Will Adams - Newton’s Fire

‘Yes, Prime Minister.’

‘They’re waiting for this man Croke,’ she told Interior. ‘We need to delay his arrival. Stack him. Make him circle. Just buy us time.’

He nodded and rose to his feet. ‘I’ll get on it now, Prime Minister.’

‘Nothing obvious. We don’t want them knowing we’re on to him.’

‘No, Prime Minister.’

She turned to her Chief of the General Staff. ‘We can’t risk waiting,’ she said. ‘You’re going to have to storm the Dome.’

He gave a grimace. ‘It won’t be easy,’ he warned. ‘It’s surrounded by wide-open spaces. They have line of sight from doors and windows. They appear to be well-armed, well-trained, and they’re certain to be anticipating some kind of action.’

‘What if we drop in from above?’

‘That would mean helicopters. They’d be sure to hear them.’

‘The TV stations have been clamouring for us to let them put their choppers up,’ said Interior, pausing at the door. ‘We’ve told them no so far. If we gave them permission, would their noise cover ours?’

‘What if one of them broadcasts us doing the drop?’ asked Finance.

‘Then they’ll lose all future use of their testicles,’ said the Prime Minister curtly. She turned to General Staff. ‘Well? Could you make it work?’

‘This kind of operation,’ he said unhappily, ‘it takes precise intelligence. It takes planning. It takes training.’

‘I know it does. But we don’t have time. It’ll start getting light soon. Your men need to be in place before then.’

‘Yes, Prime Minister. I’ll set it up now.’

‘Thank you. And General …’

‘Yes?’

‘Your best people. Your very best. Let them know that these fanatics want to start a war that could mean the end of Israel. Our nation’s survival depends upon them. So they have my authority to do whatever it takes. Whatever it takes . If they see even a glimmer of an opportunity, any glimmer, they’re to take it.’

He nodded soberly. ‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘I’ll let them know.’

Walters found himself watching the flight-map obsessively. Finally they passed south of the Aegean and reached unbroken deep water. Croke nodded when he went to notify him. ‘Craig says we shouldn’t depressurize at thirty thousand,’ he said. ‘Too much stress. He says to wait until we’re on our descent.’

‘Won’t we be too close to the coast by then?’

‘Apparently not. We’ll be coming in over water. And it will still be dark enough. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ said Walters. But he was fuming as he left, angry at himself more than anything. It was clear to him now that Croke had been stringing him along. He’d never intended to get rid of Luke and Rachel. Why should he care if Walters went down for murder, after all? It would just mean one less salary to pay.

Bollocks to that , thought Walters. Croke liked his faits accomplis — it was time to give him one.

He made his way back to the cargo hold, found Kohen kneeling before the Ark, cleaning it with swabs of cotton wool dabbed in solvent. ‘Take a break,’ he told Kieran, who was on watch.

‘It’s okay,’ said Kieran. ‘It’s pretty interesting, actually.’

‘I said take a break.’

Kieran hesitated, then nodded. ‘Yes, boss.’

Walters walked him to the door and closed it behind him, leaving himself alone with Kohen. He hadn’t come equipped for this, but there were abundant raw materials to hand. The shrink-wrap and other packaging materials from the pallets had been stuffed between the oak chests and the wall. He found a length of five feet or so of woven blue polythene strapping, tugged it to make sure it was fit for purpose. ‘How’s it coming along?’ he asked Kohen.

‘Nearly ready,’ nodded Kohen. ‘I’ve tested all the components. They each do precisely what they’re supposed to do. And the design itself … it’s brilliant . I honestly think it’s going to work.’

‘Is that right?’ asked Walters.

‘It’s been three hundred years,’ said Kohen. ‘So there’s no way to know for sure until we try it. But yes, I think so.’

Walters wound the polythene strapping twice around each hand to give himself a good grip, while leaving enough free in between to do the grim business. He crossed his arms as he walked up behind Kohen, making a loop of it. ‘Why not try it now?’ he asked.

‘At thirty thousand feet?’ scoffed Kohen. ‘What if I’ve misread the plans? What if we hit turbulence? No, thanks. I vote we wait until we land. It won’t take long, after all. Just pour in the acid and-’

Walters brought the loop of strapping down around Kohen’s throat and pulled it tight before he could cry out. Kohen dropped his swab and tried to claw his fingernails beneath it, but the garrotte was a cruel weapon: it didn’t allow for comebacks. And Kohen was far too late, too slow and too weak. Already he was struggling for air. His face turned hideous colours, he flapped his arms, he kicked. A wet patch appeared on the crotch of his trousers. His struggles weakened into spasms that became twitches and then even those stopped.

Walters laid Kohen on his back. He pulled the blue strapping as tight around his neck as he could, then tied a knot in it, like a macabre string tie. He flapped out a tarpaulin, dragged Jay onto it, then folded it back over him so that he couldn’t be seen from the main cabin. Satisfied, he wiped his hands on his trousers then went to find a fresh length of strapping.

It was time for the girl.

Galia Michaeli had dreamed all her young life of being at the heart of a breaking news story. Now, in just her second week of work experience at the Tel Aviv studios, she was at the heart of the breaking story of the decade. And her main task had been made very clear to her three times already. It was to make coffee on request, and otherwise stay out of the way.

The news channel had a generic email address, but no one ever used it. No one who mattered, at least. It was, however, one of Galia’s jobs to check it every morning, just in case. She did so now. It included another copy of the already notorious email from the Dome assailants. They’d obviously sent it to everyone they could think of. She opened the various attachments out of curiosity. Most were photographs that had already been shown on the news. And there was also the list of prisoners to be released. Without any great expectation, she checked this Word document to see if it had its Track Changes feature on, and whether she’d therefore be able to see earlier drafts. She sat up a little when she noticed a few minor changes in formatting. And then, as if by magic, a whole extra paragraph suddenly appeared.

Our final demand: Aircraft registration number N12891F has now landed at Ben Gurion Airport. Its passengers and cargo are to be escorted by military convoy to the Golden Gate on the Temple Mount. Failure to comply will result in the immediate destruction of the Dome.

Her mouth was dry as she copied the aircraft registration number into a search engine. The second result was for a flight-tracking website. She clicked on the link. A map of the eastern Mediterranean appeared, then a dotted line heading straight for Israel. Contrary to what the paragraph claimed, the aircraft hadn’t yet arrived at Ben Gurion.

In fact, it wasn’t due to land for the best part of another hour.

Something was going on in the cargo hold. Rachel was sure of it. Something bad. The look on Walters’ face as he’d gone in there; the look on Kieran’s after he’d been turfed out; the way Kieran had gone to Pete, was now murmuring with him and casting worried looks at the door.