Instinct (2010) (44 page)

‘Well, I just want to say thanks,’ said Laura.

‘What for? Kidnapping Andrew? Dragging you out to the land of giant killer insects?’

‘Obviously. No, for keeping us alive. Without you we’d still be down there.’

‘Without me you’d never have been there in the first place. I owe you a lifetime of making up. You too, Andrew.’ Webster reached into his trouser pocket. ‘Maybe I can start with this.’ He pulled out the chunk of bloody metal and passed it to Andrew.

‘My knife!’

‘It was on the stairs. I saw you playing with it yesterday. Figured you’d want it back.’

Andrew checked the blades.

‘Thanks, Major Webster.’

‘Any time.’

Tobias Paine stood in his garden smoking the cigarettes that his wife would not allow in the house. He took another look at his watch and realized that, if everything had gone to plan, MEROS no longer existed.

Perhaps there would be questions to answer, enquiries made about the efficiency of his operation. Why was he unable to provide the military resource that was required? Where were the results of all that funding? And, most importantly, when would the bugs be available again?

But that was the benefit of working in covert operations: within reason he could do things his way without having to justify himself. He could redirect finances. He could wipe out jungles. He could kill.

But what was that nagging feeling in the back of his mind, the one that made him suck just a little harder on that full-strength Winston 100? It couldn’t be guilt, could it? Not when he ordered and arranged death every day.

No, it was definitely not guilt. It was something much more unpleasant than that. Like an oily arm around his shoulders, it was the inescapable sensation of failure.

He had been given another responsibility and, just
like those times at college when he hadn’t quite made the social grade, he had come up short.

And why? Well, it was that prick, Bishop, of course. He might have been his wife’s brother, but the man was an idiot. No matter how many times Paine had found positions for him, he had never been repaid with anything approaching competence. At least the posting to MEROS had meant he no longer ruined family Christmases with his execrable attempts at humour and questionable personal hygiene.

Paine exhaled another lungful of smoke with a raw snort. He had certainly got rid of the little shit now. Harriet would be … dismayed, but it was definitely for the best. They could all make a fresh start; pretend he never happened.

And once the current difficulties were dealt with and the ashes of Colinas de Edad swept under the carpet, he would be free to move on, unencumbered by mediocrity, compromise and the growing pains of something that had progressed by trial and error. With MEROS out of the way he could now concentrate on the next stage of the bigger picture, the endgame that he had dreamed of from the very beginning: MEROS B, the second bughouse, new and improved with 100 per cent more everything. It would be his shining achievement, his crowning glory, and it would not fail, because it would not be under the control of someone as pathetic as Steven Bishop.

No, this time he was going to take a personal, hands-on interest in its success. He had very big plans for the
continuation of the MEROS project, plans that would make this incident seem like a minor hiccup, plans that would make the world sit up and pay attention, finally allowing him to take what was rightfully his: wealth, power and a place in history.

He couldn’t wait.

He took one last drag on his Winston and flicked it through a triumphant arc into the flowerbed.

Several square miles of jungle that had suffered little interference for thousands of years vanished in less than a second.

From the physical impact of the missile, a chain reaction began that had no regard for nature or history, laying waste to thousands of years of both in the blink of an eye.

As the hydrodynamic front moved outwards, radiation rapidly heated everything in the surrounding land to an equilibrium temperature. Waves of thermal radiation sent millions of degrees of heat sweeping from the hypocentre of the blast at a speed of 600mph, sending a thunderous wall of flame to annihilate everything in the surrounding miles. Even the rocks and earth were vaporized instantly, reduced to atoms in the expanding shockwave.

Then the fireball roared upwards into a mushroom cloud that curled in on itself like a frowning skull and hung over the bombsite as if overseeing the devastation below.

When at last the smoke cleared, MEROS was a vast, empty hemisphere that pulsed with radiation. Aside from the distant crackle of flames, the air sat heavy with an empty silence.

In the following weeks, the only changes came with the weather. Rain darkened the soil, wind whipped the ashes of the jungle around in whitish eddies and the sun brought life to nothing.

When the rainy season arrived, a monsoon lashed the giant scoop of dirt.

Without trees to break the storm, the gusts tore through the air, sending the rain down in hard, heavy drops to hammer the ground.

The water pooled in the bottom of the crater, and soon the downpour was churning the surface of a lake of mud.

In the half-darkness of wet earth, bruised clouds and shadows of frothing rain, it was impossible to make out the whip-thin, grey, translucent rod that rose through the water. It slid upwards, thickening as each new inch was revealed, until it protruded some ten feet from the water.

It hung still in the air, water collecting at its tip and dripping into the mud in slow, plump splashes. Then, like a shark’s fin slipping through the surface, a second shaft of slim, leathery flesh joined the first.

Through the driving hiss of landing rain, a furious scream rang out in the darkness.

It was hungry.

I’d like to thank everyone who was kind enough to take the time to read this book during its development. You helped take it from a mewling, underweight neophyte to the strapping bruiser you see before you. Biggest thanks must go to my wonderful wife, Gabi, who had to read it enough times to more than justify divorce proceedings. Then, in chronological order: Mum, Dad, Vicky, Toby, Sean and Sian, each of whom gave me invaluable advice and encouragement. Also, thanks to my brother Andrew who set me on the path of a good story well told from an early age.

My eternal gratitude must also go to Robert, my agent, who took me on in spite of some very good reasons to chuck my manuscript into the nearest incinerator. Here would be a good place to admit to him that I may have fibbed slightly when I suggested that other agents were interested in me. None were. If it wasn’t for him, it’s very likely that this book would not exist.

Equally deserving of my thanks is my editor, Alex. Not only was he kind enough to want to publish
Instinct
, he also made many of the most beneficial suggestions that brought about its improvement. Having said that, he
sometimes attributed these to a nameless team of people back at Penguin, so thanks to them, too, whomever they may be. And thanks to Sarah, my copy-editor, who cheerfully smoothed off the rough edges on my behalf.

Finally, I’d like to thank Arsene Wenger for his contribution to my happiness over the last dozen years.