by Dc Alden
Frank was a closed book. In all their time together he’d never really spoken about his past. What he did know was almost a mirror image of his own life. Orphaned at an early age, lost in the system until his above-average intelligence brought him to the attention of the Harvesters, the specialist educators that searched for likely candidates in public schools and child care systems, candidates who would benefit from privately funded education and scholarship programmes in secure, and often remote, institutions dotted across America. Frank’s was in Nebraska if Josh remembered rightly.
There he would’ve undergone the same selection process as Josh did in South Dakota, the advanced curriculum that encouraged and identified academic, vocational and physical skills. It was true what they said, everyone had a talent for something; Josh had seen his fellow tenth-graders strip truck engines, hack secure computer networks and handle weapons with the same speed and dexterity as seasoned combat veterans.
Like Josh, Frank’s natural abilities saw him enter the Field Team programme, culminating in a fast-track entry to Annapolis. That’s when the government took over; Frank went Marines, then Navy Seals, his true allegiance not to the flag but to The Committee that had plucked him from a life of children’s homes and foster care, of failed schools and unrealised potentials. They’d been taught that while governments came and went, only The Committee prevailed, bestowing a sense of purpose on those that served its needs, providing the kinds of challenges and rewards that most people could only dream of.
So how, Josh tried to reason, could Frank possibly want to betray them, to spit in the face of the very organisation that had found him, nurtured him and set him on the path to…righteousness?
Josh frowned. The idea of a spiritual Frank seemed absurd. They’d all been taught from day one that religion was nothing more than a stone-age tool of control and manipulation. Maybe Frank had been simply trying to scare those kids into thinking he was some sort of Bible-thumping nut-job? Maybe. Frank had never hinted at any kind of spirituality whatsoever. Was it the breakdown that had reprogrammed Frank’s consciousness to consider the existence of some omnipotent being? Josh shook his head; it was laughable, a man like Frank Marshall believing in—
Wait.
It came to Josh like a bolt, a half-remembered conversation during a late night bar sitting, in the days before Frank went loco. He’d been a late entrant to the programme, at maybe ten or eleven years old.
Before that he was in a children’s home in South Boston.
A Catholic one.
Josh tugged his radio out of his pocket, ordering Villiers to pick him up. As he waited in the shadows Josh realised it made sense. Frank had suffered a breakdown, a genuine one, therefore it was reasonable to speculate that that episode had sparked the reawakening of his faith. Stranger things had happened. And there was something else too. He remembered Frank wearing a chain during those last few months, a pendant of some sorts. Josh had asked but Frank didn’t want to talk about it. So, maybe Frank had found God. How did that affect their mission? And what was Frank’s agenda, if it involved some religious context? Josh was baffled; the scenario threw up more questions than answers.
The Audi pulled into the kerb and Josh climbed in. ‘Get your people to go door to door with Frank’s picture in local churches. Start with the Catholic ones, then everyone else. And find out if there’s anything like that near the fight scene. Maybe Frank was in this Twickenham place for that very reason.’
While Villiers made the call Josh stared out of the window. He felt good about the mission now, a sense that Frank would soon be located, captured. Religion was a weakness, and it could prove to be Frank’s Achilles heel.
Josh watched the busy sidewalks, the myriad of faces ebbing and flowing past them. What a fool Frank was, to turn his back on The Committee. They were the real gods, the real power on this earth. And in their wisdom they’d decided that humanity must be steered away from the path of self-destruction it was taking.
Josh was comfortable with that.
After all, he was one of the Chosen.
Chapter Eleven
Professor Jon Cohen hated cyclists.
In fact, he hated people in general, but cyclists he harboured a particular disdain for; their lurid clothes, the way they clogged up country roads in large, sweating groups, the grating tap dance of their ridiculous shoes as they invaded quiet rural pubs. Such a flock now hampered Cohen’s journey to the facility, a dozen or so gaudily coloured riders choking the lane ahead, a Tour de France of buffoonery. He leaned on his horn as he gunned his Lexus saloon past them, smiling as he registered the angry faces and obscene gestures in his rear-view mirror.
He continued east through the Wiltshire countryside until he reached the entrance to the facility. He turned into the narrow lane, steering the Lexus along a strip of black tarmac bordered by thick woods until he reached the security gate. The weather-beaten sign sported the standard TDL logo, Romanesque initials suspended over a bronzed globe, the wording beneath a complete fabrication: TDL Global – Business Services Authority. The electronic gate hummed upwards.
More woods, more turns, then the main building loomed before him, a sprawling Victorian manor house. From the outside it appeared to be a tired edifice, one that never caught the sun, the moss that clung to its black iron gutters and the greenish tinge to its faded brickwork testament to over a century spent in the damp gloom of the encroaching woods. And like the sign, just another façade.
He parked the car and swiped into the building, waiting for the heavy inner security door to swing open with a vacuumed hiss of welcome. When it did, the diminutive, lab-coated figure of Doctor Ros Wyman was waiting for him.
‘Hello, Jon. Sorry you had to be paged.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Not a problem, exactly. Let’s walk.’
He followed his senior associate into a cargo lift that rumbled below ground. The doors clattered open and he stepped out. The harsh lighting and whitewashed walls made him squint. He heard the hum of the HEPA systems filtering the air. He saw the robotic vacuum cleaners sucking dust particles from the microbial resistant rubber flooring. Everything in the sub-surface laboratory appeared normal.
‘So what is it, Ros?’
‘It’s a couple of things.’ Wyman’s hands were stuffed into the pockets of her lab coat as she marched along the corridor on short, stout legs. ‘The first is subject fourteen. He expired forty-seven minutes ago.’
‘Isn’t he the last of his trial group?’
‘Correct. Exposed to batch seven-one-alpha six days ago. Two have already expired, two remain healthy.’
Cohen’s pulse raced. He’d fought almost all of the nastiest infections nature had to throw at mankind for many years, from battling contagious diseases in some of Britain’s most deprived areas to managing disease control programmes for the World Health Organisation in sub-Sahara Africa. Creating a deadly virus, however, had been a challenge, like nothing he’d ever experienced before. It was exhilarating. ‘We must be close.’
Wyman nodded, unable to contain the smile that cracked her lined features. ‘I think we are.’
‘Take me to him.’
They passed through the Entry/Change Area and emerged in their personal protective equipment; sterile facemask and Perspex visor, full body gown, overboots and latex gloves. They moved through a pressurised lobby then on to the infection ward itself.
The unit reminded Cohen of a high-tech cellblock, which was fitting really, given the demographic of most of their subjects. There were twenty isolation treatment rooms in all, each protected by a transparent Trexler curtain. As his overboots squelched along the rubber matting Cohen glanced left and right, noting the condition of each subject. Most were comatose, their vitals monitored by beeping equipment. Others writhed and twitched beneath sweat-soaked sheets. Only two subjects were still conscious, indistinct shapes secured to their beds beyond the thick plastic screen. One of them called out to Cohen in a strong Me
rseyside accent.
‘Hey, mate! Help us, will ya? Why won’t someone talk to us? You can’t keep us here, for fuck sake!’
Cohen smiled and moved on.
Wyman snatched a clipboard from a wall-mounted holder. ‘Here we are. Subject fourteen, Lithuanian male, thirty-one years old. Aerosol dose administered six days ago. He presented four days later with a high fever, pain behind the eyes and stomach cramps. He became comatose twenty-four hours later.’
Cohen unzipped the transparent curtain. The single bed was cocooned inside a tent of clear plastic sheeting. The monitors beside the bed were powered down, silent, the UV line disconnected. Two orderlies waited nearby, both wearing pressurised bio containment suits.
Wyman ordered the plastic curtains removed.
‘This one was exceptionally strong, hence the longer period of illness. Cause of death, respiratory failure.’
Cohen stepped forward. The corpse lay naked on a black rubber mat, eyes closed, the skin paling as lividity set in. The shaven head was heavily indented with scar tissue and the muscular body sported the same. Beneath a colourful array of tattoos Cohen searched for physical symptoms of a viral presence. He didn’t find any.
‘Turn him over.’
The victim’s muscular back was hairless and unblemished. Cohen checked the armpits and folds of the neck while Wyman inspected the buttocks and legs.
‘Nothing down this end,’ she reported. ‘No pustules, no signs of confluent petechiae. He’s clean.’
‘Likewise.’ Cohen examined the corpse once again. ‘This is excellent work,’ he said through his mask. ‘A thorough post approval study and we should be able to sign off. We’re right on schedule. The Committee will be very pleased.’
Wyman turned to the orderlies. ‘Prep him for disposal and have the unit deep cleaned.’ Out in the corridor she re-zipped the plastic curtain. ‘We’re expecting five new subjects this evening, three from homeless shelters in Gwent and two from a youth offender facility in Devon. None have any next of kin. They’ll be infected with seven-one-alpha on arrival.’
‘Thank you, Ros. And what was the other thing?’
Wyman frowned behind her plastic face shield. ‘The other thing? Oh yes, you have a visitor. An American, from Security Division, just flown in. Says he knows you. He’s waiting in the canteen.’
‘Well, I need a cigarette anyway. Let’s go and meet him.’
They passed through decontamination and took the lift up to Cohen’s first-floor office. It was far removed from the controlled environment below ground, a large space with high ceilings, the intricate cornice work so favoured by the Victorians now yellowed by Cohen’s addiction to Marlboro Lights. He waved Wyman into a seat and settled behind his desk. He scooped up the telephone.
‘Dana, would you have my visitor shown in? And send up some refreshments, please.’
A grey-coated orderly appeared a few minutes later and set down a tray of coffee, tea and biscuits. Dana framed the doorway, the visitor at her side. Cohen got up and held out his hand.
‘Professor Cohen.’
‘Frank Marshall.’ He held up an ID card for inspection.
Cohen glanced at it then offered him the chair next to Wyman. His guest shook himself out of his overcoat and sat down.
Cohen wasn’t impressed by what he saw. His visitor wore a cheap suit, creased and ill fitting, and a tie that had been tugged from its collar. A reddish chin fuzz jarred with the noticeably dyed hair. He stared at Cohen with a strange intensity and the professor reminded himself that Marshall was Security Division. A strange breed to be sure, professionally paranoid, always assessing threats and suchlike. And comfortable with violence. He forced a smile.
‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘Coffee’s good. Cream, no sugar.’
Cohen did the honours and handed his guest a bone china cup. He picked up a pen and scribbled a note, offering it to Wyman.
‘Ros, would you take this to Alan? Ask him to get back to me?’
Wyman read it, frowned. She got to her feet. ‘Of course.’ She closed the door behind her.
Cohen lit a cigarette and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. He fixed his guest with a smile, waving the Marlboro between his fingers. ‘You don’t mind?’
‘It’s your funeral.’
‘So, Mister Marshall, what can I do for you?’
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
Cohen studied his guest again. He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.’
‘We met before, a couple of years ago. I picked up a package for Quinn in Iraq.’
Cohen’s cigarette froze near his lips; there was something vaguely familiar about his guest but recognition still escaped him. So he lied.
‘Yes, of course, now I recall. How is Doctor Quinn?’
‘Still at Messina, I guess. I haven’t seen him for a while.’
The American stirred his coffee, fixing Cohen with a stare that appeared faintly challenging. He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘What is it I can help you with?’
Marshall pointed to a tower of small boxes with colour-coded stickers stacked against the wall. ‘Are those the latest viral batches?’
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘I recognise the labels. I provided security for the dispersal team at the Central Prison in Luanda during the initial field trials. How’s the testing going, anyways?’
Cohen felt faintly irritated. Marshall may have been involved from the beginning, however he wasn’t prepared to engage with him as an equal. He lit another cigarette and leaned back in his chair, aiming a thin plume of smoke at the ceiling. ‘The programme is on track,’ he offered.
‘So when does Messina go into full production?’
‘Soon. I won’t trouble you with the details.’
Marshall got to his feet. He crossed the room and picked up one of the colour-coded boxes. Without asking, Cohen noted. Where the hell was Ros?
‘Is everyone in the programme protected against the latest strain of yours?’
‘Of course.’ Cohen huffed. ‘Prevention was always the priority when the pathogen was engineered. When were you immunised?’
‘Before the African trials.’
Cohen couldn’t help himself. This was the pinnacle of his life’s work and he was proud of his achievements.
‘There have been some modifications since, but the anti-viral you were administered with contains all the necessary corticosteroids, protease inhibitors and monoclonal antibodies required to create and sustain cellular resistance. We’re talking state-of-the-art technology in preventative medicine. Mister Marshall. If we went commercial it would be a major game changer in health care. Of course, the downside would be vastly increased rates of survivability, which pretty much defeats our purpose here, no?’ Cohen snickered at his own aside. ‘In any case, modifications to Angola have always been benchmarked against the antiviral. You’re protected, so please don’t concern yourself.’ He tapped his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray.
‘What about the immunisation programme?’
‘It’s complete. There will be unexpected high-profile fatalities of course, but these will only serve to reinforce Angola’s neutrality. Rich, poor, young, old, white, black—the virus is wonderfully indiscriminate.’
A quiet computer beep had Cohen twisting in his chair, his fingers tapping out a reply to the incoming email. He clicked the send button, turned around, surprised to see the American staring out of the window behind him. How did he get there so quickly? And so quietly? Marshall started tapping the glass with a forefinger.
‘What’s that out there?’
Cohen sighed and pushed his chair back. He was tired of playing host now. Outside the sun had dipped beyond the treeline. His eyes searched the grounds below, the vague humps of the ventilation units sprouting from the lawn, the huge, trailer-mounted incinerator unit that squatted beneath the camouflage netting at the edge of the woods. White smoke drifted from its filtered chimney. That
would be subject fourteen. Nothing untoward. He took a pull of his cigarette.
‘What am I supposed to be looking at here?’
Vice-like fingers grabbed his neck and crushed his face against the glass. Smoke exploded from his mouth.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he rasped. Then he felt something cold and sharp prick the skin of his neck. He stiffened.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ the American hissed in his ear. ‘Where are the antivirals?’
‘Antivirals?’
Marshall leaned in close. ‘Stall or lie once more and I’ll gut you like a fish. The antivirals, where do you keep them?’
‘Down in the lab. There’s a small supply.’ He heard Marshall swear under his breath. He had to keep him calm. Where the hell was Ros?
‘What was on the note?’
‘The what?’
Cohen felt the blade dig a little deeper.
‘Don’t fuck with me, professor. The note. What was on it? Quickly.’
‘It was nothing, an equipment request. Please, let me go.’
He felt the blade drop, the hand lifted off his neck. The smell of burning reached his nostrils. He looked down to see his cigarette smouldering on the carpet.
Marshall’s arm circled his neck, the pressure immediate and terrifying.
He tried to scream but his throat was pinched shut, the hard muscle and radius bone crushing his windpipe, his fingers scrabbling at the material of Marshall’s suit. He glimpsed his attacker’s reflection in the glass, a face contorted with savage effort, and suddenly Cohen knew he was going to die.
The room swam. His fingers felt numb. Darkness crowded his vision.
He felt the pressure increase on his windpipe, felt his eyes bulging, and then the darkness was complete…
Frank heard two sounds.
The first was the faint hum of Cohen’s computer. The second, his own laboured breathing.
He counted to ten in his head, crushing the Brit’s neck with all of his strength. He hadn’t killed with his bare hands for some time and he’d forgotten how much effort it required. The knife would’ve been easier but way messier.