The Argus Memorandum

By GuyBlythman

When, on a business trip to the US, Caroline Kent manages to publicly insult the country's leading Mafia boss she little suspects what the incident will lead to. Salvatore Scarlione isn't the kind of man to take loss of face lightly. As you might expect - but the Mob have a powerful new weapon which will enable them to do more or less what they like, including track down anyone who has got on the wrong side of them and exact punishment. As it becomes clear just how far their influence extends, Caroline realises she can trust no-one except her closest friends - and even there she has her doubts. Fighting back, she is drawn into a dangerous game where she must not only protect her own life, but free the entire world from the merciless grip of the sinister Syndicate.

Partly counterfactual, The Argus Memorandum features the heroine of Eye Of The Sun God, Piper One and Weekend At Trevenna in a combination of Kafkaesque caper and moody spy thriller, set against the background of a world in which cataclysmic changes are about to take place...

• Language: English
• Publisher: GuyBlythman
• Release date: Feb 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9780955730375

GuyBlythman

I was born in Hampton, Middlesex, England on 29th March 1965 and educated at Millfield School, Somerset and Southampton University. I currently live in Shepperton, Middlesex. For medical reasons I haven't been in paid employment these last few years and spend most of my time writing and doing voluntary work. My first novel, Eye of the Sun God, was published in 2010. My other interests include philosophy, theology, current affairs, classical music, local history/industrial archaeology. I have contributed to the "Doctor Who" fanzines Mandria, Time-Space Visualiser and The Doctor's Recorder. I'm a keen member of my local church and of my local writers' workshop, Walton Wordsmiths. I have at various times been a political activist, a civil servant, President of my school and college debating societies and secretary of assorted committees. I go on long country walks in order to be alone but am not averse to meeting people for a drink and a chat from time to time.

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AUTHOR’S NOTE

Obviously when I wrote this book, the intention was that it should be published not too long afterwards. In fact it wasn’t, and I can only ascribe this to the way the conventional publishing industry operates these days. To be fair to publishers, they are inundated with so many manuscripts, everyone wanting to be the next J K Rowling or Ian Rankin, that they don’t have time to consider but a tiny fraction of them. The rest are sent back without being read, accompanied by a generic cover letter. Consequently it is very difficult for many new writers to get published. I would humbly suggest that the quality of the work has nothing to do with it. Naturally the publishers seek to give a contrary impression, since otherwise people might have stopped submitting manuscripts and thus deprived them of the source of their livelihood. They are also, I think, wary of experimenting with anything a little bit different in approach and style from what they usually get, in case it doesn’t work out. We live in a world where commercial success matters more than anything else and where there is therefore a constant race to make that much more money than one’s rivals in the field, in which putting a foot even slightly wrong could be disastrous. Independent publishers take a different approach, which I would recommend to aspiring authors. It may well prove to be the future.

The obstacles I had encountered meant that by the time my first few fiction books saw the light of day they had effectively, and inevitably, become historical novels. The alternative would have been extensive rewriting of a kind I decided after careful consideration I wasn’t prepared to do. As a result, the world The Argus Memorandum describes is clearly that of the 1990s and early 2000s, though it’s not too different from our own – it was not, after all, that long ago – in that it is consumer-orientated, materialistic and often dysfunctional. The issues it deals with are of course very much relevant today; though not always in the same way.

Prologue

I guess this world won’t ever be Heaven, thought Ken Amata, but there are times when it gets pretty close.

Sitting on the deck of the yacht, under the blue sky of a beautifully sunny day, and watching the light gleaming off the sparkling, gently rolling sea he felt good to be young. It being his gap year between finishing his course in Oceanography at Berkeley and looking for a job, he had nothing much to do at the moment.

Of course he wasn’t going to spend all his time relaxing. He’d be sure to gain some work experience, doing temporary or part-time jobs, preferably with some kind of connection to his chosen profession; and if the offer of something more permanent did come up he’d take it. Meanwhile he had the money to do more or less what he liked, for the immediate future at least.

Yes; just now Kenneth John Amata of Ladyoake, New Jersey, felt very much alive. Everything around him was alive too; he knew that because of the salty tang of the sea, the smells of fish and engine oil, the cries of seabirds and of holidaymakers frolicking in the water. Though the sounds from the little beach east of the marina were dying away gradually into the distance as the yacht chugged on towards its destination.

It was a beautiful world, alright. And a fairly stable one at the moment, offering the right conditions in which to build a successful, lasting career. At the same time he liked its fluidity. The Cold War had been over now for some years, and still nothing like the former Soviet Union had arisen to divide the planet into two hostile blocs, conflict between whom led to fears of global destruction. You couldn’t be sure where the next threat would come from or indeed if there would be one at all. To think there wouldn’t seemed overoptimistic but it was a lovely idea all the same. Was it really delusional to hope it would actually become reality?

Everyone was being brought closer together by the global village, the mass media, the world wide web. The rapidly expanding network of international business links rendered it implausible to his mind that people would start wars like they’d done in the past, because they’d have so much to lose by the general dislocation to trade, the barriers that would go up.

All that had to be good. Sure, there were problems; regional trouble spots which kept on flaring up, environmental pollution, and still too much poverty in what people continued to call – with little reason now that the old geopolitical alignments had been dismantled – the Third World; and all those things had to be watched. But he preferred to look on the bright side.

He wasn’t quite sure why he had come here on his own. With everything so rosy he didn’t feel the need to be by himself. Maybe a time like this was one in which to take stock, to decide what to write on a sheet of paper which apart from the certainty, more or less, that with his qualifications he’d be able to get decent employment was pretty much blank.

Normally he went on vacation with some of his buddies from college. Well, there was no reason why he shouldn’t invite them down later. They’d have great fun drinking and surfing and picking up pretty girls, doing the coastal roads in Shaun’s father’s car at just within the safety limit, and at night touring the bars and discos, in search of female company or simply to have a good time.

He hadn’t specifically planned to do any diving but had little doubt it’d figure on the agenda at some point. He loved that strange, silent underwater realm where you could lose yourself, be yourself.

All the world was at his fingertips. His life was a wide open space stretching away before him to the horizon. It seemed he had sole power to determine the shape his future took; to choose such things as his employer or the point at which to start looking for a long-term commitment in personal relationships. He’d have to make his mind up sometime, of course, especially with respect to the job question. Once the money ran out, he’d be at a disadvantage if he didn’t find employment, and knew it.

Now the right opportunity had come along, and he’d taken it.

Yesterday he’d been sitting outside one of the seafront bars drinking a beer and perusing his diving association’s quarterly magazine when a guy had come along and sat down at his the table. He could have chosen a different one, that wasn’t occupied, but maybe he didn’t want to seem to be giving Ken the cold shoulder. He was about fifty, with a bronze, tanned face and silver hair. He had sat for a while sipping his cocktail and gazing out towards the harbour and the sea beyond. Then he’d noticed the copy of Underwater Exploration. You’re into diving, huh? he smiled.

Could say that. You?

"I run a company that makes deep-sea diving equipment. We sell our gear to scientific institutions, private outfits too; anyone who needs it. We do a few salvage operations ourselves and sometimes I go along to lend a hand. I’m a qualified diver.

Me too, Ken grinned, unable to keep the note of rather smug, he supposed, satisfaction out of his voice. It had been quite an achievement for someone only just out of university. But then he’d always had an affinity for the water.

It was a pity that his aims in life had always diverged from those of his father. Ken had made it clear he wanted a job that had something to do with the sea. He didn’t share Dad’s field of interest, regarding it for the most part as something sterile and boring, though he never said so openly for fear of offending his parent who had after all paid for this trip, among other things.

Amata senior had grinned, winking, and told him to go off and do all the things he had done, at Ken’s age. After all, though being young was great you could only do it once, so far as you knew. His mother had warned him to be careful, but nonetheless expressed the hope that he’d enjoy himself.

What are you doing down here? his new acquaintance had asked.

Well, I’ve just graduated from Berkeley in Marine Sciences and I’m taking a year off. Going to be looking for work some of the time at least. But I’m counting this as a holiday; not a lot’ll be going on this time of year anyway. My folks often took me here when I was a kid and I kind of liked the idea of going on my own. I love this place.

Same here. Weather good all the year round…but you’ll be job-hunting once you get home?

That’s the idea.

The man looked thoughtful. From next January we’ll need someone to join our management team at a junior level, working as assistant to our chief scientist. Seems like you’d be just right. Ken’s eyes lit up. There’ll be other people going for it, of course, but I’d certainly be pleased to consider you when the time comes, if you’re interested.

Yeah, I’m interested, said Ken.

The man leaned forward, offering his hand. I’m Bob Devereaux. Ken took it. Ken Amata.

And you’re into anything to do with the sea, right? I can sense it.

Always have been.

I’ll take you out for a cruise sometime, to the headland and out beyond it for a few miles. There’s some interesting wrecks there, and we could do some fishing if you’re into that sort of thing. I’ve got all the gear.

That sounded great, but Ken was thinking most of all about the job offer. Maybe his hunch that he should come here for a few days had been a nudge by Fate in the right direction. It had just deposited something absolutely fantastic right in his lap. Just think of it, being paid to enjoy your number one interest in life.

Yeah, OK, Ken smiled. When were you thinking of? My time’s my own while I’m down here, and I’ve got the whole week to play with.

Tomorrow afternoon be OK?

Should think so.

Then I’ll meet you two o’clock down at the quay, after lunch. Devereaux told Ken how to find his boat.

They’d chatted a while longer about matters marine, about Devereaux’s company and its work. Then Devereaux had shaken Ken’s hand and said he looked forward to seeing him at the appointed time.

When that time came Ken had gone down to the quay and searched among the vessels moored there until he found Devereaux’s yacht, the Marilu. He’d introduced himself to the deckhand who’d challenged him, and was welcomed on board. Devereaux appeared and greeted him, then they sat and talked in the yacht’s bar for a while over cocktails before going out on deck. One of the crew started the engine and they set off. Bob invited Ken to choose a deckchair and relax while he saw to something in his cabin, where he had a computer and fax machine set up so he could keep in touch with the company and continue to attend to business matters while on holiday if necessary.

They were some way out now, round the other side of the headland from the town, which you couldn’t see from here, and vice versa. The coast had receded to a faint black line with clusters of buildings, individually unidentifiable, at intervals along it. It wouldn’t be long before they reached the spot where they planned to dive.

To be honest, Ken didn’t actually feel like diving right now. The air was so fresh and invigorating, the sunshine so glorious, that if anything the sea when you were beneath it seemed an oppressive presence, dark and clinging and gloomy. He just wanted to sit here and enjoy the sun. But he didn’t want to disappoint his new friend, and possible future employer, so he guessed he’d have to play ball.

He heard approaching footsteps, and opened his eyes. The light was so bright that he could barely see properly. Bob, presumably. Time to get going, he supposed.

He rose from the deckchair. OK, I’ll kit myself up.

And then he realised that Devereaux was pointing a gun at him. At first he stared open-mouthed in shock and horror, then he looked round wildly in search of some way of escape and saw the two men who had come from the cabin and planted themselves solidly between him and the gunwale, squashing any chance of jumping over it and swimming to safety. Even though, to be honest, the gun rendered the matter somewhat academic.

It wasn’t easy; but finally Joseph Amata had made his decision nonetheless.

He had been standing at a window of the apartment, looking out past the other buildings of the Facility to the stretch of gently undulating hills on the horizon, for what seemed to have been forever. The trees in the garden and the woods it gave way to were already a rich golden-brown, the colour of autumn, and somehow it gelled with his thoughts. He had been out for a walk earlier, and although the cool peace and quiet of the forest had relaxed him to some extent he still hadn’t been able to resolve the matter preying on his mind.

A lot hinged on it; more than just his own future. He had shared his doubts with his wife, even though he’d been breaking confidentiality. Had to in the end; she’d kept on asking him what was wrong and his refusal to tell her had built a brick wall between them.

He knew what he was doing had beneficial applications. After all, it was progress. And it could be used for good, there was no doubt about that. As well as for evil.

He was the only one who really understood how it worked. Which was why such a responsibility weighed so crushingly upon his shoulders.

In many ways he’d be glad to be rid of it. He had every possible creature comfort here at the Facility and the people who lived and worked there formed a close-knit, friendly community. But the strain of the project, the hours he’d had to put in, had been wearing him out and keeping him apart from his family even though his wife and daughter – currently away visiting Megan’s relatives out west – were allowed to live here with him in the Residential Block as long as they didn’t talk to anyone outside the organisation about his work. But wasn’t it wrong to put such personal considerations before the security of his country – perhaps of the entire western world?

Before him he saw the beauty of a North American forest in the Fall, rather than a brilliantly sparkling blue sea off Florida, but his thoughts were the same as Ken’s had been. Such a lovely world. And Joseph Amata didn’t want to spoil it.

Finally, with a harsh, bitter sigh, reflecting his resentment at being asked to make such a difficult choice, Amata returned to his computer and his fingers began to play about the keyboard, typing out a letter.

"To the President of the United States, the White House, Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington DC.

Mr President

For the last four years I have had the honour to be chief scientist on Project 231. When the Project was conceived, it was in a spirit of patriotism, its object being the defence of our country against terrorists and rogue states, an aim with which of course I heartily concur.

Nonetheless, I would be failing in my duty to Mankind if I did not express my growing doubts about it. The human desire to push forward the frontiers of science is a fundamental impulse which cannot be eradicated or ignored. The need to recognise this truth has perhaps led us to be casual about the dangers involved.

The potential of the Project is obvious. It will have important applications in other areas than national security. In my opinion, however, it extends the frontiers of human technological achievement too far. It will give whoever possesses it power of a kind I do not believe we have yet learned to use wisely. The risk of abuse is too great and I am convinced we ourselves would suffer, as well as inflict suffering on others, to a degree I do not regard as acceptable."

After setting out in what way precisely the Project was likely to prove so dangerous, he continued:

"What I am saying is that I believe the dangers outweigh the benefits. It is time we asserted the view that scientific progress is not a black hole sucking in every other consideration. It will of course continue, in this and in other fields. We should be prepared to accept the disadvantages of abandoning the Project and compensate for them by seeking to make advances elsewhere.

"I wish to terminate all involvement with the Project; accordingly I am resigning from my current position. If you would prefer me to keep silent about my reasons for doing so, and I imagine you would, I am happy to comply with that. But you would be well advised to do as I recommend and cancel the Project before it progresses much further.

There is a certain action which I am about to take, and of which you will no doubt hear before long, that I imagine will seem particularly unhelpful to those wishing Project 231 to continue. I can only assure you that it is motivated by what I believe to be the best possible intentions, and hope I am correct in that estimation.

Yes: tonight, before posting the letter, he would go over the road to the Facility and destroy the plans for the device. He’d get into trouble for that, of course; lose any chance of working for the government again, maybe wreck his entire career. He might even be charged with treason. But he knew it was all worth it.

What would his wife think? She’d be disappointed, of course, but relieved at the same time. As for himself…he had a string of illustrious scientific achievements behind him in which he could take pride. But this would have been the crowning glory, wouldn’t it?

He needed to think about it. About what would happen to him afterwards, and whether or not he ought to change his mind while there was still time. He needed another walk in the woods.

So he took the car down the road to the point where they began, turning off into a little clearing where a couple of other vehicles were parked. He wasn’t by the look of it the only one to seek solitude in the forest today, but that didn’t bother him. It was extensive enough for a single person to lose themselves in entirely.

Making sure the car was locked and the alarm turned on, he started out on his walk. He wandered for hours, gloved hands thrust deep into the pockets of the thick overcoat protecting him against the chill. The air was so clear up here in the hills that it rendered his thoughts likewise. Pretty soon he knew why he had taken the decision he had, and that it was the right one. All the same, he’d better get on with sending that letter and seeing to the destruction of the plans. Before he changed his mind. He was about to turn back when −

Dr Amata? It was a female voice, youngish and with a note of authority that stopped him in his tracks. It was high, sharp and clear, cutting through the cold afternoon air like a knife. He didn’t recognise it but supposed the speaker was someone from the Facility, or the government. Must be something urgent, he thought, for them to seek me out here. Something wrong at the Facility. They know my habits, my hobbies, and guessed where I’d be if not at home.

He turned to see two people he didn’t know. Both wore overcoats and scarves. One was a heavily-built man with prematurely grey hair, the other a woman in her thirties or early forties. The woman had raven hair and olive skin and dark brown, almost black eyes.

Something about those eyes caught his attention immediately, held it. And made him shiver.

She spoke again. Dr Amata, we’d like to talk to you for a moment if that’s alright.

May I ask who you are? At once he was on his guard. He mustn’t volunteer any information to those he couldn’t be sure of.

That’s not important right now, to be honest, she said.

Oh, I see, he muttered, disconcerted by her choice of words. He was sure now they weren’t from the Facility, certainly he’d never seen either of them around the place before, or the DOD either. FBI? No, they’d say who they were and they’d probably be wearing name badges, which these two weren’t. CIA? Much more likely. Why would they want him though? Did they know of his doubts about Project 231? He couldn’t see how, he’d been very careful not to let anything slip. Perhaps Megan had blurted something out to a friend. In any event it seemed strange that they’d accost him here, deep in the woods, rather than call on him at the apartment.

What was it you wanted to see me about? he asked, trying to keep his voice calm and steady, courteous even.

Dr Amata, we have your son.

For a moment he stared at them in confusion. Then bewilderment gave way to alarm.

You – He knew what it meant, but couldn’t take it in. No, it was impossible, surely. His head was reeling. He swayed, clutching at a tree for support. What do you mean, you have my son? Ken’s on vacation in Florida. I, I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Perhaps it might help if I showed you these. For the first time Amata saw she was carrying a plastic folder, from which she took a sheaf of blown-up colour photographs, handing them to him.

In the first a young man was lying on his side on an uncarpeted floor, naked, his knees drawn up to his chin protectively as if bracing himself against some excruciating pain. There were ugly, livid bruises on his face, chest and stomach. What could be seen of the room was devoid of furniture apart from a radiator underneath which ran a pipe; the young man’s hands were handcuffed together behind his back and a chain led from the cuffs to the pipe. His mouth was partly open, his eyes wide and staring. It was a face that showed pain, yes, and fear, though there was a suggestion its owner was struggling to suppress them.

Amata didn’t bother looking at the other photos, because he’d got the message. He stared at the image in horror, shock and distress. Suddenly he snapped and launched himself at the woman in a frenzy of rage, teeth bared like an animal’s. He couldn’t have helped himself. You shit! You filthy Goddamn festering little bitch! I’ll –

The man stepped between them and seized Amata’s wrists in a vice-like grip. The scientist kicked and twisted, yelling obscenities, but there was nothing he could do. He gave up trying to break free and slumped in despair.

I hope there’ll be no need for further violence, said the woman. But that depends on your full co-operation. I imagine you consider the conditions in which we are holding your son and the treatment he is receiving to be degrading to him. All I can say is that if you wish it to cease, you simply have to do what we tell you. By the way, I think he’d like to speak to you.

She produced a mini-cassette recorder and switched it on. A voice, shaky and distorted but just recognisable, issued from the tape. "Dad…Dad, listen. I guess I don’t quite understand what all this is about; and I certainly can’t make you do what they tell you to. I just want to say that if you don’t, they’ll kill me. And the way they’ve said they’ll do it…I don’t know if they’re serious or not. But if they are…well it wouldn’t be too hot.

That’s all, Dad. Try not to worry about me, although I know you won’t be able to help it. Stupid thing to say really. Give my love to Mom… The tape ended.

Again Amata glared at the woman in helpless rage. You…you just can’t do this, you realise that? It’s inhuman, it’s monstrous…

Well Dr Amata, I don't think you’re in a position to object right now. We hold all the cards, and for your own peace of mind and that of your wife, who would I am sure be very distressed if any irresponsibility on your part were to result in tragedy, you’d be well advised to remember that.

Dr Amata, I want to emphasise most strongly the dangers of contacting the authorities at any time concerning this matter. If you do, if you tell your superiors or the police about this meeting, your son will die. As I think he guessed, you do not wish to know how we intend to dispose of him. It’s sufficient to advise you that there won’t be much left to bury.

How did you know who I was? he asked flatly.

That is another thing which does not concern you. Personally, I had thought you would be more interested in ensuring your son’s safety and wellbeing. So if we could continue? It’s time I explained what precisely is required of you.

He had hardly dared ask, because he thought he knew, and knew too well, what the answer would be. All the same it made him feel sick. His heart plunged from a giddy height into a pool of freezing cold water.

We need you to obtain for us all copies in existence of the plans for the device. I believe they are kept in a safe in your office at the Facility.

How did you know –

Remember your son, Dr Amata.

You realise how tight security is there? I’d never be able to do it. Everything has to be signed and counter-signed –

You'll find a way, Dr Amata, if you want to see Ken alive again.

Well...I suppose it might be possible to smuggle a copy out.

I should think it would be quite possible for someone like yourself. You are, after all, Director of the project. A trusted, reliable employee, a good servant of his country who has national security very much at heart. No-one’s going to ask any questions or otherwise show undue concern if you appear to be bending the rules a little.

Her voice hardened. You have the necessary authorisation to remove the material from the premises. Don’t play games with us. We’ll see you here, with the plans, this time tomorrow. Then you might just get your son back, not before. Alright?

Uh-uh-uh-alright, Amata gasped.

That’s good, Dr Amata. I’m glad you’ve decided to see reason. Now − you walk in these woods a lot, you probably know them like the back of your hand. Will you be able to remember the way here? To this exact spot?

I should think so.

I should hope so, Dr Amata, for Ken’s sake. The woman smiled briefly, but it was a cold smile, like the gleam of a brass plate on a coffin. Amata shuddered at the thought, and briefly wondered if he ever actually would see Ken alive again. But he had the impression it wasn’t Ken who had died but something in the woman, unless it had never been there in the first place. She obviously wasn’t too bothered by that.

That’s all for now. Don’t forget: same time, same place. Goodbye now. Oh and don’t try to follow us. You know what’ll happen if you do. She and her companion set off along a path leading in the opposite direction from that Amata had come.

Wait, Amata called desperately. They stopped and turned, the woman’s eyebrows raised quizzically.

Do you realise how potentially dangerous the device is? The things you can do with it −

Whether it’s dangerous depends on one’s point of view, Dr Amata. To us it could be of incalculable benefit.

Then she was gone and Amata was left standing there, eyes closed, head bowed.

You bitch, he whispered softly. Oh, you bitch.

He checked his watch. Four o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Today had been his day off, although the Facility didn’t know why he had needed so much to take it. Two in succession…they might wonder. He’d just have to think up a reason.

Oh Jesus, he’d no idea this Goddamn, awful, evil thing was going to happen.

How could the people who had Ken know what they did? How had they learned about the Project in the first place, or his role in it?

And should he still send the letter? Might as well do. They didn’t seem to know about it and it wouldn’t make any difference anyway, not now.

He heard a car engine rumble into life some way off. From the direction the sound was coming from it hadn’t been parked along with the others − they wouldn’t have been so stupid − so nothing he chanced to remember about any of the vehicles would be useful to the police, anyway. Supposing it was wise to tell them it.

Gradually the engine noise died away, and Amata was left alone in the wood. With his thoughts.

*

He just said he’d left something at the office and needed to go back for it. Once there, he deleted the plans from his computer, after transferring them to a disc. He wasn’t an expert in such things, but he knew enough about how the security systems worked to avoid the unauthorised transmission being detected and recorded.

His briefcase would have been opened and searched by the security guard on leaving, so instead he tucked the disc and the folder containing the paper copy of the plans inside the thick overcoat he had put on before leaving home. It worked; the guards just nodded and smiled at him, and said goodnight.

He supposed he could tell his employers all that had happened once Ken was back safe and sound. Meanwhile he couldn’t ring Megan in case Security were tapping his phone and because he couldn’t decide whether he should abruptly terminate her visit to her folks, which she’d been looking forward to, by giving her the news or let her go on enjoying herself in blissful ignorance of Ken’s plight. With any luck Ken would have been freed before she returned.

Unless, in his captors’ estimation, Ken knew too much. By that same token, would they harm him?

And what would be the consequences of the forgivable but fateful action he was taking in order to get his son back safe and sound? It would help if he knew who the enemy were. Agents for a foreign power? The woman had sounded American, but…

They were there as arranged. The woman took the plans, and the disc, from him and dropped them into the shopping bag she was carrying. Security at your workplace really isn’t very good, she commented. I’m most disappointed.

Where’s Ken? he demanded, heart thudding. You promised me…

We didn’t actually promise to bring him here today if you gave us the items. We just said what would happen if you didn’t.

So when –

We’ll take you to him, Dr Amata, don’t you worry. If you’ll just come with us. The man produced an automatic pistol. They led him along the path down which they’d disappeared the day before, the woman in front and the man behind Amata, to a clearing where a convertible was parked.

At least he’d get to see his son. But what did it mean if neither of them were to be granted their liberty just yet? It had to be significant. These people wanted more from him, it was clear, when all he desired was for Ken to be freed alive and unharmed. Oh God, how long was this nightmare to go on for?

The woman opened the boot of the car. Then something cold and hard slammed down on the top of Amata’s head and for a while he knew no more.

The man checked his watch for the fourth time. Nearly eleven o’clock.

The bustle and chatter in the bar had a monotony about it which you might find comforting if you were in the right frame of mind. But he wasn’t. He sipped at his fourth glass of Bourbon and glanced around furtively at his fellow customers. His nerves were preventing him from getting drunk, which was fortunate because he didn’t want to miss the appointment. They were also making him increasingly self-conscious. Mustn’t let it show, he told himself, not for the first time since entering the bar. Otherwise people might remember having seen him here, and that he’d been agitated and uneasy.

It was something that constantly nagged at his mind; could his employers have put him under surveillance? He was doing an important enough job. Maybe he’d better call a halt to this now.

But how could he? They would want to know why he hadn’t shown. There would be…consequences. He’d already committed himself too far to pull out now.

The thought helped to ease his conscience.

He decided that if they – his employers, that was − had been watching him, he’d have realised it by now. You got to recognise the signs after a while, and there had been nothing.

As for chickening out; he could stay in the bar beyond the deadline, not leaving until it closed at about two in the morning. But how was he to know they wouldn’t be waiting for him?

11.15, they’d said.

If I was you I’d make that your last one, the bartender cautioned, as he caught the man’s eye. If I may say so, it doesn’t look like it’s doing you any good.

My wife just left me, he said, affecting a dull apathetic tone.

The bartender’s face changed. Gosh, I’m real sorry. All the same –

He shook his head. Don’t worry, I’ll be alright. I’m going soon.

Eventually, unable to stand the tension any longer, he left his seat, his drink unfinished. Before departing the building he looked round to see what the bartender was doing. Busy serving another customer. He slipped out and stood on the pavement, waiting. One hand was in the pocket of his overcoat, while the other held his Samsonite briefcase.

After a while he began to pace restlessly up and down.

He had actually forgotten all sense of time when the convertible pulled up beside him and the window was wound down. The driver called out to him and he came over. Get in the back. The tone wasn’t unfriendly; they wanted to put him at his ease in case he did decide to pull out whatever the consequences for himself.

He obeyed. He presumed he was to hand the material to the man sitting beside him; a black man, he noted for no apparent reason.

Well, here they are, he said, trying to sound cheerful, and produced from the briefcase the sheaf of flimsies on which the notes and sketches had been made. I had to do it all by hand at home, from memory, because I’d never have been allowed to take it out of the office. I don’t know what you can do with it…

But it’s all there?

It’s all there.

You’re sure it’s accurate?

I’m sure. Over a long enough time it was quite possible to memorise the details. And I do have experience in this kind of thing, after all. The man was being modest. He was one of the greatest experts in this line of work on the planet.

The black man studied the material and after a while nodded. Our people are pretty good. Yeah, it can be done. These days his organisation had clever people working for it, people with education and qualifications. It had adapted. To some extent, it had not so much been washed out as evolved into a new form more suited to changing times.

The black man folded the flimsies and tucked them away inside his coat. He asked the driver if he reckoned anyone thought they’d seen something suspicious, and the driver replied that he didn’t, in a voice which held a trace of an accent that an inhabitant of the United Kingdom might have recognised as originating from the Clydeside area of Glasgow.

OK, now let’s take this guy home. If their contact had been seen to go to his own car it would look more like some kind of rendezvous had taken place.

The driver turned the key in the ignition and depressed the accelerator. As they drove off the black man reflected that it was nice that this time they hadn’t had to threaten anybody to get what they wanted.

FBI Headquarters, Quantico, Virginia

We can find another scientist who’ll take over the Project, said Dr Holtzmann. Amata’s a clever guy but he’s not the only one who could do it.

Oh, sure, the Project will go on, nodded the Director of the CIA, Sam Tyzack. That’s a foregone conclusion. But it may not benefit us as much unless we can find those plans. Without them we’ll have to start again from virtually nothing, and it’s going to take us ages to get to where we were before this happened.

He’s probably destroyed them, sighed Winston Caulfield, current Director of the Bureau, in whose office they sat. Must have done, if he didn’t want anyone to have the knowledge. There is a certain action which I am about to take, and of which you will no doubt hear before long, that I imagine will seem particularly unhelpful to those wishing Project 231 to continue. It’s got to mean that, I don’t see any other possibilities.

"Meanwhile someone else presumably knows how to build the thing, or will once they’ve had a good look at those plans. That could be…I don’t need to tell you how dangerous. If they just have a head start on us, that’ll be enough.

Of course it depends who they are and what purpose they intend to use the device for. The mere fact they’ve stolen the plans doesn’t mean they’re necessarily hostile to us. They could just have wanted a piece of the action.

Yeah, but the thing could be dangerous in anyone’s hands. Except America’s, of course.

It has to be significant that Amata disappears at the same time as the plans. And after writing a letter saying he’s got jittery about Project 231 and doesn’t want anything more to do with it. They had found the letter to the President, still unsent, on Amata’s desk at his home at the Facility.

But he didn’t say anything about disappearing in the letter. That’s what’s bugging me.

Could he have committed suicide? asked Caulfield. I mean, he must have known it’d screw up his career bigtime. It could have been seen as an unpatriotic act. He’d have been worried about how he’d be perceived afterwards, by the public, by his colleagues, by the government.

The letter didn’t say anything to suggest he was going to kill himself, said Holtzmann. "And his wife doesn’t think it’s very likely.

A lot of people do it on impulse. Of course, there has to be some underlying reason, some ongoing problem in their lives, that keeps surfacing from time to time, which ultimately explains it. The thought of it suddenly gets to them and …

So you didn’t notice anything about his behaviour over the last few months that indicated unusual stress?

Not unusual stress. Of course the Project has required of all those involved in it an exceptional amount of effort, mental, physical or both, in order to overcome the technical difficulties it’s faced. To get to the stage where we can even contemplate starting to build the thing…and someone can do a pretty good job of disguising just how much they’re suffering.

Caulfield pondered this for a moment. The possibility Amata killed himself can’t be ruled out. That’s why we’ve ordered a nationwide search for him. We might find the body if not the living man. But something about this whole business bothers me.

You think he might actually have been kidnapped? Tyzack seemed sceptical. It’s a bit of a coincidence that it should happen just after he wrote the letter. And it must have been him who took that file.

Coincidences do happen. If there’s been foul play, they might want Amata as well as the plans. He designed the thing in the first place, so he’d understand the finished product better than anyone else. They’d need him on hand in case anything went wrong with it. Or if they wanted to build in modifications – remember, what was on our drawing board didn’t quite represent the ultimate development of the device as we’d envisaged it. There were things we wanted to do with it but didn’t yet know how to, so they weren’t provided for in the design.

From the sound of it Amata didn’t want anyone to have the device. If he gave the plans to someone else, it can’t have been willingly. They must have had some kind of hold over him. The fact his son’s also gone missing clinches it, surely.

How did they know about the Project in the first place? Or that Amata was chief scientist? His daily routine, details of his family and their movements? Caulfield looked to Holtzmann for an answer.

It must have been an inside job. We’re already conducting an investigation, which will be accompanied by a thorough review of security. It’s pretty worrying, I agree. But…well, hopefully if we do find Amata we’ll find the plans.

They could have murdered him to stop him talking, Caulfield said. The plans will be gone.

He stared fixedly at the model of a Union soldier of the Civil War which sat on his desk. One of his interests was military history. Assuming I’m right and it was a snatch, he said finally, who could they be? Iraqis? Iranians? Something else entirely?

Tyzack pursed his lips. In this uncertain world there are many candidates. In all of this none of them gave a thought to Amata’s misgivings, expressed in the letter he had been meaning to send the President. That wasn’t the issue as far as they were concerned. It was a foregone conclusion that the device was vital to their country’s security. And that that security would be endangered if it should fall into the wrong hands.Whoever’s the wrong hands were.

Part One

One

At the end of 18th Street in Brighton Beach, New York, just a few yards from the water’s edge there is a bar, where food may be served and which is popular with all kinds of people from all walks of life; it has an atmosphere that’s lively and friendly but nonetheless still allows for moments of peace and quiet, of reflection.

At the table nearest the window looking out to sea, not so long ago on a warm evening in early spring, sat three people. Relaxed by the gentle tinkling of the piano, the burble of the other diners’ conversation, and the faint sound of the waves lapping on the boardwalk, they talked softly in low voices, partly it seemed because it was their habit at times like these; it was as if they were a little club who all knew each other and whose friendship had been cemented by shared experiences, of a kind which for some reason outsiders weren’t meant to know about just yet. Every now and then over their drinks they laughed at some joke one of them had told, suggesting that whatever they had all been through together some of it, at least, had been fun.

One was a woman, an attractive and striking blonde in her mid- to late twenties, to whom the heads of all the male diners kept turning; the female ones too, because something about her commanded attention. It would have done even if she had not been pretty. She carried herself with an air of mature sophistication and self-possession, yet when she laughed or indeed showed pleasure, surprise, or puzzlement at any remark by one of the others there was something engagingly childlike to her manner. She flirted mildly with her two male companions, from time to time patting one or the other on the wrist or cuddling against them in sympathy at some misfortune they were describing, or as a way of demonstrating gratitude for some favour; the gestures came over as spontaneous, a part of her natural personality rather than affectation. She had an oval face with fine, high, narrow cheekbones and a pert retroussé nose. The eyes were fascinating; a rather startling Pacific blue, they commanded attention by more than just their colour. They could reflect a range of emotions from the exuberant to the whimsically thoughtful, subtly shifting, sometimes from moment to moment, but never negative. They were, indeed, not unlike a sea; one whose waters were so clear and pure that you could see what lay just beneath the surface, so vividly that to some she might seem transparent and shallow, yet if you looked closer there was a sense of fathomless, mysterious depth. A hint of something beguilingly complex beneath an exterior which might seem merely bold and brash.

The two men were both stockily built, but otherwise presented a contrast. One was shortish with a pleasant, rounded, vaguely handsome face and wavy dark hair. His accent might have been described as classless, though it owed more to London on the whole than the Home Counties, by someone who knew about British accents. The other man, fairish in his colouring, was a big, tall fellow whose clipped public school tones, not dissimilar to the woman’s, carried an unmistakable note of authority. They suggested an army officer, which in fact he was, although he didn’t as a rule advertise which branch of the army he belonged to.

Caroline Kent was in America to celebrate the merging of International Petroleum Limited, the oil company for whom she worked as a general troubleshooter among other things, with the US firm Amacon. To be honest it wasn’t so much a merger but a takeover. The thought that in these days a British company (which IPL effectively was, despite its name) could swallow up an American one gave her a certain feeling of patriotic pride. Though her country’s political power might have dwindled in recent decades, it could still exert a degree of economic muscle when required. Which was good because although she liked Americans for their friendliness, their irrepressible dynamism, she sometimes felt they needed to be taken down a peg or two. Though she wasn’t sure if she should ever share that sentiment with her friends Dan and Lisa Beckenbaum in San Francisco.

To be honest Amacon had been doing badly of late, otherwise the takeover might not have happened. Her fellow executive Chris Barrett, who often accompanied her on her troubleshooting missions, was there as her number two at IPL’s Personnel and Public Relations Department (of traditional tastes in such matters, Caroline was fighting what she suspected was a losing battle against the transformation of the Personnel bit into Human Resources).

Major Michael Hartman, SAS, was present as an indirect result of an assignment Caroline and Chris had undertaken in the South American state of Camaragua. They had met him in adjoining Brazil in what might be called extraordinary circumstances. On Caroline’s assignments extraordinary things did seem to happen, whether by design or chance.

Since the Major had happened to be on leave and spending part of it in America the three of them had taken the opportunity to hold the annual general meeting of what they referred to as the Camaragua Survivors’ Club. It seemed not inappropriate that those who had been through the whole incredible – and often perilous − affair should meet up at least once a year to find out how each of them was doing, as well as reminisce about their experiences in South America; editing the conversation, or not holding it too loudly, in case anyone either thought they were crazy or heard something the intelligence services of Britain and the United States would have rather they didn’t.

Camaragua, Caroline sighed. What a country.

They seem to be doing OK now, said the Major. Everywhere in Latin America is. Viellar was the last of the really big drug barons and we terminated his contract, alright.

All the same, I’m not sure I want to go back there in a hurry. Long queues at the post office, people calling me Senorita all the time...

That was hardly the worst of it. Getting kidnapped, taken hostage, nearly killed by hostile Indians or eaten by alligators…

Oh, that, she said nonchalantly.

Actually, despite its faults she had conceived a certain affection for the place. Apart from anything else it was Camaragua which had broken her in as a troubleshooter, if rather more drastically than she cared to contemplate.

For Chris too it had been a baptism of fire. Whenever he thought about it he still couldn’t get over the fact that he’d actually killed somebody. Quite a few somebodies. It wasn’t something he’d ever envisaged doing.

We did have some fun, he acknowledged. I heard what you did to Viellar when you escaped from his bondage den.

Caroline gave a cackling laugh. Best part of it.

Chris raised his glass. Here’s to the next one.

Next what?

The next adventure.

Are you kidding? she sniffed. The last nearly got us all killed.

Don’t tell me that Caroline Kent, fearless oil troubleshooter, is afraid to risk her life for the sake of truth and justice, teased the Major.

I’m not sure how much truth and justice you’ll find in an oil company, Caroline thought. It looked after its own, the high-flyers anyway, but IPL hadn’t always been solicitous of the welfare of indigenous peoples whose way of life was affected by its projects; she was continually having to sort out that kind of thing.

No-one does that lightly, she said with a touch of ice, in response to Hartman’s ribbing. Even you, I suspect.

Chris grinned. We’d sort of figured it out, he said, his voice dropping again, but all the same it was a bit scary when you told us you were in the…you know…

I only told you because you asked, and because you’d so obviously worked it out for yourselves there wasn’t much point in denying it, Hartman reminded them severely. Would have been a bit irresponsible otherwise.

You’re sounding like a crotchety old colonel, Caroline chided.

I’m a crotchety young Major. Tell me, why was it scary? he asked Chris.

It was Caroline who answered. I thought at one stage you were going to kill me to protect your secret.

That’s spies, Chris told her.

It’s not only spies, Hartman said. You can’t afford to blow your cover.

I hope Dattari and his people are alright, Caroline mused. Wouldn’t mind paying them a return visit someday.

Would be nice, agreed Chris.

But I’ll leave fighting for truth and justice to this guy here. She smiled at the Major.

Hartman wore a dubious expression. Is it? whispered Chris. Is it truth and justice, would you say?

Some of the missions I’ve been on, Hartman muttered, were a case of doing the government’s dirty work for it. Of course they called it protecting British interests. It’s probably helped to keep us relatively wealthy and powerful in the post-colonial world. But innocent people got killed. The thing is…suppose it was wrong. If I’d refused to do it I’d have been cashiered. And then I wouldn’t have been able to fight for what was true and just. It was an excuse, but a good one Chris supposed.

Shame Barney couldn’t be here, said Caroline, changing the subject.

Where is he, by the way? asked the Major.

He’s off at some rally or other for the rain forest, she replied. Still, good luck to him.

Not sure he’d come anyway, Chris said. Funny bloke, Barney. Mention of the ecologist reminded Chris that he had killed people too, though for a very different reason from Barrett or the Major. It hadn’t really been his fault, but nonetheless they’d agreed afterwards not to talk about it.

Caroline smiled at Hartman. Glad you could make it.

I was over here to visit someone, he explained, a little diffidently.

Caroline and Chris exchanged glances. Were you now, said Caroline thoughtfully, eyebrows raised.

Chris nudged him, grinning slyly. Come on, let’s have it. Who is she?

She’s called Gillian and she’s very nice and sweet. Works on the clerical staff of the Department of Defense. She was in London on a fact-finding trip and that’s how I met her. As you know, I do a lot of liaison work with the Yanks. Soldiers had to find something to occupy themselves between battles or training exercises. We got talking one day and…well, she invited me over here to meet up with her sometime. That’s all.

Caroline’s eyes had grown big and were twinkling mischievously. I imagine she just wanted to talk business. Nothing more than that.

Nothing more than that, said the Major, unconvincingly.

So she’s American? Chris asked.

Very. That’s why I like her.

Both of them were pleased for him. Somehow, you got the impression the Major needed something like that.

He fished out a photograph That’s her.

Pretty girl, said Caroline. She was being polite but in fact the woman wasn’t unattractive, all told. That face, with a touch of the elfin and framed by strawberry blonde hair, certainly had character, suggesting an impish sense of humour. She looked not unlike Cameron Diaz, perhaps Michelle Pfeiffer.

How’s your folks, by the way? Caroline asked Chris. Your father was going to have that operation, wasn’t he? Her concern was genuine.

Turns out he didn’t need it after all. They got his results mixed up with someone else’s. He raised his eyes to the ceiling. Still, it doesn’t happen that often, I suppose.

Must be a relief for him. Means some other poor sod’s got to go under the knife, though. Such is Fate.

They’ve a pretty good success rate. No, Mum and Dad are both fine. How about yours?

Not too bad. Still arguing.

They’ve got to learn to do it affectionately, said the Major. That’s the secret.

More or less what I told them. I also said they were too old to get divorced, but I don’t know if that’s true nowadays. They didn’t appreciate it anyway.

They’ve had a lot to cope with lately, said Chris. I mean, with Douglas… Caroline’s brother had been killed by a terrorist bomb just as he’d seemed on the point of sorting out his traumatised, chaotic, messed-up life.

Yes, said Caroline softly, bowing her head. She fell silent.

Are you alright? Chris ventured. She didn’t reply.

Gently he took her by the arm and led her out onto the terrace, where he waited until she had recovered her composure. Then they went back in. The Major had remained in his seat, knowing she might find too much solicitous attention, however well meant, smothering. OK now? he enquired. She smiled back weakly, and nodded.

For a while the mood was subdued. Soon, however, she was back to her old self, and the conversation once again in full swing.

Outside, the lights of the promenade were twinkling in the water, the moon shining down from a star-studded sky, reflected in the gleaming black surface of the sea as a wavering, ghostly shape.

Their main course arrived and was tucked into with relish. The bar had filled up somewhat, signifying that they should cease talking about confidential matters to do with spies and Special Forces. Caroline’s eyes travelled over the other customers. She noted that a man was taking his seat at the table next to theirs, along with two women and a fourth, male, companion. In his late forties, he was short and of compact build, perhaps once muscular but now gone a little to flab; heavy-featured with hooded, slightly protuberant eyes and thick lips. His brown hair was sleekly combed and he had on an obviously expensive Versace suit with silk tie. As well as the suit he wore a fixed scowl. One of the women was blonde − with dark roots showing, Caroline noted disparagingly − the other brunette, and both sported flashy necklaces and bangles and low-cut dresses which left little of their generous busts to the imagination. The other man was tall with curly hair and something in his face seemed to recall the first, although the features were more refined, the lips thin and tightly compressed. He too was smartly dressed, in a similar fashion to his – father? Uncle? Certainly there was an age difference of some twenty, maybe thirty years between them.

The younger man perused the menu while the older stared moodily through the window at the dark sea.

The head waiter, hovering solicitously in the background, caught sight of Versace and immediately went over to him. What can I get you, Mr Scarlione? Although the service was always good here, he seemed particularly eager to please. Evidently a valued customer. Some wine to start with?

Yeah, OK. I’ll have a glass of Chianti. He glanced at his companions, who nodded to signify they’d have the Chianti too, as if anything else would be a form of disloyalty to him. The maitre d’ beckoned over a waitress.

Caroline noticed that two men had entered the bar and were standing with their backs to the wall, not far from where Scarlione and his party were sitting. She found their presence a little intimidating, but the other diners seemed to take it for granted, talking and eating quite happily with only the occasional glance in their direction.

Wonder who he is? she said.

Who? asked Chris.

She nodded towards Scarlione. That chap. You get the impression they’re falling over backwards to please him.

The waitress, a young girl in her late teens or early twenties, approached the table where Scarlione’s group sat, smiling nervously. Caroline studied her. The type who would grow to be competent, but at the moment wasn’t quite sure of herself; she must be fairly new to the job, this could even have been her first day in it. Caroline thought back to when she had started at IPL, feeling all the time desperately self-conscious and trying hard to hide it.

Earlier the waitress had gone the rounds, taken their own order among others’. Observing her talking with the customers, a little hesitantly but realising she had to make the effort to be friendly, Caroline hadn’t been able to help sizing her up. She had a pleasant enough manner and would be an asset to the establishment, given time.

She rested the tray with the four glasses and bottle of wine on the edge of the table, poured the wine into the