Mind Power Page 5

  The Canadian Prime Minister took off her reading glasses. “Canada, as you know, gave up its nuclear weapons long ago and is a testament to how it is better to use public money for the wellbeing of the people,” she told the assembled dignitaries.

  “Only because you have the protection of the United States,” said Vodyanov. “You even contribute to their nuclear programme!”

  The soldier’s attention honed in on the Canadian Prime Minister and entered her mind to steal her thoughts as easily as a humming bird steals nectar.

  So it continued for a couple of hours. The politicians stated their entrenched positions, everybody listened and no one allowed themselves to be swayed by the others’ arguments. The Russian soldier perceived them all as they sat there, gathering up their private thoughts better than any electronic device could. Because, Michael perceived, he could understand it all. Beneath that khaki uniform which suggested a military man trained in the practical skills of weapons and fighting, there was an intellect fluent in French and German and impressively competent in Italian. He struggled with Japanese, but he knew enough to get by.

  The strain of being the ultimate fly on the wall turned his mind into a frenzy of thoughts. The more the politicians droned on about state security and the principle of mutually assured destruction, the more the soldier’s mind fragmented. The sheen of sweat had spread to his forehead and he had begun to physically shake like a man forced to stand there for hours on punishment duty.

  By the end of two hours, Michael was also beginning to tire, so he was glad when President Vodyanov adjourned the meeting. “Dinner will be served in an hour, so we have time to ‘freshen up’, I believe is the expression, and then I see shall see you there.”

  A collective mumble filled the room as the heads of state spoke to their aides and people shuffled away their papers. Michael was relieved and began counting down the moments to when he could retreat to the shell of his own mind again.

  The soldier had understood every English word spoken by his president. He knew that the meeting was over, but still he did not relax. He remained standing to attention at the side of the room, shaking slightly as French, German, Italian, English, Japanese and Russian thoughts whirled around his head like odd socks in a washing machine.

  Pankhurst was on his feet and chatting to the President of the United States whose eye he had managed to catch as she headed towards the door. Despite having journeyed all the way from Washington that morning and having sat in a dull meeting for two hours, she looked immaculate in the spotless white jacket she wore over navy blue blouse and trousers. “Perhaps we can have a few words tonight during dinner,” suggested Pankhurst.

  “Of course,” she said with a smile which indicated that she knew she was the one with the upper hand in the relationship. “I hope they don’t serve meatballs again. I mean, I like garlic, but you can have too much of a good thing, you know what I mean?”

  At any other time, Michael would have been excited to be standing so close to the President of the United States, but he was too preoccupied by the spin cycle of the Russian soldier’s thoughts. The end of the meeting should have brought some sort of relief to the spy – as it had for Michael and the politicians – but instead it had inflated his anxiety. Michael glanced over to see the sheen of sweat on his face. It was more than anxiety; he was scared.

  The soldier reached down to the gun holster on his belt.

  Michael suddenly realised where he had felt those sort of intense frightened and desperate thoughts before. It was right before the businessman Benjamin Conte had thrown himself out of his office window and plunged to his death.

  The soldier pulled out his pistol.

  “Prime Minister!” Michael yelled and threw himself at Pankhurst. The Prime Minister was larger than him, but the momentum was enough to knock him off his feet and the pair of them went sprawling to the ground.

  Michael looked back to see the soldier had the gun to his head. Tears were now streaming down his face. “Ya ne mogu bolshe!”

  He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. A gunshot pierced the air and the soldier’s chaotic thoughts were gone in an instant.

  Screams erupted all around him as panicked people dropped their papers and started running.

  Pankhurst looked up at Michael who was lying half on top of him. As he understood what had just happened, Michael perceived his growing gratitude.

  Next to them, the President of the United States stood in shock as the red splatter of the soldier’s brains ran down her white jacket.

  Seven

  Pankhurst sat perched on the edge of the sofa in one of the guest suites of Constantine Palace and brushed his hands through his thinning hair.

  The room was pristine with a glass table centrepiece surrounded by two upright armchairs and the sofa which the Prime Minister was sitting on, all upholstered in spotless cream fabric. Soft light from half a dozen spot bulbs in the ceiling gave the room a serene atmosphere, while the spongy carpet underfoot suggested very few people had had the privilege to stay there.

  Pankhurst, however, was a mess. He had loosened his bright tie and thrown off his jacket to reveal a creased shirt which had lost its crisp whiteness to the grime of the day.

  “Does someone want to tell me what the hell happened?” said Pankhurst.

  He shouted out his question to the room in general, but the only two other people in it were Barrington, the British security chief, and Michael.

  Barrington kept an outer appearance of calm as he stood as if on guard duty by the door which led out into the rest of the palace, but inside Michael could perceive that he was panicking. He was a proud man who considered the safety of the Prime Minister his top priority, and yet it had been some inexperienced twenty-year-old – which was how he regarded Michael – who had pushed Pankhurst out of the way when a crazy man pulled a gun.

  “A Russian soldier shot himself, sir,” said Barrington.

  “I know that, Barrington,” said Pankhurst, running his fingers through his hair a second time. “He splattered his brains across half the leaders of the free world. I was not asking you to state the bloody obvious. What I want to know is why was a suicidal man allowed into the heart of the G8 summit with a loaded pistol?”

  “It was agreed with the Russians that they would have armed personnel stationed around the dignitaries at all times for protection. They were all loyal soldiers, vetted by the Russian Federal Security Service. If it’s any consolation, sir, the Russians seem as shocked by the whole incident as the rest of us.”

  Michael stepped forward from his position standing against the side wall. “The man who shot himself was a perceiver.”

  Barrington swivelled to give Michael the most vicious stare possible, which he matched with a feeling of irritation that he didn’t realise Michael could perceive. “What are you talking about?”

  “He was perceiving everyone at the meeting,” said Michael. “The Russians on the ground may not have known why he blew his brains out, but I bet someone high up put him there to read minds.”

  Barrington turned back to the Prime Minister while pointing an accusing finger at Michael. “With respect, sir, what’s he doing here? I understand you wanted to bring your intern to the summit for experience, but I have to object to him interfering in security matters.”

  “If interfering means pushing me to the ground when someone pulls a loaded gun, I’m all for it,” said Pankhurst.

  Barrington kept his face steady while his ire was provoked in his mind. Michael couldn’t blame him. If he had been in Barrington’s position, he would have felt the same.

  “Is it okay if I sit down, Prime Minister?” said Michael. “I don’t feel comfortable talking about this stuff at a volume people might overhear.”

  “Take a pew,” said Pankhurst, indicating the upright armchair on his left. “You better sit down too, Barrington. You’re making the place untidy.”

  “Sir.” Barrington undid the button of his jacket and took up
position in the other armchair, opposite Michael. “But I don’t buy this perceiver theory. The perceiver outbreak was a British phenomenon and, anyway, the soldier was too old. Even back home the oldest perceiver can’t be any more than nineteen by now.”

  Michael sighed. The man was so ignorant. “I don’t think the soldier was born to be a perceiver. His power was too strong, too indiscriminate and he didn’t seem to be able to control it like someone who has lived with it since he was a teenager.”

  Barrington stared across the glass table at him. “Where did you get all this information?”

  “I got it by perceiving him,” said Michael. “I’m a perceiver too.”

  Michael felt Barrington’s disbelief only for a moment before it morphed into understanding and then turned to anger.

  “You knew this?” Barrington asked the Prime Minister.

  “I didn’t want to tell you unless it was necessary,” said Pankhurst.

  “Didn’t you think it was necessary before a crazy man pulled out a loaded gun in front of you?” Barrington checked his anger. He took a breath and smoothed his tie down across his lean torso. “I’m sorry, sir, but you might have been killed. So, for that matter, could the leaders of America, Russia, Germany and the other four countries round the table.”

  “Well, you know now,” said Pankhurst.

  “Next time, I’d appreciate being fully briefed. I can’t be expected to do my job if I’m not given half the information.” Barrington averted his eyes as his attention was taken by something coming through his earpiece. He put his finger to his ear. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m getting details of arrangements for getting everyone out of here.” He stood from the armchair and walked over to his previous position by the door and carried out a whispered conversation with whoever was speaking in his ear.

  Michael looked at Pankhurst who had given up his anxious pose for a more exhausted one leaning against the back of the sofa. “You knew, didn’t you?” said Michael.

  “I didn’t know anything,” said Pankhurst.

  “With respect, sir, you can’t lie to a perceiver.”

  “I suspected the Russians might put a perceiver spy in with the G8, but I didn’t know for sure.”

  “Did you also suspect they might be using the perceiver serum?” said Michael.

  Pankhurst’s thoughts suggested he did, but he wasn’t about to openly admit it. “You think that’s what the soldier was taking?”

  “Almost certainly,” said Michael. “I saw into the mind of someone on the serum when the Russians were testing it out on British businessmen. Just before one of the businessmen killed himself, his mind was as messed up as the soldier’s. The serum can turn a norm into a perceiver, but if they take too much of it, it sends them mad.”

  “The Russians must have known that, surely,” said Pankhurst. “Why put someone like that into the G8? If he hadn’t killed himself and I hadn’t brought a perceiver with me, no one would have been the wiser.”

  “They must have thought it worth the risk,” said Michael. “The soldier was an intelligent man who could speak almost every language native to the people in that room. There can’t be many people like that in the Russian military. Perhaps they used him one too many times.”

  “Evidently.”

  Barrington left his position by the door and came over to them. “The cars are ready to take us back to the airport, Prime Minister,” he said.

  “We’re leaving now?” said Pankhurst.

  “Now, sir, yes,” said Barrington with an urgent nod.

  “At least I’ll be spared the garlic meatballs.”

  A quizzical expression formed over Barrington’s face as he ushered them out of the door.

  Eight

  Michael stood with his back to the wall of the famous Victorian terrace called Downing Street and looked out at the press scrum ahead. They were one alien mass of microphones and camera lenses that all lifted and turned in unison, like the eyes of a single organism, to point towards the Prime Minister as he stepped up to a wooden podium his press secretary had placed in front of the iconic black door of Number Ten.

  In a fresh suit, after a recent shave and a comb run through his hair, the dishevelled man Michael had seen in the Russian presidential palace had been swept away and replaced with a neat version suitable for the cameras. Even if underneath, Michael perceived, he remained unnerved and struggling to keep that side of him hidden from the public.

  “I am disappointed that the important work that I, and other world leaders, were due to conduct at the G8 summit had to be cut short,” Pankhurst told the alien mass.

  Michael allowed his perception to reach out to the journalists and their supporting camera crews and found not one perceiver among them. Satisfied, he returned his attention to protecting Pankhurst’s mind.

  “It is the belief of the Russian authorities that this was the lone action of a man suffering from an undiagnosed case of PTSD. I am inclined to agree. Therefore, our thoughts go out to his family at what must be a very difficult time. The Russian authorities will, of course, carry out a full investigation into the circumstances surrounding the incident and we will be reviewing security arrangements for future international summits. Thank you.”

  A man called out from the press scrum. “How are you?”

  Pankhurst had half-turned from the podium when the question called him back. “I am unhurt, as were all the other leaders of the G8. Shaken, but not stirred, as James Bond would say.”

  A chuckle rippled through the alien.

  “Is it true the soldier who shot himself was on an experimental drug?” called a woman’s voice. The owner of the question peered out from her colleagues, allowing her blonde hair to be visible among the dark coats and suits of the others. Michael recognised her as Sian Jones, the reporter who had broken the perceiver story.

  He perceived Pankhurst falter inside, while outwardly he maintained his smile. “Miss Jones, where did you get that idea?” He dismissed the question with a raised eyebrow, turned from the alien and walked towards the house.

  Calls of “Prime Minister! Prime Minister!” from the journalists who hadn’t been quick enough to shout their questions went unheeded.

  Someone inside, who must have been watching proceedings, opened the door to Number Ten and Pankhurst stepped inside. Michael followed.

  Michael wasn’t entirely sure what he had expected to see inside the famous official residence of the Prime Minister, but he hadn’t expected the entranceway to be like someone’s lounge. It was probably the fireplace that made it feel that way, set into the wall of the sizeable square room with a checked pattern of black and white tiles on the floor. As more of the Prime Minister’s staff joined them inside, it felt less roomy, until the policeman who stood dutifully waiting, closed the door behind them.

  Pankhurst turned to his press secretary who had a computer tablet clutched to her chest like it was her most treasured possession. “Find out what that Jones woman was doing there,” he told her.

  “My understanding is their political correspondent is ill with the flu that’s going round,” she replied.

  “So they get one of their investigative reporters to fill in?” said Pankhurst. “What happened to that annoying Carlisle man they usually use? Find out, will you.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  The woman took the tablet from her chest and tapped at the screen with her finger as Pankhurst walked past her.

  Michael followed him up a set of sweeping stairs with pictures of all the past prime ministers on the wall. It was like walking through the history of British politics in a matter of moments.

  The building had nowhere near the magnificence of the Russian presidential palace, but its grand interior was still a surprise considering the modest front door they had just walked through.

  At the top of the stairs, Barrington greeted Michael with a nod to indicate he should walk over to him. So Michael turned right to meet the head of security while Pankhurst turn
ed left to go to the Cabinet Room.

  Barrington did not have a curly wire leading from his ear that morning, but he otherwise looked the same as he had in Russia, in his dark suit which caused him to blend in with the politicians as if he were part of the furniture. Which, presumably, was the point.

  Barrington bent over to mutter a clandestine question in Michael’s ear. “All clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ready to check on the Cabinet?”

  “Yes,” said Michael.

  By this, Barrington meant to subtly perceive each member of the government as they joined the Prime Minister for a meeting. He found Michael a place to stand that was both out of the way and close enough to mentally touch their minds.

  In ones and twos they arrived: the Home Secretary, the Defence Secretary, the Foreign Secretary … All of them norms, all of them wrapped up in their political thoughts which Michael wasn’t interested in and had no business in perceiving. Pankhurst’s paranoia in suspecting his colleagues were perceivers spying on him appeared unfounded.

  Once the last of the Cabinet members had disappeared through the double oak doors of the meeting room, Barrington leant forward to speak in Michael’s ear for a second time.

  “All clear?”

  “Yes,” said Michael.

  “Let’s move on to the staff.”

  They descended the grand staircase past old and mostly deceased prime ministers, going back in time with each step from Tony Blair, to Winston Churchill and Benjamin Disraeli.

  Michael had already brushed at the mind of the police officer inside the front door and found that he was a norm, but it was confirmed as he got closer. The man’s thoughts were docile – it had to be boring standing there all day doing nothing – but were alerted when someone knocked on the front door.