Jane reached for a note that Barry, the doorman, had stuck on her desk first thing. He’d picked up a call from the hospital. Barry didn’t do e-mails unless he absolutely had to. “You can’t kill someone with an e-mail, but you can with a piece of paper—trust me.” It was his stock response when asked.
“He’s still in a critical condition. The good news is that everything has stabilised. He’s on dialysis, but his liver is holding up. He’s still attached to a ventilator, but, and I’m not sure what this means, oxygen levels are down to fifty per cent. Which seems to be a good thing.” Jane waited for a response.
“That sounds positive to me, Jane. The lower the oxygen levels, the less they’re having to help his lungs. Good.”
“And what about Greyshoe?” Jane took them both forward.
“That’s why I phoned. I’ll back this up with an e-mail later, but, in summary, we have gone forward two steps and back one. The IRS has come up with nothing. It seems Johnson’s affairs are in order. He’s a non-exec for a security firm in Washington. It’s called Libertas. We know of the company. It provides security advice and boots on the ground to governments and NGOs in the Middle East and Asia. It’s full of ex-military and the odd CIA and FBI has-been.”
Jane tried to butt in, but the DD stopped her.
“It’s easy to make the jump from Libertas to Manning and Bell. And I guess you were going to do that. My team here has dug deep, including a number of files we already have on the company. Everything we have uncovered appears to be legit. It’s a professional and well-respected American company.”
The deputy director paused for a second. Jane waited for him to continue.
“The FBI questioned Johnson in his office about the five hundred thousand dollars. He was charming about it and said he couldn’t recall anything of the sort. He added that we might want to try the other two signatories, which was below the belt, if you ask me. The FBI has issued a subpoena to Johnson’s lawyer, to get him to verify his statement under oath. So that’s going to take a little longer.”
He seemed to pause for breath.
“Anything else?”
“Just one thing. The Bureau has been very gently investigating an ultra-conservative church down in Abilene for the past year or so. Their ministry didn’t appear to be up to anything nefarious, until recently. Four weeks ago there was a spate of firebombings at mosques in California and across the border in Vancouver, Canada.” Jane thought he added the country just in case her geography was a bit rusty. “Seven Americans and one Canadian died in the subsequent fires. The Californian State Police thought they had apprehended one of the arsonists a couple of days later, but some very heavy lawyers were parachuted in, and the man was released. No charge.”
Jane was fascinated by the story, even more so because the outcome had to be linked to Johnson. Otherwise, why would the DD be telling her all this?
“The church in question is called the Church of the White Cross.”
Never heard of it.
“Sorry, sir. I’ve never heard of it.”
“It follows an ancient lore, one drawn up at the very beginning of religion. It uses Hebrew scripts. I’ve got my people looking into it, but, in short, it’s anti-everything, and pro-stoning of women who get out of bed the wrong side. Sackcloths are essential evening wear.”
“The Church of the White Cross?”
“Correct. Its emblem is a white crucifix on a black background. In the middle of the cross is a black thistle. Apparently, followers have the logo tattooed between their shoulder blades.”
“Wow. Sounds pretty hardcore.”
“Yup, sure is. The FBI’s preliminary investigations point to the church being extraordinarily wealthy. They’re not sure yet, and they’re treading very lightly, but we could be talking billions of dollars.”
Jane didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing.
“And do you know what?”
Ehh, no.
“No, sir.”
“Miles Johnson is one of only six known pastors of the church. The FBI also believes he is the secretary of their accounts. Accounts that, again, this is only preliminary at the moment, appear to distribute money to both Europe and the Middle East. In large quantities.”
Jane felt her heart picking up a bit. She wanted to say something. To make the obvious connection between the extreme right and funding Islamic fundamentalism, but she thought better of it. It was too obvious.
The DD concluded.
“In my book this doesn’t add anything to your East-versus-West theory. Yet. The so-called Islamic State, or Daesh, doesn’t need fanatical right-wing Christian groups to make the general public fear and loathe it. They already do. Christian or not. But I do take your point about provoking general Islamophobia. So we do need to take this seriously. Which we are. End of message.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And, Jane, I don’t need to remind you that this is on close hold?”
“No, sir, you don’t.”
You only need to tell me once.
Schloss Neuenburg, German/Czech Border
“Wolfgang.”
He was loading the two Browning LongTrac hunting rifles into their cases and wrapping them in a check blanket.
“Is there a second route out of here?” Sam asked.
“Not on tarmac, no. Why do you ask?”
“Someone might have eyes on the main way out. It would be better to go out of a back gate. Can your choice of car manage that?”
He smiled, although it was accompanied by a wince as he lifted the rifles onto his good shoulder.
“Follow me,” he said. Wolfgang led Sam into the high-ceilinged entrance hall, where Tomas was waiting.
They didn’t have much with them: the rifles; a hundred rounds of ammunition; an overnight bag each; and a cool bag, stuffed full of goodies that Tomas had made up. There was a strong smell of garlic sausage coming out of the cool bag. Just after breakfast, Sam wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.
“Cheerio, Tomas,” Sam said. She felt the need to give him a hug, which he accepted graciously.
Wolfgang and Tomas started to shake hands, and then they embraced as well.
“Look after the place. And yourself, Tomas. I will put an e-mail together today and share my work with you. If anything should happen, then you can go to the polizei with all the stuff I send you, and then they can sort it all out.”
Tomas nodded.
Wolfgang led on across the gravelled front drive to a chalet-style building set back into the trees. He pressed a fob, and much of the frontage slid apart, in a manner that wouldn’t be out of place on a Thunderbirds film set. The gap revealed an immaculate whitewashed garage; ten cars were parked precisely the same distance apart, side by side.
Sam was only a partial car buff, her knowledge mostly forged from vehicle recognition training she had undertaken as part of her job. What was laid out in front of her was a series of classic cars that would be prized by any motor museum. She spotted the red Testarossa immediately. Next to it was an early 1980s metallic blue Porsche 911 SC Targa, the one with the ridiculous rear spoiler that looks like a bolted-on picnic table. To its left was a dark-blue Aston Martin V8 Vantage, all muscly and “look at me.” She was just about to reel off the remaining marques to herself when Wolfgang stopped short.
“Which one?” he asked.
Sam continued her overview of the cars and knew straight away the one she’d choose for their next journey.
“That one.” She pointed in a direction that could have meant any of three cars.
“You don’t mean the 1967 Beetle convertible?”
“No, you idiot. The gold one. Next to it.”
“My choice exactly. Well done, Sam Green. You have passed that particular test. What can you tell me about it?”
“I’m at my limit here, Wolfgang.” She thought for a second. “Came into production in the mid-1980s. World Rally Champion car for who knows how many years. Blew the comp
etition away with its four-wheel drive. I love it in gold, its best colour, and I’m hoping it’s got the Audi logo running down the door sills.”
“Yes, it has. The mighty Quattro. Two hundred brake horsepower. A hundred-and-fifty-mile-an-hour car. The four-wheel drive should help us stick to the road and negotiate the paths to the back gate. It’s my favourite car of my father’s complete set.”
“Let’s go then, Tommi Mäkinen.”
They were loaded and off in no time, Wolfgang driving through the forest as if the car were an extension of him, even though he had only one and a half working arms. Sam didn’t stop flinching until they were out of the trees and onto tarmac. Then things settled down. A little.
“Do you need directions to Leipzig?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks. We’re going through the Czech Republic, but only cutting the corner.” Wolfgang expertly shifted through the gears, the five-cylinder turbocharged engine making noises like an angry bear.
“Can you drive and think at the same time?”
“If you want me to crash.”
“Well, let’s not do that. If you slow down a bit, I could go over what we have and you could add what you think’s important.”
“OK, then.” He didn’t slow down.
Show off.
“You reckon that ten individuals have been murdered in plane crashes because they knew too much about energy generation and supplies.” Sam started.
Wolfgang interrupted. “That’s nine men and one woman. All of them were involved in their time with nonfossil-fuel power generation. I’ve got all the details on the Lattice spreadsheet. Hang on!” He braked heavily, forcing Sam to jolt forward against her seat belt, which held her firm. Wolfgang grimaced—she thought probably because of the strain on his arm.
“Sorry. Let me continue. Starting with the solar furnace, through tidal power, hydrogen and methanol fuel cells, ground-source heat pumps, and, latterly, nuclear fusion—they’re all there.”
“But haven’t most of these methods gone on to be developed in any case?” Sam asked.
“Yes. But with what delay and cost to the industry involved? Hydrogen fuel cells were running parallel with electric batteries for car propulsion, until Dr. Vincent Pope died in the Flash Airlines Flight 604 crash. The aircraft crashed into the Red Sea. Hydrogen is the most commonplace atom in the world, and fuel cells are very efficient. The technology behind the key exchange membrane was being spearheaded by Pope. His death meant the industry was put back long enough for batteries to take the lead. Bring on the Toyota Prius, all manner of other hybrid cars, and, latterly, the Tesla Saloon.”
Sam shut her eyes as Wolfgang dropped a gear and sped past a dawdling tractor.
“But who wins—and why? In that example, batteries were the winners.” Sam was trying to establish a motive.
“I don’t know. But the reason why I’m pretty sure that this is the right track is that our dead man in New York—Ned Donoghue, by the way—was looking over all of these emerging technologies. Concurrently, he kept a close handle on oil, gas, and nuclear. And, what is interesting, his split was oil and gas versus renewable and nuclear.”
“You got all of this from your hacking?”
“Yes—with my magic fingers.”
The Quattro’s four-wheel drive system worked its magic as the car negotiated a sharp left-hand bend, at a speed that Sam struggled to comprehend. She momentarily closed her eyes.
“And what about nuclear?”
“Well, if you include the Pennsylvanian nuclear incident in the Lattice, which as far as I can see doesn’t involve someone murdered in an air crash, that accident alone put the whole nuclear industry back years. Gas and coal power stations were the winners there.”
Sam slid right then left in her seat as Wolfgang overtook a BMW.
“And, I guess, if the Koreans were that close to containing nuclear fusion, it would only be a couple of decades before new fusion power stations replaced every other kind,” Sam suggested.
“I think it’s wider than that. If they get nuclear fusion right, you and I could be driving a fusion-powered car.”
“What, like Doc Brown and Marty McFly?”
“Why not?”
Sam shook her head.
“Your dad didn’t have a DeLorean?” Sam smiled.
“Sadly not.”
Wolfgang looked down at the gauges. For the first time, Sam thought that he was driving using the instruments, rather than by feel. “We need to get some fuel.”
Sam continued. “But how does Donoghue’s death fit into this? Maybe he was doing what you were doing and, like almost happened to you, they decided to put a stop to it? And they hung him from the rafters?”
“Possibly, although what I have been able to glean from the documents I hacked is that he was just monitoring stocks, shares, futures, that sort of thing. I could find nothing about aircraft. My work has a different dimension. It associates setbacks to renewables and the nuclear industry with dead people and nasty accidents.”
Sam thought some more. She spotted an OMV sign. “Look, up ahead. There’s a service station.”
Keeping them on track, she added, “We have to focus on who the winners are. Why would they be doing this? And why is it so important to them that people like you don’t find out?”
The Quattro braked late. Wolfgang pulled in with a flourish of squealing tyres just as Sam’s phone rang. She looked at the screen. It was Jane.
“I’ve got to take this. It’s my boss.” Sam pointed at the phone as she got out of the Quattro. “I’ll give you some money for the fuel when you start driving responsibly.”
Wolfgang smiled and nodded.
“Hi, Jane. Can we go secure?”
Sam had already decided to tell Jane everything. This morning’s incident had given the whole affair a dimension that she knew was bigger than her.
“Sure, Sam.”
Sam pressed the appropriate red icon on her phone and the bleeping noise stopped, although immediately there was a delay, as the security algorithms encrypted their speech.
She looked up at Wolfgang who, with one arm functioning properly, was managing the fuel pump without too much bother. Her eyes trained across to the kiosk. There was only the attendant in the building. He was looking at the Quattro as he picked up the phone.
“I do need to talk to you about something, and it may take a while. But you phoned me?” There was a slight delay before Jane replied.
“I was wondering if you’ve had chance to look over the latest satellite images. The US team has sent through the third hamlet. They’re being quicker than I thought they would be.”
Bugger. I must have missed the ping against the noise of the wild animal under the bonnet.
“Sorry, Jane, not yet. We’ve stopped to refuel. I will look at them now.”
“We? Sounds fun.”
God, she must be bored.
“That’s what I need to tell you about. Have you got ten minutes?”
“Go ahead.”
Sam walked further away from the car and sat on a bench that was outside the kiosk. The language on the posters was in the diacritic alphabet. They were well into the Czech Republic. She’d have difficulty buying something here without pointing.
By the time she’d been through the key parts of the history and got as far as this morning’s shooting incident, Wolfgang had joined her and presented her with a coffee in a Styrofoam cup. Sam acknowledged the drink by lifting it up.
“Can you get me the photos of the two men?”
“Sure. And later today, if Wolfgang’s happy, we can share his database with you.”
There was a longer-than-usual delay. Jane was obviously thinking things through.
“Just now that might be too much information for me to cope with. Look, Sam, whilst this is all very interesting, other than your involvement, it’s not really SIS business.” There was a further pause. “I assume that you’ve told the police . . .”
“No, not yet. A
nd hang on, Jane. I’ve been holding back, something key. Something that might make you change your mind about whether this is or isn’t SIS business.”
“Go on, Sam.”
“One of the photos I found of Herr Bischoff was at an antimigration riot in Hoyerswerda, that’s in Eastern Germany near the Polish border. The image was taken eighteen months ago. The picture included a friend of ours.”
Sam let it hang. She wasn’t sure if Jane was trying to work it out or the line had gone dead.
“Go on, Sam.”
“Ralph Bell.”
Silence. Sam looked up across at the forecourt as a battered old blue Mercedes trundled up to the pumps.
“Are you sure?”
“One hundred per cent. I’ll send you the photos.”
There was silence again.
“I need to think about this and come back to you. On one level it makes perfect sense. On so many other levels it jars. Let me call you back in, say, half an hour. We need to think about involving the BfV. And I will talk to the CIA now. They need to know.”
Sam took a sip of her coffee. She felt relieved that she was no longer completely responsible for the direction of where this was travelling. She trusted Jane with her life, but she wasn’t convinced about the BfV. Whom do you trust?
“Jane.”
“Yes?”
“Do you know anyone in the BfV you can trust?”
“I don’t know anyone in the BfV. Period.”
“Then can we keep this at arm’s length at the moment? Until someone in the building has a contact in Berlin that he or she trusts implicitly?”
“Sure. That makes sense. Look, I’ll call you back.”
Then Sam remembered that she hadn’t mentioned the Church of the White Cross.
“Hang on, Jane. Just for completeness, but I’m not convinced it’s important, Bischoff has an affiliation with die Kirche des weißen Kreuz.”
The line was silent again. This was becoming a bit of a habit.
Jane hesitantly said, “Translated, that means the Church of the White Cross.”
“Correct answer.” Sam tried to lighten the tone a touch.
A car sped by, a silver four-door Skoda. Probably an Octavia.
Fuelling the Fire Page 27