Vengeance (27 page)

He had a dangerous kind of charm, this prisoner. “The Tsar” they called him, although that was not his name. And he had been alone for far too long. That worried Goezlin. The Angels had a reputation for resourcefulness.

Perhaps he should not have left, but the business with Nokz’z could not have been avoided, nor delayed.

He waited calmly as the guard unlocked the door of the interrogation room.

His prisoner sat securely, still facing the far wall, shoulders slumped in defeat.

It was a far cry from his attitude previously, his head held high in false confidence, a cocky grin hiding the fear that he must surely have been feeling.

Goezlin allowed himself a small murmur of relief at the sight of the boy. The room was secure, the building was secure, the compound was secure. But even so, it was good to see The Tsar was still where he had been put.

The Tsar’s wrists were secure, the cable that secured him to the chair was intact, and the chair was still bolted to the floor. Not even an Angel could escape from these bonds.

The Tsar sat quietly, unmoving. Defeated.

Sometimes that was all it took, a little time. Time for the prisoner to anticipate the horror that was to come. To dwell on whether the price was worth it. The carefully masked lighting and the grim concrete block walls were designed to increase the psychological pressure.

“You have been lucky,” Goezlin said. “We have located your friends, and your information is no longer required or relevant.”

The Tsar remained silent.

“You will be taken to the cells now,” Goezlin said. “You will not be mistreated.”

When that got no response he walked around to the front, to face The Tsar.

He was wrong.

The Tsar had not been lucky.

He had jerked the drip out of his arm and somehow managed to dislodge the dressing on his neck. The bandages hung loose, and the wadding that had been stuffed into the hole in his neck lay in his lap, sodden and red.

The front of his uniform was soaked in blood and it was pooled on the floor below him.

Goezlin stood and stared at the body of the young man for a long time. Too long. There were things he needed to do, places he needed to be, but the body had become a magnet, and he could not pull himself away.

He considered calling for medics, but he knew there was no point. It was too late for that.

The Angels’ reputation for resourcefulness was not unwarranted.

The Tsar had found his own escape.

[1045 HOURS LOCAL TIME]

[OLD US EMBASSY, CANBERRA]

“It is great to hear your voice,” Daniel Bilal said. “You made it.”

“Only just,” Price said. “And things have got really weird over here.”

Communications equipment in the safe room connected via a secure line straight to Washington. Price was a little surprised to find that it still worked after so many years, but not at all surprised to find Bilal waiting on the other end of the line. Bilal had been expecting this call.

Bilal was some kind of bigwig in Military Intelligence. Nobody seemed to quite know what, but that was kind of the point for these spy types. He was the one who had authorised this mission.

“What’s happening?” Bilal asked.

“We don’t have much time so let me lay it out for you real quick,” Price said. “You need to call off the airstrike.”

“Too late,” Bilal said. “The scream jets took off about five minutes ago.”

“Stop them,” Price said. “If ACOG attacks Canberra with their new jets, it will start … well, let’s just call it a nuclear war, and ACOG will lose.”

“That’s a moot point,” Bilal said. “In a nuclear war, everyone would lose.”

“Not according to the information we have uncovered,” Price said, and explained briefly about the positronium warheads.

Bilal reflected on that for a while. “That does change things, if it’s true,” he said. “Do we have any verification of this information?”

“No, sir,” Price said. “Except the source. It came from a Bzadian on Azoh’s inner circle.”

“That’s not a good reason to trust the intel. In fact, it may be the opposite,” Bilal said. “Look, I believe you, but I have to convince ACOG, and they’re going to want something more substantial than what you’ve given me. It could be a bluff. It could be a ruse to prevent us using the scream jets. A carrier strike group got hit in Auckland Harbour this morning and ACOG are not going to let the Pukes get away with that.”

“All I know is what I’ve told you,” Price said. “But I honestly believe that if you target Canberra, the free territories are going to be wiped off the face of the Earth.”

“I’ll take it to them,” Bilal said. “Any idea where we would find these bombs?”

“They were placed by Fezerkers,” Price said. “Maybe you can persuade the ones who you captured to talk.”

“If you find out anything else, get back to me straightaway,” Bilal said.

Price looked grimly around at the others. Wall was at a weapons station, studying the controls, reading the help screens; he was nodding and murmuring to himself. Barnard was wearing headphones and listening intently. Monster was staring at the video wall as the screens cycled through different views of the building and its surrounds.

Azoh-zu sat in one of the chairs by the wall, quietly, not fidgeting. He was remarkably calm for an eight-year-old boy, Price thought. Perhaps that was part of his training. He looked over at Price and smiled. Price smiled back, unable to help herself. There was an innocence about the successor to Azoh. Part of it was his age, but it was more than that. It was a kind of purity.

Azoh had gone. Back into the tunnel with Brogan and Chisnall. Price hoped that wasn’t a colossal mistake.

The strangeness, the
zoh
, came over Chisnall as he followed Azoh through the tunnel. He pushed it aside, afraid of what it meant.

The blue fabric of Azoh’s ceremonial robes billowed in front of him. The robes, so delicate and elegant, were now stained with the dust and dirt of the tunnels. This was no place for a princess, and as much as he understood Azoh’s role in Bzadian society, it was hard for Chisnall not to think of her like that, a princess. A flawless, unblemished beauty, accustomed to a life of perfection and luxury – not a tunnel rat.

Azoh stopped abruptly when they reached the natural cave they had passed through earlier.

“We must hurry,” Chisnall said.

“Unreasonable haste is the path to error,” Azoh said.

“It’s also the path to ‘sorry, too late, we just blew up the planet,’” Brogan said.

“Even so,” Azoh said. She held up an object, the pen from Monster’s medical kit.

“I must ask you an unreasonable request.”

Price looked up to see Barnard staring at her. Barnard took her headphones off. Her face was cold.

“What’s wrong?” Price asked.

Barnard was silent. Price pulled up a chair and sat down at the desk next to her. Monster came and stood behind them.

“The Tsar is dead,” Barnard said.

“Oh no,” Price said. “Oh, please no. You’re sure?”

“Just came over the Puke military radio net. PGZ traffic,” Barnard said. “He’s dead. I don’t know anything more.”

Price felt a cold hand grip her heart. Was it her fault? The Tsar had volunteered, but he was in a poor state to do so. Should she have refused his offer. If she had, might they all now be dead, or captured?

“Jesus, Barnard,” Price said. “I don’t know what to say.”

Barnard looked back at the desk.

“We’ve got a lot of firepower,” she said. “All of it controlled from this room. We should be able to hold off the Pukes for quite a while.”

“I know how much he meant to you,” Price said.

Barnard pointed at the controls. “Bofors autocannons,” she said. “You’ve got two of them, hidden in dormer windows on the main building, and on the old chancery.”

“He really was a hero,” Price said.

“Yes, he was,” Barnard said. “You can only control one gun at a time. If they take out your first, switch to the second. Do you know how to work the controls?”

Price glanced up at Monster, who gave a tiny shake of his head.

“Show me,” Price said.

“It’s a touch screen,” Barnard said. “Touch the target and the gun locks on. You can zoom if you need more accuracy and pan around with gestures.”

“Just like a smartpad,” Price said.

“A little,” Barnard said.

Large red and green buttons at the bottom of the screen controlled the arming and firing. Barnard selected a Bofors gun and armed it. A series of indicators flashed up on the side of the screen: diagnostic functions. They all turned green. The gun was ready to fire. She disarmed it and tried the alternative gun. That also checked out without a problem.

“What about the machine guns?” Price asked.

“They’re automatic,” Barnard said. “You have five of them, scattered around the gardens.” She pointed them out on the console. “When you activate them, they rise up out of the ground and start shooting at anything that moves.”

“Anything?”

“If it moves, it’s a target,” Barnard said.

“Nice,” Monster said.

“I wouldn’t leave them up too long,” Barnard said. “They’re protected by an armoured metal casing but they’ll still be vulnerable. I’d pop them up and down at random. That way the Pukes will never know where you’re going to strike next.”

“Got it,” Price said.

Monster grunted his agreement.

“Barnard,” Price asked. “Are you okay?”

Barnard stared at her coldly. “I’m good, Lieutenant. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Just checking,” Price said. She turned back to the controls and studied them. “This is just like playing a video game.”

“Except if die, you no get to respawn and start over,” Monster said.

“No, you don’t,” Barnard agreed.

They dared not use explosives for fear of causing another collapse.

Colonel Kriz clasped her hands behind her back. An old trick to stop herself pulling at the skin on her forearms, regrown after the rotorcraft crash that had killed so many of her colleagues. That was a long time ago and the skin was no longer soft and new, but the habit remained, and the clasping of the hands remained also.

The habit came on much more strongly when she was nervous, and the events of today went way beyond nervousness. They were terrifying.

She had been called to the capital to take over its defence when Nokz’z, who made her skin crawl, was removed from his position. That had meant a trip from Brisbane to Canberra, and Kriz did not fly. She hadn’t since the crash. But the call from Canberra had left no room for argument and, with the help of a powerful sedative, she had made the flight. The anti-sedative that had woken her up at the other end had left her with a mild headache, which added to the tension she was feeling.

She had been thrust into the command of the operation, unsure whether it was because she was a valued and trusted commander, or if the High Council needed a scapegoat. If Azoh could not be rescued, if the infiltrators could not be caught, then it would be on her head.

She stood at the base of the rocky staircase, watching the soldiers work in the confined and dimly lit space, and clasped her hands even more tightly.