Turning Point (26 page)

A trickle of laughter.

‘But, sir, how can you ignore this movement for the restoration of the monarchy? Ten of the twenty-seven countries have openly pledged to destroy the union. I have the list here, sir.'

Scott caught the rustle of paper and guessed the reporter from the BBC was waving it in the air.

‘Remember, Mr O'Leary, Europe is not the Middle East; civil unrest does not automatically lead to regime change in a week. We happen to be a democracy with elections taking place in less than a year. The union will stay and I will remain as leader.'

Scott frowned. Okay, so maybe he was tired and exhausted from lack of sleep but he'd heard those words before. Not quite the same perhaps. But where?

He caught a burst of raucous laughter from the guys watching television. ‘He's in for a big surprise! How long do you reckon he's got, sir?' someone called out.

‘A year, maybe less,' came the response, the man's American accent barely discernible. ‘That's the timetable we're working to.'

Scott gasped, the words as clear in his head as if black-out curtains had been cut away letting the sun in.
Remember, Europe is not the Middle East; you cannot expect civil unrest to take place in a day, with regime change following in a week. But it will happen – and within a year – that I promise you.

How could the President of Europe talk about democracy yet secretly believe something else? It was crazy! Madness! He'd forgotten – that was it.
He'd forgotten
. Scott heard once again the voice that had so disturbed him, the voice accented as if English wasn't his first language, soft… no, not soft… patient, used to being obeyed…
and hellish scary
. No, that was the point.
He hadn't forgotten!

Beau beckoned. ‘What?'

‘It's the voice,' Scott gasped, trying to control the hysteria threatening to burst out of him. The words echoed remorselessly, flying through the air like poison darts, and darkness took over. Desperate to be rid of the insidious thoughts, he lashed out with his foot striking the galvanised tube with a dull thunk.

Beau's hand clamped hard over Scott's mouth. He caught a sudden pause in the conversation. Terrified, he closed his eyes imagining heads swivelling, pointing at the ceiling… seeing his foot.

He had to move, now, away from the tell-tale square of light, but he was frozen to the spot unable to move a muscle, his head swirling from lack of oxygen. A blur of noise, as someone using the remote flipped through the channels. Scott sensed the arms circling his chest grip more tightly, then he was bodily dragged away and the scene retreated beyond the limits of his vision. He heard movie credits, the voices of the actors in the opening sequence muted.

The space around them widened and Scott felt Beau release him. Still jittery, he took in a breath listening intently for sounds of pursuit. They'd not been heard, his stupid blunder had escaped unnoticed. Gradually, the confusion and terror that had swept over him began to lessen and his racing heart slowed as the weight in his head eased.

‘Where are we?' he mouthed. Beau shrugged. ‘Still alive,
no thanks to you
.'

They had left behind the lounge area with its panels of light and were now perched in a central crossing, their heads brushing the metal surface of the roof. Random ducts led off, most too small to crawl through indicating areas of little importance. Straight ahead, the darkness was pierced at intervals by panels of grey, like chalk marks on a pavement.

‘What the hell happened?'

‘I don't know.' Scott felt his face hot. ‘It was the news report….' ‘What about it?'

‘I heard it before.'

‘Where?' Beau's angry whisper scissored through the air.

All of a sudden one of the squares lit up, followed by a second closer this time and a third nearer again. A sense of being tracked from room to room struck Scott and he reared back like a stag at bay. Then the silence was severed by the tap-tap-tap of someone operating a computer keyboard.

Ignoring the impatient tug on his arm, Scott inched forward into the side tunnel, curious to discover who was working in the middle of the night. He stared down into the brilliantly lit room, seeing a work station built across one wall piled high with processors, computer consoles, a scanner and a printer. Just in sight across the room, a coloured quilt draped the end of a bed. As Scott watched a figure passed beneath the square mesh.

‘Jameson!' The word was out, winging its way into the room before he could stop it.

The guy paused his wandering, his head cocked listening.

Scott tugged at the grating. Tearing away Beau's warning hand he swung down, his toes gripping the top of the heavy processor. Dropping to a crouch, he jumped to the floor and flung his arms round his friend. Jameson flinched back as if struck, his body rigid with shock.

‘What are you doing here?' he said belligerently, the merry ebullience that had been such a charismatic part of his character missing, his eyes exhausted and wary. ‘You don't know anything about computers,' he accused. ‘They promised…' He stepped back, his glance shifting towards the door. ‘I didn't see you come in,' he added in a bewildered tone. He licked his lips, prodding Scott's chest with the tip of his finger, as if testing to see if he was real or a hallucination.

Scott saw they looked painfully dry, crusted flakes of chocolate and something white embedded in the cracks. A surge of anger swept through him recognising that Jameson had been drugged. How could they – Jay had a most brilliant mind, how could they stoop so low?

‘Who promised?'

‘My friend. His name is Ferdinand. I'm allowed to call him Ferdinand because I'm special staff,' Jameson boasted. ‘Everyone else has to call him sir or Mr Aquilla. He gave me this job. Mum and Dad are thrilled.'

‘No way. Your mum's worried sick. You've been missing for days. I promise you, she's no idea where you are.'

‘That's a lie,' Jameson flashed back. ‘They warned me about talking to people like you.' He pulled out his mobile. Scott flinched back ‘Bother, I forgot you can't get a signal down here otherwise I'd prove it to you. We can go up to the lobby and phone if you like. It's Frank's birthday in two weeks,' he said, speaking about his younger brother. ‘I'm going to send him some money for a new mobile – top of the range it'll be. I can afford it now. He'll like that. And I'll be home soon for a weekend.'

Scott bit his lip, aware arguments were a waste of time. He didn't know how it had been done, probably speech recognition, but somehow Jameson believed he was chatting to his family. Except, that would mean someone had spied on the Brody family even before Jameson had been kidnapped. Scott felt a shiver of disgust rip down his back. Is that what happened to everyone here? Their phones tapped, their minds altered by drugs so they imagined having conversations with their family. His gaze drifted round to the computer, its screen filled with calculations. ‘What are you working on?'

‘Firewalls. It's a government-backed project. There's loads of us.' Jay waved his arm round the empty room. ‘It's an amazing place, exactly like a city with tennis courts and a movie theatre – it's great.' His smile was painful as if the muscles in his cheeks had atrophied. ‘There's loads of kids like me. It's government-backed, very hush-hush.' Scott winced sensing the confusion in his friend's head. Jameson put his finger to his lips. ‘They say we're not to talk about it because of the spies.' He dropped his head and Scott could almost hear the cogs grinding round and round. He stared at the screen before lifting his head again. ‘Why are you here?' he said accusingly. ‘You're not a scientist. You know nothing about computers.'

‘I'm only visiting.' Scott stared miserably at his friend, wanting to sling him over his shoulder and carry him to safety.

‘For pity's sake, get the hell outa there!'

Scott caught the whispered words. He glanced up seeing Beau's furious face glaring down at him.

Jameson's fingers picked nervously at the dry skin on his lips. ‘Is there someone with you?'

‘No, only me. And I'm going now.'

Scott scrambled onto the desk and swung himself up, Beau reaching down to help him.

Jameson stared up at the retreating figures. Suddenly, as if emerging from a thick fog, his eyes focussed and he gave a painful half-smile. ‘I miss my family. Can you tell Jenny to visit – she'd love the sports here.'

‘You stupid,
stupid
…
Words fail me
.' Beau stormed, keeping his voice low. Silently, he slid the grating into place moving swiftly away out of sight of anyone standing below, the overwhelming tension in the silence amply conveying his opinion of the younger boy. Miserably Scott followed, overwhelmed by guilt at his own stupidity. He felt it like a living weight, sucking up the air until he found himself once again short of breath and had to stop. ‘He won't tell,' he panted, tears of frustration sweeping across his eyes.

Beau paused to glance over his shoulder, the patch of shadow light enough for Scott to register how angry he was. He swallowed anxiously.

‘
Won't tell!
Pull the other one. The guy hasn't a clue what day it is, never mind anything else. I ought to ring your scrawny neck.'

‘It's not his fault – they've drugged him,' Scott protested.

‘Save your breath for crawling and hope to God that room wasn't wired for sound.'

‘
Holy crap!
I forgot!
' he gasped the words, mortified by his own stupidity.

‘You sure did.' Beau swivelled round, flashing his torch onto Scott's face. ‘We'll need a miracle to get you safely out of here now, so start praying for one.'

Beau's long shape vanished into the darkness ahead, a slight slithering sound accompanying his brisk movements forward. Wishing the ground would open and swallow him whole, Scott followed. He knew he deserved everything Beau threw at him. His task was dangerous enough without Scott clod-hopping his way through it. The information Beau gathered must get back to the people who had hired him; that was more important than anything. But at least now he wasn't alone any longer, other people were also aiming to rid the world of Mr Smith – if it was Mr Smith behind this set-up? Although… Scott paused, his arms aching at the pace… everything fitted. The American had spoken about calling in favours to get Tyson back. Was that what happened in the courtroom in Exeter when the magistrate changed their sentence? And Jameson? What he said about working on firewalls? Could that be Styrus – the virus created by the team his father had been a part of? And the unit? If authorities chose to inspect it – what would they see? A small building in the sticks, coaches ferrying detainees back and forth. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to ring alarm bells or suggest a whole secret world buried beneath it. There couldn't be two sets of people in the world with that sort of power, could there?

Scott shuffled forward, all at once exhausted and in desperate need of sleep. At the intersection he glanced behind him, somehow still expecting to find light and movement. But all was still, silence like a cloak enclosing every centimetre of space. Thank God, they were home free. Abruptly, the murky blackness was dissected by the sound of snoring and, almost before he realised, the open grating leading down into the toilet block was in front of him.

‘Get down first.'

Scott nodded, feeling his limbs heavy and dragging. Taking care not to make a sound, he reached down to the top of the cistern, stepping on the floor. He reached up automatically, guiding Beau's feet. ‘For what it's worth, I'm sorry.'

‘I know. But I wasn't joking when I told you to start praying.'

Scott stumbled wearily into the dormitory, the sounds of heavy breathing reassuring, grateful for one crumb of comfort in an otherwise nightmare scenario. When he got home, he could at least tell Mr and Mrs Brody that he'd found Jameson. He sank onto his bunk, his mind dropping with fatigue. He fought against it, long enough to say that prayer. If only they knew for certain who was behind it!

Abruptly the lights snapped on and a harsh voice hit the air. ‘By your bunks. Now!'

Drunk with sleep, Scott staggered to his feet, his vision blurred and misty. He caught sight of several pairs of feet among the familiar knee-length boots of their guards. They were gathered protectively either side of someone in a grey suit – someone with a hugely powerful presence even when you were staring at them half-asleep. Seagar – Wayne Seagar
.
The name popped uninvited into Scott's head. He'd heard it often enough listening to his father talk about his imprisonment. One-sided conversations, with only a recorder for company, in which his dad had tried to dredge up miniscule snippets of information that just might be valuable to his rescuers. There'd been little enough on the American. He'd been in charge of security, Bill Anderson only meeting up with him the one time. Scott had seen him too, fleetingly, through the thickness of the glass cockpit in a helicopter. Still, the bullet-shaped head covered with a tight crew cut was unmistakable. All this time, he'd been trapped among the very people who had been trying to kill him. The word
kill
felt thick on Scott's tongue and he shied away from it like a startled horse, refusing to dwell on the thousands they had already killed and not lost sleep over. One more would make little difference. And he had blundered into their web like a bewildered fly.

Half-obscured by the guards was a slight figure, his jeans baggy where he'd lost weight. Jameson! Scott rocked-back on his heels as waves of nausea struck him. Why, oh why, oh why, had he been so foolhardy? Why hadn't he stayed put? Sticking his hand into a viper's nest was…
Oh my God! What had he done?
Finding a way out… that wasn't important.

Keeping his eyes on the ground, he watched the progress of feet around the dormitory, aware Jameson had been instructed to identify the intruder in his room. Beau was right. It had been wired for sound. Terrified, Scott raked over the conversation. Had Jameson used his name? If they had CCTV, it didn't much matter anyway.

The figures approached, Scott sensed nervous panic in the guys ranged alongside their bunks. No prizes for guessing what they were seeing… That all-important bus waiting on the tarmac to take them back to England, praying this wasn't a ploy designed to hold on to them for a few extra days. The threat had been present in every conversation involving Mr Reynolds-sir. ‘If you infringe our rules, refuse to learn, you will not take the bus on Saturday.' But what had they learned – nothing except violence and terror.

Jameson flanked by two scowling figures stopped opposite Scott. Furious at being woken, the two guards were tapping their batons against the side of their thighs; perhaps hoping someone might step out of line so they could vent their anger. Scott forced his panic down, staring rigidly in front of him. He stretched his fingers to stop his fists clenching, keeping his arms loose and dangling. It was an effort. Dull eyes met his. It was a glance lasting no more than a fraction of a second, long enough to see a spark of recognition struggling to reach the surface like a swimmer caught up in a river choked with weeds.
Don't do it, Jameson. Don't recognise me
, he begged silently, watching the flash of awareness extinguish itself. At last Jameson shuffled on. With relief draining out like water through a sieve, Scott gripped hold of the breath trying to escape his lungs – not daring to move while attention focussed itself on Beau, his face a study of bewilderment, his hand sleepily scratching his head.

Scott caught the words. ‘I was definitely talking to my brother. But he isn't into computers so why would he be here?'

The door closed behind the figures, a creaking of bunks the only sound as bodies fell back down, instantly asleep; the inspection one more hideous event in a week overburdened with hideous events.