Terminal (11 page)

‘So that's a yes? We're going for a strike?' Danforth asked.

‘Yes, very shortly.' The Old Styx took a breath. His voice showed no emotion, although he narrowed his eyes just the tiniest degree. ‘That place has always been top of your list, Danforth. Is there an ulterior motive to your suggestion?'

Danforth smiled, but it was a malicious smile. ‘A few years back, I volunteered my considerable services, and they didn't even grant me a meeting. Much of that facility wouldn't be what it is today if it hadn't been for me. They have this coming to them.'

‘Now shine it like a comet of revenge,' the Old Styx quoted from Shakespeare's
Henry VI
.

‘A prophet to the fall of all our foes!' Danforth said, adding the next line.

There was a moment when both men simply regarded each other, recognising a kindred spirit, before the Old Styx spoke. ‘I understand a man with that motivation.' He wheeled to the two Limiters. ‘You were told to remove the body. Why have you not done it yet?' He spun on his heels and walked away.

Danforth was left with one of his Limiter escorts as the other dealt with the dead operator. Stifling a yawn, he did a last round of the floor, then began towards the windowless office that had been his home for the past month. Although he never slept for long, he would grab the occasional catnap when he could. Without turning on the light and still fully dressed, he went straight to the camp bed and lay down, while the Limiter remained in the corridor where he took up position.

Danforth yawned as he rolled over onto his side. The Limiter outside the room had no way of seeing what he was doing as he put his hand into his mouth and twisted one of his molars. With the tiniest click, the hollow crown came away.

At one time, when he would be posted abroad to advise the intelligence services of other countries on their electronic surveillance, there had always been the risk that he might be abducted and tortured for what he knew. Then the hollow molar had contained enough cyanide to kill him within seconds.

But if Danforth had a talent above all others, it was the ability to take a piece of electronic hardware and miniaturise it. And that was precisely what he'd done in order to fit the state-of-the-art radio inside the tooth. ‘I knew I should have flogged Sony the patent,' he said under his breath, as he activated the tiny radio with a press of his fingernail.

He didn't need to see the device, operating it through touch alone. By tapping the message in Morse code, the device began to record it. It was only a short message, but when it was ready Danforth pressed a preset number of times and it was sent, at a frequency which, not by chance, was in a blind spot for the detection equipment just down the corridor.

In any case the transmission had taken only a fraction of a fraction of a second – or, as the military called it, ‘a burp' – because the message was so highly compressed. Even if one of the operators in the main room had happened to pick up the transmission on their screens, they would very likely have put it down to a scanner glitch.

When he had screwed the tooth back in place, the small smile on Danforth's lips faded as he drifted off to sleep.

‘Um. You can't do that,' Chester said.

‘Do what?' Stephanie was at the table by the window, leaning over a chessboard.

Rising from his armchair by the fire, Chester went to stand beside her. ‘Pawns only move diagonally when they're taking something,' he said, as he cast an eye over the various pieces she'd left in random positions while she'd been practising. ‘Your grandfather must have told you that.'

‘Yeah, but isn't that so totally lame?' Stephanie flipped the small chess piece over with one of her bright red fingernails. ‘Prawns are like these boring little no-marks, nearly as useless as the stupid horses and castles.'

‘Pawns,' Chester corrected her gently. ‘They're called pawns.' He'd been gradually coming out of his shell after the trauma of seeing his parents die in the Complex. But it was a slow process and, in the beginning, even a sudden sound, such as a slammed door or a raised voice, was too much for him and could reduce him to tears. All Chester had wanted was to hide away under the blankets in one of the tiny bedrooms upstairs in the cottage, and sleep, and go on sleeping, because that was the only way he could escape his anguish.

The problem was that when he did eventually wake, there were a few untroubled seconds before he remembered what he was doing there. Then the terrible memories were back in a gush, and the pain was with him again. It was more than Chester could bear, as though something was devouring him from inside until all that remained was the loss and regret, and a crippling paralysis.

After a couple of weeks of this Chester had slept all he could, so he simply lay on his bed, staring up at the corners of the room. He felt even more lost and alone as the wind
howled in from over the sea, rattling the tiles on the roof like drumming from a distant pageant. His mind wouldn't stop replaying, over and over, the fateful day on which his parents had been killed, as he analysed and relived each tiny event leading up to the moment of the explosion, changing them slightly each time as he imagined what he might have done to prevent their deaths.

I should never, never have left her.
If only he had stayed with his mother in the kitchen. Why had he left her alone when he'd gone to Drake? He should have clung on to her, not letting her out of his sight.
No! Dad! Stop!
Chester could have stopped his father from going down the approach tunnel to his mother, rugby-tackling him if necessary. If he had, his father would most probably be alive today, and perhaps his mother too. Chester's version of the day became ever more fanciful until he was confronting Danforth in the tunnel, emptying a full magazine into the traitor as his Sten bucked in his hands.

‘Take that, you stinking BASTARD!' Chester would growl behind his teeth, coming out of his open-eyed dream, drenched in sweat and his fists clenched with hatred for the man who had slaughtered his parents. He'd never wanted to hurt and kill someone so much, perhaps even more than the Rebecca twins and the Styx themselves. Although, when he thought about it, Martha wasn't far off the top of his hate list for what she'd put him through.

And even if Chester desperately needed to go downstairs, perhaps because he was thirsty and wanted some water, he would remain where he was, not caring that he was so uncomfortable. In any case, Old Wilkie often kept vigil during the night in a chair by the front door, armed with his shotgun in
case the Styx decided to turn up. As depressed as he was, Chester was reluctant to have his brains blown out over the cottage walls as he blundered into the man. It would all be too much bother.

Then, much to his surprise, Chester found that he was beginning to crave human company, although at a distance. He found that it made him feel a little better to be around Stephanie and Old Wilkie, even though he would feign interest in his book so that he had an excuse not to talk to either of them.

This lack of communication with Stephanie and Old Wilkie made life rather difficult in the confines of the cramped cottage, where they were completely cut off from the outside world. They'd had the most miserable Christmas lunch Chester could have imagined, sitting for the most part in silence around the meal Old Wilkie had gone to such lengths to prepare. All it did for Chester was summon the memories of Christmases past with his parents. Unable to control his emotions, he'd used a bad headache as an excuse to leave the table, even before Old Wilkie had brought the Christmas pudding out.

‘Pawns, whatever,' Stephanie now said with a shake of the head, snatching the queen from the board to admire it. ‘These guys are the business because they can move in every direction and as many squares as you want. And they're more powerful than all the others, including the stuffy old kings, who are only good for running away and losing you the game. I mean why can't you play with all queens? The game would be so, like, better.'

‘But then it wouldn't be chess,' Chester reasoned. He started a sigh but morphed it into a humming sound, as if he
was giving serious consideration to her suggestion, because he didn't want to upset the girl. He couldn't bear the thought of upsetting anyone; he still felt so torn up and bruised inside that he shied away from anything unpleasant. And watching her try to learn the game had brought home how much he missed Will, his longstanding opponent. ‘You can't go completely changing the game, but there are other ways to play it,' he added.

Stephanie folded her arms in front of her chest and pulled a sulky face, but Chester could tell it wasn't genuine. ‘Maybe you should have a go at playing by my rules,' she said, peering at Chester from under her red mane, which hung loosely in front of her face. This was a surprising new development because she usually took so much care over her appearance, but today was one of her designated ‘bad hair days' as she called them.

She'd informed her grandfather and Chester that as it was only the three of them in the cottage she wasn't going to all the effort of washing her hair every morning. It was too much of a ‘hassle', she said, because lugging hot water from the Aga all the way upstairs was such a chore, and there was no way she was prepared to take a cold bath. Besides – she'd gone on to tell them – as they were in the back of beyond and there was zero likelihood that anyone would drop in to see them, what was the point?

Chester wasn't sure whether to be flattered she was so relaxed in his company, or to be put out because she wasn't making an effort for him.

Stephanie returned the pieces to each end of the board, but not in their usual positions. ‘So, as we're playing
my
game now, pretend all these are queens. Except, of course, for the
two boring kings.' She looked up at Chester. ‘Get ready for a trouncing, Chucky Boy.'

‘Well …' he began, glancing back to his book left open on the armchair. He didn't want to get into this, but was unable to come up with an excuse at such short notice.

‘Pull up a pew, and prepare to meet thy doom,' Stephanie said, pointing at the chair opposite her. ‘You know, your face looks better,' she said, as he was slow to do what she'd asked. ‘My moisturiser's really helping.'

‘Yes, thank you for that,' Chester said, touching his forehead where the small scabs were healing. His eczema had broken out all over his face and hands like never before. Old Wilkie suggested that it was more than likely to have been triggered by what he'd been through, but Chester preferred to tell himself it was because of the damp in the cottage. ‘I'm less of a freak show now,' he said uncomfortably.

Stephanie smiled. ‘You never w—'

She was interrupted as the door from the kitchen swung open and Old Wilkie entered, with someone who appeared to be a soldier following closely behind. The man was wearing an SAS windproof smock with the hood up, which he now pulled back.

‘Parry!' Chester burst out as he recognised the grey-bearded face and craggy features, and rushed over to him. ‘I had no idea you were here!'

‘Hello, lad, how are you?' Parry said warmly, gripping Chester's hand in both of his. ‘Sorry to have left you out here for so long.'

‘We thought you'd forgotten us,' Stephanie said.

Parry acknowledged her with a quick smile, then turned towards Chester again. ‘I came as soon as I had a chance.
Things have been a bit chaotic to say the least.' As Parry spoke, Chester took in his beige beret, noticing the winged dagger on the badge. ‘Yes,' the old man said. ‘I've been helping the Regiment out. But, more importantly, tell me how you've been?'

‘Better, I suppose,' Chester replied flatly.

‘Oooh, I must look such a mess,' Stephanie mumbled as she began to tidy her hair, darting looks at the doorway where Parry had entered from in case someone else was about to come through.

‘Have you heard from anybody? From Will or Elliott? Or Drake?' Chester asked. ‘Are they back?'

Parry had taken out his satphone and now passed it from one hand to the other. ‘No, but it's too early to give up hope on them yet. Who knows what they walked into when they arrived down there? Perhaps they got the job done, but met resistance on the way home,' Parry answered in a measured way, although Chester caught the slight frown on his face before Stephanie butted in.

‘But how did you get here, Parry?' she said. ‘We didn't hear you arrive.'

‘By chopper,' Parry replied. ‘It's just about the only way to get around these days.'

‘So have we got the all-clear now? Can we go home?' she was quick to ask.

There was no doubt how worried Parry was as his brow formed multiple
V
s. His eyes found the radio on the windowsill. ‘Exactly how much do you know about what's been going on in the rest of the country?'

‘Nothing, really,' Stephanie said, also turning to glance at the radio. ‘We've only got that ancient thing. We can tune in to a handful of stations, but the signal's so weak here it's
always, like, dropping out. I can't even get any proper mus—'