Nobeca

by Lloyd Nesling

  “Have a drink, something a bit stronger – whisky?”

  Wallace shrugged his shoulders indifferently and took a long swig of his drink. Campbell ordered fresh drinks and motioned for Wallace to join him at a secluded table set against the back wall.

  “You were framed, you say?”

  “Like I said, the cocaine was planted on me. In my line of work you can’t afford to be on drugs. Look, I’ve said enough. Just let it go, okay?”

  Campbell held up his hands in a gesture of defeat, but his curiosity had been sharpened. He wanted to know more about his new friend. A few more drinks and Munro would spill the beans. Campbell signalled to the waiter to bring a bottle of single malt. He replenished Wallace’s glass and sat back waiting. He didn’t want to arouse any suspicions by prodding him too much.

  “Dishonourably discharged!” Wallace banged his fist down on the bar top. “A security risk, that’s what they called me! When I think of all the years of work designing weapons for those ungrateful bastards, I could kill them!”

  Campbell’s heart skipped a beat. This man could be very useful. He was angry, disgraced, cast aside without a salary or pension. He was ripe for recruitment. He looked at Wallace sympathetically.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “Find work somewhere, probably in computers; maybe design work, if I can get it without bloody references.”

  “I may be able to help there. The company I work for is looking for new blood. People with design and computer skills like yours.” A flicker of interest sprang into Wallace’s eyes. “The president of the company likes to give people a second chance. I’m the managing director, his right-hand man. If I recommend you, it will be enough. Have another drink.”

  Campbell pulled out his mobile phone while he walked out into the foyer. He spoke rapidly into it, snapped it shut, and sauntered back to the table.

  “It’s all set. I have arranged an interview with our head of technology for tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. Look for a black 4 x 4 at the entrance. The driver will take you to a helicopter and fly you to our computer facility.”

  “Why are you doing all this? I hardly know you,” Wallace said suspiciously.

  “I think you’ve been dealt a rotten hand. Besides, the same thing happened to me. I was deprived of a highly paid career for an isolated incident.” His hard eyes glittered. “I wanted revenge. Do you want revenge, Alan?”

  Wallace’s face hardened, his lips set in a grim line. He looked at Campbell searchingly as though trying to fathom his motive in offering a stranger a job. Through gritted teeth he snarled.

  “Oh yes, I want revenge.”

  *

  Wallace looked at the ground receding below him then concentrated on the mountains looming ahead. He had to make a mental note of every little landmark, anything different from what Conrad had told him.

  Campbell had said very little about himself the night before. Wallace, pretending to be wallowing in self-pity, had deliberately not asked. He would find out soon enough. Ten minutes later the helicopter banked and started to lose height. He looked down and saw a large patch of grass sprinkled with small stones and shale. Suddenly, the grass started to move upwards and sideways revealing a gaping cavity.

  “What the hell is going on?” he shouted over the pilot’s shoulder. There was no response. “Those stones haven’t moved. They’re stuck to the grass.” Suddenly, a platform rose up out of the hole and clicked into place. “It’s rigged like a bloody aircraft carrier!” he yelled, as the helicopter settled on the metal platform. The pilot switched off the engine, waited for the blades to stop rotating then spoke into his headset.

  Wallace felt movement as the platform started to lower into the ground. As they descended, the cavity doors above his head closed and locked into place. Clever, very clever indeed. Nothing could be seen from the valley below or from the air. Anyone flying overhead would see nothing more than an area of grass. This was a big operation; of that he was certain.

  A black-clad man, wearing a balaclava and a yellow armband, opened the door of the helicopter and beckoned him out. He pointed him towards a metal door and followed him through it into the same eerily-lit chamber that Conrad had described. This is it! Wallace took note of the workers bent over banks of computers, security staff and others sporting various coloured armbands.

  Another figure approached him and guided him towards a small area partitioned off at the side of the computers. Inside, a uniformed man, wearing a red armband with five black crystal motifs, waved him to a chair.

  “I’m head of computer facilities known as CEl – Computer Expert 1. We don’t use names here.” He spoke with an English accent. “I’ll be interviewing you and assessing your expertise.”

  “Why are you wearing those balaclavas and why are you all dressed in black?”

  “It’s essential to preserve our anonymity. You are not one of us yet.”

  “What’s the big idea? I thought this was a proper interview?”

  “It is, I assure you, but our work is highly secret. You can understand that can’t you? After all, you were working on projects for the British military.”

  “They didn’t cover their faces. You might as well be wearing a bloody burkha!”

  The security guard edged towards him in a threatening manner and stood behind his chair. CEI waved him away.

  He was subjected to an intense assessment of his skills, experience and work he had done for the military. When he had finished CEI tapped something into his computer. A precise, digitally-altered voice spoke directly to Wallace.

  “We have been observing your interview. There is no doubt you are highly skilled. However, you will not fit into our organisation if you cannot be trusted. We require total commitment to the job and unquestioning loyalty. If you comply your rewards will be great, if you don’t… ” The statement was left hanging in the air.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s very simple. You have seen our facility. Helping you get your revenge is important to us. That way we can be sure of your loyalty – correct?” Wallace stared into the webcam and nodded. “We only reveal our faces to those who are members of the Militia. Strength lies in our secrecy.”

  Wallace’s mind was racing. If he blew it now, he was a dead man. He clenched his fists and stared into the screen, his lips set in a grim line.

  “I want to give those bastards what they deserve,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

  “Excellent,” the voice purred from the computer. “We will speak again when you have been acclimatised.”

  CEI nodded to the security guard. He motioned to Wallace to follow him towards a steel door behind the bank of computers. It led to a rectangular room similar to an army ordinance store. The shelves were stacked with black trousers, jackets, balaclavas, boots, blankets and other items. Arms full of clothing, he was taken to his room.

  He noted the number of rooms leading off the corridor. This was obviously part of the original hotel. An open door revealed a sparsely furnished dormitory with six beds. Wallace caught a glimpse of a shower cubicle and lavatory.

  All the external windows had been bricked up. The only light came from discs set in the ceiling and reading lamps on the bedside cabinets. Another series of single rooms, either side of the corridor, displayed a black crystal on the door outlined in either red or blue. Computers and administrators, he guessed. The security guard motioned Wallace into a similar room. It was just as basic as the dormitories: a chair occupying one corner, a table with a booted-up laptop and a curtained-off wardrobe.

  He changed into his uniform and sat down in front of the laptop. Before he touched the keys the Generalissimo’s voice pierced the room from somewhere above him.

  “The laptop is for you to work when you are off shift. It is on a network. It is not for personal use except for entertainment. Everything you do will be monitored so I wouldn’t advise you to try to contact anybody outside the facility. Report to the computer ar
ea where you will be allocated your duties.”

  Wallace marched back to the bank of computers in the main chamber. He listened carefully while CE1 ran through a complex set of instructions.

  “Today you’ll shadow CE5, but tomorrow you’ll start to work alone.”

  Wallace’s eyes took in every screen as he was directed to his place. Periodically, the screen switched from lists of statistics to a map with pinpoint lights. Conrad had mentioned Beijing had been on board. Now Tokyo and Ottowa were also ready, but for what? What was the timescale?

  *

  Wallace had been working non-stop for three days, decoding information that was coming through at an alarming rate. He needed more precise information of the Generalissimo’s intentions. How exactly was he going to make the cyber attack?

  It was obvious that the man on the computer next to him was Caucasian. When he tried to have a joke with him he just grunted and turned away. He was luckier with the guy on his other side.

  “Where do they all come from?” Wallace asked, indicating the computer workers.

  “All over the world. Some don’t say much, especially the Chinese and Russians, but there are a few Americans like me and a few Brits.”

  “What’s the Generalissimo planning? When will it happen?”

  “Only CE1 knows that; the rest of us will be told when they’re ready to move, but it’s soon. A few weeks at most, but when it does we’ll be in clover, man.”

  The Generalissimo was clever. According to the Yank, everything was on a need-to-know basis. When the plan came to fruition the Militia would be disbanded. Everybody, except the Generalissimo and his closest aides, would be sent packing with enough money to live the life of Riley.

  “Most of the guys here have an axe to grind. See that stocky guy behind you. He was in Chinese intelligence. I was kicked out of the Pentagon – security risk, so they claimed. I was framed,” he spat vehemently, “but those bastards will pay!”

  Every day Wallace watched computer operators send thousands of hostile e-mails round the world in an attempt to destabilise government departments. But they were only playing, keeping up the pressure until they mounted the ultimate attack through cyberspace. It was on the fifth day that Wallace made a breakthrough.

  “I want you to take a look at this,” CE1 said, waving him over to his console. “It’s a new type of weapon the Americans are developing – high-powered and lethal. Our hackers have infiltrated a facility in the Nevada desert. We managed to access the blueprints. That’s where you come in. We want you to assemble it on screen. Show us how it works before we sell it on.”

  So that’s how they fund the Militia, Wallace thought, by selling blueprints to the highest bidder. That’s why they were after Ethan Bateman. It was his top-secret facility in Nevada.

  Wallace had to find out more about the operation. He didn’t have long to wait. His opportunity came the following day when he was summoned into the presence of the Generalissimo himself. Conrad had warned him about the weird mask. Weird is right, he thought. He looks like a warmed up corpse.

  “You have done well. I am impressed with your skills,” the digitally-altered voice said. “They will make a great contribution to our cause.”

  Wallace didn’t respond. He decided to wait for the Generalissimo to offer more information.

  “You are not an inquisitive man?”

  Wallace shrugged. “No, as long as they pay for what they’ve done to me, I couldn’t care less.”

  “CE1 mentioned Operation Black Crystal to you?”

  Wallace felt a stab of alarm, but maintained his calm stance. The Generalissimo smiled his hideous smile.

  “So, what is Black Crystal?”

  “A killer virus. Once it infects a computer it will wreck systems all over the world. We can do whatever we like. All their secrets will be ours. First of all we will cripple their critical infrastructure. Nuclear power stations, oil and gas installations, electricity grids, banks; all will be destabilised. We will be in complete control of the G8 countries, then the G20. Eventually the entire world.” He shrugged. “Not even The Pentagon and GCHQ will be able to stop us. We will have access to highly volatile military secrets. The rest will be simple.”

  “When will this happen?”

  “Soon, very soon.”

  I’ll have to work fast, Wallace thought as he returned to his position. As far-fetched as it sounded it wasn’t outside the bounds of possibility. Could Operation Black Crystal be stopped once it was set in motion? Time was running out for him. He had to act swiftly and decisively to get the information back to Breakdancer. If only he knew when the attack would take place. For the moment he was powerless to do anything other than carry out his work tasks. Once he had gained their confidence perhaps they would start talking.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  London, England

  Clive Pearce, aka Breakdancer, crossed his long legs on the highly polished desktop. He leaned back rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Characteristically, he closed his eyes, appearing to be asleep.

  “We’ve got a madman on our hands, Jack. Not your average off-his-rocker nutcase. Our ‘sleeper’ in Moscow has been digging around. The only man capable of this plot is Plushenko, but he’s dead; or is he?”

  Conrad raised his eyebrows sceptically. “There’s no way Plushenko is alive. He was killed in East Berlin in 1989.”

  “The body was unidentifiable.”

  “But the KGB would have investigated the accident. They wouldn’t leave any stone unturned.”

  “There were no stones to turn, Jack. The boat caught fire, exploded. Only a few charred remains were found. All that was left was some debris floating on the surface. Only bits of the body were recovered.”

  “I still think the KGB would have sniffed around a bit more.”

  “It was only days after the Wall came down. It was pretty chaotic in the East. They had more important things to think about than Plushenko.”

  Pearce pushed a buff file marked ‘Highly Confidential – Eyes Only’ across the desk. He settled back in his chair, slowly swinging from side to side. Conrad flipped it open and read the first page. By the time he had finished reading the file, his face was set like granite.

  “If this is genuine we’re in big trouble, Clive.”

  “Oh, it’s genuine all right. Straight out of the old KGB files. Plushenko had become too much of a risk to them. His ‘accidental’ death was planned by the Soviets. Our mole thinks that Plushenko got wind of what they were up to, knocked off someone else, and substituted the body along with identity papers and other personal items.”

  Conrad looked at the file again. Everything pointed to it. Rumours had been rife regarding the ‘accident’.

  “Plushenko always carried a hip flask of water engraved with his initials: P.L.P. – Pavel Leonid Plushenko. The flask was found washed up on the bank. No further investigations necessary.”

  Even in the West, Plushenko was known for his cruelty and delusions of grandeur. He had no qualms about torturing suspects. He was completely paranoid, a cold-blooded, vicious killer. He believed he was untouchable. The file showed that the KGB had ordered his elimination.

  “Has Wallace been in touch yet?” Pearce asked.

  “Not yet. We know he’s up in the facility. Zinzli followed him and watched him taking off in a helicopter. It’s been five days now. Wallace is very experienced, but I’m getting worried. I’m going back out to Geneva in the morning to meet with Dreher.”

  “I’m keeping a lid on the police investigations into Foley and Joanne Howard on Wallace’s patch. They suspect a link between Macaleer and Foley, but that’s as far as it goes. I want to keep it that way.”

  If the real facts got into the press it would create panic across the globe. They didn’t know what kind of attack was planned. Until they did, they were powerless to do anything to stop it. Their only hope was Wallace.

  “Like it or not, Clive, if Wallace hasn’t been in touch within the next fe
w days I’m going back up into the mountains to find him.”

  Pearce sighed and knuckled his eyes. Black shadows enhanced his gaunt appearance. His cheekbones stuck out like razor blades. Suddenly, he looked all of his fifty-eight years. He had been in the business too long. He nodded, knowing his assent made little difference to Conrad.

  “The CIA have men out there investigating Ethan Bateman. Try not to step on their toes, Jack.”

  “I’ll do whatever has to be done,” Conrad replied, heading for the outer office.

  Pearce stared after him wondering whether he would ever see him or Wallace alive again.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Manhattan, New York City

  Baranski opened the small suitcase. Inside was a uniform, the same kind worn by security at the United Nations. He unrolled a cloth-covered bundle and smiled when he saw the long-barrelled Magnum. He screwed on the silencer, pointed the unloaded gun at the curtained window, and squeezed the trigger. Yes, this would definitely do the job. For the next few minutes he loaded and unloaded the gun, checking how much time it took. Speed would be vital to his mission. After a final check he packed it into an overnight bag and made his way down to the foyer. Rather than take the risk of being recognised by a cab driver, he walked from East 48th Street to the United Nations building.

  He pushed his way through the crowd watching the delegates’ limousines driving into the United Nations. The conference was in the General Assembly Building. Security was intense around the American President and other major world leaders since 9/11. They were surrounded by bodyguards. It would be difficult to get a good shot. His mission was to assassinate one of the other delegates. It didn’t matter which one as long as it created as much chaos and fear as possible.

  His contact had supplied him with a rota of guards who worked in or around the General Assembly Building. At the end of every shift he walked along the line of colourful flags sporting various disguises. It didn’t take him long to spot the man he wanted. A specific type, a loner, not one who stuck to habits like drinking in the same place every night after work. Someone with few friends who had recently joined the workforce. Baranski followed him to Grand Central Station and on to Brooklyn. Keeping a safe distance he trailed the man until he climbed the steps of an old Brownstone block of apartments. Bishop was living on borrowed time.