Old Wilkie was regarding the girl with a look of pride. “Stephanie comes to stay for the odd weekend. She goes to school at Benenden, you know. The Commander is a real gentleman — he’s always taken care of the school fees —”
“Gramps!” Stephanie said sharply, spinning around on her slim legs and strolling away in the opposite direction.
Old Wilkie leaned toward the boys conspiratorially. “Now she’s a teenager, she says life in the country is dull, and just wants to be in London, shopping and seeing her friends. She wasn’t always that way — she used to love it here when she was little. Anyway, by all accounts, London and the south are in such a mess, she’s better off up here until it all blows —”
Out of sight, Stephanie shouted, “Gramps, you coming or what?”
Old Wilkie straightened up. “Are you and the rest of the party staying with the Commander for long?”
Will and Chester exchanged glances. Drake had specifically warned them not to give the man any information about themselves.
“We’re not sure yet,” Will replied.
“Well, if you’re serious about doing some training — commando style — you might be interested in the Tree Walk,” Old Wilkie said.
“What’s that?” Will asked.
“Starts there.” Old Wilkie pointed at a ladder on a metal frame built around the trunk of a massive pine, then raised his finger to the branches up above, where the boys could see something running among the trees.
“It’s an assault course I built for the Commander way back,” Old Wilkie said. “10 Para down in Aldershot copied my idea, but mine’s bigger and better. I keep it in working order even though the Commander hasn’t used it in years.” Old Wilkie smiled at the boys. “Stephanie can get around it like greased lightning. You should challenge her — see if you can beat her time.”
“Sounds fun,” Will said.
“Yes, we should do that,” Chester chimed in unconvincingly, as his eyes followed the metal track, which zigzagged through the tree canopies.
“Well, gentlemen, I’d better be getting on. I hope that we come across each other again,” Old Wilkie said. He began to whistle to himself as he strolled off after Stephanie.
“You’re not getting me up there,” Chester said, then smiled. “Not unless Steph wants a race. She’s really nice, isn’t she?” He pursed his lips as he thought of something. “Have to say I’m not too keen on redheads after what Martha did to me, but I’m prepared to make exceptions.” He had a dreamy look on his face.
“So you like her more than Elliott?” Will teased.
“I . . . er . . .” Chester stalled in embarrassment.
Will was looking at his friend with surprise. He hadn’t meant the comment to be taken seriously.
“Well, it’s not as if we see much of Elliott these days, is it?” Chester blustered. “She’s always in her room, taking endless baths and doing her nails and all that girl stuff.”
Will nodded. “She told me her back was hurting her . . . that her shoulders ached all the time.”
“Maybe it’s that, then, and she’s just under the weather,” Chester surmised. “But she’s not at all like she used to be. It’s like she’s gone soft or something.”
“True,” Will agreed. “Since we’ve been here, she’s changed so much. I’m really quite worried about her.”
As the rain continued to hammer down and they jogged the last mile to the house, Will and Chester were joined by Bartleby and Colly, the two huge Hunters.
“Got ourselves a big cat escort,” Chester laughed as the animals positioned themselves on either side of him and Will. Their heads held high, the Hunters were loping along with steady, easy strides, as if showing off that the pace was nothing to them. In response, Will and Chester sped up, but the Hunters did likewise.
“We’ll never beat them.” Will chuckled, out of breath, as the four of them reached the house. They thundered up the steps of the main entrance and crashed through the doors into the hall. Parry appeared almost immediately.
“Shoes off, boys, eh,” he urged them, seeing that they had already tracked mud across the black-and-white marble floor. “And look at the state of those two mangy animals.” He glowered at the cats, their bald skin streaked with dirt. “They’re polishing off all the grouse on the estate. Soon, there won’t be a single blessed bird left,” Parry added resentfully. The tough old man with his wayward hair and shaggy beard was wearing a kitchen apron over his tweed suit trousers, and in his hand was a sheaf of papers — it was a printout of some kind. “You’ve both been gone longer than I expected,” he noted, glancing at the grandfather clock.
The boys stood there mutely, wondering if they should say something about the encounter with Old Wilkie and his granddaughter. But they didn’t and Parry spoke again, “Well, I’m pleased you’re taking your training seriously. I expect you could do with some food now?”
Both Will and Chester nodded eagerly.
“Thought so. I’ve left some soup on the hob and there’s a fresh loaf to go with it. Sorry there isn’t more, but I’m rather busy at the moment. There’s something going on.”
Opening the door to his study, Parry hurried inside. But before the door slammed shut, the boys caught their first glimpse of the interior.
“Was that your dad in there?” Will asked. Before the door closed, the boys had spotted Mr. Rawls standing over what appeared to be an old-fashioned printer from the loud clattering it was making.
“Yes, I saw him, too. I thought the study was off-limits to all of us,” Chester replied. He shrugged, then knelt down to remove his plimsolls. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen much of Dad lately — maybe he’s been in there all the time?”
“And I wonder what Parry was talking about. Do you think it’s you-know-who up to their tricks again?” Will posed. It had been several months since the attack on the financial district in the City of London and the explosions in the West End, but then the Styx seemed not to have continued with their offensive against Topsoilers.
“If there’s anything going on, it’ll be on the news. Let’s grab our food and eat it in front of the TV,” Chester suggested.
“Sounds like a plan,” Will said.
Due to the security precautions, there were long queues to get into the special performance of La Bohème at the Palais Garnier in the 9th arrondissement of Paris. The additional precautions had been laid on because the French President and his wife were attending that night.
As the gendarme used handheld scanners to check each member of the audience before they entered the foyer, a woman stood patiently in line.
“Bonsoir, madame,” a gendarme said as her turn came, and she handed him her clutch bag to inspect.
“Bonsoir,” she replied, while his partner ran the scanner over the full length of her body, back and front.
“Anglaise,” the gendarme observed casually as he made sure her ticket was valid. “I ’ope you enjoy the performance.”
“Thank you,” Jenny replied, then the gendarme waved her through. As she went in search of her seat, she walked like someone who was wading through thick fog and couldn’t see the ground in front of her. She eventually found her place and sat there quietly, waiting for the curtain to go up.
The woman, Jenny Grainger, had raised no red flags as she passed through the scanner and the security checks at St. Pancras International before boarding the Eurostar to Paris. And neither did she do anything to arouse suspicion during the rest of the journey, although her face was drawn and perhaps a little jaundiced, and most of the time she seemed to stare straight ahead with unblinking eyes. But if anyone had paid her any attention, they would most likely have assumed that she was suffering from fatigue.
But now in the Palais Garnier, as everyone rose to their feet while the French President and his attractive wife were shown to their seats, Jenny began to fidget with her bag. The lights dimmed and the curtain was raised.
In the seat next to her, Jenny’s neighbor became
annoyed as Jenny continued to fidget, whispering frantically to herself. As the man watched her more closely, he saw that she appeared to be in some difficulty. She had her hand on her abdomen and was pressing it hard. As he was a doctor, it was natural for him to inquire if she needed help. But when he spoke to her, she didn’t reply, her whispered ramblings only becoming louder.
Jenny suddenly jumped to her feet. Disturbing everyone in the row, she made her way hastily to the central aisle. However, instead of turning right in the direction of the exit, she dropped her clutch bag and began to run toward the stage. Toward the French President.
She never reached him, but the explosion killed over twenty members of the audience.
A number of witnesses stated that one second she’d been there, and the next there’d been a flash of blinding light and a massive bang. But while some thought she’d tripped on the carpet, others swore that a member of the President’s staff had intercepted her. This couldn’t be substantiated because the man had been killed outright. Whatever had stopped her, Jenny never reached her target, and the President and the First Lady were rushed out of the theater by their protection officers.
Although the records showed that Jenny had no known terrorist affiliations or political interests other than having once been a member of the Young Conservatives, it was assumed she’d somehow smuggled a device into the theater. But this conflicted with all the security camera footage and forensic evidence, which pointed to something extremely bizarre.
It appeared that the explosion had come from within her, and the detailed analytical work supported this because much of her body mass was missing from the blast scene.
The theory quickly emerged that Jenny’s internal organs had been removed to make room for a two-part explosive, which, when mixed, became a potent weapon.
This very ordinary housewife from London, who would most likely have died anyway within a few days from the horrific mutilation of her body, had been a walking bomb.
On his way home after work, the man emerged from the Tube station and turned right onto Camden High Street. With his glasses and neat appearance, he had a studious air about him as he surveyed the disparate groups of people in the area.
In the last decade, the market at Camden Lock had become a popular destination for black-clad teenagers who hung around the various boutiques and covered markets. But in among them, even at this hour in the evening, there was still a smattering of tourists hoping to catch the last boat tour down to Little Venice, or to see the sequence of working locks on the canal itself.
In his sober suit, the man was rather at odds with the meretricious displays in the shop windows of brightly colored boots and leather belts with large brass buckles of screaming skulls or crossed bullets.
He came to a sudden stop just before the bridge over the canal, then stepped back from the edge of the pavement to allow a phalanx of Australian tourists to pass. Taking a cell phone from his jacket, the man appeared to start speaking on it, chuckling as he did so.
“Call that a disguise?” he said. “You’re far too old to pull off the goth look.”
Several feet away, in a shadowy bay between two buildings, Drake laughed. “Maybe, but you know they’re called emos these days. Anyway, I’m still a big fan of The Cure,” he said.
Drake pulled farther back into the shadows, pressing himself against the pitted Victorian brickwork. Decked out in a loose-fitting black combat jacket and trousers, he had a pair of Doc Martens on his feet. But this wasn’t what the man had found so amusing; Drake had completely shaved his head, and sported a mustache and goatee. He’d topped this off with a pair of small round sunglasses, the lenses mirrored.
“Thought you might be in touch,” the man said as his expression became serious. “I followed up on the three Dominion specimens we lodged —”
“But they’ve vanished from the pathogen banks,” Drake interrupted. “And there’ll be no trace of them on the main database anymore.”
“How . . . ?!” the man exclaimed. “How do you know that?” He began to turn toward Drake.
“No!” Drake warned. “They might be watching.”
The man turned toward the road again, nodding as if he was agreeing with the person on the other end of his phone conversation.
“And that’s why I badly need your help,” Drake went on. “I need you, Charlie, my favorite immunologist, to cook up some more Dominion vaccine for me, then I’ll figure out another way to distribute it. And I’ve got some other stuff I want you to look at for me.”
“Your favorite immunologist?” Charlie repeated with mock indignation. “Bet I’m the only immunologist you can call on, and certainly the only one stupid enough to risk his life for you.” Taking a breath, he asked, “So how do we go about it this time?”
“When you get home, you’ll find a package hidden out back behind your trash bin — I’ve left some more blood samples in it, and also some viral specimens I grabbed from the Colony.” Drake paused as a woman passed Charlie on the pavement, then he resumed. “There’s a really nasty strain in there — a killer — so watch how you handle it.”
“We treat every pathogen as if it’s the Great Plague,” Charlie said.
“That’s uncannily near the truth,” Drake whispered, his voice grim. “Now you’d better not hang around here any longer. I’ll swing by your place in a few days.”
“OK,” Charlie said, pretending to press the button to end the nonexistent conversation before he went on his way again. After a moment, Drake stepped out behind two aged rockabillies schlepping along in their suede shoes and with large quiffs of hair dyed an unfeasibly black black. He kept behind them as they headed toward Camden Tube station, where numerous police vans abruptly pulled up.
London Transport employees were ushering people out of the station, and the trellis gates were pulled across its entrances. More than a dozen police in full riot gear had disembarked from their vehicles with some urgency, only to stand around and look rather confused as to what they were doing there. One was tapping his baton on his riot shield as an announcement came over the Tannoy that the Tube station was closed so a suspicious package could be investigated.
Drake blended into the crowd collecting outside the station and listened to the resentful comments of the commuters. This type of occurrence had become increasingly commonplace in London following the first wave of attacks by the Styx or, more accurately, their Darklit New Germanians.
In the months after the bombings in the city and the West End, the country — already in a precarious financial position — had been tipped into a bleak and spiraling recession. The assassination of the head of the Bank of England had rattled people badly. And while these outbreaks of terrorism by unidentified perpetrators seemed to have petered out, the general unrest continued. The populace had called for a change of government, and an early election had been held. The resulting hung parliament led to a power-sharing arrangement, and a climate of indecision and confusion in which industrial action was rife.
Ideal conditions for the Styx as they forged ahead with their plans. As Drake knew only too well.
“Move along now, people,” a policeman directed the crowd. “Station’s closed. You’ll have to take alternative forms of transport.”
“What d’y’mean?” one of the rockabillies demanded. “Y’mean take the bus? Did y’forget they’re all on strike again this week?”
As people in the crowd began to shout in agreement and surge forward, Drake decided he’d better extricate himself before it got out of hand. He strolled casually away. Following the attacks in the city, he was a wanted man — the Styx had made sure of that. And although he was confident his disguise would help him to avoid light scrutiny, the police might begin to make arbitrary arrests to disperse the mob, and he didn’t want to tempt fate. Not while he had so much to do.
Chester woke up earlier than normal the next morning, racked by a cramp in his leg.
“I’ve overdone it,” he moaned to himself, mass
aging his calf and remembering how far he and Will had run the day before. All of a sudden he stopped kneading the locked-up muscle and stared into the middle distance. “Growing pains,” he said, recalling what his mother would say when his aching legs made him shout with pain in the middle of the night. Mrs. Rawls would rush to his room and sit beside him on the bed, talking to him in her soothing voice until the pains had subsided. They never seemed to be so bad with her there, and now he had no idea where she was, or even if she was still alive. He tried not to think about what the Styx might have done with her, because that felt worse than any physical pain. He still harbored the hope that she was safe and hiding out somewhere.
Once he was dressed, Chester left his bedroom and went along the hall, taking long paces in an effort to loosen up his legs. He rapped twice on Will’s door as he passed, to let his friend know he was up, but didn’t wait for a response.
Downstairs, there was no sign that anyone else had surfaced yet, and as usual the door to Parry’s study was firmly shut. Chester lingered outside it for a moment; for once the printer was silent, and he couldn’t hear any other sounds from inside.He pushed open the door into the drawing room and entered.
The air was warm from the fire in the hearth, in front of which, sitting cross-legged on a tartan traveling rug, was Mrs. Burrows.
Her eyes were closed and her face blank, and although she must have heard Chester come in, she said nothing. The boy didn’t know what to do; should he announce himself and risk disturbing her, or should he simply slip out of the room and leave her to it?
A thump behind him made him start as Will jumped down the last flight of stairs.
“You’re up early,” he announced to Chester in a loud voice. “Bet you’re —”
He trailed off as Chester pressed a finger to his lips and then pointed at Mrs. Burrows.