by Matthew Hall
The Coffee Room was, in fact, the club’s restaurant. Tradition dictated that while a room’s function may change, its name must not, hence the club’s bar was still the ‘Smoking Room’ and always would be. Panelled in light oak and decorated with more life-size portraits of long-dead men of valour, the Coffee Room was alive with the sounds of clinking cutlery and middle-aged male chatter. He found Freddy Towers already seated at his favourite corner table, a white napkin tucked unselfconsciously into his shirt collar.
‘Leo, there you are. I was beginning to wonder.’ He gestured to a tumbler sitting at the centre of Black’s place setting. ‘Got you a straightener.’
Black checked his watch as he drew up a seat. It was barely three minutes past one. Towers had lost none of his old obsession for punctuality.
‘I was enjoying the stroll through the park.’ He took a sip from a gin strong enough to fell a carthorse.
‘How’s your friend? Did the police contact her?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘Good. Think I’ll have the beef. They’ve an exquisite little Pinot that’ll wash it down nicely. Join me?’
Leaving him no choice, Towers nodded to a waiter and an evidently prearranged order was placed. Moments later a sommelier appeared and filled their glasses with a clear, delicate red that slid across the palate with dangerous ease.
‘Tell me about Ms Peters,’ Towers said. ‘Just a friend, or something more?’
‘Just a friend.’ Black nudged the gin aside in favour of the wine. ‘And a colleague. One of the few who thinks I deserve a fellowship.’
Towers gave a thoughtful nod. ‘Do you think she was targeted deliberately – a payback of some sort for your adventure in Paris?’
‘Do you know something, Freddy?’
‘After your call yesterday I had another – from Kathleen Finn. Her eldest girl was assaulted on the way to school. A man passed her on the street and stubbed out a cigarette on her scalp. By itself it could be considered a coincidence …’
‘What did the police say?’
‘Not a lot. Pretty young blonde girl. Just the sort that unhinged predators target.’
Black felt his sinews tighten. He thought of Megan’s carefree laughter the day he had visited the family home. The innocence of the three children who had yet to learn their father wouldn’t be coming home.
‘I suppose the point would be to make a show of strength. They now have four of our scientists and, I suspect, a number of our Security Service personnel on their payroll. It’s the act of an entity that wants us to know that it has a long reach – inspired by the Russians and their adventures in Wiltshire no doubt.’
‘What kind of entity? A state?’
‘Possibly, but it’s not my first instinct.’
‘What then? A terrorist organization?’
‘More likely to be a commercial enterprise.’
‘What makes you say that?’
Towers took a thoughtful sip from his glass. ‘Have you researched the names of the missing I gave you?’
‘I’ve already told you, it’s not my battle.’
‘You wanted to know if there was anything I hadn’t told you. Are you interested or not?’
Black gave a reluctant nod.
‘Dr Bellman and Professor Kennedy work in the same department. He has created some fairly exceptional nanoparticles for medical applications and she has developed the delivery mechanism. You do know what nanoparticles are?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘They’re microscopic machines. In this case they heat up when exposed to certain frequencies. Delivered to the right cells in the brain they can activate neural circuits. The possibilities are endless. Until recently the problem was how to get them to their destination. Dr Bellman solved it. Through some incredibly skilful micro-engineering she has developed a basket-like structure made of woven strands of DNA that carry the payload of particles to any given destination. It’s a really quite astonishing achievement.’
Black changed his mind about abandoning his gin and reached for the glass. He sensed that Freddy was embarking on a lecture.
‘Dr Andy Sphyris is the computer genius I mentioned – the second one they abducted. Anglo-Greek. He works for a biotech start-up in Cambridge that’s come up with the closest computerized simulation of the human brain in existence. A three-dimensional road map of billions of neurons and their functions. It’s early days, but within a few years they hope to be able to model the effect of any given stimuli – they actually aim to predict the physiological and psychological response. Can you imagine it – knowing how the brain would respond to a chemical or an advertisement? Incredible.’ Towers shook his head with an expression of awe. ‘Sphyris’s unique contribution was creating a form of artificial intelligence which maps what they glean from scans and imaging, and the more it learns about how the wiring fits together, the more it’s able to fill in the blanks. I’m told that thus far it’s predicted with almost ninety-nine per cent certainty what each unmapped area of the brain’s function will be. An entirely logical process, I’m sure, but breathtaking, nonetheless.’
‘Nanoparticles and a map of the brain. Where does that take us?’
‘To Dr Lars Holst, our fourth hostage. He’s a Dane but spends at least half his time working out of Imperial College here in London. Keeps his research animals over in Copenhagen where he holds a chair in neuropathology. British universities have got a bit squeamish over experimenting on primates – have to say I quite agree. Anyway, Holst’s specialism is addiction. Broadly speaking, his work shows that it’s the chemicals in our brain we’re addicted to rather than whatever stimulus or substance causes them to release. He hasn’t published much in the last five years, but the word among his colleagues is that he’s about to lift the curtain on something big. The best information I can get is that he’s been working on rewiring the reward centres of the brain to make them fire in response to specific stimuli. It’s another science in its infancy, but five years ago he was implanting electrodes into the skulls of rats and training them to substitute one addiction for another. He could take an animal addicted to heroin and switch its dependence to sugar, nicotine, caffeine or whatever he chose.’
Towers paused for breath and another large mouthful of wine. ‘As I said, these are the four we know about. If the Americans have lost any of theirs, they’re keeping quiet, but that’s their way these days – batten down the hatches and admit nothing.’ Lecture over, he sat back in his chair. ‘What do you think?’
‘About what?’
‘Come on, Leo. You must be as fascinated by all this as I am. An outfit going to all the trouble and expense of corrupting British agents and placing itself at the cutting edge of neuroscience. And here’s the kicker: the one thing these four had in common was that they were all assets that I had spent months cultivating. Over the last two years I must have submitted detailed reports on the work of over a hundred researchers and fed them into the system. The system leaked and out of all of that number these are the four that have vanished.’
He waited for Black’s response.
Black, for his part, was wrestling with the fact that his offer to identify Finn’s body had, he was sure, caused two innocent and vulnerable people to be violently assaulted. He reached for his tumbler and swallowed the remaining dregs of his gin. ‘All I need to know, Freddy, is how much danger whoever you’re dealing with poses to Karen and Finn’s family.’
‘Honestly? You have as much idea as I do.’
‘What if the man who assaulted the child also attacked Karen? You can’t move in this country without being caught on camera.’
‘Resources, Leo. They’re spread thin. We’ve three thousand Islamic extremists and almost as many other assorted lunatics to keep tabs on. And in this instance, the usual channels can’t necessarily be trusted. Which, I suppose, makes me the resource.’ Towers looked him in the eye with a level of sincerity that was as unnerving as it was uncharacteristic. ‘And, of course
, whoever might be good and trustworthy enough to help me.’
The waiter arrived with their lunch, affording Black a brief reprieve while Towers turned his attention to his tender steak and a second glass of Pinot. The food was precisely as Black remembered: simple, well cooked and comforting, just the way Towers and his fellow members liked it.
Towers ate like a man who had been starved for a week. His pent-up nervous energy channelled into an almost obscene concentration on his plate. Several minutes passed during which Black wondered if he had forgotten that he wasn’t alone. It had been a running joke in the mess: Towers ate as intensely as he worked, argued, fought or schemed. Only when he had dispatched his last roast potato did he return to conversation, picking up the threads as if he had dropped them only seconds before.
‘Neuroscience wasn’t high on my list of the most vulnerable technologies, if I’m honest. Bit niche. Some future applications perhaps – planes piloted by pilot’s brainwaves, that sort of thing – but not much of current interest. It was meeting Sphyris that first piqued my interest. I met him at a conference. He was talking about the possibility of decoding and reprogramming the human brain as if it were just around the corner. It conjured the prospect of fearless soldiers or, worse still, terrorists. He mentioned Holst. They’d collaborated a few years back when Holst was still working with needles and catheters to inject drugs through minute holes in the skull, but, well …’ He paused and scratched distractedly at a gravy spot on the starched linen tablecloth. ‘I think we have to fear that things have moved on rather a lot.’
Towers cocked his head thoughtfully to one side. ‘I’ve thought long and hard about it and this is about the best I can come up with: there’s Holst with the knowledge of how to change behaviour through altering brain chemistry, Bellman and Kennedy who have developed the mechanical means of achieving it, and Sphyris who models and predicts the outcomes. You would only put the four of them together if you were interested in changing people’s thoughts, perhaps even without them realizing that it’s happened. I can see why a state would be interested, but a commercial outfit would stand to gain a lot more with the entire world as its market. Whatever way you look at it, it doesn’t take much imagination to realize that the motives can’t be good.’
Black continued to eat, trying hard to maintain his pretence of indifference.
‘I have to admit, it’s all taken me rather by surprise.’ Towers shared the last of the wine between their glasses. ‘All the while I’ve been fretting about jihadis and rogue regimes getting hold of biological weapons the most sinister enemy has had its sights on something else entirely. I don’t suppose you’re shocked. You were always fond of telling me that we were always fighting the last war.’
Black felt a strange and disquieting sensation creep through his body. Mild enough to shrug off, but a portent nonetheless.
‘Who is it, Leo? That’s the question.’
Towers held him in a piercing gaze that demanded an answer.
Black felt himself weaken. His natural curiosity, fuelled by cold rage at the events of the previous day combined to undermine his defences.
Towers sensed the moment the tide turned in his favour and seized it. ‘We need to know. And quickly. A Special Purposes Committee has been formed under the auspices of the Cabinet Office. The Permanent Secretary is chairing it and reporting directly to the PM. The other members are the Chair of the Joint Intelligence Committee, the Director, Special Forces, the PS to the Ministry of Defence and yours truly. We can’t trust the Security Services on this one; we’ve no idea how far the rot’s penetrated. We hope not to the top but we can’t take the risk. I’ve taken the liberty of mentioning your name and it was approved unanimously. There’s a fee, of course.’
Black stared at him across the table.
Towers pressed on. ‘I’ve isolated six MI5 officers who could credibly have had access to my reports and two with pressing motives to take the enemy’s coin. One of them’s a gambler living far beyond his means and the other’s a family man with a sick wife at home who banked several significant sums in the last three months.’ His eyes quickly circled the room before settling again on Black. He lowered his voice. ‘We’d like you to interrogate them.’
Black’s face remained expressionless.
‘I know none of this is ideal, but the stakes are too high to follow normal protocols. This has to be done off the record. Deniably. We need guaranteed answers and you’re the only man I trust thoroughly enough to get them, Leo. Anyone else would be second best. This is a situation that calls for excellence.’
Black remained silent.
‘A day’s work with minimal prep. A one-off. Twenty-five thousand pounds. Look at you, Leo – I recognize that suit from twenty years ago. These waiters are earning more than you are.’
Temptation tugged. Black resisted. ‘I’m not that man any more, Freddy. Even if I wanted to be.’
He stood up from the table and made his way out of the dining room, leaving his wine undrunk.
Towers tugged his napkin from his collar and tossed it angrily on to the tablecloth.
20
The figure who emerged from the belly of the helicopter with his entourage of four young executives was not an impressive physical specimen – five feet six, balding with soft fleshy features. The kind of man who was chauffeured from one air-conditioned space to another, seldom seeing daylight. Nevertheless, he carried himself with the poise and certainty only possessed by the supremely self-assured. Carl Mathis had every reason to be confident. He was a self-made billionaire by the time of his fortieth birthday and had added over twenty billion more in the intervening fifteen years. He had made his money gambling on the next big thing, on technical innovations that he believed would sweep the world. From personal computers to personalized medicine, he had been right on the money every time.
Mathis had acquired Sabre Systèmes de Défence Internationale, as it was then called, from its French founder, Colonel Auguste Daladier, only four years before. He had since anglicized the company’s name and diversified its work in ways which even that short time ago would have seemed unimaginable. While Daladier continued to run the conventional arm of its business providing the services of highly trained mercenary forces, he had moved Mitch Brennan and Susan Drecker sideways to head up a new venture. In a skilful move for which he still congratulated himself, Mathis had based their operations deep in the South American jungle alongside another of his successful businesses. It had been a perfect fit. They weren’t yet in profit but their operational success had surpassed all expectations. If he had needed any confirmation of what he already knew to be true, the last few years had delivered it: money offered with a smile and the promise of more to come had proved able to buy almost anything or anyone.
Government agents of all stripes had proved particularly easy to corrupt. Salary men and women with no chance of ever attaining fame or fortune in their pedestrian careers could seldom resist the allure of easy cash. Scientists’ egos made them only slightly harder nuts to crack. Often they had spent years convincing themselves that status and recognition were what they valued most, but once the smell of dollar bills had filled their nostrils such ideals invariably dissolved. Given another year, no doubt the four scientists they had been forced to bring here against their will would have cooperated willingly, but Mathis couldn’t wait that long. His business plan required them to break even during the next twelve months and he had come for an update on progress.
Brennan and Drecker met their visitors at the edge of the landing area and led them the short distance through the tropical heat to the meeting room situated in the compound’s administration block. There they arranged the party around the large conference table in the welcome cool, Mathis flanked by his team of energetic young executives at one end and Brennan and Drecker at the other.
After a minute or two of polite chitchat to break the ice, Brennan proceeded to deliver an update on progress. ‘I am pleased to report that we hav
e now successfully assembled our core team and aim to have an established proof of concept within three months.’
‘Let me ask you up front, Mr Brennan,’ Mathis interrupted in his soft Californian lilt, ‘Do we have the full cooperation of our team? Do they like the deals we’ve offered them?’
‘Yes, we now have their full cooperation,’ Brennan said. ‘After some initial resistance the financial packages have all been agreed and signed. They have begun the process of collaboration. Within a fortnight our laboratories will be fully equipped with everything that they need to get us to the next stage.’
‘A human trial?’
‘Yes, sir. The aim is to replicate Dr Holst’s experimental findings with a human subject but using Professor Kennedy and Dr Bellman’s delivery system. Their nanoparticles will be transported to the target areas of the brain and activated by frequencies to which they will have been programmed to respond.’
‘How are these frequencies transmitted?’ The question came from a woman Brennan guessed to be no more than twenty-five seated to Mathis’s left.
‘They could come from any number of sources, but in this instance a mobile phone,’ Brennan said. ‘The signal can be disguised in a sound or video file that causes the emission of something you might describe as the auditory equivalent of a barcode. The particles activate, deliver heat to the neurons to which they’re attached, causing them to fire and trigger the desired response.’