Go Out With A Bang! (14 page)

That was
true. Camila was his anchor. Even thinking of taking on the huge
loan for the chopper had caused many arguments. But like Camila had
always done, once she'd finally agreed, she supported him one
hundred percent. Her income from her job had helped them survive
the first hard couple of years as they built up the client base.
The last couple of years had been their best, but then the
devastating news of her cancer had brought their world crashing
down.

As he
had held her hand as she slipped away, he could never imagine ever
loving so deeply again. After almost a year and with much
encouragement from friends and family, a few dates with women had
been pleasant, but going nowhere. A further blow had been the death
of his parents in a freak railway crash.

It had
been agreed that he moved into the huge family home, and with the
money raised from selling his marital home, it helped his
cash-flow. He gave up thinking about the ladies and concentrated on
the business. And now here he was again, and his head was full of
this amazing woman that had his life in a turmoil.

'We
agreed to keep our little adventure between the eight of us. Maybe
it's for the best it's over. Somebody up there telling us it was a
stupid idea.'

'Yeah, I
guess. Pity. I was enjoying it.'

'Somethings are just meant to be, Gary.'

Gary
grinned. 'Like Sandra?'

Steve
gave his nephew a playful slap on his head. 'Come on, you. I need a
coffee.'

But as
they walked back to the house, Steve wondered if there was any
truth in what Gary had said.

Chapter 45

'This
guy is a genius,' said Nick.

'Don't
tell him that,' said Sandra. 'He already thinks he's God's gift to
cyberspace. How are you doing, Ferret?'

'A
couple of password changes. Nothing too hard. He's been laying low
for a few days, no emails back and forth.'

'Is that
a good sign?'

Ferret
shrugged. 'Not sure. We have a few old messages we can check out. I
haven't tied down the language they're using yet. What we need is
to figure what they really mean so when they get busy, we can
understand them.'

Sandra
said, 'Can you help with that, Nick?'

'I
studied languages. That might help. We're about to print a few
messages out and see if we can make sense of them.'

'Any
chance they could turn the tables on us?'

'Depends
on how good they are,' said Ferret. 'I'll keep contact to a
minimum. We don't really have much choice.'

'Okay.
Keep at it. I'll make myself useful in the kitchen. Have
fun.'

It was a
healthy stir fry washed down with merlot. They kept the chat light,
but Ferret picked up on an atmosphere between Sandra and
Steve.

'I
noticed your food supplies were a little depleted,' said
Sandra.

'My
family,' said Steve. 'They can eat like horses when they come here.
I'll have to go shopping.'

'I'll go
out tomorrow and stock up. The least I can do.'

'I'll
come with you,' said Steve.

'No.
There's a few things I need to do. Best on my own.'

'Okay. I
can take a hint.'

Chapter 46

Bernie
had finished his lunch in the headquarters cafeteria and had sat at
his desk when he noticed an envelope. It was plain and white and
had nothing written on the front of it and had no stamp. He opened
it. Then his hands shook slightly and his mouth became instantly
dry. On the sheet of A 4 it said. Park. 2. S. That was it. He went
out into his P A' s and secretary's office. They were busy with the
extra workload from the upcoming conference.

'Chief?'

'Monica.
Has anyone been in here? Into my office?'

'No,
Sir. I was in your office at nine with the mail.'

Anyone
would have had to pass the two women to get to his
office.

'It must
have been after nine,' said the Chief.

'No,'
said Monica. 'Not In the last half hour or so. We would have
noticed. Did you see anyone, Amy?'

Secretary Amy Jones said, 'Nobody came through here. Is there
a problem?'

Bernie
smiled. Only one person could become a ghost and walk through an
office and drop a letter on his desk and walk back out again
without being seen. 'No problem, Monica. I need to go out for a
couple of hours. I should be back before three.'

He drove
home. The house was empty. Debbie was at work and Poppy had her own
things to do. He took off his uniform and hung it on a hanger. Then
he found his scruffiest gardening clothes and dressed in those,
roughed up his silver locks and found a baseball cap to complete
the look. Three minutes to two he was walking to the bench in
Bloomsberry Park, where his eight year old sister had fallen off
her new bicycle and cut her knee.

The
overcast sky suited his mood, a light breeze chilling his face,
making him appreciate the old cap on his head. He was alone apart
from a lone sparrow, scavenging in a rubbish bin, exploring take
out wrappers. It flew off as he approached and he sat on the nearby
bench. A he sat and waited, from behind him, he heard a
voice.

'Long
time, no see.'

He said
nothing. The woman didn't look much like his sister, but he'd have
been surprised if she had. She sat by him but didn't look at
him.

'I can't
stay long,' she said.

'You
never can.'

'I may
need your help.'

'I'm
fine, thanks for asking.'

She
ignored that. 'The conference. It's going to be hit.'

Those
words iced his veins. He'd rather had not heard them. Images of the
Petrolex Haynes building, reduced to rubble, filled his mind. 'How
bad?'

'The
worst.'

'Worse
than the Petrolex building?' He couldn't imagine how.
'Details?'

'I don't
have them. Yet. We're working on them.'

'Fred?'

'Yes.'

'Is
he..?'

'Fine.'

That was
something. As much as he could have hoped for. Bernie asked, 'What
do you want me to do?'

'Be
ready.' She stood up to go and still didn't look at him, then she
walked away from him.

'Poppy's
having a baby.'

For a
moment she was stopped in her tracks. She didn't turn around, just
standing still, her hands thrust into her pockets. Then she walked
briskly away and vanished like a wisp of smoke.

Chapter 47

For a
woman who's life had been one long dark secret, this was one she
struggled with. Sandra stocked the freezer, fridge and pantry, and
hadn't been mean with the beer and wine. Steve had been busy, using
the last of the frozen food to make a slightly odd, but pleasant
stew. It simmered in the slow cooker, ready for when they
were.

'I've
missed you,' said Steve.

'Well,
here I am.'

There
was a quietness about her; more than just her natural air of
mystery.'Are you alright?'

She
dodged that one.'How's Ferret and Nick getting on?'

'Struggling, I think. They're in the pool.'

'I might
join them. A quick dip before we eat.'

Steve
took her by her shoulders. He was lucky she had her reactions in
check and didn't send him flying across the room to crash against
the wall. She took his hands from her shoulders and walked out the
room towards the pool. He watched her go, wanting to follow,
sensing that to be the wrong thing to do.

Ferret
and Nick were drinking beer as they wallowed in the warm water.
Sandra looked at the gawky computer genius who now thanks to her,
also carried death in his hands. He was her son in law and now to
be the father of her first grandchild. To anyone else it would have
been wonderful news.

Her mind
had been in a whirl deciding whether to tell him or not. She cursed
her brother for letting slip that news. If she told Ferret, he
would be off like a rocket, back to his wife and unborn baby. She
had no doubt their mission would be over, the terrorists free to do
their worse, putting the world into a spin, unleashing the hell of
world war as a consequence. There would be time to play happy
families later. The priority was to ensure there was a world to
play happy families in.

There
was nothing for it but to shoulder the burden of the secret until
later. She looked at the young men in the pool, her emotions
coursing through her, her mind full of the idea about being a
grandmother. Jeez. Where had her life gone? As she pulled her
swimming costume on behind the changing screen, she saw the scars.
She hadn't won all of her fights. Two bullet wounds, one in her
chest, one in her thigh. Several knife wounds. Two had been life
threatening.

The
scars that troubled her most were the ones when on two separate
occasions she had slipped up badly, early on in her career. Small
round dots from cigarette burns. A few on her breasts, one on her
left nipple. That one had really hurt. There were times when her
fingers still hurt from having her fingernails pulled out with
pliers.

She
generally worked alone, but there were times even she needed help.
Mostly in the form of like-minded people whom she could rely on for
leads and information. Years ago, one such contact had slipped up
in his personal quest towards world peace. No trial, no
protestations of innocence listened to. Just beatings and to be
thrown in a notorious, isolated prison, from which nobody got out
alive. Had the same fate befallen her, no way would she expect
anyone to come to her rescue. But with the boot on the other foot,
it was something she committed herself to, to do the impossible and
get her friend out.

The
brutal establishment's own reputation was actually in her favour;
the guards becoming complacent, convinced of their invincibility.
Just its proximity to the formidable range of mountains kept one
half of the world out, the single rough road, snaking through
jungle and harsh terrain was the single artery to the nearest town.
Political prisoners, those with the audacity to speak out against
their leaders, would suddenly disappear and would end up in that
prison.

Guards
were specially selected for their inhumanity; men who enjoyed their
job of brutalising those helpless victims. So like the “ghost” she
could become, she had found a weakness and one night, had entered
the prison.

She
carried no weapons. She never did. Weapons had once got her into
trouble. The guards, well fed and sleepy after a hard day breaking
bones, were easy to elude. Finding the one she was there to help
was more problematic. There were a hundred stonewalled cells, with
thick steel doors with a small grill for guards to see inside. The
locks were basic, one key fits all types, the original
antiques.

Using
the shadows and her catlike stealth, she finally found him. At
first she had been unsure it was him, his face so beaten. A quick
look both ways along the corridor, five seconds on the lock and she
was inside the tiny stinking cell.

There
was no furniture in the cell apart from a single steel chair. No,
bed, nothing but the chair. Prisoners were often tied to the chair,
to be ignored for days on end, no food or water given. Cables were
sometimes attached to the chairs to administer electric shocks. It
was great sport amongst the guards to bet on just how much current
could be given without quite killing the prisoner. The smell of
burning flesh was a source of much amusement.

At one
end of the cell was a gutter set into the concrete floor, with a
hole in the wall either end for the gutter to go from one cell to
the other. This gutter served two purposes. In the hours the
prisoners were not tied to the chair, they could use it to defecate
and urinate in so it became an open sewer. The guards simply had to
hose it away when they had a mind to do so. Similarly, blood could
be hosed away down it, too.

The
gutter frequently became blocked and the stench would build up into
an eye watering, choking mist even the rats refused to swim down.
Sandra had almost gagged when she had entered.

She went
to her friend. He was naked and his head was slumped over. He stank
of his own filth, deliberately left by the guards. It had taken
less than a week to turn him into the broken shell of a man he once
was.

Forcing
her anger deep down inside her, she opened one of his eyes with her
thumb. Although open, it was unseeing. She knew she couldn't drag
him out and deal with any guards who got in her way as well. She
tried to wake him, and he started to groan as consciousness brought
back the pain and she clamped her hand over his mouth.

'Shush.
It's me. I need you to walk.'

And then
she saw his feet. They had been smashed to a pulp and were turning
black from gangrene. Left unchecked, the gangrene would slowly kill
him. It was what the guards wanted. She knew it was impossible for
him to stand or walk. All he had to look forward to was a slow and
excruciating death.