The Raven's Eye

by Barry Maitland

  They pulled into the kerb just beyond the gate in the railings with its barely visible sign, O.K. Below them the bulk of Ollie’s boat formed an irregular black shape against the faintly luminescent glimmer of the canal surface, but no lights were visible on board. Brock led the way down the brick stairs, hard to make out in the misty dark. They switched on torches, picking out fresh marks on the mossy steps, as if someone had recently slipped or dragged something across them.

  When they reached the boat they stepped in under the canvas awning and Brock tried the door. It was locked, and he nodded at Bren, who burst it open easily with his shoulder. Brock called out, his voice dying into the silence. The atmosphere inside was thick and musty, heavy with odours of mouldy fabric and paper, fried food, and something else, sharper and chemical, petrol perhaps or a solvent of some kind. They split up to search.

  It was Pip who called out eventually, from a small room at what must have been the stern of the original Princess Louise. It was fitted out as a workshop with wooden workbenches down each side, stained and scored with use, and rows of ancient tools hanging on hooks from the walls. One of the benches was covered with the oily cogs and sprockets of a dismantled bicycle derailleur gear, but it was the other that had attracted Pip’s attention. On it lay several coils of electric cable, a cluster of thin metal rods and a couple of car batteries, together with an old wooden box with rope handles. Inside it lay two fat tubes wrapped in what looked like brown greaseproof paper.

  Bren took one look and murmured, ‘Oh Jesus.’

  ‘Is it what I think it is?’ Pip asked, and Bren nodded.

  ‘Those are blasting caps,’ he said, pointing to the metal rods. He peered inside the box. ‘And this looks like dynamite. I didn’t think they made this stuff any more. How old is it, I wonder?’ He stuck his torch right inside the box and looked for a long moment, then drew back with an intake of breath. ‘They’re sweating.’ He turned to Brock. ‘We need the bomb squad.’

  ‘Yes.’ Brock was thinking. ‘So where have they gone?’ He went over to the porthole on the side facing the canal and looked out at the row of narrowboats opposite. He recognised Jonquil and Roaming Free, both with lights in their windows, and there was Gudrun’s boat, Grace, in darkness. And yet . . . He looked more closely. ‘See that boat over there,’ he said, ‘the second one along? Is that a light in one of its portholes, towards the left?’

  ‘Yes,’ Pip said confidently.

  ‘Not just a reflection in the glass?’

  ‘No, a crack in the curtains, definitely.’

  Brock left Bren on the street above Kovacs’ den to meet the explosive ordnance disposal team they’d called, and set off with Pip across the bridge to the other side of the canal. The portholes on Grace were blanked out with dark curtains, but close to a glimmer of light could be seen in places around their edges. Brock continued to Roaming Free.

  As he stepped up onto the stern he heard voices raised inside. It sounded as if the Stapletons were having a domestic. He tapped on the door and the arguing stopped abruptly. Howard Stapleton pulled the door open. ‘Yes?’ he demanded sharply, then peered more closely. ‘Oh, Chief Inspector . . . sorry. Can I help?’

  ‘A quick word, Mr Stapleton, with you both.’

  Stapleton showed him in and he nodded to Molly. ‘Sorry to bother you, but I wonder if you’ve been aware of any recent activity on Grace next door?’

  They looked at each other, then shook their heads. ‘Why, has there been a break-in?’

  ‘I’m trying to trace Gudrun’s father, who’s in London at the moment, and I thought he might have visited her boat.’

  ‘Oh, no, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Tall man, about six-two, in his seventies, lean build, thinning white hair, wearing a brown overcoat, grey scarf?’

  They looked blank.

  ‘What about Ollie Kovacs, in the houseboat across the canal? Seen him lately?’

  ‘No,’ said Howard.

  ‘Yes,’ Molly said. ‘I noticed him crossing over this way on the bridge, um, about an hour ago.’

  ‘You didn’t see where he went?’

  ‘Well, no, the phone rang just then, my sister in Manchester . . .’ She shot a quick hostile glance at her husband. The source of the dispute, Brock guessed.

  ‘Was he carrying anything?’

  She frowned. ‘Yes, actually, he was, a rather weird-looking carpet bag from what I could make out—the fog was settling around then.’

  ‘But you didn’t see the man I’ve just described?’

  She pondered, then shook her head. ‘There were other people on the bridge, but Ollie was the only one I recognised and I didn’t pay them much attention. What’s this about? Has Ollie been up to something?’

  ‘It’s possible that there’s been a gas leak on Grace, and I’m going to have to ask you both to put your coats on and leave for a while.’

  The Stapletons looked startled.

  ‘There’s another detective outside, DC Gallagher, and I want you to give her your mobile number so that we can contact you when we have the all-clear. She’ll be evacuating the other boats too.’

  It took some further repetition and discussion before Brock was able to bustle them out onto the towpath, where Pip Gallagher was escorting Debbie Rowland and her small boy towards the steps up to the street.

  When the towpath was clear, Brock went to Grace and knocked on the stern door. There was no reply, although he could make out a chink of light through the keyhole. ‘Desmond,’ he called, ‘it’s David Brock. Open the door, please.’

  The silence dragged out for a long minute, and then there was a rattling of bolts and the door opened a thumb-width. Brock could just make out one of Kite’s eyes, glittering and watchful, roaming around to see who was there.

  ‘It’s just me, Desmond. There’s no armed response teams, no assault squads, not yet. There’s still time to sort this out quietly, the way Freyja and Gudrun and your wife would be telling you to do if they were here.’

  ‘You guessed I’d be on Gudrun’s boat.’ He sounded pleased, as if Brock had vindicated his choice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And have you done what I asked?’ Kite’s voice had become stronger, Brock thought, more apocalyptic. ‘Have you spoken to your superiors?’

  ‘Not yet. I want to talk it over with you first. I want to hear what Ollie told you, then I can offer my advice.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, David. I don’t want you to delay any longer.’

  ‘You’ve only just met Ollie Kovacs, Desmond. Are you really sure that you can believe what he said?’

  ‘I told you, David, he showed me evidence, incontrovertible evidence.’

  ‘What, the names of your daughters’ killers?’

  ‘They were simply subcontractors. The real murderers were those who ordered their deaths.’

  ‘And who were they?’

  ‘I know who they are, and the whole world will know when Superintendent Russell’s superiors go on the record with the truth.’

  ‘Oliver Kovacs is a crazy old crank with a long history as a troublemaker, supporting lost causes. He’ll tell you whatever it takes to make you play his game. Is he in there with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So he’s run away somewhere, leaving you to do his madness for him and take all the blame for the carnage. Did he really give you some dynamite?’

  ‘Yes. It’s beneath the seat that Superintendent Russell is sitting on. It’s connected to detonators and a battery. I have a switch in my hand, so you must tell your people to be very careful.’

  ‘Did he explain how dangerous it is? It’s not used much any more because it’s too unstable. Its shelf life is about a year. After that it begins to sweat, and the slightest knock can make it explode. How many sticks did he give you?’

  ‘Plenty. You can’t understand how liberating it feels, David, to finally act after all these years, to do something real and meaningful and just.’

  ‘He sa
w that need in you, Desmond, and he’s playing you for a fool. You surely can’t honestly believe that Superintendent Russell is in any way responsible for the deaths of your girls?’

  ‘Oh, but I do, David. I believe precisely that. And you will too. You ask your superiors, ask them about Project Raven.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘You will, and if they want to save Russell, they must make it public. She must confess. And Brock, I will only negotiate through you. If anyone else comes within fifty metres of this boat I shall make an end of it.’

  ‘And what if they don’t agree? What if she refuses to confess and they don’t cooperate?’

  ‘Then she and I shall die here, in Gudrun’s longship.’

  Like a Viking warrior, Brock thought, as he stepped back down onto the towpath. He tried Lynch’s number again, and when he still got no reply looked up another, for Assistant Commissioner Diana Fisher, head of Special Operations.

  ‘Ma’am, DCI David Brock. I have an emergency I need to discuss with you urgently.’ He heard the murmur of conversation and laughter in the background.

  ‘Brock? You’re with Commander Lynch, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I can’t get hold of him, so I’ve rung you.’

  ‘Well, he’s standing right next to me as it happens. I’ll hand you over, shall I?’

  Lynch spoke, an angry growl. ‘Brock? What the hell do you want?’

  ‘Superintendent Russell has been taken hostage by the father of Gudrun Kite, the girl in the canal boat. We believe he has a bomb.’

  Lynch spluttered, ‘What!’

  ‘He thinks that she was responsible for his daughters’ deaths, and wants a public confession. He says it’s to do with Project Raven.’

  There was a silence, then Lynch said quietly, ‘He used that term, did he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  Brock told him and rang off. Across the canal he could see the lights of the bomb-squad vehicles flashing in the mist.

  Lynch arrived in a police patrol car, at speed. Brock stepped forward to the kerb and opened the door for him, catching a whiff of wine on his breath as he shouldered past. They stood together at the railings looking down on Grace, and Brock quickly described in greater detail what had happened and what steps he had taken. ‘I’ve put out an alert for Oliver Kovacs,’ he added.

  ‘What do the CBRN boys say?’ Lynch grunted.

  ‘The sticks are dynamite, at least five years old and dangerously unstable. There’s no indication of how many there were, but if two were left behind we have to assume Kite has a good number. They say they’re going to remove the two sticks over there, but they want the whole area evacuated, all the terraces on both sides of the canal, and roadblocks set up.’

  Lynch nodded. ‘Do it.’

  Brock spoke into his phone. When he was finished he turned back to Lynch. ‘Kite says he’ll only negotiate through me. He says he’ll blow the boat up if anyone else goes within fifty metres of it.’

  ‘What about an approach from the other side, from the water?’

  Brock shook his head. ‘It’s a steel hull and the windows are covered. Even if they could get a clear shot he says he’s holding the detonator switch.’

  Lynch swore under his breath. ‘All right, we’ll negotiate. What does he really want?’

  ‘He seems to hold the Met responsible for his daughters’ deaths, and Superintendent Russell in particular. He wants a full public statement accepting blame from a senior Met officer, preferably the commissioner.’

  ‘Well, he’s not going to get that. Any close family members we can use?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How old is he? Late seventies? He’ll get tired and run out of steam before long.’

  ‘I don’t think he will.’

  ‘Well, you’ll just have to talk him out of it.’

  ‘If I’m going to negotiate with him, I need to know what it is that we’re trying to hide. I need to know the truth.’

  Lynch gave him an angry glare. ‘The trouble is, Brock, I’m not sure I can trust you with the truth. I’m not altogether sure whose side you’re really on.’

  Brock said nothing, looking steadily back at him until Lynch turned away with a snort of disgust. ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

  Brock waited, silent, until Lynch turned back, glanced quickly around, then began to speak in a rapid undertone, so that Brock had to lean closer to hear. ‘Project Raven is a surveillance program, currently under development by a consortium of high-tech companies under contract to the Home Office, with the Met as the lead user.’

  ‘Surveillance?’

  Lynch hesitated again. This was like drawing teeth, Brock thought, or coaxing a rat out of its hole.

  ‘Yes. Microchip implants.’

  ‘In humans?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know, it sounds sinister, but it isn’t really. These days people get implants for all kinds of reasons, and microchips have been talked about for years—to carry your medical records, or give security access, or take the place of your credit card. There have been pilot programs—of Alzheimer patients in Florida, for instance—and a number of proposals to chip violent offenders. It’s been resisted so far, but it’s only a matter of time. For law enforcement the great thing about it is that it’s a form of non-violent restraint for people we know are likely to reoffend. Just the knowledge that we know where they are at any time, day or night, anywhere in the world, will make the terrorist, the psychopath, the serial rapist, the incurable paedophile, hold themselves in check. Who wouldn’t want that?’

  A modern Panopticon, Brock thought.

  ‘It’s really no different from the electronic bracelets we use now for prisoners on parole, just much less intrusive, much more effective, and much, much cheaper.’

  ‘And this is what Freyja Kite was working on?’

  ‘Yes. The breakthrough has been the development of a GPS-enabled chip that can pinpoint someone’s location anywhere on the globe, but there are problems of security. You have to be certain that the chip’s signal can’t be cloned or hacked into. That’s what Freyja was working on. Penney Solutions have been responsible for the development of the electronics.’

  ‘And Paddington Security Services?’

  ‘They’re the lead contractor, responsible for production through a manufacturer in Singapore, and ultimately for marketing and sales.’

  ‘Where does the Pewsey Clinic fit in?’ Brock asked, although he thought he already knew the answer.

  Lynch sniffed, as if he might pass on that one, but then said, ‘Obviously the medical side has to be covered. Another problem was where exactly the implant should be located in the body. In the past, the usual place has been in the back of the arm or in the soft pad of tissue between the thumb and forefinger, but an offender could fairly easily get it removed from there. So at Pewsey they developed a technique of deep-tissue implants, placing the thing inside the chest, close to the heart, where it would need major surgery to remove it.’

  ‘And there have been trials of this? On volunteers?’

  ‘On animals—pigs, mainly, and chimps.’

  ‘And humans?’

  Another pause. ‘Six months ago, a former close associate of Jack Bragg developed a serious heart condition and urgently needed a transplant. We obliged, using Patsy Bragg as our front. She told him she had contacts who could get him treated at the Pewsey Clinic. He was very grateful and was given a new heart. What he didn’t know was that the heart came with a bug. He was still working for Bragg, running his gun-smuggling business, and after he’d recovered we tracked him all over the country and Europe, and out to the Far East, including the Philippines. That was the first live trial of Project Raven. It was a great success. Coupled with the phone and internet intercepts, it’s what made Operation Intruder possible, and it’s what convinced our chiefs that this is a tool we’ve got to have.’

  ‘But you can’t go around implanting people without the
ir knowledge.’

  ‘No, of course not. That was a one-off, and it showed us just how effective the thing is. But we’re at a sensitive stage, and we have to get all the technical issues resolved and out of the way before we can go public and get the legislators on side to make this thing a reality. That won’t be easy, and the usual scaremongers and civil libertarians will do their best to stop it.’

  Lynch’s tone had changed, Brock thought, no longer offering grudging information to a difficult subordinate, but rather making an effort to convince, almost as if he wasn’t entirely convinced himself.

  ‘So who killed Freyja and Gudrun?’

  ‘No one killed them. That was two accidents that some people have tried to turn into a conspiracy.’ He glared at Brock as if daring him to deny it.

  ‘Oh no, it’s more than that. The post-mortems on both women recorded a neat incision in the soft tissue between the thumb and forefinger of their right hands. They’d been microchipped, hadn’t they? And whoever killed them wanted their chips back.’

  ‘What?’ Lynch shook his head with irritation. ‘No, no. That’s just more conspiracy crap. Freyja had cuts and bruises to ninety per cent of her body, and Gudrun had probably just cut herself in the kitchen. We’ve investigated both deaths and there’s nothing sinister about them.’

  ‘We?’

  Lynch looked away, then reached into a pocket and produced a pack of cigarettes. He offered the pack to Brock, who shook his head. ‘Nobody does now, do they?’ Lynch muttered. ‘When I started in the force it was practically obligatory.’ He lit up and took a deep breath, blowing the smoke out in a column that rose up through the thickening fog. ‘Yes, we looked into both cases, just to be sure that Raven hadn’t been compromised. There was nothing, no security breaches at Paddington Security or Penney Solutions, no missing chips. If Gudrun was trying to tie Paddington Security to her sister’s death, she didn’t succeed.’

  ‘You mean all the time DI Kolla was investigating Gudrun’s death there was another team carrying on a parallel investigation she knew nothing about?’

  ‘It had to be that way, Brock.’