Down: Trilogy Box Set (97 page)

Stalin shouted in Russian, “Yagoda, did you know this?”

The colonel stepped into the light and swallowed hard. “It is the first they have spoken of this.”

Stalin looked furious. He froze Simon with his steely gaze and said, “How you know about children?”

“The French learned about them,” Simon said, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Why you want children?”

“We don’t want them. Their mother does.”

“You have their mother?” Stalin asked, his voice rising.

“We do. She misses them very much.”

“Then tell this live woman to come to Stalin. She can stay here with children. Problem solved.”

“It is not so easy,” Caravaggio said. “This woman and other live people who are with us, they wish to return to their homes on Earth. They need soon to go to Britannia. This is where they can make it to home. I do not have the understanding to tell you how this is possible but they say it is possible and I believe them.”

Stalin fidgeted with his moustache. “So, you wish me to give up children who I like very much. What do you offer in return?”

Simon played his cards. “Blast furnaces and very large steam boilers. We will give them to you.”

Stalin’s droopy eyes opened wide. “Who has these things? You, boiler man?”

“We don’t have them. We have the means to build them. Caravaggio will show you.”

The artist reached into his blousy shirt prompting Yagoda to pull a pistol, but Caravaggio didn’t have a weapon. He had several sheets of printed paper.

“These are front pages of two books,” Caravaggio said. “Books that living people brought with them to Hell. We have these books.”

There had been discord within the Italian camp concerning the strategy. Some felt it was an enormous mistake to enable Stalin’s powerful war machine by giving him access to the technology. Doing so, they argued would condemn them to eventual defeat and oppression. And without the books, they would not have the ability to use the technology for good, to make Hell a better place. Others felt they owed it to the Earthers to trade them for Arabel’s children. It was Garibaldi who had the idea that broke the impasse.

“Why don’t we make copies?” he had said. “If we have to give Stalin the originals we will also have the technology. It is my belief that in Italia, Francia, and Iberia we can find enough iron forgers and boilermakers like Simon together with builders and other qualified men and women who hail from modern eras to beat the Russians and Germans even if they have the books too. We can be first.”

Before leaving Iberia they had searched the palace for parchment, paper, pens, and ink and during their search they also recovered Pedro’s book on explosives. The Earthers were pressed into service and anyone in the Italian army literate enough to copy words were put into wagons, each with a page or two cut from the books. Inside the bumpy wagons they made their copies. When Caravaggio returned from his foray into Marksburg Castle he would quickly copy the diagrams and illustrations. In the fullness of time they could have a scribe make unified copies from all the scraps but a piecemeal effort would do for now.

Stalin examined the pages Caravaggio handed him, called over young Nikita and told him to find Pasha for his opinion.

“I must show my technical experts,” Stalin said grandly.

Caravaggio and Simon agreed.

“You have whole books?” Stalin asked.

“Yes, if we have a deal, we will bring the books when we return,” Simon said.

“So you propose to exchange these books for the children?” Stalin asked.

“That’s right,” Simon said, “the children and the living woman who is with them.”

Simon held the carrot; Caravaggio showed the stick. “This exchange should be very simple and it would be the best way. However, you should know there is another more difficult way. King Giuseppe comes here in peace or he comes in war. He has a very large army. Many Italians, French, and now Iberians. He also has special weapons that he used to easily defeat the Moors who were threatening Burgos. We must get the children the easy way or the difficult way.”

Stalin rose abruptly and said, “You will wait.” He summoned Yagoda and the two men retired to an adjoining chamber.

“So, my enemy comes and threatens me in my own house,” Stalin seethed.

“I am sure they would prefer an exchange,” Yagoda said. “They probably do not wish to appear weak, so they threaten war. It is a common tactic.”

“Yes, but I do not like being on the receiving end of threats,” Stalin said. “What do you think about these special weapons he mentioned? Do you think he means the singing cannon?”

“Perhaps.”

“How many have we made in the German forges?”

“There were eight at last count but two of them exploded during their tests and one of them is useless with cracks.”

“And how many do they have?”

“We do not know.”

“Can’t you get a spy into their camp?”

“We will redouble our efforts,” Yagoda said.

The door opened and Pasha entered with the book pages.

“What do you think, Pasha?” Stalin asked. “Would these books be of use to us?”

Pasha was lightheaded from rushing up and down the castle’s steep stairways. Speaking Russian seemed too difficult in his state and he displeased the tsar by asking in English. “Please, first tell me,” Pasha said. “Nikita told me other living persons carried these here. Did they come from Dartford too?”

“I did not ask,” Stalin answered in Russian. “I want to know if books are useful.”

“Yes, I expect so. Quite useful. They’re from the early twentieth century, a time when the industrial revolution was in full swing and everything depended on innovations in iron production and steam power. We are more medieval than modern. You know this. If these books offer a practical guide to achieving these technologies we could leapfrog into a different era, one with machines, electricity …”

“And far better weapons,” Yagoda said.

Pasha sighed, “Yes, I suppose that too. But listen, I would need to see the full texts to know just how useful these books are. They would have to be very clear and prescriptive. There are so few competent technical people about.”

“You are competent,” Stalin said. “You are brilliant.”

“Well thank you for that but …”

“I know, I know, you know nothing about weapons.”

“More importantly, I know nothing about making steel or making steam boilers.”

“Have a drink, Pasha,” Stalin said. “You look so pale. I will tell our visitors that we will meet with them and see if we like whole books.”

“They’re still here?”

“In the next room.”

Pasha grew excited. “I’d like to talk with them, if you don’t mind. I want to learn more about the live people who brought the books. I want to know if they came from Dartford and I want to know who they are.”

With Ian at work, Giles bucked up his courage and ventured out for the first time since he came to Eaton Mews. After shaking off the paranoia that everyone who passed was looking at him, he got more comfortable and almost enjoyed being out in the sunshine. His task at hand, however, proved somewhat difficult. He didn’t want to stay out long but finding a shop that sold pre-paid mobile phones in a high-end neighborhood like Belgravia was a challenge. He had to walk a mile down the King’s Road to find an O2 store.

When Giles got back to the flat he cut the phone out of its plastic and charged it up. When it had enough juice he punched in a number for a man named Dan Wiggins. It hadn’t taken advanced sleuthing skills to find him. His name had been in the paper. He was on LinkedIn. His current position was listed.

Giles reached the bank’s switchboard and asked for Dan Wiggins in the IT group.

“Hello, Wiggins here.”

“Mr. Wiggins, this is Giles Farmer. I’m a reporter. I wonder if I could speak with you about your wife, Tracy?”

There was silence on the line until, “I don’t wish to speak with you.”

“Please don’t hang up, Mr. Wiggins. I think I know what happened to your wife.”

“What happened to her is that she’s dead.”

“Why do you say that? That hasn’t been reported.”

“I wouldn’t know what’s been reported. I stopped reading the news or watching TV. All I know is they gave me her ashes. I couldn’t even see her because of the contamination. And they told me not to speak with people like you, so if you’ll …”

“No wait. It wasn’t what they’re saying. It wasn’t bioterrorism. It was something else. And despite what they told you, she may not be dead.”

“What did you say?”

“She may not be dead.”

“Fuck you.”

The line went dead.

Giles took notes on the call and opened up the laptop computer Ian had given him. It was one of Ian’s old ones, a fairly ancient model which Ian had found at the bottom of a closet. Giles methodically removed any software that could connect the computer to the Internet so that it was only good for word processing. It was on this snoop-proof computer that he’d begun working on a definitive article on recent events at the MAAC in Dartford, South Ockendon, and Iver, weaving together all the threads into a troubling exposé of sorts. Even he would have to admit that it wasn’t really an exposé since he had no proof for what he was claiming. It was more like an educated guess, a cohesive explanation that assembled multiple, seemingly disconnected facts into a narrative that had an internal logic to it. It wasn’t proof of what he was asserting but it was the kind of piece that could force those in the government to disclose the truth. He’d be labeled a kook, a conspiracy theorist. He’d be officially ridiculed but none of that mattered, and anyway, he was used to that. The important thing was that he’d be vindicated. He’d said all along that the MAAC was potentially risky. He was sure he’d been right. It was just that he’d had no idea of the kind of risk that would materialize.

He typed.

When I reached Dan Wiggins on the phone, the father of two told me something that had not been reported upon publicly, namely that he had been told by officials that his wife, Tracy Wiggins, had died from her alleged exposure to an undisclosed bioterror agent. He has been given her ashes. I believe this is part and parcel of the larger government cover-up.

He worked on his piece non-stop for the rest of the day. Ian came home late that night after a business dinner but the two didn’t even see each other. Giles woke up alone in the house and started working again. He finished the final polish before lunch.

He entered another number on his burner phone. It was for
The Guardian
newspaper.

“Derek Hannaford.”

“Hello, Mr. Hannaford, this is Giles Farmer calling. I write a blog called
Bad Collisions
.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve seen it.”

“You have?”

“On the fringe, wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, I don’t know, actually. Look, the reason I’m calling is that I have very real evidence of a government conspiracy to cover up a mishap at the MAAC in Dartford by inventing a bioterror story to explain what happened at South Ockendon.”

“And what do you think happened?”

“I don’t want to say over the phone.”

“Look, I’m fairly busy at the moment.”

“Dan Wiggins, the husband of one of the South Ockendon victims, has been given what he’s been told are the ashes of his wife, Tracy, and was instructed not to speak publicly about it.”

The reporter instantly sounded more engaged. “How do you know this? It’s the first I’m hearing about it.”

“I know because he told me.”

“Giles, can I quote you on this?”

“No you can’t.”

“Then why did you call me?”

“I want to show you an article I’ve written. I’d like
The
Guardian
to publish it.”

“Why don’t you email it here and I’ll have a look.”

“I can’t do that. One of the security services bugged my flat and remotely deleted files on my computer. I’m calling you on a pre-paid phone. I’m hiding out. It may seem paranoid to you but it’s very real to me.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Meet me tomorrow at seven outside the Covent Garden Marks and Spencer. I’ll give you the article then.”

“All very cloak and dagger.”

“Sorry.”

There was a pause. “All right. How will I recognize you?”

“I’ll find you from your photo in the paper.”

Giles felt buoyant for the first time in days. He plugged the computer into Ian’s printer and watched the pages of his article fly out.

Trotter’s assistant informed him one of his analysts had come by to see him.

“Send her in.”

The young woman said, “I thought you would wish to hear this right away.”

She opened her laptop and played an audio file that he listened to expressionless until he heard a part that made him smile.

“I can’t do that. One of the security services bugged my flat and remotely deleted files on my computer. I’m calling you on a pre-paid phone. I’m hiding out. It may seem paranoid to you but it’s very real to me.”

When it was finished, Trotter said, “Didn’t I tell you that monitoring the newspapers might be productive?”

“You did, sir.”

“And didn’t I further say that if Farmer did try to contact one of them it would most likely be
The Guardian
?”

“Right again, sir.”

“Thank you. That will be all.”

When she had left, Trotter called one of his people in the operations directorate. “Mark, Anthony Trotter here. I’d like you to come see me right away. There’s a special thing I need for tomorrow night. In London. That’s right. Completely off-the-books.”

Giles was stationary in a sea of pedestrian traffic on the Gloucester Road in South Kensington. He waited outside the English language school where his mate, Lenny Moore, worked as the bursar. Giles knew Lenny well enough. He wouldn’t linger at the office. When five o’clock came around he’d be out the door and he was.

Lenny was away from the college so quickly Giles had to jog after him and call his name.

Lenny turned and looked more than a little surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”