The Codex File (2012)

by Miles Etherton

  “And the integrity of the network?”

  “Everything is fully operational. All the diagnostic tests have been carried out, and carried out again. The network is totally robust. As soon as they reach Whitehall the app will be launched.”

  A slight sneer crossed his ageing, distinguished face as he reached for his glass of white wine, turning to look out the window. His gaze rose to the rooftops of Oxford Street filling their view.

  All along the route security personnel from his department were stationed. Either on rooftops, in shop doorways, or in armoured cars. The security details had been arranged with the Saudi security force. The Saudis would protect their leader directly through their convoy of vehicles on the way to Heathrow airport. UK security forces would monitor the route to prevent any unfortunate incidents occurring. How ironic Tate thought, catching sight of the convoy as it moved seamlessly up Oxford Street. Little did the Saudis know the details of the route had been passed on via Miles Winston, the Secretary of State for Defence, to CODEX.

  The five black limousines glistened in the sunlight as they glided up the road. Passers-by stopped to look at the impressive sight. Each trying to peer in through the tinted windows to catch sight of who this important celebrity was.

  The two men watched as the cars slipped past the restaurant below, continuing their journey in the direction of Tottenham Court Road. On the rooftop opposite Trevellion counted four snipers monitoring the progress of the convoy. Legitimate UK security personnel, all known and accounted for by the Saudi security force.

  As the procession drifted out of sight the two men returned to their previous positions. Tate replaced his wineglass on the table, picking up his mobile phone. Glancing quickly at his watch he dialed the number he required. The phone was instantly answered at the other end.

  “They’re past us now, heading towards Tottenham Court Road. Keep me informed. I want to know if there are any deviations on the route.”

  The petrol tanker turned onto Westminster Bridge and began to cross the Thames, the London Eye and County Hall impressively rearing up on the river bank opposite. Glancing in his rear view mirror the driver was sure he hadn’t been followed. The time on the dashboard’s digital display signaled he didn’t have much time.

  Reaching almost the centre of the bridge he turned off the tanker’s ignition, letting the vehicle idle to a stop. In the same instance he hit the button for his hazard lights, watching in his mirrors as the steady stream of traffic began to move round the apparently stricken vehicle.

  Reaching into his shirt pocket he pulled out his mobile phone and quickly dialed, anxiously glancing at the clock on the dashboard. A familiar male voice answered.

  “I’m in position and about to exit the vehicle. Everything’s set.”

  Ending the telephone call the driver jumped down from the cabin onto the pavement which ran across the bridge.

  “Everything OK?” a passer-by, a suited man in his mid-40s, said as he walked past.

  “Bloody engine just died on me. Can’t get the thing damn started. I’m going to have call out the RAC I think,” he replied cheerfully, reaching into his pocket for his mobile phone to validate his statement.

  As the suited man continued his walk across the bridge the driver looked around him. No-one was paying particular attention to his situation. Everyone was too eager to get to their own destinations.

  Putting the phone to his ear he began to walk slowly up the pavement and away from the petrol tanker.

  President Al-Haifi looked up from his papers with minimal interest as the convoy moved slowly through Trafalgar Square, a series of road works on the route slowing their journey slightly.

  In the seats in front two burly security guards sat with their earpieces securely in place so the entire team could communicate instantly at the sign of any threat. Not that he had any particular concerns. His security team’s competence was never in question. And the security intelligence collated prior to his European tour hadn’t indicated any potential threats.

  All in all, the trip to the UK had been a great success. At least for his country. Following his election four years earlier he’d energetically, even ruthlessly at times, pushed forward the oil reforms he and his cabinet felt were required. The nationalisation of the Saudi oil industry had been met with furious indignation from oil companies and nations worldwide.

  Company after company had been forced to withdraw their operations from Saudi soil, and then suffer the indignity of paying higher premiums on exporting oil to service their own national needs.

  It had been a painful deal for the countries involved, but a universally popular deal in his homeland. And now, four years on, here he was, holding court with the all the leading European national leaders. Listening to them beg for reductions in the oil tariffs because it was crippling their national economies.

  Dr Marcus McCoy had been no different and had argued very strongly, offering diplomatic concessions and deals elsewhere. But behind the media spin and message of national pride McCoy openly preached was a vicious bully who’d tried ever political trick in the book to try and intimidate him.

  But he was having none of it. And even when he pointed out fuel prices could be eased in this country by a reduction in fuel taxes, there was, unsurprisingly, little enthusiasm for that solution.

  In the end, their mini-summit had reached a publicly amicable stalemate whilst further ministerial discussions took place. And now his attention turned to similar negotiations with the French President, another dour belligerent man who would also be trying to bully him into submission.

  The convoy journeyed past Nelson’s Column and turned into Whitehall. The elegant buildings of the Treasury and the Foreign and Cabinet Offices slipping by as the convoy sped on to its destination. The President smiled to himself, imagining the grey bureaucrats convening emergency meetings to discuss the lack of ‘co-operation’ the Saudi nation was giving to their economy. Maybe if they came back with some improved financial, military or diplomatic proposals he might consider some sort of concession on the oil tariff. But without it, he wouldn’t be moving his position.

  On the corner of Trafalgar Square and the entrance to Whitehall a stocky man in his early 30s leant against a lamppost, talking into his mobile phone. He watched nonchalantly as the convoy of black of limousines eased their way past him and onto Parliament Square, careful not to give the vehicles any attention.

  The convoy headed away and the man dropped his mobile phone into his shirt pocket and pulled a small black tablet computer from inside his jacket. The machine, already booted up, flashed a number of options on the compact screen. In the bottom corner a status bar displayed the local wireless network’s integrity. It was at a full 100%. With a few keystrokes, and a quick tap of the ‘Enter’ key, the screen went momentarily blank. The job was done.

  A brief message flashed up on the screen.

  ‘Connection to remote IP address successful. App successfully downloaded’

  The man half-smiled, slipping the mini tablet handheld computer back into his jacket pocket and retrieving his mobile phone. He had to make his report.

  Pulling out of Parliament Square the second of the five black armoured Limousines turned onto Westminster Bridge. The leading vehicle was about 20 feet in front. The President’s own car was a similar distance behind. The rest of the convoy came into sight in the rear view mirrors as they also turned onto the famous bridge.

  Four Saudi security officers occupied the leading car. All were armed, and all wired up on mobile earpieces linked to the President’s car where the head of the Saudi Security Force was also travelling.

  As the convoy eased along the bridge the driver was struck by the impressive view that looked out over the River Thames. Driving on he could see the London Eye as it made its slow journey round its axis. Tourists were pressed to the window of every capsule. Camera flashes reflected off the glass, lighting up the dreary lunchtime sky.

  A part of him was slightl
y disappointed they’d not had the chance to see some of the sights on this trip. But there had been no time. The schedule of their visit was too tight for such indulgences.

  Without warning his colleague in the passenger seat began to gesticulate at something up ahead, disturbing his private thoughts. Looking beyond the leading limousine a petrol tanker was blocking the left lane ahead, its hazard lights blinking. The driver watched as the first Limousine pulled out into the right hand lane to move past the stranded vehicle. But his attention was quickly brought back to his own vehicle. The digital computerised display on the dashboard began to flash violently as warning lights beamed on and off in unison. To the right, mounted on the dashboard, the SatNav which was directing their journey was fading in and out before finally the screen went blank.

  “What’s going on?” the security guard in the passenger seat said anxiously, his right hand instinctively reaching inside his jacket to where his gun was holstered.

  “I don’t know,” the driver replied frantically as the car began to veer from side to side.

  Grappling with the steering wheel the driver fought to keep the vehicle under control as it slid from the left lane to the right and back again.

  “I can’t control it,” he yelled as the petrol tanker loomed before them.

  “Brake, use the brakes,” the second security guard yelled, frantically looking for some means to stop the car.

  The driver’s foot flattened the brake pedal to the floor. But instead of the car slowing it began to increase in speed, the engine revving noisily in protest as it gathered pace. Grabbing the handbrake, pulling it as far upwards as he could, the driver began to pray as the car hurtled forward at an ever-increasing speed, almost in front of the stationary petrol tanker.

  The other three security guards were all yelling instructions, frantically looking for a means to get the limousine under control. The second security guard leant over, grabbing the steering wheel in a vain attempt to stop the car’s onward journey.

  As the petrol tanker loomed large in the front windscreen the driver looked to the photograph of his wife and his young daughter fastened on the dashboard to the right of the steering wheel and prayed he would see them again.

  In the President’s limousine behind, the two security guards riding in the front of the vehicle were watching in a state of raised anxiety as they viewed the swerving limousine close in on the tanker. The head of the security force was bellowing instructions into his mobile phone, demanding to know what was going on as he tried to communicate with the driver in front. Receiving no reply he ordered the driver of the President’s limousine to brake and take evasive action.

  President Al-Haifi’s papers, which had been sat in his lap, spilled into the foot well in front of him. Gripping the light brown leather seat he braced himself as the limousine slammed to a halt. Looking beyond his security guards to the scene in front, his eyes widened as the vehicle up ahead failed to slow, seeming to pick up speed as it approached the petrol tanker blocking the road.

  The four men in the car flinched as the limousine ploughed into the back of the tanker with a deafening bang. For a second there was nothing but silence as they all held their breath.

  The tanker detonated in an immense explosion which shook the whole of Westminster Bridge. A searing petrol fireball swallowed up the limousine that had hit the tanker, quickly spreading as the inferno ignited into a sprawling blaze, obliterating everything in its path.

  The President saw the light from the fireball glow briefly off the windows of his own Limousine before it was blown into a thousand pieces. The explosion tore the reinforced metal apart, scattering debris onto the bridge and into the river, before obliterating the limousine behind.

  The driver of the final limousine felt the warmth of the explosion envelop his vehicle as he forced it into reverse. The wheels screeched loudly as the car hurtled backwards and out of the destructive path of the blast.

  The vehicle came to an abrupt halt as is it careered into the 4x4 Jeep that had been behind as they’d reached the bridge. The four security guards sat in silence, watching in disbelief as the tangled mass of metal burned fiercely. Barely metres away. Not one of them spoke.

  As with everywhere else in close proximity to Westminster Bridge the explosion had been heard, shaking the Japanese restaurant where Tate and Trevellion were finishing their meal.

  Ignoring the four burly security guards the restaurant’s staff and other diners had all rushed to the windows to see what had happened.

  Black smoke rose into the cloudy midday London sky above the rooftops of Oxford Street. The acrid smell of burning fuel started to seep into the restaurant as the babble of voices speculated as to what had just happened.

  “I think we should get you out of here, sir,” one of the security guards suggested, approaching Tate’s table.

  Tate nodded, casting a knowing glance at Trevellion opposite.

  “Yes, I agree. Bring the car round.”

  As the security guard moved away from the table the chatter of anxious voices in the restaurant was punctuated by Tate’s mobile phone, which began to ring. Picking it up from the table he exchanged glances with Trevellion before answering the call.

  A familiar male voice was at the other end of the line.

  “The target has been destroyed.”

  CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

  Vincent Trevellion strode purposefully through the white corridor, approaching the room where Michael and his brother were being held captive. A tall, unfriendly looking soldier accompanied him as they reached the locked door. Trevellion stood back as the soldier unlocked the door, a baton held firmly in his right hand.

  As the door swung open Michael and Simon were at the back of the room. His brother sat on one of the three chairs, but this time he was fully clothed, not savagely restrained. Michael sat hunched on the floor, his back pressed against the cold white wall. Ben’s blood still stained the adjacent wall behind from where Brown had mercilessly executed him several days before.

  Simon regarded the security guard warily, his faces drawn and harrowed from the days of torture, fearing what might next be in store for them.

  Michael looked up from his thoughts and in Trevellion’s direction, remaining seated. His right eye was half closed from where Brown had blinded him with the cigarette. His skin and eyeball swollen and blistered from the savage heat. His other eye burned with an equal hatred for Trevellion and all that he stood for.

  The soldier stood menacingly in front of Michael and Simon as Trevellion sat on the table, the same place Brown had been days before. Pulling a holstered handgun from inside his jacket, he held it purposefully in his left hand.

  Smirking knowingly in Michael and Simon’s direction the soldier exited the room. The sound of his boots thudding down the corridor soon faded away as the three men were left together in the windowless cell.

  For what seemed like an eternity none of the men spoke as mutual contempt hung in the air. Michael was the first to say what both men were thinking.

  “You’ve come here to kill us then, have you?”

  Trevellion looked Michael directly in the eye.

  “Got every last bit of information out of us now, have you? Don’t need us anymore?”

  The slightest smile passed Trevellion’s thin lips as his left index finger gently tapped the trigger of the handgun.

  “Answer him, damn it,” Simon interrupted with equal hostility. “Stop playing games with us.”

  Trevellion turned to face his brother, contempt clear in his eyes.

  “But you know I like games, don’t you?” he replied calmly. “I always did. And I was always better at them than you.”

  Simon scowled, anger burning in his eyes. He knew it was true. Vincent had always been the more manipulative, the more conniving of the two when they had grown up. He’d always managed to wriggle his way out of problems far better than he had. And always seemed to incur the wrath of their parents far less. It was one of his m
any talents. In life Vincent always seemed to have the upper hand. And now in certain death nothing had changed.

  “It’s ironic, isn’t it,” Trevellion continued menacingly. “The last time I saw you lectured me about your disgust at companies likes SemComNet. And, as I recall, your moral opposition to their stance on unregulated information. Imagine then how gratified I felt when I discovered from Kennedy that my own brother was a member of R.I.G. A group we’ve been hunting down for years. A rabble that stands for nothing more than anarchy and pathetic idealism. The irony was just too pleasing for words.”

  Trevellion paused, choosing his next words as carefully as a surgeon selects his scalpel.

  “And then something else struck me, probably the greatest irony of all. I realised that maybe just for once father would probably have been proud of what you were doing. Finally, you were actually doing something you believed in. Not just lecturing or theorising about it. It’s a pity this revelation didn’t come when he was alive, isn’t it?”

  A thin smile crossed Trevellion’s lips as Simon’s face flushed with anger. As usual his brother knew exactly how to provoke him. But never before had he done so with a gun pointed at him.

  “The R.I.G are over. We’re locating more of your groups all of the time and becoming very adept at getting rid of them. And now we have the app too.”

  “Oh yes, you’re good,” Michael added, breaking the sibling hostility. He braced himself for what he was about to say, fearing provocation might hasten his end further.

  “Just tell me one thing. Why? Not why you brutally butchered my wife and daughter. I know you were stealing industrial secrets and they were expendable and in your way. But why this app, this bit of fucking code? Why is it so important to you and SemComNet that you’ve killed God knows how many people in pursuit of it? I hope for your sake it was worth it.”

  Michael tentatively rubbed his blistering eye as it began to throb again, gently weeping down his pale cheek.