Department 19: Zero Hour (45 page)

“Jesus Christ, Matt,” said Danny, skidding to a halt and surveying the remains of the SUV with wide eyes. “Are you OK? What the hell happened?”

“We crashed,” said Matt. “Simmons wasn’t wearing his seat belt, so I stood on his foot.”

“You did what?”

Matt took a deep breath. “On the accelerator …”

“You crashed on purpose?” asked Danny.

Matt tried to nod, but the motion sent a wave of nausea through him. “That’s right,” he managed.

Andrews and Landsman appeared, their pistols in their hands.

“Jesus,” said Andrews, frowning at the ruined vehicle. “Are you all right, Matt?”

“No,” grunted Matt, forcing a tiny, watery smile. “My finger is broken, and my neck is messed up.” He pointed at Simmons’ body. “What was this, Danny? What happened to him?”

The Operator shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I called it in as soon as the two of you left the lab. We were waiting for instructions when you radioed. Did he say anything?”

“One word,” said Matt. “Safeguard.”

“Safeguard?” asked Danny. “What the hell is Safeguard?”

Cal Holmwood turned into the short corridor that led to his quarters, anxious to read the message that had arrived on his console at the end of his conversation with Frankenstein, and found himself confronted with the familiar sight of the Security Officer waiting outside his door.

“Paul,” he said, and smiled at his friend as he unlocked the door. “What tales of happiness and reasons for optimism have you got for me this morning?”

Major Turner smiled. “Two deaths by misadventure,” he said. “Three murders. How’s that?”

“You’re just a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?” said Holmwood, and pushed open the door. “After you.”

The Security Officer stepped past him and into the room. As he did so, Holmwood momentarily considered slamming the door shut, running up to the hangar, stealing one of the helicopters and heading for the horizon, leaving the Loop and everything it contained far behind. Instead, he took a deep breath, and followed his colleague.

“Two accidental deaths,” said Cal, settling into the chair behind his desk. “Please tell me you’re talking about the incident at the perimeter? Not two more since then?”

Turner stationed himself in front of the desk and nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. “The two men have been identified as Mark Potter, aged twenty-one, from Winchester, and Scott Marshall, aged thirty, from Durham. Both had their wallets in their pockets, along with a number of stickers and leaflets, and the phone number of a solicitor in Peterborough.”

“They were expecting to be caught,” said Cal. “Not die.”

Turner nodded again. “Yes, sir. This wasn’t martyrdom, it was civil disobedience that went wrong.”

“Very wrong,” said Cal. There was no malice in his voice, just weariness; two more deaths seemed almost insignificant when set against the tide of blood and violence that surrounded the Department. When he first set foot in the Loop as a starry-eyed twenty-one-year-old, he would never have believed that he could be capable of regarding the loss of two human lives with such dispassion, but it was now the reality he found himself in. If he dwelt on them all, they would paralyse him.

“Agreed,” said Turner. “They didn’t deserve to die like that.”

“They didn’t deserve to die at all,” said Cal. “They were protesting, for God’s sake, and they climbed a fence they shouldn’t have.”

“Yes, sir,” said Turner.

Cal rubbed his eyes and nodded. “All right,” he said. “It’s done, in any case. Where are we in terms of clean-up?”

“The bodies are about to be released to the coroner,” said Turner. “Police are informing the families and will be releasing the names to the media. I ordered the security-camera footage leaked, and surveillance confirms it’s already appearing online.”

“Smart,” said Cal. “What’s the fallout going to be like?”

“The deaths are going to be front-page news,” said Turner. “So we can expect the protest encampment to grow in response. People are going to believe we killed these men, and since I assume we won’t be making any statement to the contrary, it will quickly become accepted as the truth. I’m going to recommend an immediate doubling of the perimeter patrols, with your permission.”

“That’s fine,” said Cal. “Whatever you need to do.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Turner. “The three murders were vampire-related. Mistaken identity. I’ve sent you the files, but there’s nothing we need to do.”

“All right,” said Cal. “Anything else?”

“No, sir,” said Turner. “That’s all. Have we heard anything from Romania?”

Cal shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “No contact since they entered the forest this morning. We’ve got satellites overhead, and FTB reconnaissance flights, but the target area is impenetrable.”

“What about Adam?” asked Turner.

“I got a report from Lieutenant Browning five minutes ago,” said Holmwood.

“What does it say?”

“I don’t know,” said Cal. “I haven’t had a chance to read it yet. Hang on.”

He opened his desktop terminal and logged in, his fingers tapping rapidly on the keyboard. There was a low hum as the wide screen on the wall opposite the desk shimmered into life. At its centre was the Blacklight crest and motto, the Latin phrase that had been a favourite of Abraham Van Helsing.

Lux E Tenebris.

Paul Turner turned towards the screen as Cal opened the report that had arrived in his inbox. It comprised eighteen lines of simple black text; the Interim Director and the Security Officer read them together, their eyes fixed on the screen.

REPORT 7545/C

SUBMITTED: 0245

BY: LIEUTENANT MATTHEW BROWNING/NS303, 83-C

FAO: INTERIM DIRECTOR CALEB HOLMWOOD/NS303, 34-D

SECURITY: ZERO HOUR CLASSIFIED

SUBJECT: OPERATION GARDEN OF EDEN

BEGINS.

Am currently en route back to Nevada. ETA 0425 local time.

The subject previously known as ADAM, since identified as John Bell, was located by our squad at his place of employment, a charity in central San Francisco. I pursued him as he attempted to flee, confronted him, and was able to confirm his identity before he took his own life.

I have isolated flesh and blood samples, and run provisional tests. These tests show an unidentified abnormality in John Bell’s blood. Provisional DNA analysis should be available within approximately twelve hours, and thorough investigation can begin as soon as I am able to return to the Loop with the physical samples.

ADDITIONAL/PERSONAL: After my initial research was complete, Major Richard Simmons put his gun to my head and took me hostage, for reasons that are as yet unknown. He was killed while attempting to escape, and I sustained a neck injury in the same incident. Major Simmons spoke the word SAFEGUARD before he died, but NS9 have so far found no mention of it in their databases.

ENDS.

“Jesus Christ,” said Holmwood, his voice low. “I know Rich Simmons.”

“Me too, sir,” said Turner. “I’ve been on operations with him. More than once.”

“Does Safeguard mean anything to you?” asked Holmwood.

“No,” said Turner.

“I don’t like this, Paul.”

“Nor do I, sir. They stopped Simmons, though, whatever it meant. And Browning seems to have done us proud.”

Holmwood nodded. “An unidentified abnormality,” he said. “What the hell does that mean? Has he found a cure or hasn’t he?”

“I think it means he doesn’t know,” said Turner. “And that he’s being very careful not to get carried away. But he thinks they’ve found
something
, Cal. That much is obvious.”

Cal stared at Matt Browning’s report, his mind racing. He wanted to believe the young Lieutenant had found something that might qualify as good news on a day that already seemed destined to be long and full of the opposite; wanted to believe it so much that his heart was pounding with something worryingly close to longing.

An unidentified abnormality,
he thought.
It needs identifying, quickly.

“All right,” he said. “I want Browning home today. The
Mina II
is still in Nevada, right?”

“No, sir,” said Turner. “I sent her to Beijing this morning. Professor Karlsson is finished at PBS6 and asked for extraction.”

“Damn it,” said Cal. “What’s his ETA?”

“Ten hours from now, sir.”

“I want the
Mina
checked and refuelled and sent to Dreamland as soon as she lands,” said Cal. “The
minute
she lands. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” said Turner. “I could have an RAF transport chartered within the hour if you don’t want to wait?”

Cal shook his head. “It’s a twenty-eight-hour round trip to Nevada, allowing for time on the ground. Sending
Mina
will still be quicker, even if we have to wait ten hours until she gets here.”

Turner nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Good,” said Cal. “Thank you. Dismissed.”

Turner nodded and strode towards the door. He had almost reached it when the Interim Director spoke again.

“Paul,” said Cal, his voice low. The Security Officer stopped, and turned back. “What are the chances of this actually being anything? Whatever it is that Browning has found?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Turner. “I imagine we’ll find out soon enough.”

“I want to believe he’s on to something,” said Cal. “But I don’t want to get my hopes up. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes, sir,” said Turner. “I do.”

There was a long moment of silence, broken by Holmwood’s console vibrating loudly into life on the surface of his desk. The Interim Director picked up the plastic rectangle, read the newly arrived message, and swore heartily.

“Aleksandr wants me to call him,” said Holmwood. “It’s urgent, apparently.”

Turner nodded. “I’ll leave you alone.”

“No, stay,” said Holmwood. “I’m probably going to be telling you about it as soon as we’re done. You might as well hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

“If you’re sure?” asked Turner.

“I am. Sit down.”

The Security Officer walked over to one of the pair of armchairs that stood below the wall screen and did as he was told. Cal closed Matt Browning’s report, opened a live video connection, and brought up his contacts list. He scrolled down until he reached the name of his Russian counterpart, and clicked CALL. A square window opened and was filled instantly with the lined, heavyset face of Aleksandr Ovechkin. The SPC Director smiled thinly as the secure connection was established, but he looked tired, and even paler than usual.

Holmwood’s heart sank.

Christ. This doesn’t look like it’s going to be good, whatever it is. Brilliant.

“Aleksandr,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too, old friend,” said Ovechkin. “You are well?”

Holmwood laughed. “As well as can be expected. You?”

The SPC Director shook his head. “I am not so good, Cal. Not so good at all. This is a very difficult call for me.”

A chill ran up Holmwood’s spine. He glanced over at Paul Turner; the Security Officer was watching the screen with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Well, spit it out,” said Cal, forcing a smile he hoped would come across as reassuring. “We’ve known each other too long for any bullshit, Aleksandr.”

Ovechkin nodded. “That is why I asked you to call me personally, my friend. I would not have you hear this from anyone else.”

Holmwood’s smile disappeared. “Hear what? Out with it now, Aleksandr. You’re starting to make me nervous.”

“I am sorry,” said Ovechkin. “I have to tell you that Richard Brennan is dead. He died yesterday, here in Polyarny.”

For long seconds, silence filled the room. As was so often the case, it was the Security Officer who regained his composure first.

“Colonel Ovechkin,” he said. “This is Paul Turner. Are you saying that the SPC has successfully eliminated Richard Brennan?”

“No, Major Turner,” said the SPC Director. “That is not what I am saying. It is more complicated than that.”

“So what
are
you saying?” asked Holmwood, his tone sharp. “My patience is starting to wear thin, Aleksandr.”

“I will tell you everything,” said Ovechkin. “But as I do, I would ask you to keep what you said moments ago in your mind, about how long you and I have known each other. And I would ask you to afford the same courtesy to my predecessor.”

Yuri?
wondered Holmwood.
What the hell has he got to do with this?

General Yuri Petrov, the uncle of one of the men who was at that moment marching into the darkness of the Teleorman Forest, had been a legend in the classified community to which Cal had devoted his life, and his loss had been deeply felt. Henry Seward had often referred to Petrov as the hardest man he had ever known, and Cal had never seen anything to cast doubt on his friend’s claim.

“I’ll do that, Aleksandr,” he said. “Now, please. Tell me.”

“Yesterday evening our Surveillance Division picked up a man hiking through the forest that surrounds this facility,” said Ovechkin. “It is not uncommon for hunters and trappers to approach our physical borders, although most have sense enough to turn back before they get too close. We monitored the man, whose route appeared likely to lead him on to restricted land, and prepared a team to intercept him if he didn’t change course.”