by Sam Nash
“Nonsense. They’ll be fine if they get out of the way. It’s perfectly safe.” He was posturing, exhibiting his importance and perceived superiority.
“And the infirm and elderly protesters who cannot move as quickly as the more able?” Mary reared up at the politician, spitting her question through clenched teeth.
The governor did not answer.
“I mean it, Zak, call them off. It’s barbaric and completely unnecessary.”
The flat antennae repositioned again, ready to fire more bursts into the fleeing crowds. An older woman tripped and fell, knocking her head on a rock during the landing. Within her unconscious state, the invisible beam continued to cook her from a distance of two hundred yards. Blisters the size of golf balls bubbled and popped with the prolonged exposure.
“Stop them, now!” Luca bellowed. He turned to Mary. “Call emergency services. I’ll go down and see what I can do to help them.” He rounded on the governor again. “For god sake, call off the guards.”
Governor Zak Cooper waved his cell phone above his head, straining to see the absence of bars on the screen indicating signal strength. Luca ran towards the terrace steps but Mary called after him, halting him in his tracks.
“I don’t have access to a land line phone.”
“Use the one in the study. Door code is nine, five, one, nine, eight, one. Do it straight away.” He ran down the steps two at a time, and disappeared from view. Mary skirted the lounge furniture and hurried through to the secure door key pad, barring access to Luca’s private study. Sympathy for the injured and her thirst for knowledge spurred her on. As she punched in the numbers he had shouted. Nine, five, one, nine, eight, one… No way. She released what it meant. The ninth day of the fifth month, nineteen eighty-one…the day I was born. Mary shuddered. How much did he know of her background, and for how long? Her heart thumped in her chest as she stepped closer to his desk. First things first. That poor woman needs an ambulance. Dialling the emergency services, Mary told the operator as much as she knew, and asked if there was any possibility of sending an air ambulance, or the coast guard helicopter. The operator listened to the story and suggested that the Home Guard re-direct the Chinook to deliver the woman to the nearest Emergency Room. Mary did not think that a likely course of action, since they were the cause of the severe burns, and would claim no responsibility for their actions. She was out of options and of plausible reasons to offer up in explanation. The fate of the burned Christian was in the lap of her God.
With Luca busy at the gates and his guests looking on from the terrace, Mary risked a quick scan of his study. She guessed that anything too divisive would be under lock and key, long before the governor was permitted entry, but she could not miss the chance to snoop. The in-trays of brushed steel were laden with paperwork. A quick flick through them informed her that it was a stack of orders and subsequent shipments of wines, cleaning fluids and raw ingredients. Other files showed the enormous costs of transporting the cases of Luca’s finest across the world. Everything appeared to be perfectly fitting for the manager of a family vineyard. It’s obvious he would not have told me the door code if there was anything incriminating for me to see. Luca is much too careful for that. A quick examination of the room showed that he was as neat and tidy in his work dealings as with his wardrobe. Even the framed diplomas and winery awards were mounted to fit a precise rectangle on the far wall.
With a disappointed sigh, she moved towards the door. As she ambled, a logo for a meteorological supplies company caught her attention. It showed a cumulus cloud, bisected with a wind vane. Half of the A4 sheet was masked with papers, piled on the opposite side of Luca’s desk. Mary tugged the paper clear of the rest of the letters. She read through the top section at speed, and then went through it a second time, looking for the company or people responsible for the order. None were present. All that she could discern, was that it was an invoice for five hundred high altitude weather balloons, to be delivered to the tiny town of Summerfield, New Jersey.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The implications of this information took a few moments to slot into place. The hydrogen gas generation, shielded alternative technologies, the high-altitude weather balloons and Alexi’s test flights at the retreat, the transportation of nuclear material all pointed towards one conclusion. They were planning a global attack on electrical equipment emitting harmful frequencies. A choreographed series of electromagnetic pulses to fry all circuitry, barring those protected underground. The Summerfield Retreat was no military training ground, it was an end of days compound, and Luca was funding them.
Mary’s mind ran through the multitude of systems and life-preserving services which would be wiped out during the attacks; hospitals, emergency services, public transportation… the list was endless. Inside her head, she recalled her brother’s voice as he read out a passage from her grandfather’s journal. The same passage that predicted disaster on a cataclysmic scale, but when and where would it take place? If she had any chance of stopping them, she needed the details. Returning to her senses, she found herself hyperventilating. Grampy’s premonition was right. These lunatics are going to plunge the western world back into the dark ages. I wish that wise old bird was with me now. He would know what to do. Okay, think, Mary. What would Grampy do? She sat heavily in Luca’s office chair, glancing periodically over her shoulder at the corridor beyond the open door. He would keep calm, and search for dates, times, places, potential targets.
With something concrete to focus on, Mary opened each of the drawers in the single filing cabinet and those in the desk, but found nothing but stationary. She found his appointment diary in a zipped leather portfolio on the shelves behind her. A quick flick through its contents revealed a packed itinerary of meetings, committees and appointments. None shed any light on Luca’s side line of terrorism. She levered the laptop lid open, and watched the software cycle through its greetings. A finger tap on the track pad brought a log on screen to the fore. There was no time to figure out password combinations. She hammered in her birthday digits in a futile bid to unlock the contents. It warned her of the consequences of repeated password failures. She was about to try Luca’s daughter’s name, when she heard loud footsteps approaching. Slamming shut the computer, Mary tucked the chair beneath the desk just as Viktor reached the doorway.
“How did you get in here? This is out of bounds.” His growl was particularly vehement.
“Luca gave me the code. An ambulance is on its way for that injured woman by the gates.” Mary stepped around Viktor, who scanned the room for any evidence of tampering. She could feel his scowl boring a hole in the back of her head like the microwave emitter of the National Guard. Hurrying back through the lounge, she found the governor helping himself to more bourbon on the terrace. They stood together for a moment, Zak watching the commotion at the gates with an obscene amount of pride, and Mary clinging to her bathrobe looking on in horror. The Chinook was silhouetted against the coral skies of the setting sun, its roar reverberated in her chest as it took off, hovered momentarily, and finally lifted the truck clear of the ground. Leaves, powdered dirt and twigs all swirled in a funnelled-up draft, coating everything in debris. All that remained, were the injured and a TV crew, delighted to have captured the entire scene, plus the added bonus of the Californian Senator attempting to administer first aid to the afflicted.
“Where did all the Christians go?” Mary ventured. The governor shrugged his response, grabbing a handful of the freshly delivered buffet morsels, and cramming them into his dribbling mouth.
Mary wandered back to the guest apartment and sat on the bed. She considered her jeans, laying over the back of an occasional chair, her trainers on the floor beneath. If I run now, I may never find out when and where they will strike. If I stay, I am in danger of Luca reading my thoughts. How can I behave as though I am unaware of their plans? I am worse than useless at acting as if everything is fine. The memory of her grandfather’s vision flitted through h
er mind. He saw iconic buildings and structures from cities across Europe and America fall. This attack was meant for the entire western hemisphere, perhaps even more. He recounted the sight of impaled children, explosive fires at electrical sub-stations, colossal crashes on highways and roads.
She knew what a large EMP could achieve. Aircraft would fall from the sky, train signals would fail, life support as we know it, would cease to be - permanently. No economies, no banks, no food distribution, nor water, nor sewage treatment. It would take mere hours, rather than days, for civilised behaviour to disintegrate into the chaos of every man for himself.
Mary shook herself alert. She shed the bathrobe and slipped into her black evening dress, pinning Phebe’s brooch to the neckline.
“There but for the grace of God, go I.” A favourite quote of her father’s, whenever he was battling with her mother. She inhaled a long, slow breath and released it through pursed lips. “I can do this.” She stepped into her new sling backs and marched from the room.
Mary re-joined the governor, helping herself to a stiff drink from the hospitality tray. Together, they watched Luca shake hands with the paramedics arriving first at the scene. Floodlit and holding a fluffy microphone in his scarred hand, Luca talked his way through an impromptu interview with the reporter at the scene, his brow furrowed in mock concern. Mary could imagine what propaganda spilled from his fake smiles, in an attempt to bolster his popularity further still. He would gush with messages of support for those injured and point the finger of blame squarely at the Home Guard. After he had extracted every ounce of media coverage possible, he took a direct route up the hillside, through vines and rough ground, climbing the last few feet like a mountain goat, up to the patio.
Luca held Mary loosely around the waist, dipping low to speak quietly into her ear. “I have to shower and change. Can you welcome the guests as they arrive? I saw a couple of limos heading this way a minute ago.” He didn’t wait for her to respond. He bounded down the corridor to the guest apartment and slammed the door behind him.
Mary stood at the top of the terrace steps, shaking hands and directing guests towards the catering staff for drinks. The first few visitors made mention of the emergency services crew bundling victims into several ambulances. Their inquisition provided an excellent means of deflection, should any of the visitors recognise her as Miracle Mary. Her nerves began to dissolve the moment she realised that most of the guests already knew one another. It was a tight circle of friends, acquaintances and political adversaries, each attending the same gatherings month in month out. Mary was the outsider, and that was her preferred status.
The only guest that Mary actively avoided was CEO of global pharmaceutical giant, Bernice Feinstein. Bernice, however, had other ideas.
“Hey, Mary. I wondered whether I would catch you here…” She broadcast her greeting across the crowds milling about in the lounge. Mary looked for an escape route, but she was fleet of foot. With her arm held out towards Mary’s chest, she could not feasibly rebuff her with so many onlookers. Mary took her hand and gave it a perfunctory shake, and then dropped it as though it scalded her skin.
“Bernie. Fancy seeing you here.” It was as toneless and sarcastic as she could manage. Mary stopped just short of an eye-roll. “You certainly get about the place, don’t you?”
“As do you. Guest of the most eligible Indian nobleman one minute, then of the most eligible and gorgeous man on the west coast the next. You sure set your sights high. Kudos.” Bernie stood towering over Mary, in spiked heels that gave her an extra four inches above her naturally tall frame.
“What do you want, Bernie? Why are you here?”
“Me? I came to enjoy myself. Luca’s parties are legendary, and this one seems to have started before his guests arrived.” She tucked her tongue into her cheek and winked. “Come on… dish the gossip. What’s all this I hear about Chinooks and the army and some sort of ray gun?”
“I’m sure you will be able to see it all in glorious Technicolour later. There was a camera crew at the scene.” As much as she loathed the woman, Bernie did seem to have all the insider knowledge. It grieved her to ask, but Mary just had to know. “How is Karan? Have you seen him?”
“My dear girl… Shrimant Shinde has scurried back to India with his tail between his legs. What did you do to the poor boy? Crushed his heart, after he was courageous enough to offer it to you…?” She dragged a cerise acrylic nail across her forehead, inching the lacquered blond fringe away from her eyes.
Mary thought about her response. She wanted to say that it was not her fault, that events had overtaken them before she had the chance to explain or to make amends, but the truth caught in her throat. Karan reminded her too much of her ex-husband. She was just starting to feel the liberation of making her own choices and decisions, after her split with Parth. She could not let Karan wrap her up in cotton wool and neuter her hard won freedom. In retrospect, she realised that she should have discussed her concerns, instead of railing against him like a petulant teen. Bernice Feinstein was waiting for her answer, sipping a cocktail that was little more than coloured vodka.
“If you do see him, please tell him that I am sorry… for everything.” Mary hung her head in shame. There was nothing she could do to make things right, and no way of contacting him.
Bernice raised a single brow, narrowing her eyes in analysis. She must have concluded that Mary was genuinely contrite, since she lowered her voice and said, “my offer still stands. Your own department, pick your own team of researchers and name your salary. I like a woman who’ll stand up to the establishment. Mary, you got balls.” She downed another inch of vodka, slapped her hand on Mary’s back and pushed her towards a group of people on the patio. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
One of the women in the gathering was familiar. Was it the head flick to accentuate her thick and shiny copper locks, or the tiny freckles decorating the bridge of her nose?
“Hey everyone, this little stick of dynamite is Mary. She’s staying here with Luca. She’s a Brit.” Bernice aimed a paw at each the people in the circle, listing their names and occupations in turn. Mary heard only one. The name of Philippa Chambers, heiress to the Chamber’s fortune and US media chain. Where have I seen her before? Think, Mary.
“Hi there. Good to meet you.”
“And you, Phillipa. Do you know, I have the oddest feeling that we’ve met before.” Mary confessed.
“Really? Can’t think when. And hey, call me Pip. Everyone does.”
As Mary extended her hand towards Philippa, a chill ran down the length of her spine. She is the one who took the memory stick from Flynn at JFK; the now dead and frozen Intelligence Agent Flynn. Did Alexi also witness the exchange? Did Philippa get him killed? So, she has ties with MI6. I wonder if Yelena knows her? Maybe she is also an agent, but undercover. I simply cannot call her Pip. That is Grampy’s name.
A similar looking older woman called to Philippa from across the room. They shared the same bone structure and texture of their hair, even if the older woman required chemical enhancements to support the flaming red colour. Philippa looked heavenward at the summons, and then addressed Mary and Bernice.
“Would you excuse me, ladies?” She twisted her mouth in an approximated smile. “Yes, mother. What is it now?”
Her mother, of course. That makes sense.
Luca skipped into the room, straightening his collar. He tucked his hand into the impression above Mary’s hip and kissed her cheek. “Thanks for that.”
Mary couldn’t help but beam. For all his devious and underhanded dealings, he still trusted her capabilities more than any other man in her life. He glared at the mother-daughter duo and leaned into Mary’s ear. “Be careful what you say to those two.”
“How so?” She whispered back.
“They who control the media, control the hopes and fears of the nation.”
“Mmm, quite. I’ve had enough of hack reporters to last me a lifetime.”
Luca propelled himself away from Mary, into a natural clearing among the guests and grabbed a glass of fizz from the tray of a waiter. “Ladies and gentlemen, you have my sincere apologies for my tardiness. Thank you all for coming. I hope that you have availed yourself of my best wines and spirits. There’s more where that came from so don’t be shy, fill up. Let us toast to success in the upcoming mid-terms - cheers!” Luca guzzled half the contents of his glass down and watched the crowd. They mirrored him, with a rousing ‘cheers’ in response. “Please, everyone, the buffet is open so dig in and let’s make this a night to remember.”
The older red head stepped forward. “From what we hear, senator. You have already made this a night that no God-fearing Christian will ever forget. You and the governor’s little stunt earlier, will make our viewing figures rocket, so cheers for that. Advertising revenue alone will be enough for another condo in Malibu.”
“You’re all heart, Tawnie, you know that? It was not my idea. Zak made the decision alone.”
“So, the team at the scene tell me. Makes for a hot story whichever way you look at it. I should thank you for keeping all my publications and broadcasting houses so busy of late. Are you auditioning for the role of Superman, by any chance?” Those guests surrounding the media boss edged further from her side and sucked in air.
“You’re the only woman I know who can make a compliment sound like an insult.”
“It’s a talent I have.” Her stance was wide and confident, her hand perched on her jutted hip. She knew how to work a room for all its worth. Every visitor and staff member focused on her jibes. Mary looked first at Luca and then at Tawnie, sizing up the depth of their dislike for one another. Was it a superficial hatred, borne from the role each of them played in the deviating political landscape, or a more personalised malice? Surely the aim of a senator would be to keep the controllers of news outlets placated, or bribed, whichever action could bring about the desired outcome? As she was assessing this peculiar relationship, Mary failed to notice Tawnie’s shift of focus. Her gaze now fell directly on Mary. There was a moment of puzzlement, then of appraisal, and finally of recognition. “When were you going to tell us all that you have been harbouring Miracle Mary?”