Leblanc #4
“Details of the project were leaked to a member of the committee of the European Convention on Human Rights and to a couple of media sites run by amateur conspiracy theorists. The ECHR took the information with a pinch of salt—they received idiotic and unproven theories all the time—but they had a duty to investigate. When someone forwarded me one of the conspiracy sites, I scoffed at the information at first. But then I read such specifics about our operation that only an insider could have known, and some things I had no idea about. The site went into graphic detail about how the Pawns and Knights were decommissioned. Horrifying stuff. Hartfield military superiors closed ranks and, naturally, they interrogated all of us. I knew nothing, so I could tell them nothing. But the article had sown the seeds of doubt in many of us—especially about our involvement—and we started to question ourselves. Within a fortnight of the leak, we had orders to shut down operations and pass any case notes to the military team. Not long after I came here, and I have been here ever since. Effectively, sixteen years under house arrest. Everything I do is monitored, and I get an official visit on occasion. Not regularly. They just turn up when they want and ask questions. I venture out seldom, have no friends, and rarely have guests stay. Whenever I do, I can guarantee officials will arrive a few days or a week afterwards.”
“Is Sylvie Leblanc one of those who visited?”
“I have neither seen nor spoken to my niece in over ten years. She came here with a friend.”
“And you told her about Hartfield.”
“She—as well as a few other confidantes—is my insurance policy. If anything happens to me, she has my permission to use any highly confidential documents however she pleases. I have no doubt my captors know what I have done, which is why I am still breathing.”
“Did you know your niece was in a motorway crash recently?”
The cigarette freezes before his mouth as he eyes me.
“Don’t worry. She was injured but she survived.”
“Good,” he says, taking a drag and puffing smoke. “That is good. Sylvie is an idealist, but she has a good heart. Did she tell you to come here?”
“She gave me your name card.”
“As I said, idealist. There is nothing I can do for you, Five.”
“You have already given me what I needed. Filled in gaps from my past.”
“And what will you do now?”
“I don’t know. I’d considered trying to find Hartfield, to see if anything jogs my—”
A loud security alert sounds intermittently inside his house. Leblanc grabs a remote control from the table and switches on the large digital display. A gridwork of video feeds appears, one flashing red around the rim and showing two dark Land Rovers turning into his drive.
“Merde. This could be routine. As I say, they check in on me occasionally to make sure I am behaving. But you cannot be here. Let me go and deal with this. Stay here until they are gone. And don’t touch anything. This should take no more than thirty minutes.”
No sooner has Leblanc shuffled out of the room than my phone buzzes.
Unknown: They’re here for you.
I scan the room and am considering my escape route when the phone sounds again.
Unknown: Head to the kitchen and open the door to the yard. Leave it open. Go back inside and find the door that leads to the cellar. Used to be white in colour.
As I am reading the message, I stand and follow the instructions.
The bright kitchen is the only place not covered in books and papers.
I notice the pretty windowed door leading out to the beautiful back garden and open it as instructed.
I find two white doors inside the kitchen, one that houses a pantry, but a second with stone steps leading down into darkness. I flick on the wall switch.
Unknown: Good. Now head inside and close the cellar door behind you. Go down the steps and look for an old oak bookcase. If it’s still there, you can easily pivot it away from the wall. Behind is a passageway that leads to the lane at the back of the property.
My rescuer is correct. The bookcase is old and covered in dust, but it swivels neatly away from the wall. I am about to enter the brick-lined passage when another message pops up.
Unknown: Make sure to switch off the cellar light and close the bookcase behind you to cover your tracks. If the bookcase is no longer there, switch off the light and hide somewhere. Hopefully, they’ll think you flew the coop.
I follow the instructions and use the light on my phone to head down the damp passageway.
I no longer have a signal on my phone. Eventually, the passage turns and ends at a metal door bolted from the inside.
I unlock the bolt and enter daylight in a copse of woods.
Up ahead, I can see a single-lane track and make my way forward.
I barely hear the sound of a car approaching, the silent engine of an electric vehicle.
I remain hidden in the bushes until the car draws level.
The passenger door flies open, and when I look inside, I see a familiar face behind the wheel.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask.
Coleman Washington, Victoria Callico’s husband, leans towards me.
“Get in and strap up. Pronto. We need to get you out of here and, yep, I guess I have some explaining to do.”