Alex Scarrow - City of Shadows

‘So you’re not really happy, then? You’re just designed to look that way.’

SpongeBubba stared at her, an unwavering, goofy smile. ‘Dr Anwar designed me.’

Sal couldn’t work out if the robot was blaming his owner, or just stating a fact.

Becks pointed at something she’d seen through the windscreen. ‘Urggh… ge fug, duf,’ she gurgled excitedly and pointed.

Sal nodded, pulled her hand gently down and settled her. ‘Yes… cars, that’s right. Nice shiny cars.’

Why me? She shook her head. Why do I get to babysit these two morons?

‘We’re going to have to stop for gas again pretty soon,’ said Maddy. The gauge was showing just under the quarter bar. ‘Maybe we should pull over for the night. Find a motel. We’re far enough away to be safe now, aren’t we?’

Bob nodded. ‘We are probably far enough to be safe.’

Even now, so late, ahead of them was a sea of traffic, red brake lights winking on and off as vehicles inched forward.

‘What do you think they’ll do? Do you think they’ll keep coming after us?’

‘I have no information on their mission parameters.’

‘But if, say, you were sent to kill us, what would you be doing?’

‘I would persist until the mission parameters were satisfied, of course.’

‘How would you go about that, Bob? For example… what would you be doing right now?’

Bob scowled. Thinking. ‘I would attempt to intercept police radio communications for references to stolen vehicles in the vicinity of the archway. I would be searching the archway for items of useful intelligence.’ He looked sideways at her. ‘We left in a hurry. We cannot be certain we have not left behind some information that could lead them to us.’

He was right. They had left in a hurry, a careless scramble to grab all their essentials. God knows what they’d left behind, what fragments of information lay scattered around in their wake. Maddy’s head began to throb with renewed stress.

She sat in silence for a while, her fingers caressing her temples. She looked down into the stationary cars on either side of them. The glow of radio tuners on dashboards. She imagined every single driver in every vehicle on this road was tuned into a news station and listening to reporters recap the day’s terrifying events. Late-night talk radio stations venting unbridled rage at this cowardly attack on innocent American civilians. Experts hurried into studios to try and make sense of things. Because that’s what everyone needed to have right now, wasn’t it? Another explanation.

Why? Why are we being attacked? What did we do to deserve this?

Of course, Maddy had been pulled from a time — 2010 — when a lot of thinking had been done on why 9/11 had happened. The fact that there had been warning signs. The fact that there had been people in the FBI, the CIA screaming warnings to President Bush back in 2000 that something like this Was. Going. To. Happen. Imminently. Maddy came from a time when there was perspective, hindsight, on this day; from a time when everyone understood that a terrorist attack on America was inevitable. But for the people in these cars all around them this whole nightmare was still — and would be for years yet — a bewildering and terrifying mystery.

She drew her mind back to more pressing issues, for her. ‘No matter how far we drive, Bob… there’s no knowing for sure that we’re going to be safe, is there?’

‘No.’

She glanced at the gauge again. ‘And how far have we gone?’

‘We are only eighty miles from New York as a direct-line distance.’

‘Eighty miles? Might as well be a thousand and one, I suppose… Let’s take the next turn-off, then. We’ve got to fill up sometime soon anyway.’

Bob nodded. ‘Affirmative. Next turning.’

‘And how much further to Boston? It’s not that far, is it?’

‘Approximately a hundred and twenty miles as a direct-line distance from our current location.’

‘We can do the rest of the drive after a rest break.’ She pointed at a road sign looming towards them on the right. ‘Let’s take that next turn-off. The one for Branford. See if we can find a gas station and someplace to get some food, a diner or something.’

Maddy suddenly realized how bone-weary she felt; physically, mentally, spiritually, she was completely spent. A bed would be good. A bed with clean, crisp white sheets. God… better still, a hot shower. A bath even!

‘Actually, the hell with that. Let’s see if we can stop and find a motel too. We can do the rest of the drive tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’ He nodded approval. Perhaps even Bob realized she needed a night off.

‘Affirmative.’

12 September 2001, Washington DC

The duty corridor off the mezzanine floor was windowless. The ‘catacombs’, that’s what he’d heard one of the personnel who worked down here call it once. Several offices along an unused floor beneath an anonymous government building in Washington.

These offices had another name — a semi-official name. The few personnel who worked down in this artificially illuminated netherworld called it ‘The Department’. More than half a century ago — fifty-six years to be precise — was when The Department was set up. Not here, though. The Department didn’t have proper offices to call its own until after the 1947 ‘New Mexico Incident’. But this had been its one and only home since then.

On several occasions in those fifty-six years, these offices had experienced short bursts of frenetic activity; carefully vetted FBI agents had been drafted in to do routine belt-’n’-braces work, but never fully briefed on the various case files they were doing the heavy lifting on.

On a need-to-know basis. That’s how The Department did its business.

There’d been a buzz of activity here back in ’47, and again in 1963 after the ‘Dallas Incident’. There were a lot of paper files generated over that, all of them still down here in the catacombs. Everything one would ever want to know about the death of a President was stored in dog-eared cardboard folders, in dusty filing cabinets labelled ‘J-759’. And, if one took the time to dig through thousands of yellowing pages of gathered intelligence and witness depositions, one might in fact find the correct name of the man who actually killed President Kennedy.

Not Oswald. Certainly not one L. H. Oswald.

There were other labelled files down here, of other incidents over the decades that had been passed over to The Department to if not investigate then at least to safely archive. Fragments of intelligence gathered that would live forever down here in this air-conditioned twilight, far too sensitive, too incendiary, too dangerous to ever appear in the public eye.

There was file N-27, a certain dark secret from the very last days of the Second World War; a whole drawer of one of the filing cabinets was devoted to that. Then, of course, there was file R-497, the event that occurred in Roswell, New Mexico — several filing cabinets for that one — and typically plenty of silly TV shows, films and tinfoil-hat conspiracy theories about R-497.

And then there were several other, smaller, files.

One of those files had the equally uninspiring name of 414-T. Possibly the slimmest file in the pack of secrets, slumbering down here in the semi-darkness.

The Department was run ‘off the books’. Its funding came from a lump sum dropped into a bank account just after the Second World War. Over the last half a century that lump sum had been managed by a financial management company and invested in various things. Back in the seventies, for example, some of that money had been spent purchasing shares in a promising little tech company with a rainbow-coloured apple for a logo.