The Shadow Protocol

  “How long will this take?” she asked. “I mean, after I’ve seen Roger—you just mentioned duplicating his work. Do you want me to carry on with it?”

  “Right now?” said Tony. “I can’t give you an answer. It depends what Roger has to say. But we can have you back in England tomorrow, if that’s what you want.”

  She looked back toward the function room. “It’s just … the timing …”

  “As I said, we’ll talk to Mr. Harding,” Sergeant told her. “I’m sure he’ll be understanding.” She sounded vaguely threatening.

  “Okay, so if I say yes, what happens?”

  “We’ll stop by your home so you can pick up your passport and clothes, your toothbrush, anything else you need,” said Tony. “Then we’ll drive to the airport and the plane will take us to DC.”

  “Just like that? No queuing, no having my shoes scanned for bombs and my nail clippers confiscated?”

  “It’s a US government jet, and it’s been sent here specifically to fly you to the States.”

  “Huh. Well, I guess I’ve got to go, then. It’d be an awful waste of jet fuel if I didn’t.”

  “The US taxpayers appreciate it,” Tony said, with a light edge of sarcasm.

  “I was more concerned about the polar bears, but …” She was still of two minds, but foremost in both was the thought of her former teacher and mentor. Whatever had happened to him was clearly serious, and he had specifically requested to see her. Without Albion’s tutelage she wouldn’t be where she was today. She owed him a lot; certainly enough to visit him in hospital. That the American government thought the meeting important enough to put a private jet at her disposal added an almost irresistible layer of intrigue.

  “Okay, I’ll go,” she said. “But please let me tell James myself. I can’t just disappear without a word.”

  “All right,” said Sergeant, with evident reluctance. “We’ll both go and talk to him now.”

  Tony took out a phone. “I’ll get the ball rolling while you do that.”

  Bianca and Sergeant returned to the function room, leaving him to make his call. Just as Bianca reached to open the door, Sergeant put a hand on her arm. “There’s one thing, Dr. Childs. SIS is doing this as a favor to our American friends—professional courtesy, so to speak. But …” She glanced back as if to check that the CIA man wasn’t eavesdropping. “They’re being very tight-lipped about what your friend Dr. Albion was actually working on. Counterterrorism, they say, which is why it’s a national security issue—but they won’t say in what area. And if they won’t give us the full story, it affects our ability to fight terrorism.”

  Bianca knew there was something else coming. “So, you want …”

  “We just want you to keep your eyes and ears open while you’re over there. Discreetly, of course.”

  “Of course,” Bianca said cuttingly as she knocked on the door, wondering what she was about to let herself in for.

  WASHINGTON, DC, UNITED STATES

  “Bianca!” said Albion. He tried to sit up, but grimaced at a stab of pain. “Great to see you again. Glad you could make it.”

  “I could hardly say no,” she said, leaning down gingerly to embrace him. Despite his size, he seemed worryingly small and weak in the hospital bed. Tony, who had brought her to the room, stood back and waited.

  “You’re looking well. And you’ve done something to your hair, I think?”

  “I tried a new tint. Kind of a—”

  “Oh no, I didn’t mean colored. I meant combed.”

  “You cheeky old sod!” she said, but with a smile.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. But no, you look great. So, how are you? You were going to join Jimmy Harding’s start-up. How’s that working out?”

  “Pretty well,” she said, not wanting to jinx anything. She still hadn’t heard any news from James about the deal, good or bad. “Yes, I’ve been there over two years. We’ve had some promising results.”

  “I’m not surprised, knowing you. So, you’re here. Tony, would you mind if I talked to Bianca in private? Don’t worry, I won’t give away any state secrets.”

  Tony nodded. “Dr. Childs, I’ll be outside when you’re done. Talk to you later, Roger.”

  Albion waited until he had left the room before speaking again. “Decent guy, just … a bit of a straight arrow,” he opined. “Worryingly few vices. Anyway, take a seat.” He pushed a button to elevate the head of the bed as Bianca pulled up a chair. “I imagine you’re ever so slightly curious about what’s going on.”

  “Nooo, I hadn’t given it the slightest thought the whole time the CIA was flying me to Washington on a private jet.”

  Albion chuckled. “It’s amazing how much money the US government is willing to throw around to get something they want. I’d be up in arms at the waste of taxpayer dollars”—he dropped his voice, mock-conspiratorially—“if I didn’t have an extremely good accountant making sure I pay as few of them as possible.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve joined the one percent, Roger!”

  “There’s always going to be a top one percent; it’s simple math. Better to be in it than not.” He cocked his head, seeing her look of disapproval. “Oh sorry. I forgot you’re a commie.”

  “Hardly. But right now, you Americans think that anyone to the left of Margaret Thatcher is a communist,” she retorted, prodding his arm. “People over here start screaming ‘Socialism!’ about policies that even the most right-wing government in Europe would consider a bit extreme. I don’t know if it’s funny or scary.”

  “When it comes to American politics, it’s both. It’s always both. But,” he went on, becoming serious, “this isn’t so much politics as realpolitik. You’ve got questions. I’ll answer them—although there are some things I can’t tell you just yet. Even though I imagine Tony asked you to sign three hundred pages of forms just to get limited security clearance.”

  Bianca pulled a face. “He did, and I almost didn’t sign them, to be honest. They made it sound as if I’d be sent to Guantánamo Bay if I breathed a single word.” She narrowed her eyes. “And you can’t tell me things ‘yet’? It seems like you’re expecting me to be around for a while.”

  “We’ll see how it goes. But I guarantee you’ll be interested. So, ask.”

  “Okay. The obvious first: What the hell happened to you?”

  “I took a trip to Pakistan, where I got a nine-millimeter bullet to the back.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “Yeah, that was basically my reaction, but with more ‘aaaargh.’ I won’t bore you with the literally gory details, but suffice it to say that the next time I eat solid food, which won’t be for a while yet”—he waved a hand at the intravenous drip beside the bed—“it’ll have a slightly shorter journey through and out. Somewhere around here, there’s a jar with about a foot of my small intestine in it.”

  “Jesus,” Bianca said. “Was there any other damage?”

  “No, I was, air quotes, lucky. Part of my deal with my employers was that I get danger money for working abroad—and also a paid medical plan. Just as well, in hindsight.”

  “I can’t believe how … how relaxed you seem about it.”

  “Well, the first reason is that what’s done is done, so there’s no point having hysterics. The second reason is that I’m drugged to the eyeballs! They’ve got me on quite a cocktail. A good buzz, actually. Reminds me of my college days.”

  “When did all this happen?”

  “Yesterday. Or was it two days ago? It’s confusing enough with the time zones, even if I didn’t feel like I’d just had a damn good toke.”

  “Roger,” she chided. “What about Jill, and the kids? Have they come to see you?”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t spoken to either of the kids in over a year. And Jill, well …”

  She noticed a band of paler skin on the ring finger of his left hand. “Oh Roger! Not again!”

  “Don’t give me that look! I’d already been divorced three times,
so the odds of wife number four faring any better weren’t good. Besides, I enjoy looking for the next ex–Mrs. Albion. It’s a lot more fun than the actual marriage.”

  “You are a terrible human being,” Bianca told him mockingly. “But what were you doing in Pakistan?”

  The jocular look disappeared. “I’ve been working on something for US intelligence. I can’t tell you anything else until you get full security clearance, but suffice it to say that something I developed is key to it.”

  “A drug?”

  “Yes. Well, more than one, but they’re related in function. The reason I was out in the field rather than sitting in a nice clean safe lab is that the doses have to be very precise. They depend not only on the subject’s size and weight, body characteristics, and so on, but also on an assessment of their physical condition. It’s too complicated to be left to a chart—someone with medical knowledge has to make a determination before deciding the dose.” Albion glanced toward the door, dropping his voice to a whisper. “At least … that’s what I told them.”

  She leaned closer. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, any chimp with an iPhone app could work out the right dose. The reason I said it’s incredibly complicated and only I could do it was that the moment they found out I wasn’t indispensable, they would have fired my ass.”

  “What! You …” She brought her voice back down to a strained whisper. “You lied to the CIA?”

  “Technically they’re not the CIA, but I’ll let them explain that. But yes, I … bent the truth a little.”

  “A little! Are you out of your mind? They would have sent you to prison if they’d found out. And even though they didn’t, it’s not like you’re any better off. You got shot!”

  Even through the drugs, Albion was annoyed by her criticism. “Yes, I know, it didn’t exactly turn out as I’d hoped. But I had over two years working for a very generous client. We’re talking black budget here—it’s like a bottomless well of cash. But if I’d said, Okay, guys, here are the formulas and my little black book telling you everything you need to work out the dosages, then it would all have gone, just like that. Poof! No more money—not even patent royalties. There was no way I was going to give that up willingly.”

  Bianca’s tone became scathing. “And look where it got you. Stuck in a bed with your gut in a jar.”

  “I don’t need a lecture from you, Miss Childs!” he snapped, before calming. “Sorry, I’m sorry. Yes, I know all this is entirely my own dumb fault. But I’ve just been through yet another divorce, for God’s sake. I need the money, and if I gave up this opportunity, then what? Go back into academia for peanuts? Become a dancing monkey for big pharma, doing work-for-hire to develop new kinds of impotence treatments?” His evident disgust at the prospect passed, his eyes becoming beseeching. “Bianca, I’m too old to do what you did and risk joining a start-up. I needed this. I’m sixty-two—if I can keep this job going for another couple of years, I can retire without having to worry about clipping coupons just to afford to eat.”

  “Everything’s about money with you, isn’t it, Roger?”

  “Yes—but at least I’m shameless and consistent about it.” The joke thawed her, a little. “You’ve known exactly what I’m like ever since we met. After all, the reason I was teaching in England in the first place was a nice fat research grant. Oh, I miss those days.”

  “Teaching in England?”

  “No, when pharma companies threw money around without demanding specific results to a timetable. Damn bankers crashing the economy, they ruined everything! But,” he added, “I’ll admit I miss working in England too. Country pubs, I liked them. And big fries with vinegar splashed all over them.”

  “They’re called chips,” Bianca corrected in a teasing tone.

  “Whatever. But I met some good people there. Good friends. Like you.”

  She knew him well enough to spot the approaching hard sell. “So what is it you want from this particular good friend?”

  “Oh! I’m cut to the quick!” he said, in mock offense. “How could you possibly think, yadda yadda. No, you’re quite right—I want you to help me keep this job.”

  “The job that got you shot.”

  “I’ll admit, as perks go that’s not quite up there with free dental. But … there’s something else.” A cloud crossed his face. “I’m sixty-two—and my mother’s eighty-five.”

  “Rosemary?” She had met Albion’s mother only once, but it had been enough to see where he had gotten his vitality and gift of the gab. “How is she?”

  “Not good. She’s going to have to go into a care home, which she’ll detest—but the early symptoms have started to manifest.”

  She didn’t need to ask to know that the symptoms were those of dementia. “Oh God. Roger, I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah.” He sighed. “I can’t help wondering if the human brain just wasn’t meant to last. If you think about it, we’ve added twenty or thirty years to the average life span over the past couple of centuries …” Another rueful breath. “But yes, she’s going to need care. And since this is America and not some communist utopia like Britain”—a faint smile—“that care does not come cheap.”

  “You’re doing this for her?”

  “I’m not the dashing mercenary rogue I like to portray myself as, Bianca,” he said. “Well, not entirely. But yes, I might not have found a cure for Alzheimer’s—I’ll have to leave that to you—but I can at least make sure that my mother is treated with the respect and dignity she deserves. And I’d like you to help me.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  “To stand in for me until I’m back on my feet.”

  A long silence. “In the job that, to reiterate, got you shot.”

  “Hopefully they’ve learned a lesson in workplace safety from that! But think of it as an opportunity. I understand things are looking very good at Jimmy’s company right now—”

  She made an exasperated sound. “Does everybody know about that?”

  “The term intelligence community isn’t entirely ironic. But I know how these things work—the live tests have to be approved and set up, due diligence, legal and patent paperwork, et cetera, et cetera. You won’t be doing any lab work of actual importance for a couple of months. They can spare you—especially if the US government says how grateful it would be for your services, and maybe offers compensation in return for your temporary loan. No drug company is going to turn down a quid pro quo from Uncle Sam. It’s good business sense.”

  “And what would this job actually entail?”

  “Just what I said before. You assess the subject, calculate the drug dose, then administer it.” He lowered his voice again. “And make it look beyond the ken of mere mortals, obviously. Bamboozle everyone with medibabble. It’s what I do.”

  “Did.”

  “And will do again, I hope. But it’s straightforward enough—I’ll teach you. And you get to travel; I visited some very interesting places, and got shot in almost none of them.”

  Bianca pursed her lips, considering it. “These drugs of yours—what are they?”

  “They’re called Neutharsine, Hyperthymexine, and Mnemexal. Can’t tell you what they actually do yet, I’m afraid—classified. Although I’m sure you can make educated guesses from the corrupted Latin in the names. But they’re an offshoot of the development I did on Netronal, if you remember that.”

  “Of course I remember; I helped you with some of the lab work when I was a postgrad.” She paused, puzzled. “Wait—I thought Netronal didn’t get picked up?”

  “No, but the new drugs built off my old research.”

  “So they’re related to memory formation?”

  “Again, I can’t say anything just yet. But please, Bianca, it’s not exaggerating to say that my future—and my mother’s—depends on my keeping this job. All I’m asking is that you act as my substitute for a few weeks. You might not even be needed; it depends if they carry out any operations. The whole thing cou
ld end up as nothing more than a paid vacation, and Washington’s a fascinating place to visit. I know you’d like the National Gallery of Art.”

  Another pause for thought. “I’m not going to commit to anything until I know more about what I’m supposed to be doing,” she said. “But … I’ll at least find out what that is before I make a decision.”

  Albion tried to cover his disappointment. “Well, that’s as much as I could hope for right now, I suppose.”

  She took his hand. “Roger, I mean it—I’ll see what they have to say. And, you know … I really don’t want you or Rosemary to starve.” A smile, her first for a while. “But whatever happens, I want you to get better, okay?”

  “Believe me, it’s at the top of my to-do list.”

  Bianca kissed his cheek. “All right. I’ll tell you what I decide before I go back to England. See you again soon.”

  “Bye, Bianca. And thank you for coming.”

  “Thank you for an intriguing proposition.”

  “Don’t thank me just yet,” he said quietly after she left the room.

  “So, what do you think of Washington?”

  Bianca pulled her gaze away from the streets outside the government-issue black SUV to look at Tony. “Roger said it was interesting. He was right.” The ride had taken her past the Capitol and what she recognized from an addiction to The X-Files in her youth as the FBI building, even giving her a brief view of the White House before continuing northwest into the city’s business district.

  “Yeah, it’s quite a place.”

  Now that she was over her initial surprise and bewilderment at the whole situation, she had been able to give her companion a more thorough assessment. Tony was handsome and well built, a wily intelligence behind his pale blue eyes—which met hers as he glanced away from the road. She realized he was also appraising her, making her feel briefly and foolishly self-conscious, wondering if she was being rated as highly on his internal scale as he was on hers.

  As if sensing this, he smiled in reassurance. “We’re almost there.” He indicated a building ahead.