by Dc Alden
‘A real father wouldn’t desert his son like this.’
‘Here we go.’
‘It’s not Max’s fault.’
‘I’ve told you before, it’s not about Max.’
‘Liar.’ The wind ruffled the collar of her coat in tiny silver waves. ‘It doesn’t have to be this way, you know.’
Roy raised an eyebrow. ‘Meaning?’
Vicky stared at her boots. ‘Nothing. Doesn’t matter.’
‘Where’s Clark Kent?’
‘Nate’s working.’
‘Nate,’ Roy muttered. ‘Stupid name.’
‘Grow up, Roy. Go say hello to your son.’
He watched her stamp off towards a clutch of designer-clad women, their cold eyes appraising Roy’s rusted bike, his mud-speckled sweatpants and British Army combat jacket. He could read it in their faces; he was that Roy, Vicky’s mistake, poor Max’s indifferent father. The loser. He gave them a sarcastic wave.
Max was toe-poking the ball around, floppy brown hair bouncing as he ran. His movements were clumsy, his tongue protruding between his lips as he focused on kicking the ball at his feet.
‘Hey, Max!’
Roy squatted down and spread his arms wide. The ball ran past him, quickly followed by an oblivious Max who puffed after it. Roy caught his arm and scooped him off the ground. He held him in a gentle embrace.
‘Sorry for being late, Max,’ he whispered in the boy’s ear. ‘Daddy had a bit of trouble.’ The child didn’t respond, a faint whine of protest building in his throat, a rag doll in Roy’s arms. Defeated, Roy let him down. ‘Go and play, then.’
He heard the rustle of dry leaves behind him, heavy footfalls beating the ground.
A flash of grey hair swept by, coat tails flapping, the ball scooped from under Max’s feet then dribbled around him with enviable speed and dexterity. Max squealed in delight.
‘Come on, son, show us what you got!’
The man turned this way and that, running proverbial rings around Max who chased him with unbridled joy. Then he took a big swing and hoofed the ball into the distance. Max’s little legs pumped after it.
‘That’s it, son, go get it!’
The man turned around and Roy’s stomach lurched.
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Not exactly.’
Sammy French smiled, watching Max chase the ball across the grass. ‘Look at him go. Like shit off a shovel.’ He turned back to Roy. ‘You ever watch them Paralympics? I saw a Chinese mong bench press six hundred pounds once. Fucking amazing.’
He held out his hand.
‘Been a long time, eh Roy? I’d say you look well, but I’d be lying.’
The handshake was less than fleeting.
‘What are you doing here, Sammy?’
Roy regretted the question instantly. Sammy French was six years older and four inches taller, with long grey hair that swept back from his suntanned forehead and nestled in gelled curls over the collar of his coat. He had ice-blue eyes and a sharp, angular face that men thought dangerous and women ruggedly handsome. His smile was unnaturally white, his athletic build always wrapped in expensive clothes. Even today, on a windswept playing field, Sammy French looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of an Armani winter catalogue, uber-cool in a fawn trench coat, designer jeans and brown suede shoes. He had the looks, the money, property, power, and a dangerous reputation. He was everything Roy wasn’t. No wonder some of Vicky’s friends eyed him from the touchline.
Sammy cocked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘How old’s the boy?’
‘Six.’
‘A spastic from birth, eh? Must be tough.’
Roy bristled. ‘He’s got a few learning difficulties, that’s all. Development issues. He’s getting treatment. We don’t say spastic anymore.’
Sammy’s face darkened. ‘Do I strike you as someone who gives a fuck about political correctness?’
‘No, I—’
‘That’s what I thought.’
Max puffed back towards them, chasing after his ball. Sammy brightened.
‘Here he comes, little twinkle toes.’ He trapped the ball beneath his shoe then kicked it into the distance. Max spun around and chased after it.
Roy cringed as Sammy moved closer and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘I was sorry to hear about your brother.’
‘Thanks.’
‘A gobby little fucker as I remember. Shame what happened to him.’
‘No one knows what happened. Officially he’s still missing.’
‘So’s Lord Lucan, and he ain’t coming back either. I’ll say one thing about him—Jimmy had bottle. I could’ve used someone like him, ex-Para and all that. Went missing in Baghdad, right?’
‘He wasn’t in Baghdad. That’s all bullshit.’
‘Poor bastard. That’s one place you don’t want to go walkabout.’ He turned his collar up against a fine mist of rain that swept in across the playing fields. ‘Anyway, it’s you I need to speak to.’
‘Me?’
‘Correct. I need a favour.’
‘A favour?’ Roy paled. It’d been years since they’d spoken, although Sammy was a regular face around Kingston, flitting between his many businesses in a white convertible Bentley. Sammy French lived in another universe compared to Roy, so what the hell could he want from him? Whatever it was, Roy had a feeling it wouldn’t be legal.
‘It’s a real bad time at the moment, Sammy. I’ve got a lot on my plate.’
‘Haven’t we all.’
The final whistle shrilled, signalling the end of the match. Roy watched the mud-caked boys on the pitch shake hands, a signal for the parents to hurry en masse for the car park as the fine mist strengthened into a steady rain. He saw Vicky pop up a Burberry umbrella and call to Max.
‘I’ve got to go,’ Roy said, backing away from Sammy’s glare. ‘Sorry I couldn’t help.’
Vicky was tugging a sweatshirt over Max’s head. He smoothed the boy’s hair down.
‘Hey, Max, you did really good today.’
Vicky sheltered them both with the brolly. ‘He’s soaking. I have to get him to the car.’ She glanced over Roy’s shoulder. ‘Who’s that?’
Roy saw Sammy waiting a short distance away, oblivious to the rain.
‘No one. An old friend.’
‘He looks upset.’
Roy leaned over and kissed Max on his head. ‘I’ll see you soon, Max. I promise.’
Vicky forced a smile. ‘We won’t hold our breath, will we, Max? Say bye-bye to Daddy.’
He watched her hurry away.
Between him and his pushbike Sammy stood immobile, hands thrust into his pockets, shoulders damp from the rain. As Roy approached Sammy produced his BlackBerry and speed-dialled a number. ‘Start the car, Tank. I’ll be there in five.’
Roy swallowed hard. Sammy wasn’t going to let it go. They faced off in silence, in the rain, until the playing fields were empty. Then Sammy closed the gap between them.
‘That was a bit naughty, walking off like that. You didn’t even hear me out.’
‘Listen, Sammy, I don’t—’
The blow sent him staggering backwards, dumping him on the wet grass. Roy flinched as Sammy grabbed the collar of his combat jacket and dragged him beneath the shadow of the tree. He yanked him up and kicked him hard, sending him careering into the pushbike. Roy fell to the ground in a painful heap, bike wheels spinning on top of him. Sammy grabbed it and threw it to one side. He wasn’t out of breath, his face showed no signs of anger; this was Sammy French, taking care of business. He slapped the dirt from his hands.
‘I don’t like being disrespected, Roy.’
‘Jesus Christ, take it easy, Sammy.’
He touched his lower lip, muddy fingers red with blood.
Sammy loomed over him. ‘Like I said, I need a favour. It’s not a request.’ He squatted down and pulled a hankie from his pocket. He handed it to Roy, who pressed it to his lips. Blood blossomed. Sammy spoke.
‘I might
’ve earned a few quid over the years, moved up to the big house, but I like to keep my ear to the ground, find out what the old Fitzroy faces are up to, who’s been banged up, who’s dead. Who’s working, what they do.’
Oh shit.
‘You work at Heathrow, Roy. Terminal Three, right?’
Roy shook his head. ‘I won’t do anything dodgy—’
Sammy whipped his arm back and cracked Roy around the face with an open-handed slap. He grabbed him by the collar and twisted the material in his large fist.
‘You’ll do as you’re told, you little cunt. Understand?’
Roy nodded, withering before Sammy’s icy glare. The big man suddenly thawed, veneers like pearls in the gloom.
‘In the meantime don’t do anything stupid, like change your job or go on holiday. Business as usual, got it?’
Roy nodded again.
‘Good boy. I’ll be in touch.’
Roy watched him duck under the branches and head across the playing fields in long, loping strides. He pulled himself up, swatting the wet grass and mud from his clothes. His lip stung and his hand shook when he dabbed his mouth. He never imagined he’d cross paths with Sammy French again.
And he was frightened.
He wheeled his bike from under the tree and headed across the grass towards the distant gates. His legs felt too weak to pedal. When Sammy wanted something, he got it. Roy’s immediate thought was drugs; Sammy must be sending a mule through customs, and Roy would have to turn a blind eye. What else could it be? And what if it went wrong? Arrest, a lengthy prison sentence, his security clearance gone forever, which meant no job and no future worth thinking about. He’d be trapped on the Fitzroy forever, scraping by on benefits. He thought of Jimmy, longed for the comfort of his brother’s company, his wise counsel.
But Jimmy was gone. Roy had no one to turn to.
The wind picked up, rain lancing across the playing fields in cold, silver sheets. He mounted his bike and pedalled out through the main gates. He barely noticed the weather, the passing traffic, the clouds of cold, fine spray. As he neared Kingston town centre the traffic began to snarl, brake lights blooming, windscreen wipers beating off the rain. Roy weaved through it at speed; with any luck someone would jump the lights, or maybe he’d slide on a manhole cover and break a leg.
No Roy, no favour.
Then he thought about the pain he’d have to suffer, the potential for serious injury, disability, or even death, and that scared him more.
He kept moving, heading for the grimy cluster of tower blocks that loomed in the distance.
Chapter Four
Located thirty miles east of Denver, the Golden Gate Canyon State Park is an area of breathtaking natural beauty, comprising rugged mountains, pine forests and lush meadows covering over twelve thousand acres of pristine real estate.
For the average visitor there’s plenty on offer; hunting, fishing, trekking, and when the snows sweep down from Canada in late November, a whole host of winter sports, triggering the seasonal stampede to the Rocky Mountains.
Just over half a mile northeast of the park’s visitor centre on the Crawford Gulch Road, a hard-packed dirt road intersects a gentle curve in the blacktop. The large metal sign by the entrance warns: Private Property—No Trespassing. Beyond that, the road runs straight for a hundred yards then bends right into a narrow, steep-sided and densely wooded valley.
Josh Keyes knew that from the moment he turned off the blacktop and passed that sign his approach was being monitored. As he powered the Grand Cherokee Jeep up the first mile of the twisting mountain road he knew he’d already passed at least a dozen cameras. In fact the whole mountain was sown with motion sensor systems, thermal imaging, pressure pads, optical beams and ground radar. To back up the technology, a security team of former Special Forces contractors remained on permanent standby to ward off any trespassers. But it hadn’t always been like that.
As he rounded another bend high above the valley, Josh recalled the first and only breach, back when building had just begun. A moderately influential conspiracy blogger had turned his spotlight on the heavy construction underway at Blue Grouse Peak. He’d encouraged his followers to ask questions, apply pressure, to find out why the FAA had issued a Prohibited Airspace order above the area. The blogger himself had hiked up through the forests and went to work with his video camera and long lenses for two days before a security team rumbled him. His body was eventually discovered sixty miles away, at the foot of a popular mountain trail. An autopsy found traces of cocaine and marijuana in his blood stream. A search of his home computer uncovered hundreds of pornographic images of children. The story soon died.
The Committee didn’t screw around.
But the episode had frightened them. That’s why security was paramount, why they kept the legend of Bohemian Grove alive, the annual frat party in the Californian woods that attracted the attention of every conspiracy nut in the country and drew attention away from Blue Grouse Peak. Smoke and mirrors, Josh smiled. The Committee were masters at it.
Another bend, and then the plateau opened up before him, a wide, snowy meadow dotted with Scots pines that sloped up towards the magnificent lodge built beneath the jagged bluffs. Josh was always impressed, not just by the architecture or the way the facility blended in with the surrounding landscape, but by what lay behind those thick granite walls.
He followed the road until it dipped beneath the building into a huge underground parking lot. It was almost empty and would remain so until closer to the Transition. That’s when they would come, to escape the cities. He parked the Jeep, passed through the security cage, and took an elevator to the complex above.
The lobby of the Eyrie reminded Josh of the Park Hyatt in Chicago, all polished floors and thick rugs, expensive furniture, discerning artworks, and long-drop light clusters hanging from the cathedral-like ceiling. One wall was all glass, offering a spectacular view of a snow-dusted valley. And that was just the lobby.
The Eyrie boasted a hundred lavish suites, a restaurant, a bar, a cinema, a gymnasium and health spa, and a host of other luxuries. There was a state of the art communications centre, conference rooms, a barracks for the security force and two, all-weather helipads. It was more than a luxury retreat; it was a redoubt, a command and control hub, one of several dotted across the globe, built by the Elites, for the Elites. Or it would be, once the Transition began. Right now, it was pretty empty.
As he cut across the lobby Josh recognised a couple of faces; the current Defence Secretary, the Chinese wife of a billionaire computer mogul, a Nobel prize-winning geneticist, a British blue blood. No one paid Josh any attention, except for the uniformed desk clerk behind the sweeping reception desk.
‘Good afternoon, Mister Keyes. They’re expecting you in conference room three.’
‘Thanks.’
He took the elevator back down a couple of levels. His smoothed his neatly trimmed black hair, a legacy of his quarter Navajo ancestry.
The lift stopped. The doors swished open. He walked along a granite corridor to conference room three. He paused outside the door and cleared his throat.
A man and a woman waited for him, both middle-aged and suited, trusted advisors of the most senior Committee members. And both were pissed off.
No words were exchanged as Josh took a seat. He produced a memory stick and inserted it into the tablet waiting for him on the table. The lights in the room dimmed. CCTV footage began to play on the room’s huge projection wall.
‘These are the latest images of Frank Marshall,’ Josh began.
On the wall Frank was seen from several different camera angles entering a bank, crossing the lobby, speaking to an employee.
‘Where was this taken?’ Freya Lund inquired in her lilting Swedish accent. She was a severe-looking broad, snow white hair swept back off a thin, tanned face, wrinkled neck protruding from a starched white shirt beneath a black suit jacket. She reminded Josh of a Quaker. Probably hadn’t been laid in decade
s.
‘Yesterday, nine oh two am, Bank of America, Manhattan. He accessed a personal deposit box in the vault.’
‘Why didn’t we know about it?’ the man next to her barked. His name was Beeton. Beeton’s boss was once a blue-collar guy too, his construction business growing from a single mall in Cincinnati to one of the world’s largest commercial construction empires. It was the billionaire’s company that had built the Eyrie. His consigliore, Beeton, with his gnarled hands, shaved head and flattened nose, was a man not unfamiliar with physical violence, a Teamster leg-breaker in his younger days. Or so the rumours went.
‘I guess he never declared it,’ Josh said.
Lund tutted. ‘This is a clear breach of policy.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘How did we find him?’
‘He used a fingerprint reader to gain access to the vault. The bank’s system is interfaced with the Homeland Security network and we got a hit. A security team was scrambled but Frank was back on the street and gone in less than ninety seconds.’
Lund scribbled notes on a yellow legal pad. ‘Do we know what was in the box?’
Josh shrugged. ‘Hard to say.’
‘Humour us,’ Beeton growled. He played the city detective, tie askew, sleeves rolled up, thick forearms folded in front of him; the sort of guy who would enjoy beating out a confession.
‘Knowing Frank, I’d say cash, credit cards, a passport or two. Rainy day stuff.’
‘The box is not the problem,’ Lund said. ‘It’s Marshall himself. He’s been on the ground since TWA eight hundred. He has intimate knowledge of our organisation and its operations. Especially Messina.’
Beeton slapped a gnarly hand on the table. ‘Why in God’s name haven’t we picked this maniac up yet?’
Because Frank Marshall is a smart guy, Josh didn’t say. He glanced at the footage looping on the screen, saw Frank push his way through the bank’s revolving doors out onto the street, a large black holdall slung over his back. The sidewalks are packed with commuters, a sea of umbrellas tilted against a heavy rainstorm. Frank pulls on a cap, unfurls a plain umbrella and plunges into the human tide. Within seconds he’s lost. Smart. His former boss looked pale and thin, and Josh found the ponytail faintly amusing, but looks could be deceptive. Frank Marshall was one of the best, totally ruthless.