What am I playing at?
A tear dropped onto her cotton slacks. It left a dark stain against the dreadfully beige material. She couldn’t even get her fashion sense right. No wonder her lovers were always gone by the morning.
And yet … and yet, she still believed in herself. She did. Resolutely so. Her mind didn’t play tricks on her. It didn’t. Her eyes saw things; and they read things. Her brain stored them. Compartmentalised them for easy access. That’s how it worked. And it hadn’t been broken yet.
She had seen Paul Mitchell’s eyes outside the Böglerhof yesterday. And, if she needed corroboration, Wolfgang had his mugshot plastered on his cellar wall. In both cases he was alive and well. What had been Wolfgang’s corroboration? ‘I have seen code on the Dark Web, which had been written by Mitchell - on a recently defunct website. It was no more than six months old, used fleetingly by The Church. Expert programmers are like old masters. They have an unmistakable coding style. I recognised Mitchell’s style immediately.’
Could they both be wrong?
She wiped her tears away with the cuff of her fleece. The cogs had stopped whirring. She had calmed down. She was still feeling sorry for herself, but, you know, sod them. Being down had never stopped her before.
She turned the Golf over. Its 227 bhp engine (she’d read it somewhere) burst into life. Sam had already driven about 200 kilometres in the new car. And was loving it. Shame it was bright red. Hardly a car for the incognito.
She stuck the Golf in gear, pulled out of its parking space and sped off onto the autobahn.
Sam had a plan. Well - it was a next step.
Hardly a plan.
She’d catch the ferry. Hook of Holland to Harwich - not an obvious choice if you were looking for a bright red Golf GTi. She’d go and see Mrs Mitchell. Give her the good news. Tell her that her husband was alive. Alive and well. And skiing in the Austrian Alps
And then she’d see what the woman’s reaction was.
Chapter 4
Samostan Monastery, Punat Bay, Krk, Croatia
Jakov was wide awake. He was sitting up with one of those full-width bed trays providing a shelf for a fulsome lunch that had been brought in by a monk. A monk. At least he knew he was still on the island; in the monastery. He tried to engage the monk, who was dressed traditionally in a brown wool habit, but got nothing back in return. Just a lunch of meat, cheese and bread - and a mug of decent coffee.
The monk freed Jakov’s left arm to allow him to eat. He was hungry. He didn’t know whether to scoff first or ask a belly-full of questions.
He tried to do both.
Between mouthfuls.
‘Why am I being kept here against my will?’
Nothing. He chomped some food.
‘My name is Jakov Vuković. Could you please let the authorities know where I am?’
Still nothing. He had a swig of coffee and changed tack.
‘What’s your name?’
The monk was sitting on the same stool the deranged man had sat on earlier that morning. He still didn’t reply; he didn’t even look Jakov in the eye.
Jakov tried six or seven other questions as he finished his lunch. There was no reply to any of them. Once the plate and mug were empty the monk re-strapped his arm, picked up the tray, and left.
That was about an hour ago. And now he needed to go to the toilet. Pretty badly.
‘Hey! Anyone there?’ Nothing. ‘I need to go to the toilet!’ He shouted.
Nothing.
He looked around him. On one side of the bed were the drips. On the other a metal rack with three machines, one of which displayed his pulse. The other two were all knobs and switches, and some other displays showing stuff he didn’t comprehend.
Ahh!
On top of the rack, next to a box which dispensed surgical gloves, was a small, white plastic box with a red push-button on top.
But he couldn’t reach it. His arms were strapped to the bed. He farcically attempted to reach the button with his nose, by stretching his torso and extending his neck. It wasn’t going to happen.
Shit!
He was frustrated as hell; he felt tears rising.
There was movement at the door’s window. It opened and a monk came in.
Are they telepathic?
The monk turned immediately right and stood by the door, holding it open. In walked the deranged man. In three strides he was next to the morphine drip; he reached for the red butterfly switch.
Jakov felt his bowels move.
‘Wait! Stop!’
The deranged man paused. Theatrically - both hands no more than a centimetre from the drip. He looked down at Jakov. His face impassive.
‘What? You have decided to be good and do as we wish?’
Jakov was both scared stiff and now very uncomfortable. He felt a wet warmth between his buttocks and the sheet. Soon there would be a smell.
‘Yes, of course! What is it that you want?’ High pitched and pleading. Not a great sound.
The deranged man visibly sniffed. He wafted one hand in front of his nose. He shook his head.
‘Oh dear.’ The deranged man moved away from the bed and stood by the monk. It was all play-acting. If Jakov wasn’t tied to the bed and being threatened with his life - and if he hadn’t just crapped himself - he would have loved to have leapt up and punched the man in the face.
‘Look, Jakov Vuković, it’s very simple. My friend here,’ he gestured to the monk who was looking straight ahead - no expression, ‘will sort this mess out,’ he waved at the bed, ‘and look after you whilst you are fixed. And then we will set you to work.’
The deranged man was nodding quickly, small darting movements, like it was a question.
Jakov nodded back.
‘There will be rules and restrictions. And some pretty unpleasant consequences if you don’t do exactly, and I mean exactly, what we say.’ He nodded vigorously again. Jakov did the same.
The deranged man’s face lightened.
‘So, we have an agreement. Good!’ He clapped his hands. ‘I’m so pleased. Whilst I am a lover of the red switch, I do like it when we take on a new member of the team. Think of it as helping with Croatia’s burgeoning unemployment.’
He looked at his watch.
‘Now, if you don’t mind, I have more important things to do. My friend here will attend to you.’
As he turned to leave, Jakov shouted after him, ‘What do I call you?’
The deranged man stopped dead in his tracks, his back to Jakov. It was another theatrical move. He turned his head slowly, looking down over his shoulder. At that point Jakov noticed his thick, dark eyebrows. They defined his face and cast a shadow over his menacing eyes.
‘You don’t call me anything. You don’t speak to me unless I ask you a question. And, my friend here,’ he gestured to the monk, ‘and his very nice pals, have sworn an oath of silence. So, you won’t get much from them either.’
He strode out of the room shouting behind him, ‘If I were you I’d get used to my own company ….’ The words trailing as he walked away down whatever corridor he was in.
Headquarters SIS, Vauxhall, London
Jane gathered her things into a reasonably neat pile on the conference table in front of her. Her team were leaving - the only action fell to one of her senior staff: select the best case officer currently completing their Arabic language training and dispatch them to Qatar - asap. If that meant cutting their language course short, then so be it. They could find fluency on the job.
She’d asked Frank to stay behind. He loitered beside her as the remaining members of the team left the glass-walled room.
‘You wanted to see me, Frank? Something about the USS Beaverbrook? It’s hardly our area?’
She offered Frank a chair next to her. He sat.
Frank was her best analyst. He’d been in the team for eight years, at first alongside Sam and, when she left to become a case officer, he took the mantle of lead analyst. He was very good and tha
nkfully lacked ambition to move on. Mid-height, scruffy dark hair, jeans and a Status Quo t-shirt and, now with an analyst’s paunch, he was as much a part of Babylon’s furniture as she was.
‘Thanks Jane. I was pondering over the weekend, you see. And I’ve been in touch with a pal of mine at Langley. We’re both thinking along the same lines. I know it’s not …’
Jane smiled and held up a hand. Frank was gabbling.
‘Slow down Frank. I’ve got a bit of time for this. What’s the conspiracy?’
‘Do you mind?’ He showed Jane his secure SIS Samsung phone, using it to point at the beamer that was on the table in front of them.
‘Go ahead.’ Jane made herself slightly more comfortable. Frank had a slideshow. This may take a while.
Actually, it didn’t. He only had three slides, which[RJ19] he explained with the clarity of a secondary school teacher.
The first slide showed, diagrammatically, the satellite orbits of the 31 US Department of Defense (D0D) GPS satellites. Frank explained that each satellite travelled at 7,000 miles-an-hour, at an altitude of 12,000 miles above the earth. Satellites maintain their very exacting orbit with small thruster rockets; they last around ten years and are constantly being replaced.
‘And these birds are the same ones we all use? Satnavs[RJ20] and mobiles?’ Jane interrupted.
‘Yes. Correct. Except Joe Public’s accuracy is limited - they don’t have the level of permissions that the DoD have. But we all get our navigational info from the same 31 satellites.’
He swiped on his phone.
Frank described the second slide - how GPS works at the receiver’s end. If you can lock onto three satellites you get positional details - in lat and long; to an accuracy of half a metre if you have a military spec receiver. Five metres, for mere commoners. If you lock onto a fourth satellite you can access the third dimension: altitude above sea level. The fourth dimension (Jane’s brain was struggling to cope with anything more than three), time, was available by receiving just one satellite signal.
‘GPS works in any weather and, as most receivers can normally pick up more than four satellites, GPS is pretty bomb proof.’ Frank completed slide two.
Jane thought she now had a bit of an idea of where this was going.
‘Who guards the guards?’ She asked.
Frank smiled at the ancient Roman reference.
‘You mean, who controls the satellites?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘You’re ahead of me.’
The third slide was a 2-D map of the world. Marked on it were twelve locations.
Frank explained. ‘‘The master-control station is located at Schriever Air Force Base in Colorado Springs.’ Frank used a laser pointer to mark the spot. ‘Originally there were five monitor-stations: Cape Canaveral, Florida; Hawaii; Ascension Island in the Atlantic Ocean; Diego Garcia Atoll in the Indian Ocean; and Kwajalein Island in the South Pacific.’ Again, he used his laser pointer to show the locations.
‘Six additional monitoring stations were added in 2005: locations in Argentina, Bahrain, the UK, Ecuador, Washington DC, and Australia. Each of the stations checks the exact altitude, position, speed, and overall health of the orbiting satellites.’
Jane put her hand up again. Frank paused. She stood and walked to the green-tinged window that had views over the Thames. She gently placed a hand again the glass.
‘Could someone mess with the GPS?’ She asked.
‘It’s possible.’ Replied Frank. ‘My CIA pal tells me that you could alter the data beamed to a single GPS satellite if you hacked into one of the monitoring stations. It’s a big “if”. It’s been tried before - with no success.’
‘Which could then transmit rogue positional [RJ21]data to anyone who was in line of sight to receive it? Altering the course of a US frigate, for example?’
‘Yes, but no.’
‘What do you mean?’ Jane was facing Frank now.
‘There are too many safeguards. Even if you could hack into the system and alter the positional[RJ22] data transmitted by a single GPS satellite - which my Langley friend tells me is impossible - as most receivers pick up at least eight GPS signals any rogue data would be dismissed. Out of hand.’
Jane though for a second.
‘Like eight separate pieces of advice; say, girlfriends telling you whether to date a guy or not - where seven of them are saying “no” and the eighth saying “yes”. You’d disregard the rogue advice?’
Frank seemed confused by the analogy. Relationships weren’t his thing.
‘Pretty much, I guess. In any case, if that were to happen and the destroyer changed course accordingly, then every other GPS receiver in a 500-mile radius would have gone haywire as well. You’d have had ships, planes and automobiles altering course all over the place. A 747 destined for KL would have landed on a non-existent runway forty miles away. We would have noticed.’
‘Then, why do you think the Beaverbrook’s crash is linked to the GPS system?’ Jane pointed at the slide on the wall.
‘Every GPS receiver has its own unique serial number which is embedded in a pretty unsophisticated microchip. What the clever hacker would need to do is speak directly to that receiver. Give it separate instructions. Single it out for special navigational treatment.’
Jane looked at her watch. She was tiring. She needed to heed Claire’s advice and head on home. Tomorrow’s JIC meeting required her fullest attention.
‘But you just told me that your CIA pal reckons that you can’t get into the system. So how can you possibly do that?’
Frank breathed out heavily. He looked as tired as Jane felt. His team’s plate was full of Syrian and Afghanistani images. They were trying desperately to establish a link between the Syrian regime and the Taliban in southwest Afghanistan. If those two organisations came together it would make a very capable terrorist grouping. It was sapping work, staring at screens all day. No wonder he was excited by something as unlikely as rogue GPS signals.
‘The USS Beaverbrook altered course at 3.46 am, two Wednesdays ago. It wasn’t a dramatic change - the e-log report shows about four degrees. The course alteration was recommended by the onboard navigational computer and sanctioned by the second XO, sorry executive officer.’
Jane waved her hand dismissively. She knew what XO meant.
‘It was a dark but clear night. All of the ship’s emergency systems were working. After ten minutes an alarm sounded. The XO spotted the Greek container ship on the radar - they were just three miles apart and closing at fifteen knots. He took immediate action, altered course and informed the captain. As the ship veered away from the collision, the container ship nudged its course towards the destroyer. The XO couldn’t avoid a collision. The rest is history.’
‘Why did the computer recommend a change[RJ23] of course?’ Jane asked.
‘The more interesting question is “why did the Greek container ship also alter its course to expedite the crash?”’
‘That is a more interesting question. Do we know the answer?’
Frank had a resigned look on his face. He’d obviously only got so far.
‘The Greek shipping company are keeping their investigation on close hold. We know two things. First the ship was on autopilot. Second the ship’s VDR, sorry Voyage Data Recorder - it’s a ship’s equivalent of an aircraft’s black box - shows a change of course enacted by the autopilot at about the same time the frigate initially altered its course. They were both following rogue data - data they appeared to have received at the same time. Data that sent them on a collision course.’
Jane’s tiredness was gone now. Whilst completely out of her area, this was fascinating stuff.
‘And how do you give two ships’ GPSs the wrong coordinates?’
Frank played with his phone. The beamer went black. He stood.
‘We don’t know; yet. But my Langley pal and I think that if you talk to the satellite yourself …’
‘What, like beaming from your
own ground-based station?’ Jane interrupted.
‘Yes.’ Frank waved his arms about loosely. ‘You know, speak to individual GPS receivers via a satellite and override the incoming GPS data. Navigational microsurgery, if you like. Use the receiver’s unique reference number. Tell them they’re not where they think they are. The autopilot does the rest. Sounds fanciful?’
Jane recognised that they were at the end of the sum of all knowledge. She gathered her things to leave.
‘And your oppo has had this conversation with his boss?’
‘He’s going to today. He expects to get laughed out of the building. But he’s not sure anyone else has a better answer.’
Jane smiled and moved to the door. She opened it and beckoned Frank out.
‘Get in touch with the Defence Science and Technology Lab (dstl) and get a boffin on it. Hand it over to them for a couple of days and then crack on with the mid-Asian problem. Come back to me if and when you have something. Clear?’
Frank was out in the main, open-plan office - 40 ‘hot-desks’, nearly all of which were filled with a mix of case officers and analysts.
‘Sure thing, Jane.’
Jane touched his arm.
‘Well done Frank. Good effort.’
Convention Center Drive, Las Vegas, US
Rick was heading west along Convention Centre Drive. High to his left was The Encore resort. Closer, to his right, was a small shopping mall where 45 minutes previously he had left his car. Having eaten too much food at a small roadside diner on the way in from Creech, he had parked up and gone for a long walk - with no particular ambition. He needed to get away from uniform. Away from the base; the smell of AVTUR and constant melody of groups of airmen jogging round the camp singing out the latest marching song.
And he needed some provisions. Some coffee and some butter. The shopping mall on Convention Centre Drive was as good a place as any to stock up. He’d do that next.
His pace was brisk, the late winter sunshine hot enough to make him sweat. He’d worn shorts, t-shirt and his new trainers. He could have been any tourist who had roamed away from The Strip. He liked that. Incognito.
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