Strangled Silence (30 page)

'Aawwgh!' he yelled suddenly, making Ivor
jump. Roswell bounded out of her master's lap and
turned to give him a hostile glare. 'That's where I've
heard of it before! The bloody woman . . .' He
stood up and strode over to a shelf full of disks.
Pulling several out, he examined the indexes, before
choosing one and taking it from its case. Slotting it
into a disk drive, he closed the drawer and brought
some folders up on-screen. Ivor wheeled his chair
in behind him to get a closer look. Chi had opened
up a series of scans of magazine articles. Most of
them were about experimental technology: things
like unmanned reconnaissance planes, microwave
weapons, remote-control machine-gun posts and
lots on state-of-the-art surveillance devices.

'This is the problem with looking for conspiracies,'
Chi said as he searched. 'You gather so
much information that you can eventually find
links from anything to anything. It's tough to keep
any kind of perspective.'

He sifted through all of this until he found the
article he was looking for:

'There was an American woman named . . let's
see . . . yeah, Ellen Rosenstock, who pioneered this
technique called strobe interruption, but she
wanted to use it in schools. Claimed you could
effectively implant facts into somebody's memory.
She has incredible memory powers herself – some
say she's borderline autistic – but she's very, very
clever. Has almost perfect recall; can tell you what
the weather was like on the twelfth of April ten
years ago, or memorize a whole phone book.
Rosenstock's devoted her life to studying how her
own brain works and she claimed she could use this
strobe interruption in the form of light pulses to
bypass the conscious mind and write memories
into the human brain the same way you can record
stuff on a computer's hard drive. She designed a
computer program to put it into practice and
started using it on some of her university students
but the tests went wrong. Two of the kids had
epileptic fits and one suffered retinal burns . . .'

There was a photo of the woman with the
article. Chi opened up the picture he had taken off
Nexus's back-up disks, the one with the two men
and one woman leaving the office building. The
people Nexus called the Triumvirate. It was
the same woman in both pictures.

'OK, so that's her,' Chi breathed. 'So who are
these two guys? The brainwashing process connects
her to the fake war, and she's involved with them
somehow. But Nexus didn't know about the war
thing – at least as far as I know – so why was he so
interested in them? What were they up to?'

'One mystery at a time, man,' Ivor told him.
'First let's milk Shang for all he's worth. We can
worry about these guys some other time.'

'These,' Chi muttered, pointing at the screen,
'these are the kinds of characters I worry about
all
the time.'

Amina spent the next couple of days after talking
to Donghu finding out as much as she could
about UFO sightings. She needed to talk to Ivor. It
was easy to tell herself that it was so she could tell
him about Donghu, but really she just needed to
see him to . . . to see him. And besides, they had a
lot to discuss.

She still did not buy Chi's alien abduction
theory, but it wasn't unthinkable that the military
were testing some new kind of weapon out in those
isolated mountains. Something that could knock
you out from a distance without leaving a mark.

Deciding to be late into work that morning,
she took the train to Ivor's instead. The
Underground station was busy when she disembarked
from the train, and she pushed her way
through the sleepy herd that shuffled around her to
board the carriage. There were still enough people
on the platform to prevent Ivor from spotting her
as he got on at the next door up. Amina waved and
called out to him but he didn't hear. He was carrying
two small suitcases and with a jolt in her heart,
she wondered where he was going. Was he leaving?
Two cases meant he would be gone for some time.

She slipped back on board the train just as the
tinny siren announced the doors were closing.
Resisting the urge to make her way up to him, she
decided instead to observe the people around him
and see if she could spot anyone watching
him. Maybe it was easier to catch the watchers out
when their attention wasn't directed towards you.

Even at this time of the morning, the carriage
was hot, stuffy and smelled of drowsy commuters.
It was difficult to move without brushing up against
somebody, but at least the full carriage meant that
she could stay out of Ivor's line of sight. It was
strange, following somebody without their knowing.
Amina felt closer to him and, at the same time,
slightly predatory. It struck her that even here, in
this crowded train, she was invading his privacy
somehow by watching him like this. Despite
the fact that she meant him no harm – quite the
opposite – she doubted that he'd be happy when he
found out. She was stalking him like a crazed fan,
studying his face, his clothes, his fidgeting hands,
having feelings about him while he sat unawares
only a few metres away. She wondered if those who
carried out surveillance for a living formed a kind
of relationship with their subjects. It must be hard
not to – a one-sided relationship where the watcher
enjoyed a detached kind of power. The subject's life
gave you purpose; you could know everything
about them while they knew nothing about you.
You were untouchable. Their problems were not
yours unless you chose to make them yours.

Her phone rang. It was one of her friends. She
let it ring out. She'd been doing that a lot lately.
Amina gazed at Ivor's scarred face, framed by his
untidy brown hair. He needed a haircut and he
hadn't shaved. The pressing of his hand against his
side told her that he was in pain from something.
She loved his sad expression and even with his face
set in that mask people wear on the train, she could
see that calm resolve in his eyes. He was a man who
would see things through.

The urge to touch him came over her – to get
closer and reach out and brush her fingers across his
back or his arm without him knowing. This must
be how stalkers felt, she supposed. To be close
enough to share someone's life, but never taking the
risk of getting intimate, of being rejected. Amina
could see the attraction in it.

In a way, this was what journalism was like: to
watch with detachment – to be a witness and never
get involved. There was something creepy about it,
when she thought about it like that.

She could make nothing of the people sitting
or standing around Ivor. If anyone was observing
him, she couldn't spot them. But then, they were
professionals after all.

Ivor got off at Liverpool Street and she
followed at a safe distance. It was hard to keep track
of him in the throng of commuters, some hurrying
to make connections as they all squeezed onto the
escalators, a few pushing past on the left side in
polite haste. Ivor struggled with his suitcases. They
were heavy and bulky and his fellow travellers were
intolerant of luggage at this time of the morning
when they had jobs to get to.

The Scalps were here somewhere, she was sure
of it. They could be beside her, behind her. They
could be anywhere. Something was going on here
and they would be assessing it, judging the threat. If
Ivor was acting in any way to compromise them . . .

That's it, she thought. He's making a break for
it because he's got something on them he can use.
Wouldn't he have told me? No, he wanted me safe.
He wanted me out of it. If he's leaving now he's
scared. Suddenly everyone she looked at seemed to
be looking at Ivor. She became convinced he was
surrounded by hostile eyes. They reached the main
concourse, swiping their cards through the ticket
barriers and emerging into the open space
dominated by the information board hanging from
the centre of the ceiling. On the right were the
lines of platforms for the mainline trains, on
the left, in front and behind, the ticket offices,
shops, cafés and ways out. Ivor looked around, but
Amina stepped behind a pillar in time to stay out
of sight. Then he made his way over to the line of
boards in front of the ticket offices, the ones holding
the timetables. There was a bench next to them.
Sitting on the seat with his chin on his chest was a
man wearing a bulky Barbour jacket over an
expensive, but rumpled, suit. There was a bottle of
whiskey tucked into the crook of his arm. The
bottle was half empty.

Ivor sat down on the bench facing the other
way, sliding the two suitcases in under the seat
between them. Gaping at this move, she had to
suppress a smile. Ivor was having a clandestine
rendezvous, complete with secret trade-off! She
wondered what business he could be conducting
with a drunk first thing in the morning. Or maybe
the other guy's alcoholism was part of the theatre.
If that was the case, the whole thing was priceless.
Amina was moving in for a closer look when her
arm was grabbed and she was dragged back behind
the pillar.

Torn between outrage and fear, she spun to
face a tall young man with dark dreadlocks and a
beard, wearing a multi-coloured woollen hat.

'What are you doing here?' he demanded in a
hushed voice.

'Who the hell are . . . ?' Her voice trailed off as
she looked closer. 'Chi? Is that you?' She almost
laughed at the absurd picture before her. 'Are you in
disguise?'

'I'm not supposed to be here,' Chi muttered,
looking a little disgruntled that she'd seen through
his façade so easily. 'And neither are you. That's
Shang over there. Ivor's about to get all our
questions answered. Damn it! You're not supposed
to be involved in this any more!'

'Blow it out your ass!' she snapped at him, loud
enough to make people look round. 'I'm in this
thing as much as you are. Have you two been going
behind my back? Where do you get off—'

Chi cut her off by putting a finger to his lips
while his other hand went to his ear. He was
obviously listening to something. She turned to
look over at the two figures on the bench as the
colour drained from his face.

'Oh Christ,' he whispered.

Ivor thought Shang was just pretending to ignore
him when he sat down. There was no mistaking the
surgeon's face even with his head hanging down
like that.

'I've got your money,' he said, not looking at
the other man, but speaking in a normal tone to be
heard over the noise in the station. 'Do we need to
go somewhere so you can check it?'

There was no response. Ivor knew Chi would
be listening on the mic he had secreted under Ivor's
collar. A tiny flesh-coloured earpiece hidden in
Ivor's left ear would let Chi talk to him if he spotted
anything suspicious.

'Don't mess me about,' Ivor hissed at the
surgeon. 'Are you drunk? Are you listening to
me—'

He turned to glare at the other man, but from
this angle he saw just the back and side of Shang's
head. The collar of the jacket was up, but it was
still possible to see the thin red line of fresh blood
leading up the back of his neck to the small hole
just inside the hairline. Ivor felt suddenly numb,
the skin tightening on the back of his own neck
as he stared at the surgeon. The hole was too small
to be a bullet-wound – more likely a stiletto, or one
of those ice picks you saw in the US. The ghost of
Ivor's missing eye began to ache.

He checked Shang's neck for a pulse, knowing
he wouldn't find one. He suspected there would be
no alcohol in the surgeon's blood either. The
whiskey bottle was just to keep people away from
the corpse until Ivor got here. He was trembling
now, though he would have sworn he was still
devoid of emotion. His missing eye burned in its
socket. They had killed Shang in a crowded train
station – stabbed him where the spine met the
skull, tucked a bottle under his arm and left him
slumped on this bench as if he'd simply fallen
asleep. How did they do that? How could nobody
have seen it happen? It didn't matter. What
mattered was why. They were sending a message.
Crowds didn't make any difference. Public places
didn't make any difference. The Scalps could get to
you anywhere.

'No, no, no. No, no, no!' a voice sobbed in
despair. It was his voice. 'Not now. No! You're not
going to do this to me now!'

Ivor jammed his hands into Shang's pockets,
frantically searching for the proof the surgeon had
claimed to be carrying. There was nothing in the
jacket pockets. He pulled open the buttons and
began rifling through the man's suit. People passed,
glancing down at him in disgust. But they did not
stop. They should have tried to stop him, or at least
said
something to him. But they just kept walking.
Others paused long enough to look around and see
if anyone else was going to take action, before continuing
on their way, eyes carefully averted as if Ivor
was some homeless guy begging for change . . . or
a nutter who might be carrying a machete or
worse. For once he was grateful for all these obtuse,
blinkered people living in their own detached little
worlds.

'Shang's dead,' he told Chi. 'Everything's gone
pear-shaped. Get out of here!'

His searching became more panicked. There
was nothing in Shang's trouser pockets. Where else
could it be? Nothing else mattered now, only the
truth – the proof. Ivor snarled in frustration, barking
out a string of curses, sounding even more like
a madman.

'Goddamn it! Goddamn it, it's got to be here!'

But they wouldn't have left proof sitting in
Liverpool Street station for everyone to find. They
didn't leave proof anywhere. Ivor was going
through the suit jacket again when police officers in
body armour, armed with sub-machine guns, came
running from all directions. He didn't hear the
consternation as travel-doped commuters suddenly
found themselves in the middle of a potential
fire-fight. He barely heard the voices as they
shouted 'Police!' calling for people to get down, to
be calm. When they were roaring at him to lie
down on the ground and put his hands behind his
head, he continued to search. Nothing else
mattered now.

'Ivor!' Chi's voice burst into his ear. 'They're
going to bloody shoot you! Get on the ground,
man!'

Ivor finally woke up to what was going on
around him. There were over a dozen weapons
pointed in his direction. He sank off the bench
onto his knees, raising his hands as he did so. As
soon as he was on the floor, four officers pinned
him down roughly as his hands were cuffed
behind him. A spear-thrust of agony punched
through his side from the bullet wound and he
cried out in pain. He had to be careful about that.
A bullet wound would take some explaining if they
discovered it. A man identified himself as Detective
Sergeant Sykes and cautioned Ivor:

'I must inform you that you do not have to say
anything, but it may harm your defence if you do
not mention, when questioned, something which
you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may
be given in evidence.'

His tone implied that he expected Ivor to do
plenty of talking over the next while. Ivor ground
his teeth together, clenching his eyes shut. They
were going to do him for Shang's murder. Sykes –
the name was familiar. He was the one who had
questioned Amina and Chi after the anthrax scare at
the
Chronicle
. The one from Counter Terrorism
Command. The only way he could be here now
was if he'd been tipped off. Ivor was being set up.

'For Christ's sake!' he bellowed, tears of
frustration streaming down his face. 'This is such a
fucking cliché!'

The police cordon was tightening on the main
thoroughfare, but it would take several minutes for
them to close down all the exits and keep the
thousands of potential witnesses contained. Chi and
Amina slipped onto the escalators to the Underground
station, trying to look as if they weren't
fleeing the scene of a murder.