“The empires of the future are the empires of the mind.”
Sir Winston Churchill, Speech at Harvard University, September 6th, 1943
Chapter 1
The file on his desk should have exploded into flames. At the very least it should be charred at the edges, but it remained stubbornly impervious to his thoughts. Sam Garvey scowled and let his glare soften. So much for the power of the mind. It was never going to be that easy to make the past go away.
He settled back in his chair and flicked through the pages once more. He still found nothing to explain why the man whose details filled the covers was still alive. The dossier might be old and dog-eared, but the problem it now presented him with was no less critical for that. History had a way of coming back to bite you, which was why he hated loose ends like this. They spelled the kind of trouble his employers paid him handsomely to prevent, and you didn’t need half a lifetime in security work to figure out this particular loose end should have been tied off long ago.
The firm seldom shrank from such necessities and yet again he wondered what was so special about this case. There was no way this bastard should have been given a second chance. It was unprofessional, and any operatives worth their salt would have known it, even back then. They had destroyed the man’s credibility cleverly enough if you liked to play that sort of game. But they didn’t finish the job, and that was a dangerous gamble to take. Security depended on certainties, not fancy footwork and wishful thinking.
Whichever way you looked at it, this mess had festered far too long. His jaw muscles bunched as he ground his teeth in frustration. Now the man was once again poised to expose secrets that must never be permitted to surface and there was still only one sure remedy. The trouble was he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
He snapped the folder shut, and stared at the stark red stamp on its cover. His anger grew again and he felt the blood rise to his face. The imprint was smudged here and there, and the colour had faded with age. But the words were still plain enough to read, and they mocked him like the razor wire on a prison wall. ‘Research Directorate: Restricted’, they said, and he knew better than to ignore the warning, despite the urgency of the situation. The old harridan who called herself ‘Chief Scientist’ was the real power behind Media Associates, whatever the Chairman and his cronies might pretend. She would tolerate no interference with one of her projects, and this reeked of her scheming.
His lips curled in distaste. The way the scientists screwed with people’s heads gave him the creeps, and he felt a flash of something close to sympathy for his current target. Those damned spin-doctors had pulled this guy’s strings for a long time and there was no telling what they’d intended to achieve or why.
Whatever their plan was, though, it was about to disintegrate very messily unless they sanctioned some action. He looked at his watch and drummed his fingers. His team was in place and ready to go, but time was running out. The eggheads might peer down their patronising noses and talk as though everyone else was a moron, but at times like this they seemed to have no idea of the real world. If they didn’t give the word soon, it would be too late. He reached for the phone again, and again drew his hand back. The consequences of going ahead without authorisation would be dire. His instincts raised their pressure another notch, and he felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple. He brushed it away with an angry finger. Fuck it. He came to a decision and reached forward.
As he touched the telephone, it rang.