by Gabriel Kron
“Now why would they do that?” Mark asked himself. He pulled up a list of internet usernames with associated IP addresses, their unique internet identity number. Those that were from the OTG group would have recognised their own usernames on the list.
Mark fed several of the IP addresses into one of his many programs and set it off running.
The program was a 'nobot' search trawler and would wait until a particular IP address came on-line and then search the whole computer for key words from the watch list. Mark would leave the program running indefinitely.
An alarm sounded on his phone.
“Time to go,” he said as he closed and locked the steel door to his den. He was due into the offices of Citybank Chartered Accountants for a legacy meeting. Incredibly boring, but easy money. Colin Mundy insisted that in order to under-take his covert work, Mark had to maintain his city position as a front.
The Citybank contract was simple but lucrative according to Colin and was the type Mark would normally have tendered for. All Mark had to do was convert old databases from the collapsed Bank of Credit and Commerce International, BCCI, into a readable format so the chartered accountants could number-crunch the data.
This was legacy work and required Mark to be able to read and convert files that had been created on computers over twenty years ago.
BCCI had collapsed after a huge scandal in 1991, which by today's standards and the crash of 2008, was small. However, the hard drives confiscated by the Police as part of a fraud investigation, had now been returned.
Mark had laughed out loud when the IT guys at Citybank showed him the hard disc drives they wanted him to retrieve the data from and translate into a modern format.
“You can laugh,” the IT manager said. “We had orgasms when IBM installed ten megabyte drives into the XT as standard!”
“A little before my time, the XT,” Mark said and started making notes as to what hardware he was going to have to dust off in order to read the disks.
This type of work didn't stretch Mark in any way, and he soon found himself distracted by thoughts about the deleted OTG group. Had they been sanctioned by another agency?
Friedmanns Residence, Germany. Day 13
The Friedmanns were fabulous hosts and made sure that I didn’t feel I was imposing on them. They were however strict and Henrik’s bedside manner showed a lifetime of experience. Experience that had included patients in prominent political offices.
I was told to relax until the wound had been given a chance to start healing, with plenty of sleep to let the antibiotics Henrik had prescribed do their job.
During this time I made notes in my notebook, which as far as I knew was the only belonging I had left, other than the shirt on my back. And that was more than a little stained and damaged after being shot.
The Friedmann’s residence best feature was its mature redwood and pine forest that surrounded it.
It certainly felt as though I was in the right place to heal. Not that I had much choice. I couldn’t physically leave, or at least I wouldn’t get far with my wounds needing regular redressing and my complete lack of fitness. Nor could I leave legally, for although I could probably get all the way to France and to the Eurostar train, I’d have to be able produce my passport or hand myself to the Border Agency, and that was something I was not prepared to do. I just did not trust the system or those in it, not any more.
After a week of doing absolutely nothing, I wanted to start getting out. Henrik, who I felt I should be calling Doctor for what he had done for me, and his wife Karin, who had saved my life in the first place, said that it would be good for me to start getting some gentle exercise.
“Absolutely no running. Nein, nein, nein. You understand Daniel?” Henrik had instructed as he left for another of his ‘retired doctor’ rounds. For a retired doctor, it seemed he still worked hard.
I wouldn’t run anyhow. The reason I had learned the martial arts from a young age was because I couldn’t run, and living on some of the Peckham estates in South East London, you either had to be a fast runner or a good fighter. I was neither, so I started learning various martial arts over the years, ranging from Chinese Wing Chun Kung fu to Japanese Karate and Jujitsu. Then whilst serving my apprenticeship in Electrical Engineering with the Navy, I boxed. Having tried a wide variety of styles, I settled down into Wado Ryu Karate under the tutelage of Sensei Miomoto Tatsuki.
So using what I grew up with, I chose a single set of martial arts movements known as a Kata called Kushanku. It was the longest Kata in the Wado Ryu Karate style, so I knew it would give me a complete workout and an indication of my fitness. At this point, I wouldn’t even be able to do the opening move without extreme discomfort.
I planned to do the same Kata every day, aiming to get a little further through the sixty eight moves each time.
Everything else at this point had to be put on the back burner. I had to get myself strong and healthy again. Now was not the time to worry about work, my flat, unpaid bills, or anyone else. However, it was hard not to worry about those around me. Too many innocent people had died already because of the Lockridge device.
GCHQ, Day 15.
General Rourke sat at the mirror-polished conference table alone. Twenty-four chairs and only one taken, but Rourke was not waiting for anyone else to arrive. The whole reason he was using the Tempest hardened teleconference room was because it was one of the most private and secure rooms in the world providing encrypted communications worldwide.
Built into the table in front of Rourke was a small computer monitor, on which was the video conference screen of Senator Reaves.
“William. How’s the weather over there?” Senator Reaves asked.
“Wet,” Rourke replied.
“Always wet. How is our Lockridge problem?” Senator Reaves wasn’t one for beating around the bush.
“Not helped by our Chinese contingent retiring my operative,” Rourke said almost through gritted teeth.
“No, no. I don’t suppose it helped, but it kind of shows us the Chinese agenda don’t you think? Listen, William, there is no way we can let the Chinese have this, so do we have a problem still?”
“Depends on what you call a problem. The device is destroyed, but there are still witnesses to its existence and allegedly notebooks, the contents of which we don’t know.”
“What about Bateman?”
“Well, he may have the notebooks, but he’s now wanted for multiple murders in Germany, so if he is still alive, he will surely be apprehended soon. He’s on every police watch list internationally, as well as the security services of our nations and border agencies. And China for sure as we know,” General Rourke said.
“Indeed, I think it’s time we questioned Liang’s loyalty.”
“I agree.”
“Keep me posted. You have my backing on closing this threat down in any way you see fit.”
“Thank you. What about Copeland?” Rourke asked.
“Don’t worry about Copeland, I’ll talk with him, he’ll agree with me,” Reaves said reassuringly.
“Good. The Dictionaries have been updated already, so hopefully we will begin to close in on any communications connected with either Bateman or the device.”
Senator Reaves signed off and left General Rourke to ramp up the push on closing Bateman and the device down completely.
Friedmann’s Residence. Day 17.
After several days of doing my daily exercise of Kushanku kata, I was able to do the first six to seven moves before having to stop. This was doing the kata at a slow, therapeutic pace. But it was progress.
The mornings had been misty and today there was added drizzle, but I didn’t mind. In fact I found it stimulating.
Karin came walking up the garden to where I exercised. “Guten Morgen Daniel. What is this you do every morning now?” she asked as she buttoned up the top of her green Barbour coat.
“It’s a karate kata called Kushanku. It makes a good exercise regime,” I expla
ined.
“You are taking it easy I hope.”
“Oh yes. I soon feel it when I don’t,” and oh boy did I. They had warned me about tearing the wound open again, and that’s exactly what it felt like when I tried to execute one of the kicks in the kata.
Karin had come out to tell me that I had left the Nokia mobile in the kitchen. Clive had called the house when I hadn’t answered and would be calling back in five minutes.
“He says they have worked out an exit plan for you. You will be able to go home soon.”
I waited in the Friedmann’s office for Clive to call back and went on-line creating a new hot-mail account. The phone rang and I answered it before the second ring. It was Clive. It was good to hear his voice again especially when I heard what he had to say.
“...well, I went and met Lee at one of his after dinner speeches at the Science Museum. He’s the only other one I’ve told about you and he wants to help. We’ve come up with a plan on how to get you back home,” Clive said.
“Okay, as long as it doesn’t mean hiding in a container lorry with half a dozen sweaty illegals,” I half joked, but in truth if that was the only way home, then sweaty illegals it would have to be.
“No, no. We tried to find out about a false passport for you, but we don’t know any criminals who we trust to ask and figured that asking the wrong people would just raise suspicions. We just did not know where to start. Anyhow, you need to thank Wendy, Lee’s wife, who I guess must also know about all of this. She suggested Lee apply for a new passport with a new photo, so I’m just going to email the photo to Karin and you should try and make yourself look like Lee. You’ve got at least two weeks before he gets the new passport back. Will you be strong enough to travel by then?”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine. I seem to be getting fitter every day. Clive, did you talk to Becs?” I had asked Clive to check that Rebecca was okay.
“Yes, she’s fine. She reported Jack’s death to the police who apparently are going to get a post-mortem done. She’s pretty frightened Dan.”
“And what about you, no further harassment or anything like being followed?”
“No, nothing that I know about anyway. Maybe it ended with that Mueller guy?”
“Yeah, maybe.” I wasn’t convinced. Why would just one man decide to use deadly suppression against us? He was surely acting on behalf of someone else.
Clive emailed Lee’s new passport ID. Lee had cropped his hair short, donned dark rimmed glasses and had a few days facial hair. I guess, on a quick inspection after a drastic haircut and a pair of glasses, I’d pass for the picture in his new passport. There were a few inches in height difference with Lee being the taller, but at least our eyes were the same colour, brown.
I also asked Clive to email a copy of the notebooks as I was getting cabin fever and needed something to do. I wanted to start trying to translate them. I would have preferred to have actually had the notebooks physically on hand, but there was no way that these could be trusted to the mail or parcel services.
Friedmann’s Residence. Day 24.
I was losing track of how many days I’d been at the Friedmann’s house. I was certainly getting stronger and was now able to do all sixty-eight moves of Kushanku kata, albeit slowly. And I could now stretch out the stances and apply a little focus into some of the techniques.
Karin and Henrik made it perfectly clear that I wasn’t to feel obliged to do anything other than what was necessary to heal. I was also to make myself as much at home as possible for as long as was needed.
Henrik was the cook of the house, something he enjoyed doing and only had the time to do so since retiring. Karin had cooked for far too many years as far as she was concerned and felt blessed to be married to a man who not only was willing to cook, but was also damned good at it as well.
Breakfast was served every morning at 7:00am in the kitchen and generally consisted of warm crescent rolls, butter, jam and maybe a boiled egg. Lunch was whatever was on the hob and Henrik tried to have dinner ready for 7:00pm, although it was sometimes as late as 8:30pm and on a couple of occasions not at all, such was his ‘semi-retired’ professional social life.
Time was not in short supply. Clive had managed to email over a copy of all the photographs and copies of the notebooks. I wanted to try and work out what the Lockridge was, how it worked, and why people had died for it. What was its secret?
I knew it was real. Doing real work, and doing it for nothing. The actual machine may have been destroyed, but we had been gifted Kaspar Locke’s notebooks.
There were three of them handwritten in German. The handwriting wasn’t brilliant, but was at least done in ink. Each page was filled with diagrams and sketches, surrounded by writing. There were also a few tables of data and graphs. One of the notebooks appeared to be just for results as it contained page after page of lists of numbers I assumed were measurements of voltage, current and frequency.
Sophia Locke had said that her great uncle Kaspar Locke had spent years trying to figure out how the machine worked. These notebooks appeared to show the process he had gone through.
This was going to be a long task. Not only did I not know enough German to translate the average road sign, but the handwriting at times was just barely legible.
Luckily, the virtues of the internet meant that I had numerous tools at hand to help. On-line translations weren’t always accurate, but they were accurate enough to get the gist of what was being said and Karin offered her help when needed.
Graphics packages would allow me to manipulate the images of the page and use filters to better show the text. Often, just inverting the image, so it looked like a negative, would immediately clarify what was obscure before.
There was only one way to do this and that was word by word.
Sinclair Residence. 10:50am Day 31.
Lee’s new passport had arrived, the picture looking distinctly different from the one before. His usually thick head of hair was now a number two crop, his white scalp showing through. It was not something that Wendy liked on Lee. It wasn’t who she had married but their teenage girls loved it, stroking their Dad’s hair like a pet dog.
“Thank you for agreeing to stay,” Brenda said to Wendy, who had agreed to wait with her at home while Clive travelled to Germany for the rescue plan.
“Right, I really hope we’re not going to need this, but I have taken the liberty of taking a few precautions,” Clive said.
On the table between them were four A4 envelopes. Each was addressed to a different university, to the head of Electrical Engineering and contained a detailed account of what had happened plus a CD with copies of all the photographs, video and notebook scans.
“I’m not sure what good they would do, but post them if I have any trouble. I’ll call when I get there and then every six hours. If I miss two calls, post the envelopes and call the police, but I’m not going to have any trouble. It’s little more than a road trip,” Clive said.
“Stop worrying about me. Wendy and I will be just fine,” Brenda called back.
Lee had rented the car Clive was going to use, a white BMW 325i. The plan was to arrive in Stuttgart just after dark. The journey was going to take approximately ten hours, so he planned on leaving at about 11:00am.
Wartburg Hotel. Day 31.
Maria Becker continued working so that she didn’t have to think about Dominik. She hadn’t believed the police when they had visited her the morning of the shooting with lies about who had shot her husband. She had tried to tell them they must be wrong but was overcome with grief.
They’d said that Daniel Bateman was their only suspect, and although she didn’t argue at the time, she didn’t believe for one minute that Daniel was Dominik's killer. She knew that something was wrong about the events of that weekend. Her Dominik had helped Daniel that morning and had gone back to the park to continue to help, so why would Daniel kill him in cold blood? They also claimed that Daniel had shot the BKA detective who was leading the ma
n-hunt for him. The same BKA detective she knew had tried to kill Daniel in their hotel.
Nothing added up unless she took into account the conspiracy theory about the suppression of technology like the device Daniel had claimed to have found. To believe this meant that she had to question the legitimacy of every authority she came into contact with. Who could she trust?
So when Detective Sebastian Wolf produced his BKA Warrant card for Maria to look at, her blood ran cold. She controlled herself and held back the urge to run.
“I am sorry, Frau Becker, I know this is a very hard time for you, but there are some questions I have to ask.”
Maria showed Sebastian into the reception office behind the lobby desk.
“What is it, detective? Have you caught my husband’s real killer yet?” Maria asked curtly.
“I’ve been assigned to the case, Frau Becker, to apprehend Daniel Bateman for your husband’s murder along with that of Detective Mueller, Sophia Locke and Johann Locke. I understand from the files that you and your late husband were friends with Mr Bateman?”
“We were. Why do you think that Daniel did these things, what evidence do you have?” Maria asked.
“I can't say. As yet there is a lot I don’t know about this case, and what we do know doesn’t fully make sense,” Wolf said. “Which is why I have to go over some things again. I’m sorry.”
He took out his notebook and opened it to the page where he had jotted down a list of questions. “Who is Daniel Bateman?” was at the top of the list.
Maria stared at Sebastian Wolf, tried to see past his blue eyes and into his soul. Could she trust him?
“Daniel Bateman’, what can you tell me about him?”
Maria decided that she couldn’t possibly trust him, but she felt she didn’t have anything left to lose.
“Detective. What do you know about the suppression of free energy technology?”