Sam’s pursuer found his car (red BMW 320; registration - tick) and didn’t hang about. By the time the Beemer had wheel-spun its way out of the car park, the trike was at Sam’s side - no lights (clever).
As Sam jumped on the back she asked, ‘What is this?’
Over the noise of the engine, she picked out what she could from Ginny’s reply.
‘Canadian … Slingshot … 173 horsepower … friggin awesome.’
Indeed it is.
Ginny drove like a decent tail, and Sam was pretty sure the driver of the BMW hadn’t spotted them. The fact that he’d taken them to an address was a good indication that that was the case.
And now Sam took it all in.
Brickell Avenue. Semi-skyscraper office blocks. A post office over there.
The road looked deserted. A single cab broke the desolation. Then it was quiet again.
Without getting off the trike she studied the building the car had entered. Three big windows wide. Five storeys tall. Decorated with beige block facing. Probably 30 years old - maybe older if the facing was a new addition. Set back from the road with low steps leading to main door.
‘It’s the Venezuelan Consulate,’ said Ginny. She had turned her head. ‘That is, it was the Consulate until President Chavez decided to close it. In 2012, I think. The woman in charge was indicted and expelled by the US government. She was working with a Mexican crew, apparently hacking into the White House.’
Sam didn’t respond initially. She was watching a series of lights come on on the first floor. One - two - three. Sadly, it was impossible to see what was going on behind the blinds.
Venezuelan Consulate?
Circles within circles.
‘How do you know these things?’ Sam asked.
‘I might be wearing a blonde wig, but I can read.’
Sam laughed.
‘Any idea who’s using it now?’
‘No, sorry.’
Sam got off the trike and jogged over the road. She looked for telltale signs. For any indication of who might be using the building now. She spotted a state-of-the-art surveillance camera in a corner of the recessed door.
Fuck!
Too late.
Idiot.
She smiled at the camera, giving it the briefest of waves.
She yelled across the street. ‘Don’t look this way. Drive down the road for about 100 yards. I’ll meet you there.’
The Slingshot drummed into life and took off. Sam jogged down the pavement, crossing the road at the last minute.
‘Sorry, there was a camera. I’m pretty certain you and the trike were not covered. They got me though.’
Sam jumped on.
‘Where now?’ Asked Ginny.
‘I need a cell and some Wi-Fi. Then I need to wake up a pal of mine in Europe. Can you help?’
‘Sure. My place. I can even do you some coffee.’
Flemingstraße, Munich, Germany
A phone icon appeared on Wolfgang’s screen, accompanied by a gentle buzz on the computer’s speakers. The number below the icon was a +1 mobile - a US cell number. He let it ring whilst copying the number, opening a tab and pasting the number into a dialogue box. He was just about to press ‘Return’ and let one of his bespoke programmes identify the number up, when the icon disappeared. It was swiftly replaced with an SMS which read ‘It’s me. Pick up the phone. S’
A few seconds later the phone rang again. This time he clicked on the icon.
‘Hi. Good to hear from you.’ No names.
‘Hi. I’ve some Wi-Fi router details - can you do your magic?’
‘Sure. SMS them through now.’
‘Roger.’
The phone went dead.
Wolfgang smiled. It was good to hear Sam’s voice - to know she was OK. That she’d finished with ‘Roger’, the British military’s end-of-radio transmission signature used to let the other end know that you understood all of the instructions. She’d taught him to use it in Berlin. She didn’t use it often, but when she did it always made him smile.
‘Frank!’ Wolfgang raised his voice. Frank was sleeping on a blow-up bed they’d brought down into the cellar. ‘I don’t want to miss a thing,’ had been his mantra last night. Wolfgang had obliged. There was a half-finished plate of pork sandwiches beside the bed, and an empty jug of coffee and messy cup on the side by one of the towers. Wolfgang would get him upstairs for breakfast.
Which would be soon.
It was 6.30 am. He hadn’t slept, and it felt like it. Frank had made it to 3 am before excusing himself. Wolfgang hadn’t been able to stop - although the relief of hearing Sam’s voice spread a wave of tiredness through him that quickly sapped at his strength and leadened his eyelids.
He would keep going. He had to.
As Sam’s SMS came through, Frank was up and beside him - the smell of waking maleness pursuing him like a puppy. They both needed a shower.
‘It’s Sam. I’ll have her live in a second.’
Wolfgang opened a series of tabs, typing instructions as he went.
‘What are you doing?’ Frank asked.
‘I’m accessing a Wi-Fi router in the US, I think. Sam has sent me the signature code and WAP hex key. I should be in in a second.’
‘Dark Web?’
‘Yes. Via 14 separate ISPs and multiple switching. The chances of finding me are 1 in 147 trillion. There.’ A light blue box appeared in the middle of the screen.
‘It’s Skype!’ Frank retorted.
‘No, it’s not. It just looks like Skype. I use it because the user interface is so WYSIWYG.’
‘What you see is what you get?’
‘Correct.’
And then there was Sam’s face. It was blurry and flickered, but that’s the price you paid for routing a video link around the world and back.
‘Hi, Sam. Say hello to a friend of yours.’
Sam’s face scrunched up as though she was trying to focus on what was obviously a pixelated image.
‘Frank! What the blazes are you doing there?’
‘Hi, Sam.’ Frank waved. Wolfgang raised his eyes. You’d think these people had never used a video link before.
After a flurry of ‘how are yous?’, and a further ‘what the bloody hell are you doing there, Frank?’ Sam introduced Ginny, who stuck her face in the camera and smiled. Seeing her unnerved Wolfgang - what are you playing at Sam? But when Sam went on to explain last night’s escapade, Wolfgang relaxed. A little.
‘And I need you to do some research into 1101 Brickell Avenue, North Tower. It’s where the thug who tried to kidnap me drove back to. Ginny tells me it’s the erstwhile Venezuelan Consulate - vacant since 2012.’ Sam continued.
Frank butted in.
‘Did you say Venezuela?’
‘Correct, Frank. That links in with Wolfgang’s work on The Bahamian mobiles. Probably - we mustn’t jump to conclusions. Before we discuss anything like that in any detail, remember Ginny is here. I don’t want her to know any more than she does already. For her safety.’
‘Sure, sure.’ Frank replied.
Off camera Ginny was heard say, ‘Are you people, like, spies?’
‘No Ginny, call us “concerned parties”,’ was Sam’s reply.
‘Frank, can you get your pals in The Doughnut to see if they can work out who’s in the building?’ Sam asked. Wolfgang immediately knew Sam was hiding the acronym GCHQ from Ginny. GCHQ, or Government Communications Headquarters based at Cheltenham, was where the UK’s signals-intercept people did their stuff. It was a fairly modern office complex, in the shape of a huge circle with a green space and ponds in the middle. Hence the nickname, ‘The Doughnut’.
‘They won’t, Sam. You know the rules. They won’t work in an ally’s backyard - not without their express permission. But I can check with my pals in the US. They may already be on it.’
‘I can have a go.’ Wolfgang interjected. ‘I can certainly look at all landline comms. The assumption is that the RJ-11 hasn’t been ch
anged since the Venezuelan left the building - if, indeed, they’ve gone. I can look at the old telephone numbers and maybe pull something off. I can do that whilst Frank talks to his pals.’
‘Good, thanks.’ Sam said. ‘I’m guessing, Wolfgang, you’re not much further ahead than yesterday lunchtime? The mobiles won’t be with you for a couple of hours?’
As Wolfgang started to explain where he’d got to - which wasn’t much further forward, as he’d spent most of last night going over his database with Frank - he saw the semi-focused hand of Ginny offer Sam a cup of something. She took it with a simple nod and a ‘thanks’.
This woman has us all twisted around her little finger - how does she do that?
He continued.
‘I’m really interested in the two texts. The one from “Ops” on the first phone saying, “need to talk about equipment”. And the second from “RB”, on Müller’s phone.’ He didn’t wait for Sam to go all queasy at hearing the two letters R and B. ‘I can do nothing with until I have the phones. When I do, as well as a multitude of other things, I might be able to work out who they are - and what they’re talking about.’
He couldn’t make out Sam’s expression in any detail. She gave nothing by way of response.
‘Sam?’
‘I’m fine. Good. Look, I’m shattered. Ginny and I haven’t had the luxury of sleep like you two babies. I can’t think straight at the moment. Can you call me on the number I just used when you have something?’
Wolfgang looked at Frank and asked, ‘Anything else?’
Frank shook his head.
‘That’s fine, Sam, sure.’
Sam put up a hand.
‘Hang on. Frank?’
‘Yes, Sam.’
‘I’ve just had a thought. I need two things. First, an alias with a passport. I’m guessing I’m not going to stay here much longer. And if I have to get out of the country I’ll need the right documentation and cover story. Can you get your team to sort something? I presume I’m sort of back on your books, otherwise you wouldn’t be where you are?’
Frank scratched his head and then replied, ‘I’m sure we can arrange something through the Consulate in Miami. Probably today. Was that both things?’
‘No. Is there any chance you can get me access to Cynthia? I can’t imagine you’ve got people in the Consulate, but maybe I could get onto the system? I can do some photofit work on the man who tailed me in The Bahamas, the guy on the ski slopes - and the thug from last night. What do you think?’
‘I’ll speak to Jane …,’ Frank looked for the clock on Wolfgang’s screen. ‘... now. When you hang up. We’ll sort something, OK?’
‘Thanks, Frank. And, Wolfgang?’
‘Yes, Sam?’
‘Get some sleep. You look awful.’
Lambeth Bridge, Vauxhall, London
Jane was regretting her mode of transport. It was a 15-minute brisk walk from Babylon to the Cabinet Office - across Lambeth Bridge, north along Millbank and into Whitehall. She could have taken the tube which was only five minutes shorter, but it was infinitely drier. She would have missed the rain - which was now falling as sleet; damp, grey splodges of wet snow. It was sporadically lit by the Victorianesque street lights, which added to the early morning gloom.
But she needed to walk. To blow away the cobwebs.
She’d got in particularly early. She’d made it halfway through a draft report for the JIC before she had to break off to attend a planned budgetary meeting at the FCO. SIS might enjoy a good deal of independence and have a healthy budget, but every penny had to be fought and then accounted for. The Foreign and Commonwealth Office held the purse strings. And Jane was the Chief’s senior rep at today’s meeting which was designed to look over next year’s money. It was going to be a tough couple of hours. She needed a clear mind.
Her half-finished JIC report was spawned from last night’s call with the DD at Langley. He’d phoned her, which was an unusual occurrence.
Linden Rickenbacker was a middle-aged quarterback of a man, with a brain as sharp as any she’d come across. He was a lifelong CIA veteran with some impressive assignments, including a five-year stint as head of mission in Afghanistan. Jane was the first to admit to herself that she had taken a fancy to the DD. Square-jawed and, even at his age, a little preppy, when they spoke on the phone she always checked herself with a quick glance in the mirror across from her desk.
Madness.
The nature of the call was as surprising as the call itself.
‘Hi, Jane. You got five minutes?’
For you?
‘Yes, of course, sure. How can I help?’
‘Our conversation the other day, about some things being so sensitive …’
Jane couldn’t stop herself from finishing the sentence, ‘That you can’t share them with your closest allies?’
‘Yes.’ He chuckled. ‘That one. Anyway. I’d like to share something with you.’
OK.
‘Go on.’
‘Not for disclosure lower than your grade?’
‘Of course.’
‘We have an undefined, but imminent threat. Level 5.’
The DD would have chosen his words carefully. ‘Undefined’ meant the threat was corroborated, but they knew neither its exact nature nor who the perpetrators might be. ‘Imminent’ was within the next seven days. Level 5 was top of the CIA’s list: mass casualties, which was further defined as 100-plus. In every way, what the DD was describing was the worst possible threat scenario. Something really bad was going to happen soon. And they had no idea what, when and why.
‘And no amplification on that?’
‘No. However, it coincides with work we’re doing on electronic interference: the global positioning system - you mentioned it the other day. We have this on the closest of holds - mostly because GPS is so ubiquitous that we cannot afford to let any hares run …’
‘And, of course, it is a money-maker for the US government.’ Jane interrupted again. She must stop doing that.
If the DD was frustrated by Jane’s interventions, he didn’t show it.
‘Sort of. The civilian GPS signal is free, as is the civilian decryption software. The microchips are all made in the US - so there is some tax revenue on that. And the licences to buy the chips are not free. We also make some cash on selling our friends the military encryption software, which sharpens the accuracy of the signal. But none of that is enough to pay for the hundreds of millions of dollars our government spends on the system each year.’
‘Oh.’ Jane stood metaphorically corrected.
‘No. For us, it’s about the integrity of the system. People’s faith in it. Which, by the way, we think might be compromised.’
This is more like it.
The DD continued - the tone of his voice was grave, almost a whisper.
‘And, also, there is the more pressing matter of who to trust.’
‘What, you mean externally?’
‘No. Here. In the US - amongst my friends. Look, I’ll share my latest report with all the details when we finish, but that is definitely for your and the chief’s eyes only?’
‘Got that. Thanks.’
‘The threads of this are spread wide, and the knots that tie them together are tenuous. But in principle we think that someone has compromised the GPS system - and can influence the navigational accuracy of something as big as, say, a warship.’
‘USS Beaverbrook?’
‘Yes. As you mentioned the other day. Our scientists have done some research. They think it’s possible to influence individual GPS receivers. Give them the wrong signal and, as a result, get their navigational systems to go haywire.’
‘You’d need the serial number of the target’s receiver before you could alter the X and Y coordinates. Otherwise you’d send everyone within a 1,000 miles haywire.’ Jane added.
The line went quiet. There was a gentle ‘beep’ in the background - a modulation that gave confidence to the users that their lin
e was secure.
‘You’ve done some tests?’
‘Yes. One of my analysts came up with the same theory - he was talking with one of your team …’ Jane opened her notebook and flipped over a couple of pages, ‘An Ethan Woods. They were both on the same wavelength, if you’ll excuse the pun. Our people at dstl carried out a demonstration. They got a toy car to veer off course.’
‘Was it fitted with mil-spec GPS?’ The DD asked.
‘Yes. Their report said that was the easy bit. The real difficulty is …’
‘Threefold.’ It was the DD’s turn to interrupt. ‘First, you can’t hack into the GPS satellite transmission system - there are too many fail-safes. And you can’t piggyback onto a commercial bird because the transmission wavelengths are all wrong. Third, you need the details of the on-board GPS chip. Either from any original manufacturing data, or you have to own someone on the vessel to physically check the chip.’
‘That’s right. For your third point, whichever method you chose you’d need a small network of moles giving you that data. For the first two - how about launching your own satellite?’
‘No. We don’t think so. Our view is that no criminal organisation could afford the costs. And that’s where we come to a dead end.’
Jane wasn’t deterred. She had a new report in front of her.
‘I have a list of the last three years' worth of worldwide space-cargo launches. Source: the UK Space Agency. The top line is that there have been 145 launches in the past 12 months. Average cost: $55 million per launch. The complete three-year list has been further refined to: launches by government; commercial organisations; and a few “unspecified” agents. For the latter, the unspecifieds, there have been 19 satellites launched since 2014, from 7 separate locations. We are still getting a full readout on their purpose - and hopefully some technical background to see if any of the cargo was satellite-shaped. We’d then need to investigate further to check if any of the satellites are fitted with transmitters that can operate on the GPS L1 and L2 frequencies: between 1000 and 1500 megahertz.’ Jane was reading from a pink folder which held a secret report.
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