Blood Prize (7 page)

I
sobel enjoyed being at work on her own. She liked her weekend’s people free.

This particular Sunday, she spent the morning sprawled on the office floor, sorting through piles of invoices and dozens of other registers and data reports.

You’ve got to be bloody joking.

She shook her head in disgust as she looked up at the large clock on the wall. Eleven thirty. Three tedious hours and not a single outcome achieved.

This is a nightmare.

How could she find any order in the chaotic mess of filing scattered about the office?

“What’s that …?”

The sound of metal clanging against metal made her flinch. She stopped filing and sat still; suspending her breathing so she could hear more clearly.

It’s just your stupid imagination.

Isobel thought she saw movement out on the factory floor. Without thinking, she crawled over and pulled herself into a kneeling position behind her desk.

Then she noticed a column of uniformed men making their way through the factory floor, towards her office.

Oh God … They’ve broken in.

She watched from behind her desk as the men spread out and checked the staff kitchen and laundry area.

They’ve nearly reached the stairwell. I’ve got no way out.

Isobel made a decision.

She took a deep breath, raised herself into a standing position and left the office to face the threat.

She stood in front of the men with legs apart and hands on hips. Despite her bravado, Isobel’s body trembled and she couldn’t stop the quiver in her speech.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Isobel cringed and took a step backwards, as a slovenly looking man stepped forward; his belly and shirttails hung out of his cheap brown suit.

“Hey, look at this yappy little poodle. Maybe I should tie her up and give her a bone.”

He grinned back at his men and reached out towards Isobel.

“Don’t touch me.”

She slapped his hand away without thinking and watched as his face flushed red with anger.

“Take her and hold her still.”

Isobel fought, but with little effect. The men seemed to enjoy their power over her.

“Stop. Let me go. I’ve called the police. They’ll be here any minute.”

The group’s leader reached around and grasped her ponytail, jerking her head back until her chin pointed towards the ceiling. He moved in close and brushed his lips against her cheek, using his free hand to stroke her face.

“We are the police, little love. We’re the SRP and we want answers.”

The men on either side of her loosened their grip and she pulled away from them.

“Take what you want and leave me alone.”

“Does that include you, sweetheart?”

She sneered at him. She felt like throwing up.

“Me? I don’t think so. Why don’t you just piss off?”

The leader scowled. He looked about to strike her.

“Just remember what happened to your father.”

He nodded and smiled at his men.

“I’m going to give you the same chance, so let’s be smart.”

Isobel’s shoulders drooped and she felt tears running down her cheeks.

“Tom Fox has shown up, but you already know that, don’t you?”

He reached over and grabbed her face between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look into his eyes.

“Your father left you information didn’t he?”

He pulled her to him and kissed her limp mouth. To break his grip, Isobel dropped towards the floor and he released her.

“Listen to me now, sweetheart. When Fox makes contact, I want the information his father left for him. He’ll know what I mean. I’ll be back here next Sunday. If you don’t show, I’ll find you … and you’ll pay in other ways. Got it?”

He pulled her from the floor by the hair and leant forward; his lips approaching hers; confident of her capitulation, but she slapped him across the right side of his face.

“You skinny little …”

He glowered with anger.

Isobel saw him move, but didn’t have time to react. His right hand made contact; the slap knocking her off her feet and onto the concrete floor.

“You’ve got until Sunday. Then I’ll be back.”

T
he G11 team split into three separate units; Tom, Noah and Petra in the first, Julius and Luther in the second, and Uta and Surat in the last. Noah made sure they travelled with different itineraries, to eliminate the chance of capture as a group.

Tom considered the logistics of transporting seven wanted activists on a journey of around eleven thousand miles, without anyone noticing.

He nodded to himself and mumbled his growing admiration for their leader.

Noah, you’re very bloody clever.

Tom’s group set out first, travelling overland on a range of country roads and lanes, towards South Wales. They utilised an old grey Land Rover for the trip; the vehicle left purposely dirty with dried faeces splattered over the fenders and wheels. Only a farmer drove such a vehicle. Noah registered the four-wheel drive in the name of Tait & Sons Pty Ltd; a fictitious farming business with a genuine address.

The deceased estate, entitled, John’s farm, a legitimate property and residence, lay on the Wells Road, in Totterdown, just south of Bristol. Noah instructed Petra to hack the UK Births, Marriages and Deaths database and swap the previous owner’s title with their own. With slightly less difficulty, she also hacked into the UK Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency and repeated the process.

After an incident free drive, they arrived at their destination early, then spent twenty-five minutes waiting in their vehicle in a side street, not far from the port of Cardiff. Ten minutes before the scheduled departure, a representative of the Alexander Line approached Noah.

“Theodore, you old goat. It’s good to see you.”

“Ah, Noah, I didn’t recognise you with that barrel above your balls.”

Tom could imagine the two men getting drunk together and sharing bawdy stories in some seedy bar.

“Theo, this is Tom Fox.”

He looked at Tom; evaluating him from head to foot, before nodding without enthusiasm.

“We haven’t much time. Follow me.”

Theodore ushered them aboard a freighter, bound for Istanbul, via Italy and Greece. Tom followed the group down several stairwells and as many corridors to a tiny cabin in the bowels of the ship.

“You don’t have to worry about being noticed. As you can see, there are no portholes and no-one will hear you above the noise of the engines. Farewell and good luck, my friends.”

Tom heard the metallic click as Theodore left the cabin.

They locked the door …?

“At least we’ll all drown together, if this old bucket sinks.”

No-one responded. No-one heard him above the noise.

_____________

At one point in the seemingly endless journey, Tom saw Noah check his watch, stand and then gather his rucksack. Almost immediately, there came a knock on their cabin door and without being bidden, a sailor entered.

The man led the group back up to the starboard gunwale where Noah checked his watch once more.

“It’s five past bloody seven. Where are they? They’re late.”

Tom heard a low growling noise out through the darkness and felt Noah’s hand on his shoulder.

“Alright, Tom, you’ll be the first to be lowered down. Then Petra. I’ll come down last.”

Tom swung out into the darkness. Half way down he could hear men below him radioing instructions to the sailors at the top. The ocean remained calm and the operation smooth. They repeated the process until they all stood together aboard what appeared to be a large speedboat with a wooden hull.

They shared the boat with three other men. Tom overheard Noah referring to them as the Corsicans; one in the bow at the controls, while the other two guarded the stern. Both carried automatic weapons.

For most of the trip, Tom didn’t see much of anything, except darkness and the occasional dot of light. After an hour of travel, Noah grabbed his shoulder and shook him.

“Tom, we’re heading into the Strait of Bonifacio. There’s to be no light of any kind and no talking, alright?”

Tom nodded; too cold to speak.

“There may be other boats and we don’t want to be seen. We’re pretty close to the bottom of Corsica, but we’ll be travelling in Italian waters. We’re staying just off the northern tip of Sardinia to avoid the French patrols.”

They didn’t speak again until they crossed the Tyrrhenian Sea. To the north, on the Italian mainland, Tom could see a few lights from the town of Fiumicino.

“As soon as we hit the beach, Tom. We have to change into these overalls.”

Noah held up a plastic bag, covered in tape.

“We’ll be driven by our people to the cargo terminal at Leonardo Da Vinci Airport in Rome. There, we’ll be given staff identification and papers, but don’t say anything to anybody. Just stay near me and nod. Got it?”

They boarded the Alexander Boeing B940 – 2000 cargo carrier, in the half-light before dawn. After a fifteen minute wait they taxied onto the tarmac and began their flight. Tom endured twenty-two hours in an area not much larger than a toilet, before he met up with their contacts and the rest of the G11 team in Sydney.

F
rom the deep shade of a waratah tree on the opposite side of inner city Oxford Street, Tom found what he looked for; a narrow lane running alongside a restaurant called the Jagat Palace.

He headed for a gate at the rear of the building, which allowed patrons access to an outside eating area.

A bearded man with a white collar sat alone at the far end of the courtyard, surrounded by a climbing pink rose. He seemed to be the only person willing to trade the restaurant’s air-conditioning, for the heavy heat of the flowered patio.

“Father Dominico Rossi?”

The priest looked up from his abundant serving of curried vegetables and dahl-fry, and frowned.

“Yes. What can I do for you, young man?”

“I need to talk.”

“As you can see, I’m having my …”

“It’s about Alexander Fox.”

The priest sat back in his chair and regarded him. The annoyance in his expression barely concealed by the thickness of his black beard.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Tom Fox. His son.”

“That’s nonsense. What’s this about?”

Tom attempted to answer, but the priest raised his hand and continued to speak.

“Don’t start young man. I’m not interested in anything you have to say. I don’t care who you work for. I won’t discuss this with you. Is that clear?”

Tom felt his stomach tighten; his allies might reject him if he returned with nothing.

“Why did they kill my parents? Tell me. I know you know.”

“Lower your voice.”

The priest looked up at the profusion of flowers above him and shook his head. Without another word, he looked back at Tom, nodded towards the restrooms and headed for the entrance. Tom hurried to keep up.

“If you’re Tom Fox, you’ll have a couple of identifiers. A birth mark shaped like a butterfly and a scar from a stab wound.”

They entered the men’s toilet; cramming themselves into one of the cubicles.

“Drop your pants and hurry up. I don’t want to be seen in here with a half-naked … Well, just get on with it will you.”

Tom lowered his trousers and turned his buttocks to the man.

“Oh, my Lord … They’re both there. Don’t say anything else, just do as I say. You could have been followed.”

Tom shadowed the priest as he moved away from the restaurant. As instructed, he kept the clergyman in sight, utilising a slightly different route up Oxford Street, through the three adjacent areas of parkland that ran south to Bennelong Point and on towards the Sydney Opera House.

They met again at the pool of reflection, at the southern end of Hyde Park and joined the crowd descending into Museum Station.

“Don’t look at me and keep quiet. We can be seen and heard from a long way off.”

They entered the train through different doors and sat one behind the other, as far away from potential listeners as possible.

“How did you know me, Tom?”

“I saw a picture in an old newspaper. You haven’t changed much.”

Tom lied. The priest didn’t look like the young man in the picture. Thick black wavy hair, bushy brows and a roughly pruned beard, hid some of the deeper lines in the priest’s worry-worn face. He appeared to be half again as heavy as the person in the picture and the greying around his ears and below his bottom lip, only accentuated the difference.

“Why have you come here, young man? My involvement with your father ended many years ago.”

“I need information about what happened to my parents and about something called the Prize.”

“Tell me what you already know, but keep your voice down.”

Tom rushed through a well-rehearsed story. Noah had tutored him on what to say and what to omit.

“This is no place for a thorough discussion. You may have been followed.”

“Please … I have to know.”

The priest looked around, adjusted his collar and continued.

“You can ask a few questions, but the rest will have to wait until I can arrange a safer meeting.”

“Who killed my parents?”

“A very dangerous organisation known as the Assembly of the True Faith. If you value your skin, don’t have anything to do with them.”

“And the Prize, what is it exactly?”

“It’s a form of technology. An alien substance that will allow its owner to play God and … pretty much control humanity indefinitely.”

“Shit …”

“Exactly.”

“But, why are they after me? I didn’t know my father, or his work.”

“They’re after you because he discovered the Prize. He kept it from the Assembly and wouldn’t give it up, so they eliminated him.”

The priest tilted his head and stared at Tom through bushy eyebrows.

“He could’ve destroyed them, as you could now.”

“I keep hearing this rubbish. How?”

“The Assembly tore the planet apart looking for your father’s research, but then they realised their mistake. They held the key, all along. They controlled you.”

“Look, this is starting to piss me off.”

“Let me explain, Tom. The Assembly knew your brilliant father wouldn’t destroy something so scientifically important. So they went after his partner, Professor Kite. They tortured him and before he died, they got what they wanted. Your father left a trail to the Prize, a trail for you, Tom. That’s why they’re after you.”

“Bullshit. I’d have to know something about it.”

“You asked me and you got your answer. Believe what you want.”

“Alright. Alright. So how do I find this trail?”

The priest scribbled a name and address on a small piece of paper, and handed it to Tom.

“It’s your father’s old laboratory. Isobel Kite, the daughter of his murdered partner, owns it now.”

“You think this … Isobel knows something?”

“She might. Her father knew a lot about this business. It’s a start.”