In the panic Anton had forgotten to count as Amal had instructed him. He began scurrying up the incline double-speed, clawing desperately at the kudzu vines, his adrenaline-charged body paying no heed to sutured wounds that were splitting open in the effort. He anticipated the stab of bullets in his back and did not realise that Amal had jumped the captain.
Like a rabid beast Amal lunged. The captain, struck by a second round of shock from the resurrection of yet another man he had killed, was stripped of his senses and began screaming madly for help. A squad of soldiers rushed into the ward and Amal knew it was all over for him.
“Anton, run!” he roared, stretching the last syllable for as long as he could until it was swallowed by a burst of machine gun fire.
At the top of the bluff Anton burst into tears and pressed his thumb into the cricket clicker.
The butt of the Nambu pistol went off like a firecracker in the captain’s hand, scattering his fingers all over the ward and leaving a shredded stump on his right wrist. The captain, his lips calcareous and eyes bulging with shock, sank slowly to the floor cradling the terrible wound. To the din of frantic shouting and the clatter of boots, soldiers poured into the ward and leapt over Amal’s bullet-riddled body in aid of their captain, whose moan began rising steadily into a deranged, teary wail.
It was such pity that neither Anton nor Amal witnessed any of it.
30
SEIZURE
LANDON LEAPS FROM the bed and his opened journal, which has been lying upside down on his belly, slips to the floor. He feels the draft of the air-conditioning against his wet brow. Dr Peck stops the EEG recorder, picks up the journal and places it back on the bed.
“Quite a bit of activity.” He scans a gridded landscape of electrograms. “Managed to retain any memories?”
Landon shakes his head. He can’t explain the inclination to hide that his repository of memories is piling up. But he feels it’s wise to do so because he’d have a hard time convincing the doctor that his memories cover the span of a century.
“You sure you haven’t had any trauma that might suggest something?” asks Dr Peck. “After all there’s the scars and you seem to be having rather… brutal memories.”
“What did I do?”
“Shouted, trembled.”
“Was I saying anything?”
“Garbled, as with most sub-conscious speech.”
Landon actually finds relief in this. Or rather, could clearer speech have helped corroborate the veracity of what he might reveal? He steals a look at Casey and finds disgust and derision in her stare before she looks away.
Freak, he can almost hear her say.
But as much as the opinion displeases him it is honest and undisputable. It occurrs to him that if John has been lying about the cellular cybernetics he might well die one day without knowing the truth behind it. Or he could reveal the freak in him to someone else and get a second opinion on the marvellous true life of Landon Lock.
His natural choice would be Cheok. But he knows it won’t do either of them any good. Raymond would be next in line if he were alive. That leaves only the doctor. But weekly therapy sessions over eight months is hardly sufficient time to know someone. He needs to find out if Dr Peck can be trusted.
“Can we speak in private?” he asks.
Dr Peck looks at him over his writing and then at his assistant. “Casey?”
She lifts her chin and leaves the room without casting another glance at them, closing the door behind her. Dr Peck leans his elbows over the edge of his desk and wisely refrains from speaking. Landon takes another moment to steel himself, propping his arms stiffly against the sides of his chair.
“Those pictures,” he nods at a pastiche of photographs pinned to a board behind the doctor. “Your grandchildren?”
Dr Peck looks over his shoulder. “They live in Perth.”
Landon finds it difficult to meet the doctor’s eyes. “I’m sorry if I haven’t been completely honest with you.”
“Take your time.”
“Do you think someone could live forever?”
Nothing in the doctor’s disposition suggests incredulity. “Biologically?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“There are organisms called planarians,” Dr Peck explains, with the poise of an unbiased academic. “Their ability to regenerate their cells makes them resistant to ageing. There are studies being done on them but we’re still a long way from eliminating human senescence.” His gaze softens as he surveys Landon’s dour visage. “Why do you ask?”
“I think I’ve been living longer than I ought to.”
“What makes you think so?”
“I have memories of a very distant past.”
“So you’re remembering?”
Landon nods.
“How distant?”
“Decades, maybe a century.”
For a moment they study each other and Landon thinks he sees a glint of interest in Dr Peck’s aged eyes. The doctor’s lips part and there is hesitation before he speaks.
“The drug tests came back. You’re clean.”
“Nice to know.”
“There’s another thing.” The doctor lowers his gaze to a document on his desk. “It says here you have azoospermia. In other words,” he says, pulling off his glasses, “you’re sterile.”
The news fails to make a dent. Landon had anticipated worse. “I might have an explanation for it,” he says.
“We should find a better place to talk.”
It isn’t a reply that Landon expects. He watches as Dr Peck consults his schedule on his computer and jots a note in his diary. He then scribbles something on a slip of paper, tears it off and hands it to him. It contains a mobile phone number.
“Give me a call on Friday after five. I’ll arrange to receive you at my home.”
Landon’s heart swells with a flood of warmth. “You don’t think it’s ridiculous?”
Dr Peck hoots in laughter. “Friday. Let’s talk more then.”
It is a regular weekday evening and by eight o’clock the Cantonment Police Complex is dead, the last of its staff having bled out to the subway station. The only detectable movements are the security cameras swivelling on their braces.
John waits another two hours before he makes his move. Behind an electrical panel in a service shaft he closes the circuitry and activates a recurring, 12-minute video clip of an empty office. With that in place he works his way past the lobby and into the Intelligence Department. The card reader responds to his access pass and the glass door opens for him. The unlit office is silent, its air stale without the air-conditioning.
Marco’s desk is located at the far corner of the room. A sudden flicker of a desk lamp sends John edging into a nearby workstation. Between slits in the partitions he sees a tall, studious young man shuffling documents by lamplight and packing them into a leather case, along with an empty plastic water bottle. He is wearing headphones and appears not to have noticed John as he shuts down his computer. He turns off the desk lamp and shuffles across the carpeted floor towards the lobby.
Something white falls from his pocket.
John hears the glass doors roll and the ring of an arriving lift. He creeps out of hiding and passes the workstation. A tag on a low partition reads: Julian Woo, Forensic Executive. Farther down the aisle John picks up what Julian dropped. It’s a lunch receipt, seemingly worthless until he turns it over and finds a single handwritten word.
UNSAFE.
A tingle radiates down John’s back. He drops the note into a shredder and races over to a row of workstations assigned to senior investigation officers, his nerves stretched too taut to consider who this Julian might be. The tag on the one that’s most secluded from the rest of the office reads: Marco Bey, Deputy Director, Field Research (Special Duties).