The Gang of Four

‘What is it!?’

  ‘Prime Minister, Sir Neville Stonehatch and Mrs. Collier are waiting.’

  The PM checked the time: precisely nine am.

  ‘Good, send them in now.’

  The Chief of the Security Services and his deputy entered the PM’s office.

  ‘Morning, morning, do sit down… So, what new horrors do you have for me today?’

  Sir Neville Stonehatch began with a briefing from Porton Down:

  ‘The ash material collected from London has been chemically analyzed, sir. It is a type of felsic volcanic ash more commonly associated with violent volcanic eruptions occurring near tectonic plate boundaries.’

  ‘Really? Why is that material present here? Was this thing made out of silica? Was it a meteorite after all?’

  ‘We don’t know for sure that this ash is the remains of our USO, sir. It may be part of a weapon, or weapons, that was used to destroy it.’

  The PM ruminated on this for a moment: ‘Is this just a hunch or a logical deduction?’

  ‘Analyses of the ash fields indicate decreasing concentrations the further from point-zero we get, as would be expected, but there is a second, much higher concentration centred elsewhere: Whitehall, to be precise, Prime Minister.’

  The PM shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘There is also a variance between the two ash populations. The Whitehall material is recognizably felsic; but the bulk scattered over London also contains high concentrations of certain rare earths including yttrium, neodymium, cerium and erbium. We believe these elements constitute part of the leftovers of the USO, sir.’

  ‘Weight for weight those are worth more than gold!’ remarked the PM.

  ‘Indeed, sir, considerably more, and the concentrations in the ash are even higher than is typically found in the ores mined commercially.’

  ‘Wow, so we can do the same with the ash!?’

  ‘Yes, sir. In theory there is currently as much rare earth scattered across London as has been extracted from the world’s mines to date.’

  The PM was amazed. The first piece of good news! ‘We need to step up the collection of ash and take steps for its quick processing.’

  ‘Already in hand, sir,’ stated Mrs. Collier,’ DEFRA, The Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs will be handling the red tape. They have been instructed to keep all of this classified.’

  ‘Good! Any idea how much all this could be worth?’

  ‘Estimates vary widely, as it is still far from clear how much can be extracted.’

  ‘Guesstimate?’

  ‘Anything from a few billion dollars to this being a new “North Sea Oil”, sir.’

  The PM gaped at his security staff, mouth truly wide open.

  ‘A ray of light punching through the gloom, sir,’ said Sir Neville, without any hint of levity.

  ‘Yeah!’ The PM began to think how best to exploit this politically. It would require some thought, the dividends were enormous… his political opponents could be eviscerated with this! So much for the looming recession. That reminded him, he really should check up on all that stuff…

  ‘Sir, regarding the overall picture, we have attempted to develop that “narrative” you asked for.’

  ‘Hmm? Oh yes! Shoot!’

  Mrs. Collier began to describe the series of events as MI6 understood them to be:

  ‘On Monday afternoon an attack was launched against Extraterrestrial Biological Entities (EBEs), who, for reasons unknown, were concentrated at the FO annex. The EBEs then called in reinforcements from a large “mother ship” or USO…’

  Mrs. Collier paused, apparently barely able to believe any of this herself, but she soldiered on:

  ‘Between the arrival and subsequent destruction of the USO – during those critical few minutes when the gigantic ship hovered over London – several hundred humans were killed. We assume the mother, I mean, USO, was responsible for those deaths, motive unknown. Then it was taken out by means not understood but apparently involving a focused channelling of volcanic energy and mass.

  ‘The perpetrators have been observed, but remain unidentified. Their status as friend-or-foe is also still to be determined, but their ransacking of Sir Neville’s office tells us a few things, sir.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The files they were interested in covered paranormal activity, UFOs etc. We think the gang may be gathering intel for a new assault against these aliens.’

  ‘Or other groups of aliens, sir,’ added Sir Neville.

  ‘That it?’ asked the PM.

  ‘The best we can manage so far, sir.’

  ‘I see. Plenty of loose ends, though: What about all the different DNA found at the annex? Why have deaths occurred worldwide? And why just a few hundred? And who are the individuals that fought back and then broke into your office, Sir Neville?’

  ‘The investigation into the Vauxhall Cross incident is ongoing, sir. Fingerprints found there do match with some found at the annex. Mainly the male. But the female has been leaving marks as well. Other forensics are being analyzed at Lewisham.’

  ‘Are these “normal” fingerprints?’

  ‘They appear to be, sir: the man has mainly arches, the woman mainly ulna loops. Both are common.’

  The PM listened to some further conjecture until it became clear that both Mrs. Collier and Sir Neville were now just throwing around unsubstantiated ideas. He held aloft a statesmanlike hand and silence returned to his office.

  ‘Where do we go from here? What, in your opinion, is our priority in this investigation?’

  There was a pause. Sir Neville shrugged, suggesting that beyond ongoing investigations there was nothing much else they could do, but Mrs. Collier was focusing hard on some inner thought, or idea…

  ‘Mrs. Collier?’ prompted the PM.

  ‘The Gang of Four, Prime Minister, there–’

  ‘Is that what we are calling them now? By the way, how many people in the secret service know about all this?’

  ‘That know all of it – just the three of us, Prime Minister. But there are teams working on aspects: the satellite footage, the recovery of ash, the Whitehall and Vauxhall Cross incidents, Dosogne etc.’

  ‘Hmm, that sounds like a lot of people and a lot of potential security issues.’

  ‘These people are reliable, sir,’ replied Sir Neville.

  ‘I hope so, just ensure that only we continue to know the full picture.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. That’s our aim, too, sir.’

  ‘Good. Now, Mrs. Collier, I’m sorry I interrupted you, what were you going to say about “The Gang of Four”?’

  ‘We have been assuming, because of their brazen antics, that they are… untouchable. And can’t be caught.’

  The PM noticed that Sir Neville was nodding slowly, clearly this was his view as well.

  ‘Go on, Mrs. Collier,’ the PM urged.

  ‘It’s probably just a minor detail, Prime Minister, but their selfie can be time-checked from the camera in the office. It was not sent to Sir Neville’s phone until a full ten minutes later.’

  ‘Enough time for them to exit the building!’ exclaimed the PM. ‘Sir Neville, when you received the image on your phone, what did you do?’

  ‘I recognized my office instantly and used my phone to trigger the alarms and initiate an automatic lockdown.’

  ‘And then you conducted a thorough search of the building and found nothing!’

  ‘Yes, sir, although we assumed–’

  ‘You assumed the search would be fruitless as these birds had flown, teleported out of there, or something.’

  ‘Well, yes, something along–’

  ‘But they needed those ten minutes, enough time to just walk out of there! ... Okay, so we can assume they are travelling about London via conventional means ... Good deductions, Mrs Collier, but how does this help us?’

  ‘Well, there is also the question of the CCTV covering the building as a whole. They took it out, but why bother if no o
ne notices them?’

  ‘Your point?’

  ‘Somehow, they can avoid being noticed but they can’t keep their images off closed circuit television. They shut down Vauxhall Cross’s network and there have been many glitches to the city-wide network this week, including Whitehall at precisely the critical time.’

  ‘I thought you put that down to an EM pulse from the exploding ship?’

  ‘It could well have been an EM pulse,’ remarked Mrs. Collier with enthusiasm, ‘but cameras were going off-line before that. I believe we can use this to map their movements!’

  The PM leaned back in his chair and regarded a rather self-satisfied Mrs. Collier. ‘I’d give you a promotion for this, but I guess Sir Neville would object!’

  The PM and Mrs. Collier both laughed heartily.

  ‘There is also the question of Dosogne,’ observed the unsmiling Sir Neville.

  Mrs. Collier suddenly sobered up: ‘Dosogne needs to be pulled in again. And we take the gloves off this time.’

  ‘I’d urge against that, sir,’ said Sir Neville.

  ‘Why?’ asked the PM, ‘Oh, let me guess, his legal team! I’m telling you, Dosogne’s “legal team” is the biggest bogey man in all of this! Throw them in the Thames if you have to!’

  ‘No, it’s not that, sir.’ Sir Neville began fiddling with his phone; he then placed it on the PM’s desk so that everyone could observe its small screen: ‘CCTV, currently from Oxford Street: one rather worse-for-wear Mr. Alan Dosogne.’

  The PM and his two security officers watched as Dosogne staggered and lurched down Oxford Street, stopping frequently to prop himself up against lampposts, shop fronts, waste bins – anything that came to hand.

  ‘What the hell’s the matter with him?’ asked the PM.

  ‘He’s drunk or hungover, sir. He’s been out partying all night with some of London’s elite. We’ve been tracking him since he left NSY.’

  The PM shook his head: ‘What a loser! But why does this mean we shouldn’t pull him in?’

  ‘Well, I feel he can be pulled in at any stage, if we so desire. But in the meantime, why not just follow him and see who he talks to. Who knows, even the Gang of Four may turn up.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose, you’re right,’ remarked the PM, still viewing the live footage from Oxford Street: ‘What’s he doing now!?’

  Everyone studied the phone closely: Dosogne had slumped over a railing and was not moving. Mrs. Collier frowned: ‘If he were my son I’d be very concerned!’

  ‘Your sons never had one-too-many, Mrs. Collier?’ asked the PM.

  ‘It’s not that. His profile and background suggest a very sober young man: sharp, intelligent and generally very well-liked. But since his reappearance yesterday… well, he’s been like this!’

  ‘A bit of a dork,’ added the PM.

  ‘Hmm. He did not emerge from Monday unscathed. Something’s happened to him!’

  ‘He’s on the move again,’ observed the PM.

  The Prime minister and his security staff continued to watch Dosogne until he finally tripped down the flight of stairs leading to Oxford Circus tube station.

  ***