Last Light (28 page)

CHAPTER 58

9.12 p.m. local time
Southern Turkey

In the darkness of the coach he could study Andy Sutherland more discreetly. It was an old tour coach; thirty rows of thread-bare seats and air conditioning that didn’t work. The men were spread out, legs and arms draped over neighbouring seats, and arm-rests that wouldn’t budge.

He sat diagonally opposite Andy. The engineer was staring out at the evening sky, whilst everyone else, exhausted from the frantic activity of the last few days, slept.

What’s on your mind, Dr Sutherland?

He wondered if this man from New Zealand was thinking about global events. Having been with him since the weekend, one thing was for certain. He was not on the inside. He was not one of them. This had genuinely taken him by surprise. In any case, Sutherland wouldn’t have been stupid enough to be stuck out in the middle of Iraq if he’d known what was going to happen this week.

The big question, the really big one, was -
just how much does he know about them?

They had used him years ago; falsely recruited his expertise to help them hard-focus their plans. If Sutherland had known
who
he was dealing with, if Sutherland had
any
way of identifying them, he would have been dealt with years before now.

So, unfortunately, it would seem . . . because he was still alive, he knew nothing about them; certainly nothing that
they
would consider dangerously revealing.

And he certainly wasn’t one of
them
.

I could always take the direct approach. Pull him to one side, come right out with it and tell him who I am, who I work for, and pump him for any details that could help us.

It was an idea. If he could only get through to his people, that’s what he’d suggest; to confront this man, but there was no way to do that right now.

Sutherland could be the key. He had dealt with them directly, he might have
seen
one of them, might even be able to identify one of them. This might be a golden opportunity to glimpse through that almost impenetrable veil of secrecy around them.

They had scraped together some scant details about them over the years; just enough to realise how little they knew. There was a larger group who referred to themselves as the One Hundred and Sixty, and a much smaller group referred to as the Twelve. A classic power pyramid - the Twelve decided policy, the One Hundred and Sixty enacted it. The secrecy surrounding them was complete . . . truly impressive. In the many years his people had devoted entirely to unearthing the truth, there had only been one of them prepared to talk.

And he had, but only briefly. Two meetings, held in absolute darkness, in a basement of an abandoned building, in a nondescript industrial town in the middle of Germany. Two meetings that lasted only a few minutes, with the man’s voice trembling like that of a condemned man on the scaffold. He revealed about himself that he was a banking man . . . and that he was merely one of the One Hundred and Sixty.

A week after the second meeting, a man who was the largest private shareholder of one of the bigger merchant banks based in Frankfurt, a member of the ECB Advisory Committee, and a senior director of the Deutsche Bundesbank, apparently committed suicide by hurling himself from the rooftop of his penthouse apartment. The man was merely one of their foot soldiers.

By comparison, the Twelve, whose true identities were unknown even to the One Hundred and Sixty, were untouchable. And yet eight years ago, this man, Dr Sutherland - if the rumours they had unearthed were to be trusted - might have actually met one of them. That was why they had begun tapping his phone twelve months ago. He wondered, however, whether Dr Sutherland should just be directly approached now, and debriefed by his people.

Until then, the potential goldmine of what Sutherland might be able to remember of his dealings with them . . . was invaluable. He needed to stay alive.

CHAPTER 59

6 p.m. GMT
Beauford Service Station

Jenny was walking the perimeter at the back of the service station where it was slightly cooler, darker, away from the glare of the evening sun shining in through the front. It was like sitting in a greenhouse up at the front in the eating area.

She’d pulled out her phone, turned it on and tried once more to see if there was a signal. Of course there wasn’t, and there was precious little charge left on her phone. She turned it off quickly to conserve what juice was left.

She self-consciously looked around to check that she was alone and not being observed before clasping her hands together.

‘Oh God, please, please be looking after my kids,’ she whispered, ‘I know I’m not a believer or anything, but please . . . if you, you know, exist, please keep them safe.’

What the hell am I doing?

Jenny had never believed.
Never
. And that was something else she’d had in common with Andy: another proud atheist. They had even once gone into school together - Leona’s primary school - to complain about the excessive religious content being rammed down the pupils’ throats. An atheist household, they always had been, and now, here she was, praying, for Chrissakes.

I don’t care. I’ll bloody pray if I want to.

There was always an outside chance, a remote possibility, that there was a kernel of truth to all this God nonsense.

Anyway, when it comes to your kids, you’ll do anything, right? You’d sell your soul to the Devil . . . if, of course, such a thing existed.

‘You didn’t strike me as the God-squad type.’

Jenny jerked her hands down, embarrassed. She looked around and saw Paul standing in a dark alcove lined with arcade machines.

‘I’m not,’ she replied defensively. ‘I’m just . . . you know, just desperate I suppose.’

‘Yeah, of course, you’ve got kids, haven’t you?’ said Paul, running his hands along the back of a plastic rally-car driver’s seat. ‘I don’t, so it makes things a little easier for me.’

Jenny nodded. ‘Yeah, it does. So what are you doing back here?’

He turned towards the arcade machine, stroking the padded vinyl of the seat. ‘I noticed they had a Toca Rally 2 machine. When I was a teenager I used to play that a lot. I put a lot of money in these over the years,’ he said wistfully. ‘Classic driving game. It’s old now. Booth like this is a bit of a collector’s item.’

Jenny nodded politely, listening, but not listening.

He sighed and patted it. ‘You know I can’t imagine a world without electricity . . . power. There’s so many things we take for granted, aren’t there? Losing it for a few days like this . . . and look at us.’ He smiled. ‘Living like cavemen. When things get back to normal, I’ll—’

‘Who says things
will
go back to normal?’

‘Of course they will,’ he replied, ‘things always right themselves. ’

‘I think things will be different after this.’

‘Yeah? How do you mean?’

‘I don’t know . . . I just think . . . well, there’s something my husband Andy used to say.’

Paul cocked his head, interested. ‘Go on.’

‘He said oil was like the twentieth-century version of the Roman slave economy. We’ve grown used to having it. It does everything for us. It makes power, it’s used to fertilise crops, in pesticides, to make medicines, every kind of plastic . . . basically we use oil in absolutely everything. But I remember this one thing he said. He said some economist once calculated the ways in which oil helps us live and translated that into slave power. He compared the oil economy to the Roman slave economy.’

‘Sorry, I don’t understand.’

‘Well, say you’ve come home from work and you want to wash your office shirt for tomorrow. You’d shove it in your washing machine, and then put it on a fast spin-dry afterwards, wouldn’t you? And maybe you want a cup of tea whilst you’re waiting, maybe put on the TV, and throw a frozen dinner in the microwave. Well in slave terms, that would have required a slave to take your shirt, chop wood to make a fire, to heat the water, to wash it. You’d probably need another slave to go hunt or gather the food for your dinner, another to chop wood and build a cooking fire, to boil the water for your tea, and cook the food that the hunter-slave brought in. Still more slaves to entertain you in place of a TV set. And let’s not forget the four or five slaves that carried you home from work on their backs, instead of the car you drive home in. Anyway, you get the point right? So, this economist calculated that the average American or Western European would require ninety-six slaves tending to him night and day, to maintain this lifestyle we’ve all grown accustomed to.’

‘Ninety-six slaves?’

‘Ninety-six oil-slaves. Even the poorest person in this country,
the poorest
, has his own team of oil-slaves tending to him; a TV set, electric heating, hot water, a kettle, levels of luxury that only the richest aristocrats from the previous century could dream about.’

Jenny gestured towards Mr Stewart and his staff, sitting together in the sunlight. ‘Look at them, look at us, everyone in fact . . . we’ve just had our slaves taken away from us. We’re all like those pampered aristocrats after the French Revolution, seeking refuge without their servants to tend them, incapable even of tying their own shoelaces.’

‘Hardly,’ Paul scoffed.

‘Yeah? Who here knows how to do the basic things to survive? How to grow their own food? Plan an allotment to provide enough sustenance all year round? How to locate drinkable water? How to sterilise a small cut so it doesn’t become infected? How to make a loaf of bread?’

Paul smiled. ‘You make it sound like some kind of on the edge of apocalypse thing. The oil will get flowing again. This is just a blip.’

‘God, I hope you’re right. But this little blip has only been going four days. Can you imagine what it’s going to be like if it lasts a couple of weeks?’

Paul’s smile faded a little.

‘Or a month even?’

‘What are you looking at?’ asked Jenny.

Ruth stirred and pointed at the single car parked alongside the truck in the staff section on the other side of the car-park.

‘Those,’ she said.

‘Why, what’s up with them?’

Ruth turned to her. ‘Mr Stewart’s wonderful perspex wall might stand up to some bricks being thrown at it, but I’m not too sure how it would flippin’ well cope with a car, or even that truck being driven into it.’

‘Oh my God, you’re right.’

‘Where’s that wally anyway?’

They both turned to look around, and saw the shift manager officiously overseeing the distribution of cups of tea, carefully pouring it from a large, steaming metal urn into Styrofoam cups. Ruth snorted, amused.

‘What’s so funny?’ asked Jenny.

‘You know who he reminds me of?’

Jenny shook her head.

‘Remember
Dad’s Army
? I used to love watching that. He reminds me of Captain Mainwaring - a real busybody who loves being the heroic little
organiser
.’

Jenny cocked her head slightly, not convinced.

‘Remember that episode where they all end up marooned on the end of the pier overnight?’ Ruth persisted, ‘And Captain Mainwaring takes charge of distributing their rations - a small bag of humbugs?’

Jenny managed a wan smile. ‘Yeah, I see it now.’

‘Don’t you just get the feeling he’s loving it? Loving the idea of leading his little
troops
through this crisis? Controlling the
rations
, and deciding how much everyone gets. A real flippin’ power trip.’

Jenny could see how pompous and ridiculous he looked, but a small voice of reason inside her head chipped in.

Maybe, but he’s doing the smart thing though, isn’t he?

Carefully rationing from the very beginning . . . because . . .

That’s right, because who knows how long this situation will last.

He was finished pouring for his staff and approached them holding his large steaming teapot and two cups.

‘Tea?’

Ruth and Jenny nodded, and he poured them a cup each.

‘Do you think those lads will be back again? The ones that beat up Julia?’

Mr Stewart nodded. ‘Yes, I think they probably will.’

Ruth gestured towards the front of the pavilion. ‘Your nice shiny perspex frontage may well hold out to another night of pelting with paving stones and rubble. But I’m not sure it’ll stand up to a truck being driven into it.’

The manager looked out at the large vehicle parked out there in plain view . . . and blanched.

‘Yup,’ continued Ruth, ‘I’m sure that’ll occur to at least one of them nonces out there, eventually. And I’m also pretty sure at least one of the little buggers will know how to hotwire the car, or even that truck.’

Stewart nodded, his eyes widened anxiously. Some of the smug, irritating self-assurance he’d been coasting around on, had slipped away. ‘Uh . . . m-maybe someone could go out there and immobilise them somehow?’

Ruth cocked an eyebrow, ‘Yeah? Just
nip
out there and
quickly
disable them both, huh? You going to volunteer?’

Mr Stewart replied, flustered. ‘Of course I . . . I . . . but then, s-someone has to uh . . . look after my staff.’

‘Uh-huh, pretty much what I thought you’d say,’ sneered Ruth.

Jenny had an idea. ‘We could drive that truck over here, and park it right before the front wall. I think the truck’s probably just about as long as the wall is wide?’

Mr Stewart nodded. ‘Yes . . . yes I think you’re right.’

‘And that’ll be good enough to stop them using that car, or any others lying around.’

‘Yes, a very good idea,’ replied the shift manager, shaking his head vigorously. ‘So . . . uh . . . who’s going to go out there and drive it over though?’

‘More importantly,’ said Ruth, ‘who knows how to drive a rig like that? I’ve never driven anything bigger than my little car.’

‘And we don’t have the keys anyway,’ said Paul joining them in the middle of the foyer, ‘unless someone here knows how to jack a truck. I’m sure there’s a bit more to it than smashing the steering column and holding two wires together.’

‘I have the keys,’ said Mr Stewart. ‘They’re hanging up in my office. That’s Big Ron’s rig. He’s one of our regulars. The night before last he’d had one too many drinks in the back of that cab of his and was planning to carry on with his run. I took the keys off him.’

‘He’s here?’ asked Jenny.

‘No, I don’t know where he is. Probably took a room in the Lodge, a mile down the road. I’ve not seen him since this all started.’

Paul turned to look out at the front. ‘Well, we should get on and do this now, before they turn up again for an evening of fun and games.’

Mr Stewart nodded. ‘I’ll go get the keys for you.’

‘What?’ said Paul shaking his head awkwardly. ‘I’ve never driven a bloody truck before in my life.’

Ruth looked at Paul, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘I’d go do it if I knew how to flippin’ well drive one. I’d probably flatten the building if I got behind the wheel.’ She aimed her words at Paul. ‘
I’m
not afraid to go out there.’

‘What? Neither am I.’

All eyes turned on Mr Stewart. His eyes widened. ‘Well I would . . . but, someone has to look after—’

‘The staff. Yeah, we know,’ said Ruth flatly.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Jenny reluctantly. ‘I’ve got a tiny bit of experience with trucks.’

It took Mr Stewart a little while to find the keys, and ten minutes later Jenny was walking quickly across the tarmac, warmed by the evening sun, towards the truck, anxiously scanning the periphery of the car-park for signs of any gathering people. She swung the cricket bat Mr Stewart had given her in one hand, slapping it into the palm of the other, hoping the gesture was enough to deter any spotty young thug who might be lurking nearby from confronting her.

The sense of stillness outside was unsettling. The only sound she could hear was the chattering of some birds nestling in the stunted saplings along the edge of the car-park, and the caw of a crow, circling high up in the clear evening sky.

Idyllic
. . . if it wasn’t so damned unnatural - none of that ever-present rumble of passing traffic. It was just so strange, unsettling.

She quickened her pace, turning briefly to look back at the large window-wall at the front of the service station pavilion and seeing a row of pale ovals staring back out at her, waving her on.

Finally she reached the truck, unlocked the driver’s door, yanked it open and then pulled herself up into the cab. Inside it was stifling. As the clouds had cleared throughout today, the sun had had ample opportunity this afternoon to flood in through the wide windscreen.

It smelled in here too. It reeked of body odour, cigarette smoke and stale doner kebabs. In fact it smelled exactly as she imagined the inside of a long distance truck-driver’s cab would smell.

It smelled of
bloke
.

She looked around the dashboard in front of her, completely unfamiliar with the lay-out. Jenny had driven a small truck once, a long, long time ago, some place in India in her backpacking days - but that experience wasn’t going to help her a great deal. It had just meant that of those inside, she was marginally more qualified to try and give it a go at driving it over.

‘Come on, where the hell’s the ignition?’ she muttered impatiently.

She finally located it.

She was about to insert the key when she heard a thud against the door beside her. It made her jump. She looked out of the window and saw below a group of about a dozen people; a random mixture of age and gender; they could well have been the first dozen pedestrians you passed on any pavement, in any city.

‘Hello love? Open up, will ya?’ a man called out.

Jenny wound the driver’s window down, at the same time feeling a surge of nervous adrenalin welling up.

‘Yeah? What d’ya want?’ she grunted in a voice she hoped made her sound like she might just, plausibly be the legitimate driver of this truck.