The Shadow Project, page 3
Hector snorted slightly, his usual prelude to ringing off, but instead he said, “How’s the boy working out?”
“Don’t know yet,” Roland told him. “I’m not even sure when his first proper operation’s scheduled.”
Hector snorted again, a little more loudly, and rang off. Roland hung up, but the phone rang again at once.
This time it was the Project.
7
Sir Roland, the Shadow Project
“Is it the Skull?” Sir Roland asked as George led him into his office and closed the door. He didn’t add this time, but they both knew what he meant. The agency received perhaps four or five reports of Skull sightings on a daily basis. The CIA got even more. Most of them came from cranks. But George would not have called this one in if it was routine.
George Hanover shrugged. “Mossad seems to think so. We have Opal checking now.”
Roland said, “I gather there was a delay?”
Hanover looked uncomfortable. “Yes. Yes, there was. Because of the intruder.”
“I want the whole story on that,” Roland said. “Was this an attack on the Project?”
“We don’t think so. Actually, we’re certain it wasn’t. I’ve talked to the boy, and he seems to be just a petty thief. Carradine will investigate fully, of course.”
“Hardly something to shout about, is it, George? A petty thief simply walks into what’s supposed to be one of the most secure sites in Britain. A young boy at that.”
Hanover made a helpless gesture with one hand. “There were circumstances.”
“Specifically?”
“The boy broke into the mansion. Low security, as you know: it’s designed to look like an ordinary country house. Anyone could walk in and stay for a month without realizing what was going on underneath.”
“He worked it out,” Roland said.
“There’s an explanation, Roland,” Hanover said. “We had a power failure, hardly long enough to notice, but enough for the backup generators to cut in. Then the mains came back on and the generators turned off again. It was all just a second or two, but the surge affected the computers that run the security system. The result was that one of the elevator doors opened. Just for a second or two, as I said, but as luck would have it, our boy was on the spot at the wrong moment. He got curious and entered the lift. Then the power came back on and it took him down. Million to one chance. Would never happen again, and we caught him within minutes, of course.”
Bloody computers, Roland thought. Aloud he said, “No evidence of sabotage?”
Hanover shook his head. “Just bad luck and bad timing.”
What puzzled Roland was that George was acting a shade too relaxed about the whole thing. Roland had known him a long time. Something else had happened—he was sure of it. “So the boy wandered in on Opal’s mission?”
Hanover’s lazy eye drifted slightly. “He appeared in the doorway, gave her a bit of a surprise, but that’s about it. The Michael business—he claims he thought Michael was attacking him. Which, of course, he was.”
Roland said, “All right, George. About the boy. Do we have a name yet?”
“Lester Thomas.”
The thing was, George still wasn’t looking particularly contrite. Someone had penetrated a top-security project, and the operational head was clearly working hard not to look pleased. “How much did he see?”
“Nothing of real importance, Roland,” Hanover said. Then added, “Although it could actually turn out to be very important.” Roland waited. Hanover leaned forward in his chair. “I think our boy could be another operative.”
Roland paused. “What are you talking about?”
Hanover was openly excited now. “Frankly, Roland, it’s the real reason I called you. I mean, the Skull may be out there somewhere, but we’ve all been down this road before, and I’d never dream of dragging you away until we had some sort of confirmation.” He tapped Roland lightly on the knee. “The kid told us he saw the bats.”
Roland blinked. “The threshold guardians? Without a helmet?”
Hanover nodded. “Yes.”
“How is that possible?”
“Roland, you’re the expert,” Hanover said, grinning. “That’s why I called you in. I think you should take a look at this lad. If he can do it without a helmet…”
Roland stared at Hanover as he left the sentence trailing. If Lester Thomas could see the guardians without a helmet, that had to mean a natural talent. Even Opal couldn’t do that. The psychology experts always claimed there must be a youngster like that out there, one who could project without the implants, maybe without any artificial help at all—but for all the money spent by the Project, all the covert visits to schools, all the disguised test papers filtered into the exams, none had ever turned up.
Until now, apparently.
“You’re right, George,” Roland said. “Perhaps I should see young Lester right away.” He stood up. “Cell block, I assume?”
“I’ll take you personally,” Hanover offered, grinning smugly.
But when they reached the cell block, Lester Thomas was no longer there.
8
Opal, Lusakistan
What the machine did was separate you from your physical body. One minute you were in there, working your arms and your legs. The next, you were floating above it…and you could go anywhere in the world in a blink. But the weird thing was, even though you came out of your body, you still had a second energy body, and you never quite got used to the fact that it felt so utterly, completely normal. You could see your hands. You still seemed to be wearing clothes—the same clothes you had on when you left. But more than that, you continued to react to your environment to some extent. So floating high about the mountain peaks, Opal felt cold.
Hot or cold, Lusakistan was the sewer pipe of the universe.
It was like looking at a satellite photograph: a few splashes of green, a rare glint of river water, but mostly gray-brown mountains, gray-brown valleys, rock fields, and narrow, winding trails. This was not a fertile land. There were no rolling grasslands, no fields of grain, just a wilderness of rock. Life here was brutal in the extreme. Small wonder the country bred such hardy people. The tragedy was that it still housed so many terrorists, despite the American invasion and the overthrow of the old government. That war was supposed to be over, but Opal knew it was still going on. Her father was scathing about the fact that Britain had become involved, even though his job meant he couldn’t speak out publicly. All the same, most of the fighting was far to the south. Here she was overlooking what appeared to be a wholly peaceful region of empty, barren wilderness.
The Israelis were probably wrong about the Skull.
She caught a movement on the ground to her left, at the very edge of her field of vision, and swung her body around. For a moment there was nothing, then something moved again. It was so far away, it could have been anything: a sheep or a goat, but also possibly a man. Or actually, no, it couldn’t have been any of those things: it was too far away for something so small to show up. The terrain she was staring at was rugged—all the terrain was rugged—a mix of foothills and the lower slopes of mountains. She seemed to be looking toward a ridge of some sort. The flicker of movement had appeared briefly above it, but she could see nothing at all beyond. Anything could be hiding there.
Gross movement follows thought. To reach somewhere, you had to visualize the details of your target. Opal closed her eyes and soared from her high vantage point toward the distant ridge.
9
Danny, the Shadow Project
Piece of cake, Danny thought. But he resisted the urge to fling his cell door open and make a run for it. The people who nicked him hadn’t impressed him very much, but it never did to underestimate anybody. Especially when you didn’t know exactly who they were.
He pulled the door open a crack and peered through. The place they’d stashed him had prison written all over it, right down to the bunk bed and the standard lock on the door. Which made him grin because a standard lock didn’t last more than five minutes when you had the tools.
Crap! Should have guessed it—there was a guard! He was sitting on a seat outside, one of the security goons who’d been stationed by the door when Danny was questioned. Danny could see his profile through the crack. Ugly, short haircut, thick neck, wouldn’t want to meet him on a dark night. But was he built for speed? Danny knew how to leg it when the occasion warranted, first thing you learned as a street kid. If you were big and tough, you fought. If you were a skinny little runt, the way Danny used to be, it was speed that got you away from the other gang. Danny was bigger now, and he’d left the street gangs behind, but he still had his turn of speed. And the element of surprise.
But the trouble with legging it was, he didn’t know where to leg it to. And there might be a second guard, out of sight. There’d been two when they were questioning him.
The guard spotted him! Danny jerked his head back, waited for a moment, then put his eye to the crack again. No, he’d been wrong—not spotted. The guard was just closing his book and standing up. Standing up and plodding off. Call of nature, probably.
Danny held back until the footsteps faded and he heard the closing of a door. Then, all thoughts of a second guard forgotten, he opened his own door, looked around, slipped out, and took off.
He was on the bus home before he switched on his cell phone.
There was a message waiting for him, a woman’s voice, familiar though he couldn’t place it and she didn’t leave a name. Sounded a bit anxious, like she wasn’t used to voice mail. The woman said, “Danny? That you, Danny? Hate these bleeding things. Danny, if you get this, come straight home. Your Nan’s been taken bad.”
And that was it. No details, nothing. Danny clicked the button and stared at his reflection in the window of the bus. He’d gone cold inside.
10
Opal, Lusakistan
Opal dropped lightly behind the ridge like an eagle landing on a crag. Everybody kept telling her there was no way she could be seen, but she simply couldn’t shake the habit of caution. The problem was that she felt solid, as if she still had a physical body, and her head kept telling her it made no sense to take chances. In some ways it was like being in a dream. Nothing could really hurt you in a dream, but you still screamed and ran when the monster chased you.
She started to walk. Everywhere was rocky and steep. In normal circumstances she would have found the terrain difficult, stumbled, maybe even fallen. But in her second body she could move without problems. She could have walked right through those rocks, right through the ridge itself, if she put her mind to it, but she found walking through things creepy and avoided doing it where possible.
She reached the top of the ridge and peered over.
She knew at once she’d gotten lucky. Stretched out across the valley below was a massive military camp, so massive it was almost a town. Opal crouched, thunderstruck. Temporary structures and tents mixed with permanent brick buildings, while on the far side of the valley several tracks and two well-made roads wound their way up to what had to be a warren of caves pushed deep into the mountain. The whole place looked like a garrison, swarming with armed men. Even as she watched, a convoy of trucks, armored cars, and a scattering of light tanks meandered along the valley floor. At one end, behind a heavily guarded stockade, soldiers were loading a helicopter with crates from a low building with a camouflage roof.
She’d found the Skull!
The moment the thought occurred, she dismissed it. Until she investigated further, she couldn’t even be sure this was a terrorist encampment. Lusakistan was still run by warlords. For all she knew, she could be looking at the headquarters of one of them. She needed to get closer.
Opal glanced at her watch and found herself staring at an empty wrist. It was so irritating. Nothing could be brought on a mission except the clothes on your back, but looking at your watch was like hiding behind rocks—a habit that died hard. She focused on the main road through the camp. There was just the briefest pause—and then, with no sensation of movement, she was standing in the middle of the road itself. New smells assailed her nostrils.
There was an armored car bearing down on her, but she ignored it. From a distance the roadway looked in better repair than it was close up. It was potholed and crumbling as if made in a hurry or subjected to a lot of wear and tear. Opal looked around. This might be a legitimate township despite the heavy military presence, but she doubted it. The whole location looked as if it had been chosen for secrecy. There was a single, narrow entrance to the valley. The place was invisible from the lowlands, invisible even immediately below until you stumbled onto it, and as Opal had discovered, it was almost impossible to see from the air until you were directly over it.
The armored car drove through her, creating a moment of darkness and confusion. For an instant she felt disoriented, queasy; then she was back in the daylight. She began to walk toward what might have been a market square.
The place had an unpleasant smell—the sweat of unwashed men, mixed with cordite and diesel fumes, with an occasional revolting burst of cheap cologne. Almost everyone was in some sort of military uniform, mostly dusty and tattered. Everyone was heavily armed.
She hated moving through crowds, hated the way people passed through her like the armored car. There was no sensation, of course, but she found herself tensing each time it happened. It was like one of those 3-D movies where you had to wear the special glasses. When they threw the bucket of water over you, you knew it wasn’t real, but you ducked anyway.
Opal had two goals. The first, and by far the most important, was to try to identify this place as a terrorist camp. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake. If she did, the Allies would bomb innocent civilians. It had happened before, more than once. But never, thank God, because of one of her reports. She didn’t want this to be the first.
The second goal, far less easy, was to find out whether the Skull was here. Confirmation of that would make her a legend.
There was a standard procedure for a mission like this, but she wasn’t keen to apply it. It involved crisscrossing the area under investigation in a tight grid pattern, moving fast without reference to structures, people or obstacles, and all the while observing, taking note of clues. All very logical, except that Opal loathed the bewildering experience of passing through walls almost as much as she loathed the experience of passing through people. Gridding meant passing through both. All the same, it looked as if she might—
Opal stopped dead. Someone had emerged from the heavily guarded compound where the helicopter was being loaded. For a moment she simply stared at him, openmouthed, not able to believe her eyes. But there was no doubt at all. She was standing less than a hundred yards away from the tall, hairless figure of the Skull.
11
Sir Roland, the Shadow Project
“You did what?” Sir Roland exploded.
Carradine gave one of his small, crooked smiles. “Take it easy, Roland—it was the best thing, in my judgment.”
Roland. Not sir, or even Sir Roland. You could always tell Carradine served a different master. It wasn’t that Roland really cared about titles. But, dammit, Carradine was younger than he was, so a little respect would not have gone amiss. “Your judgment was that letting him escape was the best thing to do?”
Carradine nodded. “That was my call.”
“You didn’t think to consult me?”
“Didn’t want to trouble you.”
“I’m head of the Project,” Roland snapped.
“And I’m head of security,” Carradine shot back, as if that clinched the argument.
Because he was still irritated (read furious), Roland said, “In that case, Gary, I think you’d better explain, as head of security, how anyone could imagine that letting the boy go was the best thing to do.”
They were in Carradine’s office with its uncomfortable chairs and high-tech equipment. Carradine placed considerable reliance on computers and associated gadgets. Roland hated the bloody things.
Carradine, who had parked one buttock on the corner of his desk, glanced briefly at an open laptop before he said, “Well, for one thing, our questioning got nowhere.” By which he meant George Hanover’s questioning: there was a bit of an edge between Carradine and Hanover, although neither let it interfere with work.
“It got us his name and address,” Roland said coldly. “Enough to run a check, I would have thought.”
“Both phony, I’m afraid.”
Roland stared. “What?”
“Lester Thomas isn’t his name, and he doesn’t live at Rigby Villas.”
Roland drew up one of the hideous modern chairs and sat down. He looked at Carradine. “How do you know?”
“As you say, what he gave us was enough to run a check. So I had the Department send some men around.”
Roland found himself feeling even more aggrieved. “MI6? You ordered MI6 to send some men around?” Carradine was CIA. They thought they ruled the world.
“Requested,” Carradine corrected him.
Roland made a conscious effort to reel in his temper. CIA or not, Carradine had considerable experience, so presumably he did know what he was doing. “What did you find out?”
“Rigby Villas exists, and Lester Thomas lives at number sixty-eight. But Lester isn’t our boy. He’s a Jamaican thug in his fifties, known to the police. I think our young burglar probably knows him too—he was awfully quick with the name, and it matches the address. My guess is he hoped we’d go calling and Lester would beat us up. But he’s not Lester.”
