The space at the bottom of the stairs was about the size of a large conference room. There were no windows. On one of the long sides of room were banks and banks of, what Sam assumed were, computers, hard-drives and other technical equipment. The end wall held six large computer screens. One was showing a muted CNN, the other five were awash with charts and information that Sam couldn’t make out.
The second, long wall to her left was what interested her most.
Top to tail it was a transparent display board. It must have been five metres long and two high; it filled the whole wall. Cleverly, the board displayed computer-generated photographs and information,[RJ10] although[RJ11] how the images were projected onto or from behind the wall was a mystery to her.
Wolfgang was watching her intently.
‘It’s non-opaque liquid crystal. Embedded in glass. If you look very closely you can see the individual cells and the micron-thick wires that turn them on, change their colour and turn them off. It’s fun, isn’t it?’
But Sam wasn’t listening. She’d got past the sexy Minority Report screen and how clever it was. She was much more interested in what it was displaying. She’d made it to the centre of the room. She faced the LCD-painted wall, her mouth slightly ajar.
Top-middle of the massive display board was the crest of The Church of the White Cross: a black background with a white crucifix that appeared to be being strangled by white thorns. The next level down, in a horizontal line, were the flags of eleven countries: the US, the UK, Germany, Spain, Italy, Croatia, Russia, Sweden, Venezuela, Mexico and Austria. Under these flags appeared to be spaces for five portrait photos - mug shots. Two, above two, above one. Only about a third of the spaces were filled with a photo. Under each photo there was space for a name. About half were filled. A couple of the spaces had names, but no image.
Sam scanned it all quickly. She stopped, hovering on a face she recognised, holding her breath. She flicked her eyes from that photo and scanned until she recognised another. And then three more.
This is madness.
Underneath the country mugshots, along the bottom of the display board was a space for other photos. There were six faces, but there was space for more. She immediately recognised two of them. One in particular jolted her as if she had stepped on a landmine. She held her breath.
What the …
Sam was silent. But at least now she was breathing. Shallowly. Wolfgang was also quiet. He was letting her grasp the enormity of what she was looking at. The sound of computer fans filled the room - a quiet, but ever-present hum. She scanned the images again. There were 37.
She had seen the images and the names. She remembered them. She could now pick out any of the faces in a police line-up. That’s the way it worked.
‘What is this, Wolfgang?’ Her hands spread apart, encompassing the whole board.
He stepped forward so that he was a few inches from the screen. He touched one of the images with a finger and a mass of information appeared next to the mugshot. It looked like a Wikipedia entry.
He stared intently at the board, his face reflected in the glass.
‘I haven’t left the house in two and a half years. I spend nearly every moment of every day down here. I have built this …’, it was his turn to demonstrate everything in the room, ‘... with my bare hands. And this …’, he now pointed at the screen, ‘... is the sum of its labour.’
He removed his finger and the detail disappeared. He tenderly touched another. More detail appeared.
‘OK, Wolfgang. I get that. But what is it?’
Sam knew what it was, but she wanted Wolfgang to explain it. It was his take on the hierarchy of The Church of the White Cross, the organisation the CIA had taken down just under three years ago in Abilene, Texas. The Church was an ultra-orthodox Christian sect that had orchestrated a number of anti-Islamic attacks across North America and Europe. Bizarrely, but cleverly, they had funded and supported Islamic terror plots so as to inflame Western sensitivity against Muslims. Fuelling the fire of a smouldering religious war.
As an SIS case officer in Moscow, she had access to nearly all of SIS’s files. In her few spare moments, she had kept a check on The Church and what her pals in the UK - and their counterparts in the CIA - were doing about it. From what she could glean, the US had done a pretty good job of pulling the organisation apart, both in the States and with help from the likes of Europol, in Europe. As far as she knew, it was defunct. Toothless.
Wolfgang obviously didn’t agree with that prognosis.
He turned to Sam, his face now etched with passion.
‘This is them, Sam. It’s the bastards who killed my mother and almost killed us. Unlike her, they remain a living being. A functioning organisation. They have tentacles all over the world, they continue to promote and enact their own form of terrorism and, who knows what they are planning next? They almost killed the German chancellor. You prevented that! What will these people do next?’
Sam didn’t say anything. She went up to a mugshot she recognised. It was under the Russian flag. She gently put her finger on the man who had dominated her life twelve months ago. A drop-down list appeared.
The title was: Nikolay Sokolov. She would never forget his face. She blinked at the blurb and recognised every word. At the bottom, in red letters, were the words: DECEASED.
Sokolov? The Church of the White Cross?
No?
She moved to a second photo. It was at the bottom of the screen, and not associated with a country. The face was that of the black man, Ralph Bell. The face that pervaded her consciousness, night and day. He was ex-CIA and involved with both the Ebola terror incident and the British Special Reconnaissance Regiment abductions and murders. Their paths had crossed too many times for comfort. He was a monster of the first order. She was sure that Wolfgang harboured the same feelings. She touched his face - information appeared. Some of it she recognised. Other stuff was new. She memorised it.
The third, also at the bottom, was the biggest surprise to her. The photo was of Paul Mitchell. He was the founder of the hugely successful electronic currency: e-dollar, a rival to Bitcoin. He was assumed dead. He had been kidnapped from his yacht by Somali pirates in 2013 - and then murdered. She touched his face. She scanned the words and remembered them - there was no DECEASED on the bottom of the factsheet. That was correct. She knew he was alive.
Because his were the eyes she’d seen in Alpbach this morning.
She touched the two final photos of the faces she recognised, and read the blurbs. A very senior UK politician. An Italian monsignor, very high up in the Vatican. The rest would have to wait.
‘Sokolov was a member of The Church?’
Wolfgang nodded.
‘And, are you sure about Mitchell?’
‘Yes.’ He said quietly, his chin resting on his hand. ‘I believe he’s the equivalent of me - does The Church’s programming and hacking.’
‘And you’ve got all of this …’, she pointed at the screen, ‘... from all of this.’ She pointed at the computers.
He nodded.
‘How confident are you? I mean, the UK politician? Really?’
Wolfgang moved quickly over to one of the consoles under the four screens on the side wall. He made a few keystrokes on a pad and the whole large screen changed[RJ12]. All the country flags were gone, as were all the mugshots. In their place were about 100 new photos of, nearly all, men. They weren’t all head shots. Some were fuzzy pictures, taken from a distance. Some looked to be glossy shots from a magazine. Some might have been captured from a news clip.
‘These are the ones I’m not sure about.’ He was excited now. ‘Each country - and currently I only have eleven confirmed, but there could be more - has five major players. One in politics. One in the military. One is a policeman. One’s a spy. And one’s in religion. It’s cellular. Each one of these may control many more within their organisations - hence this set of photos.’ He was pointing at the board. ‘I am pretty confident
The Church works on controlling or influencing a country using the five strands.’ He held up a hand: four fingers and a thumb. He moved each as he spoke. ‘Politics, military, police, intelligence and church. Five - nearly exclusively - men. High up in those organisations in each country. If you own those, you have control and reach.’
Sam couldn’t compute the photos in front of her. There were too many. So, she didn’t try. Her mind was reeling with the enormity of it all. That Sokolov was a member of The Church. Did that really make sense? That the man she’d crossed this morning would pop up on an e-display in a Munich cellar this evening. It was too bizarre for words.
But ...
Was this just fanaticism? Had Wolfgang suffered too much? Was he clutching at straws? Seeing things that weren’t actually there? None of SIS’s weekly bulletins had mentioned The Church of the White Cross. And, if he had this, surely SIS would have it too?
‘Did you get this from any country’s intelligence services? How did you know what I was up to? How did you find out about Sokolov? Have you been spying on me?’
So many questions.
Wolfgang deflected. ‘I am a hacker; a programmer. Albeit a passive one. You know me Sam, you know what I can do? I have some access to the BND, the German Secret Service, network. And, yes, I have been able to look at some of the stuff the SIS in Vauxhall have been up to.’
Sam was about to say something, but Wolfgang was on a roll.
‘I think I know more than anyone. Your ex-people may have some more depth here and there, but I’m guessing that nobody is looking at The Church of the White Cross as I am; worldwide. It’s alive Sam. And working in at least eleven countries that I’m aware of.’
He’d moved to the centre of the main screen and faced her. He took her hand in his. They were a few inches apart. Sam looked into his eyes. Behind the tiredness and the worn expression, she could see a fire burning brightly.
‘Why were you going to phone me?’
He smiled a half-smile.
‘Because … because, I need your help. There’s only so much I can do here, in this cellar. I need someone on the ground. Someone out there.’ He shot a glance skyward. ‘And you’re very good at that.’
Sam looked back at the screen. Glanced at Sokolov, then Mitchell and finally to Bell.
‘I’ve seen this and read some of the detail, Wolfgang. You know I won’t forget any of it. As a result, I’m going to have to share this with my old friends. You understand that?’
Wolfgang contorted his face and then let out a sigh. He rocked his head from side-to-side.
‘I know. I know. But, please, please, do not mention where you have got this from. I am safe here. I feel safe. The techniques I use are so technically arcane, no one can find me. And Inge. I love her Sam. I couldn’t bear to lose her. You understand that.’ He released Sam’s hand.
A bell rang.
‘That’ll be Elisabeth.’ His tone had changed. It was lighter - frivolous. He started hobbling off toward the stairs.
‘I’ll go, Wolfgang.’ Sam’s voice followed him.
Still walking, he turned his head.
‘You can’t. You won’t be able to get out.’ He had the keys out of his pocket and jangled them.
She let him go, turned back to the board for a second and then wandered around the room. Whilst touching the computer towers she looked back at the screen. She took none of it in - her brain was still in a tizz.
Wolfgang was a genius behind the keyboard. Her SIS colleagues had been in awe of his abilities. But he was also broken. Maybe irrecoverably. Someone upstairs had played him; messed badly with his life. And she knew what that could do to a person. She had been there; lost loved ones. Faced death; sometimes longed for it. She had muddled through by throwing caution out of the window and then slamming it shut. And, so far, she had only just survived.
But he was significantly brighter than she was, and who knows how major trauma might affect such a brilliant mind.
Was this all the work of an unhinged person? Was he desperate to find things that weren’t actually there?
Sam wasn’t sure. But, the events of today were in his favour. She’d recognised Paul Mitchell this morning. She was convinced of it. A man presumed dead. A man who didn’t want to be found? And, minutes later, someone seemed intent on doing her harm. Now, she was staring at his photograph under the banner of an organisation she knew were ruthless beyond compare. It was as good an explanation of her rubbish day as any other she could think of.
Maybe he was right?
He came back down the stairs balancing a cafetière of coffee and two porcelain mugs. All on a silver salver.
‘OK, Wolfgang. What now?’
Chapter 3
Creech US Air Force Base, Las Vegas
Rick glanced up from his secure laptop and stared absently out of the window. Clear blue skies. It must be close to 70 degrees outside. And it was only January. That was fine for everyone else, but for him the gloss of a Las Vegas posting had very quickly proven to be veneer-thick. The draw of the sunshine and The Strip had lost its magnetism. He had no appetite for a trip into town. None at all. More important, he had no time. He needed to fathom out what went wrong with his Reaper the night before last.
He stood and stretched, checking his watch as he did. It was 6.23 pm. He’d been at this, in his mess room, all day and most of last night. Poring over the computer logs from his Reaper’s mission. Looking time and again at the sync between the GPS signal and the on-board gyroscopic nav system. He wasn’t getting anywhere. Whichever way he looked at it, the data told the same unfathomable story.
He walked over to the small kitchen: a half-refrigerator, a single electric stove and a sink. He put the kettle on. He needed more coffee. Although, as his stomach reminded him, he should probably eat something. He would. Soon. He’d spend another hour looking at everything he had. Then he’d leave his room, go to the canteen and get something to fill his stomach.
It had been a torrid 48 hours. The colonel had called him and Lance in at 8.30 yesterday morning. The major was there, as was the man in the suit. He standing at the back as before. The boss sat ‘all official’, behind his desk.
The colonel had started by saying they’d had a complaint from the Colombian government about an airframe incursion into their territory the previous evening. The details the colonel gave were surprisingly accurate considering the Reaper is just a drone and has a minimal radar signature.
‘What went wrong, Master Sergeant Rodgers?’ The colonel’s tone was sharp; uncompromising. He added, ‘This’d better be good.’
Rick explained what had happened. It was a mirror of what he had published in his post-flight report. The colonel already had it warts ‘n all. The drone had jumped mid-mission, veered off one course onto another; almost as if a new GPS signal had come on line. Rick had taken control within, maybe, ten seconds. But as they were so close to the border it had been impossible to alter the course quickly enough to prevent an incursion. Reapers weren’t F16s; they don’t turn on a pin. It takes time to spin them around.
The colonel listened impassively. His face displaying annoyance.
When Rick finished, the colonel waited. He’d picked up a pen and was jabbing the nib onto a pad. He was staring at Rick, who was sure he saw the colonel’s nostrils billowing.
‘Well, we’re doing our best to sort this out at governmental level. What is uncomfortable for us is whether or not this leaks to the Venezuelans. I assumed you guessed that what we were doing was without their consent?
The colonel didn’t have[RJ13] a chance to hang a question mark on the end of his sentence. The response from behind Rick was sharp.
‘That’s enough Colonel McIntyre. I don’t think these men need to know any more.’
Rick turned and caught the expression on the suit’s face. It was daggers. The colonel had just crossed a line of his own.
You and I both, boss.
The colonel coughed. And then went on the atta
ck.
‘Rodgers - you’re grounded.’
What?
‘I need you to look over your Reaper’s readouts and establish what happened last night. However, you are to do this on your own. Under no circumstances are you to engage with any other member of the base. This mission remains top-secret - only the five of us.’ The colonel used a finger to quickly point around the room. ‘Because of that, I have removed all of your security permissions, except those pertaining to your bird and its peripherals.’
With that bombshell he stood up, walked round his desk and placed an arm on Rick’s shoulder.
Bad cop had just turned not so bad cop.
‘You’re a good pilot Rick. And we need good pilots. This may have been an avionics anomaly - and there is nothing in your report that isn’t corroborated in Captain Travis’s.’ He nodded to Lance who was standing to attention beside Rick. ‘But, in the end you were the pilot. It was your mission. You have to sort this out.’
He removed his hand from Rick’s shoulder and walked back round the desk.
‘You have three days. If you can’t establish a viable rationale for what went wrong in that time, then we’re going to have to rethink the whole mission strategy.’ He paused. Rick realised soon enough that it was for effect. ‘And then we’ll have to reconsider your position as a pilot here with the 432nd. So, find out what happened. And, can I remind you that you are on your own - we cannot afford to widen this investigation to include any other members of the base. Is that understood?’
At that point Rick wanted to ask, ‘And, if I can’t work out why my Reaper decided to have a fit, then where will you send me?’ But decided against it.
‘Yessir.’
The colonel pointed to Lance.
‘Captain Travis, you’re assigned back to al-Udeid. Report to the ops room once this meeting is over. They are expecting you. Not a word about this mission. Understood?’
‘Yessir!’
Rick got the impression that Lance was very pleased with the last order.
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