Nomad

by James Swallow

  She was pulling down a blouse when the display flickered and Ekko Solomon stared back out at her. Lucy stiffened and drew into something that was almost but not quite the parade-ground attention that had been drilled into her in basic training.

  Solomon did that to her. Something about the man made her automatically respond with a soldier’s deference to a commander. He gave her a shallow nod. “Lucy. There’s been a change of plans.” His voice was careful and resonant, with the clipped diction typical of African-educated English. In person, he was an imposing man, but suave with it. Lucy had never known a moment when he didn’t look impeccably dressed or seem perfectly focused. Ekko Solomon was one of the richest men in the world, a billionaire with assets across a dozen third world nations and beyond. His business empire—the Rubicon Group—covered coltan and diamond mines, oil interests, technology and aviation. But it was a very different element of Rubicon that employed Lucy Keyes. On her passport—the real one, that rarely saw the light of day—Lucy’s job was listed as “security consultant,” part of the Rubicon corporation’s Special Conditions Division. That was a pretty way to say she was a private military contractor. What people in the bad old days used to call a mercenary.

  Once upon a time, Lucy Keyes had been First Lieutenant Keyes of the United States Army, a Tier One recon/sniper specialist, part of Delta Force’s clandestine all-female F Squad. But that had been a very different time in her life, and when she dwelled upon it now, she saw a different person back there. Another Lucy, far distant from the one standing barefoot in a five-star hotel room.

  Solomon was the reason she was here, and she owed him for that. She owed him for a lot of things.

  “You wanted me to meet with Hong.” She found her voice, becoming business-like. “That’s off?”

  He gave another nod. “I’ve passed Mr. Hong to another member of staff to deal with. To be honest, it was probably overkill to send you.”

  “Right.” In a way, she had been looking forward to the rendezvous in Chinatown. A quiet meeting with a compliant asset, a low-to-zero threat environment. It would almost have been a vacation. “But the information he has—”

  “It can wait. I received an urgent call an hour ago from one of our contacts in the British ministry. An MI6 operation is taking place in London as we speak, an operation relevant to Rubicon’s interests.” He smiled slightly. “You are in the right place at the right time, Lucy.”

  “In my experience, there’s no such thing, boss.” She sat on the edge of the bed and turned the laptop to face her, double-checking the active status of the scrambler built into the computer. “MI6 aren’t supposed to operate inside the UK. They’re external security.”

  “Yes. That gives you an idea of the exigency of the situation.”

  “What’s the protocol here?” Lucy gestured absently toward a Walther P99 semi-automatic lying on a bedside table. “Is this a wet job? Do I need my tools?”

  “Henri has made the arrangements,” said Solomon, nodding in the direction of his assistant, who hovered in the background. “Expect a delivery.”

  “Okay,” she replied. “Got a target for me?”

  “You misunderstand,” he told her. “This will be surveillance, not tactical.”

  Lucy frowned. “That’s not exactly my speciality…”

  “I know.” Solomon gave her a smile. “But I need someone I trust to do this. I need to keep the chain of information as short as possible.”

  She accepted this with a nod. “Copy that.”

  Solomon did something out of sight of the camera and the laptop screen changed to a set of data windows, the video relay shrinking into the corner of the display. The first thing that caught her eye was a picture of a white guy in his thirties, a grainy still pulled from a security-camera feed. He was wearing a grubby hoodie and he looked strung-out, tense.

  Delancort’s voice came over the speakers, echoing and digitizing where the satellite link lost the edges of the signal bandwidth. He told her that the man in the image was an MI6 intelligence officer who had gone rogue and lost himself somewhere in the city. The Brits were scouring London for him, but they were hindered by the need to do it quietly.

  “Mr. Solomon has released a considerable amount of assets in order to ensure that Special Conditions Division locate and isolate this man before the British recover him.” Henri made a cutting gesture with the blade of his hand. “If MI6 get any hint that we’re shadowing them, Rubicon’s ability to operate in the United Kingdom will be severely impacted.”

  “Copy that,” Lucy repeated. She peered at the intel file scrolling up the screen. “Marc Dane,” she read aloud. “Huh. A support tech? What’s so special about him?”

  “We need to know what Dane knows,” said Solomon. “Find him first.”

  Lucy’s gaze flicked to the P99. “And after that?”

  “We’ll review the situation at that time. Be safe, Lucy.” There was a crackle of disconnect, and the feed from the jet was cut.

  She studied the data Delancort had sent, paging through it, committing Dane’s face to memory.

  A knock at the door brought her out of her focus, and Lucy looked up. “Porter,” said a voice. “I have a delivery for Miss Locke.”

  She opened the door. “That’s me.”

  The porter was holding a medium-sized Louis Vuitton Pullman bag. “Hello, miss. This was just brought in to the front desk for you.”

  Lucy took the handle and plucked it effortlessly from his hands. “Hey, thanks.”

  “Heavier than it looks,” said the porter, puffing out a breath. “What’s in there, sports gear?”

  She pressed a five-pound note into his hand and smiled. “Something like that.”

  * * *

  He camped out in the hallway as the late morning came on, propped on a cushion with the loaded Glock. When the knock came on the front door, it was like thunder, and even though he’d been expecting it, Marc still felt a jolt of shock.

  He held the door open with the pistol hidden out of sight. The delivery driver offered him a pad where he could sign for the boxes piled on the stoop. Marc made a looping squiggle with the stylus that vaguely resembled a signature and the man was gone.

  He made a quick survey of the empty street and recovered his purchases. It had cost a lot to get what he needed on less than twelve hours’ notice, but the money wasn’t his, it was fairy gold that would evaporate from the cover account in seconds the moment that his MI6 trackers learned of it.

  He was rolling the dice in a big way here. If Sam’s emergency accounts were flagged, what he’d done was hand Welles the location of his hiding place. Before, that sort of risk might have made him hesitate, but not now. Marc had lost something in the last few days, and he was only just starting to realize it. He’d lost some of the fear.

  Opening the boxes was like Christmas morning. On the heavy wooden table in the kitchen, he unrolled lengths of bubble wrap, unpacking plastic cases and silvery static-proof bags. He couldn’t suppress a small grin as he took stock. There was kit worth thousands of pounds laid out before him, and he was itching to get to grips with it.

  The largest box contained a fully tricked-out laptop computer; an off-the-shelf Alienware model designed for high-maintenance videogamers with blisteringly fast internet connections. There was an IT techie’s tool kit in there as well, and he used it to open the case of the laptop, getting to work on the motherboard within.

  As he worked, for the first time he found himself thinking about his own place, the clean lines of the small, modern apartment he had out in Docklands. Marc’s own personal kit, the computer he had spent months of his life building, was there. His bespoke machine, tuned like a Formula One racing car, sharper than anything in the arsenal of any Tiger Team hacker from Shanghai to Langley. It broke his heart to think of it in the hands of the goons from the ninth floor, who would tear it apart in search of incriminating data.

  He didn’t miss a lot else from the apartment, though. Maybe his Blu-
ray collection, at a push. Marc had been there for almost two years, and there were still cardboard boxes unopened from the move. It had never really been a home for him, not really. It was just a storage area for his stuff, a place to park his body for sleep and food. It didn’t have any history to it; it was bereft of ghosts.

  Marc sighed and pushed those thoughts aside, delving into the guts of the laptop with all the care and seriousness of a cardiac surgeon performing a heart bypass.

  * * *

  Khadir poured dark tea into the glass and swirled it slightly, savoring the subtle aroma as a curl of vapor rose from the surface of the liquid. The tea was an ordinary thing, a common pleasure for a soldier, but he treated it as if it were a reward. Khadir had little in the manner of what other men would consider to be vices, but he was not a monk. He preferred to think of himself as a man of focus and purpose, but not one isolated from the joys of life.

  Without joy there was no understanding of what was to be gained, or could be lost. The war would mean nothing without that knowledge. He smiled to himself. In the matter of something as simple as a glass of tea, that truth revealed itself.

  It was quiet in the compound, save for the occasional mutter of the wind across the windows. Out in the orphanage, the youths were sleeping off the day’s instruction. The cycle of training seemed endless to the young ones, but in truth they were very close to the end of it, to the start of the next phase of the work. Soon the orphanage would be left behind and those considered strong enough would come with Khadir into the battle proper.

  There was a knock at the door and Jadeed entered, holding a sheaf of papers. “Commander,” he said, with the incline of his head that constituted a salute. “We have confirmation. I thought you would want to be informed immediately.”

  Khadir allowed his subordinate a nod. “Show me.”

  Jadeed handed over scans of pages from the previous day’s edition of the Washington Post, blurred by fax transmission.

  He followed the words of the article he was looking for, a grandiloquent piece discussing the subject of American educational reform, and a sneer pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Our generous friends are proven right once again. Truly we are blessed to have such allies.”

  He watched the other man sift the vague sarcasm in his tone before he answered. “They think of themselves as more than that, sir.”

  Khadir beckoned Jadeed to the table and poured more tea for both of them. “We are blessed, my friend,” he told him. “Don’t question that. Like the sword, Al Sayf balances on the tip of its blade, ready to sweep up and take the head of the enemy. What we will do shall resonate in history. This will be our most devastating blow against the governments of the West.”

  Jadeed balked at the heat of the tea. “I do not disagree,” he went on. “But I cannot hold my silence. These foreigners, they have plans that do not walk in step with ours.” He was slowly becoming angry. “Yes, the weapons and the equipment they have supplied to us … Those tools have enabled us to do great work. But they…” He halted, frustrated that he was unable to find the right words.

  “They see us in the same way,” offered Khadir. “As tools. And when the usefulness of a tool comes to an end, it is discarded.”

  Jadeed gave him a sharp look. “This is an alliance built on lies, sir.”

  He smiled coldly. “Of course it is. These men, this … This ‘Combine’ … What are they if not an extension of the enemy we wish to kill?” He took another sip of tea. “They are weak men, greedy men. They desire a world where they can peddle fear to their own kind and live high from it.” He shook his head. “Men like that, who think themselves our betters … Those kind of men can always be used, even as they believe it is they who use us. Our relationship with the Combine is a mutually beneficial one. But when that changes…”

  “We will be ready,” said Jadeed.

  Khadir nodded again. “Have no doubt.”

  Outside in the corridor there were raised voices, and someone gave an angry shout. A moment later, the door slammed open and two of Jadeed’s men entered, dragging a third between them.

  “What is this?” snarled Khadir’s subordinate, rising to his feet. He glared at the third man, a husky guard with features marred by a yellow-purple bruise on his face. The man looked up imploringly.

  “We found this one assaulting a recruit,” said one of the other guards. His words were laced with disgust, and the emphasis he placed made it immediately clear what the nature of that assault had been.

  The guard’s gaze flicked back and forth between Jadeed and Khadir. He started to babble, trying to explain that it was a misunderstanding.

  Jadeed ignored his pleas. “You saw this?” he asked the other guard.

  “I saw it,” came the reply.

  Khadir spoke to them for the first time. He touched his cheek in the same place where the man had the bruise. “Who did that?” He asked the question in an off-hand, almost casual manner.

  “It was me, commander,” said the other guard.

  Khadir accepted this. “Let him stand.”

  “Sir?” Jadeed shot him a look.

  “Do as I say.”

  The expressions on the faces of the guards turned stony, but they did not disobey. Both men released their grip on the injured man’s arms and immediately, he took a step toward Khadir, bringing his palms together in a gesture of thanks.

  The commander looked the man in the eyes, measuring him for a lie.

  In the next second, Khadir exploded from his chair with such velocity that his tea glass was knocked aside. His hand went to the holstered Tokarev pistol at his hip, and he drew it out, turning it to present the gun’s thick, knurled grip.

  The butt of the weapon came down like a hammer and shattered the guilty man’s nose with the first blow. The second and third impacts cut into his face. Khadir’s calm, metered manner evaporated and he was suddenly towering with anger, crossing between the two extremes in a heartbeat.

  The man went down in a heap to the wooden floor, drooling blood, weeping like a widow. Khadir drew back his boot and snapped his ribs with a sharp, hard kick. “Each one of them,” he hissed, repeating the blow. “Each is worth a thousand of you!” He kicked him again, and the guard screamed.

  “Sir…” Jadeed’s face paled a little with shock at the sudden, brutal power of the punishment Khadir delivered.

  Carefully and deliberately, the commander stepped forward and ground the heel of his boot into the outstretched fingers of the man on the floor. The bones crackled as they broke.

  “Get this worthless creature out of my sight,” he said, his voice dropping back to an even tone.

  Jadeed drew his own gun and worked the slide. “Take him to the basement—”

  “No.” Khadir shook his head. “Keep him alive.” He didn’t look up as he took his seat again, the matter of the chastised man dismissed immediately from his thoughts as they dragged him away.

  “I despise waste.” Khadir frowned at the spilled tea, and righted the glass before filling it again.

  * * *

  He wasn’t aware of the time until he was done. Marc opened a window to vent the smell of hot solder and called the local takeaway for Chinese food. He ate at the kitchen table, foil trays full of egg fried rice and chicken strips in thick honey lemon sauce washed down with a bottle of Tsingtao beer. Debris from his work littered the room, but he ignored it. Welles would come here eventually and it amused him a little to think of the man being forced to sift through scraps of wire and circuit board as he tried to figure out what Marc had been doing.

  He took a breath and fished the IronKey from his pocket. Marc plugged it into the laptop and watched as the memory stick sniffed at the machine, looking for anything threatening. It asked for a password, and Marc stared at the prompt on the screen.

  This wasn’t one of those things where you got to try again if you screwed up. There was no respawn here, like in a video game. If he got it wrong, the solid state drive would loboto
mize itself and Marc would have nothing. He thought about making a list of possibilities, taking some time to sift his memories of Samantha Green in hopes of finding the word or phrase that she would have used to lock up this data.

  He was still thinking that when his hands were on the keys and typing, almost as if it were someone else doing it. The password panel filled up with two words and his index finger hesitated over the “Enter” key.

  Camden Market. She loved Camden Market.

  He pressed the button, and like a hand of cards fanned over a table, the laptop’s screen showed panel after panel of data, files decoding themselves from streams of unreadable gibberish into legible text.

  * * *

  He started reading, eating mechanically.

  It was all there. Sam’s off-book notes about the decision Gavin Rix had made to look into a possible breach of OpTeam security. There were things here that Marc had never even been aware of, small-scale missions handled by only one or two of the Nomad tactical officers, stuff that had never been put on the grid at MI6. Investigations that weren’t sanctioned, that had originated within OpTeam Seven and contained inside the unit. He tried to read between the lines, but Sam’s spare, matter-of-fact notes didn’t give him much to work with.

  Marc wondered where it had all begun, and drilled deeper. For what seemed like the first time in forever, he felt a surge of confidence. Corridors of data, lines of intel … These things were his battleground.

  He found the riches in a sub-folder full of roughly worded text files. Marc recognized the artifacts of something machine-translated, the rogue adjectives and occasional non sequitur, but it was clear enough to make his pulse race as he read on. A name repeated several times among the dense blocks of words; Dima Novakovich.

  He knew the man, not personally, but by the ripples he left, passing through the intelligence network. Novakovich was what the Americans liked to call a “non-state actor”—not exactly a player on the global scene in the same way as a terrorist or an agent of an aggressor power, but a moving node in the web of influence and action. The man was a criminal, that wasn’t in question, but Novakovich was someone of use, and people like him had a way of staying beyond the reach of the world’s police forces.