White fire, p.1
White Fire, page 1
For those rising to meet the challenge of climate change.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
She was always free in her dreams. She was on the beach, surrounded by scores of people, her tiny fingers raking the hot sand. Her father was under the parasol, smoking a cigarette, telling her to come out of the sun. She burned easily, a consequence of her albinism, but she loved the warmth against her skin. She was seven years old, and she was happy and free. She looked down at her paper-white shoulder and saw nothing but skin. This was before the patch that had ruined her life. She longed to go back to those times. She looked at her father, who drew on his cigarette and smiled at her.
Brigitte Attali woke to the sound of her alarm. It had been two months since she’d become a captive to a toxin that was both capable of killing her and keeping her alive. She wore a black elastic armband over the XTX patch that had been stuck to her shoulder by Li Jun Xiao during the Red Wolves investigation. Ever since then, her morning routine had been the same; check she was still alive, then lift the elastic armband to make sure the patch was still stuck to her skin. She examined it now and found it firmly attached to her body like a parasite. She rolled out of bed and walked to the bathroom of her king-size suite in the Barbizon Hotel. The lights came on automatically, and she caught the reflection of her naked body in the large mirror over the basin. She’d lost weight these past few weeks, and her ribs were obvious, coiled around her like bony fingers, but she wasn’t sure whether it was a consequence of the toxin or worry about the future. She’d faced death many times, but this was different. It wasn’t a one-off event, an assault or incursion into hostile territory. This was an ever-present danger, looking over her like a brooding cloud. Sometimes she felt as if the grim reaper was lurking in the shadows of her life.
The patch on her shoulder delivered a mind-altering dose of fentanyl, and an engineered toxin called XTX that attacked and destroyed her parathyroid glands, shutting down her body’s ability to synthesize oxygen. The patch’s third ingredient was the hormone PTH, the very hormone the parathyroid glands produced. Without the patch’s replacement supply of PTH, the XTX already in her system would kill her within moments, and she needed a new one every week.
The US National Institutes of Health had been working on a cure for all those affected by the patches – sold as containing fentanyl only – ever since she and Pearce had broken the Red Wolves and foiled their attack on America, but so far attempts to reverse the effects of the patch had proved fruitless. Brigitte had been forced to get used to a new and troubling existence and come to terms with the fact her life would likely be shortened by her condition. She’d spent weeks researching the XTX toxin and what it did to the parathyroid gland. In normal circumstances, the parathyroid gland could exhibit reduced activity or even be surgically removed if necessary, but in extreme cases it went into what was known as parathyroid crisis, which led to respiratory failure. XTX induced parathyroid crisis, and without the PTH hormone released by her patch, Brigitte would die in a matter of minutes. The stress of a death sentence had weighed heavily and it had taken her weeks to learn how to sleep again and get over the anxiety the patch would come off in the night. Eventually, after relying on sleeping pills to knock her out, she’d realized she wouldn’t accidentally rip the armband or patch off in her sleep. The nightmares of waking for her last few gasped breaths didn’t stop, though.
Brigitte opened her vanity case and unzipped the plastic pouch which contained her replacement patches. She had brought a dozen with her, enough for three months. She took one out, aware of how much she hated the infernal thing that was now keeping her alive. She peeled off the blister wrapper, removed the backing and placed the pouch face down on the counter. She pulled her armband down and peeled the used patch from her shoulder. Once it was off, she started to feel the effects of its absence. Her chest tightened and her heart rate jumped a notch. Her body was beginning to lose the ability to process oxygen. If she didn’t apply the new patch, she would start to suffocate within three minutes. In four, she would pass out and after five she’d be dead.
She looked at herself in the mirror and wondered why she was fighting the inevitable. She’d thought about leaving it off many times before, but something had always stopped her. Maybe she was sentimental and had grown attached to her life, no matter how tortured and pathetic. But perhaps here, in this anonymous hotel room, she could—
She was interrupted by a knock at the door. She knew who it would be, and didn’t want him to be the one who discovered her body. She applied the new patch, replaced the armband and threw on a robe. The fentanyl high hit as she tied the belt, but she was used to it now, and knew to relax into the rolling sensation that made the world seem as though it was melting around her.
She steadied herself, left the bathroom and pressed her eye to the spyhole to see Scott Pearce.
Chapter 2
Brigitte Attali had first been an enemy, then a colleague, and now a friend. She’d been a formidable adversary when they’d first encountered one another during the Black Thirteen investigation, but as he’d got to know her, Pearce had realized the hard-as-nails exterior concealed a vulnerable core. That vulnerability had become clear when she’d confided in him about the patch, revealing a weakness that might someday kill her. Ever since then, Pearce had wanted to protect her, and in a different life his feelings might have developed into something more, but their work was all-consuming and suffocated any personal relationships. Pearce had spent years giving all of himself to the job, first in the military, then in the intelligence service. When he’d been a green recruit, he’d had a vague ambition to start a family one day, but as the years ground on and he’d realized how difficult it was to meet someone and maintain a relationship, the ambition had faded. Like him, Brigitte had given herself to this life and their connection would never be anything more than professional. She was dedicated, even in the face of terrible adversity, and he admired her all the more for it.
Her eyes still shone with their customary defiance, but there was a frailty in them now. She was like a dragon made of glass, formidable at first glance, but delicate and fragile to those who took a closer look.
‘I can do another hour if you like,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ she replied. ‘I was just getting dressed.’
‘It’s no problem.’
They’d been alternating surveillance shifts, doing ten hours on and ten off, and it was time for their handover. Pearce was meant to stay in the lobby until she came down, but he’d been worried about her. He sometimes wondered how Brigitte managed to sleep with the patch that had ruined her life clinging to her. He’d have constantly been worried it would come off in the night.
‘Give me two minutes to get dressed,’ she said.
‘It’s really no problem,’ he said.
‘Scott,’ she replied in her thick Parisienne accent, ‘let me do my job. I don’t want to sit in my room watching the clock. I want to do what we came here for.
Pearce nodded. He might not understand how she could live with the patch, but he understood the need to throw herself into the job. He’d been doing the same for years. People let him down, hurt him, betrayed him, but the job was a constant. It had always been there, challenging him, pushing him, demanding his best.
‘I’ll relieve you at five,’ he said.
Brigitte nodded and shut the door. Pearce lingered for a moment, before walking along the corridor to his own room. He used his key card to enter, kicked off his shoes and fell onto his freshly made bed. Within moments, he was asleep.
Chapter 3
Pearce managed to get his head down for ten minutes before Brigitte called him. Their target was on the move, and minutes later, Pearce had joined the pursuit on the streets of Amsterdam.
The canals were like veins, keeping the city alive. A testament to a bygone generation, they’d held the angry sea at bay and protected Amsterdam from being overrun. They shimmered a deep black and, here and there, in the darkest corners of the city, the moon and stars could be seen reflected in surfaces the colour of the slickest crude. Pearce hurried to stay within sight of their target, Nikos Kitsantonis, the Greek billionaire who was their only link to the man they knew as Elroy Lang.
Lang had been behind the Red Wolves’ plot to take over the drug trade on the West Coast of America and had been responsible for countless deaths in Cairo and Seattle. He’d cursed Brigitte Attali with the XTX patch that both poisoned her and kept her alive. Pearce watched her now, on the other side of the canal, about a football pitch ahead of him. She was staying level with Nikos, doing an excellent job of tracking him without appearing to do so. Pearce knew she’d be sporting the scowl that had become her trademark ever since the fateful night in Qingdao when she’d been abducted and afflicted with the patch. It didn’t take a psychic to know Brigitte burned with a single-minded desire for vengeance against Lang, and the fire hadn’t subsided in the months since Seattle. Pearce was drawn to her anger and determination almost as much as her vulnerability.
‘He’s taking a left,’ Pearce said quietly into his lapel microphone.
Up ahead, Brigitte crossed a bridge and joined Prinsengracht about fifty paces behind Nikos.
Pearce followed them and turned left onto a broad street. Prinsengracht was one of the city’s widest canals, and four- and five-storey terrace buildings stood either side of the expanse of water. The surface glinted in the reflected light spilling through the uncovered windows. Dutch tradition discouraged blinds or curtains and many of the city’s homes were open for Pearce to see as he passed, but etiquette required passers-by not to pry. Privacy by consensus rather than concealment.
Pearce wondered what secrets Nikos was concealing. The one photo Leila Nahum, Pearce’s long-time friend and collaborator, had been able to find of Elroy Lang was from six years ago and showed Lang in the background of a picture taken at one of Nikos’s business launches. The billionaire ran his own investment fund, NK Capital, and had interests in hundreds of companies around the world. Leila’s image crawler had taken weeks to pull this one picture of Lang and match it to the drone footage they’d taken outside the Lightstar Arena in Seattle. Whoever had scrubbed Lang’s likeness from the Internet had overlooked this one, tiny, partial image of him in the background.
When Leila had returned to Jordan to search for her missing sister, Pearce and Brigitte had picked up Nikos’s trail and followed him for weeks – from London to New York, then to Istanbul and finally to Amsterdam. He usually went everywhere with a sizeable security entourage, but tonight, when he’d left the Barbizon Hotel on the edge of the city’s red-light district, he had been alone for the first time in weeks.
Pearce and Brigitte had been taking shifts in the lobby, working as a pair whenever Nikos and his men left the hotel. Ideally, Pearce would have liked another two people in the team, but Leila was looking for her sister, and Kyle Wollerton was spending time with his family. Pearce didn’t know who else he could trust with this, so he and Brigitte carried the burden.
Nikos crossed the street and went over Museumburg, a short bridge that spanned the canal and led to the Rijksmuseum, one of Amsterdam’s most famous landmarks. The huge red-brick nineteenth-century building looked like the gothic palace of some goblin king, but any monsters inside tonight would be in human form. It was lit up with spotlights and banners celebrating Rembrandt’s birthday. A crowd of people gathered outside the main entrance and a line of luxury cars deposited guests onto a broad red carpet. Most wore expensive cocktail dresses or black ties, and as he approached, Nikos looked out of place in his trademark suit and open-collared shirt. He joined the queue of people waiting to be checked by security.
Pearce caught up with Brigitte.
‘We going in?’ she asked.
Her distinctive white hair was concealed beneath a blonde wig, and she had brown contact lenses to hide her blazing blue eyes, but the fire was still there. It was always there, and Pearce sympathized. He hated Elroy Lang for what he’d done to her. She was so vital and capable, and Lang had permanently damaged her.
Pearce nodded. A couple of security guards were checking the line for guest passes. Pearce and Brigitte waited until Nikos had reached the front of the line, and once he’d been allowed inside, they walked past the queuing glitterati, ignoring the grumbling, and presented themselves to the guard who’d admitted Nikos.
‘AIVD,’ Pearce said, showing a fake Dutch Intelligence and Security Service ID.
Brigitte did likewise.
‘Problem?’ the security guard asked.
‘Nee,’ Pearce replied in Dutch. ‘Routine controle.’
The guard nodded them through, and they climbed the concrete steps and went inside.
There were more security guards in the lobby, searching bags, but Pearce and Brigitte flashed their AIVD identification and were waved into the grand hall, which was buzzing with the sound of hundreds of people celebrating one of the Netherlands’ most famous artists. The walls were lined with the old master’s brooding artwork, and guests gathered in small clusters to admire the massive oil paintings. Banners hung from the ceilings and cocktail servers circulated, topping up drinks.
‘I never liked Rembrandt,’ Brigitte said. ‘Too dark. One day I’ll take you to see the Monet exhibition in Paris, and you’ll see art that brims with life.’
‘I’d like that,’ Pearce replied.
He scanned the room and saw Nikos heading through an archway to their left.
Brigitte and Pearce followed and entered a long, broad gallery that took up nearly all of the south-east wing of the building. The room wasn’t as crowded as the main hall and a couple of dozen guests drifted through the space in small groups, studying the works of Rembrandt and his students. Further on, Nikos joined two people who stood in front of a trio of portraits of Dutch aristocrats.
Pearce took a pair of glasses from his jacket pocket and activated the digital video capture system. He watched as the duo turned to greet Nikos. One of them was a glamorous woman who stood almost six feet tall in her needle-sharp heels. She had long silver hair that cascaded down her green evening dress. The woman was a stranger, but Pearce knew the man who was standing alongside her. It was Elroy Lang, the killer he and Brigitte had been hunting for two months. Pearce sensed Brigitte tense with furious energy, and he took her arm and moved behind a column to avoid being seen. Lang could lead him to Markus Kral, the man Pearce had seen in Seattle and Oxfordshire, the man who connected British far-right group Black Thirteen and the Red Wolves, an international criminal organization with roots in Chinese nationalism. Pearce hadn’t expected to run into Lang tonight. They had to be careful.
‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ Pearce said.
‘I’m going to kill him,’ Brigitte replied.
Pearce sensed movement and saw a man in a black suit peel away from the group he’d been standing with. He headed towards them with a look of purpose, and when Pearce glanced around the room, he realized three other men in suits were converging on them. Nikos might have come without his security detail, but Lang had brought muscle.
‘We’ve been made,’ Pearce warned Brigitte.
Chapter 4
Pearce glanced round the column to see Lang leading Nikos and the silver-haired woman along the gallery.
‘You take Lang,’ he told Brigitte. ‘I’ll deal with them.’
