Tim Heath Thriller Boxset

by Tim Heath

  As the guards came for him that morning, there was a finality about everything they did. The clatter of keys, the slow pace down the corridor, the quietness of their footsteps. When the door was finally opened, there were two of them, dressed in black. They came over to Bill, undid his shackles and locked something heavier into place instead. They indicated to him to stand up. Communication, even in the final moments, was still an issue.

  The truth was, Bill had expected it all for a week now. He knew a lost cause when he saw one. Circumstances had spiralled out of his control so much that here he was, condemned to death, with no possible escape. This day, this moment had actually come to release him from his agony. The loneliness of isolation, the emptiness of spending every minute of every hour locked inside a small cell, with no sunlight to warm him up or to fill his gaze. Nothing to look at, nothing for which to live. Death itself would give some comfort, in a twisted sort of way.

  Bill was led down a long corridor. It was hard to tell how long it was but no doors were leading off from it. There were no windows high above. In places, it was not wide enough to have both guards either side, so one dropped behind him, the other staying to his left. Fifty metres further down the corridor was a large metal door, and behind the door, he could see the light, the gaps underneath the door offering the thing he had most craved––sunlight. It seemed bright, but that was just contrasted with the dark corridor and the cell he’d been kept in for so long.

  They were standing now at the door, and the guard to his left stepped forward and opened it. Both guards then stood aside, and Bill was ushered into a twenty-by-twenty metre square room. There was sand on the floor. Giant spotlights illuminated the room from above; it had not been sunlight as he’d previously thought. To his right stood five men, each with an assault rifle in hand. Another man collected him at the door. He had a material bag in his hand as he brought Bill to the left-hand side of the room. Bill was now facing the line of five marksmen. Something was said to Bill in Russian, but he was already used to not understanding anything. There was a pause. Into the doorway walked another man, who was not either of the guards that had brought him in. The light was blinding so it was not easy to see who it was at that moment, but the man walked towards him. Bill’s mouth dropped open as recognition set in.

  “You!” he said, barely making a sound. “It was you all along!”

  “Yes, William, it was,” is all he replied in English. The only thing Bill understood from the whole ordeal.

  The bag was placed on William Hackett’s head and lowered into place. The two standing near to Bill withdrew to a safe distance before each of the marksmen raised their weapon. There was a pause of maybe five-seconds, but it seemed an eternal silence for Bill, a frightened, tormented soul who was only now beginning to understand his situation.

  “Fire!” was barked out in Russian, breaking the deadly silence. The weapons fired instantly, each hitting their mark. Bill’s body slumped to the ground, his death instantaneous, dead before his body hit the sandy floor.

  Nothing was shared in the Russian media regarding the execution. Even in the hours after the death, Moscow remained tight-lipped. Those watching in the UK had little idea as to when it was meant to take place. They’d tried all they could, but in the end, there was nothing they were able to do to influence the situation, to change the outcome. At eleven Moscow time, RusCom released a statement calling a press conference for the following morning. They were releasing details of the device that much of cyberspace had been gossiping about for months. They added that a practical example was going to be used to show how good their tablet was and all that it could do.

  The news was greeted with some consternation in London. Politically, anything Russian was seen as complicated, even the very mention of a company owned by a man murdered by someone apparently executed that very day. The London stock exchange opened, with RusCom shares trading a little higher, buoyed by the confirmation of the long-awaited press conference. The company was currently valued at one hundred and thirty-million, but the real money was in the futures market, where trading was now at five times the value of the current share price. They were all gambling on the sharp rise, once sold, in the future share price. The sale of the company was expected one week from then.

  In California, company representatives were keeping a watch on developments, as they were also doing in South Korea. It was already the afternoon in Korea. Both companies had been approached weeks before, not aware of the other’s involvement. Both companies, if the product proved itself, were ready to make an offer. Both saw the potential and would ride the hype to become the biggest firm in the world.

  In London, everyone involved in the original case was briefed. Following the press release from Moscow, the two MI6 technicians were recalled to the team, the original prototype device still in their custody. There was no intention ever to return it, and the Russians had stopped asking for it. They would be watching when the press conference was happening tomorrow morning while working throughout the day to confirm the exact status of Bill Hackett.

  In St Petersburg, Anya was being shut out. She had instead based herself outside the prison where Bill was being kept. She’d been there since ten and had not seen anyone arrive, but just before twelve, she could see activity. Two police cars led a blacked-out four-by-four at speed from the gates. It had black army plates on the car. She watched it until she could see it no more, then spotted five men in military uniform leaving through the same door. Each man carried his a bag, each bag the same. These were marksmen, she told herself, and they were leaving. At that moment she knew the fate of Bill was already sealed. She watched them leave but was already ready to move out herself. She’d seen enough, had the confirmation she was waiting for and so drove off, in the opposite direction, back home.

  Once home, she was able to update the email draft she was sharing with Charlie. It was the least she could do to let them know.

  “Just seen the army marksmen leaving the prison. I’d say it’s already happened,” is all she wrote. She knew Charlie would pick it up later though she didn’t know how he’d take the news.

  28

  News of the execution in Russia had broken late the previous night and continued throughout the morning. William Hackett, Bill to his friends, was dead. There were already calls for the government to step down, the Home Secretary the first person to resign, though the Prime Minister’s position was far from secure.

  Bill’s daughter, widely recognised now after her many television interviews, was the public face of the family. She vowed to continue in her father’s footsteps, to raise the issue of people on death row and lift the lid on countries that acted as Russia had in her father’s case. She already had some humanitarian organisations wanting to work with her, and it was good for publicity for one thing.

  So as Charlie made his way into MI6 that morning, he’d already read as much as he could about the execution that morning. Anya’s message yesterday had brought a sad finality to it all. It fitted in the circumstance that they had only found out that the execution had happened through a secret message from an FSB agent, rather than directly from any Russian official. Journalists were already gathering outside the main doors of the building into which Charlie was walking. Zoe was up ahead having run the gauntlet moments before. Charlie, too, now worked through the crowd, recognised by a few photographers who had followed the case for weeks. Camera’s flashed as he pushed his way through, not saying anything. Charlie did not appreciate any coverage, as he was an agent of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.

  “Mr Boon, do you take the blame for your part in the death of Mr Hackett?” one reporter shouted at Charlie. He wanted to swear back at the man in reply, to lash out a verbal torrent on those working with the gutter press but he knew better than to respond. It would be playing into their hands. Instead, head down, he made it in through the main doors, happy for the relative quiet of MI6 HQ. Zoe was waiting for him on the other side of the security barrier.
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  “Tough crowd,” she said, as Charlie cleared the security check and picked up his mobile phone. The truth was, in her own way, she loved it all. While she’d been involved in a few high profile cases in her time at Scotland Yard, nothing had been on this scale. This was the big time, and she was enjoying every moment, though she wouldn’t let on.

  “Let’s get upstairs,” Charlie said, pressing the button for the lift. “I need something to drink. I think it’s going to be another long day.”

  They got in the lift, going up three floors before getting out again and heading to the canteen. It was only now that either said anything and it was Zoe who spoke first.

  “I think I’d like to meet with the daughter after this is all done.”

  “You were fond of her, right?”

  “I spent some time with her at the beginning of the case, and we had a connection. I think I’d like just to hear where she is at. Get some closure.”

  “Yeah, probably a good idea.”

  “What about you? What’s next for you?”

  “I guess we see what the day brings first.” He didn’t bother to say anymore. They took their coffees and walked down to the meeting room. It was already starting to fill up. There were two others from MI6, as well as the technicians who’d been involved in the case from the beginning. Everyone looked as they had the night before, tired of being the last to know about anything. It very much seemed that they were on the back foot. It was most unusual.

  The press conference started at eight London time, eleven in Moscow. It was far from the high-tech glamour of an Apple launch party, but people only really cared about what they had to say. It was streamed live online, a global audience of two million.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, people of the press,” the spokesman stated in only slightly accented English. “Thank you for joining us today, whether you are here with us in Moscow, or watching this broadcast live online with millions of others.” There was a ripple of applause in the Moscow crowd which brought a pause to the opening speech. The man looked confident. “As you are now aware, at RusCom we have been developing our own tablet device, brought to the attention of the world by the tragic murder of our visionary founder and owner, Mr Anthony Fernandes.” He lowered his head in a sign of respect before continuing. “The device he was killed for is what we bring to you today.” There was obvious excitement from the crowd. “Over the last month, you have been witnesses of the ability of our main program, this uDecide application, which Fernandes in his brilliance dreamed into being. You’ve seen the outputs he has created since we first started testing the device back in the year 2009. We pre-date the tablet revolution that has swept over us all these last five years and what we have to bring to you today will revolutionise the industry from this moment on.” He took a sip of water from the glass on his podium. It only added to the nervous excitement obviously building in the room.

  “For two months rumours have been rampaging in chat rooms around the world. People have been making bold claims based on limited information. Much has been wild speculation. But let me say to you today, that what we are about to release to you is better than the hype, we go beyond even the wildest speculation...”

  “Please, give me a break,” Charlie said in that crowded room in London. “Talk about milking the audience,” but the others urged him to be quiet.

  “So far, five entries have been released to you, on the dates they were meant to be released. Some might think this system, this application, to be rather simple. I would have to disagree. When I first heard Mr Fernandes talk about it, I did not think it would be possible, until he showed me and I saw it with my own eyes. You see, what he dreamed was a device that was able to make what you wrote a reality. Not as history but as future...”

  “Oh come on, cut the crap will you!” Charlie screamed at the computer. Again, the others were more interested in the press conference than Charlie’s outbursts.

  “With this uDecide application on a RusCom tablet, you can carve out whatever you want to happen, no matter what it is you want. If you want fame, you can have it, wealth, it’s yours...”

  There was noise in the audience in Moscow. He was losing the audience a little now. As if sensing this fact, he put down his notes and took a step away from the podium.

  “I am about to prove to you precisely, beyond any doubt, that this device can do what we say it can. You see, our founder knew that your scepticism would be an issue. People not willing to believe in something beyond themselves, something so advanced that it seems out of this world. He foresaw that the success of this device didn’t rest on our clever marketing, nor the spin we could put into such a launch. You’ll have noticed we’ve not put on a show for you today because we aren’t here today to talk about a product but to show you how it works. To prove it to you. And our founder knew there was only one way, for sure, to prove this to you. Let me read to you the sixth entry on this device. And after that, I will take some questions.”

  The video feed showed a text appear on the wall behind the spokesman, the same text appearing instantly on the device sitting on the table in front of them. It read:

  Entry 6 - December 2014

  You are reading this the day after the execution––the final appeal has been turned down and the sentence and execution of William Hackett, the bane of my life, carried out. He has been served justice.

  But so that you know how good I am, and that this application really can do all that it’s meant to do, you need to read the following. You want proof, here it is:

  I am writing this, not in December––how could I––you’ve had this tablet for weeks now. I am writing this weeks before––now in fact.

  I am sitting on a bench in the Summer Gardens in St Petersburg. It is not very warm outside. Into the park walks a man carrying a gun. He disturbs a wedding party and catches the attention of their photographer. They run to leave, but the photographer keeps his camera pointed, shooting photos as the intruder works his way along a line of trees, like a lion stalking its prey. This intruder, who is none other than William Hackett, the man I have always been jealous of ever since I had the misfortune of meeting, is moving towards me. He has a gun, which he’ll throw into the canal afterwards covered with his fingerprints.

  He makes no great effort to hide himself. Everyone sees him coming. Now he is near me as I type this. I can hear him close, his shallow breathing. He is frightened, but he has no control over what I will make him do next. He’ll be destroyed, his family shamed, his business and charity ended. His knighthood will be undone. Actually, they’ll deny it was even possible.

  He now stands before me, and his gun is raised. In thirty-seconds he will shoot me and run, but he will be caught.

  And you also now have the proof that my application does what it’s claimed to do.

  There were sudden screams of horror and realisation as the entry was read. In London, they didn’t know what to make of it. Charlie jumped up.

  “Where are you going?” his boss asked.

  “This is getting crazy. I need to see Anya.” Zoe got up at the same moment to follow. The press conference had been continuing.

  “Wait,” his boss called out. “Look, they’ve just flashed up another entry.”

  The spokesman was still talking on the computer.

  “Oh look,” he said. “It appears our friends at MI6 have been trying out the application themselves,” and the audience, already vocal, were now standing to their feet, applauding. The entry on the device in front of them in London, its output simultaneously displayed in Moscow, simply read:

  Entry 7 - A pizza is delivered to me downstairs, and I grow four inches.

  There was a call into their room at that very moment. It was from the front reception desk telling them that a pizza had been delivered for the technician and could he come and collect it.

  “What the...” the technician started to say but Charlie was already out of the door.

  “Wait, Charlie.” It was Zoe, wh
o was running to keep up.

  “You don’t buy any of this crap, do you?” Charlie said.

  “I don’t know what to think, Charlie. I mean, it’s all pretty amazing. We were there when Craig typed that last entry. That was weeks ago. Charlie, we watched him type it!”

  “I need to see Anya. She’ll know where to look.”

  “Where to look for what, Charlie?”

  “Answers, woman. For goddam answers, okay!” He seemed more agitated than she'd seen him be before.

  “Can I come with you next time you meet her?”

  “No, Zoe, that wouldn’t be a good idea.” She looked noticeably frustrated with his reply. She couldn’t help but take it personally.

  “Are you screwing her, Charlie? Is that why you keep meeting with her and don’t want me to come with you?” She looked angry and sounded pathetic.

  “Grow up, will you. And it would be none of your business if I was, okay.”

  “Sorry,” she offered, weakly. They went their different ways, Zoe back to the meeting room, Charlie heading out of the building altogether.

  Craig, the technician, had arrived back in the room, pizza in hand.

  “Well, have you grown at all, big man?” came the humorous response, though there was a serious tone to it. He still looked about the same height as before.

  “Look, I’m telling you, this is all weird. I mean, this is my favourite pizza. If I was to order one, this is the one I’d order. How did it know?”

  “How did what know?” Zoe said.