37 Hours

by J. F. Kirwan

  Fat chance. She suddenly, for the first time, realised that her family would end with her. She wondered if they were watching. What else could they be doing?

  ‘Are we done?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, except I’d like to see you again in a month.’

  She wanted to say that it wasn’t going to happen, that the likelihood was that she’d either be dead along with hundreds of thousands of others in London, or else suffering more aggravated symptoms than she had right now.

  ‘Sure,’ she said, then she had an afterthought. ‘The guy I was chasing. He should have the same dose, right? And he was in the building a lot longer than I was.’

  The doctor frowned. ‘It’s never so simple. He might have a slightly higher or lower dose. But he could also be in the lucky seventy per cent.’

  That figured.

  She left the doctor’s office and headed back to the colonel’s waiting room. The assistant was still inside. Go for it, girl. She thought about Sergei, about Jake, about making love to one or both of them, knew it wasn’t going to happen.

  There was a strange smell coming from an office just inside the corridor, some odd food item, and Nadia suddenly felt nauseous. She dashed to the toilets, locked herself in a cubicle, then knelt down, head over the bowl. She retched, and vomited, eyes closed, then vomited again. He’d said this could happen. But was there blood? She thought about flushing before she had a chance to look, but decided against it, and opened her eyes.

  No blood.

  Her breathing suddenly rasped in her ears, and she stayed there, her emotions gaining the upper hand.

  Her father, Katya… She flushed the loo, her tears disappearing on their long journey to the Moskva. She stayed there, remembering the good times, until the colonel’s assistant came and found her.

  ‘It’s time,’ she said. She helped Nadia to her feet, then added, cautiously, ‘I heard about your…condition. And your family. I’m sorry.’

  Nadia went to a sink and splashed water over her face, swilled some in her mouth, then spat it out, and spoke as much to the mirror as to the girl. ‘It’s all right. I’m still in the game.’ She turned around to the girl, accepting a wad of paper towels.

  ‘And from here on, I am my family.’

  Part Four

  London

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nadia and Sergei had been upgraded to business class, an empty row in front and behind. The colonel’s assistant, for sure. The colonel was forward in first class, so no awkward moments. She was surprised they weren’t on a military plane, but with the G20 summit in less than two days, travel logistics were a nightmare.

  Putin was skipping this one after his most recent spat with several European leaders. But the Russian Prime Minister would be present. It occurred to Nadia that if the bomb went off, Putin would be one of the few major world leaders left standing. Given that the warhead was Russian, that would spawn some pretty compelling conspiracy theories, but it wouldn’t matter, as he’d be top dog. And also, this time at least, those theories would be wrong.

  Salamander. She still didn’t really get it. Sure, you could get pissed off, but to nuke a capital city you had to be deranged. Something about her brief encounter with the man told her there was more to this than psychosis. Of course the person next to her, who’d said little since they’d met, had spent considerably more time with Salamander.

  Sergei. He looked a hell of a lot better than back in Chernobyl. Most of the facial bruising was gone, the gunshot wound had been treated, he was stabilised. But…he was withdrawn. Something broken inside? He was tougher than that; she was sure of it. And she’d already lost her sister and father, and didn’t know what kind of state Jake would be in. Sergei was the only one who could help her.

  ‘You’re kind of quiet,’ she said.

  He nodded, almost imperceptibly. A smile arrived, then retreated. ‘Sorry, Nadia. It keeps replaying in my mind.’

  ‘Which part?’

  He eased back further into the leather chair. ‘How easily they took us, Katya and I. It was careless of me.’

  She hadn’t asked. It didn’t seem to matter now.

  ‘And then the torture,’ he added.

  She didn’t really want to know.

  ‘And… Katya…’

  She gripped his hand to make him stop. He turned to her – the first time he’d really looked at her. Why? They’d been lovers, albeit for one night. Why wouldn’t he look at her? Because of Katya, maybe? Guilt? Fuck guilt, the most over-rated, least useful emotion in human history.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said again.

  This wasn’t the Sergei she knew, nor the one she needed. ‘Tell me about Salamander. What does he really want?’

  He signalled the stewardess. ‘Cognac, please.’ She disappeared back to the galley. He waited until she returned with the amber-brown liquid. He swirled it around in its glass, smelling its aroma briefly, before downing it in one.

  Nadia took a sip of bottled water.

  ‘He wants disorder. Actually, he wants a paradigm shift.’

  ‘What?’

  He stared straight ahead, through the seat in front of him, presumably remembering what Salamander had said. ‘The current governance model is hopelessly flawed. Long past its sell-by date. Nobody trusts politicians any more – most are corrupt, many of them changing the constitution to remain in power, or using tricks to achieve the same goal.’

  He turned to her, fire in his eyes. ‘Populism is rising because of distrust in the politicians. People see them either as self-serving or else looking after the interests of an anonymous elite.’ He stared ahead again. ‘He’s not wrong about that, Nadia.’

  She didn’t really disagree, but it wasn’t like that everywhere. Life wasn’t so bad for most people. He seemed to read her mind.

  ‘Half the world lives in poverty, from hand to mouth, while the other half is trying to work out which SUV will make them look more attractive to the opposite sex.’

  She studied him. ‘It’s not so black and white.’

  ‘Look, I know he’s a long way on the wrong side of sane. All I’m saying is, he – as with other extremists at the moment – has messages that resonate with people who are struggling or disillusioned.’

  ‘Why London? Why the G20?’

  He lowered his voice to a whisper, and leant closer to her, his mouth by her ear, his breath hot on her neck, the smell of brandy in her nostrils.

  ‘What will happen after?’ he asked.

  ‘After the warhead detonates?’

  ‘Yes, after the first month when the world is in shock, trying to come to terms with what has happened, 9/11 paling by comparison?’

  She hadn’t thought that far ahead. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Three things. First, government, presidents, prime ministers, are shown to be vulnerable. Second, no one is safe. Up until now it’s been assumed no one except a major government can get a nuke. Even Iran doesn’t have one. But this man just steals one, sneaks it under G20’s nose, sets it off, and gets away with it.’

  Her mind worked fast to process not only what he was saying, but the subtext, just as she’d been trained. Under G20. Buried? Underground? ‘…and gets away with it.’ Salamander is not there when it goes off.

  ‘Third, and here’s the real sting in the tail. These world leaders – at least some of them, because several know already – knew about the threat and didn’t call off the meeting, didn’t evacuate London. They took the decision, decided the risk was tolerable. The people who elected those leaders weren’t told, weren’t given the choice.’

  She sat back in her chair. It could be the last straw for many already disillusioned people. The political fallout – no, the social fallout – could trigger a massive loss of trust…and a desire for a new form of governance.

  ‘So, he wants what? Nationalism? Tribalism? Anarchy?’

  ‘If the warhead goes off, it will be a game-changer. The world will ne
ver be the same.’

  She didn’t entirely buy it. ‘But what comes after? Why go to all this trouble, all this planning, to nuke London and then leave the rest to chance afterwards?’

  Sergei shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He is old. Perhaps it’s his legacy to some group, or someone he trusts to take the lead in the aftermath.’

  If that were true, there was only one candidate. Blue Fan.

  She took another sip. She still wasn’t convinced. They simply didn’t know enough about Salamander, or his past, to profile him. Maybe, after all, Salamander craved revenge for what happened to him all those years ago, and what Sergei had picked up was what Salamander doled out to those supporting him.

  The curtain separating first from business was whipped back for just a moment as the colonel ducked under it, scanned the seats, then came and sat on the spare one next to Sergei. He pulled out a smartphone – a design Nadia hadn’t seen before – and held it front of them so they could both see the screen. Twitter. A single tweet displayed:

  37 hours till judgement day. London will fall. They know. @SMDR @UKGov @RussiaGov

  Nadia noted the timestamp, which said it was launched seven minutes earlier. Salamander was giving a countdown. The colonel toggled a button and scrolled through six identical messages, each with different government addresses. The G20 countries. Sergei had been right.

  ‘Check the impact,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ the colonel replied.

  She took the phone and moved the cursor and clicked on one of the Twitter icons. The first message had received one hundred and fifty views, four likes, and one retweet.

  ‘It’s not gone viral yet,’ she said.

  ‘And if it does?’ he asked.

  Sergei answered, ‘My guess is he will start giving more information closer to the time. Enough for people to panic.’

  She thought about it. ‘And to turn the spotlight on London before it disappears beneath a mushroom cloud.’

  The colonel spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Not – funny.’

  Of course. He didn’t want to be vaporised. ‘Didn’t they give you a return ticket?’

  His face locked down.

  ‘Call off the summit,’ she said. ‘There’s a warhead missing, for God’s sake. It’s a credible threat.’

  The colonel seemed to chew on a thought for a while, as if wondering whether to tell them something or not. ‘This isn’t exactly the first time,’ he said, almost a whisper.

  ‘What? A G20 threat or a warhead missing?’

  He said nothing. Which meant both. Jesus!

  ‘There are contingencies in place,’ he said.

  ‘For the elite, or for the people of London?’

  He rounded on her. ‘Do you have any idea what will happen if we try to evacuate London? A city of ten million people?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We’ll get to save nine million of them.’

  ‘If it happens. But if it doesn’t…’

  ‘If it doesn’t?’

  ‘There will be chaos. Looting. People killed in the mad rush to get out of the centre. Massive economic turmoil, which will spread around the globe, trillions wiped off stock markets due to fear. And a spate of copycat threats on other cities.’

  She twisted in her seat to face him square on. ‘Is that worse than millions of fatalities? Do you even hear yourself?’

  He calmed down. He obviously felt he was on surer footing. His tone became patronising. ‘You don’t see the larger picture. The politicians do. It’s a tiny risk of nuclear detonation, versus a certainty of geopolitical fallout that will endure for years to come.’

  ‘Christ! You’re talking about maintaining the status quo. The elite will huddle into helicopters an hour before detonation, leaving the little people to fry. You do realise you’re making Salamander’s case for him, don’t you?’

  Sergei gave her a penetrating look, as if trying to see into her soul, to see if she really meant it.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she said. ‘I have a bullet for his head, and next time I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.’

  The colonel rose, leaned forward, and spoke quietly but firmly. ‘Just do your job, Miss Laksheva. And don’t think for a second that I’m relying on you. I have a dozen agents already on British soil. You’re the wild card in the pack, the joker, nothing more. I’ve shuffled you into the mix just in case you might be helpful with our MI6 colleagues. You can lie low and have tea and scones with your boyfriend or, if you get the chance, which is unlikely, you can help us find the warhead and take out Salamander. Then I can earn a medal or two, and the rest of the world will thank Mr Putin. So, again, you just do your job and I’ll do mine.’

  He strode back to first, almost colliding with a stewardess coming through with the trolley for a late-night snack.

  As pep talks went, she’d heard a lot worse. But the last part resonated. Do your job. Easier said than done. They had nothing to go on. Nothing. She turned to Sergei. ‘What should we do?’

  He hauled himself straighter in his seat, lowered his table. ‘Eat,’ he said. ‘This might be the last time you get a chance to do so.’

  And so they ate. For once she finished everything, including dessert. But she declined an after-dinner drink. She wanted to stay focused. Besides, she was going to see Jake. At the exact moment she thought about Jake, Sergei put a hand on her thigh. He seemed to have recovered some of his vivacity, as well as his ease of touching her…

  She put her hand on his, gave it a squeeze, then removed it. ‘Can’t,’ she said.

  He gave her his trademark winning smile. Good. Sergei was back.

  ‘Even though it’s maybe the end of the world for us, Nadia?’

  ‘It’s never that far away for people like you and me, is it?’

  Sergei took another cognac, savouring it this time, rolling the glass slowly between his palms. ‘Do you think Salamander might actually be right?’

  ‘No,’ she said. It was a reflex answer. But she had also been thinking about it. ‘Definitely not.’

  He swilled the Armenian cognac around the small glass. ‘The system has deep structural flaws.’

  ‘At least there is a structure. What he wants will be dog-eat-dog. Humanity will tear itself apart.’

  ‘I’m not saying his methods are right –’

  ‘Dammit, his goal isn’t right, either, Sergei.’ It came out sharper than intended. What was Sergei thinking?

  He put his nose inside the glass, inhaled deeply.

  She didn’t want tension between them. They had to work together. ‘You and that cognac should get a room.’

  He laughed, touched her hand. ‘You’re dead right, of course. Get some rest,’ he said.

  And so Nadia turned to stare out at the moonlit clouds beneath them. But she didn’t sleep. There was a flash of lightning somewhere below. She imagined London: people walking about, black cabs in traffic, the underground, the skyscrapers, everyone going about their business, and then, suddenly… A crack, deeper than thunder. A blinding white flash, the ground shaking. People not in the immediate blast – because they were already gone – turning, seeing yet disbelieving as a mushroom cloud rose, tombstone grey, scarlet fire within.

  Some would know it was too late to run. They would stand, their legs rooted to the inevitable, clutching their children close, not letting them see, all the while watching others turn and scream and run and wave their arms, even as buildings shattered and exploded in the boiling shock wave, watchers and runners alike turned to ash.

  And then the aftermath. Weeks, maybe months of thick dust falling and settling like snow. Many more – those who survived – getting sick, a far worse dose than she’d had. Vomiting, turning a sickly shade of grey like the dust that was as much human residue as anything else. And then the long term: the birth deformities, the cancers that would ravage and reap tens of thousands in the decades to come…

  Not on her watch.

&n
bsp; She glanced at Sergei. He’d fallen asleep. Good. One of them needed to be fully refreshed. Because she wasn’t going anywhere except London. It wasn’t her city, nor her country, nor her people. It didn’t matter. It could be anywhere, and she would do the same. Maybe she and Sergei would become ash, and Salamander would get away. No. Her father had always said: make the choice right. They would find the warhead. Disable it. Then she would hunt down Salamander.

  She glanced at her watch – 36 hours. One and a half days. It was six a.m. back in Moscow, and with the two-hour difference, it would be four a.m. in London. And at exactly four p.m. tomorrow, on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, the G20 presidents and prime ministers would be well into their opening speeches in London. If they didn’t all cut and run first. Maybe he wanted them to flee the city. What if it all was an elaborate hoax? But she’d looked in his eyes. He was death incarnate. One of the four horsemen, War. He meant it. No hoax.

  The stewardess offered her a blanket. Nadia took it, wrapped it around her shoulders. Could she stop him, take him down? She had to. The only choice. She stared back to the clouds. In the ghostly darkness she could easily imagine faces there. Her father, Katya, even Bransk. They would each say the same thing.

  We’re right behind you.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘The submarine. Tell me again about the submarine.’

  Inside MI6 HQ, handcuffed, Nadia sighed, made a tower out of her two fists, leant her forehead on it, and went through it again, from Murmansk, to Anspida, to Chernobyl. Everything.

  And again.

  Until, halfway through the sixth version, the interrogator held up a hand, said, ‘Thank you’, and departed. She waited. Nothing happened. She put her head down, avoiding the electrodes and wires, and closed her eyes.

  ***

  She snapped awake.

  Lorne sat across the table from her, arms folded, a key to the handcuffs in front of her on the table. ‘How well do you know Sergei? I mean besides the sex.’

  Nadia hadn’t lied about it, or concealed it. Hopefully Sergei hadn’t either. As they’d been separated she’d shouted to him, ‘Full disclosure,’ just to make sure. They needed MI6 to trust them.