State of Emergency

by Sam Fisher

  The Dragon nodded. 'And where have you placed the devices?'

  'One here.' Dexter pointed to a cupboard close to Reception on the Ground Floor. 'The other, larger one is here on B1, directly under Hall A.'

  'I see. And security?'

  'As tight as you'd expect, but the devices are well concealed and shielded, so no chemical leaks for the detectors to notice, and no smells. The dogs will pick up diddly-squat.'

  'What about cameras? How did you . . .'

  Dexter touched his nose. 'I have a friend who's a gifted cinematographer,' he smirked. 'Fucker should be working with Spielberg. He ran me off a DVD of empty corridors which I keyed into the system for the cameras covering the drop sites. The security guys were watching a movie for the whole 30 minutes I was in the building. Never knew I was there.'

  The Dragon couldn't help smiling his approval. 'Very clever.'

  'So,' Dexter said. He turned to look up at the Dragon. The barrel of a silencer attached to a Smith & Wesson Model 500 Magnum was two inches from his face.

  'Up.'

  Dexter's face was suddenly very pale. 'But I –'

  'Not a word, please. Into the hall.'

  Dexter Tate was rooted to the spot. 'The hall?' In a daze, he got up from the chair and began to walk towards the door. 'I don't understand,' he said, his voice fractured. 'What –'

  'I use people only once. Dead men can't tell tales.'

  'But, I wouldn't –'

  'Stop.'

  The Dragon walked past him towards the front door and turned. Dexter stared imploringly at the man in front of him. The Dragon felt nauseated, raised the Magnum and shot Dexter between the eyes. His head exploded, sending blood and grey matter to the ceiling and in great plumes along the walls.

  The Dragon stepped over Dexter's body. He paced back to the tiny table and rolled up the schematic. Then he ripped the DVD player from under the TV and pocketed an iPod he saw lying on the IKEA cupboard shelf. He spotted Dexter's jacket slung over a stool in the kitchen just off the lounge. He yanked the wallet from the inside pocket, deliberately ripping the lining. Finally, he threw the low table at the TV screen. The image of the football game flicked off with a dull thud just as the Broncos quarterback took a snap.

  With the scene left looking like a regular armed break-in – the sort of thing that happened a dozen times a week in this part of LA – the Dragon pocketed his gun, walked calmly back along the hall, left the front door ajar and headed back to his car. No one saw him leave.

  26

  5.02 pm, Pacific Standard Time (Incident time minus 2 hours, 15 minutes)

  The Dragon cut from Glendale Freeway south onto Hollywood, hitting the traffic full on. Cops were everywhere. A hundred yards ahead was a checkpoint. The Dragon glanced through his rear window. It was bumper to bumper, and there were no slip roads off the freeway before the checkpoint. He pulled the gun from his pocket and put it next to the Yarygin PYa in the metal box under the seat. He twisted the key and slipped it into the glove compartment. The other weapons he had already deposited at the lair opposite the CCC before visiting Dexter Tate.

  The car in front of him was waved over to the hard shoulder by two motorcycle cops, and for a second the Dragon thought he would be allowed to drive on. But then he too was asked to pull over. A cop went to each car. One of them stood by the door of the Toyota and signalled to the Dragon to lower the window, then asked for his license. Without a word, he handed over the piece of plastic.

  'Could you step out of the vehicle, please, sir?'

  The Dragon complied. The cop frisked him.

  'Pop the trunk, please.'

  The Dragon leaned into the car and pushed the button. The trunk lock opened and the lid swung up. The cop walked round and glanced into the empty compartment.

  'Are you carrying a weapon, sir?' the cop asked and stared straight into The Dragon's eyes.

  The Dragon met his stare with just the right measure of nervousness. 'Er . . . no, officer.'

  The cop went to search the inside of the car. As he ducked inside, he flicked a glance at the streams of traffic. 'What the –' He took a step back and saw his colleague running towards him, yelling into his radio as he went.

  Passing the checkpoint, weaving between the cars, were two elderly people on mountain bikes. Each of them had signs attached to the backs of their saddles. One said '2 Wheels Good, 4 Wheels Bad', and the other 'Dump The Car – Take The Bike'.

  In a moment, both cops were on their motorcycles, revving them up and pulling into the lines of traffic. The Dragon was as stunned as the policemen, but he found it much funnier. Beaming, he lowered himself into the Toyota and nosed back into the traffic.

  27

  6.24 pm, Pacific Standard Time (Incident time minus 53 minutes)

  Simon Gardiner was silent as he walked a pace ahead of his parents. They reached the bottom of the stairs leading out of the police station as the last rays of the setting sun broke through the distant palms lining the freeway. They could see the black silhouettes of cars and the haze of headlights.

  'Your lack of smugness is irritating, son,' Marty said, half-seriously.

  Nancy nudged her husband and gave him a withering look.

  'Oh, don't worry, Dad, I feel very smug. Let's just view my callout fee as a down payment to cover putting me through Law School.'

  'I suppose it had to come in useful some day!' his father retorted.

  Simon led them to his Mercedes saloon.

  'I'm pissed they won't let us have our bikes,' Marty snapped. 'Really pissed.'

  'Oh, come on, Pa! What did you expect?'

  'It's an infringement of our civil liberties. Why didn't you do something about it?'

  'You forfeited your civil liberties when you decided to take your protest onto the city's freeways,' Simon replied tartly. 'You can have the bikes tomorrow. Now let's get home. Maureen's making a blackberry pie, apparently.'

  Marty and Nancy looked at each other. 'We're going on,' Nancy Gardiner said.

  Simon gave them both a frosty look. 'So what are you going to do this time? Walk along the freeway?' He suddenly felt furious. He loathed all this green nonsense. It was for hippies and layabouts. Somehow, though, his parents – of all people – had been corrupted by the 'pinkos' and troublemakers.

  Marty was about to snap back when Nancy raised a hand to stop him. 'It's not far, Simon. There'll be a bus on 6th Avenue.'

  'Oh, for Christ's sake! Why? Why are you being so, so . . . pig-headed? What's gotten into you two?'

  The elderly couple said nothing as their son glared at them, pulled the keys from his pocket and pushed the remote to unlock the car. 'Fine! Catch a freakin' bus. Have fun.' And he spun on his heel.

  Simon Gardiner sat in his car for several minutes, trying to calm himself. His doc had told him not to get overexcited, to watch his blood pressure. Ever since his parents had turned up he'd done the exact opposite. He hit the steering wheel and filled the air with expletives. After a moment, he felt a little better for letting off steam. They had their hearts in the right place – he knew that. They were good people, just misguided.

  Perhaps they're going a little senile, Simon thought, and suddenly an image of his mother and father 30 years younger flashed into his mind. They were going out for the evening and he had been left with his brother and a babysitter. His parents were dressed in their best and looked incredibly elegant – they were wealthy high-fliers, and very good-looking. He remembered thinking how he wanted to be just like his father when he was older, and how he would have a beautiful wife too – if not as beautiful as his mom, then close.

  He took a deep breath, turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the lot.

  He saw them twenty yards ahead, walking arm-in-arm along the sidewalk. For a few moments they remained oblivious of him. He could tell from their body language that they were perfectly happy. It was almost as though they were enjoying the adventure. Then Nancy laughed suddenly, looked at Marty's profile, kissed h
im on the cheek and settled her head on his shoulder.

  They heard the car and turned. He pulled up beside them, lowered the window and stuck his head out.

  'You don't need to,' Marty said.

  'I know that. But if you don't get in, I promise I will drive right around Los Angeles revving the engine at every stop sign until I drain the tank. My carbon footprint will be so big you'll see it from space.'

  28

  California Conference Center, Los Angeles

  6.30 pm, Pacific Standard Time (Incident time minus 47 minutes)

  The nerves kicked in right on cue, 45 minutes before his appearance. Kyle Foreman knew the routine well and was pacing his room in anticipation. Three minutes later came a knock on the door. His personal assistant stuck his head into the room.

  'Okay,' Foreman said, and straightened his tie in the mirror. 'Let's go.'

  There was a uniformed cop with the CIA bodyguards in the corridor. One of the CIA men led, the other trailed at the back. After years in the spotlight Senator Foreman was used to security, but it never made him feel entirely safe. Like everyone else, he had seen the film of Kennedy having his head blown off from at least two directions. Years later, Ronald Reagan had almost bought it when John Hinckley, Jr, tried to make his day. There was only so much humans could do to protect him from other humans.

  The hotel room was on the seventh floor of the Hilton, to the rear of the CCC. It was a twenty-storey structure that was always full. The elevator took them down to the third floor where the hospitality area was located. From there, he would be picked up in precisely 29 minutes and escorted across a glass-ceilinged bridge on the first level, to the CCC building itself. Another elevator would take him down one floor to the ground level, and from there, he would arrive backstage exactly three minutes before he was due to walk on.

  In the hospitality suite Foreman found a small group awaiting him. The general manager of the CCC/Hilton complex shook his hand and a young woman in a tight black skirt and white blouse offered him a glass of champagne. He declined and asked for a Perrier with ice and lemon.

  'No need for Dutch courage?' the general manager joked, taking a sip of champagne.

  'Never before the show,' Foreman replied. 'But after . . . that's another matter.'

  Foreman took a seat and thanked the waitress as she deposited his drink on a side table. The CIA guys stood by the door, while the cop paced the corridor outside. A black LAPD helicopter flew past the window and heads turned to watch it swoop away.

  'Certainly looks like they're taking care of me,' Foreman said. He lifted his glass. 'To the security services!' He was smiling, but beneath the surface he felt uncomfortable, even more uncomfortable than normal just before an appearance. 'Now, ladies and gentlemen,' he added. 'If you don't mind, I have a few final checks to make on my speech.'

  Foreman's assistant placed a gentle hand on the general manager's arm. The man got the message, handed his empty glass to the waitress and led his little group out into the corridor. 'Good luck, Senator,' he called back. Foreman glanced up and mouthed a silent 'Thank you' as his assistant handed him his speech and a red pen.

  The best way to quell the nerves, he knew from experience, was simply to keep busy. But there was something extra tonight. Something he couldn't put his finger on. Perhaps I'm just anxious about Sandy, he tried to convince himself. But he knew that this was not the sum of it. What he was feeling ran deeper than mere anxiety. He had no idea where it had come from, and he was certainly no believer in any form of sixth sense, but the feeling was inescapable. The only word for it was 'foreboding'.

  29

  7.09 pm, Pacific Standard Time (Incident time minus 8 minutes)

  Nancy and Marty Gardiner made it to the CCC with just minutes to spare. At the door, an assistant saw them and bumped them up the queue, ahead of a group of three young guys. One of the kids, a tall young man with long hair tucked behind his ears, was about to protest, but his friend, a kid in very baggy jeans and a 49ers sweatshirt, kicked his ankle and he held his tongue.

  They found their seats easily enough. Marty pulled a pair of ancient opera glasses from his backpack and handed them to Nancy. She put them on her lap for a moment as she extricated a plastic container from her shoulder bag. She removed the lid and fished around inside. Pulling out a sandwich wrapped in silver foil, she handed it to her husband. Then she replaced the lid, put the box back in the bag and picked up the opera glasses. All she could see was a black curtain across the stage.

  Marty checked his watch. 'They don't look terribly organised,' he said matter-of-factly. 'They're bound to start late.'

  'Relax, honey,' Nancy replied. 'It's not the army . . . and at least we made it on time.'

  Marty smiled and patted her hand. 'Fantastic PB and J,' he said, and took another bite.

  30

  7.10 pm, Pacific Standard Time (Incident time minus 7 minutes)

  Precisely 338 feet away, the Dragon had also taken his seat, but he was considerably less comfortable. He was perched on a crate and was covered in camouflage netting. In front of him stood his two M60 7.62 mm machine guns. On the floor to his right he had placed his ammunition box. To his left was a leather box containing the six M67 fragmentation hand grenades. In the waistband of his trousers he had his trusty Magnum and the Mark XIX Desert Eagle .50 AE. In his jacket pocket he carried the Yarygin PYa.

  He removed a small plastic unit from the pocket of his pants – a remote control. Between his feet was a squat metal box, on the top face of which was a row of lights. One of the lights was green, the others red. The Dragon ran his fingers over the keypad of the remote, punching in a numeric code sequence. One of the red lights turned green. He then depressed the 'enter' key and the remaining red lights turned green. He was ready.

  31

  Hall A, California Conference Center

  7.14 pm, Pacific Standard Time (Incident time minus 3 minutes)

  The lights came up and Kyle Foreman strode onto the vast stage to tumultuous applause. He waved as he walked to the podium. Half the audience were on their feet. It took a full minute before he could calm the crowd into silence and return them to their seats.

  'Good evening,' he said. 'I'm simply thrilled to see this place filled to the rafters, and I know many of you have travelled a long way to come here tonight. But, you know, it is yet another show of strength.' He stretched out his arms, as though he was embracing the audience. They cheered. 'I like to think of us as crusaders because, make no mistake, we are fighting a war. A war of ideologies. And I believe with all my heart that it is a war of right versus wrong. A war in which no blood will be shed, for sure, but a battle to the death nevertheless. The only way to save our planet is to engage in this fight – and to win it.' He hit the podium with the palm of his hand. 'The wrong-thinkers must not prevail. Our ideology is stronger.'

  A massive cheer. People were on their feet again.

  'I've prepared a short film I would like you to see,' Foreman announced, and suddenly the lights dimmed again before a huge screen lit up at the back of the stage. The film began with images of ice shelves falling into the ocean, and moved on to some dramatic footage of wild weather. Foreman was speaking over the movie, a scripted commentary describing how mean temperatures had increased steadily and how levels of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere were directly responsible. A bar chart in primary colours appeared.

  That was the moment the first bomb exploded.

  The first thing anyone felt was the shaking. The room seemed to judder like a celluloid image caught in a projector. Many in the CCC thought an earthquake had hit. But then came the roaring sound, and the doors to the auditorium blew in, sending great chunks of wood and metal across the open space. A steel post soared through the air and smashed into one of three vast chandeliers. Thousands of pieces of glass cascaded onto the audience like hailstones. The lights went out and the auditorium erupted, instantly killing half the people there.

  On the podium, Kyle Foreman saw
the doors shatter and debris burst into the room. He dived to the side of the stage, seeing glass tumbling, blood spraying, severed limbs flying through the air. He fell from the edge of the stage and landed on something soft. Pulling himself to his knees, he looked down. A faint light coming from the nearest demolished doorway revealed the headless corpse of one of his bodyguards. Two seconds earlier the man had been standing at the side of the stage looking out towards the audience.

  When a second explosion hit, Foreman dropped again. Covering his head with his hands, he scrambled under a table to the side of the auditorium. This explosion was much bigger. The room shook so hard he thought the ceiling would come down. A high-pitched sound came from a few inches above his head and he risked opening his eyes for a second. A crack an inch wide had appeared in the wall and was shooting up towards the ceiling. The room shook again and the sound of crashing masonry and glass mingled with the roar of the flames. Foreman heard screams and guttural moans as hundreds of people were incinerated.

  Foreman glanced behind him and saw what he thought was a metal screen, but then he realised it was a steel sliding door. He threw himself into a small opening at one side of the door and tried desperately to slide it shut behind him. A fireball ripped through the auditorium, and even from behind the metal door the heat was searing. He was thrown backwards and slammed into a pile of plastic containers, sending them flying across the floor. Pain rippled along his arm.