private ceremony before heading off to Fort Bragg to begin a three-month training course. It was the first of five different locations in the USA and two in Europe where she would learn a variety of skills that included the use of sophisticated communications systems, imaging, the handling of explosives and a variety of weapons, unarmed combat, aggression training and, finally, a couple of weeks learning a special operative’s general knowledge base of skills and techniques.
When Christine graduated she was provided with an apartment in Alexander and received instructions to no longer associate freely with her former Secret Service colleagues. Those agents also understood that if they were ever to see her outside the confines of the White House they were not to acknowledge her.That included an agent with whom she was having an affair, which was a blessing since he was madly in love with her but she could not reciprocate to the same extent. It was not a major concern to her that she seemed unable to find a man who was even remotely right for her but she was beginning to wonder if the problem lay with her own personality. But this was the wrong time in her life to cultivate any kind of relationship anyway and so it wasn’t even worth thinking about. She could only hope she was kept busy enough so that she did not have time to dwell on such issues. She was not to be disappointed.
She got her first assignment a few days after she’d settled into her apartment, although it was no more than a simple courier task to an embassy contact in Warsaw. Her next dozen jobs were similarly low-level adventures and even though she suspected that she was still being assessed she did begin to wonder if there was ever going to be anything more interesting for an Oval Office operative. And had the world remained on the same even keel the chances were that she might not have seen a great deal more excitement. But if history really is ‘philosophy by example’ the world will always be a roller coaster swooping up and down between war and peace.
Christine had been an operative for only nine months when New York’s Twin Towers were brought down by Muslim extremists, after which her life - like those of so many others - was never to be the same again. The tasks she was assigned suddenly became more intense, secretive and dangerous as America’s Cold War infrastructure was ripped out by its roots and the machinery to wage a world war against Islamic terrorists was hastily assembled. There was an immediate shortage of experienced operatives and Christine found herself busier than she could ever have imagined. In between jobs she was sent on crash courses to learn Arabic and Farsi where she was taught to converse, read and write in those languages at a basic but workable level.
There is nothing like a war to sort the true men and women from the boys and girls and within two years it was hinted to Christine by a senior member of the White House staff that she was near the top of the most- favoured-operatives list. A year later, when she was called to a briefing and given her task at Styx prison, she knew she had finally arrived at the place she had dreamed of since her youth.
But the more difficult and dangerous a task, the greater the risk of failure: the higher one climbed the further one could fall. As she listened to the details of the mission it became clear that it could be a matter of physical survival, not just of boosting her reputation.
Christine closed her laptop, got to her feet, sat on her bed and lay back on the pillow. It was time once more to go through thoroughly the various steps she needed to take in this final phase, to examine the many things that could go wrong and, as far as possible, to determine what her reactions to them might be.
Stratton woke up to the sound of his cell door depressurising and the feeling of his ears popping. He struggled to open his eyelids - they’d been sealed shut by the dried eye discharge that everyone in Styx appeared to suffer from while they slept. He felt for a bottle of water on the floor by his bed, dabbed some on his eyes and pulled the lids apart as someone came in.
Hamlin walked unsteadily into the room and the door closed as he sat down heavily on his bed. The drastic depressurisation of the mess hall during the riot had clearly taken its toll on the older man. Stratton had recovered minutes after the pressure levels had returned to normal but several of the inmates, particularly the injured, had required medical attention. Hamlin was one of those who’d been taken away on a gurney. Some people were more susceptible than others to variations in the pressures of the gases that make up air, notably in the oxygen level. Hamlin was one of those who did not fare well under such conditions and judging by his startled reaction immediately before the ‘attack’ he had obviously experienced something like it before and had known he was about to suffer.
‘You OK?’ Stratton asked sympathetically.
Hamlin did not acknowledge him and seemed to be focusing all his mental resources on simply keeping breathing. He eventually raised his head and opened his red-rimmed eyes to look at his cellmate. ‘I don’t have the constitution for this place,’ he said, sounding strained. ‘I can’t survive here much longer.’
Stratton could not help wanting to give Hamlin some kind of psychological support. The man was a jailbird and would remain so for the rest of his natural life but Stratton had seen his ‘normal’ side and had to admit to liking that aspect of him. Perhaps it went deeper than that. Stratton was, after all, stuck inside a maximum-security prison in a grotty cell surrounded by a host of dangers, most of them unknown. It was only natural under such circumstances to seek out friends and allies, particularly when you had none to start with. ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do?’ he asked.
Hamlin looked slightly amused by a thought that came to him. ‘After my conviction, the FBI showed me a letter they found in my files that I wrote some years before. It was to the President of the United States, letting him know how I felt about some of his foreign and domestic policies. I suggested he should quit or go the way of JFK. I never sent it but the feds decided it was a serious threat because it came from me. I never meant it as a direct threat. It was just a suggestion, you know? . . . They told me I’d never make parole. The only way I was leaving jail was in a body bag.’ His expression changed to one of determination.‘I’m gonna prove those sons of bitches wrong,’ he said, glancing at Stratton for any reaction to his comment.
Stratton took it as bravado.
‘You’re an odd fish, fellah, ain’t yer?’ Hamlin enquired.
Stratton wasn’t sure how he was intended to take this comment.
‘Somethin’ about you. Can’t point to it but . . . I don’t know. Somethin’.’
‘I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.’
‘Ain’t nothin’ like that. More like the opposite . . . Maximum-security cons have one thing in common. They ain’t ever goin’ anywhere, other than another prison. They don’t kid themselves about it, either . . . least, not deep in their souls they don’t . . . We’re all partly dead because of it.You can see it in the way we move, walk, talk. Part- dead people can’t hide it . . . You ain’t part-dead.’
Hamlin continued to search Stratton’s eyes in case he was wrong. ‘Maybe it’s because you just don’t
He remembered something else he wanted to say to Stratton and, putting a finger to his lips, reached across to his desk and switched on a tape recording of some classical music. He increased the volume and leaned towards Stratton in a conspiratorial manner. ‘You know Gann’s got a problem with you, don’t yer?’ he said in a gruff whisper.
Stratton shrugged, going along with the intrigue. ‘Why?’
‘There ain’t a lotta secrets in a prison. If the guards know somethin’ the cons’ll soon learn about it . . . I don’t know why he wants you, though. That never came down the vine . . . Gann don’t need a reason to hate someone, anyhow. He’s just a mean son of a bitch.’
‘I don’t suppose there’s much I can do about that.’
‘I guess not,’ Hamlin agreed.
‘Unless I got to him first.’
‘Fat chance of that.’
Stratton studied Hamlin, weighing him up, trying to decide if he could use him in a plan he had been hatching. The trick would be to make it of benefit to the older man too. It was something Hamlin had said that had triggered the idea. He had expressed a desire to get out of Styx - not that any such yearning was exactly surprising. But it had been more than a simple wish. Hamlin had implied that he really could escape and Stratton had to take this seriously, no matter how much of a long shot it was. Escaping from Styx would take some brilliant planning and
