Doctor Who_ Trading Futures - Lance Parkin [1]
‘Of course. Don’t you?’
‘I don’t have the benefit of a classical education. If you remember what was said, then say it.’
‘But we’re not witches. There aren’t even three of us.’
‘My dear fellow, Shakespeare was a writer, a maker of fictions. You don’t think he let his research get in the way of a good story, do you? You think when he said a man “takes off his helmet” that he’d have found an old book and thought, “yes, the helmet would be similar to those of Norman design, but with a nasal reinforce bar integral with the skull, cheek plates, and a nape plate”?’
‘No.’
‘No – he thought of a nice dramatic opening, something to intrigue his audience. Nothing like this. I suggest that there are no witches here because there’s no such thing as witches. So it falls to you to understudy.’
There were two of them, they were exactly how Cosgrove pictured them.
‘Terrible weather,’ the taller of the two said, in an accent so thick it was practically another language.
‘How far is it, now? Wait! Who are you?’
Cosgrove took a deep breath.
‘Speak, if you can.’
‘All hail Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Glamis! All hail Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor! All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be King hereafter.’
The smaller man pushed his way forward while his master absorbed that announcement.
‘You have the sight? You can see the seeds of the future in the here and now? You’ve told mac‐Bethad. Now tell me my fate.’
‘Lesser than Macbeth, and greater. Not so happy, yet much happier. Thou shall get kings, though thou be none. Banquo and Macbeth all hail!’
The two men leant in to confer.
Baskerville took a step towards Cosgrove. ‘Excellent. Now, I suggest we get going, before there are too many awkward supplementary questions.’
Cosgrove clutched the arrowhead.
‘I think you’ve made your case, Baskerville. But next time, I want to bring a scientist to look at the machine.’
The mists were growing thick. Reality was swirling away. Baskerville’s voice persisted, seemed to echo.
‘Very well. But no more than two of you, unarmed, no recording devices or communications equipment. I’ll arrange the meeting. You know my price. Tell your masters that it is non‐negotiable, tell them that they must decide quickly. And tell them that it is no exaggeration to say that if they don’t listen to my warnings, then this whole planet will be destroyed.’
* * *
Chapter One
Friendly Fire
The hydrofoil was something secret, something not of the everyday world. Its design embodied a contradiction, revelled in it.
The boat was invisible, with camouflage that went far deeper than its black paintwork. The hull was coated in rounded and smoothed thermoplastic, so radar beams just slid off it. The hydroplanes themselves were designed so that the boat barely disturbed the water it was slicing through. The motors were electric, all but silent, but were muffled anyway. On a night like this, you could stand twenty feet from the hydrofoil as it passed you and you couldn’t be sure that it had.
Despite being invisible, it was also evil‐looking. That was the contradiction. It glistened, it looked more like an ocean predator such as a ray or a shark than a piece of military hardware. The fact that the gun ports and missile tubes were hidden behind radar shielding just made it look more sinister – who knew what weapons it had, where they were concealed? If you did happen to see it, you’d rather wish you hadn’t.
The incursion began at 23:11.
Unaware of it for the moment, Cosgrove sat at the back of the cabin. It was three hours since he’d left Baskerville. He still felt dizzy – a little lagged from his journey. He refused to believe it was his age: he was as fit as most men half as old. He felt excited, too – a thrill and anticipation that he’d not felt for far too long. That may have been because he was out here in the field again. He’d missed this. It had been too long, he’d begun to grow soft. Out here anything could happen. The boat could be in someone’s sights, there could be a bomb on board.
At least he could trust the two others