I could fall down, if I wasn't already looking to the next people. I'm alive more than ever to the dangers we are all in. There are people I don't recognize, sure, but there are faces that spark immediate recognition and amp my terror and awe up significantly. There is the retired US Army Chief of Staff, Blake Bresciano, whom I recognize from his occasional visits to Camp Bastion in Afghanistan. What on earth is he doing here? He's out-of-action retired! And over there is a guy I read about in The Times. They call him the Instagram Poker Millionaire. I can't remember his name but I certainly remember the face from all those smug Instagram shots replicated in the paper. Him rolling on the floor with half-naked women and gold bars, writhing in swimming pools filled with champagne and porn stars. Made a fortune on the American poker circuits, they wrote. I guess now, in his parlance, he is upping the ante.
The back door to the barn opens, and I see another man enter, holding an orange juice. He wears a well-manicured grey suit and a white turban, his long grey beard down as far as his mid-chest. I know him straight away, from intel documents I studied on the ground in Afghanistan. Jesus. A long time ago, I was part of a specifically designed team destined for a brief sojourn to Northern Pakistan, to try to take out a supposed Taliban stronghold, in the hunt for a man called Mohammed Al Jahlel. We knew him better as Osama Bin Laden's number three. His left hand man. We stormed the stronghold, and found no trace, merely ghosts of an operation not long since abandoned. The trial died with our failure. It was the disappointing culmination of a three year operation, and as far as I know, nobody has seen him since. Until he just walked through that door, that is, trying to get his hands on chemical weapons.
I'm more dumbfounded with every passing recognition, and scared by the ones I don't immediately know. The prim, exceptionally tall blond man who seems very reluctant to socialize, who is so pale he is bordering on albino, wearing red sunglasses even though there is no natural sunlight in the barn. To my amazement there is a… sort of… granny figure, chatting amiably with a man dressed like the 'man from del monte'. She wears a cardigan, over a pastel dress, her hair grey but set joyously in that same post-war whisk. God knows who she is.
'OK, time to get things started. It's 6.30 prompt,' The Chief says, and before I know it, he is walking to the door at the end of the office. 'Are you both ready?'
Amina responds with a 'yes' and I nod, while taking the modified tupperware out of my bag. I take it to The Chief, and slowly hand it to him, imagining what future horrors I have set in motion by doing so. He thanks me with a curt nod, and throws the door open, which opens onto a high walkway stationed above the barn. A guard waits for us there, and The Chief walks out onto his stage, turning to address his subjects. Amina and I wait in the doorway, listening.
'Good evening everybody, and welcome. Thank you so much for coming. I hope you are all refreshed and moderately comfortable. I am hosting this auction on behalf of the seller, who wishes to remain, understandably, anonymous.'
The room is hushed, and as I peak around the door frame, I see faces locked onto the man on the catwalk. This is hands down one of them most surreal experiences of my life… then I remember that only a couple of days ago I slept on a rock on the open ocean with some seals. While talking to them, having just pissed down myself. Actually, this is all rather par for the course.
The Chief continues, wringing every last drop of the theatrical he can.
'In this room are some of the most important figures in the world today. Make no mistake - the cream rises. It is in this room right now. And, I'm pleased to announce, that the seller has a product here that is utterly befitting of such high caliber customers. A lofty product befitting only the most impressive of customers. I give you... Apex.'
The Chief opens the small box, and holds the vial aloft, the clear glass glinting in his rising hand. A smattering of applause break out. My word, the world's worst can be civil.
'I'd like to introduce our specialist microbiologist, Piccolo. Anonymity dictates her name, but you will be in no doubt of her qualifications and suitability when you hear her speak and see her in action.'
The Chief turns to the side, and waves Amina over.
'Good luck,' I whisper, as she moves onto the catwalk to join the speaker. She moves quickly and doesn't address the crowd, who applaud again. I take a look at the masses. One person definitely isn't clapping - Kirsten. She looks like she might be sick with rage.
'If you would, Piccolo, please use the glovebox and microscope to tell us what we have here,' says The Chief, as a wheeled glovebox unit is pushed by a guard towards the middle of the catwalk. No expense has been spared in the fine details here, it seems.
Before my eyes can make their way back to the stage, my breath pauses in my throat. It can't be.It just can't.
That man, there on the right hand side, in the leather bomber jacket. It's the scowl that tugs at me first, then I see the earring. Everything from the heavy tan, thinly coiffed hair, right down to the smug espadrilles he saunters in. This must be a cruel joke, but it is not.
Without a doubt, that is Terry 'The Turn-Up' Masters, the London crime lord, who views himself as the real royalty of the Big Smoke - who shot my leg out from beneath me, who set his dogs on me and framed me for murdering his son. Who put me in the jail I had to escape from.
The nights I have spent thinking about this man, and how to bring him to justice. The fixation I have for bringing him to account. The ire I feel brimming just as I look at him.
His power must be significant, if he is at an auction like this. You need serious capital to even get you in this room, but here he is, looking right at home. He looks like he is just biding time before he nips off down the pub, and such is the nature of his habits, I know that will probably happen. But hopefully not with a vial of super-botulism nestled in his jacket pocket.
What money will be required to win this auction today? One party down there has the immediate financial clout of the entire Russian country, banking system and all. Surely Terry Masters can't hope to match that?
His presence here steels me for what must be done.
In my preoccupation, I had missed that Amina has gone to work in the glovebox, repeating her lab routine from a couple of days earlier. I have to get her out of here.
'Piccolo, tell us what you are doing?' asks The Chief.
'I'm about to look at Apex under a microscope,' Amina replies, rather stating the obvious.
'How much of the chemical is there in the vial?'
'Approximately a gram.'
'Is that a lot?' There is more than a whiff of rhetoric to The Chief's voice, betraying that, for him, this is all part of the spiel.
'That is ample to synthesize as much as you could possibly need, as well as an antidote.' She lowers her eyes to microscope.
'That's right. There is no known antidote to this is there?'
'No. This is a completely unique toxin.'
'Bespoke, would you say?'
'Yes. One of a kind,' she says, but her eyes drift up momentarily from the viewfinder. Come on, Amina. She pauses, briefly, her eyes drifting to somewhere else. Please, Amina, go with it.
She looks back into the scope.
'What do you see?' asks The Chief.
Amina doesn't look up, but merely looks at the floor between her feet. 'A modified strain of clostridium botulinum, which has had it's amino acids shuffled in a very unique style.'
'And what is the result of said shuffling?'
'It increases the potency of the toxin exponentially. It will now attack specific nervous receptors for maximum efficiency. It will not waste time on other less important receptors, it will go straight for the ones that matter.'
'And this means?'
'This chemical is a quick, unstoppable killing machine. I would imagine that death will result within two hours of contact, as opposed to several. The aggression of said death will be incontrovertible, and with no known antidote, there is nothing to stop it.'
'Would you
say that this gives immediate global power to whoever may own it?'
'Yes. Without doubt.'
'Thank you for your time, Piccolo.'
Amina stands, and The Chief gestures her to leave his stage. It has been so well-handled, so expertly-timed, that one can only assume that this isn't The Chief's first rodeo. This team, here in Great Britain, who were ready to execute this auction at moments notice, are a very interesting bunch. I'll have to find out more about them at a later date.
Amina joins me in the room, her face still troubled. She looks torn.
'I think we've done our part. Let's get out of here,' I say, knowing full well there is something she wants to say to me. Her body language betrays her, and she looks at me with an intensity I have seen so many times in our short relationship.
'I'm sorry you ended up on the spot, but it's not like we could discuss it,' I say, ushering her to the door at the back of the office.
'Were you going to tell me at any point?' she asks.
'I'm not sure,' I say, sighing. We don't have much time. The Chief is already pressing on with what sounds like the rules of the auction, then, when the bidding starts, the auction could end at any time. 'If you can believe it, I was trying to protect you via blissful ignorance. Come on.'
I take her through the rear office doors, which open out onto another catwalk over a different barn. It is a mirror image of what is going on on the other side, only not filled with criminal sycophants - rather there are hundreds of young turkeys, gobbling at us frantically. The walls and windows must be reinforced, since I had no suggestion that they were here. The smell is that damp grim mix of bird shit and more bird shit.
We take the catwalk, and cross out over the barn floor. There is a ladder at the end, leading up to the rafters, which we climb.
'What are we doing?' Amina says, as she hurries after me.
'I need to get you out of this building,' I reply, reaching the top, where a series of cramped maintenance walkways span across the ceiling, I'm guessing for maintenance purposes. There are a lot of lights in here, and if they control every detail like I've read, they will go through a lot of bulbs. Further down the catwalk, I see an access point. That must be the roof - perfect.
'Why can't we just go out of the front door?' she asks, scampering a yard behind me.
'Because I don't want to let you out of my sight, and I have one more thing to do,' I reply. I am readying myself mentally, but I'm already there. I know what must be done, and I am ready for it. There is no turning back when my mind is made up. Some things must be done for the greater good. I slowly open the roof hatch to the summer evening, raining sunlight on the turkeys, who gobble in unison. This is the first daylight any of them will have ever seen. God, I feel sorry for them.
Poking my head out, I see that the roof is flat and clear. So far so good. I help Amina out with me, close the hatch behind us. The fresh air is a godsend after the last pungent odor we faced. We stay low, and trace along the roof back in the direction of the office. There is a five foot drop to another platform, which looks about the shape of the office itself. Must be it, and on the other side of it, is the larger barn roof under which the auction must be starting. We climb across. I think of Jeremiah’s men, watching us at a distance through scoped viewfinders, wondering what they hell we are doing. Now, where is the hatch?
'Ben what are you doing?' Amina asks, panting.
'I know it sounds bad, Amina, but I don't know what else to do,' I reply, breathing hard myself. 'Light footsteps here.'
We pad gently out onto the roof, in search of the hatch, but a better option presents itself, which I had missed before. There are large vents down the centre of the roof, every ten yards, four feet across. Of course. I find the middle one, and peer through. The outlets at the top here are slatted, and but down between the slats, about five feet, is a whirling bladed rotor. I knew the air in these places is carefully controlled. It’s why I suggested it, after all.
I crouch by the vent, and take my pack off, unzipping the side compartment. Down by my socks, and my underwear, is another vial. This one, containing Apex. The actual Apex, not the simple tap water I had put in a spare vial I had pinched from Amina’s pack yesterday.
'When did you switch them?'
'After I had a whiskey nightcap with Jeremiah last night,' I say. 'Thank you for covering the switch.'
'I'm not sure I would have survived this event if I hadn't,' she says.
'I'm sorry, Amina. This is the toughest thing I've ever had to do. But I cannot let any of those people take this.'
'What are going to do? You can't keep it, surely?! What about Jeremiah, and William? What about your self-appointed duty to your country?'
'I know, I know. I understand the betrayal my actions might be here. I get it. But there is so much evil down below us that I can't bring myself to let them have it, especially when there is a way of ending it now, before it this whole desperate thing goes any further.'
'You are not thinking… You cannot seriously…'
'I will take the heat for this. You had nothing to do with it. It was my call. Forgive me, Amina. I set out to do good without compromise. I set out to stop the innocent being taken for a ride by the evil. I broke out of prison to make a stand for justice -'
'Justice!?' she interrupts.
'This is justice,' I say, and throw the vial down the vent. A tinkling glass crunch heralds the smashing of the vial on the fan, spraying the contents on the floor below. Whether they know it or not, or heard it, or are blissfully carrying on with bidding for the damned substance, their coveted prize is raining gently down on them, coating them one by one. To a man, they will be dead before sundown. Al Jahlel, The Chief, Bresciano, the Secretary of Defense, the old lady, even Terry Masters, who shamefully I would rather have killed with my own hands. They will all be dead, horribly before this day is out.
That's a whole lot of evil gone in one go. All those bastards and Apex with it. But it's a whole lot of nasty suffering I have just doled out, and when I came up with this idea, it has not sat right with me since. I have upped my game from vigilante to mass-murderer. What have I become?
'We have to go,' says Amina. 'I don't know how contained this building will be.' She speaks icily, and detached, but her eyes betray her horror at my actions.
'I'm sorry,' I say.
She doesn't reply. We climb to the edge of the roof at the rear of the building, and lower ourselves down the service ladders in silence. God knows what is going on inside, but it's sure wise not to stick around to find out. Now at the back of the facility, there is thick woodland, dense and convoluted - just like my opinion of myself. I hate myself, but it was right, wasn’t it? Surely?
'Amina, you can go back around the front to Sam, and get a ride out of here, ASAP,' I say. 'Or you could come with me. I'm going underground for a while.'
She stares back at me, softly shaking her head. My actions have pushed her too far, I can tell.
'Please, just… Look, I don't know what kind of man I am, but I am trying. I only want to do good, but I've seen enough awful shit to know that good comes in many forms. I feel I had to do what I did there. I like you Amina. I feel drawn to you. I find myself wanting to protect you. If you want to come with me, I can promise I will keep trying to do that.'
She can barely look at me. I have let her down, I know it.
'No, Ben,' she says, solidly, tears forming. 'I can't… Nothing you can say will change the awful things I have seen you do. Nothing. I can't go anywhere with someone capable of what you are capable of.'
My heart feels like it is tumbling down cold cellar steps, back to the place it started from. She was always forthright, with admirable conviction, and that is just as evident now as she tells me what she really thinks of me.
'I'm sorry,' I say, and back towards the forest. 'I'm sorry for everything. Take care of yourself and get out of here.’
I turn and run. I don't know if anyone will be on my tail. I don't know if
anyone wants me dead. But I bet they will.
As I crunch down a grassy hill, I call Jeremiah via Cryptocall. He answers immediately.
'What the fuck were you doing on the roof?' he asks immediately.
'I'm sorry Jeremiah, I'm sorry if you find this as some kind of betrayal. I promise it was never intended that way.'
'What did you do?' he asks, dread dripping from his words.
'I admire you Jeremiah. I admire you in full. But my position has given me the opportunity to do good outside of the rules, and I thought this was the best way to do that.'
Apex (Ben Bracken 2) Page 23