Phantom ah-7

by Ted Bell

  “I’m aware of all this.”

  “The quantum supercomputer at Leeds, used by Cambridge scientists, has determined that someone hacked into Cohen’s encrypted life’s work and stole his ideas for a Singularity machine. I don’t want to understate the ramifications of what I just said. This is not just another of the many cyberthreats to national security in the West, sir. According to Dr. Partridge at Cambridge, this particular theft is analogous to the Soviet KGB acquiring the secrets of the atomic bomb at Los Alamos.”

  “He said that? Those words?” the president said, some of the color draining from his face.

  “He did, sir. Precisely those words. He added that the individual responsible, or whatever state wields this power, is now the most dangerous threat to human existence on the planet.”

  “Wait a second. Can we replicate Cohen’s design ourselves? On a crash-and-burn basis?” Anson Beard, the ruggedly handsome secretary of state, asked.

  “Unfortunately not, Secretary Beard. It isn’t crash-and-burn science,” Hawke replied. “According to the Cambridge group, it will take at minimum two years to replicate this technology. If we’re lucky.”

  “Mr. Hawke,” the president said, “you said there was good news. Now’s as good a time as any.”

  “Quantum has finally been able to determine the whereabouts of the hacker, Mr. President.”

  “Yes?”

  “Iran.”

  “Damn, I knew it,” the president said. “Who else but Iran could be behind the most dangerous threat on the planet-those crazy mullahs and that pinhead president of theirs? The latest intel shows the cabal of mullahs in Tehran are convinced that the End of Days is near. That their divine ruler, the Mahdi, is going to appear and set the world straight. Meaning, kill all the nonbelievers. Were it up to me, I’d turn that country full of Islamofascists into a parking lot. But it isn’t up to me. It is, unfortunately, up to those deadlocked, dithering bureaucrats on the Hill.”

  Hawke said, “Mr. President, if I may continue, as I said, we were able to identify the hacker. An Iranian scientist who worked on the original Perseus Project at Stanford with Dr. Cohen. He’s also the man we suspect of murdering Dr. Cohen and a number of other key scientists who worked on the project. He goes by the name of Darius Saffari. But his real name is Sattar Khan. Ironically enough, he is a nephew of the late Shah of Iran. His mother was the Shah’s sister.”

  “The deus ex machina,” McCloskey said. “We know his name and we know where he lives. Am I missing something here?”

  Hawke said, “Sorry, sir, your question?”

  “Why isn’t he dead?”

  “He will be. Director Kelly and I were discussing his demise at breakfast this very morning. Brick, you want to take over?”

  “Thanks, Alex. Mr. President, we have a nonspecific location in Iran, but at least we know it’s an area in the southeastern portion, on or near the Persian Gulf. We immediately put a dedicated bird in the sky over that area. I have sat photos here of locations we consider the most likely possibilities. I’ve a set for everyone.”

  Once each attendee had the photos, Kelly said, “The site we favor is the one marked IR-117. A compound located directly on the Gulf. As you can all see, it looks to be heavily fortified. But the thing that interests me most is the mammoth power plant you can see on the mountainside below what appears to be an observatory. It is surrounded by twenty-foot-high fences topped with concertina wire and is patrolled by guards with dogs twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Why does that interest you, Brick?” the president said.

  “A supercomputer of the size and complexity we are talking about would require enormous amounts of power. This particular plant is big enough to supply a small city. And, as you can see, the complex looks to be primarily residential, a large palace, surrounded by countless streets of ancient buildings. It is substantial and well fortified by a massive thirty-foot-high wall. A citadel, in fact. There’s something inside that compound that needs a whole lot of juice, Mr. President.”

  “A ghost in a machine.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s what I believe.”

  “So who’s going to take out the ghost, Brick?”

  “Commander Hawke and I, sir. CIA will assist under the aegis of our joint Red Banner unit. We are already in the planning stages. I’ll brief you when we’re ready to go. Black ops, off the grid, untraceable. Complete plausible deniability should Commander Hawke, his team, or any of our special forces be killed or captured during the incursion.”

  The president said, “How do plan to get in and out of Iran, Commander? Their air defenses are significant.”

  “Always only three ways in, sir. Air, land, or sea. I plan to sail in harm’s way,” Hawke smiled. “I’m going to sail my yacht, Blackhawke, into the Persian Gulf and knock on the bugger’s front door.”

  “How do you intend to do that without waking up the big bad Iranians?”

  “A little idea Director Kelly and I cooked up at dinner last night. I wonder if the White House operators could help me place a call to King Abdullah in Saudi Arabia?”

  “Why in hell do you want to call the king of Saudi Arabia?”

  “Old friend of mine, Mr. President. We’ve had numerous business oil dealings together in the past. I intend to tell him that I’ve acquired an interest in ocean yacht racing due to the purchase of my first sailing ship. And that I’m particularly interested in a race against His Majesty’s own sailing yacht, Kingdom. My yacht, Blackhawke, will just happen to be in the Persian Gulf soon. She’s en route now. With your permission, I’d like to tell him that it would be very helpful to the White House if the king were to agree to a race on a date to be determined by Director Kelly and myself.”

  The president laughed out loud.

  “I’m beginning to like you, Commander Hawke. A yacht race in the Persian Gulf with the king of Saudi Arabia. It’s obvious that you’re a very creative individual in matters of clandestine ops.”

  “Element of surprise, Mr. President,” Hawke said with a smile, “whatever it takes.”

  “I’ll have my secretary, Betsey Hall, get the operators to work on tracking King Abdullah down. Probably in Dallas. He spends a lot of time there with his doctors.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Operation Ghostbusters,” McCloskey said with a smile. “That’s the code name for this damn thing. I’ll also put in a call to Abdullah first thing tomorrow, back up your request for a race. He owes me a couple of favors, shouldn’t be a problem. Go get these bastards. They’ve murdered enough innocent civilians. And thank you, Commander Hawke. I read your entire dossier last evening. Very impressive. I’m glad you’re on our side.”

  “One should always strive to be on the side of the angels and the big battalions, Mr. President,” Hawke said.

  The meeting was over.

  Forty-seven

  Gloucestershire

  Hawke sipped his Gosling’s rum, neat. His gaze drifted down the grassy hillside to the lazy Thames and the idyllic scene below. The grounds of Brixden House were lovely in this light. He and Ambrose were perched on an old bench. It was very pleasant there, in the shade of a heart-stopping camellia in full blossom against a garden wall. Below, his son, Alexei, and Nell Spooner were driving a pony cart along the narrow path that ran along the banks of the river. It was late afternoon, and the sun cast flecks of gold on the water.

  Sunlight, filtered through the trees, mottled the ground and gave a soft serenity to the world that Hawke had nearly forgotten. The world was still and always would be a beautiful place, despite the ugliness and death he dealt with on a near constant basis.

  He looked at Congreve and said, “Lovely here, isn’t it, old boy?”

  “Indeed. I was just thinking the same.”

  “You’re very lucky, you know.”

  “We both are, Alex.”

  “Yes, I suppose we are.”

  “How long are you going to be away this time? Or is the duration as hush-hush a
s the destination?”

  “At least a fortnight, perhaps longer. The new Blackhawke is currently being provisioned, taking on ammunition, and armed. That could take another week and I have to be there.”

  “For the life of me, Alex, I simply cannot understand your hesitation to leave Alexei here at Brixden House with Diana and me. The place is crawling with security, as you well know. There’s scarcely a safer place for him, really.”

  “It does make sense, I agree.”

  “Well, then?”

  “I’m afraid, Ambrose. Not just for Alexei’s safety or, God knows, Nell’s. But also for yours and Diana’s as well. I can’t put you in danger.”

  “Diana and me? Why? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you can’t tell me.”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t have to tell me what you’ve done. No secrets. But you can tell me what you’re afraid might happen, surely?”

  Hawke considered for a moment and said, “On this last absence of mine, I didn’t mention where I was. But I will say I took dead aim at the criminal element responsible for the threats to Alexei’s life.”

  “Were you successful?”

  “Yes. Very.”

  “Then the threats have been eliminated.”

  “That certainly was my intention. A lot of monstrously evil people died because of my actions.”

  “Splendid.”

  “But, and this is the difficult part, I may have merely upped the ante.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Take a look at this,” Hawke said, handing Congreve a folded piece of tissue-thin blue paper. It was the printout of an encrypted e-mail Hawke had received that morning from Concasseur at the British Embassy in Moscow.

  Congreve read it aloud.

  “We have destroyed the hive but the bees are still buzzing. Monitoring Internet chatter, surviving members throughout Russia and Eastern Europe. A gauntlet has been thrown down. No idea who was responsible, but determined to find out. Threats of reprisal are serious, indeed. We may have overplayed our hand. Keep your head down and your eyes open. Yours, I.C.”

  “I.C.?”

  “Ian Concasseur. My man in Moscow.”

  “Dear God.”

  “These people will stop at nothing, Ambrose. I won’t put you and Diana at risk protecting my son. I can’t.”

  “So what will you do?”

  “I think the safest place in England is Buckingham Palace.”

  “I don’t disagree. But is that even remotely possible?”

  “Her Royal Majesty has indicated to me that it is.”

  “Then by all means take her up on it, Alex. After all, you saved her life last year at-”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “If that’s your decision, so be it.”

  “It is. Take a look at this.”

  He handed Congreve another folded message, printed on the same tissue paper. I am become death, the Destroyer of Worlds. I’m waiting…

  “Where on earth did this come from?” Congreve said.

  “It appeared on my computer screen last night. Right after I’d shut the whole damn thing down. In other words, the computer was powered down when this appeared. I saved it and printed it.”

  “It’s from the-machine, isn’t it? This bloody phantom, Alex.”

  “I believe it is, Ambrose. The damn thing knows I’m coming after it.”

  “Impossible. But how?”

  “How? How does it do anything? Make sane men commit suicide, sink cruise ships, send UFOs streaking over Alaska at the speed of light? It knows, Ambrose, it knows absolutely everything. And it’s capable of absolutely anything.”

  “You’ve been in tight spots before, God knows. But I can’t recall a time when you’ve had quite so many balls in the air at one time.”

  “Yes. And the problem with having so many balls in the air is that you can be damn sure a couple of them belong to you.”

  “It’s a bad business, Alex. I don’t like it one bit.”

  “Listen closely, old boy. You’re one of a rapidly decreasing number of people who don’t seem to want me dead. Please don’t accept any phantom phone calls, Ambrose. I may need you and I can’t have you turning into a hypnotic zombie while I’m away. Share this with Diana. Don’t answer the phone. Have someone screen every call coming into the house and hang up immediately if it’s remotely suspicious.”

  “Will do.”

  “Remember that old-time radio program? Who knows? The Phantom knows…”

  “It’s not funny, Alex.”

  “Do you really think I don’t know that?”

  Nell Spooner, looking round at the high-ceilinged room full of exquisite gilded and silk brocade furniture, massive pictures, and lovely sculpture, thought, So this is Buckingham Palace. What a lark. Her life had changed so dramatically, it almost seemed perfectly normal that she would be sitting with her young charge and his father, waiting to be received by the Queen.

  Almost perfectly normal.

  Alexei, seated upon her lap, was fidgety. He wanted to be off running about, sprinting down the long, sun-splashed corridors and the wide marble staircases of the Royal Family’s private apartments. She wanted to be doing that, too, to be honest. She was terribly nervous. Alex had tried to soothe her nerves on the drive into the city from Hawkesmoor. Hadn’t worked. Her throat was dry, her stomach filled with butterflies, and her knees weak with-not fear, but something akin to it. Anxiety.

  Until, that is, the moment that the Queen’s private secretary ushered them into her presence.

  Her Royal Majesty’s eyes simply lit up at the sight of Alex Hawke. She greeted him as if he were a long-lost son returned to the fold at last. Alex clearly adored her, and they chatted happily for a few moments while Nell simply stood back and observed.

  The Queen was wearing a suit of robin’s egg blue with a beautiful sapphire brooch at the shoulder. And she exuded genuine warmth that was almost palpable and utterly natural behavior. Right down to the celebrated leather purse she was seldom photographed without. Alex had explained she used it as a signal to staff. If she shifts it from one arm to the other, she’s ready to leave. If she sets it on the floor, she finds the conversation boring and wants to escape. But if it dangles happily from the crook of her left arm, she is happy and relaxed. That’s precisely where it was now.

  Alex said, “Your Majesty, may I present Nell Spooner. Nell is on loan to me from her position at MI5. She’s Alexei’s guardian angel, ma’am. She’s already saved his life twice.”

  “Lovely to meet you, my dear,” the Queen said, extending her hand.

  “A great honor, Your Majesty,” Nell said, taking it lightly into her own.

  Nell took a deep breath. She had executed her small curtsy perfectly and even remembered the proper form of address.

  The Queen looked at Alexei, who smiled shyly, clutching his teddy bear.

  “And you must be Alexei?” the Queen said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Alexei said.

  “And who is this delightful bear you’ve brought along? Is he your friend?”

  “His name is Teddy and he wants to be your friend, too,” Alexei said and offered Her Majesty his stuffed bear.

  “Do you know, Alexei,” she said, hugging the bear, “that I first met your handsome father when he was precisely your age? Well, it’s quite true. The most adorable little boy. He often came to stay with me at Balmoral, my home in Scotland. And he was almost, although not quite, as much the beautiful, cheery, free-spirited soul as you are.”

  “Your Majesty, I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your generosity in these trying circumstances,” Hawke said.

  “Nonsense. Nothing generous about it,” the Queen said. “I’m delighted to have the laughter of children around me at any time. Besides, it is the very least I can do for you considering what you did for my family, Alex.”

  “I should be back in a fortnight, Your Majesty, but I will see to
it that HM government is kept informed.”

  Queen Elizabeth smiled acknowledgment and said, “Miss Spooner, I do hope you are intending to stay on. I did tell Alex that I felt it would be better for the child if he had that continuity in his life. After all, he might find this all a bit overwhelming without your comforting presence.”

  “Very kind, Your Majesty. Thank you very much indeed. I would be delighted to stay with him.”

  Alex bent to pick Alexei up in his arms, tossed him about a foot into the air, then caught and kissed him on both cheeks, eliciting much laughter and delight.

  “All right, then, Alexei. I think you’ll be very well taken care of while Daddy’s away, won’t you? And you must promise to be a very, very good boy until I come back. Will you?”

  “Yes, Daddy. Very good.”

  And with that Alex Hawke bid farewell to the Queen and, with a good deal of emotion, reluctantly left his little boy behind, sitting happily in the Royal lap, chattering away as was his wont.

  Nell followed him out of the Queen’s reception room to say good-bye.

  “Come back to us, Alex; we need you, you know. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.”

  Hawke pulled her toward him and kissed her hard on the mouth, oblivious to shocked palace staff and onlookers passing by.

  “Listen,” Hawke said with a grin, “I don’t want to die either, believe me. But I will tell you one thing. If I have to, I’m damned well going to die last.”

  He smiled over his shoulder and started down the palace’s wide staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Knowing that Alexei and Nell would be safe within the walls of Buckingham Palace, with its extraordinarily layered security, gave him the peace of mind he knew he would need for whatever lay ahead.

  D riving home alone to his home in the Cotswolds, he had plenty of time to think about the immediate future. He was in the midst of assembling his assault team. Saffari’s heavily armed and well-fortified complex stood high on a bluff and was surrounded by walls some thirty feet high and ten feet thick. Challenging, to say the least. His number two, as always, would be Stokely Jones, a pillar of strength he could always rely on. Then Brock, who often tried his patience but was a good man under fire, a warrior through and through.