BLOOD GURKHA: Prophesy (James Pace novels Book 5) (3 page)

All alone, feeling suddenly at a loss, Pace poured himself a large glass of Jack Daniels Single-barrel bourbon from a bottle on a nearby tray. Swishing the familiar amber liquid around the bottom of his glass, he took a sip before heading back down to the main floor, drink in hand. Once there, he made his way to one of the old dormitory rooms that had recently been remodelled into a study.

The steel walls were now lined with wooden bookcases, crammed with a myriad of books on every subject but mainly aviation. At points around the walls, large framed photographs and pictures of helicopters, jet fighters and even one of the gigantic, now defunct, SR.N4 Cross-Channel Hovercraft, served to break up the near constant sight of two thousand book spines. In the far corner, behind a small wooden desk that bore only a laptop on its highly polished walnut top, a glass-fronted unit beckoned him over.

The cabinet doors were not locked and he opened them up wide, staring at the contents. Three shelves stared back at him, each holding a weapon. The top shelf housed a red satin-lined box, lid open, containing the mint condition Webley .455 revolver that he had personally recovered from the drowned confines of the ill-fated
K-19
submarine.

On the second shelf sat a Second World War Sten submachine gun, oiled and serviced. After bringing it back with him from the Amazon, where the gun had literally saved his life on more than one occasion, the McEntire firearms team had converted it to fire modern 9mm ammunition as well as slightly redesigning the firing mechanism to iron out the historical unreliability of the model. Now it was as accurate and efficient as any modern equivalent but much cooler.

The third shelf sported a long, sword-like blade. His newest acquisition, this was a long bayonet designed to fit snugly to the end of the beautiful Mauser 98 bolt-action German rifle that now hung on special brackets over the door. As a lover of antique weapons, Pace never tired of looking at them. With Sarah gone for a few hours, it was the perfect time to do some maintenance, he decided.

Three hours later, with the only interruption being when he regularly checked on the roast beef joint, he had completely stripped, cleaned and reassembled all the guns before returning them to their homes. His stomach was growling and his watch told him it was nearing two o’clock by the time he took the meat out of the oven, basted it again, and added some parboiled potatoes to the roasting dish. A tray of Yorkshire pudding batter joined the meat and potatoes in the oven and Pace guessed that dinner would be ready in another half an hour.

He was not concerned that Sarah hadn't called because he knew she would have her hands full trying to prise any problems out of her father's grasp. She had a hands-free phone set-up inbuilt within the Bentley but he knew she was still trying to figure out its operation. He expected to hear her voice calling for him at any moment so he returned to the control room to pour another Jack Daniels and wait, settling down with the latest David Leadbeater thriller on his Kindle to pass the time. Within minutes, he was lost inside the book and time slipped away.

When Pace's satellite phone jangled in his pocket, abruptly snatching him away from a daring prison escape plot expertly narrated in the book, he checked his watch and was surprised to see that he had been reading for nearly forty minutes, which meant the dinner needed his urgent attention.

‘Hello,’ he said quickly, jumping up and heading off down the clear plastic tunnel at a trot. He could not smell burning yet, for which was grateful.

‘James. This is Baker.’ The familiar voice was soft and level. It was not the tone anyone used when they were ringing with holiday wishes. Instantly, ice froze his heart, stopping him in his tracks with uncertainty.

‘What’s up? Is everything okay?’

On the other end, Bake paused, summoning a breath. ‘Look, James. I’m here with Doyle, in his office. Something has happened. You need to get here, fast.’

Instinctively, a knife sliced into his vitals; McEntire's problem was clearly a bigger one than Sarah had feared. ‘Baker? What’s going on?’

‘Someone got to her, James. I’m really sorry. I don’t know how they managed it. Whoever did this was a top professional.’ Pace’s heart hit the floor as a wave of panic crashed down over him. Her?

‘Who? Sarah? Someone got Sarah? What do you mean? Talk to me, dammit!’

‘We don’t know who,' Baker explained. Someone intercepted her car when she was barely a few hundred yards from the building. Smashed her window to get to her when she pulled up at a red light. In broad daylight, in our own backyard.’

Pace knew the man was hedging around the truth so he forced his hand with his next question. ‘Is she alive?’

‘She is alive,’ said Baker solemnly, releasing a wave of relief across Pace's entire chest. ‘But you need to get here. We have our best people working on her, in the medical suite here but they’re not sure she's going to make it.’ The warm feeling chilled instantly inside Pace.

Baker paused, waiting for a response that did not come. ‘James? Are you there?’

Forgetting to kill the call but pausing just long enough to turn off the oven, Pace was already halfway across the rope bridge; heading for his Landrover. Heart pounding, terrified at the prospect of losing the woman he loved, his descent to the ground was measured in seconds and his car was soon screaming out of the gates and powering down the road that ran alongside the estate, heading for the bright lights of the capital.

Slamming his foot hard to the floor, he drove as if the slavering hounds of Hell were snapping at his heels, speed limits be damned.

2

The intense pain in her abdomen had long since eased and now, months after surgery, Josephine Roche felt little discomfort from her scars. Unlike the poor donor, Josephine’s pet surgeon had paid meticulous care to her incision, mirroring the approach used in caesarean operations. The stitching had taken an hour, using the finest soluble threads to ensure minimal scarring and the fine, horizontal mark was already barely noticeable when she frequently admired her naked reflection in her full-length bathroom mirror.

It was a little after sunrise when she stepped from a glass-enclosed shower cubicle and towelled herself dry. Her hair had been cut into a short, stylish bob. Dyed a deep red, she was barely recognisable as the CEO of one of the most powerful companies in the world, which was exactly the point.

Since fleeing her desalination facility with barely hours to spare before it was raided by Namibian forces, she had needed to disappear. The original plan to convalesce in a plush Swiss clinic had been rapidly changed when it became apparent that her twisted plan, to clear hundreds of square miles of African bush by infecting every living mammal, including thousands of native human beings, with bubonic plague had been rumbled.

She had called in a favour with one of her most trusted associates, whilst still lying strapped to a bed inside her private jet, and barely able to get her words out due to the heavy sedation. The aircraft had diverted from its planned route to her only possible place of safety; her entire world was crumbling around her by the minute. The new destination had to be reached in secret and her pilot had stopped twice to refuel in remote airfields along the way, showing great skill in keeping the bumps to a minimum.

She knew it was New Year’s Day in the western, Christian world, but not where she was at the moment. Not that she cared for Christmas, Boxing Day or any of the other celebrations associated with the world’s various religions, which she saw as unscientific and absurd. As an atheist, who believed in nothing beyond her physical existence, spending the holiday season cooped up in her new hide-out was no different from all the other weeks that she had done so.

Her host was one of ARC’s most gifted scientists, which is why she had indulged his obvious madness for so long. Possessing a brilliant mind, specialising in genetics and anthropology, he had been instrumental in leading the team that examined the initial sample of
Scorpion
that had been discovered with the desiccated corpse of a century-dead British submariner; Paul Pringle. Using the best equipment money could buy, he had also personally discovered that the so-called vaccine against
Scorpion
; an agent codenamed
Dark Tide
, was virtually useless.

So Josephine continued to indulge his fantasies and funded a secluded retreat for him and a small team of like-minded researchers, in the foothills of the Nepalese Himalayas.

And the purpose? To discover the mythical
Yeti
, or specimens of its DNA from which to resurrect it in the psychotic fantasy style of Jurassic Park, as far as she could tell.

The modest set up had proved the perfect place in which to recover from her surgery, well away from the prying eyes of the media and the McEntire Corporation. It was drawing close to the day when she would be well enough to leave but she had almost enjoyed the enforced solitude, unlike her doctor who had also been forced to remain in hiding.

The research facility consisted of a single, three-storey residence resembling a warehouse, and two smaller, single-floor sheds. All had identical flat roofs and were clad on the outside with sheets of grey steel. The windows were triple-glazed and set within cobalt-coloured UPVC frames. The three buildings huddled together on a flat outcrop of rock, perched on the side of a rising hillside. There was no perimeter fence needed because nobody ever came there unless invited.

Sheer rock faces dropped away beneath the outcrop, falling at least two hundred feet to the heavily forested valley below. A narrow, gravel road ran down the only navigable ridge, dropping into the valley from one side of the outcrop. Despite many loops and twists, the road was still steep in many places and only passable by four-wheel drive vehicles or on horseback.

In the winter months, when the snow fell thickly, the site was cut off from the outside world for months at a time although the reinforced roof of the large building housed a helipad, with stairwell access, to ensure supplies could be brought in if necessary. Unknown, even to the most senior ARC officials who she had brought into her evil circle, and who now all languished in custody in prisons all over the world, she felt confident that nobody would be able to track her down.

Josephine had taken over the entire upper floor when she first arrived but she mercifully had no recollection of the bouncing, rattling three-hour journey from the nearest airfield to the site, with the last few miles on the gravel road being so jarring that the doctor seriously feared for the safety of her unconscious patient.

Still, she thought, the worst was over. She slipped on a flowing silk dressing gown, beautifully decorated with colourful floral swirls in peach and gold, and headed back into the bedroom. Functional and plain, she was almost ready to leave the thin, coarse blue carpet, metal-framed double bed and laminated chipboard furnishings behind.

There was no elevator in the building, which was not much larger than a detached family home, so she made her way down the stairs to the first floor where the kitchen and communal dining room was situated. She did not eat with the staff, instead enjoying the privacy of a small side room with magnificent views out over the verdant valley below. As was now the routine, a small table had already been laid with an assortment of fruits, cereals and pastries.

Settling easily into a comfortable chair, she selected some berries and a banana. She did not feel hungry but knew she needed to eat properly to speed up her recovery. Patting her abdomen lightly, she smiled. One day soon, she would bring life to the world and her transformation would be finally complete.

As well as the food, a glass of mineral water sat on the table alongside a concoction of tablets. Some were to stave off any risk of infection but mainly they were anti-rejection drugs that she knew she would have to take forever. After all, the womb and ovaries she now carried inside her had never been meant for her. Despite the very close genetic match, her body would reject them without chemical help and taking a few pills was a small price to pay to keep them healthy.

Swallowing her medication quickly, Josephine ate her breakfast and waited for the expected knock on the door. It came after ten minutes.

‘Come in,’ she commanded. Her breakfast was finished but she remained in her seat, staring out through the window.

The man who entered the room exactly fitted the stereotypical image that most people held of a mad scientist. Caucasian, tall and stick thin, he was in his fifties and wore his grey hair in an Einstein-type jumble. A pair of thick, rimless spectacles framed small, dark eyes. He wore the obligatory white coat, tweed trousers and heavily scuffed brown boots.

‘Ms Roche. How are you feeling today?’ He always started their conversations with the same question.

‘I am fine,’ she replied. ‘I will be leaving here this afternoon, as agreed. Have the arrangements been made?’

Edward Prior was a genius who had little time for lesser mortals. American by birth, he had spent all of his adult life away from the United States, working in industry and academia at various points. He had published numerous papers on genetic variations and was especially noted for some ground-breaking research in the field of dementia susceptibility and inheritance.

In Josephine Roche he had found the ideal employer. He had been head-hunted from a tedious lecturing job at the University of Nottingham a year earlier, after ARC had discovered an unknown biological agent that needed identifying. It needed to be done secretly, which was no issue for Prior, especially given the money he was offered. When he was instructed to choose a site well away from prying eyes, in which to work, it was as if all his dreams had come true simultaneously. Naturally, he had selected Nepal, giving himself a golden opportunity to indulge in the other area he was known for in the scientific community; and ridiculed for.

A firm belief in the existence of the Abominable Snowman.

‘Yes, Ms Roche. Your pilot has been on the radio, confirming that he is already at the airfield; waiting. All flight checks have been completed and he has arranged for several covert refuelling stops that will keep your return to civilisation very quiet.’

‘Good,’ said Josephine approvingly. ‘I can’t say that it’s been fun, nor can I tell you where I am going, Professor Prior, but this place has proved to be very useful to me. I will definitely be retaining it, and your services, for the foreseeable future, as soon as I regain control of my company's assets.’

That was music to Prior’s ears and his wrinkled, drawn face broke into a beaming smile. ‘Excellent news. Thank you.’

‘My pleasure,’ she said. ‘Have the car ready in one hour and please sent Doctor Shilan to see me immediately. As we discussed yesterday, you know what needs to be done with her.’

‘I relish the prospect,’ agreed Prior gleefully, backing out of the room and closing the door behind him. He found Shilan down on the ground floor, in the small gymnasium, running hard on a treadmill.

She looked lean and trim in a Lycra running suit that hugged every firm contour snugly. There was no hint of sweat on the exposed skin of her calves or arms so he guessed, correctly, that she had only just begun to work out. In her late thirties, her long, wavy black hair was scraped back in a ponytail.

She looked up as he entered, regarding him through limpid, hazel eyes. Korean by descent, Shilan came from a family who had relocated to Germany at the end of the nineteenth century. She was typically petite; barely five feet six inches tall, and carried herself with natural grace.

She immediately felt a sense of excitement well up from deep inside. Shilan had been waiting for weeks to get the hell away from this place and today, hopefully, was still the day. She hit the off switch and waited for the treadmill belt to stop moving before stepping down expectantly.

‘Good morning, Professor. Does Ms Roche wish to see me?’ He nodded. ‘Any change of plans?’ Heart in her mouth, she hoped not. When Prior shook his head, she could have hugged him if she didn’t find him so creepy. With yellow teeth from years of heavy smoking and an unmasked lechery in his gaze every time he looked at her, she avoided him whenever possible.

‘The car will be leaving in an hour. Ms Roche has asked that you are ready to leave but she still wants to see you first, in the breakfast room.’

‘Of course. My gym session can be skipped today, I think.’ Feeling elated, Shilan practically skipped up the nearby stairs to her own, modest room in one corner of the first floor. She had few belongings to collect and was ready within five minutes, taking her small holdall down and placing it close to the front door like a child determined not to be left behind when everyone set off on their holiday trip. Then she went to find Josephine, who was still seated at her breakfast table, sipping at a fresh cup of coffee.

‘Ah, there you are,’ Josephine exclaimed, beckoning to the nearby coffee pot. ‘Get a cup and join me for a moment. We have a few things to discuss.’

‘I could use a coffee,’ Shilan agreed. ‘Thank you.’ Pouring herself a cup, adding cream and sugar from a nearby tray, she sat down in a spare chair opposite Josephine. For a second, there was silence, as if Josephine was weighing up the situation carefully.

‘Doctor Shilan,’ she began brightly. ‘I cannot thank you enough for everything you have done for me. Your skill and dedication has surpassed all my expectations.' Instinctively, her hands rested on her flat stomach. ‘You have completed the final chapter in a very difficult story,’ she explained theatrically. ‘Now, finally, it is time to say goodbye to this place and return home.’

‘That is wonderful,’ smiled Shilan, sipping at her sweet drink. ‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ she added quickly, ‘when I say that it has been an honour to help you but I have missed my family and my job at the hospital. It will be good to get back there again.’

Shilan was grateful to be leaving for another, far murkier reason that even Josephine Roche knew. Her paymasters were not only the suits who ran the hospital finance department in Berlin. She had deliberately been flagged up to ARC as a potential surgeon of dubious moral character and she had played the part perfectly, even to the point of performing the surgery and taking care of Josephine ever since.

For a moment, Shilan felt a pang of remorse as an image of a naked, heavily beaten young woman flashed into her mind’s eye. Deborah Miles had been a nosey journalist, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Even more unfortunate for her were the results of tests showing she was a near perfect genetic match to Josephine. Instead of just being quietly eliminated, she instead found herself forcibly donating her reproductive organs before being dumped in a side room and left to die.

Shilan had been a doctor for fifteen years, and a surgeon for seven. She had sworn her Hippocratic Oath fervently but events over the past five years had often brought her into direct conflict with the nature of her profession. Not only did Shilan heal people, applying her natural gift for reproductive surgery, but she also killed people whenever she was directed.