CHAPTER 14
Brennan sat once more in the outer lobby of the penthouse at Brinkley House, waiting for the door leading to Dryden’s office to open. The young man – Matthews – had hardly spoken during the short journey in the lift from the ground floor but his body language spoke volumes. Something had happened tonight, Brennan could tell, something other than the explosion at the farmhouse; something which had provoked Dryden into summoning him so late into the evening.
When the door eventually opened Brennan noticed the man in the maroon suit was sitting at his desk, typing away on a virtual keypad. Brennan entered the office with his head low, determined not to look at the suit if he could help it. The door closed quietly behind him.
‘I need an update on your search for the professor,’ Dryden muttered without looking up from his screen.
‘I could have given you that information over the phone,’ Brennan replied. ‘Why drag me all the way here?’
Dryden stopped typing and turned with one eyebrow raised. ‘Because I so value your charming presence of course.’ He finished the message he was typing.
‘The need to acquire Professor Cuthberts quickly has been … magnified,’ Dryden eventually continued, turning back to Brennan. ‘I need him in detention as soon as possible. Like yesterday.’
‘With all due respect, you didn’t need to bring me here to tell me that. I could’ve –’
‘Does the world stop turning without the assistance of the magnificent Captain Miles Brennan?’ Dryden interrupted. He got up from the armchair and walked around to the front of the desk, facing Brennan. ‘Does it? I trust that your men have the capacity to operate without you having to hold their hand?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then what is the problem?’
‘There’s no problem.’ Brennan raised his chin and focused on a spot on the wall close to the ceiling.
Dryden sat back onto the edge of his desk and folded his arms. ‘Good. That’s good. When you locate the professor I want you to bring him here and place him in the holding chamber. This card will make the lift stop at the floor below this one.’ He held out his manicured fingers; between his index and middle finger was a small plastic card.
Brennan’s eyes flicked down only as long as it took for him to see the card. As he reached to take it Dryden moved his arm just enough so that Brennan’s left hand brushed against the fabric of the suit.
It was like being stung with a thousand Nettles. Brennan snatched his hand away but his fingers were already going numb, the stabbing fire of needles coursing through to his arm. Dryden simply grinned.
‘Terribly sorry,’ he muttered.
Brennan swallowed hard and took the card with his other hand. ‘Is that all?’
Dryden nodded. ‘I look forward to your call telling me that you have him.’
Brennan spun around, eager to leave the room, but had to wait for Dryden to open the door. It was only a couple of seconds but the message was clear: know your station and don’t dare try to climb above it.
‘Matthews will arrive shortly to escort you down.’
Brennan paced into the lobby and glanced down at the fingers which had touched the maroon suit – they were mottled with red blotches and patches of white. He flexed his fist, wincing at the pain. As the door to the office closed Brennan glanced back. Before the door shut he caught a final glimpse of Dryden, still sitting on the edge of his desk, with a thin grin across his face.
Inside Brennan’s head plans were already being made; he’d never been any good at knowing his station.
By the time Brennan had passed back through the E-M Pod and collected his gear from the Security desk his hand had little feeling left in it, and the mottled markings had become worse. It looked as if he’d dipped his fingers into a bowl of boiling water. The Guard glanced at the hand and grinned. It was obvious that he’d seen such trauma before.
Brennan strode out through the entrance doors, hardly pausing as he climbed into the waiting car. ‘Go north,’ he told the driver. ‘As fast as you like.’
As the car squealed through the deserted streets away from Brinkley House Brennan tapped his earpiece and connected the call to Davis. ‘Give me good news,’ he growled as the call was answered.
‘We managed to break through the magnetic locks in the tunnel after you left,’ Davis said. ‘It led to a lane about a mile away from the farmhouse. It seems the professor had another car stored in a garage not far from the tunnel exit.’
‘And?’
‘And Lithgow is accessing satellite data.’
‘What’s he found?’
‘About ten minutes after the explosion the professor drove away from the garage, in a Nissan Toronto registration Tango, November, Eight, Seven, November, November, Victor, heading north towards Scunthorpe,’ Davis continued. ‘We tracked the car over the Humber Bridge but lost it in the outskirts of Hull.’
‘Hull? What’s he doing in Hull?
‘Beats me. Why would anyone want to go there?’
‘He might be catching a ferry,’ Brennan said. ‘Check all outgoing sailings.’
‘Give me a second.’ The sound of Davis tapping on a screen came through Brennan’s earpiece. ‘The first ferry leaves for Rotterdam at eight,’ Davis told him. ‘So far one-hundred-and-twelve foot passengers and seventy-two vehicles booked. The next one leaves for Zeebrugge an hour later. Neither ferry has a booking in Cuthberts’s name.’
‘Hull ferry terminal,’ Brennan told his driver. ‘Where are you now?’ he asked Davis.
‘We’re on the north side of the Humber Bridge in an industrial yard, just outside the city. Lithgow’s going through traffic cameras and private CCTV footage trying to re-acquire the professor’s Nissan.’
‘Keep on it. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’
‘We’ve got hours yet,’ Davis said. ‘Worst case scenario is that we pick him up just before he boards.’
‘Worst case scenario is that he’s not catching a ferry at all and just wants us to think he is,’ Brennan said. ‘He could be in Scotland by now. He may be old but this guy’s not stupid. Get Lithgow to search a wider area in case the prof doubled-back or switched cars. I don’t want this guy ditching us for a second time. I’ll be with you as soon as I can. Call me if you find anything.’
Brennan’s black Lexus eased up next to an identical car in an otherwise deserted Brighton Street Industrial Estate, about three miles west of the Hull ferry terminal. An earlier rain shower had left the tarmac glistening.
Brennan tucked his left hand in his jacket pocket as he climbed out of his car and into the passenger seat of the other. ‘Well?’
‘No joy finding the Nissan leaving the area,’ Lithgow said. ‘He might have slipped through a gap in the cameras but there’s only a slim chance of him being lucky enough to do that.’
‘Switched cars?’
‘We logged forty-seven vehicles either leaving or passing through the area within ten minutes of where we lost surveillance. I could still be here next week tracking the movements of all of them.’
Brennan twisted around to look him. ‘So you’ve just been sitting on your arse then?’
Lithgow held his commander’s eye. ‘Seventeen were cabs returning to a dispatch office in West Street by the rail station. Only the drivers left the cabs, no passengers. Twelve vehicles went to residential addresses spreading out to a seven mile radius from Hull city centre. Three more were council refuse vehicles. The rest were lorries heading out of the area to the north, south and west, with five heading to the ferry terminal.’
‘Good.’
‘You want to hear what my gut tells me, boss?’ Davis asked.
‘Not really.’
‘He knows we’ll tie ourselves up chasing these ghosts, and while we do he’ll slip onto one of the ferries. As you said; he’s not stupid.’
Brennan nodded. ‘What have you got on the residential addresses?’
Lithgow tapped at his Tablet. ‘Eight are family houses, the ot
her four are rental all with couples listed as occupiers.’
‘You look knackered, boss,’ Davis said. ‘We’ve got a little over four hours before the first ferry leaves, so why don’t you get some sleep? We’ll do a thorough analysis of those addresses and wake you if we need to.’
Brennan turned back in the seat and sighed. ‘Okay,’ he said pulling the collar of his jacket up with his right hand and closing his eyes. ‘Maybe I will. Just for an hour or two.’
The buzzing of Brennan’s phone woke him. A thin, watery light filled the sky and a few vans were moving about the industrial estate. The time display on the car’s dashboard read 05:29. Brennan pulled his left hand out of his jacket pocket and flexed his fingers. The skin was still mottled but at least movement was easier. He scratched at the stubble on his chin with his right hand then tapped at his earpiece. ‘Yes?’ The voice on the line started talking. ‘Hold on.’
He opened the car door and stepped out into the cold morning air, slamming the door behind him. Davis and Lithgow shared a look.
‘I don’t know about you,’ Lithgow muttered, watching Brennan as he walked away from the car and spoke quietly into his phone, ‘but with all these secret calls he’s been getting lately it doesn’t really make me feel part of the team.’
‘Quit your whining. You and me; we’re mushrooms, my friend – just kept in the dark and fed sh –’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know the rest. Even so …’
The passenger door opened and Brennan climbed back into the seat. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out an electric shaver. ‘Right, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s get to the ferry terminal. See if our man shows up.’
The boarding for the eight a.m. ferry started at a quarter to seven. Lithgow sat in a secluded office, an array of monitors in front of him. Each screen displayed the images of twenty cameras from a multitude of angles, showing foot passengers arriving as well as vehicles parking in the deep bay of the ferry. Face-recognition software highlighted each person and held their image for a fraction of a second as the programme ran in the background, performing millions of checks per second.
Brennan was located on the ferry, overlooking the boarding ramps, whilst Davis stood on the approach to the departure lounge. Each of them wore UK Customs and Excise uniforms. Lithgow checked the time stamp in the corner of his central screen: 07:45. ‘Wild goose chase, do you think?’
‘No sign of our man out here,’ Davis said. ‘The Zeebrugge ferry’s about to start boarding. Do you want me over there?’
‘Hold position for now,’ Brennan told him. ‘Lithgow, tap into the other ferry’s security and start the F-R programme running there. See if it picks anything up. We’ll hold here until the last second.’
‘Will do.’
Brennan made his way down through the passenger lounge, passed excited children and yawning drivers. If the professor had provided the boy with fake passports and DNA cards then slipping onto a ferry where security checks were much less stringent wouldn’t prove much of a challenge for him.
A cheer from a group of men at the bar caught his attention. They each wore a superhero costume and it looked as if they hadn’t stopped the celebrations for some time. Drinking half-litres of lager before eight in the morning …
Brennan bit his lip and shook his head. ‘That’s a different life, Miles, a different life. Don’t even think about it.’
He turned away from them and continued to head towards the main boarding bridge when he stopped and turned back. One of the ‘superheroes’; one of three dressed in a Batman costume, stood off to one side of the main group of men. There was something about the way he leaned on the bar, facing away from the room. He didn’t seem to be part of the group.
Brennan moved around to get a better look at the man’s face, but could only really see his jaw. There was something about the man’s body language which didn’t seem right either: he didn’t have a drink in his hand for a start and he wasn’t joining in with the raucous banter of the other men.
Brennan watched him for another half a minute before stepping up to the bar, moving between Batman and the other revellers.
‘Oh, look,’ a man dressed as Superman said as Brennan reached him. His speech was slurred and it seemed as if he was having trouble focusing. ‘Great costume. What have you come as?’
Brennan’s grey eyes stared at Batman. ‘Hello, Professor Cuthberts.’
Batman shifted a little and turned away.
‘I think it’s time to go, don’t you?’ Brennan said as he unclipped the gun at his hip. ‘And don’t even think about running. I really don’t want to have to use this.’
‘Wow, that gun looks real,’ Superman said. ‘Where’d you get it? Can I have a look?’
‘No. Go back to your drinking. This hasn’t got anything to do with you.’
‘You can’t talk to me like that. I’m Superman, don’t you know? I’m the Man Of Steel!’
Brennan slowly turned his head and stared at him. Superman turned away and took a swig of his beer.
Batman pulled off his mask and faced Brennan. ‘I’m not going to make a run for it,’ Alan Cuthberts said. ‘There’s no need for the gun.’
‘Good idea about shaving your beard. It throws the F-R software off.’
‘Alan, is that you?’ Superman said. ‘I thought you were George. Where’s George?’ He grabbed the professor’s costume with one hand. ‘What have you done with George?’
‘I’m George,’ a man dressed as Catwoman muttered, raising his hand.
‘Oh.’ Superman’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, right.’ He took another quick swig of his beer. ‘Nice legs, George.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Did you find Simon?’ Alan asked Brennan.
‘The man at the farmhouse?’
The professor nodded. ‘How is he?’
‘Kentucky fried.’
‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’
‘You left him there. You let him do it. Come on, it’s time to go.’ Brennan took the professor’s arm and eased him away from the bar. ‘I hope for your sake you have a change of clothes.’
Alan nodded, reached down and picked up a small canvas bag.
‘Light the Bat-signal if you need any help,’ Superman called, ‘and I’ll come flying.’
Brennan turned back to the group. ‘So which one of you lot is getting married?’
The rest of the group pointed to a man dressed as Judge Dredd.
‘Take my advice,’ Brennan continued, ‘don’t.’
Alan Cuthberts sat, dressed in his normal clothes, in a semi-sterile security room on the twenty-fourth floor of Brinkley House, plastic straps holding his legs and arms in place. Harsh strip-lighting and white walls gave the space a bleakness that was mirrored in the sole chair, small desk and single doorway.
The door opened and Dryden stepped into the room, carrying a thin paper file. He eased the door shut and it sealed with a soft hiss.
‘I think your interior decorator needs to move away from the minimalist theme,’ Alan said. ‘Or did he just have a bulk supply of white?’
Dryden smiled.
‘Still wearing that awful suit, then?’ Alan continued.
‘Yes,’ Dryden muttered, ‘still wearing it.’ He placed the paper file on the desk and stroked it with one of his long fingers. ‘Rumour had it that you were dead.’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint. I had hoped that you would be by now.’
‘No. Still very much alive.’
Alan tugged at his bonds. ‘Was that media circus downstairs really necessary?’
‘Vital, I’d have to say.’
‘You’ll never find him, you know.’
‘It was very clever of you, by the way, in using the reactor to cover up your escape. You had us chasing our tail for quite some time.’
‘And if you think using me as some publicity stunt –’
‘Not to mention the financial cost of re-establishing the Emperor Initiative,’ Dryden interrupte
d. ‘We’ve progressed with the programme, of course, since Tiberius; we’ve gone through the Caligula programme and after some … well, fine tuning, shall we say, we’re now on the Claudius generation.’
‘Sounds like you’re running out of Emperors.’
Dryden gave a thin laugh. ‘Not at all.’
‘He’s slipped through your net, Gregory, and he’s far too smart to be fooled by what you’re trying to do. Or to let you find him. Even I have no idea where he is.’
‘Oh, I know where he is, Alan. I spoke with him only yesterday. He’s in New York. At least he is for the time being, but he’ll be back where he belongs – here, with his family – very soon. I must say that I’m extremely upset at all the unpleasant things you’ve been telling him about me. The poor boy has completely got the wrong impression.’
‘What do you want with him, Gregory? After all these years? Can’t you leave him alone? If you’ve progressed as much as you say then his DNA couldn’t possibly tell you anything that you don’t already know.’
Dryden gave a quiet laugh. ‘His DNA? Alan you really are prehistoric, aren’t you? You never saw the bigger picture; that was your problem. Too many years spent shut up in darkened rooms, no doubt. Shall I share a secret with you?’ Dryden leaned in close to Alan’s ear, and whispered, ‘It’s not his DNA I’m after.’
‘Then why are you chasing him?’ Alan’s face hardened. ‘What are you after?’
‘Something altogether more interesting. Still, we have plenty of time to discuss the finer points. Right now there are a couple of things that I’d like you to do for me.’ Dryden opened the paper file. ‘First, I’d like you to sign this.’
‘What is it?’
‘Just a formality, concerning your arrest.’ He placed a pen on the file. ‘I’m sure you of all people understand the need for correct procedure.’
‘I’m not going to sign anything.’
Dryden sighed. ‘Oh, Alan, Alan. Of course you will. The question is whether you agree to do it willingly, or if I have to force you.’ Dryden released the strap holding Alan’s hand.
‘Forge my signature if you want, but I’ll never sign it. You can’t force me to make what you’re doing seem legal.’
‘You of all people should know the legality of what we’re doing here, or have you chosen to re-write that piece of history too?’ Dryden slipped his hand into an outer pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small, black device. It looked like the controller for a music system. ‘And as to whether I can force you or not; yes I can.’ He pressed the single button on the device.
Alan flinched away from the high-pitched sound which filled the room; his face contorting in pain. Unconsciously, he held his breath. The man in the maroon suit seemed oblivious to the noise.
‘Sign the paper,’ Dryden said, but his voice was distorted, metallic.
Alan fought against the command.
‘Sign the paper.’
‘No.’ Alan forced the word out.
‘Sign the paper.’
Dryden’s voice felt like an insidious drip of water, forcing its way into the depths of Alan’s mind. The professor’s hand reached slowly out and grasped the pen. He screamed at it to stop moving, willed it to do as he commanded but it was as if the hand didn’t belong to him. He spun the paper around and signed on the dotted line.
Dryden took his thumb off the button and the high-pitch sound ceased. Alan’s shoulders relaxed, he dropped the pen onto the desk and gasped for air. A trickle of blood oozed from his nose.
‘As you can see,’ Dryden told him, slipping the device back into his pocket, ‘technology has progressed in leaps and bounds over the last few years.’ He inspected the paperwork on the desk and closed the file. ‘Excellent. Now the next task I want you to do will be much easier.’
‘What?’
Dryden gave a smile. ‘Just a little experiment.’