The Ninth Circle

by Dominic Adler

  “Sir Evan” I said, “there are matters I’d like to discuss with Sergei and Peter alone? Would you mind?”

  “Yes I bloody well would” he said gloomily, “my house is full of men with illegally-held firearms and I understand that the grounds might have assassins lurking about it. So I’ll be staying right here.”

  “It might be better, in the long-run, if you weren’t exposed to this, Evan” said Sergei, his gravelly voice low. He stood up and put his hand on the Englishman’s shoulder, “but if you want to stay then I understand. What happens to me is my affair, but SandSoft is too important to be brought down by my hobby-horses.”

  Sands looked at me, then into the fire. “Maybe you’re right, Sergei. Look, I need some time to think. I’ll be in the sitting room. If you need anything, ring Anna. She’s in her quarters.”

  “Anna?” I said.

  “Anna is the housekeeper here. I sent all of the other staff away. My family are on their winter break in the Bahamas, I wished I’d gone myself.”

  I raised an eyebrow, “might it be better if Anna left too?”

  Sir Evan Sands cackled, “I don’t think so. The old battle-axe has been with me for twenty years! You’d need dynamite to get her out of here.”

  “The weather is closing in” said Sergei, “we are all here for the duration.”

  “Anna makes an excellent breakfast too” said Pieter Van Basten, “may I thank you again for your hospitality, Sir Evan?” His eyes looked straight through his host as he spoke.

  “It was a pleasure, Pieter” boomed Sands, gripping Van Basten’s hand and shaking it “I might have sold out, but I still love it when somebody socks it to The Man. Promise me you’ll never give up on Forbiddenfacts.”

  “That’s a promise that’s easy to make,” said Van Basten dreamily.

  “And just as easy to break” grunted Sergei, “let’s see where we are at daybreak tomorrow before we make statements like that?”

  “I’ll leave you to it then” said Sands, “Mister Winter, good luck, I shall see you for dinner later I hope?”

  “I look forward to it sir,” I said “before you go, may I ask a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you have anywhere to store the art collection?”

  “I suppose so, yes,” said Sands, “the cellar. Why?”

  “There might be bullet holes,” I said.

  “Bollocks” he grumbled over his shoulder as he stomped out of the room, “it would take a team of art removal specialists. It’s all fucking insured.”

  Van Basten chuckled. “I hate pop art. Wouldn’t it be an ironic act of artistic expression to shoot a gun at that collection?”

  “Rubbish or not, there’s still ten million pounds worth out there,” pointed out Sergei.

  “I’ll get straight to the point” I said, putting my submachinegun on the floor next to my chair, “this is all about the FSB file sent to Forbiddenfacts.net. As Turov said, both of you are in danger. Specifically, the FSB are after you, Pieter. Somebody else is after Sergei and we’re still working on that, to identify the enemy.” I was still wary of telling Sergei, or Van Basten for that matter, about Fyodor Volk.

  “What do you mean?” said Sergei sharply, “this is a new development. Who is trying to kill me if it isn’t the FSB?”

  “Hold on” I said, “Pieter, where is the data the FSB sent you? What server is it on?”

  Pieter Van Basten looked at his feet, then into the flames of the fire. He cleared his throat and hugged himself. “I can’t tell you” he said, sounding more South African than before, “and even I did you wouldn’t believe me.”

  His back to Sergei Belov, he almost smiled.

  I cut the end off of a cigar with my combat knife. If Uncle Marcus from SIS was correct, then the file might be my escape route off of The Firm. That was my Holy Grail, something I wasn’t going to let slip away any time soon.

  “Try me,” I said.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “I’ll spare you the technical details” said Van Basten, tossing a log onto the fire, “but the FSB file came to me untitled. Forbiddenfacts.net has a unique routing system, not unlike TOR but even more deniable and it processes data faster.”

  I knew that TOR was an online proxy set up to safeguard online privacy. Even the military used it.

  Van Basten sat down, “it ensures that both the recipient and sender don’t know the other’s IP address, so I couldn’t tell you anything about the sender even if I wanted to.”

  “How did you know it was for Sergei?” I said. I offered Sergei a cigar, which he took.

  “Oh, it came with an email. It said A PRESENT FOR THE HERO OF SHAKUVO! ENJOY, hardly a mystery, Mister Winter. There’s only one hero of Shakuvo” he said tartly, “and it wasn’t the firemen who went in after the reactor blew.”

  Sergei waved his hands. “Yes, quite Pieter. If the truth were told, I am embarrassed by the plaudits. But I do not know how they made the link between Pieter and me. My funding of the website has been extraordinarily discreet.”

  Van Basten nodded, “but somehow the FSB knew. In any case, the file itself was encrypted with a symmetric-key algorithm, like Rijndael. Once we cracked that there was another, and then another. The core files suggest there are nine in total. I like to think it’s like a Russian Doll – we can tell that the outer files are bigger and they get smaller and harder to crack.”

  I leant forward in my chair, “who’s working on the file from your organisation?”

  “At the moment, nobody” said Van Basten, “Forbiddenfacts.net has been subjected to repeated and increasingly sophisticated hacking attempts. My sources tell me the cryptographers at both Fort Meade and GCHQ are putting in the overtime with no luck.”

  “Do you think it can be fully cracked?” I said.

  “In time I would think so, yes. But since the Americans are trying to extradite me, I’ve decided to protect the activist base on the site by winding things down for a while. The FSB file isn’t connected to anything. It’s on a hard drive, locked away somewhere safe. When my legal battle is won then we will proceed and get to that ninth layer. I call the file Matryoshka, after the doll.”

  “How much of it have you cracked?” I said “before you had to stop?”

  “We’d opened the first four levels” said Van Basten, “level five is pretty challenging. We’re almost there, actually. It’s almost like the creators of the encryption know how long each one will take us. It’s an agreeable puzzle, for sure.”

  “It is very strange,” intoned Sergei solemnly.

  Van Basten smiled, colour finally spreading across his cheeks, “in any case, the material we’ve unearthed so far would keep the site in the news for a couple of years, not to mention bring down several governments.”

  We sat in silence for a moment “where is it Pieter?” I said “the hard drive?”

  The South African examined his fingernails, which were long and manicured. “It is in the safest place I can imagine. Only two people know of its location and that’s how it’s going to stay.”

  “Who is the other person?” I said.

  “Tell us” agreed Sergei, slamming down his glass. Viscous drops of vodka splashed on the table.

  Van Basten stood up and walked to the window, slipping the blind open and looking outside. “No.”

  “He’s too stubborn” spat Sergei, “he will not tell.”

  I stood up and threw the stub of my cigar into the fire. I picked up my SMG. “If he’s still alive tomorrow morning we can discuss it further. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that happens. OK?”

  “You have my thanks Mister Winter” said Van Basten, “but I think I’ll be OK.”

  “Why?”

  His eyes creased as he smiled, “I must have an angel on my shoulder, I think.”

  “And a devil on mine,” said Sergei, reaching for the bottle.

  I went and found Andy. He was with Turov and Dmitri in an office that ran off of the gr
eat hall. The room was a security suite, with a bank of CCTV monitors and alarm system controls.

  Andy sat in front of a console, a notepad in front of him. “Right, Cal, here’s the SITREP. The central station alarm has been disabled, I don’t know how. The landlines are cut too, but this place has a hard-wired internet connection so we have comms. The cameras are all OK: there are twenty in total, five of which are motion-sensitive.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “Dmitri?”

  The big Russian sucked at a mug of coffee. “I have five men with me here, the best on the team: three Russians, one Brit and a Serbian. We have two long rifles, four AKs, grenades and pistols. There’s also enough food and ammunition to last six months if we needed to. The Brit is an advanced combat medical technician. We have trauma kits and a good supply of plasma, blood, IVs and Ketamine. We also have night vision optics and body armour. I have one rifleman on the roof and another positioned at the back of the extension where Mister Belov is staying. The rest of the guys are a quick-reaction force in the main building.”

  “Are you patrolling outside?” said Alisa.

  Dmitri shrugged “yes, but only a sweep of the tree-line. Since I heard who the bad guys are we’ve stopped. Do you want that done again now?”

  “I’ll think on it, what you’re doing now is fine” I said “best draw them to us.”

  “Perhaps, but I will go and take a look myself,” said Alisa.

  “If you want to” I replied, knowing that she was going to do what she liked whatever I said.

  “Let me know when and I’ll radio the riflemen” laughed Sergei, “they might be a little trigger-happy.”

  “I will cover one circuit of the perimeter on foot” she said, pulling on her padded jacket and snowsuit, “I’m OK on my own.”

  “Hold on, there’s something else” said Andy, folding a map out on his knee, “look here.”

  The map was a protective survey prepared by the security company that had installed the alarm system, dated six months ago. It was detailed and covered the entire estate, noting the positions of cameras, motion sensors and alarms.

  Andy’s finger traced a path through the woods south of the modern extension, past a detached garage and villa marked Staff Quarters. A kilometre south of that there was a collection of small outbuildings marked Guest Camp.

  “What’s that?” I said.

  Dmitri looked at it, “yeah that’s like a hippy commune. The crazy English guy, Sands, lets them camp there.”

  “In this weather?” said Turov, “I’ll take a look.”

  I put my hand on her shoulder “no, Alisa, just do the perimeter please.”

  She looked at me, then nodded “perhaps you are right. I’ll be back in an hour or so I think.”

  “Stay near the treeline and we track you on the cameras” said Dmitri, “take this.” He handed her a personal role radio of a type I’d not seen before. It had to be better than our British army-issue ones.

  I took Andy to the sitting room and knocked on the door.

  “Come,” said Sir Evan Sands. He sat on a pile of cushions, an e-reader in his hands. The room was furnished like a futuristic Bedouin tent, with colourful drapes and carpets. Giant monitors showed pictures of a camel train crossing a desert, then I realised he was playing the movie Lawrence of Arabia.

  He smiled, “can I help?”

  Andy cleared his throat. “Sir, can you tell us about the commune on the estate? They might be in danger if they’re still on site.”

  “Oh, my ragged guests?” chuckled Sands, “although I’m sure they’d prefer the term anarcho-syndicalists. I wouldn’t be surprised if a couple of them are toughing it out, I leave them alone to get on with it.”

  “Why are they here?” I said.

  “About eighteen months ago they pitched up. They were protesting about something or another, a few of them are hoary old veterans of the rave and protest scene, back in the nineties. Ah, happy days, those were. I dropped more acid than William Burroughs back then. Anyway, the police had sent them packing from a squat they’d settled in London, so they had nowhere to go. So when they pitched up and asked me if they could stay, I said yes.” He smiled sadly “I feel guilty about my wealth. In my heart I’m with them, but in my head I’m in my mansion.”

  “That was very generous” I said, “are there any problems?”

  Sir Evan smiled and sipped his tea “only the occasional noisy party, but I tend to get invited to those. The army makes more noise with their helicopters and manoeuvres out on the Plain. I have more land than I know what to do with, and they’re a decent bunch. You wouldn’t know they were there most of the time. There’s no rubbish, they grow their own food and recycle everything. A lot of them are even ex-military types like you. They know Salisbury Plain like the back of their hands.”

  I nodded, “when did you last see any of them?”

  “Last week” he said, “one of the guys, he calls himself Bones, asked for some firewood. They have caravans and yurts down there, run power off a diesel generator. I said sure, that they could help themselves. I offered up the staff quarters but they said no.”

  “How do they get onto the estate?” said Andy, looking at the map.

  “There’s an access track, but it won’t be on that map. It’s bumpy, but you can get four-wheel drive vehicles up it. It runs south onto the other side of the estate and takes you onto the army training area. The nearest town south of there is Larkhill.”

  “Thanks for that,” I said.

  On the screens Peter O’Toole was leading a camel charge. Sir Evan switched it off. “Look, I’m sure those chaps can look after themselves, but can we see if they’re OK? Some of them have girlfriends, but there are no kids that I know of.”

  “Absolutely” said Andy, “we’ll check it out.”

  “I’m grateful” he said, pulling himself to his feet and stretching theatrically.

  An olive-skinned woman in her fifties entered the room with a tray and started tidying up. She wore a long skirt and a shapeless black jumper, her hair in plaits.

  “Anna, these gentlemen are from Mister Belov’s security team. Anna is my housekeeper.”

  Anna looked at our clothes and weapons and scowled. “I’m sure they are” she said drily. Her accent was Eastern European, but I couldn’t place where. “Excuse me,” she said, and left the room.

  “She’s Hungarian” said Sir Evan, “doesn’t like Russians and she absolutely hates guns.”

  “No problem.” We left him and returned to the security office.

  “What do you think?” said Andy.

  “I’m not sure” I replied, “but the commune needs checking out. They could all be dead by now, unless they’re connected.

  Andy checked his watch, “we’ve got about three hours of daylight left, but Jesus I’m tired.”

  We’d been awake for twenty-four hours. I had Amphetamines in my pack, but only planned on taking them as a last resort.

  “OK” I said, “we join Alisa and go down there in one of the vehicles. We check it out, come back and get some zeds and let Dmitri’s guys look after things.”

  “Sounds like a plan” said Andy, “but where are the bad guys?”

  “No plan survives first contact with the enemy” I laughed, “they’re probably dug in but weren’t expecting riflemen on the roof and a load of crusties in the back garden.”

  Andy nodded as we looked at the map “you’re right Cal. If I was them I’d be taking my time and making a new plan. They’re SF operators, not Kamikazes.”

  I found Dmitri in the great hall, where he’d laid out an armoury on the oak table. He was loading magazines, thumbing bullets expertly into the curved AK clips. Another bodyguard stood with him doing the same. “This is Eduard,” he said, jerking an oily thumb at the other guy.

  “Hello” grunted Eduard. He wore a smart black suit and a Kevlar vest. He had cropped hair, a pock-marked face and looked like a killer.

  I nodded a hello, “we’re going to
check out the commune with Alisa, are you OK here?”

  “We were OK before you got here, Winter” smiled Dmitri, “I guess we’ll have to struggle on for a bit longer.”

  “OK” I said, “can you track us on the cameras?”

  “No problem. Eduard?”

  Eduard nodded and padded towards the security office.

  “Here, take these radios. They are very good” said Dmitri.

  I thanked him and zipped up my snowsuit, taking one of the offered AK74 rifles. I strapped on a chest-rig full of spare magazines and checked my pistol. Andy nodded that he was ready and we stepped outside.

  “Alisa?” I said into my mic, “this is Cal.”

  The SVR officer’s voice crackled in my ear, “I’m over by the staff quarters.”

  “Wait there, we’re going to join you.”

  “Received” she said, “I’ve found a blood trail.”

  The drive had been gritted and was easy to walk on, but as soon as we reached the gardens we were calf-deep in snow. We trudged along the tree line, weapons shouldered as the wind drove fresh powder at us. I pulled my fleece hat down, Andy pulling a full-face balaclava over his head. He’d taken the suppressor off his M6, the stubby grey assault rifle almost toy-like in his hands.

  I saw the extension to my left as we approached the staff quarters. On the roof a man in a white camouflage suit waved at me, a rifle on a bipod in front of him.

  “I’ve got you, there’s no movement apart from the woman” crackled an accented voice in my ear, as the rooftop sniper spoke to me over the radio net.

  “Roger” I replied, waving back.

  The staff quarter was a modern brick-built two-storey villa attached to a garage. Lights burnt in the front window, footprints leading from the front door to the main house. Only Anna, the housekeeper, was in residence. I squinted past the villa towards the wooded estate, some fifty metres away.

  Through the flurries of snow I could just make out Alisa in her white camouflage over suit, SMG cradled in her arms. She was crouched down, examining something.