Resurface

by Tony Batton

  Forty-Six

  TOM SAT IN THE CELL, considering his options. He was starting to regret surrendering; it had seemed like a good alternative to getting shot, but, given what had happened since, perhaps getting shot would have been preferable. Truman hadn't yet brought in the interrogators. Maybe it was just a bluff, but maybe not.

  Tom turned his thoughts to the camera footage. Assuming it had not been altered, how had it been possible for his face to appear on the face of the intruder? Did he have a doppleganger? A long-lost identical twin? That was lunacy. Could it be a mask or a projection? Even if true, why would someone attempt to place him at the scene of the crime? Why pick his face out of billions?

  There was one thing he could do something about: his father's escape. Just not from here. He needed to get out. While he was now captive in a hi-tech facility, and they thought they had isolated him in this cell, they were wrong. There was no shielding, just physical separation and thick walls. It was not nearly enough.

  He closed his eyes, forced his mind to be calm, and reached out. He felt the networks around him and he opened his mind to the data, felt it start to wash over him. Perhaps he could deactivate some specific sections of the system: CCTV, door locks. But as he tried to focus, he felt the increasingly familiar chill inside, the buzz of the dark nano, and his grasp slipped... An alarm went off. He heard footsteps outside. A guard burst into the room, automatic rifle raised.

  "What have you done?"

  Tom forced himself to look puzzled. "What do you mean? I haven't done anything--"

  "How did you trigger the alarm?" The guard turned as there was a shrieking and groaning from down the corridor. "Stay here," he shouted, stepping from the room. There was another noise: a scuffle, then silence.

  Alex stuck her head into the room. "That alarm was the signal, yes?"

  Tom smiled. "They wouldn't let me use the phone."

  "We'd better hurry. I elected not to kill them, but the downside is they'll probably wake up shortly." She paused. "And then I will have to kill them."

  "Let's keep that up our sleeve for now. Just follow me."

  "Where are we going?"

  "Home. To see some old friends."

  "And how are we going to get there?"

  "We're on a military base. I'm sure there's something useful we can borrow."

  Forty-Seven

  IT WAS LATE WHEN DOMINIQUE Lentz nudged her Citroen 2CV through the gates of her home in Herefordshire, but the journey had passed in a blur as she thought over her meeting with Reems. She parked next to her house: a tumbledown property set in forty acres of orchards and untamed gardens, it was a haven, away from the world. With the money that came from her new role, she had been able to pay for a full programme of renovations and improvements: new heating and lighting, additional storage and a new underground workshop for her private tinkering. She oversaw the installation of a reliable and diversely-routed power-supply, a back-up generator that would kick-in automatically if the mains failed, and two fat pipes to the net. Finally, there was a sophisticated intruder alarm-system patched directly into the police. Hallstein had helped her install the majority of the tech and even she had been impressed by the set up. Reems had been less effusive when she made her formal Security Service inspection. Lentz was pretty sure MI5 also kept a watchful eye on her, although Reems had never admitted to it.

  Lentz made herself a pot of herbal tea. She was still much too alert to sleep. Why had Reems blanked her? Was it just an intelligence matter that Reems could not share? That didn't ring true. Involuntarily Lentz glanced around her. Could she be in danger? She'd been targeted by a killer once before and had only just managed to escape. She shivered at the very idea that it could all be happening again.

  Feeling a burst of adrenalin, she hurried down the stairs to her underground workshop and placed her palm on the lock of a heavy steel cabinet. There was a soft beep and the reinforced door hissed open. Inside was a pump-action shot gun: a light-weight military model with laser sight. There were also two tasers. She grabbed all three weapons, loaded the shotgun, and moved back upstairs to her study. The room was equipped with numerous computers, mostly plugged into CERUS' systems, but a couple were set up for her own purposes. She would run a systems scan to see if...

  A draft blew across her neck. That only happened if she left the front door open, and she never did that. She grabbed the shotgun and walked to the front door. It was closed and the draft had stopped. She listened carefully. Nothing but the sound of the wind. No, wait, there was a soft thumping noise, though not that close.

  A helicopter? There was a military base not far away, so it could be heading there. She tapped her finger on a section of wall and a panel slid back to reveal a large touch-screen. She activated it and called up a real-time parse of each of the many motion sensors. Nothing was showing. She let out her breath, only then realising that she had been holding it. She tapped commands to display historic data over the last ten minutes. And she gasped. Somebody had followed a near-invisible route to get into the house. Their path led to a ground floor window, which meant...

  Cold steel pressed against her neck, a blade that felt sharp enough to cut molecules. A voice said, almost politely, "Lower the weapon to the floor, Ms Lentz. Take your time."

  She swallowed and did as she was asked, setting the shotgun down.

  "Now turn around. Slowly."

  Lentz turned and found herself looking at a small, compact man with grey eyes.

  "Any other weapons?" he asked, hefting the knife with clear intent.

  She shook her head and cursed. She really should have listened to her instincts. "Did Reems send you?"

  He frowned. "I'm sorry, I don't know that name."

  "If we're going to do this, at least do me the courtesy of being honest."

  "I think, perhaps, you were expecting somebody else. I represent Andrei Leskov."

  Lentz felt the ground shift. "Viktor's son? What does he want?"

  "He wants you dead. Why don't we go into the kitchen and discuss the specifics?"

  Forty-Eight

  THE MI5 BOAT REACHED ITS destination in a little over twenty hours. Reems had been jarred roughly throughout all of them.

  "You know you didn't have to come in person," Croft said, rubbing his arms. "We could have kept you informed."

  Reems shook her head. "I'm not going to have this mission compromised by an errant broadcast. We've stayed dark the entire time for good reason." She pointed at a display screen, which showed that their target was only two kilometres ahead.

  "How did you know he would manage to escape?" Croft asked.

  "Because of who he is, and what he wants to do. I didn't expect the bracelet would prove a barrier."

  "And your alternate tracking solution – the subcutaneous transmitter – you're sure he won't be able to detect it?"

  "Not likely."

  "What did Lentz say to you borrowing CERUS tech?"

  "I didn't give her the opportunity to argue. It might have revealed what I was doing."

  "You're sure Bern won't anticipate his own tech being used against him?"

  "What choice did I have? We have to find where this beta site is. If he does work out what we're up to, then we just cart him back to prison."

  Croft frowned down at the screen. "He's stopped moving. Engine troubles?"

  "I don't like it. Can we run a scan?"

  "We can. But they might detect us."

  "Then bring us closer. Quietly."

  Croft radioed an order and the boat glided forward on quarter power. The sea was calm, but mist limited visibility. They went up on deck.

  "It's a motor yacht," the captain said, from his position at the helm. "Ten years old, no identifying marks. There are lights on, but I can't see anyone moving on board."

  Reems shook her head. "This feels wrong."

  "What if..." Croft trailed off. "There's another boat."

  To starboard, the silhouette of another craft appeared from the
mists, perhaps twice the size of their own launch. It slowed and matched their course.

  "Why didn't we detect it sooner?" Reems asked.

  "It's US registered," Croft said. "No military markings."

  "Transmit our government override code. Tell them to back off."

  Croft activated a control panel and reviewed the display. "They've received it. But they don't appear to be standing down. In fact, they're sending us their own code back." He paused, then swore. "The vessel is CIA."

  "What would they be doing out here?"

  "It could just be an odd coincidence. I'll ask them to clarify--" Something flashed red on the control panel. "They're arming weapons."

  "The CIA boat? What is going on?"

  "No, Bern's vessel."

  "It has weapons? That seems pretty unlikely."

  "Spearfish torpedoes," Croft replied, "and it's launching at both of us." He turned to the captain. "Move us!" The captain immediately slammed the throttle down and the boat lurched backwards, turning tightly away. Croft slapped his hand on the control panel. "Launching counter measures." Tiny globes spat from clusters on the front of the boat. Reems looked across the water and saw the CIA craft undertaking similar measures. The two torpedoes detonated short of their targets.

  "What is Bern thinking?" Reems said.

  "That he doesn't want to be captured?" Croft replied, reading the display. "No hull damage."

  "It makes no sense. Bern isn't this stupid."

  "They're preparing to fire again. And the CIA boat is targeting its own missile."

  "No! Order them to stop--"

  But it was too late. There was a flare on the CIA vessel's deck. The missile lit up the night sky, as it travelled the short distance to its target. Then Bern's boat exploded.

  Forty-Nine

  THE MAN TIED LENTZ SECURELY to one of her kitchen chairs, using a number of plastic cable-ties. Every move was practised and unhurried.

  "Perhaps you could tell me who you are?" Lentz asked, forcing herself to keep calm. "It would be polite."

  The man set the knife down on the table, eyes reflecting in the blade. "My name is Sharp. Andrei Leskov asked me to enlist your help with the Tantalus Project: the one that his father paid one billion dollars for."

  "As I recall, delivery was made."

  "I'm not here to argue the past: I'm here to talk about the future. You are the CEO of CERUS, the company that developed this project. Mr Leskov seems to think he could do business with you." He pointed the knife at her face. "However, my instinct is that you are not someone to be trusted. A woman who can hide from the world for twenty-five years, who can persuade a hired killer from doing his job – is dangerous."

  "I was lucky."

  "Luck usually comes from focus and training. You will need to work very hard to convince me you will be of use. Am I making myself clear?"

  "Completely."

  "Out of purely professional curiosity, what did you say to the last man hired to kill you to persuade him not to carry out his contract?"

  "I negotiated. And he was clearly less committed to his cause than you are." Lentz looked at him carefully. "You know what I think? I think the whole story about Leskov wanting my ongoing help is rubbish. If you were going to abduct me, you'd have more people with you. And it's not really your skill set, is it? You're more the torture-and-kill type."

  Sharp moved forward faster than she could follow, bringing the knife to her neck. She felt the blade against her throat. "My brief," he said, "is to help my client draw a line under this sorry business. Part of that involves locating Tom Faraday. I will do what I need to get that information."

  "I don't know where he is. You should ask Marron or Bern."

  "Bern isn't on my list. I will be visiting Marron later, but for now I'm asking you." Sharp pushed the knife harder against her throat. "Where is Faraday?"

  Lentz felt the blade break the surface of her skin, an awful hot, wet touch. She coughed, trying to pull away, but the cable ties bit into her wrists. She turned back to face him, ready to curse and spit. Then her eyes widened. "I'll tell you."

  Sharp raised his eyebrows. "If you lie I will know."

  "Look at the screen behind you."

  Sharp pulled the knife away from her, turned around, and they both stared at the screen. There was an image of Tom Faraday. He was standing next to Lentz's car, waving. His voice emerged from the speakers. "Dominique. Are you in there? I don't want to just wander in and startle you."

  Sharp turned back to her. "What is this? Some kind of trick?" He looked at her uncertainly, then tucked the knife into his belt, next to a couple of rounded cubes. "Wait here." He stepped from the room.

  Lentz watched him go, wondering if she was doing the right thing. She hoped Tom knew what was going on. And that he had a plan.

  Fifty

  KATE LEFT THE ROAD AND pushed her bicycle through the trees, glancing over her shoulder as she went. The road behind her was deserted: as best as she could tell, she had not been followed. For now, the assassin had lost her trail. She could have gone to the police, but that hadn't worked very well twelve months ago. First she would get herself safe, then she could consider her options. The most likely being to call Lentz.

  She left her car, work mobile and tablet behind so she couldn't be tracked. After a tortuous journey on buses and trains, she found an old bicycle in a station carpark secured with only a broken padlock by an owner who doubtless thought no thief would bother with such a decrepit old thing. The tyres were firm and it was perfectly good enough for her purposes. She rode west out of London with only her wallet, a prepaid mobile she had never even fitted with a SIM card, and a torch. The cycle ride took nearly three hours, but she remembered the route well. At last she reached the small woodland on the outskirts of Windsor, that marked the edge of the farm property. Now she emerged from the trees into a clearing. Ahead was the old barn.

  Lentz's barn, her secret hideout, where she had taken Tom twelve months ago.

  Nobody was in sight. Kate moved forward, slipping the heavy key from her pocket, and opening the padlock. Inside were several items of farm equipment, covered in dust sheets. She ignored them, kicking sawdust from the middle of the floor to reveal the trapdoor. Running her fingers along the edge, she found the concealed handle and lifted it up. LEDs immediately lit up, showing metal stairs descending. She smiled. Lentz had made a few upgrades.

  Ten minutes later, Kate sat in front of one of Lentz's computers, nursing a hot cup of tea and trying to get her thoughts in order. A man hired by Andrei Leskov had tried to kill her. He had already killed Geraldine. She skipped quickly past that thought. Why now: why wait a whole year? A question for later. She had to presume the assassin would not give up, but maybe she wasn't the second and last person on his list. Who else could Leskov be after?

  Tom. Good luck finding him, she thought.

  But Lentz also had to be on that list and Lentz could easily be found. She had to be warned. Kate ripped open the package containing the new SIM card and plugged it into the cheapest, ugliest mobile phone she had seen in five years. When she called, Lentz's phone was not answered. Getting voicemail, she growled with frustration. "Protocol Alpha. Call me, dammit," she hissed into the receiver before she hung up. Then she turned to the computer and sent the same message by three different communications apps.

  Should she also call Reems? The Head of MI5 was probably at the top of the assassin's list, but with her security she would be no easy target. Kate shrugged: she had no choice. She dialled and again got a voicemail. She left a message for Reems to call her back, then she took a long drink from her tea.

  Could Bern's escape be linked with Leskov's actions? The assassin hadn't asked where Bern was. Did that mean anything? She hadn't given him very long to talk, of course. She didn't know how to go about getting answers about a hired killer. He was almost certainly a ghost as far as public records were concerned and she didn't even have a name. She could try looking into Leskov, where sh
e would at least have some material to work with. But she still doubted the published data would be that helpful. No, there was only one person to focus on. It was time to look into Bern. He had revealed his hand by escaping. And that meant he had received help. She would find whoever had provided it.

  Fifty-One

  SHARP MOVED QUICKLY. HE HAD a single firearm and a couple of emergency options, but his weapon of preference was always the knife. However, this was an encounter on which he had not been briefed. Leskov had not thought he would happen upon Faraday. In the absence of instructions, Sharp knew he would have to capture the target alive. Although as long as Faraday was breathing, anything else was a detail.

  He stepped from the house. Faraday stood ten metres away, watching him, holding no weapon, not hiding.

  Which meant it was a trap.

  Sharp felt rather than saw the movement. Somebody fast. He flexed backwards, rapidly adjusting his assessment: somebody very fast. An open hand struck where his neck had been: a blow that would have broken his spine if it had connected. Form and power showed in the movement. His attacker was clearly an expert.

  But then so was he. He extended the backward flex into a roll, flipping over and bringing the knife up in a thrust, catching sight of a slender figure almost on top of him. She swung suddenly away to avoid his blade. Her eyes flashed, but did she did not appear worried.

  The look on her face said she expected to beat him.

  Now he was surprised.

  "You look familiar," she said, regaining her balance. "I've seen your photo."

  Sharp stepped sideways so he had one eye on Faraday, who had both eyes on him. Very few people had ever seen his photo. Of those, even fewer had remained alive for long. He grunted and lunged forward. A stutter jab. A feint then a thrust. But she read it and deflected his arm effortlessly. He altered the movement and crunched his elbow into her jaw. She fell back, hissing, her eyes angry emeralds.