greyareas
INTERQUELS
macalisterstevens
INTERQUELS
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
© 2015 macalisterstevens
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author.
www.greyareas.xyz
greyareas
Interquels
From the moment you wake, you're making choices: get up or hit the snooze button; toast or cereal; tube or bus; sandwich or pub lunch; after-work drink or straight home; bit of telly or straight to bed. Sometimes you have bigger choices to make. And you never know which choices will change your life; or your world.
In INTERQUELS, a free-spirit hacktivist, an undercover FBI Special Agent, a movie company intern, a contemporary Robin Hood, a human trafficking survivor, and a writer all face the consequences of their choices; and the choices of those around them.
INTERQUELS is a novella-length companion piece to the GreyAreas Triptych. It can be read as a stand alone collection of intersecting novelettes and short stories; or it can be read as a collection of sequels and prequels to the stories told in the Triptych.
Read INTERQUELS, as an introduction to the GreyAreas universe(s), read it anywhere in the middle of the Triptych, or save it to the end.
Your choice …
INTERQUEL: noun
A sequel to one story and a prequel to another; also known as a midquel.
A story taking place at the same time as another story; also known as a sidequel
greyareas triptych
The Hunting Command
Slipping
Theseus of Ship
Each book in the triptych can be read as a stand alone novel (in different but overlapping genres); together they have their own story arc.
PREVIEWS of The Hunting Command, Slipping and Theseus of Ship can be found at the end of Interquels.
INTERQUELS
for Louise and Belinda
Contents
PART 1: POLYXENA
PART 2: SIX CITIES
PART 3: OPTIONS
PART 4: LONG GAME
PART 5: PRICE TAG
PART 6: RIPPLES
CODA
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Preview of THE HUNTING COMMAND
Preview of SLIPPING
Preview of THESEUS OF SHIP
PART 1: POLYXENA
10 months ago
He couldn’t always be there when she woke. That’s why three words were tattooed on the inside of her left forearm: Look inside Giddiness.
Under her pillow was a dog-eared paperback: The Giddiness of the Non-Frequent Flyer. Her favourite novel. And inside, on the back of the Acknowledgements page, she’d written notes about her condition.
Anterograde amnesia: loss of the ability to create new memories. Disorder developed shortly after 32nd birthday. Also frequently no memories of events since the Six Cities incident.
The notes also provided brief details about the world she’d wake to.
Though there were a few days when she knew exactly where she was, and even occasional mornings when she’d remember the previous day, more often than not, the memories they had in common were from a decade ago.
10 years ago
‘Malicious and beautiful.’
The tug at the corner of Darcy Hannah’s mouth was beyond her control. Zander had been referring to the malware, but their eye contact confirmed the words were also for her.
Elias Notaras’s bulk passed behind Zander. Notaras was a heavy man, but he more stalked than walked; Darcy guessed his powerful movements were courtesy of remnants of college-football muscle buried beneath the boardroom padding.
‘The offer is simple and generous,’ Notaras boomed. He squeezed into the chair next to Darcy. ‘Did you know that originally a hack was a practical joke played by students at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology?’ Beefy fingers drummed on the contract. ‘Just fun. Hackers were pranksters.’ The drumming stopped. ‘Sadly, these days hacking is a white-cat-stroking menace. And cyber security is a lucrative business. However …’ Notaras slid the contract closer to Darcy. ‘I’m not a fan of outsourcing. I prefer the comfort of knowing threats to the Notaras Group are handled in-house. And poachers make the best gamekeepers.’
Darcy glanced at the document.
‘Your prank was impressive. We appreciate your talents. Join us and it will be in all of our interests for the Department of Defense to never know who created the Epeius virus.’
Epeius had put her there. The creative code wasn’t really malicious. More, playful. It merely interrupted computer use at random intervals with a plain white screen and a question in simple black text offering two clickable options. The version customised for the Defense Finance and Accounting Service had asked:
Propping up oppressive regimes because they have vast oil reserves is …
(A) right, or, (B) wrong?
Clicking (A) resulted in a black screen with white text:
Are you sure?
Then the question was repeated. If (A) was clicked again, Epeius asked:
Are you really sure?
An extra really was added for every subsequent (A) click; selecting (B) released the computer.
Naturally the Pentagon had kept twenty-two hours of compromised systems quiet. As had Notaras’s corporate giant after the intrusion into its billings system; though Epeius had only troubled Notaras’s people for fourteen hours: the Pentagon didn’t have Zander.
‘The undisputed king of the White Hats,’ Notaras said, waving thick fingers at his head of computer security. ‘And every king needs a queen.’
Zander looked away, uncharacteristically bashful. But just for a moment. Gym-toned arms strained his shirt sleeves as he sat back, cupping hands behind his head.
Darcy skimmed the contract. The offer was indeed simple and generous. Very generous. She glanced at a grinning Zander. Attractive perks too. And all they wanted was five years of cyber-servitude.
Notaras said, ‘Don’t think of it as the end of Polyxena.’
Darcy’s eyebrow twitched at the mention of her hacktivist alias.
‘In Euripides’s plays Polyxena was sacrificed to benefit the Greeks.’ Notaras and Zander shared smug little smiles; both were Greek-Americans. ‘But we can write a much happier ending.’ Notaras placed a Diabolo de Cartier pen on top of the contract. He grinned. ‘Consider the opportunities.’
Darcy smiled back.
As she reached for the pen, Darcy flicked another glance at Zander. Pretty, talented, but far too smug. Zander had been so very impressed with himself when he’d tracked down Epeius’s creator, it had never occurred to him that the code used for the Notaras version had been crafted to include clues leading to Darcy. Notaras and Zander had also missed the plain-sight warning Darcy had given them: Polyxena was a Trojan.
As she signed the contract, Darcy considered the opportunities for mischief she would have on the inside.
PART 2: SIX CITIES
9 years ago
If the sniper fired, he would ignore the small, red dot slowly rising and falling with each of Zoran Kasun’s long, unhurried breaths. Wind, gravity and distance would be his guide, not the laser-sight’s perfect straight line. The red dot wasn’t for the sniper’s benefit. It was a message for Kasun: we’re here, we’re coming to get you, so don’t move. Kasun closed his eyes and smiled as a warm contentment spread through
his body. You’re too late, he thought, this world will end soon.
The Víkingasveitin—the Viking Squad—was the special operations unit of the Icelandic Police. It consisted of five specialist squads, and Jökull Pétursson belonged to Charlie Squad: the snipers. Jökull’s position on the gantry crane provided clear sight of most of the dock, but his focus was between a battered container and an unmarked white van.
Jökull’s spotter radioed in an update: ‘No movement from the target. He’s still next to the vehicle.’ The message was primarily for Brynja Geirsdóttir as she edged towards the unmarked white van, her handgun drawn and held in a low-ready position.
Three hours earlier Brynja had been reporting directly to the National Commissioner of the Icelandic Police. As part of the Víkingasveitin’s Delta Squad—the intelligence and anti-terrorism specialists—she had been investigating illegal transportation of Caesium-137.
‘And the trail leads to Cetus Bellator?’ said the National Commissioner. ‘Tree huggers have a Radiological Dispersal Device?’
‘They’re extremists,’ Brynja said. ‘Their ideology may have its roots in green campaigning, but I doubt they still knit their own houmous.’
The National Commissioner’s frown clung to her for a few moments, then he turned towards the Deputy Commissioner of Reykjavik. ‘Gissur, what do you think?’
‘Cetus Bellator is an organisation packed with extremists. That is certainly true. Many of their activities have resulted in costly criminal damage.’ The Deputy Commissioner glanced at Brynja. ‘But would they use an RDD on a whaling fleet?’ He shook his head. ‘Detonating a Dirty Bomb would be monstrous.’
‘But it would be effective.’ Brynja’s impatience added more bite to her tone than she’d intended, but the Deputy Commissioner needed to get his head out of his arse.
A breath.
Then more evenly: ‘After the initial mass panic, we would be dealing with prolonged fear and draining of resources. Decontamination of the blast area would be costly, but the long-term economic impact to both the fishery and tourism industries would be devastating. A crippled Iceland would put Cetus Bellator and its agenda at the top of every news bulletin around the world.’
The National Commissioner nodded, but said nothing. He flicked through the report Brynja had put together, stopping to study each photograph carefully.
Brynja’s exasperated huff was drowned out by her phone ringing.
‘Still with the Commissioner,’ Brynja said.
Steinn Ragnarsson kept his report short. ‘There’s movement here. Two males have just departed in a white Ford refrigerated van. The driver is Njörður Sindrason. The passenger is a new face. I’ve sent an image to headquarters. Úlfur is following the van, I’m continuing surveillance at the factory. I’m parked in the space Úlfur was using.’
Brynja mumbled a thanks and she was gone.
A loud rapping on the glass next to Steinn’s ear startled him. He turned his head quickly, and froze. Level with his face was the muzzle of a handgun.
Henry Beckett whooped.
The Europol liaison spun in Beckett’s direction. The rest of the office remained focused on their tasks; they were used to Beckett’s whooping. The big Texan whooped at sports results, he whooped when a favourite song came on the radio, he whooped at good news, and sometimes he seemed to whoop for no good reason. This time Beckett had good reason.
‘Iceland,’ Beckett drawled.
A few of the FBI agents raised their heads.
‘Police in Reykjavik ran a photo of a suspect through Interpol. It’s Zoran Kasun.’
The entire office turned towards Beckett, who whooped again.
Wood crashed against wood. Brynja reached out to steady the coffee pot wobbling on the table next to the Detectives Office door.
Örn Frímannsson sighed. ‘Not good news then.’
‘They’re taking the threat seriously, but only because the FBI just got involved.’
‘FBI? Why are the Amer—’
‘Observing.’ Brynja tossed air quotes at Örn. To the rest of the room she said, ‘Briefing with Diðrik in ten minutes.’
Special Agent in Charge Will Colvin slapped a thin plastic folder against the whiteboard; the room fell silent. Colvin scanned the faces of the assembled FBI analysts, paralegals, computer forensics experts and language specialists; the liaison from Europol sat at the front.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ Colvin waved the folder at the whiteboard. ‘Another bunch of radicals just joined the party.’
In the centre of the whiteboard, large red capital letters spelled KASUN-EDILOV. This was circled (also in red), and radiating from the circle were four red lines, and at the end of each red line was the name of an extremist organisation: the Islamic Regiment of Chechen Martyrs, Lincoln In Hell, the Mazandaran Alliance; Narodna Odbrana 2000. Colvin picked up a red marker pen and drew another spoke, then wrote Cetus Bellator.
‘They’re bat-shit crazy environmentalists.’ Colvin opened the thin folder. ‘Their resume includes sinking a whaling ship in Reykjavik harbour by opening the seacocks. They also attached a limpet mine to a hybrid factory-catcher whaler off the coast of Japan. And they managed to cause an outbreak of food poisoning at a marine mammal park in the Dominican Republic by tampering with the buffet at one of its restaurants. The list goes on.’
Colvin pulled a photo from the folder and clipped it to the board. ‘This is …’ Colvin paused briefly to recall the correct pronunciation. ‘Njörður Sindrason. Top man for Cetus Bellator in Iceland. There are no direct connections between him and any of the organisation’s excesses, but his only public criticism of those activities has been complaining that they didn’t go far enough. The Icelandic police and ...’ Colvin glanced at his notes, saw Greiningardeild Ríkislögreglustjóra, and chickened out. ‘Um, their National Security Unit has been keeping a close watch on Njörður Sindrason’s movements. Long story short, he’s been seen with this familiar face.’
Colvin clipped another photo to the whiteboard; in the passenger seat of a white van was Zoran Kasun. Colvin wrapped his knuckles on the Serb’s image. ‘That was taken in Iceland about thirty minutes ago. At this moment the local police are following Zoran Kasun and Njörður Sindrason through the streets of Reykjavik. We’ve requested satellite coverage. With the help of pressure from the State Department, it’s been agreed we’ll have input into the Icelandic Police operation.’
At the back of the room, someone whooped.
Steinn Ragnarsson thumbed Brynja’s number and held the phone to his ear.
Brynja answered: ‘In a briefing.’
Steinn said, ‘Another van has left the factory. Same make and colour as the last one. Commercial plates, number XK 791. The driver and the passenger are both males. Didn’t get any images. The van looked to be heading towards Hvalfjörður. Get someone on it. I’ll continue surveillance at the factory. Got to go.’
Steinn ended the call and held out his phone.
The blond foreigner’s handgun—a snub nose revolver of some kind—remained pointed at Steinn’s head as the foreigner glanced at his Icelandic associate. The Icelander nodded that Steinn had stuck to the script he’d been given.
The foreigner stepped forward, took Steinn’s phone and tossed it to the side; a sharp crack echoed around the factory as the phone smacked into a wall.
‘Hvers—’ Steinn stopped, and switched to English. ‘Why make sure we know about the second van?’
The foreigner shrugged. ‘Sometimes it is necessary to sacrifice more than a pawn.’
‘One percenters?’ Örn slurped his coffee. ‘Cetus Bellator has teamed up with a motor cycle gang?’
‘Lincoln In Hell isn’t exactly an outlaw motorcycle club,’ said Chief Inspector Diðrik Jónasson. ‘But it does have links to several Illinois chapters of a high profile club. The Northern States Raiders. The overlap in criminal activity has been funding Lincoln In Hell’s white supremacy efforts. The FBI discovered one of those initiatives
was the secret funding of the Illinois Kindred Alliance, an Odinism based prisoner outreach programme.’
Brynja noticed Örn’s raised eyebrow.
Diðrik had caught it too. He said, ‘It seems large numbers of America’s white prison population have been persuaded that Christianity’s Jewish roots are undesirable. Northern European paganism is a better fit. Provides the opportunity to revere Nordic ancestry.’
Örn rolled his eyes.
‘That outreach programme is one of Lincoln In Hell’s most effective recruitment tools,’ Diðrik added.
Brynja studied Diðrik. The Víkingasveitin commanding officer was the only full-time member of the counter-terrorism force; the unit’s fifty specialists, including Brynja, operated as regular police officers when not in rotation for Víkingasveitin duties. Outside of training scenarios, the full strength of the Víkingasveitin was rarely deployed, and it would be understandable if Diðrik was angered by the FBI’s level of influence in the Cetus Bellator case, but if Diðrik shared any of Brynja’s frustrations, he was keeping them well hidden.
Diðrik glanced at the large monitor displaying images from the American reconnaissance satellite before continuing: ‘The FBI infiltrated Lincoln In Hell with a view to curtailing their criminal enterprises and limiting their recruitment opportunities. Subsequently, their undercover agent reported that the group’s criminal connections are not limited to the USA; Lincoln In Hell has been in communication with several European chapters of the Northern State Raiders, notably in Russia, Poland and Norway. Because of this, Europol and Interpol became involved, which led to the linking of the Northern States Raiders and Lincoln In Hell to two individuals believed to be behind the theft of a substantial quantity of isotopes originally intended for medical purposes or for academic research in a number of European countries.’
Interquels Page 1