I confess it’s convoluted. It would be far easier to go with my first thought; to suppose the gem had brushed off onto my jumper and think no more of it. But my paranoid deductions have served me well in the past and the most sensible attitude is surely to assume the very worst from a spy. I can't search for the cameras of course. But I’m convinced they’re there, transmitting live my every move to some low ranking desk agent in a closeted location - probably one the forested towns like Milton Keynes. The more I think about it, the more likely it is that the holding facility we were taken to after we were sedated at the Institute was a vertical forest; a twentieth century ex-council high-rise buried in thicket. Some are used as offices, but many are too overgrown so suitable only for climbing and abseiling. We might very well have been held in a ‘green’ prison. Hidden in plain sight.
I hadn’t anticipated this level of intrusion; a violation of my privacy beyond online monitoring. Neither had Hero it seems. I wondered if other conveyance lenses had been placed anywhere else in the house; positioned high up in corners, on bookcases or picture frames. Was it possible that my duplicitous guest had also planted cameras on Saturday night whilst I slept? I ran through the last five days and realised that there could not have been surveillance in my room, or anywhere else for that matter, prior to Tuesday night or Hero would have been seen entering my office with the diary. So it had only started that evening. And I couldn’t think of anything I’d done after her visit, other than cancel our dinner date at the last minute, that would have alerted her to a problem. As far as I was aware, the notebook was still under my mattress and the diary had stayed in my office. I hadn’t picked it up again for fear of another debilitating headache. And the vial of serum that Hero had given me, I’d immediately put in the back in my desk draw after returning from the bunker. I couldn't see the cameras being a problem. In fact the footage of me not getting up to much at all since Tuesday actually worked in my favour.
On Thursday morning, my mother confirmed that I could have the Lina Bo for the weekend. Then finally, Friday afternoon came. The wait had been agonising. The time had dragged. I’d tried to maintain a normal, mundane existence for the cameras; mindlessly scrolling through news feeds and making adjustments to my uninspiring column - my thoughts firmly fixed elsewhere. I’d felt my anxiety levels rising when thinking about everything that could go wrong. I worried that Hero had been caught attempting to gain entry into Arthur Luvel’s home and was now being detained, or was already dead. I wondered if Starla had been able to fake knowing nothing or if a marked change in her behaviour had alerted Miles to her realisation. Alongside these terrors, I battled with the challenge of having to sedate Heather once aboard the yacht. My fear of messing up dominated and spectacularly distorted the likely reality of the situation. In the lesser played version in my head, I effortlessly put the agent to sleep after luring her into a false sense of security with a seductive technique I’d rehearsed to perfection. In the presiding scenario however, I completely and utterly fail to carry out the task. The agent predicts my every move and I wake in my own bed following some other fictitious incident planted in my head and I now believe Heather to be my girlfriend. Only this time, my injuries are real. Of course, I’m oblivious to the fact that the bruises and skin tears were inflicted upon me by the woman I am now dating. I tortured myself for hours with this terrifying, possible outcome.
I couldn’t eat the breakfast or the lunch that P400 prepared. But having lain awake most of last night churning over the specifics of my challenge, I knew I needed something to keep myself going. So I drank tea and requested buttered toast instead, just so I didn’t pass out after my blood sugar levels plunged. As the time to leave grew nearer, I forced myself to withdraw from my deep, pensive state and engage with the preparations for travel, like a normal person about to take a mini-break would.
I’m now watching P400 from the armchair in my bedroom as it folds my clothes into a travel case. Having the robot pack for me shows that I have nothing to hide. But despite lacking sleep, I’m wired and it's becoming very difficult not to show it.
‘Master Inigo, I have been alerted to an increase in your heart rate. You are advised to limit your intake of caffeine and all other stimulants today.’
I never normally have nervous energy. But as P400 speaks, I notice that my foot is shaking - as it was in the restaurant with Heather - and immediately put a stop to it. 'Noted.’ I reply, gulping down the last of my tea.
The white light flashes on the screen that would be a face, which means that the robot is about to speak again. ‘The FUSE meteorological forecast predicts an 80 percent chance of rain on Sunday in Le Havre. Would you like me to pack weatherproof clothing Master Inigo?’
'Yes, please do.’ I answer, watching it then glide to the wardrobe. FUSE is the Federal United States of Europe. The countries of Europe, excluding Great Britain, merged forty years ago to form one economic superpower headed by a single government. UK intelligence is shared with Europe but their systems aren’t linked. FUSE countries don’t have Genie and Chips aren’t compulsory. This ought to slow down the agents search for us, once we’re beyond the invisible Channel border - about 50 miles out from the coast. All being well, we’ll make it that far.
P400 takes a pair of cotton pyjamas from the chest of drawers and meticulously folds them into the case. I don’t wear pyjamas but I can't be bothered to speak up. It's not important. Watching the robot fetch and fold my clothes really is very tedious. But I literally have nothing else to do. I already memorised and then destroyed the instructions from Hero, and the serum is in the zipped pocket of my trousers. So with time on my hands and nowhere left for my mind to wander since I’ve exhausted all possible ways that it could go with Heather, it occurs to me now to worry about the part of the plan that I am not involved in and have no control over.
'P400, give me the weather forecast for the Channel this evening.’
‘Cloud cover is expected by 6pm, but with less than ten percent chance of rain. The temperature by 7pm will have dropped to 2 degrees. Warm clothing is advised.’
‘Okay, good.’ I say, nodding thoughtfully. ‘What about wind speed?’ My concern is of course for Starla base jumping into the water. Too much wind could throw her off course. Not enough and she’ll have to start the motor and control the wings to guide her down to the right spot. That’s a tall order for a first jump.
‘Average wind speed 7. Maximum wind speed 10. The Lina Bo is designed to withstand storms and winds in excess of eighty miles per hour.’
‘That’s perfect.’
‘Can I assist you with anything else Master?’
‘No, that’s all.’
I watch P400 pull out a khaki waterproof that I never wear, fold it into a neat little square and lay it in the case. The robot checks the fabric and calculates the weight of each item it collects, for warmth and suitability. But it has no sense of style and no concept of ‘favourite’. Right now, I’m wearing a thick knit grey jumper because I didn’t want it left out of the case. It’s the same style as the one I was wearing on the day of the fake attack. The old one I’d had for years was apparently blood stained, so disposed of. Earlier today, I remembered something. I remembered the way that Starla looked at me as we sat in The Tea House, a little while after Hero and I had questioned her in the alley. I was wearing the grey jumper then. I don’t think she approved of it, but somehow I think she approved of me. I recalled most of our conversation. This memory was the highlight of my day.
Though it’s not the original, the grey jumper is the only sentimental item I can be seen taking from the house for this ‘weekend’ trip that I might never return from. I look around the room at the furniture, the walls, the decor and my belongings. It’s not that I can’t imagine being away from here; I’ve been abroad many times before. But I know that if we make it to Italy, I might never make it back home. So I’m looking at everything that I own as if for the first time - as if I’ve taken everything for granted up u
ntil now. And maybe I had. My eyes land on a leather box on my dresser. I walk over, lift the lid and take out the vintage Rolex that my parents gave me on my 21st birthday. My mother called this morning but she couldn’t say anything of course. I think it was simply to hear the sound of my voice. My father rarely messages and never calls. I place the watch on my wrist. Admittedly, it never meant much to me. I don’t wear jewellery and timepieces have been redundant for years. But soon, I won’t have a chip to tell the time. And perhaps for the sake of nostalgia, I ought to take something to remember them by.
Chapter 10
By the time I arrive in Brighton the daylight has faded triggering the artificial street and paving lights to come on. I look up at the sky through the car window and glimpse the crescent moon visible only briefly between the fast paced, shredded clouds. A well defined, dark line separates the water from the navy sky. My visits to the coast are frequent and nostalgic and as the car draws nearer the complex, I feel a sudden inclination towards the white cliffs ahead. This landscape, instantly recognisable as home, could be the last I see of England for a very long time.
The car turns right then follows the fluorescent winding road leading down to the Marina. The village at night is a magnificent sight; a fully lit playground for the rich. The port celebrated its centenary last year, marked by a private party that I attended and an exhibition of memorabilia and photographs that included pictures of the old market, shops and restaurants that have come and gone in the last hundred years. The complex’s most striking feature is now its three uniform apartment tower blocks. Their design, loosely based on a ships rudder, can be seen from several miles on a clear day. The car pulls into the underground vehicle park and stops. I exit and wait for my case to slide out of the boot. It’s tipped upright onto its wheels, then there’s a flash in my left eye. I decline the remote offer of a baggage Bug to take my luggage, not out of fear of the mechanical servant spies, but because I can’t walk to the boat empty handed. I need a prop; something to do with my hands to stop me fiddling with the vial of serum in my right trouser pocket.
I look up to see Heather with a small case at her feet, standing on the quay beside the Lina Bo; a stunning two deck, white slim line cruiser with black windows at the central cockpit. Her hair is tied back but a few loose strands are gently being lifted by the wind. The air smells salty, carried by a sharp sea breeze. Further in the distance beyond the rows of other boats - not as distinct as Lina - the water sparkles silver white and I think what a perfect picture it would be if this was a real date. She grins and waves as I walk along the quay, pulling my case behind. Her dark woollen coat flaps open in a sudden gust, revealing a pair of smart slacks and much to my relief, flat boots. The harrowing vision I had of being brutally stamped on suddenly fades into insignificance. But then I notice the turtle neck jumper. That could be a problem, as access to her neck is essential. I might have to modify my plan. It never crossed my mind that her attire could potentially create a barrier to administering the serum.
‘Good evening.’ I say, stopping before her and parking my case.
‘Good evening. I’m glad you made it.’
‘I’m not late, am I?’
‘Oh no.’ She smiles wistfully, putting her hands in her coat pockets. ‘It’s just I thought you might change your mind at the last minute.’
‘Why would I do that?’ I say, stepping forward and brushing a red wave of hair from her face before kissing her cheek. I notice that she’s not wearing makeup. Perhaps a little pink on her lips; it’s hard to tell. But I know she’s fresh faced because I can see all of her freckles. I now consider that these natural markings and matching copper colour hair could be the only things about her that aren’t fake. She hunches her shoulders; feeling the cold as the wind picks up again.
‘Shall we board?’ I say, collecting both our cases and stepping onto the gangplank. I put down the luggage then offer my hand; unnecessary as the boat is magnetically docked and won’t move. But she takes it anyway and steps across.
I wave my hand across the black square, the door slides open and the lights come on. We mount the steps to the upper deck and central access cockpit which is also a large, open plan saloon. The heating was set to come on about an hour ago so we’re hit by warm air as we enter, and the smell of furniture polish. The interior is dark stained oak. Some of the wood is exposed; the rest of the interior is white laminate to match the leatherette seating and high gloss control desk. The Lina Bo is a converted antique yacht built in the 1980’s. The motor was once fuelled by diesel, but is now solar and electric. The only combustion engines left in FUSE and the UK are now in museums. Manual controls and steering remain, but are rarely used. A digital navigation system takes commands instead. I remove my coat and place it over one of the bar stools, situated at the stern.
‘Welcome aboard Master Inigo.’ Says Lina from above. ‘Welcome aboard Miss Heather Rhodes.’
Her voice is far more pleasant than P400’s and reassuringly familiar.
‘We’re due to set sail for France at 18:00 hours. Do you wish to keep to schedule?’
I quickly run through the instructions from Hero again. Heather must be asleep before we arrive at Beachy Head. That gives me twenty five minutes before the engine starts. If I don’t manage it before then, I’ll have around ten minutes journey time to carry out the essential task.
‘Is that okay with you Heather?’ I say, trying not to show that I’m now under pressure.
‘Yes, fine.’ She replies, removing her coat and looking around.
‘Please keep to the schedule Lina.’
‘Very good Master.’
I thought we’d eat when we arrive in France.’ I say. ‘Is that alright with you?’
‘Yes, I thought that might be the plan.’ She replies, seemingly distracted. She lays her coat across the couch, then slides her hands into her trouser pockets. ‘This boat is stunning.’ She remarks, looking around as if she’s never been aboard a luxury yacht before.
‘Yes, she is.’ I reply, folding my arms and observing her apparent wonderment. She must have sailed before, but perhaps not a relic like the Lina Bo. If her delight is genuine then I concur.
‘How old is the vessel?’ She asks.
‘Just over a hundred years.’
‘Wow.’ She replies, seemingly still awestruck. ‘The craftsmanship is impressive. I’ve never seen a restoration that combines the old with the new quite so exquisitely. Presumably she’s been in your family for generations?’
‘No, actually. My mother purchased her as a project before I was born.’
‘Your mother is a very talented woman.’
‘Yes, she is.’
She wanders over to the controls, then glides her fingers over the laminate framework until they reach the perfectly finished edge. I now wonder if I’m seeing the real Heather. Not the agent but the person - if the two are separable. I watch her closely as she takes in the details. Perhaps the real Heather loves boats and like me, has an eye for quality. Perhaps we could both be forgiven for temporarily losing ourselves in the moment - for taking time out from our respective missions to appreciate the allure of the setting and this glorious vessel, so expertly worked and seamlessly interwoven with the modern - as clearly she’s seduced by her surroundings. Or maybe I’m reading too much into it. An agent is essentially an actor. Deception is her talent; her skill. I can’t allow myself to think that she’s slipped out of character in a moment of what appears to be genuine enjoyment.
‘Would you like a tour?’ I ask, having already decided that I wouldn’t offer her a drink as it would cut into the time I have to put her to sleep.
‘Absolutely.’ she replies, then follows me to the steps, leading to the lower deck.
‘We'll start with the cabins then work our way up.’ I say, finding her hand behind me. Her hold is tighter than I’d expected it to be and her hands are cold. Half way down the stairs, Starla appears in my mind. The vision is not as striking as a flashback
; it’s not powerful enough to throw me off course. But for a second, it’s her hand I’m holding and a feeling of guilt rises up inside me as I imagine that Heather is not a spy, but simply the young daughter of the MP Victor Rhodes. An innocent, about to be sedated and left to wake alone on a yacht somewhere on the English Channel. I quickly shake off the thought because I can’t afford doubt at this stage. Either way, the deed must be done.
2079- Beyond the Blue Page 10