BISENTIENT, page 17
Meek stopped by at noon to see if Zach wanted to eat.
“Nah.” said Zach. “I'm right into something, maybe I'll grab something later.”
“Shit food and irregular eating habits.” said Meek as he disappeared down the corridor “You'll die young.”
Today was Thursday and right on time the white and red delivery van from Simpson's Caterers approached the security checkpoint. By now this was a formality and the barrier was already rising as the driver handed over the paperwork to the soldier. Instead of following procedure the other soldier was lifting the barrier rather than training his Hechler & Koch automatic weapon on the cab of the van.
At first the high revving engine noise startled both soldiers. Their heads turned instinctively towards the source of the din. The high-powered motor bike was already within fifteen yards of them and accelerating. The first soldier dropped the paperwork and tried to grab his gun, that had slipped casually round his back and he couldn't easily get it into position. The other soldier tried to reverse the upward motion of the barrier but the black and silver 1200cc bike ripped up the gravel as it bore down on the first soldier. Before the first soldier could command his weapon, his own survival instinct took over and he dived clear of the marauding bike, which whipped past him in a shower of small stones.
He glimpsed the rider and realised it was someone off the base. One of the smart-arse technicians. He recognised the red rucksack. As he rolled to his feet, he loosed off three rounds after the fast-disappearing bike but it didn't seem to impede its progress. Within four seconds it had passed out of sight down the long single-track road.
Adrenalin was pumping through Zach as he heard the crack crack crack of the Heckler and Koch. No pain, no thumps like an electric shock, they'd missed. The road was hardly ideal for escape on two wheels and Zach's heightened awareness was needed to avoid catastrophe from large portions of tree limbs or potholes that formed traps for the careless biker. He daren't reduce speed as he didn't know if he would be pursued but country lanes are unnerving for someone used to city streets. Not least someone that had not ridden a bike this powerful, nor any bike at all for three years. Zach's body was a ball of tension, his knees gripped the bike as if his life depended on it, and perhaps it did. He swerved but failed to avoid a low hanging tree branch which hammered hard on his helmet and almost caused him to lose it. As he grappled to bring the bike straight, he glimpsed a dark shape ahead. It almost filled the carriageway, which was barely wider than a single vehicle. The gap closed blindingly fast and just as Zach thought impact inevitable, he bent the bike to the right and the dark shape shifted left. As he tore past, he felt something brush his foot and he realised it had been the side of the car. Before he had time to accept his lucky escape another large vehicle rounded the next bend. Another dark saloon car but this time the driver had more time and mounted the verge to let Zach scream past. No more vehicles obstructed his noisy progress.
Inside the second vehicle, James Carver followed the screaming bike until it shot out of sight. He turned back to face forwards and pressed a speed dial on his phone.
“We need to talk.” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“AT LEAST YOU remembered the golden rule.” said Gail Hartson.
Plater felt strangely at home in the familiar surroundings of the Captain's cabin aboard the old sailing ship. He was relieved to learn that it had not actually been Bartholomew that had led him to the ambush but someone appearing as him.
“But what did they hope to achieve?” he asked.
“I don't know.” said Gail. “Perhaps they wanted to damage you somehow, so you couldn't bridge between worlds so easily. They clearly see you as a threat.”
“And you think they are somehow linked to that little guy that has been following me?” he asked.
Gail crossed and stood behind Plater, who was gazing out the window at the horizon. He could sense her presence and seemed to smell the same perfume as when they'd first met on the beach.
“From their dress I think they are occultists in the real world.” she said. “To them the Realm is the astral world, written about for centuries and described with the distillation of mystics' interpretations of what they found here. They dressed that way because it fits with their belief system. I couldn't tell you who they thought they were, but Bartholomew has many books on the subject I believe.”
“How do you know all that?” asked Plater.
“We don't.” said Gail. “It is just the best idea to fit what we see. But it seems they have you in their sights so you must take care both here and in the real world. Your home, is it safe?”
“What? Er, yes, what do you mean safe?”
“This is new territory for us.” said Gail. “Those of us most closely involved in the struggle have little to fear in the real world, we are anonymous. But you are known to them, in that world and this. We don't know what they'll do but you could be in danger. Basically, they can solve their problem in either world.”
Gail's words settled into Plater's mind and he realised for the first time that he could no longer separate the two worlds. He'd been happy so far to feel safe in the physical world, at his house with the tired wallpaper and familiar sounds and smells. The Realm was a new and, he had to admit, exciting development, but he'd been confident that if he felt he couldn't deal with it any more he could retreat to the familiarity of reality.
That confidence was now gone.
“So what do I do?” he said.
“You should be careful when you sleep.” began Gail. “Is there someone that can be in your home at night?”
Plater had not grasped it at first but now saw that it wasn't only him that was affected.
“Yes, but I can't involve others if..”
“You must.” insisted Gail. “The enterprise we are set on is vital.”
Plater knew there would be no problem having someone with him while he slept but involving Molly with the real threat of danger disturbed him. Gail could see the conflict in his eyes. Slowly she brought her hand to his face and moved her lips to plant a delicate kiss on his cheek. A moment later she pulled back then turned away and crossed the cabin.
“You are very important Mason. Important to me and to the Realm.” she said, her back still towards him.
Plater wanted to speak but no words came out, his mind had begun to dart in many directions at once. He was certainly attracted to Gail, from the first time he’d seen her. To discover a real person behind the doll-like coma patient confused his emotions even more. Then he saw Molly, sat in his bedroom, beside his sleeping body and he slipped back into the real world.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
AS A CITIZEN of the most surveilled society on the planet Zach had little doubt that someone, somewhere, would eventually spot him. Anonymity he knew belonged to most people simply by virtue of them not being of interest to those watching. Once you became the focus of attention for any one of a number of government sponsored agencies, you'd effectively crossed a line. Now anonymity, in almost any form, was lost indefinitely. Any and all information held on databases in your name could be accessed, stored and mined. The use of mobile phones, credit cards, travel cards indeed any of modern society's conveniences would trigger alerts on the screens of the watchers.
To disappear in modern Britain involves a knowledge of the techniques used to track you and an ability to survive without technology. So it was that Zach had zig-zagged across the Suffolk countryside, first heading South on the A12 but then discreetly turning off and heading first West and then North. Always keeping to the pitch-black country roads, except when he needed petrol. When paid for, in cash, he stuck once more to the dark lanes as he meandered towards a small village about five miles southeast of Spalding, Lincolnshire. He reflected with some satisfaction that he had probably passed no more than two CCTV cameras for the entire journey, both in the petrol station, and he had blocked a direct view to either of those as well. He was sure that the initial assumption would be that he'd return to London. It is a persistent belief that to vanish it is better in a crowd. Zach thought that rather than being a needle in the first haystack they'd look in, he'd choose a different haystack.
It was daylight by the time he coasted to a stop about eighty yards from a pair of stone cottages. As he watched, there was no movement, no traffic along the quiet road nor comings or goings from either house. At just before 9am Zach pulled slowly up to the side of the first cottage and rocked the huge bike onto its stand next to a large mature apple tree. He checked visibility once more and satisfied himself that the vehicle would be obscured from satellites and all but the lowest of low-flying craft; ducking under the low porch he knocked on the door.
After the third knock the door opened.
“Zach?” said the small elderly woman. “Is it you?”
“Yes Aunt Dorothy, it's me.”
“What you doing way out here then?” she asked, then as if remembering quickly added “Don't stand out there boy, come in!”
Zach followed as the little woman headed off down the narrow hallway.
“Bless me.” she muttered. “How long is it since I saw you? Got to be...got to be...it's about six years isn't it?”
“Probably nearer seven.” said Zach.
“Cup of tea?” said Aunt Dorothy scooping the kettle from the kitchen stove and sticking it under the tap.
“That'd be great Aunt, thanks.” said Zach. “How's Barney?”
“He's been dead these past three years, accident.”
“Oh I'm sorry to hear that, how did it happen?”
“Silly old bugger.” said Aunt Dorothy. “What was he doing riding horses at his age, I told him that chestnut mare would do for him one day, barely saddle broken that one. Sit.”
Zach sat at the small kitchen table and Aunt Dorothy busied herself rinsing a large brown teapot that had already seen much use. She'd been up and about since first light and was rarely far from her last cup of tea.
“You in some sort of trouble then?” said Aunt Dorothy. “Can't imagine what else'd bring you all the way out here.”
Zach was momentarily disarmed by the candor but always knew where he stood with Aunt Dorothy, a trait he had always liked in older people.
“Sort of.” he began. “It's a bit complicated but I thought I could do with getting away from it for a while, just for a couple of days, if that's okay? I wouldn't be any trouble.”
Dorothy turned from the sink.
“Dah! It's no trouble boy. You're always welcome here. Don't see nearly enough of you as it is. And don't you start on about me visiting you in London. When you get to be as old as me you get to be the one who's visited, right?”
“Yes Aunt.” said Zach, grinning.
“Alright then. And you don't need to be calling me 'Aunt', look at you, you're a grown man. Well let's get this tea in the pot then we'll see about sorting out the back room, of course there's been nobody in there for a while, bed's not aired.”
For the first time since he'd got up the previous morning Zach felt he could relax. Just for a while, just until he could think and plan what to do next. He was fairly sure they wouldn't find him here. When he was little his family had introduced numerous men and women as 'Aunts' and 'Uncles', but it wasn't until he grew up that he realised most of them weren't related at all. Dorothy had been friends with his grandmother, they'd served as Land Girls together in the second world war. As a kid Zach always enjoyed visiting Dorothy as she used to live on the Norfolk coast and Zach would take her dog Ragtime for long walks through the dunes. For a few years he would spend at least three weeks of his summer holidays there. He couldn't remember Dorothy's husband, Bill. He was often away as a trawlerman and Zach hardly saw him. He died in a huge storm, far off in the North Sea in the eighties. He'd been only a few months from retiring. A picture of Bill when he was a young man stood proudly on the Welsh dresser beside the tea caddy.
“Well, I've opened the window to blow out the cobwebs.” announced Dorothy as she came back into the kitchen and poured the tea. Placing two cups and saucers between them on the table, she sat down.
“Right, what have you done?” she asked.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
PLATER HAD LONG since gone to bed and Molly sat illuminated by the laptop's glow still following strands of research on the Church of the Reclamation. She hadn't expected there to be quite so much information to get through.
Recent items mentioning the Church all seemed to revolve around its founder's political aspirations and his run at the Texas Senate seat. Most sources had the Reverend Ethan Daniels a solid five points ahead and with only a matter of days to go until the elections, he seemed a hot favourite. There seemed to be a wave of reaction against what was perceived to be a general loosening of moral values across the US and groups approaching from a faith perspective were much in vogue.
Conscious of the need to use multiple sources Molly had searched websites, known public databases, newspaper archives and finally social networking sources. This last batch included the obvious sites such as Facebook, Instagram, Reddit and Twitter. In this arena much of the information on CoR involved personal stories of finding happiness and fulfillment performing the Lord's work. This was set against some harrowing stories by family members and ex-CoR faithful of abuse within the Church, intolerable emotional pressure and even physical intimidation. Molly found attempts by the new and traditional media to pick up on some of these tabloid-style stories but for each attempt there had been a swift legal response that had silenced the story, usually before it had been widely released to media channels.
One journalist seemed to be getting close to the CoR, certainly according to the blogs of one or two anti-CoR activists. Warren Gatts had been a noted investigative journalist in the 90s and seemed to have come out of retirement to run the rule over the CoR. It was on the third page of her search for CoR references alongside Warren Gatts' name that she came across the reports of his death.
“What the hell are you doing still up?” said a blinking Plater from the doorway.
“Research.” said Molly. “And I've just found something odd.”
“Hold it for a minute, I have to go.” said Plater as he headed for the bathroom. His eyes were acclimatised when he returned and slumped onto the sofa. “What have you got?” he said.
“Well the CoR...” began Molly.
“CoR?” said Plater.
“Church of the Reclamation.” said Molly. “The CoR is the fourteenth largest real estate owner in the entire United States and has four million registered members worldwide. But there have been rumblings about it being a cult. Each time a paper or TV station has run stories like that they've been sued and settled out of court. In each case they've never run any negative stories on the CoR again.”
“Sounds like Scientology.” said Plater sleepily.
“Yeah, only worse.” said Molly. “There was this guy called Gatts, a journalist. He was pretty famous back in the day, managed to do some exposés on big corporations in the US, remember the Elliott & Buller case? The waste disposal company that took billions from half a dozen states for ethical disposal of their waste, then they found it was being sunk in the Gulf of Mexico? That was Gatts. Anyway, he's dead, but in unusual circumstances according to a couple of blogs I've found. Seems he was tracking some link between the CoR, its leader Rev. Daniels and a scandal involving the incumbent Senator of Texas's son. Something to do with drugs.”
“Where's this going?” asked Plater, who had closed his eyes and was resting his head back onto the soft pillows of the sofa.
“Well, the point is that Gatts interviewed Rev. Daniels and less than two weeks later he turns up dead. Apparent drug overdose but the man had no history of substance abuse, except a slightly unhealthy liking for booze.”
“What does this have to do with the Church?”
“Maybe nothing but also, according to this blog, a guy that had supposedly been Gatts' snitch about the Church also died, also of drugs. Mind you he had a history of abuse at one time. In fact the Church supposedly saved him. But the odd thing about Gatts was that although he died of an overdose and was found in his office in downtown Fort Worth he had three broken fingers and a cracked rib.”
“You found this stuff on a blog? How do we know it's true? Whose blog is it?”
“It's well thought of, in the cult information scene, written by the mother of a member of CoR actually....hang on the name's here somewhere...yeah, Kathleen Moran. I sent her an email a while back just checking some facts. Haven't heard anything yet.” Molly checked her watch. “It's evening in Texas now so I might get a reply soon.”
“Well maybe you could help me out now.” said Plater. “I need a warm, soft body to hold, it helps me sleep.”
Molly smiled and pulled the laptop closed. She could get the email in the morning.
Carver felt the vibration in his pocket as it stirred him from thought. The detailed presentation being made by the Director of the CIA about current initiatives being taken in Pakistan was of considerable interest but highly technical. This was a closed session with only five people present and was already the fourth such meeting since he'd arrived at the State Department at 7:30 that morning. It was now nearly 4 p.m. and with only a brief pause for lunch it had been an intense day. He hoped he had seemed casual as he shifted position to be able to retrieve the phone and glance at the screen while still remaining attentive.
