2041 Sanctuary (Dark Descent) (7 page)

Joiner sat up straighter. ‘Convenient. Where are you located?’

‘Sub-basement Green Sector twelve. Use the east side elevator shafts. Interrogation Suite One.’

‘I’ll be with you shortly.’ Joiner hung up the phone. Clearly Population Control was finding this potato too hot to handle. As was often the case the Intelligence Division was at hand to mop up the messes others could not. Any issue of a smaller scale and Joiner would not have even been considered as a point of contact, but in this instance his experience was invaluable and it was well known he relished dealing with such cases.
Who wouldn’t,
he mused; a chance to throw one’s weight around was always something to savour.

Ten minutes later, after taking a couple of travelators and a lift, Joiner walked into a sizable conference room to be greeted by Sanderfield and various other personnel from the Population Control Division of the GMRC. As ever Joiner’s aide, Debden, and a few other intelligence agents had accompanied him.

Sanderfield led Joiner through the events that had taken place and showed him the footage that had been broadcast around the world.

‘This has been very damaging to the GMRC’s reputation,’ Sanderfield concluded.

Clearly the man’s talents lay in stating the blindingly obvious, Joiner noted. He gave Sanderfield a withering look before walking over to watch the BBC news crew on a video wall. Secured in separate holding cells, the team of two awaited their fate. The cameraman had his head in his hands while the woman of the hour, Jessica Klein, paced around her small room like a caged animal, occasionally staring up at the camera that filmed her movements.

Joiner knew the broadcaster was well liked by her many viewers and even within the upper reaches of the UK establishment. People believed what she said. The British Prime Minister had even referred to her as a ‘national treasure’ on a couple of occasions. This support had evidently given the news anchor a false sense of security and emboldened her to take such an ill-advised step against the GMRC.

However, a five minute speech by one woman could only do so much damage. The problem now was how to react and to how to quell any further rants that might spout from her mouth. Joiner knew they were nearly at the stage when such concerns would no longer be a problem. In a few years’ time they could even have just let it go altogether, but as it was they needed to deal with it, with her.

‘Options?’ Joiner asked one of his agents, testing his subordinate’s acumen.

‘Profile the target,’ the agent replied after a moment’s pause. ‘Determine past indiscretions. Work up possible scenarios to discredit them.’

Joiner nodded. ‘What about elimination?’

‘A last resort.’

‘Is it?’

The agent looked at Joiner, unsure if his director was testing him again or proposing a serious solution.

‘You can’t just kill her,’ Sanderfield spoke up, visibly shocked at the suggestion.

Joiner turned to look at the man as one might look at a bug on one’s shoe.

‘Can’t?’ Joiner said, his voice cold and flat and yet loaded with a threatening challenge.

Sanderfield, suddenly realising who he was talking to, swallowed nervously.

Joiner looked meaningfully to his aide, Debden, who acted as required.

‘Take your people and vacate this room immediately,’ Debden told the Population Control manager as he ushered him away. ‘Your services are no longer needed.’

Sanderfield and his team scuttled from the interrogation suite, leaving the intelligence agents alone with their director.

‘Sir,’ another agent said, ‘surely killing them will cause more problems than it solves; the damage has already been done, has it not?’

‘Of course it has.’ Joiner removed his glasses and polished the lenses with a cloth. ‘No their deaths would not alter anything. But we need to make sure they – or more specifically,
she
– cannot cause the GMRC any more bad publicity.’

‘We could permanently relocate her to one of the subterranean bases,’ Debden suggested as he rejoined the group.

Joiner shook his head. ‘No, she would be too much of a liability to have running around inside the system. We will keep her under twenty-four hour surveillance and discredit her with a subtle finesse. We will need to get creative on this one. Laying it on too thick with multiple infractions will appear too convenient, but infidelity or sexual deviance will be too weak or implausible. Dig up what you can on her family and her past. There will be something we can use. If not, run an audio-visual study on her and we can then make sure there is. A basic profile work up won’t be necessary as we already have every top employee within the media fully documented. Everything we need is at our fingertips. Make it happen.’

‘Yes, sir,’ his men replied in unison, then went their separate ways to carry out his orders.

As Joiner watched the two prisoners once more he took out his phone and spoke in a command. ‘Call UK Prime Minister.’

‘Downing Street,’ a man answered almost immediately, ‘how may I direct your call?’

‘Put me through to the Prime Minister.’

‘I’m sorry; he’s in a cabinet meeting for the rest of the day. Please call back tomorrow.’

‘Not good enough,’ Joiner told the civil servant. ‘Can you not see from your display who this is?’

A pause left Joiner waiting on his phone.

‘I’m sorry, Director Joiner, forgive me. I will ask him if he is able to speak with you. I take it this is a matter of some urgency?’

‘It is.’

The phone went silent once more and it was some time before another voice came on, a deeper and more powerful one. ‘Director Joiner, how goes the GMRC’s annual summit?’

‘Prime Minister,’ Joiner said respectfully. ‘It goes very well, thank you; your presence has been greatly missed.’

‘You’re too kind, Director; how might I be of help to you today?’

‘You have no doubt been made aware of the incident that occurred earlier with one of your BBC newsreaders?’

‘I have.’ The PM sounded grave. ‘We have collaborated with your GMRC office here in London to ensure the fallout has been minimal.’

‘May I ask what alterations have been made to the BBC’s managerial structure?’

‘A full review of the computer systems responsible for all television and media broadcasts has been instigated,’ the PM said. ‘Any flaws will be found and corrected. Rest assured, Director, lessons have been learnt.’

‘With all due respect, Prime Minister, that is not what I asked.’

‘Yes, of course. I have reprimanded Lord Eaton, who is the Chairman of the BBC Trust, and he has assured me that no such event will occur again under his watch.’

Joiner introduced a firmness to his voice. ‘I’m afraid that is not good enough, Prime Minister. The GMRC will require a clean sweep of the BBC’s hierarchy, including the replacement of Lord Eaton, who is clearly as incompetent as his staff for allowing this to happen in the first place.’

‘A clean sweep,’ the PM repeated. ‘You can’t be serious?’

‘Responsibility begins at the top,’ Joiner said, enjoying himself as he dictated terms to one of the world’s foremost leaders. ‘Please don’t force me to take this to the GMRC Directorate, as it will only end in your capitulation and subsequent humiliating concession. I want the BBC’s management replaced with more malleable counterparts within the day; do I make myself clear, Prime Minister?’

As Joiner waited for a reply he could almost visualise the Englishman’s blood boiling as he computed what he’d just heard.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ the PM said with barely concealed fury and hung up the phone.

‘And a good day to you, Prime Minister.’ Joiner put his own phone down with a satisfied smile tugging at his lips.

Once more Joiner’s eyes were drawn to the images of the two captives displayed on the video wall. He knew it would be so much easier and significantly more satisfying to torture and then kill these puerile fools for their crimes, but even he had to abide by the rules on occasion. The rat-a-tat of his finger tapping the table brought him out of his reverie. He clenched his fist to quell the outward display of frustration.

‘Release these two idiots to the NYPD for processing,’ Joiner told one of his agents. ‘They can then be deported with immediate effect to the United Kingdom.’

The agent bobbed his head in response. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘And get the UK Government to revoke their passports when they get back. Their days of travelling are over. In fact,’ Joiner said, ‘confiscate their passports and then put them on a plane to somewhere inhospitable, like Siberia.’

‘That will stick them in limbo when they get there,’ the agent informed him. ‘They won’t be able to get back to the UK for some time.’

‘That’s the idea,’ Joiner said, as he walked from the room. ‘That is most definitely the idea.’

Chapter Three

Small, dimmed, oblong lights ran in rows along the walkways in the main cabin of the Airbus A380 super jumbo airliner, their faint illumination highlighting the slumbering passengers as they flew across European airspace towards London. The plane’s massive engines droned away in the background. Internal fixtures and fittings squeaked and rattled, responding to the repetitive rise and fall of the fuselage, held aloft by vast, swept wings that sliced through tumultuous, interconnecting weather systems.

Jessica Klein shifted in her economy class window seat, trying to regain some semblance of comfort after being awoken by a hostess wheeling a rattling trolley cart along the nearby aisle. Her eyelids rested shut, but she could feel the tension within them preventing her from drifting back to sleep. Keeping her eyes closed, she willed her mind to slow, to relax into a state of calm, while attempting to block out the noise of the aircraft and its many inhabitants. A person coughed in the seat behind her, a child cried out for its mother off to one side and the mutterings of two people a couple of rows in front was enough to make her blink and stir fully awake.

She wasn’t getting back to sleep anytime soon and now, she realised, she needed to relieve herself. Oh, how she hated flying like this, cramped and uncomfortable and hemmed in on all sides. It was a far cry from the roomy and opulent surroundings of business class, which she had grown accustomed to over the years, one of the many privileges of being amongst the BBC’s highest paid television presenters; privileges she now had to learn to live without.

James, the cameraman who had been Jessica’s constant companion since they were ejected from the United States, was no longer with her. He had taken an earlier flight destined for Birmingham, England’s second largest city, and James’ home town.

She was on her own now, returning from the ice-laden municipality of Novosibirsk, Russia’s third most populous city. Since the arrival of the asteroid AG5, the drop in temperature had hit parts of Siberia the hardest and now, even in its warmest months, temperatures of minus forty centigrade were commonplace. It had taken many trips by British embassy staff to the main terminal building in the Tolmachevo Airport, on the outskirts of the Russian city, to secure them passage back to England. The confiscation of their passports by the U.S. Customs and Border Protection officers, prior to their departure from JFK International, had caused them no end of headaches and stranded them for a month in a part of Russia that was in total disarray. Jessica had almost been glad they hadn’t been allowed out of the arrivals lounge into the city proper as law and order was at breaking point. It was all the police and local government departments could do to keep critical services operational. Poorer parts of the city had turned into complete no go areas, even for the military.

Unable to put it off any longer, Jessica stood up awkwardly. The backs of her knees rested against the seat and she had to hold the headrest with one hand to stop herself from falling back down again. The man sitting next to her was fast asleep, but he was reasonably slim, enabling her to squeeze past without disturbing him. Unfortunately the next chair was occupied by a rather large lady whose ample legs barred Jessica’s much needed escape. As she debated whether she should wake the immovable blockade a hostess, seeing her movement, came over to offer assistance. Taking the proffered hand, Jessica stretched out a leg and managed to hop out into the relative freedom of the aisle.

Sharing a quick smile with her saviour, Jessica thanked her and then walked on unsteady legs towards the rear of the plane and into a cramped toilet. Pulling the narrow door shut behind her, she engaged the small lock and then looked down at the toilet seat with trepidation. Apparently some economy class fliers had decided hygiene and cleaning up after themselves was not on their ‘to do’ list. Gagging slightly, she exited and selected a cleaner abode to enter. After she’d cleaned this new seat with copious amounts of toilet paper and gone about her business, she was greeted with an up close and personal view of her countenance in a mirror.

Washing her hands vigorously, she placed her ever present handbag onto the sink and opened it up. She looked at her reflection once more. The face that peered back was supposedly attractive. According to some UK magazines she was deemed as
top posh totty
and had claimed the embarrassing title of
Sexiest Female Newsreader
on three separate occasions. Such accolades made her uncomfortable and sometimes they even brought a blush to her cheeks. Normally she shrugged off such comments with an easy indifference and modesty, but deeper down she felt a guilty rush of girlish pleasure at the unsolicited flattery.

At the moment, however, all she saw were heavy bags underneath overly large, deep brown eyes. High cheek bones gave way to a squarish jaw, a gift from her father, which ensured her looks favoured handsome rather than the conventional pretty that most men seemed to favour.

Her hair, usually perfectly arranged, looked like a pterodactyl had decided to nest in it while dancing a Scottish jig. Also, according to her husband, she tended to sleep with her mouth open and this always resulted in dry, cracked lips. Taking out a tiny tub of Vaseline she unscrewed the lid and popped a small amount onto the tip of her little finger. Expertly she then applied it to her bottom, and then upper, lip. Smacking them and rubbing them against each other she worked the balm well into the skin. Happy with the result, she took out her comb and went to work on the fantastically arranged bird’s nest located on her head. After ten minutes she’d regained some semblance of humanity, and rather than a weary forty-something, a passable thirty-something woman looked back at her; at least that’s what she hoped, anyway.