Sun Dance (9 page)

The Chief Advisor studied his finger nails aware he’d been responsible for the debacle of their meeting the scientist. “That was the purpose of my little Euro trip and yes, there will need to be certain modifications, but deep burial is definitely on, given, as I say, a bit of attention to some of the details MacKenzie raised. However,” he looked up, “I’m in close contact with the Japanese and U.S. designers and operators. The matter can be handled but,” his eyes flickered slightly, “it would be extremely unfortunate if the points he raised were to be passed, for example to the green press.”

“I know that too damn well, leave that bit to me, I have a bully boy who can bring that shower to heel,” came the P.M.’s impatient reply, and then more carefully, “The political side is difficult, but with care we’ll get a nuclear debate through the Commons on a quiet day. The economy will be is such shit state, thanks to Mr. Prudence and his banking pals, they’ll be screaming for Government spending and what better way than building nuclear plants to cut this f-ing CO2 millstone and more importantly, the punters’ power bills. Well, maybe. Anyway the bloody ‘Greens’ will scream blue murder but they’re no more effective than a fart in a blanket. The Tories will lap it up, behind the scenes shareholders and all that stuff. Three years from now and three million unemployed! Just wait for it, Josh, the students, the lefties- they’ll only be howling about their jobs and student fees.”

The pause was deliberate, before he remarked slowly, “Yes, it can be handled,” and then with a laugh, “Of course, Josh, I may not be in office. There’s a man who’s just beside himself to take over the reins,” his eyes hooded slightly, “I don’t need to mention its not meat for those yapping media hounds, they have their uses when required but certainly not on that issue.”

“Oh no, no, they’re the last people we need in on such topics,” Sir Joshua spoke smoothly. “Like yourself, Prime Minister, I may not be in this post much longer. I would like to resign, if you find that to be in order. Quietly please, very quietly, on a day when there’s plenty of news; nothing beats bad news as a smoke screen. As it happens, I’ve been approached to advise an American consortium, rather attractive, a place on the board, so I’d be able to concentrate a little more on my business activities. I hope you understand Prime Minister?”

“Of course, of course, Josh, I greatly appreciate all you’ve done, any change you may wish will be dealt with appropriately,” and perhaps a little coyly, he enquired, “Er, not Nuen by any chance?” The P.M. mentioned the largest U.S. Company in the nuclear business.

“Oh, nothing definite,” Goldberg waved a podgy hand, “but a friend in Nuen did suggest that a U.K. contract would be greatly appreciated.” For the first time he looked directly at the P.M. “Maybe there’s also a space on their board.” The comment hung between them in mutual understanding. Their eyes locked for several moments.

“By the way, Josh, strictly across this table, the deal to sell UK’s shares in our Atomic Weapons Establishment at Aldermaston to that Californian crowd, Harris Engineering, is just about through. You may know, they’re doing a lot of research into the next generation of nuclear warheads. The M.O.D. seems quiet relaxed about it and of course the Chancellor’s delighted. Any way, it’ll tie together quite neatly with any development that Nuen has in mind. We’ve had to keep this little arrangement out of earshot of The House, otherwise there’d be one hell of a hullabaloo.”

During this disclosure, Sir Joshua’s eyes had fallen to looking at the carpet before he commented, “I must admit, I did get an inkling of the deal.”

Drawing a sharp breath, the P.M. looked suspiciously at his advisor.

“Very, very discreetly,” the Chief Scientist continued smoothly, cursing inwardly for admitting as much, “through a friend, as it happens. I do assure you, P.M. this Californian Group, quite apart from their vital work on nuclear weaponry and starting production on the latest airborne megawatt laser guns, are well to the fore in several fields, advanced physics, super computing, and that’s just two areas.” Pausing a moment, he looked up, “More particularly, so far as this waste storage question is concerned, they are into the science of creating the exotic materials which may well be required for casing these underground facilities.”

The meeting had gone on long enough, too open for the comfort of both. “Look Josh, I can see we must get this storage question sorted out,” the P.M. mused aloud. “Underground you say, well maybe somewhere with a low population density. An agreeable landowner is always better than compulsory acquisition; less fuss, then there’s planning, public enquires, all that damn nonsense.”

“Leave it with me, P.M.” Sir Joshua lifted his considerable weight out of the chair.

A cordial handshake brought further discussion to a close. “You have my full confidence, Josh,” The P.M. held onto the man’s hand. “By the way, I can’t just recall who’s the chairperson of Nuen.” His smile settled warmly on Sir Joshua, “Do pass on my best regards for their Company’s future.”

“Naturally I shall do so, as soon as a suitable opening arises.” He disengaged his hand.

A green light flashed on the desk. The P.M. reached and touched it. Without any sound, a large steel door slid open. Goldberg left equally silently.

Whistling the latest pop tune, the P.M. drew a diary from his inside pocket and wrote a few careful notes before sitting back at the desk and drumming his fingers. He swivelled his chair, stared at the operations map and checked his watch. A red light flashed. He touched it. The room’s only door opened silently. A tall man stood at the end of the room without speaking. Dark city clothes emphasized the pallor of a face seldom away from artificial light. Darting eyes swept the room. The Agent remained silent.

“Good, good, glad you could make it.” A brusque greeting which took care not to address the man by name and was far removed from the P.M.’s usually warm approach. “Any progress on the tube train bombers? I really need results, by next Wednesday’s House of Commons questions, if possible. Not that politics come into this outrage,” he hastened to add as an afterthought.

“Negative,” came the reply. The man spoke without moving from the far end of the room,

“Ah, I see,” the P.M. moved uncomfortably, rubbing his hands together, the meeting with Goldberg still much in his mind, “Let me be specific on another point. Have you found that youngish scientist fellow you were given instruction to trace and more importantly the brief case which we know he carried? I want it and its contents to be found.” His voice became harsh, the mouth twisted. “Also the man was extremely insolent to me and that always spells trouble.”

The Agent stepped forward and stood close to the P.M., his eyes veiled by drooping eyelids, his gross features threatening in their very composure. Moments drained away before he spoke. “We have him on footage leaving hospital. The taxi number was obscured by a following vehicle. He was not carrying the briefcase described to us.”

“In other words, you’ve lost him,” the P.M moved back, his voice rising to a higher pitch. “This is not good enough. I want man and the material found. You understand?”

“We will find him,” the voice was low and even, the eyes measuring and controlling.

“Be sure you do,” the P.M. rapped out and in a shrill tone, “How you deal with the man is your own affair, but the brief case, unless recovered, could develop into a leaked document involving National Security in areas of nuclear safety and perhaps other matters, so pay attention.”

Without reply The Agent stood motionless, his eyes swung to the operations wall maps, and then with a deliberate slowness, back to the P.M. Minutes ticked by. Neither spoke. Unhurriedly, The Agent turned and walked to the steel door. Looking back he pointed to the button on the desk.

A shaking finger pressed it. The door slid open, soundless. The man in the dark suit stood in the doorway staring. A white face, expressionless.

The P.M. sat heavily and wiped his sweating hands.

Vague with exhaustion, I wondered
were we sailing
? A tremor of wind, the slap, slap of water on planking, I swayed with the movement aware only of holding onto a mast. A sail came down, the gentle crunch of a keel of sand. Strong arms helped me over the gunnel. The first stars above the dark bulk of a jetty, steps of cut stone, narrow and slippery, a hand rope against the wall. Few words, “Take it easy, boy.” The breeze which must have sailed us whispered in the dunes. A rutted track and my fumbling steps took us onto open fields. I felt an arm support me.

Venus lit our path, brilliant and close on the south west horizon. In the far distance across a sheen of water an island floated. A silhouette against the planet’s light it rested on the luminance of the sea. Greatly affected I stopped. In the velvet blue of gathered night it appeared as a forgotten place, remote and forlorn, simplicity abandoned to shadows of the past. The man’s voice stirred me, “Come away, the island will be there tomorrow.” Dew on a rooftop sparkled. Quiet words were spoken at the door. I caught the door post to steady myself. The porch light shone on yellow oilskins and boots that smelt of cattle. Taking my elbow the old man helped me through a kitchen, past the scent of milk and fresh butter, into a warm room.

My eyes opened without grasp of where, when or how I came to be in bed. A beam of evening sunlight crossed a room. Alarmed for a second, the hospital ward returned. Motes of dust swirled in radiant heat, tiny particles in the sun’s power. What equation could predict their antics? My wretched mind thrown back to ten years of screen bound calculations began to visualize the complex mathematics, so much part of that existence. Jostling specks pranced before my eyes, their movements seemingly random. The sun’s rays prevented them becoming a layer on the floor. What clever calculation could predict their course, or their relationship one to another?

Dust to dust? For all I knew, I was an infinitesimal speck, a nano second’s arrangement of the particles of existence dancing between a life- giving sun and the mystery of its gravity. Could anything in this universe be random, without cause? How far did the past dictate the future? If it did, then all our tomorrows existed in the potential of yesterday. Therefore, all past and futures are here in the present. Perhaps within the matrix of universes there exists only the flow of infinite possibilities? Maybe the particles of our current being are endlessly transmuted on a sea of time, only to reform again. My eyes opened fully and I struggled to throw off the despair of another fit of introverted thinking.

An iron bar propped open the small attic window, cool air wafted over my face bringing the smell of the sea and the rhythmic beat of a gentle swell. Quietly at first, as if from beyond distant hills, came another sound. Closer, closer, a vibrant song, bubbling and clear, I heard, ‘cur-lew, cur-lew, cur-lew’ rising in tempo. I threw back the sheets and caught hold of the window ledge. A large bird high above the fields, I listened in fascination. On trembling wings it called to un-trodden haunts, wild and treeless. The liquid outpouring faded to lisping notes, the melancholy of places lost. The bird alighted and raised beautifully pointed wings above a dark mottled back. Amongst the rashes it went out of sight.

From the window I looked about the small bedroom. A trance, another bout of hallucination, the sequence of the past days a preordained trick of fate, denying the assumption of free will? That I easily dismissed but not these inexplicable mental pictures, happenings long past, surges of thought plucked from tomorrow; could my reality be parallel phases running out of sync? All future exists split seconds before it becomes reality to our perception. That the sun will rise tomorrow is merely a concept rooted in probability; real time, a flawed abstraction. The future becomes the past faster than our brains function. The past is behind us in an instant. Perhaps it is never erased. Maybe it remains a flux of particles and reality the plausible victim of increasing entropy?

Stop, stop, I clasped my forehead, insanity loomed unless my thoughts would settle. I looked out from the skylight again. The unhurried steps of the old man approached from a field lined with rows of hay. Somewhere in the house I could just make out a woman singing. Quietly, step at a time, I went downstairs.