The Tower A Novel (Sanctus)

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Assistant Director O’Halloran put the phone down and listened to the yawning silence stretching out beyond his door. All the

other section chiefs had gone – some on leave, the rest God only knew where – leaving a long corridor of empty offices and

darkened windows. He’d never heard the building so quiet, even at Christmas when everything generally wound down. He could feel

the absence of other people like the lack of a coat on a cold day.

He hit a function button on his computer to turn the sound back on from the CNN news feed. Like most people in the intelligence

community he was addicted to information and the twenty-four-hour news cycle helped feed his addiction. It was also useful to keep

up-to-date on what was being reported, just in case a breaking story compromised an on-going investigation. The Hubble/Marshall

story had yet to break. At the moment the lead story was still the freak weather sweeping the nation. He watched for a while,

distracted by the novelty of seeing people building snowmen on Miami Beach and New Yorkers in shorts and T-shirts paddling and

splashing around in front of the huge Christmas tree outside the Rockefeller Center where the ice rink usually stood. Strange

days.

He nudged the sound down a little and turned his attention back to an open file on the screen, condensing everything Agent

Franklin had just told him into a few bullet points that he added to the Hubble case notes, highlighting the name Fulton Cooper.

The Reverend’s high-profile Christian charity work, particularly in relation to wounded servicemen and women, had turned him into

something of a media favourite. He was an outspoken advocate of what he called a ‘new crusade’ which favoured a stronger and

more aggressive military, particularly in relation to non-Christian countries. It was a stance that had made him much beloved of

the Republican Party, who often brought him in to lend moral weight to various anti-government rallies whenever military spending

came under review.

The tone of the newscaster shifted up a little as he introduced the next story and O’Halloran glanced up in response. The summery

scenes from New York had been replaced by cold grey images of warships and sailors in black uniforms. A Chinese battle fleet had

unexpectedly pulled out from around the disputed Senkaku islands in the East China Sea and headed home. The Japanese were claiming

it as a victory but the Chinese, true to form, had so far refused to comment. The news anchor listed other unconfirmed rumours of

further large-scale troop and military withdrawals elsewhere in the world, name-checking Syria and Somalia before the picture cut

again to footage of the US air force base at Baghram in Afghanistan. O’Halloran leaned forward, feeling the usual tightening in

his gut at the mere mention of the place. It looked like someone had kicked an ant’s nest over there was so much swarming

movement. Thousands of personnel were pouring out of troop carriers and onto massive C-5 transporter planes that then lumbered

into the sky. It looked like the whole US presence was packing up and coming home. O’Halloran frowned. He was usually kept up to

speed on stuff like this. He opened another window on his monitor and checked the internal mail, scrolling back through the

military dispatches. Nothing. Maybe the news had got it wrong. Or maybe someone higher up had kept him out of the loop because of

his personal history.

He picked up the framed photograph from the desk taken two Christmases ago, just before Michael had been posted. His son stood

between him and Beth, a solid slab of a boy who towered over them both and looked like he was still in uniform even in his button

-down shirt and jeans. Perhaps it was because he was tired, or that Christmas was round the corner and Michael wouldn’t be home

for it, but O’Halloran felt tears drip down his cheeks and glanced up at the door, nervous that someone might come in and find

the big chief weeping like a sentimental drunk. He removed his glasses and placed them on the desk, wiping his eyes with the back

of his hand. What the hell did it matter if anyone saw him like this, there was no one here anyway. He’d signed more leave forms

over the past few weeks than he had all year and had to deny even more. It was like everyone wanted to go home.

He stared at his wife in the picture, leaning against the boy who dwarfed her: his Beth, smiling and radiant in the midst of the

family she had created. He hadn’t seen that look in a long time. It had started to slip the moment Michael shipped out to

Afghanistan with his unit and he had seen it melt from her face entirely the day they got the news that he had been killed and was

never coming home again. He felt a sudden tug to be with her, to hold her in the silence of the home they had built and where

their son had grown up. He could easily grab a quick lunch and be back before anyone missed him.

He closed the files, logged out of the system and grabbed his jacket from over his chair. Just as he made it to the door his desk

phone rang but he ignored it. He locked the door and walked away down the corridor, leaving the phone still ringing and getting

quieter with every step as he headed back home.