Birdkill (11 page)

He was laughing, paddling the air to slow her. ‘Hang fire a second, Jesus. LSD I get, what the hell is MDMA?’

‘Ecstasy. It was investigated as a drug for enhancing military performance because of the energy it released.’

‘Nice. I can see that. Soldiers full of energy running at the enemy for a hug.’

She sniggered. ‘Fine, but Odin was supposed to be the ultimate drug. A single dose would turn men into ruthless, lean, mean fighting machines. The programme was abandoned suddenly and I can’t find a reason why. It looks like there was a massive cover-up but every trail I can find is dead.’

‘Who’s this chap you say is behind it?’

‘His name’s Lawrence Hamilton and he’s running a boarding school cum research institute for gifted children. My friend’s just taken up a job as a teacher there.’

‘Research into what?’

Mariam delivered her payoff line appropriately smugly. ‘Augmentation. Making the gifted more gifted, like he tried to make the deadly deadlier. I want to follow this one up, Alan. This is the biggie.’

‘Okay, fair do’s. It sounds interesting and you’ve certainly got an ‘in’ there. How are Kelly and Duprez doing?’

‘They’re pretty staggered by the whole thing. They keep whistling and huddling together like naughty schoolboys. I think they’re plotting to scoop us.’

‘They’re welcome to. The deal Adel did with their editors gives us a byline and mention in anything they file. The harder they work, the greater our glory.’

‘That’s just evil.’

‘Welcome to Adel’s world, squirt.’

Mariam knocked on the door of Buddy’s suite and waited while he peered through the spyglass. He slipped the latch with an almighty rattling and clanking.

He whined. ‘I haven’t seen anyone in a day. I’m going stir crazy.’

‘Here I am. Your dose of company for today.’

‘Oh, great.’

‘I thought you’d be overwhelmed.’ Mariam reached into the mini-fridge and cracked a miniature of Red Label. ‘Cheers.’ Mariam sipped from the little bottle. She studied Buddy, who looked paler and even more dishevelled than normal. ‘You okay?’

‘Just got to thinking too much. It don’t really do to do that, you know? In my shoes.’

‘You’re good. We’ve got the Guardian and Telegraph in on this now, two very mainstream media outlets. We’re in the public eye and the authorities can’t afford another Snowden.’

‘I don’t care about me. A lot of that stuff is plain wrong and it should be stopped.’

‘That’s why I’m here. Folder fifteen. The Odin programme.’

‘Oh shit. That.’

‘What do you know?’

‘No more than is in the folder. I know a guy who was involved. A Brit.’

‘Do you have his contacts?’

‘Sure. Cost you.’

Mariam helped herself to another scotch. ‘What, more than a suite in the bloody Hilton?’

Buddy sighed and pulled out his mobile. He pawed at the screen, his face scrunched up and his gaze flickering across the screen. He scratched out a name and number on the notepad by the phone. ‘Here. Clive Warren. He’s retired. He probably won’t talk to you.’

‘We can always live in hope. Thanks.’

‘So you’re going now.’

‘Yup. Got a load of stuff to do. You’ve made me busy, Buddy.’

‘And what do I do? Just sit here until I die?’

‘I can think of worse ways to go than death by Hilton. I’ll send someone over to keep you company.’ She caught his furtive flicker of attention and the lick of his lips. ‘Not that sort of someone.’

Adel Ibrahim sat back, his hands folded across his stomach and satisfaction on his pallid features. ‘This looks most satisfying, Alan. Both newspapers are delighted, there’s almost more in there than they can cope with. Kelly and Duprez are now leading whole investigative teams. Both papers are aiming to begin filing next week. The advertising team is going berserk. I’m having the site moved, we’ll be hosting it on Amazon so we can scale to the likely traffic. The clicks! Imagine the clicks my boy.’

‘What about legal?’

‘Iain is comfortable with it. We’re not actually working on the stories ourselves, so the burden of publication is not upon us. We’re merely republishing what the two papers get up to.’

‘Mariam’s following up one of the stories. She’s got some insider knowledge of it.’

‘Not to be published under our byline. If she can get one of the others to take it, fine. But 3shoof isn’t the publisher of this material. I’d like us to be quite clear about that.’

‘Okay got it. I’ll let her know.’

Ibrahim rocked forward and out of his chair. He paced his office, standing to look out of his window at the rooftops beyond. ‘You know what? I wouldn’t. Not at this stage. Leave her work on it. She’s talented. If it’s a good story we’ll find something to do with it. Leave your hare run for now, Alan. Leave her run.’

Monday morning. Robyn took a deep breath and pushed open the classroom door. There was nobody in the room, it was as she’d left it the previous night. She slid her laptop from her bag and sat at the teacher’s desk to read the Guardian.

After her Sunday morning walk on the beach, Robyn had grabbed a coffee and opened up her notebook, only to find an email from Simon Archer, who had set up her school account. It had a folder containing the notes on her two timetabled classes, with his apologies for the lateness but they had been slow to confirm. The first one was twelve children ranging from eleven to eighteen. One of them was called Martin Oakley and reading the name she knew it was ‘her’ Martin.

She had opened his file. He was seventeen, which was a surprise to her. He looked younger, slightly built and fragile. His parents had divorced. His mother had abandoned him. He was ‘unreasonably devoted’ to an image of her as a perfect mother who had been parted from him but would one day return to rescue him. He was estranged from his father and Robyn, despite the fear he instilled in her, started to feel sorry for him and perhaps start to understand the anger in him.

He had gained a mathematics degree at fourteen and a Master’s at fifteen. He was a grade eight pianist and would be a chess grand master if he hadn’t professed to hate the game and refused to continue playing it. The second class, her afternoon session, was younger. Ten kids between eight and fifteen. And no Martin.

The notes contained little or no detail about their lives before the Institute. Clearly the prohibition regarding the past stretched to the kids’ files, too.

She had spent the day reading and taking notes, preparing for this crucial first encounter with her class. Her nerves were jangling and she jumped as the classroom door banged open and a group of children filed in. Their stares were unashamedly curious. She recognised several of them from David Thorpe’s class. Martin came in last and didn’t meet her eye, just pulled up a chair at the back of the classroom.

I don’t like Mondays.

‘Good morning everyone. As you probably know, I’m Robyn Shaw. I’m thirty-two. I studied English at university and took a post graduate certificate in education before going to teach at a school in Wembley. I stuck that for three years before escaping to the country and then threw it all up and went teaching overseas for a charity which provides TEFL teachers to disadvantaged communities. I’ve taught in Beirut, Palestine and Jordan. And now I’m here and look forward to learning more about all of you.’

She had expected silence and had prepared for it. ‘For what it’s worth, I like strawberries and cream, good coffee and Lawrence Durrell. His work, not the man. He was a horror of a man. I like the classics, I’m a sucker for Somerset Maugham, Michael Ondaatje and any good science fiction. I can’t stand steampunk at any price.’

A hand went up, a freckled, curly haired kid in his mid-teens, wearing a denim jacket. ‘Yes. Can you tell me your names just for today so I remember them?’

‘Simon Dillon. What about Game of Thrones?’ She noticed Martin scowling at the boy, who had presumably broken ranks. He winced as if Martin’s disapproval brought palpable pain.

‘No. Not that. Not for any price. Now Mervyn Peake, you’ve got me.’ The answer seemed to go down well, a few half-smiles. ‘What about you, Simon?’

‘Mostly Enid Blyton.’ There was a rustle around the class.

‘Ah, irony so early. I don’t know if you’ve actually ever read any of dear old Enid’s books, but she was the JK Rowling of her time. It’s only when you analyse her work out of its historical context you come up with the unacceptable and uncomfortable. And I personally think we should let readers make up their own minds about how they contextualise books set in the 1950s.’

‘What, kids are supposed to do that?’

‘Sorry, you are?’

A shy, pale-skinned girl with a high hairline and big, soft brown eyes. ‘Jenny. Jenny Wilson.’

‘Well, yes, Jenny, kids are. Kids aren’t stupid. I’m not patronising you, you lot are clearly different, you have talents beyond what we might call ordinary kids. But I mean ordinary kids. It’s only when we cosset them from uncomfortable truths or viewpoints they become naïve and unable to formulate their own conclusions and opinions. It’s like using anti-bac hand wash all the time. It doesn’t make you healthier, it makes you more susceptible to bacteria when you do encounter them.’

And with that, she had them. Martin glowered, but the others were engaged.

‘So what do you read, Jenny?’

‘Mostly period. I’m loving Elizabeth Gaskell.’

‘See? There’s the whole context thing in spades. What attracts you to her?’

‘She’s of her time, completely and yet she was a force for change, like Dickens she attempted to open up people’s eyes to what was wrong with society at the time. She had a social conscience and she was a better writer than Dickens.’

‘Woah, that’s a biggie. Anyone going to stand up for old Charlie?’

A hand went up. A scruffy boy with thick eyebrows sitting at the back next to Martin. ‘Yes? Your name, I’ll get there eventually, just bear with me for a while.’

‘Elon Musk.’

‘No it’s not, it’s John Appleby. I get sent your mugshots on your files. You got a view on Dickens or just a repertoire of childish pranks?’

There was a ripple of laughter and they were with her, solid. Martin’s grin faded.

Mariam called the number Buddy had scrawled for her. It rang out. She snapped her notebook shut and slid it into her laptop bag. She wandered over to the printer and retrieved her sheaf of printouts. She hesitated about taking its power cable, but reckoned she might need it tonight. It looked like it was going to be a late one. She tried the number again with no luck.

Her mobile rang just after she arrived home. She slung her bag onto the sofa and pulled the handset from her jacket. It was a different number to the one she’d been calling. ‘Mariam.’

‘Who’s this?’

‘Mariam. Who’s this?’

‘Did you call my mobile earlier?’

‘Is this Clive Warren?’

‘What if it is?’

‘Then I called your mobile.’

‘What do you want?’

‘To talk to you. Buddy Kovak gave me your contacts.’

‘Christ. Who are you?’

‘I’m a journalist. I—’

‘I’ve nothing to say to you. Goodbye.’

The line went dead. Mariam swore, looking at the mobile’s home screen in disbelief. The bastard. She went into the kitchen and poured herself a scotch, then went into the living room and turned on the TV, hitting ‘mute’ on the remote. She picked up the mobile and sent a text to Warren’s number.

Buddy working with us expose US military programs like Odin. Said you were involved. Wanted talk off record, confidential. Only background. Know about Hamilton.

She pressed ‘send’ and sipped her drink, scrutinising the mobile’s screen. After a minute, she dumped the mobile and pulled her laptop bag open. She laid out her trove of printouts across the carpet and sat in front of them cross-legged. They shifted and flickered in the moving light cast by the silent TV screen.

It was a complex picture. Odin laid out, bare. The proposal, the response. A first funding round, a trial. A memo recommending further exploration of battlefield enhancements, a programme of medication and dietary regimes in tandem. A team of trainers brought in specifically to work on driving the men to optimum performance. A facility set up, quickly moved from Idaho to Cambridge.

Mariam’s glass was empty. She pushed herself off the floor to get a refill. She poked around in the fridge, but there was precious little there. She made a sandwich by shaving the last viable shreds of parmesan off the hardening block and slicing a softening tomato, the pips squeezing out as she pressed the knife down on it.

She swapped her scotch for a glass of milk and went back to her fan of papers, eating her mildly gross sandwich absent-mindedly as she pored through the collection. More tracks were added to the project; hypnosis and neuro-linguistic programming, systematic injections of steroids with topical application of ultrasound and electroconvulsive therapy. A bewildering mixture of procedures were carried out on small groups of volunteers. It reminded her of Mengele and the Nazis and she wondered if somewhere in here would be records of small groups of prisoners, too.

There was an incident with the police, an enquiry. And as quickly as it had surfaced, it was gone and forgotten. She scribbled a note to follow that one up.

Her mobile rang.

‘Know what about Hamilton?’

‘Odin. Idaho. Cambridge.’ A moment of inspiration. ‘The cover-up of the police enquiry.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Kingston.’

An amused grunt. ‘Is that a fact? You know the big Sainsbury’s off the Apex Corner roundabout?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Meet you there tomorrow at nine. Be at the ATM by the front door. Wear something red.’

‘What—’

The line was dead. Mariam threw the mobile at the sofa. It bounced badly and flipped over the arm, skittering across the floor. She heaved herself to her feet, picking up the empty glass and plate and went to retrieve it. Sure enough, she’d cracked the screen but it still worked. She put the dish in the sink, refilled the glass and went back to the papers, picking through them delicately as she compiled the story of project Odin.