Untitled

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Two years? Two minutes?

�Mr Steele?�

�� At the second more urgent call of his name, without ceasing his surveillance on a thick pile of papers, he inhaled sharply at the disturbance and replied gruffly, �Yes, Watkins, what is it now?� He was addressing the only other occupant in the small sparsely furnished room, a dark haired, wan faced young man who was stood at the furthest end of the room biting his lip. �Watkins, I�m a busy man, what is the problem?�

�� After shuffling his feet slightly and taking a large intake of air, Watkins mumbled, �Sir, there�s a man outside the building. He�s sat on the sidewalk. He�s a dirty smelly old vagrant and he says he�s... Well he say�s he was Pia.�

�� Scowling deeply, Peter Steele looked up from his papers and removed his gold rimed glasses. This action twisted the lines around his dark eyes and deepened those across his brow making his already hard expression more distinct.

�� Can�t any of you people tackle a simple task without assistance?� As he spoke his voice wavered and betrayed what could only be disillusion, then giving a brief indifferent smile he continued, �He�s probably hungry or remembers what we used to stand for... That was hope. Give him some money and a kind word... If you can remember what one is.�

�� The young man glanced only fleetingly into the callous, bitter dark eyes of Peter Steele and shuddered as he answered, �Sir, he�s adamant that he sees you. I offered him money. He said it isn�t money he wants but peace. He rattled off a whole list of names but the only one with any ring of truth was yours. He said he is dying but that you would know him. I can�t remember his name but he�s foreign. Russian I think.�

�� Russian? Are you sure?�

�� Not really, Sir. I�m not that good at languages. But he keeps saying Da. That�s Russian for yes, isn�t it?�

�� Oh, God, did he say he was Sukoloff?�

�� Something like that, Sir.�

�� Slowly, Steele walked to the only window and looked out across New York as Watkins looked on in disbelief, he was crying, this hard, cold man was crying.

�� Watkins, take him to the hospital wing, respectfully please. That man was once one of our best.� The voice that Watkins heard was from his controller but so different. It was full of emotion, a trait neither Watkins nor any other of PIA�s personnel had ever heard or dreamed of hearing.

�� Steele laughed harshly as his gaze left the city and focused again on the small grey room. �I�ve become as sullen as those two Russians were. Where did all my pride go? Did it go with you, Zav? Where did the laughter go? When did it go?� He touched the table which was the centre piece of the room and looked around at the bare walls, no pictures of any kind adorned the pealing paint, no chattering agents in this office. A worm ridden wooden partition kept the communications area separate from his domain, his private cell. �Would Alex Henn have had this? No, according to his friends he would not. They said he always had beautiful girls around. He said it was so he could interact and keep in contact with his field men direct on the communications. But they all knew the real reason. What happened to all the girls?�

�� He walked over to one of the walls and ran his finger over the nicotine yellow paint. �He had pictures on the walls, I remember that. Pictures of waterfalls and photos of friends. He had agents popping in for a chat and a drink. They all loved him. I wonder if he knew that? It�s different now, he wouldn�t like it at all. Things are different and people are different. My agents come to work unshaven and in jeans. I say nothing because they might be the next to die. I might be the next to die. Pia has lost all the respect that they all worked so hard to keep and we can do nothing to stop it. Because this battle has already been lost.�

�How is he doctor?� Peter Steele asked an overworked looking man in a grubby white coat.

�� He refuses to let me examine him. But that doesn�t matter. He�s as good as dead.�

�� What�s wrong with him?�

�� Crickey, I�ve a list as long as this corridor. He�s old and stinks of infection. He�s exhausted and has some kind of wound to his belly. I think even if we tried we couldn�t save him. A few hours, that�s all he�s got. It would be more humane to put him out of his misery now. I�m sorry, Mr Steele.�

�� Slowly, fearing what he would see, Steele opened the door . Even though the room was brightly lit and smelt strongly of disinfectant it held with it the underlying smell of death. An off-white sheeted bed filled most of the room but Steele only saw the occupant of the chair next to it. An old man sitting very still, not even noticing Steele�s presence. His head slumped forward, thin wasted hands trembling in his lap. He could have been ninety, thin, bent and wasted. His white hair and beard long and matted, his breathing forced in painful gasps. Steele leaned closer touching the frail shoulder and the old man looked up.

�� Peter? Peter Steele? It is you?�

�� Steele found himself shaking as he looked into the grey tired eyes and had to force himself to answer, �Vacily? Oh, my God, Vacily, what happened? Where have you been all these years?�

�� There was a hint of a smile from behind the beard, �Everything is so different here. I was... Well, you could say I was a prisoner... What month is it, Peter... What year?�

�� I just don�t understand? That day you left the office, you were so confused and so distressed. They all said you were mad, Vacily. Don�t you remember the year? It�s October 2011. Tell me, Vacily, I must know.�

�� There was just a low deep sigh and a murmured, �Nine years?� his eyes closed and Steele move quickly closer in fear. Without reopening his tired eyes Sukoloff began to speak, �Peter? This time, this year, why is it so unlike we dreamed? So few people on the streets, so few people in this building. Those that I�ve seen are distrusting, sneaking like thieves in the night. Did I do this I wonder? Did those stolen minutes do this?�

�� I don�t understand. Don�t you ever read papers?�

�� Peter? Did you know I had a child? No, of course you didn�t. I once had a wife... Oh, Peter, how I loved her... And my child... My baby... My Angel. They live only in my memory and even that is fading. Now I don�t know if it was all a dream. For you, they never existed and I haven�t even a photo to prove that they did, because... You see... I never married and the Angel was never born and do you know why? Because I had a temper tantrum and destroyed them.� He briefly stopped and looked to the ceiling as he mouthed the word Angel, then smiled as he added, �I knew somehow that you would be Pia�s controller. Have you got Zav running some nasty errands?�

�� Steele eyed this piteous man with grief striking his heart and tried to remember the man who had trained him. The man who had taught him to survive. But all he could see was the day nine years before. The day when Sukoloff had burst into the office rambling in his madness, calling for long dead friends and a wife he had never had. Then he had left only to reappear today, still mad.

�� Steele drew a chair closer and wiped a tear from his cheek, �Vacily, Zav was killed the day you left, him and several others. An agent went mad and killed him. Zav had suspicions about a double agent and as he came in the office... He didn�t stand a chance. They�re all gone, Vacily, apart from you and me. Do you really want to know what has been happening in your absence?�

�� Sukoloff looked carefully at the man before him, scanned the Aran sweater and brown cord trousers, noted the greying hair falling untidily across the doleful face, was this the Peter Steele he had left? Was this the young, proud agent who had been their best? His voice became faint now as death came closer, �Tell me, Peter, tell me how nine years could change the world.�

�� Steele began slowly, as if wishing he didn�t have to tell at all, �I suppose it started the day after Zav�s death. Yes, I think it was then. The next day the White House was destroyed and all in it, then...�

�� No, that�s all wrong, I warned Zav. I told him the exact day. I told him the time. I told him the name of Ptah and I know he got the message or did he? The first time around when Alex was here he got it, but the second? Peter? Didn�t you get a package from the British Museum?�

�� Steele frowned as he recalled the day, �Yes, I believe we did, but our controller sent it back. He said that it was quite obviously a hoax, not the genuine parchment it was thought to be and we had better things to do than decipher rubbish. But I think Zav read it, why?�

�� Sukoloff slumped further back into the chair and coughed wildly for a few minutes before continuing. �It was genuine and now I know it was all in vain. I really thought I could stop it you know? But Ptah and the Cat are still at large. The Changers, Peter, still out there and growing in force.�

�� Changers? What Changers?�

�� You don�t know? You don�t remember? Continue, Peter, I must know it all.�

�� Steele began to tell his story, stopping only to give Sukoloff small drinks of water when his coughing fits became too bad. He told of an illness, a dreadful sickness that changed the sufferer�s character, from gentle junior school teacher to the murderer of all his charges; from a much loved nun to a nymphomaniac who horribly mutilated her men friends. He told of kamikaze airline pilots, surgeons who played ball with their patients� organs. After these despicable crimes they had died, not suicide, not the usual deaths, but sudden and appalling. The instant they drew their final breath so began the decomposition of the body, some quicker than others. After only two minutes some became putrefying masses whilst others showed only mild signs of decomposition. All however showed characteristics which meant death should have occurred weeks before it had. All of them had been outwardly healthy and intelligent. The incidences of these deaths was growing and no reason for it or cure had been found. New York was now in enforced quarantine yet despite this, symptoms of this deadly illness were cropping up all over the world and becoming more frequent.

�� So you see, Vacily, hope has gone. No one can be trusted because one minute you appear normal and the next you�re a raving loony.�

�� Sukoloff gave a rasping chuckle, �Like me you mean? Don�t shake your head, Peter. To you, I am mad... Even to me, I am mad. All I know is that I was wrong to do what I did. Perhaps when I die I can come back and start again... No, not this time. I�m too old and too weak. I would never be able to resist the light. I have no reason to want to stay. But the world is dying as well. Soon it will only be occupied by the Changers... Remember them, Peter? No, I forgot, it didn�t happen did it. All those deaths because of me. Wait! I did it! I went back, the other Class Ones! Peter, they must go back as well. If they do then they would know that I did. They would know that I was once a Class One.�

�� Vacily, I just don�t understand. You�re saying the same things you did nine years ago. I don�t understand.�

�� I was dead, Peter. The other ghosts would have the same memories as me. Why haven�t they come to help me? No, they couldn�t because I was warned that I would be punished. But they must join together and fight for this world. This world is for the living and must never be allowed to become the world of the dead. Peter, for the sake of who I was, place an advert in the paper. Something like... Sepia Team Meeting, your leader is dead but orders you to save the planet. No, perhaps not. Yes, I must try, tell them to contact you and when they do, Peter, please do exactly what they say.�

�� Steele listened as Sukoloff rambled on and on, wondering what dreadful thing had happened nine years ago to have changed this man from being so intelligent to a nutcase.

�� As he watched Steele quietly leave the room Sukoloff sighed, that advert would never be placed, he knew that, all those wasted years and still he could do nothing. Time and the action of time was a thing set firmly in the Jelly of life and nothing could alter it. He closed his eyes and smiled as he remembered that short 18 months when life and death had been good. Then he remembered October, the month it all went wrong.

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