The Lingering (8 page)

Bartholomew’s face turned dark with anger. “Mr Archer, while I may not have faced The Lingering head on, I do know what they are capable of. I understand your concerns about taking someone inexperienced into the field, but I know what is needed of me. I have been around The Lingering all my life, and I fully understand what they are capable of.

“My family has worked with The Lingering for close to two hundred years, and in that time many have been killed at their hands. The Bartholomews do not back away from The Lingering, they do what has to be done. So don’t try and intimidate me with your macho bullshit, because I don’t scare easily.”

Archer grinned. “Well that put me in my place, but I’m not trying to be macho, I’m trying to warn you about what we’re facing. I’ve taken scientists into the field before. Scientists who said they could handle it. Most didn’t. Most crumbled when they saw a swarm for the first time.”

Bartholomew started for the lifts again. “I won’t crumble, Mr Archer. You just worry about getting me to where I have to go.”

Archer shook his head and whispered. “I’ve heard that before.”

Bartholomew looked back at him. “What was that?”

“Nothing.

Location: Westbourne Corporate Head Quarters, London

Date: May 1
st
2013

Time: 2:45 p.m.

Sir Richard Westbourne surveyed London from the window of his eightieth floor office. The city below him was all but his, and the thought of the power he wielded over it always excited him. He straightened his bent and weary back, and the bones of his ancient spine let out a loud crack.

At close to ninety, he still drew an almost orgasmic pleasure from the position he held in the city, and the world. He knew power, money and station meant everything. For one hundred and seventy years the Westbourne’s had remained the most powerful family in the world. Yet, he sensed there was a true threat to that power on the horizon; a threat which threatened to destroy his family’s empire. He knew he had to crush the threat before the threat crushed him.

There was a knock on the door, and Westbourne turned his wasted frame in its direction. “Come in.”

The door opened and his assistant, George Markus, entered. “Sir Richard, I have the report you requested.”

Westbourne shuffled slowly towards his desk, and his immense chair. It took him close to a minute to cross the few yards to his seat.

Markus waited patiently for his decrepit superior to cross the room. Only after Westbourne lowered himself into his chair, and then appeared comfortable, did he begin his report.

“Sir Richard, as requested we placed twenty-four hour surveillance on Dr Bartholomew, but as of three days ago, we have been unable to locate her. We have checked airport records, and there is no evidence of her leaving the country.”

Westbourne peered at his aid through milky, half cataract covered eyes. While his vision was greatly impaired, he could still read people like an open book.

“Don’t worry, George, it wasn’t your fault they lost her, so there’s no need to fear losing your job. I fully expected her to disappear.”

Markus’s face showed more than a little surprise. “You did? May I ask where you think she may have gone?”

Westbourne reached for a silver box on his desk, and pulled out a cigar worth more than five hundred pounds. He took his time cutting the end, and lighting it. He drew deeply on the brown aromatic delight, and savoured the smoke as it worked its way into his lungs. Finally, he exhaled and replied, “Australia.”

Markus’s jaw dropped, and Westbourne smiled at his aid’s reaction.

“How can you be sure, sir?”

Westbourne stared at his cigar as he rolled it in his arthritic fingers. The pain the simple act caused cut into him, but he savoured it as much as the cigar itself. Pain meant he was alive, and not one of The Lingering.

“If I were her, that’s where I would go. We know she has the enzyme, and we know the clean are now safe in their protected compounds. The only piece to her puzzle is the blood of an ancient. Ergo, she is heading to Australia.”

Markus nodded. “As always, you seem to anticipate her every move. What should we do next?”

“Prepare the company jet. I feel it’s time I visited my Tasmanian facilities.”

Markus took a step closer to Westbourne’s large desk. “Are you sure that’s wise, sir? You haven’t been well of late, and a trip may not be in your best interest.”

Westbourne smiled at his aid, but the smile bore nothing but malice. “I
said
prepare the plane! Making me ask a third time won’t be in
your
best interest.”

Markus bowed slightly. “Of course, Sir Richard, forgive me.”

Westbourne waved him away and turned his chair towards the window.

Location: HMS
Singleton,
the Tasman Sea. Coordinates 39.3961° South, 148.0250° East

Date: June 22
nd
2013

Time: 1:15 p.m.

“How are you feeling now?” asked Archer as he moved the bucket of vomit away from Kathryn Bartholomew’s bed.

“I feel like death warmed up. Seasickness has to be the worst thing in the world.”

Archer laughed as he passed her a cloth to wipe her slightly green face. “I can think of a few worse things,” he said, “but not many.”

She chuckled slightly, but it sounded forced. “We’ve been at sea for weeks; you would think I’d be used to it by now. One bit of rough water, and I’m spewing like a fountain again.”

“Are you going to be okay for the briefing later?”

She laid her head back on her pillow, and placed the damp cloth over her eyes. “I’ll have to be. Nathan, I want to thank you for being so kind. I know we didn’t really get off on the best foot, but I’m glad we’re getting on better now.”

Archer stood, and headed for the door. “You’re a member of my team, so that makes you family. When family get sick, you look after them.”

She pulled the cloth from her eyes, and turned her head to look at him. He noticed she looked a little less green around the gills.

“Nathan, can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Even after all your years of dealing with them, you and your people seem so scared of The Lingering. Why is that?”

“Are you kidding? You know what they can do.”

She raised herself to a sitting position, and the little colour which had returned to her face, disappeared. “I don’t mean you’re afraid to face them. I mean you all seem scared to become one of them. Why is that?”

Archer moved back towards her. “We’re not afraid of becoming one of them, not exactly. In an effort to eradicate The Lingering, we have all dedicated our lives to protecting the clean. We may not be finding the cure, like you, but we’re doing our bit. We don’t want to become one of those things, not when a cure is so close. You can’t tell me that you would want to be one of them?”

Bartholomew shrugged. “I suppose one wouldn’t know much about it. I admit, I wouldn’t want to be a ‘biter’, as you call them. But to be honest, the disease doesn’t bother me.”

Archer retook his seat. “Then why are you doing all of this?”

She smiled. “To restore balance.”

“Balance?”

She nodded. “We were meant to die, so die we must. What I hate most about The Lingering, is the way we treat them. We shove them out of sight to simply decompose, it’s not right. Plus, I hate the idea of people profiting from them.”

“You mean Westbourne.”

She looked at the vomit filled bucket and said, “Not just him, there are a lot of people making money from The Lingering’s misfortune. But I’ll admit he’s the worst of them.” She looked back at Archer.” I’m sorry, my nausea seems to be making me a little introspective.”

He reached out and squeezed her hand. “Whatever your reason for finding a cure, it’s the right thing to do. Do you want me to flush that before I go?” he jerked his head towards the bucket.

“Could you? I’m starting to feel a bit sick again, and the thought of washing that bucket isn’t helping.”

Archer picked it up and headed for the door. “I’ll take it to the head, I’ll be back soon.”

Bartholomew nodded, and laid back down. When Archer returned a few minutes later, she was fast asleep. He set the empty bucket down beside the bed, and headed off to find the rest of his team.

Archer found Dallas and Bouchard in the mess hall, playing cards with three of the ship’s crew.

Bouchard looked up from his hand. “What’s cooking, Boss? How’s that pretty young doctor feeling?”

Archer looked around the hall. “She feels like shit, but the seas have calmed, so she should be fine soon. Have you seen Fairclough?”

Dallas pulled a large cigar from his mouth and said, “He’s on the bridge with the captain.”

“Why’s he up there?”

“I think he’s got the hots for the old seabird,” laughed Dallas as he shoved the immense stogie back in his mouth.

Archer grinned. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he did. He’s always liked women in uniforms. One time years ago …”

He looked from Dallas to Bouchard and could tell they were waiting for something juicy.

“… Well, I think it best I not say, but ask him about Corporal Ergün and that tattoo on his arse. He may have told you it’s a dancing girl from Vegas, but trust me, there’s more to that tattoo than meets the eye.”

Bouchard erupted into a deep, bellowing laugh. “He’s a dark ‘orse, is Fairclough, he never gives a lot away. I will torture ‘im for months over that tattoo.”

Dallas wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “Give us a clue about what happened, Boss.”

Archer rubbed his chin, as if pondering Dallas’s request. “No, I think it’ll be more fun if you two try to find out for yourselves.” He looked at his watch. “Don’t forget we have our mission briefing in two hours. I’m going to get some shuteye, I’ll see you then.”

Archer stood at the front of the ward room with the captain of the
Singleton,
Jacklyn Coonan. Coonan, a stocky woman in her mid-fifties, moved to the podium.

“Ladies and gentleman, if I may have your attention.” The dozen or so people assembled there fell silent. “Thank you. Mr Archer will begin the briefing, and I will field any questions concerning logistics and support. I cannot stress this enough to my crew. This mission is not military, we are here in a purely support capacity. This mission is the Protection Agency’s, and Mr Archer calls the shots.”

She eyed her people for several seconds, and then yielded the podium to Archer.

“Thank you, captain. We’ve all gone over this plan a dozen times, so I won’t bore you all with it again. That said, I do feel it’s important to reiterate the key issues for the
Singleton
and its crew.

“You have to hold position for close to five days, which will draw unwanted attention. It is vital the cover story is airtight. After a few days, the Westbourne Corporation will more than likely send someone to check you out. The story is engine failure, so you need to be able to prove that. If they send engineers, you need to be able to convince them that the story is true.

“Secondly: we may call for early extraction. If that happens we’ll need a rapid response. No flying at low levels, just get to us as fast as you can.

“Lastly: if this mission goes tits up, then all records of us being on board are to be destroyed. Any questions?” Archer looked at Coonan’s people, and when no one raised a hand, he turned to her. “I need to talk to my team in private now.”

Coonan nodded and said, “You heard the man, let’s give these people some room.”

It took a minute for Coonan and her people to leave, but once they were gone, Archer settled into his more informal manner.

“Okay, guys, have any of you got any misgivings? If so, now’s the time to lay them on the table.”

Fairclough raised his hand.

“Yes, Peter,” said Archer as he rested his elbows on the podium.

“Boss, you know we’ll all follow you no matter where you lead. The only misgiving I have is that I ever trusted telling you about Corporal Ergün.”

Archer, along with Bouchard and Dallas, began to laugh raucously. Dr Bartholomew leaned toward Fairclough and said, “Who’s Corporal Ergün?”

Fairclough looked at her and said, “It’s the woman whose face I have tattooed on my arse. It’s from back in the days when Archer and I were in the SAS. We’d just finished some training exercises with a bunch of NATO forces, and everyone had been granted leave. Absolutely hundreds of us headed for Amsterdam. The place was heaving with military, so I wasn’t surprised to see a girl in uniform in a bar. She told me she was in the Norwegian army, which turned out to be her second lie.”

“What was the first?”

Fairclough’s face turned red. “The first lie was that she was a woman. Only after the tattoo did I find out that she had a bigger set of balls then me.”

Bartholomew burst into laughter.

Fairclough got up and headed for the door. “Yeah, laugh it up — she broke my heart.” But now he was laughing too.