Last Hope, Book One: Onslaught (2 page)

Deacon’s brow furrowed for a moment. “Something like that, yes.”

“So, Charlie, if you don’t mind me asking, what is it exactly you eggheads get up to that requires you to be hidden underground on a frozen rock? It’s not exactly Babe City. You know what I’m saying, right, buddy?”

“What security clearance do you have?”

“Erm,” Budd said, hooking his left eyebrow upwards. “I don’t think I have any.”

“I hold a Level Six pass. Mister Ashby, I’m truly sorry, but if you don’t already know, I cannot explain.”

“No sweat, I figured as much. Anyway, with some luck, which means as long as this weather doesn’t change, we should have you back in the U.K. in seven, maybe eight hours. Till then, just sit back and enjoy the view.”

“Thank you.”

By the time the King Air touched down on the small grass airstrip, Budd was exhausted. He opened the hatch at the back of the aircraft, hooked a rope ladder to the frame and then descended to the ground.

The scientist followed him down, looking around the quiet airfield. There was a long strip of grass that acted as the runway, and set back from its edge was a small control tower and two grey hangars. Parked nearby were two Cessna 182s, a Bell helicopter and another King Air 350LR. The main doors for the two hangars were closed.

Behind the control tower was a tarmac road that led up a slight slope towards a large, stone-built mansion. The airfield was on private property, owned and run by TimeTech Solutions. Nobody else had the use of the facilities, which Budd found gave the small airport a slumbering atmosphere. There was no one to greet them.

“You okay from here, Charlie?” Budd asked. He had left his ski-jacket on the aircraft: winter in Britain was damp and miserable, but he rarely found it cold. He placed a blue rucksack on the grass and then opened it up and took out a brown Stetson. He pulled the hat onto his head.

“Yes, I think so. Should I walk up to the mansion?”

“Got it in one. There’s not a lot inside the hangars, unless you’ve got a thing for mechanics.”

“Well, thank you again. Goodbye, Mister Ashby.”

Budd watched the scientist depart. “Good luck with your money worries,” he called out after him. “Just tell ’em the check’s in the mail.”

The scientist turned to wave, but said nothing in return.

Alone in the shadow of the King Air, Budd lifted his Stetson to run his hand through his dark hair, sweeping it backwards. He let out a long yawn. He was tired and, although it was only early afternoon, he intended to use one of the overnight rooms in the mansion to sleep through the remaining daylight hours. All he had to do first was file his report with the control tower. Come the evening, there was a pub in a nearby village that he wanted to visit. He simply needed some rest first.

Budd woke to a knock on his door. He sat up on his bed, pushed aside the sheets and then swung his feet out onto the carpeted floor. The room’s curtains were closed and so he leant over to the bedside table and fumbled for the switch on the base of the lamp.

The knock at the door sounded again, this time a little louder. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Budd called, his voice rasping because his throat was dry. “But if there ain’t a fire, don’t expect to see no happy, smiling face.”

He placed his finger on the switch and the room filled with light. Blinking, he got up from the bed, wearing only a pair of black boxer shorts, and then took the few steps to the door. Twisting the lock, he pulled it open. “Okay, pal, where’s the fire? Oh, it’s you.”

Charles Deacon was standing in the corridor. There was an apologetic look across the youthful scientist’s face. “I’m very sorry to wake you, Mister Ashby. But I need to ask you a favor.”

Budd stepped back and motioned for the scientist to enter the room. He returned to sit on the ruffled sheets of his bed as Deacon closed the door. “Go on, then. Ask away.”

Deacon glanced around the bedroom. There were scattered clothes on the floor, washing utensils in the sink and a half-eaten sandwich on the bedside table. They had touched down less than two hours before. “I’m here to request that you drive me to London. Apparently, there’s a conference here at the mansion this evening, and the management is refusing to spare me a driver. They’ve lent me a car, but, well, driving is not a skill I possess. I do not have time to wait for someone from London to fetch me as it’s vital I get there as soon as possible.”

“I’d love to, Charlie, really, I would, but if I don’t get some sleep there’s no way I’ll be fit to fly back to Freeze-Your-Ass-Off-Island tomorrow morning, and that’s what my flight plan says. You’ve met my boss, right?”

“Really, that is of little consequence. I can have it taken care of. Mister Ashby, I need you to do this for me. I’ve already taken the liberty of reserving you an extra suite, and I imagine I’ll need your assistance for several days. But you won’t have much to do, so there’ll be plenty of time to relax. We’ll be staying at the New Millennium Hotel.”

Budd immediately sprang into action, reaching for his rucksack. He wanted a fresh pair of pants. “Gimme two minutes.”

The New Millennium Hotel, as far as the rich and famous were concerned, was just about the snazziest, swankiest place to be seen in London. And pretty much anywhere else in Europe, too.

So, on my crappy wage, I had ’bout as much chance of staying there as I did of running for President. Of England.

All things considered, I was more than happy to give Deacon a helping hand.

Just outta the kindness of my heart…

“If it isn’t too much trouble, Mister Ashby, please could you focus on the road? You’re making me nervous.”

“Oh, come on,” Budd said with one eyebrow raised in mock amazement, “I can land a plane in total darkness, so I’m sure I can drive a car and read a pamphlet at the same time.”

Deacon nodded meekly and Budd went back to reading his brochure, which was unfolded across the steering wheel of the large BMW. He looked up from the printed words every few seconds to check his position through the windshield. They were descending a long ramp into a well-lit basement car park. “It says here that the New Millennium Hotel is the tallest building in Britain, with eighty-five above-ground stories. Did you know that?”

“I don’t believe that I did.”

“Work cost more than four-million pounds every day of its construction. Hell, I thought the jerks who built my porch were expensive.”

“Mister Ashby,” Deacon said, “that man is trying to flag you down.”

Budd dropped the pamphlet onto his lap and looked up. The man who’d indicated for them to stop was wearing white gloves and a mauve suit, which was complete with gold braiding and two rows of impossibly shiny brass buttons down its front. On his head he wore a mauve flat cap that had a circular gold badge stamped with the image of the New Millennium Hotel above the black visor. The car park attendant walked to the driver’s-side door and bent forward to look into the vehicle.

Budd pressed the button to lower the glass.

“Sir, I’ll take your car from here. This is your ticket, when you want to retrieve your vehicle simply present it to the security office. Welcome to the New Millennium Hotel. Please let me wish you a memorable and enjoyable stay.”

Memorable? Oh yeah. Enjoyable? Not so much…

Budd climbed out of the BMW and handed the keys to the attendant. He then grabbed his rucksack from the back seat and tucked the ticket into one of its zipper side-pockets. Finally, he pulled on his Stetson.

Deacon, with no possessions besides the clothes he was wearing, simply got out of the passenger-side door and straightened his suit jacket.

“Thanks a lot, stud-muffin,” Budd said as he looked the attendant’s mauve, double-breasted, mid-length coat up and down. A grin formed on his face. “I bet you’re a hit with the ladies in that get-up. Do they let you take it home?”

The attendant forced a smile but said nothing in response; he merely climbed into the BMW and pulled the door shut. Budd and Deacon watched him drive away and then walked to the elevator and pressed the call button. They heard the whine of the motor start above them.

“There was no need to tease him, Mister Ashby.”

“I’ve had plenty of crummy jobs and crummy uniforms, and it never stopped people teasing me.”

A bell chimed and the elevator doors opened. Another smiling, mauve-suited employee greeted them. “Good evening, sirs, I hope that your journey to reach us has been pleasant. I will take you as high as the Reception Floor.”

“Sounds good to me, champ.”

The elevator attendant stepped aside to let them enter. With a white-glove encased hand he pressed the higher of two round buttons. The bell chimed again and then the doors slid closed.

As the elevator began its upward climb, Budd examined the plush interior, enjoying the sight of the gleaming, gold-plated handrails and the red and blue striped wallpaper.

Smoothly, the elevator came to a halt, the bell chimed and the door opened. “Please enjoy your stay with us, sirs.”

Budd stepped out of the lift.

The foyer was not what he had been expecting. Above his head was a large, arched, glass ceiling that allowed a view of the night sky and the southern face of the hotel. He realized that they were not actually in the main structure of the building, but in an extension that spread from its base. Somewhat amazed by the scale of the towering structure, Budd craned his head upwards, drawn to the light escaping from the regimented rectangular windows, light that blurred into one vast conflagration as his eyes approached the highest levels.

With a shake of his head, he lowered his gaze to his more immediate surroundings. Running from the elevator, a two-yard wide red carpet went three yards forward and then intersected with a much wider red carpet that crossed the length of the rectangular entrance hall.

Deacon led the way and reached the longer carpet. Budd stopped beside the scientist. To the right, he could see a set of glass doors that led to the street outside, while to the left, the carpet ran to a set of open double doors, beyond which was the main foyer. On all sides of the red carpet, kept alive by the above-average temperature of the glass-roofed entrance hall, were exotic plants and trees.

“Thank you for getting me this far, Mister Ashby. That’s you done for today. The TimeTech Solutions U.K. Headquarters is only around the corner. I’ll make contact when I need you.”

“Sure thing, Charlie. I’ll stick around.”

“See you later, then.”

“No hurry,” Budd replied.

When Deacon had disappeared onto the street, followed by a chorus of polite goodbyes from two doormen, Budd looked around at the people walking across the entrance hall, some as couples, some as singles, but all with the crispness of dress and self-assuredness of the wealthy. He caught the eye of a middle-aged woman in a smart suit and flashed his most charming smile. “Nice night, ma’am, yes?” he said, bending forward and tipping his Stetson.

With nothing more than a fleeting glance at his brown pants and blue sweatshirt, and even less at his shabby leather boots and stubble-covered face, the businesswoman lowered her eyes and hurried on by.

Amused, Budd watched her as she walked away. There were plenty of other women in the hotel. He was going to enjoy his stay.

There was no denying it—even from the small amount I’d seen—the New Millennium was shaping up nicely. It had only been open a couple of years, and already its reputation was world renowned, despite having the unfortunate location of Greenwich, which, let’s face it, isn’t the most glamorous place in our tiny global village.

They’d built it, and all the surrounding buildings, when the whole area had been redeveloped after they’d pulled down that stupid-looking dome—I tell you, I’d like to meet the guy who thought that one up…

“Thank you very much, Miss Walker,” Budd said, a sparkle in his dark eyes. He had noticed that the names of the hotel employees were sown above the left breast pocket of their mauve jackets, the letters clear in thick, gold thread. Sarah Walker was in her early thirties, with a short bob of brown hair and natural-looking make-up.

“It’s not ‘Miss’ actually, sir. I’m married,” the receptionist replied. She maintained her polite smile. “Are you sure that you don’t want someone to help with your bag?”

“I can manage fine from here, thank you,” Budd said, somewhat disappointed by her relationship revelation.

“Enjoy your stay, Mister Ashby.”

“I intend to, Mrs. Walker.”

Budd slipped the newly acquired key-card for his suite into his pants pocket and then walked across the reception to a bank of twelve brass-fronted elevator doors. As he got near, a mauve-suited porter who was standing beside the call button looked at him questioningly.

“Up, sir?”