Last Light (43 page)

CHAPTER 88

11.54 p.m. GMT
Shepherd’s Bush, London

Ash kneeled over him. He snapped on a torch and checked the man’s wound. The blood was jetting out in rhythmic spurts.

‘Understand,’ said Ash gently, ‘this will be a relatively easy death. The painful bit is over. Bleeding out will be relatively quick. I apologise for not making it instant,’ he said with a hint of regret.

The dying man stared up at him, expressions of bewilderment and anger flickering across his face. Ash could empathise with the anger; to be caught off guard like that . . . lured out and skewered.

‘You must be Mike, I’m guessing by deduction,’ he said. ‘Yes, just a silly trick. The sheet, over the lamp, and the help of a light breeze.’

‘Fucking shit trick,’ groaned Mike.

‘Let me ask you. Do you believe in God?’

Mike laughed defiantly and winced. ‘No I fucking don’t.’

‘Maybe now’s a good a time as any to find some faith, eh? Hedge your bets.’

‘You know . . . a friend of mine assured me . . . God accepts non-believers too . . . it’s just assholes he doesn’t let in.’

That was quite funny, he liked this American’s defiance in the face of death. It was admirable.

Mike grunted something, his voice warbling and weakening.

‘You’re asking about your other colleague in the house? Yes, I’m afraid he’s dead too. I did him first. You probably didn’t hear him drop did you? Too busy chatting away at the front.’

Mike grasped one of his hands. ‘Let the . . . family . . . go,’ he struggled between gasps to get the words out.

‘Sorry, they’re on my “to do” list,’ he replied and then smiled down at him, with a shred of sympathy it seemed, as the American struggled to draw air in. ‘We know you’ve been out there watching us for a long time - your humble agency. The funny thing is, we’ve been trying to track you down as well.’

They
. . .
they
had known of it, and hunted for this persistent nuisance, whilst this microdot of an agency, in turn, had been doing the same; two predators blindly stalking each other over four decades, their subtle tracks imprinted on recent history.

To be fair, the agency was no real match for the people Ash kept things tidy for. The resources of a couple of dozen field and desk agents and the black budget that kept them ticking over, versus the sort of wealth, power and influence that decided world leaders, initiated and concluded wars, timed and controlled global economic cycles. No real match there, a proverbial David and Goliath.

This man’s agency though, had done well, identifying and homing in on the only weak link in their chain, the traitor . . . the son-in-law and heir-apparent to one of the highest echelon - one of the Twelve; the young man, a banker, a member of the lower order, who had suddenly got cold feet - he had given this agency just enough to zero in on Dr A. Sutherland.

Of course all of this unpleasantness now, chasing around this shitty little country, could have been avoided if they’d let him finish that girl in the hotel room, back in New York.

Hypocrites.

They were preparing to orchestrate events that were ultimately going to lead to the deaths of hundreds of millions, and yet they didn’t have the stomach to witness the death firsthand of one solitary child. He realised, in some ways, he had more in common with this man before him, than the privileged and pampered elite that he worked for.

‘You nearly exposed them. You nearly won, my friend. The girl could have identified three of the Twelve for you.’

Ash knew then that he alone had a unique status . . . knowing more than any of the members of the lower order; he had been entrusted with an almost sacred confidentiality because he was their personal watchdog. He knew these twelve men, and they were not brave men; they were weak.

Knowing the identity of just one of them would be enough for this determined, tenacious little agency. They’d find a way to get to an identified member, they’d find a way to get him to talk, that wouldn’t be so hard.

‘You came so close,’ Ash said.

‘Fuck you,’ grunted Mike. ‘We know all about you shit-heads. ’

Mike tried to move, to reach out towards his gun, dropped on the landing just a few feet away. Ash kicked it casually across the floor and out of reach.

‘Stay still,’ he cautioned Mike, ‘or you’ll bleed out faster. I want you to know my friend, because, well . . . because you’ve
earned
it.’

The American could do little but nod weakly.

‘Know
all
about us?’ Ash laughed. ‘You don’t know anything. What you know is just the little bit you’ve managed to scratch off the surface. You think a group of fat industrialists in expensive suits are behind this, don’t you? It goes much higher. You can trace the reins of power up through banks that own banks that own banks to just a dozen names.’

Mike frowned, struggling through the growing fogginess to comprehend what he was hearing.

‘The world is owned by a dozen families headed by a dozen men, some of whom have surnames that even the mindless sheep on the streets would recognise, and other names that have always remained hidden.

‘And believe me when I say their influence, even before recent years, was pretty damn impressive.’ He leant over Mike, moving closer to his face. It looked like the American’s pupils were beginning to dilate, as he started his inevitable slide into unconsciousness.

‘These people I work for . . . you can see their fingerprints everywhere in history, Mike, fingerprints smeared everywhere, like a crime scene. Take the Second World War for instance . . .’

Mike’s breathing caught.

‘Oh yeah,’ Ash grinned, ‘that was their ill-conceived attempt to stifle the further spread of communism. They’ve never liked popular uprisings. They
made
Hitler, they paved the way for him . . . so long as he did what he was told, he was unassailable. But then, of course, he went
off script
, and the rest, as they say, is history.’

‘The war . . .?’

‘Yes, of course, it was orchestrated by them.’

Mike tried to gurgle something.

‘Did you know the American Civil War was a power struggle amongst members of the lower order? That war was just a squabble between two groups of business men. What about your War of Independence? That was
them
struggling to keep a hold of the colonies, via England. Of course, they lost that war. But then, instead, down the road they
bought
the country, through investment.’

Ash laughed gently. ‘Your history Mike, American history . . . don’t you see? It was written by a cartel of European families. The wars, the hundreds of thousands of dead young American boys, the poverty and hardship, the great depression, two world wars . . . ultimately nothing more than a boardroom struggle amongst the ruling elite; the growing pains, my friend, of their influence.’

Mike struggled to talk. A small trickle of black-as-oil blood trickled from the side of his mouth and ran down into his beard.

‘Why . . . this?’

‘What’s happening now?’ Ash cut in. The dying man nodded, but it was nothing but the weakest twitch of his head. Ash looked down at the blade in his hand, it needed cleaning. He wiped it along the length of Mike’s shirt-sleeve.

‘They decided it, Mike, it was something that needed to be done; a correction, an adjustment, a little bit of house cleaning. ’

Ash paused.

‘It’s running out, you know?’ he said. ‘There’s a lot less of it than people think . . . oil. Yes, a lot less than the publicly stated reserves. They decided there were simply too many of us all expecting our oil-rich luxuries, all expecting our big cars, big homes, and an endless supply of power and oil to feed them. It wasn’t going to last for much longer. They knew that fact long before anyone else. And they knew that there were going to be wars, horrific wars, most probably with a few nukes being thrown around . . . for the last of that oil. And you don’t want that - nukes being thrown around. They knew economic necessity, oil-hunger, would drive us to destroy ourselves. And I suppose you can see it from their point of view, after struggling so hard for . . . well, one could say, since the Middle Ages, they didn’t want to see it all thrown away. You can see how annoying that might be, can’t you?’

He slid his blade back into his ankle sheath.

‘So they made the decision at a gathering back in 1999. A decision to lance the boil, if you’ll excuse such a crude euphemism. They chose to cull mankind, before we went too far down that road. You see Mike, these people I work for, they’re like . . . I don’t know . . . they’re like caretakers, quietly steering things, balancing things, keeping those big old cogs turning. They did this for the sake of us all . . . because it needed to be done.’

He studied the face of the dying American. There still seemed to be life in those glazed eyes, Mike was still hearing this, he was sure.

‘So, the decision was made back in ’99, right at the end of that year,’ Ash laughed gently, ‘as the sheep all prepared to celebrate an exciting new century and got all worked up about that millennium bug, and had their big, big parties, and nursed sore heads the morning after. It was decided that things needed to be put in place for this; to get everything ready to turn the taps off.’

Ash nudged Mike. ‘You see, that’s the great thing about oil, it really
is
our oxygen, our life’s blood . . . it’s the
perfect controlling mechanism
. If you turn the tap up, the world gets really busy; you turn it down enough, things grind to a halt. It’s like the throttle on a motorbike - a perfect device.’

The American let out a bubbling gasp of air, a noise Ash recognised as a man’s final gasp.

‘It’s taken them some time to organise this, a very big project you see. And you know, everything since ’99 . . .’ he looked down at Mike. His pupils had completely dilated now and gazed sightlessly up at the ceiling. He wasn’t hearing him any more.

‘Everything, I mean,
everything
- all starting with two passenger jets crashing into New York -
everything
since then, my friend, has been about one thing; getting the world ready for this . . . the culling.’

The American was dead.

‘Pity,’ said Ash, and listened for a moment to the breeze, whistling along the landing and down the stairs. He’d wanted this dying man to hear it all, to understand why it had to happen, perhaps even to agree with him that it was a measure that had to be taken, for mankind’s benefit. But most probably a good portion of what he’d said had made no sense in the man’s dying mind.

‘Pity.’

He closed the American’s eyes and got to his feet, grunting with pain. Sutherland’s wife had hit him in the collarbone, and even though he’d bound the wound up efficiently, he knew all was not well - he was bleeding internally.

He felt a little light-headed.

Not good
.

There were still some loose ends to tidy up.

Sunday

CHAPTER 89

12.01 a.m. GMT
Shepherd’s Bush, London

Andy awoke. Something had disturbed him; a noise, one of the kids stirring? His eyes opened and he let them adjust to the dark whilst he sat still, listening.

Just the breeze outside. Mike and his colleagues were silent; there was no quiet, wary murmuring as there had been earlier.

That’s worrying
.

He eased himself out of the tangle of limbs on the sofa and walked quietly across to the door that opened on to the hallway. He looked to his left and saw the weak light of the moon casting flickering half-shadows of branches and leaves through the open front door on to the smooth parquet floor.

Where’s Mike?

He turned to the right. The hallway led to the rear of the house and Jill’s sun lounge. He wondered if they were gathered back there. If they were he’d be bloody worried - leaving the front door unguarded like that?

A dozen light, soundless steps down the hall and he stood in the doorway. His eyes, now more accustomed to the dark, couldn’t pick out any shape that might be someone standing guard.

‘Hello?’ he whispered. ‘Anyone awake?’

There was no reply and, with a shudder of realisation, he knew something must have happened. His hand reached for the gun tucked into his trousers. He felt some small comfort sensing the rough carbon grip of the handle.

Then he sensed the draught of movement behind him.

He whipped round, the gun raised and ready to fire.

‘Shit Dad! It’s me!’ Leona whimpered.

He exhaled. ‘Christ, Lee, I nearly blew a hole in your head.’

She smiled and shrugged. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘What are you doing up, anyway?’

‘I can’t find Mike and his guys.’

Her mouth dropped and her eyes widened. ‘Oh God!’ she cried a little too loudly.

He raised a finger to his mouth to hush her.

There can’t have been a fight. Surely any shots fired would have awoken us all? They’re out in the front garden, checking something out, maybe?

He took a step into the hall again and his foot slipped in something. He looked down and noticed a dark mat on the floor.

‘You bring a torch?’ he whispered.

Leona nodded.

‘Shine it on the floor.’

She switched it on, and instantly recoiled at the bright red pool at their feet.

‘Oh shit!’ she hissed.

Andy grabbed the torch from her and panned it around the sun lounge. The beam picked out one of Mike’s men curled in a foetal position behind the wicker armchair beside them.

They’re here!

‘Get behind me!’ he whispered into her ear. He snapped off the torch, turned and headed up the hallway again, towards the lounge; slow, cautious steps, his gun arm extended, sweeping with quick jerks from one side to the other.

Andy knew there was only one course of action to take. Grab Jenny and Jacob, get out of the house, and run, and run . . . and keep running. He swung his aim up the stairs, a dark abyss that could be hiding anything.

They reached the open doorway to the lounge. He could hear Jacob stirring, no longer the even rasp of rest, but short tremulous gasps.

‘Jenny we have to leave now,’ he said, quietly snapping on the torch again.

The halo of light fell on Jacob, standing. A dark forearm was wrapped across his narrow shoulders, and above the tuft of blond hair he saw the dark face of a man, smiling mischievously. The tip of a long, thin-bladed knife was pressed into his son’s pale neck, creating a dimple that threatened to burst blood if another gram of pressure was applied to it.

Jenny was on her knees, on the floor, rocking, too frightened to cry, too frightened even to breathe.

‘Lose the gun, Andy Sutherland,’ the man said calmly.

Andy kept the weapon trained on him.

You drop the gun and that’s it for bargaining.

‘I won’t do that, mate,’ Andy said.

Jenny turned to look at him. ‘What? Andy! For fuck’s sake! Drop the gun!’

He hushed her with a wave of his hand. ‘I can’t do that Jenny. If I do that, we die.’

The man smiled. ‘Your husband’s being quite sensible under the circumstances, Mrs Sutherland.’

He looked up at Andy. ‘We can talk for a bit anyway. I think I’d like that. You can call me Ash, by the way.’

He’s in no hurry. That means . . .

‘The others?’ Andy nodded towards the front door. ‘They’re out there somewhere . . . dead?’

Ash nodded. ‘Just a little too keen to try and take me alive.’

‘So, this is all about what my daughter thought she saw, right?’

‘What we
know
she saw. You see, this lovely young lady,’ he said gesturing with his knife-hand, a flick of the wrist that took the blade away from Jacob’s throat for a moment, ‘knows enough to be very dangerous. When things start sorting themselves out again—’

‘You are mightily fucking mistaken,’ Andy sneered, ‘if you think things are going to sort themselves out.’

Ash cocked an eyebrow.

‘What? You thought it would?’ he asked, genuinely incredulous.

‘They will ensure the oil flows again, when the time’s right.’

Andy shook his head and sighed. ‘It doesn’t work that way. I thought I made that patently bloody clear in my report. It’s a zero sum thing. You don’t just bounce back from something like this. I don’t know what fucking morons you work for, but they’ve seriously screwed things up.’

The blade returned to Jacob’s neck. ‘Whatever. You’re the
big expert.
’

Andy nodded. ‘Yeah . . . yeah, you got that right. I’ve spent enough time thinking about it over the years.’

‘Nonetheless, I have my objective,’ his blade-hand flicked away again from Jacob’s neck, the tip pointing towards Leona, ‘ . . . her.’

Leona sobbed. ‘Oh, please . . .’

Ash shrugged, pouting a lip with sympathy. ‘I’m afraid so, my dear. However we resolve this situation, I can’t let you walk away. I can, however, make it quick and painless.’

‘Oh Christ! Oh God! Andy, don’t let him. DON’T LET HIM!’ Jenny cried.

‘I really don’t see how you can stop me,’ said Ash.

Andy noticed a blood-soaked bandage of material wrapped tightly around his shoulder.

Is he losing blood slowly? Can I stall him until he drops?

‘Look, it’s over. It’s out of control. Whoever you’re working for isn’t going to be able to make things right again. They’re screwed, we’re screwed, even you . . . you’re screwed too. It really doesn’t matter what my daughter saw,’ said Andy, ‘not any more. Because once things shut down at the scale that they have done, there’s no going back.’

‘I think you’re talking shit.’

‘Am I? How long will it take for the Saudi refineries to come on tap? How long will it take to get the Baku refineries, the Paraguaná refinery? Months is my best guess. And that’s plenty of time for things to get worse; for the likes of China and Russia to see an opportunity, for every simmering border dispute to flare up, for the US economy to drop into free fall. Don’t forget, that’s an economy that’s remained afloat for the last thirty years on the value of trillions of petro-dollars. That’s been wiped out.’

‘And so I should just let your little girl walk away?’

Oh fuck, am I convincing him?

‘You know, maybe the world needed something like this,’ said Andy.

Ash eyed him warily.

‘We’re a planet that was only ever capable of supporting what? Two? Three billion? We were well on our way towards eight billion before this happened,’ Andy continued. ‘I don’t know who’s behind this, and I don’t know why they’ve done this. But . . . maybe something like this needed to happen?’

Ash nodded. ‘Of course it did,’ he said, his voice sounded thick and lazy.

Make it sound good Andy.

‘So, listen. Maybe I agree with the people you work for? Hmm? Okay it’s not nice. But at least this has been a global sacrifice; everyone has paid the price, right? Not just . . . say, the Third World.’

Ash nodded again.

‘I can see now, this needed to happen. Even if we knew, we’re not about to go and tell the world
who
made it happen,’ he turned to Leona, ‘are we honey?’

Leona shook her head vigorously, ‘No, n-no.’

‘Please . . . she doesn’t
need
to die.’

Ash swayed slightly. ‘Almost convincing. But I have my contract.’

‘Contract?’ Andy shook his head. ‘You do realise the money you’re being paid, if it isn’t already worthless, this time next week it will be.’

Ash frowned, irritated by that. ‘It’s not about fucking money,’ he snapped.

Andy noticed he was beginning to slur his words.

‘Well, what is it about, for Christ’s sake? Why does my girl have to die?’

Ash sighed, his grip loosened and the point of his knife dropped away again from the scored skin on Jacob’s neck. He pursed his lips with thought. ‘You see, it’s about professional pride, I guess. It’s about finishing the job.’

Oh Christ. This isn’t about money, or conviction . . .

‘There’s a reason why I know their identities . . . The Twelve, the most powerful men in the world. It’s because I’m reliable. It’s because I
always
finish the job, I always come through. I’m the best freelancer. The best there is. That means something -’

This is about pride. I won’t be able to reason with him . . .

‘- to me. It’s what I am. I’ve become the best there is. I’ve earned that. So you see, I really don’t give a shit about her life. I’ve killed much younger, much more innocent victims, believe me. It’s water off a duck’s back.’

Ash swayed enough that he staggered slightly.

‘I’m not that interested in hearing any more impassioned pleas for mercy, that’s not going to help you one little bit. Oh fuck it . . . you know what?’

Ash was expecting him to answer.

‘What?’

‘I’m now getting a little bored with this.’

Shit, is he weakening? Is this the wound talking?

‘So, here’s how it goes. Drop your gun, and you can have Tiny Tim back unharmed, and in return, I’ll have your daughter, please.’

‘Oh God, no, don’t . . . !’ cried Jenny.

‘Shut up!’ Ash spat, his calm, softly spoken voice, raised for the first time. ‘The alternative is - I’ll finish him in a blink, and be upon you, Sutherland, gutting you before you know it. And then, of course, I’ll be able to take all the time in the world with your wife and your daughter. So how’s that sound to you?’

Ash swayed again, ever so slightly. ‘Decision time. I’ll give you, let me see . . . yeah, let’s say, five seconds. Five . . .’

Leona grabbed hold of Andy, she began screaming. ‘Dad! Please! Don’t let him kill me!’

‘Four . . .’

Jacob’s eyes were swollen with fear.

‘Three . . .’

Jenny sobbed uncontrollably on the floor, and Leona collapsed to her knees.

‘Two . . .’

Andy realised he’d now run out of options.