by Lee Harding
Chapter 9
13th November 12:15
Michael followed his chief into Thames House. This was the second time he had visited the headquarters of the MI5, the auspicious grey building on the banks of the River Thames. The first occasion was to take into custody the Islamic jihadist Abdalhaqq al-Khudri. CTU had worked alongside the British secret service to track al-Khudri’s movements using his mobile phone. In a midnight raid Michael escorted the terrorist himself into the cells here but the area he was in now was so top-secret that mentioning its existence was strictly forbidden.
An armed escort led them through a labyrinth of bland corridors to a secured elevator. Every face they passed avoided eye contact as if their secrets could be shared through the window of the soul. Phones, computers and tech of any kind were prohibited. A guard scanned him with a handheld detector while the next patted him down. Michael rested his chin on a black, plastic rim and kept his eyelids open as his cortex was analysed. When access was granted, the elevator doors opened vertically, sliding silently upwards, and they were ushered inside.
The elevator walls were lined with full-length mirrors with no sign of a button or switch. It was difficult to stare anywhere but the floor as he didn’t want to run the risk of coming face-to-face with an infinite number of reflections of himself. He supposed that was the point; if you couldn’t look at yourself then how could you expect others to? He forced his head up but fixed one eye on their escort’s beret. The elevator shuddered to a halt and its doors disappeared upwards.
The guard went first followed by Noble then Michael. Down another corridor, round two bends, then another corridor. Noble was breathing heavily as they arrived at the final checkpoint. Two heavy-set sentries, both six feet plus, barrelled chested, and wearing the blue khaki uniform of the MI5 Security, asked the police men if they had any mobile communications on their person. Yes, I managed to hypnotize my way through the other searches, Michael thought but dutifully shook his head. They patted him down again leaving no part unchecked.
One of the guards swiped a security pass across a sensor. A hiss, like the breach of a vacuum sounded and a heavy metal door began to open. It reminded him of a safe in a bank and it clunked along before coming to a halt a metre away from its starting position.
Gone were the garish florescent lights of the other floors. This room sank below the weight of a depressing shadiness. Shadows lurked around the feet of the dozen figures sitting around an oval-shaped table. Brown chairs nudged each other’s arm rests to accommodate twenty places. The ceiling was so low he assumed its purpose was to induce claustrophobia. Light came from five spotlights in each corner and a larger one directly above the table.
It was odd having no technology, he thought. It felt prehistoric but quite fitting, like he was in a Cold War spy thriller. At least there was no chance of a computer attack or unwanted surveillance.
A lady in a navy dress met them at the entrance and dismissed their guard. As he left, the door’s bolt disengaged and it closed to seal them in.
“Chief Constable Noble, Detective Inspector Grant, please follow me to your seats,” she said in an unusually deep, throaty voice. She led them to the far end of the oval desk. It was made of a polished, plastic resin and was surgically clean. Like a giant eyeball.
“Tea? Coffee?”
Michael declined but his boss ordered tea with cream and four sugars. Glancing around, Michael identified one person he knew. Jonathon Brown was his contact in MI5. They exchanged nods of recognition before Michael’s attention was averted to the hiss and clunk of the door. In stepped a rather distinguished gentleman. His grey hair was combed to the side and the matching bushy eyebrows threatened to conceal colourless eyes that drew everyone’s gaze. His nose was aquiline and hung over an almost lipless mouth. An entourage followed on tow.
The grey man in the grey suit ignored the lady and took his seat opposite Michael. His beak and arching brow cast a sneering reflection on the desk. The others sat where space was available but tried to remain as close to him as possible. When the door shut he started speaking.
“My name is Olsen. I’ve been appointed co-ordinator of this special task force set up by the Prime Minister to tackle the cyber threat on our country. Excuse me if we dispense with the pleasantries of formal introductions. As the meeting progresses and you have anything useful to contribute you may state your name and station then.”
Michael detected military training in the man’s diction. Definitely officer class. Michael’s father was in the army for a lifetime and he grew up in that environment. He recognized a soldier when he saw one.
“I will be reporting directly to the PM and he demands immediate results. The world is watching and we’ve been caught with our trousers around our ankles. These scoundrels must face the King’s justice.”
Olsen pointed at two men to his right. “Give me an overview of the situation.”
“Wreckoning is a cyber terrorist organization which until October of this year did not appear to exist. We believe their number to be between four and six. This is based on reports of an intercepted chat in a forum run by another hacker team called El Toro. They speak of a specialized team drafted together to create an uber attack somewhere in Europe. They mention the handles of some well-known hackers who Interpol has been trying to shut down for some time.”
The man handed a stack of papers to the lady in the navy dress. She walked around the table distributing them. Michael scanned the sheet. The name Mr Knox was typed at the top.
“This particular name keeps cropping up. Two years ago a hacker known only as Mr Knox broke into the Royal Bank of Scotland’s bonus fund. They transferred the money to an account in Switzerland before converting it into an online currency. It’s reported he distributed the funds to some children’s hospices.”
“I don’t remember reading about that in the press,” Olsen said with a frown.
“RBS paid a substantial sum to ensure the matter was hushed over. Knox has been very quiet over the last year and speculation is he’s involved with Wreckoning.”
“Speculation? If I wanted speculation I’d get my wife to share her horoscopes,” Olsen said. “I want facts and I want real names. What about the leader? Have we any idea who they are?” He directed his glare at Noble who mumbled something under his moustache.
“Speak up, man. I can’t hear you.”
Noble raised his voice and pushed back his massive shoulders. “We have no concrete leads, sir, but Grant here has been questioning a possible suspect.”
Everyone was staring at him. Michael even felt the plastic eye below gawp up.
“Really a lead, sir. He’s a small fish but might be able to lure out the larger predators. We’re also conducting a full psychological dissection of the uploaded videos and I believe we have some clues as to the next target.”
Michael expected Olsen to butt in but he remained unfazed waiting for Michael to continue.
“Whoever Wreckoning is at least one of its members has been personally affected by the British press. A word repeated throughout the videos is justice. They are careful not to say vengeance but there’s a thin line between the two. They don’t trust official channels to affect reform they believe is needed. So in effect they destroyed their enemy to exact revenge.”
“Yes, yes, but who is their next target?” Olsen said.
“I’ve just said it, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“They do not trust the agents of justice and feel compelled to take on that role themselves. It seems logical that justice must be handed out to those who have failed in their duty.”
A confused Olsen was interrupted by the hiss and clunk from behind him. He spun round to see a young man walk in with a computer tablet locked tightly under one arm.
“Clarkson. I told you under no circumstances am I to be disturbed. Is that a computer? Get out of here you dimwit.”
Clarkson rushed to stand beside his supervisor. “Sir, I’m sorry bu
t the Prime Minister needs you to see this.”
His shaking hand held out the tablet which Olsen snatched away. Olsen’s lips pursed to nothing as he studied the screen.
“It seems Wreckoning has posted another video.”
He placed the tablet on the table and slid a finger over the glass. The familiar feminine accent called out clearly.
“Wreckoning has dealt a fatal blow to the corrupt British press but they are merely the pet of a more venal establishment, one whose responsibility is to protect the public. Instead, they have abandoned the principles on which they were founded, believing themselves to be above the laws which they preach.
“The Great British judiciary has dismissed the most fundamental of tenets that the accused are innocent until proven guilty. They blatantly feed their lapdog the press with the names, addresses, and explicit details of the charges laid against the supposed innocent man, condemning him immediately. How can he now stand trial when the rug of impartiality has been removed from under him?
“Standing by their pompous thrones, the debased police supply their masters with an infinite supply of fodder to debauch. Sparse evidence can keep a man under lock and key for years until they run out of excuses and bring him to trial. Their word is truth and none can argue otherwise. Twelve simpletons must adhere to this rule as the man must sit in silence, his voice removed.
“Then there are the cogs in this greasy wheel; the lawyers. Solicitors and barristers bleed this country dry, pushing their bulging diaries back to further thicken their swollen wallets. Their clients act as mere puppets in a spectacle of farce as the wigged boxers spar for nothing more than professional pride and a pay-out.
“Meanwhile what about justice? Justice for the victims? Justice for the public? Justice for the man whose life is inexorably ruined regardless of his innocence? The judicial system cannot find the courage to use the word innocent claiming a defendant not guilty leaving traces of suspicion and doubt always on his character. Those who are sentenced must rely on the mercy of the court where such a word has no meaning. They are then sent to a cruel place to be rehabilitated so they can re-enter society as a citizen who has fully paid the price of their deeds. Except those systems know nothing of rehabilitation for they don’t understand the essence of a man – his desire to live unfettered. Instead, he has been branded a slave by all and forever will remain until he dies.
“No more.
“In seven days precisely we will topple these failed institutions of Justice. Her eyes will be removed and she will fall on her sword as the bias of her scales drags her to her death. The only way to avoid this fate and prevent anarchy is to accept this simple request; reform or die The decision is yours but either way justice will be served.”
“Damn it.”
Olsen backhanded the tablet causing it to ricochet off a cup of coffee. His aides scampered off to find a towel. He rubbed the crease of skin between his caterpillar eyebrows and remained quiet for exactly ten seconds.
“You. What’s your name again?”
At first Michael assumed Olsen was pointing at his Chief Constable whose girth filled more than his allocated space. Then he realized Olsen’s aim was set firmly at him.
“Grant, sir.”
“You saw this coming, didn’t you?”
Michael nodded. Noble wiggled his moustache then weighed into the conversation.
“Inspector Grant and I are forming a psychological profile of these maniacs.”
“Maniacs? These people are not gormless morons, you fool. They have given us one week to hunt them down which I fully intend to do.”
Noble withdrew to take cover behind his moustache.
“Grant, I want you to liaise with Jonathon Brown.”
“Yes, sir. We’ve worked together before.”
“Excellent. Both of you will report directly to me. I have a meeting with the PM at 14:00. I will inform him that by tomorrow we will have some significant leads to follow.”
Olsen stood up and placed his hands on his hips.
“I don’t care how you do it but I want names by tomorrow. I also want to know more about this Knox person and I want him found.”
He kicked his chair out of the way and marched out the door followed quickly by his staff. The young man was left to scrub coffee stains off his new computer.
Why didn’t I mention Alana? Michael had been pondering that question as Olsen spoke. The only people who were aware of her significance were Charlie and Stevie from CTU. In other circumstances he would have no problem sharing the information. So what makes her so special?
He knew he was attracted to her and believed her when she said she knew nothing about the file on her workstation. If he revealed to either Noble or Olsen that the hackers had identified her as some sort of key then her freedom of life would cease. He supposed he wanted to protect her from that.
Still, he had to come up with something quickly. Deciding to handle this matter alone, he made a mental note to dig up everything about Alana White as soon as he returned to the office. He chatted briefly with Jonathon Brown and arranged to meet later on that afternoon.
He checked his watch. Time was running out.
Chapter 10
13th November 13:06
“Good afternoon, Mr Johnston.”
Alana wiped away the remains of her lunch to greet her elderly landlord with a smile.
“Same to you, Anna.”
The septuagenarian replied struggled to keep his walking cane steady as he rummaged through the grass for something.
Ignoring the usual misnomer, Alana studied the spot where the old man was stamping his good foot.
“Have you lost something?”
“I haven’t lost anything,” he said with a bite, “I’ve just misplaced a spare set of keys to the flat.”
My flat, she thought. She squatted to search as Mr Johnston steadied himself against a wall, gasping and panting at the exertion. He fumbled inside his coat which was buttoned in the wrong holes for a packet of cigarettes then proceeded to extract one with his teeth.
“You want a fag?” he mumbled.
Alana laughed into herself. Although fag was a common term for a cigarette throughout Britain many of her American friends online found the word highly offensive. Smoking a fag had quite a different meaning across the pond.
“No thanks, I’m trying to give up.”
“Suit yourself,” he said and sparked a cheap lighter into life. Arching his head close to the flame, he drew in a billow of smoke and waited for the nicotine to do its magic. Alana tried to block off her nostrils.
“Why you giving up? You met a bloke or something?”
Alana was glad her face was trained on the ground. She had always been prone to involuntary blushing. Her mother said it was a sign of a guilty conscience.
“Something like that.”
In fact, she had met someone. His name was Michael and he was tall, dark, and handsome. Well, taller than her, anyhow. When he called to meet in the café she knew it was to question her. But it was strange to meet like that and not, say, at her home or the police station. She made a tremendous effort to be more presentable. She didn’t know if he smoked but a survey said the smell of ash was a sure-fire way to ruin a first date. Not that it was a date, of course, but gone were the cigarettes regardless. A change of wardrobe was also in order. Michael had elegant taste in fashion as evidenced by his tailor-made suit. Not having the budget to compete, she scoured the charity shops and finally found an elegant blouse and matching, knee-length skirt. But did he notice?
“I once went with a bird who wanted me to pack in the fags. You can either chuck that stinking habit of yours or chuck me out.” He drew in another lungful. “And you can guess how that ended.” A croaky laugh barked up from his throat.
“I can’t see your keys anywhere, Mr Johnston,” she said and straightened. “Where exactly did you drop them?”
“Somewhere around here.”
Alana rolled her eyes. All
the locks would have to be changed and she wouldn’t be able to leave the flat until they were. Absolutely perfect.
“Let’s go back and retrace your steps,” she said and before he could argue she hooked his free arm, careful not to burn her jacket on the smouldering stub. They lurched a few steps forward then one back and continued like that until they reached the entrance to her flat. As they mounted the step to the front door, Mr Johnston tapped his trousers. A light jingle sounded.
“I just remembered I had them with me all along.” He grinned to reveal a smattering of decaying, yellow teeth. Alana held her breath.
“Great. Were you coming to see me for a reason, Mr Johnston?”
It took a few seconds for him to remember. “Somebody’s coming to look at downstairs. A young couple with a kid. Better not have a bloody cat though. I hate those buggers.”
Alana slotted her key into the latch and turned it to open. The old man limped towards the end of the landing, holding onto the wall for balance.
“You okay if I leave you then?” Alana said already six steps up the staircase. Mr Johnston grumbled in the affirmative and she shot upwards before he could change his mind.
Safely inside her flat, Alana hopped into her small study while trying to remove a shoe. She threw the soggy moccasin into the corner then kicked off the other with her big toe. She was hoping for a reply to an email she had sent to her old university professor.
Professor Preston, or Phillip as he preferred to be called, was a legend in Upton University. He had lectured there for forty years and single-handedly built the computer sciences department. He was a pioneer in the early advances of the Internet, helping to build the foundations of the modern web. He was a modest man and tried to deflect all the praise to others on his team. He also loved to teach and inspire his students to think beyond their boundaries. It was also the reason why he refused to scale the faculty ladder, preferring instead to remain a lowly lecturer.