by Alex Shaw
‘I understand.’
‘I hope you do, Vetrov. You still have to impress me with your performance as a soldier.’
Vetrov turned to face her. In the dim bedroom lighting she saw the wrath in his eyes. She also saw that he was again hard. She pulled the sheet aside, exposing her nakedness and let him advance. ‘When I have finished with you, you may return to Mendez.’
Vauxhall Cross, London, UK
Neill Plato hadn’t received any alerts during the night. The flat he shared with no one, except his vast collection of exotic teas, had been quiet but then a ping arrived disrupting his morning Alpen. It was a cryptic message, designed by him, that simply stated: “Philebus 16.2”. The Philebus was a Socratic dialogue written by Neill’s namesake in the fourth century BC. “Philebus” was Neill Plato’s shorthand for “active search result” and the number that came afterwards was the percentage match a specific piece of footage had achieved. In this instance the probability of a match, at 16.2 per cent, did not set his pulse racing.
An hour later, Plato sat at his desk and checked the result. The results of the facial recognition program on the Hamad International Airport footage had pulled up one hit, with a sixteen point two probability of a match. He brought up the footage and peered at the frozen image.
Plato found himself shaking his head. It had caught a traveller quickly pulling on a taupe-coloured sweatshirt. On the sweatshirt there was an image; it was a face. Plato’s program had halted the footage and made the match at the exact moment when the face on the sweatshirt was covering the traveller’s actual face. He didn’t recognise the image and the person who was wearing it was a rather rotund, middle-aged woman. He’d have to investigate his program to prevent these types of errors from happening again. He added it to his mental to-do list.
Plato checked his watch. It was only three a.m. in Houston so he decided to send Tate a short message with the results. Less than a minute later his phone rang.
It was Tate. His voice sounded thick with sleep. ‘Neill, are you sure there was no other match?’
‘Yes, quite sure. The program is very effective.’
‘OK. Thanks. Back to plan A then.’
‘If plan B was finding him, what was plan A?’
‘Losing him.’
‘Erm OK, go back to sleep.’ Plato frowned as he ended the call and then started to look at his emails and requests from the desks he liaised with. After the operations of the previous few days there was now a lull in workflow. His phone rang. Jack Tate again. ‘This isn’t room service.’
‘Did the camera see everyone’s face?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What if an individual’s face was obscured by say their hand, sunglasses, a hood or a hat?’
‘As they left or boarded their plane? Highly unlikely as there are multiple cameras for security purposes. I did also look at the pair of cameras immediately before at the exterior terminal entrance.’
‘Which capture travellers and non-travellers?’
‘Exactly, belt and braces. That would have shown me everyone who entered the airport, not just those who flew.’
‘OK. Thanks, Neill, and hey, sorry for telling you how to suck eggs.’
‘That’s fine. Now go to bed.’ Plato’s mind switched to eggs, pickled eggs to be precise and the best ones were sold by his local chippy. He’d make sure he got his huss, chips and pickled egg on the way home.
Still musing on his supper and with his stomach producing phantom rumbles he decided to watch a bit of the airport footage, and chose to monitor the same flight that the false hit had appeared on. He watched the procession of passengers, which had arrived from the Far East, appear at the end of the corridor and approach the camera. For the first few steps there was much obscuring of faces, Qataris wearing sunglasses and other travellers adjusting hats and hoodies, but sure enough each and every face was picked up and mapped, before passing the camera. A thought occurred to him. If sweatshirt woman had not shown her face at all, would his system have managed to have tracked her across the terminal? It was an interesting exercise, especially if she had taken off the sweatshirt or added a layer over the top.
Plato retrieved his large Thermos flask from his backpack and wandered out of his office towards the canteen, in search of his hot water. He took the lift to the correct floor and stepped out into the corridor, his gait changing slightly as his Dr-Martens-encased feet bounced ever so slightly on the linoleum that replaced the carpet in this area. The woman could hide her face but the rest of her was on display. He came to a sudden halt, closed his eyes and sighed. Why was he being so thick? She may have changed her face but she wouldn’t have changed her gait. And if he ran his gait-recognition program, as he had before on operations, he’d be able to track her. In fact he’d be able to search for anyone he had a data set for. That’s what he would do: belts, braces and more braces.
Plato arrived in the canteen, boiled his water, added it to his flask, carefully closed it and headed back to his office. Strictly speaking, carrying scalding liquids even in a sealed container was against health and safety, but this was generally ignored. Once he’d transferred the water to his teapot and it was quietly infusing, he got to work with his task. He brought up the footage of the Camden bombing, the smartphone footage that showed Ruslan Akulov. He brought up the new tape of Akulov from the several US airport cameras and the street CCTV systems. He started in chronological order by making a copy of the Wichita airport footage, and dropped his gait-recognition program over it. A series of green lines and dots mapped Akulov’s movement, creating a biometric reference set. Plato put the software to work and got up to attend to his tea.
He returned, cup in hand, a minute later to be greeted by a prompt on the screen he had not expected to see.
‘No corresponding data set found. Create new set?’
‘How odd,’ Plato said to himself. Was it a bug? Or were the two sets really different? He ran the program again and got the same result. Puzzled, Plato checked the footage captured of Akulov arriving at the airport in Miami. He sipped his black Earl Grey – adding milk would make it an abomination – and awaited the result. He was presented with two options. He paused.
Plato sat still for several moments, his eyes flicking as his brain tried to compute the data in front of him, the possibilities and the implications. He started to believe that it wasn’t a bug. He continued the same process with each and every bit of footage he had. The gait-recognition system, his gait-recognition system he had designed himself, told him the same thing.
Plato sat back in his chair and swivelled around slowly as he started to understand what was happening. His brow was damp with a sudden sweat. His hand shook as he sipped his tea. He knew this day would come. There was even a name for it – “The Infocalypse”. But before he accepted it, he still needed to check the Qatari footage.
He loaded up all the digital footage taken from Hamad International Airport, tapped in commands and left it running. It now made no difference if he was sitting in front of his computers or not; it wouldn’t speed the process up.
Plato stood. He needed to think and he’d do so over lunch. He left his office.
Sugar Land, Texas
Vetrov’s phone began to ring before he’d left Chen’s driveway. He ignored it until it screeched at him again on the freeway.
‘Your cell was off!’ Angel Mendez sounded outraged.
‘I was underground, checking the merchandise. There was no coverage.’
‘We found Akulov!’
‘Where?’
‘The Four Seasons. I’m gonna go there and personally stick a shotgun up his puto puta ass!’
Vetrov was firm but calm. ‘Do not go anywhere. It is a trap.’
‘He’s the one in the trap!’
‘Listen to me, Angel, you are not thinking correctly!’
‘Me listen to you?’ Angel hissed. ‘I’m your boss! I’m your patron! Got it?’
Vetrov’s hands tigh
tened on the SUV’s steering wheel. He was no one’s underling, he was a leader and he had been the leader of the most elite fighting force the modern world had ever seen. Yet he was being ordered around in turn by an emotionless narcissist and a psychotic midget. ‘Got it.’
‘I’ve gotta hit him tonight.’
Vetrov’s face was set in a snarl but his words when they came showed only contrition and concern for his boss. ‘Please, patron, I know Akulov and this is a trap. The hotel is not the right strike point.’
‘It is the only point to strike at him! He is cornered!’
‘You cannot assault a five-star hotel in the middle of Houston!’
‘I can’t? Who are you to tell me what I can or cannot do?’
‘Think of the fallout! Vinyl can cover up your brother’s death but not a firefight in a downtown hotel!’
‘We got silencers, man.’
‘It will bring out the FBI. They will be all over this if you start shooting up The Four Seasons.’
‘Vinyl’s gonna get the cameras turned off. No one is gonna see nothing.’
The double negative wasn’t encouraging. Vetrov was incredulous but kept his voice calm. ‘Send some men, but not anyone who is guarding you now.’
‘Why not? He’s one man, one dumb cabrón. What can he do?’
‘Kill anyone and everyone you send against him.’
‘And what can he do against the Mendez Cartel?’
‘He can kill it.’
‘Kill the cartel?’ There was a throaty laugh at the other end. ‘Then perhaps he should be working for me instead of you, Vetrov? If he is so invincible!’
Vetrov’s knuckles went white on the steering wheel and his foot subconsciously pushed the gas pedal making the automatic gearbox change down and the V8 growl.
‘Vetrov! You still there?’
‘Yes.’ He felt blood rush in his ears. Perhaps he would kill Angel Mendez himself. ‘Stay where you are, Angel, or you will die.’
Vetrov ended the call and concentrated on getting back to Mendez’s house in River Oaks as quickly as he could.
Five years ago
Syria
Akulov tossed his helmet on the ground and poured the bottle of tepid water over his head. It ran in rivulets down his face and onto his chest, washing away the sweat and dust.
‘Hey! You, soldier! Put that helmet back on. Now!’
Akulov wiped his face with his hands to see the source of the shouting. A Russian soldier wearing sergeant stripes. He was huge, the typical build for a paratrooper, and his uniform was spotless. Akulov knew the type, a parade-ground pit bull.
‘Didn’t you hear me? Put it back on or I’ll put you on a charge!’
Akulov lifted his helmet from the ground, dusted it off and then put it under his arm. He had no intention of putting it back on; the nearest enemy fighters were ten miles away and separated from them by a strip of featureless desert tundra and deserted, destroyed compounds. Akulov turned and started to walk away; he had neither the time nor energy for a verbal fight.
‘Where the hell do you think you are going?’ The man advanced and placed a meaty hand on Akulov’s shoulder.
On instinct, Akulov ducked, twisted and threw the senior soldier up and over his shoulder depositing him in a dusty heap on the ground. Wide-eyed the sergeant glared at Akulov, who symbolically dropped his helmet. Akulov’s voice was just above a whisper when he spoke. ‘Do you really want to die today?’
‘Which unit are you from?’ The man got to his feet, anger imprinted all over his face as his eyes scanned Akulov’s debadged fatigues. ‘You think you are better than me? Tell me, that’s an order – which unit are you with? I’ll see that you are thrown into the stockade! Or perhaps you’ll be shot for this!’
Akulov advanced towards the larger man, feinted with his right then struck the man in the gut with his left fist. As the man doubled over he hit him on the side of head with a right elbow. The sergeant twisted sideways and dropped to the ground. Akulov took a step back. His pulse rate hadn’t risen and his breathing hadn’t altered. The man lay still for several seconds before managing to roll onto his stomach and get on his hands and knees. Using his right foot, Akulov pushed him hard. The sergeant overbalanced and fell sideways and ended up lying on his back.
‘Never mistake a werewolf for a dog,’ Akulov snarled and walked away.
To his left a battered Toyota Hilux truck drew to a stop among a cloud of dust. The truck was known as a “technical” and was a civilian vehicle augmented with a heavy machine gun mounted on a baseplate in the rear. This particular technical had been taken from the anti-government rebels and repurposed by Vetrov to be used on lightning-quick raids into enemy-controlled territory.
Again having been placed in the position of overwatch, among the rocks on the hillside above the target village, Akulov had seen the mission unfold before him. The others had been ruthless in their pursuit of ISIS fighters but several villagers had been caught in the crossfire as they attempted to escape. And all this had been magnified in Akulov’s scope and with the magnification of the civilian casualities came the magnification of the anger he felt for his team leader, and his followers. What once had been a brotherhood, a family, was now divided by a simmering feud.
Vetrov got out of the Toyota and stretched. He was dressed as a local, but his bearing marked him out as a Russian. Without looking in Akulov’s direction at all he started to wander away towards the prefabricated hut that housed the unit. He was followed by the driver and three of the other four men who had been riding on the truck bed. The fourth man, a large figure, dropped down and bounded directly to Akulov.
‘That was a close thing.’ Dorzhiev gestured back over his shoulder with the flick of his head. ‘Each time I wonder if this will be my last day on this earth, but I would rather die for something than live for nothing.’
Akulov looked up. ‘You should stop volunteering.’
‘What? And give up a place at the front of all this?’ He held out his huge, long arms expansively.
‘Seriously, you can’t agree with the way Vetrov is leading us?’
Dorzhiev shrugged. ‘He is our chief. We must follow his orders. Sure, sometimes civilians get hurt, but that is the way of war.’
Akulov looked away at their hut, as the last of the others stepped inside. Had Dorzhiev changed too? Was his the only dissenting voice left? ‘And what of the way of the warrior?’
Dorzhiev punched him in the shoulder. ‘You forget, Ruslan, we are not warriors; we are Werewolves.’
Akulov opened his mouth to reply but never got the chance as an explosion pelted him with sand and dirt. Dorzhiev was knocked from his feet and Akulov stumbled to his knees. Akulov shook his head to clear it and looked around as troops started to run for cover, all except the sergeant who stood stock-still in the open, like a rabbit at night, caught in headlights. Akulov crabbed towards his comrade, who lay on his back, eyes closed, and slapped his face. ‘Dorzhiev! Get up! Get up! Move it!’
The larger of the two men opened his eyes and sat up. A trickle of blood seeped from his temple. ‘What was that?’
‘Mortar fire.’
The pair scrabbled to their feet as low yet unmistakable whines filled their ears and then more shells rained down on the base. The other Werewolves were running out of their building, weapons in hands. Akulov saw Vetrov get into the cab of the Toyota. It reversed, swung around and stopped sideways on to collect two more Werewolves who were rushing forwards.
‘C’mon!’ Dorzhiev ran towards the technical.
Akulov hesitated for a fraction of a second and then followed. Dorzhiev got to the vehicle several strides ahead of Akulov and used his huge legs to launch himself into the back. Vetrov was at the wheel. He locked eyes with Akulov and shook his head. As Akulov prepared to jump on the back, the truck bucked away, tyres churning the dust into a thick, cloying cloud. Akulov slipped and hit the dirt, his hand stretched out in front of him. Vetrov accelerated away and glanced
back over his shoulder with a sneer. He’d intentionally left Akulov behind.
At that moment, another mortar struck, so close to where the truck had been that the shock wave lifted the back wheels of the Toyota off the ground, before it continued on. All Akulov could see was sky as he was hurled backwards through the hot, heavy Syrian summer air.
Present day
Texas
In the darkness he heard thuds and voices. He tried to shake his head but it wouldn’t move and then another sound he recognised made his eyes snap open. He was no longer lying in the dust and rocks in Syria; he was on a luxury bed in his hotel room. An electronic beep from his phone had woken him up, meaning one of the two motion detectors he had set up on the landing had been triggered. It was linked to a miniature surveillance camera, which was trained on the hotel room diagonally across the hall from his, the room he was officially staying in and not the empty one he was camping in now.
Akulov quietly got to his feet, fully dressed and wearing his boots. Standing on the threadbare carpet he continued to watch his iPhone screen as he dragged Caesar’s Glock from under the pillow. A train of figures approached the door. Each was armed. The first in line took something from his pocket and pushed it into the slot, whilst at the same time the second man raised his pistol and trained it on the door. Akulov noted that the shape was elongated; it was suppressed. And then the first gunman opened the door and the second stormed inside followed by the rest of his team.
Akulov opened his own door and stepped out into the hall, weapon up. The last of the assault team stood in the doorway opposite, with his back to him. He was dressed in an ensemble of double denim with a red bandana and holding a suppressed Beretta. Akulov’s Glock was going to be loud, and it was going to draw attention. He shot double denim in the back of the head. The single, heavy magnum round pitched him forward and into the room. Akulov entered behind the falling corpse.