Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

22

SOMERSET AVENUE, WASHINGTON, DC

Wednesday, 12 July 2006. 1:59 a.m.

The CIA agent took a shocked Orville Watson through the reception area of his burnt-out office. There was still smoke in the air but even worse was the smell of soot, dirt and burned bodies. The wall-to-wall carpeting was covered in at least an inch of muddy water.

‘Be careful, Mr Watson. We’ve cut off the electricity supply to avoid short circuits. We’ll have to find our way with flashlights.’

Using the powerful beams of their flashlights, Orville and the agent passed through the rows of desks. The young man couldn’t believe his eyes. Each time the beam rested on an overturned desk, a sooty face or a smouldering wastebasket, he felt like crying. These people were his staff. This was his life. Meanwhile the agent – Orville thought it was the same one who had called him on his mobile just as he got off the plane, but he couldn’t be sure – was explaining every terrible detail of the attack. Orville gritted his teeth in silence.

‘The gunmen came in through the main entrance, blew away the receptionist, ripped out the telephone wires, and then opened fire on everyone else. Unfortunately, your employees were all at their desks. There were seventeen of them, is that correct?’

Orville nodded. His horrified eyes fell on Olga’s amber necklace. She was in accounting. He had given her the necklace for her birthday two weeks ago. The torchlight gave it an unearthly sheen. In the dark he couldn’t even recognise her burnt hands, which were now curved like claws.

‘They killed them one by one in cold blood. Your people had no way of getting out. The only exit was through the front door and the office is… what? A hundred and fifty square metres? There was nowhere to hide.’

Of course. Orville loved open spaces. The whole office was one diaphanous space made of glass, steel and wenge, the dark African wood. There were no doors or cubicles, only light.

‘After they were done, they placed a bomb in the closet at the far end and another at the entrance. Homemade explosives; nothing very powerful, but enough to set fire to everything.’

The computer terminals. A million dollars’ worth of hardware and millions of extremely valuable pieces of information compiled over the years, all lost. Last month he had changed his data storage back-up to Blu-ray disks. They had used nearly two hundred discs, more than 10 terabytes of information, which they kept in a fireproof cabinet… which now lay open and empty. How the hell had they known where to look?

‘They set off the bombs using cellular phones. We think the whole operation took no more than three minutes, four at most. By the time someone called the police, they were long gone.’

An office in a one-storey building, in a neighbourhood far from the centre of the city, surrounded by small businesses and a Starbucks. It was the perfect place for an operation – no hassles, no suspicion, no witnesses.

‘The first agents to get here cordoned off the area and called the firemen. They kept the snoops away until our damage-control team arrived. We told everyone that there had been a gas explosion and there was one person dead. We don’t want anyone to find out what happened here today.’

It could have been one of a thousand different groups. Al Qaeda, Al-Aqsa the Martyrs Brigade, IBDA-C… any of them, alerted to Netcatch’s real purpose, would have considered its destruction a priority. Because Netcatch exposed their weak spot: their means of communication. But Orville suspected that this attack had deeper, more mysterious roots: his last project for Kayn Industries. And a name. A very, very dangerous name.

Huqan.

‘You were very lucky to have been travelling, Mr Watson. In any case, you needn’t worry. You will be placed under full CIA protection.’

On hearing this, Orville spoke for the first time since he crossed the threshold of the office.

‘Your fucking protection is like a first-class ticket to the morgue. Don’t even think about following me. I’m going to disappear for a couple of months.’

‘I can’t let that happen, sir,’ said the agent, taking a step back and putting a hand on his holster. With his other hand he pointed the flashlight at Orville’s chest. The flowery shirt that Orville was wearing clashed with the burnt-out office like a clown at a Viking funeral.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Sir, the folks at Langley want to speak to you.’

‘I should have known. They’re willing to pay me huge sums of money; ready to insult the memory of the men and women who died here, making it out to be some fucking accident instead of murder at the hands of our country’s enemies. What they’re not willing to do is shut off the information pipeline, isn’t that right, agent?’ Orville insisted. ‘Even if it means risking my life.’

‘I don’t know anything about that, sir. My orders are to bring you to Langley safe and sound. Please cooperate.’

Orville lowered his head and took a deep breath.

‘Fine. I’ll go with you. What else can I do?’

The agent smiled, visibly relieved, and shifted the flashlight away from Orville.

‘You don’t know how pleased I am to hear that, sir. I would’ve hated to have taken you away in handcuffs. Anyway-’

The agent realised what was happening an instant too late. Orville charged him with all his weight. Unlike the agent, the young Californian had received no training in hand-to-hand combat. He had no triple black belt, nor did he know five different ways to kill a man with his bare hands. The most violent thing Orville had done in his life was to spend time on his PlayStation.

But you can’t do much against 240 pounds of pure desperation and fury when it slams you against an overturned desk. The agent crashed down on to the desk, breaking it in two. He twisted round, trying to reach his gun, but Orville was quicker. Leaning over him, Orville slammed him in the face with his flashlight. The agent’s arms went limp and he was still.

Suddenly afraid, Orville raised his hands to his face. This was going too far. No more than a couple of hours ago he was getting out of a private plane, master of his own destiny. Now he had assaulted a CIA agent, possibly even killed him.

A quick check of the agent’s pulse on his neck told him he had not. Thank heaven for small mercies.

OK now, think. You’ve got to get out of here. Find a safe place. And above all, stay calm. Don’t let them catch you.

With his huge body, his ponytail, and his Hawaiian shirt Orville wouldn’t get far. He went over to the window and began to hatch a plan. Some firemen were drinking water and sinking their teeth into slices of orange near the door. Just what he needed. He walked out the door calmly and headed towards a nearby fence, where the firemen had left their coats and helmets, which were too heavy in this heat. The men were busy joking around and had their backs to their clothes. Praying the firemen wouldn’t notice him, Orville took one of the coats and a helmet, retraced his steps, and headed back towards the office.

‘Hey, buddy!’

Orville turned around anxiously.

‘You talking to me?’

‘Of course I’m talking to you,’ said one of the firemen. ‘Where do you think you’re going with my coat?’

Answer him, man. Make something up. Something convincing.

‘We have to look at the server and the agent said we should take precautions.’

‘Your mother never taught you to ask for things before borrowing them?’

‘I’m really sorry. Can you lend me your coat?’

The fireman relaxed and smiled.

‘Sure, man. Let’s see if it’s your size,’ he said, opening the coat. Orville put his arms through the sleeves. The fireman buttoned it up and put on the helmet. Orville wrinkled his nose briefly at the mixed smells of sweat and soot.

‘Perfect fit. Right, guys?’

‘He’d look like a real fireman if it wasn’t for the sandals,’ said another of the crew pointing at Orville’s feet. They all laughed.

‘Thank you. Thank you so much. But let me treat you to a round of juice to make up for my bad manners. What do you say?’

They gave him the thumbs-up and nodded as Orville walked away. Behind the barrier they had set up five hundred feet away, Orville saw a couple of dozen onlookers and some TV cameras – only a few – trying to get footage of the scene. From that distance the fire must have looked like nothing more than a boring gas explosion, so he guessed they’d soon be leaving. He doubted that the incident would take up more than a minute on the evening news; not even a half a column in tomorrow’s Washington Post. Right now he had a more immediate problem: getting out of there.

Everything will be fine as long as you don’t run into another CIA agent. So just smile. Smile.

‘Hi, Bill,’ he said, nodding to the policeman guarding the cordoned-off area as if he had known him all his life.

‘I’m going to get some juice for the guys.’

‘I’m Mac.’

‘Right, sorry. I mixed you up with somebody else.’

‘You’re with the Fifty-fourth, right?

‘No, the Eight. I’m Stewart,’ Orville said, pointing to the Velcro name-tag on his chest and praying the policeman wouldn’t notice his footwear.

‘Go ahead,’ the man said, moving the Do Not Cross barrier a little so Orville could pass. ‘Bring me back something to eat, OK, buddy?’

‘No problem!’ Orville replied. He left behind the smoking ruins of his office and disappeared into the crowd.