Running Page 8

  SEVEN

  Scott wandered round the kitchen, tidying the mess left by the intruders. Dad would hate it if he came home and saw it. He glanced back at the open doorway where Pete – once again propping up the wall – was drinking a cup of coffee, his attention directed across the yard.

  ‘Sentry,’ Sean explained, catching the direction of the boy’s gaze.

  ‘You think they’ll come back?’

  ‘Nope! Not tonight anyway! That sort cut their losses; the men they use are expendable.’

  ‘The man you shot, is he dead?’

  ‘Yeah, a real drag. I could have done with talking to him.’

  Scott heard the twang in the voice. ‘Are you an American?’ he said, trying not to sound astonished.

  ‘Officially I’m Irish, but hell – yes, I’m American.’

  ‘Jean at the pub said you were a reporter.’

  ‘That’s right, the Chronicle.’

  Scott retorted, unable to stop himself, ‘But English reporters aren’t American. And they don’t go round with guns and blacked-out faces, killing people. Well, not in our village anyway. So why …’

  ‘So why am I an American, who happens to carry a gun and turns up in your backyard in time to save you from the bad guys?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Scott tried to smile but his face felt as if it had been dipped in concrete.

  ‘I work for the American Secret Service. My badge.’ A wallet appeared. Inside was a card sheathed in plastic, covered with official-looking stamps.

  Scott tried to read the scrawled signature, over the words US Department of Justice. He’d only ever seen that done in old movies. Now it had been done to him and he was none the wiser. Flashing a piece of card didn’t make it genuine, he thought indignantly.

  ‘So why are you living in England disguised as a reporter?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to find your parents.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Scott felt himself sway. He grabbed the edge of the breakfast bar. ‘But my mother died in the tsunami,’ he said a bewildered expression on his face. ‘There’s only Dad and me.’

  ‘Here, sit.’ Sean pointed to an armchair, one of two that had somehow found their way into the kitchen; a narrow table, big enough to hold a couple of glasses, standing between them. After a hard day’s hiking, it had been so much simpler to collapse in one of those, rather than shower and change in order to use the more formal sitting room.

  ‘You won’t be going to bed yet awhile so we might as well make ourselves comfortable.’

  Scott sat down. The shock of being taken prisoner was beginning to disappear, genuine anger rapidly becoming his overriding emotion. Anger at the people who had taken away his dad; anger at the thousand questions jumping round in his brain, which one to ask first; and anger at not knowing whether he dare believe the answers or not.

  ‘So what is the American Secret Service doing in England? I mean after what the United States did to Iran, I thought all communication had been severed.’

  ‘We didn’t do anything to Iran.’

  Scott opened his mouth to protest.

  ‘Look! This is going to be one hell of a long night if I say something and you dispute it. How about I fill you in; then if you have any questions you ask them at the end – sound fair?’

  Scott’s head whirled. He’d listen but that wasn’t to say he’d believe. Sean Terry was beginning to irritate the life out of him, acting as if he owned the house and giving orders; and his tone of voice – that made him feel like a young kid, not even big enough to wipe his own nose. Besides, if he really did belong to the American Secret Service, then he was operating illegally. One call to the police and he’d be arrested.

  ‘So let’s see,’ Sean began. ‘Fifteen years ago the Iran nuclear blast happened and on the back of that came the earthquake that destroyed California. Okay, so far?’ Scott nodded. ‘The Iran fiasco wasn’t altogether unexpected. The Atomic Energy Commission had been monitoring the process for years, warning that staff needed better training, safety practices were being ignored, and some of the processes were unstable.

  ‘I’m making some more coffee. The lads need it, they’d been waiting awhile. Is that okay?’ Sean Terry ranged round the room while he talked, collecting coffee cups and rinsing them under the tap.

  Scott counted them carefully. Only three now; two of the men must have left with the prisoner. The kettle steamed madly then clicked off. ‘There’s a tray.’ He got up, taking it from the cupboard. The coffees were black, without milk or sugar.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll give these to the boys.’ Pete wandered off the wall, collecting the tray. He crossed to the doorway and whistled.

  ‘Okay, so let’s go on,’ Sean said. He hooked a stool out from under the breakfast bar and perched on it. Scott opened his mouth to protest. It was the one his dad always used and, right at this moment, he could hardly bear to see someone else using it – which was pretty stupid, it was only a stool.

  ‘When America was blamed, we looked to the Commission for vindication. The earthquake struck and so did a bomb, destroying the Commission’s offices, while the commissioner, invited as guest speaker at a conference in Paris, was never heard of again.’

  Sean paused and took a sip of coffee, steam still rising from the cup. ‘I was a young FBI agent at the time, part of a team despatched to discover what had happened to the boffins attending the conference. Most had died but those still alive we gathered up, escorting some back to their homeland, the rest – our own – we took into protective custody.’

  ‘Why …?’ began Scott, unable to stop himself.

  Ignoring the interruption, Sean Terry picked up a spoon, stirring the hot liquid thoughtfully. ‘No one stateside believed for a moment the quake was an act of God.’ He leaned back and, stretching out his arm, dropped the spoon into the sink. ‘Hundreds of attendees to the conference remained unaccounted for; among those your parents. It was the very devil of a job sorting it all out – took the best part of a year. We had so little to go on; a mass of photos, which we circulated round the county – hoping to find at least some alive in hospital. The description we were given of your dad; six feet, fair, with brilliant blue eyes to die for.’ The tight line of his mouth relaxed as if contemplating a smile; like a light bulb trying to ignite and failing. ‘That touch was contributed by an ex-girlfriend who, I reckon, still fancied him.’

  ‘Slight, good athlete, played ball for his college,’ he droned on. ‘Not much, but we followed it anyway. Your mother died, you say …’

  Scott dashed into his bedroom to fetch the photograph, quickly returning. ‘That’s her,’ he said, passing it over. ‘It’s the only photo I’ve got.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s Sarah Masterson. We have a photo of her taken at about the same …’

  ‘ Who?’

  ‘Sarah Masterson, your mother.’

  ‘My name’s not Anderson?’ Scott blinked, wishing he could see through the fog clogging his brain. Despite the tea, he felt desperately tired and a blur of names were jumping about in his head, refusing to stay still and be sorted: Anderson – Masterson – Scott – Sky? None of it made any sense.

  ‘No, your father changed it, not a lot though which is surprising. Still, it did the job. Kept him hidden for fifteen years.’

  ‘So why didn’t you leave him alone? If no one knew …’

  ‘Someone did, Scott,’ Sean said interrupting him. ‘The radiation experts, remember? We don’t know who they are yet, but we’re working on it.’ The thin figure got to his feet and paced the floor, his coffee forgotten. ‘It’s rather like a jigsaw puzzle. Occasionally we find a piece that fits – like tonight – we took one of the men alive. But someone set off that earthquake.’ He slammed his hand against the breakfast bar making Scott jump. ‘And we’re going to discover who. It doesn’t matter how long it takes.’ He spun round, his eyes piercing, as if he was the prosecuting counsel in a courtroom and Scott the guilty party. ‘The world believes the US destroyed
Iran and set off earthquake by accident. We intend to prove it was the other way round: Iran was the accident.’

  ‘Can you prove it?’ Scott asked, breaking the tension in the air.

  ‘Pretty much,’ Sean Terry said, his voice sounding quite calm again. ‘Too many coincidences. Take, for example, the computer experts. Those unaccounted for were mainly working in the same specialised field. Then the business of the Atomic Commission; offices bombed so all proof of the Iran fiasco vanished. Now it’s youngsters – mostly to do with computers, disappearing into thin air. It’s like someone is gathering together every computer expert in existence.’

  ‘But my dad wasn’t into computers,’ Scott blurted out.

  ‘Sure he was,’ the reporter’s tone was abrasive. ‘He was a world-renowned expert on viruses. So was your mother. They were part of a team working on a virus that could penetrate any computer system in the world, collect its data and disappear without a trace. If you’re a terrorist organisation, or rebels trying to overthrow a government and take over a country, you can no longer do that by simply raising an army and marching in. Plans have to be documented and communication is by computer or mobile phone. The work they were doing was vital for world peace.’

  ‘That can’t be true, you’re making it up,’ Scott shouted wildly. Pete glanced across at the reporter – neither man speaking. ‘Dad told me he was just a computer geek – nothing important.’

  ‘He did that to protect you,’ Sean said, dismissing Scott’s outburst. ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘Nothing much.’ Scott put on the brakes, shrugging. And if he did, no way am I telling you, he added silently.

  ‘Okay, we can come to what you know later.’

  ‘So who’s behind it?’

  ‘I told you, we don’t know. But we’re getting closer; the trail has led us to Europe.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’ve worked for the Exeter Chronicle for two years.’

  ‘But how did you get here so quickly?’

  ‘I thought I was doing the talking.’

  ‘You are, but I’m not much interested in the problems of America,’ Scott’s voice sounded rude even to him, but he didn’t care. ‘The only thing that’s important to me is finding my dad. And if you want my help, I need to know some things – like how you got here so quickly – with armed men – and ready for a fight.’

  ‘We’d been closing in on your dad for weeks now.’ Sean looked down at his watch, a workmanlike chrome affair with a series of buttons decorating the side.

  Scott found himself needing to check the time, too. It was the same when someone scratched their nose or head, your brain picked up on the electrical impulses and you found yourself copying the action. He looked down. It was just after twelve; surprising really, considering everything that had happened. He’d been up since before six; no wonder he felt shattered. If only he could fall into bed and go to sleep.

  ‘I was planning to see him tomorrow. Then this evening our agent tipped me off that your father was missing. We came prepared. Found men – not your father – making free with the house.’

  The man seated opposite looked tired too – grey shadows of exhaustion tracking down his cheeks. Momentarily Scott felt sympathy, wondering what it was like to kill a man. He squashed it, still unsure of whether to trust him or not. What had Dad always said? Before deciding on anything, turn it upside down and look at it another way. How could anyone know his dad was missing? He hardly knew it himself. Scott replayed the scene at the marina and the pub. He’d told no one; so if no one knew … were Sean Terry and his team, with their stun guns, the enemy? And the men in the house simply a decoy? But why? To capture him, too? They’d done that in any case. And the man in the garden, the one that had dived through the window? Had it all been an act?

  ‘So, how did I give myself away?’ he said.

  ‘You didn’t. We posted a car at the entrance to the lane. He missed you. I guess you were riding without lights?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He radioed up that he’d seen something but didn’t know what; then nothing more till you shinned over the wall and came to rest beside me. Scared the hell out’a me … hence my welcome. Sorry about that.’ A bleak smiled crossed the agent’s face.

  Scott made up his mind. ‘Look, Mr Terry, I’m not yet sixteen. I’m at school all day and when I get home, I get Dad a cup of tea. Every day I say to him, hey what are you working on and every day he replies, so what’s new in the outside world?’

  Scott felt the piercing look, as if a laser was drilling into him.

  ‘I don’t buy that for a second.’ There was more warmth in a block of liquid nitrogen than Sean’s voice. ‘You know stuff; things that will help us find Bill Masterson. And I need to know what they are, whether you like it or not.’

  A thrill of pure excitement, like he experienced when riding the Suzuki at full throttle, spun through Scott. He was glad now his dad had never confided his thoughts.

  ‘So what are you going to do, beat it out of me? A lot of good that would do you! I promise, my dad was the most cautious man alive. I thought I knew his name – but I didn’t, did I? And if I tell you his age, you’ll probably say I’m wrong about that, too. I didn’t even know he was into computers. Anyway, even if I did know anything – which I don’t – why should I trust you? I thought the only Americans in England were refugees. Now I know for a fact, there are at least six over here, armed to the teeth, telling me they belong to the Secret Service.’

  Pete, still on sentry duty, flicked his cigarette into the yard.

  ‘And don’t mess up my dad’s yard.’ Scott’s voice cracked.

  The two men exchanged glances.

  ‘Is Stone here?’

  ‘Just arrived.’

  ‘So what are you waiting for?’ Sean snapped. ‘Okay, Scott, I don’t blame you for not believing me – it does sound pretty farfetched. But there is someone you might believe.’

  Scott glanced up at the door. Pete had disappeared. Someone else was standing in the doorway – someone he recognised. Scott’s mind felt groggy with exhaustion. What on earth was Hilary Stone doing there and why had she changed her clothes? On the boat she’d been wearing jeans and a sweater, like the rest of them. Now she was dressed in a flak jacket, black sweater and trousers, a gun belt and holster around her waist.

  ‘This is agent Stone,’ Sean Terry said. He passed a weary hand over his face. ‘I think you’ve met before.’

  EIGHT

  Scott’s brain seized. He could feel the gears grinding but not a single coherent thought passed through its cogs, as if he’d been knocked out in a fist fight. He shook his head to clear it and flashbacks of their miserable day on the river swam into view. He glared at Hilary.

  ‘That’s just great! With her in the Secret Service you’ll have the world sorted out in no time – they give in ’cos she’ll bore them to death.’

  Hilary flushed scarlet.

  Scott felt the adrenaline rush. He’d never been in the habit of using sarcasm, but boy, did it feel good!

  Sean got to his feet. The youngster wasn’t kidding. He had meant that – and then some – total anger and dislike poured into one sentence. ‘Stone – a word,’ he clipped, his voice as glacial as the blue of his eyes. He led the way into the yard. Hilary flashed a hurt glance at Scott, reluctantly following.

  ‘So what the hell was that?’ he snapped. ‘I thought your job was to get pally with him. If it was – you failed miserably.’

  ‘What about my phone call; saving his hide you called it?’ Hilary retorted.

  ‘You were doing your job. That’s what we pay you for. And if you’re that good at it, how come he hates you now?’

  ‘I don’t know. It would have been easier making friends with an oyster,’ Hilary defended herself. ‘Wouldn’t say a word about his family. I did try. God knows.’

  ‘You did what!’

  Hilary flinched and took a step backwards. ‘My instructions were to l
earn as much as I could about Bill Masterson.’

  Sean groaned. ‘Goddamn it, Stone, don’t they teach you anything in training school about boys, and how to get on with them? You don’t get on their right side by talking about their dads.’

  ‘So what else was I to do?’ The girl’s puzzlement sounded genuine. ‘I told you; when he did finally open his mouth all he did was ask stupid questions about London. Whether I’d seen the Eye and the Tower; like a kid of ten, only they’re brighter than that. So how could I answer him?’ she said defiantly. ‘I’ve never been to London.’

  ‘So you say: wonderful, great, fabulous, stupendous, you must go, perhaps we can go together sometime. Make something up, for crying-out-loud. Hell! Why send a girl to do a man’s job? Anyone with half a brain could have done better than you.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Hilary’s voice was tight. ‘I’ll sort it. I promise.’

  ‘You betta had. I need you to babysit him till we get hold of his dad. So let’s get back in and I’ll give him the good news.’

  The adrenalin charge remained. Whoever they were, good or bad, and at this stage Scott didn’t much care, they were seriously put out. Well, his dad had spent his entire lifetime teaching him to fend for himself – and that’s precisely what he intended, starting right now.

  Swiftly pulling open the kitchen cupboard, he yanked the laptop out from behind the ironing board and headed for his bedroom, closing the door silently behind him. Somewhere safe? His eyes were drawn to the drawers in his divan bed. By day they were covered with a bedspread. Trying to make as little noise as possible, he swung the bed round. It moved easily on its castors and he snatched the pillow, tossing it to the far end. Stuffing the laptop under some sweaters, he pushed the divan tight to the wall flicking the cover back into place. Now, unless someone took it into their head to search his room, it was safe.

  He closed the door behind him and tiptoed back up the corridor into the kitchen. Angry voices still wafted in from the yard. He sat back down in his chair and closed his eyes, only opening them when he heard the two agents enter the kitchen again, the expression on their faces neutral, revealing nothing.