Doctor Who_ Trading Futures - Lance Parkin [75]
‘For a man from the future, Baskerville keeps strange company.’
‘What is this place?’
‘Can you hear that noise?’
She could, faintly.
‘It’s a production line,’ the Doctor explained. ‘I think this is a factory of some kind.’
‘Making time machines?’
The Doctor shrugged. ‘I doubt it – Baskerville’s selling blueprints to his time machine, not mass marketing it. Perhaps this place makes coffee machines.’
‘Coffee machines?’
‘He took the coffee machine from his office in Athens, remember?’
‘If this is a coffee machine factory, then the last thing he’d do in an emergency is rescue the coffee machine.’
The Doctor looked thoughtful. ‘True.’
They could hear the Concorde coming in to land. The sound was muffled, but Malady now thought they were above ground – at least two storeys from the top of the building.
After a moment, the engines died down.
‘Baskerville’s probably on that plane.’
‘Certainly, I’d say.’
‘So we haven’t got long before he convinces them of who he is.’
‘No.’
‘So shall we stop messing around in filing cabinets and stop him?’
The Doctor slammed the door shut. ‘Malady, you took the words out of my mouth.’
‘We need to radio for backup.’
‘How long would it take for them to arrive?’
‘Hours, so the sooner we get it done, the better.’
* * *
Baskerville sat in the co‐pilot’s seat, incandescent.
‘I am Baskerville, you idiot!’ he screamed into the microphone, not for the first time.
‘Baskerville is here already,’ a Russian voice replied.
Dee sighed. This was going around in circles. She checked the CCTV – back in the cabin, the President, Cosgrove and Anji Kapoor were still in their seats, chatting. She switched circuits – there were sixteen or seventeen Russian Mafia mercenaries at various points around the plane. They’d put a small van in front of the plane, a forklift behind, to stop it from moving.
The Concorde had some defensive systems, but only to tackle air‐to‐air attacks, not against a ground assault.
They were penned in.
‘Ask him to describe Baskerville,’ she suggested.
Baskerville turned to her, his face red, eyes glaring. ‘I am Baskerville.’
‘I know that,’ she said wearily ‘Haven’t you worked it out, yet?’
Baskerville looked at her for a moment. ‘The Doctor?’
‘He beat Cosgrove, he survived being thrown out of a twentieth‐storey window, then a tidal wave in Athens, he got past a RealWar squad in Toronto.’
‘So how did he get here? He was in Toronto… what? Twenty minutes ago?’
Dee stopped. He was right. It was impossible.
‘Ask him to describe Baskerville,’ she repeated.
Baskerville did so.
‘He’s in his forties. Long dark coat. Brown hair. Blue eyes.’
‘Not a brilliant description,’ Baskerville told Dee. ‘It could be anyone.’
‘It could certainly be the Doctor.’
‘Are they restless yet?’
Dee glanced down at the CCTV ‘The President is watching television with Anji. Cosgrove is looking out the window. The mad old fool’s probably planning to make a break for it.’
‘If he does, I don’t fancy the mercenaries’ chances. Perhaps I should let him out.’
She leant up to the microphone. ‘Relker, this is Dee. That man is an impostor.’
‘We’ve got a Dee here too, ma’am.’
‘A Chinese‐looking girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does Dee Gordon sound like a Chinese name to you?’
‘Dee does. I mean – I don’t know Chinese. But the only name I’ve ever been given is Dee. And that could be a Chinese name.’
Dee buried her head in her hands. ‘It’s possible to have too low a profile,’ she told Baskerville.
Baskerville reached out and adjusted a control. ‘I’ve had enough of this.’
* * *
Anji sat in her chair, watched the news on the small television screen set in the table.
Footage of Mather entering the Green Hotel, three hours before (it felt a lot longer). There was still no sign of the President, who the network felt should have made a statement about the Tripoli shootings.
The network had concluded that the President was in his hotel room, unwilling to face the anti‐American and anti‐war demonstrators who’d congregated outside.
It was a little surreal to have him sitting alongside her, watching