Prologue
Hotel Santa Isabel, Havana, Cuba
It is said that you cannot escape your destiny. Fate had led him to this point, and yet as destiny presented itself in the form of death, nothing could not have prepared Aimé González for what lay before him. Three days earlier the director general of the Center for Biotechnology and Genetic Engineering had emailed requesting a meeting. He’d responded to the email and was told to come to Hotel Santa Isabel on Friday, at 2pm.
He'd wondered about the nature of the meeting. It was unusual to be contacted directly by the director general, meetings were normally arranged by his assistant, Aleja. A petite woman who despite being in her early sixties didn't look a day past forty. Aleja had been the director general's assistant for fifteen years, and the head-hunter who brought González and his research to the CGEB five years ago. With a scrupulous attention to detail in performance, everything at CGEB went through Aleja. To bypass her, he realised the meeting was on a need to know basis, for a special purpose so he didn't press for details.
The arched, colonial façade of the Santa Isabel led into an elegant lobby with crystal chandeliers and antique furniture. The perfect escape from the bustling streets of Old Havana. Scattered around the lobby wealthy tourists readied themselves for their afternoon excursions and aristocrats conversed over Chivas Regal, and Bacardi on the rocks. The decor and populace was what you would expect from a high class hotel.
Except for two things.
His gaze locked on two men with short cropped hair at the end of the lobby. Dressed in matching black suits and sunglasses, the men approached him as he made his way to the clerk’s desk.
"Aimé González?" The taller of the two said to him.
“Sí,” replied González cautiously.
“Hablas inglés?”
“A little, my English not so good.”
“Come this way, the director is expecting you.”
A man of tall stature loomed from the mosquito net covering the French doors of the suite's terrace as González was led in to the suite. He looked to be in his early forties, slender with short blonde hair and piercing blue eyes.
"Thank you for coming at such short notice. I am Ché Frankel, Dirección General de Inteligencia."
"I'm sorry, there must be a mistake?"
"There's no mistake señor González," said the stranger softly, but assertively.
"The correspondence you received from Director Cohen was at my behest. It's to do with your work. More specifically, something you recently discovered."
González’s mind raced as he tried to make sense of the situation. Who is he, how can he.
"I'm sorry I don't understand?"
"Doctor, it is my business to know everything. We have been watching you for some time, monitoring you and your work from afar. Your very being here in Havana, at the CGEB was orchestrated by Dirección General de Inteligencia."
"What are you talking about?"
"Time isn't a luxury we have" interrupted agent Frankel, "Havana is not safe for you, or your family.” He let the words linger for effect.
Fear surged through González's blood and his legs shook beneath the table.
"What?" Burst González abruptly, his anger and anxiety getting the better of him.
"We need to leave." said agent Frankel motioning to the agents guarding the door on to the terrace.
"Hey!” pleaded González, "What is this? Where are my family?”
Frankel calmly placed the Glock 42 on the table between them. "Señor González, everything will be fine, but we need you to come with us. Now. There is a jet waiting at a nearby airfield. The implications of your work are graver than you can imagine. There are people who will kill to stop the fruition of your work. You, your family, it makes no difference to them. You and your work are a threat to them. I understand this may come as a shock, but I cannot explain now. Once we are in the air we will talk, but now, we need to leave."
González’ paused at the thought.
Between him and the only way out were the two men in suits that had chaperoned him from the lobby. He stood and looked out across the city. The roof top terrace looked over the Plaza de Armas with panoramic views spanning to the harbour entrance and Morro Castle. The sun was at its peak, and caught his chiselled brow casting a shadow over his deep set, almost black eyes. Unlike the view, nothing about this seemed good.
"Doctor." Snapped Frankel impatiently.
Some commands are more easily given than obeyed.
Retorts of gunfire broke the silence and split the limestone walls of the rooftop terrace like plywood. The shots came from across the square taking down one of the men in the black suit. González gazed at the fallen man for a long second. What was happening? He staggered across the balcony amidst the onslaught of gunfire unfolding around him. Bullets rained across the Plaza de Armas piercing flesh and limestone alike. A bullet tore into his chest. The pain vigorously surged through his body. Darkness spasmed as the cessation of his biological functions took hold, bringing him to his knees in agony. The sun soaked concrete was hot to touch and scalded his cheek as he lay helpless on the balcony floor. Just as time slows down for the person moving, and moves faster for the one who stands still, Aimé González’s fate was now out of his hands. As he slipped in to an absence of consciousness, his last thoughts repeated the horror of his mistake.
It was too late.
1
Covent Garden, London
Tuesday, June 3, The Present
12:34 P.M
Peter Harelquin was sat at an outside table at the Piazza Café. According to his secretary, the reporter would be in the Piazza at 12:30pm. The summer weather was pleasant and Covent Garden, London’s popular market square bristled with people. The Piazza, as it was originally built, was a popular tourist destination in London, famed for its street performers who entertain the visitors on the pedestrianized piazza as well as its open-air cafés, restaurants, pubs, market stalls and shops. It was London’s second most popular square, after Trafalgar Square, attracting tourists and shoppers alike.
He hadn't been in London for some time. At twenty-nine, fresh out of Imperial College London with a PhD in Life Sciences he had left the capital for Norwich, working as a Science Communications Officer at The Genome Analysis Centre. He was passionate about life sciences research, graduating top of his class at undergraduate and postgraduate level, and had turned down roles at Cambridge and Stanford to work at TGAC. Many thought him mad not to have taken a post at either of the prestigious institutes, but the facilities and research at TGAC were just as good, and as ground-breaking as its long standing counterparts. More importantly, despite its European connections and its international influence in the scientific community, the centre was in its infancy and out of the spotlight. The privacy and the mystic beauty of the Norfolk Broads had drawn him from London to Norwich.
It was a curious irony that fate had brought him back to London. He'd been asked to stand in as a guest speaker at the annual Global Warming Conference for Arthur Rogers, an internationally respected earth scientist who had been taken ill. Rogers had been Peter's PhD supervisor and the two had kept in touch after Peter's doctoral graduation. They hadn't spoke for a while, but when the college approached him with the request he felt obliged to accept. After all, he wouldn't have made it through his PhD without Rogers, it was the least he could do for his former supervisor. Two days in the city, a preliminary interview followed by a conference, all expenses paid, how could he refuse? Besides, he needed a break from his own research, a luxury that couldn't be afforded in his line of work.
As head communication officer at TGAC, part of his role was liaising with publication houses and the media. Conferences, lectures and digital media he could handle and enjoyed. Press interviews were another matter. The press had a reputation of twisting a story and he'd had first-hand experience of the malicious nature of the press. His father’s reputation had been tarnished by the press, he'd lost everything; his job, his wife and his sanity trying to clear his name. Peter was twenty-two at the time, an adult in the eyes of the law so there was no custody battle, but family breakdowns aren't without scars. He dealt with it as best he could and focussed on his studies. His father on the other hand found solace in a bottle of bourbon, and eventually a pistol to the temple.
He hadn't thought of that day for a while.
"Mr Harlequin", a voice called snapping him out of his absentminded daydream.
"Denise Yale, News International."
Harlequin looked up to see a tall voluptuous, middle-aged woman with wavy brown hair and thick rimmed glassed standing over him showing her press badge.
"Sorry, Doctor Harlequin or is it Professor?"
"Peter is fine."
It had been 5 years since he had last given an interview to the press, and although he had been briefed on the interview content, the press made him uneasy.
"Do you miss it?" She asked as she sat down, rustling through her bag retrieving her paper work and organising it on the bistro table. "London I mean, you've not been back since you graduated right?"
The comment caught him off guard. "How did you..."
"Reporter," she quipped whilst offering a smile. "Although I must say, you exhausted my sources Peter, you're hard to profile."
"I don't take much holiday," he replied ignoring what he didn't want to answer. He hadn't come to talk about the past.
"Of course, forgive me. So, you are filling in for Arthur Rogers this evening at the annual Global Warming Conference?”
"That's correct."
"What are your thoughts on the rumours surrounding his withdrawal from the conference?"
"Rumours? Arthur has been taken ill. No-one will be more disappointed than Arthur at missing the conference. Global warming and climate change is Arthur’s passion, his life’s work.”
“That's the statement the college are using, and the one that’s been used to draft you in so to speak. However, I have a reliable source that claims Arthur Rogers has been murdered.”
"What? That is absurd," replied Harlequin astonished at the audacity of the reporters claim.
Yale ignored his interruption and continued to probe. "You're familiar with his work, his field of study? Do you know that in the last 12 months two other scientists in his domain have also been murdered? Separate incidents, different locations, same outcome. The link? Their research in to climate change in the Arctic, and your father."
Peter Harlequin's heart sank at the words and his head began to spin. Had he heard her right? His Father? How could this be?
"I need to make a call," he said as he tried to make sense of the situation.
He reached for his mobile to call Arthurs secretary and noticed a missed call from a number he did not recognise. There was also a text message from the same number.
He opened the message and was overrun with confusion and concern.
GET OUT OF THERE. CALL ME IN ONE HOUR.
He felt a sudden apprehension that he was being watched and began to erratically look around the square.
Yale leaned across the table, alarmed at the change in behaviour of her interviewee.
"Peter, are you alright? I need your help to work this out," she said trying to regain his attention.
Harlequin locked eyes with a man in a cassock across the square. Not a word was exchanged. The man in the cassock held his gaze, and pulled the pin from the hand grenade, throwing in to the bustling market square.
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END OF SAMPLE
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