The Whitehall Syndicate: A time travel conspiracy thriller (9 page)

He activated scanning mode and input the print. Then he activated a search and closed his eyes in anticipation. It had been a horrendously bad day. The phone beeped and Jack looked at the screen to find his bad day had just gotten a lot worse. There was a match. The fingerprint on the gun belonged to Anisha.

Kim sat slumped on the couch watching an awful home renovation show. She looked around her temporary accommodation and was momentarily filled with a longing for home. This flat was hardly a slum but it exuded the charmless, impersonal feel of a motel room; it just wasn't home.

She had finished all her paperwork early on in the morning and now she was done, all that was left was some snooping. She wasn't sure what she expected to find but if nothing else, she hoped it would satisfy her growing curiosity. Heaving herself off the couch, she flicked off the television and walked over to a heap of notes smeared cross the dining table. All over the counter were old research summaries spanning the last half-year at least. She leafed through them, hunting for any reference to energy levels, all the while that disconcerting phrase bouncing around in the back of her mind.
Power beyond our wildest dreams.

She had already studied a few this morning and had yet to unearth anything. Picking up a set of papers from a few months ago she noticed the pages were slightly off-white and not as thick as the others. Thinking back, she strained her memory and after a little frowning, recalled that during a stock shortage, she had needed to borrow a pad of paper from Imran. His lowly department were unfortunately subject to some very poor quality stationary- as thin and cheap as it came. She smiled
wistfully, remembering she'd actually given sheets out to as many people as possible to try and use it up and get rid of it without offending him.

             
Drumming her fingers along her top lip in a nervous twitch, something clicked into place. If they had sketched out their reports from that pad then the pen might have scored through onto the pages below. Grabbing the report with a renewed eagerness and optimism, she headed over to her handbag on the kitchen counter and removed a navy blue eye-liner.

She'd never been keen on make-up but fortunately she stocked the basics, for appearance's sake. Putting the sheets down on the counter she began lightly shading over each of the off-white pages. Most of the report was on computer printed cartridge paper so there weren't too many to get through. Still it was time consuming and having struggled halfway through the first page she already felt like giving up.

Then her pencil brushed over a small patch and a few squiggles began to show through. The letters were difficult to make out, further obscured by the overlying black print. Still she persisted, and eventually had uncovered writing on each of the four sheets. Deciphering it into coherent words and phrases would be another challenge but she was ready and eager, the truth now one step closer.

In a way it was all strangely exciting for her; it made her feel like a detective. She instinctively pulled out a small box of contact lenses from her handbag. These were special lenses with specific colour filters, an oft-used necessity in certain lab experiments. Slipping on the pair for blue-black filtering, she blinked a few times to adjust her eyes, then began reading over the first page.

Jack stood aghast staring at the phone, a deadpan expression plastered on the face. Stunned into submission, all his senses told him he was sinking. Betrayal bubbled inside his stomach. Trying to steady himself, he blinked a few times and took in several deep breaths to calm himself. It didn't help. Still reeling, his gaze began to wander until he was again confronted by the mobile.

There was no doubting it was Anisha's fingerprint. It was an extremely accurate system and someone would've needed access to her fingerprint information if they wanted to duplicate it. Jack knew from random chats to his brother that security officials were awarded high level security status on their own fingerprints, so the duplicate theory was unlikely.

Scratching his head, Jack considered what to do now. His first thought was to simply storm over to her and smash her pretty face in with anything he could find. He imagined how satisfying it would be to
watch her writhe in pain, the way she had watched his brother. From the searing thoughts of retribution, a new, more logical idea was born.

He could use her. Trick her into thinking he was planning the assassination. He could follow her and maybe find out who she was working for. An mendacious smile sprouted across his face, as he revelled in the thought of beating her at her own game.

Checking his watch he felt a shock at the time and the realisation of how long he had been away helped lift him up from his cozen despair. He splashed water over his head to make it look as if he had just showered, and opened the door. He reasoned this was best left a secret for now: there was no guarantee of how everyone might react. It would probably come down to taking sides and the divide would only mean losing people willing to help him: losing friends.

As he thudded down the stairs he made a show of looking at his mobile. Reaching the entrance to the living room he hung a panicked, shocked look on his face, which didn't require much acting. “What's wrong?” asked Anisha straight away. Jack reflexively clenched his fists, knowing full well that she knew the answer.

“It's Bob, he's in hospital. Someone tried to kill him.” Simultaneously, a barrage of questions were all fired at him. When, where, who did it and a few others in the same mould. Anisha started telling them to ease off, to give him some room.

If he didn't know she was trying to protect herself, he would've considered it a caring gesture. Staying composed he thanked her with his sweetest smile. Suddenly realising something that chilled his blood, he cleared his throat and improvised, “they think he should be okay but he
won't be awake for a long time, and he'll probably have some retrograde amnesia, between a week and a month.” He could only hope it would be enough to stop Anisha trying to finish what she had started.

             
It was early evening but he declared that he wanted to be off to bed early, and since the hospital wasn't allowing visitors at present, no-one forced him to stay up. Clearing the living room they all wished him goodnight and headed upstairs. As he turned off the lights and lay there on the floor, he began plotting what he could do next and how he could get this situation back in his control. Somehow, he had to make things right.

A list of phrases lay in front of Kim, written on a once fresh sheet of paper, since attacked by rings of coffee. The clues followed no discernible pattern, so she was making her way through all the reports from the beginning, bearing in mind the new information. The flat was deathly silent now, her curiosity having carried her well into the night.

She bobbed her head up all of a sudden and realised that, for a moment, she had drifted off. The fluorescent tube lamp bathed her in weak, artificial light and the room was crawling with strange shadows that morphed from shape to shape and crawled over the walls. She jumped again as her home mobile suddenly pierced the silence with a shrill beep.

She walked over and scooped up her phone. “Hello?”

“Kim?”

“Who is this?”

“Are you interested in what the project directors are doing?” Kim instantly grew quiet, that same chill from her dream now beginning to materialise down her spine. “Yes,” she replied dryly.

“I have details that may interest you. Meet me in one hour outside the Philip K. Dick wing of the Literary Museum. You had your staff Christmas party there last year.”

The line went dead before Kim had a chance to ask anything. Not used to bizarre, shadowy meetings with mysterious contacts late at night, the anticipation filled her with a buzz of excitement.

She quickly sprinted to the dining room table and began typing on her laptop, trying to access a street map. Locating the museum was easy but she would have to leave fairly soon to get there on time. Running on a cocktail of caffeine and adrenaline, she grabbed her black leather coat and headed out the door without another though.

Furiously determined, she roared off the curb, and it was only when she was safely on her way that she began feeling slightly less giddy. As she drove she reminisced about the Christmas party. It was as awkward and cheap an affair as she'd expected, right down to the plastic tree, which couldn't hold all the gifts. Maybe the person
contacting her had been there. As Kim continued driving she knew that she had crossed a line. They would fire her without question for this and she was beginning to suspect that the men she worked for were capable of a lot more besides. She gulped nervously. She would be there soon.

Old-school detective Frank Wilkinson scratched the sandpaper stubble on his leathery skin and spluttered out a cough. He hated the Sunday night shift. It was common practice for lazy rookies working during the day to leave more difficult crimes as backlog and head off home. Inevitably Frank would get called in and find yet another case sitting on his desk.

Being a policeman wasn't what it used to be. He remembered his great granddad telling him about the days before surveillance, when detectives actually had to use logic and reasoning to solve crimes. Now it was all just surveillance monitoring, sorting through forensics and ID matching. He was little more than a glorified administrator.

His partner Tony Slade walked up and handed him his coal-black coffee. Tony was a smaller African-American man, with pale chocolate skin. His hair was short, black and painstakingly styled. He was the younger partner, perfectly content with the system, and his role in it. Cameras told a story but there were often blocked views and bizarre angles, not to mention the wildly varying audio quality. It was his job to build a case where the film failed.

             
As the both of them chatted trivially in the hospital ward, a nurse finally came over and ushered them in. “He won't be saying anything for at least a weak. He's under deep sedation while he recovers.”

Taking immediate statements had become increasingly infrequent since BioMod's new range of drugs had been approved. They provided a whole range of patients immeasurably better medical outcomes than their predecessors, but left them virtually comatose for the vital first week after a crime. Luckily surveillance meant there was also no rush to take statements these days. The disparate partners had gone along anyway, just in case the victim was awake. As expected, they were out of luck.

After some speculative bickering they walked back outside and waited for surveillance to send them the logs of Bob Winchester's apartment, starting from an hour before he had phoned for the ambulance. One more set of videos to process; faces to identify. Another routine crime, or so Frank thought.

Gliding elegantly over the worn tarmac, the large sliver car lethargically skulked to a halt next to a huge poster of H.G Wells. Kim got out shakily and checked her watch. She had a few minutes yet to get to the meeting point.

Ambling along the path leading up to the Philip K. Dick wing, she wished in retrospect, that she had brought some kind of recording device to capture the conversation. She could've used her phone except the memory was virtually full.

Her hair began to stand on end and goosebumps crept down her arms. It was cold, and the excitement was fast dissipating, giving way to blind panic. She tried to put on her bravest face and cleared her throat to pave the way for a more confident tone of voice.

The walk to the exit was slow and tiring, and on arriving, she saw another small set of parking bays directly opposite. They were all empty except one, taken up by a dark coloured SUV, the exact hue unclear in the gloom of the night. Blinking to adjust her eyes to the darkness, she crept past a small bush and stayed hidden behind the large tree in front of it. If anybody wanted to sneak up on her, they were in for a
surprise.

A hazy shadow approached, slowly focusing into the silhouette of a man. He spoke from a distance. “Kim, I'm glad you came.” She found his voice raspy and muffled, but unthreatening.

“What's this about?”

“You're getting curious about the project, and you should be. If you'd known the truth you may not have been so eager to sign up”

“Who are you?”

“I don't wish to tell you yet, or this could become dangerous for both of us. I have an MFD here that tells you what you need to know.” He motioned to a Miniature Fluorescent Disc, pre-placed on the asphalt adjacent to her. I-,”

A loud boom tore across the air, nearly causing Kim's ears to bleed. Her eyes clamped shut by reflex and it was only a moment later that she forced them open to take in the scene. She could barely hear more than a faint whistling sound now, with everything motion of her head producing a muffled rustling.

From the corner of her eyes she saw the lights of the SUV gleam on and just about made out a screeching sound as it pulled out. Some unnamed instinct took over and she darted out from behind the tree, keeping low, and scooped up the disc. It wasn't clear if the driver could see her but she knew for certain that her mystery informant was on the floor, dead in a pool of his own juices.

Swirling round she scuttled back for her hiding place. She was breathing hard now and had to cover her mouth with her jacket sleeve to dampen the sound. The car sped off, screeching past the lifeless body. Kim knew she had to get out of there fast, before she became one too.

Slowly trudging into her house, her head sunk and any spark left extinguished from her eyes. She felt nauseated, knowing her life had just taken its final festering twist. The police had her on film fleeing a murder scene and it was only a matter of time before she lost everything that was dear to her. Thinking about the gravity of what was at stake, her shoulders practically buckled under the huge burden.