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96

Singha Pitiya, Sri Lanka

‘Who the fuck are you?' War growled and started to giggle.

One of the men stepped forwards. ‘Your friends sent me.'

‘Oh, go screw yourself!' War fired back and pulled himself up from the lounger, his rolls of fat swaying, the sweat and suntan lotion dripping off the flab.

One of the men hung back, the other took two paces towards War and raised a Luger. He stopped a metre from the fat man and lifted the barrel of the gun to a point a centi- metre from War's forehead. The gun had a silencer pro- truding from the nozzle.

War suddenly realised how quiet it was.

‘Your staff have been given the afternoon off,' the visitor said. He turned to his companion and beckoned him over. War could see this second man had a patch over his left eye. ‘You really should have your bodyguards better trained. They were a bit, well, easy.'

War gave the gunman a contemptuous look. ‘So okay. My friends have learned about me offering Azrael some career opportunities. So what?'

‘I have no idea what you're talking about,' the visitor replied. He was a tall, slender man, Sri Lankan. The other man was shorter, heavier. War guessed they may have been former Tamil Tigers. Neither man had made any attempt to disguise himself – a worrying detail, War thought fleetingly.

The visitor flicked his gun. ‘Sit.' He nodded towards an ornate metal seat close by.

War ignored him and started to giggle again. The visitor turned to his companion who removed an identical Luger from inside his jacket and fired a shot. The bullet hit the marble a centimetre from War's left big toe. Shards of stone flew up, a couple nicking the Horseman's calf. He yelped and started to hop.

‘Stay still,' the visitor barked.

This time, War complied.

‘Now sit.'

He sat.

‘All right,' War started. ‘How much do I have to pay you?'

The visitor's face remained completely impassive but he tilted his head to one side slightly. ‘Don't be silly,' he said.

The visitor flicked his companion a glance and pocketed his gun. The second man covered him as the visitor walked over to the seat and removed a length of nylon cord from his pocket.

War glared at him. ‘Don't you dare!'

The visitor said nothing, just calmly yanked War's hands behind the chair back. He secured the cord far tighter than was necessary, making the fat man cry out. He took a step back and looked down at War. The fat man was panting.

‘Now I have a special treat for you,' the Sri Lankan said and nodded to his subordinate.

War noticed for the first time that the visitor's colleague was holding a small metal case. The man placed it on the marble just in front of War. The visitor bent down, undid a couple of latches, opened the lid and extricated a china plate containing a pile of Turkish Delight.

‘Cherry,' the visitor said, evenly. ‘Your favourite, I understand.'

He walked over to War, plucked the topmost piece between finger and thumb and brought it up to War's mouth. The Horseman kept his lips closed.

The visitor straightened. ‘It is not poisoned. If I wanted to kill you in so prosaic a manner, I would have simply put a bullet in your head, or my colleague here would have.' He offered the piece of candy again. ‘Now you eat it. Or I
will
shoot you.'

War refused to open his mouth. The visitor pressed the barrel of the gun to War's temple. He could see the Horseman was shaking, breathing heavily through his nose. It made him sound the way he looked – like a beached walrus.

‘It's a simple choice really,' the visitor went on. ‘If you eat it, you might live. If don't eat it you will definitely die. And of course, I don't have to shoot you in the brain. I could take your nose off, then perhaps a bit of cheek.' He moved the gun around War's face, the Horseman's skin slick with sweat and oil.

They all heard a sound. The visitor looked down and saw a stream of urine cascade through the metal grill of the seat. For the first time, he showed some emotion: he looked disgusted.

‘Last chance,' he said quietly and pushed the Turkish Delight into War's face. The Horseman opened his mouth and the sweet slipped inside.

The visitor nodded approvingly. ‘Not bad is it? Bon appetit.' He picked up a second piece, shoved it between War's lips. ‘Swallow . . . I know you like it. You have to admit it tastes good, yes?' He lifted a third piece and waited until War had made room, then jammed the icing-sugar-coated cube into the terrified man's mouth.

‘Good,' the visitor said. ‘Good.'

He removed a roll of tape from his pocket, broke off a strip and slapped it across War's mouth, bringing the ends around behind his neck. He nodded to his companion again. The man stepped forwards and plucked a couple of pieces of plastic from the metal box. They were spikes with little rubber suckers at one end. He took three paces in the direction of the pool, pushed one of the spikes sucker-first onto the marble and flicked down a recessed switch in its side. Taking a few steps back towards the house, he repeated the procedure using the second spike.

The visitor walked over to his companion. War was shouting behind the gag, his eyes bulging, his fat cheeks squashed in by the tape so that his face looked like a giant number eight.

The two men turned and walked back the way they had come.

97

72 metres beneath the English Channel

The Pram tore away, throwing the passengers around inside the cabin as it accelerated to over 100 kilometres per hour in a couple of seconds. Mai stumbled forwards and came up hard against a seat, smashing her helmet into one of the chair's legs. The helmet saved her from serious injury but the collision jarrred her so much she felt vomit rise in her throat.

Mary had also landed heavily. She picked herself up quickly and scrambled over to where Gabir was cradling Billy in one arm and gripping a steel beam running the length of the Pram's roof with the other. He helped her down to the seat beside him and between them they managed to pull on their safety belts. Billy was secured against his mother's body. He was screaming again but the sound was barely audible above the tumult.

Adam was at the rear of the passenger compartment. He stifled a scream of panic as he looked through the rear window. ‘The water's almost on us,' he cried, but he went unheard.

The Pram was shaking and rocking violently on its axis as it continued to accelerate: 120 kilometres per hour . . . 150 . . . 180. Pete was steering it around piles of rock brought down by the explosion in the parallel tunnel. He flicked a glance at his rear-view mirror and saw the huge wall of water. It was crashing onward at phenomenal speed, rippling over obstructions as though they weren't there. But he could hardly dare believe it – they were pulling away.

He flicked his eyes over the control panel. They were touching 195 kilometres per hour. At this speed, it took incredible reflexes to keep the Pram steady and avoid any debris. It was a remarkably powerful machine, but it was also a sensitive one. If they hit something too big it could puncture the skimmer under the main body of the vehicle, flipping it over.

The sound began to quieten as they put more and more distance between themselves and the wall of water.

‘We're winning!' Josh exclaimed, pulling himself to the front of the vehicle and into the copilot's seat without thinking about what he was doing.

The Pram rocked and lurched. Pete let out a desperate cry as the vehicle clipped a pile of twisted metal sheets that had slipped loose from the wall of the tunnel. There were shouts of panic from the passenger cabin as the Pram slid sideways, skidding out of control along the tunnel.

Josh just caught a glimpse of a metre-square lump of concrete as it hurtled towards the windscreen. He ducked involuntarily. It hit the supertoughened carboglass and bounced off. But Pete hadn't strapped himself in. The impact jolted him clean out of his seat, throwing him forwards. His head smashed against the control panel and he slid to the floor, unconscious.

Josh immediately switched primary control from Pete's steering module to his. Pulling on the steering wheel with his good hand, he dodged another concrete boulder somersaulting towards them and skirted a pile of smashed-up electrical apparatus, knocked the Pram's starboard side against the tunnel wall and bounced back. Yanking the wheel to the left, then the right, he brought the vehicle around another unidentifiable obstacle and skidded onto the central tracks, the skimmer slithering over the train rails.

Mai was standing immediately behind the driver's seat, holding onto the headrest as Pete collapsed into the space between the front seats.

Josh turned quickly to see her crouch down beside Pete. ‘Is he okay?'

She checked her wrist monitor as her team member stirred. He winced as he pulled himself up on one elbow.

‘I'm all right,' he said through gritted teeth. ‘Except my arm.'

Mai placed a hand gently on her colleague's left arm and checked his computer screen. ‘Fractured in three places, Pete. Nanobots are on their way. Your suit is fine.'

‘And the painkillers are coming too, I hope!' he groaned.

‘Here.' Mai pulled a metal container from under the driver's seat. Inside was a med-kit, a thermal blanket and a pillow. She put the pillow under Pete's head and covered him with the blanket.

‘Good driving there, Josh,' Pete managed to say. ‘Even though you don't have a licence anymore!'

Josh could just about hear him. He kept his eyes on the path ahead, but smiled.

‘How's Louis?' Josh called to Mai. She was kneeling on the floor of the Pram, tucking the blanket under Pete's good arm with one hand and gripping a rail close by to steady herself.

‘He's lost a lot of blood from the head wound.' She glanced back and rocked with the movement of the vehicle. She could see the Frenchman laying on the floor. He too had been covered with a thermal blanket. The others were silent, hollow-eyed, shocked, exhausted. Mary was sobbing quietly.

Mai touched her comms control. ‘Sangatte? Come in Sangatte?'

‘Good idea, Mai,' Pete said, his voice pained.

‘This is Sangatte Control.'

‘Sangatte, you have to close off the tunnel at your end. We have a breach.'

‘We were hoping you would call. We're monitoring the cave-in, leaving it to the last minute to seal the doors. Where are you?'

‘Heading towards Folkestone, Sangatte. Close the door. I repeat, close the door.'

She heard the voice at the other end become muffled, then an order barked at someone close by. ‘Process initiated, E-Force. Good luck! Sangatte out.'

Mai pulled herself up and struggled back to where Louis was lying, a stream of blood running down his face and neck, his breathing shallow. ‘How much further to go?' she shouted to Josh.

‘Look for yourself.'

She turned and a circle of light had appeared directly ahead. They sped towards it at almost 200 kilometres per hour and the darkness of the tunnel gave way to bright sunlight.

98

The Pram shot out of the tunnel exit a few kilometres from the town of Folkestone on the South Coast of England. As they emerged and sped along a length of deserted tarmac road, a voice came through the comms.

‘This is UK Control. Do you read? This is UK –'

‘Receiving you, UK Control,' Josh responded.

Mai pulled herself along the central aisle of the vehicle and jumped into the co-driver's seat. ‘Mai Buchanan, E-Force,' she said. ‘Emergency . . . There's a breach. Water is . . .' she checked the controls on the Pram, ‘seven kilometres from exit. Close off exit immediately.'

‘Copy that, E-Force. Program initiated. It's good to see you. Please head directly to the quarantine bay. We have a biohazard facility there.'

‘Wilco.'

Through the windscreen, Josh saw a man in a biohazard suit beckoning them to his left. They slowed and passed under a canopy. Josh reduced their speed to a crawl. The man walked around behind the vehicle and pulled down a large plastic awning, zipping up the sides.

The Pram stopped. Josh killed the engines and their roar died away quickly. Then came a great rush of sound as the vehicle was bombarded by chemicals fired from an array of power hoses. Six suited figures could just be seen through the windscreen moving slowly around the vehicle, dousing it.

It took several precious minutes for the biohazard team to complete the first round of sterilisation. Mai was growing angry. She punched the comms control. ‘We have injured people here,' she declared.

Silence for a moment, then, ‘This is Quarantine Station Control. Understood, E-Force,' a woman's voice answered. ‘Please be assured we are working as fast as possible.'

Mai did not reply. She just shook her head. Another couple of minutes passed and Josh could tell Mai was about to explode.

‘Control!' she said sharply. ‘Mai Buchanan, E-Force. I demand you release us. We have two injured people here. One is critical. I repeat, critical.'

No reply.

‘Screw this!' Mai shouted and jumped up. At the door, she yanked on the handle. It wouldn't open. ‘God damn it!' She turned, giving Josh and Pete a despairing look. ‘They've taped up the doors!'

The door clicked and opened. A figure in a biohazard suit stood in front of her. Behind him were two women dressed in identical suits but with red crosses on their left sleeves.

‘Thank Christ,' Mai sighed and stepped back.

99

Singha Pitiya, Sri Lanka

Captain Arjuna Siriwardeen of the Sri Lankan Police Force was at the wheel of his team's workhorse road vehicle, a Land Rover Defender, bumping and bouncing along a half-kilometre dirt track off the main road a short distance north of the nearest town, Katunayake. This lay approximately midway between Colombo and the city of Madampe. Beside him sat Sergeant Iranga Ranatunga and, in the back of the vehicle, two young constables. All four men carried AK-47s.

Siriwardeen was an experienced cop who had worked in the Special Task Force (STF) for almost two years. He handled the Land Rover with skill, guiding it across the ubiquitous bumps and potholes until he pulled up outside a 3-metre- high metal fence. He could just see the white shape of the house known as Singha Pitiya, which translated meant something close to ‘The Place of Iron Blood'. Siriwardeen had heard about this house and the many different rumours linked to its owner. But whatever he had been told, none of it matched the reality, for it was quite simply larger, more beautiful and extravagant than he could have ever believed possible.

The car pulled up at a guard box close to a pair of ornate black gates. The box was unoccupied and to the policeman's surprise, the gate hung open. Beyond lay a gravel path bordered by immaculate lawns and flowerbeds. Automatic reticulation hoses scattered water in a wide arch. Siriwardeen brought the Land Rover to a halt in front of the main door of the house and the four STF men jumped out.

The Captain's boots crunched on the shingle as he walked around the car and marched up to the huge front door. It lay wide open. He pushed his head inside, suspicions growing. Then he pulled back and indicated that his sergeant should come with him and that the two constables must stay outside the door.

‘Keep your eyes open,' he said. ‘Maintain radio contact.'

The two men entered the house wearily, fanned out, crouching low, their AK-47s sweeping the air in front of them, every sense heightened.

Siriwardeen had never seen anything like this house. It was a palace. A vast swirl of staircase opened up in the middle of a mezzanine, wings extending right and left. The hall itself had the floor space of his house, a home he shared with his wife and six children. He had been invited to the Chief of Police's residence a year before. It had been the boss's fiftieth birthday and he had held a lavish party in the grounds of his mansion. Until today, that had been the most incred- ible home Arjuna had ever been inside. At the time, he had marvelled at how any one man could acquire such a place in a single lifetime of work. But the Chief of Police's home was a ghetto shack compared to Singha Pitiya. This place was so far outside his imagining, he could have believed the owner was a god . . . or perhaps a devil.

Siriwardeen shoved aside such thoughts and concentrated on the job at hand. He led the way through a gigantic dining hall, out through a kitchen glistening with polished steel and into a sumptuous living room in which everything was the purest white – white carpet, white sofas, white walls. At the far end of the room, wide French doors opened onto a broad outdoor dining area shaded by white silk sails flapping in the gentle breeze. The Captain could just make out the turquoise water of an oddly shaped pool.

He turned to his left and saw the sprawled bodies. Two men in suits. Their blood had soaked into the white carpet and the walls were spattered with grey matter. Each of the men had a ragged red hole in their forehead.

Siriwardeen's assistant, Sergeant Ranatunga, came up beside him and stared at the dead men. ‘A professional hit,' he said.

The captain heard a sound. It came from a point close to the edge of the pool, behind a hedge to their left. He made for cover at the far side of the outdoor dining area. Ranatunga took up position on the other side. They strained to hear.

The sound came again. Captain Siriwardeen crouched low and edged his way towards the source, his back against the hedge. Bringing up his gun, his finger ready on the trigger, he twisted away and ran across an expanse of marble close to the pool.

For a few seconds, he could not quite take in the scene. The fattest man he had ever seen was seated in a metal chair a few metres in front of him. The man was naked except for a pair of flimsy Speedos. His massive, flabby chest was heaving. He was drenched in sweat and the Captain could smell his stench from where he stood. The man had a length of duct tape across his mouth and was straining to speak, but not a word could be made out.

Ranatunga appeared at the captain's left and exhaled loudly. Siriwardeen glanced around at him, told his man to stay put and took two careful steps towards the enormous figure, sweeping his AK-47 to left and right. The man in the chair reacted immediately, his voice rising in panic. His eyes widened further. He started to shake his head furiously as though he were trying desperately to tell the captain something.

Siriwardeen took another slow step forwards. The bound figure was screaming frantically behind the gag. The captain began to move his right leg forwards, his boot suspended in the air a few centimetres above the marble. He stopped, his foot still raised but motionless. He looked down and saw the metal devices, a faint shimmer of light passing between them. He started to lower his foot and turn away, then felt Ranatunga come up beside him.

Siriwardeen put out his arm. It knocked into the sergeant's side and the Captain lost balance, put his foot down a millimetre too far and . . . War exploded.