=05:30 hrs=
The sound of an approaching helicopter competed with the rumblings of the low hanging clouds as the summer storm grew in intensity, lashing the landscape with rain.
“Over there,” Gonzalez told the pilot, pointing to a big cross painted on the building’s roof .
As the helicopter touched down, Gonzalez got out, shouting at the pilot above the din of the rotating blades, “Stay with the chopper and keep your eyes open. Report anything suspicious on the RT.”
Gonzalez beckoned and another man jumped out, turning up his collar against the rain. They were both dressed in combat fatigues and wore holstered side arms. In addition Gonzalez’s companion carried a stubby automatic machine gun.
They hadn’t taken more than a dozen steps when a voice cut through the rain. “Okay you, hold it right there. This is a restricted area.”
A security guard appeared out of the gloom, rain running down the peak of his cap onto the thin plastic mac covering his uniform. Gonzalez knew from his briefing notes that there were two security guards on duty, and from the prominent nose and slight limp, this had to be Lynas. The other guard would be on duty at the main gate.
“Lynas, right?” Gonzalez said holding out his pass.
As the guard leant over to inspect it, Gonzalez punched him in the throat with curled knuckles. The guard opened his mouth, gulping, grabbing at his throat, trying to pull air through his crushed larynx.
“Get him out of sight, then deal with the man on the gate. Meet me in the main lab. Go.”
Gonzalez headed for the roof staircase without a backward glance, knowing his orders would be carried out ruthlessly and efficiently.
The door squealed on its hinges, echoing down the brightly lit concrete staircase. From the architectural drawings he’d studied, Gonzalez knew the stairs led down to a main corridor running the length of the building. The offices were situated towards the front, with laboratories at the rear. The basements held the animal housing and smaller labs.
Walking the length of the corridor Gonzalez entered the reception area. Even this early in the day a young man was sitting at the reception desk, reading a novel that was half-hidden under the counter.
Gliding across the carpeted floor Gonzalez came up behind him, gripping the receptionist’s shoulder so tightly that his fingers disappeared into the man’s muscles. Crying out in pain he clutched at Gonzalez’s hand, turning his head. The sight of the large black muzzle made him gasp. It seemed to expand in size with every passing second.
“You will make a general announcement over the tannoy,” a hard voice whispered into his ear. “Nod if you understand.” The receptionist nodded, licking dry lips, body trembling with an adrenaline rush.
Gonzalez could feel the man’s sudden fear - a musty smell that flared his nostrils. “Tell the staff that there’s been a security breach and they must assemble in the canteen immediately.”
Pressing a button on the intercom the receptionist tried, but his dry, frog-like croaks were unintelligible.
“Take a drink and try again,” Gonzalez ordered.
Picking up a bottle of water, the receptionist took a long gulp, and after the warning ‘ding-dong’ signal, made the announcement in assured, clipped tones - the last words he ever uttered.
Five minutes later Gonzalez and his companion were standing in front of the canteen counter, surveying the seven people sitting around a table. Even though the rota had shown Doctors Vasant and Mackenzie only worked on the day shift, Gonzalez had hoped that at least one of them might have been here. It would have saved him the trouble of having to track them down to their homes.
Moving forward a few paces, Gonzalez addressed them in a hard, flat voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Danny Santius. As you are probably aware from the recent news reports, the Isle of Wight is under threat from terrorists. You may have noticed that certain computers at this facility have been interfered with during the night.” One or two heads nodded. “We believe that the terrorists have stolen some of the hard drives and other sensitive information from the facility. While we investigate this, you will all go down to the small office behind the animal house and wait there please.”
A tall thin man got to his feet. “But this is ridiculous. Who are you? There aren’t any terrorists here. I can assure you that I’d have seen them if there were.”
“Sergeant Bream,” Gonzalez said turning to his companion. “Take this man out to reception. Show him why we think this is the work of terrorists, then bring him back here.”
The two men returned a few minutes later, the tall man’s face a deathly white. He sat down without saying a word, his hands trembling. Gonzalez nodded at his companion who gathered the staff together, herding them towards the lift.
“Any more trouble?” Gonzalez asked when he returned.
“I locked them in an office but it won’t hold them for very long if they make a concerted effort to get out.”
Gonzalez thought for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, I’m going to be at least a couple of hours. Go and keep an eye on them. How about the main gate?”
“Locked up tight. The guard’s body is out of sight.”
“Shouldn’t be anyone trying to get in for another . . .” Gonzalez checked his watch, “three hours. The day-time staff start at nine. Okay, let’s get this done.”
=06:32 hrs=
Ollie Harris was running as fast as he could, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pounded along the uneven track. He glanced over his shoulder again. The cat’s were nearer, much nearer.
Pumping his legs faster he lengthened his stride, his grey beard flapping over his shoulder. Not far now, he’d nearly reached the corner of the field, just a few more metres.
Ollie Harris’s day had started out just like any other. The storm had woken him early. He’d splashed water on his face, combed some tangles out of his long dirty beard, had a cup of tea in his only mug, and left the caravan to look for some casual work.
It was raining. In fact it was pelting down, but that hadn’t worried Ollie Harris one bit, he was used to being out in all kinds of weather. Shrugging his torn coat higher around his neck, he started walking up the track beside Mrs Kavanaugh’s field. He’d go and offer to cut her some firewood for her winter stock; she was always such a soft touch when he showed up looking hungry and bedraggled.
As he shuffled along, head bowed against the rain, hands deep in his pockets, grey beard covering the front of his coat like a dirty scarf, his battered cloth cap pulled low over his face, Ollie Harris looked to be anywhere between twenty and fifty. Skinny, stooped - and with what the majority of people thought of as a drinker’s nose, but was in fact rosacea - he was everybody’s picture of the archetypical village tramp.
Nobody knew Ollie Harris’s actual age, but his family had moved to the Isle of Wight in the late ‘90’s, his mother dying of cancer shortly afterwards. Then, at the age of sixteen, his drunken father had given him one too many beatings and he’d retaliated in a blind rage.
The sight of his father’s body lying at his feet, face a bloody pulp, had frightened young Ollie Harris so much that he’d run off, spending the next eighteen months living rough in the woods until he’d been picked up for vagrancy.
It was quickly apparent to the police that there was something far wrong with young Ollie Harris, and they were proven right when he was diagnosed with severe bipolar disorder. After a short course of carbamazepine, the hospital discharged him clutching a prescription for benzodiazepine and an appointment to see the psychiatric nurse in six months.
He’d gone back to living rough in the forest until old Mrs Kavanaugh, perhaps seeing something in the unkempt, rambling vagrant that nobody else did, took pity on him and let him stay in a broken down old caravan that she kept at the bottom of her field.
Ollie Harris stopped under the spread branches of an oak tree and stared at Mrs Kavanaugh’s stone cottage.
Something is wrong, he thought.
Ollie Harris knew that Mrs Kavanaugh was house-proud, and grateful that at her age she was still able to take care of herself and not have to rely on others.
So why was her washing hanging out in the rain, he wondered. And why was her front door standing open?
As Ollie Harris got nearer to the cottage, he spotted the abandoned washing basket dropped on one side of the path. Picking it up, he walked to the front door and called out. There was no answer. He pushed the door fully open and called again.
“Mrs K, you home?”
Ollie Harris felt uncomfortable about walking into Mrs Kavanaugh’s house uninvited, arguing with himself that it wasn’t right.
But suppose she was in trouble.
“Are you in trouble Mrs K?” Do you need any help?”
Ollie Harris stood on the doorstep, rain dripping from his raincoat onto the quarry tiles in the hallway.
Best if I try again, then go, he told himself.
“Mrs K, I’m going now.”
Stepping back, he started pulling the front door closed, then stopped, head tilted, wondering if he’d heard a voice.
Maybe it was just in my head.
Pushing the door open again, he stepped into the hall.
“Mrs K?” You there?”
Taking off his raincoat, Ollie Harris shook the water off, closed the door, then hung his coat neatly on a row of big brass hooks farther along the hall.
“Mrs K?”
Hearing a noise from the direction of the kitchen, he nodded to himself.
She must be in the back, making herself a cup of tea. She loved a nice cup of tea. Probably couldn’t hear him what with the noise of the storm and all. Better just go back and make sure she’s alright.
Ollie Harris’s ceaseless internal conversations continued as he walked down the hall.
Entering the kitchen, he smiled. There she was, sitting in her rocker by the window, her two cats in her lap, both stretched up, nuzzling her neck.
So pretty, he thought.
Pulling out a chair, Ollie Harris turned it to face Mrs Kavanaugh and sat down.
“Well Mrs K,” he began, pausing when he noticed that her eyes were closed. “You asleep?”
One of the cats turned its head at the sound of his voice. Its white muzzle stained red, bits of something hanging from its mouth. It hissed at him.
Ollie Harris grasped at once what had happened. He’d heard the rumours - nasty rumours about cats attacking people. He stood up, casually, in no hurry.
“You’ve done for her, good and proper,” he said in a quiet voice. “As proper as you like.”
The other cat turned its head to stare at him and Ollie Harris saw that Mrs Kavanaugh’s throat had been torn out, the blood running down the front of her white blouse - a brick-red bib glistening under the fluorescent lighting.
As he looked at her throat, the blood shimmered and moved, seemingly alive, bringing memories of other times; of fists and mashed noses, of bruises to be hidden from friends, of impotent rages that had left him feeling less than human - but much worse, of times when pleading for mercy had been answered with triumphant laughs and more punches. Mrs Kavanaugh had shown him a different life, a life of sharing and giving and he felt a sudden deep sadness that it had come to an end.
Leaning down, Ollie Harris grabbed one of the cats by its scruff, holding it out from his body. The frantic animal twisted around, trying to escape, its sharp claws darting out at him. All its efforts did the cat little good because Ollie Harris was used to handling wild animals. He’d trapped all sorts in the woods, even the odd cat or two in his time.
Walking across to the sink, he plunged the cat straight into the waste disposal unit, ignoring its dying screams. Finished, he turned his attention to the other cat. It looked back at him, hissing loudly, jumping to the floor, its rear end down as it backed away. Something about the man had cut through the cat’s rage, bringing about a return of its instinctual fears and the drive for survival.
It recognised uncontrolled rage when it saw it!
Ollie Harris fetched a tea-towel from a hook by the sink, twirling it around his hands until he’d made a twisted rope. Crouching by Mrs Kavanaugh, he gently wrapped it around her neck, binding the wound. Finished he opened the kitchen window, staring at the remaining cat. It ran across the kitchen and leapt up onto the sill, giving a final defiant hiss before disappearing into the rain.
Ollie Harris made a fresh pot of tea, pouring one into Mrs Kavanaugh’s favourite teacup, along with a dash of milk, just the way she liked it. He put the cup on the small side table next to her rocker and patted her cold hand before walking back down the hall and out of the front door.
No one will ever know why he did what he did, because nobody ever saw Ollie Harris again.
=07:30 hrs=
Entering the lounge Alex was greeted by the winking light of the answer-phone. Ignoring it, he settled himself in the leather couch, trying to concentrate on the newspaper. The headlines screamed out at him: TERRORIST ATTACK ON THE ISLE OF WIGHT. Details were scarce and as he ran his eyes down the article, he leant forward in concentration. According to what he read, both land and mobile phones were down, as was the Internet. Throwing the paper on the floor, Alex punched the replay button on the answer-phone and his daughter’s frightened voice issued from the tinny speaker.
Alex had trouble understanding what Dawn was saying so he played it back twice, trying to make sense of the message - something about a cat attacking a pony. All he knew was that his daughter sounded frightened and upset.
Picking up the phone he dialled her mobile, tapping his finger on the handset as he waited for a connection. After four rings a recorded voice informed him that the service he was trying to contact had been suspended and to try again later. The same message greeted him when he used Booker’s number.
Alex stood up, thinking hard. Turning on the TV, he paced back and forth in front of the set as the rolling news reported the events leading up to the terrorist attack. Reading between the lines Alex knew that there was little more information than he had already gleaned from the newspaper. The TV outlined the exclusion zones on a graphic, telling people living in the areas to keep their doors and windows closed and only go out if it was really necessary. All sorts of experts were being paraded in front of the cameras but they added little to the basics of the information already released by the Government. The Prime Minister was due to give an announcement later in the day, in the meantime all ferry traffic to and from the Isle of Wight had been suspended and a no-fly zone had been introduced.
Alex turned off the TV and picked up the newspaper again, scanning the other pages for more information. Nothing. Worry lines etched his forehead. He needed to know what was happening to Dawn, she’d sounded terrified. But he had no way of contacting her, until an idea suddenly came out of the blue and he slapped his fist into his open palm. Of course he had a way, the drink had fuddled his brain.
=07:32 hrs=
Gonzalez had searched the facility from office to office, checking every computer, destroying the hard drives that hadn’t already been taken. It was obvious from the start that somebody else had already had the same idea, but that wasn’t his worry right now.
As Gonzalez was about to leave Booker’s office a green glint caught his attention and he turned back, studying the satellite phone. Picking up the handset, he was stunned to discover that it was still working. The idiots were supposed to have shut down all communications on the island! Punching out a number he reported the situation to his boss in America and was told that it would be taken care of and to wait by the sat-phone for the information he’d just requested.
Ten minutes later Gonzalez answered the phone, listening intently as the last two conversations made on it were relayed to him. Both Doctor McKenzie and Doctor Vasant had used it.
Replacing the receiver with a smile, Gonzalez nodded his head in satisfaction. Things were going to plan.
Forty-five minutes after it had landed on the roof of Area 7, the helicopter took off into the storm, its three grim-faced occupants lit by a sudden flash of lightning. Rising vertically, the machine hovered, the pilot battling to keep the aircraft steady in the gusting wind.
Gonzalez stared down at the complex far below, pulling a remote-control from his pack, a lopsided smile appearing on his face. This was the part he’d been looking forward to.
“Goodbye guys. Round one to the terrorists,” he said, pressing the red button.
The aircraft was suddenly buffeted by a huge explosion ripping through the main facility as the long building was torn apart, its roof collapsing in a wave from one end to the other, burying the staff still locked in the basement office under tonnes of rubble. Such collateral damage was an everyday occurrence to Gonzalez and meant little to him.
The helicopter hovered a while longer, like an overgrown insect inspecting its kill. After the dust had settled a little, the side door of the aircraft opened and a gloved hand released the remote.
Gonzalez watched it spiral down into the destruction below, satisfied that this part of the operation had been well planned and executed.
He knew that after the fire had died down and the rescue services inspected the site, enough of the device would be found to enable MI6 investigators to link the explosion to Al Qaeda. Satisfied, Gonzalez nodded to his pilot and settled back in his seat.
As the wind buffeted the aircraft and the rain lashed it with a growing intensity, Gonzalez stared out at the dark clouds, fingers restlessly caressing the firearm strapped to his side, vivid images playing across the lids of his closed eyes as he relived his tours in Afghanistan.
His grin broadened into a full-blown smile.
=07:35 hrs=
Dawn heard the satellite phone ringing and jumped out of bed, hurrying downstairs, pulling the duvet around her as she rushed into the study.
“Hey Dawn, guess what? Your dad’s on the sat-phone. He said you’ve left him messages all over the place.” Terry said when he saw her, holding out the phone.
Dawn took the handset with trembling fingers. “Oh dad! Thank goodness. It’s been horrible.”
Dawn listened patiently while her dad explained that he’d just heard about the terrorist attacks on the island and that he was coming to get her and that she had to stay right where she was until he arrived.
Twisting and untwisting the telephone cord around her fingers Dawn sat smiling, not really hearing what he said, just taking comfort from the sound of his voice. It was enough to hear that he was coming to get her.
“Dawn? Dawn honey, are you okay?”
“Yes dad. I just feel a bit hot that’s all. It must be the vaccination Sheena gave me earlier.”
“Yes that Terry guy told me the doctor had given you something. Listen I have to go. You do what Terry and Dr Mackenzie tell you to and stay out of trouble. I’ll be there before you know it. Okay?”
“Yes dad.” Realising that the call was about to end set Dawn’s heart racing.
She didn’t want him to go. For the short time they’d been talking, all the bad things had faded away. Now they were threatening to overwhelm her again.
“Dad, I love you,” she said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.
“Love you too honey. Bye.”
Dawn was left holding the phone, listening to the crackle of an empty line. Screwing up her eyes against the tears that threatened to flow, she told herself that she’d cried enough and it was time to show them all that she could cope. Placing the handset back on the cradle Dawn stood up, shucking the duvet around her shoulders and taking a deep breath. Turning she saw Sheena watching her from the door.
“Everything alright?”
“Yes. Dad’s coming to get me. He said he should be here sometime today with a bit of luck, and that I’ve got to stay here until he comes for me. I think I’ll go back to bed.”
Sheena walked back through to the lounge, and with a big sigh sat on the couch. “She’s convinced her dad’s coming to get her later today, Terry. I don’t know how much more of this she can take.”
“I don’t think there’s much chance of that happening. They’ve got this place tied up tighter than a drum. Nobody’s going to get on or off the island until this mess is sorted out, that’s for sure.”
=07:40 hrs=
Racing from the house Alex jumped in his car, the worn tyres leaving another few miles of rubber on the tarmac as he floored the accelerator. Mr Waverly shook his head at his next door neighbour’s antics, then went back to tending his roses, unaware of the events unfolding across the Solent.
After a frantic drive into the village, Alex slammed the car door and ran up to the house, tapping his foot whilst holding his finger on the bell-push. Two minutes later a window on the first floor banged up and a man stuck his head out, eyes squinting in the early morning sunshine.
“Fuck sake!” he shouted down at Alex.
“Sorry Harry,” Alex called back. “It’s an emergency.”
The window shut and a few minutes later, Harry was standing at the open front door, his hairy stomach hanging over the elasticated waist-band of his light blue underpants.
“What!” he greeted Alex with a growl.
“I’m really sorry Harry but I need to borrow your boat for a couple of hours. Dawn’s stuck on the Isle of Wight and . . .”
“Isle of Wight? What the hell are you ranting on about?”
Alex realised that Harry might not have heard the news yet. “Look,” he started again, “I haven’t had time to repair the split in my inflatable. I really need to borrow yours for a couple of hours.”
“Hang on.”
The door slammed in Alex’s face and he heard the thump of bare feet on the inside staircase as his friend, weighing in at almost twenty stones, headed back to his bedroom.
“Here.” A set of keys landed next to Alex’s feet with a rattle. “Put ‘em back through the letterbox when you’re done. And don’t be all day, I want to go out myself this afternoon.” Harry withdrew his head, slamming the bedroom window shut again.
Picking up the keys, Alex unlocked Harry’s garage and hauled out his inflatable boat. Latching the trailer to the back of his car, he disengaged the jockey-wheel and plugged in the electrics. The Fiat’s engine rattled into life, puffing out a cloud of grey smoke as Alex gunned the accelerator. Driving off down the road towards his workshop, the worry lines on Alex’s forehead grew even deeper.
Twenty minutes later he had the inflatable unloaded and in the sea, the petrol tank of the 6 hp engine topped up, and his wetsuit and life-jacket stowed aboard.
After struggling into his wetsuit, Alex shrugged on the life-jacket and started the outboard motor. It kicked into action like a dream and he pushed the throttle forward, following the buoys along the coastline before heading out towards the open sea.
Away from the shoreline Alex cranked the throttle wide, exhilarating in the spray and constant buffeting of the aluminium decking on the waves. Black clouds had gathered in the sky and rain had begun to fall, so he hunched down in the boat and headed for the Isle of Wight, his mind wandering, the rhythmic slapping of the boat on the water having an almost hypnotic effect on him.
He’d found it hard coping with Dawn since her mother’s death, the ‘what if’ guilt building a wall between them. He’d even considered hiring an au-pair at one point, but had sent Dawn to a boarding school instead, raising his guilt levels even further.
Alex had become so involved in his thoughts that he failed to hear the aircraft swooping in low above him and it was only the shadow cutting across the ocean that alerted him to it. Glancing skywards he saw a big helicopter keeping pace with the boat. The pilot’s face stared down at him out of the cockpit’s side window. Another crew member stood just inside the side door opening, cradling what looked like an automatic weapon.
With a squawk and howl of feedback, a loud-hailer sounded, “Attention the boat below. You are in a restricted area. Turn your craft back towards the mainland at once.”
Alex swore loudly, jabbing his finger towards the coastline - now approaching at a rapid rate - trying to make it clear that he was going to land on the Isle of Wight whether or not it was a restricted area. After all what could they do, shoot him? Hunkering down in the seat Alex weaved the inflatable from side to side, leaving the crew no chance of landing a man in the boat with him.
But the crew of the helicopter had no intention of undertaking such a dangerous manoeuvre. Instead the gunner opened up with his weapon, spraying the sea in front of the inflatable with bullets.
For a moment Alex was stunned, his mind refusing to believe what was happening. No British Forces would dare shoot at an innocent civilian this way. Then another round of bullets traced their way over the waves towards him, pushing such thoughts from his mind.
Alex stared at the shoreline ahead. He was only five minutes away, if he kept going they wouldn’t be able to stop him landing. His initial surprise had given way to a deep seated determination to beat whoever was trying to stop him. Standing up, he gripped the throttle, ramming it to the stop, urging the last bit of speed from the roaring engine.
The gunner swung his weapon to the stern of the inflatable, the stream of bullets cutting right across the engine. The resultant explosion slammed Alex into the steering wheel, smashing his head against the central nut. Disorientated, he fell to one side, pulling the boat into a sharp port turn. The craft’s momentum threw him straight over the side into the sea. The last Alex saw of Harry’s inflatable was the thick black clouds of smoke billowing from the rubber side-floats as it settled in the sea. Bits of engine splashed down all around him and he covered his head with his hands.
Floating in the cold water, Alex was glad he’d worn his wet suit, at least it would keep him warm and dry while he waited for the crew of the helicopter to pick him up.
But instead of rescuing him, the helicopter circled overhead once, then unexpectedly disappeared out to sea, leaving him alone with the waves and the fast sinking inflatable.
After checking that his life-jacket’s emergency light and radio signal were working correctly, Alex washed the blood from his face, trying not to panic. The feel of cold water against his forearm brought the realisation that a piece of shrapnel from the engine had torn the fabric of his wetsuit.
Pulling the emergency-whistle lanyard free Alex wound it around his left arm just above the tear. Twisting the free end under the white cord, he turned his attention to where he might be. Too low in the water to make out the horizon or the shore, he floated in a circle. All he could see was the sky.
The blow to his head had brought on a feeling of drowsiness, making him lose all sense of direction. A feeling of panic began to grip him.
No he must keep calm. For Dawn’s sake. He couldn’t lose it now. He was wearing a wetsuit and a life-jacket, so he wouldn’t drown. It was a long swim but he could make it.
He wasn’t far from land but which direction?
=09:11 hrs=
Terry turned from the window, frowning at Sheena.
“They still there?” she asked.
“I doubt it in this rain. It’s pouring down out there.”
“I’ve got to get the vaccine to the police this morning. It can’t wait any longer Terry.”
He nodded, turning back to the window, his voice muffled as he pressed closer to the glass. “We should have called them last night when the sat-phone was still working.”
“Morning,” Sheena said as Dawn entered the lounge, eyes still sleepy and hair mussed up.
“Morning,” Dawn replied. “There’s some toast in the kitchen if anyone wants some.” She took a bite of the piece in her hand, trailing crumbs down her tee-shirt.
Terry turned and wrinkled his nose. “Burnt from the smell of it!”
Dawn smiled, playing along with his attempted levity.
“We were talking about going to the police station,” Sheena told her.
Dawn’s smile was replaced with a frown. “But I’ve got to stay here. Dad said so.”
Sheena walked over, putting a comforting arm around Dawn’s shoulders. “I know honey but he’ll understand when he knows how important this is.”
Dawn shrugged Sheena’s arm away. “I don’t care how important it is,” she snapped.
“Tell you what Sheena. Why don’t I take it to the police station while you wait here with Dawn?”
Dawn picked up the look between the two adults. “He is coming for me. He told me he was.”
Sheena forced a smile. “He might have a problem with that Dawn. The island’s been cut-off from the mainland. Nobody’s allowed on or off. It was on the news again this morning.”
“He’ll find a way. I know he will.” The conviction in Dawn’s voice surprised even her.
Sheena glanced at Terry and a concerned look passed between them. Turning back, she took hold of Dawn’s hand.