Exposure (32 page)

This time she heard the distinct sound of footsteps crossing the room, a whiff of perfume, or maybe aftershave: a door opened, then slammed shut again. This time Helene felt the room was empty, as if she herself had simply floated away and ceased to exist. Utterly empty: unless you counted dread as a companion.

A wave of something like vertigo overtook her and Helene felt as if she was on the edge of a precipice, the gaping maw of a cavern into hell just inches from her feet. If she tipped forward, she would fall forever: she’d be gone, lost.

Don’t panic, she told herself. Don’t let the panic take you.

Slowly she counted backwards from a hundred and forced herself to breathe deeply. She tried to remember everything that had happened before she’d woken up in this room. There’d been gunfire and she’d heard Charlie shouting her name. In her memory he’d been calling her desperately. Hank had been roaring like Finn McCool, the mythical Irish warrior born to vengeance.

The click of the door opening set her heart racing again. But this time there was a voice.

“You are being held in a secure, sound-proof room. No-one will hear you if you scream.”

“You’ll hear me,” said Helene, trying to sound calm. “Who are you?”

The voice belonged to a woman although it was hard to determine her age from her voice. The voice, Helene observed clinically, was often the last thing to show the signs of aging. This voice was as cool and as emotionless as water.

“Remove her blindfold. Let’s make Miss La Borde a bit more comfortable.”

Helene blinked as the blindfold was removed. It was an unexpected and worrying change of circumstance: it meant they didn’t care if she saw them. Not good.

She massaged her wrists and ankles as the blood started to flow more easily. Then water was put on the table in front of her.

Helene drank deeply, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

“Why am I being held?” she said.

“There’s someone who wants to speak to you,” said the woman.

She was tall and thin, unremarkable externally, but Helene sensed power.

Then the door opened again and this time a deeply tanned man entered with a stook of iron-grey hair. Helene recognised him immediately, although it took her brain a second to catch up.

“Clive Jackson, Ms La Borde. Good to meet you, although the circumstances are… regrettable.”

Smiling Clive Jackson: the Vice President. Jesus, the Vice President? This thing really did go all the way to the White House!

He held out a well-manicured hand for Helene to shake, which she did automatically, her fingers nerveless.

“Why am I being held here, Mr Jackson?” she said, trying to stop her voice from breaking.

“Well, now, Helene,” he said smiling, “there’s no need to be naïve is there? You’re being held on terrorism charges, you must know that.”

Helene’s eyes widened with surprise. “Terrorism? I’m a journalist.”

“Yes, you are… or rather you were. You used to be a pretty good journalist but the sources you’re using these days… dubious, Ms La Borde, definitely dubious, and when you plan to start spreading malicious rumours... rumours that could damage our economy and international standing… well, I’d have to say that counts as terrorism in my book.”

Helene shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean, Mr Jackson.”

“Don’t fuck around with me, Ms La Borde,” he said, still smiling. “You were caught in the headquarters of the so-called Gene Genies, one of the most anti-government, anti-capitalist commies we know. They’re anarchists, Ms La Borde. That’s why we’ve been watching them. When you visited Barbara Manfred, we were watching.”

He paused to allow the effect of his words to sink in.

“These hackers, this bunch of twisted deadbeats, their raison d’être is to bring down the US government by any means possible. They’re in touch with terrorist organisations all over the world... and they’re in our own goddamn backyard. Well, we can’t have that, can we, Ms La Borde? And I have to say, you’d be doing us a helluva favour if you could give us information leading to their whereabouts.”

He paused expectantly.

Helene shook her head. “I don’t know anything about affiliations to either extremists or foreign terrorists,” she said. “And…”

“Well, I think we know a little bit more than you do about that,” he said, still smiling, but with a steely edge to his voice, one that the electorate never got to hear. “All you need to tell us is where they are and how you contact them: we’ll do the rest.”

“I don’t know,” said Helene.

“Now, Ms La Borde…”

“It’s true,” she said. “Other than the hub that you found, I have no idea – that was the only contact point I’d been able to find.”

“Yes, and we’re rather curious about how you did find that,” said Smiling Clive.

Helene was silent.

He shrugged: “We can come to that later. Right now we want names and locations. You can help us, Ms La Borde. You can be a good citizen.”

“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that I’m British,” said Helene bristling slightly.

“No, indeed, and I’m sure I don’t need to remind you,” said Smiling Clive, “of the special relationship our two countries enjoy and have enjoyed for a number of years; a special relationship that shouldn’t be jeopardised. We have to stand firm, shoulder to shoulder against the enemies that mass against us even as we have this conversation.”

“Is that what this is?” said Helene. “A conversation? Because I’d have said, in the circumstances, that it was an interrogation.”

He waved a hand.

“Semantics, Ms La Borde. But you’re right: words can be dangerous weapons. Now I need you to tell me everything you know about the Gene Genies.”

“Then let me speak to the British Ambassador,” said Helene.

“In good time,” he said smoothly. “Tell me what you learned from those computer geeks,” he said.

“Nothing useful,” said Helene.

“We can decide what’s useful,” he said, the smile beginning to look rather strained.

“Really, nothing at all,” said Helene.

It sounded lame even to her own ears.

“Don’t treat me like a fucking moron,” he said, the smile vanishing like mist.

“I’ll tell you everything – what little there is,” said Helene, shivering slightly, “once I’ve been released and have met with the British Ambassador.”

“You know,” said Smiling Clive, leaning back in his chair, “I’ve met women like you before. You hear a bit of rumour or gossip and suddenly you’re trying to make it into something it’s not. You goddam fucking journalists. But if you start peddling your gossip to the newspapers, Ms La Borde, then it’s going to undermine our efforts to continue building the economy, to continue protecting ourselves against our enemies. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

Helene was silent.

Smiling Clive sighed, as if he were genuinely sorry the conversation hadn’t gone better.

“Well, Ms La Borde, you can’t say I didn’t give you a chance. You see the problem is I really can’t let you spread your lies in the tabloids. I really believed I’d find you a reasonable woman, but I guess if you spend all your time in the gutter, sooner or later you start acting like the scum you find there. Good day, Ms La Borde.”

He stood up, fastened one button on his jacket and strode from the room.

“I know what happens at Warm Creek!” she called after him.

He turned, looked at her briefly, muttered something to the tall woman, and left.

A tingle of apprehension ran down Helene’s spine. Then the tall woman walked forward and forced the blindfold back over Helene’s eyes. Her arms and legs were re-tied tightly. Too tightly. Helene began to lose sensation in her hands and feet.

“No-one will hear you if you scream,” repeated the voice quietly. “A polygraph is being fitted to you – a lie detector: we will know if you try to deceive us. You will cooperate with us.”

Soft, dry hands attached wires to Helene’s upper chest. She recoiled at the touch but her body had nowhere to hide.

“I don’t know anything,” said Helene again.

To her own ears, her voice sounded shrill and agitated. How was anyone supposed to sound sincere with this machine strapped on to them? Just the thought of it made perspiration leak from her armpits and back, and her heart began to race painfully.

“We will start with two control questions: you will answer with ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers. Is your name Helene La Borde?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever climbed Mount Everest?”

“No,” said Helene. “I’m a British journalist and I have rights.”

“You have no rights here,” said the voice.

“What about my right to Counsel?” said Helene. “What about the Fifth bloody Amendment?”

More silence.

“Who were the two men in the bunker?” said the voice.

Helene was surprised. Was this a trick question or did they really not know?

“Look,” she said. “I’m still dehydrated and my eyes are stinging from the tear gas you used. I need more water.”

“Answer the question,” said the voice.

Helene wasn’t sure how to answer without implicating the Gene Genies, but then inspiration came to her.

“The tall, thin man was Charles Paget, a British citizen, like me; the other man was... Wally Manfred.”

More silence as if the questioner was weighing the value of the answer: either that or waiting for instructions from someone else. Then the voice spoke:

“You’re lying. Not a smart move, Ms La Borde.”

“Please can I have some more water?” said Helene, her only reply.

“Tell us about Charles Paget,” said the voice.

“Who’s ‘us’?” said Helene.

The blow when it came, whipped Helene’s head to one side. The sharp crack echoed around the room along with her cry.

“Tell us about Charles Paget.”

“Okay! I’ll tell you.” Helene’s eyes were watering. At least it’s washing out the residue of tear gas, she told herself. “He told me he was in the military. In Britain: either the regular army or the marines, I’m not sure. Maybe the SAS. He’d been freelance for at least three years – but you know that already.”

The voice came closer.

“There is no record of anyone with that name in British Ministry of Defence records.”

Helene was stunned.

“Of course there is: your records must be wrong!” she cried out. “I don’t know which regiment – he never told me. But he’s ex-military.”

“There is no record of anyone with that name,” said the voice. “You are lying.”

“I’m not! Look at your damned machine! I’m not lying.”

Helene was confused: was there really no trace of Charlie or were they trying to break her down, make her mistrust what she knew – or thought she knew? Anyway, how could they have not known Charlie’s name if they’d been followed, as he’d intimated, since leaving the UK? She recognised the interrogation as one of the nine steps in the Reid interrogation technique that she’d learned about during her training: confrontation, theme development, stopping denials, overcoming objections… Christ! What were the others? The ninth step was confession.

“Tell us about the second man in the bunker,” said the voice.

“His name is Wally Manfred,” said Helene. “At least that was the name he used with me.”

“You’re lying,” said the voice.

“I’m not. I mean, I don’t know,” said Helene. “He contacted me and told me he had information about your government, the US government. I was interested so I went to talk to him. And then you people arrived.”

“How did he contact you?” said the voice.

“Via my website,” said Helene.

The second blow made her left eyeball feel as if it were about to explode out of her cheek.

“How did he contact you?” said the voice.

“Via my website, I swear it! I erased the messages after I’d read them,” said Helene desperately. “I thought that was safer. The website is the only way anyone can contact me at the moment. You must know that!”

“The man you met was not Wally Manfred. Who was he?” said the voice.

“I don’t know! I don’t know! That’s the name he used. But I don’t think he was really Wally Manfred because I came across a man with that name in the Warm Creek Nursing Home. He’d been there for two years: the nurse told me his daughter had visited there. So I don’t know who the man I met in the bunker really was. He called himself ‘Wally’.”

“Don’t lie to us!” said the voice, with a slight edge. “We can make this far more unpleasant for you. And if you lie again, I’d really like to have an excuse to do just that.”

Helene swallowed, a lump of fear sticking like a pebble in her throat.

“I’m finding it really hard to believe, Ms La Borde,” the voice continued, “that you’re just an innocent bystander in all this.”

“I didn’t say I was a bystander,” said Helene quickly, “I’m a journalist. You must have heard of the freedom of the press? The right to…”

“ ‘…the right to freedom of opinion and expression; this right includes freedom to hold opinions without interference, and impart information and ideas through any media regardless of frontiers’. Don’t you use your filthy mouth to speak about those things,” spat the voice. “They weren’t meant for sewer rats like you to hide behind.”

“I... I don’t know what you mean,” said Helene, panting slightly.

The voice was close now: Helene could feel the breath on her neck, smell that the voice had been drinking strong coffee.

“People like you make me sick,” said the voice neutrally. “A journalist hiding behind rights that were designed to protect patriots. You’re one of those people who despises anyone who has more than them, aren’t you? You’re not even a very successful journalist, are you? Fifty-two and down to your last nickel.” The voice began to rise again. “You’re pathetic. If it weren’t for us your little piss-ant country would have sunk without trace by now. We tolerate your liberal whining because it suits us to do so, but you’re pathetic. And you try to tell us how to run our country.”

“At least we don’t kidnap innocent people and send them to concentration camps,” snapped Helene.

The voice laughed.

“Don’t be naïve. Your government does exactly that when it suits them. You live in this fantasy world that your government is a democratic one. Bullshit! At best it’s a benign dictatorship but you’d rather believe in fairytales. Well, I’m going to use my magic wand, Ms La Borde, and you’ll tell me everything you know.”