sound of a braying laugh, he craned his neck further, identifying the hulking shape of Tyson. Automatically, he flinched back into the shadow, despite knowing he was unseen. And he’d better make sure he stayed that way, for there was something about the guy that set Scott’s teeth on edge.
A voice, its accent American, its to
nes that of someone in authority, broke through the sound track. A pair of elegant footwear, highly polished, came into view, the metal surround of the grille cutting off all but the man’s legs from the knees down. The suit was Italian. Scott wasn’t particularly into clothes but even he knew the difference between hand-made and shop bought, the material lightweight with a silky sheen, its knife-like creases impeccably cut. ‘Listen up! I want to talk to you about Tuesday and you have an early start in the morning.’
The sound from the television dropped to a whisper as the volume was turned down.
‘Where to this time, sir?’ a voice called.
‘How about a nice long weekend in Bilbao, followed by a stop-off in Barcelona for a few hours.’
A muffled cheer sounded.
‘So what’s in Barcelona?’ The guy sitting next to Tyson swivelled round in his seat. Scott found his fists clenching with anger. It was one of the guys that had pulled Hilary off the bike. Unlike Tyson, he’d got away before the police arrived.
‘Conference of world ministers starts Tuesday. A couple of demos against global warming have been planned – peaceful ones of course…’ Laughter. ‘You’ve done this before; you don’t need to know the details.’
‘We’ve not bin to Germany for a bit,’ Tyson called out, his voice nasal and quite unmistakable as though anger was never far from the surface. Scott thought of the white powder. He had to be on drugs, nothing else would account for that degree of belligerence. ‘I like Germany.’
‘You would.’
Scott caught the sneering retort from one of his cronies.
‘Don’t worry, you go there next week. You can take the new recruits, show them the ropes.’
‘Christ, sir,’ someone groaned. ‘Not another lot. You know ’alf of ’em will get arrested.’
The American’s voice cut through the muttering. ‘If you do your job properly, you’ll be back here by Sunday and there’ll be a nice little bonus waiting.’ The words ended on a laugh. The scene reminded Scott of their sixth-form common room and their tutor’s friendly little chats. He used the velvet-glove approach too. On the surface it seemed encouraging but in reality brooked no argument – that is if you didn’t fancy a visit with the headmaster. Except, these guys were older than sixth formers and definitely not friendly.
There was silence for a moment then the American spoke again, taking off the velvet glove, his tone rasping like sand paper. ‘Last week was an intolerable shambles. May I remind you, you’re no use to us if you get arrested. There’ll be no second chance. I had to call in a whole heap of favours to get you back here. You create mayhem and leave. You get caught – you lose your job and your lavish lifestyle. Understood? No dramatics. I’m talking to you, Tyson! Remember, there’s a queue of kids out there anxious to take your place.’
‘Yeah, I get it,’ was the surly response.
A late-night news bulletin replaced the adverts.
‘Turn it up,’ the American said taking a step forward. ‘I want to listen to this – it’s important.’
Scott pressed his nose against the rigid edges of the square-shaped grille anxious to see more. ‘Come on, come on,’ he murmured to himself. He gave an impatient sigh, seeing the foot move back again.
From the television came the sound of flash bulbs going off and pulses of light poured from the screen. Someone introduced the President of Europe. The man was speaking in English about the forthcoming ministerial conference being held in Barcelona the following week.
‘Sir,’ a new voice broke in. Scott guessed it to be a reporter. ‘Fergus O’Leary, political editor at the BBC. The riots on the streets of Europe… what’s the official government position?’
Scott heard the calm voice of the President. ‘Naturally, we ignore them. They are insignificant, like fleas on a dog; irritating but that is all.’
A trickle of laughter.
‘But, sir, how can you ignore this movement for the restoration of the monarchy? Ten of the twenty-seven countries have openly pledged to destroy the union. I have the list here, sir.’
Scott caught the rustle of paper and guessed the reporter from the BBC was waving it in the air.
‘Remember, Mr O’Leary, Europe is not the Middle East; civil unrest does not automatically lead to regime change in a week. We happen to be a democracy with elections taking place in less than a year. The union will stay and I will remain as leader.’
Scott frowned. Okay, so maybe he was tired and exhausted from lack of sleep but he’d heard those words before. Not quite the same perhaps. But where?
He caught a burst of raucous laughter from the guys watching television. ‘He’s in for a big surprise! How long do you reckon he’s got, sir?’ someone called out.
‘A year, maybe less,’ came the response, the man’s American accent barely discernible. ‘That’s the timetable we’re working to.’
Scott gasped, the words as clear in his head as if black-out curtains had been cut away letting the sun in. Remember, Europe is not the Middle East; you cannot expect civil unrest to take place in a day, with regime change following in a week. But it will happen – and within a year – that I promise you.
How could the President of Europe talk about democracy yet secretly believe something else? It was crazy! Madness! He’d forgotten – that was it. He’d forgotten. Scott heard once again the voice that had so disturbed him, the voice accented as if English wasn’t his first language, soft… no, not soft… patient, used to being obeyed… and hellish scary. No, that was the point. He hadn’t forgotten!
Beau beckoned. ‘What?’
‘It’s the voice,’ Scott gasped, trying to control the hysteria threatening to burst out of him. The words echoed remorselessly, flying through the air like poison darts, and darkness took over. Desperate to be rid of the insidious thoughts, he lashed out with his foot striking the galvanised tube with a dull thunk.
Twenty-four
Beau’s hand clamped hard over Scott’s mouth. He caught a sudden pause in the conversation. Terrified, he closed his eyes imagining heads swivelling, pointing at the ceiling… seeing his foot.
He had to move, now, away from the tell-tale square of light, but he was frozen to the spot unable to move a muscle, his head swirling from lack of oxygen. A blur of noise, as someone using the remote flipped through the channels. Scott sensed the arms circling his chest grip more tightly, then he was bodily dragged away and the scene retreated beyond the limits of his vision. He heard movie credits, the voices of the actors in the opening sequence muted.
The space around them widened and Scott felt Beau release him. Still jittery, he took in a breath listening intently for sounds of pursuit. They’d not been heard, his stupid blunder had escaped unnoticed. Gradually, the confusion and terror that had swept over him began to lessen and his racing heart slowed as the weight in his head eased.
‘Where are we?’ he mouthed. Beau shrugged. ‘Still alive, no thanks to you.’
They had left behind the lounge area with its panels of light and were now perched in a central crossing, their heads brushing the metal surface of the roof. Random ducts led off, most too small to crawl through indicating areas of little importance. Straight ahead, the darkness was pierced at intervals by panels of grey, like chalk marks on a pavement.
‘What the hell happened?’
‘I don’t know.’ Scott felt his face hot. ‘It was the news report….’ ‘What about it?’
‘I heard it before.’
‘Where?’ Beau’s angry whisper scissored through the air.
All of a sudden one of the squares lit up, followed by a second closer this time and a third nearer again. A sense of being tracked from room to room struck Scott and he reared back like a stag at bay. Then the silence was severed by the tap-tap-tap of someone operating a computer keyboard.
Ignoring the impatient tug on his arm, Scott inched forward into the side tunnel, curious to discover who was working in the middle of the night. He stared down into the bril
liantly lit room, seeing a work station built across one wall piled high with processors, computer consoles, a scanner and a printer. Just in sight across the room, a coloured quilt draped the end of a bed. As Scott watched a figure passed beneath the square mesh.
‘Jameson!’ The word was out, winging its way into the room before he could stop it.
The guy paused his wandering, his head cocked listening.
Scott tugged at the grating. Tearing away Beau’s warning hand he swung down, his toes gripping the top of the heavy processor. Dropping to a crouch, he jumped to the floor and flung his arms round his friend. Jameson flinched back as if struck, his body rigid with shock.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said belligerently, the merry ebullience that had been such a charismatic part of his character missing, his eyes exhausted and wary. ‘You don’t know anything about computers,’ he accused. ‘They promised…’ He stepped back, his glance shifting towards the door. ‘I didn’t see you come in,’ he added in a bewildered tone. He licked his lips, prodding Scott’s chest with the tip of his finger, as if testing to see if he was real or a hallucination.
Scott saw they looked painfully dry, crusted flakes of chocolate and something white embedded in the cracks. A surge of anger swept through him recognising that Jameson had been drugged. How could they – Jay had a most brilliant mind, how could they stoop so low?
‘Who promised?’
‘My friend. His name is Ferdinand. I’m allowed to call him Ferdinand because I’m special staff,’ Jameson boasted. ‘Everyone else has to call him sir or Mr Aquilla. He gave me this job. Mum and Dad are thrilled.’
‘No way. Your mum’s worried sick. You’ve been missing for days. I promise you, she’s no idea where you are.’
‘That’s a lie,’ Jameson flashed back. ‘They warned me about talking to people like you.’ He pulled out his mobile. Scott flinched back ‘Bother, I forgot you can’t get a signal down here otherwise I’d prove it to you. We can go up to the lobby and phone if you like. It’s Frank’s birthday in two weeks,’ he said, speaking about his younger brother. ‘I’m going to send him some money for a new mobile – top of the range it’ll be. I can afford it now. He’ll like that. And I’ll be home soon for a weekend.’
Turning Point Page 25