STORM: The Black Sphere

Pain leaked from his spine and his temples, spreading through his body. When his guard’s mobile phone went off again, Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto threatened to split his skull.

Wickett held his breath. He could just hear the voice on the other end, but he couldn’t make out distinct words.

Clearly, though, this wasn’t a call that his guard had been expecting. The uncertainty in his “Yes?” had been unmistakable.

Shute Barrington cleared his throat. Spicer’s covert call tapping had revealed that Thatcher—the code name of Wickett’s bent MI6 contact—was holding Wickett under the orders of someone by the name of Churchill.

Now, in a fair impersonation of the elderly gent who had pointed out that the Lindrick’s pay phone was in fact public, Barrington said: “Thatcher. This is . . . Lloyd-George.” There had been only a fraction of a second before Barrington came up with a possibly believable code name—another British prime minister.

Barrington waited for this piece of information to be absorbed. “I’m approaching the milking sheds. But you’re being watched. There’s an aerial unit out here. A surveillance drone.”

A pause. Barrington imagined what was going through Thatcher’s mind. This man was an MI6 field officer. If he thought he was being watched by a drone, he’d investigate.

Barrington had been prepared for this. “I’m using a Zeta handset!” he lied angrily. “It disguises numbers—it’s the latest field issue. And I’m telling you, there’s a bloody unit out here and it’s watching you! If you don’t believe me, just look out the door!”

Wedging the phone back against his shoulder, Barrington used his controls to send the Eagle into a low fly-past of the shed.

A woman in a tartan shawl and red trousers shot him an uncertain glance as she made her way from the restaurant to the restrooms. Barrington glared at her. She hurried on.

Back in the milking shed, Thatcher crept toward the wooden door. He used the barrel of his Walter P99 pistol to nudge it open. Cautiously, he peered out.

Ninety feet away, lying flat against the hillock, Will saw movement. The Eagle had just swooped, and now the door of one of the sheds had opened.

Very slowly, a red-haired man stepped out. His left hand held a phone to his ear. In his right, he gripped something black.

Will saw the man glance up—and spot the Eagle. Will watched, stomach knotted, knowing what Barrington was about to do.

Thatcher stared. The shape seemed to be racing down out of nowhere. Was that it? That was the drone? Thatcher heard wind whistle through its feathers. He saw the beak open. Inanimate eyes dilated. What the hell was that? What was that in the beak? Thatcher lifted his gun, but before he could fire he saw two white sparks fly through the air. They hit him full in the stomach, shooting pain like fireworks through every nerve in his body. He dropped his gun, his phone. Staggered. And fell.

In Scotland, Barrington resisted the urge to pump his fist. It had worked! When he’d really needed it, the Eagle’s firing beak had worked! He let off two more bullets, aiming right at Thatcher’s phone, and watched the plastic casing blast apart.

Then he noticed something else—a chain around Thatcher’s neck, with something dangling from it. What was that? A memory stick? The one holding Wickett’s plans? There was a damn good chance. But he’d just let off electric bullets! Thankfully, the stick looked undamaged. But how stupid! Anxiety was making him careless.

Thatcher was down, stunned with an electric shock severe enough to knock him out for a good half hour, and his phone was blasted to pieces. It was too dangerous to try to hit the pistol, Barrington decided. The impact could release bullets.

“I can see. I’ve got the address of a safe house. I’m going to text it to you. Now go to Wickett. And be careful.”

Darkness was closing in. Will ran toward the milking shed, careful not to stumble. He had the headlight from the Trottibike, but he didn’t want to switch it on unless he had to.

Will could see the guard. He had fallen facedown in front of the shed. As he got closer, Will steeled himself. But he knew the Eagle’s weapons spec, and he was sure Barrington would only have stunned the man, not killed him. He’d wake up, but only after Will—and David Wickett—had gone.

Will crept toward the door and listened hard. He could hear breathing. He slipped inside. His foot hit metal. A bucket of water. He’d almost knocked it over. A lamp was glowing dimly. Will jerked his headlight in the direction of the breathing—and he saw Wickett.

Short brown hair. A gaunt face. Wickett’s arms were behind his back. He seemed to be tied to a metal hoop in the wall. He was blinking wildly.

Will crossed to him and whispered, “I know you’re David Wickett. My name is Will Knight. I’m here to get you out.”

“He’s been hit with electric stun bullets,” Will said. “He’ll be out for a while. He won’t stop us.”

Will interrupted: “But what? If I didn’t work with MI6, why would I be here? How would I know who you are? I’m taking you to a safe house.” Will reached into his backpack for Eye Spy. He flipped the red switch on the base, activating the diamond cutting tool. It sliced effortlessly through the plastic cuffs.

After hours of being fixed in one position, the muscles in Wickett’s shoulders and arms had frozen. Moving them was agony. Wickett gritted his teeth. Unsteadily, he started to get up. Will backed away, giving him some room.

David Wickett hesitated. The boy was tall, but he had at least a foot on him. It might come in useful, he thought, because time was running out. He couldn’t go anywhere with this boy. “I’m grateful to you,” he said quietly. “But I’m afraid I can’t go with you. Whoever you are.”

“You work with MI6, yes, I know.” Wickett’s gaze hardened. “Like the man who has been keeping me captive.”

Wickett registered his confusion. “If you really worked with MI6, surely you would know! My contact—Thatcher, or whatever his name really is. He kidnapped me.”

Will’s frown deepened. What was Wickett talking about? Barrington had asked him to collect Wickett because for some reason he couldn’t go to the local field officers. That much Will had worked out for himself. But an MI6 officer had actually kidnapped Wickett? Surely not! And if he had, why? It made no sense.

“I am sorry,” Wickett said. “But there’s no time to talk now. There is somewhere I absolutely must be.”

“You’re supposed to be at a meeting with Saxon Webb. He’s told you that if you don’t make it with your plans for cold fusion, he’ll unleash an earthquake that will wipe out Kleinkirchen.”

Wickett’s lips clamped into a thin line. But from the man’s expression, Will could see he was right. He remembered Barrington’s assurances on the phone. “MI6 is sending people to the Black Sphere. And to the Nest. They’ll arrest Webb. There will be no earthquake. Come with me, and your plans will be safe.”

“That’s what they told you?” Wickett’s eyes were wide. “Then you are not privy to what is actually going on! MI6 will send no one to the Sphere! And the only man MI6 was sending to the meeting at the Nest is the one that I imagine is now lying out there!” Wickett jabbed a finger at the door, toward Thatcher. “He was going to take my invention and sell it to InVesta. That’s what your precious MI6 have planned! Thatcher talked about it all, because he was planning to kill me. As soon as the deal was done. I heard everything!”

Will’s thoughts snagged. He stared at Wickett. MI6 had kidnapped Wickett so they could sell cold fusion to InVesta? This was unbelievable.

And yet . . . if it wasn’t true, why weren’t MI6 field officers here, rescuing Wickett now? Why had Barrington contacted him? Did Barrington know the truth? Then why hadn’t he told Will?

“How do I know? He didn’t tell me names! I have to get to that meeting. I have to give Webb what he wants.”

Wickett headed for the door. His face was set. “If he does, so be it. But I am not taking two thousand people with me.”

“But I can take you somewhere safe,” Will said angrily. “MI6 will be at the Sphere!” But as he spoke, he failed even to convince himself. Would they be there—really? Barrington could make requests, but any action on the ground would be down to the local MI6 bureau chief. And if what Wickett was saying was true . . . But Barrington had only said he’d send people. Perhaps he meant the Swiss secret service, or the police.

There was no time to think, because David Wickett was walking out of the shed. Will ran after him, just in time to see Wickett pull something from around Thatcher’s neck. Before Wickett rose, he picked up another object that had been lying in the grass.

His hand jerked. Will saw the black barrel of a Walther P99. Thatcher’s gun. Wickett held it close to his chest. A locket gleamed around his neck. He must have just taken it back from Thatcher, Will realized. The plans for cold fusion. They had to be on it.

Would Wickett really shoot him? Will wondered. He had to hope the answer was no. But he didn’t want to stake his life on it. He wasn’t sure what to do. Should he raise his hands? Should he tell Wickett he was being a fool?

“By the wall,” Wickett said as he followed Will in. “Now, your phone. Throw it in there.” He pointed the gun at the bucket of water by the door.

Wickett nodded. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. But I have to get to that meeting.” He suddenly looked panicked.

He had been driven to the milking shed. A few minutes after he’d been tied up, he’d heard his captor go out. A moment later, he’d heard the car start. The engine noise had faded. Later, the guard had come back on foot.

If they’d been outside, Barrington would have been able to see what was going on. He could have used the Eagle to stun Wickett. But no point thinking now about what might have been.

Shute Barrington’s eyes were glued to the Eagle’s monitor. What were they doing? What the hell was going on in there?

Barrington had watched Will enter the milking shed. Four minutes later, a man, presumably David Wickett, had come out. Wickett had bent over Thatcher’s body—checking if he was dead?—and Will had emerged. The Eagle had been behind Wickett. It had transmitted grainy images of the man’s back.

Then, a minute later, they’d both gone back inside. One and a half minutes after that, Wickett had run out, and now he’d grabbed Will’s bike! A red form was moving inside the shed. Will.

Barrington’s blood ran cold. Why wasn’t Will with Wickett? Was he injured? “What’s happening, Will? Call me! Are you all right?”