Revolution (42 page)

Wilkins felt something sharp plunge into his testicles. He shot up onto the tips of his toes as tears welled in the corners of his eyes. He looked down to see a combat knife in Severov’s hand, the tip pressed against the most intimate part of his anatomy.

‘Then we have mutually assured destruction, Sir Wilkins,’ Severov whispered softly. ‘Although I can assure you that yours shall be significantly more painful than mine.’

‘We must work together,’ Wilkins said quickly in a high–pitched voice, ‘if we are to ensure our survival!’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Severov murmured. ‘Martin Sigby is preparing to deliver a report, knowing that failure to describe Mikhail Rameron in anything but a terrible light will see the French girl die a horrible death.’

‘Where is she?’ Wilkins gasped as Severov jabbed the knife a little harder.

‘In a very, very
unsafe
place,’ the Mordanian replied.

Severov removed the knife and Wilkins almost collapsed in relief. The commander slipped the blade back into its sheath and took a last draw on his cigarette before grinding it out on his calloused palm.

‘Meet me in my operations bunker, when Sigby’s report is due to be broadcast. We shall invite our friend Megan Mitchell to watch with us, before she dies. It will be entertaining to observe her downfall.’

‘What about the president?’ Wilkins gasped. ‘He cannot be allowed to remain in power, knowing what he does.’

Severov thought for a moment.

‘He must remain for the time being, but once the war is over and the elections called he will have to suffer an unfortunate accident I’m afraid, most probably at the hands of Chechen seperatist terrorists. As you would say, a terrible business.’

Severov, apparently pleased with his decision, turned and strode calmly away down the corridor, leaving Sir Wilkins standing alone holding his crotch with one hand and wiping tears from his eyes with the other.

*

GNN (UK) Ltd, London

‘The conference lines are connected, Mister Cain.’

Seth Cain sat in Harrison Forbes’s former office and smiled coldly as the diminutive British woman backed out of the office and closed the door. He turned to a plasma screen that had been set up in front of the world map on one wall, displaying feeds from GNN offices in New York, Chicago, San Diego and Miami. Each held the uncompromising features of the GNN Board of Directors, the men who controlled the strings of one of the largest television networks on the planet.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Cain said to the four elderly faces staring back at him from the screen. ‘My apologies for calling you at this early hour.’

‘What news?’ one of the men asked. ‘Bad news would be good news for us, you understand.?’

‘Then I have terrible news,’ Cain grinned. ‘In a few moments you will witness the destruction of a terrorist movement in Mordania, the glorious victory of a democratic government supported by our very own troops, and all of it through the eyes of a GNN crew in Thessalia.’

There were a series of approving nods and murmurs.

‘Live, I take it?’ another of the greying heads hazarded.

‘Absolutely,’ Cain replied. ‘Every moment of it in glorious real–time. Every news network in the world will be begging for the right to broadcast this footage. The entire world is waiting to see what will happen in Thessalia. We, gentlemen, have the world’s attention.’

The oldest man on the plasma screen leaned forward, his penetrating gaze cast from thousands of miles away losing none of its potency through distance.

‘I trust, Seth, that neither they, nor us, will be disappointed.’

Again, the lupine grin.

‘Nobody will be left disappointed, I can guarantee you that.’

***

‘I hope to hell that you know what you’re doing?’

Lieutenant Cole watched as Callum McGregor patiently fiddled with a computer program in Martin Sigby’s room in the Thessalia Hilton.

‘Trust me,’ Callum said. ‘I was a very clever young man, once. Have you enough men to secure the building?’

‘Only the section that you require. The rest of government house is too well guarded.’

‘Fine, we will need only minutes for this.’

Callum made a last few adjustments as Martin Sigby and his cameraman appeared in the doorway.

‘It’s done?’ Callum asked.

‘Everything,’ Sigby said.

‘Good. Then we must go, immediately. There isn’t much time.’

Sigby was about to leave when his satellite phone warbled its ringtone. He picked it up and answered.

‘Martin! It’s Harrison Forbes!’

‘Harry? Listen, I’m sorry for the confusion and the…,’

‘Shut up man and listen. I’ve been fired and so I’m firing you.’

‘What? What are you talking about?! You can’t just…,’

‘I said shut up and listen, there’s very little time! You know a man named Frank Amonte, correct?’

‘Yes, I know of him – he was helping Mitchell in her investigation.’

‘He is in possession of documents that could change everything. I have been fired because I refused to bow down before Seth Cain and GNN corporate pressure. Listen to me Martin, whatever you broadcast they will block. They will prevent anything you say that affects their agenda from reaching the news channels. You have to do your work a different way!’

‘But we’re about to go live!’ Martin screeched frantically.

‘Then listen, do it freelance. Call anyone you like, offer them your footage, anyone but GNN do you understand?!’

Sigby stood dumbfounded for a moment.

‘You’re giving up the rights to the broadcasts, to the story?’

‘Exactly, all of them. This is more important than the rights, Martin, do you understand? Get that story out, sell it to whomever you please, just make sure it gets out and soon!’

Sigby nodded as he heard Forbes ring–off the other end.

Callum stood and was about to gather up the equipment and leave the room when Martin Sigby stopped him.

‘I have to go to Talyn,’ the correspondent reminded him. Callum made to pass Sigby, but the reporter stopped the big man with a hand on his chest. Callum stared at Sigby again, surprised at the force in the little man’s expression. ‘The moment this is done,’ Sigby pressed.

‘Why?’ Callum demanded.

‘Because..,’ Sigby swallowed and then straightened a little. ‘Because people are depending on me to do what I must.’

‘You’ll be shot on sight the moment you encounter the rebel lines. They’ll..,’

‘No they won’t. They know my face now, just like everyone else. They’ll take me to Rameron because that’s what he wants, and it’s what Severov wants to avoid. I want to show the other side of this conflict while there still is one. My broadcast won’t go out on GNN – look for it elsewhere, okay?’

Callum shook his head.

‘You people will die chasing your damned stories.’

Sigby smiled.

‘Like you and Megan nearly died chasing Amy O’Hara? Besides, the risk I take is worth it. I have much to make ammends for.’

Callum sighed heavily. To his surprise, he felt a profound sense of melancholy to see the stumpy man before him filled with such determination.

‘I liked you better when you were a selfish little sod.’

‘So did I: life was easier.’

Callum glanced across at Robert, who was standing silently behind holding Sigby’s camera. Sigby turned to him and shook his head.

‘Not this time Robert, it’s only my face that is safe amongst those people. Besides, the Great Highland Ape here will need your technical help with his crazy plan.’

Robert looked briefly at Callum, and then silently and obediently he slipped the camera straps from his shoulders and handed the heavy device to Sigby. Callum watched as the two men looked at each other for a long moment and then briefly embraced, and he wondered what dangers they might have shared in their time working together, just as Megan and he had done. Sigby turned to Callum and tapped his watch.

‘Right on time,’ he said simply.

‘To the second,’ Callum nodded. ‘Now go.’

Sigby turned and hurried from the room. Lieutenant Cole glanced at Callum before speaking.

‘The Chinook crew won’t land him within firing range of the rebel lines. He’ll be on his own.’

‘Just tell them to do their best and get him as close as they can,’ Callum said. ‘He’ll be all right once they realise who he is.’

‘I’ll be back to collect you in twenty minutes,’ Cole said and shot out of the room at double–time.

Callum turned and looked down at Robert.

‘I hope you like heights, son.’

*

The cellar door opened, and rough hands unbound Megan from her chair and dragged her from the darkness and up the steps outside into the light of the corridor. Although she had only been incarcerated for an hour or so, Megan squinted as she looked out of the corridor windows at the pure white snow outside.

Two soldiers guided her through the bowels of Government House, avoiding the busier areas, until they reached a large room on the west wing where Alexei Severov’s personal quarters and command centre were located.

Megan’s head ached and her face throbbed from Severov’s blow, but she was clear–headed enough not to struggle against her captors, nor panic, for she may well have been being led to her death by firing squad. Instead she realised that she was being kept alive, for the time being at least, and she found himself wondering where Sophie and Martin were.

The command centre into which she was led was a simple affair, a large table with a map of the countries surrounding the Caspian Sea dominating the room, other smaller maps of Thessalia and other cities within the country, as well as enemy positions. A large, old television was set up on a table in one corner of the room.

Only Wilkins and Severov stood in the room.

The two soldiers bound Megan to a chair, and then Severov gestured to the door.

‘Guard it and let nobody inside.’

The men silently obeyed.

‘Still on Wilkin’s leash?’ Megan asked Severov.

Severov did not smile. Megan watched as he picked up a discarded flak–jacket from one of the tables, wrapping it around an ashtray and tying it before spinning his body, swinging the jacket violently and slamming the weighted end into Megan’s stomach.

Megan felt as though her face was about to burst as she gagged, folded up at the stomach and wretched miserably. She felt Severov grip her hair and yank her head up.

‘Welcome,’ he snarled. ‘We have something to show you before you die.’

Sir Wilkins was turning on the television set, which glowed lethargically into life as the screen warmed up. Slowly, the ancient cathode–ray–tube began to show moving pictures, in colour. Through her pain, Megan recognised one of the major American networks showing satellite television, the picture flickering occasionally due to the poor reception.

Beside him, Severov whispered enthusiastically into her ear.

‘In just a short while, you’re going to see a glorious triumph Megan; the moment where armed resistance to this government, in this country, falls beneath a military bombardment, where democracy prevails and where my men, on the front–line of the battle, return as victorious heroes.’

Megan, wincing against the pain, forced a grin onto her features.

‘And while they’re braving the front line, their valiant commander is hiding like a coward in his command centre.’

Severov did not reply, simply slamming Megan’s face into her own knees and stalking away toward the television.

‘Is it on yet?’ Megan heard Severov ask Wilkins.

Megan watched as the familiar newsroom of an international network appeared, the sound of American voices filling the room.

‘Ah,’ Severov said cheerily, looking back over his shoulder at Megan. ‘The sound of freedom, the good old U S of A!’

Megan felt the anger begin to drain out of her, to be replaced with a sense of hollow despair as she watched the news feed on the television, saw the opening credits rolling as the days main headlines were briefed to the world.

To her surprise an image of Sophie appeared on the screen, amid questions as to her whereabouts. Megan flinched as she heard the French Ambassador to Mordania demanding her return to French soil. Megan looked at Wilkins as a new and terrible fear and loathing crawled within her.

‘What did you really do with Sophie?’ she asked.

Sir Wilkins regarded Megan for a moment and then looked queryingly at Severov. The Mordanian grinned indulgently as he spoke.

‘She is far from here, but nowhere near France.’

Megan felt sick, but before she could dwell on her grief Wilkins and Severov turned to the television screen as the main headline was announced by two immaculately attired anchors.

*

GNN (UK) Ltd, London

‘Channels open, live feed running!’

Seth Cain turned to the speaker phone at his desk.

‘Viewing figures?’ he asked, as much of the benefit of the watching directors as anything else.

‘Off the scale sir, massive global attendance. If anyone in the world isn’t watching this, it’s because they don’t know what a television is.’

Cain grinned again and turned to the another, smaller television screen in his office, tuning it to GNN’s News Channel as he glanced at the assembled directors on the larger screen nearby.

‘Gentlemen, enjoy.’

***

‘Hi, I’m Mike Weatherspoon.’

‘And I’m Alice McKorvac. You’re watching GNN International News.’

Megan Mitchell stared vacantly at the screen as the two Americans adopted deadly serious expressions; eyes steady, brows furrowed and only their mouths moving as they spoke, as though they were some kind of animatronic devices. Alice McKorvac’s voice reached her as though from a great distance.

‘At seven–fourteen Eastern Seaboard Time, the US Department of Defense announced that the USS Theodore Roosevelt carrier–group stationed in the Black Sea had begun military operations against the Mordanian terrorists of General Mikhail Rameron, acting in support of the democratic government of President Mukhari Akim.’