Prediction

by Tony Batton

  Thirty seconds later, a vehicle approached the school's front gates. The van was the school’s usual laundry delivery vehicle, its paintwork off-white with peeling decals. The security guard stationed at the gate could not have known it had been stolen or that its usual driver was bound and gagged in a field a mile away. He simply waved and buzzed the heavy metal gates open as he always did. The van drove in and parked next to the loading bay as it always did. But then everything went wrong.

  The side door slid back and four large men, dressed in black overalls and wearing gas masks, stepped into view. The security guard walked towards them, about to ask what was going on, when four automatic weapons flicked up and pointed at his chest. He froze and raised his hands on instinct. One of the men shouted something in a very heavy accent. The guard dropped to his knees. He was out of shape, in his fifties, carrying a baton that he had never actually used. What could he do?

  The man in the gas mask walked over to him, smashed him on the temple with the butt of his rifle, then caught him as he sprawled. A second man ran forward and tied his hands with plastic cables, then gagged him.

  They then turned to the locked front doors of the school’s language block. The third man stepped forward with a portable door-ram. A forceful swing and the door buckled. The intruders stepped through and the fourth man fired three rounds from a grenade launcher. Tear-gas canisters launched in different directions and the few people who had looked into the corridor screamed and ducked back where they had come from. The men tightened their gas masks and climbed the first set of stairs. They knew exactly where they were going.

  On the first floor, in the third classroom along, a French lesson was under way. The men pushed the door open and pointed their weapons. Twenty girls screamed and ran for the back of the room or cowered behind their desks.

  The first man spoke loudly, in an accent that sounded vaguely Russian. "I want Teresa Jenson."

  There were whimpers but nobody spoke.

  "You have ten seconds, then I’m going to start shooting."

  "They’re just kids," said the teacher in a shaking voice.

  The man raised his rifle to point at her. "Teresa, you have five seconds before I kill this woman." He eased his finger around the trigger. The teacher’s eyes widened but she did not move.

  "I’m here," said a small girl with brown hair, walking towards him. "Don’t hurt her." She paused, gripping her watch. "Don’t hurt anyone."

  The teacher turned. "No, Teresa, don’t—"

  The man pushed her aside and grabbed the girl’s arm. He held up a tablet computer and compared the image on the screen to the girl’s face. Nodding to the others, he thrust a gas mask in Teresa’s face. "Put this on if you don’t want your eyes to bleed."

  She glared at him, then slipped it on with practised ease. "You won’t get away with this."

  The man waved his colleagues towards the door.

  The van drove an hour, finally stopping at an abandoned farmhouse in the Cambridgeshire countryside. The doors to a ramshackle barn were pulled open to allow the vehicle to enter, then quickly closed again. The driver stepped out and opened the van’s sliding side door. The four men in the back dragged an angry-looking Teresa Jenson with them.

  "Good operation," the driver said, nodding at the rest of the men. "No complications."

  "That we know of," said the tallest of the others.

  "Our brief was accurate. The father’s obviously too busy with his work to take proper care. He’ll be regretting it soon."

  "He’s going to be coming after us with everything he’s got."

  "He has to find us first," the driver said. "By the time he locates this place, we’ll be paid up and long gone. All we have to do is complete the handover, and we’re out."

  "When and where will that be?" the tall man asked.

  "They’ll be in touch soon. Be patient."

  Teresa pulled herself free from the grip of the man holding her. "If you’re smart you’ll let me go. Then my Dad won’t need to hurt you too much."

  The driver turned and bared his teeth. "Maybe you should be a little more afraid."

  "If you were going to kill me you’d have done that already. Do you have any idea who he is? He’ll find me. Wherever we are." She fiddled with her wrist. "He’ll find me, and then you’ll be sorry."

  "What makes you so…" The tall man frowned. "Check her. Now."

  "For what?" asked the driver. "We already swept her for bugs."

  "I don’t know. Anything that looks wrong."

  Two men grabbed Teresa and roughly searched her. "Her jacket is kind of weird," said one. "Very stiff."

  "Like body-armour stiff?"

  "Dunno, seems too light. And her watch looks unusual. Don’t recognise the make."

  The tall man gripped her arm. "What is this? Some sort of locator?" He stared at the others. "I don’t care if we’ve been told that all comms around her are being jammed. Get the cutters."

  "It doesn’t matter," Teresa said. "You’re already being tracked by satellite. He’ll be here in an hour. With his own private army."

  The tall man frowned. "Maybe this was all a bad idea."

  The driver shook his head. "We stick with the plan. A lot can happen in an hour."

  "You’d better believe it," Teresa said. "I’m going to see each of you in jail for—"

  "Somebody shut her up! Get the duct tape…" Somewhere in the room a phone rang. The tall man blinked and picked up a small mobile-phone from a shelf. "Who is this?" he asked, putting the phone on speaker mode.

  A woman’s voice replied, heavily digitised. "Your client. I assume you have the girl."

  "We do."

  "She’s unharmed?"

  "As you stipulated."

  "Excellent. We’ll be there in five minutes."

  "You have the money?"

  There was a pause. "No."

  The driver frowned. "What are you talking about?"

  "You won’t be needing it."

  "Very funny."

  "This was never about the girl."

  "What?" The driver’s frown turned to anger. "Look, you pay us now or—"

  "One more thing - when I said we were five minutes away, I lied. I was just waiting on the cycles to process."

  Around them there was a sudden high-pitched whining and a lattice of red dots blanketed the inside of the barn.

  Teresa threw herself on the floor, away from the men, as the pattern of dots narrowed.

  And then the whining was replaced by screams.

  Twenty-Two

  Michael walked into the conference room on Infinity’s fourth level. Sandra stood waiting, her eyes flicking to the large table. On it sat a spiral-bound book and a clear plastic zip-lock bag. Inside the bag was a thin laptop and a collection of leads.

  "Your new machine," she said with a smile. "This is the moment when you really start with the firm." She slid a printed piece of paper across to him. "Sign here."

  Michael glanced down at a large volume of fine print. "What’s this?"

  "Confirmation of your receipt of the computer, and of your responsibility to look after it and use it in accordance with the terms of your employment contract." She hesitated. "And probably a promise to sign over your first-born child. I’ll leave you to read all the way down."

  Michael pulled a pen from his jacket pocket. He signed and slid the paper back.

  Sandra nodded then tore open the bag. The machine was slim and metallic, with an anodised finish. She hefted it in her hand then placed it in front of Michael.

  He ran his fingers over the casing. It was a sculpted slice of magnesium and titanium, more rigid than an ice-skate blade. "What manufacturer?"

  "Undisclosed. Built to a firm-specified design. It’s also running a proprietary OS derived from Linux. For security reasons. As a result many of the apps aren’t compatible with anything else, including the Scope search-tool. And before you ask, you can still run regular desktop software if you must, using a virtualized en
vironment. Sometimes there’s no escaping Windows."

  Michael picked up a lightweight set of headphones from the bag. "I’ve got my own – nicer than these."

  "Actually that’s a new security-access device the firm is trialing. Like a thumbprint scanner."

  "There’s a fingerprint scanner in the headset?"

  "No, the print is your head."

  "It reads my brainwaves? You’re winding me up."

  "It might sound like science fiction, but the tech has been around for a number of years. It simply analyses the pattern of electrical activity. The first time it takes a reading. After that, without a match, the laptop won’t switch on."

  Michael shrugged and pressed the computer’s power button. The words CONNECT HEADSET filled the screen in angry red letters. Michael sighed and plugged in the headset. It clasped around the back of his head, then the frame hooked over both ears. He pressed the power button again. Michael felt a warm buzz in the ear-pads. There was a soft chime and the screen flickered into life, displaying a log-in screen.

  "Techno magic." Sandra placed a slim laptop bag on the table. "Padded for protection and lined to prevent any invasive signals. Treat the machine with care. And only use it for firm business."

  "Of course. I have a personal computer, so I hardly need to—"

  "You don’t have anything like this. That search tool I mentioned – Scope – it’s pretty powerful. I’m sure you’ll be tempted, but you really must only use it for work."

  Michael frowned. "And I suppose someone in IT is tracking everything that gets searched?"

  She pointed at a camera in the corner of the room. "Always assume you’re being watched. Never let anyone else use the laptop or even see it, if possible."

  Michael swallowed, then slid the computer carefully into the bag. "Any more rules?"

  Sandra tapped the spiral-bound book on the table. "You should familiarise yourself with the office manual."

  Michael picked it up, feeling the weight.

  "Now I need to remind you of the main dos and don’ts." She paused. "Actually it’s mostly don’ts: never take documents outside the building unless you have the express approval of a senior associate, or preferably a partner. Never talk about client work outside this office. Assume a great deal of electronic surveillance will be targeted at you wherever you go."

  "That almost sounds paranoid."

  "One of the new associates made that point to Errington about a year back. He left the firm the next day."

  Michael nodded. "I’ll keep that in mind when sharing opinions. Anything else?"

  "Kara asked me to say one thing." Sandra tipped her head on one side. "‘Stop gawping at the computer and get on with something you can bill for.’"

  Twenty-Three

  The sound of sirens rose in the distance as Jenson’s Mercedes approached the school gates, pulling up twenty metres distant.

  "I don't like this," Kelly said. "Look at all those people buzzing around inside. Stay here while I—"

  Jenson pushed open the door and stepped out. "What is going on?" he shouted at the nearest security guard.

  "Mr Jenson, we’ve been trying to call you, but all of our systems are down. We couldn’t even get a mobile signal until a few moments ago."

  Jenson stepped forward, placing his hands on the bars of the gate, about to demand answers when an agitated woman pushed past the guard. Jenson recognised her as the Principal.

  "We were attacked," she said, seemingly in a daze. "It all happened so quickly. They were armed. There was nothing we could do."

  He tightened his fists. "You let somebody take Teresa?"

  The woman shrunk back, her face ashen. "This is a school, not a military base. We called the police the moment the phones started working. They’ll be here shortly."

  Jenson turned to Kelly. "Activate her wrist tracker. And call for backup." He turned back to the Principal. "Tell me exactly what happened."

  An hour later Jenson held on tight as Kelly brought the Mercedes to a rapid but controlled stop under the cover of some trees.

  "Satellite shows an old barn two hundred metres away," she said, glancing at her phone. "That’s where the signal is coming from. Our response team is a minute away."

  He nodded.

  Kelly hesitated. "I’ll say it again: I think this is tactically unwise. We don’t know how many additional people they might have. Are you sure you don’t want to involve the police?"

  "Speed is our one advantage. These people can’t possibly expect us to react so quickly. Plus we know that Rose won’t want to hurt her. She just wants the leverage."

  "You’re absolutely sure she’s behind this?"

  "Wasn’t it your suggestion in the first place?" Jenson glanced out of the car window and saw a black armoured van approaching.

  They climbed out of the Mercedes and greeted the security team as they emerged from the van. One of the team held out body armour for Jenson and Kelly. They quickly slipped it on.

  "You want a rifle, sir?" asked the team leader, holding out a spare.

  Jenson snatched it from him.

  The other men all checked their rifles. Kelly produced a handgun from an ankle holster. "Follow me," she ordered.

  They crept forward, reaching the ramshackle barn in less than a minute. The door was slightly ajar, but there was no sign of movement. There was absolute silence. Then they heard the soft sound of crying coming from inside.

  "That’s her," Jenson hissed. "What’s that lying in the doorway?"

  One of the security team produced a set of binoculars. "Looks like a body."

  Kelly ground her teeth. "Move. Now."

  Nobody was as quick as Jenson. He led the rush, but at the doorway he stopped.

  There were bodies strewn on the ground, with wide-staring eyes, faces contorted into expressions of shock and confusion.

  "Teresa!" shouted Jenson. "Teresa!"

  "Daddy!" replied a trembling voice.

  Amongst the carnage a small figure struggled to her feet.

  He rushed to her, throwing his arms around and holding her painfully tight.

  She hugged him back even more forcefully. "You said you wouldn’t let anything like this happen."

  "I know, I know." Jenson ran his fingers through her hair. "But I’m here now."

  "What happened?" Kelly asked, walking up. "Were there others here? Did they shoot everyone?"

  Teresa gave a loud sniff. "There was nobody else."

  "Then how did they… die?"

  "They were talking on the phone to this woman, then there was this high-pitched whine and tiny red lights everywhere."

  "Red lights?"

  She closed her eyes, chin trembling.

  "Let’s just get out of here," Jenson said. "I know who was behind this, and I’ll be making sure she pays."

  Kelly shook her head. "Something about this is wrong. Teresa, you mentioned a high-pitched sound and the lights? Did you see anything else?"

  Teresa shook her head. "I just dived down and closed my eyes."

  Kelly crouched, looking at the ground, then pulled a multi-purpose scanning-device from her belt and began waving it over the floor.

  "Astrid," said Jenson, guiding Teresa towards where the Mercedes was parked, "can we just leave."

  Kelly picked something up and tucked it into her pocket. "Of course." She stood up and ran after Jenson. "Shall we call the police?"

  "On the way. They can come question Teresa at my house." He turned to the head of the security team. "You guys should make yourselves scarce. It would be easier if I didn’t have to explain you." The man nodded and led the other team members away.

  "So I don’t have to go back to school?" Teresa asked, in a hopeful tone.

  "You’re never going back there. That’s one problem I’m ticking off the list."

  "You might need to add another one to it," Kelly said, as they hurried toward the Mercedes. She held out a tiny, dart-like object with gossamer filaments for wings.


  Jenson stopped and stared at it for several long moments. "That’s impossible." He picked it up between thumb and forefinger. "This is our design. And it was… working?"

  "What is it?" asked Teresa, leaning close. "Some kind of toy?"

  "No, it is not," Jenson said bitterly. "We call it a micro-drone."

  Twenty-Four

  Saxton paid for the taxi then stepped back and glanced at the grey skies. He hadn’t been thinking clearly enough to even consider bringing an umbrella when he left the office, too busy feeling rattled. Though hopefully that would be over soon.

  Following standard operating procedure, he had not been dropped off outside his destination. Instead he walked three blocks, looping around twice to make sure he wasn’t being followed, and ending opposite Kinek’s building: eight storeys of concrete, steel and glass, everything grey and unassuming.

  Only now there was signage up indicating the site was about to be redeveloped. The windows were painted out, and no lights glowed from within. Saxton crossed the street and walked up to the glass front doors. They were securely chained shut, though the chains were starting to rust, as if they’d been there for some time. A man in a security guard’s uniform stuck his head out of a side door.

  "Sorry, mate," he said, scratching at three-day stubble. "Building’s closed. Vacated a year ago."

  Saxton fished out his warrant card and held it up. "I need to go inside."

  The guard peered. "How am I supposed to know if that’s real?"

  "Would you like me to call a couple of squad cars? Perhaps arrest you for obstructing an investigation."

  "I’m just trying to do my job. Go in if you want, but I’ve got to give you a hard hat."

  Saxton accepted a yellow plastic helmet, then he pushed through a heavy door and found himself in the ground floor lobby: a marble-floored room with a large reception desk and a bank of lifts. The air was tired and dusty, as if it had been sealed for a while.