Mind Control: A Science Fiction Telepathy Thriller (Perceivers Book 2) (21 page)

Jones looked at all the names written on the paper in front of him, and squinted as if that would help him understand better. “What’s that got to do with Russia?”

“That’s sort of speculation at the moment,” said Patterson. “But Tania’s been looking at the money trail and what she’s found out so far looks interesting. Lucas has a lab at UCL, but it’s actually rented by him privately by way of a grant he receives to carry out his work.”

“Funded by Russia?” said Jones.

Patterson made an uncertain gesture with his hands. “We can’t prove it – yet – the money comes from a corporation registered in the Philippines which we suspect is routing through money from the Russian government, possibly via several other countries.”

Jones leant forward and plucked the pen from Patterson’s hand. He drew an arrow from ‘Russia’ to ‘Lucas’, writing a pound symbol with a question mark above it.

Patterson grinned, seeing his boss was getting it. “The other interesting thing is that UCL entitles him to have sensitive parcels delivered by courier. Lucas is a neuroscientist who occasionally uses radioactive tracers when carrying out MRI brain scans. Obviously the ones they use in medicine don’t kill people, but if you wanted a lethal dose of radiation delivered to you, what better way to disguise it than by having it shipped labelled as a medical-grade isotope?”

“So the Russians,” said Jones, “could have arranged for a radioactive substance to be delivered to Lucas under the guise of hazardous medical supplies.” He scrubbed over the arrow he had already drawn between Russia and Lucas and made it thicker. “Lucas gives the radiation to the perceiver boy.” He drew an arrow from Lucas to Hetherington. “The boy gives it to Elkins and programs him to poison Rublev.” Jones wrote the name Elkins in a space on the paper because they’d forgotten to do it earlier, and linked everyone up with arrows.

“That’s about it in a nutshell. I suspect the same supply route and method was used to get explosives to Tyler and Bailecki,” said Patterson. “Can I have my pen back, sir?”

“Sure,” said Jones and handed over the black fibre tip.

Patterson added the names Tyler and Bailecki on what little space there was left and drew arrows from Russia to Lucas to Hetherington to Tyler and Bailecki, and finally to Pavlovsky. “Tyler was probably trying to blow up the hotel, but got arrested before he reached there. Bailecki obviously managed to blow himself up, but – if I’m right – missed his target.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if some of that Russian money was paid to Hetherington,” said Michael. “That’s how he was able to give his gang all those shiny gadgets and new trainers to keep them loyal.”

All three of them looked down at the piece of paper, a mess of names and arrows.

“That’s a lot of supposition, but not a lot of evidence,” said Jones. “I think you need to start bringing in a few people for questioning.”

“Yes, sir,” said Patterson. “Hetherington’s gone AWOL, but I bet if we get Lucas in here, he should be able to lead us to the boy.”

“Then you better get a move on,” said Jones. “Before Lucas goes AWOL too.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

DOCTOR SAUL LUCAS
did not wait around for the police to arrest him. By the time Sergeant Patterson and his team conducted dawn raids on Lucas’s home and lab, he was gone. The officers were able to seize some of his computer and lab equipment, but the man himself had made a hasty escape. So it was a sweaty and frustrated Patterson who returned to the police station. He had no one to question and Michael was left with no one to perceive.

It left Michael at a bit of a loose end. As he sat around the police station, his mind went back to his telephone conversation with Doctor Page, and he began to think about his father.

~

SOME OF THE
most despicable men and women ever to have lived in Britain had sat in the dock of Court One in the Old Bailey. The wood panelling that lined the four walls of the institution had absorbed the words of many murderers and rapists who had gone on trial in an attempt to persuade a jury of twelve of their peers that they were innocent of the crime of which they were accused. The men and women who prosecuted and defended the alleged criminals still wore the same costumes of black gowns and horsehair wigs that their forebears had worn down the centuries. It gave the court a sense of theatre: one where, at the end of the play, the curtain would come down in judgement on a person’s life.

Michael watched from the front row of the public gallery, high up above the court like a theatre-goer who could only afford the cheap seats. On either side, pressed up so close on the bench that he could feel their body heat, were other members of the public. Three further packed rows sat behind him. Most of them were parents of perceivers, their anger so loud it crowded his perceptions. He blocked them all out and, at first, used only his eyes to observe the court.

That morning, Brian Ransom had been called to the witness stand. It was almost two years since Michael had seen him, but his father had aged far more than that. His hair, which once retained streaks of its original brown, was now almost entirely grey. His beard, although short and neatly trimmed, had become old and wiry. Even the way he stood was more slouched and stooped than Michael remembered him.

Ransom adjusted his jacket to make sure it sat squarely on his shoulders and prepared to be questioned.

The judge, a woman in gown and wig sitting alone at the head of the court on a raised bench above the other officials, spoke directly to him. “Can I remind you, Mr Ransom, that you are still under oath.”

“Yes, Your Honour,” said Ransom, his voice just strong enough to be picked up by the microphone on the stand in front of him, but still not easy to hear in the public gallery. Some of the shuffling of people sitting with Michael settled down as they strained to listen.

The judge addressed a barrister sitting below. “Mr Panich, you may continue your questioning.”

“Thank you, Your Honour,” said Panich, a man in his thirties or forties wearing a dark sombre suit beneath his gown. He stood and placed a folder of notes on a lectern in front of him. “You may remember in your testimony yesterday, Mr Ransom, that you admitted the so-called ‘vitamin pills’ that you distributed free to pregnant women were the cause of their children being changed at a genetic level in the womb. Is that correct, Mr Ransom?”

Ransom nodded. “It is, yes.”

“Do you also accept that you lied to these women?”

“No, because the pills also contained vitamins,” said Ransom.

Mr Panich smiled, as if it were funny. “But that is not the point, is it, Mr Ransom? The fact remains that you knew the mothers who took these pills would give birth to children who would, in time, go on to become perceivers.”

“Yes,” Ransom answered simply and directly.

“Then what do you say to the mother we heard testify, Mrs Croucher, whose daughter had to be cured of perception at the age of thirteen?”

“Giving perceivers a cure was not my idea,” said Ransom.

“But it became necessary because you caused these children to be perceivers.”

“No.”

“I say it was, Mr Ransom. Your vitamin pills created a disease for which science had to find a cure. Do you not feel sorry for the people like Mrs Croucher’s daughter who, we heard, was never the same after the cure?”

“It wasn’t my intension to hurt anyone,” said Ransom.

“You put a foetus-altering substance inside a pill and lied to pregnant women in order to make them take it – how could you possibly have expected that not to hurt anyone?”

“Perception should have been a gift,” said Ransom, a little bit of passion now in his words. “We were living in a world of prejudice, of religious, racial and class intolerance. I believed, if only people could understand each other,
perceive
that we are all the same, then intolerance would be a thing of the past.”

“So you admit you created the perceiver epidemic on purpose?”

“It’s not an epidemic.”

“You deliberately poisoned pregnant women. In the words of the charges against you, you ‘administered a noxious substance with intent to cause bodily harm’. Is that not true, Mr Ransom?”

“No,” he said, his voice clear and loud. “I created perception with intent to bring about a generation of enhanced people. To promote peace and understanding.”

The underswell of disquiet around Michael erupted into a cry of, “Shame!” from behind him. Several others muttered approval at the woman’s outburst.

The judge looked up at the public gallery with small, but fiercely disapproving eyes. She wasn’t looking directly at Michael, but it felt like she was. He opened his perception just a little bit so he could reassure himself that her stare was directed to the woman behind. As he did so, his head was immediately filled with the tension. There were so many emotionally charged minds in the public gallery, and in the packed court below, that he could barely make out the judge among them.

In that moment, he felt a familiar presence at the edge of his perception. It was his father, instantly recognisable as the only other perceiver in the crowded courtroom. Ransom looked up at the public gallery and his gaze met that of his son.

Michael?

The word entered his head.

Yes
, Michael replied with a single thought.

In that moment, he was able to filter out the jumble of other minds. They were still there, but if he concentrated hard he could reduce them to a background rumble. Pulling the perception of his father to the foreground, he perceived Ransom’s nervousness. But there was also a fear, a fear that he would soon be sent to jail. He was happy to see Michael in the courtroom, but he also felt shame at being seen in such a situation.

While Michael perceived, the judge told members of the public that they must be quiet, or she would clear the public gallery.

I need to see you
, Ransom thought.

How?
thought Michael. There was no way down from the public gallery to the part of the building where the barristers, witnesses and defendants congregated; while meeting him at the entrance wasn’t possible without being seen by the press and their cameras.

Warwick Lane
, came Ransom’s thoughts
. Where the taxis are
.

Michael had no idea where that was and he didn’t get the opportunity to ask because court business was resuming.

“Please continue, Mr Panich,” said the judge.

Michael felt Ransom retreat from his mind. Michael also withdrew his perception.

“Thank you, Your Honour,” said Mr Panich and looked down at his notes on the lectern in front of him.

Ransom faced his questioner again: the man whose job it was to get him sent to jail.

~

THE SECURITY GUARD
at the public entrance to the Old Bailey knew the way to Warwick Lane and gave Michael directions. It was literally just around the corner. Michael questioned whether it was too close to where the press were camping out to cover the perceivers trial, but apparently their cameras were only interested in capturing pictures of people going in and out of court, or if they decided to make a statement. The guard explained that, if someone decided against making a statement to the press, being chased down the road by a bunch of journalists and film crews wasn’t going to change their minds.

Warwick Lane was a relatively quiet street off the main road. Not only devoid of the press and barristers, but also of much activity at all. While there was noise of central London close by, Warwick Lane itself was the conduit for only the occasional passing car.

There was a small layby outside one of the many grey block office buildings that lined the street with a couple of taxis parked up. Michael walked down to stand near them, wondering how long Ransom would be, and leant against the cold concrete of the building. He wished he had got around to sorting out his insurance and getting a new phone so he had something to distract himself while he waited.

It was as much as fifteen minutes before Ransom came round the corner. Michael saw him before he perceived him. He was actually smiling, an expression he had not worn on the news. Then, as Michael let the perceptions filter through, he felt his father’s love. Stronger than he remembered it and enhanced by a loneliness drawn out by weeks of listening to people give witness against him.

“Michael!” Ransom said, as he got close enough. He held out his arms and Michael allowed himself to be hugged. He felt, under Ransom’s suit, the bones of his rib cage press against him. He realised Ransom’s clothes disguised how much weight he had lost during the trial. “It’s good to see you.”

Ransom released Michael and the pair of them stood back at a respectable distance from each other. Michael knew his father would perceive that his love was not reciprocated, but there was no point in blocking that from him. He already knew how Michael felt.

“Doctor Page said I should come,” said Michael.

“Ah,” said Ransom, smiling at the mention of her name. “That’s the sort of thing Rachel would do.”

“So, um …” Michael felt uncomfortable. Knowing that Ransom would perceive how uncomfortable he felt made it worse. He averted his eyes, looking at the ground where his feet kicked at an old cigarette butt someone had discarded. “How’s it going?”

“My lawyers say I have a chance,” said Ransom. “Although I perceive they’re lying to me, so perhaps it’s not going so good.”

Michael nodded. “I’ve seen the news.”

“Do you want to go for lunch or something?” said Ransom. “My lawyers usually get a taxi to whisk us off somewhere away from the press. I need to be back in court for two o’clock, though.”

Michael wasn’t hungry. His stomach didn’t want food after being confronted by the hatred so many people had for his father. Again, as soon as he felt the emotion inside of him, he knew Ransom had perceived it. Instinctively, he increased his filters. He wanted to be open with his father, if this really was the last opportunity he would have to see him before he went to jail, but the reality was too painful.