Armageddon Heights (a thriller) (3 page)

3

‘Sir, we have an intruder in the Heights…’

‘Which sector?’ the voice buzzed in the man’s earpiece.

The man scanned the computer screen, touched it with his fingertip, enlarged the map. ‘10225, sir,’ he replied. ‘Sixty-four miles west of Cain’s Territory.

‘Man or woman?’ The voice was harsh, uncompromising.

‘Hard to define…’

‘Man or woman?’

‘Cannot say either way, sir. They’re doing a good job of blocking it.’

A moment’s silence. ‘I’ll be down straight away.’

He burst into the large room, and though no one turned to look at him as he entered everyone was fully aware of his presence. He carried an aura about him like the sea carries a tsunami. Eyes briefly looked up from the banks of screens, but were quickly lowered again.

Robert Napier felt hot and bothered. He spent his entire life swamped in that feeling. An intruder? Lindegaard thought he’d managed to prevent that happening again. Drafted in key brains with no expense spared to make it happen. So, he’d say, how the fuck had someone gotten through our latest defences?

He moved almost silently across the thick blue carpet and hovered over the operative’s shoulder like a vulture; or at least that’s what he hoped they’d perceive him as. Fear kept them on their toes.

‘Show me,’ he said, softly, because he didn’t want anyone close by to hear too much.

The operative tapped the screen. ‘Sector 10225. See?’

‘Can we get a visual?’ Napier said, a demand thinly disguised as a question. He bent closer to the screen and narrowed his eyes.

‘No, Mr Napier, sir.’

‘Get me a fucking visual,’ he said.

‘I can’t, sir,’ he replied tremulously. ‘It’s not possible.’

‘We made it possible!’

‘Not this time. They’ve added some kind of screen that’s blocking our attempts.’

Napier slammed his hand down hard on the operative’s desk. The man flinched. The same hand slid through Napier’s sleek black hair, a touch of grey at the temples, adding severity to his already severe countenance. He was aware of the rank of twenty operatives, intent on their work, but with one ear on the proceedings. The low light of the room, the stillness and silence, reminded him of a funeral parlour, and not for the first time. Stroking his chin, he wondered what he should do next. He’d assured Mr Lindegaard that he’d cured the vexing problem of unwanted intruders into their operations. It was his turn to feel uneasy, as if a vulture perched close to his shoulder, too.

‘The trace has disappeared,’ said the operative.

‘It can’t have,’ said Napier. ‘It’s got to be there. Find it.’

‘It’s not there, sir,’ the man returned, his voice feeble. ‘It’s vanished.’

‘How the hell are they doing that?’ The frustration in his voice sat like something bad in his mouth he needed to spit out. ‘Get someone into 10225 at the double. Find the intruder and dispose of them at once.’

‘The Sentinels are on their way already, sir. I launched them as soon as I got the alert, as your protocol dictates.’

Protocols, thought Napier. They wouldn’t protect him from Lindegaard’s fury.

‘Mr Lindegaard ought to be told,’ Napier said reluctantly under his breath.

The operative nodded. ‘I’ve already passed on the message to his team, sir.’

Of course. Protocol, thought Napier. And as if to throw fuel onto the fires of his apprehension, the operative looked up, a finger to his earpiece.

‘Mr Lindegaard himself is on the line, sir. Do you wish to take it here?’

Napier scowled. ‘No. I’ll take it in my office.’ He unconsciously brushed imaginary dirt from the sleeve of his suit. ‘Keep trying. Don’t stop till you’ve found them and got rid of them, you hear?’

The man nodded smartly. ‘Yes, sir, Mr Napier.’

‘It’s Levi, isn’t it?’ Napier asked.

‘Levoir, sir,’ the man said.

‘Adrian Levoir, right?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘How’d you manage to spot the trace when no one else in this room could?’

Levoir looked suspiciously at Napier, as if the question were designed to trick him. ‘It’s my job, sir. Guess I’ve got a good nose for it.’

Napier growled and stood upright, looked around the room; all heads were bent obediently to their business. ‘Any more screw-ups and I’ll get rid of the lot of you!’ he shouted, storming out of the room.

‘How many?’

The voice was calm, quiet and deep. It reminded Robert Napier of the sound made by an old river as it reached the sea. But he wasn’t fooled by the seeming tranquillity of it. Dale Lindegaard was as vicious and as ruthless as a viper and had seemingly become more so since he took over the helm of Lindegaard Software from his dead brother. Maybe it had always been there awaiting its opportunity, like a beast in the brush waiting to pounce.

‘One, Mr Lindegaard, as far as we can make out.’

Silence on the other end of the phone. It allowed Napier the time to stare out of his office window, to the tamed desert beyond. Palms and other lush green fronds attached to plants he never knew the names of led his eye onto carefully manicured lawns being sprinkled by a high fountain of water that caught the light and built a rainbow in its centre. The harsh sunlight fell in searing patches onto his plush red carpet, draped itself playfully across his massive glass-topped desk like a seductive, revealing hussy.

‘Get over to London,’ said Lindegaard.

‘What, now?’

‘You heard me.’

‘I can’t just…’

The line went dead.

Robert Napier swallowed, but his throat was dry. He put down the phone as carefully as if it would explode in his hands with just one wrong movement.

London? I’m in New Mexico, in heaven’s name! He knows that!

He wanted to do what he always did when vexed, and slam his hand down hard on his desk. But he refrained, gave a sigh and left it at that. He knew Lindegaard often had people and places bugged. He bet the old man was spying on him even now, through myriad secret cameras stashed about his so-called clean office, willing him to get all emotional so Lindegaard could suck it up like a fly spits on shit and sucks that up. Well, he wouldn’t give the old vampire the satisfaction, he thought icily.

London. He hadn’t been back there in a long while. He wondered how Melissa was doing.

He thumped a button on his phone.

‘Lucy, I need to get to London. Yes, I need to leave now, this minute.’ He rolled a tongue over his lower lip. ‘And get Adrian Levoir in here at the double.’

Three minutes later there was a timid knock at Napier’s office door.

‘Enter,’ Napier said, sitting behind his desk and fingering his ear as he thought. Adrian Levoir opened the door cautiously, closed it like he didn’t really want to seal himself inside Napier’s dreaded inner sanctum. The considerable trek to Napier’s desk was marked by a sickening dead-man-walking sensation.

‘I’ll pick up the trace, sir,’ he said, ‘given time. I’m sorry I lost it in the first place…’

Napier studied the young man, hair run through with some kind of product, a fresh smell emanating from him, the smell of the company’s hand-wash from the bathrooms. Clearly a guy who cares about being clean, thought Napier, eyeing the sharp cut of the man’s jacket, the neat line pressed into his trousers. Casual-smart was the norm, but this guy was meticulous about his appearance, a man after his own heart.

‘How long have you been here, Levoir?’

‘Two years, six and a half months, Mr Napier.’

Anal, thought Napier with some satisfaction. Precise, keeping count. ‘You like being with us?’

The man nodded guardedly. ‘Yes, Mr Napier.’

‘We pay you well?’

‘Very well, Mr Napier.’

Robert Napier deliberately let the silence hang in the air like a shroud for a moment or two longer than was comfortable. ‘Where are you from, Levoir?’

‘Nebraska, sir. I was born in Albuquerque, though, and moved out when I was still a baby. Moved around as my career dictated.’

He angled his head. ‘You’re good at your job, anyone ever told you that?’

‘No, sir. Thank you.’ The man visibly relaxed, his shoulders slumped a little and his chest pumped out a slow, relieved breath.

‘You did well to spot that trace like you did. Even when you pointed it out I couldn’t really see it. You’ve done it a number of times while the rest of that motley bunch misses it. How’d you do that?’

Levoir shrugged. ‘Like I said, I’ve got a nose for it. It’s why I was hired, sir.’

Napier nodded. ‘Was it CSL you spotted?’

‘It had to be, sir. I don’t think any other organisation has the capability yet. The risk from others is minimal, because, in my opinion, CSL is special. The first to breach our security measures and then break through the new ones we’ve recently put in place.’

‘But you think eventually others will muscle in on our operations.’

‘Yes, I believe they’ll try. The rewards are lucrative to say the least.’

‘We can’t let that happen.’

‘No, sir.’

‘I might have special work for you.’

‘Special work, Mr Napier? What kind of work?’

Napier did a rare thing and smiled thinly. It vanished like the sun behind a cloud and the room became decidedly chillier with it. ‘I’ll let you know.’ He dismissed Levoir with a peremptory flick of his hand and the young man, bemused, turned and made his way to the door. ‘Pack a bag, we’re flying to London.’

Adrian Levoir stopped, not sure he’d heard right. ‘London?’

‘You’ve got five minutes to grab a few things. Meet me in the lobby.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And keep this quiet. You don’t tell a soul where you’re headed.’ Levoir nodded quickly and left the office. Napier hit the button on his phone. ‘Lucy, run me a background check on Adrian Levoir.’

‘We already have his details on file from the last check, Mr Napier. Shall I send them through?’

‘I want it done afresh. Dig deeper. Level Three check. He needs to be as clean as a newborn’s first thought.’

‘Right away, Mr Napier. I’ll see to that at once.’

Yeah, the young guy was good. Too damn good for his comfort. He’d been keeping a close eye on him. The man had skills that far outstripped many he had working for him, Napier thought, his abilities gradually, inexorably, pushing him up through the ranks.

‘Remember, Level Three – I want to know if there’s any dirt I should be aware of, no matter how tiny the speck, you got that?’

‘Yes, Mr Napier. I understand.’

He carried out a head count. Twenty people sitting in the coach, the same amount that had been standing in line, including the partner of the woman who stood reading the newspaper. All accounted for. A young guy, pushing twenty at the most, slumped down into a seat directly opposite him, cast him an unfriendly glance and stuffed a pair of silver headphones over his ears, flicking through his phone’s menu. He sat back with his eyes closed, the irritating beat of drums and scratchy guitar chords leaking out.

Samuel Wade watched as the bus driver clambered up into his cab and closed the door. The main twin doors of the coach snapped shut on the chilly world outside with a loud hiss and the engine rumbled into life, the vehicle shuddering as if it were a beast shrugging off slumber. Wade peered outside. No signs of any commotion. No one attempting to hinder the coach as it reversed out of the bay in the bus station and made for the exit and the open road.

The rain pounded on the roof of the coach as it left the cover of the bus station, the windows being instantly beaten by rain thrown at them by the wind. Night had fallen fully now, as fully as it ever could in the city. Car headlight and street lamps cast squirming, flashing psychedelic patterns on the smeared glass, the coach threading into the evening traffic, joining the mad exodus home.

Home.

How warm the sound. How cruel.

Wade felt a painful twinge in the pit of his stomach. He unconsciously rubbed the place to ease it, but it was a pain he could never wipe away so easily.

God, he was so tired. His eyes were twin pieces of smouldering coal. When was the last time he’d slept? He couldn’t remember. But he couldn’t allow himself the luxury either. He had to stay awake, stay vigilant.

Stay vigilant…

It felt like yesterday. That tragic day.

The insurgents had captured a guy from his battalion. His name was John Travers. Not just any guy. Wade and Travers had become fast friends in an occupation in which it wasn’t wise to have close friendships. But he was young and naïve back then. They both were. They sought each other out as kindred spirits, needed each other in those first few months as they were inducted into the regiment and army life, endured the arduous training regime before being shipped abroad. Sure, they heard the lurid stories, watched broadcasts, listened to their commanding officers and the grunts who’d been over there. But nothing prepares you for the real thing, Wade thought. Nothing.

They said it shouldn’t have happened –
couldn’t
have happened – but they were all proved wrong. And all because of what? A lapse in concentration, they were told. It was
their
fault – his comrades had contributed to what happened to Travers. Wade could have prevented it.

Okay, so no one actually came forward and said it, but he read it in their eyes, their cold-shouldered avoidance. You should have prevented it. You should have had his back. Where were you?

And it haunted Wade to this day.

They were moving from filthy, dusty mud-brick house to filthy mud-brick house, an urgent tip-off provoking a hurriedly cobbled-together patrol designed to flush the insurgents out, their unexpected excursion into the town an incursion too far. Get in there, nip it in the bud.

Bewildered and angry women and children either standing staring at them as the patrol crushed itself against walls and secured street after street, or ran away terrified, ducking into doorways little more than holes covered with ragged strips of cloth and plastic sheeting. Wade remembered trying to read the thoughts behind their eyes and failed. Any one of them could be an enemy or collaborating with them, willingly or otherwise. The tension was so palpable he swore he could hear it creak. Sweat doused his body, more than just a product of the intense heat of the day.

The order to split the patrol up had been debated ever since and there were no clear answers, no matter how they dissected the patrol in debrief, looked for the reason why it went wrong. And Lieutenant Solway wasn’t about to enlighten anyone either, because he was dead. But the order was given, and in spite of the frowns and puzzled glances at the time, orders are orders, so Travers, Wade and Peterson were sent off to secure a filth-covered alley and attendant mud-brick buildings, while two other larger groups went scuttling in other directions, the objective to sweep their areas clean and meet up at a predetermined point three hundred yards due north before deciding the next set of objectives. All very textbook otherwise. Nothing out of the ordinary, if you could call this ordinary.

But that day would be different. What happened that day would eventually result in his wife and child being murdered. But he was powerless to stop the memory of it. As he saw a young woman gather her child in her arms and make a dash for it down the street, he wanted to alter the memory, to turn back, call an end to it all. Yet he was being dragged through it like a river takes a leaf, knowing full well his family were being wiped out with every step he took towards the house, its open doorway looking like the maw of a yawning beast waiting to devour them. Through there, lurking in the darkness, lay the bleak future he could not change.

A loud explosion caused Samuel Wade to snap open his eyes, the memories to dissolve instantly, his heart crashing wildly inside his chest, his body tense, his hand flying instinctively to the pocket where he kept the pistol.

Thunder.

Rolling loudly overhead, accompanied by the stark flash of lightning. The storm directly above them, he thought. The rain was pelting the windows of the coach so hard it sounded as if someone was throwing handfuls of grit at them. It was dark. A darkness so complete he couldn’t make anything out. Where was the city, the car headlights, the shop windows and streetlamps? Had he been asleep?

He checked his watch. Yes. An hour or so. The doomed patrol simply a part of his dream. The same nightmare again.

Gradually his breathing eased and he wiped away the sweat which began to chill his forehead. He looked over in the youth’s direction. He appeared to be asleep, the headphones still doling out the irritating noise, a packet of half-eaten crisps on the pull-down table in front of him, spilling out onto it with the steady vibrations of the coach, as if they were trying to make a covert break for it, sneaking away under the nose of the sleeping giant like Jack did in Jack and the Beanstalk.

Emily’s favourite bedtime story.

‘Tell it me again,’ she’d say, the puppy-soft skin of her cheek against his melting his resolve.

‘Not again, Emily,’ he’d reply. ‘Why not try another fairy story? The Ugly Duckling. Rapunzel. Look, how about The Gingerbread Man? That’s a really good story.’

She’d stare at him, bewildered. Then her face would cloud over, her lower lip sticking out, and he’d relent and take down the well-thumbed book and begin to read, her face beaming as she snuggled up close to him.

‘Once upon a time there was a boy named Jack…’

Samuel Wade’s jaw tightened and he shoved the memories away to the dark place at the back of his mind where he couldn’t see them anymore. They were too painful to bear. Yet to fling them away was tantamount to flinging aside his daughter, and his mind was torn in two with the conflict.

More thunder beat the heavens, so loud it appeared to physically thump the roof of the coach. Wade saw a number of people shift agitatedly in their seats, the sudden hum of voices rising like the drone of bees as people talked to reassure themselves. He wondered at the primal fears that lurked just beneath the surface, in spite of all the trappings of the modern world, the vast knowledge we’ve garnered on the workings of the world, of the universe, and yet here we are, frightened by a storm. Dark, unknown fears that creep out to remind us that we’re little more than terrified, superstitious animals.

His eyes narrowed. He looked back down the aisle. Only ten people were now on board the coach, including himself.

Had they made a stop? There wasn’t one scheduled for another hour or so. But there could be no other explanation – five people had disembarked somewhere between him falling asleep and now. Why didn’t he wake? He was a light sleeper, when he slept at all.

He knew he was so exhausted that he could have been out for hours if the thunder hadn’t jolted him to wakefulness. Being a light sleeper had nothing to do with it when the body was so drained.

Maybe he missed something in his haste to buy his ticket online. There had to be a scheduled stop he simply hadn’t noticed. He’d been so emotionally wound up it was only to be expected. But ten people? How could they make a profit taking ten people on a coach this size all the way to Scotland?

They could be picking people up from the other stops, he told himself. That was it. Relax. Nothing to worry about. The dream got to you, that’s all. Stay calm, stay focussed, keep to the task ahead.

A strong wind buffeted the coach’s sides, and he felt the high-sided vehicle give a lurch.

‘Christ, this is worse than hitting turbulence on a plane,’ said the man who was travelling to Northampton to see his daughter.

‘Don’t be a drama queen, Paul’ his wife said. ‘It’s not like that at all.’

They were sitting a few seats up from Wade and he could hear them clearly. Perhaps the man was talking extra loud because he was secretly afraid, for all his bluff confidence.

‘I still say the train would have been better, Phyllis,’ he responded grumpily.

‘Go to sleep if the weather bothers you,’ she advised. ‘That way you won’t hear it.’

‘It doesn’t bother me. I just said the train would have been better.’

‘So you did,’ she droned tiredly.

Wade rose up in his seat to adjust the air nozzles above his head, but used the action to scan the remainder of the coach’s occupants.

Up front, sitting tapping his fingers on the armrest, a business man by the looks of it, wearing what looked like a suit judging from the white shirt and cufflinks decorating a white shirtsleeve poking from the sleeve of a black jacket that rested on the armrest; a young woman beside him staring out the window, blonde hair that looked like it had had taken plenty of time and hair lacquer getting it into shape, both the man and woman in their mid-thirties perhaps; behind them a glimpse of the top of a head – a smallish man, sitting alone, balding on top, grey hair starting to come through – forties, perhaps; behind Wade the newspaper-reading young woman and her partner, and another woman sitting on her own, little evidence of makeup, wearing a casual Aran jumper and reading Country Life magazine – maybe in her forties, too, but he wasn’t so sure.

Ten passengers, he mused as he slumped back into his seat again. He tried to recall those that had gotten off the coach, but he found the task difficult, his eyes once again feeling hot and sticky. The hour’s sleep hadn’t done him much good, he thought, in fact, it had made him feel worse, if it were possible to feel any worse. He craved sleep so badly it was burning him up.

You’ve gotta relax, he told himself. There’s nothing suspicious going on here. The passengers all look like your average Joe. Try and get some rest otherwise you’ll be good for nothing when the time comes. You’ve got to keep your wits about you and sleep is vital for that.

The storm threw its weight against the coach, a fresh squall of rain hitting it with a fury Wade had rarely experienced. Even he flinched a little and backed away from the window. Jesus, it was getting bad out there. They’d certainly not predicted this on the weather forecast that morning as he watched the news in his hotel room. And black – Christ it was as black as hell out there.

He looked forward to the large front windows. The windscreen wipers were flinging themselves madly across it in a vain effort to swipe away the torrent of water. How on earth could the coach driver see where he was going?

His heart raced when he thought that the driver might have to make an unscheduled stop till the storm passed. That couldn’t happen. He had to get to Scotland fast, while the trail was still hot. He couldn’t afford any delays.

Samuel Wade forced himself to calm down, releasing a pent-up breath in a deliberately slow emptying of his lungs. Try to sleep. The coach isn’t going to stop. The driver was doing just fine.

He rested his head against the padded headrest and closed his eyes, listening to the gentle bickering of the couple headed to Northampton, the tearing sound of the rain that whipped the windows, and the insect-buzz of the young man’s music.

Sleep began to creep up on him as he surrendered his exhausted body to its warm embrace.

Once upon a time there was a boy named Jack…

Got to rest. Got to keep focussed. Keep to the task ahead, he thought.   

Jack was going on a long journey.

You’ll be fine, so long as you don’t lose control, so long as you keep your head.

Jack had to find John Travers, because Jack wanted to kill him…