by Guy Roberts
The warm afternoon sun making his eyelids heavier by the second, Jack pushed himself up the staircase. He could hear a radio playing down one corridor and steered himself in the other direction. Finding a bedroom, he was impressed at the taste and elegance of the low-lit, dark-timbered chamber. He sat down on the side of the bed and breathed a sigh of relief. For the first time in days he felt able to let go and relax, safely hidden away from prying eyes. Pulling off his shoes Jack lay back on the bed and relaxed each muscle across his body in turn. Peace and tiredness gripped gently at his limbs. The idea of a shower was appealing, but he sunk into sleep before another moment passed.
1215 hrs 16 June 2015, COBRA, Whitehall, London.
GR 51.503721, -0.126270
The COBRA room was in chaos, harried staff shouting orders down telephones or hammering at their keyboards in frustration. The sudden failure of the CCTV network had left the office dumbfounded and the security cordon of helicopters and river patrol craft had been left leaderless, chasing blindly up and down the river without any clear direction from the COBRA team. Jack and Cleo had been able to pierce the confused cordon with monumental ease. It had been left to Michelle Highgrove to eventually restore some sort of primitive coordination, ordering specific staff to establish clear command lines with the crews of the surveillance craft on the scene and flooding the crippled COBRA room with as many IT staff as could be found. The Police Special Operations Group at Cleopatra’s Needle had managed to arrest three men at the site of the disaster, but others had escaped in the confusion. Entire battalions of Government media spokesmen were already trying to button down the situation, explaining the disaster as nothing more serious than a botched maintenance effort.
Brice slumped forward across the table, a look of disgust on his face. His iPad sat on the table between his elbows and he compulsively renewed the Times website over and over again, watching despondently as news of the Needle’s collapse filtered out to the public. No one dared disturb him.
Fifteen minutes later the CCTV cameras suddenly reactivated, leaving the staff open-mouthed as they desperately tried to re-coordinate the search for the fugitives. Brice pushed himself out of his chair and stalked over to the thickest gaggle of IT staffers.
‘What’s going on?’ Brice’s voice was tired. ‘How did they do it? Was it the Kremlin attacking us online? You, Andrew, tell me what happened?’
The IT expert hunched over a computer flinched as Brice’s attention focused upon him.
‘I’m… I’m not sure,’ he muttered nervously. ‘The coding was just flooded with nonsense. It just filled up with the words ‘Lorem Ipsum Dolor Sit Amet’ over and over again and then it suddenly vanished and we were back online as if nothing happened.’
‘Find out how,’ Brice ordered, rubbing a tired hand across his face. ‘Get everything back online as soon as possible – I want to know where those two went.’
Andrew nodded and bowed his head over the keyboard once more.
‘We’ve found the boat,’ Highgrove declared, ‘idling in Surrey Water, empty. Water Police are there now. We’ve issued an all-points bulletin along both sides of the river. There’s a suspicious package on the boat, the Bomb Squad are being called in.’
‘Screw the Bomb Squad!’ Brice ordered decisively. ‘These are criminals, not terrorists!’
‘But sir,’ Highgrove tried to remonstrate.
‘But nothing. Get someone onto that boat right now, search it for fingerprints, clues, anything you have and I want every policeman we have to go on foot to search every step of the river between Lambeth Bridge and Surrey Water. I want to know where those two went.’
‘Lambeth Bridge?’ Andrew frowned. ‘But that’s up river.’
Brice’s face bloomed red in anger. ‘Because, you dolt,’ he snarled heavily, ‘they could have gone up river during that black out. Who the hell knows, so find out!’
Andrew quailed under Brice’s bullying glare. After a long moment, Brice snorted in distain and slumped back into his seat at the head of the conference table, idly watching the security officers slowly restore order to the COBRA systems.
‘How long till the Prime Minister gets back from Washington?’ He snapped the question at the Commodore. The Naval Officer had been sitting at the table for an hour, a military presence watching sympathetically as the civilian disaster unfolded around him.
‘48 hours.’ The Commodore’s response was quick.
Brice blew air past his teeth with a long hiss, his nimble mind trying to rearrange the facts of the matter into a presentable case. The last half hour had not been good, all things considered. Brice clenched his teeth in frustration. He had been so pleased that the Prime Minister had appointed him to direct the investigation into David Starling’s death – over the authority of Sir Johnathon Fairchild, no less. A quick investigation had been a certainty. But now it seemed that Brice’s victory was being twitched out of reach every time he drew close. Brice frowned. Too many things had gone wrong, on too large a scale. Brice knew how the game was played in Whitehall. Even if he captured Starling and forced the Russians back to the negotiating table, his own name would be tarnished – he would be damaged goods, the man who let Cleopatra’s Needle fall, forced to abandon his political ambitions and slink into the boorish, machismo-laden world of finance like so many of his chums. The alternative was humble pie – begging his father to help keep him in the Prime Minister’s Office in the false hope of a second chance. Either way, Brice could feel his window of opportunity inching shut. Brice shifted, a new thought striking home. What if Jack had help? What if the Russians were controlling this from the inside… Brice blinked heavily and straightened in his chair, staring around the room in alarm. What if they had an agent inside COBRA? Brice tapped on the iPad for a few moments then leaned back, thinking carefully about the course of events he had just witnessed. The monitors went down only after he left the room… he must have done something to stop us from capturing them… it must have been him.
Brice leaned urgently across the table and whispered into the Commodore’s ear.
‘Get me everything you have on Sir Johnathon Fairchild.’
1900 hrs 16 June 2015, The Shard, London.
GR 510504491, -0.086312
Jack woke slowly. The room was hot and stuffy, the evening sun streaming across the bed through the open door. Jack groggily lifted his watch up to his face. It was 7 o’clock. He had slept solidly for hours. The pulsing beat of a BBC news broadcast reached his ears and he went out to the balcony overlooking the main room of the apartment. Cleo was in the kitchen area, dressed in a fluffy white bath robe, rummaging around the drawers. A news bulletin was on in the background. Cleo looked up as he appeared and smiled winsomely.
‘Steak and eggs in fifteen minutes,’ she declared, ‘plus beer.’
Jack grinned at the news, fully awake once more. He quickly retreated back to his room, finding a second door that led to a spacious marble bathroom. A wide expanse of polished glass swung back to reveal the largest shower he had ever seen. Jack quickly stripped down and stepped inside. After three days of puzzling through his brother’s cryptic poetry, the futuristic controls of the shower were easy and in seconds Jack was bracing himself as scathingly hot water scoured his head and shoulders. Fifteen minutes later, he was sitting in the kitchen, mouth salivating. Cleo opened a beer for him, then slid a plate across the counter top. Jack smiled at the meal she had prepared. A perfectly cooked steak and mound of buttery scrambled eggs sat atop two doorstop-sized slices of well-buttered toast. Jack’s stomach growled and he realised he was famished.
‘Amazing.’ Jack smiled in thanks as he began cutting into the steak. ‘Tomato sauce?’ She raised an eyebrow and vanished into the larder, emerging a few moments later with a familiar red bottle. Jack nodded his appreciation and squirted a puddle of red sauce onto one side of the plate.
Jack raised his beer in salutation. ‘Cheers.’
Cleo raised a glass of champagne in response
and then tucked into her own meal with equal gusto. She was dressed in functional black jeans and top, a skin-tight costume that showed off her athletic build. Her hair was pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail. Jack had tried the clothes hanging in the bedroom cupboard, but found them ludicrously small, so had redressed himself in the clothes borrowed from Bethany’s son. The faint smell of cordite on his hoodie was disconcerting when mixed with the aromas of well-cooked steak.
There was a companionable silence for some minutes, broken only by chewing, slurping and satisfied grunts.
Eventually Jack leaned back, feeling revitalised by the excellently-prepared dinner. He nodded a final thanks to Cleo, glad to see she had satisfied her own appetite as well. There was more beer in the fridge, but Jack left it there without regret. Another beer would dull his wits and he was not sure where the next step of the puzzle would lead them.
‘Back to it then,’ Jack eventually declared, looking across the marble counter top at her with expectation.
Cleo raised a finger. ‘In a couple of seconds. We’re still waiting for someone…’ Jack frowned, then went on edge as the unmistakable chimes of a doorbell floated through the apartment. Cleo took the plates from the counter and moved them toward the sink.
‘Well… go see,’ she instructed, tossing her head toward the apartment entrance.
Jack slowly pushed himself from the table and moved toward the doorway. A small panel by the side of the entrance had a computer monitor and Jack peered into it to see Andrew standing by the elevator doors on the ground floor, a look of wariness painted across his face. Jack frowned, but pushed the button to open the elevator doors and let Andrew travel upward to their hidden sanctuary.
A few minutes later, Andrew had entered the apartment. A look of nervousness on his face was quickly replaced by simmering anger.
‘What the hell did you two do this afternoon?’ He stared at them belligerently, the luxurious apartment ignored.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Surveillance Telephone Destroyer!’ Andrew snapped. ‘The STD! That was something I bloody designed for David three months ago by special request. If anyone else but me had been in the room when that thing went off, I would have been dragged off to the Tower of London!’
‘But we knew you were there.’ Cleo declared soothingly, strolling in from the kitchen with a fresh bottle of beer. Andrew frowned suspiciously before automatically accepting the cold bottle she thrust into his hand.
‘Who are you?’
‘Cleo Draycott,’ she introduced herself with a smile. ‘I was a friend of David’s, helping him find the gold. He left a message at the British Library, telling me to contact you if we needed help.’
‘Contact me?’ Andrew spluttered. ‘You called me at my desk in the middle of the COBRA office, pretending to be my mother? Do you know how risky that was?’
‘Everyone gets a call from their mother at work sooner or later,’ Cleo shrugged. ‘It was 5 o’clock in the afternoon when I called. You would have been going home anyway and I knew they’d put me through if I nagged long enough.’
‘My mother,’ Andrew’s forehead was creased with frustration, ‘is on holiday!’
Jack smiled, enjoying Andrew’s discomfiture at meeting the irresistible force of Cleo’s personality.
‘Well, relax,’ Cleo decided, ‘David told me all about you. He said you had one of the best minds in COBRA and that you had the most important shift in the office – 9 to 5, Monday to Friday.’
‘He said that?’ Andrew seemed mollified by the compliment. ‘Well, that shift is only important because it’s when the politicians are in Parliament asking questions and we need to be able to provide the answers.’
‘Well there you go,’ Cleo smiled winsomely. ‘David was right after all.’
‘Hum.’ Andrew looked at them, unconvinced. ‘Well, I’ll have to go back to the office soon enough, especially after what happened today.’ He peered at Jack’s clothes.
‘What happened to my tuxedo?’
Jack looked apologetic. ‘It’s being dry-cleaned,’ he explained.
‘What?’
‘In Brixton.’
‘What!’
‘Don’t worry,’ Jack raised his hands calmingly. ‘It’s in good hands. I’ll get it back to you when all this is done.’
Andrew nodded reluctantly, then took a long drink of the beer.
‘Here.’ He thrust a black carryall into Jack’s hands and glared at Cleo. ‘She told me to bring a spare set of clothes.’
Jack unzipped the bag to find shoes, underwear, socks, jeans, a fitted shirt and a leather jacket. The entire ensemble was black. He nodded gratefully to Andrew then headed upstairs for a costume change. Luckily Andrew’s clothes fitted him well, even down to the shoes. Jack was careful to transfer the various papers and documents to the inside pocket of the leather jacket.
By the time he came back downstairs, Cleo and Andrew had made peace and were sitting in plush armchairs looking out over the city views. Jack settled into his own seat and looked at her expectantly. She shrugged.
‘It was the same number.’ The explanation meant nothing and Jack gestured at her to continue.
‘This afternoon,’ Cleo continued, ‘just before the Needle collapsed, you gave me Andrew’s business card.’ Jack frowned, remembering the moment of cold calculation as he had thrust the scrap of paper toward her. ‘It was the same number that David had made me memorise before I went to Paris. He told me it was the number to call if there was ever an emergency and I needed help.’
‘So why didn’t you call me earlier?’ Andrew interrupted. ‘Why didn’t you call me when David Starling was killed?’ Cleo gave him a level look.
‘Because I didn’t need help.’
‘So why did you call today?’
Cleo gave a wan smile. ‘After being shot at this afternoon, I decided the time was right to give your number a call.’
Andrew gave her a considering glance, then smiled firmly. ‘I guess I’m glad you did.’
Jack smiled. Somehow he was feeling closer to his brother than he had ever felt when David had actually been alive. Every step he had taken in the last 48 hours seemed to have been carefully calculated and every possibility considered. Now the three of them were hiding in a luxury apartment in the middle of London, ready for the sun to set and the next step of their journey to begin.
‘So what job are we up to now?’ It was as if Andrew had been reading his thoughts. ‘London Bridge? Buckingham Palace?’
Jack smiled and pulled out the final stanza of the poem from his jacket. Cleo and Andrew leaned forward in anticipation and Jack felt his excitement flare once again. Between the three of them they had deciphered every clue David had given them, outwitted everything that Deschamps had thrown at them and even escaped the attentions of the most powerful security apparatus of the British Government. Whatever we have to do, Jack realised, we’ve got a damn good chance. He laid the paper on the table and they began to decipher their next step.
2100 hrs (2000 hrs GMT) 16 June 2015, Drontheimer Strasse, Berlin.
GR 52.561948, 13.377329
‘We’re still blind.’ Vano Gilauri stared at his computer screen with a scowl. The factory floor was empty but for the hacker and his two overseers.
‘Still?’ The Termite frowned with disquiet. ‘Why can’t we find out what COBRA is up to? Why can’t we get back in there?’
Vano’s lips pursed with frustration. ‘Our source has been cut off. There’s been no conversation, no discussion and no information at all. There is nothing we can do.’ He banged a hand against the side of the computer screen in frustration. ‘Unless you have another source in COBRA then we’re locked out.’
The Termite swallowed, trying to hide his sudden nervousness. The last 48 hours had been intense – every step of the COBRA search for Jack Starling had been faithfully relayed to Deschamps’ Parisian headquarters, and over one million Euro had been transferred to the Termite’s Sw
iss bank accounts in return. It was that million Euros that was suddenly weighing on the Termite’s mind. His study of psychology was acute – it was the basis of his empire – and he knew Deschamps would not be happy to be told that the Termite’s help had come to an end. Too much had been paid and Starling was still on the run. To tell Deschamps that his help was at an end would be fatal. The Termite knew he had to deliver Jack Starling or suffer retribution from one of the most ruthless criminals of Europe. The Termite swallowed nervously, a shiver of fear sliding gently across his spine as he considered the precariousness of his situation. The Termite felt a burst of nausea rise from his stomach. The removal of his link to COBRA could bring all his dreams to a fatal end.
‘Well,’ his polished Berliner accent carried no trace of the nervousness he felt, ‘I’m sure you cannot be blamed for that.’ The implication of the words was the exact opposite.
‘Come now, Vano,’ Nyx’ soft voice drifted from the shadows like a dream. ‘Are you conceding defeat so easily?’
‘Of course not,’ Vano bridled at the implied weakness. ‘I have many options available. My voice recognition software is the fastest in the world… I’ll find a way in, just you see.’ The moody young hacker turned back to his computer without another word, clearly goaded to find some other way learn the secrets of COBRA.
