Do you want our cryptographers to have a go at decoding the 3-pager?
Frank didn’t need reminding of Abilene, Texas. It was the US security services stand-off with The Church of the White Cross. The US lost four Bureau officers and a couple of national guardsmen. All told, the enemy casualties were 42. Fifteen of those were women and children, supposedly killed by their own menfolk in the height of the attack.
He didn’t need reminding of Abilene.
Instead of finishing off the GCHQ tasking form he typed Revelation 16:14-16 into Google and opened the Bible Society’s blurb.
14. For they are the spirits of devils, working miracles, which go forth unto the kings of the earth and of the whole world, to gather them to the battle of that great day of God Almighty. 15. Behold, I come as a thief. Blessed is he that watcheth, and keepeth his garments, lest he walk naked, and they see his shame. 16. And he gathered them together into a place called in the Hebrew tongue Armageddon.
Bloody hell.
He opened the Wikipedia entry on Armageddon. It was vague about whether or not Armageddon was a reference to the ancient city of Megiddo, in northern Israel, and whether or not ‘the battle of that great day of God Almighty’ was actually going to take place there. It didn’t matter. The text could be abused any way to suit.
What wasn’t vague was that GCHQ had found a two-year old, wide-circulation email from ‘Ops’, which had a biblical reference to Armageddon in the title. The email was accompanied by a coded attachment, and in the main body of text was the instruction: Read and action. Our time is coming.
Blimey.
He’d need to get this to Jane asap.
He turned to Wolfgang, who immediately put up a hand. Don’t speak to me. Wolfgang was wearing headphones. Frank saw that on his screen was a small diagram box. It looked like a synthesiser, with a wave of columns rising and falling to the beat of some sound or other. At the same time Wolfgang, with his free hand, appeared to surf for information on the next Miami Dolphins’ game.
And he still had his hand up.
Frank waited.
And waited.
Then the silent, electronic wave of sound stopped. Wolfgang quickly removed his headphones.
‘We’ve got less than 24 hours.’
What?
‘What?’
‘That was an incoming call to the ex-Venezuelan Consulate building in Miami. It wasn’t coded, although the two men spoke to each other in quasi-code.’
‘And?’
‘They spoke of “the act”. And then one of the men said that it would all be over tomorrow in time for them to watch the Dolphins’ match. I’ve just checked. The Dolphins play the 49ers in San Francisco tomorrow. Kick off, if that’s what the American’s call it, is at 6 pm. That’s 2 am our time - about a day from now. What we don’t know, of course, is what they meant by “act”.’
‘I know what it is.’ Frank said.
‘What?’
‘Armageddon.’
Frank turned back to the keyboard and typed faster than his fingers could keep up with.
Headquarters SIS, Vauxhall, London.
It was deathly quiet in the office. Jane sipped at her lukewarm coffee; it was four hours old, but the thermos cup had kept some of the coffee’s heat. She checked her watch. It was 3.12 am. She desperately needed sleep. But she also needed to talk to the Deputy Director of the CIA. His PA had taken her call two hours ago, just gone 8 pm EST. She had promised Jane that he would call her back when he’d got out of the meeting he was in.
She’d lost the energy to do any more work. Whatever she did wouldn’t make any sense; she was too tired to be coherent. She just needed to talk to the DD. And then she’d get her head down on the couch for a couple of hours.
Her phone rang. She checked the screen.
Result.
She picked it up.
‘Thanks for waiting up, Jane. You really should go home.’
She laughed to herself. The man was charm personified.
She checked her mirror. She looked rubbish.
Why were all the men she knew either alpha-male luddites, or metrosexual intellectuals? She wasn’t desperate, but where was Mr Right?
On the other end of the phone?
Give it up, won’t you?
‘Thanks, Linden. How’s it going?’
‘Well, other than the fact that our latest intel gives us fewer than 22 hours to find and eliminate the threat, a threat we cannot quantify but we know is grievous … I’m fine. And you?’
‘Have you had anything new?’
‘No. We’re apportioning 95% reliability to our sources, who can only confirm what we already know. Except, now one of them tells us it’s going to be over by tomorrow night.’
‘It’s as if they’re playing with you?’
‘Exactly. And it’s not a great feeling, I can tell you. Hopefully, the Limeys are coming to the rescue?’
Jane took a deep breath.
‘Maybe.’
Jane wouldn’t mention sources, not because she wanted to protect Wolfgang, but because she wanted the DD to believe her. Revealing that much of her intelligence was coming from a mad German count’s cellar, somewhere in deepest Bavaria, lacked the normal levels of credibility.
She described what she had. It took her a couple of minutes.
‘And, to elevate it to a plot of a Dan Brown novel, the latest from GCHQ is an intercepted e-mail op order, which they’ve yet to be decipher. It’s title, however, quotes Revelation 16:16 …’
‘And he gathered them together into a place called in the Hebrew tongue Armageddon?’ The DD interrupted.
Wow.
‘Exactly. And, like you, from a separate source we have a task-complete time of, and I know this is getting weird, “before the 49ers take on the Miami Dolphins”. I understand that is 21.00 EST. About 20 hours from now.’
The call went silent for a while. Jane didn’t push.
‘This is all about Venezuela?’ The DD asked.
‘We think so. As I said, a county which has just locked down every embassy and consulate in the land. Which, surely, is telling us something?’
There was more quiet.
The DD changed tack.
‘I have the list of commercial rocket launches from the past three years. My team has highlighted the ones where we cannot verify the payload. Have you heard of the Guiana Space Centre?’
‘From where the European Space Agency launch their Ariane rockets?’
‘Correct. Other than the fact that French Guiana is a French dependency, the EU chose that location because it’s close to the equator. Which, from a rocket-science perspective, apparently means that you can get a bigger payload into geostationary orbit with a smaller rocket. Don’t test me on the details.’
‘Are you saying that The Church of the White Cross has bought payload capacity from the ESA?’
‘No, I don’t think so. What I am saying is that southern Venezuela is on the same latitude as French Guiana. In fact, big chunks of the Venezuelan state of Amazonas are closer to the equator than the Guianan Space Centre. A couple of big guys could almost throw a satellite into orbit from around there.’
‘Do your people have any likely launch sites?’
‘No, but they’re all over it like flies on a turd loaf. There’s nothing back yet.’
I have so many more questions.
‘Do you have anyone in the area?’
‘Hang on, I need to look that up.’ Jane heard some keyboard tapping. ‘No. Not in Venezuela. Our CIA cell is ten-men-strong. Two are on leave at any time. Seven of them are in the Embassy - with no way out, no matter what protestations our President may be tweeting at the moment. The eighth is checking a drugs lead in Quimo, which is in the east of the country. On my map that’s a good 400 miles as the crow flies and a bellyful of jungle between him and - well, let’s face it, we don’t know where?’
Jane let that last comment hang.
‘What about in Colombia?�
��
There was a short silence.
‘I don’t need to look that up. It’s my bag and I can tell you that that’s more promising. I’m afraid I can’t tell you what we have in Colombia that may be assisting their Secret Service in operations against the narco-paramilitaries. But you could use your imagination and you wouldn’t be far off.’ There was more silence. ‘OK. What harm can it do? I’ll put a team on standby. The moment any of us gets a whiff of where whatever this thing is, I’ll fly a team over the border. Let’s keep this line open. Anything else Jane?’
‘No, I don’t think so ... hang on. Do you remember Sam Green? An analyst and then agent of ours?’
‘No, I can’t say … wait, the girl in Berlin. Took down the European branch of The Church of the White Cross single-handedly, and then got in a car, drove to, where was it, Köln? And then stopped some lunatic from assassinating the German premier?’
‘Yes, her.’
‘And?’
‘She’s in Venezuela. Operating on a hunch. She doesn’t work for us; she left the building after the Rome bombing incident last year. But she’s sort of back on our books. And heading for Amazonas.’
‘Well, I’ll be dipped in shit.’
‘Indeed. My feeling entirely. She’s ahead of all of us.’
‘Does she know where she’s going?’
‘No. But she knows what she’s looking for when she gets there.’
Chapter 16
Terminal de Nuevo Circo, Caracas, Venezuela
Sam wasn’t comfortable. At all. Her Spanish was less than basic. But she didn’t need to speak the language to understand the intent of a couple of thugs who were hanging around Caracas’s main bus terminal this early in the morning. The terminal was modern - that is, built in the last 20 years - but filthy. It was designed on a large, now decaying, tarmac area. Four covered walkways provided the focus for the coaches and minibuses to pull up next to. Except they didn’t. Not in any organised fashion. The buses, a mixture of old and almost new, found whatever slot they could. In the warm, misty rain, which was working hard to stop dawn from presenting itself, Sam struggled to find the bus she was meant to be catching. She was searching for one which would take her to San Fernando de Apure, a city 250 miles due south of Caracas and two-thirds of the way to Puerto Ayacucho - the capital of the southern state of Amazonas.
Eventually she spotted it.
I hope.
It was a fairly modern 52-seater. Big and red. It proclaimed it was heading her way - a large, handwritten sign was blu-tacked to the front window. She clocked it as it pulled into the bus station and navigated its way to a space in the next bus stand along.
According to the website it was due to leave Caracas in 20 minutes. First, she had to get past a weaselly-looking local who was standing in her way. He was sandwiched between a random bus and a metal bench. He was side-on, blocking her route. When she attempted to squeeze past him, accompanied by an, ‘Excuse me,’ he turned to face her, closing any potential gaps. He was her height with greasy, jet-black hair. His clothes, tatty jeans and a brown cotton shirt, could all do with a wash. He was wearing fake Nike trainers. Nice. He smiled, a disturbing smile. She had twice as many teeth as he did.
And he had a half-empty bottle of something in his right hand.
Shit. A drunken local with a potential weapon.
The last thing she needed was a confrontation with an idiot in an alcoholic haze. She turned to walk away - and was blocked by another man. He was bigger and uglier.
Shit.
She turned back and faced the lesser of two evils.
‘What do you want?’
English. She ran out of Spanish after, ‘Si’.
‘Dinero.’ He held out a filthy hand.
Money? She guessed so.
Fuck.
Sam lifted her waterproof top. As she did she felt the presence of the second man close in behind her.
Calm.
She unzipped her waist belt, found her wallet, and, trying hard not to show the local how much money she had, she pulled out a $50 note. She dropped her waterproof as quickly as she could.
‘Share this, shithead.’ She said.
The man snatched the note, gave a toothless grin, looked over her shoulder and nodded. The other man grabbed her from behind, startling Sam.
SIS training doesn’t turn case officers into superhumans. Fitness and self-defence packages run concurrently with all of the other training. The students always think being thrown about on a gym mat is something to laugh about - no matter how hard the physical-training staff try to get them to take it seriously. And, of course, like any skill it’s only of any use with continuous practice. Sam was as rusty as a nail in a seaside groyne.
But Sam had surprise on her side. And, as was her brain’s wont, she remembered everything she’d been taught, even if she hadn’t (thankfully) used it since she’d passed out of training.
She waited the split second it took the man in front of her to start fishing for her waist belt. He was distracted. Then, with the rising red mist sending sparks around her head, she went berserk.
First, she thrashed her head backwards, smacking the nose of the man holding her fast with the hard bit on the back of her skull - she was sure she heard a crack as bone and cartilage gave way. The man’s reflex was to bring both of his hands to his face; it’s what hands do when their accompanying nose gets broken.
Milliseconds later, just as the man in front recognised that this wasn’t going to be the simple mugging he assumed it would be, he got a sharp knee in the groin. Sam wasn’t particularly strong and her limbs didn’t carry the weight of a larger person. But she was wired in a way that meant that her arms and legs could move very quickly when instructed. And a raising knee was twice as effective if it moved twice as fast. Momentum was everything.
The man forgot about Sam’s waist belt as his knees gave way and he fell to the floor.
In amongst the red mist, a tiny part of Sam wanted to recover the $50 note. And, as she leapt over the local who was writhing on the ground, she assumed that in an action movie someone like Angelina Jolie would have turned and finished off the broken nose with a karate chop. That Uma Thurman would have then kicked the thief in the guts, picked up the note and then waltzed off having made some witty comment. But Sam was too scared and running too fast - darting between buses to lose the men should they follow her. She double-backed around another bus to confuse the hell out of anyone.
No, Sam wasn’t focusing on the $50 bill. She was trying very hard not to wet herself - such was the impact of adrenaline and fear.
Panting, but thankfully still with an intact bladder, she got to the door of her bus just as it was opening. She was first in line. She looked around but, other than a couple of likely passengers, saw no one.
She was breathing hard.
Made it?
Two steps-up later and she was in the cab buying a ticket to San Fernando de Apure, a process which required a lot of pointing at a Venezuelan country map she’d brought with her.
The bus driver spoke no English, so there was further confusion when it came to the cost of the ticket. Eventually, after more prodding at the ticket machine, Sam handed over 200 bolívars; around $20. The bus driver tried to give her back 50 bolívars. Sam smiled and held up a hand, then pointed at the driver. She was in a rush. She needed to get into the body of the coach and look inconspicuous.
That’s for you. Think of it as a kind of insurance.
He smiled back and pocketed the money.
Still out of breath, Sam made her way to the back of the bus. She sat in the middle of the rear seat, as far away from prying eyes as possible.
Ten minutes later the bus was filling up. She’d spotted her two muggers wandering around the place, looking in windows. One was hobbling. The other had taken off his neckerchief and was holding it to his nose. At that point Sam had dropped her shoulders and turned away.
A few minutes later her would-be muggers were
gone. And, as the bus seemed to be close to full and the driver started its engine, Sam’s day got weirder still.
By now her breathing had returned to normal and her pulse rate was back below 60 - she had checked. The back row of the bus had been filled. To her left were two old women. One had a big cardboard box on her lap which had a mind of its own. Above the noise of a full bus, Sam heard the cluck of chickens. And then she recognised the smell.
Off to market?
To her right were two young lads. Probably in their mid-teens. They wore jeans. One sported a yellow and green Brazilian football shirt; the second a black Under Armour t-shirt which had a rip down its front. Both of the lads needed a good wash behind their ears. But they seemed harmless enough.
In the scheme of things, none of them was particularly weird.
The weirdness came when an ageing ‘action man’ got on the bus - the one from the airport; a breathable hat and more multi-tools than was really necessary. He was carrying an ex-US Army response pack, which Sam hadn’t spotted first time round.
Definitely ex-Army, or National Guard?
He spoke Spanish to the driver, collected his ticket and headed down the bus.
Their eyes met. He looked confused. At one point Sam thought he might be thinking about turning round and getting off. But he didn’t. Instead he put his large khaki army bag on the rack above a seat, and sat down.
How odd is that?
Samostan Monastery, Punat Bay, Krk, Croatia
It was perishing. The north-easterly bora wind was whipping over the mountains, shooting down the hillside, scurrying across the water and swirling around the quad. At just before midday the frost still clung to the cobbles, making a simple walk a hazardous adventure. Even though Jakov was wearing every piece of clothing Karlo had given him, the quad was a venturi for the wind and no number of layers could stop the cold from finding its way to his bones. Karlo appeared immune to it. Jakov wasn’t but, even so, he didn’t complain. He had other things on his mind.
Such as, had the English woman, Vicky?, said anything to Freddie about him? That she had seen him down the corridor? A non-monk poking his head around the corner. It made his stomach churn. Which added more urgency to the next issue that was clogging up his brain.
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