The stifling
heat in the old rented Hyundai was becoming unbearable. Not for the first time, Iain Taggart cursed
himself for not paying extra to hire something more modern. He liked old cars, vehicles with substance
and personality, to be cherished and looked after like a much-loved family
member. Souped-up boxes of electronic
components that could be discarded like the remains of yesterday’s lunch did
not particularly interest him. However,
the air-con on this antique had finally given up the ghost several kilometres
back and he still had a long way to go before reaching his destination. Driving down the coastal plain towards Haifa
was admittedly easier than he had expected.
The roads were excellent, a fitting tribute to the superb infrastructure
of modern Israel. No dust rising up from the sides of the motorway, just a
shimmering heat haze distorting the distance ahead as far as he could see.
Taggart had not spent a great deal of time in the Middle East, or
anywhere exceedingly hot, for that matter.
He had always had a sneaking suspicion that the visual effects of the
sun’s rays, as displayed in old films like “Lawrence of Arabia”, were merely
clever tricks by talented lighting technicians. Bit of a change from good old Dunfermline, he
thought. It was a long time since he
had spent a great deal of time in his home town.
The windscreen was the only really dirty part of the vehicle,
although he doubted that the dust had accumulated on this journey alone. The rental company at Tel-AvivAirport did
not appear to regard regular cleaning of their cheaper models as a top
priority. The windscreen-washer seemed
to have gone on strike in sympathy with the air-conditioning and he had to
squint hard to ensure he didn’t miss vital road signs. Like the car, the map he had brought with
him was old and probably not up to date.
Surprisingly, on this stretch of the road, there were relatively few
garages with car-washing facilities.
His only recourse was to pull over on a periodic basis, get out, and
sluice the front of the vehicle with drinking water. He was thankful that he had, at least, had the sense to stash
several large containers in the trunk, to ensure that he would not get
dehydrated.
Dehydration however, was not a risk, but a daily reality, which
had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with a hell-bent desire
for self-destruction. He had only
recently begun to see it as such. In
fact, even last month, he would have dismissed his ever-increasing alcohol
intake as a necessary and perfectly understandable panacea. The barely-concealed hip flask had been his
safety valve, providing medicinal anaesthesia to dull, although never to quell
the agony in his soul. He had started
out with whisky, always the traditional remedy for shock and trauma. His SAS colleagues had been sympathetic to
the point of complicity. Dealing with
devastation, however it was accomplished, was part of the job.
When the whispers began and his commander-in-chief started asking
questions, he had switched to vodka.
Eventually, suggestions had been
made: take six months off, have a holiday, see a doctor, talk to someone. He
hadn’t considered any of it. He knew
instinctively, that to confront this particular black hole of despair would
destroy whatever vestiges of sanity he had left. Vodka had no smell, left few traces. It became his drug of choice, the invisible armour that allowed
him to face the world and get on with what was left of his life. Alcohol became his most popular colleague,
the perfect partner – always available, usually reliable and silently
efficient. Until the day he lost his
job.
“This can’t go on, Iain.”
General Collins had laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, as if he thought
that physical contact could perform some kind of sensory miracle. “You need help, son. You must realise that.”
Taggart had been so stunned, bluster was the only response he was
capable of making. He had gabbled
defensively for many minutes before eventually staring into the pitying, yet
implacable eyes of his commanding officer.
He had lost everything this time.
Still, he couldn’t give up.
“It’s been difficult. I know I’m not at my best. I just need to rest, concentrate more, catch
up on some sleep…”
“Stop
it, Iain!” The general’s voice cut
through his excuses with a razor sharp edge.
“You need a lot more than that and you know it. You’re making mistakes
and that’s dangerous. You’re becoming a liability, and I can’t have that when
lives are at stake.”
General Collins paused, in a conscious attempt to soften what he
suspected was one blow too many. He was
not unkind and found himself deeply
sorry for the man he had regarded as the finest operative of his generation.
“I’m not necessarily
cutting you loose permanently. I want
you to go home, sort yourself out. Do
whatever it takes. Then we’ll talk, see
whether or not you’re ready to come back.”
The next twenty-four hours were spent in an alcoholic
wasteland. He had done as he was told,
although not from choice. The final
blow had come when, after having been allowed thirty minutes to clear his desk,
he had been escorted from a building which was more like home to him than his rented
London apartment. In his head, he
could hear nothing but the general’s damning indictment. A liability. A danger to his colleagues.
Not to be trusted. He had taken
a taxi back to Chelsea and downed the best part of a litre of Stolichnaya, so
rapidly that he had made himself sick long before he was drunk. Retching over the sink in the sparsely
furnished bathroom, he had still not relinquished possession of the glass in
his hand. Catching sight of his ravaged
reflection in the mirror, he raised it in a mocking toast to the stranger staring
back at him.
Way to go, Taggart. One
more rung on the ladder of success. How
is the list shaping up now? Oh, yeah,
that’s right. No job, no friends, no
wife, dead daughter. Bloody marvellous.
Lou
wouldn’t be surprised at his fall from grace.
After all, contempt was why she had left him in the first place. He was too full of self-pity and loathing,
to acknowledge the fact that the real reasons were more complex. He watched his
shaking, vodka-laden hand work compulsively towards his mouth, in a futile
attempt to rid himself of the taste of vomit.
Water was not an option. He sat
down abruptly on the floor of the little bathroom. It felt safer there, more solid.
Not as far to fall when he passed out, which he knew from experience
would only be roughly half a bottle away.
He had stopped asking how it had all come down to this. He was thirty-one years old, and no longer
cared what happened to him. The thought
occurred that if he was sick, while unconscious on the bathroom floor, it was
perfectly possible that he would choke on his own vomit. Do everyone a favour. Get the job over
with. Clarity could be maudlin, he
decided, although maybe it was just whatever was left of his particular brand
of Scottish humour.
He heard the phone buzz in the living room and eventually switch
to auto, when it was not picked up. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, certainly
not his wife. Louise’s hitherto calm
voice always seemed to contain a cutting edge these days.
“Iain, if you’re there, pick up.
We need to talk and I can’t waste any more time. The estate agent has called three times
today. The Richardsons’need to move in
two weeks and we have to sign the contracts now. I’m not prepared to lose this sale because you’re dragging your
heels.”
There was a pause, as if
she knew he was there; giving him an opportunity to make a convenient, if
blatantly unbelievable excuse would serve a purpose, however hollow it might
be. He didn’t move.
“Well…okay. Get back to me
as soon as you hear this. Tomorrow at
the latest, please.”
She was admitting
defeat. He knew that tone of impatient
resignation when he heard it. He also knew she wasn’t quite ready to put the
phone down.
“Iain,
please.” Her voice was softer now, more
hesitant. She was making a deliberate attempt to be conciliatory. “We have to get the house sold. The divorce won’t go through until the
lawyers are paid. James is taking a
secondment to the Bahamas in October, and I want to go with him. It’ll be a fresh start and we all need that,
God knows. I don’t expect you to wish
me well, but I would appreciate it if you didn’t stand in my way.”
From his prone position in the bathroom, he spat out his
disgust. You and bloody James? Sod
off, Lou. He didn’t believe in fresh starts. If there would never again be
the possibility of a beginning, how could there ever be a start? She hadn’t mentioned his dismissal, which
meant she didn’t yet know. Well, that
was something at least, although it would not be long before word got
round. Gossip within the armed forces
was like bush telegraph.
That was wrong, he thought. She was too young to use a word like ‘understand.’
Darling, it’s all right, I’m coming to look after you. He thought he’d
said the words out loud, but he couldn’t be sure.
No, Daddy.
She sounded weary, resigned, like a worn-down teacher correcting a
particularly obtuse pupil. That’s
not how we do it here. I look after you
now, but you’re making it hard for me.
Where’s here? He
thought he knew, but it seemed important to have it clarified.
Heaven, of course, where do you think? She sounded
exasperated. She still looked like a
small child, but she was talking to him like the recalcitrant fourteen year old
she would never grow up to be. I have
friends here, you know. Her little
round face, with the china blue eyes – Lou’s eyes – glared at him.
I’ve told them all
about you, what a great dad you are, how you took me to ballet lessons, and
all, and now just look at you! You’re making me look like a complete idiot.
I miss you, sweetheart.
I just miss you so much, all I want to do is be with you. He was in earnest, but to his annoyance, his
voice seemed to have taken on a pathetic, whining quality. Their reunion was
not going the way he had imagined it would.
Daddy. She gave him that look, the one Louise gave him whenever she was
trying to get him to understand something that was so obvious, only the
intellectually challenged could miss it.
Daddy, I’m the dead one here, not you. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. Her voice dropped to a melodramatic hiss. Look, to be sad is okay. I know you miss me, that Mummy misses me and
I’m glad you do. I mean, there are
people here whose folk don’t really care that they’re gone. But you’re taking it too far! How can I get any respect if my wonderful
dad is turning into a spineless, drunken wreck?
Taggart was confused.
There was something wrong here.
He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it was not to be accosted by
this aggressive, almost hostile, virago.
What had happened to the sweet little girl who had clasped his hand so
trustingly on that last day? If only
she had not let go. Oh, God, Jenny,
why? Why did you let go?
Her eyes were fastened to his now, and he felt as if he was
drowning in their blueness. The picture
had changed, only the blueness existed.
It wasn’t your fault, Daddy. Her
voice was softer, now, a whisper. It
wasn’t your fault. It just
happened. Sometimes these things do
You’re only four. When did you get to be so wise? This transformed
creature fascinated him. If she had
grown up at all, was this how their relationship would have been?
It’s different here. She seemed
evasive, even slightly awkward. You
wouldn’t understand.
Show me. I want to know. He felt there was some kind of bridge he had
to cross and he needed her help to do it.
He put his hand out, hoping she would hold on, as she had then, and this
time would not let go. The hand stayed
outstretched, as her presence seemed to move away.
You can’t. Her
voice in his head was calm and unemotional. You don’t belong here, Dad. Not yet.
You have to go back. I can’t
help you if you don’t do as I tell you.
Her face swam into view once more, and on it was a look of such
peace and serenity that he felt as if his heart had finally stopped beating in
his chest. Life’s precious, you
mustn’t waste it. Her voice was
firm. I’m still here inside you and
I’ll try to watch out for you. I mean,
that’s what we do here, we look out for the living. If you aren’t prepared to co-operate, it makes me look really
dumb. I want to be proud of you, not to
have a total loser as a father.
Taggart was both outraged and contrite. Didn’t she realise
the depths of devastation her death had caused? It seemed she did, and that
what she was trying to tell him was that it didn’t matter any more.
I love you so
much, baby, I’m so sorry about all this.
Yeah, Dad, I know.
Love you too. So pull yourself
together and make me proud, okay? Her
small round face broke into a beatific smile.
And make sure you get tickets for this year’s World Cup, because I
think Scotland might win.
“You look well, Iain,” he continued warmly, although his
voice contained a note of false conviction, which Taggart didn’t miss.
“No, I don’t, I look like hell. You never were a good liar,
Bob,” he responded with a grin.
“Yeah, well, you’ve had a tough time, lately, son. Things
looking up a bit now, are they?”
“I think so. Just need to get my life back on track, that’s
all.” Taggart hedged, unsure just how
much Bob Nelson knew about his fall from grace. In his initial phone call to arrange this visit, he had been
circumspect about his departure from SAS.
Nelson was too good a friend to stand in judgement, but by the same
token, Taggart did not want his pity; he had not yet climbed far enough out of
his pit of despair and self-loathing to tolerate sympathy.
The older man gave him a shrewd look before clearing his
throat to cover the moment of awkwardness.
“How about I give you the guided tour, show you what goes on here? I guarantee you’ll be amazed at what the
engineers are doing. I didn’t believe
technology like this existed until I got here and saw it for myself. Mind you, I can’t pretend to understand how
it all works, but the United Nations is paying a fortune to have it protected.”
“And they won’t mind an odd-bod like me taking a look?”
Nelson shook his head.
“You’re with me. That’s all the
clearance you need.”
Taggart shot him a curious look. “Guess that means you’re pretty important around here,” he said
lightly.
His friend gave a brief nod. “I’m one of a handful of people who has unlimited access to every
department, even the most classified. I
can go anywhere, no questions asked. I
believe in being visible, everyone knows who I am.” He flashed the trademark
twisted smile. “Of course, what they
don’t realise is that I make it my business to know who they are, too. When you work in this part of the world, you
fully understand the truth of the saying ‘ Keep your friends close, but your
enemies closer’. If anyone has designs
on blowing this place up, they’ll do it from the inside. The guys you saw back there gazing at the
monitors in the control room - they’re watching for any unusual behaviour among
the regular workforce, not any passing stranger.” He paused. “Not that it means they don’t see everything else too. If a spider goes walkabout, they’ll spot
it.”
“I’m impressed.”
They had already
left the cool quiet calm of the main building; Nelson moved at breakneck speed
and Taggart was struggling to keep up. Definitely
need to do something about that gym membership, he thought grimly, as he
tried gamely to match the older man’s surprisingly long strides. By the time they reached what Nelson
referred to as “the hotbed of activity”, he was feeling quite winded. Fortunately, a cup of strong, steaming
coffee was thrust into his hand before the tour continued at a more sedate
pace.
And he was impressed. Although, like Bob Nelson, there was much he did not understand
about the processes explained to him, he could not fail to be infected by the
intensity of the atmosphere. The air was charged with enthusiasm and dedication
and he was suddenly filled with the sensation of entering a different world; a
world far removed from his dull Scottish roots and pedestrian past. The bright fingers of possibility reached
out to him. This was the future; could
there be a part for him in this spectacular technological tapestry? As he gazed at the hive of industry around
him, Jenny’s childish voice echoed in his head. This is it, Dad. It starts here.
“Gets to you, doesn’t it?” Bob’s amused voice cut through
his reverie. “Blows me away, laddie, I
have to admit. Every time I wonder why
I took the job - apart from the very generous pay package, that is - I have a
wander down here and then I know.
There’s something almost magical about it.”
“Magical?” Taggart
laughed out loud, partly to mask his unease at having his thoughts read so
easily. Don’t be a fool. He doesn’t know about the dream of Jenny. “Seems to me you’ve been watching too many
re-runs of ‘Brigadoon’.”
Nelson frowned.
“What the hell’s Brigadoon?”
Taggart grinned.
“Film, 1954. Gene Kelly, Van
Johnson, Cyd Charisse. It was a musical
about a Scottish village that only appears once every hundred years. My mother loves it, although it’s hard to
get a decent copy these days.”
Bob Nelson shrugged.
“Never heard of it. And although
this is indeed a village of sorts, there’s nothing imaginary or mythical about
it. Runs like clockwork, and it appears
every day without fail.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Taggart was glad they were moving on.
“You’re interested, though, I can tell,” Nelson continued
as they made their way back to the main office block, crossing through
well-maintained gardens shaded by leafy palms.
“I’m serious about the job offer, Iain.
I could use someone of your calibre out here.”
“I have a job, remember?”
He was glad the blistering heat and glare necessitated the use of
sunglasses. It gave him something to
hide behind, at least.
“No, you don’t,” was the blunt reply, as Bob Nelson laid a
lightly restraining hand on his arm, forcing their footsteps to a
standstill. “You can’t fool me, lad,
although you’re doing your best to try.
Make no mistake – you’re finished with the Army and the Army has
finished with you. They won’t have you back now, no matter what that idiot
Collins might tell you. Cut your
losses, make a fresh start. Unless
Louise has changed her mind about the divorce – and I’m guessing she hasn’t -
there’s nothing to keep you in London.”
“I don’t know, Bob.”
Taggart could feel all his newly erected defences crumbling. “It seems like I’d be running away and I
think I’ve been doing too much of that, lately.”
Nelson paused, as if he was about to light up the pipe
Taggart knew he had given up smoking ten years ago.
“There are
different kinds of running, son,” he said, after exactly the number of seconds
it would have taken him to fill the imaginary pipe with tobacco and light
it. “There’s the kind that takes you
nowhere – or in your case, straight to the bottom of a bottle – and there’s the
kind that takes you some place you need to be.
Now, I know you, Iain, probably better than anyone. You don’t need me to tell you how to live
your life. You have a fine mind and
more courage than anyone I’ve ever met.
Your weakness is a tendency to wallow in self-pity. Don’t let that stop you from taking up a
challenge.”
Taggart stared at him.
“Self-pity? Christ, Bob! You know what happened. My daughter died, my
wife left me. I lost my family. I think I’m entitled to a little self-pity,
don’t you?”
“Not if it destroys you,” his friend retorted. “What happened to Jenny was a tragedy, I
won’t deny it. As for you and Louise –
well, that was a car crash waiting to happen.
You’re better off apart.”
Taggart’s laugh was in hollow recognition that nothing here
was funny. “You don’t change, do you,
Bob?” he said, bitterly. “You never did
have a sentimental bone in your body.
You presume to tell me how I should feel, but what do you know about
love or family? As far as I’m aware,
you have no experience of either.” This
last was a jibe that was both cruel and hurtful, but he couldn’t stop himself.
“Not true, as it happens.”
Nelson did not seem offended by the accusation. “I admit I haven’t allowed people, or
relationships to get in the way of what I wanted out of life. I know what I am and attractive to either
sex is not part of the package. Oh yes,
laddie, I’m well aware of what people have always thought about me, and it’s
not mattered. With one or two notable exceptions, I’m not interested in other
folks’ opinions. Maybe I’m getting soft
in my old age, though. Got myself a
girlfriend.”
He paused and
turned an unusually happy face towards his friend. “Never thought I’d meet someone out here, but there you go. Her
name is Sheina. She’s a woman the
company employed to clean my apartment.
She’s nice, easy-going, got me sorted.
Before you know it, she’d moved in.
But that was okay, you know what I mean? It seemed the right thing to do.
We rub along well together. She
has a young daughter, too. Really
bright, is Rachel. She’s doing so well
at school. She’ll go places, mark my
words. I enjoy having them both here,
it’s good to have some life about the place.”
Taggart shook his head in amusement. “You’re full of surprises, Bob. Never thought you’d turn domestic at your
age.”
“It’s called contentment, mate. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it and you’d have no difficulty
trying it out here. The young women are
amazing. Well-educated, confident,
they’re all high-flyers and gorgeous into the bargain. Wouldn’t look at an old
boy like me, of course, but you’d have no trouble pulling.”
“I’m not divorced yet, remember? Wouldn’t want to give
Lou’s lawyer any more ammunition than he’s already got.”
“To hell with that.”
Nelson waved an airily dismissive hand.
“Never stopped her, did it?
You’ll meet Sheina and Rachel when we get to my place. I remembered you like plain home
cooking. Told her to do a stew, or hot
pot, something like that.”
Taggart was nonplussed.
“You’ve got her making old-fashioned British recipes in this heat? Are you mad?”
Nelson shook his head.
“She loves cooking, mate, and more than that, she loves to please. Especially me. I’ve told her all about you, she’s dying to meet you. Actually,” he searched the inside pocket of
his jacket. “Got a picture of them
both, somewhere. Oh yeah, here it is.”
The photo he proudly thrust into Taggart’s hand was of a
plump, dark-haired woman, smiling at the photographer in obvious
affection. Her arm was around the bony
shoulders of a sullen teenager, who glared at the camera in out-of-focus
disdain, her heavy fall of brown hair obscuring what might have been a pretty
face. Not interested in family
photos, then, he thought, wondering fleetingly what it was about her that
reminded him of the girl in the elevator.
The air of supreme indifference, perhaps? Then again, perhaps that was common in teenagers. If Jenny had grown up, would she have
resembled this apparently alienated young woman?
He handed back the picture. “Looking forward to meeting them, too, Bob,” he declared, trying
to project an enthusiasm he did not feel.
“When do you finish up here for the day?”
“I can leave any time, mate. Although I say it myself, I’ve got this place so it runs in my
sleep, security-wise. There won’t be any problems when I’m not here.”
Taggart permitted himself a secret smile. Such a boast was typical, albeit completely
correct. Nevertheless, this touch of
arrogance was a trait that had not endeared Nelson to some of his former
colleagues in the armed forces.
“Bob!” Zita the
Receptionist was waving her hand at them, trying to attract attention. “I have a few messages for you. Wait a second till I get the
printouts.” She ran her hand smoothly
over the papers efficiently filed in a corner of the wide desk, locating what
she needed in an instant. “Here you
are. Nothing too urgent, I think. Oh, by the way, Miss Book is here. I told her to go up to your office and
wait. I didn’t think you’d be too
long.”
“Rachel?” Nelson
looked surprised. “Och, well, isn’t
that nice - not often she comes to meet me.
Usually too preoccupied with her pals and her college work.” He grinned at Taggart. “Daresay she’s looking for a loan and she
doesn’t want her mother to know. For a
kid who doesn’t have much truck with clothes or make-up, money still seems to burn
a hole in her pocket.”
“Teenagers – they’re all the same. Or so I’m told,” Taggart
added hastily, before the accusation that he didn’t know what he was talking
about could be levied.
Nelson turned to face him.
“Look, I just need to get my stuff, check on a few things and pick up
Rachel. No point in both of us trailing
back upstairs. Why don’t you hang
around down here and I’ll be back in ten.
Okay?”
“Okay.” Since his
friend was already heading for the lifts, Taggart realised that any response
was probably perfunctory. In any case,
he was glad to acquiesce. There were
worse places to relax than in this perfumed, sanitised, artificial haven of
pleasantness. He settled himself in the
soft cream leather of an available sofa and leaned his head back against the
fronds of a miniature potted palm.
Behind the tree, an elaborate water feature tinkled
soporifically, its aim, no doubt, to encourage the notion that this desert-like
environment was in fact a mirage, not reality.
He closed his eyes, drowsy with sun, scent and exhaustion. Jet lag, he thought. Never get used to it, even after all
these years. He wasn’t sure whether
or not he had actually drifted off to sleep, but the next thing he was aware of
was the hand of Zita the Receptionist on his shoulder.
“May I get you something?
A cool drink, perhaps? Looks as
if Mr Bob is going to be longer than he thought.” She gave him a conspiratorial
smile, as if to say, this is typical of Mr Bob.
Taggart smiled back, unsure of whether this was typical of
Mr Bob, or not – in this environment, at least.
“No, thanks, I’m fine.
Maybe I’ll just go find him. At
least, that way I might get some proper shut-eye before midnight. Jet-lag, you know?”
Zita the Receptionist nodded politely, although Taggart
thought this was probably the usual response given to foreigners who made a
habit of falling asleep in a palm tree.
Slowly and sinuously, she moved away, leaving the delicately perfumed
air to settle in her wake.
Taggart yawned and stood up, stretching his long limbs. He blinked, trying to clear his
vision. All right, he
thought. Elevators in that
direction. He made his tired legs
move towards the glass monoliths in front of him. Pressing the call button
didn’t seem to work. None of the
carriages were moving, no matter what instructions were being electronically
relayed.
Maybe I’ll do
better to use the stairs, he thought, ruefully. At
least I’ll find out how unfit I am. Very
unfit indeed, was the conclusion he came to, after reaching the fourth floor
and needing a break to ease his screaming thigh muscles. The gym membership was suddenly elevated
from an aspiration to a necessity. As
he stood, catching his breath and waiting for his heart rate to slow, he was
suddenly aware of the quiet around him.
The air was still, unusually so.
There was something vaguely familiar about this disquieting silence and
he picked at the edges of his memory, trying to pinpoint what it was.
The unnatural quiet was suddenly replaced by an eerie
whistling noise and then he knew. A
second before the bomb exploded, he flung himself to the ground, shielding his
head with his hands. For what seemed
like an eternity, he could hear nothing.
A silent wind beat at his clothes and skin, lifting him up to pitch him
forwards once more.
When the noise came, he was still face down on the floor of
the stair well. Dust and rubble rained
down on his back and legs. Somewhere
above him, glass was smashing and his ears were filled with the terrifying roar
and screech of cracking girders and masonry.
He stayed still, knowing that to move until it had stopped, before it finally came to an end, would be
disastrous. Assuming, of course, that
he could move. Gingerly, when
everything had gone quiet again, he tried to raise one arm. Carefully.
Okay, so far, so good. No
pain, nothing broken. He kicked out
his right leg and was relieved to discover nothing impeding the movement. The left leg was a different matter. It didn’t hurt, but he couldn’t move
it. The words spinal injury
entered his head unbidden, and nausea rose up in his mouth like a wave.
He tried to raise his upper body by placing his palms on
the floor and pushing upwards, twisting his torso round as he did so. To his relief, the only thing impeding his
movement was the edge of a huge gilt picture frame, which had crashed down from
the wall behind him. Amazingly,
although the glass had shattered into a million tiny shards, none of them
seemed to have torn his clothes and embedded in his flesh. With a superhuman effort, he turned his body
so that he was mostly on his back, although at a painfully awkward angle. Sitting up was nigh on impossible with the
weight on his left leg, but he knew he would need his arms to lift up the
picture. After much twisting and
squirming, he eventually managed to pull his leg under and away from the frame,
to wriggle free.
His concentration had been such that he hadn’t heard the
screaming. Not till now. The air was filled with cries and terrified
pleas for help. He looked around him,
and up. The floor on which he was lying
seemed solid, as did the stairs themselves.
The damage appeared to have been done above, not below, the floor he was
on. There was a gaping hole in the
ceiling, over the edge of which hung a lifeless arm. Man or woman, he couldn’t tell.
He stood up and shook himself down, wiping away the grime and dust from
his lips. Blood smeared the back of his
hand and he realised that one corner of his mouth was clogged with
brackish-tasting moisture. Well, if
that was his only injury….he stared down at his hand, as the significance
became apparent. He could see. The stairwell was not in darkness, as he
might have expected.
Think, Iain, think. He could see light below him, but not
above. This meant two things; one, that
each of the floors in this building was designed as a self-contained unit in
the event of an emergency and two, that the bomb had exploded on the floor
above. The fifth floor, nerve-centre of
IDEI’s security operations. Bob. Oh God.
He looked up. The stairs upwards
seemed secure, although it was hard to tell for the smoke and dust now swirling
in a thick mist around him. In the
distance he could hear the sirens of the emergency services. They sounded a long way off. They’ll be too late. Too late to save anyone here. That certainty spurred him to move towards
the stairs. The need to run, to race
towards the epicentre of the storm was overwhelming, but the pain in his left
leg hindered him. He realised he hadn’t
got off scot-free when the huge picture had crashed down on top of him. Just bruised, he thought grimly, nothing
to worry about. He pressed on
upwards, picking his way carefully through the bits of plaster and rubble still
raining down. By the time he reached
the floor above, he was immersed in almost total darkness. The only source of light was one wall light,
flickering weakly; emergency power, he guessed. It was just enough for him to make out that the wall on the right
of the corridor was still standing. The left wall, on the inside of which had been
security control, was a pile of mangled steel and plaster rubble. The acrid stench of smoke mingled with
ripped flesh was overpowering. He tried
to stop himself from choking as he pressed on into the dimness.
The cries for help had died away. He knew only too well what that meant. The people in that room were probably no more than lifeless husks
now - what was left of their bodies.
Still…..
“Where the hell are
you, Bob?”
“Here.”
Taggart hadn’t
realised he’d spoken out loud until the whisper came out of the gloom.
“I’m here.”
He thought the
faint voice was in front of him, so he moved forward gingerly, hands
outstretched, as if to scythe his way through this choking hell. His foot kicked something and elicited a
soft moan.
“Bob?” He crouched
down to bend over the dark shape blocking his path, fearful of the injuries he
might find.
“B..b..bastards managed it after all,” his friend’s voice
rasped painfully into the darkness.
“Such a bloody fool to let this happen.
Jesus, what were they paying me for?”
“That’s not important now.” Taggart managed to get his arm around Nelson’s shoulder. “Tell me where you’re hurt.”
“Everywhere, nowhere.
It doesn’t matter. My legs are
gone, I think. Not sure about my arm.
It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Of course it matters!”
Taggart knew his voice was sharper than it should be. “I’ll get you out of here. The ambulances
are on their way, you can hear the sirens.
Hold on, Bob, it’ll be okay.”
“No. Listen.” A vice- like arm shot up and around his
neck, drawing him down towards Nelson’s torn and bloodied ear. “You have to listen. The women, it’s always the women, laddie. Never be taken in.”
The words were slurred by now and Taggart was
nonplussed. “Women? What women?
You’re not making sense, Bob.
For God’s sake, just tell me where you’re hurt, I’ll do what I can. You need to hold on till help gets
here.” Taggart was filled with impotent
desperation, mingled with the knowledge that all efforts now were probably futile.
“Listen! Just
bloody listen for once in your goddamned life!” Nelson was wheezing now, struggling to breathe. “No time, lad,
there’s no time left. I need to tell
you… Rachel. It was Rachel. She was the one and I didn’t know, didn’t
realise.” He sighed and there was
sudden silence in the darkness. Taggart
was alarmed.
“Bob?”
“I’m still here.”
Nelson’s voice was soft, amused almost. “You know what they say; no fool
like an old fool. Guess it’s true.”
His attempt at a
laugh turned into a coughing fit. He
turned his head and spat copious amounts of blood-soaked phlegm over Taggart’s
arm. “Sorry, lad. Made a bit of a mess,
I’m afraid.”
“No worries.” Taggart was cradling his friend’s head
against his shoulder, doing his best to sound light-hearted. “I’ll bill you for the dry-cleaning when we
get home. You don’t get out of this
scot-free.”
Nelson chuckled.
“Spoken like a true Glaswegian.”
“Don’t insult me. I
come from Fife, remember?”
“Do you? I don’t
remember. Funny, that. Never mattered,
though. We were always mates.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s all right, laddie.”
Nelson’s voice rang out, unexpectedly strong. “It doesn’t hurt any more.
Just do something for me, will you?”
“Anything, you know that.”
Taggart felt his throat close up at what he knew was coming.
“Don’t let the bitches do this – don’t let them get away
with it. They must have been… I didn’t
see it, didn’t realise…” Nelson’s
voice, initially urgent, trailed away and Taggart felt the weight of his head
slump over on his arm. He stretched his
fingertips over his friend’s eyes. They
were open and although Taggart couldn’t tell in the darkness, he knew they were
now unseeing.
He sat, cradling Nelson’s body against him, trying in vain
to suppress the rush of tears. Too
late, he thought. It’s always
too late. He crouched in the ruins
of devastation for what seemed like a long time, lost in heartbreak. Eventually, the need to move his frozen
muscles overtook all other emotions.
Nothing more could be done here.
He had to get out, hopefully before another explosion took place. The soldier in him suddenly came to the
fore. Start thinking like a
professional. There could be other
devices planted all over IDEI. He had
been lucky so far, but getting out of this hellhole unscathed might be a
different matter. Let him go. You
have to let him go. He did,
releasing what was left of Bob Nelson as gently as he could.
Straightening up was awkward and painful. He did it slowly,
waiting for the pins and needles to subside and the blood to start flowing
freely in his veins. A sudden movement
in the corner of his eye made him glance round. He was staring directly into
the barrel of an automatic pistol. His
brain registered the fact that it was a new model, one that the British Army
had been coveting for some time without the necessary funds to purchase in
bulk.
His gaze travelled upwards, past the vaguely familiar dirty
t-shirt until his eyes locked once again on warm chocolate. Melted Maltesers, he thought,
suddenly recalling the sweets of his childhood. That’s what her eyes look like. He was about to say, “Help me,” when she screamed something
at him. It sounded as if she was
shouting from a long way away, in a language he didn’t fully understand. He thought it was Arabic, but he wasn’t sure. If it was, he guessed he was in
trouble. She was not here to rescue
anybody. He tried to struggle to his
feet, wondering how to say ‘Don’t shoot’ in Arabic. As he moved towards her, she barked what sounded like a command.
The gun was now waving around wildly. As he took a step closer, he thought he
saw panic in her face and something else – terror. For a second he was puzzled.
Most religious or political fanatics engaged in the business of murder
were completely insulated against the normal range of human emotions. He dredged up the little Arabic he knew and
yelled. He hadn’t a clue what he was
saying. He just hoped it would be enough to throw her off balance, so he could
make a grab for the gun. He thought for
a split second that he might get away with it. He had moved just that inch
closer, when there was a loud noise, and an explosion of pain in his side. He didn’t remember falling. All that was in
his head was the word ‘don’t’.
************************
Skybase, five and a half years later
“We’re a
little more subtle about it, is all,” drawled Harmony Angel from her prone
position on one of the window seats.
She was draped gracefully across the couch, idly but elegantly thumbing
through a fashion magazine. Rebecca Drake had not been back to her native
Georgia in at least ten years, but her baroque Southern accent could have been
lifted straight from ‘Gone with the Wind’.
Despite her cranberry coloured hair and edgy fashion sense, she still
managed, paradoxically and usually deliberately, to project an air of Southern
Belle delicacy. It was an artifice that
had proved extremely useful in her short, but illustrious, career.
“And this is
the Observation Deck,” Lieutenant Green was saying, as she opened the door to
usher in Destiny Angel and her companion.
“Things have been a little quiet of late, so there are more of us around
than usual, but it does mean you’re getting the chance to meet many of your
colleagues all at once.”
Destiny stepped forward, to introduce a slim, dark-haired young woman,
already clad in the regulation Angel uniform.
“Everyone, this is Esther
Jackson. Her code name will be Melody
Angel.”
She paused, glancing round
the room and then back at her companion.
“I know you’ve met the other Angels.
The colour-coded officers are kind of self-explanatory, I guess. Maybe I should leave it to them to tell you
their real names and backgrounds.”
“May I ask a
favour?” The new Angel exuded a
coquettish insouciance as her sweeping gaze took in the room and its
occupants. “I prefer my code name to
the real thing. I’d really appreciate
it if you’d call me Melody all the time.”
“Not a
problem. The fewer names I need to
remember, the better.” Captain Scarlet,
always the unacknowledged leader, stood up and proffered his hand. “For what it’s worth, I think Melody suits
you more than Esther. I’m Paul, by the
way.”
“Yes, I
know. I did my homework before I got
here. I think I know who you all are;
the fun part will be in seeing if I match up all your bios correctly!” She flashed an impish grin, her eyes dancing
in amusement, as if she found the entire vagaries of life vastly
entertaining. Scarlet smiled back, as
did almost everyone else in the room. There was something utterly engaging
about this young woman, with her elfin face and slightly too-wide mouth. She radiated confidence, without a trace of
shyness. Quite the opposite, in
fact. There was a boldness in her
stance which suggested that not only did she welcome life’s challenges, but she
was more than capable of meeting them.
Captain Grey looked at her with interest, but little
curiosity. Not that is, until she
turned towards him and their eyes met. Melted
Maltesers. He had never forgotten
those eyes. Five years rolled back in
the space of seconds, as he struggled to comprehend the sheer impossibility of
it. The new Angel was the street
urchin. This young woman who had
undoubtedly murdered Bob Nelson and his staff, whose bullet had almost ended
his own life, now stood before him with her hand outstretched. Blood pounded through the veins in his head,
while the injured back, which had not bothered him in years, started to throb
in sympathy. He knew he had to stand,
had to hold those slim, deadly fingers and return the age-old gesture of introduction. He struggled to his feet, wondering briefly
what her reaction would be when she realised that the man she thought she had
left for dead was alive and standing in front of her.
“Great to meet you, Iain,” she said, pumping his hand in the
polite, but fairly enthusiastic way people do when they wish to make a positive
impression. “Serena tells me you’ve
been here from the get-go. I guess that
means you’ve got loads of experience in fieldwork. I haven’t done much apart from fly planes, so I’ll be glad of any
help you’re able to give me.”
Her eyes were wide open
and completely innocent. Grey was
stunned. She didn’t know, hadn’t
recognised him. The realisation hit home like a jet of cold water. He heard his voice stammering some sort of
reply, a platitude to get him through the moments until he could breath
properly again. Then hopefully, she
would turn away, move on to someone else and he would be able to think what to
do. His prayer was answered as she
allowed herself to be led away, all the while throwing a casually apologetic
smile at him. He sat back down heavily
in his chair, realising that his response had probably been rude. No doubt she thought him taciturn, if not
downright boorish. He wondered,
irritably, why what the little bitch thought of him should be of any
consequence whatsoever.
The shock was wearing off and his brain began to work properly
once more. He dismissed the impossible
coincidence of her turning up on Skybase.
The important question was, why?
She was not who she said she was, that much was obvious. He didn’t know how she had managed to fool a
Spectrum selection committee; the vetting process was brutal and no stone would
be left unturned in the examination of an applicant’s past. While certain transgressions might be
accepted – his own history was testament to this – being an active member of a
terrorist organisation with links to Hamas, would certainly not be.
Then there
was motive. Captain Grey had enough
experience to know that militant extremism was not something easily set
aside. Most Islamic fundamentalists
with a history of violence would never renounce those beliefs. So what was she doing joining an organisation
whose primary objective was to crush behaviour which threatened the safety and
prosperity of the free world?
Infiltration seemed the most likely reason. But for whom was she really working?
“Are you
okay, Iain? You look like you’ve seen a
ghost!” Ochre’s concerned voice brought
him back to the present with a jolt, as he realised that Lieutenant Green and
Melody Angel had left the room to continue their tour of the base. Destiny remained behind, leaning over
Black’s shoulder in an attempt to solve her boyfriend’s computer puzzle before
he did. This happened regularly, to her
immense satisfaction and his obvious annoyance. He did not like reminders that her academic achievements,
particularly in the field of mathematics, far outstripped his own.
“So, now we have six Angels,” Blue said cheerfully, picking
up his coffee cup. “Anyone want more
coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
Ochre held out her mug to him, seemingly unaware that Captain Grey had
not answered her question. Taggart was
just relieved that the moment had passed.
He needed to marshal his thoughts before he could speak to his
colleagues.
“Actually, no.”
Destiny looked up absently, in response to Blue. Her attention was still
firmly fixed on Black’s puzzle. “We’re still five. Gabriella is leaving.”
“The Italian girl?”
Blue seemed startled. “She’s
only just got here! What happened
there?”
“Unimpressed with your chat-up lines, I bet. Probably thinks there are better fish to fry
elsewhere,” quipped Captain Magenta, who, somewhat surprisingly, had taken
little part in the discussion around him.
“Well, it looks like they’re not in your pond, either,
pal,” Blue shot back immediately.
Captain Black sniggered while Ochre sighed heavily. This was a sparring contest that took place
on a regular and sometimes tedious basis. There were times when she wondered if
some of her male colleagues had ever left kindergarten. Usually Grey or Scarlet stepped in to draw a
line under some of the more ribald conversations when they looked like they
might get out of hand. Today, however,
neither of them said a word.
“She’s
pregnant.” Destiny said flatly. “Impending bambinos and Falcon Interceptors
do not make a good combination.”
“Pregnant? I didn’t think she
was married.” Blue looked puzzled.
“She’s not,” Destiny replied, giving him a
look of amusement. Adam Svenson’s
freewheeling attitude to life masked a surprisingly conventional streak.
Scarlet,
always attuned to her thoughts, flashed a quick grin at her. “You know what they say,” he murmured. “You can take the boy out of Texas, but you
can’t take Texas out of the boy.”
Blue flushed.
“Yeah, well, I just thought….” His muttered response trailed off. He decided to concentrate on his coffee and
not allow his colleagues any more opportunities to embarrass him.
“Actually, she’s done me a favour,” Destiny said
thoughtfully. “The Angels need to be a
solid tightly-knit team, and to be frank, Gabi wasn’t fitting in as well as I
would have liked. I just didn’t have a
good enough reason to do anything about it till now. I know Colonel White wants a larger front line squad, but as far
as I’m concerned, that’s less important than getting the mix right.”
“So what’s Melody’s background, then?” Scarlet asked. “Military,
I presume?”
Destiny nodded. “She comes
highly recommended. She’s spent over
four years in the Israeli Air Force, and before that, I understand there was a
brief spell with Mossad. Amazing,
considering she’s only just turned twenty-five.”
“Israeli Air Force? I thought
she was American.”
“Her father is, but her mother comes from Jerusalem. She was brought up mainly in the States but
she went to school in Israel for a few years.
From what she’s told me, I got the impression she felt more at home
there. I guess with dual nationality,
she was eligible to join whichever air force she preferred.”
“Beauty and brains, then,” Black said cheerfully. “Adam was right, for once. She certainly is pretty.”
He reached an arm behind
him to grab Destiny round the waist and spin her down onto his knee, nuzzling
her neck. He eyed her in mock speculation.
“Jealous, sweetheart?”
She leaned against him, running slim fingers through his dark
hair. “Luckily for you, no,” she murmured, with a sweetness of tone reserved
only for him. Across the room, Captain
Grey stared at them. He didn’t much
care for Conrad Lefkon. He had met the
type before; a smart-ass, loaded with money and ambition, aiming for the top. There was something inherently dangerous
beneath the American’s carefully cultivated urbane exterior. He had a keen, fierce intelligence and an
instinct for deception in others. He
was inordinately brave and, Grey thought, quite without scruple. His track record as a soldier was
impressive, but in Iain Taggart’s opinion, he was a wild card, a maverick, and
not to be trusted. He didn’t understand
Scarlet’s complete faith in him.
Grey liked and respected
Paul Metcalfe. He was affable and
easy-going, fair-minded and generous to a fault, a man for whom the word “nice”
was entirely appropriate. He possessed
a quiet authority, which marked him out as a natural leader, despite having
only just passed his thirtieth birthday.
The “niceness” could be deceptive – within his character lay a
single-minded ruthlessness, which had served him well over the years. There had been friends as well as enemies
who had learned not to underestimate him.
He was an excellent judge of character and that, if for no other reason,
was why Grey couldn’t understand his friendship with Black. He had to acknowledge they made a superb
team; they had been partners in U.S. Special Forces for a few years before
Spectrum was formed and their results in the field of conflict had been
spectacular. Despite all of that, Grey
wished that Scarlet did not trust Black so implicitly.
As for Destiny - he was completely at a loss to see what a sweet
girl like Simone Giraudoux saw in him.
She was clever, quick on the uptake and certainly the most naturally
gifted pilot that Grey had ever encountered. Despite her youth, she commanded a
respect from her colleagues which would have befitted a woman twenty years her
senior. He was aware of the reckless
streak in her nature, and hoped that it would not get her killed one day. He wondered if this appetite for danger was
what attracted her to Captain Black.
Grey knew that some women were excited by the rough and unpredictable,
although he suspected that he would never attract such a woman himself. Dull and boring were not the most desirable
of attributes, he thought bleakly.
As he gazed at her blonde head bent over Black’s dark one, he saw
their lips touch in casual, familiar intimacy. It was a scene he had witnessed
many times – their affair had been going on a long time and neither of them
seemed to see a problem in public displays of affection. It was a kiss, nothing more. Yet there was something profoundly,
disturbingly, erotic about the scene and it sickened him. His nerves were jangled and he couldn’t
stop himself exploding.
“For God’s sake!” The
words burst out of his mouth with a force he couldn’t control. “Can you two not keep your hands off each
other for five minutes!”
Startled, Destiny looked round, her face the colour of Scarlet’s
tunic. She got up immediately,
smoothing down her uniform. “I’m sorry,
Iain,” she said quietly. “We didn’t mean to embarrass anyone.” She bent to touch her fingers to Black’s
mouth to prevent him from speaking. “I
should catch up with Melody and Serena.
I’ll see you later, honey.”
As the door closed softly behind her, Black’s expression was
thunderous. He looked as though he couldn’t decide whether to speak or simply
throw a punch. The atmosphere was
tense, as the other occupants of the room fell silent in expectation of an
eruption.
“Leave it.” Scarlet’s
quiet command came from behind the pages of the book he had picked up once
more. He didn’t look up, or give any
indication he had realised what was about to happen. Black’s mouth opened in protest, then, amazingly, he closed it
again and sat back, staring sullenly at the floor.
The awkward silence was broken only by Blue hastily clearing his
throat. “Come on, leprechaun,” he said, extending his hand to haul Captain
Ochre to her feet. “Let’s hit the
Sports Hall. I feel a sudden need to
thrash you at badminton.”
“In your dreams!” was the retort, although she willingly allowed
herself to be propelled towards the door.
“We’ll join you, make it mixed doubles,” Harmony announced, her
meaningful look at Magenta intended to convey the words please get me out of
here. He was likely to misinterpret
such an expression, but right now she didn’t care. “You can play with me for once, Mario.”
“Now that is a sentence I never thought I would hear.” Magenta responded playfully, as the four of
them left the room, giggling.
Scarlet waited till the door had shut behind them before closing
his book. He leaned back in his chair,
hands behind his head. The eyes he
turned to Captain Grey were full of concern.
“What’s going on, Iain? This
isn’t like you. Are you feeling all
right?”
“I’m feeling fine!”
Taggart snapped back, although in truth, he was anything but. His mind was still on the street
urchin. He could not bring himself to
think of her as Melody Angel. How had
she not known? Then again, maybe she
had, and was gambling on the possibility that he would not recognise her. Certainly, she had changed a great deal in
the intervening years. Maybe she had
“re-invented herself”, or whatever ridiculous phrase was used in the tabloid
press to describe cosmetic surgery. The
dancing eyes and coquettish sparkle bore no comparison to the sullen, morose
creature he had encountered five years ago, yet he had no doubts about her
identity.
“That wee lassie, the new Angel – she’s all wrong, Paul!” He blurted the words out.
“All wrong? What are you
talking about?” Scarlet sounded
perplexed.
“She’s not who she says she is.
Her name isn’t Esther Jackson, its Rachel Book. She may have been in the Israeli Air Force,
but her background isn’t Mossad. It’s
Hamas.”
They stared at him as if he had suddenly grown two heads.
“Jesus, you’ve finally flipped,” Black said with a derisive
snort. He was still smarting from
Grey’s rebuke. “Too many wee drams
finally pickled your brains? The only
organisation you should have joined is Alcoholics Anonymous.”
“Shut up, Con,” Scarlet snapped.
He looked searchingly at Grey.
“What’s this about, Iain? I
didn’t get the impression you’d met before.
What makes you think she’s not on the level?”
“The fact that five years ago, she put a bullet in my back, not to
mention murdering my best friend and several other people into the bargain,”
Grey retorted. “So you see, I have met
her, Paul, in a peculiarly twisted way.”
There was complete silence.
Even Black seemed lost for words.
Scarlet got to his feet and poured a cup of black coffee, ladling it
heavily with sugar. He handed it to
Grey and then resumed his position in the adjoining armchair.
“I think you’d better tell us what happened,” he said
quietly. “Start at the beginning and
don’t leave anything out.”
Taggart didn’t. He
recounted the tale of his visit to IDEI and the tragic twist that had cost Bob
Nelson and his colleagues their lives.
They listened intently without interruption, until after half an hour,
he finally fell silent.
“Let me get this straight,” Scarlet said slowly. “You’re convinced that Nelson’s girlfriend,
and her daughter, were responsible for planting that bomb? And that the daughter then shot you?” He looked doubtful. “I don’t know, Iain. It doesn’t really add up.”
“In the hospital, they wouldn’t tell me anything. Not at first, anyway.” Grey sounded as if he could have been
talking to himself. He had ignored
Scarlet’s comment. “By the time I was
well enough to ask questions, it was all over.
They didn’t even let me know about Bob’s funeral – not that I could have
gone, the state I was in.” His face
twisted. “All that – all because of
that little bitch and her murderous pals.”
“Maybe,” Scarlet replied gently.
“But you haven’t explained why you think this girl, this Rachel, is
masquerading as our new Angel.”
“Because he’s stark raving mad, that’s why,” Black said shortly.
Scarlet ignored him and concentrated his attention on Grey. “Come on, Iain. You’ve got to admit this is strong stuff. Help me out here.”
“All right.” Grey roused himself from his torpor. He gazed directly at them. “When I started to get my wits back, I
naturally asked questions – lots of them.
As I said before, I didn’t get any answers at first – at least, not the
ones I wanted. I kept at it, though. I thought if I made a complete nuisance of
myself, the nut would crack.
Eventually, it did. They sent
someone from MI6 to see me. That was
after I’d been transferred to a hospital in London. I was given the same
information I could have got from Mossad, had any of their people got off their
arses long enough to talk to me.”
“Probably thought you were a security risk.” Black said. “I assume it was classified?” His tone was neutral, but the words still
sounded insulting. Grey refused to be
riled a second time.
“It was. And yes, they
probably did,” he replied evenly. “I
struck lucky. My boss in the SAS had
influence and he believed I had a right to know who was responsible for almost
killing me. He did me a favour in
getting someone to talk to me. Not such
a huge favour, as it turned out; by the time I got any information, the world’s
press had worked it out for themselves, anyway.”
“But you got names - they wouldn’t have got that, right?” Scarlet gazed at him through shrewd
eyes. “MI6 confirmed that Sheina Book
and her daughter were directly responsible for the attack on IDEI?”
“More or less.” Grey
shifted irritably in his seat. His hip
was still aching and he couldn’t get comfortable. He felt a sudden need for a cigarette, which was bizarre,
considering he’d never smoked. “They
were confirmed as members of a breakaway segment of Hamas - radical even by
Middle Eastern standards. No one
actually claimed responsibility for the bomb, but United Nations Intelligence
had had them in their sights for a long time.
They were ninety-nine per cent certain it was that group. When I heard that, I realised Bob had been
set up. Sheina took the job as his
housekeeper. She set her cap at him,
got him to fall for her and then moved all the chess pieces into position. It was the only way the organisation could
ever infiltrate that security fortress he’d built up. Bob knew how to make places impregnable to any threat on earth;
he just didn’t realise the biggest threat would be from a downtrodden Israeli
housewife and her teenage brat.”
He paused. “It’s true what they say, isn’t it? ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies
closer’. Poor Bob. The worst part was that he knew. At the end, when he was dying, he realised
what they’d done. He tried to tell me
and I didn’t know what he was talking about.
He’d waited all his life to find love.
He should have died believing he’d found it.” He took another slug of coffee and set the mug down carefully on
the table. “That was the least he deserved.”
“Yes. Yes, I’m sure it was.” Scarlet murmured absently, his face
screwed in concentration. Grey knew the
look; his friend was not being dismissive, simply thinking fast. He could be incisive, discarding
possibilities and scenarios like playing cards. “What was the point of the attack, anyway? Just to slow down the progress of Skybase?”
“Seems like it. They knew if they took out the security side of
things, even temporarily, they could do untold damage to the rest of IDEI while
the organisation was still trying to work out what had gone wrong. Fortunately, they never got that far. Mossad had been expecting an attack for some
time. They moved in immediately and
captured the ringleaders, including Sheina Book.” Grey paused. “They didn’t
have to do a lot to her to get her to confess.
They never found her daughter, though.
She disappeared into thin air.”
“Until now. Or so you seem
to think.” Black was watching him carefully, taking the situation more
seriously. Grey doubted he was convinced, but he was at least listening. He pressed his case.
“Sheina Book was soft,” he said deliberately, fastening his gaze
on Black’s hard brown eyes. “No-one
imagined she would hold out under even minimal torture and basically, she
didn’t. She’d have told them anything,
even after an hour. Except the
whereabouts of her daughter.”
“What happened to her? The
mother, I mean.” Scarlet got up to
refill his own coffee cup. He felt
chilled to the bone, even in the carefully controlled temperature of the
Observation Lounge. Torture. Even the word itself was loathsome. It was, of course, a realistic aspect of the
job and he understood it perfectly. He
had suffered it himself, had always known it was an unavoidable risk of the
profession. He had witnessed it done to
others, occasionally with his own tacit consent, if there had been no other
option. The practice repulsed him,
however. He had never ever given a
direct order to torture another human being and he hoped fervently that he
would never need to.
“She went crazy,” Grey said flatly. “Maybe the electrodes fried her brains, I don’t know. Anyway, she’s in a mental hospital – a
secure environment, I believe. I
understand she’s catatonic. I doubt
she’s regarded as a problem now.”
“And we still don’t know where the daughter is?” Black asked.
“Yes, we do. She’s here,
isn’t she?” Grey glared at him defiantly.
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
Black threw back his arm in a gesture of frustration. “Would you listen to yourself? This is a complete fairytale! You see a girl in an elevator. For some weird reason, she makes an
impression on you. A few hours later,
amidst lots of dust and rubble, not to mention semi-darkness, you get accosted
by a terrorist, who then proceeds to shoot you. You think you recognise her as Elevator Girl, but by now are
convinced that she’s also your friend’s soon-to-be stepdaughter. Who of course, just happens to be a
terrorist. Now, as far-fetched as that
may be, I’m prepared to go along with it to that point. But not the rest of it. Maybe the girl in the elevator was Rachel
Book, maybe she was also the person who shot you. But to insinuate that she could be the same person as our new
recruit, is utter madness. For a start,
there’s the age difference. You said
Sheina’s daughter was seventeen. That would make her no more than twenty-two
now. Esther Jackson is twenty-five, and
I doubt if she could have lied about that to a Spectrum Selection Committee.”
“Why not? She’s lied about
everything else!” Grey shot back.
Scarlet frowned. “Calm down, both of you,” he said. “Getting
steamed up like this isn’t going to help.”
He looked searchingly at Captain Grey. “Iain, how certain are you about this?”
“I’d stake my life on it,” was the reply.
Scarlet nodded, as Black curled his lip. “All right, that’s good enough for me. Got any ideas as to what we do about it?”
“She has to be flushed out, but carefully. I’m not sure yet how I’m going to do that.”
Scarlet took careful note of the word ‘I’. Grey saw this as his own personal
vendetta. He didn’t want interference.
“Okay,” he said calmly. “I
don’t suppose twenty-four hours will make a difference. Think you can come up with something in that
time?”
“I’d better,” Grey replied grimly. “We may not have more time than that.”
He got to his feet, leaning
a little awkwardly over his colleague. “Thanks, Paul. I appreciate this.”
Scarlet nodded, as Grey left the room. He understood what he was being thanked for.
It was only a matter of seconds before Black exploded. “Are you nuts? Don’t tell me you actually believe this nonsense!”
Scarlet hesitated. “I’m
not sure,” he said at last. “It’s a bit
of a stretch, I admit. The thing is,
Con, if he’s right, we’re all in big trouble.
We can’t afford to ignore it.”
Well, I intend to do just that,” Black said shortly. “As far as I’m concerned, the man’s
delusional. It makes no sense
whatsoever.”
Scarlet looked irritated.
“Iain is far from delusional. He
may be wrong about this - and I sincerely hope he is – but that doesn’t alter
the fact that he’s probably the most sensible, level-headed person I know. He wouldn’t say something like this if he
wasn’t one hundred per cent convinced, in his own mind, at least. We owe it to him to take this seriously.”
Black scowled. “He should
think twice before flinging accusations about.”
“Oh, I see,” Scarlet said softly. “So that’s what this is
about. You’re still sulking. Well, for what it’s worth, he was right
about that, too. I would have said it
if he hadn’t.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Black’s voice was
menacingly quiet.
Scarlet sighed and leaned back in his chair. “You and Sim need to grow up, Con, and stop
behaving like lovesick teenagers. If
Colonel White had walked in on that little scene, I doubt he would have been
impressed. I know you basically live
together, but Skybase is not your home and the Observation Deck isn’t your
living room. The people here are friends and colleagues, but they’re not family
– not yet, anyway. We’re all learning how best to get along. I’ve known you both for a long time and I’m
used to the way you are with each other. I don’t have a problem with it, but
you can’t assume other people will feel the same way. You need to be a bit more
considerate.”
Black’s mood had suddenly become ugly. He hated criticism and it
was unheard of for his best friend to round on him in this manner. “Well, well,
pots and kettles are being rattled around here, aren’t they?” he snarled.
“Whatever it was you and the latest peccadillo were doing the other night
hardly makes you a contender for the title of Saint of Skybase! And don’t bother to deny it, because my
quarters are right next to yours, and the walls are thinner than they should
be!”
Scarlet had gone white with anger. “I wouldn’t dream of denying
anything, certainly not to you,” he said icily. “I think you’ll find, however,
that the key words here, are ‘in our quarters’ and ‘in private’. Unlike the two of you, we are not out to
smash the world record for the most public displays of unbridled lust!” This last comment was both unfair and
exaggerated, but right now, he was too irritated to care.
Surprisingly, Black looked sheepish. “God, Paul, is that really
what it looks like?” he muttered.
“Yeah. Yeah, sometimes it does.” Scarlet felt his temper abate,
although he had no intention of letting his friend off the hook. “The ‘peccadillo’, as you so crudely put it,
is a technician from Engineering. Her name is Joanna and I happen to like her.
A lot. So you might start showing some
respect for once in your life.”
He picked up his book once
more and buried his face in it, a clear indication that as far as he was
concerned, the conversation was closed.
Black got up with a sigh and retrieved his uniform cap from the
base of the computer console.
“Well,” he said with a
twisted smile, “better go and flagellate myself with a horse-whip, I suppose.
Unless, of course you have more interesting punishments in mind.”
He reached the door and paused, without turning. The invitation was casual, as always.
“You and Jo want to have
dinner with us tonight? Kind of a double date?
Assuming, of course that Iain is wrong and the new Angel hasn’t executed
a cunning plan to blow us all to smithereens by then.”
Behind his book, Scarlet smothered a grin. This was the closest
Black would come to an apology, he knew.
“Sure,” he responded lightly. “That sounds great. I’ll check with
Joanna, but it shouldn’t be a problem. Don’t call her Jo, by the way, she hates
it. Seems to think it compromises her femininity, makes the guys in Engineering
forget that she’s not. A guy, I mean.
Can’t say it makes much sense to me, but there you are.
Black nodded. “I’ll try to remember. I certainly wouldn’t want to
find my head in my hands for a second time, now would I?”
The door closed softly
behind him, leaving Scarlet alone in the silence of a suddenly empty room.
************************
When Taggart left the Observation Lounge, he had no clear idea of
what should happen next. He was angry,
with himself, with Captain Black and most of all, with the impostor calling
herself Esther Jackson. The very
thought of those warm brown eyes and the coquettish smile made him clench his
fists tight, as if to rail against the absurd impossibility of it all.
He forced himself to calm down.
The situation needed careful handling and this time, he had to get it
right. Black had not believed his
story, but Scarlet did. He had tacitly
consented to give him a free hand, but it would only be for so long. If he didn’t, or couldn’t, deal with it
himself, his colleague would step in.
This would probably mean taking the matter straight to Colonel
White. Grey didn’t want that – this was
so personal, he couldn’t bear the thought that she could be exposed as a
traitor and jettisoned from Spectrum without ever knowing how and by whom she
had been found out.
He had not imagined he would ever get a chance to avenge Bob
Nelson, or the others who had died; the people Iain Taggart hadn’t known, but
whose families suffered in grief as he had done. Now, incredibly, he was staring such an opportunity in the face,
much as he had stared down the barrel of Rachel Book’s revolver, five and a
half years earlier.
By now he had reached his living quarters. He needed to be alone to think. If he lay quietly on his bed, he could
decide the best approach to take.
Facing her head on with a handful of accusations could be disastrous. She had fooled a Spectrum selection
committee and God knew who else. She
would not crack easily. If he left it
too long, though, he ran the risk of her carrying out whatever plan she was
here to execute. And of course, that
was what he didn’t know. Why she was here, who she was working for, what the
plan was. Blowing up Skybase? Well, they had tried it before, nothing to
stop them trying again.
Instinct told him it had to be more sophisticated than that. A spell with Mossad – he wasn’t sure how
much of that was a carefully orchestrated fabrication. Four years with the Israeli Air Force had to
be fact, however. Apart from anything
else, her flying skills were self-evident.
Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to ensure that Israeli
Rachel Book could pass herself off as American Esther Jackson with no questions
asked. He felt quite chilled, although
the heating controls in all the living quarters were set at a pleasantly
ambient temperature. The hairs on the
back of his neck prickled and he knew what that meant. A chill in the presence of malevolence was
an instinct no soldier ignored.
Still. He was no nearer
reaching a decision on how to proceed as he had been on first encountering her
again. Do something. Don’t just lie here. Physical activity had always carried him
through. He loved swimming. He was a
strong, if not particularly stylish swimmer.
As a young teenager, he had been selected for Scotland’s junior team in
national competition. He had not been
gifted, or dedicated enough to progress beyond a single bronze medal in the 200
metres breaststroke, much to his parents’ unspoken relief. They did not have the money to pay for
advanced coaching, even if they had known the people who should be approached
to provide it. He had not lost the love
of the sport, though. He was himself in
the water, thinking great thoughts as he ploughed through the lukewarm
chlorinated water of the Skybase pool.
Or, better still, on holiday in the Mediterranean, with the sun beating
a cadence on the artificial blue of a hotel pool.
Swimming, that was what he needed. Fifty laps of the pool was surely the key to providing answers to
his dilemma. In minutes, he was dressed
in the regulation Spectum costume and preparing to dive in. It both amused and irritated him in equal
measure that uniforms were de rigueur for almost any situation. He didn’t really see the point, other than
to distinguish the senior colour coded personnel from Skybase’s other
employees. As far as a swimming pool
was concerned, it was ridiculous. Water
was a great leveller, Grey believed.
Stripped down and wet, most people looked the same. He was almost
annoyed to have to don the uniform black lycra shorts and vest with the
Spectrum logo. He wanted to wear
something of his own, something that would not identify him while he swam
privately in this most public of places.
But he put them on anyway, as he knew he would. Inner rebellion was one thing – outer
rebellion was what other people did.
There were a few other swimmers in the pool, although not as many
as he might have expected. It was
usually quiet, but the recent long lay-offs from active duty had produced a
resurgence of enthusiasm hitherto unknown in Spectrum’s short history. He ploughed up and down the lanes, trying
for once to concentrate on his technique, making sure his arms and legs were
pulling in symmetry and the line of his neck and shoulders was correct.
Eventually, out of breath, he checked his watch. He had
accomplished fifty laps in just under twenty minutes. Not bad, he thought, for an ex-army veteran on the wrong side of
thirty-five. He paused to take a
breather at the shallow end of the pool.
The exercise had refreshed his body, but had done little to provide a
solution to his dilemma. The pool was
empty now and the surface of the water had stilled. Shafts of sunlight from the high windows cast sparkling beams, spilling
diamonds of light as they fell. Taggart
was suddenly at peace, although he was well aware it wasn’t a luxury he could
afford himself right now. Neither was
time. Something had to be done about
Esther bloody Jackson and it had to be done quickly.
As he gazed bleakly down into the blue-tiled floor of the pool, a
movement caught his eye. He glanced up
as the young woman came out of the changing rooms, towel slung casually over
her shoulders. She was dressed in the
regulation ‘Angel’ swimsuit, a silver, high-necked one piece similar to those
worn by the male personnel. Taggart
thought the design was ugly, although he couldn’t fault its functionality.
He caught a glimpse of dark hair as she pulled on her swim cap and
smiled to himself. Harmony had obviously
got bored playing badminton with Magenta.
He didn’t blame her. Any kind of
sparring with the Italian-American captain always involved much verbal as well
as physical ping-pong. Mario Moro was
attractive and likeable, but he could be exhausting.
“Hey, Rebecca!” he shouted.
“How about a race? Best of ten
laps – whoever comes out ahead buys pizza tonight!”
He loved swimming with
Harmony. In the pool, she abandoned her
air of languid boredom. She was strong
and lithe and, although his breaststroke was better, her freestyle displayed an
attack and ferocity which never failed to impress him. She was good company, too. Warm, funny and self-deprecating, she had a
line in dirty jokes that reminded him of some of the Glaswegian girls he had
known in his youth. Her language could
be choice, although some of the expressions uttered in that delicate
‘fiddle-de-dee’ accent reduced him instantly to gales of laughter. The American south, he decided, produced two
types of women; the ones who said things like “Oh, fudge!” and those like
Rebecca Drake.
He was not surprised when he didn’t get an answer. He expected her to do what she usually did,
dive straight in and swim over to him; sometimes, if she thought she could get
away with it, she would try to catch him unawares and drag him under. When he didn’t hear a splash, he looked
properly. The young woman simply stood
gazing at him with a look of vague uncertainty on her face. Now he realised she was smaller than
Harmony, slender with olive skin, her shoulders displaying an angularity he
recognised. She looked self-conscious, which was natural, he supposed, in
donning a Spectrum swimsuit for the first time.
His heart hammered in his chest.
He hadn’t expected this, not before he had decided what to do. It appeared the opportunity was being
presented whether he liked it or not.
He doubted that she had recognised him; above the Spectrum logo on his
chest was a grey flash, but that would hardly be visible in the water. What was she doing in the pool on her first
day, anyway? Taking a dip was not
usually top of the agenda, even if you were taking up residence in a
metaphorical goldfish bowl.
She dived in gracefully and reached him in seconds, cutting
through the water with a simple, sparing style that earned his grudging
admiration. Where had she learned to swim like that? Not in the back streets of Tel-Aviv, that was for sure
“Hi!” She surfaced through
a glinting prism of sunlight, her slim fingers flicking water from her
eyelashes. “It is Iain, isn’t it? I wasn’t sure till I spotted the grey
flash. People look different without
clothes, don’t they?” She tilted her
head with a smile that he assumed was meant to be flirtatious. He ignored her clumsy attempt at
familiarity. He wasn’t sure he could even
bring himself to be pleasant to her. Consumed by cold hatred, all he could
think about was his hands round her neck, squeezing the life-blood out of
her. It wouldn’t even take that. The slightest pressure on her carotid artery
would cause her to black out.
Unconscious, she would drown in seconds. The pool was deserted, no one would know; it would look like a
tragic accident.
“What are you doing here?” he managed at last. “Fed up with the guided tour? But then, I guess there are only certain
parts of Skybase that will be of any interest to you.”
She looked puzzled, as if she had not expected such a rude
response. “It is a bit overwhelming,
more so than I expected,” she replied slowly.
“It’s so huge, so many people.
It’s a lot to take in. My quarters
are still being sorted, so I thought I’d take a dip in the meantime. Swimming gets life in perspective, makes
sense of stuff, I think.”
“I agree,” he said coldly.
His eyes had not left her face.
“Strips away the layers, makes it hard to hide, doesn’t it? Exposes people for what they really are.”
The words were icily contemptuous and Esther Jackson didn’t have a
clue what he was talking about. She
trod water in a sea of uncertainty, wondering why this angry man with eyes that
matched his uniform should detest her so much.
“Iain, have I done something to you?” she asked at last.
“Something to upset you?
Whatever it is, I didn’t mean…”
The sentence went
unfinished as he moved towards her, placed his hands on her shoulders and
pushed her down. He held her under the
water for several seconds before allowing her to surface, gasping and choking
for air.
“Just so you know,” he said softly, his mouth close to her
ear. “I can drown you in a heartbeat
and there won’t be a thing you can do about it.”
The mixture of confusion and panic in her eyes told him she
believed it.
“You – you’re crazy!” she gasped.
“You’re stark raving mad! Take
your hands off me right now!”
“Not until we’ve had a little chat,” he replied grimly. He was almost at the steps of the shallow
end of the pool, forcibly dragging her along with him. She didn’t struggle again until they were on
dry land once more; then she tried to wriggle free of his iron grip on her.
“Let go of me right now, or I’ll call security!” she hissed at him. “You’re a complete maniac, what the hell do you think you’re
playing at? Let go of me!”
Her voice rose to a
shriek at the same moment she managed to free one of her arms. The slap she gave him was instinctive; there
was no thought behind it, or she would not have dared to hit him. But her hand came up and struck him hard
across the face. The crack rang out in
a loud echo.
It wasn’t the slap that pushed him over the edge – he would have
let her get away with that. After all,
he expected her to put up some sort of resistance. It was the cry of fear, tinged with revulsion that tore up his
jagged nerves and sent his temper rocketing to explosion point.
He caught her arms and twisted them behind her back, pulling them
upwards; he bent her against his braced body and forced her head back. Her mouth was near and open with the pain of
his hold; when he kissed her, she tried to shut it, her head jerking in a
hopeless effort to get free.
He hurt her deliberately to begin with. He wanted to teach her a lesson, make sure she understood what and
with whom she was dealing. He didn’t
care how much he humiliated her. It
took longer than he thought for her to surrender; she kicked and clawed at him,
making noises under his lips. Eventually,
she became quiet and he opened her mouth again.
It was as if they were suspended in time, which had ceased to
run. Nothing was real but the pressure
of his body against hers. He had let go
of her arms and they hung down, limp and useless; his fingers were in her hair,
holding her head in position for his next assault on her unprotected
mouth. The senses of sight and sound
had deserted them both. She hung in his
arms, rising and sinking under the rhythm of his kisses, eventually moving her
arms upwards to slide them around his neck, as if controlled by an unseen
force.
It was Grey who stopped.
He put her away from him and held her wrists. Her face was deathly, tears seeping under her lids and smudging
down her cheeks. All her defences were
gone, obliterated by one basic, primeval instinct. Another moment and he would have stripped off her swimsuit and
thrown her down on the floor of the changing room. Something in her eyes told him that not only would she have let
him, she would have welcomed it.
“I think we know where we stand,” he said quietly. “I can take you any time I want. And I do want, so be very careful. Now we need to talk. I suggest we go to my quarters. Don’t worry about changing, it’s not far.”
She nodded mutely, as if the experience of the last few minutes
had rendered her far beyond question or argument. He put a hand under her elbow and guided her out into the
corridor. She moved dutifully, mechanically,
so he did not need to use pressure. It
wasn’t far to the nearest elevator and the only person they encountered was a
member of the cleaning staff, who nodded at them in polite deference. If she thought it odd that two of Skybase’s
senior personnel should be barefoot and dripping water over her newly vacuumed
floor, she wasn’t about to say so.
Grey was right – his quarters were not far; probably, Melody
realised, directly above the swimming pool.
She stood, dazed and acquiescent, as he held up the wrist of his free
hand to allow his watch to pass over the electronic pad on the wall. The door slid open effortlessly, closing in
the same manner after he had pushed her inside sharply.
“Sit there!”
He pushed her roughly into the armchair opposite his bed and
leaned over her. His body seemed crushing and unassailable. She couldn’t move.
“This is what’s going to happen,” he said softly. “I’m going to ask some questions and you’re
going to answer them – correctly. The
right answers are the truthful ones and believe me, I will know the
difference. Get them wrong and I’ll
break your neck. Understand?”
The fear in her eyes confirmed that she did. She might doubt his sanity, but not his
strength. The poolside episode had
demonstrated that. Physically, she was
no match for him.
“May I have a towel?” She
straightened up as she asked the question, meeting his gaze with a hint of
defiance. She was trying to regain some
last remnants of self-possession, trying to show him that she was not as thrown
by recent events as he thought. For a
second, he wondered if it was a ruse; she would wait until he had moved out of
sight and then make a run for it. Then he remembered he had locked the door
from the inside. She could not possibly
know the code that would open it.
He went into the bathroom and returned with a hand towel. It was barely big enough to dry her hair,
but he was disinclined to look for a clean bath sheet.
“Thank you,” she said politely, her face impassive. He admired her courage; he had wanted to
hurt her, to scare her witless and he had succeeded. But she had pride and she was refusing to visibly acknowledge her
vulnerability.
As she held out her hand for the towel, he noticed her arms. They
were thin, brown and covered in red marks.
Some of the weals were already discolouring, turning black and blue.She
would be a mass of bruises tomorrow, testament to his appalling lack of
self-control.
He hadn’t meant to kiss her, only to shut her up, stop her from
screaming out loud for help. But
something had happened between them, something so unexpected and shocking that
it had left them both badly shaken.
Acknowledgements
This
is a story that has been a struggle to complete, during a year in which I have
had very little time to write. There
were many occasions where I almost abandoned it. I am very grateful for the friendship of Marion Woods, Hazel
Kohler and Caroline Smith, who provided strong shoulders to cry on during some
dark moments.
Special
thanks go to the Beta Queen, who worked her particular magic on the text, in
order to make it fit for submission.
Many thanks, as always, to Chris Bishop for her patience and generosity,
as well as the privilege of allowing me to post my work on her site.
I
do not own the rights to any of the NCS characters, although I wish I did! They are the property of Gerry Anderson and
Anderson Productions. I hope that in
exercising my imagination to write about their possible lives and loves, I have
done them some measure of justice.
S
G
6th
November 2008.
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