Strangled Silence (11 page)

Her phone rang, and she took it from her bag,
thankful for the interruption. It was Dani.

'Sorry, I just have to get this,' Amina said.

This was a chance to get out of here – to say
she had to meet her friend, before the conversation
became even more absurd. But still, she couldn't
help wondering about that film . . . The phone kept
ringing.

She gazed at the screen for a moment and then
answered the phone.

'Hiya! Listen, can I call you back? In a meeting.
Yeah, OK. Bye!'

Putting the phone back in her bag, she
regarded the screen for a couple of seconds and
then looked at Chi.

'OK, look . . . I don't think your theory's
stupid,' she said carefully. 'I just think it's a big conclusion
to jump to based on this film. I mean . . .
there are a lot of other, much more down-to-earth
explanations.'

'Like what? Did you see the way an entire
platoon of hardcore Royal Marines were lying
around like they just collapsed into a deep
sleep?'

'Yes,' Amina responded. 'And it's absolutely
weird. But isn't it more likely that they were just
gassed or something? You know, like the terrorists in
the siege of that theatre in Moscow?'

In 2002, a group of forty-two Chechen
terrorists had taken eight hundred and fifty people
hostage in a theatre in Moscow. Russian special
forces had pumped an aerosol anaesthetic into the
building to knock out the occupants before launching
an assault. Most of the terrorists had realized
what was happening and put on respirators, but
more than a hundred and twenty hostages had been
killed by the 'knockout' gas. Most of them were
thought to have choked on their own tongues as
they slumped unconscious in the theatre seats. The
thought that you could die so easily had terrified
Amina for days. She had sat up with her parents,
watching the reports of the aftermath of the siege
with morbid fascination.

Your body would always correct its own
position when you were asleep, but if like these
people you were comatose and sitting with your
head hanging back, the limp muscle of your tongue
could flop back over your windpipe and stop you
breathing. Contrary to popular myth, you could
not 'swallow' your tongue – it was attached to the
bottom of your mouth, after all – but it could still
block your breathing and kill you. Amina remembered
one Russian doctor saying that most of these
people could have been saved if somebody had just
tipped their heads forward. It was funny how the
little details stuck in your mind.

She imagined herself in the theatre, walking
along between the rows of seats, thoughtfully
tipping people's heads forward or lying them on
their sides in the recovery position, ready for the
paramedics.

'The Russian military were really secretive
about the gas they used,' she pointed out. 'They
wouldn't even tell the doctors treating the hostages.'

'You can't release gas in the middle of a storm,'
Chi argued. 'It would all just . . . y'know . . . blow
away. And anyway, most were in their vehicles.'

'Maybe the gas was
released
in the vehicles,'
Amina suggested. 'That would be a good way to do
it, wouldn't it? And . . . and . . .' She threw her
hands up in exasperation. 'Look, why would anyone
assume this had been done by aliens? What have
aliens got to do with anything? Why can't this just
have been done by
people
? Why does it have to be
mysterious spaceships covered in flashing lights?'

'They're not covered in flashing lights,' he said
sulkily. 'Those are always the hoaxes. If someone
wanted to observe mankind in secret, do you really
think they'd stick great big lights all over their
vehicle? No. Think stealth bomber and you're closer
to the truth. The lights are some kind of
weapon
.'

Chi was looking severely disgruntled now.
Amina pulled herself up; she had to be careful not
to get him on the defensive. This could definitely
tie in with Ivor's story. Before showing Gierek's
film, he had referred to 'the surviving marines'. She
wondered what the others had died of.

'I knew this was a mistake,' he muttered. 'There's
too much you don't know, and I haven't got time to
make a believer out of you just now. This is too
enormous to get your head around in one go.'

'Why don't you show me what else you've
got?' she pressed him. 'I could bring a fresh
perspective to it; you've got some compelling stuff
here, I just think you need to take a more grounded
view of all this.'

'My view's fine,' Chi retorted. 'It's yours that's
been clouded by the conventions of a blinkered
society. There are agencies at work here that never
show their faces in the light of day. This whole
Sinnostan thing is only part of a bigger picture and
you don't get it yet . . .'

His voice drifted off and his shoulders
slumped. Amina saw doubt cross his face for the
first time.

'I do sound like a crackpot now, don't I?' He
chuckled sadly. 'Jesus, when did that happen?'

He raised his head and gave her a rueful grin.

'Why don't I stick the kettle on?'

'That's a brilliant idea,' Amina replied.

Ivor's phone rang while he was peering out
of the window with his binoculars. It was
Ben.

'Howdy there, bud, what's new?'

'Not a lot,' Ivor replied warily. He had not
forgotten Ben's last visit. 'How about you?'

'Yeah . . . fine, fine,' Ben responded, forgetting
his own question. He was speaking quickly, as if he
had something he had to say, but he couldn't seem
to get the words out. 'Eh, so listen . . . uh . . . how
y'all fixed today? You busy?'

Ivor still had the binoculars pressed against his
eyes. There was a window across the street that
always had its curtains closed, leaving a gap just
wide enough for a camera lens. Or maybe the
telescopic sight of a rifle.

'No, I've nothing urgent on,' he said. 'In fact,
I'm definitely starting to think I've too much time
on my hands.'

'Great. You wanna meet up? I got somethin' to
tell ya and I'd rather not do it over the phone. It's
about what I told you the other day. Y'know
. . . about the suppressed anger an' all?'

'Yeah?'

'Yeah,' Ben went on, and there was a definite
shake in his voice now. 'You know how you asked
me if anybody had sent me? Well, truth is, partner
. . . somebody did. I'm sorry, man, they really had
me over a barrel and now . . . well, I just got some
bad news and I don't give a damn about all this
other crap any more. I got stuff to tell ya, but I don't
want to do it over the phone. Can you meet me at
that place we used to go to? You know the one?
And . . . and I need some money, man. I wouldn't
ask, only . . .'

'No problem,' Ivor said. 'What time and how
much?'

The place they used to go to was a little Lebanese
café in the East End. The front opened out onto the
street. Ivor chose a table out on the pavement, next
to the blackboard advertising the specials. He
ordered a small cup of the viscous coffee, blowing
on the brown frothy top as he killed time waiting
for Ben to arrive.

He had played with the idea of asking Amina
to join them. If Ben had something important to
say about what they both remembered – or didn't
remember – it might be worth having someone
objective on hand. But it might have put Ben off
being completely honest . . . and besides, even in his
scarred state, he was still a charmer. Ivor's self-esteem
had dropped like a lead balloon after he'd
lost his eye, and the thought of having to compete
with Ben for her attention made him
uncomfortable.

He found himself thinking about her all the
time. She had the same straight black hair that he
had loved in the women in Asia, the same warm
colour to her skin. He wondered if his eye bothered
her. It seemed to disturb most women. He
reminded himself that she was only interested in his
story – there might have only been a few years
difference where their ages were concerned, but
their lives were oceans apart. There was no point
getting his hopes up on that front.

When half an hour had passed and Ivor had
reached the muddy sediment at the bottom of the
cup, he ordered some mezze, picking without an
appetite at the selection of olives and cheeses. He
waited another hour and a half, regularly checking
his mobile in case he had somehow missed a call. It
took a full bottle of mineral water to rinse the taste
of a second coffee from his mouth. Still Ben did not
show. Ivor's right eye began to ache.

He did not want to leave. There had been a
fatalistic note in Ben's voice, one he recognized
from other men he had known in the veterans'
hospital. It was the tone of voice a man had when
he had given up on life. Ivor knew there
was no other meeting place Ben could have meant.
It was in a busy side street, always bustling
with people, and Ivor suspected his friend had
picked it because it was safe and anonymous.
There was little question why he wouldn't talk on
the phone; neither of them trusted phones or email
any more. If Ben really needed the ten thousand
pounds in cash Ivor had in his bag, something was
badly wrong – and it was connected with the
conversation they'd had the day before. And what
did he mean: 'I just got some bad news and I
don't give a damn about all this other crap any
more'?

So Ivor rubbed his aching eye and continued to
wait for two more hours, becoming increasingly
anxious about his friend as the time passed. Five
o'clock came and the café was closing. Ivor
reluctantly surrendered his seat and stood up to put
on his jacket. As he did, he noticed that somebody
had written something on the ground behind him,
using the yellow chalk from the specials board. He
gazed down at the words, a queasy feeling rising in
his stomach. They read:

'You still have one eye left.'

In an isolated, windowless room in a nondescript
government building close to Whitehall, three
people sat down at a worn, but solid, mahogany
table. The laminated wood-panelled walls around
them held modern art prints, with the artists' names
emblazoned across the bottom like designer logos.
A flip chart stood ignored in one corner and on the
wall at the same end, a slightly shabby roll-up screen
hung, ready for a projector to light up its life. This
was a small conference room on a corridor of small
conference rooms and as such attracted no
unwelcome attention.

Each person had a laptop, plugged into a hub
in the middle of the table. The hub was not
connected to the network in the building and the
three participants in the meeting deliberately
avoided using any kind of wireless technology. They
would take their laptops with them when they left.
No minutes were kept at their meetings.

The room was neutral territory; none of them
worked in the building. After their conference, it
would be used by another group for a seminar in
the use of some kind of database software. But the
coming together of these two men and one woman
was quite different in nature.
opened the
meeting, reading through the most recent list of
names. With his upright bearing, his grey hair
trimmed close to his scalp and the way he spoke in
confident, clipped tones, the shorter of the two
men obviously had a military background –
although he was not wearing a uniform today.

The other two listened with disinterest.
Hearing the names was a formality they all went
through in an effort to 'keep a perspective'.
-
, the taller man, had the look
of a bureaucrat or politician, his stocky body turning
slowly to fat, his dark hair parted just so, his
hands soft, pale and chubby. Sleepy, heavy-lidded
eyes hid a keen intellect and a deep-rooted cynicism.
His background was intelligence – both
gathering it and countering it.

The woman,
, used the time
to review her sheets of figures. This was unnecessary
as she had compiled them herself and had a photographic
memory, but the order of the information
in its neat columns gave her pleasure. Dressed in a
bulky woollen sweater, her mousy brown, curly hair
cut short in a practical asexual style, she looked
every bit the fuddy-duddy academic. Among her
many scientific qualifications she could boast
doctorates in medicine – specializing in neurology
– and psychology. The programme she designed and
supervised formed the core of this particular
group's activities.

'That's that,'
finished at last. 'Has the
room been swept?'

'Of course,'
-
replied in a
bass croak of a voice.

'Who wants to start then?
,
you have the status reports?'

'Yes,' the woman replied, her tone slightly
tetchy. This was no indication of her mood; it was
simply the way she spoke. 'I don't see any need to
go over them. Here they are.'

The documents appeared on the men's laptops.
They flicked through them quickly, but left the
study of the details until later.
's
reports were exhaustive and packed with data. The
men would need their own experts to help them
make sense of all the information.

'Let's talk about threats then,'
-
suggested. 'Top of my list is this lottery
winner. I'm sure you all saw the article?'