by Adam Hamdy
78
INTERNATIONAL BLACKMAIL RING EXPOSED
By Melissa Rathlin & Francis Albright
A secretive organization known as the Foundation has been blackmailing key public figures in an effort to ensure that the International Online Security Act, otherwise known as the Blake-Castillo Bill, is passed into law and becomes the international standard for regulating the internet. A member of the Foundation has confessed to the murders of the former editor of this newspaper and a senior British diplomat. This individual, known as “M,” has also confessed to his involvement in the Pendulum killings, and claims to have provided assistance that enabled Maximillian Byrne to commit the murders. “M” is an MI5 officer and claims that the security services have been infiltrated by other members of the Foundation. Circumstantial evidence points to the possibility that such infiltration may have happened in other countries.
“M” claims that the Foundation is an anti-capitalist movement that started in the United States, and that it has a violent, radical agenda. The organization seems to operate a cell structure similar to other terror groups, with no one except the group’s most senior leaders having full knowledge of all its members and objectives. “M” says that he received instructions via an anonymous encrypted messaging system and that funds to finance his cell’s activities were delivered by courier in regular cash payments. He claims not to know why the Blake-Castillo Bill is key to the Foundation’s objectives, but says that it was made clear to him that its passage was of the utmost importance.
“M” has admitted to blackmailing influential individuals by sending them anonymous emails using information he received from his Foundation conspirators, threatening to make it public if the victim did not comply with his demands. The blackmail instructions were authenticated with Awen, the Welsh symbol for “truth.”
This is an evolving story, but the London Record is taking the unusual step of publishing before we have concluded our investigation. The authors of this article were abducted by “M” and others loyal to him, and would most likely be dead were it not for the bravery and perseverance of a few good men. We believe that the only way to protect ourselves from further violence is to expose the conspiracy and call upon the British government to treat these allegations with the seriousness that they deserve.
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What is the Foundation?
Why we cannot pass the Blake-Castillo Bill.
How conspiracy has shaped the world.
Bailey exited the browser and pocketed his phone. He turned his attention to the busy London street, which seemed to glow in the bright spring sunshine. The secret was out, and life seemed alive with possibilities. His only concern was Ash. They’d spoken hours earlier and everything about her sounded wrong. He’d tried to call a number of times, but the phone had never been answered again.
Bailey and the others had spent the night at the London Record office, where Melissa and Francis had worked tirelessly to put the exposé together, holding up the paper’s production for the first time in over thirty years. Word of the delayed print had spread, and soon the hastily assembled skeleton staff had been fielding calls from other journalists eager for some insight on the scoop. No one had blabbed, and the story had stayed within the walls of the riverside building, as it had been brought to life by two seasoned journalists. Whenever Melissa or Francis had hit a block, Danny had been more than happy to press Mayfield for information. Salamander had given him just enough medical attention to ensure he stayed alive, and Danny had taken great pleasure in forcing him to reveal the location of his embedded tracking device, and had then used a sharp pocket knife to cut it from Mayfield’s muscular shoulder. The man had screamed, but after what they’d all endured, no one cared about his suffering, and they had simply watched as Danny had smashed the bloody chip with the heel of his knife.
The story was a sensation, and Melissa had been lost in a whirlwind of activity when Bailey and Salamander had decided to leave. They’d dragged Mayfield to his feet and hauled him out of Francis’s office before she had noticed they were going.
When she’d finally seen them leaving, she’d hurried over and touched Bailey’s arm tenderly. “I just wanted to say thanks,” she’d said, before being dragged away by one of her colleagues, who had told her that she had the Home Office on the line.
“Ya sure ya want to do this?” Salamander asked as he steered the Mercedes along Edgware Road.
Bailey glanced over his shoulder and caught Danny’s impassive gaze.
“This OK with you?” Bailey asked him.
The young villain looked at Mayfield, who was unconscious.
“Sure,” Danny replied. “Let the pigs pump him for everything he knows. We can always get him on the inside.”
Bailey smiled, but Danny’s expression didn’t change and he realized that the kid wasn’t joking.
“I want my life back,” Bailey said, turning to Salamander.
“It’s a shame. I was just getting used to having ya around,” his friend replied. “Ya’d make a good addition to the crew.”
Bailey smiled and shook his head. Salamander was in high spirits because Melissa had been able to discover that Jimmy and Frank had both survived and were being held under police guard in the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford.
The Mercedes passed into the shadow of the Westway flyover and crossed underneath the wide concrete structure. When they reached the other side of the Edgware Road, Salamander pulled to a halt beside the towering building that had been Bailey’s base for so many years.
“Thanks, man,” Bailey said, offering Salamander his hand.
His friend shook his head and pulled him into an embrace. “Handshakes are for strangers, Haybale. Ya family.”
Bailey felt a lump rise in his throat, but forced it back with a pronounced gulp. He turned to Danny. “I’m sorry, Danny,” he said. “I really am.”
“It’s OK,” Danny replied. “I didn’t really know the geezer,” he added, trying to dismiss his father’s death, but Bailey recognized what lay beyond the brash mask of a hard man, and saw a sad, hurt child trying to shield himself from further pain.
Bailey stepped out of the car, opened the back door and hauled Mayfield to his feet. Danny gave a forceful shove that brought Mayfield to his senses. He threw a feeble arm around Bailey for support.
“I’d offer to help you inside,” Salamander called out, “but you know that place gives me the creeps. Besides, I need to take Danny to Doctor Death. Get that leg looked at.”
“You’ve done enough, man,” Bailey responded. “Now get out of here.”
He slammed the door shut, but noticed that Salamander didn’t drive away until he and Mayfield had crossed the threshold of Paddington Green Police Station.
The lobby was quiet. A haggard old man was slumped in one of the plastic chairs in the waiting area. The receptionist, a civilian called Jason Lake, noticed Bailey as he shuffled forward, straining under Mayfield’s weight. Jason’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times before it finally produced any words.
“Detective Inspector Bailey,” he remarked in astonishment.
“That’s right,” Bailey said. “I’m bringing in a suspect,” he continued, his voice thick with emotion. “This is Samuel Mayfield. I’m arresting him for the murder of Sylvia Greene.”
79
Wallace woke to the sound of his own name being said by an unfamiliar voice. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by the sight of a cracked and yellowed ceiling.
“Morning,” Steven said.
Wallace remembered the house, a small detached property on Belmont Avenue, a quiet residential street not far from the warehouse. They’d ditched the car about a mile away, and had covered the remaining distance on foot, before arriving at the run-down house, set in a tiny yard. Exhausted, Wallace had followed Steven up a short run of steps to the dilapidated porch and surveyed the neighborhood while his host had retrieved a key fro
m the tiny locker concealed by one of the structural supports. Most of the homes on the street were covered in painted aluminum cladding that had been designed to look like timber planks, but even at a distance, the way the streetlights reflected off the metal surfaces betrayed the artifice. A few interior lights had been on, but most of the houses had been dark and peaceful, their occupants undoubtedly sleeping before the daily grind. Wallace had collapsed on the creaky old floral couch the moment they’d entered, and must have fallen asleep immediately.
He sat up and looked around a room that reminded him of a fifties parlor. Lace, china, flowers, throws, rugs, dark wood, patterned wallpaper, all old, all decaying, it was the sort of unreformed place that a previous version of himself might have used in a vintage photo shoot. But not anymore. Now, the sight of so many old things only saddened him, reminding him that what was could never be again, that all things passed and eventually perished. He recalled Ash’s hatred, the anger, the violence, a deep ravine of hostility that seemed beyond healing. Maybe Pendulum had been right. Maybe he was a coward and it was his cowardice that had lost her.
“You OK?” Steven asked.
Wallace glanced over to see him sitting in a frayed, floral wingback, hunched over a laptop, half-watching the news which was playing on an old television. Their faces were being flashed on screen, and the lower third scrolling titles informed viewers that John Wallace and Steven Byrne were wanted in connection with the Foundation blackmail plot.
“I don’t know,” Wallace replied. “I can’t remember what OK feels like.”
“The news has broken out of London. The Foundation’s blackmail plot has been exposed but the Blake-Castillo bill is still going through. The legislation is going to pass. Congressional leaders say the plot is irrelevant to their decision.”
“They would,” Wallace observed. “Some of them will be desperately trying to prevent their secrets from being revealed.”
“We’ve been set up as patsies,” Steven observed. “My guess is Smokie’s given our names to people he controls. Making us the public face of the Foundation buys him the time he needs to complete his mission, and destroys our credibility. Who’s going to believe anything we say now?”
Steven looked tired and troubled as he rubbed his face.
“I’ve been trying to figure out what Smokie’s planning. He said there was nothing we could do to stop it. It’s got to be something to do with the bill. I’ve been trying to identify whoever posted that message about Freefall, but it’s been a while since I had to do this sort of thing.”
A voice nagged at Wallace, telling him to keep his mouth shut, to stay hidden until the crisis had passed, but he couldn’t ignore the defeated look on Steven’s face, nor the knowledge that he’d been partly responsible for the man’s condition. If his daughter hadn’t killed herself, if his son hadn’t died at Wallace’s hand, Steven Byrne would be sitting in some lofty Manhattan office instead of hiding in a safe house desperately trying to stop a dangerous psychopath. Wallace ignored his inner voice and said, “We’ll have to be careful, but I know someone who might be able to help.”
80
Electroshock. Concentrated jolts of charged ions shot directly into her brain. The doctor had said that from her description of the device, it sounded like a modified version of machines that were used to treat psychiatric patients, frying their minds with electricity in an effort to cure depression, psychosis, schizophrenia, any number of reality-altering illnesses. Recalling her last encounter with Wallace, Ash knew that her sickness had been cured.
She sat on the couch in her office, feeling like a stranger in her old world, looking out through the open door, watching bodies scurrying, bustling, striding, moving with purpose, unaware that they were decaying with every passing moment, that their time on the planet was finite and that everything they did was a futile distraction from the inevitable.
Don’t be afraid, baby.
I’m not afraid, Ash told her mother’s ghost, I’m awake. At last, I see things as they truly are.
The London Record story had spread across the world, and when Ash had given Harrell her report, the Bureau had been thrown into panic. Like the McCarthy communist witch hunt, the entire agency was under suspicion. And it wasn’t just the FBI. Anyone in any branch of government or the military could be a member of the Foundation. It seemed that Ash alone was above suspicion, her ordeal having earned her a free pass. Reeves, Parker, Romero, Miller—everyone, including Harrell, would have to be vetted. Teams were being reassigned and people paired with new partners, and all duties had to be overseen by at least one other randomly selected agent. Fear of what might have been no more than a handful of infiltrators was hampering the effectiveness of an agency of 35,000 people. And this same paranoia had unleashed similar chaos across the country, throwing other government agencies into turmoil. The truth was, no one knew the full extent of the Foundation’s reach. There were fifteen men in Max Byrne’s platoon, and if they’d each recruited one new member per year for the past five years, and the new members had done likewise, the Foundation would be 480 strong.
The doctor had advised bed rest, but Ash had insisted on being taken to Federal Plaza. She had no idea whether the Foundation would still target her after the news broke, but figured that she was safer in a public place, surrounded by people. Harrell had strictly forbidden her from getting involved in the unfolding investigation, so, unable to sleep, Ash had sat on the couch watching her fellow agents hurry around while she contemplated the doctor’s prognosis that she would likely suffer long-term psychological damage from the electroshock. Ash didn’t tell him that he was wrong, that her ordeal had cured her. He would never have believed her.
“You OK?” Reeves asked, leaning against the doorframe, a folder in one hand, a plastic bag in the other.
Ash smiled and nodded. He had no idea how OK she was.
“I thought you might want some clothes,” he said depositing the bag. “I went to your place and got you a selection.”
Ash crossed the room and began rummaging in the bag. There were a couple of tops, pants, a dress, underwear, sneakers, and some shoes.
“We identified Archangel,” he said. “It’s the Secret Service call sign for Victoria Hawkins, the Chair of the Fed. Did you hear Wallace and Byrne say anything else?”
Ash shook her head.
“Harrell thinks it might be an assassination plot to crash the markets. She’s been taken to a secure location, and we’re chasing down every lead we’ve got.”
Ash looked up at Reeves and her smile broadened, knowing their efforts would yield nothing. The members of the Foundation would go to ground. They might offer up a few sacrificial lambs, but the true villains would remain hidden.
“I’m sorry about Wallace,” Reeves said. “I know what you went through for him.”
Ash said nothing. She stood up and took off the pullover she’d grabbed from Steven Byrne’s closet. The fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra seemed to make Reeves uncomfortable.
“You sure you’re OK?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder toward the open-plan office that lay behind him.
Ash could see Romero and Miller working at the closest desks.
“I’m fine,” she responded, pulling on a tight blue top. “Just tired.”
She stepped out of the oversized trainers and started unbuttoning her jeans.
“I wanted to see if you could identify any of the men from the club,” Reeves said, as Ash slipped into a pair of black pants.
“They wore masks,” Ash responded flatly.
“Body size, shape,” Reeves pressed. “There might be something.”
Ash had no desire to look at the past, but before she could object, Reeves produced a sheaf of photos from the folder and started leafing through them.
“Him,” Ash said, pointing at the picture of Alejandro Luna. “He’s the one who took me from Summersville. He handed me to a group of men in Pendulum masks and they smashed him and his car up to make it l
ook like we’d been hijacked.”
Reeves continued but Ash didn’t recognize the next two corpses.
The fourth man lay face up, his features contorted in horror, his fingers reaching for a bloody shard of plastic that was buried deep in his throat. Ash swallowed hard.
“You know him?” Reeves asked.
Ash recalled the nightmare in which she repeatedly stabbed this man until he bled to death at her feet. It couldn’t be real. She couldn’t have done that.
“He went by the name Ethan Moore,” she said at last. “He posed as Max Byrne’s nurse at the Cromwell Center.”
“Thanks. I can only imagine how hard it is to see the faces of these men, but this guy didn’t have any ID, and you’ve just given us something to work with.”
Ash stared into the middle distance, unwilling to give Reeves anything else. She didn’t want to tell him that none of the men in the photographs matched the physique of the man who’d tortured her. Finding him would be her privilege. Punishing him, her pleasure.
“Try to get some rest,” Reeves suggested as he backed away. “Well, I’ve got to get to work. You know where to find me if you need anything.”
He smiled awkwardly. Ash could tell that he sensed there was something different about her, but he lacked the courage to voice his concerns. He thought she was damaged, impaired in some way, but she was improved, stronger. She knew for example that the Foundation would not have gone to all this trouble for something as prosaic as a political assassination. Ash reflected that there was something else at play, and if she found out what it was, she would be able to confront the men who had tormented her, and in recognition of the improvements they’d made, thank them in kind.