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by Gerard Readett

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Roadworks is the story of one man's battle to be free of a system that oppresses him while dragging a hijacked city out of absolute gridlock.

In a city where all rail, road and underground traffic is computerised, Hugh Ryan, a Transport Authority controller, has to outwit Akila Kama, an African terrorist who has taken the city and many foreign heads of state hostage

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Roadworks is the story of one man's battle to be free of a system that oppresses him while dragging a hijacked city out of absolute gridlock.

In a city where all rail, road and underground traffic is computerised, Hugh Ryan, a Transport Authority controller, has to outwit Akila Kama, an African terrorist who has taken the city and many foreign heads of state hostage. His demands are simple, either the greatest humanitarian aid package is sent to Africa by the nations of the West, or their leaders die.

Later Hugh realises that while all traffic inside the city is at a standstill, Wellens, a local crimelord who helped the Africans, has embarked on his own traitorous plans which he hatches with a mole in the Transport Authority.

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Brussels, Belgium

The sun was high in the sky. Even through the soles of my shoes, I felt the heat rising through the sand. In the distance, a couple of lonely trees shimmered in the haze.

An eerie, high-pitched shriek made me look upwards. I used a hand to block out the sun. Far away, I could just make out the dark shape of a vulture, circling lazily. As I watched, it started to swoop down towards me, but then it veered and caught another thermal. I shuddered involuntarily.

The sheet in the doorway flapped as a warm breeze stirred the air. I stepped through gingerly, trying to keep from making any noise. They had warned me that the patients tended to sleep through the scorching African afternoon.

My wife, lying peacefully in bed, and covered by a single white sheet, was deathly pale. The mosquito net, hanging from crude wooden bedposts, surrounded her like a ghostly shroud. Seeing her like that made me want to hold her and tell her everything would work out. A net might be a thin barrier against mosquitoes, but for me, it was like a prison wall. It tore me apart to see her like this. She held on by a thread, a strong will to live. The doctor had stressed that one more mosquito bite would sever that last thread.

It was my fault. She had not been particularly keen to come to Africa. It had taken me a week of cajoling to convince her that a month-long Safari trip would be an unforgettable experience. Well, unforgettable it certainly would be.

Beads of sweat formed on her forehead, then gently trickled down over her eyebrows and onto her cheeks. She moaned once, and her head fell to one side. I reached out to touch the mosquito net. For a longtime I stood there, staring at her while she fought the fever.

She moaned again, and her arm fell from her side, hitting the floor. I bent down, gently taking her hand in mine. It was very warm and slightly clammy.

Suddenly, she gripped my wrist. My head snapped up, and our gazes locked. The crazed look in her eyes curdled my blood. Her mouth curled into a horrifying, lop-sided grin.

The sweat on her forehead began pouring out like a fountain, drenching her face. She saw the fear in my eyes, but kept on grinning. The skin on her face was rapidly reddening, and my wrist felt as if someone had poured boiling water on it. I tried to pull away, but she only tightened her grip, and pulled again.

Blisters began to form on her cheeks, then on her forehead. Tears came out of her eyes in continuous streams, her nose began running, and she opened her mouth. Her tongue, bloated beyond recognition, was a sickly shade of grey. I began sobbing while I scratched frantically at her hand.

Then the blisters burst.

I sat up and felt around me. Beneath me was something soft and yielding. The ambient darkness disoriented me. My heart was pounding out a frantic rhythm, and I could feel the sweat trickling down my back. It took several seconds for my brain to make sense of the last few minutes. The panic receded as the rush of adrenaline stopped, and my racing heart slowed to a walk. My bedside clock displayed 06:30 04 April 2022.

That nightmare would be the end of me one day. It was still as clear as the first time, and still as painful. Lifting myself up from the bed, I headed for the bathroom, where I splashed water on my face, then drank some from the tap.

Back in the bedroom, I found the newspaper cutting, and read it for the thousandth time. It always devastated me, but it was the only way I had found for facing another day without Sarah.

"Mrs Sarah Ryan died on Tuesday of a malignant form of malaria that she had contracted on a Safari trip with her husband Mr Hugh Ryan. Medicines needed for the treatment of her ailment were unavailable at the lodge where they were staying. Some had been ordered and flown in from the capital but they had arrived too late."

I flopped back onto the bed. For a year and a half, I had that nightmare every day. Nowadays, it was a bit less frequent, but I no longer have any tears left to shed. Lifting my hand to look at the picture, I sighed.

I had been the perfect incarnation of the tourist, with my flowery silk shirt covering my protruding belly, and my camera hanging loosely around my neck. At the time, I had sported dark, shoulder-length hair at the back, accompanied by sideburns. My blue eyes seemed to sparkle, and my round face had radiated happiness.

A week after the picture had been taken, everything had changed. The only thing that remained nowadays was my height. On long sleepless nights, the loneliness and guilt had driven me to exercise. Carefully keeping away from fitness centres where I would be forced to meet other people, I had taken up running and home training. The excess weight had been replaced by muscle. My face had thinned, and I had started to keep my hair in a crew cut, along with a well-trimmed beard. I had had to buy a whole new wardrobe to compensate for the change in sizes. When I had gone shopping, I had chosen only smart clothes of good quality, and had vowed never again to dress carelessly.

I must have spent twenty minutes or so, reliving the guilt and the sadness. Up to now I had been like an automaton, losing myself in my work, but today was going to be a step forward. Putting my morbid thoughts behind me, I got up to prepare for court. Picking out my clothes, I tried to dress better than usual. Looping my black cord belt into my white jeans, I donned a mustard yellow shirt and a pair of suede shoes that are quiet when I walk. The jacket was one I had bought while Sarah was alive, so it was several sizes too big, but I wore it for her.

For the first time since Sarah had died, I had a goal in my life. It was one that would have made her proud of me.

I arrived early to avoid the crowds that would once again descend upon the trial. The trouble was finding a suitable parking space, far enough away from the entrance so that I could depart unmolested by journalists. The trial took place inside one of the most majestic sights in Brussels. The Palais de Justice was an impressive work of art by the famous Belgian architect, Victor Horta. From the outside, it was difficult to judge the daunting size of the building, and the big cupola sticking up from the centre was reminiscent of the Capitol in Washington D.C. Entry to the lawcourts was up an enormous stone stairway and through tall marble pillars. In contrast, the back entrance was rather simple and mundane; it looked just like any other building entrance. There were already a few clever journalists gathered nearby. I darted past them. In the courtroom, I quickly took my place near the front row of benches. Ten minutes later, all the benches were full, and only the jury was missing.

The murmur of whispered conversations slowly died away as the jury trudged back in. Clearly imbued with the importance of their role, they were playing out their brief moment of fame for all it was worth, making a show of solemnly resuming their seats.

Photographers, who only seconds before had been quietly chatting amongst themselves, went berserk. They pushed and shoved to obtain the best shot of the accused, to get the picture that would be splattered over all the papers the following day.

At the back, the fake marble pillars graced the room more with the air of a Roman senate than a contemporary court of law. Beside these and slightly more demure than the photographers, were the journalists. They promptly powered up their laptops while trying to avoid the judge's disapproving glare, as a chorus of beeps, buzzes and whirrs disrupted the silence.

Media coverage, in the first few weeks, had superseded virtually all other stories, both at the national and international levels. However, as it soon became apparent that the case would be a long, drawn-out one, other news items began taking precedence. The reporting had been relegated to weekly hour-long updates on only a few major networks.

From the start, the case had been full of surprises, but even the moguls of the TV stations were stunned. The weekly shows soon afforded them the highest ratings ever recorded for a non-fiction programme. They even rivalled the most successful soaps; so much so, that on Friday nights popular shows were reprogrammed into other time slots.

The tabloids had tagged the case with the unsuitable name of 'The Bank Holiday Fiasco', although it had taken place on a normal working day and, for maximum effect, during rush hour. Some clever-dick reporter had written an over-the-top sarcastic criticism of the security forces, suggesting that the police force as a whole had taken the day off. That the reporter and his editor were subsequently fired for placing the paper in an untenable position, and that the following day a disclaimer was published, did nothing to alter the fact that the unfortunate name stuck.

Again, the courtroom was jam-packed. The Mayor of Brussels or the Bourgmestre in French, as well as various high-ranking city officials, crammed the two front rows. Twenty-odd people were squeezed onto hard wooden benches, built to hold half a dozen. They bore the discomfort stoically.

The accused slouched in his chair, calmly observing the chaos of photographers in front of him, like a child watching a magician performing tricks everyone has already seen many times. His round fleshy face had, in the past few months, been splashed on every magazine cover, newspaper front page and prime-time television news show in the country, despite his having long ago given up according interviews.

Since then, an amazing transformation had taken place. The Saville Row suit had been traded for a pair of faded black jeans, the shirt and tie replaced by a dark blue T-shirt featuring a gun-wielding actor and the words 'Make my day'. The expression now on his face was a sardonic smile that he did not even bother concealing from the photographers.

The attack had been meticulously planned and executed, with two distinct objectives. Stunned military strategists had participated in a top security meeting with a government intent on avoiding a recurrence of such an embarrassing event. They were rumoured to have said that ingenuity, co-ordination and sheer bravado had not been heard of on this scale since D-DAY.

Ironically, though, it was not down to the professionalism of the police force, outstanding as it was, or to the plan itself, or its execution that the attack failed. The attack was a beautiful mechanism, a masterpiece, and a living work of art. Not something usually attributed to the criminal mind. Still, it failed.

If anyone was to blame for the debacle, or to be congratulated, depending on your point of view, it was Murphy, who, when he expounded his law, 'If something can go wrong, it will', really knew what he was talking about.

The plan fell apart, only when it seemed the 'bad guys' were going to get away with it. In the end, a few of them escaped, unsuccessfully, I hasten to add; the others were killed in a peculiar set of circumstances that to this day remain, at least partially, unexplained.

In sharp contrast to his client, the lawyer was a small nervous man, who frequently had to remove his glasses to wipe perspiration from his tiny forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief. Throughout the trial, he had not stopped fidgeting, and during moments of extreme tension, when the testimony of a witness was hurting his client's case, he took to frantic scribbling on his legal pad. For my sins, I must say that I have followed this case assiduously, never having missed a single court appearance. I know how many pads that lawyer went through in the last eight months: one hundred and thirty-four.

The lawyer for the accused glanced over at the jury, as he had done many times during this case, with a defeated look. The faces of the jurors said only one thing.


The judge seated himself.

Flashes went off in every direction, while whistles and cries reverberated off the walls. The defence lawyer flopped into his chair, then dropped his head onto the table in front of him, placing both hands on the nape of his neck. His client, seemingly unaffected by the ruckus, laughed aloud and clapped him on the back.

The judge banged his gavel energetically, and glared at the reporters. "Could we next time dispense with such a lurid display? And," he turned to the audience, "if I hear any more noise, I'll clear the court." As silence settled, he motioned the prosecutor to continue.

The whole thing had started nearly a year ago. At the time, I didn't have all the pieces of the puzzle but these court proceedings were clarifying it all. Now I had virtually the whole picture. To fully understand all the events that led up to today, it was going to be necessary for me to go back right to the beginning. For my purposes, I was going to have to replay it all, and include the actions of certain people that I only learnt about here, in this courtroom. Like that scumbag, Wellens.

* * *

Brussels, Belgium

Most heavyset men tend to have a slow ponderous walk, a kind of waddle, as if they have to swing their weight around to give the necessary momentum for each step. Others manage to stride around with a light step and no outward sign of being hampered by their weight or the mass of large muscles. Wellens fell into the latter category. Short, as well as stocky, he impressed more by the thickness of his body than his height. The only apparent part of him that consisted of something other than perfectly toned muscles were his flabby jowls.

His appearance had long been a stumbling block for his senior management staff that he regularly thrashed at their weekly squash tournaments. He insisted his employees make use of his company's gym, and regularly used his favourite quote 'Healthy body, healthy mind.' With that company policy in effect, he made it a point of honour to be in better shape than any of his employees. However, it was more for personal satisfaction than to set an example that he worked out four hours a day.

The lift door opened, and he stepped out, greeted his secretary cheerfully, and entered his office. A cup of hot coffee lay on his desk, placed precisely where his right hand would be once he sat down in his chair. He sipped the coffee, and smiled. This was the kind of efficiency he had taken so long to foster.

Twenty years ago, he had started a small services company that filled a niche no one had thought of before. He had noticed that few computer centres spent any time, or money, on the cleanliness of their equipment. He offered a cleaning service for computer-heavy businesses, cleaning blackened keyboards, and wiping dust and greasy finger stains from screens.

His success had been immediate, but it had taken more than hard work to start up. A combination of events had plagued his fledgling career. His wife ruined him in a nasty divorce settlement, and then his brother had come to him for help in paying off gambling debts to a loan shark.

The small profit he made stretched only so far. Just as he was about to declare himself bankrupt, one of the companies he worked for made him a proposition that would change his fortunes. They offered to pay him handsomely for any type of insider information from their competitors, who Wellens also happened to work for. With nothing to lose, he jumped at the chance. Initially, he only passed on confidential internal memoranda that careless employees had left lying about, but he soon progressed.

Often in computer centres, access to sensitive systems was protected by passwords. Employees tended to find this restriction a nuisance and, in blatant disregard for even basic security measures, taped their passwords to screens and desks nearby. Wellens took advantage of this human foible. He copied the passwords, thereby giving away access to competitors' systems. He never looked back after that.

Slowly, but surely, an increasing part of his revenue came from this less than legal sideline. Being a cautious man by nature, he quickly understood that he had to watch his step. Up until then, none of his clients had initiated legal action, not even those who suspected he was responsible for leaks of insider information. He knew that sooner or later he would grace the benches of a courtroom.

Wellens hired Sam, a close personal friend, as security advisor whose skills he had immediately put to work finding a trustworthy lawyer. In the course of the following year, their new-found friend and employee successfully staved off three potentially damaging lawsuits from former clients. Aside from that, his considerable advice and meticulous rewriting of the company's standard contract permitted Wellens to streamline his activities, and drastically reduce the risk of legal retaliation.

With a rapidly growing clientele, the company had been forced to expand. Wellens set about forming a core of highly competent people around him, then had Sam carefully check the background of each to look for two vital qualities. First, he had to be able to trust them implicitly, safe in the knowledge that they would keep confidential information to themselves. Second, and probably most important, he had to be sure they had a healthy amount of greed. With the help of Sam's screening, he was able to weed out several undesirables. He then spent time with the remainder, talking, questioning and generally getting a feel for each individual's character.

Once he was sure of their loyalties, Wellens set up a training camp, in a secluded place in the country, where he taught his employees the skills they would need. They began with simple things like industrial espionage, but their success in this enterprise led them rapidly onto other competencies.

Over the years, with the jobs becoming more and more complex, the necessary skills had changed. He now had at his disposal mechanics who could hot-wire a car in under one minute, security officers who could in an emergency convincingly act like policemen, accountants who could simultaneously create two sets of books--one with real expenses and incomes, the other doctored to suit the requirements of the taxman.

He sighed as he reminisced about his former successes, then glanced at his schedule for the day. At 10:00 a.m. he had an appointment with a Marion Grayson, a visit he had been looking forward to for a week.

"Sandy. Why isn't Sam here already? I thought I made it clear to him I had to go over something with him before my meeting with Marion Grayson."

"He will arrive in ten minutes. He just phoned."

"OK. Thanks, Sandy."

Wellens still had a few minutes before his visitor was supposed to arrive. Sipping his coffee thoughtfully, he mulled over what he knew about her.

She had contacted him two weeks ago, suggesting they meet to discuss a lucrative proposition. That kind of contact usually made him extremely suspicious and this time around was no exception. Obviously, Sam had immediately started checking up on a Marion Grayson. He was able to glean very little from his usual sources, but what he did learn was surprising, to say the least.

She worked for the British Ministry of Defence. A contact Sam had in the British civil service was able to dig up an interesting story. Several years ago, an enemy agent had successfully defected with incomplete blueprints for a new type of radar, and had been handed over to the Ministry of Defence for interrogation. A week later the agent had been found hanging from the radiator in his room, dead. At first Grayson had been a suspect, but once she handed over a working prototype of the new radar, the whole debacle was quickly forgotten.

It was Sam's contact in the civil service who had referred her to Wellens. He had warned Sam that, although he did not know her personally, what he had been able to glean from the records was interesting. What little he learned of her past was useless, but her actions since she had joined the Ministry gave the impression of a self-serving, ambitious woman. Armed with this knowledge, Wellens still knew he was in for a tough time. He had no idea what the British might want with him. Not only that, but he had to watch his step, it was going to be a tricky conversation. They obviously had something in mind that required his services, but it could just be they were setting him up.

"Marion Grayson is here." His secretary announced over the intercom.

"Please let her in, Sandy."

The door to Wellens' office opened, and his secretary held the door open long enough for a woman of medium height to walk in. Like Wellens, she had a wide build, but she carried a layer of fat where he only had muscle. Her matching, loose-fitting trousers and shirt jacket hid her surplus weight effectively, but Wellens noticed the way her shirt stretched momentarily as she sat down. She was in her mid-forties, he guessed, as he studied her round, smiling face. He was surprised by the amount of wrinkles he noticed under the make-up on her forehead, but tried not to show it.

"Miss Grayson."

She nodded her greeting, and settled herself comfortably in the chair, dragging the corners of her jacket round to cover the front of her shirt.

"Mr Wellens. Before I start, maybe we should clear up something. I'm sure you've done your homework; you know who I work for, et cetera. I am not here on behalf of the British Government or the Ministry of Defence. This is strictly a personal affair. I knew before I even contacted you that you would never be prepared to accept me at face value. I needed a gesture of good faith, and it wasn't easy to find one. What could I, a complete stranger, offer you that could in no way be construed as being a set-up, a double-cross? Unfortunately, I was absolutely unable to come up with anything remotely convincing.

"Since I have no means of proving to you that I am being honest, maybe I should stop wasting your time."

Wellens raised a hand, and buzzed his secretary. "Sandy, is Sam here yet?"

"Yes, sir. He's gone to his office."

"His office?" Wellens thought. Sam had never required an office before. What was she talking about? A few moments' thought brought the answer. Sandy was not being facetious, she was trying to explain to him in code. Marion Grayson could not be allowed to hear where Sam had gone. Of course not. Instead of joining them, he had entered the adjoining room, where the most sophisticated eavesdropping equipment available monitored the interior of the office. Sight and sound were relayed and automatically recorded.

"Good man' Wellens mentally applauded Sam. With the array of sensors in the chair opposite him, they would be able to take Marion Grayson at more than just 'face value'. The weapons detector, capable of recognising the shape and composition of objects, be they metal, wood, plastic or a combination, would warn them of any hidden microphones or recording devices. The sensors in the armrests would monitor her heart rate, arterial tension, and would detect excessive sweating through her hands. It would act like an informal lie detector. Once again, Wellens proudly congratulated himself on having found an employee of such amazing qualities as Sam. Without letting any of his thoughts change the expression of puzzlement on his face, Wellens continued the conversation.

"I must say, at least, that I am intrigued. Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?"

"Just a glass of water, please. I'm on a diet."

Wellens leaned over to his intercom "Sandy, could you bring a bottle of water for Miss Grayson, and a coke for me, please?"

"Right away, sir."

More to put her at ease, Wellens decided to put their talk on hold. She might not like the idea of Sandy hearing what she had to say. He had no such problem. Sandy had been with him for fifteen years, and she had become invaluable. She was among the stock of employees Wellens used for his 'other' activities, as they put it. As his secretary it had been necessary, very early on, for her to be aware of the full extent of his activities, and she shared his need for absolute secrecy.

Sandy put a glass next to the bottle of water, and handed Wellens a can of coke, then ducked back out of the office quietly.

Wellens waited for the door to click shut before proceeding.

"Please continue."

You will be aware, I hope, that in nine months' time there will be a NATO conference here, in Brussels."

He nodded.

"From a source in Washington, I learnt that the Americans are ready to spring a surprise on their allies. They have finally developed a working, practical laser weapon. The technical details are irrelevant at this point. The only thing that really matters is that the Americans will be bringing it here to present at the conference. For security reasons, they will take it apart and transport the four pieces separately, to be assembled only at the conference itself. Several marines will escort each piece, which can fit into a relatively small suitcase. They will cross the Atlantic, in normal passenger planes, and once they arrive, will remain in their respective hotels until the time comes to move the pieces to the conference hall.

"I want that laser. I have a buyer who is prepared to pay enough for it to make us millionaires for the rest of this century."

Unruffled, Wellens said "And where do my company and I fit in?"

"I am prepared to share a quarter of what I'll get from selling the laser with you, if, between the time the pieces land at the airport and the time the laser is assembled in the conference hall, you can get your hands on it. Of course, if you agree to help me, I'll give you all the details about the couriers' flights, hotels and anything else I can find."

"You realise that what you have said is practically a crime in itself. I'm toying with the idea of calling the police. After all, I am a law-abiding citizen, and this is a law-abiding company. I don't see how I could help you, even if I wanted to."

"What I do realise is that you have to keep the pretence up until you are sure I'm not setting you up. If you hadn't been so diffident, I would have suspected you of trying to frame me. You are no doubt taping this conversation, and have some monitoring equipment directed at me at this moment. Once you analyse all the data, you will find that I am not lying. You have investigated my past, although the information you have will be of little use.

"Naturally, I checked up on you, as well. Let me just say that in ten minutes I have to send an SMS on my GSM mobile phone. If I do not give the all clear, then my assistant will forward proof of your leaking the plans of the Eurofighter II. I am sure that NATO would be interested. They must be dying to get their hands on the person who gave Central European fanatics a way of shooting down the latest military planes." "Yes," murmured Wellens, "That was bad judgement on my part."

"I see we understand each other. I will call you back in two months. So, until we meet again, goodbye."

After she left, Wellens collapsed into his armchair. He breathed heavily for a minute until he felt his heartbeat return to normal.

Sam came in and sat down, smiling at his boss's expression. "Surprising day, isn't it?"

"That's an understatement," whispered Wellens.

Sam laughed quietly. "Thought you would appreciate."

Wellens rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. "Makes me nervous."

Sam's mouth curled into a sly grin, "That's unlike you."

"It sounds much too easy. After all, we're talking about stealing from the Army of the United States. Technically I think we can do it, but it will have to be the last job we do with this company for at least a year. The media exposure will be high, and there will be repercussions. It will be impossible to operate in Brussels after this for quite some time. On the other hand, I was thinking of retiring this year, and what better way than going out in a blaze of glory? But before we do anything else, we need to be sure Grayson is for real."

"Don't worry about that. As far as I could determine, she was being truthful all through your interview. She was slightly nervous at the beginning, but nothing untoward."

"Before I take her seriously, I want you to dig deeper, get that contact of yours in the British civil service to check her out thoroughly. I want to know everything, down to her bra size."


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Meet the Author

With a surname like his, Gerard Readett was born to become a writer.

His life has been spent bouncing between England and Belgium. At the age of five he left London and moved to Belgium where he became bilingual English/French. He returned to England to do a Joint Honours degree in Computing and Economics. Once again he went back to Belgium to work in the Network Operations department of a large credit card company. His job brings him into contact with people from many different nationalities.

He loves to travel to see other cultures and traditions, is particularly interested in Pre-columbian civilizations like the Maya, Aztecs and Incas and Ancient Egypt. Also shows an interest in wildlife, nature and astronomy. Enjoys reading Sci-Fi, Mysteries, Thrillers.

Gerard also has a personal webpage at

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Roadworks 5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 2 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Being in a traffic jam takes on a new meaning in ROADWORKS. Set in the year 2022, this high tech thriller creates innovative architecture, a Traffic Management Centre (TMC), subterranean parking structures, and a whole lot of problems for Brussels, Belgium, in which the roadways have been set up like the spokes of a wagon wheel. Everything runs smoothly with the TMC keeping track of any minor emergency on the Metro, parking structures, or highway. TMC can easily re-route vehicles to other less congested travel patterns. However, there are sixteen entry points to the center of the city, and when terrorists block them, the roadway is literally a parking lot. Very few people can get to work, but fortunately, our hero Hugh Ryan, a Transport Authority Controller, always arrives a little before 7:00 AM, so he is on the job when the problems begin. There are multiple villains with the access to shut down the city or blow up buildings, and they do both. Each is revealed, but not until the end do all of the pieces fall into place. This is one of the most creative situations I have run across in a thriller, and all too familiar because of the traffic jams. I know just how irritated and anxious people are when stuck in traffic, and because I know, this book brought my own emotions into the story. From Prologue to ending, this is an excellent read.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Come to visit Brussels in 2022. Just avoid the day of 'Roadworks'. Set in a possible future for the capital of Europe, a city where all rail, road and underground traffic is computerised, Roadworks shows how Hugh Ryan, a Transport Authority controller, has to outwit Akila Kama, an African terrorist who has taken the city and many foreign heads of state hostage. His demands are simple, either the greatest humanitarian aid package is sent to Africa by the nations of the West, or their leaders die.