Silent Night - By Tom Barber Page 0,40

Shepherd turned. ‘I’ve got some news. The third bomber has been found. He’s out of the game.’

‘What do you mean he’s out of the game?’

‘He’s dead. He was found in a restroom of a café near Bryant Park. His neck was broken.’

‘His bomb?’

‘That’s the problem sir. The device was there. But the vial containing the virus was gone.’

Thirty five miles to the south west, a New Jersey farmer pulled open the door to a large barn where he always took his lunch break. Despite being in his early seventies, he’d been up since first light, something he had to do if he wanted to make the most of the season and prepare for the spring.

He’d just finished his work for the morning. He owned a large spread of land and the shed he was standing in was almost like his office. It was also excellent storage for his retirement gift, an Antonov An-2, a single engine biplane. Given that it was a Russian model, built back in 1946, the duster was a favourite of collectors and aircraft aficionados. The farmer was the latter, although he’d never flown the plane. A pilot couldn’t fly an Antonov in the United States without an experimental certification which the farmer was currently working on attaining. He’d spent most of his retirement fund on the duster, much to his wife’s fury, but was planning to sell it as soon as he’d taken it up in the air just the once. After he experienced that, he’d be happy. An expert had come by last month to give him an evaluation. He’d told him that the plane could be worth over $60,000 to the right collector. The farmer was elated. He’d bought it for two thirds that price.

Leaving the door to the barn open behind him, he walked towards his old armchair. It was beaten and worn, much like the farmer himself, but over time the seat had adjusted to his body shape and now was the most comfortable thing he’d ever sat in. He relaxed back into the chair, his knees creaking, enjoying that moment when the pressure was taken off them. Beside him on a table was a radio, a newspaper and his lunch. His wife had made him a sandwich wrapped in foil. He clicked on the radio then snapped out the newspaper on his lap. Reaching over, he picked up his sandwich and unwrapped the foil. It was a Reuben, his favourite, corned beef, cheese, sauerkraut and Russian dressing on thick-cut bread.

Warm and comfortable, he picked it up and went to take a bite.

'That's quite a plane,' a voice suddenly said, startling him.

He looked up and saw two people standing in the doorway of the barn. It was a man and a woman. They’d appeared silently and out of nowhere. He didn’t recognise either of them and they definitely weren’t rural folk. The man had white blond hair, almost like an albino, most of it sticking straight up. The woman looked the tougher of the two, her face hard, lank dark hair that looked like it needed a good scrub and a brush. Both were in jeans and leather jackets.

Both were staring at him.

'Can I help you?'

'What kind of model is that?' the man asked, pointing at the crop duster.

'Antonov. An-2.'

‘How much is it?'

‘It’s not for sale.’

‘You don’t know how much I’m willing to offer.’

The farmer didn’t reply.

‘Who are you?’ he asked instead.

'You got any pesticide?' the blond man asked, ignoring the question.

The farmer's eyes narrowed. 'Now what would you want with that?'

'How much you got?'

'Enough.'

‘Well show us what you have and I’ll tell you how much I’m willing to pay.'

The farmer hid his excitement. He had much more than he needed and could make a tidy profit here which would please his wife. He pretended to think for a moment, pondering the offer. Then he pushed himself out of the chair and walked over towards them.

Up close, he got a closer look at the pair. The white-blond haired guy had a thick scar over his eyebrow which told a story that the farmer didn’t want to know. The woman had a face that looked weathered and hard. Not city folk. They lacked that softness.

And there was something about them that was unnerving.

'You don't look like farmers.'

'We're from out of town,' the woman said, her eyes fixed on him.

'The plane’s not for sale. But I can sell you some pesticide. For the right price.'

'Let’s see it first.'

The farmer looked at them for a