Bluebird Down

Chapter Ten

Henry

"How's she doing?" The door to the Situation Room swung open and flooded the room with the first aching glimpse of daylight. Russell strode inside. He stuffed his phone back into his trouser pocket and then stood with hands on hips facing the main screen. His brow furrowed. "What happened to the footage?"

Black and grey static fuzzed across the screen at the end of the room. Henry swivelled back and forth in his chair, his coffee cup clutched to his chest. "She's sleeping." And when Russell's frown deepened, he clarified, "On her stomach."

"Right..." Russell paused, and then he pointed at the screen, his voice low. "You know that's bad for your neck."

Henry snorted. "I'm sure she'll appreciate your concern, Russell." He took a swig of coffee, lukewarm and tasteless against his furred tongue, and then set the cup down on the table. The caffeine buzzed through him, a jitter beneath his pulse.

"Where are we with the fake execution?" Conrad asked.

"All set," Russell said, "just need the go-ahead."

Conrad paused. He leant back in his chair and rubbed at his mouth. Then he looked up at Russell and nodded. "Do it."

The door flung open. "Sir." Director Doherty marched in. "We have a problem." His eyes were more white than anything else, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his brow.

Time dragged as the seconds lumbered their way through the wasteland of that pause. Henry felt as though he were flying a fighter jet, soaring up, up, up, above the clouds, only for the engine to stutter and splutter and choke out—hush—then just waiting for that drop.

Doherty's throat bobbed. "Khan's dead."

The room plunged into silence. Everyone turned to Doherty; lips parted, pens fell, fingers stilled over laptops. Russell's eyes bugged, and he said in a strangled voice, "What do you mean 'he's dead'?"

"I had a call from the prison," Doherty said. He rubbed at his brow, as if trying to smooth out the creases. "Khan was leaving his cell for his hour recreation when he collapsed. Paramedics attended to him at the scene, but he died within minutes."

"People don't just collapse." Russell's tone shot up, and if he didn't calm down, he might be the next one to collapse.

"They believe it was a massive pulmonary embolism, partly caused by his inactivity, but a direct consequence of his cancer." Doherty's gaze flitted between Russell and Conrad, glossing past Henry. "Apparently it can cause a hypercoaguable state."

With his fists clenched either side of his head, Russell spun round and paced towards the wall. "REDACTED." The expletive jolted the room. He took a deep breath, one hand splayed across his chest, and then sighed it out. He sank down into his seat and murmured, "Pardon my French, sir." Then he looked along the table, towards the awaiting faces. "So that's that idea thoroughly defenestrated. Options, people?"

"With Khan dead, their demand is redundant," Ellen Hill said. She glanced around their colleagues. "Couldn't this be a way to make them back down?"

Henry shook his head. "If they feel backed into a corner, it'll just make them more volatile." Rapid change. Confined space. Boom. He rested his elbows against the desk, fingers steepled against his lips. "If the whole point of this was to enable Khan to deliver his message and become a martyr, there's a real risk that they might decide to deliver that message for him."

"Sir," Russell said, "we need to tell Bess, and we need to get them out of there. Fast."

A sigh hummed through Elizabeth's microphone and the image on the screen shifted to a view of the office ceiling. The sound tugged at Henry's heart. How many times had he woken up early just to catch that same sound and the flutter of her eyelids as she stirred from her sleep? Good morning, beautiful. / Mmmhh. Good morning, handsome.