Revolution (40 page)

Sir Wilkins stood for a long moment, his gaze fixed on Megan’s, before slowly retaking his seat.

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘The murdered men were not soldiers but scientists were working on a device known as a Sterling Engine. They had perfected an existing design to the point where it was so efficient that it could be fuelled using modest amounts of helium to power motor–vehicles, aircraft and industrial machinery. Plans were in motion to gain energy from geo–thermal sources, providing clean, pollution free energy for the entire planet. They were on the verge of creating a global revolution in energy production.’

‘Good God,’ Wilkins uttered.

‘Several international oil companies involved in the large–scale construction of piplines from the Caspian Sea to the Black Sea through Mordania, to bypass politically unreliable pipelines from Russia and Eastern Europe, found out about the engineering work and managed to bribe Alexei Severov to ensure that the work was brought to a halt.’

Sir Wilkins’s eyes widened slowly.

‘He murdered them for money?’

‘Lots of money,’ Megan replied. ‘We haven’t traced the transactions yet, but I have people on it. However, they did not know that the engines were being tested on vehicles of the Mordanian Air Force and Army, with assistance from General Rameron. Rameron no doubt learned who was responsible and why, and he rallied his forces into an attempted military coup.’

Wilkins leaned back in his chair and exhaled noisily.

‘But he attacked the Americans,’ he said in confusion.

‘No, he did not,’ Megan said. ‘The Mordanian Air Force still has its full compliment of aircraft. The Migs involved in the attack were of a type no longer used by the Mordanian Air Force. I got someone to look into it, and they traced purchases of former military jets back to a company called Kruger Petrochemicals – two Mig–23
Flogger
aircraft. We also found and photographed several devices here in Mordania used specifically for the remote–control of large pilotless fighter aircraft – American in design. The United States Air Force uses its old jets as full–size targets for its pilots to practice shooting missiles at in peacetime. Again, a check on the serial numbers revealed that they had been bought by Kruger Petrochemicals.’

Sir Wilkins shook his head slowly in disbelief.

‘They flew them in as though the Mordanians were attacking.’

‘In order to force a war with America,’ Megan confirmed, ‘which would support a government which would bend easily to the needs of American corporate demands, including Kruger Petrochemicals, because they have such influence within the administration. We no longer live in a democracy, sir. It’s a dictatorship of corporate influences, capitalism run amok, international companies vying for control of government policies and the privatisation of foreign industries into American concerns. The deals are done to encourage total free–markets and capitalist profits at the expense of worker’s rights, unions, even democracy itself. It’s what the rebel NCO I spoke to meant when he talked about economic experiments. The West forces countries to convert their economies to capitalism at the expense of the people, creating huge debts for those countries as they receive loans from the World Bank to raise capital and even bigger profits for companies that take over those country's natural resources.’

Wilkins stood from his chair.

‘The American attacks are imminent,’ he said, ‘but without proof none of this is enough for me to be able to call off the attacks.’

Megan smiled and waved the memory cartridge in her other hand.

‘It’s all on film, not just the remote–control devices, but the actual massacre of the scientists by Alexei Severov.’

Wilkins stared at Megan as though she had just informed him that she was God.

‘No! That’s the video you talked about?’

‘Yes. He was seen and filmed, murdering the scientists, by Amy O’Hara.’ Megan set the cartridge down on the table and looked at Wilkins. ‘You need to get this to the UN and the Americans as fast as you can.’

Sir Wilkins stared vacantly at the cartridge for a moment, and then at Megan.

‘Of course, but I don’t know that they will be able to change the course of events that have been set in motion.’

‘Then get it to Martin Sigby, and let him broadcast it all to the world.’

Sir Wilkins picked up the cartridge.

‘Are there any other copies?’ he asked. ‘The more we have, the safer we are.’

‘No. Make some, as quickly as you can,’ Megan advised.

‘And then we must get you out of the city,’ Wilkins said. ‘If Severov and his people learn of this, they’ll do anything that they can to silence us. Is there anyone else whom we might need to get out of the country?’

‘No. The only other person who knew everything was Bolav, the interpreter assigned to us by Severov. He was killed near Talyn this morning.’

‘By General Rameron’s rebels?’ Wilkins asked.

‘It was nobodies fault,’ Megan replied sadly. ‘He was just like all the other Mordanians trapped here under the yoke of conflicting governments, just like us, imprisoned by those who are elected to protect us. He was caught in the crossfire and there wasn’t a damn thing that we could do about it.’

Wilkins made for his office door.

‘Stay here. I’ll get this to the copy room immediately, and then arrange a transport for you out of the city.’

‘Wait,’ Megan said, standing. ‘Sophie?’

Sir Wilkins sighed, and offered Megan an apologetic expression.

‘Sophie D’Aoust, as is her real name, was arrested yesterday and was flown out of the country this morning. She is to be repatriated to France to stand trial. I am sorry, Megan, there was nothing that I could do to intervene.’

Megan closed her eyes for a moment and nodded, before retaking her seat as Sir Wilkins hurried from the room.

***

‘Stand aside.’

The stranger’s accent sounded odd to the United States Marine guard standing in front of an officer’s compound near Government House.

‘No, sir, I can’t do that.’

The marine peered at the man for a long moment, taking in the weathered, stubbled face and the bloodied shirt. The man leaned forward.

‘You’ll regret it.’

The marine did not alter his expression.

‘You, a civilian, want me to interrupt a private briefing of my senior officers on a major strike mission and tell them that they’ve got the wrong target and that they should be running around searching for a missing television reporter instead?’

The man nodded and brightened his smile. ‘That’s the spirit.’

The marine’s patience finally ran out. ‘Get out of my sight before I kick your ass!’

‘Can you kick that high, sonnie?’

The marine’s eyes flew wide with incoherent fury and he swung the butt of his M–16 toward the man’s bloodied jaw. The man side–stepped the blow, grabbed the rifle with his good hand as he shoved his right boot behind the marine’s ankle. The soldier felt himself topple off balance and crashed onto his back on the snowy ground as the man yanked the rifle from his grasp and slammed his boot down onto the marine’s chest.

‘Now then. You’ll be needing to learn a bit about manners.’

‘Guard!’

There was a sudden commotion from within the compound and a handful of marine officers, all buzz–cuts and square–jaws, burst out into the chill air to see the bedraggled man standing over the fallen marine guard. Instantly, pistols appeared in the officer’s hands.

The stranger turned, stepped up to the nearest officer and handing him the guard’s M–16.

‘Your recruits are no better now than they were back in ‘91.’

The officer, a General with two stars on the lapels of his flak–jacket, stared at the towering wretch before him with murderous eyes.

‘And just who the
God–damned hell are you?!
’

‘Callum McGregor, sir, and you need to listen to what I have to say. I and two others have just escaped from the interior of the country. We have documented proof that the attack on your country’s aircraft–carrier was faked and that the massacre that started this conflict was committed by the Mordanian Secret Police, who even as we speak are trying to do the same to those who are aware of the deception. Sir, I need your help to stop a war.’

The general stared at Callum in shock and glanced at his fellow officers, who seemed as stunned as he was. He turned back to Callum.

‘I don’t know whether to believe you or shoot you,’ he rumbled.

‘If you believe me now sir and it turns out to be wrong, you can shoot me later. The other way round, nobody wins.’

‘Or I could just put you in the damned brig!’

‘My friends, sir, would not appreciate that.’

The general turned as Lieutenant Cole’s SEALS appeared from nearby. The marine officers recognised them as Special Forces soldiers the moment they laid eyes on them, and looked at each other in surprise.

‘My name is Lieutenant Cole,’ the SEAL’s officer growled uncompromisingly, ‘and you had better listen to this man, sir, because he knows what he’s talking about.’

The general stared hard at Callum for a moment longer.

‘You have real, hard proof of all this?’

‘The best kind,’ Callum said. ‘But first, we urgently need to find somebody. You may be familiar with his name. Martin Sigby.’

*

Megan was sitting in Sir Wilkin’s office when the attache’s aide returned, poking her head through the door.

‘Megan Mitchell?’ Megan stood quickly. ‘Sir Wilkins is waiting on the parade ground at the rear of the building. He has a transport waiting for you.’

Megan immediately made her way out of the office and back through Government House, walking to the main foyeur and turning right to pass beneath the towering staircases toward the rear of the building. Sir Wilkin’s aide accompanied her to a long corridor that ran alongside the parade ground that Megan could see through the windows.

‘There is a helicopter waiting,’ she said. ‘Walk to the end of the corridor, turn right and descend the staircase.’

‘Thank you,’ Megan said, hurrying along the corridor as the aide turned and headed back toward the UN occupied quarter of the building.

Megan looked out of the windows as she walked swiftly down the corridor, and saw a broad parade ground surrounded by tall razor–wired walls. A large Russian Mil Mi–24 helicopter sat in the centre of the parade ground, it’s blades bowing under their own weight, ground crew fussing busily loading equipment aboard.

As she walked she looked down, closer to the base of the corridor windows. Large, heavy chain–link fences partitioned off one corner of the parade ground. Megan saw huge, muscular dogs standing in the cold air, alert and twitchy, eyeing the parade ground with hungry eyes.

Megan felt a sudden premonition of doom overwhelm her like a dark cloud passing overhead.

‘Good morning, Megan Mitchell.’

A door opened in the corridor just behind Megan and Alexei Severov stepped out, a small, neat black pistol directed at Megan’s chest. Three more doors opened and heavily armed secret–police appeared to aim Kalashnikovs at her.

Megan glanced at the end of the corridor, judging the distance, and as if reading her mind Alexei Severov tutted and shook his head.

‘Not a chance, Megan,’ he said, clearly relishing the moment. He took a pace closer until the tip of his pistol touched Megan’s shirt. ‘I believe that I owe you something of great importance.’

The pistol whipped up and across Megan’s temple with a wicked crack, white stars flashing across her vision as pain bolted across her skull. Before she could react, Severov’s knee slammed deep into her stomach, crumpling her legs and sending the breath rushing from her lungs as she collapsed onto the floor.

‘Downstairs with her,’ Severov snapped at his men.

Megan felt herself lifted roughly and half–carried, half–dragged along the corridor to a staircase that descended not toward the parade ground but down a narrow, dark passage of bare stone to a cellar or basement. Megan was roughly manoeuvered into an old wooden chair, thick hemp ropes securing her ankles and wrists to the legs and back of the chair respectively.

When she was securely bound to Alexei Severov’s satisfaction, the troops moved back and let their commander stand before Megan, regarding her as though one might regard a work of art.

‘Finally, Megan Mitchell, your interfering has come to an end.’

Megan did not reply, looking around her at the cellar. She could see the storage shelves and the stacked boxes, but she could also see dull, brown stains on the stone floor.

‘A place for your hobbies?’ she hazarded.

Severov smiled, leaning close to Megan. ‘A place for my art,’ he replied.

Megan looked at the bloodied medical patch on Severov’s cheek.

‘It looks like your art bites back.’

Severov’s smile vanished as though the life had been pinched from it. He stood upright for a moment and Megan thought that the Mordanian might hit her again, but Severov turned away as he spoke.

‘You are finished, Megan. This cold, damp and miserable place is a sight that you should savour, for it is the last you will see.’ He turned to face Megan. ‘An interesting thought – you will actually be dead in a few minutes time. How does that make you feel?’

A brief calculation flickered briefly through Megan’s mind –
don’t give the bastard the satisfaction.

‘Not fussed one way or the other, as it happens.’

‘A shame, because before you die I wish to inform you of what has become of your accomplices.’

Megan tried to maintain a dispassionate expression as Severov indulged himself in a brief but graphic description of what had happened to Martin Sigby, and what would happen to Sophie D’Aoust if anything should occur that was not to Severov’s liking.

‘They have suffered, and they will continue to suffer for many years after your death, Megan.’

Megan managed to maintain her composure, smiling defiantly at Severov as she spoke.

‘Unlikely. Even now people are looking for me, Severov. They know what you have done; the murder of the scientists, the payments made by the oil companies to you. The moment they realise that I am missing you’ll be hunted by every soldier in this land. It doesn’t matter what happens to me, you’re finished now no matter what you do.’