Revolution (41 page)

The commander’s expression had remained stony as Megan had spoken, and now he leaned close to Megan, his eyes hard and merciless.

‘Oh, Megan, how mistaken you have become, how foolish you have been. There will be no witch–hunt in this country for me, nor any other, isn’t that right Mister Wilkins?’

Megan’s weary mind did not register what had been said for a moment. As though in a dream she saw Sir Wilkins step into the cellar from the darkness behind Severov, his face grave. Time slowed down as the attache approached Megan’s chair, looking down at her with something akin to pity, perhaps remorse or regret, but no shame that Megan’s addled brain could detect.

‘My dear Megan,’ Wilkins said quietly as Severov moved off to one side. ‘You know, for my entire career I have felt such sympathy for the ordinary people who become the victims of political intrigue, of the great games that goverments play. Until now I had not known a single one of them. I am sorry that it had to come to this.’

Megan could feel her disbelief mutating grotesquely into unbearable rage.

‘
Had
to come to this?’

‘Yes, it
had
to come to this,’ Sir Wilkins said. ‘Your personal loss and suffering is incosequential compared to the stakes of this conflict. You, like so many others, are being sacrificed upon the altar of political expedience just like the civilians here in Mordania, those in Iraq or Afghanistan, those who lived in Vietnam or Napoleonic France or America during the Civil War. Believe me, Megan, it pains all of those who govern to know that millions of people died due to the
essential
strategies of countless governments over the centuries.’

Megan’s eyes narrowed into thin slits of contempt.

‘And who is
this
essential to?’

Sir Wilkins sighed, pacing slowly through the shadows before Megan as he spoke.

‘Megan, you are but one person among hundreds of millions who are living out their lives as best they can whilst those who lead them manoeuvre and argue and debate and betray those whom they pledged to serve. People like myself also live as best we can, but on the only winning side that there is – the top. You ask why this was essential? Oil, Megan, and of course the money that goes with it. But it’s also essential to maintain an American presence here in Mordania as a barrier against Russian influence in the Caucasus, which conveniently also provides a bulwark against Iran and China–supported Kazakhstan to the east. It is all part of the
Great Game
, Megan, protecting our way of life against the advance of others who might wish to change it. This is not the advance of democracy, my friend, but the eradication of everything that prevents capitalism and free–trade.’

Sir Wilkins paused in his pacing and looked at Megan.

‘Your work is commendable, Megan, of the highest moral order, to uphold the democratic principle of a free press. It would also be a global catastrophe were it successful. It had to be stopped, Megan. I truly am very sorry that it has had to end this way.’

Megan looked away from Sir Wilkins in disgust.

‘Saudi Arabia,’ she said, ‘the Gulf War. You were with the oil people there. I should have remembered, made the connection.’

‘Why would you have?’ Sir Wilkins said without a trace of irony. ‘We were friends.’

‘Were,’ Megan agreed, and then looked up at Wilkins. ‘Sophie, she has had no part of this.’

Sir Wilkins sighed heavily.

‘Sophie D’Aoust may not be a threat to the political stability of the Mordanian government, but then again she possesses the same tenacity as you do, Megan, and cannot be allowed to leave this country again. Commander Severov here will arrange everything. Of course, Martin Sigby has been informed of this and will comply willingly to all of our demands.’

Megan swallowed as the rage within her threatened to burst out of her throat, as though she could spit flames and burn Severov and Wilkins alive. Sir Wilkins spoke again, his features still serious and his tone demanding.

‘Where is Miss O’Hara?’ he asked.

Megan laughed abruptly, then cut it short as she glared at Wilkins. ‘Dead.’

Sir Wilkins smiled a brief, hollow smile.

‘We know that she is alive, Megan. Bolav kept us quite well informed about the events that occurred whilst you were in–country, until his unfortunate death.’ Megan’s face collapsed as she realised the true extent of the betrayal. Sir Wilkin’s tone turned sympathetic. ‘There is no sense in causing further suffering for yourself in her defence. She will be found, sooner or later.’

Alexei Severov stepped forward keenly, his eyes bright with the anticipation of inflicting pain. Megan kept her gaze fixed on Wilkins, her voice clear and steady as she spoke.

‘I really, truly would rather die than tell you.’

Sir Wilkins regarded Megan for a moment.

‘You will be ready to die within a few minutes, after Alexei here as finished with you. Last chance, Megan. Tell us now, please.’

Megan squeezed her thighs together to try to still the sickening fear swelling in her bowels. She looked away from Wilkins and studied a spot on the floor as though it were the most important thing in the universe.

Sir Wilkins silently stepped back and Alexei Severov moved forward, standing in front of Megan and smiling with pathological delight.

Megan saw the police commander take a full overarm swing and smash his clenched fist into her face, felt her nose break as white pain gripped her head. The commander stepped back.

‘Think on it, Megan,’ Sir Wilkins said. ‘One person cannot ever change the world. We will return shortly, and I do sincerely hope that by then you will have come to your senses.’

***

Martin Sigby, flanked by four secret–police soldiers, walked down a long corridor and was led out of Government House onto a large parade ground. Sigby saw the looming bulk of a Russian Mil Mi–24 helicopter dominating the area, a large troop transporter, and the dog–pens in the far corner. Ranks of hand–cuffed, hooded people were filing into the helicopter, prisoners of war for the exchange. He could see one of them lying on a stretcher being hefted aboard.

As they walked the helicopter’s engines began to whine into life, the huge drooping rotors turning lethargically in the cold air and scything through the snow flurries falling from the dull and featureless overcast above.

The four police troops manhandled Sigby aboard a nearby troop transporter, sliding the heavy side–door shut and blocking out the already deafening noise of the helicopter engines. Sigby sat himself on a hard seat as the vehicle drove out of the parade ground and past the edifice of Government House. He ignored the slab–faced guards watching him with sullen eyes and instead looked down as they passed through Pevestraka Square, filled still with people but also now with American military transports and sentries.

So close
, Sigby thought to himself, looking at the Americans swarming into Thessalia. Sigby sat back in his seat and closed his eyes, finally resigned to the terrible fate that had been chosen for him. His cause was finally lost, and salvation had escaped him.

The transporter approached a US Marine check–point, and as the vehicle slowed one of the guards sitting opposite Sigby leaned forward with a stern expression.

‘Silence, Meester Seegby, no?’

The man demonstratively waved the serrated edge of a combat knife close to Martin Sigby’s throat as the vehicle came to a stop and the correspondent heard American voices outside.

Sigby sat in silence, watching and waiting, when suddenly the rear doors of the vehicle were yanked open and a dozen heavily armed United States Marines poked their M–16 rifles into the cabin. The secret–police guards all raised their hands, their own weapons forgotten along with their courage.

Sigby sat like a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding car until one of the marines pointed at him.

‘Martin Sigby?’

The correspondent nodded meekly.

‘You’re an important American military asset and you’re coming with us.’

Sigby unbelted himself from his seat, and was about to stand when the commanding officer of the secret–police escort stood and blocked his way.

‘We have our orders to escort this man to…,’

The marine officer raised his rifle at the Mordanian.

‘And I have my orders to bring him with me. If you and your men would like to step out of the vehicle, sir, we can all argue about it right here,
right now
.’

The Mordanian looked at the marines, at their angry expressions and elite weapons, and he ducked back inside the vehicle without another word as Sigby leapt out. The marine officer led him by the arm toward the waiting marine vehicles.

‘You need to stop that convoy!’ Sigby said urgently. ‘The government is holding people and if they find out I’ve left they’ll be executed!’

‘Don’t tell us,’ the marine officer replied. ‘Tell him!’

Sigby turned, to see Callum McGregor sitting in a seat and smiling above the pain in his wounded arm. Beside him sat Robert, Sigby’s cameraman. Sigby sat down next to Robert in disbelief before looking at the Scotsman.

‘What the hell is going on?’ he asked.

‘You have work to do and not much time to do it,’ Callum said.

‘Sophie D’Aoust, she is being held by Severov right now!’

‘Then only way to get her out is to do what I tell you.’

‘Severov is expecting me to report in his favour, on the threat of what he’ll do to Sophie should I choose not to!’

‘Then trust me and she’ll be safe.’

Martin Sigby closed his eyes and let out a long breath.

‘Fine, but afterward you have to send me to Talyn,’ Sigby said.

Callum stared at Sigby with a stunned expression. ‘What?’

‘There’s no time to explain,’ Sigby said earnestly. ‘I have to go to Talyn, no matter what, do you understand? I absolutely
have
to go.’

Callum regarded Sigby for a very long time before he nodded slowly. Then he grabbed Robert’s arm and pulled him close, so that he could talk to them above the clattering noise of the vehicle’s engine.

‘Now both of you listen to me, very carefully.’

*

‘Sir Wilkins.’

‘President Akim. What can I do for you, sir?’

The president glanced out of his window across the city.

‘What news of the advance?’ he asked.

‘General Rameron’s troops have extended their line from Talyn down towards Thessalia. We estimate that they will come within artillery range in less than an hour. The American build–up here continues, and I have it on good authority that a fleet of C–17 and C–130 aircraft with a further thousand troops will arrive at Khobal Airport within twenty minutes.’ He paused. ‘We are as prepared as we can be.’

President Akim looked out over the city.

‘The people are confused. They do not understand what is happening. They cannot be sure who is the enemy, nor who is their saviour. Or even if there is one.’ He turned to look at Sir Wilkins. ‘Nor can I.’

Wilkins frowned and chuckled lightly.

‘What ever do you mean, sir?’

President Akim smiled faintly.

‘I recently offered a large sum of money to Martin Sigby, in return for which I requested that he report favourably toward my cause, that he accord this office the highest respect in his reports. Although he accepted the offer, he later returned the money and refused to be bought in such a way.’

‘A noble stand,’ Wilkins noted guardedly.

‘But when my assistant logged the return of the monies to government accounts,’ Akim went on without missing a beat, ‘it gave her cause to recount the funds within. She noticed significant anomalies in the UN financial support moving through the accounts since your tenure began.’

‘Anomalies?’

‘Yes. You see Sir Wilkins, there was too much money passing through the coffers.’

‘Too much?’ Sir Wilkins laughed heartily. ‘Well then, surely that’s a good thing?’

‘It would be,’ Akim agreed, ‘were the excess monies not filtered through accounts other than those of the UN, and vanishing afterward. I asked my assistant to investigate, and learned that the monies were being paid by Kruger Petrochemicals in America, and that they were being filtered out again to an account in London.’

Sir Wilkin’s smile slipped slightly. ‘I don’t understand, sir.’

‘No,’ Mukhari Akim agreed, ‘nor do I. Tell me, Sir Wilkins, about your accounts in London. Do you think that these mysterious sums of money would match any found in your own?’

Sir Wilkins stood in rigid silence for a long moment before trembling with indignation.

‘Mister President, sir, any agreements I may have made in private with business associates are confidential and have no bearing either in this office or my own at the United Nations.’

The president did not speak, letting the silence draw out. Sir Wilkins flustered slightly, raising his hands palm outward as he spoke.

‘I don’t really know what it is that you’re trying to say. That I have pilfered money from the accounts here? I have not, sir.’

‘I did not accuse you of any such thing,’ the president said quietly. ‘Only that you are receiving more than one salary whilst you are here, and I would very much like to know why?’

Wilkins straightened his stance, raising his chin.

‘We will discuss this at another time, sir. Right now, I believe I am needed urgently elsewhere.’

Wilkins turned and strode for the chamber door. President Akim’s voice rumbled through the office behind him.

‘If I discover that you have abused your position, I shall petition Brussels to have you removed from your role and immediately investigated. I have had copies made of the evidence.’

Wilkins left the chamber and closed the door without looking back. He walked quickly to the end of the long corridor outside, to where Alexei Severov stood smoking a cigarette as he watched the attache approach.

‘He knows,’ Wilkins said.

‘Knows what?’

‘About the payments.’

Severov smiled thinly. ‘He knows about your payments, not mine.’

‘Oh, my dear Alexei,’ Wilkins chuckled, ‘I can assure you that if you abandon me, he shall know about yours too.’