Downtime - Marc Platt [69]
The Brigadier showed no reaction whatsoever. ‘Internal politics,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize there was a market for my memoirs. I’ll send you a copy when I get round to writing them.’
He was not exactly warming to Cavendish. He reckoned the Captain a bit of a lounge lizard, just the sort of person to run a black-windowed Porsche. He had been trying to ascertain what exactly the officer’s game was. It was unorthodox, that was certain, and he knew that he was not going to play along.
Instead, he regaled Cavendish with one or two stories of his days at UNIT. Exploits that he was sure would be generally accessible to the current staff, if not apocryphal by now.
He deliberately strung the young man along, hoping to catch him off guard somehow. Cavendish was becoming increasingly familiar, probably due to the drink, and laughed out loud at the punchline ‘...so UNIT got blamed for blowing up the church.’
The Brigadier glossed over the strength of public outrage at the Aldbourne incident; questions in the House; a near riot at the General Synod. Only the secret capture of the Master had swayed the committee of enquiry’s verdict in UNIT’s favour, but relations between the UN and the MoD had never been lower.
‘Are you sure you won’t join me?’ Cavendish enquired again as a waiter delivered another whisky.
‘Not for me, Cavendish.’ The Brigadier was watching the ornate clock, wondering about his schedule, when he glimpsed in a large wall mirror two youths in yellow baseball caps waiting outside the lounge doors.
‘You must’ve picked up the odd souvenir in your time,’
said Cavendish.
The Brigadier regarded him without a trace of emotion. ‘I counted them in and I counted them all back out.’
‘No special keepsakes? Things do get mislaid.’
‘If you lose things, you can lose men too.’ The Brigadier glanced at his watch and the mirror. He was still under surveillance. He stood abruptly. ‘Well, it’s been good to talk to you, Captain, but I have another appointment.’
He could no longer see the doors, but he heard them opening behind him and caught the sound of a tinny repetitive beat.
Cavendish stood, suddenly nervous. ‘So soon? I was concerned, Brigadier.’
‘So was I.’ In the angled glass bordering the mirror, the Brigadier saw a flash of green and yellow. He sensed the presence behind him and saw Cavendish’s eyes flick over his left shoulder. He pulled out his gun and backed round to the right.
The two youths he had encountered in Watling Street had been right at his back. One was holding up a pair of headphones that emitted the tinny pulse of sound.
When they saw the gun they faltered.
‘A taste of blood and thunder for you, Captain,’ the Brigadier warned. ‘Now back off I’m leaving.’
The youths glanced to the Captain for instruction. After a moment, he nodded them away.
The Brigadier moved sideways to the doors, keeping his assailants firmly in his sights. The strawberry-milkshake receptionist was there, barring his retreat. She backed off from the gun too, another one with cold, cut-glass eyes.
The Brigadier ran across the foyer, dodging through the milling Japanese tourists, and out into the busy street.
Behind him, he heard Cavendish’s distant yell. ‘Get after him!’
20
Arrivals
ondon was laid out like a toy city below her. When she L swooped lower, she saw that a tide of bodies was swarming through the streets around and between the endless lines of stationary vehicles.
She moved along between the buildings, just above the level of the streetlamps, but even now she knew that her task was impossible. The air was full of thoughts, anxious and stressful: thousands of instincts and concerns that the daily rhythms of the city, perhaps the whole world, were so disrupted. The air was angry. Some disaster was imminent.
She could sense its lowering approach, but its nature eluded her. She could no longer focus. The object of her own quest slipped further and further out of reach.
Hope did not desert her. She had vowed to him that she would find it before he returned.
She felt the tug of the silver cord.