Sod it.
He took a deep breath … and slid his head round the corner of the timber wall, peering into the small recess which housed the window.
It was what it looked like it would be. A one-room, simply-furnished, wooden chalet. A single, low-watt bulb hanging by a long wire lit up a bench, an old pine table and a shelf under a second window which was on the back wall. On the shelf was an unused gas stove and … he stuck his head into the recess so he could see more of the room.
Inside the hut was a mixture of barely-lit, dense-brown, ageing pine and impenetrable dark shadows.
Until then.
What the hell is that?
A spark of light.
Frank thought he saw cans. Jerry cans? And a box and some wires. A mobile - possibly an antennae?
His eyes lost all focus as, instantaneously, there was more light than the midday sun. It was a small ball at first, but that was maybe for no more than a millisecond. And then it was huge. Massive. Like a fireball.
Yellows. And reds.
But mostly white.
And heat.
Oh, God.
Heat. And light.
Fire.
He’d been here before. In a cellar in Munich.
Yellow. White. Burning. More heat than he could bear. And Wolfgang. Like a statue.
And death. And pain.
And …
The incendiary device burnt quicker than his mind could compute. The fuel was contained in cans, which exploded under pressure. The walls of the chalet were tree trunk-thick, and as strong as concrete. So the fireball escaped where it could.
Frank’s primeval reactions, his eyelids closing and his head turning without cognisant instruction, saved his eyesight.
Sam saved the rest of him.
Somehow she had known what was coming and had dashed around the front of the cabin just as the device went off. She launched herself at him, catching him around the chest and forcing him away from the window just before it became a flamethrower.
As the wind was taken from him and he toppled sideward, Frank knew he was on fire. He could smell the plastic in his jacket burning. His bobble hat felt oddly liquid as it contracted to meet the contours of his head. And, for a second, he thought this time it was all over for him.
Oddly he quickly sensed cold. Everywhere. And a thud of pain. And more cold. He was turning and twisting. And then, with his back on the floor and an arm out straight, he was being dragged downwards - bumping.
BANG!
A noise like a champagne cork, but hundreds of times louder. He opened his eyes and swore he saw the door of the hut fly through the air above him.
More bumps. A bit more pain, but nothing a good bath wouldn’t sort.
And then more cold. Snow. On his face. Over his arms. His hat was off. And now there was snow on his head.
Shit, that’s cold.
But it was no longer cold.
Because, from where he had just come was the warmest fire he’d felt since round his auntie’s house last Christmas. He couldn’t miss the orange glow from the burning chalet; feel the strength of a thousand bar fires.
‘Frank!’
It was Sam.
He should have known it was her who was dragging him through the snow. Dealing with his burning clothes. Pulling him to safety.
He sat up and focused. She was kneeling in front of him, her face lit orange by the glow of the burning chalet.
Orange.
Like an angel.
She was smiling.
‘Are you OK?’ She asked.
Like an angel.
He looked at her now, in more detail. Her clothes were charred. She had been burnt.
‘I think so. Are you?’
‘Yeah. That was close.’
‘Frank? Sam?’ The squeak came from Frank’s hand. He was still holding his mobile.
‘I’d better get this.’
Sam nodded.
‘Good idea, Batman.’
Chapter 18
46°00'55.9" N; 7°44'34.5" E, South of Zermatt, Switzerland
Sam was working Frank as hard as she could, without breaking him. He didn’t seem to be badly burnt, and he may have a few bumps and bruises from the fall and the drag, but she reckoned he’d be OK. His face, probably like hers, would look like they’d spent a week in the sun without any sunscreen. But other than that ...
They were halfway to the outskirts of the town. She’d feel safer once they were lost in the crowds. When she glanced over her shoulder, she could easily pick out the fire against the backdrop of the cold, dark mountain. Doubtless the Swiss police municipale would be on the scene shortly. They couldn’t afford to get picked up by the police. In their grips no amount of Embassy leverage would prise them out of their clutches. They had to make the town.
She thought she knew what had happened at the mountain hut and was angry with herself for being so gullible. It was obviously a recently set trap. The mobile signal GCHQ had intercepted was new; and it was designed to lure somebody - probably anyone close to the case - to the cabin and then kill them. Sam guessed all of the poking about into the Cayman Island accounts had set off an alarm somewhere. And that alarm had prompted Brit-Swiss-man (she still couldn’t think his name out loud) to bait a trap. Which had almost worked.
It was genius. GCHQ had triangulated the location. Normal accuracy from them was a 15 by 15 metre square, which wasn’t always helpful in a built up area, but worked perfectly on a lonely hillside where there was only one hut. The lure consisted of an incendiary device linked to a short timer which was set off remotely via an electronic signal. That signal came from a laptop outside of the chalet, which she had been investigating when she’d spotted Frank at the opposite window.
The laptop was connected to a standard microwave repeater on the rear eave of the building, which would be linked to another repeater down the valley - in line of sight. That repeater would be connected to the GSM mobile network.
The linking of ‘repeaters’ was common practice in remote areas. It’s how people in far-off places got their Wi-Fi and mobile data. In this case she was convinced the laptop broke into the repeater station at the chalet and listened for pings from local mobiles - maybe even specific numbers, like hers or Frank’s. Once those mobiles were within a couple of metres of the repeater at the chalet, the laptop sprung the timer. She’d found all of this gubbins in a waterproof box at the back of chalet - which was being kept charged by a 12-volt vehicle battery.
Get close. And say bye-bye.
Sam reckoned she had set off the fuse and Frank had caught the brunt by being next to the window when it went off. The booby-trapper had probably planned for them being inside the building when it blew.
She’d tried to explain this to Frank on the way down, but all she got was a lot of ‘ohs’ in response. She’d held his hand for most of the way as, when they’d started, he’d fallen a couple of times. He clearly wasn’t well enough for another trek - not at the pace she was demanding.
But they had to get off the mountain.
She’d taken Frank’s phone from him just before they’d left the chalet. He wasn’t making much sense and so she’d explained to Carla they were both OK and Carla was to phone the Embassy in Bern and give them a heads up. And, as soon as she had done that, she was to look again at the phone signal and see if she could find any pattern that might give them another lead. Sam remained convinced Brit-Swiss-man had met Viktor Molnár in Zermatt, just as she was convinced he had a place in the town. The Bentley’s long-term parking permit told that story. And the lure to the cabin only added to her feeling that Zermatt was his playground.
Sam still had Frank’s phone to her ear as they started their descent - Carla had some more news for them.
‘The Cayman accounts are definitely being used to launder money.’ Carla was excited. Sam was already breathing hard.
‘Most of the transactions have been cash to gold purchases, which was fairly normal practice when it
came to washing someone else’s illicit funds. Have a guess how much money has passed through the accounts and turned into gold?’
Sam wasn’t up for a quiz, especially as Frank had just tripped and almost pulled her over.
‘Hit me.’ She said.
‘$1.9 billion. And that figure is likely to grow. A lot.’
That didn’t surprise Sam. It fitted the model which she and Frank had dismissed earlier: sell shares and buy gold now; sell gold and buy shares later.
She didn’t reply for a couple of seconds as she carefully led Frank down a rocky bit of path, Frank’s hand still in hers.
‘What’s the closing level of the FTSE today, Carla?’
If Carla had been surprised by the request, she didn’t say anything.
There was a pause.
‘4,611. Down 40 points.’
‘And gold? Per gram?’
Frank had toppled over at that point. Sam helped him up, turning his head gently to the direction of the blaze to check his pupils. They were OK. He must be emotionally shattered and there was probably some shock there. Key now, after the snow immersion to deal with the burns, was to make sure he didn’t get cold and allow any shock to take control. They needed a pub and a couple of large chocolats chaud.
‘£44.41, up 32 pence today.’
So still no crossing of the lines. Maybe the train wrecks would do the trick?
She dismissed the thought. It still didn’t make its way round the elephant in the room: once the imaginary line was breeched, how do you convince the world the threat of NT has been dealt with so shares can become rocket-assisted?
‘Thanks, Carla. We’ll call you once we’re clear of any police.’
There was noise ahead. And some lights.
Sounds like quad bikes.
‘Come on, fella.’
She pulled Frank into the woods off to the side of the track. He followed easily.
They lay low.
One bike. Two policemen.
Another bike. Two more.
Nothing else following.
‘Come on.’
They were off again.
It took them another ten minutes to hit the first ski chalet, an opulent three-storey structure with a full-height, picture window looking up at the Matterhorn; there were no blinds. Inside were a couple of well-to-dos sitting on a huge sofa drinking something expensive, whilst warming their feet on a fire which sat obliquely in the main room. It was surrounded by a bum warmer; the flue’s huge silver-chimney rising to the ceiling. The pair had ringside seats to the unfolding arson/fire mystery. If it wasn’t already, no doubt tomorrow it would be a huge story in the achingly affluent and very well behaved Zermatt.
They were in a crowded bar 15 minutes after that. And ten minutes later, sat in a dark corner away from fidgeting eyes, they were two hot chocolates to the better. Frank, red cheeked and with a charred jacket looking every bit an arsonist, was faring well. Sam had checked all of his cognisant functions (how old are you?; what’s your mother’s maiden name?; what’s the name of the lead guitarist in Status Quo?) whilst nonchalantly looking for any wounds.
‘Let’s pretend to be lovers, Frank,’ as she ran her hands all over his body studying his face for grimaces. No, he was fine; giggling as she caught a tickle-spot.
They discussed what had happened. And had a brief chat about a way ahead. Trains left Zermatt every hour to Täsch, where they’d left the Ambassador’s Range Rover. But Sam was worried that if they tried to leave now the trains would be empty and they’d be easily compromised. If they stayed the night and tidied themselves up, they’d be better prepared for tomorrow and, hopefully, get lost in the crowd.
‘Sorry, Sam. But I’d go for option two. I’m dead to the world. And, frankly, I’m going to be a bit of a burden to you until I’ve had some sleep.’
Frank was right on that count. And they had no plan. A night under the watchful eye of the Matterhorn would do them both good. And, who knows, by the morning someone might have found out where Brit-Swiss-man’s Zermatt lodgings were? If they did, they’d be best placed to investigate.
She ordered a couple of pricey beers.
Why not?
British Embassy, Via Venti Settembre, Rome, Italy
Jane, Linden and Stewart Hall - R1, the head of Rome Station - were all sitting around Stewart’s chic glass and metal conference table. Their flask of coffee had just been refilled, which had arrived with a tray of sandwiches and a plate of biscuits. Jane didn’t need any more food. And she certainly couldn’t manage another coffee without a trip to the loo. So, when Stewart offered she declined.
‘Is there anything else we can do tonight?’ Linden asked.
Tonight was a loose term under the circumstances. It was nearing 3 am. Dawn would be next and who knew what that would bring. London was literally burning, as were many cities in Europe.
Jane and Linden had both been onto their respective governments about ‘stopping the trains’. Since Mumbai, there had been two other incidents in two other countries, but, thankfully, no lives had been lost. It appeared NT had targeted countries where the signalling system was centrally coordinated via computer systems, but with some regional autonomy - which allowed different parts of different networks to make best use of the track they had available. These were the preferred systems of countries or regions with modern infrastructure. Hence attacks in Australia, Japan and eastern India. They were still establishing what happened, but initial thoughts were hackers had exploited whatever weaknesses they could find, turned systems on and off, corrupting code and generally caused merry hell. It was all low-key, agricultural cyber warfare. But it had been effective.
The UK’s rail network was reasonably sophisticated. The head of Network Rail had been hoofed out of bed a couple of hours ago and appraised of the situation. Having checked with his Chief Operations Officer, a hastily-assembled, secure-video-linked COBRA had been given a number of options. They ranged between ‘close down the whole network’, to ‘do nothing at all’. Network Rail were confident their cyber-security infrastructure was so good it couldn’t be hacked. In the end it was the PM who made the decision (which Jane thought was a particularly brave one): keep the wagons rolling.
It was more complicated in the US as their system wasn’t wholly centrally controlled. In the end the White House delegated the decision-making down to state level. So far 14 out of 53 states had closed all rail links down, even though it was nowhere near their morning rush hour. It was out of his hands, but Linden reckoned closing down the railways wasn’t the best call.
‘Your PM has made the right decision. If you close the system, then the folk will tick it off as another ‘neo-terrorism’ triumph. More of the government losing control. Sure, if there’s an accident then he might regret it, but I think that’s a risk worth taking.’
For the last hour the three of them had been discussing how to approach tomorrow’s meeting with the director of AISE.
‘What have you got on him?’ Linden had asked Stewart.
‘A fairly full file, actually. He looks clean. For a start he’s from the northern Po Valley, where there is little Mafia reach. And his records show a steady, but smooth rise through the ranks. He was an intelligence officer in Beijing in the early 90s, held various positions in Rome thereafter, before becoming head of station in Addis Ababa. That was his last job before this one.’
‘Hang on.’ The words came out of Jane’s mouth before she’d had time to really think through Stewart’s last sentence. ‘Does that post cover the whole of the Horn of Africa?’
‘Yes, I believe it does.’
Jane looked at Linden, who raised his eyebrows.
She continued. ‘How many of the central briefing notes have you been keeping abreast of?’
It was a rhetorical question, but Jane let it hang anyway.
‘Well, we keep up to date here.’
Maybe not as much as you think, Stewart.
‘You knew you had a member of my
team fly in here last night. And a seconded, ex-case officer, joined him in the early hours?’
‘Yes. My deputy dealt with that. We assigned your chap three case officers. We did the right thing?’ Stewart replied, a touch defensively.
‘Yes, yes.’ Jane paused for breath. ‘We know, for sure, that three of the four terrorists who took down the Pride of Eastbourne were from Eritrea. And they’d only left the country about three weeks ago, transiting through Tunis.’
‘Eritrea. Horn of Africa, Eritrea?’
‘Exactly. And, this morning my two staff were literally chased off your premises by two AISE staff.’
Stewart looked confused. As did Linden.
‘The seconded case officer originally entered Italy from Hungary. She was tailed and she thinks pursued by two AISE staff. She didn’t know they were Italian security service until the pair of them pulled up at the Embassy this morning. AISE had usurped the Carabinieri and were keen to take my officer “back to the Ministry of Defence” for questioning about the death of a UK national in Calabria. Thankfully both of my team got clean away and lost any potential tail.’
‘You’re saying AISE were tailing with, maybe, malice, Sam and Frank?’ Linden asked. Jane had managed to brief Linden on much of Sam’s recent travails, but not all of it.
‘And you’re also saying that senior staff, and maybe the head of AISE, are on the ‘Ndràngheta’s books?’ Disbelief laced Stewart’s question.
‘It’s not impossible.’ Jane replied. ‘We know - you know, Stewart - ‘Ndràngheta have reach into both the Carabinieri and AISE. Otherwise it would have been taken apart long ago. With the origin of the ferry terrorists and the director’s East African links, we can’t dismiss the possibility that he’s in their employ.’
Jane’s final statement seemed to stop the conversation in its tracks.
‘So, what do we do?’ Stewart eventually asked.
There was no obvious answer. But the question couldn’t be ignored. The ‘Ndràngheta needed to be broken into.
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