Cry Darkness

Eighteen

The next morning Jones arrived at her Exeter University office just as her mail arrived. The package she was so eagerly awaiting was still not there. But she had decided the previous evening, that she would go ahead with a press conference without it. She couldn’t afford to wait. Lives were at stake. Including, possibly, her own.

In any case, she reflected a little guiltily, regardless of that, it was about time she made a stand on behalf of RECAP.

If there was anything at all she could do to help keep Connie Pike safe, and herself and Ed, she needed to get on with it. She had witnessed first-hand just how fast those who were out to get Connie could move.

She picked up her desk phone and called Sally Brice. Sally had worked in admin at Exeter University for almost twenty years, and was something of a Jackie of all trades. One of her many jobs was to organize and, in as much as was ever possible, control any dealings the university and its staff had with the press. She had been doing it for years and was rather good at it.

‘I want you to be a little vague about the exact reason for calling this gathering,’ she told Sally in response to her obvious question. ‘But feel free to drop some loud hints. Have you seen the Mail?’

‘Yes I have,’ responded the cheery voice at the other end of the phone. ‘What did happen to your face, and who is the new man in your life?’

‘Exactly,’ responded Jones obliquely, not quite sure whether Sally was actually hoping for a proper response or merely repeating the headlines.

The press call brought about a healthy response, as predicted by Ed. It was, reflected Sandy Jones, disconcerting to consider how much depended on her celebrity, a dubious commodity at the best of times.

More than a dozen assorted journalists, both written and broadcasting, turned up. The tabloid representatives including reporters and photographers from the Daily Mail, the Mirror, and the Sun, were doubtless hoping for the opportunity to quiz Sandy Jones on her new love interest, and to acquire a posed snap of the happy couple.

For once, Jones thanked God for the media attention she attracted.

Sally had arranged for the conference to be held in one of the university meeting rooms. On the dot of three o’clock, and not a moment before, Jones made her entrance.

‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,’ she began, getting straight to the point. ‘My real reason for bringing you here today may come as something of a surprise. My facial injuries are the result of an attempt on my life in New York, which I believe to be part of a major conspiracy, a conspiracy which might well involve American government agencies at the highest level, and which will almost certainly have far-reaching international consequences.’

There was a collective gasp in the room. Jones’s television work had taught her the value of a good intro. She was also aware of the importance of placing herself at the heart of the story, if she was to get the level of coverage she hoped for from the ever-insular British press.

She looked around. She had them, and she knew it.

‘I am sure you all know about the fatal explosion at Princeton University last week,’ she went on. ‘The authorities have told us the target was the animal research department. But I have reason to believe that is not the truth, ladies and gentlemen, and that the truth is being deliberately covered up. The bomb was planted in the RECAP lab, that’s REsearch into Consciousness At Princeton, and I believe RECAP was the true target.

‘While studying for my doctorate at Princeton many years ago I became involved with the work of RECAP. My ties remain deep, and I went to America in order to personally investigate that explosion and its aftermath — an explosion I believe to have been deliberately targeted at destroying RECAP and those involved in this extraordinary ground-breaking project.’

Jones paused. She was aware of a buzz around the room. She had spent most of the previous twenty-one years keeping very quiet about her involvement with RECAP, and her one-time closeness to Paul and Connie. To publicly align herself now with the project and its people, was in some ways as disconcerting to her as facing all the dangers she had encountered in America. Fleetingly she wondered if that was why the idea had not presented itself to her before Ed suggested it.

Paul’s paper might change everything. Meanwhile Jones could imagine only too vividly the reaction she was now likely to provoke in academic circles, particularly at Oxford, the university which had just chosen her to be their next chancellor.

‘There is something else,’ she continued. ‘The psychologist Connie Pike, the RECAP lab manager allegedly killed in the blast, is in fact not dead. She survived, due to a freak chain of events, and has since also survived a second deliberate attempt on her life. This was the same incident in which another woman was grievously injured, and from which I only narrowly escaped.’

Jones paused again. You could have heard a pin drop in the room. All eyes were riveted on her.

‘Connie Pike is currently in hiding,’ Jones continued. ‘She has told me that Professor Paul Ruders, the director of RECAP, who was killed, had recently made a sensational scientific discovery. Paul believed he was finally able to explain the secret of consciousness.’

The journalists gathered in the meeting room were general news men and women, area staff mostly, but they were still quite obviously aware of the significance of what she was telling them.

‘Paul believed that he had solved the greatest single mystery of mankind’s very existence,’ Jones went on. ‘And Connie Pike and I both believe that is why he was murdered. I have decided to go public with that, and with my conviction that RECAP and all associated with it have been the target of a deadly conspiracy, almost certainly executed by establishment figures quite probably in senior American government circles. My intention in telling you this, ladies and gentlemen, is that I hope to blow that conspiracy wide open.’

For just a few seconds the deathly hush in the room remained unbroken. Then a kind of humming noise began, as the realization of the magnitude of Jones’s statement bounced from person to person, like a current of electricity whizzing along a row of pylons. The questions came thick and fast. Jones told no lies but withheld as much of the truth as suited her, giving only a very edited version of Ed’s involvement, and she allowed the assumption to be made that Paul Ruders’ work had either died with him or been stolen by those responsible for the Princeton explosion. She certainly didn’t mention the imminent arrival of Ed’s USB.

Sandy Jones knew just how to present a story in order to make it irresistible. If she could do that with the theory of relativity, for God’s sake, then selling a tale of a deadly explosion, a fugitive scientist, a killer truck, a series of life-threatening events, and the possibility of a major conspiracy at US government level, was a piece of cake.

Everybody wanted to know where they could find Connie. And Jones was glad that she was genuinely unable to tell them.

‘I’m sure Connie Pike will come forward now,’ she said. ‘The whole purpose of this news conference, of revealing all that I have today, is to make it safe for her to do so. And, indeed, also to ensure my safety, and the safety of Ed MacEntee.’

Jones could tell from the way the gathered throng all took off at a run as soon as the press call was over, that it had been a success. She’d effectively dodged questions concerning her relationship with Ed, but, in any case, for once even the tabloid press present had allowed her dramatic revelations to overshadow their abiding fascination with the love lives of the well-known.

She called Ed as soon as it was over and gave him a quick rundown, so that he would know what to expect. She then called her sons to provide them with a précised account of events, hopefully before they learned of it from the media, and to assure them that she was fine. She lied that she had exaggerated the danger a bit in order to be sure of blanket coverage, but she knew they weren’t convinced. Matt threatened a visit at the weekend to see for himself how she was, and Lee expressed outrage that she had taken off on such a crazy mission without even telling him or his twin. Jones ended up feeling rather more like the child than the parent.

The calls from the specialist science correspondents on the various papers and broadcasting news services began minutes later. Soon afterwards came calls from crime correspondents and political editors.

Two national newspaper editors of Jones’s acquaintance called her directly. She could tell they were almost as amazed by her embracing RECAP as they were by the rest of her revelations, including her allegations of an American government conspiracy concerning the Princeton explosion.

She stayed in her office until almost seven in order to watch the main national news broadcasts on the BBC and ITV. To her delight, and a tad to her surprise too, her story was the lead item on both.

She also channel-hopped on satellite and found it featured prominently on Sky News and CNN. That meant worldwide exposure. Most importantly, the allegations would soon be known all over America. The New Jersey State Police, the FBI, the whole of the American establishment including the doyens of science and academia, and every area of government, national and regional, would very soon be aware of the hornet’s nest Dr Sandy Jones had stirred up. They surely would not dare attack Connie, or her and Ed, now.

Ed’s USB had still not turned up when Jones left for home. But she was in considerably better spirits than she had been since she first heard of the Princeton explosion. However, her mood changed again, when, just as she was stepping out of the building, she received a phone call from Oxford University, postponing her dinner appointment the following week. Jones had actually half-forgotten about it, and in any case would be unlikely to attend — certainly if she had that USB in her hands by then. Nonetheless the significance of the postponement was not lost on her. She had no doubt at all that her endorsement of RECAP was the real reason. The Vice Chancellor was probably playing for time, giving himself and his cohorts opportunity to discuss and perhaps even reconsider Jones’s appointment as Chancellor. Jones didn’t think that the decision of the Convocation — the body of Oxford MAs and MScs who had cast their votes in the traditional election process — could be overturned. But she wasn’t sure. She cursed under her breath, as she hurried to her car, but still remembered to smile for the assorted press gathered in the car park.

More press were outside the gates of Northdown, as she had rather expected, some of them, no doubt, still interested primarily in the possibility of a picture of her with Ed, but most of them now with bigger fish to fry. The narrow approach lane was lined by a string of assorted vehicles. Cameras flashed.

Jones had no further interest in them. She was looking forward to a bath and another evening with Ed, whose company she was beginning to enjoy so much more than she might have expected.

There was nothing else she could do now. Not until that USB arrived.

The anonymous looking man sitting alone in a vehicle parked just a small distance further back from the others, made no attempt to leave his equally anonymous silver grey saloon car as Jones drove by. Instead he merely watched the performance of the rest of those gathered there, some of whom actually ran after Jones’s Lexus, stopping only when the big electric gates closed in their faces.

There was a camera on the passenger seat next to the anonymous man, but he didn’t even pick it up. Instead he waited until Jones had disappeared into the grounds of Northdown House, before finally climbing out of his car, and walking around to the rear to remove from the boot a small leather case which he opened rather furtively, glancing from side to side to ensure no one was nearby. He seemed to be checking the contents of the case, in which nestled a very sophisticated looking sniper rifle, its stock and barrel in two separate sections, a silencer, and a box of ammunition.

He turned to study the press corps again, most of whom were now grouped together by the electric gates, looking as if they were discussing what to do next. Nobody was taking any notice whatsoever of the anonymous man. With one hand he smoothed down his already smooth mousey brown hair. With the other he turned up the collar of his raincoat, a garment, almost exactly the same shade of brown as his hair, which was perhaps not entirely necessary on a dry and relatively warm September evening. Then he removed the rifle parts from the case, and with practised ease, quickly assembled and loaded the weapon.

He replaced the case in the boot, slid the rifle beneath his raincoat, holding it close to his body beneath one arm, and began to walk casually towards a wooded area just to the right of the gates.

He went straight to a spot from which he had a particularly good view of the house, even though he was then quite well concealed by trees and shrubs. Anyone watching might have assumed he knew exactly where he was going, and that he had already checked out the vantage point. But there was nobody watching.

The light was fading fast. It was very nearly dark. The anonymous man liked that. Darkness surrounding illuminated windows. Silhouettes standing out clearly against brightly-lit backdrops. Even in properties where windows were hung with heavy curtaining, there were almost always moments of vulnerability at dusk. Moments when lights were switched on before the curtains were drawn.

Lights were being switched on now upstairs in the house. And he could already see a shadow moving around in what he knew to be Jones’s bedroom. The shadow moved beneath the room’s bright central light. It was her.

He grunted in satisfaction. His was the simplest of plans. And it was extraordinary how often such a plan could circumnavigate the most advanced of security systems. There was no need to even attempt to breach the well-protected perimeters of Northdown. The anonymous man was an expert at what he did. Swift and accurate. And he liked to attack from without.

The gathered press had unwittingly provided him with his cover. Sandy Jones had been wrong to think that a press presence would give additional protection to her and Ed, not when a would-be assassin of this man’s calibre had been deployed. Depending on how quickly the waiting journalists became aware of the incident that would soon occur, they might yet also provide a displacement activity covering his escape from the scene.

The anonymous man lifted the rifle to his shoulder and took aim.

Meanwhile in New York, in a tall thin Brooklyn brownstone, Dom was trying not to nod off in an armchair while Connie slept surprisingly soundly on a bed in the same room. Sheer exhaustion had finally caught up with both of them.

The big man hadn’t slept properly for a long time either. Gaynor had given him a full account of the Wall Street fracas, and that had made Dom all the more nervous and on edge. He no longer left Connie’s side for a minute. Even when she used the bathroom he stood outside the door.

When she’d popped in with provisions earlier, Gaynor had offered to take her turn looking after Connie, but Dom had refused, sending her off back to work, telling her this was his problem and he’d sort it. The truth of course was, that, even though she was a cop, and she was smart and she was tough, Dom now wanted to involve Gaynor as little as possible. At best the incident in the financial district could destroy her career. At worst she could also now be targeted. Indeed, she may already have been targeted. They neither knew the identity of the mystery gunman nor his intent. Dom didn’t want Gaynor put in any more danger.

The big man yawned deep and long. It was the middle of the day in New York, but that made no difference. Dom’s eyelids felt like they were made of lead. They weighed more than he could bear. He just couldn’t stop them closing.

He was snoring gently when the Enforcer and his Apprentice arrived, their mission having been assigned to them by Mr Johnson and various of his associates.

Mikey hadn’t known who Gaynor was, of course, beyond her claiming to be a cop. But because an NYPD patrol car had been involved it had been easy enough for the Chelsea Feds to track down the patrolmen’s report and identify her. Just a little more checking had revealed that she was the girlfriend of one Norman Bishop — otherwise known as the Dominator. All the Enforcer and his Apprentice had to do then was to tail her. They’d banked on her leading them to the Dominator and to Connie Pike, the woman they’d been entrusted to remove from the face of the earth. Ultimately Gaynor had done just that.

The Enforcer could break into almost any property almost anywhere without causing a disturbance. He knew as much about electronic security systems as the people who designed and manufactured them. Indeed he could probably have designed a system as well, if not better, than most of them, were it ever in his interests to do so.

It was the Enforcer who opened the door to the room where Connie and the Dominator slept. He was good at opening doors without making a sound. He moved silently towards Dom, sprawled in his armchair, snoring rhythmically, and gestured to the Apprentice, who, the sweat standing up on his brow, began to approach the bed where Connie slept.

The Enforcer reached into the inner folds of his grey overcoat and produced a butcher’s knife. The Apprentice glanced across at him. He was already carrying a smaller, but equally lethal looking, knife in his right hand. Its long narrow blade gleamed in the shaft of afternoon sunshine shining through the room’s one window. The Apprentice moved closer to the bed and aimed the point of the blade directly at the base of Connie Pike’s throat.

Dom was still snoring softly, his chest moving up and down as he breathed in and out. The Enforcer leaned over the big man, drew his knife hand back a little, and tensed the muscles in his shoulder and arm ready to deliver a lethal stab to the heart. The Enforcer was a professional. It would only take one blow.

Connie Pike and her unlikely protector were about to die.

Nineteen

Back in the UK, in the thick undergrowth just beyond the iron railings which surrounded Northdown House, the anonymous man was ready for the kill. His first target was in his sights, clear as could be. He could not have asked for better.

He curled the index finger of his right hand around the trigger of his rifle. The man was able to hold his hands and arms almost unnaturally still. He was a professional. And to him, this was almost too easy. Sandy Jones had just seconds to live.

He began to squeeze. Gently. Steadily. Smoothly.

Within the inner pocket of his raincoat his mobile phone, set on silent mode, began to vibrate. The man paused, his finger now rigid on the trigger. He made himself relax his body. Then he lowered the rifle and reached inside his coat.

Only his employers contacted him on that phone. And he knew better than to ignore them. He was being sent a text. He called it up and read it through. The message was short and to the point. Just one word, repeated a second time.

‘Abort abort’

The anonymous man slid the phone back into his pocket, flipped on the rifle’s safety catch, once more tucked the gun inside his raincoat, and walked nonchalantly back to his car where he dismantled the weapon even more swiftly than he’d assembled it, replaced it in the case in the boot, and drove off.

In the Brooklyn brownstone the Enforcer, who rather enjoyed his work, was anticipating the moment when the cold steel blade of his butcher’s knife would plunge into warm softly compliant flesh. His fingers were clenched tight as a vice around the knife’s shaft, when he felt the cell phone in his trouser pocket vibrate.

Only his employers called him on that phone. The Enforcer knew better than to ignore them.

He reached for the phone and glanced at the text message he had just been sent. The Enforcer was disappointed, but it did not occur to him to do anything other than to obey the instruction he had been given. He relaxed his knife arm, and began to replace the weapon within the folds of his coat. With his other hand he made a kind of horizontal slashing motion. The Apprentice understood at once that the mission had been called off.

Once they’d left the building, the Enforcer held out the cell phone towards the Apprentice, so that the younger man could see the displayed message.

‘Abort abort’

Meanwhile Dom jolted suddenly awake, blinking furiously, cursing his own weakness. Something had disturbed him. What was it? Had he heard a noise? Or was it his imagination? Could he have been dreaming?

He hauled himself to his feet, shaking off his bone weariness. No harm was going to come to Connie Pike while he had care of her, that was for certain, whatever that up-herself damned Englishwoman thought.

Dom looked across at Connie, who was still sleeping peacefully. It was the first time he’d seen her at peace since it all began.

He checked the locks on the window by Connie’s bed, as he’d done a dozen times that day, and peered outside into the street. Everything seemed normal. But Dom’s antennae were waggling. He slipped out of the bedroom, and began to make his way systematically through the house, checking each room, every window and door.

Everything was as it should be. In any case surely nobody could have found them there, could they? Not yet. The brownstone belonged to Gaynor’s grandmother, who was in hospital. And Gaynor and Dom had agreed it was about as safe a house as they were going to get.

None the less Dom still felt uneasy. He still felt that something was not quite right, although he couldn’t explain to himself what or why.

Then the house phone rang. It was Gaynor.

‘Have you guys seen the news?’ she asked.

Sandy Jones was totally unaware of just how close she had come to death. She had no idea that an armed assassin had been about to cold-bloodedly shoot her through her bedroom window. And, of course, she had no idea that, in New York, Connie Pike and her minder had also only narrowly escaped a violent death.

To her, everything at Northdown seemed peaceful.

She drew her bedroom curtains, undressed, showered in the en suite, then pulled on jeans and a clean shirt. Downstairs again, the aroma of frying bacon hit her as soon as she opened the kitchen door.

‘I raided your deep freeze for the bacon, and I’m going to scramble some eggs I found in your fridge, if that’s all right,’ said Ed.

‘More than all right,’ said Jones, who had hardly eaten anything all day again, and now, smelling the bacon, realized just how hungry she was.

As she opened a bottle of wine, she glanced sideways at Ed, busying himself over the frying pan. He was such a kind, thoughtful man; still quite attractive, too, in spite of having now lost most of his hair. But then, he’d not had much left when she’d last seen him twenty-one years earlier.

She gave Ed a fuller account of the press conference as they ate, and they were still discussing what they both hoped would be achieved when her phone rang.

‘It’s me, you fucking genius.’

Jones’s face broke into a wide grin.

‘I knew you’d see the light one of these days,’ she responded.

‘Connie,’ she hissed in an aside to Ed, who let out a yelp of delight. Connie was alive.

Jones returned her attentions to the phone.

‘Are you all right, Con?’ she asked. ‘It’s just wonderful to hear from you.’

‘I’m fine. One hundred per cent. Thanks to you.’

Jones’s grin grew even wider. It was already clear that Connie not only knew that Jones had gone public, but that she approved.

‘Where are you? Are you still with Dom? Are you still hiding away somewhere?’

‘I’m with Gaynor. In her car. Along with two very large male detectives. She picked up the news first.’

There was a brief pause.

‘I understand you found out what she does for a living, Sandy,’ Connie continued.

‘Uh huh.’

‘Yes, well, Marion and I didn’t know that either. Not when we went to Dom for help. But Dom’s right. The only good cop is a tame one.’

She chuckled.

‘So what are you doing now?’ asked Jones. ‘How are you handling this?’

‘Well, straight away we reckoned you’d made me pretty much bullet proof. For a while anyway. You’ve also given credence to my conspiracy theory. I’ve already given a statement to the police. Put everything on record. Gaynor and her friends are taking me to CNN. I’m doing a TV interview. They’re my police protection apparently, though I don’t reckon I need it. Anyone in high places who’s been after my tail is going to back right off now.’

‘Uh huh. I didn’t know the NYPD ran a chauffeur service for television stations.’

‘Maybe it depends on whether or not they have a personal interest.’

‘And Dom?’

‘He’s sleeping, I hope. He’s been watching over me day and night. He’s exhausted. None the less he still wasn’t happy about letting me out of his sight. I think his nose might be a bit out of joint.’

Jones laughed.

‘I guess I misjudged him.’

‘I guess so. Anyway, Sandy. I think you’ve worked a miracle. I couldn’t do any of this if you hadn’t gone public in the way you did. I do understand what it took for you to speak out like that, you know.’

Jones was silent for a moment. Connie knew better than anyone what her career meant to her. She also knew what damage an acknowledged association with RECAP could still do to Sandy Jones. Connie was, more than likely, the only person in the world who did understand. Except perhaps Ed.

‘Yes, well, not before time,’ she said.

‘Without you nobody would have given a shit,’ Connie continued. ‘Nobody would have listened. I would just have been that psi nut. More than that, if I’d come out of hiding without your backing I would almost certainly have had a fatal accident.’

‘I think we all feared that.’

‘Yep. I didn’t know you had so much clout. You clever bitch.’

‘Careful Connie, I’m not used to flattery from you. Even if it is wrapped up in your usual vernacular.’

‘Yeah, well. You may just have given me my life back, Dr Sandy Jones.’

‘I hope so.’ Jones paused. ‘How’s Marion? Have you been to see her yet?’

‘I have. Gaynor took me to the hospital on the way to the police station. It’s awful to see her looking so ill. But she’s conscious, she’s stable, and they’re planning to move her out of intensive care tomorrow. She can’t really talk much yet, but she is on the mend. And it looks as if they’ve managed to save her other leg.’

‘I’m so glad, Connie. You’ve been through a hell of a lot. Both of you.’

‘I guess so. But we might be on the home straight now. You’re all over the news here, with your allegations. Did you know that?’

‘I’ve caught a couple of bulletins,’ Jones murmured.

‘Everyone’s denying all knowledge, of course. The FBI knows absolutely nothing, as usual. Our national government knows even less, it seems. And our apology for a president has gone on holiday to Camp David. I can’t wait to see the papers tomorrow. Fox TV are already calling it Connie-gate.’

Jones smiled. Connie sounded quite like her old self. Jones was delighted. She also felt she should counsel a little caution. Whoever had tried to kill Connie after she’d escaped the Princeton blast, and whoever had been responsible for that explosion, the death of two scientists and the injuries to the students, would probably want Connie dead more than ever. Even if they didn’t actually dare do anything about it, for the time being.

‘Take care, Connie,’ she said. ‘You may not be out of the woods yet. It’s hard to second guess what will happen next. You’re still a target you know, you have to be—’

‘C’mon, you downbeat,’ Connie interrupted cheerily. ‘If an accident should befall me now there’d be an international outcry. I’m suddenly safe as houses. I’m not just bulletproof, I’m goddamned nuclear missile proof. Thanks to you.’

‘Well, I guess so, but—’

‘No buts, Sandy. Connie Pike is in business again. I reckon we’ll get RECAP back up and running after this. The university won’t have any choice. Not with all the publicity. I knew you were the one person who could put things right. RECAP could get a whole new lease of life, Sandy. It could be better than ever.’

‘Well, yes maybe.’

Jones was a touch surprised. She hadn’t expected Connie to react quite so effusively.

‘But Paul is still dead,’ she continued quietly. ‘We can’t bring him back.’

‘No, none of us will ever get over Paul’s death,’ Connie responded. ‘But he would have wanted his work to go on. And that’s what’s going to happen, Sandy. RECAP is going to go on and on, for another thirty years, forty years, for as long as it takes. The journey will continue.’

‘But what about an end to that journey? Paul’s final work, his paper—’

‘If it’s lost, it’s lost,’ Connie interrupted. ‘That’s been one of the big media lines here already, by the way. Has the secret of consciousness been lost for ever? But we won’t stop. We will carry on Paul’s work. That’s what matters.’

Ed tugged at the sleeve of Sandy’s sweater.

‘Why don’t you tell her? Tell her I copied Paul’s paper.’

‘Hold on a minute, Connie.’ Jones put her hand over the receiver.

‘I nearly did, just then,’ she whispered. ‘But she’s got half the NYPD with her, for Christ’s sake. She thinks we’re all bulletproof now. I’d like to hold back the trump card until we’re sure of that. Do you want to talk to her?’

Ed nodded furiously. Jones handed him the receiver.

‘Just remember, don’t mention that USB.’

She wondered if she was being overly cautious. But upon reflection she didn’t think so. They still didn’t know who had been responsible for the bombing, or the attack on Marion. Jones felt strongly that danger continued to lurk. The reasons why she’d withheld all mention of the existence of a USB containing Paul’s work at the press call remained totally valid.

Ed broke off his conversation with Connie in order for Jones to say a quick goodbye. Apparently the car was just about to arrive at the TV station.

‘Gotta go kick some ass,’ Connie told her.

Not for the first time Jones wondered at the woman’s strength and resilience. With all that she had been through and all that she had lost, it seemed that Connie Pike was already in the process of picking herself up and starting again.

She turned to Ed.

‘How do you think Connie sounded?’

‘Great.’ Ed beamed at her. Then his smile faded.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Jones.

‘I can’t help thinking about Mikey. Still no response to my email. I switched on my cell phone again, after the press conference, there seemed no reason not to, and I called him a couple of times. No reply, and he’s not called back. He’s at the heart of all this craziness, after all. I know it’s his own fault, but I can’t help worrying about him. I mean, he might have been badly injured...’

‘He’ll be all right. I think your brother is a survivor.’

‘I hope so.’

Jones reached out and touched his arm.

‘And I hope he knows how lucky he is to have a brother like you.’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘No. I hope he does. I was too dumb to know how lucky I was, when I had you in my life.’

‘You’re embarrassing me, Sandy.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s just that, even with everything that’s happened, it’s been so very good to have you around these last few days, to be with you again...’

Abruptly Ed pulled away and turned his back on her. Jones kicked herself. She hadn’t meant to say any of that.

Ed was silent for what seemed like for ever. Then he turned to face Jones again.

‘I’m very proud of you, Sandy,’ he said. ‘Not because you’re a big shot celebrity scientist. But because of what you’ve done for RECAP, for Connie, and for me. And I like being with you too. But you should know, I’ve never really got over what happened between us, what you did to me. And I’m not sure I ever will.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Jones. ‘I know I behaved abominably. I’m really so sorry for the pain I caused you.’

‘It was a long time ago...’

‘Yes. And you know what? I think I’ve spent my life ever since looking for what we had back then. But, at the time, bloody fool that I was, I didn’t even recognize it.’

In the morning Jones woke at seven, just before her alarm sounded, and slipped softly out of bed.

Ed was still asleep. In the spare bedroom. He had made it pretty clear that the situation was not going to change, not for a very long time at any rate, even though she was beginning to think she might rather like it if it did. But she knew she mustn’t dwell on that.

She left him a note before setting off to Exeter, and arrived just before eight thirty. The university was open on Saturdays and still received an early post. On the way to her office, Jones detoured to the post room to see if anything had arrived for her. She could hardly contain her excitement on finding a jiffy bag addressed to her, with a New Jersey postmark.

Jones ripped it open eagerly. Inside was the USB bearing a scientific paper which could change the world, wrapped by Ed in several layers of kitchen paper for extra protection. It looked so ordinary.

With trembling fingers she unwound the paper, and fed the USB into her laptop, avoiding her desktop computer which was connected to the university’s network system.

And there it was. Paul Ruders’ Theory of Consciousness. Jones felt the excitement rise within her. A light film of perspiration formed on her forehead, even though her office was cool. She downloaded the document and removed the USB from its slot.

Then she settled herself in her chair, and prepared to go to work.

First she cancelled — by email — the filming for the final part of her current BBC series scheduled for the following day. She was unlikely to be free in time, and in any case would now have little opportunity to prepare. She wouldn’t be popular, but she couldn’t help it. Her Oxford dinner had been cancelled for her. At that moment she didn’t give a damn about that, nor indeed anything else at all — except the Ruders Theory.

She switched off her phone and set to work. She had a mammoth task before her. However, it was the kind of task Sandy Jones relished.

Almost ten hours later, at around seven o’clock that evening, Jones rose stiffly from her chair, removed the bottle of malt whisky and one of the glasses she kept tucked away in her bookcase, behind a couple of the weightiest tomes. She poured herself a large tot. Then she walked to the window carrying the glass, and took a long swallow as she gazed unseeingly at the landscaped gardens outside.

She felt drained. Empty. She had known that she would discover something extraordinary. And she’d certainly done that. But Paul Ruders’ Theory of Consciousness was not what she had expected at all.

Jones had been through the paper in its entirety at least three times, scrutinizing every paragraph, every clause, every conclusion. She’d found even the language Paul Ruders had used to be difficult. It was certainly unlike any other scientific language that she had encountered. But she remembered the words of another American pioneer in the field of consciousness, Dean Radin, once a doctor of psychology at Princeton, who had told Jones that when the breakthrough did come the world would probably not have the language in current use to explain it properly.

Radin had likened the sheer monumental leap of faith involved in moving towards an understanding of the meaning of consciousness to the idea of time-hopping a great brain of the seventeenth century, such as Benjamin Franklin, bringing him to the present, then asking him to return to his own time and explain computer technology, even television and telephones, to the people of his age.

‘He would not have the language,’ Radin said. ‘He couldn’t do it.’

Jones had therefore expected Paul Ruders’ paper to be unlike anything she had ever seen and to involve an enormous leap into the unknown. In fact she’d found the language used, both in text and in the mathematics, the equations and the very form of the arithmetic and the phrasing, an enormously difficult challenge.

Ultimately Jones could barely believe her own assessment of Paul Ruders’ Theory of Consciousness. Its implications were more than wide-ranging. They were staggering.

She drained her glass in one. She was not yet satisfied with her efforts. She had to be absolutely sure. She would go through the Ruders Theory at least one more time before leaving her office. And only then would she decide what to do next. If necessary she would stay there all night.

Ed was waiting eagerly for her when she finally arrived home a few minutes before midnight.

‘I kept wanting to phone you,’ he said. ‘But I knew you’d be working.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ she replied. ‘I should have called. I didn’t even tell you the package had arrived.’

‘I knew it must have.’

‘Yes. And I’ve been studying it ever since. I lost all track of time. There are one or two surprises, Ed.’

‘Come into the kitchen. I made some sandwiches. We can talk while you eat. I bet you haven’t had anything all day, again.’

Jones nodded absently. She only realized just how hungry she was when she started to eat, and the food, renewing her energy perhaps, somehow made it easier to talk.

Ed sat quietly while she did her best to go through her day’s work, and to describe what she had learned and the conclusions she’d come to. Ed wasn’t a scientist, but his long-time involvement with RECAP meant that she didn’t have to explain in the way she would otherwise have had to. She could take short cuts, throw equations and quite ground-breaking concepts at Ed, and be confident he would understand.

When she’d finished Ed reached across the table and brushed her hand with his fingers. The gesture touched her, even at that moment.

‘What are you going to do, Sandy?’ he asked.

Jones was still fumbling for a reply when the house phone rang. They both looked at the clock. It was just gone one. A little late for a social call.

The caller turned out to be someone from Sandy Jones’s past, an old Oxford acquaintance, whom she knew inhabited a world and moved in circles Jones had never expected to have dealings with. She hadn’t heard from him in years.

Ed looked at her enquiringly after she’d replaced the phone in its charger.

‘I’ve been invited to lunch in London tomorrow,’ she told him. ‘And, trust me, it’s not an invitation you turn down.’

Nonetheless, Jones did not really want to make a trip to London. She hadn’t satisfactorily sorted out her thoughts on the Ruders Theory and what to do about it. She would have liked the chance to talk it all through more with Ed, who was her only confidante. But at least, she felt, as she boarded the 9.05 Exeter to Paddington express, some vital questions might be answered.

The venue chosen for lunch was a surprise. The Ivy restaurant was, by and large, an in-place for in-people, an established celebrity haunt, and Jones did not consider that her lunchtime host was an Ivy sort of man. She would rather have expected to have been offered lunch at the Savoy Grill, or perhaps even more likely, a dusty Mayfair gentleman’s club.

The Honourable Jimmy Cecil, was a man whose background and calling could not have been more different from Jones’s own.

Cecil was the nephew of a peer, and a descendant of one of England’s oldest aristocratic families. He was also, Jones had been vaguely aware for many years, one of the most important men in Britain in terms of national security. But she did not know exactly what it was that Jimmy Cecil did, and was not even entirely sure which security force or government body Cecil was employed by. When Jimmy Cecil had left Oxford he’d talked vaguely in terms of having been seconded to the Ministry of Defence, Jones recalled. In the university’s own corridors of power, which remained considerable, the word had been that he was joining MI5. His name occasionally popped up here and there, usually obliquely, in the columns of the posher papers. And he seemed to hover permanently on the fringes of Government.

Jimmy Cecil was the kind of Englishman whose nature and purpose had not changed in centuries. Even as an Oxford undergraduate, Jones remembered him as a creature apart from the rest.

Cecil was already sitting at a corner table when she arrived, and stood up at once to greet her. He was tall and elegant, with a thick head of prematurely white hair swept back from his forehead in a boyish quiff. He wore a finely tailored, three-piece, pin-striped suit with waistcoat which could only have come from Savile Row, and was of a kind which had been worn by men like him for generations — with barely a button or a cuff altered in deference to whatever might be the current fashion.

‘I say, old girl, haven’t you put the cat amongst the pigeons,’ began Cecil, by way of greeting.

Jones muttered a vague affirmation and sat down.

Cecil poured her a glass of the claret he was already drinking, without asking what she would like, and leaned back in his chair.

‘So terribly good of you to come here all the way from Devon,’ he drawled. ‘I really am so very grateful.’

Jones smiled wryly. As if she would have been able to resist, she thought. Indeed, under the circumstances, as if she would have dared resist.

‘So, why don’t you just tell me why you wanted to see me, Jimmy?’ she asked, being deliberately blunt.

Cecil inclined his head graciously.

‘Oh you know, one thing and another. Saw you on the news, of course. Thought maybe you could do with a helping hand. A bit of advice.’

‘Really.’

‘Really. Well, to tell the truth, old girl, I thought we might be able to help each other out.’

‘Did you indeed?’

Cecil smiled wryly and shrugged his shoulders.

‘So,’ Jones continued, ‘I’ve told the world that I believe the American government, or certainly bodies close to it, might be involved in the explosion at Princeton and all that has followed. By summoning me here today—’

‘An invitation, old girl, not a summons,’ Cecil interrupted, his voice little more than a murmur.

‘By summoning me here today you have already indicated that I’m probably right about that. Am I?’

Cecil didn’t answer the question. His face gave nothing away.

‘I just wanted to give you the opportunity to share with me anything that you might wish, anything you might think I could assist with,’ he remarked obliquely.

He paused and took a sip of wine, then delicately wiped his lips with his napkin.

Jones remained silent.

‘The press have also, of course, shown a certain amount of interest in your recent gentleman companion. Ed MacEntee, I believe, is the name?’

‘Yes, he’s an old friend, that’s all,’ said Jones.

‘Indeed. And I understand there is a suspicion in certain circles, is there not, that he might have a copy of this theory, this theory of consciousness, which seems to have caused so much palaver?’

Jones felt her stomach lurch. How did Cecil know that? She had quite deliberately given no indication of it to the press.

‘People have died, Jimmy, because of Paul Ruders’ work,’ she said quietly. ‘People have been murdered. I was nearly murdered.’

‘Precisely, my dear. So it occurred to me, should there still be a copy of the Ruders Theory kicking about somewhere, and should you, by any chance have access to it, that you might need a little guidance in what the hell to do next.’

Jones’s pulse was racing. It took an enormous effort for her to stay calm, or at least appear to stay calm.

‘If I were to need guidance with anything, Jimmy, why on earth would I trust you? I think you know too much, for a start.’

Cecil raised an elegant eyebrow.

‘Come, come,’ he said.

‘I’m not taken in by you, Jimmy. I know this kind of intrigue is right up your street. It’s what you do. It’s what you deal in.’

‘Is it?’

A wicked smile played around Jimmy Cecil’s lips.

‘C’mon Jimmy. At least tell me this. Who was actually responsible for blowing up RECAP? Who decided to go that far? We know the FBI were involved. They wouldn’t have acted alone. So, if the American government really is implicated, then just how high up is the chain of command?’

‘Sandy, I’m a mere humble servant of Her Majesty. I abide by certain codes of behaviour. I couldn’t possibly put myself in breach of confidence. Even if I did know the answers to your questions.’

Jones sighed. She was still immersed in a highly dangerous game, she realized, and she barely even knew the rules. Jimmy Cecil was absolutely right. She did need help. She couldn’t handle it alone. But she knew she was going to have to lay some big cards on the table. She had no choice. She had suspected what lay ahead, and had actually more or less decided to do so even before arriving at The Ivy.

She leaned forwards in her chair. Jimmy Cecil, perhaps sensing the moment, also leaned forwards. Their heads were almost touching when Jones spoke again. She kept her voice low.

‘OK Jimmy, you’re right. I actually do have a copy of Paul Ruders’ Theory of Consciousness. I’m not telling you how I got it. It’s enough that I have it. I spent the whole of yesterday studying it and now I have to decide what to do with what I have learned. I am telling you this because, although I haven’t a clue whether I should trust you or not, I suspect you are extremely well qualified to advise me. I don’t...’

Jones paused, thinking not only about Paul, but about Connie, and Marion, and Ed, and even Ed’s idiot brother.

‘I don’t want to be responsible for the destruction of any more lives.’

Briefly, Sandy Jones looked down at the table. She was about to take a quite irrevocable step. She raised her eyes again and fixed her gaze on Jimmy Cecil.

‘You should know that I have a particular reason for no longer wishing to keep the existence of the paper a secret,’ she said, her voice still low. ‘A reason which I may or may not share with you today.’

Cecil did not respond. His face was absolutely expressionless. Instead he lifted his wine glass to his lips again, and beckoned to a passing waiter.

‘Shall we order?’ he enquired.

Jones could barely conceal her exasperation.

‘I’ll have whatever you’re having,’ she said irritably.

‘It’ll be the steak and kidney pudding then. Though goodness knows what sort of pud they’ll come up with here, accompanied by sun-dried tomatoes and a rocket salad I shouldn’t wonder...’

Cecil guffawed. Jones was even more irritated.

‘If that’s how you feel about The Ivy, what are we doing here?’ she asked.

‘You’re a celebrity, old girl. Thought you’d fit in rather well. Stick out like a sore thumb at my club, that’s for sure. Particularly after your shenanigans yesterday. Don’t want prying ears, do we?’

So that was it, thought Jones.

When he’d completed the ordering, Cecil turned back to Jones with the air of a man who had given the matter in hand quite enough thought and had now made his decision.

‘Well, my dear, you have in your hands an extremely hot potato,’ he remarked conversationally. ‘I know you are aware of that, but I wonder if you have quite grasped the scale of it. In terms of who may perhaps have already taken action concerning the Ruders Theory, well, I think you should widen the list of suspects, as it were. In fact, you should probably think in terms of pretty much the whole United Nations.’

‘What?’

‘Well, not in name, of course. Not officially. But a number of the member countries have had a degree of involvement. Though they’d all deny it. As indeed I would totally deny that this conversation took place should you ever attempt to repeat it.’

Jones ignored that.

‘I can hardly believe what you’re saying,’ she muttered.

‘No? Well, I will tell you this, because I think you need to know a lot more before you make decisions which could have devastatingly far-reaching consequences. Britain is involved—’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Jones interrupted.

Cecil continued as if she had not spoken. ‘So is France, and several other European countries. So is China. So is Russia. So is Israel. Do you think for one second that the Israeli government wants any kind of link of consciousness between its people and those of Palestine?’

‘Well no, I suppose not. What are you getting at, Jimmy?’

‘Exactly that. Governments are ultimately controlled by individuals. A state like China exists in permanent fear of its people rising up and saying we aren’t going to take this anymore. Now, the thing about a link of consciousness is that it is more or less impossible to combat. It doesn’t rely on groups of people physically uniting, on being prepared to fight, or actively taking part in terrorism or a conventional revolution. It is quite simply a union of minds. Take one individual thinking a certain way and multiply by, say, 100 million. That is a force no government in the world could cope with.’

‘I know that,’ said Jones. ‘It’s one of Connie Pike’s sermons, actually. But I didn’t think the governments of the world were taking the idea of global consciousness so seriously yet. And certainly not on that scale. I had more in mind that a rogue US Government department was behind the RECAP explosion, and what has followed.’

‘My dear Sandy, here in the UK, probably the one thing that all the prime ministers I’ve personally known, from Tony to Boris, have agreed on is that the power of global consciousness could ultimately be the biggest threat there has ever been to national government as we know it. Think Berlin. The Wall fell in a week. You, of all people, must have asked yourself how that could possibly have happened? After all those years of hardcore communist rule. It was a straightforward example of the power of linked consciousness.’

‘Of course,’ said Sandy. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. There was no revolutionary army, no Che Guevara. And the worldwide web, with its ability to bring people together, had barely begun. So it’s already happened, without most people noticing. I’m not sure even Paul and Connie took their thought process that far. But you are saying that our political leaders did?’

‘Indeed. It was regarded as just one of those things, though. Because we have never known how it happened. Not until now, perhaps, and the Ruders Theory. One can only imagine the situation that would arise if we fully understood what consciousness was and, even, heaven forbid, if we understood how to control human consciousness on a global scale. That’s the rub, old girl. Control!’

Jones was stunned. She had heard this kind of stuff from Connie and Paul, but Jimmy Cecil was a man at the heart of the UK government.

‘You have to realize that we are at a very crucial stage in time,’ Cecil continued. ‘We have the web now, which, as you implied, gives us a kind of access to global consciousness, in that it provides a regular and constant update on what is happening everywhere. Because of the web alone, governments cannot lie as easily as they once did — which is particularly relevant in countries without even the semblance of a free press. We can be instantly made aware not just of what is happening around the corner, but also on the other side of the world. Now that kind of knowledge can dramatically change the way we behave. Very unusual effects can be achieved by mutual coherence, very fast social and physical change. Thoughts can be swiftly catalysed. They can explode.’

The steak and kidney puddings arrived, together with a selection of perfectly appropriate vegetables. Jones willed the waiter to serve quickly.

Before recent events in America, Jones had always taken much of what Connie had had to say with a large pinch of salt. Connie, by the very nature of what she did, was something of a fantasist. Jimmy Cecil was a different proposition. An international mover and shaker who lived and breathed politics. And Cecil seemed to have explored the possible practical repercussions of the solving of the mystery of consciousness far more extensively than Jones had ever done. Prior to the last few days.

‘Do you remember the reason for the 1987 stock market crash?’ Jimmy Cecil continued. ‘It marked the beginning of computer trading, the mechanics of which turned the economic world on its head. The feedback system was suddenly so much faster. The system, as it was, just could not cope with the volume of deals.’

Cecil placed a large chunk of pud in his mouth and after chewing for a few seconds looked up at Jones in some surprise.

‘Delicious,’ he murmured. ‘Every bit as good as my club’s.’

‘You were saying, Jimmy,’ Jones prompted impatiently.

‘Ah yes. Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? You’re a scientist. You believe the brain is a kind of computer, don’t you? A biological computer.’

‘Well, up to a point.’

‘All right. Up to a point. Well, up to a point, then, imagine any kind of universal method of controlling that biological computer. Global consciousness could be the next great weapon. It leaves nuclear power standing—’

‘Connie has always said that.’

‘Yes,’ Cecil continued. ‘But did it occur to either you or her that the governments of the world were also thinking that way?’

‘Not on the scale you are suggesting,’ said Jones. ‘RECAP’s problem was always that people with power were sceptical of its work. It’s a quantum leap to think in terms of governments actually accepting, fearing even, the power of consciousness.’

‘Well, they are. When RECAP was on its own, tucked away in an obscure corner of Princeton, it’s probably true that nobody on the outside gave it much thought. Certainly there was no anxiety about it, nor about the handful of similar institutions scattered around the place. The Global Consciousness Project changed all that. When the RECAP Random Event Generator began to spawn many more of the things, and when, more revolutionary still, they linked them together, via the internet, that was different. Governmental departments across the globe have monitored this project — you must know that, what cloistered academic world do you live in, Sandy? — and have been left in no doubt that something monumental was being illustrated by these REG experiments. It’s not just America that has been keeping a close watch on the GCP for decades. In the simplest of terms it’s mind over matter, isn’t it, Sandy? And the results are fact. Only the questions “how” and “why” have remained unanswered. The possibility that Professor Ruders may have finally answered those two questions is of immense international concern.

‘So, you can be assured that whatever course of action has been taken so far regarding the Ruders Theory was’ — Cecil broke off and cleared his throat loudly — ‘was not taken by the American government alone.’

Jones took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

‘It really is even bigger than I’d thought,’ she muttered.

‘Probably. And you should know that I am only telling you any of this, Sandy, because you have confided in me that you have in your possession a copy of Paul Ruders’ theory. You do realize the enormous responsibility of that, and the position that puts you in, don’t you?’

‘Well, I think I do, yes. I’m well aware that it puts me in further danger, or it would if it came to the attention of the wrong people, anyway. And I therefore certainly realize the risk I have taken in confiding in you today.’

‘A calculated risk, I hope. But you really ought to think very carefully about what you should do next, my dear. If we come to fully understand the nature of consciousness, to utilize it in the ways that I have described, then governments worldwide will fall. The established order of things will be destroyed. Life as we know it will be changed beyond recognition. There would be no doubt about that...’

‘Yes, well, that might not be such a bad thing.’

‘If you’ll forgive me, those are the words of an idealistic child, Sandy. Whatever might happen eventually, you would in the short term almost certainly be talking about anarchy. Are you an anarchist, as well as an idealist?’

‘Of course not.’

‘No. Of course not. You suddenly have immense and probably rather unenviable power in your hands, Sandy. The power of whether or not to change the world irrevocably.’

Cecil poured some more claret into Jones’s glass.

‘Personally I prefer the devil I know. Which is why I do the job that I do...’

‘And what job is that exactly?’ Jones heard himself ask, albeit with little hope of a proper reply.

‘Oh, this and that, you know,’ murmured her companion, suddenly returning his entire attention to the remains of his steak and kidney pudding.

‘I am slightly disturbed by the extent to which you may be personally involved, Jimmy.’

‘Really, my dear? You surprise me.’

Cecil helped himself to a second helping of mashed potato. He obviously did not intend to elucidate any further.

Jones put down her knife and fork, picked up her glass of claret and emptied it in one swallow. She was aware of Jimmy Cecil wincing. No doubt the claret was special. Jones hadn’t noticed. She had other things on his mind.

‘In spite of that, or maybe because of that, I am going to confide in you further,’ Jones continued. ‘There is something else. Something our government, America and all the other governments apparently so preoccupied with the power of human consciousness should probably know. And, as I was well aware from the moment you called to invite me to lunch, Jimmy, I have little doubt that you are the man to pass on the message.’

Jimmy Cecil speared a particularly succulent looking piece of kidney on his fork and paused with it still a few inches from his mouth.

‘I’m all ears, old girl,’ he said.

It was almost a couple of hours later before Cecil set off to walk back over Waterloo Bridge to his South Bank base. He hoped the fresh air would help him think.

His American visitor was waiting in his office, as he had expected. He had met Marmaduke Johnson the Second several times before, of course, and trans-Atlantic telephone calls between the two men were not unusual. Indeed, they had become rather frequent over the last few days. Johnson was, after all, the nearest thing there was, for Jimmy Cecil, to an opposite number across the pond. Nonetheless Johnson almost always had the same effect on the Englishman. There was something about Marmaduke Johnson that made the muscles at the back of Jimmy Cecil’s neck lock solid, and sent an alert signal to every nerve end in his body.

‘How ya doing, Jimbo,’ said Johnson, by way of greeting, at the same time grasping Cecil’s right hand in a hearty handshake.

Cecil forced a smile of welcome, which he feared was rather more of a grimace.

The tall American was wearing an unnecessarily loud checked suit, Jimmy Cecil thought. But it fitted in well with his good-old-boy personae, or at least the personae he chose to present to the world.

‘I’m doing fine, Duke,’ responded Cecil, feeling the usual tweak of embarrassment he always felt when addressing the American by the abbreviation he had more or less been ordered to use from the beginning.

Johnson had coat-hanger shoulders, a paunch, no hair, and very white teeth which seemed both too big and too numerous for his mouth. His eyes were small, set rather too far apart for comfort, and were not entirely synchronized. Instead each appeared to be looking in a marginally different direction. And as he came closer, Cecil was reminded again of how difficult it was to focus on both Duke Johnson’s eyes at once.

‘So what tidings do you bring from the great doctor?’

Johnson’s accent was so Deep South it was almost comic book. Jimmy Cecil had always suspected that it could not possibly be genuine. The apparently obligatory black cheroot dangled precariously from the American’s lips. A puff of foul-smelling smoke hit Cecil straight in the face. He recoiled. But he knew better than to even attempt to remind Marmaduke Johnson of his building’s no smoking rule.

One of Johnson’s disconcertingly pale blue eyes was staring intently at Cecil through the unsavoury grey cloud he had created. The other appeared to be studying the closed door of the Englishman’s private bathroom.

Jimmy Cecil lowered himself stiffly onto the chair at his desk and turned slightly away from the American, so that he did not have to deal with the distraction of attempting eye contact.

‘I think we may need to put a fairly substantial damage limitation operation into effect, Duke old boy,’ he said.

The aircraft had flown across the Atlantic from New York and was about to touch down in South Africa, at Johannesburg. A passenger wearing khaki fatigues with a strongly military flavour and spanking new, almost orange, Timberland boots peered through the window. The cloud was low, and he could see very little. He wondered anxiously what might await him below.

Mikey MacEntee was no longer the Man in Black, as Jones had dubbed him at Princeton police station. That phase had ended. The dark suit, white shirt, and black tie had been consigned to the back of his wardrobe. Only the shades remained in place. Mikey had been told that he was going undercover in Africa. He had therefore done his best to dress in what he considered to be an appropriate manner. As he always did in his perennially futile efforts to fit in. The wide-brimmed bush hat, which he held on his lap, completed his new outfit. This was his Out of Africa look. Or so he thought.

One or two other passengers on the flight glanced at him curiously. Mikey didn’t notice.

He wasn’t sure what he was going to be asked to do once he arrived in Johannesburg, but he knew that his country was involved in all kinds of undercover activity throughout Africa. Much of it connected with international terrorism. And he realized this new job must be important. He had been told he should travel immediately.

Mikey had been taken by surprise. The FBI ran around fifty attaché offices at US embassies and consulates throughout the world, and FBI operatives were not infrequently dispatched overseas to investigate almost anything that might adversely concern America, but he had never expected to be chosen for such an assignment. The overseas appointments were coveted among agents. To be dispatched on a mission abroad such as this surely indicated that he had finally been accepted as a front-line Fed. And Mikey wasn’t used to being accepted by anyone, which is why he always worked so hard at trying to be so.

He had been mightily relieved by the way Mr Johnson had reacted after he’d got shot by that lady cop. Mr Johnson had arranged everything. The damage to Mikey’s leg had turned out to be not nearly as bad as he’d feared — the bullet had narrowly missed his thigh bone causing only a nasty flesh wound — and Mr Johnson had arranged for medical treatment straight away, just as Mikey had hoped.

Mikey had expected to be in deep trouble after his part in an operation which had gone so pear-shaped. But Mr Johnson had appeared to be really quite sympathetic.

Mikey had been eating a Chinese — garlic prawns, mixed vegetables with garlic, and fried noodles with garlic — while watching a television news report of Sandy Jones’s revelations, when he’d received the call despatching him to Africa.

He’d always boasted within the Bureau about his access to information concerning RECAP, and grossly exaggerated his closeness to the project. It had been purely by chance, really, that he’d found out about the Ruders Theory of Consciousness. He’d put a bug on his brother’s phone some months previously, a new device he’d acquired online, more to check it out than anything else. Mikey had never been able to resist experimenting with surveillance gadgets. It was a habit.

But then he’d overheard a conversation between Ed and Professor Ruders which had clearly indicated the existence of an effective theory of consciousness. Mikey had not been greatly excited by this himself, after all he believed that more or less everything about RECAP was nonsense. However he knew how interested his superiors were in the project, even though that had always rather surprised him, and saw an opportunity to increase his standing at the Bureau. So he reported back at once, which led his Agent in Charge to put him in touch with Mr Johnson.

Mikey still didn’t know exactly who or what Mr Johnson was, but he knew the man was mighty powerful, that was for sure. And from the moment he’d become aware of the plan to blow up the RECAP lab, Mikey had deeply regretted his rashness, his compulsion to show off and play the big shot. Secretly, because he didn’t dare let Mr Johnson know, he had been horrified by such a drastic and murderous turn of events. Particularly as his brother was involved. He’d never expected anything like it.

Mikey was by then in so deep, however, that he could do nothing except continue to play the part he’d created for himself. But the intrigue concerning Connie Pike’s survival and the consequent second, and somewhat inept, attempt on her life, resulting in Marion being so grievously injured, had turned him into a complete nervous wreck.

Even as he sat on that aircraft over Johannesburg, he was only just beginning to fully appreciate the scale of what he had so artlessly embroiled himself in. It hadn’t occurred to Mikey that anything concerning RECAP, that slightly off-the-wall fringe area of scientific research that Ed and his dotty friends had been rabbiting on to him about since his teenage days, could really be of national importance. Let alone of international importance.

Mikey stretched his injured left leg. It ached constantly and still caused him to walk with a limp, but he realized he’d had a lucky escape from much worse. And he hoped that might be an omen.

All in all, Mikey was glad to have been despatched out of the country, somewhere well away from the furore over the RECAP affair which seemed to have taken hold throughout the United States, and indeed most of the world. He hoped that South Africa might prove to be a backwater in that regard. But on the other hand he realized that this international commotion meant that, almost certainly, any danger his brother may have been in because of him no longer existed. And that was a great relief to Mikey MacEntee.

Mikey didn’t realize that his superiors had sent him to South Africa simply because they now regarded him as something of an embarrassment. Why would he? After all, Mr Johnson had been almost kind to him.

He just wished he knew what was in store for him there...

At about the same time another aircraft was preparing to land in Honolulu, Hawaii. The Enforcer sat next to the Apprentice in business class. Just like Mikey, they’d been despatched out of New York to do a job, but they had yet to be informed exactly what the job would be.

The Enforcer assumed that there was someone on the tropical island who needed watching and then, perhaps, dealing with, in the way that the Enforcer and his Apprentice specialized in. Someone who was a danger to America.

The Enforcer had no time for anyone who might remotely be a danger to America, and he didn’t care at all if the occasional mistake meant that the innocent suffered.

The Enforcer believed in the greater good. He believed in George Washington, Abraham Lincoln and the Statue of Liberty, turkey at Thanksgiving, home-made apple pie, Coca Cola and footballs that weren’t round. And Donald Trump.

He also believed in the Apprentice.

They had not made a success of their last job. There could be little dispute about that. They had allowed Connie Pike to escape the Princeton explosion they had arranged, then failed in a second attempt to assassinate her, and instead maimed another woman. All the same, they remained indispensable, surely. Nobody else could, or would, do what they did. The Enforcer was confident of that. In any case, he and the Apprentice knew where far too many bodies were buried. It had been suggested to the Enforcer that, if they wished, they could stay a little while longer in Hawaii than might be strictly necessary. Indeed it had been indicated that it might be a good thing for the pair of them to be away from New York for a bit.

The Enforcer didn’t mind that at all. He considered Hawaii to be the most pleasant of places. And neither could he imagine a better companion. He turned towards the younger man.

Then he reached out, took the Apprentice’s right hand in his left and squeezed.

The Apprentice blushed.