Exit Alpha (6 page)

‘EXIT has two departments,’ he continued, ‘D and S — who we call dentists and surgeons. Surgeons kill difficult people. Dentists replace difficult people. Sometimes it’s better to kill. Sometimes to replace. I am Vanqua. My colleague is Rhonda. Not our real names.’ He pointed to the slide. ‘I command Department S. And Rhonda commands Department D.’

He switched to a slide of the departmental structure. ‘My department’s main function is to kill. Its secondary function is to aid Department D operations and protect their agents. My field staff are taught practical and scientific skills and fatal techniques. Training is long, and assignments difficult because many targets are well protected.’

Cain listened without interest, feeling the slight roll of the ship. Pat’s fingers brushed his thigh and he closed his hand over hers. They’d seamlessly come together as if they’d never been apart and after the long, dreamless sleep he felt good. His attention drifted back to Vanqua’s drone. ‘. . . a last point. Field staff of both departments above Grade Two level have Blue Cards — which signify international kill exemptions. These are unique to EXIT.’ He made standing gestures to someone in the front row. ‘Jan.’

Zuiden rose.

‘And Mr Cain, would you stand?’

Pat withdrew her hand as he reluctantly got up. At least it eased the constriction of the harness.

‘These men are senior operatives, one from each department. If they maim or kill they cannot be charged under international agreement, a great advantage for us but also a great responsibility. For EXIT and for them. However you’d be wise not to offend them. Thank you, gentlemen.’

They sat again.

‘Next Rhonda will explain her department.’ Vanqua resumed his chair.

Rhonda ponderously skipped to the podium. She enjoyed her nonsense. The audience relaxed, settled back, prepared to be beguiled.

‘Now that Vanqua has explained things in his vague and equivocal way . . .’ She paused to milk the mood. ‘. . . I’ll confuse you more. The distinguished observers here today are obliged to lie for their countries. But at EXIT we don’t
have
a country or even a political allegiance as our charter vetoes bias. We’re funded to attack excess wherever it appears, independently of factions or national aims.’ She smiled broadly at Vanqua.

He shuffled. It wasn’t a tack he enjoyed.

She turned back to the half-darkened room. ‘You may argue that all action is bias, and impartiality a fiction. EXIT ethics are labyrinthine but to summarise — our foes are avarice, folly, pride and the intoxication of bloodshed.’

Cain spotted the borrowing from Camus but doubted others did.

‘Of course, for every problem, there’s a solution that’s simple, neat and wrong. And our assignments are as easy as picking up mercury with tweezers.
Hinc illae lacrimae
.’ She dabbed an imaginary tear.

Energy was building in the room from cadets fighting not to laugh. He wondered how the guests were coping.

‘We’re called [he was thankful she abstained from ‘yclept’, one of her absurdities] dentists because a dentist removes decay and fills the hole with something that looks the same but is less harmful. That’s what we do with people.’

A question from one of the guests. ‘Why not just kill them?’

‘I’m glad you asked that. What if a tyrant has henchmen to carry his policies on? He’s a hydra — so killing him solves nothing. But replace him with a look-alike who diverts what he’s doing and you can steer it in a less harmful way.’

She beamed over the lectern strip-light. ‘To make it more complex, our targets can be innocents. There may be, for instance, a scientist with a world-threatening discovery that others in his team could duplicate. So killing him won’t fix things. Better to replace him with someone who can subvert his research, cover tracks, lay red herrings. In short — although killing people is generally best practice, sometimes it’s too dangerous. Hence, Department D.’

She gazed around the room. ‘Perhaps another guest has a question.’

A rumbling voice. The man could have been a cantor. ‘What happens to the originals? If you replace someone innocent . . .’

‘An excellent observation.’ She was instantly serious. ‘The removed person is held at a secure base
in perpetuum
or until the five nations sign a death warrant. Which often never happens.’

‘So it becomes a holding pattern?’

The man was the head of Mossad, Cain decided.

‘Worse. The original is tremendously dangerous because he’s alive. It’s a problem similar to the storing and disposal of nuclear waste. And no — we don’t have a solution.’

A drawling voice from the rear of the room and south of Tennessee. ‘Like have your fillings ever come loose?’

‘Not since God dreamed the universe.’

A muffled female titter.

She completed the answer sensibly. ‘We’ve never been sprung . . . Yes sir? You over there.’

A mid-continental accent. ‘You say dentist operative is trained different to surgeon, is it?’

‘Very differently indeed. It’s arts and farts. Or humanities and profanities.’ A senior cadet choked trying not to laugh, which set the rest of the room off. The young ones loved it when Ronnie was in form. ‘For instance, this very fine fellow . . .’ She motioned to Cain to stand again. He made gargoyle faces at her but got them back. Once again, he stood. ‘. . . is a dentist mark four. You’ve no idea what he’s been through to get to this level.’

He itched to sit but she left him dangling.

‘Each potential Department D cadet is adopted at birth. They’re assessed for eight years and the selected children are streamed for one location, one assignment. The comparisons with
The Pirates of Penzance
and Fagin are obvious, ludicrous and I hope you’ll ignore them. We’ve all found it painful enough to have no parents without adding ridicule to the mix.’

A murmur of assent through the hall.

‘Inducted children are trained for a minimum of twenty years before attaining what we call Protectorships. Mr Cain has been taught in London and Karachi Universities for good reasons. But academic subjects are only a little of what he learned which included diplomacy, comparative religion, English lit and languages. He was also short-course cross-trained by Department S, as are all D cadets, in survival techniques and armed combat.’

Christ, Ron, he thought. Give it a rest.

‘Half a lifetime preparing for a future assignment in a specific country. An assignment which may never come — but generally does. And like an astronaut or athlete, he can only do one thing. Why? If you spend your youth training to be a weightlifter, you can’t then switch to the high jump. You’re too old to retrain — too specialised. Fortunately, Mr Cain’s immensely difficult assignment was a success, as you’ll hear when he gives his presentation. Would you care to add anything, Ray?’

He glowered at her mischievous smile. ‘If I’d known this was all-singing, all-dancing I would have worn taps.’ The ripple of laughter that followed was tinged with admiration. He sat down thankfully. Lord, he thought, I’m some kind of hero here.

The introduction was followed by Pat’s astonishing presentation. She had the videos, the before and afters, the secret films of the targets. Each time he’d seen her segment, it was better and more effective. It went into plastic surgery of the face, the body. The radical implants. Hair, diet, iris, fingerprint and dental difficulties. Prime subjects, selection, attitude. Physical and mental re-education. Voice production and acting. The memory factor. Specialists and staffing. Simulation testing. Lead time. And, finally, the grim matter of end-point relief.

At the finish, the stunned audience filed from the room as if retreating from an open coffin.

On tables in the foyer outside were coffee and canapes. Cain waited his turn to get coffee, reading the crowd. Two impressive-looking men he’d identified as observers stood together shaking their heads, barely able to credit what they’d seen.

Pat came over. ‘How’d I go?’

‘You know damn well.’

Spencer appeared briefly in front of her, jaw flapping for words. ‘Oh my gosh,’ he finally got out. ‘You people. I’ve never . . .’

She said brightly, ‘Thorough, aren’t we?’

‘And I thought naval aviation was tough!’ He pumped her hand, drifted away.

She turned to Cain. ‘You got quite an intro.’

‘Bigger razz than the
Thieving Magpie
overture.’

Rhonda barged up to the table, edging them aside like a runaway refrigerator, ‘Having fun?’

‘Did you have to do the potted bio?’

She sang, ‘And noble lords will scrape and bow, and double them in two. And open their eyes in blank surprise at whatever she likes to do.’

‘I saw nothing in the job description about hosannas for superannuated icons.’

‘If you could trust job descriptions, there wouldn’t be chaos theory.’

A madonna-faced woman entered the room. She had a supermodel’s figure. He’d noticed her when she’d stayed behind to cue up the next videos. Rhonda called to her, ‘All set up?’

She came over. ‘I think so.’ Her cutaway top displayed the high lift of her breasts.

‘Karen Hunt. Meet John Cain — our great Grade Four.’

‘Hello,’ Cain said, longing to look at the cleft of exposed smooth skin. With effort he kept his eyes on her face. Smooth brow, beautiful jawline. She made Pat look like her mother.

Rhonda said, ‘Karen’s one of my best Grade Ones. She’s handling The Square.’

He’d heard of it — a pervasive cult already a concern to several governments. ‘Must be a blast.’

‘She’ll be telling you about it next session.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Ron’s told me a lot about you,’ the woman said. Her voice sounded like a recorded message. He wondered what kind of training had produced her inner deadness. Pat watched his reactions but needn’t have worried. Hunt was as sexually approachable as a waxwork.

A glass was tapped and Vanqua, in the centre of the room, raised his hand. ‘Now cadets have a work session and observers have one hour free before the next presentation.’

Rhonda turned to Cain, coldly serious again. ‘Let’s talk.’

W
hen they were back in her den she said to him, ‘You’re officially dead. Feel good?’

‘Marvellous.’

‘And poor Rehana’s really dead.’ She eased her bulk into a chair. ‘A terrible death.’

‘And pointless.’

She passed a hand above her head. ‘
Que
?’

‘We get our man installed, then Pak One falls out of the sky.’ He sat opposite her, wondering why she didn’t see it. ‘Was it Beg? He was the only top general not on the plane. The other fifteen died, plus the US Defence Attache. Beg took the chopper, flew over the wreckage. What’s your take on it?’

‘Yes, tricky one that.’ She got up, searching for something. ‘There were chemical traces in the cockpit. Could have been poison gas. I’d say the likely lads are Spetsnaz.’

‘Moscow knows?’

‘That we substituted Zia? No. We think they did it to pay him back for funnelling arms to Afghanistan. Can’t blame them. Even Washington was fed up with Zia back in ’86. I know you were fretting because I wouldn’t let you switch him sooner. But we had to wait until we were sure about the Russian withdrawal. And now I’ve got
nicotine
withdrawal. Where the hell are my fags?’

‘But he sold off half the arms he got.’ His work with Zia and the man’s puppet government still rankled. ‘That was why he blew up the Ojheri dump before the audit. A few more Stinger missiles he didn’t have to account for, tricky bastard. We could have done him six months earlier and got the other half across the border.’

‘The Pentagon factored that in — just gave him twice as much.’ She dropped from sight to search under the desk.

‘Thirty-two years of training. Four and a half more in the field. Then the whole thing up the spout. And you say it’s a success?’

‘A brilliant success.’ Her head popped up. ‘You made the switch right on time. Your duplicate dismissed the regime, dissolved the assemblies, announced elections . . .’

‘And died in a crash ten weeks later with the top brass of the army. Come on, Ron.’

‘Dear heart, our last state’s still more blessed than the first.’

But he still didn’t believe her.

‘Oh, happy the blossom that blooms on the lea . . .’ She launched into Sullivan’s most joyous confection, the finale of
Ruddigore
, dancing about the room, still looking for fags but lifting piles of folders in time with the refrain. It was a curious sight — this woman who shaped the progress of nations, leaping around like an impala.

She stopped moving and stared at him. ‘I’m not just being nice. Honestly. A tremendously difficult switch. And a wonderful result. The first female prime minister of Pakistan.’

‘Her government’s on the take already. The rip-off mindset in that country’s . . .’

‘But equilibrium’s restored.’ She laughed. ‘Poor wandering one. You still don’t believe me, do you? We’re
thrilled
with how it’s gone.’