Cyber Terror

by Rose, Malcolm

  Against the odds, the railing broke free of the wall and everyone except Mr. Ottaway looked up. At once, Mr. Ottaway’s manacled hand fell to his side.

  The doctor didn’t waste any time. “The stretcher!” he shouted. “Let’s go.”

  Jordan was still standing on the wall with the warped railing in his hand when the staff sped to the entrance with their patient, followed by Sam Ottaway. The last sight he saw with terahertz vision was Mr. Ottaway’s feet overhanging the stretcher. Between his shoes and his socks was hidden a small key. It was almost certainly the key that operated the handcuff. Jordan shook his head and wished he’d seen it before.

  In the waiting room, Sam glanced at Jordan and said, “Thanks for what you did out there. I didn’t think... Anyway, you did it.”

  Being in a hospital brought back all sorts of harrowing memories for Jordan. Tilting his head towards the emergency room, he asked, “Have you heard anything?”

  “Not a lot. But a nurse said he’d be okay now.”

  “Good.” Jordan hesitated before adding, “Just one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Do you know why anyone would write Forew on the back of a photo of your mum?”

  “Forew?”

  Jordan nodded. “Maybe her photo was just the handiest piece of paper, but maybe it was something to do with her.”

  Sam shook his head. “Doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

  “Sure?”

  “Certain,” Sam answered. “When Dad’s...if he’s all right, I’ll ask him as well.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Let me know if you turn anything up,” Sam said, “but I think you’re wasting your time.”

  With her mouth full, Kate Stelfox said, “I bet Raven doesn’t stuff her face like this.”

  Jordan was sitting with her in Unit Red’s engineering workshop. He shrugged as he bit into his own pie.

  Kate wiped away the trickle of brown sauce from the side of her mouth with an oil-stained hand. “She’s got the figure of a supermodel living on lettuce. Awesome.”

  “Maybe that’s why she’s a good agent.”

  “How come?”

  “No one can see her when she’s standing sideways,” Jordan said. “And she’s thin enough to walk through the narrowest gaps.”

  Built more for strength than elegance, Kate smiled. “Actually, she’s more slim than thin.”

  Jordan looked puzzled. “There’s a difference?”

  “Thin sounds unhealthy. Slim sounds elegant.” Changing the subject, Kate said, “Have you seen the press coverage of Captain Lazenby? I didn’t know Unit Red’s got such power over what gets out there and what doesn’t. Anyway, it’s the first officer in the Edinburgh crash that I noticed. That’s what we’re supposed to call a co-pilot these days, I think.” She glanced down at her newspaper. “He talks up Phil Lazenby, says he’s deeply upset by what’s happened and then throws this in. ‘As much as I admire what the captain did – and he did a great job – the heroics weren’t a one-man show. All the flight crew did their bit. That’s why every passenger got out safely.’” Kate gazed at Jordan. “He doesn’t think it’s right he’s been left out of the award ceremonies.”

  “I suppose it’s worth checking him out. He must know quite a bit about electronics.”

  “It’d be interesting if he had something against the other victims as well, wouldn’t it?”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Toby Cotterill,” Kate answered.

  “I’ve been wondering about something else. Do you think being a pilot would be a good cover for drug dealing?”

  “What makes you ask?” Kate said, popping in another piece of pie.

  “Phil Lazenby wrote something on a pad. How many dealers? Good Colombian and Dutch? I just thought...”

  Kate nodded. “I see what you mean. I don’t suppose pilots get as many security checks as passengers, but I don’t really know.”

  “Demi Reed said Carlton didn’t have anything to do with drugs, but she would, wouldn’t she? She said he didn’t do a lot of other things – apart from the exceptions when he did.”

  Kate put her lunch aside and took a drink. “You’re wondering if they were all into drugs, one way or another.”

  “Yeah, but I can’t see Victoria Truman as a dealer. She could hardly get out of her house, according to the neighbours.”

  “How about a receiver?” Kate asked.

  “What?”

  “Maybe she was in pain. Maybe something like cannabis helped. It’s not unheard of.”

  “I see what you mean,” Jordan said. “But there’s no house left to search.” Deprived of an obvious way forward, he waved his left hand towards the Jaguar. “How’s it going?”

  “Good. Ahead of schedule. You’ll get it back sooner than Angel thinks.”

  Toby Cotterill lived near Kempton Park Racecourse in Sunbury, between the Thames and the M3. No doubt, it was convenient for Heathrow. But there was no answer when Jordan pressed the bell push. He rang again. After a couple of minutes, he gave up and walked slowly around the detached house. He detected no sound and no movement. But he noticed that the curtains were drawn in one downstairs room and an upstairs window was slightly open.

  He turned on his terahertz vision and peered towards the curtained window. He saw a rubber plant on the windowsill and the shape of furniture beyond, but there was too great a distance between the curtain and the rest of the room to make out details. He was puzzled by the profile of an armchair, though. There was a bump at the top that looked exactly like someone’s head.

  Jordan was eager to discover if Captain Lazenby’s co-pilot had any connection with Short Circuit’s other victims, but he didn’t want to break through the front door when there was a possibility that someone was inside, refusing to answer the doorbell. He had to be more subtle. He went back to his car, changed his shoes and put on his special gloves. It was time to see if super-grip technology worked. It was time to walk up a wall.

  The shoes made normal walking slightly odd. With each footfall, he could feel himself sticking to the pavement. Yet, when he lifted each foot, the nanotechnology fibres peeled away from the paving. It was like walking on a thin layer of glue.

  He stopped in the back garden and looked towards the open window. It was a long way up. More concerning, it was a long way down onto the concrete patio if the microscopic Velcro lost its grip.

  He checked that the fastenings on his shoes were firm and that the tight-fitting gloves were secure. Then he began.

  Getting started was difficult. Not physically difficult. With both hands and one foot attached to the wall, it was a mental challenge to trust the technology enough to lift his other foot. His instinct told him that gravity would take over and he would fall. His brain told him that some unknown scientist had tested the technology over and over again. He would be safe. Sheer willpower made him lift his right foot and place it flat on the brickwork. And there he was. Like an enormous four-legged spider attached to the bottom of the wall. He glanced upwards. The window seemed far away.

  He tore his left hand off the wall, reached up as high as he dared and reattached it. Then he did the same in turn with his artificial hand, his left foot and his right foot. It was incredibly slow, but he had progressed by four layers of bricks.

  Taking a deep breath, he did the same again and found himself at the height of the downstairs windows.

  Toby’s garden had high hedges so, for the moment, Jordan’s bizarre antics would go unseen. As he got higher, he would become more visible. He had to hope that he wouldn’t be spotted. He tried to convince himself that nobody would glance upwards to check if a boy was clinging to the outside wall of a house.

  He could hardly believe what he was doing. It was crazy, unnerving and unnatural. He was also surprised by the sudden aches and tension in his body. He had hardly got going and already he felt as if he was tearing his muscles. As he mounted another metre, he guessed why the climb was sapping his stren
gth so quickly. He was human, not a spider, and his muscles weren’t designed for this sort of activity. Hauling himself slowly up the brick wall was exhausting.

  At least he was winning the battle against the feeling that he was about to plunge from the vertical surface. Even so, he knew that mountain climbers always attached ropes to themselves in case the worst happened. Jordan did not have ropes or a safety net.

  He stretched out again, one limb at a time, and lurched awkwardly upwards. He was now beyond the point when looking down was a good idea. He kept his eyes on the bricks right in front of him and looked up to the window after every step, willing it closer. The cool wind seemed stronger at this height. Unsettling him, it swept between his body and the wall.

  Twice more, he reached out, arched his back and then hunched up. His movement reminded him of a worm’s – slowly elongating and scrunching up in sequence – instead of a speedy spider’s progress. He might have moved more efficiently if he’d had sticky kneepads instead of shoes.

  If he’d had the time to practise and gain confidence with the super-grip clothing, it would probably have been fun to scuttle up walls and across ceilings. Right now, though, he was neither practised nor confident. He wasn’t scared because he felt firmly attached to the brickwork, but it had not yet become fun.

  He could put out an arm and grasp the windowsill now, but he wanted to approach the opening from the side. Peeling each point of contact carefully from the wall one-by-one, he moved a step to the right and another step upwards until he was alongside the window.

  He lifted his left hand from the wall and pushed the window open further, but it came to a sudden stop. The gap was far too narrow for him to slip through. That was probably the idea. No doubt it was a safety feature to stop outsiders getting in and anyone inside falling out.

  Having got this far, Jordan was not going to turn back. He anchored his left hand to a brick, twisted uncomfortably, and grabbed the window in his right hand. Steeling himself – hoping that the three remaining contact points were enough – he powered up his arm and forced the window back. Something metallic in the mechanism grated and then snapped, and the window opened wide, welcoming him into Toby Cotterill’s home.

  He tore his gloved hand from the window frame and slunk sideways. Attaching his shoes to the inside windowsill, he ducked down and slipped into an empty bedroom. Out of the wind and no longer needing to defy gravity, he breathed a sigh of relief and eased himself quietly onto the floor. As he crept towards the door, his shoes lifted the fitted carpet a little, like a vacuum cleaner sucking at the fibres.

  He went out onto the landing and made for the stairs. Just as he was about to go down, he froze. He heard a voice from somewhere downstairs. A threatening voice.

  Jordan was in too deep to withdraw now. Keeping his breathing deliberately quiet and tiptoeing down the wooden staircase, he descended into the hall. One door was closed. It probably led to the kitchen because the other three were open and he could see into a bathroom, the darkened living room and a dining room. Instinct made him head for the living room, made shadowy by drawn curtains.

  The door was not wide open. Jordan could not see much through the narrow angle. But he gasped when he saw a man in his underwear tied to an armchair. He had a gag across his mouth and something like a plant pot beside his legs. He was looking down at the container with an expression of fear on his face.

  12 SHOCK WAVE

  Jordan flattened himself against the wall, staying out of sight. Using his brain/computer interface, he logged on and quickly completed a search of the web. Toby Cotterill; pilot; Edinburgh. In his online mind, the top result was an article on the aeroplane that ditched in the Forth. It included a picture of the triumphant crew. Toby was standing next to Captain Lazenby. Jordan zoomed in. Yes. He recognized the face. The first officer was now captive in his own home, prevented from talking by a bandage tied very tightly over his mouth. And something was terrifying him.

  Who was in the living room with him? Was it Short Circuit? How many people were in there? Were they armed? What were they doing and why? Should Jordan crash into the living room in the hope of taking them by surprise? Or should he take a sneaky look first?

  He decided that he’d be asking for trouble if he put his head round the door. So, he opted for shock tactics. He would burst into the living room and confront whoever was inside. He steeled himself.

  Just as he was about to fly at the door, he heard a voice from the living room.

  “Ten minutes more and I’m out of here,” it said. “Out of your life. Don’t do anything silly and I won’t have to sacrifice either of us.”

  It was a man’s voice, not a British accent. I won’t have to sacrifice either of us. That implied there were only two of them in the room. It also told Jordan that he had a weapon. Jordan frowned. If the unknown man had a knife or a gun, surely he would have said, “Don’t do anything silly and I won’t have to sacrifice you.” So, what sort of weapon did he have? Perhaps something that would kill them both. And why did he say sacrifice?

  Then it struck Jordan. The intruder could be some sort of suicide bomber and that package near Toby’s feet could well be his home-made bomb.

  Jordan’s heart leaped. If he was right, he was about to tangle with another bomb. He’d had more than enough of them for a lifetime. He just had to close his eyes to remember how he had been maimed by one explosion. He could see the collapse of his bedroom, the window shattering and broken glass hurtling towards him. He could see his right arm tearing apart. Even now, the thought haunted him. It brought him out in a sweat.

  But Jordan couldn’t back out now. The feeling of dread didn’t change his mind. His plan was still to burst into the room, but his focus would be on that plastic pot. He took a deep breath and threw himself at the door. He dived towards the container and grabbed it with his bionic hand.

  Toby looked astounded. Opposite him, sitting on a chair, an unshaven man jumped with shock. Recovering quickly, he reached out for a remote control on the coffee table beside him.

  Convinced that he was holding an improvised bomb, Jordan drew back his robotic arm and tried to fling the container out of the door. But it didn’t fly anywhere. The device clung to the sticky glove.

  The terrorist – or whatever he was – pushed a key on his remote.

  Jordan braced himself, but nothing happened.

  Taken by surprise, the man fiddled with the remote, probably resetting it.

  Jordan wrenched the bomb away from his right hand with his left. Now it was firmly attached to his other hand. In that instant, he knew that, if it went off, he’d lose his real arm. Minimum.

  The bomber began to smile. He was gloating. He delayed the detonation to enjoy the strange sight of Jordan’s dilemma.

  Jordan peeled off the left-hand glove with his false fingers and wrapped it round the pot. With his real hand bare, he could now throw the device. He’d never been any good with that arm, though, so it wouldn’t go far and it wouldn’t be accurate.

  The intruder had had enough amusement. He decided it was time to press the button. And this time he wasn’t going to make a mistake.

  Jordan lobbed the container behind the large sofa and flung himself to the ground.

  The deafening noise of the blast was followed immediately by the shock wave. The windows shattered. Curtains ripped and flailed. Pictures flew off the walls. Furniture collapsed. Toby was hurled sideways along with the armchair. The TV exploded. The heavy sofa lunged at Jordan. The ceiling lifted momentarily. Pulverized by the explosion, clouds of plaster filled the air.

  The bomb took only a couple of seconds to destroy much of the room, but time appeared to slow. Jordan saw it all at reduced speed. His right arm came up protectively in front of him and deflected the settee. The remote control seemed to hover in the air while the man who had activated it was thrust forward against a broken cabinet.

  The first to recover his wits, Jordan scrambled towards Toby. “Are you all right?” he
asked, tearing off the pilot’s gag.

  Clearly confused, Toby replied, “Can’t hear.”

  Jordan shouted, “Are you okay?”

  Toby took a deep breath and then coughed violently. “I think so. Sort of.”

  The armchair was shredded. It had taken the force of the blast and probably saved the pilot.

  Toby looked around. “My house!” he cried. Still frightened, he added, “What about...?”

  The room was fogged with particles of plaster. Even Jordan struggled to see through it, but he detected the bomber’s heat signature in the infrared. He was sprawled across the floor on the far side. Picking his way over to him, Jordan saw glass from the cabinet door protruding from his neck and an extraordinary volume of blood. In a loud voice, Jordan said, “He’s out of it. Dead.”

  Jordan wished that he was standing over Short Circuit. He wished that he’d just concluded his second mission. But it wasn’t over. This man’s methods were nothing like Short Circuit’s cyber terrorism.

  “What’s this all about?” Jordan asked as he clambered over the wreckage and began to untie Toby. “Do you know?”

  The pilot clicked into gear. “What time is it?”

  “About half past two.” Jordan loosened enough cord to free Toby’s left arm.

  The pilot looked down at his wrist. “Two twenty-six. We’ve got four minutes before take-off!”

  “What?”

  “There were two of them. The other one’s exactly like me. Could be my double. He took my pilot’s licence, clothes and ID. He’s had flying lessons. He’s posing as me. He’s going to kill the pilot and crash the plane into the Houses of Parliament!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Toby nodded towards the bomber. “He was revelling in it. On a high about what they were doing.”

  Jordan undid the remaining knot.

  “He smashed my landline and mobile,” Toby said, unravelling himself from the loops of rope. “Give me yours. Quick. I’ve got to stop that flight.”

  Jordan handed over his phone.