Torchwood: The Men Who Sold The World (19 page)

‘Cared for for the rest of my life?’

‘Indeed, every comfort will be afforded you. We treat our employees well, Mr Gleason.’

‘Up until you choose to replace them.’

There was a slight pause at that. ‘Do you want the job or not?’

‘I’ll let you know.’

Gleason threw the phone out of his window and watched as it splintered beneath the wheels of the car behind him.

Ahead, where Constitution Drive continued through the parks, a large barrier was erected. No great surprise there, Gleason thought. Easy
enough to arrange and who cares if you piss off a few tourists? There was a sign on the barrier: ‘Warning – Gas Leak’, it declared.

Gleason turned left, continuing up 17th Street, running parallel to the park. He passed the White House and continued on, noting the ring of barriers and the security staff. When he was able to pull off the road, he did so, yanking Mulroney’s dead body forward so his head leaned on the dashboard. He had a bottle of water in the compartment of his door and he pulled it out, unscrewing the cap and splashing it on the passenger window to clean off the worst of the blood. People didn’t pay that much attention, he decided, and security had enough area to cover without checking out all the cars in the vicinity.

He reached for the long bag on the back seat and pulled it forward onto his lap. He wouldn’t need as much of this as he had hoped. Just one man left standing.

He pulled out a small box of wires and glass attached to the pocket of a rucksack. Leaning forward, he pulled the rucksack on back to front so that the bag hung at his chest. Inside was a heavy string of D Cell batteries. There was room for a couple more handguns from the shoulder bag, so he added them and then zipped the rucksack up. Last of all, he gripped the Ytraxorian rifle and pressed a switch nestled in the centre of the box of wires. There was a quiet whine as it powered up from the batteries and he stepped out of the car. As he moved over to the sidewalk, an old man walked right into him. Of course, Gleason thought,
dodging the oncoming pedestrians who made no attempt to step out of his way. It’s working, he realised, they don’t notice me. The rucksack was a portable perception filter, a device that didn’t render the wearer invisible but convinced those around not to notice. Its effect was fragile: draw too much attention and it would stop working altogether, but as long as he walked slowly and made no sudden movements it should give him all the advantage he needed.

He walked back along the road, heading down Pennsylvania Avenue where the pedestrians thinned out to be replaced by the barriers and the fake gas-leak warnings. Gleason found a spot between groups of security staff – he didn’t want to try this directly under their noses – and pushed his way past the barrier and off the road. Nobody looked towards him. He began to walk along the grass, heading straight for the rear of the White House.

The area was thick with uniformed security services, gathered together into groups or walking in pairs around the periphery keeping their eyes peeled for someone suspicious. But he wasn’t suspicious, was he? He wasn’t even here…

He walked slowly, not even wanting to run in case that was enough to compromise the effect of the perception filter.

As he got closer, he felt the fronds of the Ytraxorian gun close around his hands, that electric tingle spreading up to his elbows.

Was it as easy as this? he wondered. No doubt, once he started firing, people would pay more
attention. But by then it would be far too late.

Was there nobody to stop him?

‘We can recognise your man on sight!’ insisted Rex, exasperated at the security services’ lack of interest in either his or Shaeffer’s presence.

‘Thanks to a miraculous new gadget called a camera, so can we.’

Max Scott, chief of the uniformed secret service policemen – and man most likely to have a severe migraine by midday – had little patience for interdepartmental interference. He had enough on his plate without agents from other agencies getting under his feet. The President, against Scott’s advice, was refusing to evacuate. Apparently, he didn’t want to send a message of ‘no trust’ in those charged to protect him. ‘Besides,’ he had said when the emergency meeting drew to a close, ‘it’s just one guy, right?’

‘If you want my opinion,’ Scott said to Rex, ‘and you’re going to get it whether you do or not, this whole situation is going to wind up being a false alarm.’ He held up his arm to stop Rex arguing. ‘And if it isn’t, I have several hundred uniformed officers and special agents waiting to catch this whacko and throw him into a cell.’

‘Look,’ said Rex, ‘I know you guys can do your jobs. I’m just asking that you let us be involved. As a courtesy.’

‘In my line of work, courtesies are few and far between. You’re in my way, and I don’t need you. Get beyond the security barrier and stay there.’

Scott marched away leaving a small detail of
officers to escort Rex and Shaeffer back to the road.

‘Great,’ Rex sighed. ‘So we’re left circling the perimeter, hoping we get lucky.’

‘You expect a man who’s trained to infiltrate and execute to stick to the sidewalk?’ asked Shaeffer. ‘It’s not really my style.’

‘Tough. If we break in, all we’re going to do is draw fire away from Gleason. The last thing they need is two targets to divide up their forces.’

‘Point.’

They walked up 17th Street, feeling utterly redundant as they tried to survey the parkland through the trees.

Gleason waited until he was about twenty feet from the White House, raised the rifle and cleared his mind of everything but the intent to do damage.

Just as it had above the Denver traffic, a wide field of almost entirely transparent energy flowed from the barrel of the gun and spread out towards the building. Gleason squeezed the rifle tight in his hands, let the electric caress of the seaweed fronds cover him from head to foot. He returned energy of his own, channelling the fear and anger of every battlefield he had ever experienced back into the rifle and out of the barrel.

He heard shouting from his left. Here they come, he thought,
finally
. He released the trigger, letting the cloud of energy roll towards the building as he turned his fire on the security services that were running towards him. He experimented, telling the rifle what he wanted it to do as it
coughed bursts of energy through the air towards his attackers. Some of the men vanished; others crumbled to dust. The more he fired, the more the air seemed to alter around him. Time itself seemed to slow, the air becoming a thing of liquid. Noises distorted, becoming low, bass roars.

The wave of energy struck the building and cracks radiated outward, as if it had been hit by a hammer. The effect crept wider and wider, rolling over walls, creeping up pillars, blacking out windows.

Gleason felt the world draw slower still as all around him men fell or vanished.

He felt weak. That electric numbness creeping over him as he sank to his knees, the rifle drooping and sending a wedge of grass deathly yellow as it touched the ground.

In front of him, the White House finally fell, toppling inwards like a controlled demolition, walls falling, glass cracking. Plumes of brick dust erupting upwards. There was screaming, those low, slow voices speeding up now the rifle was powering down. The world was a record finding its correct spin speed. Nobody came near him now, all staring at the utter destruction of the iconic residence before them. Bodies were viewable in the wreckage but they were as decaying and aged as the stone that piled around them.

‘Got you, you bastard,’ said Gleason.

His breath was short and he could barely raise his head as he saw an old man walk up to him. The man was wearing a light-grey suit that was almost as out of place amongst this destruction as
the smile on his face. He recognised the old man’s face, had seen him somewhere recently… Then he remembered: it was the man he had bumped into after stepping out of the car.

‘Well, Mr Gleason,’ said Mr Wynter. ‘I imagine you must be rather pleased with yourself? Today can, after all, be considered something of a success.’

The old man reached down and pulled the rifle out of Gleason’s hands. Try as he might, the old soldier couldn’t resist.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Mr Wynter, ‘the nerve agent I spiked you with during our earlier collision isn’t permanent.’ He gave Gleason a smile. ‘When you’re my age, you take all the advantages you can get.’

This is him, Gleason thought, this is the enforcer… the man they wanted me to replace.

‘Fascinating, isn’t it?’ Mr Wynter continued, looking at the rifle. ‘A weapon that responds to the potential of who wields it.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘Just wait until it sinks its teeth into me!’

The gun pulsed brightly as the weed fronds closed around Mr Wynter’s old hands.

Mr Wynter sighed, quite taken aback by the energy that pulsed through him. ‘Oh yes…’ he said. ‘That really is something else, isn’t it?’

Gleason mumbled something, still not able to speak.

‘What was that?’ Mr Wynter asked, leaning in close.

‘Get on with it,’ Gleason whispered. ‘Shoot me.’

Mr Wynter laughed. ‘Now why would I do something as stupid as that?’ he asked.

He turned the rifle on himself and pulled the trigger.

Rex and Shaeffer drove into central Washington and parked a short walk away from the Washington Monument.

‘You going to have any sway getting in here?’ Shaeffer asked. ‘I mean, at least tell me we’re not going to get shot by our own people the minute we stray too close?’

‘You think I should have brought my special, pink CIA T-shirts so they knew who we were?’

They came to the barrier and Rex waved at one of the men loitering around the railings trying to look like a gas engineer.

‘Hey,’ he called. ‘Rex Matheson, CIA.’ He dangled his ID as the man walked over. ‘Now obviously you just work for the gas company, but can you tell your foreman that I have someone who has worked alongside Gleason for years, knows his methods, can recognise him on sight and, as such, should really be on the same side of the barrier as you?’

The man in the overalls stared at him in confusion for a moment.

‘
Now
, if you would,’ said Rex. ‘If the President gets himself assassinated while we’re all stood here playing with our dicks, I’ll feel we’ve had a wasted morning.’

The man snatched Rex’s ID and walked away, pulling a radio out of the pocket of his overalls. Glancing up and down the road, he began to talk into the radio, his back turned to Rex and Shaeffer.

‘Subtle move,’ said Shaeffer. ‘How long do you think it’ll take for us both to be escorted over the city limits?’

‘He’s secret service,’ said Rex, ‘and I’m banking on the fact that the secret service hasn’t the first idea who we are and likely won’t care.’ He smiled at Shaeffer. ‘You always think you’re the centre of attention? It would take the gasman over there several hours of interdepartmental cross-checks just to find out your surname. He’s going to check with his boss, and as long as neither of us are red-flagged as security risks we should at least get on the other side of that fence.’

The man returned and waved them past the barrier. ‘Chief wants to talk to you.’

‘I just bet he does,’ said Rex, grinning at Shaeffer. ‘Where’s he at?’

The man in the overalls led them to the Ellipse, where a group of uniformed security services men stood waiting.

‘You the CIA guy?’ asked one of them.

‘You the man in charge?’ Rex replied.

‘Only CIA would have the lack of manners to answer a question with a question,’ the man
replied. ‘Max Scott, Chief of Police. What’s this I hear about you knowing this guy?’

‘We’ve been tracking him for a few days,’ said Rex. ‘This is a former member of his unit, been helping us since the rest went rogue.’

‘Glen Shaeffer.’ Shaeffer stuck out his hand, but Scott ignored it.

‘Want to tell me what you’re doing here?’ he asked. ‘Nobody told me to expect a CIA presence. Which they sure as hell would have if this were any of your business.’

‘We just want to help out, sir,’ said Rex. ‘Offer whatever assistance we can and see this business through until the end.’

‘You’re a little out of your jurisdiction, son,’ said Scott, ‘and I fail to see what use you can be to me.’

‘We can recognise your man on sight!’ insisted Rex, exasperated at the security services’ lack of interest in either his or Shaeffer’s presence.

‘Thanks to a miraculous new gadget called a camera, so can my men. If you want my opinion, and you’re going to get it whether you do or not, this whole situation is going to wind up being a false alarm, and if it isn’t I have several hundred uniformed officers and special agents waiting to catch this whack job and throw him into a cell.’

‘Look,’ said Rex, ‘I know you guys can do your jobs. I’m just asking that you let us be involved. As a courtesy.’

‘In my line of work, courtesies are few and far between,’ said Scott. ‘You’re in my way, and I don’t need you. Get beyond the security barrier and
stay there.’ He reached to his ear as he received a cellphone call. He tapped the earpiece to answer and listened as the person on the other end talked at him. ‘But sir…’ he said, trying to restore a little authority before the caller snatched it away again. He didn’t manage any more, the voice talking over him. ‘Understood,’ said Scott eventually, realising that there was not much to do but accept. ‘OK, sir, every courtesy, yes.’

He looked to Rex and Shaeffer. ‘Now you two are really pissing me off,’ he said. ‘I’ve just had orders to grant you full access. So,’ he gestured towards the White House, ‘knock yourselves out. Just don’t get in the way of me or my men.’

‘Thank you,’ said Rex with a big smile. ‘It’s been great working with such a cooperative guy. A real pleasure.’

‘Go and hide in the bushes,’ Scott shouted after them. ‘I hope my men shoot you by accident.’

‘Nice guy,’ said Rex as they made their way through the President’s Park towards the White House. ‘Maybe I could apply to join the secret service instead? I’d love it if he was my boss.’

‘You’d have such fun taking pot shots at one another over a breakfast coffee,’ agreed Shaeffer.