david j rodger

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DESCRIPTION:

God Seed { novel } In the near future, a documentary film-maker is covering mercenaries engaged in corporate espionage. A nervous executive wants to smuggle stolen data to Cairo. Yet events rapidly and frighteningly escalate out of control. The film-maker finds himself battling for his life and his sanity as a new and dramatic story unfolds, dragging him across the globe...and beyond. Fascist extremists, Islamic terrorists, corrupt government officials and a religious sect that worships a nefarious avatar of a many-faced God of the Outer Void, become fused into a gruesome knot of lies, treachery and mass-murder. David J Rodger’s trademark gut-wrenching rendering of a dark and edgy reality, and relentless narrative pace, are here in palm-sweating abundance, delivered in a tense action-packed novel that plunges you uncomfortably deep into crawling chaos festering and feeding on the membrane of human existence.

CUSTOMER REVIEWS:

Lovecraft brought screaming and thrashing into the 21st Century, by S. R. Pyne (Bristol, UK): David Rodger has created a World where Lovecraft’s mythos enters the near future. This, one of [...] novels that he has set in a Gibsonesque environ, is a fulfilling piece of sci-fi horror, something that he evokes well. You can see the inspiration of Alien, beefed up with some Andy McNab-style action. The narrative sometimes sacrifices depth for pace, but is ultimately a fulfilling read. If you like Philip K Dick, or indeed William Gibson, and enjoyed some of Lovecraft’s genre, this will definitely appeal.

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ONE

 

TENSION

 

The downpour was the colour of nicotine, drumming a rhythm against the roof of the armoured Mitsubishi, not letting them relax, compounding the tension of the four men sitting within.

Kyle tried to keep his own fear in check. He was not like these men, was not trained in covert warfare; he was a film-maker. The two men in the backseat were checking their weapons, no doubt taking comfort from the handling of precisely machined parts. The driver's tanned and hairless head was angled to watch information spilling out across a hardscreen clipped to the dash. Kyle had learned he was monitoring communication channels for ‘suspect' traffic, anything that might suggest this job was a trap.

They were waiting for the final member of the team to secure her position and report in. Kyle had not seen her since the final meet at the safe house twenty hours ago; as an operational precaution, the team had remained apart for the majority of the time they had been preparing for this job. Right now she was heading toward the vital ground of the rendezvous.

Kyle lowered his gaze to his lap and checked his own equipment: an array of high-quality cameras concealed within an item of headgear. He grimaced as the armoured vest dug into his guts again; it was like wearing a bloody corset. Broad shouldered and in good physical shape, he went to the gym most evenings when we wasn't on assignment but that usually suffered when he was in the field; a diet of fast food, coffee, cigarettes and little sleep had given him a flabby waistline he could not shift.

The lenses of the Camsung's were all clean; he checked the image from each camera in turn: they were pointing up at him and he could see himself in their output, presented in his field of vision by the DVFrames he was wearing on his broad and angular face. He was not smiling. His messy black hair hung in long locks around his ears and down by the chunky plastic arms of the DVFrames. His eyes, brown and slightly Asian, were wide open and alert through the window-glass of the frames; they felt gritty when he blinked, there had been little chance for sleep in the last twenty hours. He had a great face for television. It had character; cheekbones a model would have been proud of and a large wolfish mouth; he could display a versatile range of emotions although his stock expression, for the rare moments he was in front of the camera, was like now: a rigid frown, lips closed, intense gaze.

Professional anxiety rode alongside his fear. He had to make sure he got as much good material as he possibly could: there was a new Director of Film & Documentary in the company. The new Director had his own tastes and Kyle knew he would have to impress him with this project to keep his elevated status.

The project was already developing problems. Kyle had been with the team for three days and in that time the team had only been together in the same place for a few hours. This left him with very little ‘bonding' footage; he had not managed to capture the spirit of the team yet, just group shots where nobody said much or fragmented interviews that were always being interrupted as new tasks came in whilst they all prepared for the Job.

Thirty minutes of waiting had crawled by since the driver pulled the Mitsubishi into a loading bay at the rear of the shopping complex; on the far side of the glass and steel structure a river fed into the harbour district and marina, the very heart of the city. The target would be there in ten minutes. That was how the rendezvous had been planned.

The loading bay was outlined with broken white lines and marked with the number five. There had been a moment of tension when they first arrived, waiting for a small device in the ground to interrogate the Mitsubishi's management-chip for the authorisation to park there. Kyle had previously filmed the driver hacking the city's computers to fabricate the codes. The team commander had assured him it was a low risk hack but essential to the job; it was an odd kind of assurance because Kyle doubted any concerns on his part would have been listened to.

Kyle noted that the loading bay provided easy exit from the shopping complex. They had told him the car parks in the area did not guarantee a space and were difficult to leave quickly; security cameras across the car parks added their own complications. The Mitsubishi was important. Ex-military, toned down into a civilian guise with a glossy black paint-job and chrome-trim, it was the operational management centre; it was the hub of all the teams' communications and was the means of initial escape should the job be aborted. Kyle appreciated the fact it was expensive and yet entirely disposable.

Rainwater spilled down the windshield in shifting torrents. The driver had not engaged the wipers, limiting the view to outlines of buildings that buckled with the shifting fluid. Kyle peered out to watch a cargo-hauler descending from the gloomy sky, vector-thrust motors blasting the rain away in visible flurries of super heated steam. Did anybody suspect they were there? What if the job was a trap? Previous employers looking to erase loose ends; previous targets looking for revenge? Were they being watched at this very moment? Anticipate the unexpected – he sensed it was the underlying principle to all their plans.

Whatever happened, he would be there to film it.

From behind him he heard the sound of a magazine being slotted into a weapon and the breach being snapped back. The sound jarred him; he had not anticipated the potential for violence so early on, and the thought put him on edge. He had seen people die in front of his camera before. The presence of the big German caused him to recall his assignment in Berlin: filming alongside UTOC Special Forces as they stormed the Chinese embassy under siege by anti-capitalist demonstrators. There were others but Kyle closed his recollections down. Watching human life taken away was not something he enjoyed yet he was aware of his own fascination with it; could be why he'd learnt to live with his own memories.

The drumming of the rain on the roof continued, his thoughts shifting away from the job: violence had bruised his personal history and it was ironic that violence might touch his life again here in this city. Bristol was familiar territory to him; he had lived here before running away to North America.

A woman's voice came through their ear-beads', the noise from the back stopped.

‘Target sighted. Looks valid. Go-go-go.'

The rear doors popped open and the two in the back climbed out, weapons tucked away under their rain jackets. The bald-headed driver lifted his gaze from the screen, meeting Kyle's eyes; he nodded once.

Knuckles tapped on the passenger window, the team commander telling him to get a move on.

Kyle tried to swallow but he realised his mouth was dry.

 

 

GARCIA'S SET-UP

 

‘This fucking country!'

Garcia huddled against the wall of the shopping complex, a few metres from the river's edge, waiting for the contacts to show. Rain hammered against him in gruelling squalls that whipped about and changed direction with the wind.

‘Come on, just give me a fucking light,' he mumbled the words around an unlit cigarette quivering between his lips; one hand thumbed a bright banana-yellow lighter. The lighter refused to yield a flame. He shook the thing and gave it another click. Nothing.

‘Hijo de puta!' He had lost his silver-cased lighter yesterday in France, fleeing from the safe house. Since then his whole world had gone-to-hell.

He had made a mistake; somehow the job had gone wrong and now they were after him.

He gave the lighter three flicks with his wrist and thumbed the ignition again.

The cigarette snapped rigid between his lips; he cupped his hand around the fluttering flame and leaned into it. He sucked on dark French tobacco, felt the smoke filling his lungs, relaxed a little. He was too tense. Frightened.

Garcia lifted his face up for a moment to scowl at the sky. Heavy clouds were painted a dirty orange by the lights of the city; the atmosphere was charged, promising thunder.

He squinted through the rain at the passing crowds of shoppers, trying to spot his contacts, drawing in another lung full. But the fear was growing. He checked his watch, using his thumb to wipe away the mist of droplets on its antiquated face: nine minutes into RV.

‘Puta madre!' he hissed quietly; he could feel the edge of panic sliding through his thoughts. He turned towards the wall as another wet gust buffeted him. What if something had gone wrong? What if they didn't show?

The job in France had been executed without fault, or so he had believed. Somehow the target had got a scent of him. Security for the lab he had robbed had taken out the safe-house less than an hour after the job. He had been working alone, no support team, nobody but himself to blame for the fuck-up.

He had made his way to England via a flight to Schipol Airport in Amsterdam, a train to Rotterdam and a ferry across the North Sea. He had made secure communication with the Agency in Cairo and spoke with the Agency's Director whose response had been stark: do not loose the data at any cost.

Garcia stood his ground, pulled the drawstring of the plastic poncho tighter round his neck to keep out the rain. The location was his own choosing, an immense comfort in a situation where he had little real control. He had scoped out several options before detailing the RV to the contacts.

The contacts were to be his replacements to get the data into the hands of the Agency.

Had something gone wrong? Why did he feel so uneasy?

Risk: his comms had been intercepted.

Risk: his contacts had been eliminated and adversaries were moving in on his position.

He kept his eyes moving across the faces of the crowds of people moving past him– hoping to see some sign of recognition from them, some figure stepping through the rain with a look in their eyes that said ‘friendly', ‘here to take over', ‘here to take on the fear'.

The data was stored in a small chip tucked into his pocket, snugly clipped into a plastic case wrapped in a piece of cloth. He could feel it pressing against the inner flank of his thigh. Do not lose it at any cost. Beneath the poncho he wore a bulletproof vest overlaid with stab-resistant mesh. Clipped to the left side was a holster and pistol he had collected from the new safe house in London, fourteen rounds in the clip. The house in London was now dirty, no longer safe; he had nowhere else to run, and nobody else to turn to.

He glanced at his watch: eleven minutes into RV; the window would only be open for another 4 minutes.

It took an act of supreme will not to turn and walk away.

His thoughts drifted to his friends in Madrid mingled with the small number of colleagues back at the Agency, a flicker of memories, sounds, smiles, faces, familiar voices, an image of his father sitting on a chair in the sun outside their house. Focus! He rebuked his mental drift and snapped back to attention.

Then he saw the woman moving with the crowds, heading straight for him; Eurasian features and short black hair. Wait! Shiva. Was it Shiva? Was the Brotherhood here? He couldn't see her hands. This was crazy. Would they risk taking him out in the open like this? Was the data that important? The RV was blown. He made a quick decision, don't confront her, back away.

His legs started moving carrying him into the flow of people heading towards the main car park. He dropped the cigarette, stooped his shoulders and bowed his head. He walked quickly, cutting through the crowds with moves that did not create a commotion, nothing to draw attention. He had the exit route planned; from his previous recce he knew where to set up a trap.

Self-doubt hit him like a wall, overriding his training. First France, now this; how had they caught up with him so quickly? Was he that incompetent? The thought left him numb and he stumbled forward for a few moments, disorientated.

He regained control, risked a quick glance behind him and to the sides. No sign of her. Was he mistaken? The throngs of people followed a line of market stalls cramped together side-by-side, merchandise protected from the rain by plastic sheeting. The route took them through a bottleneck between the river and a tall sandstone wall. He slipped his hand under his poncho and drew down the pistol; pressed it flat against his stomach, his hand gripping it like a vice.

He spotted the break in the sandstone wall, the place he'd cased out for the trap. The wall curved away into a narrow and deserted lane, receding away into deep shadows beneath an elevated ramp that led into a multi-story overhead. People were rushing past the lane without a second glance, focussed on getting to their vehicles and out of the rain. He slipped in and found a place to hide; if she followed him in, he would kill her.

 

 

NETWERK ZERO

 

The day Huey Eddison was to meet the new Director of Film & Documentary, he was recovering from a bad case of the night before. He stood inside the elevator picking the dried crust of vomit off the bottom of his thousand dollar tie, his hands still trembling.

The girl had said he nearly overdosed.

Eddison glanced up and checked his image in the bronze reflection and shook his head at what he saw. You look like something out of Zombie Sex Maniacs Part IV, chiding himself.

So she told him the dealer hadn't cut it, so what? So he took so much, so what? He was still here. As he told her last night, he wasn't paying her to give him advice.

He had woken up in the contents of his own stomach, the bitch gone, leaving `fuck you' scrawled on his mirror in her strange lipstick. Smog, or some fashionable tint of pollution, he remembered her telling him.

The elevator was nearing the apex of the plaza, the floor now forty stories below. The steady flow of ventilated air had dried away the sweat from his forehead. He began to relax, combed his fingers through his red hair, pulled the 1930's retro style back into shape. He hoped the suit would impress. Funny to think how only two years ago a suit like this would have cost him nearly a year's salary, that was before Roberta Shock, may the God of media relations bless her, had taken command of his career-path and steered him into the fast-lane.

He frowned at his reflection, contemplating the strange mix of guilt and resentment he felt toward the woman who had done so much for him. Roberta was happily married, or so she claimed, always consistently matching the image presented by her PR agents, yet she had acquired a taste for Huey Eddison. Was it an affair when they did not always have sex? Was it friendship when she controlled every encounter they had? The thin framed figure with the usually light blue eyes staring back at him presented no answer.

He came out of his reverie when the elevator decelerated to a halt and a chip voice told him it was the seventy-fifth floor. Netwerk Zero's management level. The doors slid open onto a narrow steel mesh walkway overlooking the plaza. It was a drop that forced vertigo onto the most hardheaded of people. Eddison was no exception and figured cynically that it was designed that way, to shake you up before any meetings with the Directors.

He kept his gaze on the double doors at the far end of the walkway and moved with a pace just short of running, the Hermes suit flapping open with every stride. A confident smile touched his lips, the chemical trauma of last night fading as he focussed on the meeting ahead. He reached into an inner pocket and fished out the transparent zip-lock containing a single sliver of coloured plastic – a datachip loaded with his presentation. The zip-lock had a marker-pen tag: ‘Kyle/BlkOrchid'. The socket had a trendy but subtle chrome-blue finish, tucked neatly behind his left ear. His thumb habitually brushed the rim before inserting the software. Details of the presentation settled into the periphery of his consciousness: facts and figures, slowly and reassuringly coming ready at hand.

Through the twin doors, Clorissa behind her desk was a familiar sight, personal secretary to both the new and the previous Director of Film & Documentary. Late twenties, fit, glossy black-bob, she gave Eddison a wide smile as he stepped through; she spoke like any PS sure of her status, and position, her voice firm but so low you could still hear the hiss of air control.

‘Hi Huey.'

‘Clorissa,' he responded with a grin, and noticed she was wearing the same coloured lipstick as the bitch from last night. An image of her mouth around his cock popped into his mind.

Her smile tilted to one side, ‘Now where did you wake up?'

‘That bad, huh?' he responded, acting crestfallen; ‘Come out with me some night and I'll show you.'

She shook her head laughing, the tone still low, ‘He knows you're here, Huey. Go on in.'

He paused by her desk and leaned in close, ‘What's he like?'

He saw her pupils dilate a fraction within the lilac halo of her altered iris, made a mental note to get her phone-tag on his way out. She answered carefully, ‘Distinguished.'

‘Really,' he smiled.

She stuck a cute button nose in his direction, ignoring his remark and sniffed. ‘What's that?'

‘About an hour in the shower this morning with a bottle of Calvin gel.' He pushed himself away from her desk and flashed her a toothy smile, ‘Got lucky.'

She rolled her eyes; he chuckled and turned away.

Knocking on the heavy mahogany door and without pausing, he walked right in.

 

 

 

Netwerk Zero was an international name. Its range of interests were much wider, but programme-making was the primary product within the corporate portfolio.

Huey Eddison sat on the familiar grey suede settee reviewing his first impressions of the new Director whilst the man fixed him a drink.

Vincent Chandler. The Director's greeting had been friendly but not overbearing; the initial small talk professional but interesting. Chandler wanted to know him, which was a stark contrast to Chandler's predecessor; Eddison wondered if Roberta Shock had been to any industry parties lately, beefing up his image again: she had a knack of getting the ear of people.

Vincent Chandler was tall with a broad shouldered gym-toned physique and very stylishly dressed; Eddison noted the Hermes shirt, tie and shoes were from this month's range, and hoped the new Director would relate to his own flair for fashion. Chandler paused with the drinks to watch the latest footage coming in from Israel. Covert film crews had been sent to penetrate the secrecy surrounding the atrocity. The screen showed scenes of biological devastation set against the backdrop of New Jericho. Human bodies sprawled where they had fallen caught in a wind of pestilence.

Eddison had seen it all this morning. He glanced round the room again, and was struck by how bare it looked.

‘Ornelius,' Chandler stated pointing at him with one manicured finger extended from the side of a whisky glass, it was the name of the boutique Eddison had bought his suit.

‘Thanks,' taking the glass offered to him, ‘Yes. Do you shop there?' He watched Chandler come round the settee, blue silk shirt, white cuffs against chestnut flesh.

‘Not personally,' Chandler answered grinning, showing strong white teeth. He lowered himself into an armchair with an easy movement, muscles working under the fabric. They faced each other across a low marble coffee table. ‘My boyfriend does.'

Eddison sipped his Canadian soda then asked, ‘Did he move to New York with you?'

‘No. He stayed in L-A.' Chandler took a sip from his glass: something strong. With a flourish of enthusiasm he changed track and said, ‘Alright, let's do this. You're my first face-to-face Huey. I know Conrad Dexter was a tyrannical S-O-B and I don't intend to be any different. However,' he paused and threw a disarming smile, ‘I happen to enjoy a friendly working environment. I understand Conrad didn't.'

Eddison nodded non-committal.

‘How's that soda, Huey?'

Eddison tilted the glass, looked at it then back to Chandler, ‘It's fine.'

‘Good. I want you to understand something, and then you can pass it on to our family here,' waving both his hands to encompass the entire corporation, ‘If you have a problem, any problem, you come see me.' A long pause, ‘I don't care if I shout at you or call you stupid, if something is not right, I want to know about it. And I want it fixed. And if it's something you can't fix then I want you to tell me, so I can find somebody who can. Got that?'

Eddison smiled, ‘Yes sir!'

‘That's good. You see you're looking happier already. But Huey...' Chandler's face turned serious, the smile dropped and his eyes went cold. ‘If you ever walk into this office again looking like you've spent the night with your face buried in a pile of shit, not even Miss Roberta Shock is going to stop your skinny ass from scraping the sidewalk on your way out of here. Have you got that Huey?'

‘Yes.' Eddison was looking at the floor, feeling his face burning. He lifted his gaze with a clap of Chandler's hands. The smile was back on the Director's face. Lesson over.

‘Brass tacks, Huey. Just the basics. Do what you do but don't let it mess with your work. Now, I want to run over a few things before I experience the pleasure of your presentation.'

‘Sure.' Eddison nodded, smiling cautiously.

Chandler reached forward, long fingers moved across the touchboard set within the coffee table; a HTMD flickered into existence above the low marble surface. Chandler tweaked an edge of the ‘solid' projection between his fingers and pulled it to one side so it was not blocking his line of sight with Eddison. Illuminated icons reflected off Chandler's glass nearby. He tapped out a few keystrokes and found the page he was looking for.

‘I see you've requested to bring Elizabeth Davenport over from The Whitehouse Project in London for post production.'

‘Yes, I've worked with Liz before and-'

Chandler cut him off with a raised hand and a glare, then said, ‘I also know you've tried to pull Miss Davenport across before. You made the same request to Conrad Dexter eleven months ago. I accept you testing the slack with your new boss; I would do the same,' the glare softened, ‘but the answer is still no. You got in on a word but your talent is obvious. Liz Davenport on the other hand, well, we have a good crew here.'

‘A tight ship.' Eddison said, quoting Conrad Dexter.

Chandler recognised it and smiled thinly. He leant back into the armchair and continued his tone conversational.

‘You've worked with Kyle exclusively for nearly two years now.'

‘Yes.' Eddison answered.

‘It's a good relationship and I've no intention of butting in.'

Eddison nodded.

‘Kyle's work is exemplary. Dexter did a good job nurturing that boy. I also recognise your contribution to the final product. I want you to know that.'

‘Thank you.'

‘I've read the brief on this current project, ‘Black Orchid',' Chandler paused.

Eddison tensed with anticipation; it would be a crushing blow if he pulled the plug.

Chandler continued, ‘Make me like it.'

 

 

 

Eddison was in a cold sweat, effects from last night's drug binge were returning to plague him; his body was burning up, there was dampness around the collar of his shirt and under his arms; his mop of red hair felt clammy against his skull. The pressure of having to ‘cold sell' the documentary was not helping.

His mind tormented him with the consequences of not getting Vincent Chandler to buy into the concept:

Loss of kudos within the echelons of the corporation.

A trashed pay review.

And Adam Kyle, deflated, left in the middle of a dangerous situation with no funding and no resources.

It could not possibly happen to him, he pleaded silently. Yet Chandler had made it startlingly clear that he had no intention of following the path set out by his predecessor, and if that meant scrubbing recently started projects: so-be-it.

Forcing himself to appear relaxed, he fingered a touch-pad between his sweaty hands to darken the windows and bring the presentation onto the glass. ‘Ready whenever you are Huey,' prompted Chandler.

Eddison tried to smile with a show of confidence but stretching his lips was like stretching a rubber band. This is not good, this is not good!

The Netwerk Zero logo faded into view on the darkened window. Eddison turned to face the Director, annoyingly aware his legs were trembling. Chandler was sitting reclined, comfortable, legs crossed, a slim notepad bound in red leather on his lap, stylus poised.

‘The current scope of Kyle's project is to cover a team of mercenaries for a period of one month as they engage in corporate espionage.'

Chandler nodded then waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

‘Okay, then can I ask what you think of the concept as it stands?' Eddison inquired, suppressing the tremor in his voice.

‘It's got potential. Ties in with the recent news coverage on corporate skirmishing, all very topical. Kyle can do it justice, if he's on form. Mix up group operations with human interest. Show me the team he chose to go with.'

Eddison nodded, ‘Kyle spent a great deal of time on the selection of the team. He wanted to avoid a stereotype. There are plenty of mercenaries operating in the Eastern zone of the Euro Federation, and in the new Independent Gulf States, all fighting each other with loyalty only to the highest bidder.'

Eddison picked up his glass of soda and took a sip, ‘Plenty of action for the camera but what's the difference between mercenaries killing Shia Muslims in the I-G-S, or Sunni Muslims killing Shia Muslims in the I-G-S? People are still killing people. Kyle wanted something more interesting, and he got it.'

Eddison tapped the touch-pad. The Netwerk Zero logo faded and was replaced by footage of muddy ground, boot prints filled with rainwater; the picture was shaky and voices carried on a conversation in the background. ‘Kyle recorded this yesterday, they went to a village on the South coast of England to meet with the team's agent. She refused to be part of the film.'

Abruptly the camera rose and a man was caught in the shot. He was not facing the camera directly but was very aware of being filmed and pulled a cheeky smile. Eddison froze the picture.

‘This is the top man, James Dorian. Former Royal Marine. He's tough, charismatic and leads the Black Orchids.'

Chandler sat forward in his seat, staring at the man on the screen. With black, short-cropped hair and bushy moustache he looked like the typical British soldier. He had a face like he'd spent twenty-years hiking in the Brecon Beacons, weathered by rain, wind and sun.

Chandler made a humming sound that Eddison couldn't gauge ‘Who's next?'

Eddison jumped the footage and paused on a middle-aged man, standing by the open door of a mud-spattered Mitsubishi jeep. Small-framed, with a domed bald head and fading tan, the man was wearing a pair of thick-rimmed tortoise shell DVFrames that augmented his intellectual appearance. He looked the camera head on, no trace of emotion in his face.

‘Dr Elliot Jordan.' explained Eddison. ‘Technical expert and general all-round egg head.'

‘How did he meet up with James Dorian?' Chandler interrupted.

‘They refuse to say.'

‘Will Kyle find out?'

‘Probably.' Eddison spoke with growing confidence now, Chandler appeared to like what he saw. ‘We know the Black Orchids began with James Dorian and Saskia Dimitri. They met while working bodyguard shifts in Shanghai. Saskia's a stunner and we think she might be ex-intelligence.'

‘Saskia Dimitri?' Chandler guffawed, ‘That can't be her real name?'

‘Probably not.'

‘Can we see her?'

Eddison jumped the footage to a striking-looking woman with long dark hair ruffled by the wind and Slavic features, smiling back at the camera as if she could see the viewers beyond. Her skin was so pale she looked like fragile porcelain.

Chandler was silent.

Eddison glanced at him and thought he looked impressed. ‘Shall I move on?'

Chandler nodded. Eddison smiled, the tension gradually slipping away. He jumped the footage to a cliff top view of a stormy sea, picked out in the rays of a weak sunrise, the sound of the wind scraped against the microphones. The camera swung round to capture the huge figure of a man with his back to the camera, dressed in a cheap green-nylon jacket and grey cotton fatigues, urinating off the edge of the cliff.

Chandler coughed.

‘This is Kurt Hansen.' Eddison stated. ‘Weapons, explosives, electronics and alarm systems.'

The man finished urinating, spent what seemed to be an age shaking loose every drop, then turned whilst slipping his member back inside his pants. The lower half of his long face was twisted by a crude smile that suggested a churlish humour; the upper half was dominated by piercing, cold and unfriendly eyes, light blue in colour, and a mop of sandy blonde hair kept close cropped. His jacket was half-unzipped exposing the shiny turquoise rubber of a fashionable sports-vest; the thick material was pre-moulded into a toned body shape.

Eddison froze the image on the screen. He glanced over at Chandler. The Director was flicking out notes with the stylus. Eddison looked down briefly into his glass then drained the last of his soda. ‘What I want to know,' Chandler said without looking up, ‘Is why would the Black Orchids allow Kyle to film them? Would this not interfere with their anonymity?'

Eddison swallowed hard, and suddenly he wished he had some soda left; ‘Because they are ready to retire, and, because Netwerk Zero are paying them enough to make sure they can retire.'

‘Uh-huh.' Chandler completed his notes and brought his gaze to bear on Eddison.

‘The expected revenue-' Eddison began to explain but Chandler cut him off.

‘I've seen the budget model, I know the projections.'

He realised he was holding his breath.

‘I like the concept Huey. You've got your documentary.'

Eddison let out a sharp sigh and smiled.

‘Where are the Black Orchids now?' Chandler queried.

‘Still in South West England. Their agent set them up with a contract. The meeting is today but I've no more than that at the moment.'

‘Today, what time?'

‘Kyle said five o'clock U.K. time so,' Eddison did a quick calculation, ‘About now.'

 

 

CONTACT

 

The executive was less than twenty metres away.

Kyle thought he looked Mediterranean, Italian or maybe Spanish. Medium length dark hair, sopping wet, facial features blurred by the rain, wearing an army-green plastic poncho, standing against a wall near the entrance to a department store. He was trying unsuccessfully to light a cigarette. Kyle used the small touch-pad of the device he held in his hand, within the pocket of his windbreaker, to zoom the camera in a fraction; he had the image in front of his left eye, superimposed on the lens of his DVFrames. The man's features came into sharp focus, intermittently obscured by the throngs of people hurrying between them. The brown hair was longer at the back with sodden layers dragged away from his brow; it was the professional cut for the attractive businessman, though apart from his dark Mediterranean features his face was plain and more weathered than Kyle had expected. Olive skin was stretched tight over a strong bone structure, a short jutting jaw and pronounced cheekbones that sluiced rainwater.

There was a burst of soft static in Kyle's ear,

‘Tango radio silent since complete. No other signals, confirmed. Omega out.'

It was the educated voice of Elliot Jordan, the Black Orchid's technical expert and the driver of the Mitsubishi.

Kyle was spliced into a communication-link with the rest of the team; he could receive but not transmit. Anything spoken was recorded and could later form part of the documentary.

James Dorian, former Royal Marine and leader of the Black Orchid team, stood beside Kyle, half-a-head shorter than him, underneath the clear plastic canopy of a market stall, the rain hammering down against it in rhythms that shifted with the wind; it was one of many stalls along the river's edge. Dorian sub-vocalised the reply through his throat implant.

‘Copy that. Omega, give me the count in five. Alpha out.'

‘Copy that Alpha, count in five… count in five.' Elliot Jordan had remained in the Mitsubishi on the other side of the shopping complex. His role was to monitor localised radio and microwave transmissions for any indication that the executive was a ‘set-up' or being watched.

Kyle stood rigid, transfixed, enthralled by the tension of the moment, excited by the prospect of the tension transferring to the film.

‘I bet that fucker is wearing armour under there,' the massive figure of Kurt Hansen leant forward to speak quietly to them, his voice distinguished by its German accent; he had to stoop to keep his skull from brushing the canopy.

Kyle turned his head to glance at him; he indulged Kyle with a nod, but his eyes, pale blue, regarded him frostily. Kyle locked one of the concealed cameras onto him then flicked his gaze back to the executive, but his attention focussed on the small window superimposed on his vision by the DVFrames. His shoulder blades gave an involuntary shudder; Kyle had broken eye contact yet Hansen was watching the back of his head with narrow stare, as if Kyle were some weak animal he was considering how to torture and mutilate.

Kyle twisted his neck and caught Hansen's overt attention head-on; Hansen didn't flutter an eyelid. ‘What about a weapon?' Kyle asked him with a tone that challenged his judgement; Hansen picked up on it and smirked making him feel as effectual as a fly bouncing off a window. Great!

‘Keep it quiet,' Dorian said gruffly, voice low yet still managing to convey authority, his eyes performed a quick scan of the environment to both sides. His black moustache speckled with water droplets.

Kyle flicked the DVFrames view back to the executive, and then twisted his shoulders to look around him, the camera's auto-tracking function keeping at least one of the two remaining lenses pointed at the man as Kyle turned his head. Several people were sharing the cramped space beneath the canopy, taking shelter from the sudden fury of the downpour. They were oblivious to the purpose of Hansen and Dorian. A bearded man in an oversized yellow coat and wearing a multicoloured woollen hat was hawking the stalls' wares to a middle-aged Chinese man, who seemed fascinated by a liquid-filled glass bauble containing coloured fish that momentarily left to swim outside the glass, then darted quickly back in as if to safety.

Kyle satisfied his need to check his surrounding and brought his attention to the executive. The man had managed to light the cigarette. Kyle zoomed in close, the executive's rain-slicked face filling the frame, capturing his expression as he inhaled; Kyle thought he looked wary, on-edge and trying to conceal the fact. Passing people broke up the image. Dorian had told him they were delaying contact, hoping to draw out any sign it might be a trap. The Black Orchid's agent had defined the job as ‘corporate relay'. The executive was looking to hand-over hot data for them to smuggle to a so-far unspecified location. Kyle pulled back the zoom, letting the image become degraded by the rain. He was not certain if he would use the close-up shots in the final edit; the heavy curtain of rain created a sense of detachment, the viewer would feel remote from the executive which fitted in with the fact the team had not made contact yet.

Mental note: get close-ups later during any discussion with the executive.

There was a high possibility the executive's face would be masked in post-production to conceal his identity, but better to get the shots now rather than regret not having them later.

Kyle's headgear looked like a black-scarf headdress that left his face visible, the same kind made very fashionable ten years ago by the Hermes corporate range, and now coming back in retro fashion for the high street. Concealed within the folds of the coarse, elasticised fabric were three cameras and a pan-directional microphone system that could capture general conversation within a decent range or focus in on a specific subject much further away.

All of his equipment was centred on the need to be discreet. The Black Orchids objected to him carrying a standard PA, as software was available that could pinpoint your location through the PA's phone link. Resolving such concerns were a part of his job and he had dealt with them numerous times before: when filming a Korean street gang in New Tokyo, involved in an increasingly savage turf war with Vietnamese rivals, until it was finally stopped by Takashi Godo himself, the leader of the ‘The Emperors' gang that ran New Tokyo; or when filming the children who lived underground in Budapest and were being ‘quietly' murdered by Albanian death-squads hired by Hungarian politicians.

Remaining ‘electronically invisible' was just as important as being physically discreet.

To overcome these objections Kyle carried a slab of memory with a standard operating system and some basic editing software, built into a Verovitch casing the size of a small bar of chocolate; vanilla grey, it looked low tech had managed to avoid attention from thieves. Unlike a standard PA it had no in-built phone link. Instead, to upload raw footage and communicate with Huey, he used a satlink he always carried with him in a utility belt, and that he only ever switched on with the team's permission.

Dorian's voice came through his ear-bead: ‘Beta, status?'

Kyle listened as Saskia Dimitri reported in; she was positioned in the multi-storey car park, further along the rivers' edge to his left; covering the shopping complex with visual surveillance electronics. He knew she had a compact sniper rifle with a collapsible stock, concealed under a knee-length trench coat. Her words were laced with a Russian accent,

‘Beta clean. Tango is complete, this fucking rain though! Beta out.'

‘Copy that Beta. Alpha out.'

Kyle shifted his weight to the left as Kurt Hansen leaned forward and put his mouth to his ear, and said softly, ‘She loves to fuck in the rain though.'

Kyle smirked.

Saskia Dimitri's voice came icily through their ear-beads, ‘You stupid pig, Delta, go fuck yourself.'

‘Enough,' Dorian sub-vocalised simply.

Hansen clucked his tongue, chuckled breezily and returned to his former position. Kyle started to see faint cracks in the polished image of leadership Dorian was trying to present.

How well would Hansen comply if things went wrong?

Kyle knew the German mercenary had a machine-pistol slotted into a holster rig beneath his nylon jacket, and a snap-on silencer stashed in one of the pockets. It was a Heckler & Koch and fired 10mm caseless rounds tipped in Teflon to punch through thicker armour; this had all been described on camera during the first team interview three days ago.

Kyle was conscious of the pressure of the armoured vest strapped tight to his own torso; Dorian was keen to protect the Black Orchid's exit ticket.

He checked the time displayed in the DVFrames. They were more than ten minutes late for the rendezvous; the executive was roaming his brown eyes back and forth across the faces passing him, regularly probing deeper into the crowds. Kyle sensed his agitation had increased but it was hard to tell; he also thought there was a wary aggression, defined by the hard line of his lips and the almost unblinking intensity of his eyes. Was he really a soft corporate executive? The image of the man standing there did not fit. Perhaps he was a security rep? Had the others noticed this? Glancing sideways he saw Dorian continued to observe patiently, his weathered brow creased with a permanent frown. Dorian did not have the benefit of telescopic zoom. But Saskia did.

Nearby a man was mumbling something; Kyle turned to see a tall, thin-figured man leaning close to a tall woman speaking into her ear. Both were dressed in business attire. The woman looked bored. Kyle shifted his gaze to the right: the middle-aged Chinese man was handing over a credit card; the bearded stall keeper was placing a glass bauble into a padded box. Kyle brought his attention back to the woman, the mumbling man was complaining about something; she caught Kyle's eye and gave him a withering look. He looked away.

The rain was coming down even harder, the sky darkening with every minute that passed. Storm coming, he thought, feeling the air becoming heavy with an old sense of familiarity. He winced as a memory bubbled up inside his head; he'd managed to go without thinking about Naomi for six months, before the details of this project – and it's location – began to take shape. Back then, in the planning stage, thinking about being here he'd believed the experience would be a useful confrontation of past demons. Actually being here was proving to be a deeply uncomfortable experience. What if the police recognise me? Hassle me? Draw attention to the Black Orchids during their covert engagement? He knew it was unlikely to happen; the incident had been five years ago but he could not shake himself free of the fear, or the guilt beneath it.

A knot of anxiety closed around his lungs; it felt like the armoured vest was suffocating him. The force of the resurgent emotions took him off guard: this is not the time to go through this. Trying hard to conceal his suffering he held his breath to calm himself and dropped his gaze to the cobblestone ground; but his physical actions could do nothing to stop the mass of images that came rising up from the depths of his suppressed mind. He pictured the detectives in charge of the investigation – did they still work in the same station? Was the gang-graffiti still on the walls, were the toilets still smeared with shit? He recalled the interviews and the smell of cheap cigarettes and nervous sweat, probably his own. They had shown him the photographs: they had gloated over the crime scene wanting to see the guilt on his face. All they would have seen was his revulsion.

He opened his eyes not even aware they had been closed; the left inset on the DVFrames switched from the executive to the next camera: Kurt Hansen, the thick sinews of his muscular neck bulging as he stood with his head angled in Kyle's direction, his tanned brow compressed by a frown, his blue eyes narrowed with bleak suspicion. The creases either side of his mouth had deepened and stretched up to his damaged nose. God, don't try and talk to me, not now!

Elliot Jordan's voice broke the downward spiral of Kyle's personal situation.

‘Time to move people. On your command, Alpha. Omega out.'

Dorian lifted a hand to his own shoulder and tapped it twice with his fingers. Kurt Hansen read the signal, forgot about Kyle in an instant, and stepped out from beneath the canopy, bowing into the rain as he began to walk towards the executive.

Dorian sub-vocalised, ‘Delta is foxtrot, Delta has trigger. Beta-Omega standby. Alpha out.'

There was something frightening about the way Hansen eased his massive frame through the flow of passing shoppers without drawing any attention; Kyle was touched by a tangible sense of dread as he pictured somebody like that moving in for a kill – you wouldn't see it coming, he realised.

Elliot Jordan's voice came through, urgent: ‘Standby…standby…caught a CT, two second squirt, running it now. Omega out.'

Out in the rain the figure of Kurt Hansen slowed and began to change direction, avoiding contact. Kyle saw Dorian grit his teeth, jaw muscles bunching up, ‘Delta proceed toward tango; Omega I want that CT decrypted yesterday. Beta status. Alpha out.'

Saskia Dimitri's voice, calm: ‘Beta clean.'

Next to Kyle a woman rapidly exclaimed, ‘Look don't bring it onto me if you're in a foul mood.'

Both Kyle and Dorian turned their heads and stared at her; Kyle saw it was the tall woman. The mumbling man beside her reared away and now spoke defensively, ‘I'm not in a foul mood.'

‘ Shit! Tango is foxtrot…I've lost trigger, that's tango foxtrot toward Beta, ‘ Kurt Hansen's voice low and pissed. Dorian whipped his head back to see, but Kyle's eye simply flicked to the image superimposed over the left lens of the DVFrames. The executive was walking quickly, long fast strides that suggested athletic fitness, moving within a throng of people heading towards the multi-storey car park. The camera's auto-tracking was working, albeit badly: the image kept jerking as it focussed then moved to keep up.

‘Yes you are in a foul mood!' said the tall woman even louder.

‘Damn,' Kyle heard Dorian say quietly, then Dorian sub-vocalised rapidly, ‘Omega I want that translation! Delta hold back. Beta status. Alpha out.'

Dimitri's voice just started coming through when it was drowned out by the man near them shouting: ‘Fine! It was your bloody idea to come here.'

Dorian stuck a finger in his other ear, ‘Sorry Beta, repeat that. Alpha out.'

Saskia Dimitri's voice, calm: ‘I have trigger. Tango is foxtrot toward MP. Beta out.'

Elliot Jordan's voice, bothered: ‘No can translate, hard-core modulation, battle code, er, two more transmissions, okay, two seconds each, yes, same code. Omega out.'

Kyle turned his head back and saw the hulking figure of Kurt Hansen walking slowly back toward the stall: one of his hands was tucked inside the front of his nylon jacket. The camera was tracking him without bother.

Saskia Dimitri: ‘ Seventy short, wait... wait... tango is armed... tango is armed... pistol beneath poncho... still foxtrot, still toward MP.'

The tall woman had made some low-voiced remark, sending the man on a rant, ‘Don't start all that again, I told you-'

Dorian stepped out from beneath the canopy taking a grip on Kyle's arm as he left, ‘Delta, I'm coming across. Alpha out.' Kyle was forced to follow, the rain slammed into him, spattering across the lenses and his DVFrames.

Saskia Dimitri's voice: ‘I have you visual, Alpha. Fifty short, tango is 3rd party aware, running from something.'

‘Copy that,' replied Dorian; they joined Kurt Hansen and began following the row of stalls that followed the edge of the river toward the car park. ‘Omega any breakthrough? Alpha out.'

‘Negative. Omega out.'

Dorian had let go of his arm. Kyle dropped back two paces to capture the full scene as they stalked the executive; it was a difficult shot to pull together, Kurt Hansen was a full head and shoulders taller than Dorian. Moving at a pace slower than the majority of the crowd, umbrellas and rain-soaked faces slid past in profile; groomed businessmen and women with expensive overcoats, men and women dragging sullen children in bright rain coats, the water-speckled lens warping city lights to dramatic effect.

Saskia Dimitri's voice: ‘Wait... slowing down, slowing down, tango is cutting right, into alley, that's Tango in alley, I've lost trigger.'

Dorian responded instantly, ‘Roger that, Beta has lost trigger. I'm moving in. Delta is with me. Beta status. Alpha out. ‘

Saskia Dimitri's voice: ‘I have Alpha/Delta and Kilo visual. Switching to thermal.'

3^rd party? Who was here that they were not aware of? Kyle worried. Were they in danger? Was the executive another mercenary? Who was he running from? Had Saskia Dimitri switched to the sniper rifle somewhere up there in the car park? He regretted her not letting him put a micro-camera on her. He was frustrated by not being able to ask these questions now.

They approached a stall selling scented wax candles. A group of teenage boys had gathered there; wrapped in quilted jackets they huddled together, passing a cigarette or digging hands in pockets, glancing at the droves of people with sullen interest.

He could see the entrance to the alley, breaking up a large stretch of sandstone wall. Above the alley was a sort of artificial ceiling created by a broad ramp leading out of the car park. The sky was getting even darker and beneath the ramp it was virtually night. He would have to work on the recorded footage later to boost the light levels as best he could. He glanced to his left and saw that the river was almost obscured by the haze of heavy rainfall. Glancing to his right he made eye contact with a woman in a crowd a few metres away from him, dark spiky hair glistening like oil in the rain, smiling eyes; eyes like his, slightly Asian. Kyle looked away.

Saskia Dimitri's voice: ‘Alpha/Delta/Kilo in visual, twenty short, move over to your right guys, you'll see the alley ahead of you. ‘

Dorian's voice, ‘Copy that, twenty short, moving to our right. Alpha out.'

Dorian began easing his way through the throngs of shoppers, Kurt Hansen right beside him, cutting across the flow to reach the alley. Kyle waited a moment to let the shot form as he wanted, then stepped after them.

Saskia Dimitri's voice, rapid: ‘Damn, security guard coming to check me out. Closing my position. Beta out.'

Kyle saw Dorian and Hansen had a clear line of sight with the alley now, they did not falter but crossed the intervening distance.

The alley was a dark hollow, immense walls of century-old sandstone over three metres high, shimmering as water cascaded down. Further in it was dry, the area choked with a mountain of black plastic bin-liners. Dorian stood two paces in, Kurt Hansen staying back to cover. There was nothing furtive about their movements or postures, both men, Kyle observed, were able to blend a necessary amount of caution into a body language that did not attract attention. A few passers-by looked their way but were far more interested in getting out of the rain.

Dorian raised an empty right hand and spread his fingers. ‘My friend,' he said sharply above the hiss of rain, ‘We both know that our meeting is no longer private and time is short, so do you want to proceed or abort?'

Kyle opened the camera shot and took in the width of the alley and the darkness ahead of them; he could not see anything beyond Dorian.

A voice came back at them, Spanish accent, ‘Give me a name.'

‘Bravo, Oscar, November,' Dorian replied clearly.

There was a pause, Kyle saw Hansen discreetly move his hand inside his jacket. Kyle's thoughts jumped briefly to Saskia Dimitri: what was happening with the security guard?

The executive emerged from the darkness like a shadow, one hand tucked beneath the plastic poncho, his dark eyes intense, surveying each of them in turn. ‘Sorry,' he said quickly, ‘I was not sure it would be you.' He walked confidently up to Dorian, ‘You are right, there is not much time.'

Kyle saw relief seeping through the executive's professional mask; he held out an unmarked cashcard and a small zip-lock pouch containing a data-chip. Dorian took them and slipped them inside a coat pocket. ‘The card is your advance,' the executive told him, ‘You will get the rest of the fee if you deliver within ten days. After that you get nothing and the data will be worthless. The data must be taken to the offices of the Traxal Morris Agency, in Cairo. Ask for Abdl Mahmoud. He will know how to handle this. Are you clear on this?'

Dorian nodded coolly, ‘Yes I'm clear. Our agent told us the job would take us out of Europe.'

The executive displayed the faintest smile, a glimmer of humanity against the tension, ‘No time to talk my friend. This place is not-'

The bullet was silent. Kyle only heard the sickening crunch as the right side of Dorian's head exploded in a spray of gore; even before Dorian's body had collapsed, noise-suppressed automatic gunfire began raining down into the alley, ripping through the pile of bin-liners, sending up showers of shattered bottles and paper cartons. The executive twisted his body and tried to throw himself out of the line of fire but multiple impacts shredded his dark plastic poncho and chewed his torso apart, he dropped to the floor like a sack of meat.

Hansen was already running forward into the alley, the Heckler & Koch in one hand, his other hand snapping the silencer into place.

Kyle had dropped to a crouch, hands over his head, one shoulder pressed against the sandstone wall for protection; he looked wildly for the source of the gunfire.

Bullets were still ripping into alley.

He could not see any guns.

Hansen had a grip on the collar of Dorian's coat and was dragging him out; blood was slowly leaking from the hole in the side of his head leaving a dark trail on the ground behind them.

Kyle heard panicked shouting, saw people running in all directions.

Saskia Dimitri's voice through his ear-bead, garbled and not making sense.

A high-piercing scream made him look up in time to see her body tumbling from the upper levels.

The wall beside his head erupted, showering him with sharp fragments of stone; he was aware he was yelling, falling forward, rolling, the ground hard on his elbows and shins. Bullets striking the ground, the impacts following his wake. Terror flooded his senses, his limbs worked without any feeling; he was pushing himself up with his arms, feet slipping on the wet floor. Pain stabbed the side of his head as if he had been punched in the face. Falling forward, arms flailing, hands clutching the ground.

Hansen swooped out of nowhere, reaching down with a huge hand covered in blood, grabbed Kyle by his collar and began dragging him, not stopping, pulling along, yelling, ‘RUN, FUCKING RUN!!!'

Kyle staggered onto his feet and got into a sprint, heading away from the alley and back the way they had come. He glanced behind him and saw the body of Dorian lying broken on the ground. Hansen let go of him and charged ahead, the machine-pistol held close to his side. Hansen's voice came through the ear-bead, ‘Omega-Omega, Delta heading your way, Alpha and Beta down and dead, repeat, down and dead! Delta out.'

Elliot Jordan's voice, shaken: ‘Copy that, dusting off now, meet you-'

White noise filled his ear.

Then the air-shook with a massive detonation. Hansen lurched to a stop, causing Kyle to collide with him and go sprawling to the hard ground. Blood streamed into his right eye, blinding him, he realised the DVFrames were gone, no longer on his face; he felt a sickly warm numbness spreading through his skull above the eye. Hansen's voice was in his ears, ‘What the fuck is this? Omega? Omega!' Hansen span round in a dazed circle, features compressing with rage.

Had the shooting stopped? Kyle couldn't tell. The blood was roaring in his ears and it sounded like the whole city was screaming; people were still running. His right eye was screwed shut; he was looking at blood on his fingers in front of his face; he was up on his feet; Hansen was pushing him back toward the car park, his blunt face moving from side to side, his damaged nose wrinkled up above a snarling mouth, his blue eyes sweeping every angle, the machine-pistol gripped in both hands ready to use. Kyle saw one of the teenagers from the candle stall running in their direction, the youth's compressed by some unreadable expression: friend or foe? Could this kid be involved? Kyle's thoughts were incredulous. In the next instant the boy was jerked backwards by a crushing impact. There was no sign of what had struck him. Kyle heard the shrill shrieks of his friends as they stared at the body. Some part of his mind managed to ask the question: What the-?

Hansen had a hold of him again, the machine-pistol sweeping in front of him by one hand, the other hand propelling him toward the long line of stalls, people had thrown themselves everywhere, anywhere the bullets did not seem to be coming. They ran past the stalls and did not stop; the river loomed up as a misty void ahead, then they jumped-

Icy water clutched at his throat, making him gasp as he came up, sucking in air. He thrashed his arms and legs, forced them to work against the heavy chop of the river and the weight of his clothes. Hansen was ahead of him, the close-cropped hair of his head just visible through the rain, his shoulders and arms cutting through the water like a powerful athlete. Kyle swam for all his life after him, the cries and sobs of terror receding with every stroke.

They reached the riverbank on the opposite side. A small wooden jetty and a flight of rotting steps rising out of the water; old industrial buildings stood decaying in the gloom, intermittently hidden by shifting squalls of rain.

Kyle clambered up the steps, his clothes almost crippling with their sodden weight; he collapsed next to Hansen on the jetty, rolled onto his back and lay there, wet, shivering, hurting and gasping for breath. His mind visualised some kind of awful hole in his head. The other side of the river seemed a million miles away.

Hansen's oversized paw flopped against the wood next to Kyle's face, palm up. Kyle twisted his neck and saw the cashcard and the zip-lock bag with the data-chip. He lifted his gaze to Hansen's face and saw the madness in the man's eyes.

‘Still want to make your fucking film?'

Kyle's chest was heaving with every breath, he could barely speak, his thoughts were a tangle of confusion and fear; he grunted along the lines of ‘Yes'. He did not know what else to say.

 

 

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DEATH TOLL FOR NEW JERICHO BIO-PLAGUE (b7) REACHES 600, 000

 ISRAEL DENIES b7 PRODUCTION

 UTOC DEMANDS ISRAEL SUBMITS TO INSPECTION OF MILITARY FACILITIES

 

TWO

 

BLOOD ON THE SAND

 

‘Israel continues to deny any involvement with the B-7 outbreak in New Jericho, yet our intelligence sources strongly suggest they have been stockpiling the biological agent. I am working with my UTOC partners to get inspectors inside Israel to confirm this.'

The speaker was a bald, grossly overweight man with a broad, aggressive face and white skin like damp dough. He sat in one of the dark leather chairs that surrounded the conference room table, caught in the blue-tinted shafts of sunlight streaming through the open blinds; his massive bulk strained against the clam-shell embrace of his expensive suit. This was Maximillian Visconte, head of UTOC's Ministry of Anti-Terrorism.

Beside him sat another man, an Egyptian, who was older and vastly slimmer with an oily head of hair that was slicked back and parted down one side. This was Gulzhar Kafour, Minister for Egyptian Home Affairs.

‘Israel will never agree,' Kafour remarked testily.

‘They won't have much choice,' Visconte replied, ‘The United Table of Commerce has acquired considerable powers of persuasion through legalisation in recent years. The new Independent Gulf States are becoming very agitated. Tension is running very high throughout the Middle East. Motions are being passed in New York to mobilise the CDF to enforce the inspections.'

Kafour fell silent, apparently dwelling on Visconte's threat.

Facing Visconte across the wide slab of polished wood sat another smartly dressed Arab, listening intently. Only thirty-one, his eyes, light green as Jade, were troubled with experiences beyond his age; his coarse hair was grey in colour, its long length held in a tidy ponytail that was fastened into a knot behind his head. This was Wassim Umbra, the Director of the Purple Dawn Foundation; he had called this meeting together and it was the headquarters of the Foundation where the meeting was taking place, in Giza, ten miles North of Cairo.

No bodyguards were present, nor were any outside the room; there were no secretaries, no advisors. There was an isolated PA rigged with a studio-quality microphone. The PA was set onto an audio-to-text print function, and lay beside a printer that silently compiled a hard copy of every word spoken. Once the hard copy was taken away the PA's memory would be wiped clean. The hard copy would be the only trace that the meeting ever took place.

‘Can you rule out the possibility this was not the work of al-Qaida?' Umbra directed his question to Visconte.

Visconte nodded his fat head and began to set out reasons why.

Some distance beyond the conference table a courtesy bar spanned the gap between two wide inward sloping windowpanes. Chrome and glass receptacles glinted in the same shafts of cool-blue sunlight. There was a clink of a metal spoon against a saucer and another man began to approach from the bar with a coffee cup in his hand. He knew Umbra suspected al-Qaida had stolen the biological agent from Israel and detonated it inside the Independent Gulf States to stir up trouble. He knew the truth either way was irrelevant.

The man with the coffee passed behind Umbra, his superior, to walk to another inward sloping window. The man stood gazing through the open blinds at the sublime angles of the Pyramids rising up from their plateau. Cairo simmered in the far distance. How would it all look one month from now? What he knew allowed him to consider the reality that very little would remain.

Umbra cut into Visconte's explanation. ‘I think al-Qaida would benefit from UTOC denouncing Israel in this way.'

Visconte stated he had no intention of defending his decision to push for inspectors to enter Israel.

The man with the coffee turned away from the window and faced the room. He raised the cup to his lips, the movement exposing the folded cuffs of his shirt, crisp white cotton and platinum ball cufflinks. His Arabic face was deeply lined and craggy, an eagle-like countenance exaggerated by a long hooked nose. He was dressed impressively; the gunmetal silk suit utilised the best in German nanotech to ensure there were no creases or out-of-sight stains. A clue to his brutal character was the crimson tie: actually a liquid made from polymers. This was Abdl Mahmoud, Secretary to the Purple Dawn Foundation and Director of the Traxal Morris Agency; and the man responsible for the Spanish agent, Paul Garcia.

Umbra cut into Visconte's response again, ‘All I ask is that you delay proceeding against Israel until we confirm our information.'

Visconte shook his head, ‘I don't see any connection. I am sorry your agent was murdered last night. We value the work the Foundation does in combating the threat of terrorism. But I can't allow myself to been seen dragging my heels over this. We have our intelligence.'

In other words back off my territory, Mahmoud thought, secretly amused by Visconte's arrogant smugness.

Umbra puckered his lips and considered options.

‘You didn't bring us here to speculate on the B-7 incident,' Visconte pressed.

Umbra acknowledged the point and brought the meeting back to the original agenda: discussing the murder of Paul Garcia in England last night.

Mahmoud pricked-up his attention. It was very important he understood what Umbra and Visconte suspected.

For Kafour's benefit, Umbra outlined the facts leading up to Paul Garcia's assignment.

Rahmun Sada, an Egyptian by birth, is suspected by the Foundation of channelling some of his multi-billion Euro wealth into al-Qaida. Sada's specific motives are unclear but the Foundation's real interest in him come from Sada's close association with a group known as the Brotherhood of Veils.

Umbra described the Brotherhood of Veils in terms that would be easy for the Egyptian Minister to digest, Mahmoud noted. Umbra compared the Brotherhood to the 'Scientology Sect', or the 'Power of Eight Group', both recruiting individuals with a somewhat skewed take on human history. He failed to mention the Brotherhood were advocates of an old religion, one they believed predated Mankind.

In April this year, the Foundation uncovered a connection between the Brotherhood and an Islamic militant called Abd Nasser al-Ayeeri.

‘Ayeeri was on a list of suspects sought by UTOC anti-terror agents after the discovery of a weapons cache outside Tripoli,' Visconte advised. ‘His group is linked to the bombing of a tourist resort last year killing forty-two.'

In his late fifties, Ayeeri was a Saudi national, and believed to have fought in Afghanistan, Bosnia, Somalia, and Iraq during its bloody transformation into the new Independent Arab States.

The Foundation shared their intelligence with UTOC.

‘We were very grateful to learn about the Brotherhood,' Visconte stated, ‘And their connection to a source of funds like Rahmun Sada.'

Kafour raised a question, ‘You said Ayeeri was linked to a weapons cache outside Tripoli. Are Libya back in the terrorist business?'

Visconte ducked answering the question directly, ‘Ayeeri was killed in a shootout with a CDF patrol in the Independent Gulf States. Information in his possession directed us to site six-six-one.'

Mahmoud watched Kafour turn his oily head between looking at Visconte and then Umbra. ‘Site six-six-one?'

Umbra answered, ‘Site six-six-one was a camp in a remote part of Libya used for training Islamist militants to carry out attacks. It turned out to be no ordinary camp.'

Visconte picked up the thread, ‘Authorities in Libya were uncomfortable about the discovery. We sent in a tactical team to neutralise the camp. Less than a dozen militants. Each fought tooth and nail to the death. We lost a number of personnel in the operation.'

Kafour made a shrug as if to say he would have expected as much.

Visconte chose his next words carefully, ‘We were not prepared for the scale of genetic remodelling.'

Kafour's expression compacted, clearly not understanding.

‘Post-mortems were carried out on the bodies of the militants retrieved from the camp, which revealed a non-human agent had been introduced at the molecular level,' Visconte told him.

‘What sort of non-human agent?' Kafour asked, bothered by the idea.

‘Unknown,' Umbra answered.

‘But it made the militants harder to kill,' Visconte added unimpressed.

Umbra leaned forward and clasped his hands on the conference table, ‘We found links between the camp and the Neugenics Institute, in Paris. They specialise in genetic alterations, and they have a large lab presence onboard the Huygens Science Station, orbiting one of Saturn's moons. The lab presence is relevant, I think, because some of the training facilities found at the camp included underwater tanks and equipment normally used to by engineers preparing to go into zero-G.'

‘These facts are more worrying,' Visconte reflected aloud, ‘When you consider that in just over two weeks the science station is to be the venue for a massive international delegation of government and industrial representatives.'

Umbra concurred, ‘The fifth anniversary, yes. And site six-six-one was found in a state of being dismantled. Whatever happened there was finished before we arrived.'

Kafour nodded gravely, comprehending the connection. Mahmoud was amused to see what the Egyptian Minister was thinking: were al-Qaida about to launch an attack in space? Mahmoud knew the assumption was wrong.

Umbra turned his head to look at Mahmoud, the grey knot of his ponytail catching a beam of blue-tinted sunlight streaming through the windows. ‘Abdl, you were Paul Garcia's handler, can you detail what happened next.'

Mahmoud smiled without parting his lips. Umbra was handing over the blame as well as the explanation. ‘I sent Garcia to Paris. He successfully penetrated Neugenics security. He found files he believed related to what Neugenics were up to at site six-six-one.'

‘Did he read them?' Kafour cut in.

‘No,' Mahmoud answered slowly, displaying his dislike at being interrupted with such force that the Egyptian Minister literally sank back into his seat. ‘Garcia uploaded the files. The data was placed on a chip and encrypted. He was in the process of bringing the chip back to Cairo when the integrity of his operation was compromised. Garcia made contact requesting support. I recruited a mercenary unit and co-ordinated their rendezvous in England.'

Visconte was shaking his head, ‘England was a death trap. Why did you not come to us?'

Mahmoud did not rise to the rebuke. ‘It's not our S-O-P. And I request that you do not try to intercept the survivors still carrying the chip to Cairo.'

Visconte smiled quickly, ‘On the contrary, I think bringing them in and getting that chip into safe hands at the earliest opportunity is the best thing to do. I intend to alert all relevant UTOC security channels after this meeting.'

‘As you wish.' Mahmoud displayed no emotion. He'd known Visconte would be too eager to grab the intelligence on the chip to listen to any argument. He'd planned accordingly.

‘Do you have any idea who attacked Garcia and the mercenary team?' Kafour asked, curtailing the brooding silence between Mahmoud and Visconte.

‘The British believe there were three assailants,' Visconte replied. ‘Positive ID on one of them: Hani Rawajbeh, a Palestinian. The British are not treating this as a terrorist act. They think it's linked to serious crime.' Visconte threw Mahmoud a smug glance, ‘I'll have them call off the dogs. We don't want EFIB agents shooting your people dead. Not with a documentary maker there.'

The room became silent, a huge question mark hung in the air.

Visconte smirked, then settled his gaze on Mahmoud. ‘The mercenary team you brought in to support Garcia were involved with an American media production company. They were being filmed for a documentary.' He paused long enough for the fact to settle and sting, ‘Only one of the mercenaries survived the attack on Garcia and the documentary maker is still with him. EFIB have approached the production company for help in finding them, but I'd guess having their man involved in a serious crime is good for business. What do you think?'

Internally Mahmoud was seething. A documentary maker had not been part of the plan. However, he was already sensing there might be advantages to having somebody like that with Kurt Hansen. ‘I think we better stop that documentary ever being released.'

 

 

 

Mahmoud walked a little behind Umbra as they headed towards an unmarked car parked within the compound.

Umbra gripped an attaché case, chain-linked to his wrist bearing the single hard copy of the transcript of the meeting.

As they climbed into the ageing Hyundai, Mahmoud paused to glance upwards at the roof of the Foundation building, where Visconte and Kafour were boarding an aerodyne, the high pitch of its jet-turbines audible as it prepared for take-off.

Although he did not show it, Mahmoud was apprehensive. He slammed the door shut after he sank into the seat. There was no turning back now.

Once through the compound gates Mahmoud gunned the engine and sped the battered Hyundai along the dusty road, skirting the edges of Giza city and headed for the offices of the Traxal Morris Agency in Cairo.

Umbra sat silently, his seat reclined, the attaché case between his knees. Mahmoud glanced at the case once then restrained himself from looking at it again; checking, he saw Umbra had his head tilted toward the side window, watching the repetitive glimpses of the Pyramids above the simple buildings around them.

Mahmoud drove with one hand, fished inside his expensive suit with the other. He pulled out a compact automatic pistol, leaned forward and placed it beside the dashboard. Umbra did not even register it. Mahmoud dug his hand back inside his suit and pulled out a flat, platinum cigarette case. He opened it one handed, withdrew a short menthol cigarette and placed it between his lips.

Umbra twisted his neck to look at him, arched his grey eyebrows and smiled wearily, ‘What happened to you giving those up?'

Mahmoud leaned to one side, reaching into a side pocket and pulled out a lighter. ‘Nerves,' mumbling the word.

Umbra let out a short sigh, his Jade-green eyes drifting out of focus as he looked away, ‘Plenty of those today.'

Up ahead, the road narrowed between a row of very old, crumbling concrete tenement buildings. Leathery old men sat on the wide pavement on broken plastic chairs, wrapped in dirty galabayas, soaking up the sun and foul air, sharing a water pipe and reading the tattered remains of some years-old paper magazine.

‘What was wrong with you today?' Umbra asked.

‘Those idiots.'

‘Visconte's a good man.'

Mahmoud did not reply. He concentrated on the road ahead, the traffic much lighter now that the tourists were kept away from the Pyramids.

‘How much do you think the documentary maker knows?' Umbra asked.

Mahmoud was unhappy to be reminded, ‘Garcia would not have given any information about the chip.'

‘No I suppose not.' Umbra said listlessly, and slumped back with closed eyes, suddenly looking very tired. ‘What is Rahmun Sada up to?'

Mahmoud glanced at him, looked at the gun by the dashboard, and checked the clock display superimposed on the windshield. He knew why Umbra was tired. He could comprehend the sheer mental energy Umbra required to utilise his gift. The Purple Dawn Foundation was government sponsored but only a handful of people within the political machine understood what the Foundation truly did, and what it fought against.

‘There has been a large flux within the Quantisphere,' Umbra revealed, eyes closed. ‘The Jabadri…I think it is active.'

A muscle jumped in Mahmoud's neck. He checked the rear mirror. The nearest car was over a hundred metres away. He had to concentrate to keep the tremor from his voice, ‘It came to you?'

‘No. Not yet.' Umbra opened his eyes and gazed at something beyond the ordinary.

‘What have you sensed?' Mahmoud queried, his voice audibly tight.

Umbra seemed not to notice the strain; ‘A Grand Conjunction is approaching. The Quantisphere is vulnerable and if the Jabadri is active then great danger faces all of us. The feeble nature of human flesh will hold no value in its scales. Rahmun Sada and the Brotherhood, site six-six-one, Neugenics, the modifications to those militants… I think they're linked to the science station. Two weeks, that's all we've got. We have to get hold of that chip.'

Mahmoud did not respond. He had not expected the Jabadri to become active so early. His mind was working frantically to find a way of learning more without alerting Umbra to his purpose, but time was about to run out.

Umbra lifted his head, puzzled, ‘What's wrong?'

The reply never came.

The Hyundai braked violently as two battered vans emerged from either side of the road ahead, blocking the route. Umbra was forced to grip the dashboard with one hand as the Hyundai slewed sideways on the dusty road. Locals jumped out of the way as the Hyundai violently mounted the pavement and crashed through a low wall, the impact throwing Umbra forward, cracking his head against the windshield.

Mahmoud scrabbled on the floor for his gun.

Umbra groggily lifted his head as several men came running from behind both vans, gripping large automatic weapons, faces wrapped in black cloth.

Umbra tried to say something but slumped forward, visibly in pain, clutching the injury to his head.

Mahmoud's fingers found the gun. He picked it up, pointed it at Umbra. ‘How do I stop the Jabadri?'

The sound of automatic gunfire raked the air outside the car like rapid thunder: the Hyundai shuddered with several impacts. The gunfire was also aimed at anybody witnessing the ambush. He had not planned on having to question Umbra and there was no time to do so. ‘Answer me! How do I stop it?'

Umbra turned his head and saw the gun. His green eyes drilled into Mahmoud ‘You're part of this?'

Mahmoud could not risk a witness in the crowd outside, a few more moments and the gunfire would start to attract attention rather than turning it away. He fired two bullets into Umbra's brain, two into his chest.

Working quickly, he stretched over Umbra's motionless body and shot away the lock holding the attaché case to Umbra's wrist. One of the masked gunmen smashed the driver's window with the butt of his weapon, then paused long enough for Mahmoud to hand him the attaché case and the gun he had used to kill Umbra. The gunman took the weapon, spun it round and pointed it back into the car, then fired a well-aimed shot into the flesh of Mahmoud's upper arm. Mahmoud rocked back against the seat, shouting out in agony and clutching his arm. The gunman turned and ran to join his associates, taking the attaché case with him.

Mahmoud closed his eyes as the pain seared through him, transcribed itself into a cold sweat that seeped from his whole body, and an icy nausea forming in the pit of his belly.

He could see the bodies of several bystanders left behind by the attack.

A rumble shook the sky in the distance, above Cairo. Mahmoud smiled. A heat-seeking missile had just blown Visconte and Kafour out of the sky.

 

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 ‘NO RISK OF PLAGUE SPREADING' SAYS UTOC SENIOR MEDICAL ADVISOR

 DEATH TOLL FOR b7 OUTBREAK ESTIMATED AT 1 MILLION DEAD

 ISRAEL TURN AWAY UTOC INSPECTION TEAMS

 

THREE

 

MORBIDUS

 

The sun was stained a septic colour through London's early morning mist. A cold October light. The mist filtered the squalid traveller site into a montage of blurred shapes painted in grey shades. The collapsed shell of a Victorian warehouse with only several of its lower walls remaining, propped up with rubble.

It was the scene of a horror.

The dog was pitifully underfed, its rib cage visible through greasy fur flecked with pale scabs; it stood rigid, its ears straight up, its eyes fixed on a point ahead of it. A low, wary growl rumbled in its throat. A number of scruffy dressed men and women cautiously approached the area the dog was focussing upon.

What they saw chilled each and every one of them.

The Volkswagen van was parked facing an intact section of wall. One side of the van had been torn away leaving a mangled hole that exposed the gruesome tableau inside.

Several people turned and ran from the scene, a skinhead dropped to his knees and stared unable to tear his eyes from the sight.

Slouched, half-sitting against the far side of the van, facing the gaping hole was a thin-framed man with long dyed-black hair. His eyes stared out imploringly from a face that was in mid-scream, frozen in shock. He was dead. His throat was ripped open, a ragged gash of muscle, tissue and flesh that slowly oozed blood onto his black coat.

On the floor of the van was a symbol, a triangle with a single line drawn through two sides, daubed in his blood.

 

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 DOUBLE ASSASSINATION IN CAIRO - HEAD OF UTOC ANTI-TERRORIST MINISTRY & EYGPT'S HOME AFFAIRS MINISTER BOTH KILLED IN MISSILE ATTACK

 UTOC WARNS ISRAEL TO ACCEPT INSPECTION TEAMS

 HANS MULLER LEADS DIE REPUBLIKANER (REP) TO ELECTION VICTORY IN BAVARIA

 

END OF EXCERPT

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