Running

by Barbara Spencer

  Hilary rubbed his back; her brain continuing to create a sensation of movement. She daren’t get off and stretch. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to get back on, her muscles screaming with tiredness.

  ‘We’ll stop at the first place and get you some tea, it can’t be far now. On the map Loch Lomond’s just the other side of Glasgow. We can do it, Scott.’

  They had, but it had been very late by the time they turned into the drive of the Youth Hostel, close to Arden village.

  ‘Only dormitory accommodation, I’m afraid. Girls on the first floor, boys on the second. And you’ll have to get food out. Dinner’s finished. But there’s a great view of the Loch at dawn, if you’re interested.’

  They weren’t. Hilary, white with fatigue after two long days travelling, walked slowly up the stairs, her only wish a desire to snuggle up in a warm bed and go to sleep.

  Scott, too weary to remain upright any longer, had one coherent thought before he crashed into oblivion. They’d done it. They’d arrived at Loch Lomond.

  FOURTEEN

  Full wakeful consciousness was difficult to grasp, like a thread of cotton jerked away from fumbling fingers. Twice Bill rose up towards the surface, waking sufficiently to become aware of his surroundings and gradually he began to recall some isolated incidents from his journey; smooth roads, silence and blackness, the smell of the sea, his head dizzy with its topsy-turvy movement, grateful when the blackness took over again.

  Now he was awake and very thirsty. He opened his eyes, focussing on a jug of water on the table by his bed. Next to it was a glass.

  At least they want me to survive, he thought, an expression of genuine relief on his face. He drank, returning to a position on his back and closed his eyes, feeling the room spin out of control. He knew the drill. It was horrid – but it would pass – an imbalance in the inner-ear caused by the powerful opiate. Food would help. He stretched out his hand towards the table, unwilling to sit up until the dizziness had subsided, and patted its surface. His fingers immediately knocked against a plate on which were some biscuits. He grabbed a couple and munched them slowly. Tentatively, he tilted his head and drank some more water, then lay back down again and closed his eyes, waiting for normality to return. There was not the slightest point in hurrying it, nor in leaping to his feet to check out the room and find a way out, he comforted himself sleepily, there wouldn’t be one. Whoever had issued the invitation wanted him to stay – and would make certain of it by bolting his door and barring the window.

  He woke naturally some hours later, feeling energy beginning to return to his body. He was stiff and had bruises in strange places but he’d known worse. He padded into the small bathroom. A change of clothing, towels and a razor waited. Bill gazed at his unshaven chin, rubbing his hand over several days’ worth of bristles, inclined to leave it and cultivate Anew look. He recalled the face of one of the hired help at the cottage, a weedy outcrop clinging to his cheeks and chin, his smirk as he saw the needle go in. Bill’s face darkened with anger. Filling the basin with hot water, he picked up the razor.

  Twenty minutes later he emerged from the steam-filled bathroom, feeling halfway human. His watch had gone, a faint white mark on his wrist where the strap had been. And his shoes were nowhere to be seen either. Carefully controlling the expression on his face, he gazed round the room, knowing it was likely he was being observed, yet unable to prevent his fists from clenching angrily.

  His survival depended on where, at which point, his shoes had been taken away. If immediately before tossing him into bed, the bleeper in the innersoles would lead his rescuers right to the door. If at the start of his journey, he was lost somewhere in Europe.

  He crossed to the window, buckling his trouser belt, and peered out through the bars. Most likely Belgium or Holland. Fields as flat as a green pancake faded into the distance, not a hedge or undulation marking one from the other. He could have been in Legoland for all the clues the landscape offered. He pressed his head against the bars, squinting along the side of the building. No clues there either. A house – red brick – not big – he guessed. It had an ordinary enough garden with neatly pruned evergreen shrubs surrounded by wrought-iron railings – typical of thousands he’d seen on journeys through northern Europe.

  The door clicked and he swung round.

  ‘Good morning, Meester Masterson. I ’ope you ’ad a comfortable journey.’

  ‘Oh it’s you.’ Bill eyed the Frenchman, who had proved so skilful with needles, with dislike. ‘I was hoping for a buxom country lass with some breakfast. Where are my shoes?’

  ‘Incinerated; the same for your jacket and trousers. We prefer this to be a bug-free environment, as you will see when we go downstairs. Would you follow me?’

  Reluctantly, Bill slipped his feet into a pair of loafers that had been left by the bedroom door. Outside the door another figure he recognised, the German with the bulging shoulder pad. He fell in behind.

  He’d been right. It was an ordinary house with an ordinary landing, several bedrooms leading off it, except … The Frenchman pulled open a door, concealing the gated railings of a lift.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’ Bill asked as they dropped downwards: ground floor – and not stopping – a long drop to the basement. They jerked to a halt.

  ‘Gerard Davois,’ said the Frenchman. ‘I am so glad you ’ave decided to be reasonable, Meester Masterson.’

  ‘Monsieur Davois … I need food and for that I am prepared to suck up to any piece of shit that crosses my path.’

  Bill caught the fleeting change of expression on the muscle’s face – hastily wiped off and changed into a clearing of the throat. The man pushed open the gates, gesturing Bill to go ahead.

  They were in what, at first glance, appeared to be an underground shopping mall, its vast central area brightly lit, as if the sun had been planted in the roof space; trees and flowers growing among compost-filled islands, with glass-fronted shops on either side. An electric car, identical to a golf cart, whizzed past on a rubber-tiled pathway – making it less of a shopping mall, rather more an underground city. This was followed by an electric scooter – usually the prerogative of the disabled, a two-wheeled dump bin filled with laundry trailing behind; the only thing missing a London bus.

  ‘This way.’

  The Frenchman ushered him through a conglomeration of comfortable chairs and low tables surrounding the lift shaft. Bill glanced across at one of the shop windows, identifying a long, winding counter filled with the paraphernalia of a cafeteria, fruit and coffee machines, tiers of plastic shelving displaying biscuits and croissants. At least they fed their prisoners. He allowed himself to speculate on the subject of food, questions like – so how did supplies get in – filling his mind. Through the heavy plate glass on the far side of the large hallway, Bill could see people working – peering into screens. They were casually dressed, and most of them were young.

  A short corridor led them towards an imposing set of double doors in cherry-coloured wood. Davois knocked and entered.

  The room was vast, impressive even, its walls panelled in the same polished wood as its doors, with views through a picture window towards snow-covered mountains topped with blue sky. In the centre stood an oval mahogany table; a trolley, groaning with food, nearby. Two men were seated at the table, with heaped plates in front of them.

  ‘Join us, Mr Masterson.’

  The voice sounded friendly, welcoming even, yet the atmosphere was tense, almost expectant.

  The muscle left the room and closed the door after him, hardly bothering to hide the expression of annoyance that crossed his face. Obviously, he wasn’t invited. Bill felt almost sorry, since the food looked good.

  Power radiated from every pore of the two men facing Bill. It helped that they were wearing expensive Italian suits with handmade shoes, their hands – held out in greeting – neatly manicured.

  ‘Wayne Seagar,’ the voice was American, so was the hair; a crew cut disguising a
bald patch on top of his head. ‘This is my colleague, Ferdinand Aquilla.’ The man nodded his head in a brief acknowledgement, his clothes and hair giving the impression of a single colour – grey. ‘Take the weight off, the boss will be with us in a moment.’

  As he spoke, a section of panelling at the far end of the room slid to one side, exposing a screen which immediately flickered into life. The silhouette of a man appeared. Bill waited for the digital image to clear and focus. Nothing happened, the figure remaining a blur.

  ‘Mr Masterson? The gentlemen you joined for breakfast …’ the shadow moved and a finger pointed towards the two men, confirming that he could see and hear everything, ‘are my associates in charge of this operation.’

  Bill listened intently. The language was English but heavily accented, possibly Russian, although obviously disguised; the voice swirling in and out, with changes of key making it difficult to pinpoint.

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Do have some breakfast, Mr Masterson. I am sure you are hungry.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Bill crossed to the trolley, helping himself to scrambled eggs and bacon. Davois had seated himself at the far end of the table, and was quietly drinking his coffee. He had not, as Bill had done, helped himself to food although there was plenty. It was reasonable to assume therefore that, although invited to stay, Davois wasn’t considered one of the inner circle – however much he thought he should be.

  ‘Monsieur Davois – please.’ The shadow waved Anonchalant arm. ‘After your really excellent work in finding Masterson, you deserve breakfast at the very least.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ The man got to his feet joining Bill by the trolley.

  The coffee was freshly brewed – the aroma definitely European, with the faintest hint of chicory. Bill poured himself a cup and took a sip. Almost instantly he felt the charge, the caffeine kicking-in lifting his spirits to a feeling of normality, or what might conceivably pass as normal after a couple of days drugged and out of it. He gave Davois an amused half-smile.

  ‘Great reward – breakfast. Try the eggs, they’re good,’ he murmured and, taking his plate, crossed to the boardroom table and sat down facing the screen.

  The voice from the screen was casual as if telling a child’s bedtime story.

  Except it wasn’t a bedtime story, Bill could sense the tension dominating the figures round the conference table, their bodies upright in the posture of men on full alert

  ‘You asked about what we do here, Mr Masterson? Quite simply, my associates’ task is to keep our computer scientists safe,’ the voice said. ‘Our city is almost identical to that built in Virginia after the tsunami. Have you seen it?’

  ‘No, nor likely to,’ Bill said, wondering how on earth the bad guys had. He felt no hesitation in believing they were the bad guys, however sophisticated the set-up. Good guys don’t go round sticking needles into people, he told himself. He ate sparingly, thankful the meeting had started out in a civilised fashion, although it might be prudent to stock up because, if they didn’t like his answers, it was possible food could be in rather short supply afterwards.

  ‘Haven’t been near the States in fifteen years,’ he offered.

  ‘Yes, we know that, Mr Masterson. Although I would be interested to know why?’

  No harm there. ‘I didn’t know if I could trust the Americans.’

  ‘Quite! I can see your dilemma. They had killed your wife and most of your colleagues – such a tragedy – and so you took off alone.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bill said, finding a conversation about death and destruction, while eating breakfast, somewhat surreal.

  ‘But not quite alone, Mr Masterson.’

  ‘My son? Of course, we live together.’

  ‘Don’t play games, Mr Masterson.’ The shadow’s voice sounded terse. ‘Some of your colleagues did not die and together you are continuing your work. Don’t bother to deny it. Now, we would like you to offer you a job.’

  ‘How flattering to be headhunted.’ Casually, Bill got to his feet to refill his coffee cup. He sketched a laugh. ‘But why? I’m not in the league you want.’

  ‘That is not worthy of you, Mr Masterson. And I am sure, you’ve been with us a few days, you will see the wisdom of confessing your true ability. Naturally, like our counterparts in America, we are short of technical know-how and are seeking intelligent recruits.’

  Bill thought back to the Reuters’ news report about teenagers disappearing, but the sentence – well, you’ll not get them by kidnapping – remained unsaid. ‘So establish a university or put an ad in the newspaper,’ he quipped.

  ‘Far too lengthy a process. We need scientists now – starting with you.’

  The voice remained calm, not a flicker of anger at Bill’s sarcasm, nothing that might present him with clues to the man’s identity. What was their real intention? A race for global mastery? Or was the man a philanthropist in disguise and this little set-up all in the name of altruism?

  Bill shrugged and sat down again. ‘Okay.’

  This time his words did produce a reaction; Davois being so rude as to choke on his coffee, Seagar and Aquilla, the sidekicks, staring. Only the shadow failed to react.

  ‘As you see, my colleagues are somewhat startled,’ it said. ‘It is more usual for candidates of your calibre to show reluctance and take a little persuading to change their minds. Perhaps you can explain your sudden volte-face.’

  Bill continued to chew, slowly. It wouldn’t harm them to wait for an explanation and, anyway, the food was far too good to hurry. He let his gaze slide over to the view. It was fake, like the rest of the set-up; the portrayal of open air, with its subliminal message of freedom, simply a 3D image. Reality lurked behind it, a wall guarding the edges of an underground bunker.

  ‘There are terms, of course,’ he said.

  ‘Naturally and they are?’

  ‘I work for you and you quit trying to get hold of my son. Let him alone.’

  The shadow inclined his head. There was a gentle easing of breath.

  ‘So what is it you want of me?’

  ‘ To begin with something quite easy – your files – and of course the names of your colleagues. Sadly your files are encrypted and our students are, as yet, not able to unscramble them.’

  ‘You’ve tried already?’ Bill tried to conceal his astonishment but the words escaped.

  ‘We don’t waste time. We are in the middle of an accelerating programme and have a schedule to keep.’

  ‘ To take over the world?’

  A pin dropping would have sounded like the blast from a roadside bomb, the silence in the room suddenly so intense.

  ‘I am sorry to disappoint, Mr Masterson. My aim is solely the dominance of technology. Anything else would cost far too many lives and be far too messy. War has never solved anything; it simply substitutes one problem for another.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Bill said. ‘I happen to agree. Unfortunately, that consideration is rarely shared by our leaders.’

  ‘What world leaders believe is of little consequence. After we take over, they will think what we want them to think.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘No wars. The world continuing to move forward, as it has done, except we will control technology. You see, Mr Masterson, it occurred to me that the way to control the world was not by refusing to sell arms to a particular country, or by possessing the secret of nuclear fission, it was simply by preventing the global village functioning. If gas could not flow, nor electricity or nuclear power function, neither missiles be discharged, nor planes or ships sail, because there was no computer to operate them or calculate the percentages for the money markets, then governments would fail and chaos take over. Your programme, a virus capable of infiltrating any computer in the world, could create that. How simple would it be then – for nothing would work unless I told it to.’

  ‘Interesting? And do I conclude that your organisation has been behind the recent blips in the stock market?’
>
  Leisurely, Bill got to his feet, helping himself to croissant, the answer he received would be a yes. The sudden failure of gilt-edged companies, declaring losses after years of steady growth, had made the headlines on any number of occasions in the past few years.

  ‘But, of course, Mr Masterson. We like to keep ourselves occupied while waiting for the golden goose.’

  ‘So killing off global corporations is simply a way of passing the time?’

  Laughter came from the figure on the screen, the distorted sound so eerie it made Bill’s flesh creep.

  ‘We must have a game of chess some time. You would prove a worthy opponent. Shall we say, Mr Masterson, while waiting for the big fish to drop into our net, we amuse ourselves with the tiddlers. And the money we gained has proved most useful in expanding our operation. However, these adjustments of companies’ assets have become somewhat tedious. It is time we tested ourselves against a more worthy opponent.’

  How dictators loved to parade their ambitions, Bill thought, as if talking could make it happen. It was the desire to show off that was always the giveaway, a constant need to boast of their ambitions. He got to his feet, moving across to the trolley. ‘Is that okay?’ he said indicating the percolator. ‘I’m rather thirsty.’ This man, whoever he was, was no different from Stalin, Hitler or Pol Pot who had gone before him. Although to give him his due, he had at least moved his thinking into the twenty-first century, and was not considering ethnic cleansing or mass slaughter as the way forward.

  ‘You will find yourself most welcome here. Unlike the Americans and the Arabs, we don’t believe in torture,’ the voice continued, its pitch sliding up and down the scale, adding to the nightmare quality of his words. ‘You will not find yourself experiencing a Guantanamo Bay lifestyle, deprived of sleep and gazing down at blackened fingertips, where electrodes have been attached to them. No, a quick bullet to the head generally silences any opposition, don’t you find?’

  Bill concealed a shudder, saying lightly, ‘You may be disappointed when you see my files. The project to create that world-beating virus was swept out to sea in the tsunami. It can’t be replicated – I know, I’ve tried.’