Revolution (22 page)

The president closed his eyes for a moment before speaking.

‘The people of Mordania aren’t to blame for this war, and even the rebels under General Rameron are only Mordanians themselves. The impetus for confict has come from one man, Rameron himself. That is where our war should be.’

The president stood from his chair, resting his hands on the table and lowering his head in thought for a long few seconds. When he finally looked up again, he had made up his mind.

‘Admiral Fry?’

‘Yes sir, Mister President?’

‘Prepare your marines for a shock assault, to deploy once I have spoken to congress and obtained authority for military action. I want a plan for air–superiority to be secured around a one–hundred nautical mile perimeter of Thessalia, with all access and supply routes north of that perimeter destroyed, ready to go on my word.’

‘Yes sir!’

Admiral Fry saluted crisply and the screen went blank. The president turned to General Solomon.

‘General, organise what you can from our troops in Afghanistan. Pull a few strings if you have to, but I need a reserve force ready to back up Admiral Fry’s marines en route to Thessalia within twenty–four hours.’

Another bolt of live current shot up through the general’s nether regions and he jerked upright out of his chair and saluted.

‘They’ll be there, Mister President sir!’

The screen went blank, and the Chairman of the Select Committee spoke.

‘I’ll talk to the committee and ensure cross–party support, Mister President.’

His screen too went blank, and President Baker leaned back in his chair and ran his hands down his face.

‘This isn’t just about our role in world affairs,’ Hobbs said. ’You’re playing directly into the hands of the media, of Seth Cain. This is what they wanted. They’re controlling
us
!’

‘You’d better organise a press announcement,’ the president said, shaking his head. ‘They’re gonna love this about as much as the public are going to hate it.’

***

The refugee camp was a frightening place.

He had never seen so many people in one place before, camped out in the freezing snow and mud in endless rows of tents that seemed to stretch forever. He too was cold, wrapped up against the bitter wind and the snow that tumbled thickly from the pale clouds above to drift in dense whorls on the wind.

He hobbled on through the slush, looking for a familiar face amongst the hordes of miserable strangers, their dark eyes framed with hoods and scarves and watching him as he passed. His legs were weary with fatigue and his body ached from the cold but he travelled on determinedly, for his mission was an urgent one.

Pausing, he retrieved from his coat pocket a scrap of paper with a hastily scribbled drawing upon it and a single word beneath the sketch. He looked at the large tents dominating the camp, at the flags fluttering in the wind above them, and found the one he sought.

The tent was cavernous as he walked inside, past huge metal vats boiling soups and cooking grain, clouds of steam enveloping the queues waiting to eat. He passed them by, heading toward the plastic sheets dangling beneath a large red–cross sign at the rear of the tent, and pushed through them to stand in the hospital.

Two queues of people, young and old, were being administered to by young volunteer nurses, who variously gave them injections or patched wounds and dabbed at cuts. He advanced, moving past the queues, until his eyes fixed upon someone he knew.

Weakly he moved forward to where the young girl, dressed in a heavy coat to keep out the cold, was stacking boxes and ticking them off a roster at the rear of the hospital. He was almost next to her before she noticed him.

‘Bonjour monsieur, ca va?’ she asked, looking down at his frail form.

The old man smiled up at her from beneath his hood.

‘Mowpheen,’ he pronounced awkwardly.

‘Morphine?’ Sophie Vernoux repeated with a slight smile.

‘Ya, ya,’ the old man grinned in delight. ‘Mawfeen!’

Sophie chuckled and pointed to the queues.

‘You need to queue, over there.’

The old man looked at the queue, still smiling, and then back at Sophie, offering her a shake of his head.

‘Niet, mawfeen,’ he said and pointed toward the exit.

‘We can’t just hand out morphine,’ Sophie replied, feeling sorry for the old man. ‘You need to bring the patient here.’

The old man’s face creased with confusion as he tried to understand what Sophie was trying to tell him.

‘Mawfeen?’ he repeated.

Sophie gave up and called out across the hospital tent.

‘Do we have a translator here?’

Sophie brushed past the old man as she tried to hear the various calls and shouts that came in reply to her question. The old man let her pass and looked idly around the boxes and crates and sacks stacked around the tent, obviously the place where goods were brought in. He wondered briefly whether he might find the mysterious mawfeen amongst the boxes, and was moving to have a look when he saw a picture tacked to one of the wooden posts supporting the framework of the tent.

A young girl, a black and white photograph, the face smiling out at him. His breath caught in his throat as he stared mesmerised at the picture.

‘What are you doing?!’

The old man whirled to see the young girl standing behind him with her hands on her hips, watching him with a stern expression. Quickly, the man pointed at the picture.

‘Mawfeen,’ he said, jabbing at the picture. ‘Mawfeen.’

Sophie looked at the picture for a moment and was about to berate the old man when she suddenly caught on. Her eyes widened as she looked again at the old man. On an impulse she pointed at him, then at her own eyes, and then at the picture.

‘You have seen her?’ she said slowly.

The man nodded eagerly, mirroring her gestures and pointing at the picture.

‘Mawfeen!’

The old man lifted his hood to reveal a large medical patch over his left temple, and Sophie suddenly realised that he was the farmer she had treated, the old man that Severov had beaten days before.

The old man produced a piece of paper with a crude picture of the MSF logo, and beneath it a single word. Morphine. Sophie looked at it, and then the old man pointed at Amy O’Hara’s picture again.

‘Oh merde,’ Sophie said as she whirled and dashed away.

*

‘You’re absolutely sure?’

Megan looked uncertainly at the old man, who returned her gaze with a broad toothy grin and nodded repeatedly despite not having the slightest clue as to what she was saying.

‘His name is Sergei and he’s seen her,’ Sophie insisted, ‘and I think that he came here on behalf of someone else who needs morphine, perhaps for your missing girl, Amy. I was wrong Megan. She’s not dead, she’s still out there.’

Megan frowned, folding her arms over her chest.

‘He might just want it for himself, to cure the headaches he’s probably still getting,’ Megan suggested. The old man grinned, nodded and drooled. ‘We need a translator,’ Megan added.

‘I’ve looked everywhere, but the damned news crews have grabbed them all. They can pay money that we can’t afford.’

‘Bloody journalists,’ Megan smiled at Sophie.

The grinding, clattering sound of an engine outside caused Megan to get up and move out of the tent and into the softly falling snow.

Callum sat at the wheel of a battered white jeep with an engine that sounded as though it were on the verge of seizing. Megan walked up to the vehicle as the Scotsman jumped out.

‘It doesn’t look like much,’ Callum said cheerily, ‘and that’s because it isn’t.’

‘The engine sounds like it’s shot,’ Megan frowned.

‘Lack of decent oil,’ Callum replied. ‘I’ve already changed that and managed to scrounge a new filter off the REME guys in the Thessalia depot. She’ll sound better once she’s had a chance to warm up a bit.’

Megan didn’t see much point in debating with him, and instead opened the creaking rear door and tossed her rucksack inside.

‘Do we have an escort?’ Callum asked seriously.

‘Leave that to me,’ Megan said and hurried away.

*

‘I must say that I strongly disapprove of what you’re intending, Megan.’

Sir Wilkins was clearly up to his neck, his staff running back and forth between offices and Wilkins himself striding rapidly with thick wads of official–looking papers in his hands.

‘This guy says that he’s seen Amy O’Hara.’

‘That doesn’t mean that she’s alive!’ Sir Wilkins retorted. ‘It’s probably a ruse that this old man’s using to get his hands on morphine for his damned head. You said it yourself, he can barely string a sentence together!’

‘It’s all I’ve got left,’ Megan insisted, walking alongside him. ‘This is probably the last chance we’ll ever get to reach Talyn. Rameron’s forces will be moving rapidly south as soon as the populace flees for the city. We can dodge the bulk of his army if they pass us before we reach Talyn and locate Amy, or find out where she might have gone.’

Sir Wilkins stopped and waved his papers at Megan.

‘And if they identify you? Or if the Americans decide to launch pre–emptive attacks against rebel strongholds, which they will no doubt do if Congress decides to respond with military strikes? If you reach Talyn you may end up trapped there, and if America does attack then Talyn will end up a lot flatter than it is right now.’

‘That’s
my
problem,’ Megan snapped. ‘I need just a few men and a translator, that’s all. Forty–eight hours maximum.’

Sir Wilkins snorted in disbelief and continued on his way.

‘A few men? Of course, but we’re a bit short on bloody champagne for when you get back.’

‘Four men,’ Megan repeated. ‘No more.’

‘I can’t just appropriate resources to what my superiors will consider to be a wild goose–chase Megan! I need justification, the promise of a result!’

Sir Wilkins paused in the corridor, driving the ends of his fingers into his closed eyes. Megan saw him wavering, and pushed her advantage.

‘I’ve come this far, Tom. If she’s not in Talyn I’ll give it up, but if she is we’ll have saved her life. Her life, Tom.’

‘Fine!’ Wilkins said abruptly, and then laughed. ‘You know how to push a man, Megan. I’ll have them meet you on the edge of the refugee camps.’

Megan was already walking away from the attache. ‘I owe you,’ she said over her shoulder.

Sir Wilkins watched Megan vanish around a corner at a near run, then shook his head and chuckled to himself as he continued on his way.

*

Megan arrived back at the refugee camp within a few minutes of speaking to Sir Wilkins.

‘The escort should be here shortly,’ she reported to Callum.

‘How the hell do you pull things like this off?’ the Scotsman asked, mystified.

Sophie Vernoux appeared genie–like from nearby, watching Megan and Callum as they loaded the jeep with water and rations, plus a few blankets and boxes of survival equipment.

‘Talyn is a dangerous place Megan,’ she said gloomily. ‘You know that.’

Megan hefted a five–gallon tank of water onto the back seat of the jeep. She smiled and gestured at Sergei, who had hobbled outside to watch them.

‘We’ve got our guide and escort now. He’ll protect us. Right now I’m more worried about you. You need to rest.’

Sophie’s features were lined with fatigue and worry.

‘I have too much to do,’ she replied.

‘You can't save everybody,’ Megan said.

‘Any more than you can?’

There was a moment of awkward silence, Megan momentarily lost for words. She opened her mouth to speak when the sound of an approaching truck drowned her out. They both turned to see a military truck pull up, with half a dozen policemen cradling AK–47 rifles sitting in the rear.

Megan moved forward as the cab door opened, then stopped as Alexei Severov stepped down from the cab, a cigarette gripped between his teeth and his eyes glowing with malevolent pleasure.

‘We’re already cleared to leave,’ Callum snapped from nearby. ‘If you’ve got a problem with that, then take it up with Sir Wilkins at government house.’

Severov looked at Callum, still smiling, and then advanced to stand before Megan, his voice clear for all to hear.

‘I know,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’m your escort and you need a translator. Bolav is with me.’

Megan stared at Severov for several seconds. ‘You?’

‘Me,’ Severov confirmed. ‘Considering the nature of where you are going, Sir Wilkins felt that you needed truly professional assistance.’

‘Then why did he send you?’ Megan asked.

The carefully cultivated smile on Severov’s face slipped. At that moment he caught sight of Sergei, who watched Severov with a fearful gaze. Megan shifted position to block Severov’s view.

‘Get back in your truck and piss off. I’ll talk to Sir Wilkins and get somebody else.’

‘There is nobody else,’ Severov hissed. ‘All of my units are preparing for the inevitable rebel attack. These men are hand–picked, the best of my troops. They will not fail to ensure your safety. Or perhaps your mission is not as important as you claimed it was, in which case none of us will be going anywhere.’ Severov grinned around his cigarette. ‘How do you say? Your call?’

Megan shook his head, then turned and called out to Callum.

‘Let’s go.’

Megan cast a last glance at Sophie and saw the deep concern etched into her features. A quick wave at old Sergei to follow and she leapt into the rear of the truck with a spritely gait, eager to escape the probing glare of the chief of police.

***

‘Good evening, I’m Charlotte Dennis. Tonight’s main headlines; chaos in Mordania as the populace flees for the capital city Thessalia amidst fears that the United States is mobilising its forces for an aerial bombardment of rebel forces north of the city. In America, President Baker has put the case to congress for military intervention in the crisis in a spectacular reversal of policy.’

Harrison Forbes stood in the control room of GNN UK Ltd, watching as the anchor read the day’s main stories off the auto–cue. Martin Sigby’s main report was due as the lead story but far from being excited, Harrison felt a growing sense of unease about the situation. Sigby’s most recent reports had lacked the sheer impact of his earlier work and Harrison suspected he knew why. Megan Mitchell had ceased to make contact with GNN, which meant that she had either succeeded in her goal of finding the missing woman, or she had vanished into the interior of the country in order to locate her.