Tim Heath Thriller Boxset

by Tim Heath

  The Chinese were therefore at the talks to get whatever they could out of the process. Anything to work on, anyone who'd be prepared to talk. Chinese secret service personnel had been digging around for people they could turn. They had had many conversations with unsuspecting people who were unaware of what was being attempted. They had yet to find anyone who was high enough to know anything essential or, equally, willing to betray their country. They remained in the shadows, continuously active, but invisible.

  The four men and two women from the European Space Agency were there just to show their disgust, to look both the British and the Americans in the face, as if to say how dare you do this to us. From the European side, they felt betrayed by the British, who chose the US over them, though they were geographically much closer. British/US relations were not what they were fifty years ago. A strong Europe made for a stronger UK if they could only see it that way. And they were equally mad at the Americans, for doing cross Atlantic work, yet picking a partner as small as the UK and ignoring the rest of Europe. European/American cooperation would have been huge. It would have seen the strongest possible common market, and together they could have controlled the world. If there were to be any cracks in the age-old special relationship that both the British and the USA claimed they had, then the ESA was going to find it and failing that, they would make their own cracks and drive such a wedge into it, that it opened up a huge rift.

  The stage was set for an even more heated second day of discussions in the morning. Each group had its angle, each side its own agenda. They all knew something had to give, but none of them wanted to be the ones to give. There was too much at stake to show weakness. Now was the time to be strong, to make substantial demands, and be prepared to back that up with whatever seemed necessary.

  10

  Thirty Days Ago

  John had been able to obtain one of the two teams that he needed to help him gather data, and his boss persuaded finally after weeks of effort. The more information that came through, the more apparent things had become. John had needed to give up a lot of his report, which in his position made him feel vulnerable. He had, though, managed to keep hold of enough so that he remained the one calling the shots. Daily updates would have to be made, and the team were on lease to him for only a week. Unless strong results were shown, he had been warned, they would be coming back. But in truth, it was a slow week for news. His boss sensed, as John had also done at the beginning, that they were onto something huge. A team of four had been made available, along with an unmarked news van from the vehicle pool. It was fifty-five minutes after finally being granted the help that John had been in so much need of, that they were driving back out of the city, towards the RAF base. John was keen to show them the sights and bring them up to date. He'd shared with his boss what he had found out, and now he was sharing this news with the crew. Traffic was slow, queues common, as they made their way south. What John hadn't said, and wouldn't, was how he was getting the information. John liked to keep his cards close to his chest. That was why all the best reporters were also great poker players; it just came naturally.

  Two hours later they had seen all they could at the base, which was very little. Besides, John felt even more conspicuous in a transit van than he did in his car. It had given the crew an idea about things, but John needed them for their ability to help analyse everything. The data was more than anyone could handle on their own. Every time John had tried, there was always more at the end of his session than there had been hours before when he'd started. And this had been building to an uncontrollable level over the previous six weeks. He was worried that he would miss something, a vital piece of information that would give him clues as to what was going on. Miss a critical part of the puzzle.

  John decided against bringing them to his home. The van was spacious, though with minimal airflow. It was well equipped, and for short periods, with only about three people working there at a time, it was bearable. Much of their time would be spent sitting in a café, processing things, drinking coffee, having a cigarette. Usually in that order, though not always, and frustratingly for John, typically in cycles of only thirty minutes.

  After two days, with fresh data pouring in all the time, they were starting to get through the backlog a little and making some excellent progress. John's boss had already seen enough to grant an immediate week's extension to this project, even with five days left to run on his initial week. John felt encouraged, and the crew were good at what they did, being a specialist unit with a lot of experience, though they usually worked on some celebrity or a sleazy politician and occasionally a Royal. Still, the process of listening and waiting, recording information and processing data, was all the same. Now it was an RAF base; next month it could be anything.

  Present Day

  John lay in his bed, encouraged for the first time in a week. He'd just seen the specialist, a doctor who had come to talk with him about his long-term memory loss. He'd left now, and Lorna was back in the room.

  “How did it go?” she asked.

  “He says there is a chance that I will be able to regain my memory at some point. He's going to try some prompters on his next visit, things that might cause me to remember. He said the mind shuts down when we hurt ourselves, as the body's way of dealing with the situation. So we're going to have a go, but he did warn me not to get my hopes up or to think it'll be a quick, easy process. He also said that sometimes the memories are troubling. He once had a patient who had been this crazy, angry guy before he had a car crash. His post-crash-self was peaceful and happy, getting on with people. When he first started getting his thoughts back, it was hard for him. He saw that he'd been a monster, beating his wife. He understood why his family had not come to see him.” John paused at that, Lorna looking up at him, though his eyes were distant.

  “You are not a monster, John. That was not your life then, I'm sure of it.”

  “Well, the truth is, I guess we don't know. Not until I get the thoughts back if that is even possible. He did say they might not come back. The brain can cut these off forever, burying them so far that I'll never reach them in my conscious thoughts, only maybe in the occasional nightmare.”

  Lorna was listening as she got a needle ready, another injection needed for something, and he automatically held out his arm, as she injected him with the latest batch of drugs.

  “What about you, Lorna? Who are you?”

  Lorna smiled.

  “We've talked a little bit about this already. But...” and Lorna pulled up a chair and sat next to him. “I travelled a bit, certainly when I was still studying, and a little since. Central America was my favourite, working with street kids. These little ones had nothing. Dirty, and with no one looking after them. Some slept at the dump, some in parks, some in buildings. They grouped together, but this was more for protection than real companionship. Too many of them got into drugs and crime, and many were trafficked. It was horrible. Five and six-year-olds were looking after their younger siblings. It was heart-wrenching. We live in such wealth, and yet this is possible in the same world.” She was talking with real passion, with a freedom that John liked. She'd often been so careful and reserved. The good listener. Now it was John's turn, and he was enjoying being on his side of the conversation.

  “The job now means we travel less. We managed to get out to Venice, in Italy, some time back.” He knew where Venice was. “It was only a few days but was such a welcome time. The challenge with these breaks was that they were always so few and far between, and we were just getting rested, just getting into the holiday when it was time to come back, and work hit us once again with a vengeance. One week back and you'd feel like you'd never been away.” They both smiled at each other. It was nice to be talking about something different from their present situation.

  “Did you always want to be a nurse?”

  “When I was little my parents tell me I first wanted to be a fairy.” John laughed out loud.

  “What's so funny?�
�� Lorna asked with a grin.

  “Nothing. It's just I didn't have you down for the fairy wings and magic wand type. Thought you'd always been clear about helping people, like being a social worker or doctor, I guess.”

  “That came soon enough. When I was nine, we were out for food somewhere, when my big brother just started choking and coughing. He went blue and fell to the floor. He couldn't breathe. The look on my parents' faces was horrible. I was crying so much. Then a doctor came forward and just acted. She knew what to do. What she did saved his life that day. And from then on, I knew that was what I wanted to be. I wanted to know what to do if something like that ever happened around me. And so it's what I became from that moment on, and all I ever wanted to be. I guess it was when I stopped being a little girl and started thinking like a grown-up.”

  “That sounded horrible. And you were only nine? What about the rest of your childhood?”

  “As I said, that's when I started thinking like a grown-up. Doctors don't play with Barbie dolls, they save lives. So that's what I was going to do.” She caught herself, in how intensely she'd been speaking, how severe it had all become. John was a good listener, but she knew she needed to stop.

  “But, look at me, making you all sad now for the girl who grew up before her time. At least you know that I've been training a long time for this moment!” She was smiling and joking with him. It lightened the mood, and now John was smiling again.

  One Year Ago

  The second day of negotiations was well underway, with most of the delegations in for the nine-thirty start. The excesses of the previous night still showed on some and had kept some others away, but only temporarily. Last night's gathering had broken just after midnight, the glasses no longer being refilled, and the crowd, which had remained peaceful all evening, getting the hint. Tired from their long day anyway, and with another full day ahead of them, it was a welcome end to what had been a non-stop roller coaster. They'd get what rest they could, their convoys taking them to the various hotels where they were staying. Talk had been slow on the way back and on the road in that morning.

  In the morning session there was a break for refreshments around eleven. Freshly brewed coffee sat in jugs on a red covered table, and the Americans were at least satisfied with what they were drinking. Usually coffee was quite bad at these type of meetings, and the Americans knew that Brits preferred tea instead, and therefore did not understand what decent coffee was. The coffee was African, as were the catering team. It had escaped everyone's attention, including the British who'd hired the caterers, as well as the Americans who'd been taking care of security, that about half of the crew of caterers were South African or Nigerian Secret Service, working together as a powerful African coalition. With food and drink abounding, the conference room frequently replenished with plates of food and bottles of water and juice, it was easy for them to listen in on something they'd been left out of altogether. Their cover was good as this was the first time they'd ever met as a whole and each agent was only aware of maybe one other agent in the crew. This was the way they worked and it was proving very effective. Three years back they'd infiltrated an Indian run operation in Colombia, which had been working with drugs, amongst other things. Three Indian agents were found dead, the drugs gone and a warehouse full of weapons was handed over to local government forces. No one knew that the whole cartel had been drugged and secretly smuggled back to Africa for interrogation to an unknown location, which was just the way they liked to work. The Indians had been warned off, and now Africa was learning how to make more money from it.

  The next session before lunch was easy going. Everyone knew that the financing section and product review, which was happening after lunch, was going to be where things got interesting. The British knew this was going to be hard. Costs were rising, with the Americans already putting in much more than their share, but the UK had nothing left to give. They were most nervous about the information relating to the product. The Chinese had to be kept at arm's length, and it was being worked out how this was going to happen. It was deemed best if they could be removed from the day altogether, but that was just wishful thinking. It had been the British who'd invited them in the first place, though, of course, they had no real choice. To have done anything else would have been to have admitted what they'd done. If the Chinese were to accuse the British of theft, it was possible that anything could happen, even war.

  “Quite a time we are having,” said the head of the American delegation to his British counterpart, as they stood next to an open window, a plate of sandwiches in their hands.

  “Yes, and we all know what's coming next,” he replied.

  “You know we will not put any more money into this?” the American said.

  “Who says we'll need it?” came the unconvincing reply.

  “We know where things stand. Our question is, who are you thinking about bringing into this thing? Because that might cause us a problem.”

  “I don't know what you mean, and you should check your sources. Last time I looked, you weren't doing too well either back home. You know what they say about a house divided.”

  The American smiled for a moment, but only to acknowledge a well-delivered counter.

  “I'm just saying we need to work together on this and tread carefully.”

  The British knew this only too well.

  “I think we know what we are doing.”

  “Do you?” came the challenge, the American raising his voice enough, a flash of red coming across his cheeks. He held his gaze on his counterpart for a moment, his face fixed and gave nothing away before he smiled a little, and just like that, moved on to lesser things. They finished what was on their plates, both excused themselves, and went their separate ways. Ten minutes later the discussions were back underway, though as soon as they started to talk, there was a call put through to the room, and it rang for a few moments before the Americans, acting as the chair for this session, picked it up slowly. The room was quiet.

  Present Day

  John was awake and reading through a novel he'd been given, though he wasn't looking too impressed with it as Lorna walked in.

  “This takes a bit of getting used to,” he said, putting the book on the bed. Lorna knew what he meant, but said anyway:

  “What the book or me walking in on you?” She was smiling at him, and he knew what she meant.

  “I appreciated our conversation earlier,” he said. Lorna paused as she was folding some blankets, putting them back where they belonged. “It was good hearing about your adventures in Central America, working with the street children. You took me to somewhere else, somewhere far away, anywhere but here. It was nice.” She could imagine anything was better than where he was.

  “Well, you have the book,” she said, subtly diverting the conversation away from herself.

  “Yes, it's a slow starter, but I'll read it through. You never know––it might pick up. Are there any more from where this came from?”

  “I'm sure there are. I'll ask around for you.”

  “Do you read much?” he asked.

  “I have been known to, yes. However, it doesn't always fit with my working life. My mind gets too crammed with everything, so I tend to wait for a holiday and then read a good book I've heard about.”

  “By a good book, you mean something mushy, I guess?” John was smiling up at her.

  “Not always,” she replied, leaving it at that.

  Grabbing some fresh bandages, she came over to him.

  “I'm going to need to change these again today, to see how you are healing.”

  “Okay, thanks. Can I get a wash or something? A change of clothes? I feel very grubby in this same stuff all day.”