by Helen Harper
At the front of the queue, a harassed-looking mother is arguing with an airport security guard. As loud and annoying as she is, she’s at least distracting attention from me. I smooth my trembling fingers and draw in shallow breaths while she continues to harangue the guard for not allowing her to take more liquids for her baby on board. Eventually she gives up and storms off, throwing various baby accoutrements into a nearby wheelie bin, and we shuffle forward. I tell myself that I’ve already done this once; it has to be easier the second time around. But my nervous system doesn’t deal with logic any better now than it did when I was in the throes of agoraphobia.
I move up and pass through the X-ray machine, which immediately beeps harshly and makes me half leap out of my skin. The security guard frowns at me because of my reaction and gestures at my pockets. I fumble around, growing more flustered by the second. Eventually I extract an offending coin and display it almost gleefully. The guard’s frown deepens and she sends me back through again. Unfortunately, I’m still subjected to the beeps.
The guard motions me to the side, takes a wand and waves it up and down on the off-chance that I’m secreting a slim-line explosive device about my person. Her movements are perfunctory – bored, even – and I relax slightly until I catch sight of another guard by the conveyor belt gesturing at my bag. My heart sinks. Now what?
I’m released by the first guard and beckoned over by the second one. Before I can reach him, however, his head leans slightly to the side and his eyes take on a momentarily unfocused look. I spot his earpiece. This is it, Zoe: I’ve been picked up by face-recognition technology and the gig is well and truly up. Instead of stopping me, though, he gives me a quick glance then moves on to the next passenger.
I pause, not entirely sure what to do. Something just happened. It might have had nothing to do with me but, given my circumstances, I’d be foolish to believe that. I look round anxiously but no one else is looking in my direction. There are plenty of CCTV cameras, though; anyone could be tracking my movements.
I don’t have much choice. To turn and dash out of the airport would only raise suspicions further. I take my bag, hook it over my shoulder and force myself to walk slowly into the brightly lit duty-free area. I’m turning the corner towards my gate when I spot a dark-haired man on his phone. In theory, that should be nothing out of the ordinary; he’s even facing away from me. But his reflection in the glass window next to him shows that he’s staring directly at me. For the briefest second we lock eyes via the glass then he looks away and walks off in the opposite direction. Unlike Jepsen’s henchmen, his suit is cheap with shiny patches at the elbows – but that doesn’t mean that I’m jumping at shadows.
***
The journey back to Zurich seems to take forever. On the plane I get up and use the toilet on three separate occasions, not because I’m nervous but because it gives me a chance to scan all the other passengers’ faces. Cheap-suit Man isn’t on board and neither do I recognise any of Jepsen’s employees. When I pass through Swiss immigration, I’m barely afforded a second glance. I start to breathe more easily. Everything’s alright.
Rawlins is waiting for me on the other side. There are white lines of tension around her mouth. We exchange brief, tight smiles and she points down the hall. ‘We’ve managed to get hold of another car,’ she says in a low voice. ‘We thought it would be a good idea to get moving again as soon as possible once you returned. We’ve not found anything to identify the stooges and you’re still on the news. Even with your lower status, you’re still wanted for questioning. I suggest that we continue to avoid any exploding buildings until we can put some distance between us and the Department.’
‘I bet you never thought you’d be on the run with a terrorist,’ I say, making a pathetic attempt at a joke.
She glares at me. ‘It’s not going to go down particularly well on my CV,’ she grunts.
I touch her arm. She didn’t ask for any of this, none of us did, but as a policewoman Rawlins is going to feel the brunt more than anyone. ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumble.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ she snaps. ‘Just tell me that your trip was worth it. Were you successful?’
‘I’ve made some headway,’ I venture cautiously. ‘I’ll fill you in when we’re all back together so I don’t need to repeat myself over and over again.’
Rawlins nods briskly. ‘Your mother and Adam are waiting in the car. It’s not far.’
We wend our way out of the main terminal building towards a small lift which opens on our arrival. Rawlins presses the button for the third floor and turns back towards me. ‘Is there hope at least?’ she asks me. ‘Is there a way out of all this?’
‘We’ll have to go back home,’ I admit reluctantly. ‘But yes, I think there’s a little hope.’
The lift doors open as Rawlins snorts, ‘You’re not filling me with confidence.’
A car door opens across the car park and Adam gets out. He waves vigorously in our direction with an almost maniacal grin of relief. I hear a loud, annoyed meow from the interior of the car and I can’t stop myself smiling. Waving back, I step out of the lift as another car pulls into the car park at a ridiculous speed. It screeches to halt and several people pile out. They’re carrying guns.
As if in slow motion, Adam’s head swings towards them and his mouth drops open. I freeze, rooted to the spot. There’s a garbled shout. Adam whips back towards us. ‘Run, Zoe!’ he screams. He flaps his arms up and down, not unlike Brita did during her dream, and half runs, half stumbles towards the men. There’s another indistinct shout and someone raises a gun. I sense rather than see Rawlins gesticulating wildly by my side.
I try to make my limbs work; I even try to shout but I’m completely immobile. A loud crack fills the air and I’m finally jolted into movement but it’s already far, far too late. Adam takes another step, then another, and then he’s on his knees and falling forward. There is blood everywhere. It’s not in a neat spreading blossom like I’ve seen on television, it’s a mess. It spatters across nearby cars, the floor, the walls, most of all over Adam.
Rawlins, pale-faced and more panicked than I’ve ever seen her, yanks me by the arm and hauls me backwards. ‘Adam,’ I whisper. I try to pull away from her, but it’s too late. We’re already back in the lift with the doors closing. ‘All that blood…’
Rawlins slaps me hard on the cheek. ‘Get it together. I need you to be focused. We need to get out of here and we need to get out of here now.’
The stinging pain and shock brings me back to reality. ‘My mother,’ I gasp. ‘She’s in the car too. We have to go back. We have to…’
‘If there’s anyone who can look after themselves it’s your mum,’ Rawlins answers harshly. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. ‘Besides, you’re the one they want. We all know that.’
‘This is all my fault,’ I say. Rawlins glares at me. I nod. ‘I’ll wallow later. Let’s get out of here.’
The lift door opens onto the first floor. Rawlins and I stare out, as if expecting to be greeted by more gunfire, but there’s no one there. Not yet, anyway.
‘We need to split up,’ Rawlins says. ‘I’ll go left. You take the right. There’s an emergency staircase in the far corner. We’ll meet up again at the hotel.’
‘Is it safe there?’ I ask anxiously.
‘I’m not sure anywhere is safe.’
I swallow her answer and blink in acknowledgment. She gives me a tiny shove and then I’m off. I don’t look back.
I sprint through the chilly car park towards the door, slamming it open with my shoulder. For a second, I’m tempted to go back up again, despite Rawlins’ insistence that I run, then I hear the hammer of footsteps coming downwards. Getting caught is going to help anyone here. I don’t know who these people are but they’re most definitely not my friends.
I don’t have any time to waste. I leap down, taking the stairs three at a time, and burst onto the main airport concourse. This is not the place for a race on foot; either I
get out of the airport and its heightened security or I hide. I opt for the former; CCTV is going to be far too hard to beat.
I weave in and out of the milling passengers, hoping I look like someone who’s late for their flight rather than a fleeing criminal. There’s a shout from behind me as someone yells at me to stop. I ignore it and head straight for the doors leading outside to the taxi rank. If I time this right, I could be out of here and away before my pursuers can do anything. My breathing is all over the place and my pulse is at fever pitch but I’m holding it together. I have to.
‘Zoe! Stop!’
I glance round. They’re gaining on me, although they’ve been smart enough to put their weapons away. I guess waving around a loaded gun in an airport wouldn’t be good for anyone. As this thought flashes through my mind, I kick open the glass door in front of me, run out and smack straight into a hard body. I pull back but it’s too late; iron hands are holding me in place. My head whips up and I stare into the face of my captor. It’s the man from Copenhagen Airport who was watching my reflection in the glass.
My mind goes blank and I act on pure instinct, heaving my knee up to connect with his groin. This isn’t the Dreamlands, though; I’m not the dreamweaver here. I’m just a woman with few skills, none of which include hand-to-hand combat.
He swivels to the side, dodging the blow easily. ‘Stop that immediately,’ he commands. ‘We do not want to hurt you.’
I think of Adam. It’s a bit late for that now.
A black van pulls up at the kerb and the door slides open. I open my mouth to scream that I’m being kidnapped but another man leans in to my ear and whispers, ‘We have your friends and family. Don’t be stupid.’
My mouth snaps shut and I have no choice but to let him bundle me inside. A second later the door slides shut behind me and the van takes off.
I scoot into the far corner, as far away from both men as I can, then I stare in shock at my second captor. It’s Markus Ingold. My jaw works uselessly for a moment. He clocks my reaction and frowns slightly. His mouth tightens and he starts to mutter to his shiny-suited companion.
I remind myself to breathe. Ingold is Interpol; that’s got to be better than being taken by the Department. Except for the part where Adam is bleeding out on a hard concrete floor. I bite my tongue hard. Focus, Zoe, I tell myself. Panic won’t help.
To keep my mind away from Adam and all that’s happened – and is still happening – I look around the van. The interior is filled with blinking lights and expensive-looking computer equipment. They have money but they choose not to spend it on clothing.
‘Tell us about Frederik Jepsen,’ Ingold says.
‘Who?’
‘Don’t play dumb,’ he answers calmly. ‘We know you met with him. I would be interested to know what your agreement is with him.’
‘I have no agreement with him. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Ingold smiles. ‘So you say. You’re going to need to open up to us, Zoe. There will be time for that later though.’ He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slim leather wallet, flipping it open to reveal a badge. ‘I’m Markus Ingold.’
I look from the Interpol badge to him and back again and resist the urge to tell him that I already know his name. Even if he remembers me from his dream the other night, it means nothing; my face was all over the television at that point. I breathe through my nose then I lick my lips. ‘I’m not a terrorist.’
‘We know that.’
Under any other circumstances I’d feel relieved but instead I draw myself up. Adam’s shooting replays itself in my mind. ‘If you’re the police, you’re supposed to help people. Not shoot them in cold blood.’
He grimaces. ‘I heard what happened to your boyfriend. That was a mistake – but he did try to rush us and we couldn’t confirm whether he was carrying a gun or not. It’s a minor wound. He’ll be alright.’
When I think about the amount of blood I saw, that seems very unlikely. Ingold moves towards me and I can’t stop myself from flinching. He holds up his hands, palms forward. ‘Relax, Ms Lydon.’ He taps his ear twice. ‘Let’s re-route to the hospital.’ He meets my eyes. ‘I’ll prove it to you.’
I cross my arms. I’ll believe it when I see it. ‘My mother?’
‘She’s with us. So is your cat. And your policewoman friend.’
Rawlins didn’t get far, then. I try to keep my blank expression but I’m fairly certain I fail.
Ingold continues to watch me. ‘Where did the bomb come from?’
‘At the police headquarters? How should I know? It wasn’t me. I’m not a sodding terrorist.’
‘I never suggested you were. I wondered if you knew who planted it.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Are you sure?’ he probes. ‘Was it someone from the Department?’
I freeze. Ingold’s expression doesn’t change. ‘Who are you really?’ I whisper.
‘Markus Ingold. Interpol. I already told you.’
I can’t tell whether he’s lying or not; he doesn’t have any tics or tell-tale giveaways and that’s incredibly unsettling. I push myself further back against the back of the van. ‘Just take me to the hospital,’ I say.
***
We don’t speak for the rest of the journey. The van stops and the door slides open. I expect to be anywhere but the promised destination so, when I see the large red cross and the sign, I blink in astonishment. Ingold raises a sardonic eyebrow and takes my arm. ‘This way.’
I let him lead me; right now, it’s not like I have much choice. The hospital doors glide open and we move through the white, antiseptic interior towards the emergency rooms. Another earpiece-wearing man is standing at the nearest desk. He nods a greeting at Ingold and points us to the right. My mouth is dry; even if I escape the iron grip around my arm, Ingold has got people all over this place. The gig is well and truly up.
We’re directed into a small room. There’s a bed with a bare-chested Adam lying on it and a white-coated doctor bending over him. My mother is already there. She lets out a small cry, gets up from her chair, runs towards me and hugs me. ‘Are you alright? Did they hurt you too?’ I shake my head dumbly. ‘They shot Adam,’ she says, with an accusing look at Ingold.
‘Is he…?’
‘I’m fine.’ Adam’s voice is weak and thready but he manages to raise his head and look at me. He’s covered in blood from the neck down but his arm, where I can see an open wound, has been cleaned.
‘He nicked an artery,’ the doctor informs us, ‘hence all the blood.’ She taps the blood bag hanging next to the bed. ‘We’re taking care of the blood loss and the wound is clean. It should be a rapid recovery.’
‘I thought you were dead,’ I whisper.
Adam smiles faintly. ‘So did I. I think I fell over from shock rather than pain.’
‘As you can see, Zoe,’ says Ingold from behind me, ‘we’re not the monsters you seem to think we are. Sergeant Rawlins is already at the police station. Will you join us there to answer a few questions?’
Somehow I don’t think his politely phrased question is actually a request. ‘What about my cat?’
‘He’s at reception,’ my mother answers. She glares around. ‘Apparently the Chairman is a health hazard.’ Her tone leaves no doubt about what she thinks of that.
‘We’re in a hospital, Mrs Lydon,’ the doctor says mildly. ‘Not a zoo.’
I move to Adam and squeeze his hand. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I tell him. ‘This is all my fault.’
‘Well,’ he says huskily, ‘my life is certainly a lot more exciting than it used to be.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a good thing.’
We smile at each other in understanding. The doctor coughs politely. ‘If you could all leave now, I can do a lot more to help your friend.’
‘We’re just leaving,’ Ingold says.
I scowl. ‘Fine.’ I exchange glances with my mother. What other choice is there?
Chapter Eleven
/>
Put more trust in nobility of character than in an oath.
Solon
I’m led into a small interrogation room deep in the Interpol offices rather than to the Swiss police headquarters where Ingold is often seconded. He tells me that the clean-up operation after the explosion is well under way and that it’s business as usual but this is an international matter so Interpol have managed to pull rank. I’m relieved. The last thing I need is to be in a building surrounded by cops who I think I tried to blow them up.
I’m half expecting Ingold to leave me to cool my heels but he comes in with me and sits down, gesturing at the chair opposite as if we were two friends catching up over coffee. I sigh and sit down.
I get straight to the point before he can open his mouth. ‘Are you a Traveller?’ I ask baldly. Given that I visited his dreams via the Bubble, I should already know the answer but my world seems completely upended. Almost anything is possible at this point.
Ingold smiles. ‘No.’
‘Then how…’
‘How do I know about the Dreamlands? How have I heard of the Department?’ He knits his fingers together and leans back. ‘We’ve been aware of what is going on for many decades. There have been Travellers, as you call them, amongst our number in the past although unfortunately we have none now. Despite the fact that most people would find it impossible to believe in a world accessed only through dreams, we are not as incredulous as you might assume.’
‘Am I here because of that?’ I ask carefully. ‘Or is it because of the terror allegations?’
He grimaces. ‘The tip-off about your alleged terrorism was credible, despite your background and stable family life. We have to be careful in this current climate. It wasn’t until later that we started to connect the dots and understand what was actually going on.’ A speculative light flashes in his eyes. ‘Tell me, Ms Lydon, are you the dreamweaver?’
I suck in a breath. However he has come by all this information, he certainly knows a great deal. Unable to place any sort of trust in him yet, I play dumb. ‘What’s a dreamweaver?’