Chapter 7
If They Bite
“We should go the police,” the deputy editor announced solemnly. “Only responsible thing to do.”
“They won’t believe us.” Capgras sat in the editorial meeting in one of the newspaper’s chrome and glass offices with a view over a ragtag assortment of London’s rooftops. “Or they won’t believe me, that’s for sure.”
“They have to be informed, all the same,” the deputy editor insisted.
“I’m agree with Tom on this,” Fitzgerald said, “investigate first. But I can’t spare anyone on staff. Besides, there’s no one with enough experience of operating undercover. Tom’s the man for the job.”
Capgras drummed his fingers on the table. “But Gina knows me. She’ll expose me the moment she lays eyes on me. Find someone else, I’ll brief them.”
Shawn Milikan, the newspaper’s editor, adjusted his clunky, thick-framed glasses. The room fell silent, waiting for him to speak. “We could bring in another freelancer, put the word around.”
“Not for something of this sensitivity,” Fitzgerald said. “Tom should do it. We provide support, backup, and an exit strategy if one is needed. The moment he runs into trouble, we go to the police.”
“We’re dealing with terrorists,” the deputy editor said. “There’s no telling how ruthless they might be.”
“And there’s still the problem of Gina,” Tom said. “I can’t go in undercover if there are people there that know me. And besides, my face is well-known these days from the court case.”
“People forget,” Fitzgerald said, “those that took any notice in the first place. Not renowned for reading the papers, these culties.”
Milikan peered at Tom over the top of his glasses. “What do you say? Attend a meeting or two, see if they bite.”
“If they recognise him, it’ll blow everything,” said the deputy editor. “Better if the police themselves took charge.”
“We’ll pay you, full-rate,” Milikan said.
Tom mulled it over. He needed the money. “I could check out the lay of the land, how easy it is to infiltrate.”
“And you can back out quickly, if you see your friend Gina.”
“Damage will be done by then,” the deputy editor muttered.
“That’s agreed,” Milikan said. “No time to lose, report in regularly. We need to know you’re safe, and spending our money wisely.”
“I’ll be sure to do that,” Tom said, already doing mental sums, calculating how much to over-charge on the expenses.
Chapter 8
Technical Support
“I can track your iphone,” Ruby said. “But that’s the first thing they’ll take from you. And everyone knows phones can be tracked, so they’ll power it down if they don’t ditch it. But this…” She held up a tiny chip, about the size of a grain of rice. “This is a combo chip, contains GPS for wide area tracking anywhere in the world, and RFID for close quarters, though you need a reader to pick it up, and the range is about 200 feet at best. And for all of that you need to carry a battery.” She produced a metal case, an inch square but less than a quarter of an inch thick. “Keeps the GPS and RFID running for a few hours. So you’d have to activate it only if you were in trouble. Without anyone seeing, of course.”
Capgras took the case from her hand and weighed it up in his palm. “You’re not implanting this under my skin?”
She smiled, threateningly. “Good idea. But in your clothing will do.”
“I change that all the time.”
“What about your Belstaff? You always wear that.”
“Not on hot days. Or when I’m in a suit.”
“But it’s your Belstaff when you’re on the bike,” she said. “And this time of year, when you go to the pub, out and about. It’s not perfect. But it’s an option. I can hide this in the collar, and you have to press here, see? Just make sure you wear the jacket when you go to this meeting, or anytime you’re around these people. If you go missing, I’ll start monitoring the GPS. When it turns on, I’ll know where to find you.”
“You’ll know where, but not if I’m in danger. You won’t know if I need backup or you should call the police. There’s no way to communicate.”
Ruby shrugged. “Don’t let them take your phone then. Or don’t get kidnapped in the first place.” She shrugged in a take-it-or-leave-it kind of way and he handed over his beloved jacket. He couldn’t bear to watch while Ruby took a scalpel to the stitching, so he wandered the room, inspecting her books and gadgets. On a table, she had laid out an array of parts. She had a build underway, and he challenged himself to figure out what it might be. The discarded shell of a camera lay on its front, with its innards gutted. The circuitry and battery had been extracted and a black cylindrical component lay in pride of place in the centre of operations. That was the capacitor. He remembered that much. The on/off switch on the printed circuit board had been tampered with and replaced by a simple button. Enamel-coated wire had been wrapped around the remains of a plastic bottle, with one lead attached to the capacitor, the other to the on/off button.
“Worked it out yet?” Ruby asked.
“I’ll get there.”
“Want a clue? It’s a weapon, of sorts.”
“I thought you didn’t approve of weapons.”
“This one doesn’t damage people or animals. Not unless you electrocute yourself.”
“That looks a real possibility,” Capgras said.
“It’s a prototype. Needs scaling up to be much use. The range is really short.”
“Range for what?”
“You give up then?”
“Sure. Put me out of my misery.”
Ruby flapped the Belstaff over her knees and held a needle up to the light so could thread the cotton. “It’s a makeshift, homemade EMP device.”
Capgras raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Really? You get an electro-magnetic pulse out of this?”
“Not powerful, no range at all. You’d have to be standing right next to your target. But if it’s close enough then yes, it’ll fry any electronics and wipe them out for ever. Don’t put it near your phone. Or anything that’s got a chip inside. Best not to attach the battery at all unless you’re far away from everything electronic that you value.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Tom said. “Do you have a specific plan? A target?”
“I wasn’t intending to use it,” she said. “I’m testing the concept, to see if a handheld EMP could work in the field. In theory, they would disable tasers, which won’t please the police much. And you’d take out their radios and phones at the same time.”
“Handy on demos, then.”
“Maybe,” she said, with a grin.
“You could sell them for a fortune.”
“That thought had crossed my mind. But I’m not sure how legal that would be, and I don’t fancy prison.”
“I don’t recommend it,” Tom said.
She paused from her stitching work and looked up at him. “How was it? Inside?”
“Don’t ask.”
“That bad?”
“It’s over, that’s what matters. How’s it going with the Belstaff?”
“I’m putting the button in the collar, here. Try not to turn it on by accident.”
“I guess you have to rip the stitches apart every time you want to change or charge the battery.”
“It’s not ideal. But if it saves your life…”
“Yeah, I guess in that case it might be worth the effort.”
“Like I mentioned,” she said, “best not to get kidnapped at all.”
“I promise you,” he said. “I will most definitely consider that as an option.”
Once she’d finished with the sewing, he slung the jacket on, kissed her once on the cheek, thanked her yet again and promised to call her every day at noon on her mobile. If the calls stopped, then she would know what to do.
Chapter 9
Bait
Dampness hung in the air. I
t hadn’t rained for days, but moisture oozed from the ground, from buildings, from rivers and sewers and streams, lingering and loitering in the atmosphere, going nowhere, doing nothing. Hanging around, for no good reason and making a nuisance of itself.
Tom Capgras longed to live in sunnier climes. The drabness of the English weather was compounded by the grime of London. Its oppressive noise and the crowds made him feel, on days like this, as if he lived life under a veil, or a wet blanket, heavy and smelling of mould.
He trudged down the nondescript shopping street in an innocuous suburb of north London, looking for the community hall where the absurdly named ‘Hungry Moon’ spiritual resurgence movement, as they styled themselves, had arranged a talk.
A talk that would double as a recruiting session. It appeared to be the usual scam: the group made presentations on health and wellbeing and how to solve life’s problems without any of the awkward hard work. People turned up out of curiosity or seeking answers to mysteries or because they were bored and there was little else to do around here other than drink or watch TV, especially on a damp Tuesday evening.
The mesmerising speakers would tease and beguile, offering access to powerful tools of transformation, ideas and information that could change a life, utterly, and lift the spirits. All of it, just out of reach. Pass the next doorway, level up, and it would be yours.
Tom walked from the Tube station, rehearsing his cover story. He was an ex-con. Admit that. It would be easier to lie if he kept close to the truth. Be vague about the offence. Imply it was drugs. Give a false last name. Use Tom as the first, so his reactions would be reliable and natural. It was standard procedure. He would say he was a bike mechanic because he could back that up. He could strip down and rebuild a classic motorbike while blindfolded if necessary. The deception would hold, for a while at least, until Gina entered the picture. Or Charlie Marlo. Not that that was possible.
Mr Marlo, he dead.
Capgras passed a fast-food burger joint, then another, a shoe shop, a noodle takeaway, and finally spotted the community centre on the opposite side of the road: a low, red brick building shabby on the outside and doubtless dingy within. He wove through the early evening traffic and paused at the door. A couple passed him, arm in arm. They stopped in the entrance, read a poster, then proceeded inside. A young woman with a baby in a pram followed. Then a pair of teenagers, dressed the way young rock rebels did thirty, forty years before. A man in his late twenties, full of twitches and ticks, scurried by. Tom followed, though he too stopped to examine the poster.
Classic marketing: it listed all the problems that blighted people’s lives; made a nod to all the so-called solutions that never changed anything; and offered a way to break the cycle, to forge through to the other side. Come and hear the talk, it urged. Discover the light that will shine through your life.
He had dealt with cults before, but not so up-close and personal. He had exposed their writings, their tactics for manipulating people, the techniques for taking control over minds and lives and travel arrangements. One classic technique involved inviting the unwary abroad for a course or seminar, usually somewhere sunny and remote, then taking their passports for ‘safekeeping.’
He sensed someone watching him, an observer loitering behind him, ready to pounce. He turned, checked himself instantly. Damn they were good. The girl, aged around nineteen, maybe twenty, had a fresh complexion, a winning but natural smile, sparkling eyes and blonde hair just about wild and untamed enough to suggest that she never needed to brush or wash it, because life was one long bath-time in rosewater.
“You here for the talk?” Her voice tinkled like a wind-chime on a mountainside. Her body language was open, carefree. He would almost say ‘inviting’.
A young woman such as this would find it remarkably easy to instil ideas in a man’s mind, persuade him they were his own thinking, all along. He would agree to everything she said, follow her through any danger, protect her from any foe. Even doubt.
Get a grip, he told himself. Play the part. Let her believe she was winning. That was the trick, let her think she had enchanted you.
“I saw the posters,” he said. “Thought I’d check it out. Never heard of it, mind you. How does it work? You belong with this lot?”
“I’ve been coming for a while.” She flicked her hair back off her shoulder. “It’s wonderful. It changed my life. Come inside, find out more. You won’t regret it.”
There goes that smile again, promising so much. A man could build an elaborate dream of lifelong romance, homes and children and growing old together in eternal bliss, on flimsier foundations.
She took his arm and guided him towards the hall. Part of him longed to pull her closer and whisper sweet somethings in her ear, but that’s exactly how they wanted him to feel. Don’t take it too far, he told himself, or seem too keen. They might become suspicious. Let them reel him in.
The hall had been hung with posters, and larger-than-life photographs of the charismatic guru these people worshipped or followed or believed in or whatever. The man had wisps of grey hair on a balding head, a scraggle of a beard and an extravagant moustache complete with pantomime villain curls. He might have been Indian, or Armenian, or from anywhere in between. His eyes sparkled though that could be down to Photoshop trickery.
Capgras scanned the room. More than a hundred people sat facing the stage at the far end. The stage itself was empty, apart from a table and three chairs, and a microphone mounted on a stand, with a speaker’s podium. All very formal.
The girl took his hand. He barely noticed at first. The way she did it was so natural, as if they had been lovers for years, or this was so innocent they could be brother and sister. “Come have a seat,” she purred. “It’ll start soon.”
She led him to a chair and settled in beside him, introduced herself as Jenny, though that was surely a lie. Something about the way she said it sounded false: was it the moment’s hesitation, or the slightly too clear and precise pronunciation?
“Tom,” he said, as they shook hands. “Have you been involved long, with the group? Or whatever it is?”
“A few years,” she said.
“You hardly look old enough.”
“I ran away from home when I was fifteen,” she said. “Long story. Stepfather. Don’t ask. I lived on the streets for a while, but then I got to know the group and they took me in.”
That sounded familiar. Standard strategy was to prey on the weak, the dispossessed, the homeless, the addicts, the depressed. People who need a ray of hope in their lives. Or a big change. A way out.
“Have you met him?” Tom gestured towards the photo of the twinkly-eyed guru.
“Not really. I’ve been close to him, at some talks. You sense the power coming off him, the vibrations are intense. The whole room hums when he’s there. And his eyes, they pierce you, see right into you.”
Snake charmers have a way of thrilling the crowd. Tom nodded in all the appropriate places as if willing to fall for anything she told him. Which, under different circumstances, might have been true. “Will he be here, tonight?”
“Oh, no. He can’t be everywhere. You only see him once you’re deeply involved, and at the big events, with thousands of people.”
“So who does the teaching?”
“You’ll see,” she said and pointed to the stage. A man and two women settled into the seats. The room chattered, excitedly until the man stood up, held his arms aloft, requesting quiet. The murmuring dropped to a whisper, and subsided into an expectant silence.
The man approached the podium, checked the mic, coughed into it. Feedback buzzed, faded away. “You can hear me?”
The room murmured its agreement.
The man, in his thirties, wore an expensive suit and a crisp white shirt, but no tie. He welcomed everyone. A noise at the back made Capgras turn. They doors were closed. Locked. No one could leave.
“They insist you give them all your attention,” the girl next to him whispered. �
�No bathroom breaks, no sneaking off. But it’s good. You don’t want to miss anything. This is amazing. You won’t be disappointed.”
He wasn’t. He expected the whole razzmatazz, and it was faithfully delivered: tall tales of miracles, of recoveries from illness that defied the medical profession; sinners reconciled with friends and family; the lost sheep found; the dispossessed made free from cares and worries; the spiritual wanderers finally finding their true home. By the end, the presenters had large sections of the crowd eating out of their hands. Sceptics were heavily outnumbered, and noticeable by their frowns, or refusal to whoop and holler. Capgras had to remind himself to keep acting. Look interested at least, and willing to engage with the esoteric teachings and the crackpot ideas of how the universe worked, and where human nature fitted into the picture.
The girl slipped away. He almost didn’t notice in all the excitement as one of the presenters broke down in an elaborate pretence of real tears. He spoke about his debauched days, drunken days, days and nights of sin and sensual gluttony, days that didn’t sound so bad, to Tom, but which the speaker denounced as wasted life, controlled by the devil that lives and breathes within us all and must be fought relentlessly. But do not fear: he would show them how. He would lead them from temptation.
The doors at the back opened, and the room filled up as a stream of young men and women milled around in the hall. They all wore lilac of some sort on their dresses, ties, t-shirts. They moved in on the audience, picking out individuals and leading them off into private conversations. A woman in her late twenties came for Capgras. She said her name was Julie. “Tell me about yourself.” She looked him in the eye and held the gaze.
He ran through his own untruths, exaggerations and distortions. Then she wanted his contact details, and he knew he couldn’t give a home address. They might check them out. But an outright lie wouldn’t work for the same reason. So he told her he was homeless, still looking for somewhere to stay, fresh out of prison and all that.
Cult Following: No Faith To Lose (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 0) Page 3