by Mark Leggatt
“No,” said Kirsty. “We can’t...”
“Just go,” said Madame Raymonde. “Now!”
“We’ll carry you,” said Kirsty.
“Non!” Madame Raymonde tore back Pilgrim’s shirt to reveal the ragged entry wound. “You may kill him. Leave him with me, ma puce. I will take care of him.”
Kirsty took a BlackBerry from her bag and pushed it into Pilgrim’s hand. “Use this. We’ll contact you.” It fell from his grasp. She picked it up and pushed it into his pocket.
“Call Zac,” whispered Pilgrim.
Madam Raymonde grabbed Kirsty by the shoulder and pulled her up. “Allez! There is no time for this.” She pulled a phone from her dress and punched in a number. “Elizabeth? I need your help.”
Chapter 7
Montrose raced after Kirsty down the brick-lined alley. At the end a red double-decker bus passed slowly and a steady stream of pedestrians moved across the exit onto the street. Oxford Street. Keep to the crowd.
Kirsty showed no signs of slowing as she neared the corner.
“Kirsty, take it easy.”
She stopped and he slid to a halt beside her. “Connor, I’m not going to hang about street corners looking shifty. Get into the crowd, walk at a normal pace. Go with the flow.”
“Kirsty, there could be cameras, we have to…”
“Could be?” She turned and laughed. “Central London is swamped with CCTV. They’ll be watching us right now. Wait, I’ve got a better idea.” She pulled him onto the street and hailed a taxi.
“Damn it, Kirsty, they’ll track the taxi.”
“That’s exactly what I want them to do. Get in.”
“Look, this is not...”
“This is my manor, Connor. Trust me.” She opened the taxi door before it came to a halt and jumped in. “Cabby? Liberty’s staff entrance.” She dropped onto the back seat and connected her earphones into the iPhone. “We’re on secure encryption. They can’t listen in. I’ve sent Zac the details.” She handed him one of the earpieces.
The taxi pulled out into the traffic, turned into the bus lane and began to pick up speed. Montrose shoved in the earpiece and heard the call going through, then a sleepy Californian accent.
“Yeah?”
“Zac, it’s Kirsty. Mr. Pilgrim said to call you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Zac. “That number you sent me. You know what it is?”
“They were coordinates, right? A map reference? Somewhere in Russia, no?”
“No, dude, not a map. At least not one I’ve ever seen. But I worked it out. It’s coordinates for outer space. Or near space, I should say.”
“Space?” Kirsty looked quizzically at Montrose.
“It’s a satellite,” said Zac. “And the weirdest freakin’ satellite I’ve ever seen and satellites are my thing.”
“Zac, it’s Connor Montrose. What kind of satellite are we talking about?”
“I have no idea. It won’t talk to me. Or identify itself. I’ve tried everything.”
“Can’t you hack into it?” said Kirsty.
“I’ve tried. It won’t respond, but I know it’s listening. It needs an access code and I’ve no idea what that is. This is seriously old technology, way before Windows and GUIs. Hey, wait a minute, I’ve got an idea.”
“What?” said Kirsty.
“The pictures you sent me. The code written beside the coordinates. That’s got to be it.”
Kirsty brought up the photos on her iPad and read out the code. “DOBDD TT+14 THE PICHAQ TWO EKLAND. That one?”
“The first part,” said Zac. “It’s not TT+14. It’s Pi+14.”
“Pi?”
“Yeah, it’s the math symbol for Pi. The thing that looks like a little Stonehenge.”
Kirsty switched to Wikipedia and brought up the π symbol “Got it.”
“This is Math 101,” said Zac. “Whoever wrote this was in a hurry. I’ve broken harder codes than this when I’ve been stoned. When’s Pilgrim’s birthday?”
Montrose leaned over to the iPad. Pilgrim’s birthday? What the hell is he talking about?
“Pilgrim said the message was for him,” said Kirsty. “It makes sense.”
“I got it,” said Zac. “Let me run this through the system. DOBDD is easy, that’s the day of your birth. And the DD could mean two digits, like mmddyy.”
“Okay, I get that,” said Kirsty.
“But that’s not going to change, so that’s not part of the code. A good code is one that changes daily. The DD is telling us the day it starts.”
Montrose shook his head. “We’re looking for a code that changes every day?”
“Yeah,” said Zac. “You just need to know how to work it out. And I think it’s all here. We got the DD, so we know when the code starts. Then the ‘Pi+14’ could mean the code is the first fourteen digits of Pi on that day, right?”
Kirsty stared down at the iPad. “And the next fourteen digits?”
“Yeah, on the second day after the first DD, then you take the next fourteen digits of Pi in sequence, then on the third day... You know where I’m going with this, yeah?”
“Yeah,” said Kirsty, “and right up to today, which would mean a totally new code every day. If you didn’t know the sequence, you’d have no chance of hacking it.”
Montrose shook his head as he tried to take it in. “Listen, math is not my thing, but that would mean hundreds of thousands of...”
“No sweat,” said Zac. “There’s no limit to the digits of Pi after the decimal point. The first day’s code would be 3.14159265358979, right? If you divide 21 by 7 on your calculator and the readout is long enough, you’ll see what I mean. So the next 14 digits after that are 32384626433832. Then you get the next fourteen for the next day and all the way up to today.”
Montrose shook his head and looked at Kirsty. “Zac, you just worked this out?”
“No, dude, I’m not that sad. It’s on the internet. There’s a website that shows Pi to a million digits.”
“Is that gonna work?” Montrose heard Zac typing quickly.
“Okay, I know when he was born. So I use the number of calendar days since Pilgrim’s birthday, right up to today. I’m guessing the Gregorian calendar, ‘cos no one gives a shit about the Julian Calendar except saddos and Russians. Just give me... I got it!”
“So?”
“Holy crap,” said Zac. “I’m in.”
Montrose felt his chest tighten. This shit is getting away from me. If Kane finds out what we’re doing...
“What do you see?” said Kirsty.
“Nothing,” replied Zac. “But it’s asking for a password. Hey, I’ve seen this before. This is green screen shit. This is ancient technology. Must be the Eighties.”
“Zac,” said Kirsty. “If the first part of the code was that number, then the second part is going to be that password, no?”
“Got to be. Pichaq, right?” They heard Zac typing. “No, it doesn’t work.”
Kirsty tapped the iPad. “Wait. Pilgrim said that’s how you pronounce it, not how it’s written.” She turned to Montrose. “Gaelic for cat, right? I’ll try the translator. I’ve got it here. Piseag.” She spelled it out.
“Hold on,” said Zac. “No. Ain’t no good. That all we got?”
Kirsty flicked through the photos on the iPad. “Pilgrim’s brother wrote that word on his arm for a reason. And that has to be a clue to the password. He gave the coordinates, telling us where to look. There has to be something about piseag.
“Yeah,” said Montrose, “and that message was meant for Pilgrim. Not us.”
“Wait.” Kirsty closed her eyes and tapped her fingers one by one. “He told us it was Scottish Gaelic. His mother’s language. And her name.”
Montrose leaned in. I can’t stop them. Go with the flow. The more I know, the
more I can sell. And get us out of this shit. “It was MacPherson,” said Montrose. “His mother’s family. And he said something about a motto. Touching the cat.”
Zac laughed. “No man, it’s ‘touch not the cat, without a glove.’ Basically it means don’t mess with me.”
Kirsty pointed to a photo. “I can see the clan crest on the ring his brother is wearing. The password could be in the motto, but according to Google, there are about seven different translations.”
“Kirsty, I’m looking at it now. I’m running a program on all the words and the only one I can find that means cat is ‘chat’. And that doesn’t work.”
“Shit.”
Montrose rubbed his face. “What kind of cat is it?”
Kirsty shrugged. “It’s just a… Hold on, there’s a cat that lives in Scotland and nowhere else. In the Highlands. And MacPherson is a Highland clan.”
“Yeah,” said Zac. “I’ve got it on Wiki. The Scottish wildcat.”
Kirsty’s fingers flew across the iPad. “That’s it, I can see it too. Totally different species. They live in the wild and they’re mean as hell. That would explain the line about not touching it. Zac? Wildcat. Go for it.”
“I’m on it.”
Kirsty looked up at Montrose “If that’s not it, we could be…”
“I’m in! Holy shit, everything is in Russian. What the hell...?”
The taxi came to a halt and Montrose looked out at the loading bay of a department store.
Kirsty ripped her earphones out. “Zac, do what you can, we’ll call you back.” She cut the call, took some money from her bag and leaned over to the driver. “Mate, that’s for the fare and this,” she held up a fifty pound note, “is to pick up a guy outside Vauxhall House. He’s in a blue duffel coat and called Paddy. If he’s not there then it’s yours to keep.”
The cabbie shrugged and took the money. They stepped out and stood before the goods entrance to the store.
“There are no cameras here, apart from that one,” she said, pointing to a dark glass dome above the loading door. “And that belongs to the store.”
“Who’s Paddy?”
“No idea, I made that shit up.” She grinned and pulled him into a side door. “In here. We need a change of clothes while they go chasing that taxi.”
He followed her into the store, past stands of cosmetics reeking of perfume and assistants wearing far too much make up. They entered a central atrium and above him rose four storeys of mock Tudor balconies in a square. What the fuck am I doing here? Kane said there’s an imminent terrorist attack and we’re going shopping?
Kirsty took out a bundle of money from her bag and peeled off several high denomination notes. She held them out. “Cash is king. Cards can be traced. You’ve got five minutes to change your appearance.”
Montrose took the money.
She reached up and flicked his hair into a side parting. “Just clothes unless you find a wig. Menswear is downstairs.”
“Sure, do you want me to hold your bag for you?”
She smiled. “You’re such a gentleman, but I think I’ll manage. Anyone would think you’re after my money.” She pushed the banknotes into her bag and ran up the ornate wooden staircase.
He watched her go. What if she gives me the slip? Just get back here before she does. One thing is for sure. I don’t care if they shoot me on the street, I’m not wearing a fucking wig. He headed for the stairs.
*
His sneakers squeaked on the polished wooden floor and the new jeans were tight, but the overpriced designer combat jacket fitted well. He pulled the wrapping from a Timex watch and fixed it to his wrist, then turned into the atrium and looked up. He did a double take when he spotted the blond wearing a sleeveless cotton dress. She walked gracefully along the balcony of the first floor, then descended the staircase, a polished leather bag draped over her left arm, which was covered in a sleeve of black and red gothic tattoos.
If it wasn’t for the ink and the Dr. Marten boots, she would fit right into high society. C’mon man, don’t let your balls rule your brain. That chick took out two goons with a Sten gun.
She smiled coyly as she stepped off the staircase and crossed the floor, pulling on a cashmere cardigan as she moved.
Yeah, she may be tough, but the CIA will squash her like a bug. I can’t let that happen. I’ve got two passwords. The coordinates of the satellite are on the iPad. I get that and then go. The CIA can take care of the threat. But a satellite? What are the bad guys gonna do? Broadcast shit movies?
Kirsty swept the hair from her face. “I see you didn’t choose a wig.”
“Blond suits you.” He pulled out a heavy black toupee from his jacket. “I’m not sure this works.”
She lifted a hand to her mouth and laughed.
“It’s the only one that fitted.”
“Perhaps not, then. You’d just look like a really shit Elvis impersonator.” She took his hand. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere that there are no cameras. We need to talk to Zac and Mr. Pilgrim.”
Yeah, if he’s still alive. The phone rang in her pocket. They’ve tracked her phone.
*
The ice in the glass of vodka rattled in his grip. Arkangel stared blankly out of the window towards Kensington. He spun around as the door opened behind him.
A man walked into the room, ignored Arkangel and sat down on a sofa. He made himself comfortable and placed his hands on his knees.
Arkangel held the glass so tightly he thought it would shatter in his hand. “What are you doing here? Who let you in?”
“Your men let me in. I am Victor Kutuzov. Intelligence attaché at the Russian Embassy in London. And your men know exactly who I am. Shame that you don’t. I expected you to be better informed. That is disappointing.”
“I don’t care you who are, you mind your tongue or I’ll have my men throw you out on to the street.”
Kutuzov smiled. “Your men? I think not. Why do you think they let me walk in here?”
Arkangel took a gulp from his glass. “They are idiots, I...”
“Because they are my men. You recruited from ex-Spetsnaz troops. A wise choice, you would have thought, but then you never really stop being Spetsnaz, do you?” Kutuzov shrugged. “How would you know? You have spent your career behind a desk. Shuffling paper clips and losing satellites. We haven’t forgotten that, you know.”
Arkangel strode forward. “I don’t have to listen to this.”
Kutuzov leaned back in the sofa. “One word from me and they will butcher you like a pig. So, sit down.”
Arkangel remained standing. “How dare you...”
“SIT DOWN!”
He found the nearest chair.
Kutuzov straightened his tie. “Your activities have not gone unnoticed. I know your history, tovarisch. All those years ago, running around Norwegian glaciers. But we all move on, eh? And as we emerged from the Cold War, you decided to go private. You paid the right people and you made a lot of money using our old Soviet satellite system. It was shit, but good enough for phone calls and pornography. I’m impressed. But you never forgot, did you?”
Arkangel tried to shrug, but his shoulder jerked so hard the vodka sloshed over the edge of his glass.
“The Red Star,” said Kutuzov. “You never stopped looking.”
“It was my mission. But the trail went cold. Literally. I was on the glacier. I watched Pilgrim put a bullet in his brain. I went back to get my men to recover the body, but the storm became a blizzard and lasted for three days. We had to escape to save our own lives. There was thirty feet of snow that winter. When the spring came and we returned, a snow plough had pushed Pilgrim’s car down the valley. We had no idea where we had left him. There was no way to find his body. And no one could access the Red Star without those codes he had s
tolen. They died with him. But I never forgot it was my duty to find them.”
Kutuzov waved a hand in the air. “That was then. This is now. And a few days ago a body appeared out of the ice of a Norwegian glacier, thirty minutes from the Russian border.”
“The Americans tried to trick us, telling us they had the codes. But now we know they were lying.”
“You’re such an amateur. All that Pilgrim had to do was make a phone call before his demise on the glacier. Or one word to a contact.”
“We were close behind him.” Arkangel shook his head. “There were no phones.”
Kutuzov shrugged. “Another amateurish assumption. Pilgrim talked to no-one? You’re sure?”
Arkangel said nothing.
“So, you find the body in the ice and you discover that Pilgrim had written down clues to the code before he died. But do you hand over the information to Moscow? No, you keep it all to yourself and then you tell your friends in the Middle East.”
Arkangel shifted in the chair. “No, they heard about...”
“Don’t lie to me or I will personally cut out your tongue. You told your contacts. The information is priceless to the right client. And you had one lined up in that restaurant in Soho. He saw the information and agreed to pay. Fifty million dollars. Too cheap, tovarisch. You could have got so much more.”
Arkangel made to get to his feet, but saw the look on Kutuzov’s face. “I need a drink.”
Kutuzov nodded.
The vodka splashed in the glass and he drank half in one go. “It was a ruse. I would sell the information and then go straight to you. I would never have betrayed Moscow. But there was no reason I couldn’t make good money out of it. It’s just business. And I’ve spent a fortune of my own money looking for those codes and Pilgrim.”
Kutuzov threw his hands wide and laughed. “Seriously? You think that would work? You’re a fool, Arkangel. You thought you were the only one to know and you killed the old policeman to cover your tracks. But your men were feeding us information all along. Why do you think they were allowed to use government mainframes in Moscow to crack the first password? WikiLeaks has been very generous to us. Once we saw the photographs, all we had to do was check the birthdates in the state records of Texas. We’re one step ahead of you. And we were waiting outside the restaurant in Soho. We would have been marching in with a gun to your head. You were lucky the CIA got there first.”
