Safa shifts a step, positioning herself ready to move in front of Ben. ‘He is smart. What did you mean about the pens? Did Malcolm and Konrad die getting pens?’
‘Er, no. No, she doesn’t mean that,’ Ben says quietly.
‘If someone killed them for a pen, I’ll . . .’
‘It’s not about the pens,’ Ben says.
‘She said pens.’
‘Yes, but . . . No, she meant something else . . .’
‘We don’t even use pens . . .’
‘Got a pencil,’ Harry says, pulling one from his pocket.
‘Okay, stop,’ Ben says, looking at Harry and Safa. ‘No pens. There were no pens. She means who gets the pens . . . Got it? Where do the pens come from?’
‘From the fucking pen shop, obviously.’
‘No, Safa . . .’
‘Did you want my pencil, ma’am?’
‘All of these things are the pens,’ Ben says.
‘What!?’
‘The fruit, the equipment . . . all the stuff we use . . . They’re the pens . . .’
‘They’re not pens.’
‘No, Safa. I mean . . . so . . . Malc and Kon get everything we need, right?’
‘Yeah, but they don’t get . . .’
‘Forget the bloody pens, Safa.’
‘I would, but someone keeps on about them.’
‘Christ! Right. Listen. Malc and Kon get everything we need. We don’t know where from. We don’t know how. We never go with them. Roland gives them the money and they get it. They are not surveillance-trained or . . . or know how to use countermeasures to prevent anyone finding them . . . Am I on the right track here?’ Ben asks, glancing at Miri, who nods once. ‘So I’m guessing someone tracked them to Berlin, right?’ he asks Miri. This time she doesn’t nod, but then she doesn’t shake her head either. ‘So someone found us . . . them . . . where they are . . .’
‘Correct,’ Miri says.
‘How did you work that out from her saying about pens?’ Safa asks. ‘Who is she? Who are you?’ She fires the questions out, irritated at not knowing what’s going on.
‘Safa, let Ben explain,’ Doctor Watson says.
‘I told Roland to get someone from military intelligence. Someone who knows how to do the things Roland is incompetent at. Roland has got her . . .’ – he points at Miri – ‘I mean you, sorry.’
‘You know what ODNI is?’ Miri asks.
Safa nods, once and curt, her dark eyes fixed on the older woman.
‘What’s that?’ Harry asks.
‘Office of Director of National Intelligence,’ Doctor Watson says. ‘I read a lot,’ he adds when everyone looks at him.
‘They oversee the whole intelligence community in the US,’ Safa says. ‘Which department are you from? CIA?’
Miri shakes her head. ‘DIA,’ she says. ‘Defence Intelligence Agency,’ she adds, so Harry can understand. ‘Our remit was military intelligence. My background was military. Recruited during the Cold War.’
‘I’m not buying it. She could be anyone,’ Safa says. ‘Why isn’t Roland here to introduce you?’
‘I was extracted two days ago and Roland is not here because I told him to stay home and await further instruction. I have something . . .’ Miri says, leaning forward to reach round to her back. Safa stiffens. The grip on the chair tightening. Harry tenses, bunching power ready to launch at her. ‘Stand easy. No threat. Piece of paper to show you.’ She pulls a folded sheet from her back pocket and holds it out towards Ben. ‘Read it.’
Tension in the room. Ben takes the folded piece of paper and moves back a step before opening it out to read the words written on one side. A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth, and again his head drops as his hand comes up to rub his jaw.
‘What is it?’ Safa asks, still holding Miri locked in her gaze. ‘Read it out.’
‘Okay,’ Ben says, looking up to smile at Miri. He clears his throat and reads from the sheet.
‘Miri. Please do not be alarmed at finding this note on your door. My name is Ben Ryder . . .’ – he pauses at the surprised looks from Safa, Harry and the doctor – ‘Tomorrow night, a man will come to you. He will arrive through a blue light in your kitchen. His name is Roland Cavendish. His son, Bertram, invented time travel in the year 2061. This seems absurd. The only way I can prove it to you is to tell you we know you went to the diner today and saw two men who you believed to be of Russian or Eastern European origin. You believe those men have tracked you because of your former life. You are correct. They will come tomorrow night and cause an explosion in your house, which will later be blamed on a gas leak. Your body is not recovered. Your body is not recovered because you go back with Roland Cavendish to a bunker in the Cretaceous period, where you will meet me, Safa Patel, Harry Madden and Doctor John Watson. Again, this sounds utterly absurd, but I know, from you telling me, that you have not reported your cover being blown for your own personal reasons . . .’
‘Shit,’ Safa whispers.
‘There’s more,’ Ben says. ‘Something causes the world to end by 2111. Bertram discovered it during his tests. Roland extracted us from our times because the bloody idiot used a computer program to match heroes. The man is incompetent. He is not capable of running this. We need your help. Please go with Roland . . .’ Ben trails off, blinking several times. He clears his throat and looks up at Safa, then across to Harry. ‘Last bit to read out . . . It says, er . . . Well, it says, In order to put Safa and Harry’s minds at rest, tell them Safa’s favourite film is . . . er, well, it says The Ben Ryder Movie. And, er, her favourite food is now the lemon-lime fruit thing in the bunker, but Harry prefers the awful thing that stinks of cheesy feet. It also says Harry refuses to wear new boots, and the name of his first training sergeant when he joined the army was Gordon McTavish. He was Scottish, and had a tattoo of a snake on his right arm. Safa’s best friend before she joined the police was a girl called Tammy, but they lost contact when Safa joined up.’
‘Oh my god, it says that?’ Safa asks.
‘Yep,’ Ben says. ‘Few more too. Names of pets, schools. Stuff that someone wouldn’t know . . . It’s signed too. By us . . . All of us . . .’ He holds the sheet up and walks over to show Safa and Harry the signatures. Doctor Watson rises from his seat to join them.
‘Shit,’ Safa says slowly. ‘That your signature, Harry?’
‘Aye.’
‘Ben? That yours?’
‘Yep. It’s my handwriting too . . . I mean, I wrote this . . . all of it . . . but, um, I haven’t written it yet.’
‘Head fuck,’ Safa mutters.
‘That is definitely my signature,’ Doctor Watson says. ‘And, good lord, yes, my dog was called Meredith . . .’
‘You called your dog Meredith?’ Safa asks.
‘If we re-extract Malcolm and Konrad, we confirm the existence of time travel to an enemy we do not know,’ Miri says, instantly businesslike. ‘The SA was attacked by either a PC or GA intent on securing the HB . . .’
‘The what?’ Ben cuts in, puzzled. Harry and Safa share his confused expression. ‘I didn’t get any of that.’
‘Nope,’ Safa says.