November 2003. Brilliant scientist Uma Jakobsdóttir has figured out a way to solve global warming for good. Known as LEAP, the system is capable of providing Earth’s ultimate second chance...until it falls into the wrong hands.
Route 41, South-West Iceland
13 November 2003, 18:43 hours GMT
The doomed four-by-four plumed thick fountains of spray into the darkness as it crawled along the narrow highway to Keflavík International Airport, its bright beams illuminating a hypnotic kaleidoscope of churning rain. The sight made Sally Moltex nauseous. She tried the side window, but it was mirror black, reflecting the Jeep’s night-lit interior back at her. She closed her eyes, willing the vehicle to move faster as a thrill of excitement surged through her at the memory of what they’d seen that afternoon. Almost immediately, it was replaced by a prickle of fear. Everything screamed hoax: one second, they’d been stood inside the Department of Geothermal Studies, the next, they were in Ethan Rae’s London Town house. They’d gone outside onto a busy Camden Town street thick with traffic. Alone. Ethan had insisted on that. They’d walked to the tube station. Bought a newspaper. Again, Ethan had been insistent. They’d asked someone where they were. And a second person. The third had shouted abuse at Sally; accused her of being an ignorant Yank. Of not knowing that she was in London. James had eventually intervened in his charming British way, calmed the man down, and they’d returned to Ethan’s office. Twenty minutes later, they were back in Reykjavík. Heads spinning at what they’d seen. Hearts beating with what Ethan had given them.
‘Do you think LEAP’s fake?’ she asked her companion.
James Reagan didn’t reply straight away. Without taking his eyes off the road, he attempted another call to his producer at News 24/7 in London. Nothing. He was going to miss tomorrow’s deadline if he didn’t get through soon. Seven million Saturday viewers was no disaster, but it was well below his Friday average.
‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Ethan wouldn’t risk it. What would he gain by misleading us?’
‘That’s what I can’t work out,’ Sally said, tracing her fingers along the cold glass of the passenger window, trying to keep pace with the streaming water.
‘How do you fake what we just saw?’ James said. ‘Besides which, it will do him way more damage if he’s lying.’
Sally wasn’t so sure. She liked James. Had known him for twenty years, but he anchored a light entertainment show for a channel that needed content. Lots of content. She, on the other hand, unearthed stories. Real stories that took months to fact check before she allowed them to be broadcast. If they got this wrong, James could blame Ethan, an eccentric billionaire. She would be finished.
‘I need more time,’ Sally said.
‘Ethan is launching in ten days. With or without us.’
‘You’d broadcast on the strength of what he just showed us?’
‘As of midday tomorrow,’ he said. ‘That’s if we can take off to—’
He never finished his sentence. A loud crack from the rear of the Jeep veered it savagely left. James tried to counter by wrenching the steering hard right, but the small charge had done its job. The Jeep flipped, bleeding fuel from its shattered underbelly as it slithered off Route 41 and onto the lava below. The dead rock punctured the thin roof, ripping through plastic, metal and cables which sparked into life. Fumes met fire and a blinding explosion boiled into the sheeting rain, as long forgotten lava flows glowed red in approval.
Department of Geothermal Studies, Reykjavík
13 November 2003, 18:45 hours GMT
The axe head cut deep into the ancient oak, spuming clouds of dust into the deserted office. Andreus Grond worked the heavy blade free and paused to survey the devastation around him: books and periodicals lay scattered among smashed computers, broken chairs and toppled filing cabinets, their contents almost burying an upturned table. He glanced at his watch: 18:46.
The day’s real work had just been concluded thirty miles southwest. That had been trickier, especially setting the charge. The journalists had waited in their Jeep for nearly thirty minutes before disappearing into the bowels of the building, probably to this room. That hadn’t been the problem; they had returned much sooner, almost catching him underneath the Jeep, but he had planned for that as well. A loosened bumper on his Shogun, parked in the next bay, was his alibi. Baseball cap pulled low, collar high, he had knelt in the drenching rain, securing the moulded plastic with rope as the two journalists had rushed past him in their race to escape the downpour.
Otherwise, this had been one of his easiest assignments to date; the request had been made through a bulletin board buried deep within the Yahoo community pages under ‘Landscaping Ideas’. However, to Andreus Grond, it meant work and, by tomorrow, freedom. As soon as he had completed this job. His last job.
The realisation energised him. Grond hefted the axe and, in a fluid movement, swung the blade back towards the last doorframe, which provided no more resistance than the other five. He detached the head, wiped it clean and collapsed the handle into three separate pieces before placing all four parts in his rucksack. As he exited the room, he stopped before a large portrait of a middle-aged man holding a steaming fountain of water in his cupped hands. Grond removed a blade from a sheath attached to his thigh and sliced the canvas twice, corner to corner. The bottom triangle of material slowly unfurled like a limp flag, covering the inscription below the picture. Satisfied, he continued down the stairs and out into the storm.
Camden Town, London
13 November 2003, 20:01 hours GMT
Ethan Rae looked up from his desk whilst CNN droned on in the background. Through the thick glass of his office, he had an uninterrupted view of the adjoining open-plan area where forty or so of his associates rushed from one task to the next. It looked chaotic, but most had been with him since the beginning and all moved with a common purpose—their biggest divestment yet. This one had been a long haul. Seventeen weeks in total. It showed. Everyone looked exhausted, but the end was near. Although Ethan couldn’t hear anything, he could feel the familiar cocktail of anticipation and tension as the finishing line drew closer.
Ethan’s gaze was drawn to a photograph on the edge of his desk. He didn’t need the picture to remind him of the faces in the small frame, even though he hadn’t seen either of them for over twenty-five years. A young couple bathed in sunlight, smiling at something off camera. Between them, a small child gazed up expectantly. Ethan closed his eyes, savouring the memory of that rare summer’s day in Aberdeen: the softness of his mother’s skirt on his cheek, the air still heavy from a thunderstorm that morning, the pungency of his father’s cologne tickling his nose. A wave of contentment washed over Ethan like a warm blanket, and he sat there bathing in its fleeting embrace, even as he remembered his father receiving a phone call that same afternoon, one that would send them all overseas and —.
Right on cue, his leg began to ache. Resigned, he braced himself for what was to come. Hot flicks of pain across his back, moving slowly at first, but he knew the drill. They would quicken. They always did. And they wouldn’t stop until the count of fifty. He leant forward in his seat, hands gripping the table, eyes closed, fighting the urge to cry out as the final ten flashes of pain began. They cut deepest, slicing through flesh until he could feel warm blood run freely down his back, the memory still raw after all these years. When the pain stopped, he stood up gingerly, his shirt bathed in sweat, willing the memory away, but it wouldn’t be hurried. Finally, he opened his eyes, collapsing back into his seat, where he stared blankly at the TV on his desk.
It was some seconds before the images on the screen registered. The couple looked familiar, but he couldn’t work out why. And then recognition dawned: It was James Reagan and Sally Moltex!
As he watched, England’s most celebrated TV journalist and the US’ current hot investigative TV reporter faded to the familiar glass frontage of Keflavík airport. Ethan grabbed the remote, his pain forgotten.
‘... Jeep Cherokee crashed on the way to Iceland’s International Airport in the middle of a violent November storm. The vehicle was discovered by a road crew who had come out to investigate the loss of power in one of the many thermal generators that line Route 41. Apparently, the four-by-four left the road less than a mile from the airport. Although the cause of the accident is unknown, rescuers have already dismissed the possibility of survivors due to the ferocious diesel fire they discovered at the scene. Early indications are that the force of the impact must have caused the vehicle’s fuel tank to explode, which would have given its occupants no chance of getting out alive, even if they’d escaped the fifteen-foot drop onto the lava flows below. Sally Moltex and James Reagan are two of the—’
Ethan muted the presenter, the TV rushing away from him as if he were viewing it through the wrong end of a telescope. He’d only met Sally and James a few hours ago. Had organised the meeting. Shown them LEAP. His chest suddenly tightened at the realisation that he may have led them to their deaths. The timing was too great a coincidence and that meant someone knew about their plans.
More worryingly, Uma might be in danger.
The thought catapulted Ethan out of his chair and into the deal room. As he passed the first row of workstations, Pike, Head of Deals, his face etched with fatigue from too many late nights, stepped forward to intercept his boss.
‘Ethan, Chandler’s sticking on the retentions. They want one percent of the purchase price.’
‘Give it to him.’
Pike stopped in his tracks. ‘That’s one hundred million!’ he exclaimed. ‘We’ve never gone this high. Why start now?’
‘Time’s not on our side. We launch Green Ray within the month.’
‘That’s my worry. They might smell a rat if we cave in too readily.’
‘No chance,’ Ethan said, continuing to the back of the room, where he paused in the doorway that led up to his living quarters. ‘This deal is past the point of no return. It will cost them the best part of their £25 million exclusivity fee if they walk now. Not to mention advisor fees. Give them the point and close the deal.’
Pike looked crestfallen. He wasn’t used to selling. None of the team were. Until twelve months ago, they had prided themselves on being the most acquisitive private corporate finance team in the country, with over £20 billion worth of deals under their collective belts. But that had all changed overnight when his boss had announced a fire sale of his entire holdings. Every last penny was being channelled into Green Ray. Despite the obvious reference to the environment, no one knew exactly what it was. The entire project was shrouded in secrecy, but it was big. To date, over £30 billion was now sat in the fund.
Ethan disappeared through the door and as it swung shut, the clatter of the office was suddenly muted. He pressed the VoRec implant in his right ear.
‘Jill, get me Uma.’
‘Yes, Ethan. Do you want her home, office or mobile?’ the auto attendant asked in a reassuring, but manufactured tone.
‘Home,’ he guessed.
Seconds later, Uma answered.
‘Uma, thank God. Have you seen the news? Sally and …’
His voice trailed off as he heard the familiar click of Uma’s voicemail.
‘Jill, try all three numbers.’
Ethan continued up the wide oak staircase of the restored Victorian terrace. In the absence of family photos, Ethan’s housekeeper had hung framed magazine covers in clutches of four above each step. Technology Monthly sat alongside Forbes and an assortment of other, similarly titled publications, all of which contained smiling images of Ethan staring miserably into the camera. On the first landing they petered out, replaced by homeless frames which lay ten deep on the thick carpet. Propping up one of the piles were several Business Person of the Year awards, stacked on top of each other like abandoned Lego bricks.
Past the first floor-landing, the steps were set much closer together, allowing Ethan to take them in twos, until he reached the top floor of the old house. A smooth stainless steel door faced him, a black mat beneath. On each side, protruding from the walls at waist height, were two solid blocks of dull grey plastic. There was no handle or apparent means of opening the door. A small inscription on the bottom right corner read ‘Gatekeeper. Rae Security Group’.
Ethan positioned his feet on the black mat and flattened both palms on the blocks. A thin rod, the width of the doorframe, emerged from the ceiling and slowly descended. As it drew level with his hair, a band of light lit up his forehead, flashing once as it reached his eyes. Jill’s comforting voice confirmed the results.
‘Optical scan, successful. Palm and finger scans, successful. Please state your name for the record.’
‘Ethan Rae.’
‘Voice authentication successful. Ethan, please maintain your position,’ instructed Jill as the black rod slowly completed its patient descent and soundlessly disappeared into the floor.
‘Body X-Ray and scan matches medical records. A one hundred and fifty millimetre titanium rod and two screws in right femur. Amalgam filling in upper right rear molar. Correct scar tissue density, length and width on right thigh. Body mass is within acceptable parameters. You have been cleared for personal profiling. Which school does your son go to?’
‘I don’t have any children.’
‘Please provide the birth date of your wife.’
‘I’m not married.’
‘How much did you give to charity last year?’
‘£250 million.’
‘Personal profiling, complete. You have been cleared for entry.’
As the door slid open, a familiar voice in his ear stopped him from entering the empty room beyond.
‘Ethan?’
‘Uma! Where are you?’
‘I’m at the lab.’
‘What are you doing there? I thought you’d be home by now.’
‘I was. The university’s security office called me in, about half an hour ago. It’s a disaster in here. Someone’s completely wrecked the place.’
‘Christ! When did this happen?’ he said.
‘I’m not sure. Whoever broke in must have struck shortly after we left this evening.’
‘Did they take anything?’
‘All the doorframes have been destroyed.’
Ethan swallowed hard.
‘Do you think someone found out about our meeting with Sally and James?’ she said.
There was a long silence.
‘Uma,’ he finally said. ‘They’re both dead.’
‘That’s not possible.’ Her voice was tight with incredulity. And something else—fear. ‘I just saw them off. How do you know?’
‘It was on the news. Their Jeep crashed on Route 41.’
‘They’re dead?’
‘There was a fire. The Jeep exploded. Nobody survived.’
‘Ethan, what’s going on?’ She sounded panic-stricken. ‘How could this be? Has someone found out what we’re doing?’
‘I don’t know. None of it makes any sense. I was thinking of coming over. Once the police make the connection, they’re going to be all over you and the lab.’
‘They were already here when I arrived.’
Ethan groaned inwardly. How had they moved so fast?
‘I’ll go to your father’s house then. When can you get there?’
‘That might not be possible.’ Uma’s voice had acquired a note of caution. He could hear muffled voices in the background but, seconds later, she was back on the line. ‘The police are there as well. They came to pick me up after I got the call about the offices. I thought it was strange at the time, but maybe they already know I was with James and Sally this afternoon.’
‘Just stay put. You’re in the best place,’ he said. ‘I’ll still head out now. If I leave for the airport in the next thirty minutes, I can be in Reykjavík by midnight.’
‘What do I say if they ask about James and Sally?’
‘The truth. We were helping them with an Anglo-American story on Internet security. That’s perfectly feasible considering my current profile, plus they must know that you and I have been working together for twelve months now. We’ve absolutely nothing to hide.’
‘You’re right.’ She sounded more relaxed. ‘Where do I go afterwards? Suppose I’m next on the list.’
‘Unlikely,’ Ethan said. ‘If whoever is behind this wants to hurt you, they have had plenty of opportunities already. They’re either trying to scare us off or slow us down. I think we’re both safe for the time being.’ Ethan sensed Uma was not reassured and tried a different tack. ‘Call Baldursson.’
‘Fredrik?’
‘He was a close friend of your father’s.’
‘I’m not sure it’s his area.’
‘Who cares? He said his job was to protect you, that he owed that much to your father. Now’s his chance.’
‘OK, that makes sense.’ Uma sounded relieved. ‘I’ll try him now.’ The phone line went quiet again, but almost immediately, Uma was back. ‘Ethan, I have to go. The police want to talk to me.’
Ethan shut his phone and stared at the smooth metal door that had slid silently back into place during their brief conversation—there was no way he could use LEAP if the offices and the house were swarming with police. They might be there for hours. His back prickled at the thought of something happening to Uma whilst he was here, sat in London, waiting for them to leave. It was that same feeling of helplessness after he’d lost his parents. That he could have done something differently but hadn’t. The problem was that if he flew now, he wouldn’t get to her until after midnight. At least she was with the police, but he couldn’t help thinking that whoever had the resources to kill off two of the West’s most recognisable journalists would probably not be deterred by local law enforcement. Baldursson had been a good idea; he ran a Special Unit that supported the police on dangerous operations. If Uma managed to get hold of him, he might be able to provide an armed escort for her. The thought of guns made his mind up. He hurried down the steep steps, two at a time, firing off instructions to Jill.
‘Call Brett Adams. I need a ride to the airport. Then get hold of Robin Greg. Tell him to ready the Challenger for an immediate trip to Iceland. I want to leave within the hour.’
By now he was standing in a tiny room at the end of the first-floor landing. It was dominated by a black-and-white photograph hung opposite a thin mattress that lay against one wall. The picture was over five feet across and depicted a couple in their early thirties staring into the camera. Both were laughing, their eyes almost shut tight with merriment. Ethan couldn’t bring himself to look and instead busied himself with his mattress, removing the thin sheet and rolling it up before tying the light foam with twine. He tucked it under one arm and swiped his thumb over a blank light-switch plate. A vertical crack appeared in the wall, which soundlessly enlarged as two partitions glided apart to reveal the rest of Ethan’s bedroom. A battered writing desk sat in the large bay window overlooking the main road and he made his way over to the only other piece of furniture in the room, an early Victorian combination wardrobe that the outgoing owners had sold him seven years earlier. He grabbed a small leather holdall, into which he threw jeans, several shirts, underwear, socks, a thick waterproof fleece and gloves. As he finished, there was a timid knock on the open door. It was Georgina Carr, his resident caretaker, chef and housekeeper, come to tell him that his ride to the airport had arrived.
Traffic out of central London was in its usual state of crawling indifference to the collective impatience of both early evening commuters and one particularly anxious passenger. Ethan forced himself to concentrate on e-mails and missed calls whilst he fought with visions of Uma surprising the intruders that had wrecked her offices. It never seemed to end well. Each outcome left him with a knot in his stomach and nursing a cold sweat. He willed time to move faster, but it seemed to stand still, along with the cars ahead.
At 21:18, the limo pulled up outside the gates of PCA, a private charter company that leased Rae Enterprises a berth for the Bombardier Challenger 800. Ethan was soon twisting and turning through a maze of metal and concrete that the driver of their small two-seater electric buggy navigated with weary familiarity. Eventually, the buildings gave way to open tarmac and shortly he was standing inside a cavernous hangar, shaking hands with Robin Greg, his pilot. Conversation was impossible above the roar of two rear-mounted GE CF34-3B1 turbo-fan engines, so they walked in silence over to the mobile stairwell, where an immigration official cleared their paperwork. The two men hurried up the narrow metal stairs into the sleek interior of the business jet airliner. As the door locked shut, the sudden silence calmed Ethan. They would be in Iceland within three hours. His optimism was short-lived.
‘Boss, we may have a problem,’ Robin announced. ‘There’s a nasty weather system heading towards southern Iceland. All flights into and out of Keflavík are moving freely at the moment, but it may not last.’
Ethan groaned with frustration. Had he made the wrong decision? Should he stay in London and wait till the storm cleared?
‘What do you suggest we do?’
‘There’s not much we can do, other than monitor air-traffic control for further updates,’ Robin said.
‘Can we beat it?’
‘We might slip through if we leave now.’
‘Let’s do it,’ Ethan said, heading towards the rear of the plane, through the office-cum-meeting room and into the dining area, where he threw his travel bag and mattress into a corner before settling into a large, soft, brown-leather armchair.
‘Can I get you anything more substantial to eat, sir?’ enquired his flight attendant, who placed a selection of canapés beside him. Ethan suddenly realised how hungry he was and ordered a tuna salad before booting up a recessed screen that silently dropped to eye level. Already, his inbox was groaning under the weight of yet more e-mails, but once again he found work impossible. Instead, his thoughts drifted twelve hundred miles north to the woman who had changed his life forever in the twelve short months he had known her.
