October skies

There it was — a message he was expecting, a no-questions-asked favour from a sympathetic face in the department of Homeland Security. As requested, The ISP number was traced to an address in London, England. The address is 59 Lena Garden Road, Hammersmith, London, W6. The name against the ISP number and the address is Julian Francis Cooke. Cooke is/was a minor media personality presenting some current affairs programmes, investigative programmes. His media profile is lower than it used to be, but he is still a recognisable name and face. He runs a small production company called ‘Soup Kitchen Studios’ that makes low-cost documentaries. Recent programmes made by them include one on a radical Islamic imam, Mohammad Al Bakti, released from US custody a few years ago. The association with this Muslim cleric was for a period of two weeks. For some reason, this has escaped a Homeland Security flagging. (By the way, I can have this guy, Cooke, pulled in. It’s something I can easily do for you if he’s causing you any problems.) You might want to know, fifteen days ago he passed through immigration at Denver International. The same day he connected on a flight to Reno. He then flew back from Denver to London thirteen days later and is currently at his home address in London. You should also know that he flew over here with an associate, Rosemary Whitely, who also flew on to Reno with him, and has not returned to the UK. So she’s still in the US. As requested, I’ve authorised a tap on Cooke’s phone and an intercept on his internet connection. Not difficult justifying that because of his past association with Al Bakti, and it’s relatively painless burying the paperwork since we’re only dealing with British intelligence, and those guys will bend over backwards for us. They’ll ask… but I don’t need to give any reason. All intercepted emails will be copied to your encrypted account. All intercepted calls will be recorded and uploaded to the secured ftp site you listed. Hope this helps. Your friend in the Big Building

Shepherd looked out through the smoked glass of the window. The town of Munston, little more than a highway flanked on either side by big-box retailers fronted by acres of tarmac parking, slipped past forgettably.

It was useful information. Useful to know exactly who was sniffing around. Perhaps he had nothing — perhaps he’d found something.

The thought triggered a tingle of excitement.

Perhaps he’s discovered them?

Maybe there was some sort of mutual exchange he could do with this Mr Cooke; information for information.

CHAPTER 33

23 October, 1856

I have slept poorly, worrying about Sam and Emily’s mother. I can understand, for certain types of people, their faith is everything. Hers has been shaken. I have no idea what Preston’s story is… whether he genuinely believes he is on a mission for God. I suppose that’s irrelevant. What matters is what Mrs Dreyton believes.

Or should I say, believed. Past tense.

What worries me more is whether she will sow seeds of doubt amongst the others. Whilst I am no fan of peculiar and strict religious sects like Preston’s, it is their faith in him that seems to hold them together. And thus far… I have myself found Preston to be a rational and reasonable man.

I am troubled by this situation.

Ben put down his pen and rubbed his hands vigorously together. Even with a woollen scarf wrapped tightly around his writing hand, it was stiff with the cold.

The usually sullen grey sky was broken today, allowing the heartening sight of scant patches of blue — a dash of colour to their monochrome world that he much missed. A weak ray of sunlight speared down from the scudding clouds, dappling the clearing momentarily before racing away across the trees.

His gaze fell upon the pitiful sight of their dead oxen. Under Keats’s supervision, the first few of the dead oxen had been towed a short distance away from the others and butchered for meat. The well-trodden snow around their carved-up carcasses was pink and, amongst the exposed ribcages, a pile of inedible purple and grey organs was steadily growing. Ben wondered how long it would be before that offal was no longer considered inedible.

For the while, food was not going to be a problem. But the collective mouths of over a hundred and twenty people made short work of each carcass as it became available. The mathematics of the situation was inescapably obvious to him already. There weren’t enough oxen to keep them all going through the winter and into spring. At some point, they were going to have to find other food to subsist on to supplement the oxen. Or perhaps reduce their numbers.

It occurred to him that he might not be the only person already making that kind of calculation.