The Saint Jude Rules (Cal Winter Book 3)

by Dominic Adler

  “Hey, Sean, I’ve seen somefin’ like that before,” said a voice from the doorway.

  “Duffy, would you stop sneaking up on me like that,” said the old Irishman. “You’ll be givin’ me a damn heart attack.”

  “What can I say? I thought they were cops,” said a kid with a long, morose-looking face. He was black, early twenties. He wore oversized overalls and a beanie hat, feet stuffed into oil-stained trainers.

  “How many cops drive BMW M3 sports saloons?” I replied, offering my hand. “I’m Cal. Sean used to work with my dad.”

  Oz’s hand was inside his tracksuit pocket, resting on the grips of his Browning. It took a fair bit of stealth to sneak up on him, and he didn’t like it.

  “Man, they got tools too,” Duffy chuckled. “Who are you, the MI5 or somefin’?”

  “We’re from MI-mind-your-own-business,” Oz replied.

  “No need to be disrespectful,” the kid sniffed.

  I shrugged. “Besides, MI5 would come armed with laptops.”

  “This is Duffy,” Sean sighed, “my apprentice. He’s good on engine management and computers. Not an old-fashioned grease-monkey like me.”

  “I heard what you were talkin’ ‘bout.” Duffy fished a can of energy drink from his pocket and popped it open, “what’s the problem?”

  “Look at these printouts,” said Sean. “They come from a Prius on a ‘55 plate.”

  “Well, the Prius uses the same 1.8 hybrid engine on all their models,” said Duffy. He studied the report, a smile crossing his face. “Man…”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Look, don’t think I’m crazy, and I’d never even mention shit like this if I hadn’t seen two players wit’ guns sitting here…”

  “Go on,” said Oz.

  “I saw this video, OK, online. These Americans hack a Prius, then a Jeep, then they crash it. Like a test, y’know? Jus’ to see if it they could get away with it.”

  I stood up paced the room. “How did they do it?”

  Even Duffy’s smile was morose. His grimy finger hovered over the ECU data Sean had pointed out earlier. “They screwed with the car’s Bluetooth and downloaded a virus into the engine network. That let them hijack the brakes and accelerator. Man, they even changed the music on the stereo. Like Sean says, the Bluetooth data here is half-missin’. That ain’t right, is it?”

  “In the video you saw, how was the virus delivered?” I said.

  Duffy flicked through the rest of the report. “They sent it to a mobile, ‘course. So when they ‘toothed a phone into the car’s systems, it infected the engine. The hacker sits somewhere safe, y’know, just fuck with the steering or brakes on his laptop. It’s sweet.”

  “Good lad,” said Sean proudly, patting Duffy on the back. “Occam’s Razor – in the absence of any other explanation…”

  Duffy grinned, and didn’t look morose at all.

  “That’s clever,” I admitted.

  “Bloody computers. Honest-to-god operators like us will be out of work soon,” said Oz.

  I nodded. “It explains why a roadworthy car with a skilled driver simply crashed.”

  “I’m making you right,” Sean replied. “You’d need more proof though, access to the original data and wreckage.”

  “You never saw this report,” said Oz, “and we were never here.”

  “I’m hearin’ you,” Duffy replied. “Anyhow, I got work to do.”

  I handed Sean a wad of used twenties. “Get you and Duffy a drink, Sean, and no arguing.”

  “You’re a good man, Cal,” the mechanic replied. He peeled off five hundred and passed it to Duffy.

  “Hey, thanks,” said the apprentice, pocketing the cash.

  “I’ve gotta go,” I said, giving Sean a hug.

  “See you next time you’ve got an impossible problem,” he laughed.

  “If I found you every time I had one of those, I’d be sleeping here,” I replied.

  We got back in the BMW just as it started to rain. “So we’ve got a possible method, but no suspect,” said Oz. “Fucking hell, we sound like cops.”

  I laughed and tapped Marcus’s number into my phone. “We need Gerry Ryan’s mobile. If that had the virus in it then we can get someone to examine it.”

  “How are you getting on?” said Marcus blearily. He’d spent the night at Harry’s. I guessed he’d emptied the fridge and another bottle of whisky.

  I explained the car might have been hacked. “Were any mobiles phones recovered from the wreckage?”

  “No,” the old spook sighed. “All personal effects, such as they were, were listed as destroyed in the crash.”

  “That’s bollocks, but predictable,” said Oz.

  “What does Diana think?” I asked. I heard a brief discussion in the background.

  “Mrs. Vaillancourt is confident GROUNDSMAN would have ran counter-forensics on-scene,” said Marcus. “Diana checked her diary. She was stood down the day before the crash.”

  “If you get any ideas, send us a postcard.” I ended the call.

  Oz pulled a face. “What now?”

  Rivulets of rainwater cascaded down the windscreen. It made the world look warped, distorted. “We’ve got a lead. And we know someone who might help,” I replied, turning the ignition. The BMW purred into life.

  “Who might that be?”

  “Juliet Easter,” I said. “She owes us a favour or three.”

  Chapter eight

  Juliet Easter once worked at the pointy-end of the Secret Intelligence Service, MI6. Before that, she was a major in the Intelligence Corps. Our last gig, in a war-torn dump called Zambute, led to the loss of her cloak and dagger. MI6 wangled her a job at Focus Projects by way of consolation.

  A Private Security Company, Focus was established by a retired SAS Colonel, ‘Mad’ Mel Murray. We’d scooped him out of an African prison, for which he didn’t seem especially grateful. My team saved Juliet’s life on the same job. Reluctantly, I decided to call in the favour. She was one of those rare operators with an uncompromising sense of decency. I reckoned it was why she was sacked from government work in the first place.

  We parked the BMW and took a circuitous route around Mayfair, through streets full of grand neo-Georgian buildings. Satisfied we weren’t being followed, we stood on the steps of Juliet’s office, a handsome block off South Audley Street. The brass name-plaques of a dozen mysterious companies decorated the wall, a gaggle of secretaries smoking on the street outside. The fortress-like door was locked. “Do you have an appointment?” said a voice through a speakerphone.

  I straightened my tie and checked my reflection in the brass nameplate. “Tell Juliet Easter it’s Adrian Clay.”

  “Ms. Easter is in a meeting. May I take a number and call you back?”

  A middle-eastern bloke, suit sharp enough to slice concrete, appeared at my shoulder. He smelt of expensive aftershave, eyes shielded by sunglasses. He punched a number into a security pad and breezed into the lobby.

  “May I?” I said in Arabic, tail-gating after him, “We’ve an appointment at Focus Projects.”

  “Of course,” he replied.

  We walked through a reception area, feet echoing off marble floors. The receptionist, looking like she’d arrived fresh from a Milan catwalk, was a twentysomething Asian woman. She wore a tight white blouse, smoky mascara and a frown. “How did you get in here?”

  I tried my winning smile, which I’m told is marginally less scary than my normal one. “Look, we’re old friends of Juliet’s. It’s urgent.”

  “Please leave or I’ll call security.”

  “There’s no need, Amina,” said a familiar voice from the stairs. Clipped and confident, it had a dash of Africa to it. “Would you reschedule my next meeting, please?”

  “Hi Juliet,” I said. Oz waved.

  “Winter,” she said, tilting her head just-so. Juliet Easter wore a charcoal grey trouser suit, her usually tousled hair tamed with a silver clip. She looked us over with cool
grey eyes, arms folded across her chest.

  “Yes, Juliet,” said Amina pleasantly. “If you could sign in, please?”

  I scribbled Adrian Clay, my usual alias.

  Oz signed in as Sergio Tacchini. He gave the secretary a wink. “Is that blouse Stella McCartney? I love it.”

  “It’s OK Amina, I’ll deal with these clowns.” Juliet sighed. For a second I saw the trace of a smile. Amina blushed as we trooped obediently up the stairs.

  Juliet put her finger to her lips as we walked along a carpeted corridor. We passed through a Plexiglas airlock, guarded by a steely-eyed Ghurkha wearing a blazer and regimental tie. Open-plan offices ran off either side, people hunched over computers. In an annexe, a group of brawny, crop-headed men studied a map of Central America, plotting and planning.

  I felt a pang of jealousy.

  Juliet’s office overlooked grey-slated roofs, unremarkable in every way. “It’s good to see you,” she said, finally, kissing my cheek. I took in her smell, something heady. “You need a shave, Cal.”

  Oz got a hug.

  I gave Juliet the short explanation. The Firm imploding, Marcus’s role and how we’d found Harry. I outlined our quixotic mission, to neutralise The Firm once and for all.

  “Why not just disappear?” she frowned.

  “Safest place in a storm is the heart,” I shrugged.

  Juliet raised an eyebrow. “That’s the sort of logic that landed you in this mess in the first place. You never know when to step back from a fight.”

  Oz looked out over the rooftops, hands stuffed in pockets. “If we don’t end this, no one else will. I’m not going to spend the rest of my natural in hiding.”

  Juliet raised an eyebrow. “You agree with Cal?”

  Oz shrugged. “This time, yes.”

  “Okay,” Juliet replied, “tell me about it.”

  I told her about Graham Wyatt, dying in a car accident with the EVOCATI. “Wyatt was the MI6 officer known as DIADEM. Ring any bells?”

  “Yes it does,” Juliet sighed, taking a seat. She ran a finger across the scar on her chin. “Graham was DIADEM? We worked together in Kabul.”

  “What can you tell us about him?” I said.

  “He used to be a Major in the Royal Signals before SIS hired him. He must have been the youngest officer to get that post – my understanding was DIADEM is usually reserved for those at the end of their careers.”

  “It was,” said Oz.

  “Have you ever heard of Gerry Ryan?” I said, “or Lois Baker?”

  “No.” She picked up and old-fashioned telephone on her desk and asked for drinks. “The only time I had anything to do with The Firm was when I met you two in Zambute. I rather hoped it was the last.”

  “Can you find out if anyone does know either of them?”

  Juliet raised an eyebrow. “I’ll put a call in.”

  Amina brought coffee. She smiled at Oz and frowned at me, which seemed to set the tone for the day.

  “Is there anything else?” Juliet asked, sipping latte.

  “We need to trace a hacker, one with the MO of downloading sabotage viruses into vehicles. Whoever they are, they might’ve copied the technique from some American defence-types.”

  Juliet rubbed the bridge of her nose. “You think that’s how they killed Graham?”

  “Yeah,” said Oz, “some twenty year-old mechanic from Deptford saw it on the internet.”

  I shot him a look. “Juliet, indulge me.”

  “Okay, seeing as it’s you.” Juliet pushed a button on a desktop intercom, “Can you ask Hugh if he can spare a moment, please?” She sat back in her chair. “Hugh Jansen runs our online team. Ex-GCHQ, started hacking in the late 80s.”

  “I thought hackers were all teenage geniuses,” said Oz.

  “Hugh was a teenage genius,” Juliet replied, “so now he’s cleverer and gnarlier than the kids playing the game. Hugh infiltrated the Silk Road before the FBI even knew what it was.”

  A crumpled-looking guy in his fifties ambled into the office. Round-faced, he wore too-short chinos and an untucked shirt. He gave us a pasty-faced smile, peering over wire-rimmed glasses. “Good morning, one an’ all. How can I ‘elp?” he said in a broad Yorkshire accent.

  Juliet gestured for him to take a seat. “These gentlemen need to identify someone capable of hacking the engine management system of a car.”

  Graham flipped through the accident report, humming gently. “This is nowt new. In fact, they’ve moved onto aircraft with this hack. The American Department of Defence trialled the car trick, with a Prius funnily enough. This report suggests someone’s done it in anger. But like most hacks, the technical side is only part of the equation.”

  “You need a real-life person to facilitate it, right?” I said.

  “Exactly. We call humans wet-ware in this context. You usually need someone with access to the target’s network or hardware. In this case they’d be near the vehicle to steer it remotely. They’d also need to get a security-aware target to accept a viral weapon onto their phone. A human asset would be the easiest way to facilitate that.”

  “Quite,” said Juliet. “Hugh, anyone spring to mind?”

  “Someone for hire,” I added.

  “There’s a few characters who fit the profile,” he replied, brow furrowed. “I need more details if you want a suspect. Most of my targets are Chinese or Eastern European, or do you fancy Western state actors for this one?”

  “Quasi-state actors,” I said, “and yes, very possibly Western.”

  “That narrows it down,” Hugh replied brightly. “Hackers east of the Bosphorus are more audacious, and there’s bloody thousands of ‘em.”

  “We’re in a hurry,” said Oz.

  Hugh Jansen kneaded his jowly chin and sighed. “I daresay you are.”

  “It’s OK Hugh, I want to help these guys.”

  “Fair enough,” the Yorkshireman nodded. “There’s plenty of shady corners of the web I can poke my nose. For example, US Army Cyber-Command had a special access program running in Adelphi, down in Maryland. The rumour was it went off-reservation.”

  “How badly?” said Juliet.

  Hugh slurped coffee and pushed his glasses back up his nose, “the usual nonsense: off-policy virus development, penetrating the Wall Street firewall, live-streaming porn into the Pentagon’s Monday briefing. Some of the contractors slipped under the vetting radar, anarcho-libertarian types.”

  “What’s the provenance of the information?” I asked.

  “Some old-school hackers were discussing it, in a protected forum. A few of the techs who were fired are punting about for work.”

  “And it’s the sort of stuff they’d talk about on the internet?”

  “Believe it or not, yes,” Hugh beamed. “There are places on the Darknet where these people feel completely safe. I’ve been talking to some of them for twenty years. Of course, they think I’m a Jurassic hacker. Old-school.”

  “You are a Jurassic hacker,” Juliet snarked.

  Hugh grinned. “Aye, lass, I am. Yorkshiremen dominate even the darkest recesses of the Internet, which is as it should be.”

  “I’d like you to prioritise this job,” said Juliet. “I’d appreciate an assessment by end of play today.”

  Hugh put a hand on the accident report. “May I borrow this?”

  “OK,” I said, “that’s… sensitive.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it is. Most things in this place are,” he smiled.

  I gave Juliet a look.

  “It’s very sensitive,” she said.

  Hugh tapped his nose and headed for the door. “Oh, I see. Just like old days. I’ll have something for you later, Juliet.”

  I stood and offered my hand. “Thanks Juliet, I appreciate your help.”

  She took it. Her hand was warm, but calloused. Wringing necks and pulling triggers, I imagined. “Oh, I think I can do more than a spot of online analysis.”

  Oz frowned. “You don’t want to get involved.”
<
br />   “You saved my life,” she replied quietly, pale fire in her eyes. “I owe you.”

  I shook my head, “even so…”

  “…I’m already involved. Monty knows I’m DIADEM-indoctrinated. I’m another loose end.”

  Juliet: You could waltz into her office, implicate her in a Force Ten shit-storm and she’d offer to help. Any sane person would tell us to get lost. I didn’t want Juliet hurt. For a moment, I let my mind drifted back to the night we’d spent in Belgrade. In fact, it was two moments.

  Not now, Winter…

  “There are favours I can call in, from SIS contacts,” Juliet continued. “We’ll get to the bottom of that car crash. How are you fixed for a safe house?”

  “We’ve got a lock-up near Heathrow,” said Oz.

  “Classy.”

  “It’s got running water,” I replied, “and you can hear planes flying away to safer, more interesting places.”

  “A lock-up, like some common criminal?” she said.

  Oz held up his hands. “Hey, we’re uncommon criminals.”

  “I’ve got something to show you.” Juliet picked up the phone and told Amina to cancel her appointments for the rest of the day.

  I stepped closer to Juliet. “Where are we going?”

  “A place where we can start repaying our debt to you.”

  “There’s no…”

  “Shut up, Winter,” she replied, making that not-quite-a-smile.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied. “Where are we going?”

  “We call it The Harbour.”

  Chapter nine

  We tailed Juliet’s Golf. The City loomed in the distance, wreathed in yellowish smog. Like a cockroach after nuclear winter, it still prospered. A creature feasting on its own shit. And until someone invented a better cockroach, we were stuck with it. Everyone wanted a piece. Paris and Frankfurt sniffed around like dogs on heat, but the City was armour-plated, an unassailable Death Star of cash.

  We parked outside a handsome Victorian warehouse on the Isle of Dogs, sandwiched between hyper-expensive apartment buildings. Juliet held an electronic fob against a panel. A battery of locks disengaged, sounding like a dozen rifles being made ready. Oz and I followed her up a flight of metal stairs. The rear wall of the warehouse had been replaced with one-way privacy glass, giving a panoramic view across the Thames. The towers of Canary Wharf lay to my right, the old Rotherhithe docks to my left.