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  Lentz felt her breath catch in her throat. "We don't really know what we've found. I prefer to present answers, not questions."

  "That's not your call. With anything connected to CERUS, I need to know as soon as you know."

  "I still want to know about Bern's release. After everything last year, I deserve to know. Was Quinn murdered because he knew what was going on?"

  Reems looked at her. "I don't have time for this. Now do you have any intelligence to share with me? Anything that will help us locate Bern?"

  "Seriously? That's your response?"

  "I'll take that as a 'no'. And you should go home and forget that we even spoke."

  Lentz stood, sticking her hands in her pockets. "Not hard given that, in every meaningful sense, we didn't."

  Reems shook her head. "Goodnight Dominique."

  Forty-Three

  KATE STEPPED FROM THE BUS onto Wapping High Street and looked at her phone again. Still no reply to her text messages, still her calls went straight to voicemail. Was Geraldine ignoring her?

  Up ahead Kate saw the blue and red pulse of emergency lights, but this was London and it was hardly out of the ordinary. She needed to discuss what she'd found out about Tom's mother and see what else Geraldine might know about Bern, now that he had escaped. The fact of his escape had swamped old and new media for the last 24 hours.

  Nobody knew how Bern had engineered his plan, but one thing was clear: he would seek to track down Tom. It was all too much for her to process on her own and she wanted the benefit of Geraldine's experience and judgement. Perhaps, at the same time, she could give her a gift: something she now knew Geraldine needed. She'd called Geraldine's PA to see if he would pass a message to her. First he'd said he didn't know where Geraldine was or when she would next be in the office, but after some gentle persuasion she had learned that Geraldine was being replaced at BWN and had known about it for a few days: since before their meeting at CERUS Tower.

  Why hadn't Geraldine said anything?

  Kate approached Geraldine's apartment block, suddenly aware that the red and blue pulses came from three police vehicles parked directly outside. Yellow police tape was up, marking off the entrance, and a crowd had gathered, whispering in urgent tones. A chill began to creep over her. "What's going on?" she asked a woman in a pink dressing gown.

  "There's been a shooting." The woman shook her head. "Terrible business."

  Kate felt herself shiver. "Is someone hurt?"

  "Shot in the head, I heard," said a man standing next to them, flicking his fingers open, as if that illustrated the outcome. "Didn't stand a chance."

  An ambulance pulled up quietly next to the police cars. Two paramedics got out. They did not look to be hurrying.

  "Professional hit," continued the man. "Woman in apartment 35. Gang-related most likely."

  Kate raised her hand to her mouth. Before she knew what she was doing, she had ducked under the yellow tape. A policeman immediately moved to intercept her.

  "Please step back, Ma'am, unless you're a resident."

  "I'm visiting my friend. In apartment 35." She said it forcefully, as if by doing so she could make everything OK. The policeman's reaction told Kate everything she needed to know.

  "I'm sorry, Ma'am. I can't let you--"

  But Kate had already turned away. There was nothing she could do that would change anything.

  Kate flagged the first cab she could find, letting it whisk her back to north London. Inside she felt numb: why would someone want to kill Geraldine? She was just a journalist and most of her work had been covering major corporates: the risks were legal, not physical. The most questionable characters Geraldine had had dealings with were probably from CERUS. And they were all behind bars... except Bern. But why would he go after Geraldine? Her links to the Tantalus incident were tenuous at best. If revenge was the aim, there were far more obvious targets. Like Lentz or Reems. Or Tom. Or Kate herself.

  Before Kate realised it, the taxi had pulled up outside her apartment. She paid the driver and got out, feeling the chill night air on her face, but feeling far more chilled within. What could Geraldine have done against someone with a gun? Kate was a trained martial artist and she would have stood little chance. At least after last year, Kate had upgraded her home alarm system against break-ins, but she was still vulnerable. And because the extra security locks took so long to activate, she usually didn't bother. She would from now on.

  Kate walked up the stairs and reached the door, sliding her key into the lock. It opened smoothly. Inside all was dark and quiet, and she pushed the door quietly closed. How would the killer have got in to attack Geraldine? Did they bluff their way at the doorstep? Easy to do, with enough confidence, even against someone as naturally suspicious as Geraldine. But easier still to break in while she was out...

  Kate froze and listened intently. Along with the faint rumble of the building ventilation, could she hear breathing? She started to edge back towards the door, her hand reaching for the handle, when the lights snapped on. A compact man, dressed in a black jump suit, stood watching her.

  "You're observant," he said. "What gave me away?"

  "Circumstance." She measured the distance between them in her head: four metres – a little too far. "Did you kill my friend?"

  "So that's where you went." He pulled a pistol from his pocket. "Stay where you are."

  Her eyes took in the weapon, noting it was fitted with a silencer. "Did Bern send you?"

  "I work for Andrei Leskov."

  Kate blinked. "What?"

  "You work for the company that double-crossed his father."

  "That was Bern and Marron. I didn't work for CERUS then."

  "Not a significant detail."

  She swung her eyes around the room. She had to find an advantage. "All details are significant, as you should know, in your line of work."

  "Oh?"

  "My silent panic alarm was triggered thirty seconds after walking in, when I didn't deactivate it. The police will be here in three minutes."

  The man's eyes narrowed. "The Queen would be lucky to get that kind of response time."

  "Look at the control box over there." She pointed to the corner of the room where a blue LED was flashing rapidly.

  He frowned, then edged towards it, bending down to look. "That's just a cable modem. There isn't--"

  But Kate didn't hear what he said next because she had already pulled the front door open, stepped through and was slamming it shut again. Blood banging in her veins, she fumbled for her electronic key. If the man had immediately tried to open the door he might have caught her, but he did not. Instead he fired his weapon three times. Kate felt the painful shock of the impacts, but the armoured panel held. She heard swearing then he started to turn the door handle. The extended locking mechanism activated, bolts firing into place around the frame and the handle froze in place. The door would now only open with the key. Without professional cutting equipment, he was not getting through it. She had no doubt he'd find another way out, but it would give her long enough to escape.

  She ran.

  Sharp put his gun away and gave the door a prod with his fingers. It held firm. He'd missed the extra security features when he broke in because they had not been activated, but he should have been more thorough. Now he had alerted the target and she would be doing everything she could to make his task more difficult. Experience told him it was best to give such a target some time to wear themselves out. Then, once they thought they were safe and they lowered their guard, he could easily mop things up. Next time he would ensure there were no surprises. But for now, he needed a new target.

  He would move to the next name on the list.

  Forty-Four

  TOM WATCHED THE DOOR BURST open. Two heavily-armed men, clad in black ops gear, moved into the room, pointing rifles and shouting 'Drop your weapons!'

  Alex stepped away from Tom, raising her hands. "He was going to kill me."

  Tom looked at her, then i
n an exaggerated manner lowered his guns to the floor. Two more soldiers followed the first pair into the room. They advanced on Tom and Alex, kicked away the loose guns, and placed plastic cuffs on their wrists, hands behind their backs.

  The first soldier touched the earpiece in his helmet. "We have Faraday. Plus an unidentified female."

  "Why am I being cuffed? Who are you?" Alex looked at the man speaking into his earpiece. "Will somebody please tell me what is going on?"

  The soldier spoke to his colleagues. "We're to bring them both."

  "Where are you taking us?" asked Tom.

  The soldier stared at him, then raised an eyebrow. "To our leader, would you believe?"

  They were driven away in a plain, unmarked van. From the level of equipment and technology in evidence, it was clear to Tom that their captors were not just another band of mercenaries. None of the four men would engage in conversation.

  After a while, the van slowed and stopped at what sounded – from the muffled conversations Tom could hear - like a checkpoint, then it was driven onwards and inside a building. He and Alex were guided out and into separate rooms. Tom was shown to a small cell, perhaps ten feet square, which contained a small table and two chairs. Moments later a suited man in his early fifties walked in, carrying a tablet computer. He sat down, staring with unblinking eyes. He steepled his fingers but said nothing. A clock ticked in one corner. Otherwise there was silence.

  After several long moments Tom gave up waiting. "Why am I here? What do you want?"

  The man in the suit nodded. "Where is it, Mr Faraday? Where is the Accumulator? Did you think we would simply let you take it from us?"

  "I don't know what you are talking about."

  "You were identified at the scene. I suggest you start talking."

  Tom frowned. "I still have no idea what you're talking about. Who are you?"

  "My name is Connor Truman, and I am--"

  "Deputy Director of the CIA. Yes, I've heard your name. How were you able to find me?"

  "Mr Faraday, you will answer my question."

  "For the third time, I don't know. But I do know I want a lawyer. Given that I'm a British citizen, why am I even here?"

  "Because of a crime committed on US soil." Truman tapped his tablet computer, then turned it to Tom as video started playing. It showed a series of shots of a grey metal warehouse. "This was taken ten days ago at a US government facility that was robbed."

  Tom saw a figure moving low and fast in the shadows up to the front door. Clad in black it waited for a patrol of armed guards to move past, then walked up to the camera, removing something from its belt, and then the image cut out. The man's face looked up at the CCTV for the briefest of moments. Tom tapped the screen, rewinding the footage, then he zoomed in on the face. It was his face. Slightly blurry, but undeniably him. "I've not been in the US in months. The footage must have been altered."

  "Nobody can hack our security cameras."

  "Give me ten minutes and I could..." He trailed off, realising what he was saying.

  Truman raised an eyebrow. "Is that an admission of guilt? We've had the footage analysed multiple times. It has not been tampered with."

  Tom leaned closer to the tablet. "Why didn't you catch the thief?"

  "All the building's systems were deactivated. You escaped in the confusion. The 'Accumulator': where is it, Tom?"

  Tom sat back in his chair, folding his arms. "If I was capable of breaking into that warehouse, why would I simply show my face? Wouldn't I have worn a mask?"

  "You tell me. Look, before this incident you were already a person of interest to us, but this theft has put you at the top of our most wanted list."

  "I'm not your guy. And why were you looking for me before that?"

  Truman narrowed his eyes. "We know about the Interface that CERUS was developing."

  "You know what, exactly?"

  "Did you somehow use it to help execute the theft? Did you adapt the helicopter control protocols to do something else."

  Tom shook his head. "Listen to me: I did not do this."

  "I have direct orders from the President; I'm authorised to take any steps necessary to recover the item."

  "And what do my government have to say about your abducting me?" Tom sighed. "Why don't you humour me and tell me what it is that you believe I've taken? Given that you think I have it anyway, what do you have to lose?"

  Truman narrowed his eyes. "An experimental high-capacity power-cell. It's based on a form of room-temperature fusion."

  "Then you have a serious problem. But it's got nothing to do with me."

  "Used incorrectly the fusion cell could overload. We could have what is effectively a stray nuke on our hands." Truman's expression hardened. "We believe you're working with your father."

  Tom gave a snort. "He and I are not on speaking terms."

  "A convenient misdirection, no doubt. And, given that your father has escaped custody, perhaps more likely than ever."

  "You need to understand that we're on the same side here. I have no argument with you people."

  "This is getting us nowhere. Should I just send in the interrogation team?"

  Tom's jaw twitched. "You know, I only really came here as a courtesy."

  "I'm sure the heavily-armed soldiers had something to do with it."

  "What did you do with the woman who was with me? I need to speak with her."

  Truman shook his head. "She's not your concern anymore."

  "Then I have nothing more to say."

  "Have it your way. But this is not over."

  Tom smiled. "That's the first thing you've said that I agree with."

  Forty-Five

  JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT, STEPHANIE REEMS closed her computer, notified her security detail that she was retiring for the evening and switched off all but one light. All completely normal for her.

  However, she then deviated from her usual routine. She activated an ambient-noise generator in her bedroom, mimicking the sounds of her breathing in her sleep. Then she changed into a black jump-suit, shouldered a small backpack and left the apartment via her emergency-exit chute. It was one-way only unless you had both the code to open the chute and climbing gear, so her security team did not view it as an access risk.

  She slid out of a hidden flap and landed on the pavement in a tiny side street. Reems walked two blocks then flagged a taxi. She glanced at her watch, noting that she was perfectly on schedule. She allowed herself a brief moment of doubt: was she really doing the right thing? Should she be managing this through official channels, as her deputy director would have insisted? But she knew the answer: too much was at stake and, if she allowed the situation to continue, then the consequences would be serious. For her. For her department. For everyone.

  She thought again about her visit from Dominique Lentz. The woman was, as always, an agent of change, always inserting herself at the very heart of a difficult situation. Now she had introduced a complication. But, hopefully, that complication would very shortly be gone.

  Twenty miles west of London, Reems' taxi dropped her at a bus station, though she didn't enter it but, instead, walked in the opposite direction. Half a mile away, she located the vehicle that had been placed ready for her: a plain red Ford Focus hatchback. It was an off-book MI5 asset and would be completely untraceable by anyone without the highest levels of clearance.

  She removed the keys from a hidden compartment within the rear-wheel arch, then drove to the M4 and cruised west, keeping almost exactly at the speed limit: there was no need to draw unnecessary attention or risk being stopped. Two hours later, she crossed the River Severn via the suspension bridge and drove into Wales. Half an hour after that, she was pulling up at a quiet little harbour. A man in grubby overalls appeared from a small hut.

  "Ma'am," said the man. "We're ready."

  "Do you have a signal?" Reems asked.

  "Heading to the Caribbean. Course steady."

  "We have a satellite tasked to follow
him?"

  "Two, Ma'am. Just in case." The man pulled a communicator from his pocket and spoke into it briefly. Almost immediately a sleek motor-launch appeared round the headland. It powered in to shore, pulling up alongside them at the quay. The man in overalls held onto a rope while Reems jumped aboard, then he pushed them away and returned to his hut.

  Reems steadied herself on deck as the craft began powering towards the open ocean. George Croft appeared on deck and nodded.

  "Evening, Stephanie."

  Reems looked at her watch. "Morning might be more accurate."

  "Still sure you want to attend in person? We could always send a private team to monitor the vessel."

  "Never been more sure."

  "We'd best go below and strap in. The skipper is keen to get under way."

  "How long until we catch up?

  Croft gestured to a narrow set of stairs downwards. "If we maintain optimum speed, approximately twenty-four hours. The weather could add some variables."

  Reems nodded then began descending. "And he doesn't know we're following?"

  "The tracer is passive and was planted subcutaneously: it's impossible to detect unless you know exactly where it is and what to look for."

  Reems entered the lower cabin. "Let's hope so because if he escapes it'll be more than our jobs on the line."

  "Was Lentz a problem?" asked Croft, following her inside and pointing to an oversized seat with a harness mechanism. "I heard she came to visit you after-hours."

  "Dominique has a knack for ending up with information that's disturbingly accurate. But I don't think she'll be a problem. I'm more worried about Truman."

  "Because he flew to South America?"

  Reems took the seat and began fastening the harness. "Yes. Why would he do that?"

  Croft took his own seat. "Could be something completely separate. I'm sure he has other matters within his purview."

  Reems shrugged her shoulders. "Sometimes it feels like I don't."