Free Alchemist by Peter James

rule,’ he said. ‘No first-name terms between staff at any time. Under the terms of our contracts I could be sacked for calling you
Conor
in here.’
    â€˜Lucky no one’s listening,’ Conor said.
    Rowley gave him an odd smile. ‘Don’t bank on it.’
    â€˜You mean that?’
    He shook his head. ‘Not so much here – but be careful in the office – you never know when the Thought Police might be eavesdropping.’
    â€˜Great!’
    â€˜You get used to it. We all seem to survive!’ Then he sloped off down the corridor towards the lift.
    Conor closed the door, sensing the void Rowley had left behind. He was alone now, really alone for the first time, in a foreign country, and the extent of his task seemed to have grown. He looked around the apartment, walking from room to room, checking it out, and wondering if it really might be bugged. But there was nothing anyone was going to pick up from him with a microphone.
    Three bedrooms, one really sumptuous and each with bath and shower. Designer kitchen, and an amazing living room the size of a football pitch … bare parquet floor scattered with oriental rugs; big soft sofas, stark chromium lamps and chairs that looked like they’d been lifted from the Museum of Modern Art. This pad had
style
. Like something out of a commercial. It disgusted him.
    He poured himself a second coffee, then unpacked his Macintosh PowerBook, opened the lid and switched on. While it was booting up, he unwound the modem lead, slipped the plug into the rear of the computer, then knelt down on the floor, pulled out the phone jack from the wall, and inserted the modem jack in its place.
    After a further thirty seconds the machine was ready. He opened the eMail program and checked for messages. There were two. The first was from a long-time associate-cum-pal, Dave Schwab, who now worked at the US Patent Office,wishing him good luck in his new job. The second had no sender identification and was entirely encrypted into seemingly meaningless letters and digits.
    Conor opened his encryption program, moved his cursor to the box marked ‘Decode’ and clicked on it.

9
    Monday 5 September
,
1994
    Alan Johnson woke with a start. The smash of breaking glass. His chest felt as if it were caught in a wrench. Sarah … thrashing about beside him. Screaming.
    â€˜Do something! Alan, for God’s sake
do
something!’
    She was shaking, convulsing, her body twisting from side to side. His right arm sent the clutter on his bedside table to the floor, his glasses amongst it; found the light, pressed the switch, turned to look at her.
    Oh, God!
    Her face was bloated one side, hideously contorted and distended like a rubber mask the other; her eyes, encased in black rings, were bulging and focusing wildly. Her skin was clammy, complexion opaque, except for the red spots and dark scabs where the livid ravages of the burning rash were attacking her.
    She thrashed to the right, the left, howling like someone possessed. Her stomach rose up under the bedclothes; she twisted again, seemingly in mid-air, fell on to her swollen belly, rose, fell down again, chewed the pillow in her agony, shuddered with a convulsion that crashed through her like an aftershock, tearing a moan from deep inside her.
    â€˜Darling,’ he said, anxiety constricting his voice. ‘Darling, what’s happening – is it starting? The baby coming? I’ll call the doctor.’
    She spun round on to her back. He pulled the bedclothes off and stared wide-eyed; it was as if the baby she was carryinghad gone berserk, was trying to bash its way out through her stomach. It was punching her, kicking her. He could see where sections of her skin had stretched, shrunk; her stomach extended so far he thought for one ghastly moment the skin would burst and a hand or a foot would come through.
    He jumped off the bed, grabbed the phone, hunting in the address book at the same