Tunnels 03, Freefall

with icing sugar.
    He reached for the ignition key to turn off the engine, but stopped as a report came on the radio about the Ultra Bug. The presenter was talking about how the missed working days had cost the economy many millions of pounds.
    "Hah! They're always worried about the money!" Drake said scornfully, his eyes closing as he leant back against the headrest. "They just don't get it." He yawned. He hadn't slept properly for days, snatching the odd hour in the car when he'd had the chance, and it was catching up with him. He allowed his head to slide over until it touched the window, and all at once he fell into a half sleep.
    Drake was suddenly brought back to wakefulness as a mobile phone began to vibrate in the bag on the passenger seat beside him. Drenched in a cold sweat, it took him a few moments to work out where he was. The car engine was still running, and as he listened he realized he'd missed the rest of the Ultra Bug report.
    "Get your act together," he growled, furious with himself. He was still swearing as he checked the phones inside the bag until he found the one that was ringing. He grabbed it out and answered it, turning the ignition off with the other hand to silence the radio.
    "Hello," he said, rubbing his face roughly to get himself fully awake.
    A woman spoke, although she didn't identify herself. "Hello?"
    "Yes," Drake said.
    "I'm calling on behalf--"
    "No names," Drake interrupted sharply. "I know who you are. Why isn't he calling me himself?"
    The voice was sad, hollow. "He's... he's unavailable."
    "Oh dear God," Drake exclaimed, knowing exactly what those words really meant. His contact was either dead or missing. So far, not a single person he'd got in touch with from his old cell was still active. His network had been dismantled.
    The woman's voice became harder and more emphatic. "And don't go to the Hill Station."
    "Why?" Drake asked, clenching the phone so hard the plastic casing creaked.
    "It's offline," she said, then hung up.
    Drake looked at the phone for several moments, at the small bars on the display that fluctuated with the strength of the signal. Then he flipped the phone over and removed the back, sliding out the SIM card. As he got out of the car, he dropped the card onto the pavement and ground the heel of his boot into it. He scanned the road and the area of open parkland as he went to the tailgate and opened it. From a holdall he took out a handgun, quickly tucking it into the back of his trousers. Then he locked the car and strode across to Preacher's Hill. As he made his way up the slope, keeping behind the few straggly bushes, his boots left prints in the frosty grass.
    Once on higher ground, he paused to survey the area again, his eyes finally settling on his destination. The Hill Station, as it had been known to the members of his network, was a large Edwardian house at the end of a row of similar properties. Drake left the grassy slope and returned to the road. Although he'd just received an unequivocal message from the caller, he had to see it for himself. But he had to be careful -- they might be watching. So he walked straight past the house, apparently giving it only a casual glance. It was sufficient for him to take in the barricade across the entrance to the drive, and the sign that read Keep Out -- Structure Unsafe , and to see that all the ground-floor windows had been boarded up. He continued along the street for several houses, then glanced at his wristwatch as if he was late for something, and doubled back.
    As he reached the entrance to the driveway, he effortlessly vaulted the red-and-white-striped barrier. He kept close to an overgrown box hedge along the side of the gravel drive, making for the side of the house. As he came to the entrance to the basement, he saw there was no longer a door there -- just a charred frame. He opened his greatcoat and took out his handgun.
    He stepped cautiously through the doorway, covering all the angles with the gun. All that remained in the basement were the metal skeletons of computers that had been on them. Everything else was reduced to ash. The walls were blackened from smoke, and the ceiling had burnt through. The whole area looked as if it had been engulfed by some sort of localized firestorm.
    He knew it was a waste of time to check if any of the equipment or records had survived. He backed out of the basement and returned to the car.
    The Styx had been characteristically thorough; while he had been in