The Tau Directive

by Tomas Black

She stood. “I’ll run you to the station.” Mei wasn’t in a humorous mood.

  He waited outside the hotel for Mei to bring the car around. She insisted on driving herself, ignoring the pleas of the hotel valets who eyed the supercar with envy. Mei cruised through the narrow streets, arriving at the station a few minutes before the London-bound train.

  “Call me when you’re back and I’ll pick you up,” said Mei. He grabbed his jacket and watched as she sped off back towards the centre of town. He wondered who she would be updating with her newly acquired intel.

  The ten o’clock train to Liverpool Street was relatively busy. Commuters heading back to their pads in the city and the usual gaggle of day-trippers had all but filled the train. Drum had purchased a First-Class ticket, courtesy of the British government, and made his way through the busy carriages to find his seat. First Class had fewer passengers and he found himself an empty compartment.

  He sat back in the wide seat, comfortable in his old leather jacket and jeans, and tried to think things through. He was dog-tired and wondered if he might grab some sleep during the hour or so it took to reach London. He had no sooner closed his eyes than his phone buzzed.

  “Hello Alice. Where are you?”

  “Hi, Ben, enjoying a pleasant trip down the river. We think we’ve found it. The bridge is close to Fen Wootton, and the trunking looks new. What do you want us to do?”

  Drum thought about the options available to them now that they had located the fibre—the house’s main line of communication into the campus. He needed time to think.

  “Do nothing at the moment,” he said. “I’ll arrange for some specialists to take over and to relieve you. Enjoy the rest of the day. Take Sergei shopping.”

  There was a pause on the line. “Eh, right. He has questions—we had a bit of a chat.”

  Great, thought Drum. “Leave it for now, Alice. Call me if there’s a change of plan.”

  “Will do,” she said and hung up.

  He thought about Sergei. What could he say to the guy? Your father is alive and well and working for British Intelligence. Not something a young GRU agent wants to hear. In truth, he didn’t know where Misha was or what he was doing. MI6 had him locked down tight.

  He closed his eyes once more and his mind drifted back to a bar in Manhattan and the statuesque figure of Alex Fern in a form-fitting cocktail dress. They had got drunk on gin and briefly kissed; he remembered her lips, full and moist, briefly touching his, her fingers moving through his hair, caressing the base of his neck. She had smelt of citrus and honeysuckle. But all he could smell now was gun oil and cordite. Something was prodding his chest.

  “Mr Drummond,” said a voice, polite and calm. “I need your full attention.”

  Drum opened his eyes and the face of DCI Chambers swam into view. He was sitting opposite and poking him in the chest with the end of a long suppressor attached to a Walther PPK.

  “Ah, there you are,” said Chambers, sitting back in his seat. “This is good luck. They said you were heading back to London. Good timing, you might say.” He held up a mobile phone on which was displayed a picture of the crystal Moretti had given him. “I don’t suppose you have it on you?”

  Drum glanced at the phone. “I’m afraid not. As I told you the last time, I don’t have it.”

  “Let’s not play games, Drummond, we’ll be coming into Liverpool Street soon. Best hand it over.”

  “Sorry,” said Drum. “I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

  Chambers pointed his gun at Drum’s knee. “Left or right?”

  A tea trolley clattered into the corridor. It was enough to distract Chambers for just the instant Drum needed. He kicked up, hitting his hand and causing his gun to jerk up just as he loosed a round. Drum felt it whizz past his head. Another millimetre and it would have killed him.

  Drum threw himself forward, grabbing the man’s gun hand in a solid grip and smashing his other hand into his face. Chambers grunted as his nose broke, showering them with blood, his gun clattering to the carriage floor.

  Drum soon realised that a broken nose was not enough to stop Chambers. The man was fit and battle-hardened. He pushed forward and punched his free hand into Drum’s ribs. Drum grunted loudly and doubled over, giving Chambers an opening. He stood and grabbed Drum by both arms, swinging him with great force into the carriage window. There was a loud crash as Drum’s full weight hit the glass, smashing it into a myriad of small, jagged shards that cascaded onto the carriage floor. Drum fell stunned amid the carnage of the broken window, his head swimming with the force of the impact. The carriage was filled with the noise of the wind howling past, and the loud klaxon of an oncoming train.

  Chambers saw his opportunity and rushed forward, his nose streaming blood and his boots crunching on the broken shards. Drum kicked hard, hitting the man’s knee in mid-stride with his heel. Chambers cried out and collapsed forward, his leg no longer able to support his weight. Drum reached up and grabbed his tie, yanking him forward with all his strength. The upper half of Chambers’ body disappeared through the broken window just as the klaxon sounded from the passing train. Drum felt the man’s body shudder and heard a sickening crunch. The air from the passing train blasted into the carriage and Chambers’ headless torso fell backwards onto the floor.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CIA

  The eleven o’six from Cambridge pulled into Liverpool Street on time. Drum retrieved Chambers’ gun and phone before informing the guard that there had been an accident. He then made his excuses and quickly left the station, taking a taxi back to Butler’s Wharf. The taxi driver had given him a concerned look, pointing out that he had blood on his face and jacket. Drum apologised and said he’d just helped out at an accident and he was uninjured. This, as he later found out, while sitting back in the cab, was not quite true. He winced as he felt his ribs. Chambers had undoubtedly cracked several, not to mention a large lump on the back of his head that he’d inflicted. He pulled out his phone and called McKay.

  “McKay.”

  “It’s Drummond. I need a cleaner.”

  “Already! Where?”

  “The eleven o’six from Cambridge, platform nine. The police are probably on their way.”

  “First or second class.”

  “First.”

  “That makes it a little easier,” said McKay.

  “Right,” said Drum “You get a better class of assassin in First.”

  “No need to be sarcastic,” said McKay. “Who was it?”

  “Our old friend Chambers. He knew my timetable. We have to assume our comms is compromised.”

  “I see,” said McKay. “Stay off this channel. I’ll contact you.” The line went dead. It was the last time McKay would answer that number.

  He paid the cabbie and walked down the steps to Butler’s Wharf and his office. The door to the street was open and the alarm disabled. He pulled out the Walther from his jacket pocket and attached the suppressor to its barrel. He pushed open the door and walked into the small reception area. Alice had yet to hire her temp and so the office should have been locked and empty. Neither was true. Through the frosted glass of the office door, he could see a shadowy figure sitting at his desk. He stepped to one side and pushed open the door, pointing the gun at a short, stocky man drinking a cup of tea. The man froze, his cup halfway to his open mouth.

  “Hello, Jack,” said Drum.

  Jack Marchetti, former London CIA section head, heaved a sigh of relief and brought his cup down on its saucer with a clatter. “Jesus, don’t do that.”

  Drum lowered his gun. “Glad you’re making yourself at home.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that. Hope you don’t think I was snooping.”

  “Of course you were snooping,” said Drum. “You’re the CIA.”

  “Right,” said Marchetti. “But only in a concerned, special-relationship type of way.” He got up and moved to Drum’s couch. “Here, sit down, you look like shit.”

  “Thanks,�
� said Drum, and slumped into his chair, placing the Walther in front of him on the desk.

  “Not your blood, I’m guessing,” said Marchetti, “and probably not your gun.”

  “Right and right.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “I hope not,” said Drum. “Listen, Jack. Why are you here?”

  “Right,” said Marchetti. “Go clean up and I’ll make some tea—although I could do with a coffee.”

  “There’s a place around the corner,” said Drum. “Why don’t you grab us both a coffee and I’ll freshen up.”

  “Right.”

  Drum waited until Marchetti had left the office, and secured the Walther in the desk drawer. He then stepped out of his office and unlocked the safe under Alice’s desk, removing the keystone which Alice had placed in a small wooden box. Drum locked the safe and made his way upstairs to shower, grabbing a fresh shirt and a clean pair of jeans. He tried his best to wipe the blood off his jacket. By the time he came down, Marchetti was back on his couch nursing two coffees.

  “Much better,” said Marchetti, handing Drum his coffee. “Harry sends her regards by the way.”

  Drum nodded. “How is she?”

  “On the mend. Still battling her demons. She’ll bounce back. I’ve seen it before.”

  “You’re a good friend,” said Drum. “She’s lucky to have you.” He smiled. “She used to call you ‘her American muscle’.”

  Marchetti grinned. “An old joke from way back.” He hesitated. “Listen, Drum. I’m here to help.”

  “I hope so, Jack. Things are getting a bit fraught on this side of the Pond.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine, which is why I’m here. Langley is worried that you Brits are holding out on us. I told them that’s garbage, but the top brass have their panties hitched up so tight over this data breach they’re getting hernias. And to tell you the truth, we haven’t heard jack shit from your man McKay.”

  “My fault, I’m afraid,” said Drum, taking a long gulp of coffee. He winced from the pain in his ribs. He reached inside his drawer and pulled out a bottle of painkillers.

  “Why don’t you check into the ER. Hell, it’s free.”

  “I’ve got to get back to Cambridge,” said Drum. “But we have a security leak—or our comms is compromised. The guy who intercepted me on the way down here had my complete timetable. I told McKay that any communication is strictly on the q.t.”

  “I understand,” said Marchetti. “Why don’t you fill me in.”

  Drum nodded. “Let’s walk.”

  Marchetti grabbed his coffee and went out of the front door. “Your security system sucks by the way.”

  “So I’ve been told,” said Drum.

  They headed out along the wharf. By the time they had made it as far as the Bermondsey Wall, Marchetti had been fully briefed.

  “Good Lord,” exclaimed Marchetti. “You’re working with both the Russians and the Chinese.”

  “And now the Americans.”

  “Yeah, well, we don’t count. We’re on the same side.”

  “Listen, Jack. The geopolitics of this is pretty complicated, and we need to take a nuanced approach to this relationship.”

  “Yeah, well, I can do nuanced.” Marchetti stopped walking and looked straight at Drum. “Listen, if they set this auction in motion, this whole thing will explode. Langley won’t let Terabytes of our intel fall into foreign hands. You, me, McKay—we’ll be swept aside like so much roadkill.”

  “You have a way with words, Jack.”

  “Right.” Marchetti looked thoughtful. “What can I do to help?”

  “Keep Langley from interfering. I have people on the ground who are at risk. I have to work out a way to extract them.”

  “Listen, Ben. What happens if you locate the data? You don’t think the Russians or the Chinese are going to just let you walk away with it, do you? It’ll be a bloodbath.”

  Drum thought Marchetti had a point. He imagined his own service would insist he hand it over. His only advantage was that he had someone on the inside, but he didn’t know how long he could keep Stevie in play.

  “I have to get back to Cambridge,” said Drum.

  “I’ll give you a lift,” said Marchetti, pulling out his phone

  Drum listened with some amusement as Marchetti commandeered a chopper.

  They stood chatting for a short while until Drum heard the beat of the helicopter rotor above them.

  “I appreciate this, Jack,” said Drum.

  “Let me know if there’s anything else,” said Marchetti.

  A thought occurred to Drum. He dug into his jacket and pulled out Chambers' phone. “Have your folks look at this. It belonged to the guy who tried to kill me. It might tell us who he was working for.”

  The pilot made a graceful landing on a green space beside the river. Drum noticed Marchetti staring at the phone.

  “What is it?” shouted Drum over the noise of the helicopter.

  “This phone,” shouted Marchetti. “It’s one of ours. Your guy was a CIA asset.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  House Call

  The Langley chopper banked low over the River Cam and then followed the A14 for half a kilometre before heading across country towards Cambridge airport. Marchetti had agreed to stay in London to get some answers on the assassin. He swore he knew of no instruction to activate Chambers. Either way, he would have the phone analysed. Despite Marchetti’s assurances, Drum thought there was a possibility that Langley was hedging its bets and running two parallel operations. If that was the case, life had just got a little more complicated.

  The chopper banked sharply again, this time over a patchwork of green fields which gave way to a small village close to the bend in the river. It took Drum a moment to realise he was flying over Fen Wootton. He hadn’t realised how close it was to both the airport and the Salenko campus. He realised now why Vashchenko had chosen the place as his base of operation.

  The pilot radioed the tower on approach and got permission to cross the single runway of the small airport, touching down deftly beside a hanger where an electric blue supercar was parked. Drum thanked the pilot and made his way over to the hanger where Mei Ling was waiting.

  “Nice ride,” she said, over the howl of the rotors as the helicopter took off back to London. “Was your trip a success?”

  He nodded as he got into the car. Mei depressed the start switch and an alarm immediately sounded. “You’re carrying a weapon,” she said.

  “I am. How did the car know?”

  “Its internal filters can detect traces of cordite. Your gun must have been recently fired.” She leaned across him and punched a button on the glove compartment. “Stow it in there.”

  Drum pulled out the compact Walther and placed it in the compartment. Mei raised an eyebrow when he also pulled out the suppressor and placed it beside the gun. She hit the button again and the small compartment slid shut, extinguishing the alarm on her console.

  “You have been busy,” she said.

  “Some guy on the train insisted I’d taken his seat. He got a little headstrong.”

  Mei looked at him, not sure how to respond. She simply nodded. “Professor Kovac has agreed to see us. We should just make it on time.” She flicked a paddle on the steering column and kicked the car into drive, pulling sharply away from the hanger and onto the service road exiting the airport.

  “Have you ever met Kovac before?” said Drum.

  Mei threw the car into a sharp bend, then powered out along a relatively straight stretch of road. “I met him briefly at an investor seminar last year. He was giving a talk on AI as applied to FinTech. Most trading systems are based on some form of AI these days. I knew he was involved with Salenko as part of the brief on the IPO.” She frowned and glanced in his direction. “You think he’s involved with the hacks somehow?”

  “Probably not,” said Drum. “At least not directly. It’s more likely Salenko has highjacked his work. I’m told he’s not happy with
the way things are going on the campus.”

  “Your source?” said Mei.

  “I think it’s common knowledge,” said Drum, trying to deflect the conversation away from the details of his intel.

  They drove for another twenty minutes on a major road leading out of Cambridge. Mei slowed and took a turning onto a small side road that led them through a small copse of trees before coming out onto the gated entrance of a large converted barn, surrounded by several acres of farmland.

  “Who said there’s no money in teaching,” said Drum.

  The barn was a large affair, primarily of black weatherboard, elevated on a base of red brick with full height windows at the front supported by wide oak beams. Drum noted several smaller buildings adjoining the barn which looked like small workshops and stables. Mei pulled up just in front of the gate.

  “I can’t see an intercom,” said Mei, lowering her window.

  Drum got out of the car and approached the gate. A long, flint wall ran on either side, eventually disappearing into a thick hedgerow. He leaned over the gate looking for a latch of some sort but could not see one. The gate itself was hinged on a set of sturdy electric motors.

  “Something is coming down the path,” shouted Mei.

  Drum looked up and saw what looked like a dog, the size of a small greyhound, its back lean and arched. It appeared to be made of dull, flexible metal. It moved with great agility as it padded down the gravel drive towards him. As it got closer, he could make out an elongated head supported by a long, articulated neck. The machine stopped just before the gate and raised its head, which appeared to have a small camera mounted on the end of its muzzle. Drum realised he was being scanned.

  “Good morning, Mr Drummond. Professor Kovac is expecting you. Please stand clear of the gate and follow this road to the house entrance.”

  Drum looked at Mei, who shrugged and rolled up her window. Drum nodded and got back in the car. The robotic dog padded to one side and the gate clicked open, swinging in a wide arc to let them through.

  “A novel way to greet people,” said Drum. “At least it keeps away the cold callers.”