He tried to remember his military training. To stay calm. No panic. Just think the situation through before acting. But he was suffocating; his gullet was on fire, his nostrils, his lungs. He tried to open his stinging eyes. Could see nothing, just a blur of blinding light. He was trying to think, to work out what was happening.
He stumbled against his table, fell to the floor with it, heard a sharp crack that might have been his laptop striking the floor also. Instinctively he curled up into a ball and rolled, always present the enemy with a moving target.
He crashed against something hard. A leg of the bed. Then against the wall. Lay still. Coughing, choking, his eyes burning, fighting for air.
Voices outside. Unfamiliar voices. The drumming had stopped. Instead there were strange footsteps, all kinds of new sounds. One very angry voice shouting down below. It sounded like Father Yanni.
He tried to sit up, forcing his eyes open, and saw through a wall of tears a figure, just a dark blur of a figure, towering over him.
His coughing eased; the acrid smell was fading a little; he took a deep gulp, but it was like sucking fire into his lungs and he coughed violently again. ‘Who – who are you-?’ he wheezed painfully, squinting, panic-stricken, desperately trying to blink his eyes clear, but to no avail.
The voice was American, with a faint Kansas twang, and sounded a little muffled. It said, ‘Where are the children, motherfucker?’
Gatward tried to speak but had another coughing fit. The light that was shining in his face was making the pain in his eyes worse, and he put his hand over them.
‘PUT YOUR HANDS ON TOP OF YOUR HEAD, MOTHERFUCKER. ONE ON TOP OF THE OTHER.’
Harald Gatward hesitated, then obeyed. Who the hell was this man? Except, the pain in his eyes and throat and lungs was so bad, he almost didn’t care who the man was, he just wanted the pain to stop. He didn’t care if he died at this moment.
‘WHERE ARE THE CHILDREN?’
‘What children?’ he wheezed, before lapsing into more coughing.
‘You want to make this easy, or you want to make this hard, you piece of shit? Because it would give me a lot of pleasure to make this real hard. Where are the children?’
Gatward, confused, shook his head. ‘What children?’ Moments later, someone was seizing his hands, jerking them behind his back; he tried to resist, but the moment he drew in breath, he began coughing. ‘Wharachireren?’ he managed to get out.
Something metallic closed around one wrist then the other. Handcuffs.
‘Whoorrruyou?’
‘Special Agent Norbert, FBI. I’m here in the presence of the Greek Police and the US Military.’
The air in the room was clearing now. The taller man lowered his gas mask, produced his ID from an inside pocket and held it out to Gatward, who, still suffering from the CS gas, was unable to see what it was, let alone read it.
Special Agent Norbert, dressed in a flak jacket, fatigues and a balaclava, with a Uzi sub-machine gun crooked under one arm, said, ‘Colonel Harald Edgar Gatward, I’m arresting you on charges of conspiracy to murder and kidnap. You have the right to remain silent. You are coming back to the United States with us today; even as we speak your extradition papers are being stamped by the Greek authorities. They don’t want a piece of shit like you polluting their country.’
His lungs a fraction better now, Gatward said, sullenly, ‘I saved their monastery.’
‘You saved their monastery? That’s funny. Who’d you save it for?’
Gatward said nothing.
‘For the children? That who you saved it for?’
‘What children?’
Something in the way Gatward said that gave Special Agent Norbert a distinct prick of unease.
114
‘I’m sorry, Dr and Mrs Klaesson,’ Detective Inspector Pelham said. ‘I was hoping to be able to give you good news. This is a big disappointment for you, I know. It is for us, too.’
It was Monday morning, and he was seated at the round table in his office, beside DS Humbolt and Renate Harrison. He looked drained. They all did.
John and Naomi stared at him in stunned silence. Then John said, ‘Are you telling us it isn’t the Disciples’ people who have taken them?’
‘The base of the Disciples of the Third Millennium was raided in the early hours of this morning by the Greek police, backed up by the Greek navy, a US SEALS squad and a British SAS squad. Agent Norbert told me on the phone an hour ago that they are certain beyond any reasonable doubt that they have the ringleader of the cult and the majority, if not all, of its members in custody in Greece, awaiting rubber-stamping of extradition papers.’
‘But they don’t have Luke and Phoebe?’ Naomi said.
‘I’m afraid not, no.’
She lowered her head into her hands and wept. ‘They’re dead, aren’t they? They must have killed them.’
There was a long, awkward silence.
‘Not necessarily,’ Tom Humbolt said. ‘You see-’
‘NOT NECESSARILY???’ Naomi raised her voice at him. ‘Is that the best you can offer us? Not necessarily?’
Humbolt raised his huge hands in the air. ‘We don’t have any reason to believe they’ve come to any harm.’
‘Don’t you?’ Naomi said. ‘They were abducted in the middle of the night and two people are dead, and you don’t have any reason to believe they might have come to any harm? What planet are you on, Detective Sergeant?’
‘Hon!’ John put a protective arm around her. ‘Hear him out.’
‘I’m all ears,’ Naomi said. ‘Tell me what you know about them. What do you know about the Disciples?’
‘Very little more than is in the papers, at this stage.’
‘Or than the Americans would tell you?’
Ignoring the barb, Pelham said, ‘We know it is a religious cult dedicated to halting the progress of science. Its leader is now in custody, along with forty other members of the cult.’
‘They were all on this island?’ John quizzed.
Pelham replied, ‘It could well be that their abductors hadn’t got your children there before the raid and might be holding them somewhere en route.’
‘And what do you think they’re going to do with them now that their organization has been busted? Take them on a fun day out to Euro Disney?’
‘All of the people arrested are being interrogated at this moment. I can assure you that if any of these Disciples has information about their whereabouts, they’ll get it out of them.’
‘I hope they torture the bastards to death,’ she said.
115
Two hours later, in Sheila Michaelides’s office, John held Naomi’s hand, squeezing. Renate Harrison, their ever-present shadow, dressed in a smart two-piece and crisp white blouse, sat beside them.
Naomi stared past the psychologist, out through the window into the walled garden, as the policewoman brought Sheila Michaelides up to speed with the latest developments. Naomi envied the psychologist the seeming tranquillity of her existence.
‘I’m so sorry for you, John and Naomi,’ she said, when Renate Harrison had finished. ‘I saw two police officers on Saturday afternoon and gave them as much information as I could.’
Her head was sticking out of a fluffy, fresh-looking white cashmere sweater, but she looked tired. She had more make-up caked on than Naomi had seen before, and there were bags under her eyes. Even her hair lacked its usual bounce.
‘You were going to try to make contact with some of the other parents around the world,’ John said. ‘Have you had any success?’
‘Yes, I have-’ She glanced at her computer screen. ‘I’m getting emails coming in all the time – there’s been a surge of them since yesterday morning. There’s something going on that I can’t explain, but perhaps you can?’ She stared at Renate Harrison.
‘Explain what, exactly?’ the family liaison officer asked.
‘Over the past five days, seven sets of twins conceived in the Dettore Clinic have disappeared into thin air.’