White Gold (2 page)

Silence.

Dan breathed out, and turned to Mitch. ‘Job done.’

Mitch nodded, called to David and gave him a thumbs up.

David radioed the message to the others. ‘We’re clear.’

The small crowd lost interest and began to disperse across the road. Dan looked up and saw the old couple next to the house. They were arguing by the look of it, the woman gesturing wildly to her husband before storming into the house and shutting the door behind her.

David walked past and gave Dan the thumbs up. ‘Good work Taylor. Get that robot back and packed up quickly, otherwise the kids will have it dismantled for parts before we know it.’

‘I’m on to it.’

Dan pulled the joystick backwards on the laptop and the robot began its slow reverse journey back to the armoured vehicle, the relayed picture jumping as the onboard camera shook over the rough surface.

David signalled to Mitch. ‘Don’t stand around – go and grab that gear. We don’t want them recycling it for the next one they plant for us.’

Mitch nodded and jogged off towards the defused bomb. Dan glanced round the back of the vehicle and watched as he collected the parts while Dicko and H began to stroll back from the roadside dunes, their laughter carrying across the breeze.

David followed his gaze and sighed. ‘Anyone would think those two were on a bloody holiday,’ he said and shook his head, before walking round to the front of the vehicle to radio in their progress.

Dan looked up as Mitch jogged back to the vehicle, various wires, timers and parts cradled in his hands. He set them down in the back of the vehicle where they began to sift through them, looking for serial numbers or identifying markings – anything to provide information about who had supplied the pieces.

David appeared from the side of the armoured vehicle, a puzzled look on his face. ‘Have you seen Terry?’

Dan and Mitch shook their heads.

‘Last time I saw him, he was talking to a couple by that house over there.’ Dan pointed.

David glanced over. ‘His radio might have packed up. I’ll keep trying. If you see him, wave him over – we want to get back to the compound for some rest before we drop from exhaustion.’

He disappeared round the back of the vehicle, talking into his radio.

Dan turned a piece of the blue wire between his fingers as he monitored the robot’s progress on the laptop.

‘This is weird,’ said Mitch.

‘What is?’

‘It doesn’t make sense.’ Mitch held up the pieces, and pointed to a single wire protruding upwards. ‘There’s nothing attached to it. Did you cut it by mistake?’

Dan shook his head. ‘No.’

He watched as Mitch stepped away from the back of the vehicle to watch Dicko and H’s progress. Terry was waving his goodbyes to the old couple outside their house.

Mitch turned to Dan, his face pale. ‘This isn’t the one – it’s a decoy.’

Dan looked at Mitch. ‘What?
What
?’

Mitch had turned back to the road, running his fingers through his hair and turning his head from side to side, desperately surveying the landscape. His eyes fell on the abandoned green tricycle standing in the middle of the road.
It was the real bomb
.

‘This isn’t the one, Dan – we’ve fixed the wrong one!’

Then H yelled, his shout carried away by a blast before Dan could register the warning. The robot tipped sideways in the shockwave, the camera blinked once, then continued recording. A red light on the camera flashed silently and, as the dust began to settle, the screaming began.

JANUARY 2012

‘Gold has long been valued in ancient cultures around the world. One must question exactly what was so special about gold that men would wage war with each other for years, far from their own lands. Maybe, just maybe, it was not so much about the gold itself, but rather the power it contained…

The power harnessed from the processing of gold in the ways I shall describe will show beyond doubt it is a cleaner, more stable alternative to nuclear fuel while surpassing the output we are told to expect from solar or wind energy. As usual, however, the polluting industries of oil and coal hold sway over governments around the world and continue to block extensive research and exploration into the mass manufacture of this potential wonder-fuel…’

Extract from lecture series by Doctor Peter Edgewater, Berlin, Germany

Oxford, England

Dan Taylor woke up in a sweat. The same nightmare punctuated his sleep, night after night – dust, sand, screaming, blood. He rubbed his eyes. He’d been crying in his sleep again. He knew the army shrinks said the memories would fade in time but he didn’t believe them. He’d spoken to enough people who had been caught up in combat before to know the dreams never left. He could almost hear the ringing in his ears from the explosion.

He tried to roll over and discovered he couldn’t. He opened his eyes, slowly. He’d passed out on the sofa. Again. He eased himself up onto his elbows and turned his head to survey the damage, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the stale odours in the room.

The remains of a Chinese takeaway littered the small coffee table next to him. He blinked in surprise. He didn’t remember eating last night. He reached down towards the floor and felt about until his fingers connected with a familiar glass surface. Clutching at it, he drew it up level until the whiskey bottle was in front of his face. He glanced at it and winced. Empty. He stood it on the coffee table.

He looked up and saw the television flickering on in the corner of the room. Some sort of daytime television talk-show rubbish. He reached between the sofa cushions underneath him. He pulled out the remote control, aimed it at the offending broadcast and hit the off switch.

He closed his eyes. He remembered thinking he’d have just one drink to help him get to sleep, to ward off the nightmares. He looked at the bottle accusingly. It had let him down. It no longer worked. He opened his eyes and blinked, trying to focus so the tears wouldn’t start.

He swung his legs off the sofa and sat with his head in his hands until he felt he could stand without falling over. Slowly, he straightened up and groaned.

Coffee
.

He picked up the empty whiskey bottle and takeaway cartons and staggered towards the kitchen. He swore profusely as he stubbed his toe on one of the bags littering the hallway. A steel-capped boot fell out on to the floor and he stared at it accusingly. He’d arrived back in Oxford two days ago but couldn’t face the depressing task of unpacking. He yearned to be travelling again, even if it only meant returning to his old career of collecting more soil samples for yet another mining exploration company. It stopped him thinking too hard about the past. Or the present. Or the future.

He shook his head and shuffled into the kitchen. He opened the back door, swung the rubbish into the bins outside and blinked in the bright sunshine. He belched and watched in mild amusement as the hot emission turned to steam in the cold morning air.

He stepped back into the kitchen, left the door open to help air the house and switched the kettle on. As he turned and reached up to a cupboard over the kitchen bench for a coffee mug, he noticed his mobile phone blinking.

New voicemail message.

Dan grunted, picked up the phone and put it in the back pocket of his jeans. He got a coffee mug, organised the first caffeine shot of the morning and sloped back to the living room.

He grimaced. The room stank.

He pulled open the curtains and opened the windows. Cold air filtered through. He shivered. At least it would freshen up the place. He sat down in an armchair and winced. He reached behind him and pulled the mobile phone from his pocket. He glared at it, then dialled the voicemail service and put the phone to his ear.

He took a sip of coffee while the mobile service went through all the options available to him. According to the mobile service, the message had been left the previous night. He waited, and then the message began.

‘Dan, hi – it’s Peter Edgewater here. Listen, I’m in a bit of a rush but you’re the only one who will really appreciate this – I’ve done it! I know who’s managing to produce white gold on a commercial basis! Listen, I’m just finishing a lecture tour in Europe at the moment but I’ll be back in a few days. I’m organising drinks with a few people I haven’t seen for a while so I can tell you all about it – let’s catch up, yeah? Give me a call and I’ll…’

Dan hit the button to hang up the call and threw the phone on the coffee table. He wondered why he bothered to have one. He really wasn’t interested in catching up with old friends so they could tell him how successful they were. It just reminded him how low he had sunk.

He leaned forward, picked up the phone and deleted the message. Dan glanced at his watch and grunted in satisfaction. The pub would be open in another hour.

Berlin, Germany

Peter hurried along the pavement in the direction of the hotel, his breath turning to vapour in the chill of the air. He shrugged the backpack further up his shoulder and thrust his gloved hands deeper into his jacket pockets, seeking out the last of the warmth from his body. ‘Note to self,’ he murmured, ‘next time, arrange lecture tours in the summer.’

Broad-shouldered, the man was athletic in build, tall and sinewy. He shivered in the bitter night though, and wished he had a few more natural layers of padding to cope with the cold German winter.

His attention was drawn to the familiar white and red of a Stella Artois sign protruding from the building on his left. Slowing down, Peter climbed up the two uneven narrow steps to an ornate hardwood door and pushed it open. Immediately, the cold of the night was forgotten as the warmth from the hotel’s reception area enveloped him.

A small, but effective, log fire burned in an elaborate fireplace set into the wall on his right, throwing out its heat across the room. To his left, a narrow doorway led to the hotel bar, which resonated with the sound of laughter and the soft clink of glasses as patrons eased out the creases of another day. Peter glanced at the bar, then made his way to the reception desk at the back of the foyer and let the backpack slide down his arm to the floor.

The receptionist, dressed in a navy blue suit with a white blouse, caught his eye as she took a booking over the telephone and motioned to him to wait. She finished the call and smiled.

‘Any messages?’ Peter asked as he removed his gloves.

‘One moment
bitte
.’

The receptionist turned to the computer and keyed in a command. She absently pushed her glasses up her nose as the screen refreshed.

‘A man was here asking for you earlier sir,’ she read from the screen. ‘He told the receptionist on duty he would telephone you. He didn’t leave his name.’

Peter frowned. The phone call was unexpected but, he reasoned, he’d met a lot of people over the past few weeks who would want to discuss his theories in more detail. He’d run out of business cards two days ago and had resorted to scribbling his name and phone number on catering napkins and beer mats to keep up with the demand of journalists, researchers and, he smiled, the occasional nut case.

He thanked the receptionist as he collected his electronic room key and shouldered his backpack once more before heading across the foyer to the elevator.

Stepping out on to the fifth floor, Peter walked across the hallway and inserted the swipe card to his hotel room, waited for the green light and the soft click of the lock, and opened the door. Reaching to his right, his hand automatically seeking the light switch, he yawned, closed the door behind him and ran his fingers through his hair.

The room was stuffy, the heating turned up high by the cleaning staff. He dropped the backpack to the floor, his shoulder aching with relief as the weight of the laptop and documents subsided. He closed the door behind him, tossed his swipe card onto the hardwood dresser and kicked off his shoes. He threw his jacket onto the bed, made his way over to the balcony door and pushed it open a little, letting the cold fresh air wash over him. Turning slightly, he reached down to the small refrigerator in the corner of the room and grabbed a cold beer.

‘Cheers,’ he said to the empty room, tearing off his tie.

Bending down to open his backpack, he noticed the answering machine light blinking. He punched in the access code and tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder while he gathered up his notes. The message began to play, the soundtrack a busy street, before a heavily accented voice cut through the static.

‘Doctor Edgewater, you know who I represent. If you continue to insinuate that my employer’s organisation is in any way involved in matters pertaining to white gold and super-conducted precious metals, we will be unable to guarantee your safety on this lecture tour. We
will
harm you and your family if you persist.’

The message ended abruptly.

Peter slammed down the phone in disgust and disbelief. He had expected a few idiots on the lecture tour, but not threats – not yet. He hadn’t even discussed the really controversial claims as he found himself still debating whether it was worth the trouble he could cause for himself. Now this. Someone was actively watching him and his research.

He shivered. He’d be glad to get out of Berlin tomorrow. Travelling to Paris meant being a little closer to home. Living out of a suitcase lost its appeal after a few weeks on the road.

Peter walked across the room and slid the balcony door shut, sweeping the curtains closed, though not before he’d glanced nervously at the windows in the building opposite. How long had he been followed? Had he spoken to the person who had phoned? Had he been approached after the lecture today without realising who he was speaking with?

Peter realised he no longer knew who to trust.

The university had threatened to cut his funding last month – the lecture tour was devised by Peter to create an awareness of the clandestine demand for super-conducted precious metals, particularly white gold, so the research couldn’t be ignored. He was sure the university was under pressure from the UK government to stop him before he uncovered anything it was experimenting with.

He wandered back to the bed, sat down and swung his legs up, grabbed the television remote and flicked to the 24-hour news channel. His flight to Paris was scheduled to leave mid-morning, with the lecture taking place in the evening. Hitting the mute button, he reached for his notes.

He took a long swallow of the beer and absently contemplated the label. Maybe it was time to ramp up the lectures now he was heading home, to see who came out of the shadows, he thought, then turned the page.

Despite the warning, he couldn’t quit, not now – he was too close. There was too much at stake.