by Alex Shaw
*
The high number of leafy trees in Buffalo Bayou Park provided a large amount of cover, except for the area devoid of trees – the Houston Police Officers’ Memorial. Tate was across the bridge, standing with his back against a tree. He had a line of sight to the monument and the paths that led to it, but there were many blind spots. These were caused by the undulating ground, other trees and the granite slabs of the monument. Unlike his brother he was happy to wait for Akulov to make contact. Something told him that the former Spetsnaz operator meant them no harm. But as it stood the evidence against the man was watertight.
Tate tapped out a text message to Hunter: ‘Any luck?’
‘Not yet.’ Hunter’s reply came almost instantly.
It was now nearing ten thirty, and Tate and Hunter had been in place since nine thirty. Tate didn’t mind waiting. He went into an almost trance-like state where he would constantly assess the environment around him. It was a skill and a discipline he’d had to develop in the SAS.
His mind drifted back to years before when he’d been on “Selection”, trying to join the Regiment. After being captured during the escape and evasion exercise, as 99.9 per cent of all recruits were, he had been taken, hooded, and locked in a room. For eighteen hours he’d shook with cold and endured deafening and repetitive white noise. It was an effort to disorientate him, to break the hopeful applicant, but it wasn’t the only tool used. Tate had been made to stand in various stress positions for hours on end; legs spread, leaning forward palms placed flat against cold, intolerant concrete, or standing with his arms outstretched at his sides like a letter T. Each time he had wobbled or moved, heavy hands and harsh words would move him back again. But he’d somehow managed to endure.
When he did it for real, in a dry, dusty irrigation ditch in Afghanistan, next to an al-Qaeda-occupied compound, the cost of moving would be his life.
Today was a lot easier than both. He was leaning against a tree, and although the temperature was rising from hot to awful, the park wasn’t a bad place to be. Tate brought a bottle of complimentary St. Regis mineral water to his lips and drank.
*
Akulov paid the driver and exited the taxi, making a turn at the end of the block and heading towards the park entrance. The path he chose took him parallel to the meandering waterway and would eventually lead to a bridge opposite the Police Officers’ Memorial.
Akulov made an exaggerated display of checking his watch and broke into a jog as though he suddenly realised he was late. He checked to see if he had attracted a tail, or if there were any watchers who moved to match his pace. But no one did. He slowed to a walk and leant against one of the many trees, again scanning the immediate area, looking for anyone who seemed out of place. He pushed away from the tree and started to walk, eventually reaching the end of the bridge and noticing a figure leaning against the railings at the other end. The man looked familiar. It wasn’t Tate, but he was English.
Akulov slowed his pace and made sure that his hands were at his sides, palms open and away from his body. The man turned and did a tiny double take. Akulov imagined it was nerves, but he wanted to assure Simon Hunter that he personally meant him no ill will.
Hunter did not move, and thirty agonisingly slow seconds later Akulov extended his hand. Hunter didn’t reciprocate. Hunter’s jaw was clenched, his eyes boring into Akulov’s so hard that the Russian imagined two laser beams shooting out of him like in a Superman movie. But Akulov’s focus was over Hunter’s head at the world behind and around him, looking for the person he knew must be nearby.
‘You’re late,’ Hunter said. ‘You wanted to meet. Why? Did you want to turn yourself in?’
‘For a spy, you do talk a little loud.’
Hunter said nothing.
‘I know who killed your parents.’
‘Do you really? The thing is, Akulov, I have incontrovertible evidence it was you. You also murdered two of my embassy colleagues.’
‘The Americans don’t know about your friends, do they? That is why I’ve been able to walk around the US for the last year.’ Akulov leant sideways against the railing. ‘I met a vice detective last night. His name is Vinyl and he is being paid by the Mendez Cartel to keep my face off the radar.’
‘What does any of this have to do with HM Government?’
‘The Camden bomber is also on the Mendez Cartel’s payroll.’
‘What are you trying to say? That a drugs cartel blew up my parents? That’s absurd.’
‘My former team leader, Kirill Vetrov, did it. At the time he was employed by Blackline.’
Hunter’s face visibly paled and he repeated, ‘Blackline?’
‘Yes, Simon.’
‘You lied to Jack. You said you were in Doha at the time of the bombing. We checked the airport footage. You were not.’
Akulov sighed. ‘That is impossible. On the date of the bombing I took a Qatar Airways flight from Singapore to Doha. Do you not understand? If I am not on any of those airport tapes, this is much bigger than I realised. It means whoever did this had access to or hacked into the security footage of two different international airports in two different sovereign states.’
Hunter folded his arms and shook his head slowly. ‘Your cover story is getting more and more Jackanory!’
‘Jackanory?’
‘It was a TV show, where stories were read out to entertain children.’
Akulov turned and pushed his back against the railings; he was tired. He took a breath and explained about the events of the previous night.
‘Look, the only people after me are you and the cartel. Vetrov is working for the cartel, and he’s trying to stop me from getting to him.’
‘To prove your innocence.’
‘And to ask why I’m being framed.’
Hunter tutted, an action Akulov found odd. ‘So what, you want Jack and I to help you, is that it?’
‘Your help would be greatly appreciated, but just a promise not to stand in my way would be acceptable.’
‘A promise?’
‘You two are English gentlemen, men of your word.’
Vauxhall Cross, London, UK
It was gone four in the afternoon before Plato had managed to hack into Hamad International Airport’s security camera system and the State of Qatar’s Immigration Database. The bulk of this time had been taken up cracking the firewall on the immigration database in such a way that when he left there would be no trace of his visit. It was by far one of the hardest systems to crack and once achieved a large smile creased his face. Now, as he finished downloading the relevant digital footage and immigration files, it was almost an hour later.
He brought up the tape of the traveller with Akulov’s gait but not his face, as he waited in line for immigration. In what had become a well-practised execution now, Plato dropped his gait-recognition program over the source footage. Green lines and dots mapped the subject’s movement and a biometric reference set was created. His prompt appeared on screen, and yet again it matched with the data set from the initial Wichita footage.
Plato repeated the entire process with the next set of footage, which showed the traveller with the wrong face standing at the immigration booth, then walking towards the camera.
Plato got up from his chair and did a lap of his cramped office, which consisted of four paces in each direction. He rolled his shoulders and swung his arms as though he was an Olympic swimmer preparing for a race. He sat back in his seat, wiggled his fingers and then opened the immigration list. He wasn’t looking for names; he was checking faces. In his time window, twenty passengers had entered the State of Qatar. Using a few quick commands he extracted those twenty files from the records and scrolled to their faces. He stopped forty seconds later at the sixteenth face. He smiled at it, reached his hand out and traced its contours with his index finger, as though any moment he expected it to vanish. Plato punched the air, an action that he had never in his life remembered doing. The sixteenth passenger to enter the State
of Qatar within his time window was using a passport in the name of a James Chapman, and he had the face of Ruslan Akulov.
Plato’s fingers shook as he attempted to call Tate’s phone. He waited for what seemed like hours, first for his phone to connect, then for the phone at the other end to ring and then for both phones to complete a digital handshake, confirm their identities and finally open a secure line.
‘Neill, yes?’ Tate’s voice was crystal clear, as though he was standing over Plato’s shoulder.
‘Hi, Jack.’ Plato found it hard to get the words out. He took a deep breath. ‘Akulov is not the Camden bomber.’
*
Tate’s eyes widened. ‘Neill, say again.’
‘Ruslan Akulov is not the Camden bomber. He cannot physically be the Camden bomber. He was in Doha on the day of the bombing.’
‘How?’ Tate kept his responses short; even though he’d moved nearer to the bridge and was observing the conversation taking place on it, he was still attempting to be covert.
Plato explained the anomalies with the footage. ‘… I have him on film at Qatari immigration, with his gait and an unknown head, yet at exactly the same time on the immigration database a passport with Akulov’s face was being scanned.’
‘How would they miss the immigration records?’
‘Perhaps they couldn’t break into them. It was an extremely robust firewall; it took me a while and well, I’m SIS.’
‘You’re the best.’
‘Top ten, perhaps.’
Tate smiled. ‘So the film is a fake?’
‘It’s a deep fake. I know it is synthetic media but I can’t distinguish it from reality. I can’t see how it’s been done. Whoever is responsible for this has access to or has designed algorithms that are way more sophisticated, in terms of artificial intelligence, than anything we’ve ever encountered before.’
Tate thought about the implications. ‘So it’s a type of weapon?’
‘Yes. It could be used to topple governments, or start wars. Quite simply it would grant the ability to place people in places they were not, doing things they didn’t do.’
‘Like planting a bomb in Camden when they were in the Middle East?’
‘Exactly. Jack, this is the world’s first documented use of a synthetic human face that is indistinguishable from the source footage. This is the ultimate deep fake.’
‘But hang on a moment, how is it possible that this footage was faked? It was vetted, wasn’t it, after it was given to SIS?’
‘Yes. Thoroughly. Especially as it was found two years after the actual event, I had to start from a position of scepticism. As you remember, I used every resource I had to interrogate the footage. And so did GCHQ, and so did my counterpart at MI5. The answer is that I don’t know how it was faked; all I know is that it was. And it was created sometime after the bombing,’ Plato stated.
On the bridge, Hunter and Akulov were still talking. Tate continued to watch them as he spoke. ‘So someone planted the iPhone specifically for it to be found?’
‘Yes, or perhaps just gave it to us at a time that suited them. It was found by a builder.’
‘Just to confirm—’ Tate had to be absolutely certain ‘—you are stating that, without reasonable doubt, Ruslan Akulov was not in London on the day of the Camden bombing?’
‘He was in Doha, or to be exact, in the air en route to Doha from Singapore.’
‘Neill, this is outstanding work.’
‘No it’s not, Jack. I didn’t spot it before.’
‘No one did.’ Tate visualised the face on his “wanted dead or alive poster” fade but although he had a name, he didn’t have a face to replace it with. ‘I think I have a new suspect for you.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Kirill Vetrov. He was the team leader of Akulov’s Spetsnaz unit.’
‘The Werewolves?’
‘We need to see if he was anywhere near Camden on the date of the bombing.’
‘OK, I’m on it.’
‘Neill, thanks.’ Tate ended the call. They’d been hunting the wrong man. He took a deep breath and dialled Hunter’s number. He could see up ahead on the bridge, Hunter slowly reach into his pocket. It took several rings until he answered, but he spoke before his brother. ‘I’ve got news. Akulov isn’t the bomber.’
‘Jack, what?’
‘Akulov didn’t do it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Plato just confirmed, Akulov did not kill our parents. Stay there with him. I’ve got visual on you both. Tell him to turn around; he’ll see me approaching.’
‘What?’ Hunter replied after a pause, but Tate was already moving.
Tate walked out of the trees and towards the bridge. The bright Houston sunlight made him squint even though he was wearing shades. Akulov’s eyes were on him. He stopped three paces away, forming a V shape with the other two men. ‘Hello, Ruslan.’
‘Hello, Jack.’
Tate wasted no more time. ‘We know it wasn’t you.’
‘Jack what’s going—’ Hunter started to say but Tate cut him off.
‘Our in-house tech expert has confirmed the footage had been altered, but he has no idea how.’
‘Really? Neill has no idea?’ Hunter’s eyebrows rose.
‘Nope.’
‘It’s a deep fake,’ Hunter said.
‘Yes,’ Tate replied.
‘This changes nothing,’ Hunter snapped. ‘What about the two British diplomats you murdered?’
Akulov sighed heavily. ‘They were legitimate targets. One was the military attaché and the other had ordered military attacks that resulted in civilian deaths.’
‘Right,’ Hunter said, with no attempt to hide his sarcasm.
‘Your parents and the others murdered in Camden were not legitimate targets. And as you now know, that was not me.’
‘OK.’ Tate wanted the real killer, who was out there somewhere with this new weapon. ‘We’re not coming after you. It’s a truce. Agreed?’
‘Jack!’ Hunter protested.
‘You two were never my enemies,’ Akulov said.
‘Where is Vetrov?’ Tate asked.
‘Kirill Vetrov is with his paymaster, Angel Mendez, in River Oaks.’
‘How do you know this?’ Hunter folded his arms.
Akulov explained. ‘I have a place and I have someone there. The cartel’s head of communications. He knew Blackline was responsible for the EMP and he says they are behind this new weapon.’
‘He used the name “Blackline”?’ Hunter gave Tate a sideways glance.
‘He did.’
‘Then this is what, part of another planned attack by them?’ Hunter continued.
‘Yes. He knows where to find the guy who might be able tell us how the weapon works, the computer person who created the deep fake.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He would not tell me until I gave him some sort of guarantee of safe passage away from the cartel.’
‘What can you offer him?’ Hunter asked, with sarcasm.
‘I said the British Secret Intelligence Service would protect him.’
‘You did bloody what?’ Hunter was incensed. ‘You first of all told him who we were and then made assurances on our behalf?’
‘I did.’
‘Enough.’ Tate shot his brother a look. They were wasting time. ‘We need to leave.’
‘And go where?’
‘His place.’
Hunter sighed and nodded. ‘Agreed. I’m calling our driver.’
Tate waited for Hunter to move away and make the call before he spoke. ‘Let’s get something clear here; this is a temporary arrangement. We need Vetrov, and that is the only reason you are still standing there and not being taken away by a team.’
‘Jack, I’m not your enemy, but I’m not your friend. When this is all over you plan to detain me. Do I have that right?’
‘You do.’ Tate had four years of anger, resentment and grief, and a year of that focu
sed on Ruslan Akulov but now it had to be directed somewhere else. He felt an emptiness, but more than that a resurgence of his grief. Previously he had felt impotent, now he felt a building sense of empowerment and anticipation.
Hunter put his phone away and rejoined them. ‘ETA five minutes.’
Chapter 15
Vauxhall Cross, London, UK
Dread, that’s what Neill Plato felt. Dread and excitement in equal measure. In uncovering the deep fake, he had broken both national and international laws. He ate the last of his fig rolls as he tried to make sense of what he knew and how to present it to Pamela Newman.
The discovery of the faked footage, in Plato’s view, suggested they had entered the “infocalypse”, a time when misinformation and disinformation defeated society’s ability to differentiate between what was and what was not genuine. Starting with double-exposed Victorian photographic frames creating fairies at the bottom of the garden, it had now ended with moving, talking images almost indistinguishable from real life. But this deep fake had surpassed even that.
Plato knew that he could lose his job, or his actions could lead to criminal prosecution, yet his duty, his oath to protect the interests of Her Majesty’s Government took precedence over his own liberty.
He stood, brushed the crumbs from his shirt and left his office.
Working for the Secret Intelligence Service was not a nine-to-five job. This was more the case the more senior you became within the ranks. Plato was often called at all hours of the day and night with questions and requests but he didn’t mind. He felt as though he was part of the good fight. The money was not great – he’d double it instantly by moving into the private sector, but at Vauxhall Cross he was making a difference, even if he was legally bound to pretend he was nothing more than an analyst. This made his mum proud at least. Perhaps if he did get sacked he could go back to Brighton and live with her?
It was approaching seven forty in the evening before he managed to knock on Pamela Newman’s door.