Revolution (26 page)

The bearded NCO approached Megan and stood directly in front of her.

‘You killed twelve of my men,’ he hissed.

‘We were betrayed,’ Megan replied, every word sending pain across her cut lips. ‘We had no reason to attack you. We are not part of this war.’

‘You are now.’

‘What are you going to do with us?’

‘Your fate is not for us to decide,’ the NCO snapped. ‘Our general will decide that for you.’

Megan did not realise what the NCO meant until she thought about it.

They were going to be taken to General Mikhail Rameron.

***

Sophie knew that something was wrong the instant she saw the troop carrier driving slowly past the refugee camp, Megan Mitchell’s jeep nowhere in sight. A phalanx of UN troops standing guard beside a checkpoint nearby raised their hands to halt the vehicle, which slowed obediently.

Sophie began walking toward the truck, and saw Martin Sigby and his cameraman filming as the chief of police jumped from the cab and began talking to the officer in command of the checkpoint.

Sophie walked straight past Martin Sigby and stormed across to Severov.

‘Where is Megan Mitchell?’ she demanded.

Commander Severov looked at her with eyes devoid of any emotion that she could recognise.

‘There was an ambush,’ Severov replied. ‘We were heavily outnumbered by the enemy, who attacked us near a bridge in Talyn with a tank.’

Sophie took a pace closer to him.

‘Answer the question,’ she muttered.

Severov glanced at the British officer with a pained expression before speaking.

‘They were trapped between us and the enemy as we fell back under heavy fire. We could not get to them. There was nowhere for them to run. I’m afraid that in all likelihood they were captured and are now likely to be dead.’

A wave of panic flickered across Sophie Vernoux’s expression as she stared at the commander.

‘You were supposed to protect them! You insisted that you should go with them, to protect them!’

The commander cultivated an apologetic expression.

‘Madam, my men are capable but they are no match for a tank platoon, much less one that outnumbered us five to one. I lost six of my men and those of us left are lucky to have survived the encounter at all.’

Sophie stared blankly at Severov, her eyes wobbling in their sockets.

‘How did they end up trapped so far from your men?’

Severov held his hands out palm upwards.

‘The woman, Mitchell, she insisted on walking out to talk with the rebels. They were half way across the distance between us when the rebels opened fire. We could do nothing but try and cover the retreat of your friends and try to disable the tank, which we did. But we only destroyed its tracks, not its gun. That was why we had to withdraw.’

Sophie was mid–way between flying into a rage and crying.

‘She did that in Anterik and the rebels did not attack her,’ she protested.

‘Different soldiers, different day,’ Severov replied, looking at the British officer this time. ‘There was little that we could do, and we did try to prevent Mitchell from going out there at all. It is just too dangerous now.’

Sophie looked desperately at the British lieutenant.

‘Sir, please, surely you could send a column to search for them?’

Lieutenant Kelsey instantly shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but there’s no chance that a British column will get anywhere near Talyn now, let alone find your friends. I hate to hear that one of our own is stranded out there, but I’m afraid that Commander Severov here is right – they’re on their own and too far away for us to help now.’

Sophie looked away from the lieutenant in dismay.

‘Really, ma’am,’ Lieutenant Kelsey said, ‘if there was any chance of us locating them and bringing them back we would, but there isn’t.’

Commander Severov reached out to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. Sophie whirled and her open palm cracked across the Mordanian’s face like a gunshot.

‘Don’t you touch me,’ she hissed.

Severov’s hand moved instinctively for his service pistol.

‘Commander,’ the British Lieutenant said calmly but coldly, ‘I think that you should be on your way. You are cleared to pass.’

Severov regained his composure, straightened his back even as his face reddened as he bowed to Sophie before climbing back into his cab. The vehicle pulled away into the camp, winding between the endless rows of snow covered tents.

Lieutenant Kelsey resumed his post with his men, leaving her standing alone to look out to the north, past the brooding mountains.

Martin Sigby moved alongside her. ‘What happened to them?’ he asked.

Sophie cast Sigby a poisonous glare and walked away without answering.

*

‘Oh damn and blast it all to hell!’

Sir Wilkins slapped a thick wad of papers across the edge of his desk, causing Sophie to flinch at the noise. Wilkins put both of his hands to his head for a moment as he spoke.

‘When did you learn of this?’

‘Thirty minutes ago. Commander Severov’s vehicle returned alone. He said that they had been ambushed by a tank in Talyn.’

‘Quite likely,’ Sir Wilkins nodded. ‘The reconnaisance flights being made by the Royal Air Force indicate massive troop movements to the north near Talyn. They’re probably moving their armoured columns ahead of the main body of infantry, to secure the remaining towns between Talyn and Thessalia and clear a path for the troops.’

Wilkins looked down at his maps and intelligence documents. Sophie’s voice was furtive as she spoke.

‘Is there any chance that someone could go out and look for them?’

Sir Wilkins shook his head, still pouring over the maps and placing his finger over an aerial photograph of Talyn.

‘Not in the slightest, I’m afraid. If we knew their precise location I might be able to organise an extraction via helicopter, but as we cannot know even if they are alive or dead, much less their whereabouts, I’m afraid that we’re powerless to assist them.’

‘But if they’re being held captive and the Americans attack Rameron’s position, they’ll be killed.’

Wilkins stood up from the maps and regarded Sophie with a gentle gaze.

‘I really am sorry, my dear. If anything else is heard that might give us their location, I shall inform you immediately.’

Sophie nodded wearily and walked from the office. She had been gone only a few moments when Martin Sigby walked in silently, having waited for her departure. Sir Wilkins looked at him.

‘The great and grand Mister Sigby, what might I do for you?’

‘The president wishes to speak with you, at your convenience.’

Sir Wilkins smiled broadly, but his eyes seemed touched with discontent.

‘My word, now you are not only his confidant but also his spokesperson and assistant. Such lofty heights, sir, in such little time.’

Sigby managed to retain his composure. ‘We all have our jobs to do.’

‘Don’t we indeed,’ Wilkins uttered. ‘And your job will be that much harder now that the source of your footage is in the grasp of the enemy.’

‘Mitchell’s capture was nothing to do with me,’ Sigby shot back. ‘It was her choice to go to Talyn despite everyone advising against it.’

‘Perhaps, Martin, she would not have had to go at all, had you done that which she had asked and reported on Amy O’Hara’s disappearance.’

Sigby’s expression soured further. ‘You’re an arsehole, Thomas.’

‘Charming,’ Sir Wilkins smiled, his eyes scanning the ceiling as though searching for his next words. ‘Perhaps, Martin, we could discuss the several thousand Euros a day that Mukhari Akim’s government is now shoving up yours?’

Martin Sigby’s expression flared with alarm.

‘Oh yes, Martin,’ Wilkins said, ‘we get to see all of the dirty little deals that go on here in Government House. There’s not a single penny going in or out of this country that escapes my personal scrutiny. I have no doubt that your work is of the highest ethical order, no?’

‘It’s none of your business,’ Sigby shot back, jabbing a finger at Wilkin’s chest, ‘so stay out of it.’

Wilkins picked up his thick sheaf of papers and pushed past Sigby.

‘On the contrary, Martin, I wouldn’t want any part of it.’ He paused in the doorway and glanced back at Sigby. ‘I wonder, Martin, how quickly your glorious campaign on the international stage will crumble if word should slip out about your ill–gotten gains?’

As he swept from the room Wilkins let the question hang in the air to torment Sigby.

***

The sack over Megan Mitchell’s head prevented her from seeing anything and filled her nostrils with the musty smell of old canvass and dust. The rebels had also tied the sack tight enough around her neck to constrict her throat, making breathing difficult.

She and Callum, along with the translator Bolav, had been bundled into the rear of a truck and driven for perhaps thirty minutes along what Megan had judged to be a reasonably well maintained road. She knew that they had passed over the Tornikov River because she had heard its turbulent waters churning below the bridge. Thereafter, she had been unable to track their progress but assumed that they were travelling north.

Eventually they had reached a complex of some kind where the sound of many vehicles and marching troops suggested a military base. There, they had been dragged to a building and pushed inside, the door closed and locked after them. Megan knew that Bolav sat nearby in the darkness of their prison because she could hear him mumbling incoherently to himself, but she was sure that Callum had been taken elsewhere. She could only hope that he was being treated well.

A loud crack pierced the silence and Bolav let out a yelp of terror and began trying to squirm away from the opening door. Megan sensed an increase in the light and was dragged roughly to her feet. Something heavy slammed into her stomach, churning her guts and buckling her legs.

The unseen hands hauled her back onto her feet and dragged her, stumbling, out of the darkness. The door slammed shut behind her. Megan smelled fresh air filtering through the sack over her head, and heard the sounds of troops and engines once again. The hands that held her guided her over a step and into another building.

Megan let the men direct her up three flights of steps, heard them bark commands and sensed rather than saw other people being moved abruptly out of the way. She was pulled up to a halt and heard the sound of someone knocking on a door. The door was opened and Megan was propelled inside, falling forwards to slam painfully onto her knees on what felt like a thinly carpeted floor.

The hands hauled her upright again, shoved her into position and forced her into a seat. Megan felt her bonds being released, only to be tied again through the backrest of the chair with unnecessary force, the coarse ropes biting painfully into her wrists.

A long moment passed, until she felt the cord around her neck being mercifully untied, and without ceremony the bag was yanked from her head, bright light from rows of broad windows blinding her. Megan blinked as her eyes struggled to focus, the room in which she sat slowly taking shape around her.

A large office, stripped mostly bare by war but now with maps and charts pinned to the dull grey walls. Fluorescent strip lights above, tables with charts spread across them, a couple of telephones. An operations room of some kind, she realised.

And then she saw the man standing ten yards away, his arms folded, dressed in camouflaged fatigues, piercing eyes glaring malevolently into hers. Megan sat transfixed by that glowering expression, as she had been when she had first seen it on television days before, at home in London.

General Mikhail Rameron strode slowly toward her, his gaze never once leaving Megan’s. He was a big man, Megan could tell, powerfully built despite his age and radiating both the professional pride of a soldier and the irrepressible determination of the true fanatic. Rameron stopped a metre away from Megan, regarding her silently for a moment before speaking.

‘Welcome,’ he rumbled ominously. ‘You do not look like a soldier.’

Megan was surprised to hear Rameron speak English so well.

‘You don’t look like one of the good guys.’

Rameron’s features remained as flat and immovable as granite.

‘You attacked my men at Talyn,’ Rameron said. ‘A unit of my troops lost almost twenty men as a result.’

Megan struggled not to show any emotion that could be used against her. ‘We did not attack anyone.’

‘My men stated that you opened fire upon them with a rocket propelled grenade launcher or similar. You tell me that they are lying?’

Megan shook her head.

‘They’re not lying. The soldiers escorting us opened fire. We’re press.’

General Rameron eyed Megan seriously for a moment.

‘Press? For whom? Your belongings were searched by my men. They found no identity cards.’

‘We’re not carrying them. It’s complicated.’

‘It is now,’ Rameron said, leaning close to Megan. ‘I think that you’re lying.’

Megan kept her expression neutral as best she could. ‘I don’t care.’

‘You will.’

There was no malice in Rameron’s tone, no vindictive pleasure in his eyes like Severov, and that scared Megan more than anything. General Rameron would do whatever it took to identify her and to learn whatever he could from her.

Rameron stood away from Megan again and nodded to someone standing behind her chair. A burly looking rebel soldier moved to stand beside Megan, one of the men who had been with the tank platoon at Talyn.

‘Chekov here saw half of his friends die this morning in Talyn, after your attack,’ Rameron said. ‘He is not a happy man.’

Megan rolled her eyes.

‘We did not attack anything. We..,’

The side of Megan’s head exploded in pain as the soldier hit her with a full roundhouse punch, snapping her neck painfully away from the blow. Megan’s vision went white and then swam with colours as a bolt of nausea churned in her guts. Rameron’s voice drifted across the periphery of her awareness.