opened a small box that contained a tiny book and a digital microchip. He quickly grabbed the contents and shoved them it into the pocket of his jacket. He knew that it would change everything. He needed to do this for his friend, even if it meant his life. The helicopter barely made it through the storm. It wallowed like an airborne rowboat piloted by a drunk, shoved and battered by the freezing wind. But it managed to touch down thirteen minutes after the stranger knocked on the outpost’s door—exactly on time.
The pilot didn’t check IDs—why bother? Donnelley and Parkinson were the only two humans in a five hundred-mile radius. With just two new passengers and so little to carry, the pilot was able to lift off at 12:56—two minutes early, despite the storm.
The trip to the evac station passed without incident. They did not speak to each other or the pilot. Shortly after they debarked, they went into separate rooms for processing and left on separate transports three hours later, returning to different parts of the United States. Brad did not see the other man leave; he heard much later that Robert Donnelley “disappeared” at some point along the daisy-chain of multiple connecting flights that were supposed to take him back to Roanoke, Virginia.
He didn’t care. All that mattered to Brad Parkinson was that he made it home to his wife and daughter.
And he never spoke of the incident to anyone. Ever.
PART ONE:
THE MESSAGE
OXFORD, ENGLAND
Simon's Apartment
Simon Fitzpatrick gazed into his tumbler of thirty-year-old scotch and thought about where he was, what he was doing—and, most important, what he was not doing.
“Jake,” he said to his constant companion. “You’re a son of a bitch.”
Jake regarded him with weary resignation. Clearly, he had heard it all before.
“But I knew that the day we met, didn’t I?” He tapped the glass against the polished surface of the burl wood side table and shook his head. “You’ve never been anything but honest with me.” He sighed. “No, what I actually have learned, after thirty years on the planet and ten years in this place, is something more: you have an excuse for being a son of a bitch—you have to deal with me every day. The rest of the world acts that way for fun.” Jake sighed again, making a show of his boredom. Then he hopped off the large ottoman that he had claimed as his own and padded into the kitchen to see if anyone had remembered to fill his food bowl. After a short pause he returned, looking disappointed but unsurprised.
Simon smoothed the fur on his Great Dane’s broad brow. The fire in the hearth was lovely; the scotch gave him an inner glow that was undeniable and terribly welcome. But it did nothing to relieve the cold, clenching anger that had been burning in his belly for days.
He couldn’t forget the look on the face of the UNED officer who delivered the news about his father’s fate. He had come to the door of the flat on a sunny day, hat in hand. “He was at his laboratory in…a classified location,” the officer told him, sounding oddly hesitant. “There was an accident. Unavoidable. Unexpected. And I’m afraid he sustained terminal injuries.”
Terminal injuries, Simon thought. The phrase kept repeating in his mind. As if he understood it. As if it meant something. Terminal injuries.
He had been promised details. He had been promised a swift “processing of the remains.” And then…nothing. Not a letter, not a package, nothing.
“Six weeks,” he said. “And not a word. They couldn’t care less about my father. Not Oxford University, not UNED, not even old friends I’ve known since elementary school.” He cupped the dog’s chin and lifted his eyes.
“Is he gone, Jake? Is he really dead?”
He got up and wandered through the apartment as if looking for an answer. It was a tidy three-bedroom flat not far from the university—a bedroom, a study, a guest room, and an octagonal dining room that looked out over a rolling green lawn. He had been here for five years, since his appointment as the department’s youngest full professor, and he loved it…but today, for the first time, it felt small, closed—confining.
He had to admit it—it meant nothing without his father.
He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and two fingers, trying to drive sleep away. He wasn’t ready to rest, not yet. He visited the bathroom long enough to splash water in his face and found himself staring at