industrial press. He dropped the handle to the floor and pushed at the door – still locked. Now he was trapped, and there was no door handle.
‘What the hell?’
His neck prickled. He whipped around, feeling a presence behind him. The room remained silent and empty, but as he was about to turn back he noticed a tiny black dot on the ceiling, no bigger than a match-head. It could have been a housefly, or a spot missed by the painters, but he focused on it and saw it clearly for what it was – a small glass lens.
He gritted his teeth, anger starting to build. ‘Fuck you. I’m leaving.’
He took a step back, preparing to kick the centre of the door, when the lock rattled and the door opened.
Alex took a step back. ‘You.’
*
Adira walked into the room, leaving the door open. Alex looked from her to the open door.
She smiled. ‘You’re not a prisoner, Alex, you never were. It was locked to ensure you didn’t stumble around in a strange place while you were recovering. You’ve been very sick.’
‘Alex.’ He tested the name. It sounded familiar. ‘I can’t remember . . .’
Adira ignored his question; instead, she walked around him, nodding. Physically, he looked as if he’d never been sick, let alone spent six months in an induced low-temperature suspended animation to halt the progress of a killer, necrotising bacteria that was trying to ingest his body.
She smiled at him. ‘You were injured, but now you’re fine.’
‘I know you, don’t I? I think . . .’ He grimaced. ‘It hurts when I try to remember things.’
She nodded, fixing a concerned look on her face. It seemed any memory of his ordeal, his early life, even of his time in the Special Forces, had been erased.
Might not be a bad thing , she thought.
She spoke as if reciting a prepared script. ‘I’m with the hospital. You were injured, and you’ve been in a coma. Be patient; the memories will come back slowly. Your name is Alex Horowitz, and for now all you need to know is you’re back amongst friends.’ She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Very good friends.’
She held his eyes. ‘You’ve come back to me – to us – and no one and nothing else matters for now. Okay, Alex?’
He stared back at her, then seemed to give up. ‘Nothing else matters,’ he repeated.
*
Adira sat motionless, waiting for the general to get to the point. Her uncle had summoned her, undoubtedly to discuss Alex Hunter. She could see the Project Golem folder on his desk, open at the surgical biopsy section. He had obviously meant it to be seen.
She drew in a deep breath through her nose. The smell of cigarettes, aftershave and old leather was familiar and comforting. Still, today she was nervous. Captain Adira Senesh, member of Mossad’s elite Metsada unit, had crawled through claustrophobic terrorist tunnels, fought hand to hand with some of the most dangerous killers in the world, and seen things of abject brutality and horror, but at this moment in General Shavit’s office, her tension was acute as she waited to hear whether she would be allowed to continue with the project. She loved her uncle dearly, but if he tried to remove her, there’d be trouble . . . and she’d make it.
The general’s voice came from his lips like the warm smoke of his cigarette. ‘Everything has a price, Addy. Stealing Captain Hunter from the Americans, secreting him here in these facilities – there is more than a financial cost, there are political costs: the cost of putting the entire population of Israel at risk of contamination; the cost of embarrassing our remaining American supporters; and the cost to both our careers.’
She heard a slow wheezing intake of breath and then an exhalation like a sigh. ‘Addy, did you really think we went through all this just because you felt you needed to repay some sort of personal debt? Or liked the colour of the captain’s eyes?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘The Arcadian genesis is a
‘What the hell?’
His neck prickled. He whipped around, feeling a presence behind him. The room remained silent and empty, but as he was about to turn back he noticed a tiny black dot on the ceiling, no bigger than a match-head. It could have been a housefly, or a spot missed by the painters, but he focused on it and saw it clearly for what it was – a small glass lens.
He gritted his teeth, anger starting to build. ‘Fuck you. I’m leaving.’
He took a step back, preparing to kick the centre of the door, when the lock rattled and the door opened.
Alex took a step back. ‘You.’
*
Adira walked into the room, leaving the door open. Alex looked from her to the open door.
She smiled. ‘You’re not a prisoner, Alex, you never were. It was locked to ensure you didn’t stumble around in a strange place while you were recovering. You’ve been very sick.’
‘Alex.’ He tested the name. It sounded familiar. ‘I can’t remember . . .’
Adira ignored his question; instead, she walked around him, nodding. Physically, he looked as if he’d never been sick, let alone spent six months in an induced low-temperature suspended animation to halt the progress of a killer, necrotising bacteria that was trying to ingest his body.
She smiled at him. ‘You were injured, but now you’re fine.’
‘I know you, don’t I? I think . . .’ He grimaced. ‘It hurts when I try to remember things.’
She nodded, fixing a concerned look on her face. It seemed any memory of his ordeal, his early life, even of his time in the Special Forces, had been erased.
Might not be a bad thing , she thought.
She spoke as if reciting a prepared script. ‘I’m with the hospital. You were injured, and you’ve been in a coma. Be patient; the memories will come back slowly. Your name is Alex Horowitz, and for now all you need to know is you’re back amongst friends.’ She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Very good friends.’
She held his eyes. ‘You’ve come back to me – to us – and no one and nothing else matters for now. Okay, Alex?’
He stared back at her, then seemed to give up. ‘Nothing else matters,’ he repeated.
*
Adira sat motionless, waiting for the general to get to the point. Her uncle had summoned her, undoubtedly to discuss Alex Hunter. She could see the Project Golem folder on his desk, open at the surgical biopsy section. He had obviously meant it to be seen.
She drew in a deep breath through her nose. The smell of cigarettes, aftershave and old leather was familiar and comforting. Still, today she was nervous. Captain Adira Senesh, member of Mossad’s elite Metsada unit, had crawled through claustrophobic terrorist tunnels, fought hand to hand with some of the most dangerous killers in the world, and seen things of abject brutality and horror, but at this moment in General Shavit’s office, her tension was acute as she waited to hear whether she would be allowed to continue with the project. She loved her uncle dearly, but if he tried to remove her, there’d be trouble . . . and she’d make it.
The general’s voice came from his lips like the warm smoke of his cigarette. ‘Everything has a price, Addy. Stealing Captain Hunter from the Americans, secreting him here in these facilities – there is more than a financial cost, there are political costs: the cost of putting the entire population of Israel at risk of contamination; the cost of embarrassing our remaining American supporters; and the cost to both our careers.’
She heard a slow wheezing intake of breath and then an exhalation like a sigh. ‘Addy, did you really think we went through all this just because you felt you needed to repay some sort of personal debt? Or liked the colour of the captain’s eyes?’ He shook his head slowly. ‘The Arcadian genesis is a
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