White Gold

by David Barker

  He pocketed his new keyring and went downstairs to wait for the taxi. Mrs Andersson saw him looking smart and nodded, with the faint hint of a smile on her face. Maybe the first one Sim had seen from her. Clothes maketh not the man, Mrs Andersson. The taxi arrived before Sim verbalised his inner cheek.

  The interview went remarkably well. Sim was banking on the guards from the midnight patrol being off duty around lunchtime. And although he had to pass through an iris scanner on the way into the building, the disguise seemed to be working. The person who interviewed him, a black lady who introduced herself as Ms Osundare, was patient and gentle with her questions. Sim did not have to bluff his way through the technical part of the interview. His degree in satellite communications was more than enough.

  Precious stood up and offered Sim her hand. “Congratulations, Mr Trent. You have the job.”

  “Oh, wow,” said Sim. “That was quick.”

  “There are some extra forms I need you to fill in. Basically, the post is just for a month, while Mr Karlsson recovers from his accident.”

  “Sure, yes, that’s fine.”

  “Why don’t you spend the rest of the afternoon here, familiarising yourself with the offices. I’ll get one of your new colleagues to show you around.” She tapped on her wrist band and spoke into it. “Linnéa, can you come to conference room three, please.”

  Sim was given a tour of the facility, much like Captain Hamilton had been a couple of weeks earlier. He had already studied the feedback the captain had sent to Wardle, so had a rough idea of the layout of the base. Sim was shown the information nerve centre where he would spend some of his working day. It would be his responsibility to make sure all the news feeds were optimised, dealing with any outages. Double-checking stories for fake accounts.

  Linnéa seemed pleasant enough as they strolled around the offices together. Sim watched her carefully. Either she was a very good actor, or she had no idea about the shady side to this whole operation. Assuming that the mission wasn’t a complete wild goose chase. He was shown to a desk and given login details for the company’s intranet.

  “You’ll need to register your retina with the central database, just for security purposes. They’re very careful about cyber-crime here, of course.” Linnéa smirked. “Would be rather embarrassing if a company like this got hacked, wouldn’t it?”

  Sim tried to smile as he prepared to lean into the retinal scanner. This was the real test for whether Wardle’s disguise was going to fool these bastards. Sim blinked a couple of times and then held his eye as wide open as he could for a few seconds. An orange beam played across his eyeball. There was a flash and a beep.

  “OK, all done, Lucas.” Linnéa’s desk glass pinged and went red. “Looks like you have your first assignment.” She swiped two fingers across the screen and Sim’s new desk glass showed him the details of an issue that needed fixing.

  The next two hours passed quickly. Linnéa never let Sim out of her sight and was continually looking over his shoulder at the programming on his desk glass. It was time to go home.

  “Come, I’ll walk you out,” she said.

  Djeez, talk about a limpet. Sim was beginning to worry that he would never get a moment to sneak around the offices. If Feinberg’s intel was correct, the Terror Formers would be striking soon. Sim had to make fast progress. Might need to stir things up.

  “Pretty sad to hear about that pop concert in Brazil,” said Sim, referring to one of the stories that had dominated the social media feeds all afternoon. “Which group has claimed responsibility?”

  “I think they all did in the end. Not even sure what they are trying to achieve any more. Still, if there weren’t any terrorists, maybe we wouldn’t have any clients, right?”

  Sim stared at Linnéa’s face. “I guess so.”

  “See you in the morning, Lucas.”

  Back at Mrs Andersson’s house, a message from Wardle was waiting. Tensions were rising further in Asia. An American aircraft on patrol over the Sea of Japan had been shot down. The North Koreans denied it at first, and then said the aircraft had drifted into their airspace. The Americans were moving a second carrier battle group to the region. Gopal and Rabten would be in position soon, waiting to infiltrate, once they had something specific to go on. There was no time to lose. Sim ordered a taxi for midnight.

  Wardle went for a walk along the corridor of OD headquarters. Pacing always helped him to think and was good for his blood pressure, as his doctor kept reminding him. Fishing was what he really needed to calm himself down but, somehow, he doubted that was going to be an option any time soon. He stopped outside David Feinberg’s office and went in without knocking. The Israeli IT expert was slumped over his desk.

  “Feinberg! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  David sat up suddenly, looking around the room without focusing. His dark hair was sticking up on one side of his head, and matted to his cheek on the other side. He wiped the drool from the edge of his mouth and sniffed. Then managed to focus on his boss. “Oh. Err, sorry, sir, must have dozed off. Is it morning yet?”

  Wardle looked around the room. No windows. No clock even. “You been here all night?”

  “A lot of the best TF traffic seems to happen overnight.”

  “Any progress?”

  David yawned and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “It’s quite paranoid. There’s a lot of discussion of stocking up on supplies. Hunkering down. You know, like they’ve all got prepper’s disease. Or, they know something.”

  Wardle sat down next to David. “Fits with the idea that they’re hoping to trigger world war three with this stolen warhead.” He wondered if he’d have time to get to his wife if the missiles started flying. He took his glasses off and rubbed his face. The roll tab on David’s desk – the one that was hooked into the Terror Former’s communication lines – buzzed and the screen came on. A brief snatch of a pop song played. “What was that?”

  “Oh, it’s weird. That melody seems to have become their theme tune. Attached to every message from central command.”

  “Play it again.”

  David pressed some buttons and a few beats sounded.

  “Again.”

  The same snatch of notes.

  “I know that tune. From a long time ago.” Wardle closed his eyes and hummed the notes. He hummed them again and added a few more notes. He hummed it a third time, adding a falsetto ‘Ooh baby.’ “Memory like a sieve, these days. Don’t ever got old Feinberg.”

  David’s hand went to his throat, a faint bruising still visible where the rope had dug in and squeezed his windpipe. “Oh, I intend to, sir. Only one thing worse than getting old.”

  “Hmm?” said Wardle looking off into the distance.

  “Not getting old.”

  Wardle hummed the tune and started singing as his eyes closed again.

  David started to smirk but straightened his lips as his boss’ eyes flashed open.

  “Belinda Carlisle. Heaven is a place on Earth.”

  “Never heard of it,” David replied.

  “1980s. When they knew how to write a song. And Belinda… well she was hard to forget.”

  “Any of this relevant, sir?”

  Wardle’s eyebrows creased. “I don’t know. You tell me. And don’t fall asleep again. Take some stim pills if you have to. GR8 need something to go on.”

  Wardle was in a first-class carriage on the high-speed train down to London, reading through his briefing notes for the hearing. The steward had just brought him a macchiato. Wardle counted drinks off in his head. Fourth coffee of the day and it was barely past three o’ clock. He looked up as golden fields of wheat whipped past his window. He’d be reminding the committee about the crop virus later on that day. His wrist tab buzzed. It was Feinberg. He pressed on the tiny screen and raised his wrist towards his mouth.

  “Hang on.” He told his bodyguards to secure each entrance to the otherwise empty carriage. “OK. Go ahead.”

  “It’s about
that song, sir.”

  “I’m trying to prepare for a grilling by the Joint Committee, Feinberg. This better be good.”

  “I can’t guarantee anything. But there’s a mountain right on the border between North Korea and China. It’s a sacred site for the North Koreans.”

  “And?”

  “The mountain is a volcano. One that’s laid dormant for centuries. Last time there was a massive eruption, it formed a huge crater and over time that filled with water to form a lake.”

  “Get to the point, dammit.”

  “The lake, sir. It’s called Heaven Lake.”

  “Hmm.” Wardle looked out of the window. “Not much to go on, but OK let’s assume it’s the target. Why would the Terror Formers want to blow up a sacred lake?”

  “Right on the border between two trigger happy states? Could cause mayhem. But like you said a few days ago, sir, it doesn’t seem like the TF’s style. Of course, if they placed the bomb on the bed of the lake and cracked open the caldera chamber… we could be talking about an eruption of epic proportions.”

  “Go on.”

  Feinberg breathed deeply down the phone line. “An eruption of that scale would fill the atmosphere with ash. Enough to cool the planet by a couple of degrees for a few years or more. We’re talking worldwide crop failure. Oh, and forget about any solar panel output. You know how much we rely on those, right?”

  The train’s motion rocked Wardle back and forth.

  “That sounding more like the Terror Former’s modus operandi, sir?” asked Feinberg.

  PART THREE

  And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

  CHAPTER 29

  North Korea

  The mercenary turned to his companion as his boot disappeared into ankle-deep mud. “If I see another ditch filled with mud, I think I’m going to scream.”

  “It’s rainy season, what did you expect?”

  They stopped to shift the pole onto their other shoulders. The heavy cargo swayed at the sagging mid-point. “Don’t these people know how to build bridges?”

  “Not ones we’re allowed to cross.” As the other mercenary replied, his foot slipped on the greasy bed of pine needles. The cargo thumped on the floor before he could regain his balance.

  Ivan turned around. “Quit your chinwag and concentrate on carrying the bloody payload, OK?” He walked back to the two chatter-boxes and bent down to look at the cargo. He opened the thick cloth bag and took out a spherical lump. Even in the dim light of the pine forest it caught the sun, radiating a warm glow from its white gold surface. The leader tapped a couple of buttons on a small screen that stuck out near the top of the ball. He nodded. “Jones, Humper. You’re up next. These two dingoes are on point for the rest of the day. Let’s see if they can learn how to keep their gobs shut for a few hours.”

  Ivan strode up the slope to resume his position at the front, while the two recalcitrant soldiers drew their guns and disappeared off to one side of their colleagues. Jones and Humper humped.

  Seven men and a woman sat around the small gas fire while it heated their water. The faint whiff of butane mixed with the musty aroma of damp clothing. The two mercenaries on point had failed to bag any wildlife for supper, so it was hard rations again. Tough to swallow without a drink. And Ivan knew that a hot drink was good for morale, especially when trench foot was starting to set in. The chances of anybody airborne spotting this tiny fire through the heavy canopy were very slim and they were a long way from any villages.

  The leader removed his boots and socks, looking at the blisters. He found the worst of the lot and tried to dry the skin before applying a plaster. He pulled at the bruised nail of his left middle toe, wondering if it would come off before they were done here. He looked up and saw others also inspecting their feet, the murmur of discontent almost inaudible.

  Once everybody had their tin mugs full, Ivan raised his cup. “Right, lads. We’re onto the final straight now. This is where it gets tough. Once we’ve picked up the diving equipment, there’ll be extra to carry. And the mountain will be crawling with tourists and guards. Remember, this is a pilgrimage site for the locals. We’ll have to do the last few miles at night. Full camo-gear, proper silence.” He turned to look at the two who had already been punished earlier that day.

  “How far is the cache, sarge?”

  “About ten clicks west of here.” He smiled. Delivered a few weeks ago, right under the noses of the North Koreans. He had to hand it to the Chief, Larsson knew how to plan an operation. He bit into the hard biscuit and chewed it for a minute and then slurped his tea. He tried to smile to the rest of the group as he swallowed the tasteless mash. He really could murder a curry right now.

  Breakfast rations were the same as supper. A mug of hot tea and a work-out for the jaw. It was only the sun’s rays filtering through the canopy from the east that told the difference in meal times. Ivan’s socks had refused to dry out overnight. The team was still grumbling about conditions. They weren’t a bad lot really, he thought. The hijack operation had gone as smooth as clockwork. But this had been a long yomp, through terrible terrain, at the worst time of year. He’d seen action in Africa several times during the world war for water but at least there you could drink plenty during the day and cool down at night. There is something particularly demoralising about being continually damp. Eating away at your foundations, like water’s effect on old brickwork.

  Humper broke wind, pulling the leader out of his morning meditation. Jones looked at his neighbour. “Ahh, mate, that is rancid. No way I’m going behind you in column today. Christ. Talk about chemical warfare.”

  Ivan stood up and pointed to six of the group. “Right, you lot are going to head to the cache today, while Sing-song and me go scout the mountain. We’ll meet you at the cache. Tomkins, you’re in charge of the rabble. I’ll expect a full inventory and check of the equipment by the time I get there.”

  Ivan and Sing-song stopped for lunch on the edge of the forest. A cold drink and a handful of chocolate-covered peanuts was the sum total of the meal. No fires this close to other people. The leader shivered as a cold wind blew down from the mountain. The pair hunkered down under some camouflage netting. As Ivan glanced through binoculars, five kilometres of open terrain sloped gently upwards to the 9000-foot summit of Mount Paektu. Off to their left was a winding road. An hour passed by. There were a few buses, full of passengers, that climbed the twisting path and a handful of jeeps, carrying soldiers of the North Korean army. The sun was close to its zenith. Wispy clouds cast faint shadows on the ground, but that was all. It would be impossible to cross this open ground during daylight.

  Ivan checked something on his wrist tab. “Shit. It’s only a couple days past full moon. With no clouds, this place is gonna be lit up like a wedding cake. But we can’t wait much longer. Pray for some rain, Sing-song.” He clapped his companion on the shoulder.

  There was a noise off to their right. A pair of soldiers was approaching, machine guns slung over their shoulders. Sing-song drew his silenced gun and took aim.

  Ivan pushed the gun barrel downwards and whispered. “Zero body count. Not yet.” He dragged the camouflage net over their heads and waited while the soldiers drew closer.

  When they were within twenty metres, one of the soldiers put his hand out and said something in North Korean. Sing song’s hand twitched on his gun. One of the guards walked up to a tree and peed against its trunk, whistling a merry tune. The stream of urine seemed to last forever as the two mercenaries lay under their cover, trying not to move, breathing quietly. Finally, the soldier was done. A quick shake of the leg and the pair moved on, not giving a second glance to the lump of green netting.

  As the Koreans disappeared from view, Ivan sneezed and wiped his nose on a sleeve. “God, that man could piss like a horse. What do they drink, these guards?”

  The howl of a wolf pierced the black shadows. The replies of its pack echoed off tree trunks. Ivan and Sing-song were pleased to locate, at last, the
rest of the squad. The pair were very hungry and tired, having covered twice as much ground as the others that day. As the leader approached and shone his light on each of the team’s faces, he could see something was wrong.

  “What happened?”

  “Boss, it’s not our fault.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “The equipment’s not there.”

  Ivan took a deep breath, trying to control his anger. “You couldn’t even follow a simple set of co-ordinates? Bloody Nora. Do I have to do everything around here? Somebody get Sing-song a drink while I go find the cache.”

  Tomkins followed him into a darker part of the forest. “Boss, you don’t understand…” She jogged to catch up.

  Ivan turned towards his pursuer. “I don’t want to hear it.” He stomped off again. He re-appeared ten minutes later, still stomping. The sight of that empty hole in the ground, the camouflage netting off to one side and plenty of tramped-down vegetation around the cache told its own story.

  The leader sat down next to the small gas fire. “Where’s my brew?” He snatched it off Humper and stared into the flames.

  This mission just kept getting worse. He couldn’t call for a new drop of equipment, not without breaking radio silence. And even if he did, the delay would be unacceptable. Larsson had been clear about the deadline. Without diving gear, they couldn’t get the bomb in place. And they couldn’t blow up the warhead on the surface of the lake, that might not get the job done. He took a bite out of his hard rations and reached for his Babel app. First light, they would go and talk to some locals. And screw the body count this time. Getting back their equipment was all that mattered.