The Codex File (2012)

by Miles Etherton

  “Good. Now that Robertson and Langley have been dealt with, Phase I is complete. The sooner we get UKCitizensNet’s headquarters built and the entire operation transferred to here the better. My department has ensured maximum manpower is available for the construction work. I want you based here in three months.”

  Trevellion nodded as Tate pulled out his mobile phone to deliver his update on the Green protesters back to Miles Winston in Whitehall.

  Three months was plenty of time to have everything ready.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The driver of the black Volvo estate floored the accelerator and hastily pulled a dark green balaclava over his face. His passenger did the same before he removed a thick rubber baton from a canvas bag in his footwell.

  The engine roared as the vehicle hurtled forward, lights purposely switched to full beam to dazzle, moments before it slammed into the back of the silver Citroen. The din of scraping metal and tyres screeching was joined by a fountain of orange sparks as the two cars momentarily melded together and then split apart as the Citroen veered into the right hand lane.

  With the left hand lane now clear the Volvo quickly pulled up alongside the stricken Citroen, its bumper thudding noisily on the tarmac as it hung off the back of the dented chassis. Turning the wheel sharply the Volvo smashed into the back of the car again with the impact of a bullet from a 44 Magnum. The force of the collision into the backend caused the Citroen to flip round 180 degrees as it lost its grip on the road, rubber scorching the tarmac in a perfect arc.

  For a split second the two men in balaclavas were face to face with the opposing driver, Morgan Jones, his eyes wide with panic, his arms a flailing blur as he wrestled the steering wheel in vain, unable to prevent the inevitable.

  Pushing down hard on the brakes the Volvo ground to a halt on the quiet country road amidst the corridor of mature pine trees that lined it. The Citroen, still facing the wrong direction had slid off the road. Perched at a precarious angle in a ditch on the opposite side, the nose of the car pointed upwards, tangled metal from the rear was embedded in the muddy bog.

  Morgan Jones fought to rid himself of his seatbelt as the doors to the Volvo flew open. With his heart pounding in his ears a burning pain coursed through his back and neck from the impact of the crash. When his seatbelt finally unlocked he knew what was coming.

  The two men, dressed in black combat gear, emerged from the Volvo, their faces obscured by menacing balaclavas, their intent burning in their eyes as they hauled open his car door.

  The larger of the two men instantly brought his baton down on Jones’ right arm with frightening force before he could move. Nausea welled up in him and for a brief moment everything went black as his body was engulfed with unspeakable pain.

  “On the fucking floor,” the man snarled, as Jones fell out of the car and into the wet, muddy ditch.

  Prone on his back, too terrified to move, the two men stood above him, slowly circling their prey, deciding which bones to break first.

  A heavy doc marten boot clattered into his ribs, causing him to roll onto his side, involuntarily adopting the foetal position, as if this would somehow protect him. Bile rose in the back of his throat and he was aware of one of the men bending down.

  “I’m disappointed in you,” the guttural, threatening voice said quietly. “I would have thought after our last visit you would have learnt your lesson and stopped poking your nose into things which are none of your fucking business. Was our last meeting in any way unclear?”

  A second kick impacted on the same ribs as before, and Jones was sure they’d broken at least one.

  “You see, because you haven’t left it alone, we’re really going to have to hurt you this time. But don’t think we’re just going to leave it there. We know all about your wife Margaret, and the family and children of your partners. They’d better start looking over their shoulders, if you know what I mean.”

  Despite the searing pain in his ribs Jones tried to sit up to protest, but was shoved roughly back to the ground.

  “Get this straight you dozy twat. This is your last warning. Either you leave well alone and keep your nose out of computers and the fucking internet, or being driven off the road will be the least of your worries. Do you understand me?”

  Jones nodded, unable to speak from where he was pinned to the ground.

  But as he looked into the eyes of his assailant through the narrow eyeslits of the balaclava he knew they weren’t finished with him. The eyes were still full of intent, sparkling with adrenaline, relishing the prospect of impending violence.

  Jones watched, transfixed, as his attacker slipped his hand into the canvas bag his partner had been carrying. A long thin knife with a serrated edge that caught the early evening sun was paraded in front of his face, cutting the air as it moved slowly backwards and forwards in front of his eyes.

  Without warning Jones’ arm was hauled upwards and his wrist was turned as if he was being restrained. The second man grinned through the ragged mouth hole of his balaclava and yanked Jones’ little finger outwards, almost dislocating it.

  Jones’ gaze followed the knife which had now moved away from his face. The attacker holding the knife smiled maliciously.

  “Now this is going to hurt.”

  Morgan Jones’ eyes shot open and the vicious memories slowly receded. Despite his tiredness, he couldn’t afford to go to sleep. Not tonight.

  Hunched over his desk, a half-smoked cigarette hanging limply from his lips, he glanced at his computer’s clock. The time was 11.34pm.

  Twenty-six minutes left.

  Jones’ hand shook slightly as it hovered over his keyboard, throbbing from where the knife had sliced through his flesh, memories of all the pain he’d endured puncturing his thoughts. A severed finger, four broken ribs and a ruptured spleen wasn’t something you forgot too easily.

  Most nights he’d wake up, his pulse racing, the darkness enveloping him, inducing the same sense of panic he’d felt when the men had restrained him before going to work on him.

  Jones’ gaze flitted quickly from one part of the screen to another as he began to type on the command line, the screen filling with code as he hacked deeper into one of the many government servers.

  The security on the system was appalling if you knew what you were doing and had the right software to breach the firewall. For people like him and his three colleagues, former software engineers and security analysts, breaching the firewall had taken only a matter of minutes. If things had turned out differently he would probably be working for them, advising them on weaknesses in their online security and how to beat the hackers. But not now.

  To his right his three partners sat at individual machines, all typing rapidly, committing any useful data they found in their own searches to high-capacity flash drives. All four men were inside UKGovNet, the government’s internal network, accessing vulnerable document stores, servers, and individual computers still logged-on to the network, looking for anything that could prove the imminent arrival of UKCitizensNet was a sham.

  On the desk in front of him lay a well-thumbed edition of that day’s Guardian newspaper, its headline as clear as it was stark: “Internet shutdown to commence as UKCitizensNet comes online”.

  Jones’s gaze moved back to the clock. 11.40. Just over 20 minutes away from the demise of the internet and freedom of online access and expression.

  How has it come to this?

  Stubbing his cigarette out in an empty coffee mug Jones shivered, rubbing his arms firmly, attempting to rid his limbs of the cold and damp that seeped through the quiet, empty warehouse. A slight smell of solvents hung in the air, but the only thing it now contained were a dozen propane canisters, fastened together in the centre of the warehouse floor below them.

  Looking up from his screen, he peered down through the office window. The four of them had organised the canisters when they’d arrived earlier that evening, all acutely aware tonight was the night they’d most likely need to
use them. But that was for later.

  Once UKCitizensNet was up and running, they’d never be able to hack into internet sites in the same way again. The newspaper article confirmed that more robust security encryption was promised, and as skilled as the four men were, none of them really knew just how long it would take them to breach the system in future.

  Turning to the right a shorter, broader man in his early 40s was peering intently at his screen, also with a cigarette in his hand.

  “Have you found the money yet, Brown?” he asked seriously, one eye on his own screen as another directory downloaded its data.

  John Brown frowned, taking a long drag on his cigarette before turning to face his colleague.

  “No. Our separate account is still frozen and the money’s been drained from it. Fuck knows how they knew it was us, there shouldn’t have been any link back to us. And, it’s too well encrypted for me to hack into in the time we’ve got left to free-up the money.”

  The other two men, Stephen Smith and Richard Green, sitting at computers opposite, looked up from their own activities.

  “Then, that’s it, isn’t it? We’re fucked. They’re definitely onto us if they’ve shut down our account,” Green said, panic cracking his voice.

  “It could be a coincidence,” Jones replied with little conviction, but knowing it couldn’t be.

  Somehow the masked men that had been trailing them, and whomever they worked for, had discovered their discrete bank account in Geneva. It had been the only way to safeguard their resources in the event of any unforeseen accidents. But now they were onto this too.

  Out of the corner of his eye Jones glanced at the propane canisters on the warehouse floor below. Looking away he turned to Brown who’d slumped back in his chair.

  “Get onto the CRB database and check to see if we’ve made an appearance in there. If they want to apply real leverage to us, the easiest way to get cooperation from all law enforcement agencies is to give us all a record. Check it out now, and bloody hurry.”

  11.50pm.

  Jones returned to his own screen, searching one server directory after another. A few minutes later his attention stopped on one area of a new server. His searching had taken him onto a Defence Department directory. About half-way down the screen he eyed a seemingly bland report produced by the National e-Government Strategy Group - a group of powerful commercial CEOs representing the UK computing industry and senior government ministers and civil servants. The report title suggested nothing more interesting than timetables for UKCitizensNet and how it would be implemented throughout the country. He almost dismissed it as irrelevant, but at the last moment he noticed in the meta-data description of the document the name Miles Winston, the Secretary of State for Defence. Intrigued as to why he should have an interest in the network he began to delve deeper into the Defence Department’s interest.

  Documents containing the names of covert operatives working in foreign countries, surveillance activities, and information collected from moles and informants scrolled past. And whilst ordinarily most of this classified information would have been worth a discrete look, this evening he breezed straight past it.

  Accessing a directory entitled ‘Networks’ he waited impatiently as its contents scrolled up on screen. His gaze stopped on a folder named ‘CODEX’. Casting a hasty glance at the clock he delved into the files hoping it might just contain something relevant to UKCitizensNet.

  11.58pm.

  A feeling of euphoria surged through him. Part way down the directory listing one file stood out: CODEX file OP09/ST - UKCitizensNet implementation and development.

  Checking his flash drive was secure in the USB port he called up the PDF file, waiting anxiously as it loaded on screen.

  Come on, come on. Load damn you.

  The electronic file was issued by the Defence Department, the filename, also the title of report, sat prominently at the top of the screen.

  What the hell is CODEX? And why is the Defence Department so interested in a new computer network? It doesn’t add up.

  The first few paragraphs stated the classified nature of the information before detailing the government’s timetable for introducing the new network.

  There’s nothing new in this information. Why the hell is it covered by the Official Secrets Act?

  11.59pm.

  More information on the successful contractor for UKCitizensNet followed with details of key personnel. None of it seemed relevant to his search, and he could feel his frustration rising as he scrolled further into the document.

  Finally, his eye caught the title of a paragraph: Phase I - Primary Targets. Three names were included on the page and he began scanning the text.

  Name: Colette Robertson

  Position: Technical Director, SW Technologies

  Skills: Semantic web technologies, financial management, broadband integration, legal and regulatory compliance

  Dependants: Michael Robertson (husband); Clare Robertson (daughter)

  Current personnel status: Colette Robertson (deceased), 16/9/10), Michael Robertson (active), Clare Robertson (deceased) 16/9/10)

  Principal operatives: Sebastian Tate, CODEX Unit 2

  Name: David Langley

  Position: Technical Consultant, ACE Solutions

  Before Jones could read any further all the information vanished. The same thing had happened to the other machines in the small office.

  The computer clock read 12:00.

  Without warning a fresh message flashed up on all four monitors simultaneously, and as he read the words he knew he’d missed his chance to save the document.

  Access to the internet is now prohibited in the UK. If you possess a UKCitizensNet activation code please use this when UKCitizensNet becomes active at 9.00am, January 1st, 2011.

  The four men looked at each other, none of them saying a word. In nine hours time UKCitizensNet would begin and online freedom would be gone.

  Jones turned to Brown who was now clutching a handful of papers that had just emerged from the printer.

  “Did you get into the Criminal Records Bureau in time?” he asked anxiously.

  Brown nodded, handing him the pile of papers.

  The first sheet was a criminal record report in his name - his real name. A surly-looking mugshot and an array of personal details were at the top of the document. What was underneath sealed his fate, and those of the other men.

  Under ‘Arrests and Convictions’ were numerous entries relating to electronic crimes, all in breach of the Computers Misuse Act: hacking offences, access to restricted data, and dissemination of confidential material. It was followed by more alleged crimes relating to online extortion, identity theft, and correspondence with other criminal elements.

  Looking up briefly at the three other men he quickly read the other ‘invented’ criminal records, all lengthy and incriminating.

  “There’s going to be nowhere for any of us to hide now, you realise that don’t you?” Brown said flatly, a slight tone of panic cracking his voice.

  Screwing up the printouts Jones angrily tossed the paper balls in the direction of the window behind his computer.

  “Well, I guess that settles it. We’ve run out of time and I’ve got no proof.” He sighed, before adding rhetorically: “How many fucking hours have we spent looking for something, anything?”

  The other three men shook their heads, fighting back their own anger and disappointment.

  “We mustn’t lose our resolve now. We need to stick to the original plan. It’s the only way we can safeguard our families and expose UKCitizensNet,” Jones said defiantly.

  The statement was met with silence as each of the men looked through the glass screen to the propane canisters below.

  A resigned smile crossed Brown’s face.

  “So where does your wife think you are tonight then?” he asked quietly, standing up from his chair to stretch his legs.

  “At our regular card game,” Jones replied, also rising. />
  The other two men nodded. They’d given the same explanation to their own families. At least their stories would be consistent once it was done.

  Taking one final glance at the canisters Jones turned back to his colleagues, before pulling a small photograph of his wife from his shirt pocket. Margaret was smiling as always, it was one of the things he’d always loved about her. She could always find the positive in every situation. How he needed her to do this now.

  A feeling of sorrow washed over him. He knew he’d never hold her again. But at least after tonight, she’d be safe - all their families would be safe. And for now, in the absence of any proof of the conspiracy threatening all their lives, that was what mattered.

  “If they know about the bank account, they probably know about this place too. It’s not going to be long before they get here. Gather up any information, flash drives or hard drives you’ve got and dispose of it as we agreed. Make sure you’re back here in 20 minutes. I’ll get things ready here.”

  Without another word the three remaining men set about their task as the clock ticked on towards 12.20am.

  Rubbing the tiredness from his eyes Jones reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of matches before heading towards the stairs that led to the warehouse below.

  The black Volvo estate drifted carefully along the access road to the industrial park, its lights off as the driver searched for the warehouse. One unit after another slipped by, the premises largely empty apart from the odd delivery lorry delivering supplies for the following morning.

  “Take a right up here,” the passenger said, glancing at the SatNav.

  Turning right, a warehouse on the left hand side at the far end of the road came sharply into view, two upstairs windows illuminated. Drawing closer to the building the silhouettes of figures passing backwards and forwards across the windows could be clearly seen.