第 13 页

The voice carried on: 'I tried to reach you at UNIT. Spoke to the Doctor I think, and some army clod later, but I'd obviously missed you. I'm glad you're home. Please don't bother asking how I got your number or address. I watched your flat, but there was no light. I can only assume that you have not been back lately.'

'No. No, I've... Now look, who are you?'

'Traynor's dead, poor chap.' There was a short silence. 'If you want further proof that we, or rather I, am telling the truth, watch the news tonight. I'm going to tell Jana Kristan to do the same, now I know you've spoken. Au revoir.'

The phone went dead. Liz stared at the silent receiver in her hands, her mind trying to sift through, sort out and make some sense of the information that she had just received. How did this all fit together? What did Smallmarshes have to do with C19?

'And just how, pray tell, did you know I'd spoken to this Jana Kristan, eh?' She turned and looked at John-Paul, now running around in his cage. 'Tell me that?'

John-Paul, obviously, had no answer.

It was six minutes to three. The wall-clock outside the office, which overlooked the Square, chimed three times. It was deliberately set early. That way any errant MPs, civil servants and administrators who worked in the Houses of Parliament could, in the current Speaker of the House's vernacular, 'get their arses in gear'.

'Sir John, you are due at Lord Blake's reception in fifteen minutes or so.' Sir John Sudbury sighed. He knew that. He knew where he was meant to be, when he was meant to be there, why he was meant to be there and even how he was meant to be getting there.

'What I do not know is what I have done in the eyes of the Lord to be presented with you, Clive Alexander Fortescue, former Secretary to the Chief of Defence, as my own private pain-in-the-posterior. Fortescue, if you continually take valuable time telling me I am going to be tardy, then tardy I will be, simply because you have distracted me. In other words -

'Yes, sir. I know. "Shut up, Clive."' Fortescue shuffled some of Sir John's papers into a black briefcase.

'Exactly. "Shut up, Clive." Words spoken, no doubt, a great many times by the Chief of Defence over the years.'

Fortescue nodded. 'Yes, Sir John. Familiar sentiments. Nevertheless, you are due there in -, '"Clive. Belt up."' Sir John stared at him. 'There. A new phrase for you to learn.'

Clive Fortescue was in his early forties, physically slight in direct contrast to his master's portly frame. Thinning grey hair, over-sized horn-rimmed glasses and a slight moustache were the only ones of Fortescue's attributes which might be considered appropriate for a secretary. His clothes veered towards the flamboyant; his old school tie of yellow-and-black stripes was a permanent fixture at his neck, and his white silk shirt had the slight patterning that suggested something of a dandy. Fortescue closed the briefcase, and picked up Sir John's hat and scarf. 'Consider it heard, absorbed and learned, Sir John.'

Sir John stared at Fortescue. 'Good grief, man. Why on Earth do I need a hat and scarf? It's the middle of the summer, and I'm only going to my car!'

Fortescue seemed to have prepared an answer to that, much to Sir John's disappointment: 'Appearances, Sir John. There may be members of the press or television crews out there.'

Sir John crossed to the window and waved Fortescue over to join him. He pointed outside at throngs of people with cameras and notebooks at the ready, then indicated his own attire, formal black jacket and grey tie, pinstriped charcoal trousers and gold cufflinks. 'Bearing in mind that the Prime Minister is honouring us with his exalted presence, you know damned well that the press are there. I still fail to see why I should go out looking like a refugee from the Sad Old Men's Rest Home for the Bewildered.'

Fortescue shrugged. 'My apologies, Sir John. I just assumed that you'd want to look as though you were suitable for a position in the House of Lords.'

Sir John finally let his face crack into a smile. 'Oh, all right, you win this round. But' - he waved a finger at Fortescue - 'I vow to make you smile first this evening. You are not going to win four rounds in a week.' Throwing his arm around Fortescue's shoulder, the older man led his friend and colleague downstairs.

They passed a few other Parliamentary figures and their secretaries scuttling about, and nodded at a few peers. As they went Sir John received a running commentary, sotto voce, from Fortescue about each peer and how long they were expected to remain alive.

'Do you know how many non-hereditary members of the House of Lords got there without being Members of the Commons?' Sir John asked. 'Very few indeed,' he answered himself.

'The opportunities simply aren't there. And -

'"And frankly,"' quoted Fortescue, '"being Head of Department C19 is not a meal ticket to those comfy seats and long lunches." I know, but we both need to dream about something.'

Sir John smiled again. 'Ready to face the public, Mr Fortescue?'

'Whenever you are, Lord Sudbury of... of... ?'

Sir John shrugged. 'I don't know, Fortescue. Where shall I be Lord Sudbury of?'

Fortescue pushed past a couple of people and caught a glimpse of Sir John's car, the driver standing by the near-side passenger door. 'Lord Sudbury of Late Appointments, I think. Why don't these reporter people bugger off back to Fleet Street and invent some copy like they normally do?'

Sir John raised a hand to acknowledge his driver. 'Good. It's that young Glasgow boy driving. What's his name?'

'Morton, Sir John. Try to get it right if you speak to him. Last time you called him Hughes, your previous dogsbody. Poor Morton didn't know whether to correct you or not.' Sir John was astounded. 'Of course he should have. Poor chap must think I'm a beast or some such, ready to eat him alive. Never fear, young Morton will be correctly appellated, acknowledged and complimented on his driving.'

Fortescue passed the briefcase over as they reached the doors of the House. 'And if he's a bad driver?'

'All the better. It'd knock a few of the others off the road, eh?'

Fortescue nodded. 'You won't get anywhere if you don't tie your shoelace up, Sir John. Going arse over tit in front of the BBC will not do any of our careers any good.'

'Thank you, Fortescue. What would I do without you?' With some difficulty, Sir John bent down to tie his lace.

'You're putting on weight, Sir John,' Fortescue laughed as he regarded Sir John's doubled-up form from the rear. He was still smiling when, less than a second later, a bullet entered his head at the bridge of his nose and punched its way through the back of his skull, showering blood over the Parliamentary stonework.

In an instant, the orderly crowd became a frenzied mob. Screams and shouts went up. The Prime Minister was pushed out of view by his personal secretaries, their side-arms drawn and ready. Sir John was pushed towards the ground as a middle-aged reporter dived into him.

Before either Sir John or his alert saviour had landed, two more shots rang out, both hitting Morton in the chest. He was hurled back against the car with enough force to crack two of the windows, and slumped to the ground.

As people rushed about, Sir John lay on the cold gravel, staring at Morton's dead body directly in front of him, the young man's shirt now more red than white. Shifting slightly, he turned to see if Fortescue was all right. It took a few seconds for him to realize that the headless corpse beside him was wearing Fortescue's distinctive black-and-yellow striped tie.

He heard the crack of another shot, and felt a sudden pain in his right shoulder. His brain registered the facts in an instant. He had been the target, not the Prime Minister. As the pain began numbing his arm, Sir John tapped the journalist lying across his back. 'Thank you, I think you saved my life.'

There was no answering movement. Sir John rolled slightly and the journalist flopped off, the last shot having gone straight through his body, killing him instantly, before burying itself in its intended victim.

As sirens began to wail and people ran towards the House, Sir John looked up. He was staring into the sun, but he could swear he saw someone moving at one of the high windows of an office building. It was a tiny figure, and at that distance he could not tell whether it was male or, heaven forbid, female. But the spring sun glinted off the long rifle it carried as it moved out of sight. Other hands pointed at the figure, and policemen dashed across the busy road to try and hunt down the assassin.

All Sir John could do, as an ambulance crew hurried towards him, was stare at the three dead men surrounding him. Guilty of nothing more than being in the way as he dropped out of the assassin's cross-hairs. He looked down at his still untied left shoelace, wondering whether to consider himself the most fortunate man alive, or whether his conscience could carry those three innocent lives and let him sleep at night. He doubted it.

Liz stared, transfixed as the BBC News logo gave way to the familiar face of news-reader Corbett Woodall.

'Three men have died, and another was seriously wounded, in an attempt on the Prime Minister's life at the Houses of Parliament this afternoon. Shaken but unhurt, the Prime Minister told journalists later that the perpetrators of this outrageous act would be caught and punished. He would not rule out the possibility of a Northern Irish connection.

'Shortly before three o'clock, four shots were fired at the Prime Minister as he left the House of Commons. Sir John Sudbury, a junior Defence Minister and MP for Woodhaven, was wounded in the shoulder. The three dead men have been named as Sir John's private secretary, Clive Fortescue; Alan Morton, a Parliamentary driver; and Michael Wagstaffe, defence correspondent for the Daily Chronicle. Sir John is currently undergoing surgery in St Thomas's Hospital, but it is understood that his wound is not life-threatening.

'The Prime Minister has tonight reaffirmed his Government's anti-terrorist commitment, suggesting that he believes this attack to be the work of the IRA. The shots seem to have been fired -

Liz switched the set off. The phone rang and she snatched it off its cradle.

'Yes?' she snapped.

'I'm sorry, Elizabeth, but I did tell you that something would happen.'

'Were you responsible for this? Is this some kind of attempt to get at me through people I know? People I work with?'

There was a pause, and then the old voice continued, sounding horrified: 'No. No, I assure you not. I just knew this was going to happen. It's following a pattern. I know who is responsible, and it's got nothing to do with Northern Ireland. It's all to do with UNIT, the Glasshouse, C19 and everything else you're involved in.'

'So, it is my fault. It's because of me -,' Liz was almost hysterical.

The old voice was shouting: 'No! It's because of you, and your unique status in UNIT, that I need to rely on you. I've provided you with an associate, a real investigator, who can use her talents to help piece things together. She knows nothing about you, or where you work. Her independent view could help you sift through things.'

Liz swallowed. 'And why can't you do anything?'

The voice laughed. 'I'm an old man, Elizabeth. I've sat on the sidelines all my career. It's what I do best, manipulating people and situations. I thought I could contain them, you see, but I was wrong.'

'So,' said Liz, slowly. 'So, you know who "they" are?'

'Of course.'

'So why can't you tell me?'

There was a sigh on the other end of the telephone. 'Elizabeth, consider this to be a game of snakes and ladders. Yes, I could put a ladder leading from Square Two to Square Ninety-Nine. But you need to play the game, get through every square, find everything I found. Otherwise what I know, what you two find out, won't stand up to scrutiny, and won't stand up in court. If you confront them without having amassed every shred of evidence, they'll cover their tracks. They're very good, you know.' He stopped. 'Oh,' he said suddenly. 'You'll be pleased to know that Sir John Sudbury is going home tomorrow morning. He's fine, just a flesh wound.'

The telephone was dead again. The mystery man had gone. Liz found herself pulling her knees up onto the sofa, and hugging them. Suddenly the world seemed much larger and nastier than it had the day before.

The old man was waking up. The monsters had dressed him in one of those stupid-looking string vests - although at least it was warm. They had piled the old man's clothes up next to him, but only after they had rummaged through his pockets and made a pile of the peculiar things they had found.

The monsters were sitting on the other side of the strange vehicle they were in. When Marc had first seen it, parked on the beach, he thought it was one of those funny electric vans, like milkmen used, except with solid sides and twice as big. The monster that had held him prisoner had used the calling-box and the vehicle had rolled towards them, a door opening in the side.

Then the old man had appeared, shouting, by the cave. The second monster had come out of the sea and the old man had fallen down. The new monster had picked the old man up and carried him into the vehicle. The first monster had then pointed at the vehicle and, realizing that he was meant to go in, Marc had done so.

He found himself inside a padded room. The redressed old man was lying in a corner, against some hard seats. There were no windows but a television was embedded in the wall opposite, and the two monsters sat in seats in front of it, waving their hands over tiny black things. A few seconds later, the vehicle moved. On the television, he could see the water getting closer.

They submerged, and time passed.

'Hello,' whispered a voice. It was the old man. 'Who are you?'

'Marc,' he whispered back. 'Marc Marshall. Are you all right?'