Vérhalom Square, Budapest, Hungary
21st July 2014, 10:09 hours CET
Zoltan Kovac had been watching the girl for the past five minutes, or maybe she was watching him. He couldn’t be sure which way round it had started, but now it was noticeable and every time he glanced away, his gaze would be drawn back to her eyes, like a fish circling a hooked bait. She was standing by the swings, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her red dress, a lolly stick protruding from her red lips. He nodded towards her, but like most ten-year-olds she ignored the social cue and continued to stare, until he was forced to look away. It was uncanny and he shivered despite the heat, catching the attention of Sándor Tóth, head of his security detail, who nodded and mouthed, ‘We go in five.’ He saw Katalin, his wife, waddling over like a geriatric penguin, and groaned. Ever since the demise of Eternity, she had treated him like a baby. Without BackUp, his next stroke would be his last one – as in dead, kaput, gone for good. Hence the twice-weekly trip to play with his two grandchildren in Vérhalom Square. Come rain, snow or shine. Except he didn’t want to play with them. Nor they with him, as far as he could tell. His wife said it was because they were afraid … of him! Nonsense, he had replied, but deep down he knew she was right. What’s more, he didn’t care. He had a country to run. Sitting here was going to give him a second stroke.
‘The kids won’t play by themselves, you know,’ she scolded, collapsing onto the park bench beside her husband.
Zoltan looked over at his two grandchildren, Viktória and Tamás, screaming on the seesaw they had commandeered. They looked fine to him, he thought.
‘I know,’ he acknowledged. ‘Give me a minute and I’ll push Tamás down the slide.’
She nodded, levered herself up with some difficulty and limped off in the direction of her grandchildren. She was getting old, he thought. They both were. That bothered him. Time was running out, trickling away like sand through an hourglass. And he didn’t want to spend what little time he had left with his dim-witted grandchildren who ignored him anyway. What life was that? He stared at the speech in his lap. That was life. Or at least his subjects. Tomorrow was a big moment: Voting day for shutting those damn LEAP gates, at least for inbound traffic from other countries. He didn’t want that; no one did. It was a form of stealth immigration. A hundred thousand gates. A hundred thousand invitations. Impossible to police. Tomorrow was the day when he pushed back. Re-established national borders. Preserved Hungary. Not like other countries. They were becoming nothing more than a conglomeration of people from everywhere. All of mixed race. No, that wasn’t going to happen on his watch.
He felt eyes on him again and turned towards the girl. She had moved and was now standing just ten feet away, her long dark hair curling over one shoulder, lollipop stick still in her mouth. Without warning she approached him. Sándor stepped forward, but Zoltan waved him away, conscious of the press photographer standing nearby. There was something about the girl that intrigued him, which made no sense. He hated children, but she seemed different. The girl stopped in front of him, almost within arm’s reach away, and continued to stare, oblivious to the three agents that ringed her. He could feel his wife’s eyes on him now, no doubt furious that he had time for someone else’s grandchild.
‘Are you important?’ she suddenly said between clenched teeth, her lolly stick not moving.
The question caught him off guard, not simply because it was so direct and her tone was precocious. No, it was more than that. She had a presence about her that commanded attention. And then he realised. She reminded him of what he had been like as a ten-year-old.
‘You could say that,’ he said.
‘Do you want a téli fagyi?’ She removed a hand from her pocket. In it were grasped two cones, both wrapped in plastic.
Pinpricks of saliva exploded inside Zoltan’s mouth: winter ice cream, the thin wafer filled with a rich cocoa-flavoured mousse. They were delicious, and strictly off limits. If Katalin caught him eating that, there would be hell to pay later. Damn it, he thought. I’m the most powerful man in Hungary. I can do what I like. He accepted one of the delicacies.
‘Where did you get these?’
The girl eyed him with open curiosity, and then shrugged.
‘My nagymama – [JH2] grandma – she’s over there.’ She nodded vaguely in the direction of the swings where a group of women were gathered.
Zoltan removed the ice-cream wrapper and stared at the candy. He could definitely feel his wife’s eyes on him now, but took the plunge anyway, biting into the sweet ganache. It was kakaós – cocoa – his favourite.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
The girl shrugged, clearly indifferent to this, and continued to watch him closely, her flint grey eyes boring into his head like drills.
‘Nagymama says that they will rot your teeth.’
‘Your grandma is a very wise lady.’
‘She smells,’ the girl said.
That made Zoltan chuckle – his first of the day.
‘So do you,’ she deadpanned.
Zoltan raised his eyebrows, glancing at Sándor, who smiled knowingly. ‘I do, do I?’ he said.
‘She says it’s death stalking her.’
Zoltan looked down at the young girl. She didn’t break her stare, unblinking, eyes crystal clear despite the morning heat, the uneaten téli fagyi in one hand, her pink lolly now in the other.
He suppressed a shudder as the hairs on his back prickled. After his stroke, death was never far from his thoughts, but to have someone so young verbalise his deepest fear was deeply unsettling. He needed to stop these silly visits. Focus his remaining time on the things that mattered, but even as he thought it, he knew it would never happen. Katalin would see to that.
‘I need to go,’ she said.
Without waiting for an answer, she turned and ran back towards the group of women, just as Zoltan’s wife appeared by his side. She snatched the half-eaten cone from his fingers, tutted and threw it in the nearby bin.
***
Jude Flint passed the women talking by the swings and kept moving towards the southeast entrance of the park where two more agents were standing in the shade of a Norway maple. She crossed Vérhalom tér and continued down Vérhalom u., heading east towards the Danube. She kept her pace even, but it was difficult in the school shoes. They were a size too small, and she could feel blisters erupting on her heels as the cheap, hard plastic, rubbed her skin raw. How, she didn’t know. She had double and triple checked the modifications yesterday, yet, somehow on the day, her shoes didn’t fit properly. No matter, she would be back at Langley in ten minutes, but first she had to report the hit. Tossing both the lolly and the cone over a small wall at the intersection where Vérhalom spiked south, Jude glanced back towards the park. The street was empty, and she smiled to herself at how easy it had been, before withdrawing a cheap Nokia from her pinafore-dress pocket. She’d already pre-typed the message, ‘winter ice cream delivered’ and pressed send. Without looking, she slid the back off, clicked the battery out and let it slide to the tarmac. Next, the chip. Pausing, she dropped it down a drain cover on the side of the road. Five hundred feet further on, the phone disappeared down another culvert. Released of her burden, Jude started to skip, despite the sharp pain in her heels. She liked this Masq. In fact, she loved it. It was like an invisibility cloak. The perfect masquerade and ideal for getting round the copy restrictions imposed by the LEAP Oversight Board. She passed two children coming up Rómer Flóris with their mother, or maybe it was a nanny. The girl smiled at her as they passed. Jude dead eyed back before pushing her tongue out at the startled child. On the corner of Zivatar and Rómer Flóris she skipped down some concrete steps before stopping in front of a shop window lined with faded boxes containing all manner of electronic goods. Without pausing, Jude entered the store. Behind the counter, a man looked up and grunted. Jude nodded in reply and skipped towards the back office. As she passed through the doorway, the young girl in the red dress disappeared.
Hofdi House, Reykjavík
21st July 2014, 09:32 hours GMT
Dark clouds towered over the mess of diggers and heavy machinery that dotted the muddy terrain as two workmen in white safety hats slithered down a newly formed hill that had appeared overnight. A huge dump truck rumbled towards them, its gigantic tyres churning up what had only two weeks ago been a pristine lawn. Both men glanced upwards as a low rumble heralded the oncoming storm, and seconds later a fork of lightning jagged down behind them into Faxaflói Bay. The rain was not far behind. A smattering to begin with before a peel of thunder split the afternoon with a flashing boom that made Uma start. She shifted in the old rocking chair as a curtain of rain closed across the window she was sitting in front of, wiping away the two men, the machinery and thankfully the ruined landscape. She shivered, clasping tight arms around her thin frame, aware of the grandfather clock counting time, one heavy second after another, each moment heralded by a cold click that cut through the living room like a mini gunshot. A creak from the doorway caused Uma to turn sharply, but no one was there. She turned back towards the window. Where was he? she thought. He should have been here thirty minutes ago with the report, but he hadn’t turned up and she couldn’t get hold of him.
‘I thought I would find you here.’
Uma whirled round in shock. She hadn’t heard anyone enter.
Joseph Ingram was standing in the doorway, spidery arms crossed behind his back as if he was inspecting something beneath him.
‘How long have you been there?’ Uma turned her back on the older man, trying to sound nonchalant, but failed miserably. Seeing Ingram was always a shock, transporting her back to another place – usually, the very first time she had met the Head of the CIA. Sitting in her hotel room in LA, his thin gaze crawling over her half-naked body. How long had it been? she thought. She couldn’t remember, but it felt like this morning. That is how much Ingram had affected her. Hardly surprising really. He had repeatedly outmanoeuvred her for years, directing her like a reluctant marionette, until well, he hadn’t. When she had occupied him like a malevolent body-snatcher. The realisation drew a smile, settling her heartbeat.
‘That was a long time ago, remember.’
‘How did you know I was thinking of that?’ Uma said, failing to conceal her surprise before checking herself again. Of course he’d known what she was thinking, because he was her – Uma inside his head. Had been since 2nd May 2011, over three years ago now. A fitting revenge for the pain Ingram had caused Uma, but there had also been a practical reason as well. She – or at least her dupe inside Ingram – now controlled the most powerful security apparatus the world had ever known, along with the LEAP Oversight Board – a global committee comprised of 180 nations created to control the LEAP Laws. For the first time in years, it had put Uma – both of them – in control.
‘This is my favourite room you kn—’ Uma stopped herself again. Of course, Ingram knew. He had been there, as her, but she still repeated the oft-repeated memory.
‘We used to sit there with Papa.’ She turned, nodding at the fireplace. ‘I felt so safe, wrapped in his arms.’
‘I remember,’ Ingram said softly. ‘I also remember Dad being a complete pain to Ingram. It was Ingram’s first assignment abroad. The Summit.’
Uma nodded. Ingram had a unique memory perspective – he had a complete set of her memories up to 2nd May 2011, but also his own. When Uma occupied Ingram, she had preserved his memories. She had no choice if she was going to oversee the United States intelligence community and chair the LOB – which often led to some very strange conversations. Like now: Uma had been just six when her father had brokered the Reykjavík Summit in 1986, the nuclear disarmament meeting between Ronald Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev. She had no firm memories of that period except snatched glimpses, like sitting in the chair with her father. Ingram, on the other hand, was a senior intelligence analyst in the CIA at the time and had met her father.
‘It was Ingram’s first main posting, to run the security alongside Fredrik.’
Another memory scuttled across Uma’s hippocampus. Of Fredrik Baldursson, her father’s closest friend, and Head of the Viking Squad, the Special Operations Unit of the National Commissioner of the Icelandic Police. But hers was of a different day. Of Fredrik lying face up in the Blue Lagoon, an axe head buried deep in his chest. She felt her eyes mist over. Not because of Fredrik. Something much worse: Ethan. All memories led to Ethan. It was the law of memories. At least hers. Every memory seemed one synapse away from him. That night, her first kiss in the Blue Lagoon, his soft lips closing on hers. Suddenly, she felt another kiss. This time, their last, just before Ethan voluntarily stepped through the LEAP gate in her DC apartment. Three years, eleven months and twenty-nine days ago. It felt like a lifetime, worse … an eternity. And the approaching anniversary was a hangman’s noose as waves of guilt swept over her. It had been her fault. She had instigated the chain of events that led to his death: intentionally telling him about her rape at the hands of Forsyth, knowing how he would react, watching him chase Forsyth across the floor of the Daily Event’s TV studio, through a gate, back to Saudi, where he was sentenced to a rolling rota of weekly whippings. That is, until she had rescued him and inadvertently created two copies which was a breach of the LEAP Laws. Dumb move. It was only a matter of time before they were found out by the newly formed LEAP Oversight Board that had been created to enforce the LEAP Laws. Ethan spotted the danger. He always had: once everybody found out what she had done, it was game over for Uma. She would have lost everything, so Ethan had sacrificed his life. For her. Believing she had done it all for love. Except she hadn’t. She had done it all for revenge and the realisation weighed heavy on her. A burden of guilt that she lumped around like a ball and chain across every hour of every day. Her own life imprisonment, from which there was no escape.
Uma felt an arm on her shoulder and turned to face Ingram. His face reflected hers – creased with pain, tears leaking down his sharp cheeks. They embraced quietly until the pain lessened slightly from the unbearable to the merely tolerable. Uma pulled away, trying to think of something to avoid more memories of Ethan. She glanced towards the earthworks, now almost invisible in the torrential downpour.
‘It’ll be finished soon,’ she heard Ingram say.
‘Is it really necessary?’
She felt him shrug beside her.
‘On balance, yes.’
‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘But the cost?’
She wasn’t referring to the fifty-odd million dollars she had spent acquiring Hofdi House along with every building along a three-quarter mile strip of land: from Snorrabraut in the west to Route 40 in the east, and everything between the shoreline and Borgartun behind her. Nor the cost of diverting Route 41, the highway running in front of Hofdi House. No, that wasn’t the cost she was thinking about. It was the footprint cost. All this space for one family. All this energy expended to protect three people.
‘It’s a heavy price to pay, but we had no choice. Whether you like it or not, being the richest person in the world, and the face of LEAP, brings a security risk that the Oversight Board felt was too important to ignore.’
Uma nodded. She knew Ingram was right but had fought the idea tooth and nail following her decision to relocate back to Iceland, specifically to Hofdi House, the location of her parents’ first house. Eventually she had reluctantly acquiesced, and the work had started: first the buildings went, the land rewilded and now the highway was following the same fate, leaving her in glorious isolation.
What were people calling her? The Ice Queen, stuck in her cold palace at the end of the world, cut off from the reality of what LEAP had created. It already felt like a prison to her, but that was her own doing, she reminded herself. One created by the memory of her dead boyfriend.
A scream drew Uma back into the room and she turned just in time to see a blur of bodies rifle through the doorway.
‘Kristin. Kristófer.’ Ingram cried, a half smile breaking out across his long face.
