by L J Morris
Chapter 10
Simeon Carter placed a steaming mug of fresh coffee on the desk then stood back and took a sip from his own. ‘How’s it looking, Danny?’
Danny Kinsella tapped at his keyboard and scanned the three computer screens in front of him. ‘I’ve downloaded the pictures from Sinclair and converted the images to text files. It took a while making sense of some of the handwriting, but it makes it easier to analyse. It’ll save us time in the long run.’
‘And have they revealed anything so far?’
Kinsella had been up all night, running the data through algorithms and scripts. He was looking for patterns and repeated numbers, words and phrases. Checking for any connections with places, people and events. ‘It’s starting to come together, I’ve found a few things.’ He picked up his coffee. ‘Have a look for yourself.’
Carter sat next to his young protégé and stared at the screens. None of it made sense to the old Cold War spook, he didn’t even know which screen he was supposed to be looking at. To him it was all just a jumble of words and numbers. ‘You know I can’t make any sense of all this, Danny. The digital revolution has passed me by.’
Kinsella smiled and patted the older man’s knee. Their relationship was as close as any father and son and he sometimes had a little fun at the older man’s expense. ‘You’re definitely a relic of the Cold War, Simeon. I need to teach you some basics, so you can join the rest of us in the twenty-first century.’
‘I don’t need to learn it, Danny. That’s why I have you. Humour me and translate it into English.’
Kinsella turned back to his keyboard and tapped his way through the images from Sinclair. ‘If you look at the pages from the book, you’ll see that Wyatt has created a code to encrypt his writing. All codes require a key to read the content. In most simple codes, that key can be cracked by brute force, by crunching the data through a powerful enough computer, it’s just a matter of time. This is different. This code can’t be cracked because it uses information only Callum knows, as a basis for the crypto.’ He switched to another screen that showed seemingly random letters and numbers. ‘On each page I’ve found a word that doesn’t seem to fit with the others. That is the keyword that needs to be deciphered by Callum. From the sound of it, he isn’t aware that he knows the code. Frank had to drag the information out of him.’
‘So, we need the boy to decipher it all?’
‘Absolutely. Without him, we can’t get through the code.’ Kinsella pointed at the screen. ‘I used the info Callum has given Frank so far and ran the first pages through some scripts. It turned into this …’ He clicked his mouse. Among the jumble of letters and numbers were lists of recognisable words, names and numbers.
Carter sat forward. ‘I recognise some of these names, they’ve been in the press in the last couple of years. If I remember correctly, they were mainly featured in the obituaries.’
‘That’s right, the first list is a mixture of CEOs, bankers and politicians who have died in the last two years, alongside the dates they died.’
‘Are they linked?’
‘Other than the fact that they moved in the same circles, nothing obvious. Some had attended G7 or UN summits, some were invitees of the Bilderberg Group. One thing they do have in common, is that they all died in what could be described as “questionable circumstances”.’
‘Questionable in what way?’
Kinsella consulted his notes. ‘Well, we have three suicides, four car crashes, two drownings, a plane crash that accounted for three of them, and a mugging.’
Carter looked at Kinsella’s notes. ‘So, it could just be a list of prominent people who have died unexpectedly.’
‘That’s a possibility, but if you look at the names at the bottom of the list …’
‘The ones without dates?’
Kinsella nodded. ‘Two of them have died since Frank got hold of the book.’
‘How?’
‘One car crash and one mountaineering accident.’
Carter wrote down the remaining three names on the list. ‘I think we need to let these people know they might be in danger. What’s the second list?’
‘That’s a list of the people who moved into the positions of the deceased.’
‘And are they linked?’
Kinsella shook his head. ‘Not that I can find, but I’m working on it.’
‘Okay, what else is in there?’
Kinsella scrolled through the data. ‘There are details of a safe-deposit box in Paris, in Callum’s name. Without him, we’ll need court orders to get access. I’m assuming we don’t want to go down that route?’
‘Not unless we can help it, Danny. Is that it?’
‘There’s also a third list of names but I’ve only tracked one person down, so far.’ Kinsella highlighted a name on the screen. ‘Dr Henry Shawford, retired Cambridge English professor. Nothing remarkable about him outside his academic career. He’s widowed and currently lives in Paris.’
‘That’s a good place to start. I’ll get local police to check on the first list members who are still alive, you get in touch with Sinclair and McGill and get them up to Paris. I want to know what’s in that deposit box and I want them to speak with Dr Shawford and find out what he knows.’
‘Will do, Simeon.’
Carter stood and put on his coat; he paused before leaving. ‘We need to know what else is in those pages, Danny. Quick as you can.’
Kinsella nodded. ‘It could take a long time to get through all of this, Simeon.’
‘We’d better make sure the boy stays safe then.’ Carter opened the door and left the flat.
Chapter 11
The campervan was old and it rattled as they made their way north. After they had received the message from Kinsella, they stocked up with some food and water for the trip and set off.
Sinclair tipped the remaining crumbs from a bag of crisps into her mouth and washed them down with a long drink of water, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘That’s better. I was bloody starvin’.’
McGill was finishing off a sandwich as he drove. ‘How’s our passenger?’
Sinclair looked in the back. ‘Fast asleep. You know, for a young man, he does sleep a lot.’
‘Yeah, stress of the situation taking its toll I think. He’s exhausted. If we weren’t both so messed up, we’d probably sleep more, too.’
Sinclair took another drink of water and replaced the cap. ‘When did you become a psychiatrist?’
‘Well, I’ve had to see a few in my time, maybe it’s rubbed off.’
Sinclair looked down at her hands, fidgeting, clenching her fists. ‘I want you to promise me something, Frank.’
‘Anything, you know that. You don’t need to ask.’
Sinclair rubbed her hand across her face. ‘If everything goes wrong. If they come for me and try to take me back … there. I want you to kill me.’
McGill slammed on the brakes. He looked at Sinclair and grabbed her hands. ‘No way, Ali. I can’t promise you that. I couldn’t do that.’
‘I can’t do it again, Frank, I can’t go back, you don’t know what it’s like. I’d rather be dead.’
‘Listen to me, Ali. You won’t go back. I won’t allow it. If anyone comes for you, I’ll kill them all and we’ll disappear. If it comes down to it, we’ll go out fighting. We’ll go together.’
Sinclair looked up at McGill, tears running down her face. ‘You’re all I’ve got, Frank. Promise you’ll stay with me, wherever we end up.’
‘That much I can promise.’ He reached out and pulled Sinclair towards him, holding her. ‘You’re my family.’
In the back, Porter woke up. ‘Are we there yet?’
Sinclair sat back and wiped the tears from her face, blowing her nose on a tissue. ‘Jesus, it’s like having kids.’
McGill started to laugh. ‘Just a quick stop, Callum. We’ll get going again in a minute.’
‘Okay, cool. How much longer do you think it’ll be?’
‘A few hours yet. Help yourself to some of the food before Ali eats it all.’
Sinclair slapped McGill’s knee. ‘You’ve got through a lot of it yourself, fat boy.’
McGill smiled as he put the van into gear and pulled away.
Chapter 12
Sinclair sat at the window of the small apartment, overlooking La Défense – the business district situated to the west of Paris. The apartment belonged to Danny Kinsella. It was nothing too fancy, just somewhere to crash when he was working for his French clients. The others were still asleep, but Sinclair’s body clock was messed up and she was still having nightmares. The sleep she’d had on the sofa was restless, waking suddenly at the slightest sound, fully expecting to be back in her cell. She sipped her coffee and watched the raindrops run down the window. She liked watching the rain, liked the fresh smell in the air when it stopped. It was something she had missed. Her body had become accustomed to the heat and she was feeling cold, but she didn’t mind that. She was looking forward to seeing snow again, getting some snowboarding in when this was all over. If they were still alive.
The bedroom door opened and McGill stepped out, looking a little dishevelled and worse for wear. ‘Is that coffee fresh?’
Sinclair snapped out of her thoughts. ‘Yeah, kettle’s just boiled.’
‘Great, I could do with a bucket full. I think the last few weeks have caught up with me.’
‘That’s just your age, Frank.’
McGill waved his finger at Sinclair. ‘I knew there was something I missed about you.’ He plodded into the kitchen and made himself a cup of strong black coffee. He took a drink and nodded at the bedroom door. ‘We need to decide what we are going to do with Callum.’
Sinclair lowered her voice. ‘He’s in danger, Frank. Even though he doesn’t know anything, he’s the key. They’ll never stop coming after him. We need to make sure he’s safe.’
‘I don’t have a problem with that. It’ll make things a little bit more difficult for us, though.’
‘It’s thanks to his dad that I’m sitting here and not still rotting away in that stinking prison cell. I want to repay what he did for me. I want to make sure Callum gets home safely.’
‘Okay. He stays with us until it’s safer for him not to. We have to admit, there’s a strong possibility we’re gonna end up in some pretty deep shit in the next few weeks. He can’t deal with that. When it gets too bad, we must leave him somewhere. Agreed?’
Sinclair nodded. ‘Agreed.’
The bedroom door opened again and Porter appeared. Sinclair and McGill exchanged a glance. Porter looked better than both of them. He looked fresh, obviously hadn’t slept in his clothes, and even had a smile on his face. He looked like he was on holiday.
Sinclair pointed towards him with her mug. ‘See, I told you it was your age, Frank.’
McGill shook his head and muttered under his breath, ‘The shit I have to put up with.’
They both laughed. Porter looked puzzled. ‘Did I miss something?’
Sinclair smiled. ‘Nothing important. Just catching up. Help yourself to a coffee and we’ll go through the plan for the next couple of days.’
The three of them stood around the small dining table, in one corner of the apartment, opposite the kitchen. Sinclair spread a tourist map out and drew a cross on it. ‘This is where we are now.’ She drew two more crosses and pointed to them in turn. ‘This is the CPT Bank. There is a safe-deposit box in there that we need to access. This, is where a guy called Dr Henry Shawford lives. He’s on one of the lists in the book. We’ll go to the bank first and leave the doctor until later this afternoon.’
McGill turned the map around to take a better look. ‘What do we know about the safe-deposit box?’
‘Danny sent us the account details, but we have no idea what is in it. It’s in Callum’s name but there should be a key for it.’
Porter removed a pair of keys from a leather cord around his neck and placed them on the map. ‘Justin told me to keep these safe and tell no one about them. I never knew what they were for.’
Sinclair picked them up and examined them. ‘You certainly kept these quiet. This is the one we need – the box number is engraved on it.’ She handed them both back to Porter. ‘You keep hold of the keys till we need them. You’ve done a good job with them so far.’
McGill would have preferred to keep the keys himself. They weren’t exactly secure around Porter’s neck, but he knew Sinclair was trying to make Callum feel like he was part of a team, that he had a contribution to make to the mission. It was a small gesture but working as one team would have a massive effect on their chances of survival if the shit hit the fan. McGill pointed at the map. ‘You and Callum go in and take care of the box; I’ll cover you from this coffee shop on the other side of the road. If it goes pear-shaped, we meet back here.’
Sinclair looked at Porter. ‘You okay with all this, Callum?’
Porter nodded. ‘I’ll do whatever you need me to.’
Sinclair wasn’t sure the young man appreciated what might be involved. ‘You’re sure? We have no way of knowing what information Vadim’s thugs got out of Justin before he died. They could be waiting for us.’
Porter nodded. ‘I can do this. I want to do it. For Justin.’
McGill patted him on the back. ‘Everything will be fine. Just do whatever Ali tells you. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Good man.’
Chapter 13
Outside a coffee shop on the Avenue de l’Opéra, McGill picked a seat that had a clear line of sight to the front door of the CPT Bank. He’d been there long enough to be on his second cup of coffee and nothing, so far, had looked suspicious. The traffic was light and he hadn’t seen any vehicles doing multiple passes or parking up to watch the bank. He watched as Sinclair and Porter walked along the pavement on the other side of the road and approached the door.
Sinclair nodded to McGill then she and Porter entered the foyer of CPT. There were banks in Paris that dated back to the Napoleonic era, with large ornate interiors and lists of high-profile, ultra-rich clients. CPT had none of that, at least, not officially. Most of their clients banked online and shuffled money between international accounts in the world’s various tax havens. CPT was a bank that specialised in anonymity, and some of its clients were hiding vast amounts of money from the tax authorities.
The interior was small and modern, almost minimalist. The foyer had plain white walls and a black and white tiled floor that made it look like a bathroom. Chrome spotlights were recessed into the low ceiling and in the wall opposite the door was an ATM and a cashier’s window. A young woman smiled at them from behind the bulletproof glass. ‘Bonjour, puis-je vous aider?’
Porter stepped up to the glass and asked to see someone about his safe-deposit box. At least, that’s what it sounded like to Sinclair. She spoke a couple of languages fluently, but French wasn’t one of them. She remembered a little from her school French lessons, but this conversation was going much too quickly for her.
After a few minutes, a second, slightly older woman, opened a door into the foyer and beckoned them to follow her. Sinclair quickly checked behind them for anyone watching, then followed Porter and the second woman through the door.
The back office of CPT wasn’t as minimalist as the foyer, but it was no less modern. Through the glass wall on the right-hand side of the corridor, they could see bank employees sitting in cubicles, staring at numbers that flashed up on their screens. They were watching the markets. This bank did more than just store people’s money, they were also an investment broker.
At the other end of the corridor there was a separate computer in a recess in the wall. Porter was asked to provide his details and proof of ID for the woman to check. A few keystrokes later and they were led through a steel cage into the vault. The walls were lined with hundreds of boxes. Each one had a dull grey front and two locks. Between the locks were the boxes’ numbers. Porter was led to box
number 696, his box. He removed the key from around his neck and turned it in the lock.
* * *
McGill got up from his table and took out the tourist map. He’d spotted a man shortly after Sinclair and Porter had gone into the bank. The man had now been past the coffee shop several times and seemed to be paying particular attention to the windows of the bank. McGill held the map in front of his face as the man walked past him and into the shop, heading for the toilets. McGill wondered where Vadim found these amateurs. Nobody with any professional training would leave a solo surveillance operation to go for a piss. McGill looked around, there was no obvious backup or anyone else who looked like they had taken over the op. He followed the man into the shop.
McGill opened the door to the gents and put on his best, and only, American accent – the one he’d learned watching old US cowboy movies and cartoons at the cinema on a Saturday morning as a kid. ‘Hey, buddy. D’ya speak English?’
The man froze. He wanted to pretend to be a local and just shake his head, but this guy had the worst American accent he’d ever heard, a cross between John Wayne and Goofy. It couldn’t be real, surely? His hesitation cost him. Before he could do anything to protect himself, McGill punched him hard in the solar plexus. His knees started to buckle and he gasped for breath. McGill followed up by smashing the man’s face into the porcelain sink and dragging him, unconscious, into one of the toilet cubicles.
* * *
Sinclair and Porter emptied the contents of the safe-deposit box onto the table in the private room they’d been shown into. Wyatt had planned for things going wrong. He was obviously expecting to be on the run at some point. The box contained five thousand euros in small denomination notes and two thousand pounds. There were fake UK passports for both Wyatt and Porter, with matching driving licences and bank cards, and a USB memory stick.
Porter couldn’t believe any of this. ‘What was Justin involved in? It’s like something out of a spy novel.’