She could almost taste the dampness.
And, even this late in the day, the city was hardly quiet. The traffic below her was indignant. It moved in stops and starts; three and four lanes squeezed out of a road that was only built for two. When one police siren stopped, another started. The colours were angry too. In the city centre, close to the hotel, harsh neon and fluorescent lights cut through the gloom. In the hills, the gentler light of old-fashioned bulbs was further dimmed by wood smoke - for cooking and washing. It reminded her of West Africa in that regard. But there was a significant difference. In Liberia and Sierra Leone every scene was accompanied by the heavy beat of music. Rap and reggae. Dance and song. In Caracas, she felt the people didn’t have the energy to sing. And certainly not to dance. It had been drained from them by nervousness - and hunger.
Sam had spent some time in Kabul - another city on the dangerous list. A place devastated by decades of conflict. A city built of sand and mud-brick, any hint of colour scrubbed away by Taliban rule and their perverted interpretation of Sharia law. But, encouraged by a fragile democracy, vibrancy was re-emerging. Afghanistan was innately a country of brightly-coloured kites and lyrical music, played on rubabs, sarindas and tabla drums. Whilst Kabul could hardly be considered a contented city, it was alive - and growing.
Caracas, not so. In her three hours in country, Sam thought the city resembled a carcass of a dead animal. Festering and decaying. Lifeless. Ambition-less. She really hoped, for the sake of the Venezuelans, that things were better should she go up country.
That made her think.
I should call Frank.
And then eat.
Flemingstraße, Munich, Germany
‘So, fellas, what have you got?’
Jane’s face was on the screen in front of them. She looked tired. They were all tired. It was gone midnight and it would be another night with little sleep. Both Frank and Wolfgang were squashed side by side, their heads displayed on a small inset on the bottom right-hand corner of the main screen.
Frank looked at Wolfgang, who raised a single hand as if to say, ‘You speak’.
Frank nodded.
‘We have four confirmed names and faces. Three of them are …’
Ping, ping, ping.
Wolfgang’s computer was registering that there was another incoming call. A second inset appeared displaying the single word: Sam.
‘Hang on, Jane. It’s Sam.’ Frank turned to Wolfgang. ‘Can you make this a conference call?’
‘Sure.’ Wolfgang pulled the mouse and keyboard towards him and got to work.
‘Jane - Sam’s in Venezuela. We hope. Wolfgang will link us all together.’
‘Venezuela? What the blazes is she doing in Venezuela?’ Jane didn’t bother to hide the incredulity in her voice.
‘That’s a good question. Hang on …’
Wolfgang had his hand up asking for more time. Frank got it, and shut up.
‘Hi, Sam.’ It was Wolfgang.
‘Hi, Wolfgang. Frank?’ There was a slight delay as the Consulate’s sat phone signal bounced its way around the world.
‘I’m here, Sam. We’ve got Jane on the line from London.’
The Jane on the screen smiled and waved unnecessarily.
‘I guess you can’t see me, Sam?’
Delay.
‘No. Sorry. Thankfully I can’t see Frank or Wolfgang either. Last time I looked they both needed a good shower.’
They all laughed.
Sam continued. ‘On a serious note, this line is secure but I still worry about intercept. Let’s keep this as short as we can.’
There’s no doubting who’s in charge here.
There was a consensus of ‘OKs’ from the three of them.
‘I was just briefing Jane.’ Frank said. ‘Cynthia has come back with three positives on the mugshots you drew. The Austrian guy with Paul Mitchell is a Jim Broadly, ex-Special Branch. Left SB under a cloud five years ago. He’s known to MI5. Snakeskin-belt man is a Manfred Klister. He’s an ex-German paratrooper. He’s got an ‘indecent image’ record as long as your arm. The BND have been after him for some time. It makes sense that he’s working in The Bahamas alongside Müller. The guy in Miami is a Zack Jackson. He’s an ex-Green Beret; US marine. Freelance. Works to the highest bidder. Has an FBI record. And finally, and well done you, the ops man - the one you moved to the top line of Wolfgang’s matrix: Janon Jobes?’
Pause.
‘Yes.’ Sam replied.
‘You were right. The name’s an anagram His real name is Bojan Jones. He’s the current Chief of Staff of the SEBIN, Servicio Bolivariano de Inteligencia Nacional, or, for mere mortals, the Bolivarian National Intelligence Service.’
‘That’s the Venezuelan Secret Service.’ Jane cut in. ‘Not Bolivian, no matter what the title wants you to believe. What is going on?’ She sounded exasperated.
Frank took a deep breath and then spent a couple of minutes filling Jane in on the last 36 hours, starting with Sam’s work on the hierarchy of The Church of the White Cross. He then explained the telephone schematic that he had produced, and finished with Wolfgang’s work on hacking into the mobiles that Sam had nicked from The Bahamas. His and Wolfgang’s prognosis was that the key to all of this was Venezuela. And the top players were Freddie and the newly renamed Bojan Jones. Frank went on to speculate that there was a Venezuelan-based op going down. With Jones at the centre of it.
He finished with a jocular, ‘Any questions?’
Jane had been taking notes. She looked up from her pad, the non-ink end of her pen making its way to her mouth. She chewed for a second.
‘So, let me be clear.’ Jane started to summarise. ‘We think The Church of the White Cross is alive and functioning …’
‘Yes, absolutely. And Jane?’ Wolfgang interrupted.
‘Yes?’ Jane’s exasperation showed; she wasn’t accustomed to being interrupted
‘I’ve not yet shared the database with you, or its large-scale output. Bear with me.’
Wolfgang took the GoPro videocam off its stand on the shelf above the computer screen and walked to the display wall.
‘Sam and Frank have seen this. You haven’t.’
He scanned the wall left to right. Frank watched it on the inset in the screen. Wolfgang then touched one of the mugshots and a drop-down factsheet appeared. He shared that detail with Jane via the GoPro.
‘Blimey.’ Was Jane’s response.
‘I thought you weren’t going to share that?’ said Frank.
‘I’m not. Not yet. But I do want Jane to know the scale of the problem.’ He came back to his chair and put the GoPro on the shelf, adjusting it so he and Frank were back in the picture. And then sat down. ‘The thing you have to remember Jane, is that nowhere is secure. These people are everywhere. Statistically there is someone in your building who works for The Church.’
Jane didn’t say anything for a second. Frank didn’t know if the pause was tacit agreement with Wolfgang’s comment.
‘Back on mission.’ Jane started again.
She’s not going to comment on Wolfgang’s statement then …?
‘You reckon that, with what you have, The Church are planning a large-scale op, too big to be managed by a single country cell. And if so, the op is being coordinated by your man Bojan Jones, who turns out to be SEBIN’s chief of staff? Which is crazy in itself.’
Jane didn’t wait for them to answer her question. She continued.
‘If you follow your logic through, he is, was, being supplied with cash by Müller. And he’s getting equipment from Manfred Klister, via The Bahamas - with the kit’s source likely to be the US, say Miami. Leaving aside Bojan Jones, your corroboration is:’ Jane raised a finger each time she made a point. Finger one. ‘A telephone number matrix; but too few associated texts or messages to back it up.’ She raised another finger. ‘A man called Freddie, who you think is in the middle of all this - and he’s based somewhere in Croatia on a “special” landline sup
plied to him under the table by Hrvatski Telekom.’ Finger three. ‘A link between Freddie’s special +61 number and another landline somewhere in Amazonas.’ A fourth finger. ‘And a permanently closed Venezuelan Consulate in Miami, the base of a likely killer who chased Sam out of a club and then, we think, murdered a girl called Ginny,’
Frank thought that, putting it that way, it all sounded pretty tenuous.
‘Executed.’ It was Sam.
‘Sorry?’ Jane asked.
‘She was executed. It’s a small point, but it may be an important one.’
‘OK.’ Jane continued. ‘And Sam’s gone to Caracas for what reason?’ she let the question hang for a second. ‘To confront Bojan Jones? With what?’
There was quiet. Frank couldn’t see Sam’s face, but he knew she’d be fuming. Sam was chasing a shadow - following her intuition. Trying to make amends for Ginny’s murder. She’d hate being told that what she was doing was a waste of time.
Jane stared impassively at her camera - the effect on the screen was one of boredom.
‘It’s very tenuous. And I would not sanction an SIS overseas operation on the basis of your intelligence.’
Then Jane’s face lit up.
‘But, you may just be right.’
What?
‘What?’ chirped Frank. Wolfgang shot a glance at him.
‘I think you’ve got something. I’m reasonably sure of it. I’ve not given you my side of the story. There is absolutely something here. Let me explain; Frank knows some of this already. There’s a US-issued, imminent, unspecified, Level 5 threat to a target in Middle East. Sam will know what that jargon means. The timing, imminent, was issued 48 hours ago. I would therefore argue that threat level should now have been raised to “immediate”. The US are all at sea. Their int comes from three sources: Eastern Europe - let’s call that Croatia; the US - let’s call that Miami; and South America - let’s call that Venezuela. Does that ring any bells?’ Again, Jane didn’t wait for an answer. ‘And, and this is a huge “and”, thanks in part to Frank, we have all been studying potential interference with the US’s GPS system. That is, altering a single GPS receiver’s idea of where it is, so that the vehicle’s navigational system it supports veers off course.’
Wolfgang spoke. ‘Controlling navigation from afar. That would be particularly effective in the case of, say, remote vehicles - where the owner couldn’t manually override the system.’
‘Indeed. The US have briefed us on two recent events - at least one of them could be a rehearsal for a future op. Your op. And that one made headline news: the USS Beaverbrook’s crash in Manila Bay. Currently a messed-with GPS is the most likely explanation as to why the ship hit a tanker. And the second event, which is on the tightest of holds - and at this point, Wolfgang, I need you to stick your fingers in your ears - is a Reaper drone out of Creech, Las Vegas. Its mission was to fly over the Venezuelan jungle and take photos. Sometime during the flight it inexplicably veered off course and strayed into Colombian airspace. It didn’t crash - it just didn’t fly where it was supposed to. If it had, I reckon the drone would have flown over something it wasn’t meant to see. Maybe something to do with putting a satellite into space, or maybe controlling a satellite? Possibly a building with a sizeable dish.’
Jane paused.
‘That’s it.’ Sam interrupted.
‘What, Sam.’
‘The control centre. It’s here in Venezuela. It’s what the money and the equipment has been used for. To build a satellite launch and control station. In order to interfere with GPS, you’d need to have your own satellite system - commercial birds operate on different wavelengths to the US’s GPS. What better place to hide your set-up than in the Amazonian jungle?’
How does she know all this stuff?
‘In a country which has half-decent infrastructure, but is on the brink of collapse. And where you, the perpetrators, can buy some control.’ Wolfgang added.
‘Yes, spot on, Wolfgang.’ Sam added. ‘I’d bet that The Church’s control is wider and deeper than just SEBIN’s chief of staff. Jane, where did the Reaper veer off course?’ Sam was direct. Uncompromising. She was on a mission.
‘We don’t know.’ Jane replied.
‘What, because the US won’t tell you?’
‘No. Because they don’t know. All of the reports concerning the Reaper have gone missing. Anyone involved in what was a secret mission, has either been murdered, or just vanished. Including a CIA pal of Frank’s. It’s as if the Reaper didn’t fly at all.’
‘Are the US taking this seriously? The Venezuelan intelligence?’ Sam asked.
‘Not as seriously as they should. They’re working on the Middle East threat. They’re target-focused. But, they’ve not had this briefing. I’ll get onto the DD straight away.’ Jane paused in thought. The end of her pen was back in her mouth. ‘Of course, we’re missing one vital piece of intelligence.’
‘What’s that?’ Frank asked.
‘What is the target? Where in the Middle East? The betting money is on the HQ of the US 5th Fleet, NSA Bahrain. But does that make sense? Is that a Level 5 target? And what weapon are you going to control by satellite?’
‘It’s not important.’ Sam said.
‘What? Why?’ Jane came straight back.
‘Because if we can disable the guidance system here, they can’t hit the target. Simples.’ Sam voice had started to trail away. ‘Can we wrap this up? I’m packing. Now.’
‘Where are you going?’ Jane asked.
‘Puerto Ayacucho. It’s the capital of Amazonas province. On the Colombian border. It’s a good place to start looking. I’ll keep in touch.’
‘Hang on, Sam. This is a mission for a properly briefed, trained and equipped team of people. It’s also the US’s turf. They’ll have CIA agents in their Caracas embassy who’ll be perfect for this kind of stuff.’
There was a pause.
‘No, they won’t?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Have you seen the news? I’ve got the local station on the TV behind me. The government here have just locked down all foreign embassies and consulates. They’re showing a live stream of a police cordon outside the US Embassy. They’ve got small tanks and everything. The Venezuelan security services are in the thick of it. They’re closing down any interference. The Church of the White Cross don’t want anything to get in the way of their operation. Whatever it is.’
The silence was deafening.
‘I’m heading up country - and my understanding is that it’s a bus or Shanks’s pony to get there. I’ll take the bus. I need to know where to go once I’m in Puerto Ayacucho. I reckon you’ve got eight hours to find the answer to that question.’
Frank was following up on the instructions Jane had given before she’d hung up. He was preparing a missive for his contact at GCHQ. The key now was finding the location of the control centre. Frank thought it incredibly unlikely that they’d get something in time. GCHQ preferred to work with clear boundaries, rather than just ‘tap that phone and let us know what you hear’. However, even with the new guidance, which included an updated list of keywords, the chance discovery of something or somewhere in Amazonas seemed hopeless.
He’d put the tasker together using GCHQ’s operational form and follow it up with a phone call.
He checked the clock on the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. It was 01.37. That would be 2.37 am in the UK. The Doughnut operated on a 24-hour basis - and there would be someone in, for sure. But it would be a skeleton team only. He’d have to wait a couple of hours before any real horsepower was available.
The tasking form was a sickly light-green colour. There were 14 boxes to complete, one of which was the op code. Frank got cracking. As he typed he shot a glance at Wolfgang. He’d left Frank’s personal space after their joint phone call, and was back in front of his own machine.
‘What are doing?’
‘Mmm?’
Frank stopped typing.
/> ‘What are you up to?’
‘Mich? Ich suche eine Nadel im Heuhaufen.’
‘Oh. Good luck with that.’
Whatever.
Wolfgang continued - this time in English.
‘I’m looking for your proverbial needle in a haystack. I’m onto the landline calls from the Croatian +61 number. I obviously can’t listen to what people said to each other in the past as there’s no recording. But I have accessed the answerphone. It keeps 100 messages for three months. My Croatian is improving …’
‘Oh. Good.’
‘And I’ve also set up a trigger on the Venezuelan ex-Consulate. If the line goes live we’ll know about it - and we should be able to listen in.’
‘How do you do that?’ Frank thought only governments had that capability.
Wolfgang didn’t reply. He just moved his fingers above his keyboard as if he were typing, and smiled.
Ping.
It was on Frank’s machine. An email from GCHQ - probably a reply to an earlier request
It was titled: Task Number 3647/A/2390 - Biblical Reference. He opened it.
Hi Frank,
See attached.
We’ve just finished a review of +44 7795 email account. We’ve gone back 28 months. Most of it is low-level chatter, the transcripts we think are important are at Appendix 1. However, there is one very early thread (12 Oct 2015) which starts with a wide circulation to 17 other addresses, which has six associated replies.
The email is titled: Revelation 16:14-16. The text of the email is in English. It is a one-liner: Read and action. Our time is coming. It has a plain text attachment, which is clearly in code. The attachment is three pages long.
All of the replies, except one, acknowledge receipt - nothing more. The odd one is from an email we’ve associated with an account in South Africa. Its reply is just two words: For Abilene! I’ve done my research. Someone in SIS will remember the Abilene siege, I’m sure. This looks like a clear reference to revenge for that siege.
BTW, Revelation 16:14-16 refers to Armageddon.
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