veins.”
He felt anger grow hot on his face. Dumping Tom like that demonstrated his adversary’s sick sense of humour. Local people distrusted anyone surviving an SRP interview and treated them accordingly.
Noah discerned movement. The rear door of the black Ford Ventura sedan opened and a body flopped to the pavement.
“Well done, lad. You made it.”
The enemy sped away as the young man tried to stand. Noah could see smoke rising from his burnt clothing. He could only watch, as Tom limped away.
He heard a beeping sound and felt for his communicator.
“Noah. We think he’s heading towards the abandoned railway station at Squatter’s Flat. The team will be in place before he gets there.”
“Good. Keep alert and don’t make contact. This could be a setup.”
Tom’s choice of location created a predicament for Noah. Until they could eliminate the possibility of enemy involvement, they couldn’t make a direct approach for fear of a trap.
“Also, monitor all traffic and search for any type of electronic signal in or out of the area.”
A solid darkness permeated the east platform. Noah ordered several members of the PMSG to spread through the tunnels on both the western and eastern side of the station.
Only the faintest light from the stairwell, allowed Noah to see Tom creeping towards the old Station Master’s Office.
The boy seemed to be a good choice. His job required him to deliver a secure mobile phone to the room. This enabled Noah to have direct contact with Tom, without fear of detection.
“What are you doing? You silly boy?”
The youth pulled on the door of the hut several times, turned back in Noah’s direction, shook his head twice, then pelted the phone at the small office window. Noah could hear the pane of glass shatter from his position.
“You little …”
The street boys could be useful, but not always reliable. He began dialling.
“Come on, Tom. Pick up the phone.”
_____________
“Hello. Who is this?”
“Tom, yes. It’s Noah … from the bookshop. Are you alright, lad? Tell me about your injuries.”
Tom sighed. Even sympathy from a wanted activist, seemed better than suffering this alone.
“I’m burnt and bleeding, but I’m alright … well, apart from something sharp in my chest. It hurts when I breathe.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Tom sat up, using his elbows for leverage; his hands still contained shards of glass. He attempted to explain his meeting with Vogel, but the pain in his lungs made it hard going.
He frowned with an unwanted realisation.
I’m trusting a radical, a fugitive.
He tried to smile, but his entire being hurt. He didn’t care anymore, no matter what Noah’s motivation might be.
“You have to come to us, lad. You know they’ll kill you if you don’t.”
How could a lifetime of running from the police, be a sane choice? Yet, these same police threatened his life and caused this pain?
“Yeah … Great. I haven’t got a choice other than you.”
_____________
Noah guided Tom west along the east tunnel, until they reached the entrance to an adjoining maintenance shaft; its red steel door left unlocked and ajar. They entered and climbed up a steep stairwell with several landings, before finally reaching the surface. From here, Noah directed a smaller team to an old blue Toyota sedan, with faded, powdery oxidisation on the boot, roof and hood. Several small dents on the bonnet and left front fender, added to the look of disrepair, helping to make it nondescript enough to dissolve into the normality of the daily traffic.
They left London, taking an erratic route through the suburbs, as a precaution against a tail. Tom sat beside Noah, while two other people rested in the back seat; a pretty blond with hair cut short like a boy’s and a large man with dark features.
Tom felt embarrassed each time he cried out. The vehicle’s jerky movements caused him pain.
“I’m sorry, Noah. I
He felt anger grow hot on his face. Dumping Tom like that demonstrated his adversary’s sick sense of humour. Local people distrusted anyone surviving an SRP interview and treated them accordingly.
Noah discerned movement. The rear door of the black Ford Ventura sedan opened and a body flopped to the pavement.
“Well done, lad. You made it.”
The enemy sped away as the young man tried to stand. Noah could see smoke rising from his burnt clothing. He could only watch, as Tom limped away.
He heard a beeping sound and felt for his communicator.
“Noah. We think he’s heading towards the abandoned railway station at Squatter’s Flat. The team will be in place before he gets there.”
“Good. Keep alert and don’t make contact. This could be a setup.”
Tom’s choice of location created a predicament for Noah. Until they could eliminate the possibility of enemy involvement, they couldn’t make a direct approach for fear of a trap.
“Also, monitor all traffic and search for any type of electronic signal in or out of the area.”
A solid darkness permeated the east platform. Noah ordered several members of the PMSG to spread through the tunnels on both the western and eastern side of the station.
Only the faintest light from the stairwell, allowed Noah to see Tom creeping towards the old Station Master’s Office.
The boy seemed to be a good choice. His job required him to deliver a secure mobile phone to the room. This enabled Noah to have direct contact with Tom, without fear of detection.
“What are you doing? You silly boy?”
The youth pulled on the door of the hut several times, turned back in Noah’s direction, shook his head twice, then pelted the phone at the small office window. Noah could hear the pane of glass shatter from his position.
“You little …”
The street boys could be useful, but not always reliable. He began dialling.
“Come on, Tom. Pick up the phone.”
_____________
“Hello. Who is this?”
“Tom, yes. It’s Noah … from the bookshop. Are you alright, lad? Tell me about your injuries.”
Tom sighed. Even sympathy from a wanted activist, seemed better than suffering this alone.
“I’m burnt and bleeding, but I’m alright … well, apart from something sharp in my chest. It hurts when I breathe.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Tom sat up, using his elbows for leverage; his hands still contained shards of glass. He attempted to explain his meeting with Vogel, but the pain in his lungs made it hard going.
He frowned with an unwanted realisation.
I’m trusting a radical, a fugitive.
He tried to smile, but his entire being hurt. He didn’t care anymore, no matter what Noah’s motivation might be.
“You have to come to us, lad. You know they’ll kill you if you don’t.”
How could a lifetime of running from the police, be a sane choice? Yet, these same police threatened his life and caused this pain?
“Yeah … Great. I haven’t got a choice other than you.”
_____________
Noah guided Tom west along the east tunnel, until they reached the entrance to an adjoining maintenance shaft; its red steel door left unlocked and ajar. They entered and climbed up a steep stairwell with several landings, before finally reaching the surface. From here, Noah directed a smaller team to an old blue Toyota sedan, with faded, powdery oxidisation on the boot, roof and hood. Several small dents on the bonnet and left front fender, added to the look of disrepair, helping to make it nondescript enough to dissolve into the normality of the daily traffic.
They left London, taking an erratic route through the suburbs, as a precaution against a tail. Tom sat beside Noah, while two other people rested in the back seat; a pretty blond with hair cut short like a boy’s and a large man with dark features.
Tom felt embarrassed each time he cried out. The vehicle’s jerky movements caused him pain.
“I’m sorry, Noah. I
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