No Refuge

by Greg Elswood

  Michael turned on the TV and flicked through a dozen channels, but there was nothing worth watching. He switched on the bedside radio instead and turned up the volume so that he could hear it throughout the flat. No doubt even Edna downstairs could hear it, but so what, at least it would be some company for her. Michael stubbed out his cigarette, then wandered naked to the bathroom for his second shower of the day. Only this time alone.

  5

  It was stifling, the sun beat down on scorched metal and the air was thick with dust rising from the road. The men closed their eyes as the steady drone of the convoy laboured on, all conversation long since exhausted in the confined space of the armoured personnel carriers.

  They made their way through the devastation and ruins of what used to be a bustling street, where the colourful everyday pageant of market stalls and drying clothes had been replaced by funereal mounds of sandy rubble and limp rags hanging from holes in the building walls. People no longer sat on their steps drinking coffee, watching their children play; they were long since gone or had retreated to the depths of the town or into shadowy recesses along the convoy’s route.

  Jacob never saw the explosion, the blinding flash of light that erupted from the lead vehicle three ahead, but the blast battered his ears and he felt his own vehicle lift at the shockwave before it slew to a halt on the dusty road. Yells and orders rang out from all around and his machine-gunner swivelled the mounting suddenly to the right, and his ears reverberated with the sound of their returning fire.

  Gunfire rained down on the group. Jacob’s vehicle resonated to the sound of bullets and ricochets as it sat isolated and exposed in the middle of the street. The whine of the carrier’s tracks started up again, the engine revved and they lurched away from the road, the ferocity of the assault reducing as they narrowed the angle from their attackers and prepared to disembark. None of the men wanted to be fried inside the carrier if it took a direct RPG hit or overturned, although the thought of leaving its armoured protection equally filled them with dread.

  The stench of cordite and acrid smoke charged the air. The men launched themselves out of the carrier and into the dark confines of a burned-out building, and took cover as mayhem raged in the streets and grenades exploded all around. Static blurted out of the radios and commands were given, and the unit hunkered down to wait for the reply. It had better be soon.

  Prayers answered, after a couple of minutes that felt like hours, helicopter-launched rockets streaked blazing into the buildings from which the ambush had first erupted, creating plumes of dust and debris that burst upwards, then returned to earth as showers of rubble. The dark smoking holes briefly exposed the ruined interior of the building before it was engulfed in flame as grenades exploded from within. More rockets arrowed into the building, the bombardment silencing the flurry of grenades and the cracking of snipers’ guns.

  The attack was all over in a matter of minutes. Securing the buildings afterwards would take longer, as one by one the rooms would be inspected and declared safe, not for habitation but from snipers or insurgents. After ordering a few of his men to manage the recovery of the unit’s casualties, Jacob joined the rest as they made the sweeps.

  In the first building, they slowly ascended the gutted staircase to the second floor. Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream cut through Jacob and his men as an enemy fighter threw himself towards them, his arm raised as he clung onto a grenade, the pin pulled out. The explosion ripped apart the suffocating air in a blinding, searing assault on their senses.

  Jacob awoke with a jolt. He gasped for breath, his heart pounded and he fought to bring his shaking under control. He scanned all around him, years of training taking over, until he realised he was back in London. He was safe. Almost.

  Jacob looked around again, this time more slowly. Two young girls hurried away from him, although one peered over her shoulder with a frightened expression, and across the road an elderly man stared at him. There was nothing else out of the ordinary.

  Jacob felt clammy, but otherwise he had almost regained his composure. The shivering subsided after a minute or so, despite his skin feeling even colder than before, damp under his clothes. The morning sun wasn’t going to help that very much. But it was time to get going again, before any trouble arrived. Sooner or later it always did. He looked around warily, rose from the bench and headed down the side of the tennis court and then between the neighbouring blocks of flats.

  He tried to recall his dream, but the images had vanished as soon as he opened his eyes and he struggled to remember any of the detail. He thought it related to Basra, and that whatever incident he had recalled had traumatised him enough for his waking mind to have blocked out the worst of his mental scars. It was all gone. Until the next time he fell into one of his nightmares.

  A loud horn sounded from a passing car and a boy stuck his head out and yelled something at Jacob, the words obscured by passing traffic. He stopped, dazed and confused, unsure which way to go. I need a drink. It was a thought that he couldn’t dispel, that always lurked somewhere just below the surface. But since his dream it had become urgent, insistent, and it was getting louder.

  Jacob looked up from his trance and discovered that on autopilot he had wandered to the district immediately north of Silicon Roundabout, home to hotels, pubs and student accommodation, where if he was lucky he might get hold of some alcohol. A chance to escape his horrors for a while.

  Jacob navigated the backstreets to a side road flanking the City Road Inn, which seemed a promising target. The main reception and the entrance to the car park were both at the front of the hotel, although the car park was on the corner of the plot, separated from the street by a corrugated fence. Jacob saw cameras and a security barrier at the front, but the dilapidated fence had several gaps and holes near the back, a couple of which appeared large enough for Jacob to pass through, near to a pair of closed gates used by trade vehicles.

  Jacob shuffled past the holes. He glanced through them when he paused, as he pretended to catch his breath and straighten his stiff back, and then looked both ways down the street. Heartened by what he’d seen, and happy that the coast was clear, he squeezed through the largest opening and ducked behind a large wheelie bin.

  From his hiding place, Jacob saw half a dozen bins of various sizes and colours, lined up against the fence directly across the tarmac from an exit at the end of the hotel. Two further bins stood outside another door, ten yards down the building to Jacob’s right, alongside several crates half-filled with empty bottles. Cigarette butts littered the floor outside both doors.

  It looked almost perfect and Jacob hoped that his luck was in. He felt that he was due some. Now it was just a matter of waiting, and he had all the time in the world.

  ***

  Watching, waiting for something to happen. Anything. Every so often, Brandon leaned forward, looked up a particular news story or price, or made a series of calculations. But he struggled to concentrate on his screens, and by mid-morning he decided that it was no use, he was too distracted by Proximity. The markets weren’t going to fill him with excitement today, so he would concentrate on his new project instead.

  Brandon was excited about the capability he had developed. He knew that he was on the threshold of a major breakthrough that would be the envy of the hacking world and would send shockwaves along the digital spines of governments, security services and technology companies around the globe. Yet all he was doing was taking advantage of systems that had been developed to support people’s desire to be connected to the internet, and to each other, all the time.

  The principles were simple. Almost everyone owned a gadget with Wi-Fi capability, and most of these devices searched for the best signal available whenever they were turned on. Smartphones and tablets incessantly scanned for networks, and Brandon’s program used a modified version of a Mi-Fi hotspot, established on his own laptop, to interact with any device that came within transmission range. These everyday mobile networks and han
d-held devices were the basic building blocks for Brandon’s scheme, but what turned them into weapons of cyber-crime was the way they were used. Because, just like the principles, people were also simple.

  It never ceased to amaze Brandon how much private, sensitive information the average person was prepared to give complete strangers; not face-to-face, of course, but behind the security blanket of social media or their phones’ applications, as if this somehow made it more secure. As well as being free with their personal details, many gadget users were hooked on location-tracking applications. Brandon understood the usefulness of finding the nearest restaurant, public toilet or Underground station when needed. But why did the device need to reveal your location all the time, even when asleep? The result was that their gadgets could be tracked anywhere, anytime, and then snared. For someone with Brandon’s programming skills and technical ability, it was a simple matter to intercept the signals and interact with applications on their phones, hijacking the permissions they had granted.

  The combination of constant location tracking, the ease with which personal data could be accessed or manipulated, and the public’s carefree attitude to mobile security, made a lethal cocktail when in Brandon’s hands. He had tested it at Stratford, and it worked. Proximity could locate a device, put a message onto its screen, and then tempt the user to press a button that gave permission to download a virus. Behind it all there was some clever digital subterfuge and programming, but Brandon was amazed at how easy it had been.

  But it wasn’t perfect yet. He now had to work out how to generate a critical mass of compromised devices. That was the challenge he set himself and, if he could do that, he would be ready to commit the greatest financial crime ever known.

  ***

  He pushed open the door and cast his eyes around the pub. There were only two other souls in the place: James the barman, stacking glasses behind the bar, and Gerry, who sat in his usual place in the corner, his first pint of the day already in front of him. Michael nodded at Gerry, who answered with a slight dip of his chin and then resumed staring at the bottom of his glass.

  ‘Hi James, the usual, and one for yourself too.’

  ‘Wow, someone’s in a good mood this morning.’ James opened his eyes wide in mock surprise. ‘What happened, did you win the lottery or something?’

  ‘Oh, bloody funny I’m sure. But as you asked, yes, I’m having a good day. Very good. But if you don’t want a drink on me, that’s fine, I’m sure old Gerry will have it,’ Michael said, and he nodded towards the corner.

  ‘Much obliged Michael, thanks, I’ll have one with you. I don’t think I’ll be run off my feet this morning, and Gerry looks happy enough with what he has.’

  James poured a Guinness and left it to settle while he pulled himself an ale, before he topped off Michael’s glass.

  ‘There you go, and thanks for the drink. Cheers! Or should that be Sláinte?’

  ‘Sláinte indeed.’

  Michael took a long swallow of the Guinness and wiped his top lip with the back of his hand. ‘That’s good, well, as good as it gets in London anyway.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment. So, what was so great about this morning?’

  ‘Oh, this and that, just a nice laze in bed.’ Michael cast his mind back, and smirked. He looked at James, saw his raised eyebrows and realized that he had been expecting more. ‘I also have a business meeting this afternoon that I hope will bring me some good news.’

  ‘Oh right,’ James said. ‘Hope it goes well. Could there be anything in it for me?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t suppose so. It’s a former associate of mine who’s in town and looking for some help. It may just break up my days a little for the next week or so, and I’m not sure how much help he needs.’

  ‘That’s a shame. This job doesn’t pay that well, and God knows I need the money.’

  ‘I’ll bear you in mind and will let you know if he needs any more hands.’

  ‘OK, thanks, fair enough. As I said, the money would come in handy.’

  The two men took another gulp of their drinks, before James turned back to carry on stacking glasses. Michael took his glass to an empty table, sat on the cushioned bench with his back to the wall and took out his smartphone. He selected WhatsApp and sent a one-line message to Paddy to check what time they were meeting.

  As he waited for an answer, he considered the beauty of modern messaging. These new applications encrypted messages in a way that made them untraceable and impossible to decipher. That is, unless you were stupid enough to give your unlocked phone to the police. You could say anything to anyone, without fear of eavesdroppers. No more worrying about tapped phones or intercepted email, Paddy and the Brethren now used these applications all the time, other than when face-to-face communication was unavoidable.

  Michael didn’t have long to wait for Paddy’s answer:

  Meet me at the lock-up on Rivington St at 2.

  Michael replied briefly:

  Will do.

  There was no need for pleasantries; after all, this was business. But before meeting Paddy, Michael needed some food. He had worked up quite an appetite this morning and he was ravenous.

  ‘Hey, James, ask Carter to rustle up one of your big breakfasts will you, with double the fried bread?’

  Michael leaned back and considered his earlier conquests. I think I’ve earned it.

  6

  Jacob rocked back and forth on his haunches to get his circulation going. Pins and needles had set in and his joints were beginning to ache, and he knew he would suffer later for crouching down low for so long. He had watched the hotel staff entrance for the past hour, but all he’d seen so far had been a procession of people coming out to smoke, chat, look at their phones or empty rubbish. The only mild bit of excitement was when a middle-aged woman pushed a cart of linen through the door and walked straight towards the bin behind which Jacob was hiding. He was convinced that she’d spot him and he squatted as low as he could, but she simply transferred the sheets and towels from her cart into the hopper and slammed it shut. The bin smacked against him and he stifled a curse, but the woman didn’t notice. She returned to join two colleagues who were smoking by the back door.

  He massaged his aching ankles and thought about leaving this fruitless reconnaissance. But then, everything changed. A loud bell sounded at the back of the second door, and a young man dressed as a bartender came out, walked across the tarmac and opened the double gates. Immediately, a deliveryman wheeled a trolley stacked high with boxes through the opening.

  ‘Hi there, Nathan, we have five lots for you today, starting with the soft drinks.’

  ‘Cheers Tony. Usual place, over by the back door.’

  Tony pushed the trolley to the door and wiggled it to and fro to release the load, and whistled as he returned for the next batch. It took no time at all to deposit the crates and boxes by the door.

  ‘There you go, that’s the final load. The last pile is the hard stuff. There’s some pretty expensive whisky in there, well, more than the likes of us can afford, anyway.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Nathan said and he winked at Tony. ‘There’s always a way when you work behind the bar.’

  Nathan signed the delivery sheet and handed it back to Tony. ‘See you again in a day or two.’

  ‘Thanks, see you soon mate.’ Tony resumed his whistling and returned to his van, trailed by Nathan, who closed and bolted the gates behind him.

  From behind the bins, Jacob watched with growing interest. This was just what he’d been waiting for. It struck him as odd that the boxes had been stacked outside, rather than being wheeled straight into a storeroom, but it might work in his favour. The question was, could he get over to the kitchen door, take something out of a sealed box, and then back to the cover of the bins, without being seen?

  Nathan carried the boxes one or two at a time through the door, and Jacob counted how long each trip took. Only about ten seconds, damn, that’s never going to be eno
ugh time. The stacks quickly reduced, and within three or four minutes Nathan had reached the last pile. Jacob had just about given up hope, when Nathan did something different. He looked all around the car park to make sure no one was watching, then opened one of the whisky boxes and took out a bottle, which he placed behind a crate of empties about two yards from the back door. He closed the box and took all of the remaining ones inside, and shut the back door.

  All was quiet.

  Jacob knew that theft from employers was relatively commonplace, not only in the hotel and pub trade but in all walks of life. Nathan was probably taking more than most, but Jacob didn’t care about that; he just wanted to get his hands on the plundered whisky and make his escape. He drooled at the prospect. The trick now was to get his timing right, and make it to the bottle in between the employees’ smoking breaks, and he decided to chance it immediately after their next one. Jacob put his aching joints out of his mind.

  Minutes later, a group of three workers came out by the main staff exit. They all lit cigarettes and then took phones out of their pockets, which they stared at and prodded for the next ten minutes without exchanging so much as a word. Jacob looked on in bemusement, wondering if they spoke different languages, or if they were messaging each other instead. He would never know, as they returned to the hotel in silence.

  Right, here we go. After a brief look around the car park, he dashed to the crate that hid the whisky, keeping as low as he could, then he grabbed the bottle and turned back towards the bins. The weight of the bottle was reassuring in his palm and the anticipation of drinking it was so great that Jacob could almost taste the whisky.

  He was barely strides away from his hideout when he heard an angry bellow behind him. ‘Oi, come back here with that, you thieving beggar!’

  Jacob looked over his shoulder to see Nathan bearing down on him, and realised there was no way he could get out of the car park before he was caught. A strong hand yanked his collar and pulled him back. Jacob threw his elbow as hard as he could at his pursuer’s arm and Nathan let go with a yelp, but he soon grabbed Jacob again and pushed him to the ground. The bottle fell from his grip and shattered on the tarmac, and the immediate, powerful smell of whisky hit them both hard.