Revolution (2 page)

The gothic towers of Tower Bridge loomed before her as she accelerated for the last leg of her run. She could see the ranks of pedestrians and cars streaming across the bridge toward their offices, banks, warehouses and restaurants, and she smiled grimly. She was no longer one of them.

After sprinting the final hundred yards she finally slowed, regaining her breath as she turned left through a large and ornate archway with the legend ‘St Katherine’s Dock’ emblazoned around its circumference.

The Yacht Haven of the marina was filled with pearly–white vessels glistening in autumn’s morning light. Megan could see a number of shops and restaurants around the marina, opposite the Dickens Inn and the Clock–Tower. The development was one of London’s most exclusive and was dominated by a row of Penthouse suites, toward which Megan jogged.

As she moved she cast her eye across one of the largest vessels in the marina, a sleek blue–water yacht with
Icarus
written in delicate script across her stern. She had not taken her out for a few weeks now. Maybe she’d head south for Spain, when winter finally descended.

Megan checked her watch as she walked into the foyer of the apartments. She ignored the elevators and instead walked up the steps two at a time, both to warm–down from her run and to avoid the possibility of narcissistic chatter with the other residents. Emerging onto the top floor, she walked to the end of the corridor and her own apartment.

She swiped her resident’s identity card through the keypad beside her door and keyed in her pass–code.

The apartment was bright and airy, sunlight streaming in through broad windows where the Thames glistened in the distance like a sheet of beaten silver. Megan strolled into a large living room, pulling off her T–shirt and tossing it onto a leather couch.

As was her habit on every Monday, she checked her answering machine. There was rarely a need to do it more frequently as nobody really called any more. For this she only had herself to blame.
There’s nothing and nobody out there
, she reminded herself. A small winking light told her there was at least one message waiting, so she pressed a button and listened to the warbling electronic voice as she performed the
Shotokan
karate form, moving through the defensive and offensive postures as she listened.

‘You have four – new – messages.’

‘A bumper harvest,’ she murmured to herself as she punched an imaginary enemy in the face and drove her knee up into his groin.

‘First – new – message; Megan, it’s Monday morning and it’s Harrison once again. If you think I’m going to stop calling then you underestimate my tenacity. I’ve got assignments all over the world, and any one of them is yours when you’re ready.’
There was an awkward pause.
‘Hope you’re okay. Speak soon.’

Megan smiled briefly as she touched her toes.

‘Delete.’

‘Second – new – message; Miss Mitchell, it’s Sarah from Zurich Associates, just letting you know that your transactions went through as discussed. All deductions have been made for you, registered with the Inland Revenue and cleared. Thank you again for choosing Zurich Associates to handle your financial contracts. Good–day.’

‘Delete.’

‘Third – new – message; Hey Megan, it’s Tom from the office. I finally got your new number from Harrison, just wondering if you want to go for a drink and..,’

‘Delete.’

Megan took off her trainers and walked toward the bathroom.

‘Fourth – new – message; Er, hi, I hope I’ve got the right number here, for a Megan Mitchell.’

Megan stopped walking and glanced at the machine. The voice was American –Brooklyn, if she recognised correctly.

‘I’m sorry to make contact so abruptly, but I have a real problem and I don’t know of anyone else who can help. I got your number from the GNN office in Manhattan. I.., I don’t know if I wanna talk about this on the phone. I’m here in London right now.’

Megan blinked in surprise, staring at the machine as the voice went on.

‘I’ve booked a room at the Marriot and will be here until the 24th. I couldn’t get any more time off work than that. I couldn’t get an address for you, but I understand that you live near Tower Bridge. I’ll be in the Hunter’s Lodge in Rookery Street every day from noon until three. I hope you can arrange to meet me there – it’s quite literally a matter of life and death and I have nobody else to turn to.’
There was a long pause.
‘Thanks in advance for your time, Miss Mitchell.’

Megan glanced again at her watch. It was the 24th. She unpinned her pony–tail and shook out her long blonde hair before turning toward the bathroom.

‘Delete.’

***

Megan Mitchell would never have set foot in the Hunter’s Lodge were it not for the smoking–ban enforced in the United Kingdom. Before the law had come into effect it had not been possible to walk through most London pubs without night–vision goggles and breathing apparatus, the narrow corridors of the ancient inns turning their confines into a swirling miasma of tobacco fog. Now, the low ceilings were no longer stained nicotine–yellow and the pub smelt uncharacteristically clean.

Megan checked her watch as she walked inside: just after half–past twelve. She briefly eyed the liquor bottles behind the bar before ordering a coke and looking around. A few aged locals sat huddled around a fruit–machine, and a couple of Japanese students scrutinised a map at a nearby table. Megan scanned the booths further down, deeper inside the Lodge, and almost instantly caught the eyes of a man watching her from a table opposite the booths. Middle–aged, wearing a blue shirt and with a heavy leather flying jacket hanging over the back of his chair, he couldn’t have looked more American if he had tried. Megan strolled across to the table.

‘Brooklyn?’ she asked the man.

‘Right on,’ the American smiled, his apprehension vanishing as he extended his hand. ‘Frank Amonte – thanks for coming Megan, I appreciate it.’

Frank gestured to the seat opposite and Megan sat down.

‘I don’t know what I can do for you,’ Megan said cautiously. ‘In fact, I don’t know you at all.’

‘I know,’ Frank said, raising an apologetic hand, ‘and I’m real sorry for all the cloak and dagger crap. I’ll explain myself, but first of all, have you eaten?’

Megan hadn’t, so she let the American order steak sandwiches for them both. Despite not ever having met Frank Amonte before, Megan found herself liking the American, his expression open and friendly.

Megan watched Frank take a big bite from his sandwich before he spoke.

‘You’re a hell of a hard woman to find, Megan, I’ll give you that.’

‘Good,’ Megan said with a brief smile. ‘Who gave you my number?’

‘A colleague of mine in Manhattan, someone you know – Michael Burnside.’

Megan nodded slowly, picking up her sandwich.

‘I haven’t heard from Mike in a long time. How’s he doing?’

‘He’s great, just great. In fact, it was partly his high opinion of you that brought me out here.’

‘And what did bring you out here, Frank?’

‘I understand that you have a talent for finding people.’

Megan Mitchell paused with the sandwich at her lips, before setting it back on her plate. She took a sip of coke instead. ‘Is that so? And why would that bring you all the way here?’

Frank’s sighed heavily, shadows passing like clouds behind his eyes.

‘Four weeks ago, an investigative reporter from one of our offices flew from the United States to Europe. She was following leads that I know nothing about. What I do know is that she stayed in contact via strict pre–arranged calls with me, same time every night. She never missed that call until eight days ago. Nothing has been heard from her since.’

Megan nodded, pushing her sandwich to one side. ‘And?’

‘I’ve tried every avenue that I can to locate this person but nobody knows a thing. In the end I decided that the only option was to broadcast her disappearance, get it on the news so that maybe something would come up or maybe she’d get in touch somehow and let us know that she was okay.’

Megan drained her coke and reached for her jacket.

‘So publish the piece.’

‘I couldn’t,’ Frank said urgently, sensing that Megan was already losing interest. ‘They wouldn’t let me.’

‘Who wouldn’t let you?’

‘GNN, Global News Network. They’ve blocked all broadcasts from the region where the reporter disappeared.’

‘That’s unusual, but I can’t help you,’ Megan replied and stood from her chair.

Frank Amonte frowned.

‘What do you mean? Can’t help or won’t help?’

‘A bit of both, actually. I’m sorry, but right now the last thing I’m going to do is travel half–way around the world looking for lost souls.’

Megan opened her wallet and dropped a ten pound note on the table before turning away. Frank Amonte’s slightly raised voice drew glances from the pub’s customers and staff.

‘I read about you. I know what you did. You spent years searching for lost people in Colombia. You found a girl in Thailand who’d been missing for three years. You’re experienced in this kind of work.’

Megan smiled bleakly over her shoulder.

‘In case you failed to finish your research, I never found many of the people in Colombia and I was lucky to escape from Thailand with my life. I hope you have better luck.’

As Megan walked, the American’s voice followed her and rising in urgency the further away she got.

‘There’s an old retired couple who live in Oklahoma, one of those small towns surrounded by miles of nothing but wheat and barley fields. The old man’s a former veteran, Vietnam, the old lady a faithful wife. They’re good people, honest people, the kind of people we’d like to be some day. Their last wish in life is to see their daughter returned safely to them and I’m the person they came to. Right now they’re worrying their way to an early cardiac arrest. They’re willing to pay for your work, Megan. God knows they haven’t got much, but it’s yours if you’ll help.’

Megan paused, glancing without interest over her shoulder.

‘If it’s so important to you Frank, then you go after her.’

Frank reached down and with an effort wheeled himself backward from under the table. He turned his wheelchair and rolled it toward Megan, who stood momentarily stricken in the middle of the pub – Frank’s hefty jacket had hidden the wheelchair’s handles. The American rolled to a halt in front of her.

‘This is as far as I can go. I’m a desk jockey, no use in the field. I just can’t do any more than I have – if I could I wouldn’t be wasting my time having this conversation.’

Megan dropped a thin blanket of curiosity over her shame.

‘Did the old folks know Mike Burnside?’

Frank Amonte’s lips curled into a haunted, sad smile.

‘No, but they knew who you were and that you could help.’

Megan dropped the act instantly.

‘What? How would an old couple from the Mid–West know who I am?’

Frank reached down into a pocket on the side of his wheelchair and withdrew a slim folder, from which he retrieved a black and white photograph.

‘Because their daughter told them all about you, the reporter who searched for lost souls, and about how she helped you.’

A hefty slab of anxiety landed in Megan’s stomach as Frank handed her the photograph. The image was of a young girl in her late–twenties, her long, lustrous black hair framing a beautiful face, olive skin and a bright smile.

‘Amy,’ Megan whispered, ‘Amy O’Hara. She’s the missing reporter?’

‘And we figured you owe her.’

‘Where was she when she went missing?’

Frank’s features hardened.

‘The Republic of Mordania, southern Russia.’

***

Megan switched on the television when she returned to her apartment with Frank, the huge plasma screen recessed into the wall glowing into life. On her coffee table was scattered the contents of the folder that the American had passed to her, containing everything Frank had uncovered about Amy O’Hara’s work in the Republic of Mordania.

‘If there’s any clue to what happened to Amy it will be amongst these papers, but I haven’t been able to find much,’ Amonte said, sitting in his wheelchair and watching the big screen.

The 24–hour news networks all flashed up sporadic broadcasts on Mordania, enough to glean that there had been a vicious civil war raging within the mountainous country ever since a spectacular attempted military coup by a deranged Air Force General, Mikhail Rameron. Megan noted various reports of incidences of ‘ethnic–cleansing’, along with military movements by Islamist insurgents against the beleaguered government forces centred around the Mordanian capital city, Thessalia. The Russians were watching the events with “extreme concern”, rattling their sabres and threatening major troop movements in opposition to United Nations discussions over a proposed peace–keeping force.

‘There’s no clue as to what Amy was researching, and presumably she didn’t tell anyone because she felt that she might have had a scoop,’ Frank said. ‘On the other hand, she might just have felt that the Mordanian situation was under–reported and wanted to take a chance.’

‘It’s possible,’ Megan nodded, ‘Amy can be quite an impulsive girl. What’s been happening out there in Mordania?’

‘Don’t you watch the news?’ Frank asked, gesturing to the plasma–screen. ‘If I had a television that big I’d never leave my apartment.’

‘Not if I can help it,’ Megan muttered, focusing on the news clippings and story fragments on the table before her.

From the corner of her eye she saw Frank looking out of the windows of the apartment and then around the place itself, noting the tastefully expensive furniture and the general exclusivity of the abode. The American eyed a row of empty liquor bottles visible on the counter in the kitchen.

‘Amy’s folks told me that you spent literally every penny you had during a search in Mexico,’ Frank observed quietly. ‘You look like you bounced back real fast.’