Chimera Code (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series)

by Andrew Towning

  There was a long pause. Tatiana averted her gaze and looked over at the fire as though she was having a tussle with her conscience. Dillon caught a glimpse of something then, in her face, in her eyes. There was something that Tatiana knew, a secret she didn’t want to divulge.

  Dillon smiled tightly and reached up, stroking her hair. She turned back to him, she had regained her composure.

  “The partners asked for my recommendation and I said you, Jake,” she said the words softly. “Don’t turn me down. Don’t let her down.”

  “Who is she? Why should I give-a-damn?”

  “Zhenya Tarasova. She’s twenty-two. The niece of Professor Kirill”

  Dillon pulled away for a moment. He noticed a mischievous sparkle in Tats’ blue eyes as he searched her face - he shook his head, unsure of the unspoken signs he sought.

  “Kirill? Where the hell is LJ sending me?”

  “You really shouldn’t let me manipulate you, Jake,” said Tatiana, turning and walking away from him.

  Dillon watched the hypnotic sway of her hips. He sighed inwardly. How long has it been since I’ve had the pleasure of this woman’s company? He thought. How long without soft lips to kiss and so-soft skin to caress...

  “I can’t help myself, Tats.” His voice was a little hoarse. “Where am I going?”

  “Castle Drago, Cornwall. One of my favourite counties in England. A place where you can step off the treadmill for a couple of weeks and recharge the old batteries. Unspoilt sandy beaches and wild surf. Absolutely blissful.”

  “Kirill is based at the Government’s secret establishment here in Scotland, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, but he’s come out of his bunker up here to give a series of lectures to the Scorpion Unit top brass and selected unit commanders, and for a celebration of his achievements working on several major breakthroughs in software development. Many of those involved in the project have been based in Cornwall for - shall we say security reasons...”

  Dillon sighed and shrugged. He rubbed at his suddenly weary eyes, then met Tats’ gaze. “Will you stay?”

  There was a brief pause. Tatiana put her hands in her pockets and looked at Dillon steadily. She tilted her head, touched her lips with the tip of her forefinger, her beautiful blue eyes unreadable. Dillon realised that she had aged - matured - wonderfully in the year or so since he had last seen her. And in that instant, he realised too that he wanted her more than anything in the world.

  “And you left her for Issy, didn’t you, you cock?”Mocked his subconsciousness, a distant whisper in his head. “You cock. You sent her away.”

  Dillon shifted his weight and stood up to his full 6’2” height. Then he smiled and looked up to see the tenderness in Tatiana’s expression.

  “Not tonight, lover boy,” she said in a whisper. She smiled. “But we’ll make a date. When you get back from this assignment, maybe.”

  “You mean, maybe never. Well, I can’t say I blame you after the way I treated you. But thanks for the cheap kisses, though. At least they were enough to entice me to give Ferran & Cardini the benefit of my skilled services once again.”

  Tatiana moved forward and placed a finger against his lips. “Not another word. When you return from Cornwall - we will meet up.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise. Here catch this.”

  She tossed Dillon a new mobile phone. It was much lighter than the previous models, and he turned it slowly; similar in size to the one he had before, the dull black alloy shone as it fitted neatly into the palm of his hand. “New model?”

  Version 6. LJ has had them designed and made specifically for our own field agents. It also allows you to connect with the majority of government agencies should the need arise. The technology has moved on since you last worked for us, Jake.”

  “Really? Same basic functions?”

  “Yes and a few little enhancements.”

  The device was loaded with an ultra-fast operating programme, was solid-state - no moving parts - and quite robust; it responded verbally to commands - if activated - and had biometric fingerprint recognition facilities; it was automatically logged into the Ferran & Cardini main computer system using advanced GPS - constant web access gave world maps at the touch of a button. It also had a few hidden and very ingenious little tricks within its alloy casing.

  Tatiana turned to leave, gathering her coat and gloves and moving out into the great hall and the front door and the severe cold outside. “When are you coming back to the real world, Dillon? It’s missing you - and so am I.”

  “I’ve needed the time to get myself back together.”

  “That wasn’t the question.”

  “Then, when I have a good enough reason to. Does that answer it?”

  She held his gaze for a long time, then turned and left. He stood listening to her leave, then moved back into the living room and stood by the window and watched as the Mercedes AMG moved off in a plume of exhaust fumes and angry spinning wheels. The expensive sports car cut a swathe through the fresh snowfall and was gone in an instant, tail lights flickering into nothing.

  Dillon felt suddenly alone. Something had been stirred in him for the first time in over a year.

  For a while he watched the snow falling, and then stared down at the phone nestling in his palm. He switched it on, and it immediately came to life. A series of encrypted symbols appeared across the large touch-screen. He looked from the phone to the roaring fire - and for a moment was in two minds...

  He could simply throw into the flames. Walk away and forget his conversation with Tatiana had ever taken place.

  He had vowed the last time that he was through with LJ and Ferran & Cardini International.

  Because, when he was truly through with them, then he would be at peace with himself. Dillon shivered, staring into the flames.

  Ferran & Cardini did not know about what was going on inside his head - his self-loathing of what he had evolved into over the years. But then nobodyknew about it. Not even the firm’s shrinks. He had fooled them all at each and every assessment interview that all field agents had to undergo every six months. He had effectively hidden a dark and psychopathic slice of his personality that had gradually surfaced from the deepest recesses and now perched menacingly, always waiting to prove itself again as it had before in Jersey and Dorset. A blood demon ready to feed at any time...

  Dillon sighed.

  He turned from the flames and slumped into the embrace of the deep and comfortable antique leather sofa.

  Protection, Tatiana had said. Dillon’s head was thumping and his mouth dry and he realised that she - and LJ himself - understood him perfectly. No more killing. No more racing around the countryside with someone chasing him... Those days were over. Gone. Thrown into the ocean, just like Charlie Hart’s Brinks Mat gold bullion bars had been. But he knew where to find them all the same...

  Protection.

  The protection of Kirill’s niece - the British Government’s most coveted communist defector since the cold-war and one of the world’s foremost authorities on military computer software programs.

  No killing, no bombs, no more collective violence...

  He placed his forefinger on the biometric fingerprint reader and told the device his name. Instantly it locked onto the Ferran & Cardini mainframe. A moment later the information he had requested appeared on the screen.

  Kirill; Russian professor, born Kiev, educated Moscow and Prague. Born to parents of aristocratic ancestry, who were accused of treason and murdered by the KGB. Kirill brought up by aged aunt - attained honours degrees with distinctions in applied mathematics and quantum physics. On leaving university he was enrolled on a Soviet space programme and under direct supervision of the Kremlin.

  Expert in computing systems, specialising in advanced programming scripts and artificial intelligence scripts for military applications. Assisted to defectto UK after approach from MI6 double agent inside Kremlin. Currently developing the ‘Chimera’ military s
oftware programme for the British armed forces - Scorpion Units testing prototype model. Kirill based in underground bunker facility - exact location top secret, but Highlands of Scotland most likely. The technologically advanced research facility has been set up with the utmost security in what is largely inhospitable and inaccessible terrain. The facility is fitted with a stealth mode and therefore is virtually untraceable from the ground - air - or space.

  Kirill has been the target of various death threats; suspect terrorist activity, most likely Middle Eastern influences with attention fixed on the ‘Chimera’ Programme which is still in the development stage. British SAS units are involved with protecting Kirill while in Cornwall. One weak link could be his niece, only child of his late brother who died of cancer three years ago; she lives and travels everywhere with him and could be a target for kidnapping, or possibly murder in order to blackmail Kirill to obtain information on the new programme.

  * * * Dillon peered out of the glass cockpit as the rotor blades above picked up pace with a rhythmic whooshing sound. He grinned like a young boy - unable to contain his pleasure - as he felt the power of the machine around him wind-up to take-off speed.

  The Bell-Robinson R22 Beta II, lifted off from the snow-covered heli-pad, located on the west lawn of Dillon’s castle, and rose up into the crisp morning air of the Scottish Highlands. Snow tumbled off the helicopters skids as Dillon banked it around to the right and he watched the mountains drop away beneath him. Exhilaration filled him as the nose of the Bell dipped and the helicopter increased speed as he eased forward and the Bell’s air-cooled four-cylinder engine pitch changed with the adjustment. He had always felt alive from the thrill of flying and ensconced in his specially adapted HIDSS - a Helmet Integrated Display Sighting System - Dillon could execute any procedure with the blink of an eye.

  The intercom in Dillon’s helmet came alive as a familiar voice filtered out through the tiny speakers.

  “Hi, Jake, you hear me up there with the birds, mate?” “I hear you loud and clear, Vince.”

  “I thought those choppers were for millionaire playboys, not

  roughnecks like you?”

  “They are, but they made an exception in my case.” “Is it fast?”

  “Tops out at around 102 knots and climbs at a rate of 1000 feet

  per minute. I’m currently cruising at two thousand feet, heading due south down the coast towards Cornwall.” “Taking the scenic route, I don’t blame you. Let me know when you’re nearing your destination. And remember to stay on this secure channel.”

  “Roger that. Over and out.” Dillon settled back in his seat as the Bell hummed at its cruising speed of 96 knots. He activated the stealth mode, one of the extras he had fitted by the manufacturer before it had left their factory, and cruised down the coastline of England. He checked the mobile phone that Tatiana had given him and noticed that he had one new email. It contained the operational instructions for the assignment. Protection duties in support of British Special Air Service and MI6 operatives. That’s all he needed, these boys would not welcome him in Cornwall with open arms and smiling faces. These boys would resent him being there at all. This was LJ’s way of easing him back into the Ferran & Cardini fold... and then he would feel the dark side of his psyche spread its wings and wait in abeyance for the killing to start...

  He felt a cold shiver run up and down his spine.

  He returned the mobile device back to his jacket pocket. “I should have stayed in Scotland,” he mused, settling deeper into the helicopter’s padded seat; the original had been structured in hard polycarbonate, very uncomfortable, so Dillon had it replaced with something more luxurious.

  Dillon had engaged the auto-pilot system which was now flying the compact two-man helicopter at low altitude down the east coast of England, the cold dark waters of the North Sea a few hundred feet below him as the Bell’s stealth system worked seamlessly to automatically adjust its course so as to evade detection by radar stations and other more sophisticated probing detection equipment. He continued on down the coast, only stopping once to re-fuel at a small private airfield just outside Ipswich. He then set a course inland over Oxfordshire, and then headed due south towards the Isle of Wight, picking up the southern coast of England and passing over Bournemouth on his way down the rugged Jurassic coastline towards Cornwall and his final destination - Castle Drago. The further west he flew the worse the weather became; rain and wind buffeting the small helicopter.

  The speakers inside his helmet crackled and the next moment Vince Sharp’s voice was being piped into his ears. “You okay, Jake?”

  “If you call high winds and torrential rain okay, then yes, I’m doing just fine.”

  “I’ve estimated that you should be at Castle Drago in approximately ten minutes. LJ has asked me to thank you for undertaking this assignment and wishes you all the very best.”

  “Sounds ominous. Couldn’t he have said that to me personally?”

  “Sorry mate. He’s currently in Argentina - some sort of government crisis thing...”

  “What’s Castle Drago like?”

  Nice little pad they’ve got hidden away in the middle of nowhere, mate. We’ve been given strict instructions that you’re not to land anywhere near to the main building. There’s a Heli-pad in the middle of a wooded area due south of the main residence - that’s where you put down and they’ll send a reception party to meet you.”

  “Nice.”

  “Do I detect thereturn of that legendary surly contemptuousness, Mr Dillon?”

  “Vince?”

  “Yes mate?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Okay. Before I forget, de-activate that stealth mode you’ve got fitted before you get within three miles of them. They’ll want to track you on their radar screens as you approach.”

  “Roger that. Over and out.” Dillon grinned; flicked two switches and the Bell swooped down from the sky towards the undulating and heavily wooded landscape below. He watched the treetops as he headed inland from the coast and eventually spotted the clearing with a large ‘H’ in the middle of a concrete hard-stand. A few moments later he had touched down and had shut down all on-board systems. At the edge of the clearing a black Range Rover was waiting for him. He stepped down from the cockpit, the wind and rain hitting him with all its might, closed the cockpit door and armed the security system. Should the Bell be tampered with or stolen, Dillon was able see what was going down on the small LCD screen on the remote key, which was wirelessly linked to the Bell’s on-board camera. The remote operated a small explosive device that would detonate inside the engine compartment. The end result was the same whether the helicopter was in the air or on the ground - instantaneous death to anyone in or close to the machine at the time of detonation - the remote had a range of one hundred miles.

  Two black clad soldiers got out of the 4x4 as he approached them, one took charge of his canvas holdall, and the other ran a handheld security scanner over his clothing. He got into the rear seat and a moment later was being driven along an unmade track towards, Castle Drago. High trees were moving past on either side and the vehicle soon drove through the gloomy sanctuary of the woods and out into the rugged Cornish landscape.

  Dillon wound down the window and breathed in the pleasant fresh scent. Rain spat through the gap and he revelled in the shocking coolness on his face. He saw himself imposed over the image of the rolling countryside: Dillon, reflected in glass - unruly dark hair, heavy stubble, dark brooding eyes. A somewhat weathered face that had taken one too many punches. A strong chiseled chin - he thrust it forward, and then grinned weakly at his reflection.

  Ugly bastard, he mused, and subconsciously pulled out the packet of cigarettes and lit one, reminding himself that he really should quit.

  The castle was impressive. Completely restored. Very expensive.

  Dillon went through the usual security scans and check-in rigmarole and was then shown up to his room by one of the uniformed orderlies. He immed
iately unpacked, showered and shaved, and then spent twenty minutes thoroughly searching the room for bugs and cameras. Satisfied that his room was neither bugged with listening devices or cameras he then went and familiarised himself with every aspect of the castle. He walked around, smoking, checking out entrances and exits. He sat for a while in the main lobby, watching the people coming and going, and being eyed himself by two of the security service guards armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 machine carbines. A waiter approached and asked him if he required a drink. He asked for a single malt whisky and then shook his head, telling himself off.

  You’ve got one day left before Kirill and his niece arrive, he mused. The last thing you need is alcohol to blur your thinking.

  Ignoring his own advice, he ordered a bottle of the best single malt from the castle’s cellar to be sent up to his room. When the waiter had disappeared he went outside and stood under the high covered portico and smoked a cigarette. The rain was still falling heavily and the wind was not giving in - blowing a gale from the west. He finished his smoke and went back up to his room for a drink and to watch TV for a while before dinner.

  He sent an email to Vince Sharp in London, to which the reply was almost immediate. Keep off the booze! He laughed, and downed the glass of whisky in one gulp. He felt the tension he had been feeling since his arrival at the castle temporarily leave him - he refilled his glass, but again the guilt of having even a single drink nagged at him. It was always the same thoughts that returned with the booze - was he going mad...

  “ I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Jake. Your mind is all over the place and running a-muck everywhere you go.” Issy had shouted this at him as she’d walked out of his apartment and out of his life for good. And her words had haunted him ever since.

  He had let Issy walk out without a proper farewell and had thrown a long friendship into oblivion. She had known there was a problem - a needle in his mind, a splinter through his soul - and had begged him to tell her what was wrong. But he could not. How could he describe the feeling he got when he killed in mere words? How could he define the torment and torture, his misery - that came afterwards?