5
David Wickett shivered.
Through cracks in the rotting wood of the hut, he could see a turquoise glimmer. The lake.
Twenty minutes ago, after a sleepless night in a cowshed, he had arrived here at the hut, where he had picnicked barely two weeks ago in very different spirits. Then, he’d felt the need for a change of scene for his thinking. And how dramatically it had paid off!
Wickett raked a trembling hand through his hair. So far, he reflected, he had acted almost entirely according to protocol. After finalizing his Method, he had saved it on a memory stick. Then he had wiped the hard drive on his laptop. He had summoned his colleagues to Assembly Point Zebra—and he had watched it explode!
Now what should he do?
The dossier had been clear.
In the event of discovery of any threat to the group, contact your task officer.
His group was dead. Was that a threat? No! It was significantly worse. Should he really call his task officer, whom he had never even met?
Someone, in fact, had been calling repeatedly. Wickett’s mobile phone had been going off half the night. Whoever it was, they’d appeared as Number withheld and they hadn’t left a single message. Wickett had been too afraid to answer.
He now glanced anxiously at his dusty surroundings.
They looked much as he remembered. Shafts of bright sunlight sliced through the gaps in the ancient roof. They illuminated a broken shovel. A moldy blue tarpaulin. The rusting remains of some kind of agricultural implement. And a wooden trapdoor. Two weeks ago, Wickett, exploring, had discovered that the trapdoor led to a small cellar. He could only guess at the cellar’s original purpose. But it was an ideal hiding place.
Now he dragged the tarpaulin over the trapdoor. Then he slipped underneath, into the warm space.
He sat down. It was dark. And very quiet. He listened to his own breathing. A nervous hand crept to his neck—and the precious high-tech locket. His heart felt feeble. It was pulsing like a jellyfish.
Then Wickett made a decision. He would call his task officer. But first, he dialed a familiar number. He waited. She’d be there. She had to be!
At last, he heard: “Ja?” His housekeeper.
“Greta!” he whispered. “Thank God. Has anyone been to the house?”
“Anyone? Who do you mean?”
“Anyone. I mean since yesterday at lunchtime, has anyone been to the house?”
“Yesterday afternoon, a few hours after you left, the pest control officers came. I wrote you a note. It is on the kitchen table.”
“I didn’t go home last night, Greta. I didn’t read your note! What pest control officers? What did they want?”
“They said there has been a termite outbreak. They needed to check all the houses in the area. They were very thorough. They left the rooms in a mess!”
There was a long pause. Those were no pest control officers. David Wickett knew that much.
“Did they search outside? Did they look in the woodpile?”
“No.” Greta knew why Wickett asked the question, but she was afraid to admit it. This was a man who liked his secrets kept. “Are you all right? Where are you?”
Another long pause. Wickett didn’t want to tell her. But he was afraid. And he wanted someone to know where he was—especially if things went wrong. At last, Wickett said, “I’m at the hut—the one I picnicked at. I told you. You remember? I’m in some trouble, Greta. But I’m going to try to sort it out. I will call you again at eight o’clock tonight. If you don’t hear from me by then, call the police.”
“The police!”
“Only if you don’t hear from me. And tell no one else I called you. Tell no one anything. Carry on as normal. You understand? You promise?”
“All—all right. Yes. I promise.”
Wickett ended the call. Then, before he had a chance to try his task officer, the mobile phone rang. Again, the screen said Number withheld. Perhaps this was the task officer. Perhaps he should answer.
Wickett pressed the phone to his ear.
“David Wickett? Listen very carefully. If you do not do exactly as I say, or if you go public with your findings, two thousand people will be dead.”