Ethereum
Page 1
Ethereum
Scott Edison Adventure Series: Episode 1
N C Mander
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by N C Mander
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
First paperback edition May 2019
First e-book edition May 2019
Book design by N C Mander
Image by Robert Bye on Unsplash
ISBN 978-1-0968-5093-9 (paperback)
www.ncmander.com
For Dominic
Beware the fury of a patient man.
John Dryden, Absalom and Achitophel
Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,
Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.
William Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Notes from the Author
About the Author
Prologue
One year ago
The vast trading floor at Billingsgate Market teems with fishmongers peddling their wares, crying out their inventory.
‘Langoustine … Squid … Finest North Sea cod …’
Rubber-booted men shuffle through the slush of melting ice that overflows from the polystyrene boxes displaying every type of fish anyone could care to name.
Buyers traipse past boxes of cod, whole salmon, sides of tuna, lobster, still clawing lazily after their freedom, and prawns piled high. Occasionally, punters examine the merchandise on offer, commenting on the freshness of the produce to no one in particular. The clock, hanging from the rafters in the cavernous warehouse, reads just before 6.15 a.m. when two men take delivery of a wooden packing crate. A forklift truck, that had nosed its way through the crowds to their stall, reverses with a deafening beep. Customers scatter to allow it clear passage.
The two men examine the box. One stands no more than five foot four inches tall. He is black, sports a single earring and wears a gold chain round his skinny left wrist. The other is also slim, but white and fair-haired. His chin is mottled with three days’ worth of stubble. They are both dressed in white coats like all the other fishmongers. The taller of the two men wields the crowbar but has difficulty getting into the crate, struggling to gain purchase on the slippery concrete floor. The surrounding area gets wetter as the ice-packed crate thaws and water seeps from between the slats.
The trickle is tinged blood red, but nobody pays it much attention. Blood and guts are a familiar sight at Billingsgate Fish Market.
The other man takes over the attack. Eventually, the side of the crate gives way. Torrents of crushed ice, a sickly shade of pink, pour onto the ground. The tidal wave subsides, and everyone’s attention is drawn to the horrific sight of a severed human hand, resting palm up, on the ice. Chewed nails appear to claw at the air. A further shift in the ice reveals a leg, an ear and a nose. A clean-shaven head pokes from the frozen packing. Silence descends on the busy market as dozens of pairs of eyes survey the scene. Eyes widen, jaws drop, aghast.
The two men back away, looks of horror and shock on both their faces. The market erupts into noise and activity. Nearby fishmongers crowd around the broken crate and its macabre contents, jostling for the best view. In the melee, the men make a dash for it, separating at the end of the aisle and disappearing in opposite directions.
An officious, elderly stallholder inexpertly manages access to the scene. He proclaims loudly that he has experience of police matters and tries to usher people away from the crate with little success. ‘Experience of police matters? You mean you’ve served a stint inside,’ somebody calls from the back of the crowd. A ripple of sniggers washes through the mob of onlookers. Another pipes up, ‘I’ve called the police. They’re on their way.’
*
This was to be the last shipment. I promised myself that once Metin was here, I would close it. Close the shipping line for good. Although they wanted me to keep it open. And now this! They send me Metin’s body in thirty pieces. I turned on the television as I waited for my beloved brother to knock on the door. After all the heartache. Losing Houda and Samar. It gave me hope to know that Metin would be here. In England. Even if that bastard Johnson had denied him a visa. I had his new passport ready. A new life. For both of us. And then I turn on the news. Police all over a crime scene at Billingsgate. And I catch a glimpse of my brother’s body.
A message from them.
If only, if only he had been granted asylum. Like Houda and Samar, who gave their lives to the waves because the Right Honourable Timothy Johnson has no compassion. Just a visa, a simple visa, was that too much to ask? He does not know the suffering endured by ordinary, righteous people. He decided he did not like me, and that was why Houda, my darling sister, may she rest in peace, was denied her escape from the living hell back home.
I was going to give it all up. To live a life my beloved Houda would have been proud of. But now my cherished brother too has fallen victim to his callousness. He is a vindictive man.
*
It’s later now. The dust is settling. My heart aches for everything I’ve lost. And they have been in touch. They have offered an opportunity for me to avenge my family. Avenge the injustice brought against them by these British pigs. It will be done. They will know and remember the Dastans. They do not go meekly to their graves. But you, Timothy Johnson, and your loyal subjects, shall know terror as you reach your day of judgement. Inshallah.
Chapter One
2136, Saturday, 24th June, Moniedubh Estate, nr. North Ballachulish, Lochaber
‘The biggest scandal to hit the British Security Service in decades culminated today in the formal dismissal of one of the country’s most senior civil servants,’ the immaculately made-up news anchor said from the laptop screen. The picture then cut to a clip of crowds of jostling journalists gathered outside Thames House, cameras flashing, Dictaphones waving. The newsreader went on, ‘Sir Donald Hughes left MI5’s headquarters today with his reputation in tatters but was assured that all charges against him have been dropped. His demise was precipitated by an anonymous whistle-blower within the Security Service. Exact details of the accusation against Sir Donald – knighted eight years ago – have not been released.’
The commentary continued, not adding much information, as the footage showed Sir Donald in the doorway of the formidable building, dressed in a heavy overcoat against the February wind. He paused momentarily – a choreographed move – at the top of the steps to place a smart tweed fedora on top of his thinning hair. Sir Donald was flanked by his lawyer on one side and the demure figure of his wife on the other. They descended the steps, his solicitor protesting and explaining that his client had no comment at this tim
e. They were bundled into a waiting Mercedes saloon car which pulled away, leaving the media circus behind.
Hughes paused the clip just as the cameras panned back to the doors of Thames House. In the frozen image, he spotted a man, twenty-five years younger than himself, dressed in a navy-blue greatcoat that made him appear even more imposing than his well-over six feet and broad shoulders normally did. He had his chin tucked into his chest, trying to blend into the hubbub of people that milled around the doorway. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets. Hughes clicked through the film, frame by frame, to find the moment the whistle-blower looked directly into the lens. His intelligent blue eyes were set deep in sunken sockets, and Hughes noticed they were rimmed with grey bags. Suddenly, and just for a moment, those tired eyes looked up into the camera.
It was a moment, Hughes delighted in recalling, when that man’s world fell apart. All in his absence.
Their eyes met.
Scott Edison.
Sir Donald snapped the laptop closed, feeling energised. He looked around the lavishly furnished study. Its big windows had far-reaching views over Glencoe. The events from the clip had taken place over a year ago. Since then, the expansive family home in the Highlands, technically his wife’s, had been his refuge and his prison. He had rattled around in it, occasionally bumping into his wife. His engagement with the outside world had been limited to the few choice contacts still loyal to him. He had been careful not to throw anyone under the bus as his distinguished career at MI5 had unravelled. He was shrewd. He knew there was far more value in maintaining the trust of a handful of pawns in London. He could conduct some master puppetry from north of the border.
His first act had been to manoeuvre that snake Edison out of the Security Service – that had taken a couple of months, but he had achieved it – helped toward his goal by Edison’s own self-destruction. It appeared that the young man couldn’t cope in the Service without him. However, the latest intelligence coming out of London was that Tanya Willis, the director of counter-terrorism, was making noises about Edison’s return. Such an outcome would not suit him at all, and he was intent on manipulating his pieces accordingly.
Sir Donald released a long breath and sat back in his leather upholstered desk chair. It would be ok. Edison could be dealt with. He could always call on dear old Johnnie for assistance if necessary. And soon, he thought with glee, he would escape this mausoleum. There were a few more strings to pull. A few more pieces to slot into place, but escape was nigh.
He pulled open the top drawer of his antique mahogany desk and drew out an old Nokia mobile phone and a piece of paper on which there was printed a list of eleven-digit numbers. A handful at the top of the list had been struck out. Placing the sheet on the green leather of the desk, he ran his finger down to the next visible number and carefully punched it into the phone. He typed the message – 10 minutes – and clicked send. The screen lit up briefly with the words – Message sent – before dimming. He shut the handset down, removed the plastic cover and battery to reveal the slot for the SIM card. He slipped the existing card out and replaced it with another from the drawer. He reassembled the phone and laid it carefully on the desk.
There was a knock at the door, and without invitation, his wife appeared holding a tray bedecked with a teapot, cup, saucer and milk jug. ‘Maggie’s day off,’ she told him in the matter-of-fact tone that seemed to infuse all their exchanges. Donald and Elizabeth Hughes barely spoke, bar to exchange information about the whereabouts of the domestic staff and, very occasionally, the weather, but the latter only as it impacted the exercising of their two lurchers, Dolly and Angus.
Elizabeth set the tray down on the coffee table next to Donald’s wing-backed leather armchair near the window. ‘Shall I pour?’ she offered. The phone on the desk began to buzz.
‘No,’ Hughes said, glancing at the mobile. ‘Thank you. I’ll help myself.’
‘Ok, dear,’ Elizabeth replied, eyeing the phone on the desk as it buzzed impatiently. She backed out of the room, wondering where the phone had come from. Her husband, despite his advancing years – he would be sixty-two on his next birthday – was a technophile to rival any teenager. He had the latest of everything. What relic of his past was that brick of a phone? What did he really do, holed up in the study for most of the day? He had told her, months ago, that he was writing a memoir, but that did not require archaic technology. She shrugged as Dolly trotted up to her and accompanied her into the drawing room where her own tea tray lay and where she planned to spend the next hour perusing the latest edition of House & Garden which the postman had delivered that morning. Then she would go to bed.
As the door closed behind his wife, Hughes snatched up the phone and pressed the button to answer the call. Too late. The caller had rung off. ‘Damn,’ he said beneath his breath. He consulted the list of numbers and typed the next one into a text message with the word – Now. Hurriedly, he replaced the SIM with a fresh one from the drawer and waited. The phone rang just seconds after he had clicked the battery cover closed.
‘Bantam,’ Hughes addressed the person on the other end of the line without any pleasantries being exchanged.
‘Yeah,’ came the reply.
‘Next shipment. Twenty-ninth. Deal with the collateral as per usual.’
‘Sure, Guv. Should I worry about what happened last time?’
‘Enough time has passed, and that is of no concern of ours,’ Hughes lied.
The man on the other end of the line grunted.
Hughes changed the subject. ‘Is the physicist in play?’ Hughes was referring to Edison. It was not a particularly sophisticated alias and being frank, he’d be surprised if anyone was listening, but it paid to be cautious. He knew better than to overcomplicate things. Bantam, his man on the ground in London, was a valuable contact, thanks to his network in the East End, but his abilities did not extend much beyond surveillance and safe transportation of goods. He was not the brain of Britain – a term Donald’s mother had been fond of using.
‘All set, nothing new, but I’ve got tabs on ’im,’ Bantam replied and hung up.
Hughes took a pen and struck through the two burned numbers on his list. The SIM cards were slipped carefully into an envelope. He returned the handset, the SIM cards and the list of numbers to the drawer before locking it.
He pondered the resurrection of the Billingsgate import channel. It had been a year since a dead body, hideously mutilated, had brought unwanted attention to what had been a straightforward line of business. He had been bringing high-quality cocaine into the capital under the cover of a fishing channel in the North Sea. He had no idea who the man was or how he had met such a grisly end, a dispute amongst the crew that had got out of hand, he had assumed. Ideally, he would have liked to change the route or at least suspend the operation for another six months, but she had been most insistent that now was the right time. It was alluring, the urgency with which she wanted to raise the money they needed to start their new life together. A few risks were worth taking for the promise of a future with her.
He stood and stretched. ‘Eye on the prize, Donald,’ he muttered to himself. There was a scuffling at the door. He crossed the room and opened it. Angus, the other lurcher, bounded into the room and Hughes ruffled his ears affectionately. The dog trotted over to the coffee table before hopping onto the sofa and looking back to Hughes expectantly. His master poured himself a cup of tea and sat down next to the enormous dog. His mind whirred as he considered what needed to happen in order to ensure the next phase went smoothly and, almost as importantly, that the son-of-a-bitch Edison suffered adequately. As he gazed out of the window, lost in concentration, he idly fondled the dog’s belly. Angus could not have been happier.
Chapter Two
0612, Saturday, 24th June, Penn Street, Hoxton, London
Edison raised a hand, rubbed it across his face and under his stubbly chin. With some effort and a groan, he rolled onto his side and tried to focus on the red digital
display of the clock by his bed. He realised it wasn’t there just as the body sleeping beside him shifted beneath the unfamiliar duvet. Through the haze of his hangover, Edison attempted to recollect what had happened the previous evening. Come on man, he thought to himself as he struggled to piece together a coherent picture, you’re a spy after all.
Former spy, his inner monologue corrected him.
He hauled himself up onto his elbows and surveyed the room. There was grey light creeping in from around the hastily drawn curtains. He guessed it was still early. Probably shortly after six, judging by the quality of the light and the time of year, late June. The room was large and sparsely furnished. All he could see of his companion was a slim outline underneath the duvet, a neatly manicured hand reaching out onto the pillow and some wisps of chestnut hair. Gingerly, he got up, hoping not to disturb his bedfellow. His clothes were scattered about, and he crept around the room, disentangling jeans and a T-shirt from sheer tights and a lacy black bra.
Out in the hallway, Edison worried about waking the mythical flatmate. Kat spoke occasionally of the party animal she lived with. He had skulked out of this apartment a handful of times since spring but not once met Sarah. Kat was a former colleague. Ten years younger than Edison, she was manoeuvring her way quickly through the ranks at the British Security Service, thanks to her sharp intellect and commensurate skill. In the bathroom, he considered a shower but thought better of it. He completed perfunctory ablutions and tiptoed back into the corridor. He picked up his shoes and made his way noiselessly toward the front door.
Edison descended in the lift and left the block of flats, striding purposefully in what he thought he remembered was the direction of the station. His phone buzzed deep in the pocket of his jacket. It gave him a start. Who was texting him at this time of the morning and, as an afterthought, how the hell does the ruddy thing have any battery left? Most days, it didn’t last much beyond mid-afternoon, even with his carefully rationed usage. He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out the phone. You’re better off walking to Old Street than trying to take the Overground on a Sunday – the message read.