CHAPTER 5
Brennan, Lithgow and Davis had their Immigration officer jackets back on and were huddled into a small office in a side wing of Dulles airport. Lithgow tapped away at a black computer keypad.
‘It’ll only take a few seconds to get through the security wall,’ he said. A smile creased his lips. ‘These boys think their systems are so good.’
‘Just bring up the files,’ Brennan told him, his voice cold and flat. ‘I don’t think any of us can polish the medals they’ll give us for this gig, just yet.’
‘Sir.’ Lithgow continued tapping the keypad buttons. ‘Right, I’m in.’
‘Bring up the arrival records for the kid’s flight,’ Brennan said.
Lithgow highlighted the file and displayed the arrivals details of Daniel’s plane from Heathrow. He entered “Smith, John” into a search criteria field. The screen flashed back – “No results found”.
‘Hack into Heathrow’s flight records and compare the two,’ Brennan told him. ‘We know he was on that flight so let’s see how he got through.’
‘Heathrow’ll take me a little longer,’ Lithgow said. ‘Our lot know the meaning of security.’
‘Just do it.’
‘Who is this kid?’ Davis asked. His words were tinged with grudging admiration.
Brennan gave him a cold stare. ‘What?’
‘I mean, he gets on a flight at Heathrow using a false ID and somehow gets through immigration here, he then takes a cab to a hotel and doesn’t stay at it. He’s just sixteen, right? And by himself? So who is he?’
‘He’s a job,’ Brennan spat. ‘That’s all we need to know.’
‘He’s a smart job,’ Lithgow added.
‘Yeah, I get it,’ Brennan told them. ‘He’s a teenager and he’s smart. I’m not sure about you two but I’m not overwhelmed about the fact that a kid managed to evade us. Not the sort of thing I want going on my record. So do me a favour; find out how he did it and let’s try not to make this any worse than it is.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Okay, I’m into Heathrow central,’ Lithgow said. ‘Calling up flight 7034 and comparing passengers with Dulles arrivals.’
The details of passenger names were displayed as a split screen comparison on the monitor, each name in a separate cell. In the Dulles records one cell flashed red. The name read “Williams, Peter Gordon”.
‘He had another ID,’ Lithgow said.
Brennan took out his black phone and pressed a button. ‘It’s not just the ID,’ he said as he waited for the call to be connected. ‘He would’ve needed to pass a print scan to match the DNA card he had.’
The call clicked through. ‘Yes.’
Brennan inwardly sighed at the mere sound of the man’s voice. ‘Tiberius has managed to evade capture,’ he said.
There was a moment’s pause before Control replied. ‘That’s disappointing news.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Brennan continued. ‘It seems that he was in possession of a second ID with matching security measures, so that he could get through immigration at Dulles. He then disappeared into Washington. We have the name he’s now using.’
‘I see.’ Control paused. ‘I did send three of you, didn’t I?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘To take charge of a child?’
Control’s voice dripped sarcasm and Brennan felt an urge to fly back to London and shove the phone into the man’s mouth. ‘Yes sir.’
‘Do you have any lead as to where he might be?’
‘Somewhere within Washington city limits, as of thirty-five minutes ago.’
Another pause. ‘I must say that I’m deeply unimpressed, Mr Brennan. I had hoped for better.’
‘We’ll go into the city and find him.’
‘No.’
‘Then what are your orders?’
‘Return to base. We know from what happened at Palmer Court that he had help. Whoever it was clearly assisted him in his flight and gave him the subsequent ID.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘It’s likely that Tiberius will dispose of this new identity, yes?’
‘That’s what I’d do.’
‘Hardly a glowing recommendation,’ Control replied. ‘No, it’ll take too long for you to go traipsing around over there searching for him. It’s time that we turned our attention elsewhere. If we can’t easily acquire Tiberius then perhaps we should encourage him to come to us.’
‘Sir?’
‘Return to base, Brennan,’ Control said once more. ‘All we need for him to come to us is bait. We find whoever helped him, you find whoever helped him, and before you know it we’ll all be having tea and biscuits.’
The call ended before Brennan could respond to Control’s last comment.
‘We’re to RTB,’ Brennan said to his men. ‘Pack up and make sure there’s no trace of us looking at these records.’
‘What about the boy?’ Davis asked.
‘Control thinks he’s a fly,’ Brennan answered. ‘He wants us to build a spider’s web. Come on, let’s get out of here.’
Gregory Dryden faced a solid-looking white door with a high square window set into it and slipped his mobile phone inside his jacket, his gaze never shifting from the window.
A series of similar solid-looking doors, on alternate sides of the corridor in which he stood, stretched out along its ten-metre length. The corridor appeared to shine in its surgical cleanliness.
Dryden wore his usual maroon suit. Although “usual” wouldn’t have been most people’s choice of description. It had a high, square Chinese-style collar and was open to his chest, revealing a pristine white shirt beneath. Anyone who stared at the suit for long enough found that the edges of their vision began to blur, that somehow they found their gaze being drawn into the void of the cloth.
The fabric of the suit shifted silently, when Dryden moved, as if it had a life of its own. It didn’t reflect any light and should anyone inadvertently brush against it they would swear that it was unnaturally warm. The first time that someone other than Dryden touched it with bare skin – they had slipped and reached out, grabbing hold of Dryden’s arm – their hand went numb for three days. A rumour had spread throughout Brinkley House, although quietly because no one dared openly voice such a thing, that the material was not of this world. Many of those simply in close proximity to it felt unnerved and somehow distressed.
Gregory Dryden knew the truth, but the rumours were exactly what he wanted.
‘Brennan and his men are coming back,’ he said to a technician who stood several metres away. The man wore a long, white lab coat and clutched a Tablet to his chest. ‘Make sure that as soon as he lands he’s taken immediately to Brinkley House.’
‘Yes sir,’ Oscar Kent replied. He took a step towards his superior, feeling safe to do so now that he had been addressed directly. ‘May I ask what the situation is, concerning Tiberius?’
At last Dryden took his attention away from looking into the room beyond the door. He focused the dark pools of his eyes onto the young Mr Kent. ‘Currently on-going,’ he replied, a thin smile on his lips, almost as if it amused him. ‘There’s a problem with the sequencer in this room,’ Dryden continued, nodding towards the door.
‘Sir?’
‘The second and …’ he paused, concentrating on a sound that Oscar couldn’t hear, ‘fifth pulse variants are out of alignment. See that they’re adjusted.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Dryden turned and strode down the corridor away from Oscar, the clack of his heels echoing off the walls; the young man in the lab coat made a note of Dryden’s order on his Tablet and hurried to keep up with him.
Even though the white door Dryden had been staring through was six centimetres thick and edged in sound-reducing material, Oscar could still heard the faint scream of the room’s inhabitant as he passed by, along with the distinct crackle of electricity.