“Gather all SWARM staff for a briefing. We need results right now. And you, Agent J, I want you to go to Techna-Stik. They developed Whiplash, so they might have an angle on how to track it down that we don’t know about. Sirena and Morph will accompany you.”
“I’m live, Ms Maynard,” said Agent J.
“We haven’t a moment to lose.” She tapped and the screen went blank.
“Any moment now, boss,” said Bullman.
Williams nodded and waved him away. Bullman marched back across to where Fraser was working on Whiplash. The weapon was connected to a desktop computer and surrounded by a tangle of wires. The other members of the gang were busy unpacking equipment from crates and boxes.
Williams and the Insider were sitting on a tatty leather sofa placed to one side of the hideout’s large, dimly lit main room. The gang kept busy, respectfully leaving Williams alone unless summoned, and turning a blind eye to the Insider’s presence, as instructed.
The Insider leaned over to Williams and whispered, “I should get back to Techna-Stik. They’ll wonder where I am.”
“Any problems there?” whispered Williams.
“I’m expecting a few secret service types to start snooping around soon, but there’s nothing for them to find. There’s nothing there to link me to … what did you call it, Operation New Age?”
Williams cracked his lizard-like smile. His eyes shone behind his thick spectacles. “Good name, don’t you think? Makes this bunch of idiots think they’re doing something noble.”
“All I’m concerned about is making sure everything goes to plan,” whispered the Insider. “I’ve got the bank hassling me for money.”
“You deal with your side of things, I’ll deal with mine.”
“None of these people suspect the truth?”
Williams scanned the room and smiled to himself. “No. Deluded halfwits. By the time the police turn up, we’ll have got what we want and be well away.”
“Aren’t you worried about them seeking revenge?”
“From prison?” grinned Williams. “When they’ve no idea who you are, and they still think I’m a Londoner called Williams? Leave it out.”
The Insider chuckled and patted him on the shoulder. “I really must go. Are you sure Fraser there can break into Whiplash’s code? It’s highly advanced stuff. Don’t forget, I know all about the Whiplash project, but I can’t bypass its security protocols. You need a technical genius.”
“Stop fretting. Fraser and Bullman are eco-terrorist superstars! Fraser’s the guy who hacked into the FBI’s central computers in America last month and put a smiley face on their website. There’s nothing he can’t crack.”
At that moment, Fraser looked up from his computer. “Boss? I … I don’t think I can crack it.”
Williams launched himself from the sofa and strode across the room. “What? What did you say?”
“Look at this,” pleaded Fraser. “There’s, like, a six-terabit encryption module embedded on the main CPU chip.”
“And translated from the Geek, that means…?” growled Williams.
“It means you need a code just to switch Whiplash on, let alone fire it. And working out what that code is could take months.”
“What?” bellowed Williams.
“Maybe even years.”
“Years?”
“There’s no way around it, boss. I keep coming up against something called an AKA number. I don’t even know what that means!”
“AKA,” said the first technician, “stands for Activation Keycode Authorization.”
On the twelfth floor of the glass tower that housed the UK offices of Techna-Stik International, two technicians were fussing around SWARM’s Agent J. Their workshop was possibly the untidiest place Agent J had ever seen, the exact opposite of SWARM’s gleaming, state-of-the-art lab. The entire room was a mass of bleeping, flashing machinery, as eccentric and geeky as the technicians who worked in it. Outside the enormous windows was a spectacular view across London.
Agent J casually placed his smartphone on a cluttered table and entered a code on its keypad, causing a small flap to hum open in its side. As he talked with the two technicians, distracting their attention, Sirena the butterfly and Morph the centipede silently emerged from the phone, Sirena uncurling her wings as she crawled out into the open. She took up a position above the window, her sensors decrypting the room’s Wi-Fi signal, while Morph used connectors in four of his legs to plug into a networked tablet left on a nearby chair.
“We developed AKA ourselves,” said the first technician, Philip Jones.
“How does it work?” asked Agent J.
Jones and the second technician, Lewis Macarthur, hurried back and forth producing circuit diagrams and computer readouts. Their identical white lab coats were dotted with a variety of food and coffee stains.
“It’s like a time lock on a bank vault,” said Jones, pushing his glasses back along the bridge of his nose.
“A time-locked vault will only open at certain times,” said Macarthur.
“And even the bank staff can’t open it unless it’s at a pre-set opening time,” said Jones. “For maximum security.”
“Our AKA system works the same way,” said Macarthur.
“You have to pre-program when you want Whiplash to be unlocked,” said Jones. “At any other time it won’t even switch on. And to pre-program those times, you currently need pretty much all the equipment you can see in this workshop, plus thumbprint IDs from the two of us, plus a retina scan from Mr Haynes—”
“He’s UK Operations Director, he’s in charge here,” said Macarthur.
“—and also from Mr Oliphant,” said Jones. “He’s the company’s Head of Projects.”
Agent J nodded. “So you had Whiplash pre-programmed to operate first thing this morning, when the meeting at the Ministry of Defence was going to take place. But, of course, Whiplash was stolen, and the meeting never happened, so now Whiplash will be locked again. Yes?”
“That’s right,” said Macarthur. “The only way to switch Whiplash on now is to crack its AKA code. And that could take someone months.”
“Or even years,” said Jones. “We take Whiplash’s security extremely seriously.”
“Extremely seriously,” echoed Macarthur.
“Because it’s a very dangerous bit of kit,” said Jones.
“And you’re confident that the code can’t be worked out?” said Agent J.
The two technicians sniggered and snorted to themselves. “You’d need to be a mathematics genius, and an expert in cryptography,” said Jones.
“That means code-breaking,” said Macarthur. “You’d need to be way cleverer than us.”
“Way cleverer,” said Jones.
“And that’s not going to happen, is it?” said Macarthur. The two of them giggled and jostled each other.
Agent J closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath. “Excuse me a moment,” he said. He picked up his phone, moved away and tapped into the SWARM micro-robots’ internal communications network. Jones and Macarthur busied themselves with the mass of machinery.
“How’s it going?” said Agent J in a low voice.
“They really do take security seriously,” said Sirena. “We’ve tapped into all the company’s systems, and it seems that every record of the Whiplash project is held electronically, behind an alarmed firewall. There’s nothing on paper at all.”
“What if something happened to their data?” said Morph. “They’d have no written backup. That’s not a sensible idea, is it?”
“No, it’s a bit odd,” said Agent J. “Have you got the files?”
“Affirmative,” said Sirena. “The firewall presented no problem. I’m transmitting the entire Whiplash database back to HQ now.”
“Good work,” said Agent J. “Anything else?”
“We’ve analyzed information about the project and all the people employed here,” said Morph, “and we’ve reached a worrying conclusion. We’re almost
certain that someone inside Techna-Stik is working with the people who stole Whiplash.”
“Any idea who?” said Agent J.
“Wait,” said Sirena. “Sensor readings show two humans are approaching this room.”
At that moment, the workshop door hummed open and in came Mr Haynes and Mr Oliphant. Agent J put the call on hold.
Mr Haynes, Techna-Stik’s UK Operations Director, was a middle-aged man with a deeply lined face and hooded eyes. Oliphant’s thin features looked drawn and tired. He was still feeling shaky from that morning’s attack. The technicians introduced them to Agent J.
“You’re from MI5?” said Mr Haynes.
“Yes,” lied Agent J. He showed Mr Haynes his fake ID.
Mr Haynes looked around. “Well, where are the others? I asked for a whole team to be put on this! Spies, police, the lot! Do you realize how serious this theft is?”
“I’m sure they do,” said Mr Oliphant with a touch of impatience. “We all do.”
“Everything possible is being done,” said Agent J. “As we speak, there are undercover agents assigned to the weapon’s recovery. What I’m more concerned about is the fact that the thieves must surely have had inside help.”
Mr Haynes shook his head angrily. “Everyone working on the Whiplash project was checked and re-checked. Everyone, even me! Police checks, background checks, every possible check you can think of. If they’d checked our dental records it wouldn’t have surprised me!”
“I can’t believe any member of staff here would do such a thing,” said Mr Oliphant. “They’d have to be desperate. You can’t exactly sell a weapon like Whiplash to some local crook.”
“The fact remains,” said Agent J, “that the thieves not only found out about Whiplash, but knew exactly when it would leave this building. I assume you protect this place from listening devices and cameras?”
“We have detectors in every room,” said Haynes. “I wouldn’t put anything past those swine at Gylbut Gadgets. They’re our main business rivals. But the staff here are loyal to the company. Techna-Stik is a major international corporation. We pay our workers well, and we look after them like family. It doesn’t make sense!”
“I’ll do some checking of my own, if I may,” said Agent J.
“Yes,” said Mr Haynes. “If Whiplash isn’t found fast, it won’t only be me who loses his job! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
He left the room, Oliphant trailing along behind him. Jones and Macathur returned to their work. Agent J returned to his conversation with the micro-robots.
“Suspects?” said Agent J quietly, watching Jones and Macarthur adjust an oscilloscope. Ripples of high-pitched sound bounced across the workshop as they twisted its dials.
“There are twelve Techna-Stik personnel who fit more than a few of the search parameters,” said Morph. “We checked against police records, employment histories, known access to Whiplash, and thirty-three other factors.”
“Only four are likely suspects,” said Sirena. “Technicians John Jones and Lewis Macarthur, Head of Projects Marcus Oliphant and UK Operations Director William Haynes.”
“However,” said Morph, “none of these four match enough parameters to make a positive ID on who is cooperating with the thieves. To begin with, none of them appears to have any motive for the crime. None whatsoever. As Mr Haynes said, Techna-Stik’s employees are loyal to the company.”
“Jones and Macarthur certainly seem unlikely crooks,” muttered Agent J. “Haynes would surely gain far more by selling Whiplash to the Ministry of Defence than risking his job and his company’s future by allowing it to be stolen. So he doesn’t seem likely either. And Oliphant was the one who got robbed this morning.”
“That could have been staged,” suggested Sirena.
“Why?” said Agent J. “He didn’t know SWARM was watching. Why fake a robbery, when you could just hand Whiplash over?”
“Perhaps he correctly assumed that the secret services would be taking an interest,” said Sirena. “The only thing we can say for certain is that we need more information!”
At that moment, three floors above, Haynes and Oliphant were making their way to a routine management meeting. Their footsteps were silent in the thickly carpeted corridor, and they spoke in low voices.
Haynes eyed Oliphant glumly. “The company might be in serious trouble here. As if there wasn’t enough to worry about!”
Oliphant’s phone began to ring. “I’ll catch you up in a minute,” he mumbled.
For a moment or two, Oliphant watched Mr Haynes marching away down the corridor, then he tapped at his phone. The call was one he’d been dreading. As soon as he heard the voice on the line, he began to sweat.
“Yes, I know,” he answered, his voice shaking slightly.
“I’m afraid we still haven’t received the payment you promised us last week,” said the woman. “You do understand what will happen if there are further defaults on these loans? I believe that my colleague here at the bank went through the procedure with you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m really sorry, Mr Oliphant, but we can only give you a few more days. After that, the bank will be forced to repossess your house, cars and other assets to clear the debt. We really must have a large repayment of money as soon as possible.”
“Yes,” said Mr Oliphant. “I understand.”
“I’m sorry, we have no other choice. We’ll be in touch.”
Mr Oliphant tapped shakily at his phone, then dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.
Back in the laboratory at SWARM headquarters, Professor Miller and Simon Turing were closely examining a stream of data files that Simon had retrieved from Chopper the dragonfly’s memory. The files contained masses of information gathered during the theft of Whiplash.
“This is the best we’ve got,” said Simon. He reached across the 3D computer display that hung in mid-air above one of the workbenches. A set of virtual folders swirled around in the blue haze of the display until, with a twist of Simon’s hand, a single file separated out from the others.
It swung upright to reveal a blurred photograph of a face.
“It was taken at high speed,” said Simon, “so there’s rather a lot of blurring, but this guy must have taken off his balaclava and looked around. He was in the front passenger seat of the BMW, I think he was checking to see if the car was being followed. Do you see?”
Professor Miller nodded. His bald head seemed to glow pale blue in the light from the computer display. “This is the only shot of a face we have?” he asked.
“Yes, Chopper was trying to keep tabs on all the thieves at once and fly close enough to the car to gather data. He was lucky to get this, to be honest.”
“Let’s see what the Secret Intelligence Agency’s database makes of it,” said the Professor. He tapped at a nearby keyboard.
The 3D display bleeped and the photo was suddenly surrounded by a series of lines and numbers. Hundreds of faces flashed past at lightning speed. The image was being cross-checked against the information held by the SIA on known crooks and terrorists.
Simon Turing waited nervously, his fingers tapping at the workbench. A few seconds later, the display bleeped twice and a section of text scrolled up in front of Simon’s eyes, along with newspaper clippings and more photos.
“Bingo!” declared Simon with a grin. “Our suspect’s name is Michael Kevin Bullman.”
The Professor stood at Simon’s shoulder.
“Known eco-terrorist and mercenary,” continued Simon. “He’s run various gangs and paramilitary squads in the past. He’s got a police file as long as a giraffe’s neck, and he’s currently wanted in connection with the destruction of a dam in Malaysia and the burning down of an office block in Paris.”
The Professor was already calling Queen Bee’s number at the communicator on the wall. “Any associates?” he said.
“Several,” said Simon, reading from the display. “Most notably Augustus Tiberius Fraser.
What a name!”
Queen Bee’s face appeared on the 3D display. The Professor told her what they’d discovered.
“Good work!” said Queen Bee. “Look for location leads. Are there any unusual properties listed against this Bullman? Somewhere the gang might be using to hide Whiplash?”
Simon quickly checked through the data, one finger scrolling the text inside the display. “He’s listed as having no fixed address, as such. Although… Ah! In the last week he’s started renting a large lock-up beneath a railway arch just south of the River Thames, near Vauxhall Cross. Using a fake ID, of course.”
“That’s where they’ll be,” said Queen Bee.
“If we make a move on them,” said Simon, “we’ll really annoy the cops. According to this data, they got wise to the fake ID and are preparing to raid the place themselves.”
“Tough,” said Queen Bee. “Recovering Whiplash is more important. We must move in before the police do.”
“Logged, Queen Bee,” said Simon.
Queen Bee’s face loomed large in the display. “Mission objective is to detain our suspects and recover Whiplash,” she said. “Launch the SWARM!”
A computerized voice spoke from the ceiling. “Active mode authorized. Micro-agents online.”
“I’m live,” said Chopper the dragonfly.
“I’m live,” came the deeper, slower voice of Hercules the stag beetle.
The SWARM robots’ high-tech, cage-like boxes glided up out of the workbench. Each was brightly lit from inside. Tiny red and green lights flashed in sequence and a hum of power pulsed through the room.
One by one, the insectoid robots activated. Legs flexed, antennae twitched.
“I’m live,” each of the robots said in turn: Widow the spider; Nero the scorpion; Morph the centipede; Sirena the butterfly; and Sabre the mosquito, now fully repaired.
The cages slid open and the SWARM emerged on to the workbench.
Simon grinned at the Professor. “Those bad guys won’t know what hit them.”
Operation Sting Page 3