The Sons of Scarlatti. John McNally
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out of the chopper and made their way over as the engine powered down.
“Sir, you’ve got to come with—”
“Do thank the Commander,” Al interrupted, “but tell him we’re on holiday, tell him we’re ‘en route’, and he’ll have to get in touch next week, and tell him he doesn’t need to bother with all this either. I’m on email, Facebook or even the telephone. Oh, and don’t forget to tell him he’ll have to come crawling to me on his hands and knees while you’re at it…”
“Sir, I have been instructed to inform you the matter pertains to Project Boldklub.”
Project Boldklub? Finn laughed. What a bizarre name. “Who’s that? Some Viking?” He looked at Al.
Al’s face was suddenly still and serious.
DAY ONE 12:38 (BST). Siberia, Russia
The Arctic fox confused it with a lemming at first, but the scent soon became richer and sweeter.
The temperature was 2°C. Summer. Bog and meltwater pools characterised the surface at this time of year, the illusion of thaw. As the fox drew in towards the scent, the salt and sweet notes increased, grew irresistible, sending his nervous system wild.
And then he saw something he didn’t understand.
A man.
The man raised an arm. Fired. Then continued eating his hot dog.
The impact propelled the fox into a gully. As blood seeped through his crystal-white fur, a last survival instinct kicked in, and he curled and clamped his mouth round the wound.
A disc of congealed blood formed on the surface of the tundra. Insects and micro-organisms, adapted to the extreme environment, drew in to feed greedily upon it.
Fourteen metres beneath, in a vast insulated bunker and in simulated tropical luxury, David Anthony Pytor Kaparis lay in his iron lung 1 and waited.
The lung breathed in. The lung breathed out.
It encased him like a coffin, leaving only his head exposed, and that was all but enveloped by a cluster of automated mirrors and optical devices that allowed his gaze to roam free without troubling the muscles in his damaged neck. These mirrors and lenses swivelled and shifted constantly, bending and distorting reflections of his face so it appeared almost pixelated and an observer could never be sure where those eyes were going to pop up next. Eyes of black ice, sour and entombed.
Above him a panoramic screen array carried multiple data, news and intelligence feeds. Optical tracking meant he could manipulate it all at a glance – trawl the web, analyse data, model an idea, visit any place on earth, even (if looks could kill…) order a drone strike.
The meeting in the CFAC at Hook Hall had been relayed to him in real time through a concealed 816-micron digital video camera built into his agent’s spectacles. It was transmitting pictures first to a microprocessor sewn into the agent’s scalp via an induction loop, then via tiny data-burst relays between specially adapted low-energy light bulbs fitted throughout the Hook Hall complex, and thereafter via the Scimitar Intelcomms 8648 satellite to Siberia. Transmission lag to Kaparis – 0.44 seconds.
It was an ingenious system.
His serotonin levels should’ve been satisfactory. Instead Kaparis was intensely irritated. The pictures from the live feed kept jumping because the agent constantly flicked the spectacles up and down. Despite the eighteen months of effort and detailed planning that had gone into this most complicated operation, no one had thought to supply the correct ophthalmic prescription.
1 Was simply doing your job really so difficult?
2 Was it only him that cared about the details?
3 What must it be like to be ordinary?
“Heywood?” Kaparis said, summoning his butler in a cut-glass English accent.
“Sir?”
“Establish who supplied the incorrect lenses for the camera spectacles.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then have their eyes pulled out. And salted.”
“Yes, sir.”
Killing would be too much. It was important to keep a sense of proportion.
Onscreen, a helicopter hove into view. The image flicked again, taunting his leniency.
“And Heywood?”
“Sir?”
“Record the screams.”
DAY ONE 12:51 (BST). Hook Hall, Surrey
Finn’s first view of Hook Hall was from above: a grand old country house with a formal garden, surrounded by a complex of ultra-modern buildings. Outside the largest of these buildings, as they came into land, Finn could see a clutch of officials and lab-coated scientists drawn towards the spot like ants to a dropped ice cream.
Al took off his helmet as they touched down and indicated Finn should do the same.
“We are still on holiday until I say so. OK?”
“If you say so!” Finn yelled back, still numb with exhilaration from the short flight and having already decided to just go with the bewildering flow. He stepped off the aircraft after Al and stumbled self-consciously through the rotor wash, half deaf, towards the small welcoming committee.
A shortish, fattish old man was first to greet them, overwhelmed apparently to be meeting –
“Dr Allenby! An honour! Professor Channing. I reviewed your paper on anti-concentric-kinesthesis.”
“Wonderful. This is Finn,” said Al.
“Hi!” said Finn.
“Is the resort this way?” Al asked.
“Ah…?” said the Professor, confused.
Huge road transporters packed with equipment were lined up outside the large building waiting to go through its hangar-sized doors.
“What an unusual hotel. Is there room service?” said Al.
“Er…”
“Finn likes chips, don’t you, Finn?”
“Or potato wedges,” Finn explained, unsure why this was relevant.
“We have a canteen…?” tried the Professor.
Al took in the line-up of trucks. “What’s all this for? Are you having a pageant?”
By now Professor Channing was completely confused.
“No, it’s… every centrifuge, laser and electromagnetic accelerator we can lay our hands on. This has just arrived from Harwell, part of the new Woolfson Accelerator, and…”
“Oh my goodness, I think I spot an old friend!” said Al, taking off down the line of transporters, Professor Channing trotting to keep up.
Finn’s strong instinct was to keep out of the