by Dc Alden
But that was for much later.
Right now there was still work to be done. Angola had been signed off a week ago. All Wyman needed now was the green light from The Committee, and the Messina facility in Iraq could swing into full production. After that, Angola would be unstoppable, a global exterminator that would sweep away the past and create the conditions for a bright, shining future for mankind. Wyman’s heart beat faster at the thought of it all.
She swung the Porsche into the private lane, the sun blotted out by the thick trees and the dark, overhead canopy. She clicked off her radio as she slowed for the recently replaced security barrier, her eyes flicking toward the security hut. Nothing moved behind the mesh-covered windows. She leaned on her horn. Her roof was down, her car distinctive; why weren’t the idiots opening the barrier?
She was about the blast her horn again when she heard a car pulling up behind her. A black Range Rover, she noted in her mirror, not a Sport or one of those ridiculous Evoques, but the stylish Vogue SE. She punched her horn again to wake up the guards. Another security screw-up during an unscheduled VIP visit could prove more than embarrassing.
Still nothing moved. She heard a car door open behind her. She watched her mirror. A man approached, a large man with short, sandy hair, and wearing a dark rain mac. He smiled as he came alongside Wyman’s car, held out his hand.
‘Doctor Wyman?’
Wyman whipped off her sunglasses and returned the smile. He was good-looking in a rugged kind of way, but there was something unsettling about his eyes. She shook the proffered hand. ‘And you are…?’
The man gripped it, firm, strong.
Squeezing.
‘Look at me,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. Wyman did as she was told, suddenly frightened. Her eyes flicked to the CCTV camera, the security hut. The man caught her look.
‘Forget them, they can’t help you.’ He squeezed again, harder this time. Wyman winced. ‘Have I got your attention, Doctor?’ She nodded. ‘Good. Listen to me very carefully.’ He leaned forward, his hard eyes drilling into hers. ‘In a moment the barrier will open. You’ll drive through and we’ll follow. You’ll park your car and escort my colleagues and me into the facility. At that moment the power will be cut. When that happens you will stand perfectly still. Do not panic, do not move, because the building will quickly fill with armed men with extremely itchy trigger fingers. Have I made myself clear, Doctor Wyman?’
‘Yes,’ she breathed, not knowing what else to say, her fingers throbbing, her heart racing with fear as her wide eyes noted the large black gun beneath the man’s raincoat. But what frightened her most was the latent anger of his voice, the steel in his blue eyes,
‘Make no mistake,’ he warned. ‘If you try to run, if you try to raise the alarm in any way, you’ll be the first to die. The place is surrounded, and the men who surround it have orders to shoot escapees on sight. Do as you’re told, cooperate fully, and you’ll live to see another sunrise. Make trouble, and you’ll find yourself in your own incinerator by the day’s end. Do we understand each other?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
The man let go and walked back to his vehicle. Wyman gripped the steering wheel, one hand throbbing, the other shaking, her eyes searching the surrounding woods for men with guns and orders to kill. She flinched as the security barrier suddenly rattled upwards. She dropped the car into gear and drove slowly beneath it, her mind a whirlwind of fear and confusion. She couldn’t believe it was over, couldn’t comprehend how they’d been discovered, how any investigation hadn’t been detected by the all-seeing eye of The Committee. Why it hadn’t been obstructed or quashed. Yet they knew.
Wyman realised she was on her own. There was no one to help her, no one else who could make a decision for her. Panic flooded her system, and she battled to control it. Her fight-or-flight reflexes had failed her. She was immobile, a rabbit caught in the headlights, unable to think or act. There were many things she could do; she could call ahead, have the facility locked down, initiate the emergency protocols that would wipe the servers, empty the filing cabinets and fill the shredders. The basement would be sealed, the flash-fire system triggered, incinerating everything and everybody in a white-hot blast of pure oxygen and superheated flame. She could do all those things—should do them—but realised she didn’t have the courage. For a doctor such as herself it was irrational, yet she feared death more than anything.
She slowed the Porsche as the main building swept into view, steering the car into her reserved space. The Range Rover stopped alongside her. It was her love of humanity, her wish to end the cycle of poverty and starvation that had set her on this path. That would be her defence, she decided. Someone, somewhere, might just believe her.
She climbed out of the Porsche and walked to the main door on unsteady legs, now surrounded by the cold-eyed man and four others, their jackets flapping open, their hands ready. Wyman rummaged inside her handbag, pulled her ID card from her handbag and swiped it through the reader with trembling fingers. The light blinked green and the door clicked open. She felt a hand in her back, urging her onwards.
Doctor Ros Wyman took a deep breath.
Then she stepped inside.
‘… and thereafter those that survive the Transition will have a choice: support the system and benefit from its benevolence, or reject it, and lose access to the control grid. Ultimately, the choice will be a simple one, and the survivors will soon come to realise that the dawn of a new era is upon them, one that will offer both life and purpose, an era that will shine gloriously across the New World that we will all build together.”
The pyramid symbol on the huge cinema screen faded to black and the overhead lights came on, filling the auditorium with suffused light as a sustained applause competed with the rousing strings of a classical symphony piped through the cinema’s sound system.
Like everyone else Josh was on his feet, thrilled by the moment, his hands pumping together as the standing ovation reached a crescendo. Standing next to him Villiers did the same, his face beaming with undisguised joy as he revelled in his newly acquired status. Josh watched The Committee vacate their seats and shuffle towards the exit. Like everyone else he was filled with a sense of awe at the mere sight of them, their solidarity, their sheer power. They were witnessing history.
They’d called it the Final Gathering of the Old World, as important as those first, legendary summits between the great and the good at Bohemian Grove in California decades ago. He watched the last of them file from the cinema, their oriental suits like a shimmering sea of blue silk beneath the soft overhead lighting. Behind them filed their ambassadors and emissaries all clothed in identical black attire, the rulers of the world followed by their courtiers. Josh saw Beeton’s bald head amongst them, then the white-haired Lund, both trailing behind their masters.
When the VIPs had left, the audience began to filter towards the exit. Josh and Villiers shuffled amongst them as a palpable sense of anticipation crackled on the air, spilling from the glass-walled connecting walkway and out into the hotel’s main lobby. A female voice on the PA system echoed around the vaulted ceiling, urging the congregation to return to their rooms. They made their way up the busy staircase towards the second floor of the east wing. The hotel was awesome, its Swiss owner a Committee member and head of a mutual fund worth four hundred billion dollars. As he headed up the wide staircase, Josh noted the numerous paintings of other stern-faced Europeans lining the walls, and was reminded of their own connections to past empires. The New World would look a little like Nazi Germany, he figured. There would be no Fuehrer of course, no single iconic leader, but the order that would rise from the chaos of the Transition would certainly last for a thousand years. The Committee would rule everything by consensus, like the Olympians presiding over the earth from their own Mount Atlas, one flag, one government, one defence force, one currency, the population bound together by order, by loyalty and servitude. It was the only way.
The
crowd thinned. Josh bid Villiers goodnight and wandered along a hallway, whistling a nameless tune as he jangled the key in his hand. Everyone was banished to their rooms tonight, the hotel’s facilities kept clear for The Committee’s private banquet, and later the torchlight procession into the forest, ending at the stone temple where the effigy that represented the Old World would be burned. Josh’s pulse raced. Maybe if he were lucky he’d catch a glimpse from his window. Good luck seemed to be with him right now.
On his return from the UK, Beeton and Lund had congratulated him, and then reinstated him to his former position at FEMA. The Committee was pleased by Frank’s death, even more so by the safe return of Professor Cohen’s data drive. No harm, no foul, as Beeton had smiled. It didn’t suit him. Yet Josh had proved his worth, his dedication. Now he was reaping the rewards, his presence here in Switzerland the icing on his particular cake, invited not as part of his duties, but as a trusted acolyte, a witness to history.
The security, understandably, was intense. The hotel was heavily guarded, the innermost of a dozen security cordons that ranged in size and mission out to about twelve miles. Nothing could get anywhere near this special place tonight, and as an added precaution a diversionary conference had been organised elsewhere, a G8 mini-summit currently being held in Geneva, where the black-hooded anarchists had gathered with their placards and their smoke bombs. Josh knew it would also provide cover for the inordinate amount of private jets that had landed in Switzerland of late.
He finally reached his room, slipping the key into the lock and turning the handle. He locked the heavy door behind him, still humming a tune—
The explosive cloud of aerosol spray hit him in the face. Instinctively he turned away but already he could feel himself going down, his legs no longer functioning, catching a glimpse of a masked shadow in the unlit bathroom as he folded to the carpet. He tried to shout for help, but his tongue felt thick and limp, and saliva drooled from his mouth. He lay prone on the floor, his arms flapping, legs immobile, his mouth opening and closing like a beached fish.
Strong hands dug beneath his armpits, dragging him to the large double bed. He was thrown onto it face down, sucking a wedge of gold eiderdown into his mouth. The same hands bound his own with plastic flexi-cuffs, grabbing his feet and twisting him over onto his back. Josh’s head lolled to one side, the saliva still running from his lips. He watched a man in maintenance overalls wedge a chair under the door handle, then drag another across the room and set it by the side of the bed. The man sat down, dragging the protective mask from his face, breathing heavily after his exertions. Josh was neither shocked nor surprised. He simply stared at the man who smiled at him, who ran a hand through his thinning red hair.
‘Hi, Josh. How you doing, buddy?’
Josh couldn’t reply even if he wanted to. His useless tongue lolled in his mouth like a dog’s. Then his eyes closed and the room went dark.
*
Frank checked his watch. Time was short but he made preparations anyway, just in case. He leaned against the walls on either side, his ear pressed close; TVs droned in both rooms, and Frank used the cover to pile furniture into the narrow corridor by the main door. It wouldn’t hold an entry team for long but the improvised obstacle course, the incapacitating agent, and the Heckler Koch would sure help. Not that Frank needed them. The wheels were already in motion, but what he wanted more than anything now was time. Time to talk to his buddy Josh.
To say what had to be said.
He heard Josh moan, saw him struggle weakly, hands and feet bound. Frank sat in the chair next to the bed. He set the HK on the floor and pulled the Spyderco from his thigh sheath, lifting Josh’s chin with the razor-sharp blade.
‘I’m going to remove the gag,’ he said. ‘If you try to raise the alarm, I’ll saw your throat open. Understood?’ Josh nodded, his face powdered with green residue. Frank tugged on the handkerchief that plugged his mouth, wiped his face. The younger man coughed and spat. Frank waited until he’d regained his composure, until he uttered his first words.
‘Why can’t you just die like everybody else?’ Josh croaked.
Frank pulled his chair a little closer to the bed. The TV was running a Swiss game show, the host badgering the grinning contestants in loud, rapid-fire German. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Josh.’
He stared at Frank for a long time. Then the inevitable question. ‘How did you do it, Frank? How the hell did you get in here?’
‘That doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re together again. For the end.’
Josh trapped a strand of cotton with his tongue and spat it out on the bed. ‘You can’t stop it, Frank. No one can.’
‘That’s the trouble with you people. You’ve become overconfident. Arrogant.’
‘You people? You’re one of us, Frank. You’ve been with us right from the start.’
Frank shook his head. ‘That’s what I used to believe, but I was wrong. God showed me a new path.’
Josh moved himself up the bed until he leaned against the engraved wooden headboard. ‘So it’s true. Frank Marshall got religion. What happened, Frank? You see the light? Get struck by lightning?’
‘Mock all you want. God is in each of us. We only have to look.’
Josh laughed, his cold cackle competing with the TV audience. ‘Are you shitting me? C’mon, Frank, you know there’s no God. There’s only us, right here, right now. The rest is a crock of shit.’
‘Oh ye of little faith.’
Josh flared his nostrils. ‘Jesus, those priests in Boston really did a number on you. What is this, some kinda delayed Catholic guilt trip?’
‘I’ve been lost for years, Josh. A man in Harlem showed me the way.’
‘Whoopdee-fucking-doo. You’re not going to break out into song, are you, Frank?’
The older man frowned. ‘It’s disappointing how a declaration of faith seems to elicit ridicule in others. Besides, I can’t sing, remember?’
Josh leaned forward, spite in his voice. ‘I’ll tell you what I do remember, Frank. I remember hiding the booze, cleaning up your puke, covering your ass a hundred fucking times. I remember begging you to get help, but most of all I remember you betraying me.’
Frank toyed with the knife, his thumb working the blade lock. He could see Josh’s eyes flicking towards it, could see his forearms flexing, trying to work the plastic cuffs behind his back. ‘That’s why I’m here, Josh. You deserve to know the truth.’
‘Why did you go to England, Frank? What was so special about that Sullivan kid?’
Frank leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the bed. ‘Sullivan was the trigger. I thought he would bring me salvation. I was wrong.’
‘The fuck are you talking about?’
Frank took a breath and exhaled, remembering the clear blue sky, the thick black smoke. ‘It began a long time before that. The first time I felt something was in Jersey City, watching the North Tower burn. I got scared, nauseous. By the end of the day I was shaking like a leaf. The panic attacks started after that, but I could handle them as long as I didn’t dwell on things. I’d trained myself to avoid the triggers, the news stories about Nine Eleven, the endless documentaries. Then one day—some years later, at a motel in Newark—I caught a show on HBO about those poor bastards trapped above the fires, you know, the ones who’d jumped?’
Frank felt a familiar ripple of fear travel up his spine, the acid turning to ice in his stomach, the knuckles of his knife hand suddenly bloodless. ‘I tried to switch that goddam TV off but a voice in my head dared me to keep watching. So I did.’
Josh smiled from the bed. ‘Voices, Frank?’
He nodded, ignoring the taunt. ‘The nightmares began that night. I found myself up there, clinging to one of those twisted metal ledges, smoke pouring out of the shattered office behind me, my clothes torn, flesh burned, gasping for air. But I was never alone. There were others around me, men and women, young and old, all crammed onto that narrow ledge a thousand
feet above the sidewalk, clinging to each other, snatching at each other’s clothes, cursing, screaming, buffeted by the wind, the roar of the flames behind us, until the only way out was to jump. And I jumped too, Josh, saw the tower flashing by, the others falling through the air around me, our screams snatched away on the wind, paralysed by the knowledge that certain death was imminent…’
Frank felt his throat constricting, his fingers trembling. Sweat soaked his underclothes. Then he heard Josh’s voice from the bed.
‘That’s it? Nine Eleven fucked you up? After all the shit you’ve pulled?’
Frank tugged a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped perspiration from his face and neck. ‘I started drinking after that. You know the rest. When they assigned us to Messina, when the Sullivan kid was killed, I knew I had to get away. I couldn’t cope with any more death.’ He rubbed his face, then fixed his gaze on Josh. ‘There were times when I came close to telling you, Josh. You were a good kid, smart, loyal.’ He tapped his chest with a finger. ‘But there’s nothing here. No soul. You talked about Nine Eleven like it was a ball game you’d seen on TV. You longed for the Transition. If The Committee knew I’d lost my way they would’ve ended me. And they’d have made you the trigger man.’
The TV droned on behind them, the arm of the game show host wrapped around the winning contestant.
‘I wouldn’t have done it,’ Josh said. ‘I tried to help you, didn’t I? I respected you, Frank, covered your ass a hundred times. Come on, man, untie me. We can talk this over.’
‘You still with SD?’
‘FEMA,’ Josh announced. ‘Military liaison and coordination.’
‘FEMA, huh?’
Frank knew the organisation well. When the public heard FEMA they thought Katrina and Sandy, tents and ready-meals. They knew nothing about the secret multi-billion-dollar budget, the powers that exceeded the President’s, powers that included uprooting entire populations, seizing property, food supplies, transportation systems, and even suspending the Constitution. Controlling FEMA was always a major goal for The Committee—the agency was the perfect vehicle to oversee the chaos of the Transition and seize ultimate power.