James Barrington - Pandemic

Henderson had already dragged himself into a sitting position against the wall, and was pulling his own Glock from its shoulder holster. Without hesitation, Richter swung the pistol up, sighted and squeezed the trigger. Henderson’s head snapped back as the 9mm copper-jacketed slug punched half his brains through the back of his skull and splattered them onto the wall behind him.

Richter swung his pistol around further, covering Ridout this time. Then he lowered the weapon on seeing that his first shot had missed the Kevlar jacket and had hit Ridout just below the navel. He was clutching his stomach and moaning, and was obviously no threat.

Just then Blake pushed the briefing-room door open and Richter saw the muzzle of a Uzi swinging towards him. He dived sideways, over the top of Ridout, and somersaulted across the floor, landing in a crouch and with the Glock extended in front of him.

Blake pulled the trigger and a ten-round burst screamed across the room towards Richter. Three of the bullets smashed into Ridout, two hitting the Kevlar jacket but the third ploughed into his head, just above his right ear, and killed him instantly. The other rounds pursued Richter’s rapidly moving figure, crashing into the wood-panelled walls. As happens with all submachine-guns on automatic fire, the muzzle of the Uzi had lifted, and Blake was lowering it to adjust his aim, when Richter fired twice with the Glock.

His first bullet hit the Uzi’s pistol-grip, severing Blake’s middle finger, and the second passed over the weapon and hit his neck, half an inch above the protection of his Kevlar jacket, and he fell back, dead.

John Westwood had just managed to struggle to his feet, leaning his back for support against the wall, when he saw the door leading to the cellar swing open. He’d intended hopping down the hall to the kitchen, to find a knife to cut the tape binding his limbs, but as the door opened he realized he needn’t bother.

Richter glanced both ways as he emerged from the doorway, pistol in one hand and a cumbersome bunch of Uzis, Glocks and magazines clutched to his chest by the other. He nodded to Westwood, dropped the weapons and mags on the floor, and stepped away towards the kitchen. He returned a few moments later with a steak knife, and sliced through the tape binding Westwood’s wrists and ankles.

‘You OK, John?’ he asked, and Westwood nodded. ‘Didn’t anybody ever tell you never to open the door to strange men?’

‘I didn’t open the door to anyone,’ Westwood protested. ‘This door was bolted on the inside, but somehow they must have got in at the back.’

Richter nodded. ‘My fault,’ he said. ‘The back door, off the kitchen, is secured by an electric lock with an external keypad, and obviously Nicholson’s men knew the code. It hasn’t got internal bolts, but I should have jammed a chair against it or something.’

‘What happened down below?’

‘We had an exchange of views, and the CIA will be sending out three letters of condolence next week.’

‘So who’s that still yelling down there?’ Westwood demanded.

‘Nicholson,’ Richter replied. ‘I had to take his mind off grabbing a Uzi and ventilating me, so I popped a round through his leg. He’ll be walking with a limp for a while.’

Nicholson was lying where he’d fallen, both hands clutching his wounded leg just above the knee. The floor around him was soaked with blood and Richter knew he would die from blood loss if something wasn’t done quickly about the bullet wound. He knelt beside him and tied a rough tourniquet around the man’s thigh, then applied a broad bandage, taken from a first-aid kit in the kitchen, around the wound itself.

‘Now,’ Richter said, after Westwood propped Nicholson up against the wall, ‘as I was saying before we were interrupted, we want to know more about CAIP. Tell us, and we’ll call for an ambulance so you can be in hospital within the hour. If you refuse, then you can probably guess what we’ll do.’

Nicholson looked from Richter to Westwood, but just shook his head, his face a mask of pain.

‘I don’t believe this, Paul,’ Westwood murmured. ‘It’s a covert operation that’s over thirty years old and he still won’t tell us what it was about?’

‘He will eventually. He just needs to be encouraged a little.’ Richter stood up, leaned against the wall of the briefing-room and rested his right foot very gently on Nicholson’s left shin. ‘I’ll ask you again,’ he said. ‘What was CAIP?’

The injured man shook his head once more, and Richter could see him tensing for the pain he knew would come. Richter pressed down harder, then moved his foot backwards, rolling the wounded leg sideways. Nicholson’s scream cut through the air as he grabbed frantically at his shin, desperate to immobilize it.

‘What was CAIP?’ Richter repeated, as the howl died away into a moan. ‘I can go on all day, Nicholson. You can’t, unfortunately.’ And he pushed sideways once more, watching the injured man’s expression closely for signs of capitulation.

And then Nicholson spoke, almost imperceptibly. ‘Stop,’ he said, his voice weak and wavering. ‘For God’s sake, stop. I’ll tell you.’

The other two men crouched down in front of him, listening intently.

‘I’ll tell you,’ Nicholson repeated, sweat glistening on his brow. ‘I’ll explain what CAIP was – and why we did it.’

‘OK,’ Richter grunted, ‘let’s hear it.’

As Nicholson began speaking his voice was so low that they had to lean forward to catch what he was saying. ‘First, you need to understand the background. What do you know about Weltanschauung and eugenics?’

Richter glanced at Westwood, who shrugged his shoulders in incomprehension. ‘Not a lot,’ Richter replied, ‘though I do know what the words mean. Weltanschauung is a High German term meaning a world view or philosophy. The fact you’ve mentioned eugenics suggests you’re thinking about Hitler’s perverted vision of the future of Germany and the Third Reich. His Weltanschauung was that only the strong should survive, and that the toughest of those would become the rulers of the rest, first of Germany, then of Europe and finally of the world. Every other race and nation would be reduced to second-class citizenship, used as a slave-labour force or, in the case of the Jews, exterminated. Basically, the Nazis used the idea as a justification for the Holocaust.

‘Eugenics is pretty much the same, but without the jackboots and concentration camps. Refinement and enhancement of the race through selective breeding. It’s a discredited, foul idea.’

Nicholson shook his head. ‘Not so,’ he said, his voice strengthening. ‘The idea of eugenics is no different in concept to what farmers and biologists do with plants and animals. They try to breed the hardiest crops, the fastest horses, the most intelligent dogs or whatever. Eugenics is no different.’

‘Except that you’re talking about human beings,’ Westwood interrupted. ‘That makes it different. The concept is unacceptable.’

‘The government of Singapore would argue with you,’ Nicholson said. ‘They started a eugenics programme back in 1986. They offered pay increases to female university graduates who had children and at the same time paid grants for property purchase to women who hadn’t been to university, as long as they agreed to be sterilized after they’d had one or two children.’

‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it,’ Westwood said.

‘Your ignorance doesn’t alter the reality of the situation. The government of Singapore made no secret of their programme, and it was entirely voluntary. If it’s successful, the result should be an overall increase in the intelligence level of that nation, and at the same time a reduction in the rate of population growth. Which is,’ Nicholson added, ‘the second factor.’