Andrew Towning
Andrew had his first Jake Dillon adventure thriller published in 2006 - The Chimera Code is fourth in the series. His writing is a reflection of his extensive travels and inherent interest in national security and covert operations. Andrew lives in Dorset, where many of Dillon’s tours take him. Andrew lives with his family and is currently completing the fifth Dillon novel, due for publication in 2013.
The Chimera Code
------------------------------------------------Andrew Towning
© 2012 Andrew Towning All rights reserved. There is no part of this book that may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, by any means without written permission of Andrew Towning, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in their review to be printed or reproduced for social media broadcast.
Cover photography by Jennie Franklin Photography, modelled by Harriet Towning
ISBN: 978-1481200868
Published by Andrew Towning www.andrewtowning.co.uk
This novel is dedicated to the memory of my Father 1939 - 2012
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS My thanks to L and S, two very talented IT Social Engineers who, after a chance meeting in a bar and many conversations later, were unwaveringly generous with their technical advice, interest and most of all their patience during the writing of this novel. You both know who you are!
Also, my special thanks to Zoe Wilson whose professionalism, energy and zest is truly inspiring.
Prologue Assassins
My name is Legion: for we are many. St Mark ch.5, v.9
Carpathian Mountains - Ukraine The old winch-house jutted defiantly out from the jagged cliff top. Sections of the stonework had fallen away far below, revealing toothless gaps in the sheer elevations - the dark smile of an old Ukrainian revolutionary. The two-storey building, that had endured hundreds of years of the harsh mountain elements, had once been the only route up and in to the fortress that over - lord the entire valley for as far as the eye could see. This had long ago been defended against marauding invaders but now and for centuries past, had only been smashed and bombarded by wind, rain and snow intent on a gradual stripping away of its outer defenses.
Something - a quick stealth-like movement - the only sound the rushing of air as it skimmed easily, almost fluidly across the mountain face on the end of the high-tensile line. A figure shrouded by darkness, protected by the night and its moonless sky of brooding black clouds. It landed lightly on the aged timbers of a narrow walkway. And, through the glass of a narrow window, dull light shone out into the gloom.
The figure emerged from the shadows and moved forward with the light-footedness of a stalking cat. Then it paused, listening, a static outline against the night, before sliding once again into the darkness and vanishing: a ghost; mist; a black dream.
* * * There was a deep oppressive silence in the dimly lit corridor, at one end of which was a solid oak arched door, the single portal for the protected sanctuary.
Seated, three heavy-set Ukrainian guards, full beards and their hair grease-smeared and lank, were armed with GRACH MP-443 pistols and shoulder-slung Nikonov AN-94 ‘Abakan’ assault rifles. One of them, sitting with the earphones of his MP3 player firmly plugged into his ears, was rocking back and forth on his wooden chair against the stone wall. The other two were playing cards across a small makeshift table by the warm light of an oil-burning lantern; their brutal scarred features softened temporarily by the amber glow, a bottle of cheap vodka their only shared release from the boredom of duty.
There was a soft clatter, muffled, from back along the shadowed corridor and the two men, who were playing cards, exchanged bloodshot gazes over the smeared bottle. One man, the leaner of the two, removed the American cigarette from his lips and discarded it on to the flagstone floor.
“Your turn, Comrade.” The larger of the two men shook his head. “It’ll be a fucking bear again. They come down here looking for food.”
“Not at this time of night. They don’t like the dark - or the bullets. Go on, you stinking good-for-nothing, go and check who’s there.” He grinned, baring rotten and heavily tobacco stained teeth. “Anyway, we’re safe. If they’d got this far they would have triggered the perimeter sensors. Andthere are Special Forces bodyguards in there with the Comrade himself,” he sneered. “We have nothing to be afraid of.”
Cursing, the other man stood and checked his pistol and Nikonov. The magazines were both full and he flicked the safety off. “I used to enjoy shooting bears” he muttered, and with his bloodshot eyes as alert as they could ever be in the gloom, he left the friendly glow of the lamp.
The other Ukrainian guard sat, shuffling the cards with the expert hands of a man practiced in guard duty. His eyes shifted right to the digital display of the monitor on the wall, its black plastic surround and LED warning lamps out of place against the rough stone work. It registered normal. Nothing. No intruders. Nothing to worry about. But the hi-tech electronics made him nervous. He was a guard trained with traditional weapons: guns and bullets. He did not rate fancy gadgets…
There was a sound somewhere in the distance - almost inaudible
- like the air being let out of a tyre.
The seated man frowned, his brow furrowed, his eyes darting over to the LED monitor, then back to the gloom of the empty corridor. He kicked the other guard, who woke with a start and, who instinctively brought the Nikonov, that had been resting on his lap, up in a menacing arc. The other man stood up and with a fluid sweeping action of the back of his large hand, struck the man heavily across the face, knocking him off the chair and across the stone floor. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, but he knew better than to strike out against his superior officer, instead he picked himself up and stood to attention.
The lean Ukrainian soldier moved towards the gloom of the corridor. “Mikhail, are you there, Comrade?” His words echoed, alone, through to the other end. When no reply came, he picked up the Nikonov and switched it to fully automatic. He moved with a smooth military precision that indicated a history of violence and, despite his sleazy appearance, a cold precise professionalism kicked in; he motioned for the other man to stay on guard at the door, as he crept forward close to the wall, suddenly alert, all senses buzzing with a sudden rush of adrenalin. He reached a junction in the corridor and glanced tentatively to the left, gun muzzle tracing an imaginary arc of fire. The half-open distant iron door showed only a beam of faint moonlight breaking briefly through the clouds and spilling over the walkway. There was no sign of Mikhail.
The guard started to back away - and was slammed off his feet, flung against the wall, a tungsten tipped arrow shaft protruding from his forehead. His Nikonov AN-94 clattered deafeningly on the granite slab floor. Blood trickled from the tiny wound, running across his face, and onto his chin and over his fatigues. His eyes, open and lifeless, stared unseeing at the ceiling as his legs and arms continued to twitch, while blood pooled around him from the smashed skull and formed a slowly growing viscous puddle on the floor.
* * * Scorpion 7 : One of ten elite units, supremely proficient and lethally effective in the violent worlds of; counter-terrorism, protection of government and political VIPs and covert operations worldwide. This was supposed to be an easy gig. Protection: close quarters, waiting for one of the British Government’s many top-class analysts to arrive in order to verify certain information carried - stolen
- by Valentin Vladimirovich Ivankov.
Ivankov, Russian born, lately of Venice, Italy, and before that involved with some nefarious desert activity in Libya. He was a man with a unique profession. He was
an internationally renowned and highly respected archaeologist, but had since his university days been a spy for the former soviet KGB. In the corner of the fortified living quarters sat an aluminium case containing the tools of his trade. The metalwork had been handcrafted to a very individual and precise design: the case had been created with an inner and outer skin with concealed X-Ray proof compartments in between for the sole purpose of smuggling. On this occasion Ivankov was carrying encoded documents stored on an SD (secure digital) memory card, which looked just like the one in his professional Nikon digital SLR camera. He knew the British Government would pay a high price to get their hands on the information that was stored on the card.
The safe room in this lonely fortress had been designed, appropriately enough, first and foremost for the safety of its occupants. The only window was glazed with a high-grade bullet-proof glass that was unusual and expensive for such a remote location. The walls, although weather beaten on the outside were solid stone, two feet thick, the ceiling and floors solid concrete, the door heavy oak with a bomb-proof core and controlled by biometric and two digital locking systems.
The occupant, obviously, was paranoid.
Valentin Vladimirovich Ivankoff slept lightly on his back, a pillow covered in the finest silk beneath his cropped blond hair. The silk sheets had been thrown free in favor of the heavy bear skin due to the extreme cold seeping in from the mountain. The old wood burning stove in the corner of the room had long gone out.
A click sounded. Valentin’s eyes instantly opened in the darkness.
He lay perfectly still staring up at the ceiling for a while, his breathing almost inaudible with a steady and even beat. Then he scanned the room, glad that he was no longer subject to the severe headaches that he had been recently suffering due to the high altitude. Just outside of his private suite, on the other side of the solid door sat three guards, courtesy of the Ukrainian army.
Inside the room with him were two of his most trusted personal bodyguards and the three members of the Scorpion 7 protection squad. All were waiting for the British Government’s expert analyst and the money that he would bring with him. Ivankov relaxed a little more as he watched the Scorpion squad; they were rated among the best and Valentin Vladimirovich Ivankov had had dealings with them on a number of occasions over the last two years since their inception. They were good. No, he thought, they really were the best of the best.
Hawk was cleaning his Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun, while Jules sat with her head resting against the wall as she rubbed at her eyes. Big Fitz, was on his feet by the bullet proof window. The big man tilted his head sideways, and there was a cracking sound of released tension as his neck vertebrae clicked back into alignment.
From outside there came a distant muffled sound of a helicopter’s rotor blades cutting through the thin mountain air. Hawk and Jules exchanged meaningful glances. “What is it?” said Ivankoff, suddenly - skittishly - nervous. He sat up in bed, quickly glancing down at where his own personal and concealed sawn-off shotgun nestled under a heavy oak chest: the last line of protection should Scorpion 7 and the bodyguards outside fail.
Yakov moved towards him, black-clad, menacing and yet, to Valentin, reassuring. He set his own weapon to fully automatic and grinned a mouthful of gold teeth. “Don’t worry yourself, Valentin,” he rumbled. “We are all here. You have nothing to fret over, you’ll be fine.” He reached out to pat Ivankov on the back.
A shrill noise cut through the air and then a metallic clack.
Both digital locks failed.
The heavy oak security door burst open.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” came the calm controlled voice.
The figure was of average height and slight build and dressed in a single-piece black body-hugging garment. The face was concealed by a tight black balaclava that revealed only the eyes, which were as blue as the ocean.
The voice was quietly spoken, carried no accent and the figure appeared not to be carrying any sort of weapon.
Everybody in the room froze...
“Who the fuck?”
“Save your questions for your God.”
The figure moved with awesome speed as the three members of Scorpion 7 and Ivankov’s two personal bodyguards opened fire. Rounds screamed across the room as the black clad figure leaped high into the air, somersaulted, twisted, and connected, booted feet first, with the large bulk of Yakov. The big man fell, and before he had crashed to the ground a long gleaming knife had been run across his throat.
The black-masked figure looked up - a quick glance. Yakov’s gun was lifted without preamble from the floor.
“You bastard!” hissed Jules, her feminine mouth open in disbelief. She had moved with exceptional agility and speed, her gun spitting its lethal payload, shell casings ejecting, but the black clad figure was - gone.
The gun muzzle felt cold against Jules’ temple. There were two dull thuds as the rounds exited and slammed into oak panelling before Hawk got his MP5 submachine gun trained on the black-clad figure from across the room.
But it was too late, “No,” Hawk mouthed silently.
The black intruder squeezed the pistol trigger and, even as Jules’ blood and brains were oozing from the side of her smashed skull, kicked off from her slumping corpse and somersaulted in a tight ball, somehow avoiding the screaming 9mm rounds from Hawk’s weapon, hit the ground and rolled towards a heavy oak chest. From nowhere a sawn off shotgun appeared and there was a heavy bass boom. Hawk was lifted from his feet and blown across the room. He left a trailing smear of blood against the stone wall, then slid down onto his haunches and remained quite still.
Suddenly everything was awesomely silent. The smell of cordite hung heavy in the air, only the flickering of a damaged light illuminated the cowering figure of Valentin Vladimirovich Ivankov. He looked up slowly, glanced around at the carnage, and let out a long-drawn shuddering sigh. He was fully aware that he was lucky to be alive, realised that he was extremely lucky not to be a corpse sprawling beside the five carcasses on the floor.
The black clad Assassin was standing with the sawn-off shotgun in his or her hands.
The figure said nothing. Made no move - no sound.
Valentin, who had good cause to feel nervous, was uncomfortable sitting on the hard floor as trickles of sweat crawled down his neck and back.
He looked at the figure as he stood up and dusted himself off, “Shit man, I can’t believe you’ve just taken down a Scorpion unit,” he croaked. There was no response - physical or oral. “How the fuck did you move so fast around this room? What are you a fucking acrobat or something? And are you here for what I think you’re here for? You don’t need to worry, I’ve still got it and it’s safe. I was on my way to him when I was snatched by this lot.” Valentin looked around the room.
The sawn-off shotgun swung up and the double barrels blasted Valentin across the room and into a twisted bloody heap in the corner. There was a clatter as the shotgun fell noisily onto the flagstones and landed in a pool of congealing blood. Soft black boots left crimson imprints across the floor while footsteps pounded down the darkened corridor towards the scene of carnage. The Assassin threw a small round ball at the center of the bullet-proof glass which attached itself by tiny suction cups.
The figure approached the aluminium case, hurled aside in the recent confusion. Crouched down behind the oak chest and hands moved swiftly to open the two outer combination catches, revealing the contents, which were hurriedly tipped out onto the floor. The pressure release was found and the inner metal lining came away easily to reveal the secret compartment holding the memory card. This was stowed away inside the tight black clothing.
The Assassin turned the outer dial on its watch face and instantly the small explosive device attached to the glass detonated. It leaped up to the opening and glanced down at the valley far below. Fresh morning sunlight bathed the scene and then the figure was gone, leaving only bloody footprints outside on the stone parapet.
* * * There was the distant rattle of Russian-made sub-machine gun fire.
The guards who had come running in from their sentry posts outside had all exchanged worried glances as they surveyed the five corpses in the room.
“How did he open the digital locks? I was told that they were foolproof. Infinite fucking combinations or something.”
“Over here, Comrade.”
The two other guards lumbered towards the gaping window, saw the footprints in congealed blood and glanced down into the sprawling valley below...
* * * Within the damp dungeons, deep beneath the mountain top fortress, something barely visible had been attached to the constantly dripping stone ceiling. A single red light, glowing faintly, an omen of death and devastation.
The bomb detonated. The explosion, savage, fire and destruction screamed whiteheat through the passageways up to the building above, wrenching it apart with the force of unleashed chemical annihilation.
In the valley below, there was a spattering of small stones into the fast moving river, followed by thunderous splashes of heavy chunks of granite and timber cascadingdown through the early morning mist.
Black smoke billowed up towards the sky, blocking out the new dawn sun.
* * * South China Sea - off the coast of Hong Kong: The tropical rain storm beat violently across the South China Sea; heaving, beating waves towards the dark rusting hulk of the grounded oil tanker, unlit and abandoned, pounded and abused by the elements. The tanker had run onto the jagged rocks that lurked just below the surface of the water many years before. Had been left to rot by one of the world’s largest petroleum corporations. The huge engines, that no longer thundered and beat with life, had long ago been dismantled and taken for scrap, as had anything else of any value including the bridge, stripped of everything and was now just a shell, empty and devoid of life. The bow was a tangle of fused rusting steel being gradually eaten away by the sea spray, and the enormous ship was a cast-off - discarded, abused, raped, bled dry and forgotten.
Chimera Code (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) Page 1
