~ End Game ~

by

David Toft

Wilson walked out of the Cabinet Office with head bowed, relieved of his post, full pension, pressures of the job, usual story, scrapped. He had heard all the words but understanding had come seconds later, when he was trying to listen to the next ones.

“Stuart.”

The call came from the door of an anteroom to his left, and barely brushed his consciousness. The PM himself would make an official  announcement to the assembled ‘gentlemen of the press’ in half an hour. That would give Wilson time to ‘no comment’ his way through the tabloid pack, and be most of the way home before they were loosed on him.

“Stuart.” The voice was louder this time and accompanied by a hand on his shoulder. Wilson turned.

Bill Rubek was smiling down at him.

The hand on Wilson’s shoulder guided him into a small office. He heard the door close behind him.

“Grab a seat,” Rubek said

“No point Bill. Perhaps they haven’t talked to the Americans. I’m finished. I’m out of it.”

The arm guided him to a chair, and pushed him down onto it. “No, no, Stuart, far from it. We haven’t even got started.” The American released his grip, and moved around the table to sit opposite.

There was a file on the desk in front of Wilson. It had his name on it. He opened it just as a point of focus. Inside was a copy of the photograph of Alice Craven, captured by the traffic camera in Bradford exactly seven minutes before she blew one hundred and thirty-four innocent people to pieces.

“Got your picture,” Rubek said, and tossed another on top of it. The car was different, the surroundings were different, but the woman was the same.

Wilson looked up at the American.

“We want you in on this, Stuart. Your PM’s okayed it. We have the run of the resources of every civilised country on the planet, even some of the less civilised ones.”

Wilson looked over his shoulder to the door, trying to tell himself that the meeting he had just left had actually happened. If it hadn’t, he concluded, then he really wasn’t up to it.

The American laughed. “This isn’t a government thing Stuart, not officially. They wouldn’t dare touch it.” He laughed again but without humour. “This is X-Files stuff. That…” He pointed at the uppermost photograph. “…was New York, the shopping mall, exactly thirty-five minutes after Bradford. Every test that we can do tells us that it’s the same woman.”

Wilson rearranged the pictures so that they lay side by side. Both had dates and times recorded in the top right hand corner. He looked from one to the other. His brow creased.

“Don’t worry about the time difference calculations,” Rubek said. “Take my word for it. It’s thirty-five minutes real time.”

Wilson looked up into Rubek’s face. It was set and serious. He looked back at the pictures. “It’s impossible.” He shook his head. “Impossible.”

“No, not impossible.” The voice was soft. Wilson jerked his head around to its source. He had not even seen the man who was sitting away from the table, in the far corner of the room.

He was small, and his crossed arms and legs bundled him even tighter. He was old too, with wispy, white hair through which his scalp shone bright pink. His brown raincoat was unbuttoned, so was the grey tweed jacket beneath it. Beneath these was a brightly striped v-neck pullover. The man cleared his throat. “Not impossible if she was already dead.”

“Well, she was dead after Bradford.” Wilson conceded.

“She was dead before Bradford.” The old man countered. “Believe me, she was dead before Bradford.”

“Sorry, Stuart.” Rubek held out an introductory hand. “Ray North.”

“Mr. North.” Wilson stood, and held out his hand. The man grunted but made no attempt to uncurl himself from his seat. Wilson regained his chair, and looked at Rubek from beneath raised brows.

The American smiled, and looked at his watch. “Come on, we’ve still fifteen minutes before you’re fired officially.” He stood, and smiled. “We should be halfway to Hendon by then. There’s a plane waiting.”

“Plane for where?” Wilson asked, as he too gained his feet.

The American’s arm slipped around his shoulder once again. “Somalia.”

~ * ~

The heat was almost unbearable. Wilson had never been anywhere hotter than a family holiday in Torquay in July and, if he could possibly avoid it, he told himself, he never would again. The dust only added to his discomfort, turning to cement as it settled on his sweaty skin. It probably would not have been so bad without the excavators that were tearing into the packed earth at the north end of the compound.

Years of intermittent artillery and air bombardment had pounded the buildings around them into sections of freestanding wall interspersed with piles of rubble. In the far distance, a range of mountains looked cool and green. That only made things worse.

A group of Somali soldiers lounged against two ancient, three-ton trucks off to Wilson’s left. They were there for protection against bandits. Wilson had little confidence in their ability to provide this, or to do the spadework once the first bodies were uncovered.

He turned. Behind him, three, dust-spattered but new four-wheel drives were the visitors’ transport. Rubek stood in front of the lead vehicle. He was chatting with the two U.S. Rangers, who, together with the two SAS men, Wilson thought, were a more reliable protection squad than that provided by the Somalis. The two British soldiers were out of sight behind the middle vehicle, brewing tea.

A refrigeration unit that was close to being half as big as the Toyota itself topped the truck at the rear. That one, they hoped, would soon be carrying the remains of Dr Alice Craven back across the desert to a military airfield. The USAF would forward them to a secure research establishment from there. No one had told Wilson where this was. That secure,he thought.

The smell hit Wilson’s senses before the shout of the excavator operator. It was in his nose, in his mouth, sweet and repellent. Then it was in his stomach, which tried to eject it. Acid bile filled his mouth. He swallowed it down. Up it came again.

“Over here, sir.” One of the SAS men led him between the vehicles. “We don’t make tea just ‘cause we’re Brits you know.”

His colleague stood up from a small stove, and held out a cup of thick brown brew. “Drink, sir, it’ll do you good.”

Wilson took the cup between two hands without speaking, took a drink, and his stomach settled. He hoped it was only tea. No he didn’t; he told himself, once it worked, he didn’t give a shit. He smiled. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

“All part of the service, sir. Now, if you’re okay, we’ll go and get those idle native bastards working.”

“Yes, of course, carry on Sergeant.” He took another, longer drink. Rubek joined him. Wilson looked around.

The two Rangers had joined their British colleagues and the Somali infantry were prodding at the pit with spades and picks.

“They okay?” Wilson asked.

“Yeah, they’re fine,” Rubek replied, “Thank God, I had a look over the edge, not pretty.”