William Hill - Department 19

“I don’t care whether you believe me or not. I know she didn’t do it. Which means you two, me, Admiral Seward, and the operator who moved the satellite are the only other people in the world who knew we had found Alexandru. The rest of the strike team were briefed in the air, and all radio traffic was monitored. So one of those has to be the person who tipped him off.”

He ran his hands through his hair, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.

“To be honest,” he continued, “I don’t care who did it. All I care about is what we do next. As far as I can tell, we have no more leads, and Alexandru has more than likely killed a load of innocent people to punish me just for looking for him. So I want to know what happens now.”

With a whirring noise and bright flash of light, the screen that covered one entire wall of the Ops Room burst into life. The Department 19 crest appeared on the screen, six feet in diameter, as automated security protocols were implemented, then a window opened in the center of the Blacklight system desktop, and a BBC news report appeared in front of the three startled men.

“What’s happening?” asked Jamie.

“The monitoring system checks all civilian media for potential supernatural incidents,” answered Morris, staring up at the screen. “This is happening now, whatever it is.”

The words BREAKING NEWS were scrolling along the bottom in thick white text. The screen showed a reporter addressing the camera from a beach, his hair blowing in the wind, the sound crackling as the night air whistled across his microphone. Behind him a pair of portable spotlights were trained on the water’s edge, where a fishing boat appeared to have run aground. There were men and women wandering over the sand, dazed looks on their faces and blankets wrapped around their shoulders, while a number of policemen and paramedics moved among them.

The caption at the bottom of the screen informed the viewer that the report was coming live from Fenwick, Northumberland.

In the bottom-right corner of the screen, a man was standing still, a grimace of pain on his face as a paramedic applied a bandage to his neck. Two policemen were wrestling a screaming woman to the ground, and the reporter was trying desperately to find someone coherent enough to answer his questions.

A lightbulb suddenly blazed on in Jamie’s head.

“Tom!” he yelled, and the security officer jumped. “Can you rewind this report?”

Morris looked confused but said that he could.

“I need you to take it back thirty seconds and freeze it. Quickly!”

Morris opened a window and keyed a series of buttons. As he did so, Frankenstein lumbered to his feet and walked over to stand beside Jamie.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“You’ll see,” replied the teenager, without taking his eyes away from the screen.

As Morris worked the controls, the news report stopped, then began to run backward.

“Freeze it there!” shouted Jamie after a couple of seconds, and Morris did so. “Zoom in on the man in the bottom right of the image.”

A grid of thin green lines appeared over the picture, dividing it into sixty-four squares. Morris highlighted the four at the bottom right and clicked on them. They expanded to fill the screen, a blurry image twelve feet high. He clicked a series of keys, and the image sharpened into perfect clarity.

The paramedic was about to place a bandage over the man’s neck. Blood was splattered over the pale skin, almost black in the silver light of the full moon that hung above him, now removed from view. Jamie drew in a deep breath sharply, and held it.

In the center of the matted blood were two round holes of pure black.

Jamie followed the blood down to the man’s shoulder, where it had spilled onto his upper arm and across onto his chest. He was wearing a white T-shirt, now stained a dark red.

“Where is this place?” demanded Jamie. “I need a map of the surrounding area. My mother is wherever this boat came from, I know it.”

Morris leapt down from his control panel, opened a long narrow cupboard set into one of the metal walls, and hauled out a sheaf of maps. Jamie ran over to him, and they began to spread them across one of the tables.

“Northumberland, Northumberland,” said Morris aloud, casting aside map after map. Behind them something beeped, but neither he nor Jamie looked up.

“This is the one,” exclaimed Morris, and spread a map of the North Sea coast across the desk. The two men huddled over it, their fingers hovering in the air as they searched for the tiny coastal town of Fenwick.

“Jamie,” said Frankenstein, but the teenager didn’t even look up, just waved a hand and continued to pore over the map.

“Jamie!” said the monster again, loudly, and this time the urgency in the voice lifted the teenager’s head, a scowl creasing his features.

“What is-” Jamie stopped dead, his eyes following Frankenstein’s pointing finger to the giant screen. A new window had opened, containing an e-mail from an address that was an indecipherable combination of letters and numbers. There was no text in the body of the mail, just a single high-quality photograph of the T-shirt that had been hammered into the door of the Department 19 Northern Outpost. The yellow lettering that spelt out the word LINDISFARNE was clearly visible, as were the words scrawled below it, the drying blood a sickly black color: TELL THE BOY TO COME

Jamie took a long, deep breath and looked around at his friends. “That’s where she is,” he said.

Jamie unloaded his weapons on to the Ops Room desk and checked each one in turn. He didn’t look up when Frankenstein and Morris walked back into the room.

“I’ve spoken to the Northern Outpost,” Morris said. “They’ll control the press and keep the police off the island until we give them the all clear.”

“Good,” replied Jamie. “That’s good.” He retied the laces on his boots, clipped his body armor into place, and replaced the weapons in their holders. “I can feel you looking at me,” said Jamie, pulling one of his gloves on and fastening it to the sleeve of his uniform. “Say whatever you’ve got to say.”

“The rescue team will be back in a few hours,” said Morris. “Why don’t you wait, and then we can-”

“No waiting, Tom,” said Jamie. “I’m going now. Give me the code for Larissa’s cell.”

“What for?” asked Frankenstein.

“I’m taking her with me,” Jamie replied. He saw the look on the monster’s face, and he stopped what he was doing and faced him. “She didn’t do it, Victor. I know she didn’t. If you can’t believe me, that’s fine, but I trust her, and I’m taking her with me.”

“Jamie,” said Morris. “If she didn’t do it, then who did?”

“I don’t know,” replied Jamie. “All I know for certain is that it wasn’t her.”

Morris swallowed hard, then looked at Jamie, his face solemn, his eyes wide. “I think there’s something you should know,” he said. “But it’s not my place to tell you.”

Frankenstein stiffened in his chair. “Shut the hell up, Morris,” he said, his voice laced with threat.

Jamie looked at his two companions. “What’s going on?” he asked.

Morris lowered his eyes. “Ask him,” he said, pointing at Frankenstein. “Ask him where he was when your father died.”

Jamie stared at the monster, who was looking at Morris with open fury. Then the teenager’s head seemed to split open, and the memory of that night flooded into his mind.

Eight policemen wearing black body armor and carrying submachine guns were arranged across the driveway, the barrels of their weapons pointing toward the door that Julian was walking through.

“Put your hands above your head!” one of the policemen shouted. He was a huge man, wearing a full balaclava and a riot helmet that looked comically small atop his enormous shoulders. Jamie stared at the giant figure, blind terror coursing through him, and saw that the man’s tree-trunk arms were different lengths. “Do it now!”