“You told me MI5 were spineless,” I replied.
“Then they’ve evolved into vertebrates. That happens occasionally, when they see departmental advantage.”
I shrugged. “And now?”
“I’m trying to resolve this affair to our mutual satisfaction. The Americans are vulnerable.” Eyes narrowed, Marcus joined Fendt and Tuck.
I pressed the green button on the phone. Juliet. “You okay?” she said.
“I’ve just escaped a sinking trawler,” I replied. “The Yanks blew it out of the water.”
“Ah, another day at the office.” Juliet’s voice was dead-pan, but I felt better hearing it. “We’ve confirmed financial transactions linking Paradis to De Soto Augur and Erik Drexler. It turns out Paradis spent millions of dollars on the security package for Nördhaus - security, independent water supply, generators, networked comms…”
“… as if he were expecting an end of the world scenario? How d’you find out?”
“I’m standing in an apartment on Eton Avenue. It belongs to Jacques Paradis’ wife, Kathryn,” she replied. “Kenny Duncan has interesting friends.”
“Kenny found the apartment? I told you he was a good prospect.”
“Hugh helped. He found a website with a picture of Kathryn Paradis’ birthday party last year. The exif data hadn’t been wiped, so he identified the northings and eastings where the photo was taken. Kenny logged into the land registry and found the apartment in SW1. Kathryn Paradis owns the holding company named on the deeds.”
“Kenny burgled the place?” I said approvingly.
“Actually, Kenny wouldn’t set foot outside his office. He said, and I quote, I don’t want to catch a fucking cold off you lot. He sent his friend, Mitch, with us. Mitch’s specialty is… let’s call it covert access into residential property.”
“Anything else?” I said.
“Paradis isn’t good with technology, which is ironic. His stuff was in hard copy form in a wall safe. Mitch cracked it in twenty minutes.”
“You’ve confirmed Paradis’ location?”
“Definitely Nördhaus. He’s unwell, Cal. Liver cancer, Stage Four. There’s correspondence with a private doctor.”
“Could this whole thing be Paradis’ way of saying fuck it and goodnight?”
“Possibly,” Juliet replied, “a dying megalomaniac, planning on his very own Götterdämmerung.”
I patted my pockets for a cigar. My lighter sparked first time. Could Paradis’ vanity really be the reason for the attacks? “How are things up there?”
“More rioting,” she replied. “The perfect environment for a burglary on millionaire’s row.”
“Where’s Diana?” I asked.
“Kenny’s office, but I’m more worried about Guy.”
Juliet’s brother. “Is the nurse with him?”
“She should be,” Juliet replied. “But the phones are down. Without power, he could be in trouble.”
“I can send someone to Winchester,” I said.
“Do you have anyone spare?”
“Bannerman. He’ll get Guy to hospital if it’s the last thing he does.”
“That means a lot,” Juliet replied. “I’ll send you the address. There’s one more thing, Cal.”
“Yes?”
“We’ve got something here you need. You’ve got to come to London.”
“Juliet…”
Juliet’s voice was gravelly and tired. “Not on the phone, Cal. Just do it, okay?”
“Okay, I’ll send you details for an RV,” I replied.
“I’ll see you then.”
Switching off the satellite phone, I joined Marcus and the Americans.
“You’re not part of this discussion,” said Tuck.
Marcus cleared his throat. “Actually, Mister Tuck, I’ve just appointed Captain Winter’s team as SIS increments, effective immediately.”
Fendt suppressed a grin. “Please, Marcus, carry on.”
Marcus nodded and turned to me. “Lieutenant-Colonel Fendt assures us the US Government will mobilize all resources, contingent on receipt of the virus source code. We suspect this is the ‘kill-switch’ you’re referring to. At our end, GCHQ and 77 Brigade are leading the operation.”
I’d heard of 77 Brigade, the British army’s online warriors. Tuck snorted. “77? They ain’t match fit for this stuff. It needs to go to our Cyberwarfare Command.”
“A career in the diplomatic service never beckoned, Mister Tuck?” said Marcus icily. “Captain Winter, take your team to the Frisian Islands. Secure the source code and end this outrage. I’m sure you can manage Mister Paradis’ fate by yourself.”
“When?” I asked.
Marcus swept a hand out to sea. “Now. Nördhaus is German soil. We can hardly deploy the SBS there, even in these circumstances. Are the Americans prepared to?”
The wind snapped angrily across the beach. Fendt zipped up his Multicam jacket and frowned. “Yeah. I’ve got a fully deniable team. Gimme twelve hours to clear it.”
Marcus shook his head. “Too late. There could be a shooting war by then.”
Tuck pulled the tablet from his jacket and tapped the screen. “I disagree, Marcus. Let me speak to our people in…”
Marcus did something I’d never seen before. He lost his temper. The MI6 man grabbed the American by the collar, growling like a Glasgow docker with a hangover. “Thanks to Drexler, UK air traffic control is failing. The national grid is down. Russian proxy forces are harbouring on the Estonian border. The balloon’s going up, and we don’t have the luxury of time. Tae fuck with you.”
“You need me on board,” said a familiar molasses drawl. Erik Drexler, squatting nearby with his two CIA escorts. “Nördhaus’ security is biometric - gait pattern analysis, iris recognition, fingerprint scanners…”
“And I suppose the systems are configured to allow you access?” I said.
“Yup.”
“And why the hell would you help?” said Tuck.
“Paradis ain’t paid me yet,” Drexler replied, “and I figure present circumstances make it unlikely he will.” The big American stood up, dusted sand from the seat of his pants. His guards eyed him warily.
Tuck stroked his stubbly goatee. “You did this for money?”
“Only a part of my motivation. But not money. Gold, actually,” said Drexler. “Paper money ain’t gonna be worth shit.” He put out his cuffed wrists and shook them at his guards. “Let me walk. You get to kill the virus that powers The Curve. No virus, no Hoffman Curve. When you blew us outta the water, we weren’t even fifteen per cent done.”
Tuck shook his head. He turned to Marcus. “Okay, I’m gonna authorise it, but Fendt goes too. To represent our interests.”
Fendt looked surprised. “You can authorise at that level? Just like that?”
Tuck’s smile was smug. “Call Langley, The Pentagon and The Secretary of State and ask ‘em. Yes, Colonel Fendt, I can authorise a deal.”
“In which case, gentlemen,” I said, tapping my watch. “Shall we get on with it?”
Chapter twenty-three
When squaddies get overly interested in news broadcasts, you know there’s trouble. The SBS men huddled around a tablet, listening to the World Service, wondering where they’d be deployed next. The Baltic looked a safe bet – the new arena between NATO and a resurgent Russian Federation. The War Machine stirred, sniffing blood in an ocean of financial shockwaves and political chaos.
I asked Duncan to go and find Juliet’s brother. As he climbed in the BMW and drove off, I felt sorry for anyone who got in the ex-para’s way. As for Dmitri Aseyev, the SBS medic insisted he needed a hospital. Dmitri was going into shock from blood loss. The big Russian, pale-faced and clammy, reluctantly agreed.
Fendt stood on the beach, hands-on-hips. He hollered over the scream of engines. “Here’s our ride.”
A helo descended from the night-time clouds, a US Navy Rescue Hawk. The grey airframe bulged with optics pods and fuel probes, otherwo
rldly like a UFO. Inside the heli, we were ushered to a row of canvas seats. My clothes were soaked and covered with sand, but there were flasks of coffee waiting for us. I drained a hot, sugary brew and sighed. Drexler sat guarded by Oz and Harry. The big American smiled, a dreamy look in his eyes.
The US Navy crew chief was a young Hispanic woman with big brown eyes and freckles. “The pilot wants to know where we’re goin’, Sir,” she shouted.
“Nördhaus. Frisian Islands, off the north German coast,” Fendt replied.
“Via London,” I added.
“Huh?” said Fendt.
“Trust me,” I said, wondering what Juliet thought was so important for us to divert from our mission.
The crew chief opened a map. “Northern Germany? That’s stretching our operating range.”
The winchman nodded. “It should take just under two hours, but we’ll need to refuel.”
“I can’t imagine you’ll need to come back for us,” I replied.
Behind me, Oz laughed. Harry pulled a face and Alex was already asleep.
Drexler fixed me with a stare. I pointed out of the helicopter door, at the lightless world below. “You don’t regret this?”
Drexler sniffed the air. “When Oppenheimer watched the first atomic test, you know what he said? He quoted the Bhagavad Gita. Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds. The atomic bomb changed the world, via the deaths of 200,000 people.”
“Your point?”
Drexler’s eyes widened. “I’m the liberator of worlds. But guess what? I won’t achieve anything like Bobby Oppenheimer’s death-count. Not even a fraction of a fraction. So no, fuck-you-very-much. I don’t regret a thing.”
I slumped in my seat and gazed into the night. The pilot chased a motorway, fires on the horizon, until the Rescue Hawk hugged a moonlit Thames. We overflew Westminster, riot-helmeted figures forming a cordon across Lambeth Bridge. We gained altitude as we passed the Tower of London, a Union flag hanging limply from the battlements. Then, the dark expanse of Blackheath, the helicopter landing not far from my old friend General Wolfe. “Wait here,” I said to the rest of the team.
A 4x4 waited nearby, hazard lights blinking. Juliet stood waiting. After the journey in the helicopter’s darkened fuselage, the headlights burnt my eyes.
Juliet stepped forward, face pale. She wore a field jacket, assault pack slung over her shoulder. She kissed my mouth, a strand of her hair brushing my cheek. “Quickly, you need to speak with Hugh and Kenny.”
“Are you okay?”
Juliet frowned. “There’s no time, Cal. Go.”
I jogged to the 4x4. Hugh and Kenny loitered near the tail-gate, both wearing boiler suits and gloves. “We found somebody we thought you should meet,” said Kenny. A cruel smile split the detective’s face. “He’s being proper stubborn at the moment. But I reckon he’ll talk to you.”
Hugh nodded, a laptop tucked under his arm. “The De Soto hard drive had fragments of email from Pilbeam to his London-based hackers.”
“Ain’t it super-encrypted?” I asked.
“It was, but they used my bloody encryption,” Hugh replied. “Thieving bastards used a suite of tools I built for Cigarette Smoking Man. Of course, I’d back-doored it. I even recognised several characters from the forum. One name in particular was of interest, something of a legend in online hacktivism.”
“’Ere you go.” Kenny opened the 4x4s tailgate, a cigarette smouldering at the corner of his mouth. He flashed a Cheshire cat smile. “Once Hugh found out the fucker’s real name, Uncle Kenny made a few phone calls. Even an Internet genius needs a real address to claim benefits. He was dossing in a bedsit in Woolwich all along. I knocked on his door with a few pals.”
A dark shape wriggled in the boot.
“Meet Jordan Lynch,” said Hugh proudly. “Otherwise known as Blind Angel.”
There was a lanky kid, early twenties, trussed up in the back of the car. Kenny had used so much duct tape he looked like a silver mummy. His pale, skinny face was screwed up in rage. Next to him was a tatty laptop bag covered in stickers and patches.
“Say hello, Jordan,” said Kenny, peeling a length of tape from his mouth.
“Fuck off,” he replied, eyes bulging.
“This why we diverted to London? What use is he?” I said.
Hugh examined Jordan Lynch, like an entomologist with an exotic beetle. “Blind Angel, I mean Jordan, is Clan Chieftain of no less than the Gundam Collective.”
The operators on the Sea Witch had spoken with an organisation called Gundam-something. I vaguely remembered the word from the TV news. Then the light bulb above my head pinged again. “That’s the crew who hacked Global-Talk?”
“Yeah that was us,” said Lynch. He was almost-well-spoken, with scruffy hair, big round eyes and a button nose.
“You were working for a guy called PanzerDragoon?” I said, using Kris Pilbeam’s online pseudonym.
“Er, working with you mean,” the hacker corrected. He stopped wriggling in his duct-tape shroud. “How d’you know?”
“Pilbeam told me, shortly before was fried to a crisp in an arson attack,” I said. “Violent death’s a recurring theme for people wrapped up in this.”
The kid puked, watery vomit splashing down his chest. “Fucking hell.”
“You’re out of your depth, son,” Kenny said matter-of-factly.
“He’s right, Jordan,” I said, taking hold of the kid’s elbow and helping him up. “What are your targeting instructions?”
“We were sent a list,” he replied, shoulders slumped, “instructions telling us what to attack and when. We lost contact with the coordinators, then some people chickened out. They saw what was happening on the news, the scale of it.” He jutted his chin at Kenny. “Then this wanker turns up and roughs me up. Man, you’re gonna pay for those computers you smashed.”
“Send me the bill from prison,” said Kenny.
“Cut him loose,” I said, “Jordan, we’re going for a walk. Hugh, got anything to drink?”
“Sure,” the Yorkshireman replied, rummaging in his laptop bag. He pulled out a garish can of Monster. “Hacker juice. Will this do?”
I took the can and waggled it at Jordan Lynch. “C’mon, this’ll wake you up.”
Kenny sliced Jordan free with a knife, the hacker trembling like a junkie clucking for smack. He was reed-thin, dressed in a black tee-shirt, skinny jeans and no shoes. His skin was so pale he was near-luminous. He clutched his laptop bag to his chest like a shield.
“Don’t try to run,” I said, flashing my shoulder-holstered .45. “Understood?”
Jordan chugged the energy drink, soda dribbling down his chin. He nodded vigorously, eyes glued to my gun. “Are you from the Government? Special Forces or MI6?”
“Neither.”
“If you say so.” The hacker took another swig and shivered, “the world needs changing so fucking badly. You must see it.”
I pointed towards the city. Fires dotted the skyline, tinting the clouds orange and red. “That kind of change? The madman who organised this told everyone exactly what they wanted to hear. How d’you feel? You’re on the same side as skinheads torching mosques, and wannabe Jihadis chucking bricks at synagogues.”
“Take your lies somewhere else.”
I shook my head. “All you’ve done is help weaponise peoples’ anger.”
Jordan Lynch shook his head. “You would say that, but my generation won’t get anything unless we take it. We get paid a pittance and taken for mugs. We’re just rent-slaves. Celebrity-obsessed drones. Told what to think and say. Fuck that. I’d rather have chaos.”
“Fair enough, Jordan. But the men who planned this? They want power. It’s the same old story, and you’ve bought it. More armies and surveillance. More laws. I promise you, the change you want ain’t the change you’ll get.”
“You say you aren’t from the government, but you carry a gun,” he replied. “You say you’re not military but you arrive in a Black Hawk...”
We stood quietly for a moment, a convoy of police vehicles skirting the heath. They ran silent, no sirens, blue lights marking their progress. Dark figures moved by the roadside, hurling bricks and jeering. The police accelerated and disappeared.
“Look at them. Man, it’s an Intifada,” said Jordan, hugging himself.
I bristled. “And when it’s over? You seriously think they’ll let you live? You’re a complication. You’ll be eliminated.”
“How do you know?”
“I kill people like you, for people like them,” I replied with a shrug. “That’s why I’ve got a gun. That’s why they gave me a helicopter.”
Jordan clutched the report to his chest. Tears glinted on his cheeks. “They warned me this might happen, that The State would get to me. Tell me lies. They told me to be strong…”
I lay my good hand on his bony shoulder and squeezed. “Yes, Jordan, you’ve got to be strong. I need your help.”
The hacker looked at his feet. “Then what happens?”
“The dice land where they will. The world continues to turn. People walking to the shops don’t get raped or stabbed. The bloody Russians don’t get an excuse to invade somewhere new. How much simpler can it be?”
The kid gulped back a sob. To the east, on the Thames Estuary, there was an explosion. An oily mushroom cloud blossomed into the sky. The noise, a liquid whoosh followed by a bang, rolled towards us. I guessed it was a fuel depot.
“I didn’t arrange that, honest,” I said.
Jordan Lynch laughed and wiped his snotty nose. He watched the flames dance.
“We’ve got to stop this,” I said. “I need the other hackers. I need your expertise.”
“Why?”
I pulled the TACOPs and placed it on the ground in front of him. “That’s my specialism,” I said, tapping the pistol, “but this war needs different soldiers. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a warrior. Different battlefield, maybe. But we need more than just guns to finish this.”
The Saint Jude Rules (Cal Winter Book 3) Page 18