by O M Faure
‘You are getting ahead of yourself, DeAnn. It’s not up to you to second-guess another staff member’s worth and I should be grateful if you left the selection process to the Board. Who we hire and how we train them is none of your concern. This is the correct result. It’s your attitude you should be worried about.’
‘What do you mean? I’m acing the training.’
‘You are the liability at the moment. You denounced Olivia to a third party. You are abrasive, unnecessarily competitive and are not behaving like a team player.’
I can’t believe this, it’s outrageous.
‘If you cannot change your attitude,’ she continues, ‘your offer will be withdrawn. Do you understand?’
I cross my arms, annoyed at being lectured.
‘As I said, you might have saved her life today. That’s the only reason I’m not acting on this immediately. But I want to see a change, DeAnn.’
‘Wait, what? I saved her life? From what?’ It can’t be the innocuous cardigan-and-satchel guy who was leaning in to stick his tongue down her throat, can it?
‘There is something you should know…’ She proceeds to explain the Helenus situation.
‘Well, that explains the sedan that was following me a few weeks ago in Baltimore. I thought I was being paranoid at the time.’
She asks me for details but as I can’t remember much else, she then instructs me to report all this in writing and asks me to work with Olivia and a sketch artist to describe the ‘love interest’.
I get up and reach the door when Theodora says, ‘DeAnn, you have one week to show me progress.’
My hand on the door handle, I nod and exit.
The Helenus, weird name. A quick search shows that Helenus was Cassandra’s twin. These people sure like their Greek mythology.
I look for Bambi to start making it up to her but can’t find her anywhere. Probably crying her eyes out over the dreamy boy or something equally ludicrous.
13
Olivia
Cambridge, United Kingdom, 30 October 2016
* * *
It’s the end of the training, finally. I’ve found a mezzanine that’s mostly used for storage, overlooking the dining room where they announced the results a few weeks ago.
From where I sit, the ceiling’s wooden beams are close enough to touch. No one can see me, so it’s become my favourite nook. Stacks of chairs and three-legged tables are strewn around the small space. It’s so quiet that I can nearly hear the motes of dust as their golden dance ends gracefully on the floor. Bliss.
I’m reading the day’s notes and jotting down questions when the sound of the main entrance door opening pulls me out of my reading. A slender, smartly dressed woman comes in, barely sparing her surroundings a glance as she walks briskly across the deserted reception room, heels echoing on the floorboards. She looks up when Andrew comes out to greet her but I can’t see her face from above.
‘Andrew, is everything set?’
‘You didn’t have to come all the way from California.’
‘I did. You know I did.’
‘It’s not safe for you here. You shouldn’t have come,’ Andrew says.
‘Yes, the latest missions have been… costly. You know what this means.’ Not a question.
‘One of us? It can’t be. The fate of humanity is at stake here. Why would anyone betray us?’
‘Andrew, we have a mole. It’s time to face the facts and do something about it.’ She sighs. ‘Is Critchlow any closer to finding him?’
Andrew shakes his head.
‘I’m glad you took my recommendation. I know Olivia’s not an obvious fit but we need people who we can be sure will not betray us.’
I try to stay as still as possible; their voices drift up to the mezzanine clearly, so they could also hear me if I moved, thankfully neither of them looks up.
‘Are you sure she’s got what it takes?’
Ouch. Coming from Andrew, too.
‘She’s her father’s daughter. You did the right thing selecting her, don’t worry.’
‘But she’s middle-aged, out of shape, not particularly good at any of the security tests…’
‘I expected better from you, Andrew. Do you really think that only twenty-year-olds with flawless bodies should be recruited? You know perfectly well that it takes more than brawn to make a good Programme agent. Observation skills, analytical subtlety, resourcefulness and an ability to blend in are just as important, if not more so than brute strength.’
‘But in this instance, I’m afraid I have to agree with Critchlow’s assessment; she’s too keen to please, too naïve and guileless. She’ll be eaten alive. She nearly got taken by the Helenus last week.’
There is a pause. It lasts a while. Long enough for me to start thinking that maybe this is my last day on the Programme. My heart sinks.
‘You should be more concerned about DeAnn. I specifically told you not to hire her. What the hell happened?’
‘Nigel insisted.’
She shakes her head. ‘Alastair would be appalled to see what the Programme has become. Relying on Critchlow’s agency is a mistake, he’s gained too much power over the last few years.’
My pen slides out from my book and my sudden movement to catch it disturbs the dust, tickling my nose. No, no, no, I pinch my nostrils and sneeze into my bunched-up cardigan. Holding my breath, I listen to them but they don’t seem to have noticed anything.
‘… whatever happens she must never be allowed to become a field agent,’ the woman says.
Who? Bloody hell, what did I miss?
Andrew hesitates. ‘Of course, we’re all grateful for the part you played in the Cassandra Programme and for your generous funding, but this is a very delicate time and we have to be sure…’
I see the slender woman put a hand on Andrew’s arm. ‘Spare me the bullshit, Andrew. The fact is that I’m the only one on the Board who’s spent any significant amount of time in the field. You all have to listen to me, I had access to all the reports...’
‘Maybe, but you know that anything could happen, that specific configuration might not necessarily occur…’
‘Andrew, you don’t understand, Olivia will di—’
McArthur appears at that moment and the slim woman stops talking. Andrew lets his objection taper out and they all leave the reception room together.
Jesus Mary Joseph, did she say that I could die? That’s absurd, I’m just a lawyer, I’m in no danger. Am I?
14
DeAnn
Cambridge, United Kingdom, October 31, 2016
* * *
Björn, Andika, Olivia and I walk to the restricted wing in awkward silence, escorted by two security guards who leave us in a locker room. It looks more modern than the rest of the college, with its steel benches and narrow metal units. I’ve never been to this part of the building, so I glance around curiously.
There’s a mission scheduled for tonight. As we’ve now all gotten our security clearances, the four of us are going to observe the agents’ departure. Apparently it’s rare for new recruits to see it. There are very few missions.
The two agents are already in the locker room, looking smug in their black flight suits; one is in his twenties, the other in his mid-fifties, both whitebread types with a can-do attitude. They’re so picture perfect; they look like astronauts about to save us all from an asteroid.
Olivia, Björn, Andika and I pull ridiculous protective white overalls over our clothes. It’s much harder to look smug in these but I try my best as I snap the rubber gloves on.
With the Helenus circling the waters, Critchlow’s team is on high alert, patrolling the grounds with assault rifles in shifts. The atmosphere has been pretty paranoid since Olivia’s fuck-up. Everybody’s on edge and the sense of threat is palpable. Under the circumstances, it’s hard to feel confident about the Programme. That’s why I’ve decided to decline their offer. I’m leaving tomorrow morning to go back to Baltimore. I haven’t told anyone yet.
The young, blond ersatz-astronaut is sitting on a bench, observing the four newbies gear up. Ankle resting on his knee, he looks relaxed but his armpits are stained with sweat. The older agent, his brown mop of hair shot through with gray, is standing apart, leaning against the wall. He’s completely ignoring us, watching the backdoor, lost in thought, rolling a wedding ring around his finger.
I wonder why they’re doing this. It’s obviously extremely dangerous. They could end up as vegetables under my care; well, they might if I’d stayed. Personally, I’d be interested in studying their brains after the technology failed but I can’t imagine that they’d like that scenario much.
And even if everything goes to plan, I understand from my soon-to-be ex-colleagues, the odds of making it back alive are quite low as the technology isn’t exactly reliable. Why would they risk their lives? I guess that’s what mainstream culture thinks heroes should do. Personally, I think they’re stupid. And expendable.
Suddenly, yells erupt in the distance, followed by the thump of heavy boots.
‘Did you hear that?’ Olivia squeaks.
‘Just an exercise probably,’ I answer, shrugging.
Just as I close my mouth, an alarm starts to blare in the distance, followed by short popping bursts.
There’s a loud crackling sound, and, as the older agent picks up the communication set, a voice calls for back-up; static garbles the communication and sudden screams are interrupted by a loud rattling noise. Then silence. Olivia’s frozen, her pupils so dilated her eyes seem black.
The older agent fiddles with the radio button and all of us gather around him, staring at the radio when the backdoor opens, slamming against the wall, making me flinch. Professor McArthur barges in, her usual composure frayed by urgency.
‘Hurry, this way!’
Andika’s already in motion. The rest of us rush after her and McArthur closes the heavy metal door behind us and locks it.
An enormous glass pyramid towers in the middle of the hangar and all around it, monitors, screens and dashboards are blinking madly. A siren shrieks, drowning the alarmed shouts of the Programme researchers who are getting up from their chairs, gathering their papers.
‘Are they close? How much time left?’
‘Quick! Move it along!’
‘This way! Bring the burn bags.’
Dozens of scientists are already dashing from their work stations to shredders and back, removing armfuls of folders and laptops, desperate to destroy their work before our attackers breach the locked door. An Asian woman falls in her hurry and papers fly over the floor as she sprawls. She gets up on all fours, gathers her laptop to her chest, then fumbles with the papers. A colleague rushes to her side but instead of helping her up, he grabs her computer, removes the hard drive and smashes it to pieces.
‘Disposal container at the back, quickly!’ he shouts.
She picks up the ruined hard disk and hobbles to the back of the hangar, her knee bloodying her white overalls as scattered papers and one of her blue shoe covers are left behind on the floor.
An armed guard shoves me aside to check that the locker-room door behind my back is securely shut; then, holding his gun in both hands, he runs to the only other exit, on the opposite side of the huge area.
Maybe I can still get out that way. I sprint across the room, past the monstrous glass pyramid and over to the open door, to try to escape. As I run, I see one of the guards hauling a scientist to his feet, the old man’s tufts of graying hair plastered with sweat against his shiny head.
‘No, no, I can’t. Just five minutes, this is twenty years of research!’ The scientist stares at his screen, eyes wide, his Adam’s apple visibly bobbing, but looking determined. ‘Can you imagine what would happen if these thugs got their hands on it?’
‘Just fucking RUN!’ The young soldier yanks the researcher by the arm and pushes him toward the exit.
I tag close behind the balding man and pretend to be part of the team, as the armed guards gesture for our group to hurry through the door quietly. There’s five of us or so. Glancing over my shoulder at Olivia and McArthur, who have remained near the pyramid, I sneak out and follow the soldier leading the cluster of scientists down a white corridor lined with identical doors.
My insides churning, I don’t know whether to take the lead or hang back. The others are distressed too; the old man shuffles as fast as he can, his breath ragged as we all run in starts and stops and a young blonde woman cries incessantly, limping at the tail end of our bedraggled group. Fear and adrenaline course in my veins, distorting everything; the cramped corridors seem to become endless, and the tears that bathe the young blonde’s cheeks make her face look like it’s melting in the stark fluorescent light.
When we reach a bend in the hallway, the soldier skids to a halt and holds his arm up, so we stop. The old man bends, hands on knees, puffing. The young woman sits against the wall, wiping her face on her sleeve. I fight to stay still, itching to push them out of the way so I can escape from this underground maze.
The guard rounds the corner carefully when suddenly the rat-tat-tat of a machine-gun erupts, deafeningly loud and he staggers backwards as bullet holes burst through his chest. I forget how to breathe, frozen with terror. The young man slumps against the wall, a look of surprise on his face. His body slides down, leaving a bright red trail on the white surface.
The old scientist cowers with the others, as soldiers wearing balaclavas and black uniforms appear and step over the guard’s dead body. They’re turning the corner, machine guns held against their shoulders, aiming right for us. The young blonde scientist stumbles, unable to get back on her feet in her panic. She’s the first to get hit.
The young woman’s screams pierce through the tinnitus and before I’ve even made the decision, I’ve doubled back and I’m running. I falter and catch my fall, heart flailing. Behind me, screams explode and a thick smell of blood and cordite fills the air as I hurtle along the endless parade of doors, down the white corridor, panicking about missing the right exit. My lungs burn, my legs feel like they’re not attached to the rest of me. I risk a glance over my shoulder. They’re catching up. Bodies sprawled. Blood. Others, fleeing from the attackers too. I run.
There! The right door. The Programme guards are closing it. Lungs on fire, I sprint faster, screaming, and they hesitate. I burst through as they slam the heavy metal door shut behind me, swivelling the large hand wheel and lifting the handle up.
Bangs on the door.
The cries of anguish rise to a crescendo.
Yells pierce the thick door, disturbingly clear and heart wrenching. A few seconds later, machine-gun fire erupts outside, each burst reverberating inside my skull. Then silence.
Bile rises in my throat. It could have been me. A stitch pinches my side as I struggle to regain my breath. No way out. We’re trapped and there’s no help coming. The guards step away slowly, jaws squared, aiming their guns at the locked gate.
‘Back up, back up,’ one whispers to me with a sharp head movement. When we’ve put fifteen feet between us and the door, we crouch behind a desk to regroup. The oldest one seems to be the leader, he rubs his stubbly chin worriedly, leaving a dark smudge on his left cheek.
‘Charlie, how many extra mags left?’
The youngest guards looks scared. He runs a shaking hand through his blond curls, as he checks his belt, then holds one finger up.
The two older guards exchange a grim look. One of them holds his hand out and Charlie gives him the magazine. He looks so young.
‘No one comes through this door, rookie, you hear me?’
The young man swallows and nods. The door is solid metal, several inches thick, maybe it will hold.
A heart-stopping thud startles everyone. All eyes turn to the far entrance. The attackers have reached the locker room on the other side and must be trying to ram it open. The sound reverberates in the large room, each bang like a clap of thunder. I jump despite myself each time the m
etal door groans under the onslaught. Death is knocking.
We’re surrounded. There’s no way we can escape now. Fuck. I don’t want to die.
The two older guards leave Charlie and me to it and rush over to the locker room door where they start piling up desks and chairs with Björn’s help.
Charlie flinches every time a bang shakes the far door but I help him to drag furniture to our makeshift barricade and soon the two agents who were slotted for departure today come over to help us. I need to get away from the door, in case the attackers manage to break in. We can already hear them shooting at the thick metal on the other side.
I dash back to the pyramid. Maybe Professor McArthur will know a way out. Standing by the huge contraption, only two scientists remain entombed with us and they’re grouped around the Professor, arguing in whispers, pale faced. It’s the Asian woman with her bloodied knee and the guy who helped her with the hard-disk disposal.
I edge closer to try to listen in and spot Olivia as she hovers, hesitating, her face a frozen mask of panic as she looks toward each door. She flinches when another loud clang shakes the locker-room door.
The room vibrates with tension and the smell of fear hangs, acrid, in the air. Clearly terrified, Charlie’s still manning the right door with the two Programme agents while Björn and the two older security guards are standing in a semi-circle around the left door, piling furniture in front of it, as the metal screams under the battering ram’s assault.
Andika sprints to the two older guards near the locker-room door and starts arguing with them. They shake their heads and try to send her away but she persists and finally they give her a handgun. Björn looks at her then at the fire extinguisher in his hands. Resigning himself to the less than adequate weapon, he rolls his shoulders back, spreads his legs and waits for the onslaught, a grim, determined expression on his face. Andika takes her place in the semi-circle of defenders and raises her gun, aiming at the locker-room door. Both exits are covered now. But how long can we withstand an assault with only four armed people against who knows how many intruders?