He could hear the metronomic crack crack of gunshots.
Was the psycho firing randomly into the crowd? He was trying to flush them out!
His left hand was at the entrance where the bottleneck of people trying to squeeze through the small entrance arch had built up.
He hoped Julie was already out.
The additional gunshots were making a bad situation worse. There was nothing for it now: he could no longer get through on hands and knees, and if he stood up straight he was liable to have his head blown clean off.
He raised himself to a crouching position and thought back to his teenage years of having to play rugby at an all-boys school. He had always been tall for his height, which meant they had stuck him in the scrum. Now, unbelievably, the training would pay off. From a crouched position, he launched himself towards the hips of the people in front of him, his arms snaking out wide to encompass the two people in front of them. He executed a series of short but powerful heaving motions, which helped to force the bunched people through the gap more rapidly. The adrenaline surged and his lunges became more powerful as he saw the light on the other side.
The gap was immediately closed behind him, so hopefully the killer could still not see him. With one huge effort he pushed through, and the two rows of people in front of him all spilled and fell onto the causeway bricks outside the exit.
Jonathan fell on the two people he had been heaving against. They both looked thoroughly confused at what had just happened, but also realized that they were outside.
One of them turned to speak to Jonathan, but he did not hear as he was already getting up to start running.
His only thought was to get away from the entrance as fast as possible.
With the firing into the crowd, people would start running back up the paths again, and this would help to clear the courtyard.
Then the killer would not only block off the only way out, but also be able to see who was running outside the complex.
He had to get to Julie before this happened.
The adrenaline was still pumping as he sprinted for his life over the length of the causeway. Once he got halfway, his desperately searching eyes picked her out.
She had made it.
Her dark hair was billowing in the breeze, and she had tears in her eyes as she looked towards him. His legs should have been tired by now, but he seemed to complete the second half of the journey over the causeway quicker than the first.
He weaved his way through other running people who had also made it out. Looking ahead to the car park, he could see that it was pandemonium – a traffic snarl-up of too many cars trying to get out at once. They wouldn’t be able to get their car out quickly, even if they managed to get back to it uninjured.
Julie’s eyes grew wide with alarm when she saw that Jonathan wasn’t slowing down as he came racing towards her.
‘Follow me!’ he yelled, grabbing her hand as he ran. Julie was jerked forward and stumbled slightly, before breaking into a run to keep up with him. They headed away from the main car park at a forty-five-degree angle.
‘But the car is that way!’ Julie yelled over the wind.
‘We’ll never get out in the car. I’ve got a better idea – just follow!’ Jonathan shouted over his shoulder.
Julie looked ahead to see what they were running towards.
A congregation of white Lego-like structures lay ahead.
The bus park.
She saw his plan. The buses had their own very large exit, and some of them wouldn’t leave without their full tour party on board. But most of the tour parties were being shot at, back in the citadel. The majority of buses were moving, starting to leave, impelled by the urgency of the passengers or drivers already on them who by this time knew about the shootings. The buses were still getting out of the exit as there were fewer of them, by contrast with the car park, which was log-jammed at its exit by too many cars trying to get out at once.
The escapees could either jump on a bus getting ready to leave, or – worst-case scenario – commandeer one themselves.
Once they were in the bus park Jonathan made straight for a large white coach, which had an open side door in the middle where a cluster of elderly people were remonstrating with a young man in a company uniform.
They slowed to a breathless walk as they came up behind the group, and casually stood behind them while trying to edge towards the open door.
It was apparent from the conversations they could hear that the young man was the driver who had a civil war on his hands between two factions of his elderly American passengers.
‘We just need to get on the bus and go,’ a terrified old lady was saying to the driver. ‘We could hear gunshots – we need to get out of here.’
‘Not so fast, honey, we’ve paid for a full day trip here – we’ll need some kind of refund,’ another insisted in a shrill voice.
The driver held up his hands, trying to quell the voices. ‘I do think it’s best if we all get on the bus and go now,’ he said.
Jonathan and Julie had edged their way right to the door of the bus, and the old people were so preoccupied that nobody even noticed them. They slipped inside and Jonathan motioned Julie towards the toilet door next to them in the stairwell. It was one of those capacious toilets that have become standard in modern luxury buses. It had ‘Not in use’ written on a piece of paper and taped to the door. Julie nodded and gave the thumbs-up: it was the perfect hiding place to give them some time to recover, and they didn’t want anyone to know they were on the bus until it was a long way from its present location.
As they were squeezing into the toilet cubicle, they could hear the bus driver losing his patience and yelling at the passengers outside: ‘ Fine! You’ll all get a half-day credit. Now get on the bus, because it’s leaving in thirty seconds, whether you’re on it or not!’
23
Brittany
Crammed inside the toilet with the door shut and locked behind them, there was barely space for Jonathan and Julie to stand together. Their faces were very close to one another.
The bus lurched forward as it started its journey. Jonathan fell backwards onto the closed toilet seat. Julie fell forward and placed her arms above his head to steady herself.
‘I can’t stand any more, sorry,’ Julie said after a few seconds, and turned to sit on his lap, her legs at right angles across his. Neither knew where to put their hands. Jonathan splayed his out wide against the sides to steady himself against the rocking of the bus. Julie did the same. Their fingertips were touching.
The swaying of the bus kept bringing their faces close together. Both their hearts were still pounding and running hot with adrenaline after their close escape. Their eyes locked together, and neither of them could avoid it or bear it any longer. Their lips locked passionately, and their arms came off the walls to embrace each other. The intimate meeting of their mouths and hands was an incredible release for both of them.
They kissed and caressed for what seemed an age.
The passage of time seemed to have slowed, and neither knew how long they had been intertwined. Eventually, their mouths separated and they just held each other tightly, seeking comfort in the madness.
After an hour or so the bus slowed to a halt.
They opened the toilet door and stepped out. Their limbs were stiff and sore from being in the same position for too long, but they were both sad to be leaving their little plastic cocoon of togetherness and apparent safety.
As they closed the toilet door behind them, in time to see the hydraulics of the main outside door engage, and daylight creep in, they saw an old lady looking at them from the top of the stairs where the seats were.
Jonathan pulled Julie closer to him as together they faced the stern-looking geriatric.
‘Gosh,’ Jonathan said loudly. ‘We appear to have gotten on to the wrong bus, honey! I apologise.’ He tilted his head in acknowledgment, then turned and bolted outside with Julie in tow. Once they slowed t
o a casual walk, they could see that the bus had stopped in a pretty little coastal resort. A promenade snaked away from them to separate the ocean from the land. The town’s main road was behind the promenade, and there were clusters of typical small shops selling food and assorted tourist trinkets. Julie spied a patisserie and led Jonathan there by hand. With fresh bread and cheese in bags under their arms, they walked up the promenade till they found a wooden bench to sit on, where they could eat and figure out what to do next.
‘How do you think that crazy man found us?’ Julie asked, as she broke her bread into little pieces and matched them up with similar-sized pieces of cheese.
‘I was just thinking about that,’ Jonathan replied, his mouth half full.
He was really hungry, ripping off hunks of bread and cheese alternately and shovelling them into his mouth. He hoped his feeding method was not offending Julie’s French sensibilities.
‘The only thing I can think of is that they put a tracker on your car,’ he said.
‘Really?’ Julie’s eyes widened.
‘Yes, we know these guys have some serious resources. They probably put one on the car of every employee who works for the organisation in Paris. Just in case I contacted one of them. It worked, too.’
‘Wow ...’ was all Julie could say. She chewed slowly and thoughtfully as she looked out over the sparkling azure water.
‘It also confirms that they’re being helped by someone, or a few people, high up in the organisation. At least high enough up to get an employee list of everyone working in Paris.’
‘So leaving my little car behind was the best thing then.’
‘Indeed,’ Jonathan said. ‘That was a close escape back there.’
Julie placed her food down on the bench beside her, and turned to face him fully.
‘So?’ she asked, her eyes sparkling. ‘What’s our next move?’
‘Well,’ Jonathan said, rapidly chewing and swallowing at the same time so that he could speak clearly. ‘I have to get to Madrid to see two strange people who may be able to help me. You are going to get on a bus and go somewhere quiet in France where you’ve never been before. I know we’ve been through this before, but that was too damn close back there – I don’t want to put you in any more danger.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Julie asserted, her eyes flaring. ‘You aren’t the boss of me. I decide where I go and what I do. I want to help.’
‘But –’
‘I’m determined in this,’ continued Julie. ‘We’re together in this. They’ll probably pick me up by myself, and take me God knows where. I have the same chance running with you, so I’d rather take that option. Plus, I can be a big help; like asking questions in hotels and on phones. I mean, come on Jonathan, I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re clearly English Rosbif from one thousand yards! Even in Spain I’ll get better service than you!’ She burst out laughing and tossed her hair back. As she did so, Jonathan couldn’t help but smile. He knew it was true.
‘I know that makes sense,’ he said, still wanting to persevere with the logical intention of getting her out of harm’s way. ‘But I still think ...’
‘No! None of your English “buts”, I’m coming with you.’
Jonathan turned to face her fully as well.
‘Julie, listen, they’re mainly looking for me. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.’
‘Aww, how sweet. Is that really why you want me to leave?’
Jonathan could feel himself blushing. He felt like a gawky fifteen-year-old on his first date.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You knew all along, you just wanted to make me say it, didn’t you?’
‘Oui,’ she said, smiling, before leaning in and giving him a long, lingering kiss. ‘And you can say what you like,’ she whispered when their lips parted, ‘I’m still coming with you.’
‘Okay, okay. We still stick together,’ he said.
‘A partnership,’ she replied, smiling.
‘Yup, partners in survival and finding the truth. But I think it would help if you changed your appearance somewhat. And also, here –’ he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a wad of folded banknotes. ‘Here’s half the cash I have. If we see anyone like that guy from earlier, or anyone else acting suspiciously towards us, you must run as fast as you can. Take a train to a part of France you’ve never been to before, and stay out of contact till this is all over and in the media. Okay?’
‘Okay,’ she agreed as he handed over the money. ‘If it makes you happy.’
‘Good. It does make me happy. You promise, now.’
Julie held up her hand. ‘I, Julie Allanguillarme, do promise to run away if we see another assassin.’
Jonathan was glad she had said her surname. He had trouble remembering it, as it was one of those French surnames an Englishman should not even attempt to pronounce.
They both smiled, and he took her hand out of the sky and held it in his. She turned and shuffled a bit closer to him on the bench. They both looked out over the glittering sea together, holding hands.
After a time, Julie placed her head on his shoulder. For a small moment in time, Jonathan felt at peace.
He savoured the moment.
‘Do you think we should go to the media?’ Julie asked softly.
Disturbed from his reverie, he thought about it for a while.
‘Uh, no. For a couple of reasons. One, I completely distrust them – always twisting stories just to get a headline. Secondly, we have absolutely zero proof of anything right now. Even if we were protected and hidden, it’s our word and some circumstantial evidence against one of the most powerful and cash-rich organisations in the world. They’d have a hundred lawyers dispatched within the hour.’
‘Mmm, okay.’ Julie shrugged her shoulders lightly, accepting the explanation.
‘The more pressing question is how are we going to get to Madrid?’
He straightened his back slightly to look up and down the promenade, in search of inspiration or ideas. Further down the promenade on their left, he could see a bunch of teenagers huddled in a circle in front of a car parked right up to the wall of the seafront.
‘C’mon,’ Jonathan said, patting Julie’s hand and starting to lift her up. ‘I’ve got an idea.’
They walked over to the car to see that it was a beaten-up old Renault Five. As they got closer, Jonathan could smell through the air that the kids were smoking marijuana.
‘That’s an interesting flower,’ he said, sniffing the air.
Julie giggled.
They turned to the group of kids, who were all dressed in tracksuits, caps and hoods. They were all clearly high, sitting on the sand, doing sweet nothing in the middle of the afternoon.
The car could not be worth more than a couple of hundred euros. He walked to the edge of the seafront wall and in broken, high-school French, asked who owned the car. He was hoping this exchange would be completed quickly. One particularly stoned and snickering kid, bedecked in a white tracksuit from neck to ankle, half raised his hand.
Jonathan waved four hundred euros at him, and pointed from the car to himself. The kid’s eyes widened, as if trying to stay in proportion with his massively dilated pupils. That was a lot of money in this town. Jonathan said ‘Key’, and the kid groggily stood up and handed it over. He handed over the money and the kid half sat, half fell back onto the sand, while waving the wad of cash in the air as though he had just clinched the greatest financial deal of the decade.
Donald Trump, eat your heart out, Jonathan thought as he waved Julie over and they jumped in the car. He turned the key and it spluttered and jerked twice before finally coughing into life.
‘How’s this thing even legal?’ Jonathan asked as he reversed it out onto the road.
‘This car is a French icon!’ exclaimed Julie.
‘It certainly is,’ laughed Jonathan, as he directed the car onto the main road out of town. ‘And it only gets better as we now head to Spain.’
24
California
Deep within a large, dark forest in northern California, a hundred out-of-shape men, very powerful and very drunk, were running around campfires like college kids.
It was the annual meeting of the ‘Elite Burning Crew’. Once a year, at an appointed time, a very secretive club all met to build their network, get thoroughly hammered on alcohol, and eventually burn a huge straw effigy – usually of the leading Democrat of the time.
You had to be invited into the society – and for that, you had to be born and raised in the right places. With the decline over time of the Freemasons and the Illuminati, this was the only unofficial club left.
Around one particular blazing fire in a very specific clearing, seven robed figures were discussing what would happen in major world affairs.
Roscoe Ickes was sitting on a rock, looking deeply into a crystal tumbler of Hennessy cognac.
Chris Calhoun, head of the CIA, was standing next to him and using Ickes’s shoulder as a support pole.
The other men present were Randy Schweinburger, US Secretary of State, Bob Wecksler, head of the New York Stock Exchange, Dick Newman, the US president’s former college room-mate and head of a manufacturing consortium, and Chuck Shloer, CEO of one of the planet’s largest software companies. Chuck was also head of the ‘Creative Industries Body’, which oversaw the export of American culture to the rest of the world in the form of films, television and software games.
Calhoun watched Randy Schweinburger start to dance around the fire and play tag with Bob Wecksler. Dick Newman and Chuck Shloer, two more captains of American industry, soon joined in the frivolity.
Chris Calhoun’s jacket beeped and he fished out his mobile phone. He punched in a code and his brow furrowed as he read the message on the screen:
22:00 Update: No new developments in Europe on Mitchell case – Intel drying up from oil companies.
‘Hey, guys!’ Calhoun yelled as he put the phone away. ‘We need to talk.’
‘About what?’ asked Bob Wecksler. ‘The rumours in the brotherhood about who’s going to be the next president?’
Transition Page 12