I Am Pilgrim(251)

My voice was barely audible. ‘Mr President?’ I said, as best I could.

‘Who is this?’ a man replied, too young to be Grosvenor.

‘I need … I need to speak—’

‘I can barely hear you. Identify yourself, please.’ He sounded like a marine.

I was weaker than I had ever thought possible, damaged beyond measure, but I knew what had happened. I was using Cumali’s phone, and the White House communications system had identified the call as originating from a completely unknown source. Sure, I was phoning the president’s direct line, but they weren’t going to let a call like that go through until they knew who it was. Hence I had been diverted to a high-security communications centre buried deep in the Colorado mountains and I was speaking to one of the eighteen hundred marines and technicians who manned it.

‘Identify yourself,’ the marine signalman repeated.

‘My name is Sco—’ but I knew that was the wrong thing to say; a name would mean nothing. Standing in the pounding sun, my eyes aching, I felt myself drift from my body. As if from on high, I looked down on myself.

‘I can only just hear,’ the signalman said. ‘Repeat, please.’

I barely registered it. I was watching the old bull wield the stonemason’s hammer and I heard someone screaming in my head. I realized it was my own voice – but the only sound on the beach was the engine of the approaching boat and the scattered gulls circling overhead.

‘Pilgrim—’ I managed to say. At least I thought I said it, but I couldn’t be sure – maybe it was just in my mind.

‘I couldn’t catch that. Repeat.’

Silence. I was watching a little boy with Down’s syndrome run along the sand and jump into his father’s arms.

‘Are you there? Say again, please.’ The signalman’s voice dragged me back.

‘I … am … Pilgrim,’ I said.

The signalman heard it. At the start of every shift for the past month, one order had been drummed into the heads of every marine more than any other. If they heard a word, a certain code name, it had to be given priority over every other communication. The signalman was hearing it now.

‘Are you there?! Please hold, sir. Please hold, Pilgrim!’

He entered a series of rapid commands on his keyboard, calling up a list of officials who had to be told immediately – Pilgrim is live; Pilgrim is in contact; Pilgrim has come in from the cold.

The first person on the list was the National Security duty officer, seated at his desk in a small office in the White House. It was very late – just after 4 a.m. on the East Coast – when he picked up his phone and heard an anonymous voice: ‘For the President. Pilgrim.’

Even though the duty officer was certain the commander-in-chief would be asleep, his instructions were clear, and he immediately rang the phone in the president’s bedroom.

Grosvenor was a long way from sleep, though: more than twelve hours earlier Whisperer had called and told him about the hopeful message from Bradley. He was sitting in an armchair looking out at the lights of Washington, not seeing any of them, when the phone rang. He grabbed it, shocking the duty officer, who had expected a delay. Grosvenor listened as the man stumbled over the message.

‘What was that?’ the president barked, anxiety getting the better of him.

‘It’s Pilgrim,’ the duty officer said at last. He heard Grosvenor murmur something that sounded like ‘Dear God’, but he couldn’t be sure. Why would the president be praying?

‘Are you there, Pilgrim?’ I heard Grosvenor’s unmistakable voice even though the line sounded hollow and alien. Somewhere in my fractured mind I understood that they were encrypting it in Colorado.

‘Ten thousand doses,’ I whispered.

‘Ten thousand?!’ the president repeated in disbelief.

‘Already there,’ I said. ‘He’s using our own doctors – probably starts in a few hours.’

At some stage, after leaving the water trough, my training must have kicked in and, without realizing it, I had rehearsed what I needed to say. My throat was burning up and I desperately wanted a drink, but the moment I thought of it I forced the idea aside, frightened that the gag reflex would kick in. I tried to stay focused.

‘From Chyron,’ I said, my voice fading.

‘Repeat that,’ the president said.

‘It’s a drug company … Karlsruhe … in Germany.’

Another voice came on the line. It was Whisperer, and I knew they must have patched him in and he had been listening. ‘Can you spell it?’ he said.

I tried several times, but I couldn’t get past the first few letters; my mind was struggling.