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  It rang a few times and then Pauline’s voice answered. Not her real voice, a recorded voice. She hadn’t even changed her message over the two years.

  “Hi, Pauline, it’s Michael,” he told the recording. “I’ve thought about your offer and I’ve changed my mind. I’d like to work with the government on the perceiver problem.”

  Five

  Michael walked along the corridors of power with his hand on the security badge that hung around his neck to make sure it was facing outwards so people could see that he had the right to be there. If he let it go, he feared it would swing round the other way and someone would challenge him over why he was in the Houses of Parliament. He feared they would realise someone had made a mistake and throw him out.

  Except no one seemed to care. The people who walked past him barely gave him a second glance. He checked their passing thoughts just to be certain, but they were too busy thinking how late they were in getting to their next meeting or how much work they had to do. Michael was just another guy in a suit going from one place to another.

  The building was a strange place, so steeped in history that he could almost smell it seeping out of the walls. On the outside, the Houses of Parliament – or Palace of Westminster, as it was also called – rose into the London skyline like a cathedral. Inside, it had the splendour of a castle. Walking into the inner sanctum, the facade of grandeur fell away to reveal the bureaucracy within. Aside from the debating chamber, it was really a series of offices where politicians and civil servants generated mounds of paperwork in their attempt to run the country.

  Michael stopped at the oak panelled door which he believed was the office Pauline worked from. He allowed his perception to reach through the wooden panels and detected the signature of Pauline’s mind. She was alone. He knocked.

  “Come in!” she called from inside.

  He opened the door into a cramped office that looked like it was resisting the move into the digital age. A line of metal filing cabinets at the back of the room suggested its work still revolved around paper. On the room’s two desks, next to the ageing computers, piles of precariously stacked files rose into the air like models of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

  Pauline had the receiver of a landline telephone clamped to her ear as she stood behind the far desk making gestures for the caller to hurry up while speaking to him in an unhurried way. “Yes, I’ll do that no problem.” She glanced over at Michael and raised a finger to suggest she would be with him in one moment. “Of course. I’m sure we have the file here somewhere … I will … Yes … Bye.”

  She put the phone down with a sigh. “Michael! You made it then?”

  “Yeah.” He lifted up his security badge for her to see. “They let me in. God knows why.”

  She came out from behind her desk and gave him a hug. He embraced her thin, strong body and felt her warmth soak into his. The last time they had done that, he had also perceived her warm feelings for him, but this time all he perceived was their absence. She released her embrace and stood back. His body grew a little colder without her touch.

  “How’s your mum?” she asked.

  “Fine, I think. She’s gone to stay with her sister in Scotland for a few days while workmen are round at the house.”

  “Sounds sensible.”

  “How’s Galen House?” said Michael.

  “Everyone’s worried,” said Pauline. “You can perceive it. Even when I put up my blocks and everyone else puts up theirs, it sort of lives in the air. Very few of us go out working anymore. So on top of everything else, people are frustrated and angry. Norm the Norm’s got them marching all over the base to kill off some nervous energy, but they still bring it back with them.”

  “You still have a job, though?”

  “Yeah, I perceive certain people when they come up before parliamentary committees. They think they’re only getting a grilling from the MPs on the committee, but I take a little peak into their minds while they’re being questioned so I know exactly what they’re not saying. I’ve been working on the Energy Select Committee recently. It’s, um, fascinating.” She smiled and deliberately allowed Michael to perceive that the dreary business of MPs was anything but fascinating to her.

  “I’m supposed to be on a committee,” said Michael. “I have no idea what to say to them.”

  “You need to speak up for perceivers,” said Pauline.

  “I know. I just wish I had a solution to the whole mess.”

  “You’ll find one. The Prime Minister has faith in you.”

  “I guess that must be why I sailed through the security checks. As soon as I realised they were doing a background check on me, I thought they’d never let me in this place. I don’t go by my father’s surname, but that’s not going to fool government security. I was at the perceiver riots five years ago, forheavensake! I felt sure that was going to raise a red flag, but it was ‘all cleared, Mr Sanderson; here’s your security pass, Mr Sanderson; have a nice day, Mr Sanderson’.”

  “Like I said,” said Pauline. “The Prime Minister wanted you.”

  “Talking of which, I have a meeting with him. It’s in, er …” Michael pulled out his phone and looked at the diary entry. “… The Disraeli Lounge. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yeah, I’ll show you.”

  There was a musty smell about the Disraeli Lounge which suggested it had a bit of a damp problem. Even though the radiator was blasting out heat and the nineteenth-century windows had been replaced by replica double glazed versions, the moisture in the walls was not deterred. Michael suspected that the decorators had literally papered over the cracks when they put up the maroon wallpaper which gave the room a darkened tone.

  Michael sat on one of two leather sofas facing each other across a small table made of dark wood in the middle of what was effectively a little lounge. There was a desk at one end so someone could work in there if they wanted to, but it had no computer so it seemed unlikely it was used for that purpose very often. It was more like an informal meeting room, although it did little to put Michael at ease.

  The movement of the occasional mind past the door was as distant as the sound of the London traffic through the double glazing and Michael paid little attention until he perceived one of the minds come closer.

  He stood up as the door opened and a man in a dark grey suit and trademark bright tie of orange and blue stripes walked in. Michael immediately recognised him as the Prime Minister, John Pankhurst. His own nervousness grew into a lump in his throat. He tried to cough it away.

  Pankhurst, Michael perceived, was a worried man. In the five years since they had last met he looked like he had aged ten. He had given up disguising his grey hair with brown dye and had let it grow into a thinning pattern on his head. The lines on his face had become more pronounced and his skin had taken on a stressed grey pallor. Pankhurst closed the door behind him with the hurry of a man who didn’t want to be observed.

  “Sit down. Sit down, please,” said Pankhurst in a flurry. “I’ve got a Cabinet meeting in five minutes.”

  Michael sat as Pankhurst went round the table to sit on the opposite sofa. He shuffled forward so he perched on the edge of the cushion and glanced at his watch. Michael perceived it wasn’t the time he was worried about.

  “I wanted to brief you on why you’re here,” said Pankhurst.

  “For the working group on perceivers,” said Michael, but even as he said it he perceived that the Prime Minister was talking about something else.

  “You will be part of that, of course,” said Pankhurst. “But I need you to do something else for me. Something that I don’t want other people in this building to know about.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I need you to protect my mind.”

  Michael sat back. The Prime Minister’s skittish behaviour made more sense now. “You’re worried that someone’s perceiving you?”

  “I carry a lot of important information in my head. If someone was to get access to
it, it could be very serious. Not just serious for me, but serious for the country. I understand there’s things you perceivers do called blocks. Could you block my mind?”

  Michael hadn’t blocked someone else’s mind before, but he had experienced it being done. “Yes, it’s possible, but the Perceiver Corps is full people who could do that for you. They effectively work for the government already. I don’t.”

  “Exactly,” said Pankhurst. “You’re independent. You don’t report to Agent Bill Cooper or the army, you can work for me and solely for me. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, but I don’t understand why,” said Michael.

  “Think what information a perceiver could discover if they got into my head. When all this started, they were teenagers, they weren’t a danger. Now they’re older and they’re in the police force and the court system – even we use them, like your friend Pauline. They’re not like normal spies, they don’t need to hack into computers or copy documents, they need only to be in the same room as me. If there are any perceivers in Westminster, I need you to identify them.”

  “I can do that,” said Michael as he felt his role at combating the perceiver crisis slip away from him.

  “If it were only people with political ambition, I could ride the storm. Politics always was a cut-throat business, but there’s been recent intelligence to suggest foreign powers are using perceivers. Whether they have recruited people in Britain, or are possibly growing their own, it’s unclear. Either way, I could be vulnerable – the country’s secrets could be vulnerable – wherever I go. I’m leaving for the G8 summit tomorrow and I need you to come with me. Do you have a bag packed?”

  “No, sir,” said Michael.

  “Pack one. Someone will pick you up in the morning.”

  Michael stood as the Prime Minister left the room; taking his paranoia with him.

  Six

  Michael didn’t think he’d go to Russia again. Ever.

  If the Russian authorities had known who he was, they would have surely stopped him at the airport. But, as he travelled with diplomatic privilege as part of the Prime Minister’s staff, he walked undisturbed off the plane at St Petersburg and got into the second car behind Pankhurst for the journey to the summit venue without anyone stopping him.

  Michael kept close enough to Pankhurst to know if any perceiver was trying to read his mind, but Michael was the only perceiver to come anywhere close to him for the whole journey.

  Arriving at Constantine Palace in the daylight allowed the full magnificence of the building to express itself. Sat within parkland so vast that the rest of the world lay out of sight, its crisp rendered walls and pillared arches spread themselves as long as a row of Victorian terraced houses, yet infinitely more grand. So many windows looked out onto its acres of lawn and calm man-made lake that it was more like a hotel. Except bigger than a hotel. It was as if the motorcade had driven out of Moscow entirely and arrived at one of the grand stately homes of Versailles or Rome.

  The palace was, according to the internet, a remnant of the days when Russia had been ruled by a royal family. When the royals were executed, it had fallen into disrepair and was largely neglected during the rise of communism. After communism collapsed, Russia was ruled by a series of presidents until President Putin came to the building’s rescue and had it restored into a presidential palace.

  Passing through the entrance of sparkling chandeliers and beautifully painted fresco walls, it was a relief to walk into the meeting room which the architect had had the good sense to paint in plain white. Around it stood the flags of the representative nations of the world’s strongest economic powers, all of them hanging from their poles in folds because there was no wind inside.

  At the centre was a ring doughnut of a table, much like the round table where King Arthur was said to have held court, except that there was a hole in the centre. Around it, printed onto wooden plaques in front of each chair, were the names of the heads of state and their respective countries. Pankhurst did not immediately sit down, but hovered around by the entrance greeting the other seven most powerful men and women in the world. Like most Englishmen, he had little grasp of other languages, but managed to say hello in French, German, Italian and even Japanese.

  Michael stayed out back as much as possible. Far enough away so as not to be noticed, but close enough to detect any perceiver who may come near. He realised, as he stood there, with his back to the wall and his hands clasped behind him, that he had unique access to every head of state in the room. He could unlock their political, their personal and perhaps even their military secrets. If only he could speak their languages. Some might say it made him the most powerful person in the room.

  With the informal pleasantries over, the dignitaries sat down at their allotted seats, a few publicity photos were taken and then the extraneous staff were ushered out of the room. Michael had checked them all and there no perceivers among them. He was safe to leave the Prime Minister to his negotiations.

  As he was leaving, a strong presence entered his perception: unmistakably the signature of another perceiver.

  He looked up to see a Russian soldier approaching. The man was young with a stoic face that hid a tumult of emotions underneath. Like the frenzy of a mind using the serum that can turn a norm into a perceiver; and lead them to the edge of madness.

  Michael watched as the soldier walked, almost marching with a determined stride, into the negotiating room. He went over to the wall on the left, turned round to face the room and brought his heavy shoes together to stand to attention. He was one of four soldiers standing likewise against each wall of the room. Outwardly, he looked the same as the others in his military uniform, but inside, his mind was clearly different.

  Michael immediately turned and threw his perception around the Prime Minister’s mind. He built his barriers to a point where perceivers couldn’t break through to read either Michael’s thoughts or those of John Pankhurst. Unless they tried hard enough to break through and, even then, Michael was sure he could defend them both.

  A hand pulled back on Michael’s shoulder. It was the British Chief of Security, a middle-aged man called Barrington. A translucent wire from a communications earpiece curled around the back of his ear while his physical agility and strength were hidden by the cut of his suit. “Time to go,” he said into Michael’s ear.

  “I can’t,” whispered Michael with as much urgency as he could manage without raising his voice. He glanced over at the sweaty Russian, but Barrington didn’t follow his cue and didn’t understand what he was trying to say. If only he could think his meaning over to him like he could if it was Pauline standing there. But the man was just a norm.

  “Now,” insisted Barrington.

  “I can’t,” Michael said again, a bit louder this time. Fortunately, there was still a lot of movement as the dignitaries were gathering their papers and getting settled in their seats and no one seemed to notice.

  The hand didn’t remove itself from his shoulder.

  Pankhurst didn’t see any of what was going on behind him. He was pouring himself a glass of water from the jug provided.

  “Prime Minister?” called Michael. Louder than he would have liked so it caused the Canadian Prime Minister also to turn round. She gave him a disapproving stare over the top of her reading glasses.

  It was her movement that actually attracted Pankhurst’s attention. As he turned to see what was going on, still with the glass of water in his hand.

  “I need to stay,” said Michael, pointedly.

  Pankhurst nodded his understanding and shooed Barrington away.

  Fortunately, Michael was not the only additional person to stay. As well as the Russian soldiers on security detail, there were translators, diplomatic assistants and someone to make an official record of the proceedings.

  Michael took up position against the wall where he hoped to be discreetly out of the way and keep his eyes focussed on Pankhurst.

  All the while, he was aware of t
he soldier’s mind. The man was employing no blocks, not even a filter to temper his leaking emotions. They were all out on display for any perceiver to read. Behind the nervousness was an uncertainty, like a growing panic which was making his face turn red like he was struggling to breathe. Michael couldn’t understand his thoughts as they were obviously in Russian, but they seemed chaotic. The words rumbled around his head in disjointed segments, sometimes repeated, almost like a person trying to remember a shopping list while in the supermarket.

  At the table, President Vodyanov of Russia addressed the meeting in faltering English. “I would like to formally welcome you to Russia,” he said, eyeing each world leader in turn. “It has been a long journey for some of you, but we are all busy people and I thought it necessary to get some business under our belts before dinner.”

  The whisper of translators in the room filled the air with French, German, Italian and Japanese interpretations of his words.

  “I think we should put our cards on the table, as you say,” continued Vodyanov. “First with regard to the issue of nuclear weapons, I want to make it plain that Russia is not against the principle of reducing its nuclear capability, but only if it is matched by the rest of the world …”

  As his president talked, the soldier’s perception danced around the room, alighting briefly on the mind of each participant, except for that of his own leader. It was difficult for Michael to monitor closely with his blocks raised around both himself and Pankhurst, but he didn’t think the soldier was making much of an attempt to read their thoughts. It was more like a reconnaissance mission in which he assessed the lie of the land before deciding where to strike.

  Michael felt the soldier’s perception bounce off the block protecting Pankhurst’s mind and felt the sting of his surprise. The soldier adjusted his position against the wall slightly and tried again. He pushed harder this time, but his perception didn’t get close to penetrating Michael’s shield. The flutter of confusion escalated inside the Russian until he turned his attention to easier prey.