Would he still be here if not for his sister? Probably. He loved them both – there was no denying that. But he also hated them both in a way, hated that he was being tied down, his dreams and ambitions castrated just as he was on his way to achieve them. Jake didn’t want to be stuck here any longer than he had to be, stuck on this estate working a shit job for shit pay, never knowing when violence would descend as it had descended on his father. And he was also afraid, afraid that things would get worse, afraid of what the future held and what it didn’t hold. And it was painful to live in fear, because that meant he wasn’t in control.
10.54PM, 14
th
September 2015, White’s Private Members Club, London
Croft didn’t normally eat dessert, but by the time the offer had been made, he was drunk and had decided to throw caution to the wind. And he freely admitted that it was the best thing he ever tasted, the waiter pleased at his obvious delight, but also a tad annoyed at the volume with which he had expressed it.
The two men now sat away from the dining area, facing each other across a small table, sat in plush high-backed leather chairs. So Croft said to himself,
Now we learn what this is all about
. A different waiter delivered their drinks, scotch for Craver, mineral water for Croft.
“Are you sure, old boy?” Craver protested when the drink was delivered. “The night is still young.”
“Oh I’m sure; I’ve had more than enough. I may not be on duty, but the days when I let myself lose control are long gone. And besides, I notice you aren’t even close to being drunk.”
“Cast iron constitution, my friend.” Craver winked. “I suspect you’ve seen through my little ruse.” Croft nodded at him seriously.
“Why am I here, Arnold?” Croft asked. Craver picked his drink up, swirled the ice around the glass twice and took a small sip. He placed the glass back on the table.
“I want to know who you think the mole is.”
“You’ve read my reports,” Croft answered.
“Yes, and I’ve seen enough reports in my time to know you’re holding something back.”
“I don’t have any evidence. I don’t have any confirmed leads. All I have is guess work and conjecture.” Croft had suspected this was where the evening had been heading. It was either that or Craver had taken a fancy to him. Neither prospects were particularly palatable to him.
“Sod the evidence. I want to know what your gut tells you. It’s usually right.”
“Yes, it is,” Croft said. “And my gut also tells me when I should keep things to myself until I’m sure. Needless to say, it’s not a politician. They come and go. It’s likely not someone in the civil service either. The mole is either high-ranking Army brass or top -level intelligence. It might even be you.”
“Crikey, didn’t see that one coming,” Craver said defensively. “Is that a serious suspicion?”
“No,” Croft said in response. “But whoever it is, I will find out.”
“Could be embarrassing for Whitehall,” Craver wagered. He finished off his drink, safe in the knowledge that a waiter would be along shortly to refill it for him.
“You know that’s not the case. If I find out who allowed Hirta to happen, there won’t be any arrest. There won’t be any trial. That individual or individuals will simply disappear into a hole that no lawyer will ever be able to save them from.”
“Good,” Craver said. “Ah waiter,” he said as the man appeared as if called by telepathy. “Another round, please, and water for my sensible friend.”
“I’ve actually narrowed it down to four people,” Croft said out of the blue. “You get a lot of free time in my job, so I’ve been poking my nose in where it’s not wanted. I think that was what the attempted hit on me today was about, although I’m not convinced whoever is organising all this officially sanctioned it. I’ve heard things – rumours and whispers that make me think there is definitely a large organisation at play here.”
“But surely if that was the case, we would have heard the same rumours.”
“Not if there were traitors high up the chain. Not if the rotten apple sat right at the top of the barrel.” The waiter arrived putting the drinks on the table between the two men.
7.55AM, 15
th
September 2015, Canary Wharf, London
Fabrice awoke one minute before the alarm was due to go off and switched it off before its noise intruded on his thoughts. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, fully at peace with where he was in the world. The bed almost felt like a womb, and he was loathe to leave its confines despite the pressure on his bladder and the knowledge of the days ahead. This would be the last full day he would ever spend in this blighted country, and he was eager for it to end so that he could get on with tomorrow’s task.
There was little in the way of sound in his bedroom; all was quiet. Despite living in a city of almost ten million people, the penthouse he occupied provided him with luxury and seclusion most Londoners could only dream of. Of course, the penthouse wasn’t his, but having lived here for only three months, it felt more of a home than many of his past residences. And the fact that he shared it with two others did nothing to spoil that. This was where he belonged, this was his path, and every day he felt blessed that God had chosen him to do his ultimate bidding.
People often questioned why God had to work through the hands and actions of man instead of blatantly displaying his omnipotence, but that was only the confusion of the uninitiated speaking. God had given dominion of the Earth to his children, and so, whilst he could guide them, the ultimate decision on their fate had to be down to what mankind chose to do with that wisdom. And if God chose only to speak to a select few, to make them his emissaries, then so be it. Only those worthy of his blessing would hear his word, and they would be the ones chosen to determine the fate of the world.
He pushed the duvet back and stepped naked from the bed. The en-suite beckoned, and he walked barefoot across heated tiles to the shower it contained. As the en-suite was a wet room, there was no shower door to open, and he soon had the water running at the correct temperature. Stepping under the downfall, almost moaning with pleasure at the force of the water on his back, he released his bladder, watching the water carry the yellow urine down the drain. It all went to the same place, and twenty-four hours from now, it wouldn’t matter if the whole apartment was smeared with his excrement. This was his last day here. Tomorrow, he would be in France, with his feet up, a beer in his hand. The God he believed in allowed the faithful their worldly pleasures.
9.55AM, 15
th
September 2015, London City Airport, London
“Enjoy your trip, sir,” the check in agent said.
“Why thank you. You have a good day.” A smiling Sir Michael Young took his passport and boarding pass and slipped them into the inside pocket of his overcoat. Picking up his carry-on bag, he turned and followed the concierge who had greeted him when his car had dropped him off at the airport. His security detail followed him, having checked in first, and he walked in the direction of passport control, his smile slipping. The day was finally here. The day for him to leave this godforsaken country and never come back.
With his free hand, he pulled out the prepaid burner phone. It was untraceable and encrypted. The last thing he wanted was for those eavesdroppers at GCHQ to listen in on his conversation. He brought up his contacts and dialled the number under the heading ‘car’.
“Hello,” he said, “I enquired about possibly test driving the BMW Z4 you had on your website, but I didn’t hear anything. Is it still available?”
“I’m sorry, sir, that car has already been sold. It is being picked up tomorrow. Are there any other cars you are interested in?”
“Not at the moment, thanks. I’ll get back to you if I see anything, though; right now I’m leaving the country on business.” Young disconnected the call, confident that even if anyone had overheard him or recorded the conversation, it would have meant nothing to them. There was no turning back now. The conversation had been all code of course. The plan was going ahead tomorrow, and he had confirmed to his handler that he was leaving the country. It was hoped that as the head of MI5, he would continue to be of use to the Western intelligence operation, worming his way into it, secreting himself away so as to be further use for his master. And to think he had once been an atheist, but that had all changed ten years ago when his wife had died so violently at the hands of the cancer that had claimed her. Young would swear he had actually seen her body waste away before his eyes as the disease ate her alive. Many people turned away from religion at the death of loved ones, but he went the other way. Because of his position, he was privy to all sorts of information, and months later his discovery of compelling evidence that the international pharmaceutical companies were suppressing natural cancer cures so as to push their expensive and toxic alternatives had pushed him over the edge. The evidence wasn’t strong enough for him, a part of the system that had killed his wife, to take action. Not in a legitimate manner at least. But the man who came to him months later showed him a way he could avenge her – and all those like her – to bring the whole system down. To bring justice to the people who were torn up and destroyed by the system that was supposed to protect them.
And now he secretly worked against Queen and Country, serving a God who had become tired of humanity’s frailties, of its greed and stupidity. He didn’t know exactly what was planned, although he had ideas. And yes, he was scared. Scared of being discovered, scared of what was about to happen, but above all else, scared of failing his God. Because it was a vengeful God; Abraham had assured him of that.
10.28AM, 15
th
September 2015, Waterloo Rd, London
Croft lay in bed looking up at the ceiling. Five names. That was what he had it pinned down to, all of them way up in the chain of command. He didn’t even have any proof, just a feeling. Croft had, however, learnt to trust his feelings because thinking from his head usually got him into trouble. There were only so many people who could have arranged the chaos of Hirta. Hirta, there was so much that stank about that, so much that didn’t fit. The fact that nobody could tell him how the pathogen had been manufactured there under everyone’s noses made him suspicious as fuck. Even with the access to government intelligence, he knew he wasn’t being told everything. And when a man in his position was kept out of the loop something was deeply wrong.
Sitting up, he swung his legs out of bed and sat on the edge a moment. Pain again, worse today, probably from the alcohol last night. It lived with him constantly, a companion he could push away but never remove entirely. The doctors had told him that it would worsen with age. “Thanks for that,” he had told them. “Thanks for sticking that little gem into my mind.” He’d seen that before, thoughts actually becoming reality. Seen men a few days from being rotated back home become convinced they were going home in a body bag, only for that belief to almost magically manifest as reality. He was of the belief that the mind had an incredible ability to heal so long as you didn’t feed it full of toxins, both nutritional and psychological. But then he wasn’t a doctor, so what the fuck did he know.
7.25AM, 16
th
September 2015, Coffee Shop, King’s Cross, London
The city of sin teemed with the unworthy, fruitless lives of the wicked. Brother Fabrice patted the precious steel box that rested by his side as the black Land Rover he was in pulled over to the side of the busy London street. His companion in the back of the car exited, closing the door behind him. Fabrice closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the task that was to come, feeling the rush of knowing that he was finally doing God’s work. The Lord Our God, merciful and also relentless in his disappointment. And God was indeed disappointed. Billions didn’t even believe in him. Even worse, some worshipped false gods and prophets, false idols that were tearing the world apart with hate and bigotry and greed. It was time for the Lord’s cleansing hand to descend, as it had so many times before, to wipe away the stain of humanity so that the righteous and the worthy could step forth and take claim to the world that was rightfully theirs. And where better to start than in the city at the very heart of all of it? London.
He gave it several moments, and then stepping out of the back of the car, he inhaled deeply. He could smell it. He could smell the evil all around him. Mankind didn’t know it, but they worshipped the Devil as he danced his way through the lives of the hapless. All around him the intoxicated sheep milled in the early morning rush hour breathing in Satan’s intoxication. Yes, God had given his creation free will, but it was the job of the chosen to be God’s warrior when the children abandoned him.
Brother Fabrice smiled at the thought of what was to come, of the judgement that was about to befall humanity. Standing by the car, he made eye contact with those around him. An attractive blonde smiled back at him as she walked past, mistakenly thinking he was somehow desirous of her. So foolish. As handsome as he was, she would have run wildly in terror if she had known what he had planned for this day, for this city, for this world. Fabrice smiled back, but there was no flirtation there, just deep satisfaction. Deep inside, he almost felt pity for them. Almost. For how could you pity those who worshiped false gods? Or even worse, worshipped no gods at all. Who surrendered to the illusion of a reality created by Satan himself? Surrounded by heathens and the Godless, a shiver went down his spine. Looking back briefly at the car whose engine was still idling, he stepped forward through the throng and walked into the coffee shop that was his third of the day. He knew he had to work quickly, for already God’s vengeance was unleashing itself on the unsuspecting city.