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CHAPTER 83

9 p.m. GMT
Cabinet Office Briefing Room A (COBRA), London

Malcolm looked at the other two members of the COBRA committee. ‘I think we’re in danger of losing control of this situation.’

The other two looked at him sternly.

‘The longer this situation persists, the harder it’s going to be to pick up the pieces afterwards.’

‘This situation will persist Malcolm, for as long as they say it needs to,’ said Sir Jeremy Bosworth. ‘We don’t have a choice on this.’

Malcolm sighed. ‘I know, I understand that we’re all in this together, but the level of attrition this situation is causing isn’t evenly spread, gentlemen. It’s hitting us much, much harder than others. I’m a little concerned that by the time the satisfactory conditions are met, there’ll be nothing left to salvage in this country.’

‘You’re exaggerating Malcolm,’ replied the other man, Howard Campbell. ‘We all need to remain calm whilst this is going on.’

‘Exaggerating? I wonder. You
are
aware of conditions out there aren’t you?’

‘Of course, it’s not pretty,’ said Sir Jeremy.

‘The safe zones we established to concentrate resources and manpower, are not forming up as we’d hoped. We simply don’t have enough manpower to maintain them; we don’t have enough troops on the ground.’

‘The troops are mostly back from our various commitments overseas, aren’t they?’

‘There are still significant numbers stranded abroad. And even if we had managed to get them all back home, we just wouldn’t have the numbers we need to do this properly.’

‘We have large numbers of territorials we can draw on don’t we?’

Malcolm nodded, ‘But hardly any have turned up for duty, and of the few thousand that have, many have already abandoned their posts. I might add, we’re also losing a lot of police officers.’

‘It’s understandable,’ said Jeremy. ‘People want to be with their families.’

Malcolm looked at him ‘Does that not concern you, though?’

Sir Jeremy nodded. ‘It’s a concern, of course it is. But we have to continue looking at the bigger picture. That’s what this has always been about, the bigger picture.’

‘Look, I’ll be honest. I’m worried that once they are happy that the goal has been met, the time it will take to get things running again will be too long.’

‘Now is not the time to start being squeamish, Malcolm,’ said Howard.

‘I’m not being bloody squeamish, Howard. I simply would like to have something left that’s governable once we’re done with this!’

‘Come on, Malcolm, let’s not squabble like politicians. We’re better than that.’

Malcolm nodded, ‘You’re right.’ He smiled at them. ‘I’m merely suggesting that we need to start thinking about applying the brakes to this thing. It’s picked up a lot more momentum than I think any of us really expected.’

Jeremy shrugged. ‘I must admit, I was a little surprised at the riots on Tuesday. Your man, Charles, did a superb job frightening everyone.’

Howard looked from one to the other. ‘You know we can’t do that. We can’t effect any sort of recovery until we receive word. You are
bound
.’

Malcolm sensed the veiled threat behind that one word. They did not readily forgive colleagues who acted alone.

‘It’s not starting a recovery procedure I’m talking about. I just believe we’ve perhaps been a little . . . over-zealous this week. We’ve achieved the required result far more quickly than our colleagues have elsewhere. I take the blame for that. I underestimated the fragility of this country.’

Howard leant forward and placed a gentle, supportive hand on Malcolm’s arm. ‘This was never going to be easy, we all accepted that. Future generations will no doubt judge us harsh, ruthless, cruel. But they will understand, Malcolm, they
will
understand.’

CHAPTER 84

9.15 p.m. GMT
London

Hammersmith without a single light? It was the proverbial ghost-town. On a normal Saturday evening, this place would be buzzing with people streaming out of the tube station, through the mall and out on to the pavement, ready to try and cross the busy ring road. The pubs would already be full and spilling merry twenty-somethings outside to discuss where they were going next.

It shouldn’t be like this; the tall buildings dark and lifeless, the opening into the mall, a gloomy entrance to a forbidding chasm.

There was a constant smell too. A smell he’d started to register on his way north-east from Heathrow, passing through Hounslow. It was the smell of bin-bags ripped open by an urban fox and left to fester in the sun for a few too many days. Walking through Kew, he noticed there was more to the odour than that; the faintest whiff of decay - the first smells of the dead. Andy had spotted only a dozen bodies. That was, perhaps, encouraging. In anticipation of what London would be like in this exact scenario, he’d painted a mental image of the dead and dying filling the streets. He’d imagined the gutters awash with the jettisoned fluids of those who might have drunk, in desperation, from the Thames, from the drip trays of air-conditioning units, or worse.

By the time he’d made his way into Hammersmith, there was a suggestion of the smell of human shit, added to all the other odours.

Of course, there aren’t any flushing toilets. There’ll be several days of that lying around.

Nice.

Andy had seen about fifty people since leaving the guarded perimeter around Heathrow’s Terminal 3. They had all looked very unwell, bearing the symptoms of food poisoning, having no doubt eaten things that had spoiled, or consumed tainted water.

The sun had gone down. And now only the day’s afterglow dimly stained the cloudless sky.

His foot kicked a tin can that clattered across the empty road, startling him and a cluster of birds nearby that took off with an urgent flutter and rustle of flapping wings.

He pulled the gun out, the gift from Lance Corporal Westley. He had to admit, it felt bloody good in his hands. That was something he never thought he’d feel and so whole-heartedly appreciate - the righteous power of a loaded firearm.

‘Thanks Westley,’ he muttered quietly.

It was getting dark, but he was so nearly home now, just two or three miles away. He walked up Shepherd’s Bush Road, towards the Green, passing a Tesco supermarket on his left. By the last of the light, he spotted about half-a-dozen people picking through a small mound of detritus in the supermarket’s car-park, like seagulls on a landfill site.

A few minutes later he was looking out across the triangular area of Shepherd’s Bush Green, and the dark row of shops bordering it. This was his neighbourhood, so nearly home now.

He had allowed himself to nurture a foolhardy hope that when he finally made it here, he’d discover an enclave in Greater London that had got its act together, blocked the roads in, and was sharing out the pooled essentials amongst the locals. After all, this area was home to the BBC. For every rough housing estate in the area, there were rows and rows of supposedly sensible middle-class, middle-management types and mediamoppets - the
Guardian
sold just as well as the
Sunday Sport
round here.

But then, that was clearly a silly supposition; blue collar or white collar, if you’re starving enough, you’ll do anything to survive; middle-class, lower-class, tabloid or broadsheet reader. You scratch the surface and we’re all the same underneath.

He walked up past the Green and turned left on to Uxbridge Road, seeing what he expected to see; the mess strewn across the road, every shop window broken . . . one or two bodies.

All of a sudden he found himself breaking into a run, the fatigue of walking the last fifteen miles forgotten now that he was less than five minutes from home. His heart was beginning to pound with a growing fear of what he’d find when he finally pushed open the front door of Jill’s home.

‘Oh God, please let them be okay,’ he whispered.

His footsteps echoed down the empty street as his jog escalated in pace to a run, and he repeated that hypocritical, atheist’s prayer under his breath.

Let them be okay, let them be okay, let them be okay . . .

As he turned left off Uxbridge Road into St Stephen’s Avenue, his run was a sprint, and his heart was in his throat.

And that’s when he saw them, standing ahead of him, blocking the road. Three people; three men, by the shape of their dark outlines. They were standing there, almost as if they’d been waiting all along for him, expecting him.

Andy whipped out his pistol and held it in front of him in both hands. ‘I’ve got a gun, so back the fuck up and let me past!’ he shouted at them.

There was no response. The three dark forms were motionless. The one in the middle then slowly moved towards him. Andy racked the pistol noisily and aimed it. ‘Another fucking step and I’ll blow your fucking brains out, mate.’

The dark form stopped in his tracks. ‘Dr Andrew Sutherland?’

CHAPTER 85

9.51 p.m. GMT
Shepherd’s Bush, London

Jenny sat at the top of the stairs, the gun that Leona had managed to get hold of resting in her lap. After some resistance from them both, she had convinced them to go and get some sleep upstairs. They were exhausted and needed some rest. Only when she had assured them that she would stand guard at the top of the stairs would either of them leave her side.

She was tired too, but there was much on her mind. There was no way she was going to sleep. Leona’s confession earlier on was the problem.

On the one hand, it introduced a whole new level of fear to the equation - the thought that some shady characters might just be out there looking for her daughter, with one intention only. To kill her. On the other hand, she was angry that Andy’s business affairs had jeopardised their daughter’s life, their family. She was angry that he had never confided in her that their paths might have briefly crossed with those of some very dangerous people. She was angry that he’d sworn his daughter to secrecy.

And finally, she was sad that he’d been living with that kind of unsettling, nagging anxiety alone, for so long. It explained so much . . . it even put into context all those little tics Andy had developed in the last few years; his irritating habit of checking the tone on the house phone immediately after ending a call, the ritual tour of the downstairs windows and doors before bedtime. Jenny had even begun to suspect he was developing a minor case of obsessive compulsive disorder.

And now she knew why.

Christ.

It made her shudder. Rampaging chavs were one thing, Big Brother watching you, that was quite another.

‘Dr Andrew Sutherland?’ the dark form in front of him asked again in a quiet voice.

‘I said stay where you are, or I’ll put a bloody great hole in your head!’

Andy wished Westley had decided to leave him one of those SA80 night-scopes. Right now the edge of those silhouettes were fast merging with the darkening night sky and, for all he knew, they were watching him through scopes of their own and lining up cross-hairs on his forehead.

‘Just take it easy, Andy.’

The voice was familiar - very familiar.

‘Who’s that? I know you.’

‘Hi, Andy, it’s me.’

Mike? It sounded like the American.

‘Mike? Is that you?’

‘It’s me. How’re you doing?’

‘What . . . what are you doing here?’ he asked, and then looked at the other two forms. ‘And who’s that you’re with?’

The form in the middle, the one he guessed was Mike, took another step forward and Andy felt the weight of a hand rest on his gun, pushing it gently down until he was pointing it at the ground.

‘We have to talk Andy, and we have to talk very quickly about your family.’

Those words chilled him to the core.

‘Oh God. What is it? What’s happened? Are they okay?’

Mike hesitated to reply. ‘We don’t know. It’s your daughter Andy, Leona. That’s who we’re really worried about. That’s who we need to talk to.’

Andy studied the dark form in front of him.

Oh God, he’s with them!

Andy raised his gun. ‘Stay back! Or I’ll shoot. I mean it.’

Mike advanced slowly. ‘Andy my friend, I’m sorry, but I’ve got a gun trained on your head right now. And,’ Mike laughed, ‘I also know how bloody awful your aim is. Lower your gun or I’m afraid I’m going to have to put most of your brains out on the road.’

Andy suspected the other two men were aiming at him as well. He lowered his gun.

Mike addressed the other two sharply. ‘Get him inside.’

They disarmed him, grabbed him forcefully by the arms and dragged him across the narrow street, through the gate of a small front garden and into a house that had clearly been ransacked and looted by someone in the last few days. They dropped him unceremoniously into an armchair.

He could see nothing, it was so dark. He felt someone brush past his legs, and then a moment later a small lantern popped on - a handheld sodium arc strip light, that glowed a dim, pallid cyan. Mike was kneeling before him, his gun still held in one hand, not aimed at him, but not exactly put away either.

‘Andy,’ he said, ‘you ever seen that film with Keanu Reeves and Laurence Fishburne . . .
The Matrix
?’

Andy nodded silently.

‘You remember the blue pill?’

He nodded - the moment in the movie when one character, the one played by Keanu Reeves, was being asked to forget everything he knows and prepare himself for a new reality. The blue pill had been the visual metaphor.

‘Yeah, okay . . . the blue pill, so?’

‘Well, I guess this is going to be
your
blue pill moment.’

Jenny heard it distinctly; in the dark, somewhere downstairs in the hall, the unmistakable rasp of cloth against cloth, the faintest
whiff
of friction, someone or something moving.

She held her breath, and listened.

A moment later she heard another faint rasp, followed by the slightest creak of one of the parquet slats in the hallway.

She reached for the gun in her lap and aimed it down at the bottom of the stairs.

‘I can hear you,’ she said quietly, almost a whisper, yet sounding so loud in the absolute stillness of the night.

The creaking, the rasping, stopped instantly. Even more frightening for Jenny, it was confirmation that someone
was
down there, and not just a phantom of her imagination.

‘I-I’ve got a gun, and I’m aiming it right now,’ she whispered again.

That was met with silence, again.

Then she sensed something on the bottom step. ‘Stop!’ she hissed, ‘or I’ll shoot.’

‘Mrs Sutherland?’ a soft voice, a man’s voice.

Hearing her name emerging from the darkness like that rattled her.

‘Who’s that? Who are you?’

‘Who I am really doesn’t matter,’ the voice replied. ‘I’m here for a reason. I’m here because a hundred yards away are men who have come to kill your daughter.’

‘What?’ she gasped.

‘They’re coming for her, you know, we’ve only got a few seconds before they arrive.’

‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘Like I’ve said, who I am doesn’t matter. I have to get your daughter out of here before it’s too late.’

‘I think you suspect some of this already, Andy,’ said Mike. ‘The things that are going on in the world, hmm?’

Andy nodded. ‘My work, it’s based on my work.’

Mike smiled, ‘Yes, your report. And you must have been wondering who it was you handed it over to all those years ago. You were doing a lot of thinking in the back of that truck in Iraq, Andy, weren’t you?’

Andy stared at the gun, only a few inches away from him. Was he fast enough?

‘Well, you gave that report to the right sort of people. What did they tell you when you were first approached? That they were security experts working for several anonymous clients in the oil industry?’

Andy nodded, ‘Yes, pretty much those words.’

‘It never occurred to you that they might have been terrorists? Or middle-men for some rogue foreign power?’

‘I wouldn’t have handed it over if I did.’

Mike nodded. ‘No, I suspect you wouldn’t, despite the money. It was quite a lot, wasn’t it?’

Andy shrugged.

‘These people value their anonymity. That’s very important to them, particularly now that they’ve done this thing; brought the world to its knees. You know, millions will starve. There will be hundreds of small-scale wars in which many more will die. Old scores settled, old rivalries emerging, whilst the world deals with this temporary instability. Now is really not a good time for them to be publicly named. And here’s the problem they have,’ Mike said, ‘your daughter could do just that.’

Andy looked at Mike. ‘You’re with
Them
aren’t you?’

‘Come on Mrs Sutherland, put the gun down. We don’t have time for this.’

‘So wh-who’s out there?’ she asked.

‘People, bad people - those that are behind the disaster. It’s all tied up you see, it’s all one thing.’

‘And what about you?’ she asked the voice at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Me? The less you know the better. Let’s just say I’m a hired hand, hmm?’

‘Hired to . . . what?’

‘Find your daughter and protect her, of course. Look, now isn’t the time for this,’ he continued. ‘You keep hold of your gun, just as long as you know how to slide the safety on. Let’s get her out of here, let’s get her safe and then you can slide the safety back off, turn your gun on me, and ask as many questions as you like.’

That sounded convincing. God knows, she wanted the voice down there to be that of a saviour, and not her daughter’s executioner.

‘Can I trust you?’ she asked.

‘What do you expect me to say, Mrs Sutherland? No? A stupid question given the situation, given we really don’t have much time left.’

It was stupid.

‘Mrs Sutherland? Can I come up and get your daughter now?’

She heard a stair creak under his weight. ‘Stay where you are!’ she hissed.

‘Okay,’ the voice replied. ‘I’m right here, not going anywhere. ’

Oh God she wanted to trust him.

He said I could keep hold of my gun, didn’t he? He said that. If he meant to harm Leona, why would he allow me to keep hold of it?

She was about to lower her weapon and cautiously accept his help when a thought occurred to her.

‘How did you know Leona was here, not at her home?’

Mike looked at Andy. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

They heard three rounds being fired in quick succession.

Fuck it.

Andy reached out, grabbed the lamp and hurled it across the room against the wall. It smashed and the room was thrown into darkness. As the three men recoiled in surprise, Andy was already on his feet. He shoved hard against Mike, knocking him on to his back, and cannoned into another of the men on his way out of the room, into the hallway, and out through the open front door, on to the moonlit street.

His feet pounded the tarmac as he weaved around a mattress, the broken remains of chairs and a table, and other household bric-à-brac strewn across the avenue.

He shot a glance at their home on the left as he sprinted past it. It had been broken into like all the other houses, the front door wide open and their things smashed and discarded in the front garden.

Up ahead on his right, was Jill’s house.

He kicked the gate aside, and raced up the garden path in a couple of seconds. The front door was shut. He could see that it had been damaged, a large ragged hole had been kicked through the wooden panelling. He charged the door with his shoulder without breaking stride. The last hinge gave way, and the door clattered loudly on to the hallway floor.

‘JENNY!’ he shouted, his voice echoed around inside. There was no response, just a silence that had his blood running cold and the dawning realisation that he had so nearly made it home in time to save his family.

He’d heard the executioner’s shots; one for his wife, one for each of his children, and it was all over.

Then he heard it, faintly, the sound of sobbing coming from the top of the stairs. He could see absolutely nothing, but it grew louder and more distinct as it migrated down the stairs, and then, it was beside him. In the wan glow of the moon, he saw two pale white hands reach out for him.

‘Oh God, Andy!’ Jenny cried, grasping him tightly and burying her head into his shoulder. ‘Andy! Andy!’ she sobbed uncontrollably.

‘Jenny,’ he had to ask, ‘Jenny . . . the kids?’

She looked up at him, ‘They’re both all right.’

‘I heard gunshots.’

She was about to answer, when a beam of torchlight fell across them, and they heard the sound of footsteps pounding down the avenue towards them.

‘Oh God!’ she gasped, breaking her hold on Andy and producing a gun.

‘Give it to me,’ he said. She handed it to him and he trained it on a space above the nearest bobbing torch.

‘Who are they?’ she whispered, as the torch’s motion slowed to a halt and the sound of footfalls ceased.

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘Andy!’ Mike called out from the darkness just beyond the garden gate. ‘Don’t be stupid, there’s three of us, and one of you. Lower the gun.’

Andy wasn’t ready to surrender. In the last minute, he had gone from absolute certainty that his family had been murdered, to finding out they were unharmed and now, quite possibly, were about to fall victim to these men.

‘Who the fuck are you, Mike?’ his voice rasped.

‘We’re the good guys Andy, the good guys, trust me,’ the American replied, sounding short of breath, recovering from the pursuit.

‘He said there were men outside after our daughter,’ said Jenny.

‘He?’ replied Mike. ‘Who?’

Andy looked at her.

‘He was here moments ago, on the stairs. He said he’d come to protect Leona. I told him to stay where he was . . .’ Her voice faltered. ‘. . . But he didn’t listen . . . I fired . . . and then he ran away.’

‘Andy,’ said Mike. ‘
They
are here, they know where she is. You’ve got to trust me now.’

Andy kept the gun levelled.

‘Look, if we wanted your daughter dead, I wouldn’t be talking with you right now - we’d already be stepping over your bodies and on our way inside. Think about it.’

From the top of the stairs, Andy heard Jacob calling out.

‘Is Daddy home?’