by Dc Alden
The door to the briefing room swung open. Roy sat a little straighter in his chair, knotting his tie. He heard Reynolds’ voice rising as she crossed the threshold, deep in conversation with two other men, one in a smart, charcoal-grey suit and green tie, the other a military type with red epaulettes. The soldier murmured something and left the room. Roy watched him go, unsettled by his manner. He followed Vicky as she got to her feet.
‘Sorry to have kept you waiting,’ Reynolds said. ‘I’d like you to meet Richard Cavendish, Permanent Secretary to the Cabinet Office and First Parliamentary Counsel. Richard will be the UK’s political lead from here on in.’
‘Thank you, Anna.’
Roy swallowed as he shook the man’s hand, now thoroughly intimidated. The Permanent Secretary was one of those people who seemed to exude natural authority, tall, distinguished, a pair of silver-framed glasses perched on a long, thin nose. His voice was deep, cultured. He clutched a sheaf of papers in his hand.
‘Well, we’ve made some progress since this crisis began,’ he told them. ‘A picture is building, and monitored conversations have repeatedly referenced this Transition event. The more we uncover, the more disturbing it gets.’
Roy looked beyond Cavendish, to the room they’d just vacated. There were maybe twenty people in there, men and women, uniforms and suits, all grouped around a large table bathed in bright overhead lights. Documents and maps lay scattered across its surface, pored over by some, while others stood in the shadows, locked in sober discussion. Roy could feel the tension leaking out and filling the dead air of the anteroom.
‘The rabbit hole runs deep,’ Cavendish continued, adjusting the glasses on his nose as he scanned the pages in his hand. ‘We’re talking captains of industry, media figures, politicians, even two Cabinet members.’ He swept the glasses from his face. ‘The intelligence you’ve brought us is quite staggering. Three events from our recent history—the death of David Kelly, the Iraq War, the Seven-Seven bombings—are all connected, but not in the way that we’ve been conditioned to view them. Doctor Kelly was right; dark actors were certainly at work. And that work has clearly continued.’
‘What happens now?’ Vicky asked.
Cavendish rubbed an eye with a knuckle and slipped his glasses back on. ‘We all have to tread very carefully here. Since you brought this to us a small group of trusted individuals from government and defence has been formed. We’re using the cover of a snap civil emergency table exercise; however, its duration and clandestine nature is beginning to raise eyebrows. Add to that the possible implication of our own Prime Minister and his connections to TDL Global…well, quite frankly we’re in an invidious position. One leak, one word out of place, and it could get very messy. Everything depends on the Americans now. It’s up to them to throw the first punch. All we can do is pray it lands clean.’
Vicky paled. ‘What if it doesn’t?’
Cavendish lowered his voice. ‘I can’t go into specifics. Suffice to say we have some very serious men and women in that room who are more than willing to sacrifice everything to stop this. A plan is being drawn up, a list of those involved. When the time comes, direct action will be implemented.’
Vicky frowned. ‘Are you talking about targeted assassinations?’
Cavendish didn’t blink. ‘As I said, I can’t talk about specifics. Technically we’re committing treason, which is a rather anachronistic notion over here, but for General Moody and his team it means something else entirely. The Americans are fully aware of the consequences of failure, for all of us. We must place our trust in them.’
‘What about the broader political issues?’ Vicky pressed. ‘The fallout from all of this is going to be unprecedented.’
Reynolds cleared her throat. ‘Yes it is. If and when the dominoes start to fall we must be able to control the narrative, which is why you’re here to head up our media campaign, Vicky. General Moody has his own source, a journalist from the Washington Post who’s now embedded with his team. When the time comes you’ll break your stories simultaneously, but only after we get the green light from the General. Here it’ll come from the Herald, a source no one expects. George will help speed national dissemination.’
Roy remembered Vicky’s boss at the manor house, the newspaper proprietor’s initial fear turning to anger, his cold determination to break the story via a hundred trusted sources, the truth gaining momentum, spreading across the country, the continent, until it could no longer be ignored. Burnett was back in west London now, quietly making calls, and re-establishing old relationships. Preparing. Everyone had a role to play except Roy; he was out of the loop, and that suited him fine. He had his own mission.
‘Everything we do now has to be documented accurately and objectively,’ Reynolds continued. ‘The citizens of this country, and the wider world in general, must know that what we do, we do to preserve our way of life and everything we hold dear. That’s the role you’ll play, Vicky. Whatever happens now, we’ll have an account on record. Win or lose, the truth will remain.’
‘I understand,’ Vicky nodded.
Roy had a question of his own to ask. He found himself holding up his hand, like a schoolboy. ‘Is there any word on Frank?’
‘He’s with General’s Moody team,’ Reynolds shrugged. ‘I’m afraid that’s all we know.’
Roy hadn’t seen Frank since he’d disappeared with Nate into that Buckinghamshire night over two weeks ago. He wondered where he was now, what he was doing. If he was okay. ‘How about my request?’
‘It’ll have to wait, until it’s over,’ Reynolds cautioned.
‘We’ll take care of it,’ Cavendish added. ‘The least we can do.’ He cleared his throat, tapped the papers into his palm. ‘Well, we should get back to it. I’ll need you in the briefing room, Vicky. There are introductions to be made, protocols to go over.’ He stepped to one side, held out his arm. Vicky picked up her bag from the chair. Roy smiled and gave her a nod. Good luck.
Vicky hesitated. ‘Can you give us a moment?’
The officials shook hands with Roy and retired behind the frosted glass door. Roy dropped into a chair, loosening his tie. Vicky sat next to him. ‘You should be in there. If it wasn’t for you, we’d still be in the dark about all of this.’
‘Rubbish. It’s down to you, Vicks. I wanted to run and hide, remember?’ He smiled and said, ‘Don’t put that bit in when you write all this up.’
Vicky chewed her lip. ‘I’m scared, Roy. None of us knows what’s going to happen.’
‘True, but they don’t know that we know. If it stays that way we’ve got a chance.’
‘And if we don’t, they’ll unleash Angola.’
Roy shook his head. ‘We can’t think like that. In any case, Frank said they’ll find the antiviral at Copse Hill.’
‘That’s if those lunatics down there cooperate. What if they destroy it? What if they alert The Committee?’ Vicky glanced at the frosted glass door, lowered her voice. ‘Nate’s made plans, in case it doesn’t work out. There’s a plane on standby at Farnborough. We should all be together, just in case.’
Roy gave her hand a squeeze. ‘That’s good to know.’ He tried to withdraw it but she held it tight.
‘There’s something I want to say, before I go in.’ Vicky looked down at his hand, smoothing it with her own. ‘I never really thanked you properly for saving Max. What you did that night—’
‘What we both did.’
Her eyes locked onto his. ‘No. What you did. You delivered on your promise, Roy. You brought our son back.’ She blinked several times, shiny tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘Damn, I’m not used to saying that.’ She rummaged in her handbag for a tissue, dabbed her eyes. ‘You’ve changed, Roy Sullivan.’
‘Roy two-point-zero,’ he chuckled, but there was more to say. A confession to be made. ‘You were right all along, Vicks. I pushed everyone away. I knew what I was doing, but I was angry, with you, with Jimmy, and I lost Max in all of that. I’ve been so bloody stu
pid.’
Vicky took his hands, held them tight. ‘None of that matters now. The important thing is we’re here, together. And Max is okay. The bad dreams have stopped and he’s loving the Hamptons, playing on the beach. You should see him, Roy. He’s blossoming.’
He had a sudden vision of Max, baggy shorts and chubby legs, splashing in the surf. Safe. Happy. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m glad. He deserves it. You both do.’ He let go of her hands and got to his feet. ‘Best not keep them waiting, eh?’
‘Best not.’ Vicky stood too, slipping the straps of her handbag over her shoulder. ‘What about the flat? Your job?’
Roy shrugged. ‘I’ve not been back to either. The Fitzroy doesn’t feel like home any more. I’m still off work—stress,’ he explained, making finger quotes. ‘Sooner or later I’m going to have to make a decision though. You think Nate would mind if I stayed on at the manor house until this is over?’
‘Of course he won’t.’
‘Good. Tell him thanks.’ He gave her arm a squeeze. ‘Look after yourself, Vicky. Give Max a big kiss and cuddle for me. Tell him I’ll see him soon.’
‘I will.’ Then she leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek. ‘Take care. Don’t be a stranger.’
Roy couldn’t help himself. He reached out and held her. Vicky held him right back, and Roy was reminded of the girl he’d met on that hot summer night, the connection they’d made, somewhere in that unchartered place between the heart and the subconscious. He felt that familiar electricity surging through him once more, filling his chest. He leaned in close to her ear. ‘I still love you, Vicky. I never stopped.’
‘I know,’ she whispered, her eyes moist, her lips soft on his cheek.
He squeezed her again then slowly, reluctantly, let her go. ‘Maybe in the next life,’ he said, brushing a stray hair off her face.
‘Maybe.’
She crossed the room and opened the door, the low murmur of voices spilling out into the anteroom. She smiled at Roy one last time, then closed the door behind her.
Her shadow lingered beyond the frosted glass for a moment, and then she was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Six
He made the jump from a US Air Force C-130, stepping off the ramp at twenty-four thousand feet into the freezing night air high above the Swiss canton of Bernese Oberland. He’d made HALO and HAHO jumps many times before, when he was younger, a Navy Seal, fearless, immortal. Little had changed.
Frank fell from the sky.
He checked the altimeter strapped to his forearm, the GPS guidance system, the jagged peaks and inky black lakes below, correcting his body position, breathing steadily. He pulled the ripcord at just over three thousand feet, the black RAM Air canopy deploying above his head with a loud crack, the deceleration punching the wind from his body. He tugged his steering toggles, the parachute twisting in the air as he performed a visual check of the drop zone below.
At two hundred feet Frank released his combat equipment, watching it fall below him on its nylon lowering line. He hit the Dark Zone then, the ambient light suddenly lost, the ground a bottomless black hole. It meant only one thing—imminent impact. He yanked hard on his toggles, flaring the chute as the ground rushed up to meet him.
The impact knocked him off his feet.
He rolled once, twice, then slithered to a halt, the canopy drifting to earth a few meters away. He detached the chute and harness, removed his oxygen mask, his goggles, his black ballistic helmet. He drank in the cool night air.
He knelt in the long grass, controlling his breathing, his heart rate, watching, listening. The surrounding valley was silent, the tiny white pinpricks of the distant hamlet of Kallmunz the only visible source of man-made light. Everything else was God’s own work, the towering, snow-capped peaks that climbed towards the star-filled sky, the pale half-moon that bathed the meadow in its ethereal glow. Nothing moved, save the tall grass around him and the treetops across the meadow that swayed before a gentle night breeze.
Frank remained motionless for several minutes, still, silent, until he was sure his insertion had not been detected by a nightwalker, a sleepless farmer or by the unmarked cars that patrolled the public roads for miles around the target. It had been a good jump, he decided. A pity it was his last. He moved quickly towards the forest behind him.
Deep inside the treeline he broke down his jump gear, piling it inside the parachute canopy and stuffing it between the low branches of a tree. There was no time to dig a hole; he was on a schedule, and the window of opportunity was minimal. He was dressed in camouflage gear, a digitised mix of whites, greys and pale greens designed for use in alpine and subalpine environments. He hefted his backpack over his shoulders. His weapon load-out included a small calibre Heckler and Koch UMP, a black Spyderco military lock knife in a harness on his right thigh, and a specially made garrotte wire that had been given to him by a smiling Navy Seal Master Chief back in Virginia. The gun was purely a defensive weapon; if he got into a firefight before the bird was flying the mission would’ve failed. After a final check for noise and movement, he headed up into the forest.
It took two hours to reach the ridge, another three to pick his way along the mountain goat trail and drop down into the steep-sided valley on the other side. By the time Frank reached his RV point, a cluster of prehistoric boulders just above the treeline, the morning sun had crept over the eastern horizon, bathing the valley in its pale yellow light. He settled into his hide and waited, his body squeezed between the rocks, a set of Steiner military rangefinder binoculars pressed against his eyes. His heart beat a little faster when he locked onto the hotel, a magnificent structure of dark timber and grey stone situated at the end of the narrow pass below him. He mapped the adjoining cinema block, the staff accommodation lodges, the security barracks, the sweeping drive that twisted through the landscaped grounds, stretching towards the thick forest that choked both sides of the single, discreetly guarded approach road. His covert reconnaissance told him what he needed to know; the advance party had arrived.
For the next forty-eight hours Frank watched them, the search teams that scoured the hotel grounds, the armed patrols that swept the surrounding forests, never climbing higher than the treeline where the winter snows still clung to the ledges and bluffs.
At the end of day three, as the sun dipped in the afternoon sky and a chill mist filled the valley, Frank set up the equipment, assembling it carefully so it pointed into the valley through a gap in the rocks. It was at the far edge of its operational range but a systems check concluded that it was still effective. Satisfied, Frank broke down his hide and packed up his personal gear. The mission brief now called for him to move higher, to activate the equipment remotely when the time came. Instead, Frank picked his way down towards the trees below.
It was the reason they’d wanted to send a team, a younger one, with more recent operational experience and unquestionable loyalty. Frank was a wild card, until recently a part of the problem, not the solution. But Frank had insisted, persuading an empathetic and vengeful General Moody that it had to be him. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—let them down.
Frank knew there’d be a window of opportunity, after the sweeps and the sniffer dogs, the thermal imaging and the carbon monoxide detectors, when the empty hotel would lie dormant, a sanitised zone, cold, silent. It was the twelve-hour window before the sun rose again, before the domestic staff arrived, the personal valets and assistants, the caterers, the chambermaids, the maintenance crews. That window was now open, and he was already moving through the trees.
His objective was the giant wall of grey rock that towered for several thousand feet behind the hotel, a place where the sun never penetrated, where the shadows were deepest and the air still froze, where the patrols were a little less frequent, where the entry points were few but unquestionably more accessible. He left the treeline, the mist wrapping him in its invisible cloak.
Frank’s skin tingled. He felt the strong, steady beat of his heart, the adrenalin p
umping through his system. It wouldn’t be long now.
They were coming.
Ros Wyman’s heart pumped with excitement.
The sun was shining, the sky clear and blue, stretching as far as the eye could see. Finally, after a long, cold winter, summer beckoned. She sang along to a song on the radio as she gunned her canary yellow Porsche Boxster around the country lanes to the Copse Hill facility. For the first time this year she had both the roof down and her sunglasses on, relishing the rush of wind as she sped through the Wiltshire countryside.
Up ahead she saw a familiar chicane in the road and she geared down, twisting through the tight turns and punching the accelerator once again, golden fields of wheat and barley stretching away on either side of the road. Her full-throated singing faltered as she slowed for a Vauxhall estate ambling along the road ahead of her. As she closed the gap she saw it was a family; mum, dad, the gurning faces of their offspring pressed up against the rear window. She waited for an opportunity to overtake them, frustrated by the appearance of several cars travelling in the other direction. She sighed and turned the radio down, but the delay wasn’t enough to dampen the excitement that burned inside her.
The Transition was coming, as surely as the summer that lingered just over the horizon, and the thought of it filled her with joy. She imagined how it would be, the driving tour she had planned with several fellow motoring enthusiasts, the drive across a sparsely populated Europe, the cities devoid of jams, the autobahns empty, the sound of her Porsche—a new Turbo Cabriolet, she promised herself—echoing around barren mountain passes. What more could a person want?