Carrion Virus (Book 2): The Athena Protocol (5 page)

“Eric?”

“I thought you were asleep.”

“Are you going back?”

“I have to.”

“When?”

“Boxing Day.”

Jacqui let out a sigh, her fingers pushed into Eric’s chest with almost enough force to hurt. “You’ll come back to us, won’t you?”

“Nothing in the world will stop me.”

“Don’t break your promise, Eric Mann. I need you. The kids need you.”

“Do you?” Eric recognised an element of desperation in his voice.

“Obviously more than you know.”

“I thought you would try to stop me.”

“I would love to. But I’ve come to understand that sometimes events take you along for a ride, and you either hold on or fall off. I know you too well, Eric, so any protesting wouldn’t have done any good. You’ll go back until you’re satisfied you’ve done all you can. Martin was the same.”

Martin’s name still struck a raw nerve. They’d buried him only a few months ago. A good man who died under Eric’s command, and died looking out for Eric. That fate was bound for one of them.

Eric gently removed Jacqui from his chest so he could look at her fully in the dull light. Her eyes sparkled. She was beautiful. He had to remind himself of how close he came to losing her with his stubbornness and his lack of control and his lack of trust. It brought a chilling fear but also a poignant reminder to never let things spiral out of control like that again.

“What is it, Eric?”

“When I’m away, you need to keep your eyes and ears open. You hear anything about people with rashes or unusual behaviour in the area you take the kids and leave. Go out into the country. Check into a bed and breakfast somewhere quiet.”

“Why? It won’t come here, will it?”

“No. I don’t think so. But I need to know that you’ll do what’s needed if it does.”

“What’s happening in the world?”

Eric had no answer. He did not understand events anymore. Everything soared from nightmares to reality and he was thrust in the middle of it.

“Merry Christmas, Eric.”

Eric hugged her close. “Merry Christmas, my love.”

What kind of Christmas would the people of Aberdeen have?

***

Brutus had not visited Cairo before. As was promised, he made it through airport security without so much as a question being asked, or an eye sent his way. He kept a small wad of cash in his pocket in case a zealous official challenged him. None did, and he swept through the throngs of humanity crowding the transport hub and hailed a taxi. A grotty, somewhat rusted car pulled up. Inside, the stench of stale sweat and cigarettes choked Brutus.

Downtown Cairo, and onto a part of the city the rest of the world never saw, he found the stygian of the renowned capital of Egypt. It was not unlike any other sullied portion of a city. Cut a little deeper through the visible layers, and Brutus could read the streets as well as a lifelong resident. Street vendors selling all manner of ware, some mundane others illicit. The roads filled with cars and lorries. A swarm going about its usual business, many clad in caftans. He may not have spoken the language but Brutus understood all too well.

The taxi stopped in a narrow street away from the crowds, the light of the sun fading. Brutus threw a clump of crumpled notes to the driver and the taxi pulled away.

The air was heavy and a musk polluted the street. The windows on a dilapidated and discoloured, two-storey building were shuttered with boards. If anyone observed Brutus he wasn’t aware. The building could have been abandoned and perhaps that was the intention, a camouflage designed for plain sight. The door was the only clue there was more to it. Sturdy, made of steel, well-kept and relatively new with a sliding panel at eye level. His new accommodation was an urban fortress.

Brutus banged on the door, and stepped to the side before the shutter opened. Cautious? Perhaps. But it served him well. A loud click, and the slider moved from position.

“Who is it?” called a voice.

“Santa Claus. And his elf.”

“Brutus?”

He stepped into view. “Open the door, Niall.”

A few more clicks and the door opened.

“No presents?” asked Niall Campbell with a smirk. He looked tired. Several days of stubble added a number of monochromatic tones to his face.

Brutus raised his middle finger. Niall laughed at the gesture and slipped his Glock into the waistband of his combat trousers.

“Is everyone here?”

“Mostly. A few are out in the field as instructed.”

Niall lead Brutus to the rear room. A collection of men sat around a square table, cleaning weapons, loading magazines, typing on a laptop or just leaning back in a chair, their baseball caps pulled down over their eyes. Multiple bodies confined without proper ventilation. The room stank. Brutus recognised all in the room, all former military men, elite soldiers now working in the private sector. These men represented a portion of the collective trust Brutus retained in the world. Magnus Munson, Stuart Taylor, Freddo Macleod, Daniel Ziaber and Graeme Sinclair.

“Season’s greetings, gentlemen.”

Greetings were returned.

Niall pulled up a chair for Brutus and they sat next to a weapons rack that held AK-47s and a PSG1 sniper rifle.

“Where’s Ry Watson?” Brutus asked Niall.

“He’s at the airfield, making sure our transport is serviceable.”

“Craig Muir? Roy Smart? Ash Gibbons?”

“At the location. We last had contact from them two days ago.”

“Good. We’ll move out tomorrow, be there the day after.”

Niall leaned in close, and said in a low voice, “What are we getting into, Brutus?”

These men were hired on his recommendation, on his assurance that he could control them and apply them to the task ahead. The money that secured their services for the next two weeks was better than any could hope to make elsewhere in a year.

“I wouldn’t be involved if it wasn’t worthwhile,” was all Brutus offered.

“The money is worthwhile. It’s the risk I worry about.”

“My contact will be here in the next few hours. Then we’ll all know.”

“I won’t stick my neck into a noose. I’m here to make money.” Niall leaned back, and edged his chin toward Brutus’s face. “Collected another scar?”

Brutus touched the wound. A little deeper and he probably would have lost the eye. That bitch and her knife. He should have broken her neck when he had the chance. He shrugged. “We’re all scarred. I just wear mine for the world to see. Get some rest. We’re moving out tomorrow.”

***

Gemma stepped off the bus into a snowstorm. Christmas Eve and she was riding along with a force of CAF soldiers and DSD agents. It had taken some persuasion before any would entertain the idea of allowing her to witness them in action. She dropped Williamson’s name enough and finally the DSD agents relented. She chatted with Danni, a female agent while they rode the commandeered bus. The sheer amount of displaced peoples in Aberdeen looking for shelter far exceeded the anticipated numbers so the CAF now looked to open more areas of the city to house these people until the containment was lifted. Several of the larger hotels in the centre of the city had been cleared out by the military; all traces of infection were removed and they now were readying to receive the displaced. It was a mammoth task but a necessary one. So Danni told her.

Gemma clutched her camera. Her aim was simple, document everything and latch onto anyone who could provide leads or snippets of information. She pulled her coat tighter, trying to huddle against the cold. The shivers that ran up her spine and through her neck were not due to the weather, but due to the act of stepping back into the city, the place where she lost Stacey, the place where she was forced to strike a man with a knife to save her own life. She had seen so much horror, and knew there was more to come.

Don’t think about it. Concentrate on moving forward. Stacey’s gone and you have a job to do.

The CAF soldiers alighted from the bus, rifles and packs in hand. The bus station was covered in a thick layer of snow. Armed men stood at the doorways, weapons held at the ready, their faces hidden by thick balaclavas. Gemma followed the group toward the hotel door. It was one of the largest in Aberdeen, several storeys high and housing hundreds of displaced people. Now filled to capacity, no doubt strangers would be forced to share rooms.

They trudged along the corridor, sweat and dampness mingling in the air. The carpet beneath their boots showed hints of once being bright and immaculate, yet was now dull and ruined. Gemma loosened her scarf. Ahead, a sergeant shouted orders. She followed the procession up the stairs, filming as they climbed. Her foot burned. Glass had lacerated her foot two weeks ago, and regular cleaning of the wound and changing the dressing had not brought about any signs of healing. But she had less to complain about than most.

Nothing happening around her sprang out to her as majorly important. She was taking standard run-of-the mill footage, the movement of displaced people and the redeployment of military personnel, a mass of panic-filled faces, people herded from one place to another, the everyday misery that haunted Aberdeen.

Gemma rounded a corner, finding the soldiers stowing their packs in the bar area before moving out. Danni waved her over and indicated the free chair next to her.

“Sit down. Thought I’d keep you in the loop,” she said with a smile, one that Gemma guessed would disappear in a few days.

“What’s happening?”

“We’re starting to bring in the displaced. The soldiers you saw will be stationed on every floor. None of the room doors will be permitted to close.”

“And if someone does close a door?”

“Everyone coming here signs a contract of behaviour. Anyone breaking it will be removed and detained indefinitely.”

“No kidding?”

Danni shrugged. “Dangerous times, Gemma. The actions of one person can endanger many more. We need to be strict. The CAF aren’t screwing around. That’s live ammunition in those rifles.”

“Where do they go?”

“Who?”

“Those who don’t follow the rules?”

Danni checked over her shoulder, a slight movement that many would have missed. “I don’t know. Nowhere good I suppose.” She smiled again. “But still, we hope that won’t happen. The first coach load will be here soon. We’ll be processing them. Feel free to stick around.”

“Actually, I was hoping to tour around the hotel a little, see some of the conditions.”

Danni tapped a pen to her teeth. “That’s at the discretion of the CAF. That badge,” she pointed her pen at Gemma’s Black Aquila ID badge, “won’t get you very far. The CAF is the law here.”

“Guess I’ll stick with you, then. Can we get a coffee?”

“Sure. Over there.”

She pointed to a table lined with large canteens for the preparation of hot drinks.

Gemma made herself a cuppa. Only plastic cups were provided. Her cold hands welcomed the warmth, then as her fingers seemed to thaw, the cup was difficult to clasp.

“Government issue,” said Danni. “Would kill for a good porcelain cup and saucer.”

Something niggled at Gemma, and it wasn’t the heat of her drink. For all the structure and organisation there seemed to be a vagueness to what she was told. Control was a fine thing, the CAF and DSD maintained it only through circumstance. How thorough were the new arrivals screened for infection? It would only take one lapse, one rare case that didn’t display symptoms in the assumed time to turn the sanctuary of the hotel into a nest of infection.

The thought roused a great fear, one strong enough to have her think on running back to her small hotel room and the safety of that warm bed. It was not a real option. Only a fool would risk making their way through the city alone. She remembered being fearful to walk home alone in the dark not too long ago; now it wasn’t people lurking in the shadows that she feared, it was something far worse.

***

The small cottage was warmed by the wood burner Holden kept fuelled. The cottage lacked any kind of decoration to mark the time of year, nor was there anything that could be considered a personal touch.

Holden had been drinking for some time before Jane arrived. An unusual circumstance. Since the crisis began he had not stopped to think about himself, or do anything other than work. He slept little, ate between appointments and spent hours in the company of monsters. And none encouraged the indulgence of a drink. This day was different. He looked forward to some chatter. And he troubled to hide the effects of his early start. But Jane was quite morose from the moment she arrived. She said little, and contributed nothing to the conversations Holden generated. It was utterly understandable, yet still annoyed him. If he could pretend the world was not going insane why couldn’t she?

Two plates of food and a bottle of wine were placed on the table by an armed guard.

“Shall we begin?” Holden poured two fresh glasses, the liquid sloshing as he upended the bottle too quickly. No damage was done. “Jane, shall we begin?” he tried again.