Without warning

‘I’m sorry, Wales,’ she mouthed silently, before slowly crawling backwards into the darkness of the cemetery.

She didn’t know whether her illness was affecting her judgment as badly as she knew it had affected her physical abilities, but Caitlin was annoyed and not a little perturbed to find herself feeling scared and lost. The shooters at the hospital were state-sponsored muscle – of that she was sure. And the team at the apartment looked like pros too. From what little she could glimpse, they were taking the place apart in a precise, methodical fashion. If she had to bet on it, she’d lay down good money that they were French secret service, probably the Action Division of the DGSE, the designated point men for securing the Republic against the intrigues and depredations of Echelon.

What the hell they were up to, what greater scheme they served, she had no idea. It was obviously related to the day’s events – such frontal assaults on a ‘sister’ service were almost unprecedented – but she could not be sure how.

What she did know was that her control cell was compromised and she would need to get herself to safety. To a US or British military facility somewhere on the continent. Across the Channel, to friendly ground. Or, as a very last resort, to one of the diplomatic missions of Echelon’s member nations, the old, English-speaking democracies.

As soon as the last idea occurred to her, she dismissed it. If the French were aggressively rolling up Echelon cells, they’d be staking out the embassies and consulates.

No. She was on her own.

* * * *

ONE WEEK

21 MARCH, 2003

* * * *

16 SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

‘I don’t want you going out there again, Kip. You look sick.’

Barb looked worse than him, he thought, but it wouldn’t be worth his life to point that out, of course. Her eyes stared at him from within dark hollows. She’d had little more than an hour or two of sleep a night for the last week. The old bathrobe clutched nervously just below her throat was dirty and her dark hair lank and greasy. Nobody had been allowed to run water for three days now, because of the contamination. They were living on what they had stored in pots and bottles and the old clawfoot tub upstairs in the half-renovated bathroom. Kipper needed to get into work to see if he could change that today.

‘Barb, I’m not sick. I’m fine. They’ve been checking us every day. Army doctors, guys who specialise in chemical war and stuff – we’re fine. We got those bio suits, but we don’t even need them anymore.’

Unfortunately, she would not be dissuaded. ‘Kip, you have a family to look after…’

‘And I am looking after them,’ he countered, with some irritation. ‘I am the guy who can turn on your taps again. I am the guy who makes sure the power is there when you flick the switch. Me – nobody else. It’s my job, Barb. I have to go.’

He wondered why she was so much worse this morning? The pollutant storms were clearing out. The toxic soup he’d had to brave on Tuesday to get into the city had been truly scary. The army had sent some sort of pressure-sealed armoured vehicle for him, something they were going to fight Saddam or the old Russians with, and all of the troops were suited up in NBC gear.

‘This is insane, James.’

Uh-oh. He knew he was in trouble when she called him that.

‘We should be thinking about getting out of here,’ Barb continued. ‘Not hanging around. Deb and Steve flew out for New Zealand yesterday. They’re not coming back. They’re too smart. But your martyr complex is going to see us die here. Isn’t it?’

He controlled the anger that threatened to flare up between them, reminding himself that Barb had nothing to do but sit in the house, like the rest of the city, staring out of the windows at toxic rain. She must’ve been going batshit by now. And, he remembered at that very moment, she was also premenstrual.

‘Okay,’ he said, as calmly as he could without shading over into anything that might be mistaken for a patronising tone. ‘Deb was born in New Zealand, so they could do that. They got out on a government charter. There aren’t any other flights leaving, because no airlines will fly in here anymore. So leaving isn’t an option. Yet.’

‘But it’s got to be, Kip. We can’t feed ourselves. We’ll starve soon.’

‘We won’t,’ he said. ‘I’ve got all those freeze-dried camping rations down in the basement. The ones you gave me all that grief over when I bought them cheap, remember? We’ve got at least two months’ worth.’

She shook her head and her eyes hardened. ‘That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it. The city is starving. They’re going to have to evacuate people before long. You know that, James. You must have been talking about it at council.’

He tried to speak but she rode in over him.

‘And when it happens, we’re going, mister. All of us. To New Zealand or Tasmania or fucking Bora Bora. Anywhere but here.’

‘D-a-a-a-d-d-y!’