“Colin Lynes was a computer expert and cryptologist,” Wallace cut in. “That’s why the crystals were outlined in red. Silver for a field worker and red to indicate his computer know-how. That’s got to be it.”
“Didn’t I tell you he’d be an asset?” Conrad grinned at Pearce. “This may sound crazy, but I believe they’re planning to cripple major cities around the world.”
“Come on, Jack. You’ve been reading those science fiction books again,” Wallace laughed.
“It’s not a joke. Ludicrous though it may sound I watched and listened. They have outposts all over the globe ready and waiting for the signal to attack.” Wallace raised an eyebrow sceptically. “Not in the conventional sense. I believe their attack will come through cyberspace.”
“There are dozens of claims regarding cyber terrorism on a regular basis,” Pearce interjected.
“At the moment it’s just speculation,” Conrad continued, “but if I’m right they could cripple government computers, business conglomerates, research organisations, nuclear power stations, military establishments, observatories: even GCHQ or the Pentagon.”
Wallace shook his head in disbelief. “I knew you were a bit of a Trekkie years ago, Jack, but this is a bit far-fetched.”
“Pentagon computers have been hacked into more than once,” Pearce said.
“The aim is to paralyze the infrastructure of G8 countries,” Conrad continued. “They could even bring planes down. You name it.”
“It’s incredible!”
“Incredible, but possible,” Pearce said. “There are thousands of attacks through cyberspace every single day. Most of them are detected by GCHQ or the Pentagon. That’s why the Government recently set up the National Cyber Security Centre. It’s only a matter of time before there’s an extremely malicious attack on government and business computer systems.”
“Colin Lynes was working for the Russian Security Services,” Conrad said. Somewhere along the line he got involved with the organisation known as the Black Militia. They wanted his computer skills. More importantly, he was working for GCHQ.”
“The last thing we want is to alert the Generalissimo by sending in the SAS. He would be waiting for them,” Pearce stated. “They’ve already tried to scare you off. Be careful, Jack. Next time you may not be so lucky.”
“If my theory is correct, we’ll have to find a way to destroy the installation before the plans are implemented,” Conrad replied. “In the meantime perhaps Sophia Dreher could compile a psychological profile of the Generalissimo.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Long Island, New York
Sunlight glanced on the undulating sea, lit up the shore with a soft, pink glow. Seagulls wheeled over the surface of the water and dived towards the beach searching for food. Half a dozen overweight joggers plodded along the shoreline trying to work off a few pounds. A runner in a baseball cap, sunglasses and grey sweats ran along the beach at a leisurely pace. His beer belly flopped obscenely out of his tracksuit top. Breathing heavily, he dragged himself laboriously towards a dilapidated hut close to a wooden pier.
As he approached, a burly figure stepped out of the hut and started jogging alongside him. They ran towards a clutch of weatherboard buildings near a deserted seafood restaurant. The little fat man paused for a few moments to catch his breath. Beads of perspiration speckled his forehead. His face was blood-red from the unfamiliar activity. Too many cigarettes and too much booze had taken their toll on his body.
Across the road from the restaurant an old-fashioned drugstore and ice-cream parlour had opened its doors to let in its first customers. The two men pushed inside and sat on the high stools placed around the counter. Three days previously, the man in the sweats had taken the ferry from Hartford, Connecticut across Long Island Sound to Port Jefferson. He had been careful to take a circuitous route from Boston, travelling by train and road. Too many questions were asked at airports. Security was extremely tight since the bombing of the twin towers in New York City.
The burly agent handed over a set of car keys and a piece of paper. “Everything is in place. We have a safe house in Fort Salonga. Stay there until we receive the signal to move. You’ll take the Long Island Railroad to Manhattan: from there a train to Chicago.”
He smiled, anticipating the chaos to come. Casually, he clapped a hand on his companion’s shoulder in a friendly gesture then walked out towards the beach. The man still sitting at the counter stuffed the paper and keys into his pocket. Without a sideways glance he moved towards the door and headed for the car park near the beach.
An hour and a half later, he drove down the main street of Fort Salonga with its fire station and smart shops. Just outside the small town, he drove up a hill until a white weatherboard house came into view. He pulled into the drive, flicked the remote control, and waited for the garage doors to slide open. Inside the garage, a door led conveniently into the house. He had no baggage. Food, clothing, everything he needed had been provided. In the kitchen he opened the fridge. It was well stocked with fresh food, even a few beers.
Well, I might as well make the most of it, he decided. Kicking off his trainers, Baranski grabbed a beer, went out onto the wooden deck and gazed out across Long Island Sound. In the distance the white tower of a church pierced the azure sky. A soft moan murmured through tall trees. Waves, crested with white horses whipped up by a fresh breeze, rolled to the shore. Any other observer would have marvelled at its beauty, but not Baranski. Beauty was lost on him.
*
Amoral, brutal, totally lacking in compassion, he had never loved anyone. If anything or anybody got in his way he eliminated them, just as he had eliminated his parents who wanted him to study medicine. He was just seventeen years old when he deliberately set fire to their apartment. Black smoke streaming from under the door alerted the neighbours. They found Baranski lying in the tiny vestibule attempting to claw his way to the door. His mother, father and sister died in the fire.
After their death, he lived with his maternal grandmother just outside St. Petersburg. A retired schoolteacher, she took huge pride in her clever grandson. She encouraged him to enrol in the university, even though she was disappointed that he had chosen computer science instead of medicine. She had managed to save a few roubles towards her old age and intended giving it to her grandson as a graduation gift.
“But Babushka,” Baranski purred, “wouldn’t it be better to give me the money now?” She stroked his cheek. “You will have the money soon, but not until you graduate.”
For days he watched her every move until he discovered where she had hidden the money. After a pleasant supper one evening the old lady retired for the night. Baranski knocked lightly on her bedroom door calling softly, “Babushka! Babushka!”
Confident she had fallen asleep he crept in and stood over the bed. The kitchen knife in his hand gleamed in the moonlight. At this moment his grandmother opened her eyes. She tried to sit up, but Baranski pushed her roughly back onto the bed. Smiling down at her he sliced the air with the knife. He wasn’t going to kill her himself, just give her a bad fright. He wanted her to die a natural death.
With an evil grin, he made chopping motions with his hand. She clutched at her chest. Her face was grey; beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead.
“My pills,” she gasped. “Please, get my pills.”
She stretched out an arm to him, eyes wide with terror and disbelief. Devoid of compassion, he watched his grandmother gasp her last breath. When he was sure she was dead, he arranged her body in a peaceful sleeping position and returned the knife to the drawer.
He took her paltry savings from the box under her bed and stuffed it in his backpack. Calmly, he walked to the metro station to take a train to the university. They would assume the old hag had died in her sleep, but her neighbours were suspicious.
They had witnessed his vicious ways when he had strangled their little girl’s cat. He had denied it vociferously, but they knew he was responsible
. They reported his grandmother’s death to the police. He was arrested and questioned.
“She had a weak heart,” he explained. “Nobody knew about it. Doctor Yagudin can verify it.”
“There will be a post mortem,” the police officer said. “In the meantime you are free to return to the university while we continue our investigations.”
The post mortem confirmed that his grandmother had died from natural causes. A year later Baranski graduated first in his class.
It was Ivan, the Generalissimo’s personal aide, who had recruited him for the Black Militia, Ivan who had recognised his extraordinary ability with computers. He was ready to play his part in realising the Generalissimo’s brilliant plan.
*
Baranski spent his days on Long Island eating, drinking, sleeping and watching television. On the fourth day he noticed a delivery van parked on the road. The driver carried a package up the drive and rang the bell. Baranski stopped dead, a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. The bell rang again: five short rings followed by three more. That was the signal! Quickly, he rushed to the door and signed for the package. The courier lingered, waiting for a tip. Fuming inwardly, Baranski dug into his pocket and produced a dollar bill. Bloody Americans and their tips!
Grabbing the parcel, he trudged back into the living room and closed the venetian blinds. He tore open the protective double layer of bubble wrap. This was what he had been waiting for: the promised laptop along with an automatic pistol. He picked up the gun and turned it over in his hands, revelling in the feel of cold metal.
With a thrill of excitement, he plugged in the laptop and waited for it to boot up, impatiently devil-drumming on the arm of the chair. He tapped in the password. A black crystal, edged with gold, appeared on the screen. Within seconds a message replaced it.
Have a great time in the ‘Big Apple’. I hope to see your holiday snaps soon.
Baranski felt light-headed with exhilaration. He raced into the bedroom and changed his clothes. Picking up a billfold crammed with notes, he stuffed it into his pocket. After a last look round he opened the front door and stepped out.
Nobody would have recognised him as the same man who had been living in the house in Fort Salonga. Dressed in a dark suit, white button-down shirt, conservative tie and black wingtips, he looked the epitome of the middle-aged, affluent American businessman. Smiling confidently, he strode towards Long Island Railroad station swinging his laptop case.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Manhattan, New York City
Baranski pushed through the crowds surging towards the station exit and emerged into the bustle of Manhattan. Skyscrapers loomed like dark sentinels over the streets. The sudden spell of good weather and blues skies had evaporated as swiftly as it had arrived. Now it was wet, cold and gloomy. He should have brought an overcoat. Still, he didn’t have far to go. He felt a sudden stab of claustrophobia as he gazed up through the misty drizzle of a dank December day.
A thousand windows stared at him, rain dribbling down the glass like tears. The city depressed him. He longed for the country and wide-open spaces. Shrugging off the feeling, he quickened his pace. Money, influence, prestige and power; everything his heart desired lay within his grasp. He hailed a yellow cab as he walked.
“Barclay Intercontinental on eastside.”
The driver negotiated the heavy traffic, eventually accessed Seventh Avenue and nosed his way through the jam. A few minutes later, the cab slewed to a halt outside the main entrance of the Intercontinental.
“Fifteen bucks,” the driver said sourly.
Baranski jumped out and headed into reception. He checked in using the name Tarek Dudek, a Polish name.
“Your passport, Mr Dudek,” the receptionist said. She handed it back with the regulation smile. “Would you like help with your luggage?”
“No, thank you. I just have a small case. I can manage,” he replied, running a finger over the pencil moustache he had grown.
“I hope you have a very enjoyable stay in New York. Have a nice day.”
Inside the elevator he pressed the button for the executive floor. His room was close to the elevator as he had requested. After looking around the room, he gazed out of the window at people scurrying along the pavement seventeen floors down. Leaving his briefcase on the bed he went back into the corridor noting the fire exits. He tried a door; it opened easily. Grunting with satisfaction, he left his valise in his room and took the elevator down to the lobby.
He would have a cup of revolting American coffee, making sure he was seen. Nodding to an elderly couple, he sat down at the table next to them. He ordered a cappuccino and settled back pretending to admire the spacious lobby.
“Very impressive,” Baranski said, loudly enough for the couple on the next table to hear.
“It sure is, mister,” commented the man.
“We’re in New York for our fiftieth wedding anniversary,” the woman interjected, “ain’t we, Hank?”
Baranski recognised the mid-western drawl. Country hicks! America was full of them! He finished his coffee and politely wished the couple a happy vacation.
After strolling across the spacious foyer, he exited via an entrance situated close to the hotel gift shop. Directly opposite was the side entrance of the Waldorf Astoria where an escalator carried guests from the pavement into the hotel. Casually, he crossed the road and rode up the escalator with a group of chattering tourists. What a stroke of luck! It would be easy to slip from one hotel to the other; much easier than he had anticipated.
He lingered for a few minutes then went back down the escalator. Dodging round the corner into East 48th Street, he passed the main entrance of the Intercontinental and made for Seventh Avenue and Macy’s, where he purchased a small suitcase.
An hour and a half later, he walked through the side entrance of the Waldorf and rode the escalator back up to the lobby. Reception was crowded with guests booking in and out. Casually, he lingered as though waiting to check in. A middle-aged couple jostled past and headed towards the main entrance. The man was carrying an identical suitcase to the one Baranski had purchased. He stared down at his case and pushed it gently with his foot. It had been switched. It was heavy now, packed with everything he needed for his work. Smiling inwardly he picked it up and headed for the exit.
*
Baranski was enjoying steak and eggs for breakfast at Oscar’s in the Waldorf when the call came. Looking round the room he pulled out his cell phone, placed the receiver close to his ear, and listened intently. Smiling at the young woman on the next table he left the restaurant. He made for the main lobby exiting the hotel on Park Lane. He walked down Third Avenue on to 46th Street then walked two blocks to the United Nations building where he was to meet his contact. He had already sussed out the times of the official tours. After buying a ticket he joined the group trailing the guide.
“On vacation?” a tall, angular man queried.
“Business and pleasure,” Baranski replied.
Baranski knew nothing about his contact. Could this be him?
“All the world leaders are meeting here early next week. Ban Ki-Moon will be giving a speech on tackling world poverty,” the guide informed them, briefly making eye contact.
“Really, that’s very interesting,” one of the group murmured.
It could be any one of them, even the guide. The Generalissimo’s obsession with secrecy meant that field agents worked alone with complete anonymity. Casually, he shuffled along with the others who were pushing and shoving to get closer to the prattling guide. Just as he decided his contact hadn’t shown up he felt a nudge from behind.
“Don’t turn around. Look in your pocket,” a voice whispered. “Watch and destroy.”
Baranski delved into his jacket pocket and fingered the plastic box. It felt like a CD. Disguising his growing excitement, he straggled along with the group until the tour ended. He avoided the others who were discussing what they had seen. Slipping away from the group, he wal
ked back to the Intercontinental as fast as his short, fat legs would allow.
Back in his room, he pulled out the object and examined it. It was an unmarked DVD. Heart hammering in his chest, he slid it into the DVD player underneath the flat-screen television. It contained a list of instructions to be carried out at specific times.
At JFK airport the nondescript man in the first-class cabin of a British Airways flight to Geneva unfastened his seatbelt and settled back with his eyes closed. The Generalissimo’s personal aide smiled to himself. Tomorrow the next stage of the plan would be put into action.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Wales, United Kingdom
Wallace slammed the door of his office and thumped the desk.
“Are telling me that the SOCOs haven’t examined the hotel rooms?” he shouted.
“The police in Cardiff wouldn’t sanction it until they speak to you,” Butler replied. “You said you would be working from home, but I couldn’t get hold of you, sir.”
Wallace breathed deeply to keep his blood pressure under control. There was no time to waste. It would be better if he went down there himself. Any clue, however small, was vital to the case.
Three hours later, they were hurtling down the M4 towards Cardiff. Wallace closed his eyes trying to fathom out the connection between the murder victims and Alex Campbell. Was he involved or was he just a killer preying on women? Either way he had to be apprehended.
As they approached Junction 32 the traffic slowed to a halt at the lights.
“Put the siren on, Butler. We haven’t got all day!” Wallace barked. “At this rate we’ll never solve the bloody case!”
Before he had a chance to slap a blue light on the roof of the unmarked car the traffic eased forward. Wallace’s face was stony. Little did his DI know how much was hanging in the balance. Fortunately, all the lights stayed green as they sped towards the city centre.
Butler tried to squeeze past the police car blocking the entrance of the Hilton Hotel. A uniformed doorman came down the steps and held up his hand.
Nobeca Page 16