by Pat Mullan
"Phone call for you, Sir Geoffrey. I took the liberty of bringing the telephone to your table."
"Thank you, David."
The call lasted no more than half a minute. Sir Geoffrey didn't speak; only responded with polite affirmations and a courteous 'good-bye'. He was lunching alone so it wouldn't be necessary for him to find excuses for leaving just before they brought his main entree to the table.
Brussels
It was late, almost midnight, when Peter Sorensen entered the lobby of the Palace Hotel in Brussels. The EU Minister for Regional Development was very tired. He had sat through eight hours of technical discussions on cross-border transactions, one of the national impediments to free trade within the European Union. He took his room key and had turned to go when the desk clerk said :
"One moment, Mr. Sorensen. I believe there's a message for you." He reached back into the pigeon holes behind his desk and retrieved a white slip of paper. Peter Sorensen opened it. Just a phone number with a request to call immediately. When he reached his room he did just that. He was on a flight out of Bussels at 8 a.m. the following morning.
Zurich
Claude Fymat didn't like to be interrupted during dinner. He had arrivd in Zurich from Paris at 8 p.m. and had had a successful day. The contract was signed. As managing partner of Fymat and Fymat, he had a right to feel satisfied. Their fee was one million dollars. And the escargots were succulent with just the correct amount of garlic. He didn't like it when he had to leave half a bottle of superb Bordeaux. Claude Fymat checked out of the Doldergrand at precisely 7:30 the next morning and took a taxi directly to the airport.
London
Number 7, Digby Lane in Belgravia was a mews house. In fact it was two, converted originally to provide spacious accommodation in an inauspicious location. It was the inner London retreat of Lord Haverford. A discreet address in a discreet neighborhood where privacy was paramount. So no-one paid any attention when five gentlemen arrived, each by taxi, at various times throughout the Wednesday morning and early afternoon.
Still sprightly for his ninety-three years, Lord Haverford welcomed each of them with brandy and a blazing fire in the drawing room. At exactly seven p.m. the first formal meeting in three years of the Advisory Committee of the Thackeray Institute met in the conference room at Number 7, Digby Lane. They were connected audio-visually with Senator Sumner Hardy and Tony Thackeray at the Senator's home in Viginia. It was Tony Thackeray who spoke after Lord Haverford opened the meeting :
"You have all been briefed, gentlemen," and assuming that silence was confirmation, continued : "Senator Hardy will address any issues or concerns."
The Senator reinforced the urgency:
"As you know, events have moved ahead of us. We cannot wait for the outcome of elections next year. I believe that our cause is in jeopardy. That leaves us no alternative but to implement the contingency plan we agreed at our meeting three years ago."
"Precisely how much time do we have?" asked Sir Geoffrey.
"A month. No more than three," answered the Senator.
"Verdammt Knapper Termin! It'll take at least a month to put everything in place in Bonn," snapped Karl-Heinz Schell.
"Hong Kong won't be a problem. We'll manage any run on the banks and our people are already in charge at the exchanges. But I must go to Peking right away. We cannot afford any misunderstandings," said James Scott Tsu.
"Peter, I'm concerned about the EU," said Tony Thackeray.
"Don't be. The EU today is Germany and France, with apologies to you, Sir Geoffrey. Karl-Heinz will take care of Bonn and Claude will handle events at the Elysee Palace. Isn't that right, Claude?" answered Peter Sorensen.
"Correct. France is not particularly friendly with the present US Administration. Our President can always be made to see that America's difficulty is France's opportunity. I do need the full month, Senator. If you move next week, we will not be prepared," responded Claude Fymat.
Sir Geoffrey cut in, "This is all fine, gentlemen. But Britain is different. We don't like it when it's perceived that we're being directed by the Americans. On the other hand, we value our special relationship with Washington. Isn't that right, Senator?"
"Yes, Sir Geoffrey. I believe that Britain may very well be the biggest problem. How do you plan to deal with that?" asked the Senator.
"There will be two positions in Britain. The public one of outcry and defense mobilization. The private one will be more sober. Our alumni hold sway at the Exchequer, the War Office and the Foreign Office. The Prime Minister will be made painfully aware of that. I will see to it. If absolutely necessary, we can demonstrate to Cabinet our technical ability to cripple Britain's communication network and deplete the Bank of England. But I doubt if we'll need to go that far. No, I can assure you that, apart from the public rumblings, life will proceed as usual. Isn't that right, Lord Haverford?"
"Quite so, quite so, Sir Geoffrey. And I will keep those blighters in the Lords fully stocked with their finest brandies," piped up Lord Haverford, adding an almost senile touch of levity to the proceedings.
"I will be meeting with the President by the weekend. If he chooses to back off, your assistance will not be necessary. But this President is not easily advised. Or threatened," said Senator Hardy.
"Gentlemen, I expect each of you to implement the contingency starting tomorrow", said Tony Thackeray as the conference concluded.
Claude Fymat, Karl-Heinz Schell and Peter Sorensen left that evening. James Scott Tsu stayed over till morning. Sir Geoffrey Clutterbuck also spent the night at Number 7. He had an affinity for Lord Haverford's brandy.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Washington, D.C.
FBI Director Tom Redington was a burly six-footer. He had been appointed to the office after a long successful career heading the police departments of New York, Chicago and Detroit. Bart Shields got up out of his chair to greet him. Redington plunged right in:
"Bart, I've had a number of talks with the President lately. I know what's going on. That's why I'm here. I just hope the President is wrong."
He handed over a sealed folder. General Shields went back to his desk and sat down. Inside the folder were the details of the death of a young man who had stepped in front of a taxi at the airport in Atlanta. He had been travelling on a false passport. Interpol had identified him as a Dutch national, Hans Vertonen.
"Why are you bringing this to me, Tom?", asked Bart Shields.
"Five years ago he served time in prison for attempting to illegally transfer thousands of dollars out of SWIFT into a bank in Sierra Leone"
"SWIFT?"
"That's one of the electronic networks that banks use to transmit their customers' money. Stands for the Society of Worldwide Interbank Financial Transactions."
"Sounds like something out of James Bond."
"No fiction, Bart. It's real. And I don't believe this Dutchman was a lone hacker on his way to rob Wells Fargo. There have been too many attempts to crack our command computers. Your man, Sanderson, discovered that. The guys in Intelligence and Security have been trying to cage some of these 'critters'. But they haven't been very successful."
"You're right. They haven't come up with a thing."
"You asked me to tell you if I found out anything about this McNab and his Covenanters", Redington paused for effect before he delivered the punch line,"The Dutchman was carrying one of those electronic organizers. We got into his secret memo file. One of the items was Colonel George McNab and his phone number. We thought that was curious so we did some more checking."
Director Redington had General Shields full attention at this point. About to light a Macanudo he put it in his mouth and started to roll it around with his lips. Tom Redington continued:
"Our friend, Hans, was one of a group of Dutch hackers who tried to make a deal with Saddam Hussein during the Gulf War. They offered to screw up our military deployment. For $1 million big ones! Saddam didn't bite."
"I did hear about that at the
time, Tom. But where's the connection?"
"Three of the Dutchmen entered the U.S. in the past year. One at New York, one at Chicago and one at Atlanta. Same as our friend, Hans. All on temporary visas. And they've disappeared. No trace of them since. Neither here nor in Europe. Strange, don't you think?"
"Are you trying to say these people are some kind of computer mercenaries?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying. No, I'd even call them terrorists. Right in your camp, Bart!"
General Shields threw his Macanudo in the ashtray. He had chewed about a quarter of it. Tom Redington was standing again. Bart Shields got up too and walked around the desk to join him.
"I'm concerned, Tom. I have a man at the Millennium Covenant right now."
"Who?"
"Owen MacDara."
TWENTY-NINE
Tennessee
The Millennium Covenant
The light woke him. Its naked glare shone directly in his face. He turned over on the lumpy mattress, feeling the ache in his shoulder and neck muscles.
"Let's go. Colonel George wants to see you."
It was the same two who had brought him here. One of them was holding a flashlight. As MacDara swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, the other one returned his watch. MacDara focused his eyes and was surprised to see that it was eleven p.m. He'd been locked up for eight hours.
Once out of the building that housed his cell, MacDara could feel his feet crunching on the gravel that covered the parade ground. The guard with the flashlight led the way and MacDara followed while the second guard brought up the rear. They had not handcuffed him this time and, for a fleeting moment, MacDara was tempted to make a run for it. But they had already reached their destination. The guard in front knocked on a door, opened it and ushered MacDara into a building that looked just like a one-room schoolhouse. He assumed it was a briefing and orientation room for the Colonel's followers. Colonel George McNab stood almost at attention, still in camoflaged battle gear, flanked by two lean, tough looking troopers.
"MacDara, I hope you enjoyed your stay with us. I've looked at your military record. You were a good soldier. Expert rifleman. Black belt in karate. I respect that. So I've decided to give you a sporting chance. You'll get a ten minute head start. My people have been given orders to shoot to kill."
Addressing the two guards who brought MacDara to him, he said:
"Get him out of here. Take him to the drop-off point."
As they bundled MacDara out of the 'schoolroom' he could hear Colonel George McNab yell after him:
"Give my regards to Bart Shields!" and then burst into guffaws of almost maniacal laughter.
Five minutes later the two guards tossed MacDara out of the jeep. They must have travelled a couple of miles over twisting, meandering dirt tracks that had forked at least three or four times. They had given him a canteen of water. Nothing else. As he watched the rear lights of the jeep disappear he tried to get his bearings. His watch was luminous and it incorporated a compass. One of those hi-tech gimmicky things that he'd been given by a client for bringing a job in on time. He knew that the entrance to the Millennium Covenant lay south of the assembly area where he'd been detained. But he didn't know exactly where he was in relation to that. He had tried to get a sense of direction in the jeep but the dirt track had meandered all over the place. Looking at the compass he could see that the jeep was heading west when it left him. South would take him directly into the dense forest that covered much of these hills. He figuratively tossed a coin on it and headed back along the dirt track. Maybe it'll lead me out of here, he thought without conviction. Three minutes had already passed. He didn't doubt the Colonel's word. In seven minutes they'd be after him. The Colonel was playing with him. And giving his people some practise in night fighting at the same time. As far as the Colonel was concerned he was a dead man.
The dirt track was ridged in the middle, jeep rutted on either side and pockmarked with waterfilled potholes from the heavy rains of recent days. It was pitch black. Whatever light that peeked out from the cloudy skies failed to get through the treetops and into this track. MacDara stepped calf-deep into a pothole, tripped and fell forward scratching his right arm on the stony ground. His left foot was soaking wet but he reckoned it would have to stay that way. He tried to walk the center ridge but found that tricky. A good five minutes had passed and he wasn't making much progress. They'd be coming after him soon and he had no plan. His whole life was driven to plan. Just to complicate matters, he hit a fork in the track. It split into three and he didn't know which to take. He walked from one to the other but they were equally rutted. The jeep that brought him here could have driven up either one of them. This was a crap shoot. He picked the one in the middle and stumbled on.
Twenty minutes later he had stopped to pee up against a tree when the bullet struck right above his head just about the same time that he heard the crack of the rifle. He hit the ground, peeing his pants in the process. They must be using infra-red scopes, he reckoned. His adrenalin was pumping, getting him ready to fight or flee. He couldn't fight so he had to flee. He swung his body over a ditch and rolled into deep undergrowth carpeted with leaves and broken twigs. Picking himself up he ran and stumbled, directionless, banging into trees in his path. Driven by putting distance between himself and that rifle. But it was futile. Bullets sprayed the trees all around him and he hit the ground again. He began to crawl, motivated by a primal urge to keep moving as the bullets traversed the air above him. For a moment he thought he was back in basic combat training in Fort Dix, New Jersey; right in the middle of the infiltration course, except that he wasn't crawling on his back under barbed wire with his M14 rifle and there weren't any tracer bullets to give him a sense of the trajectory of fire. The firing ceased again and he rose to his haunches and started running. The trees were larger here with thicker trunks. They must have me on a scope so I've got to try and elude them, he thought. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness by this time and the moon was sending slivers of eerie light here and there through openings in the foliage. He stopped and planted himself behind a large tree trunk, focused on the next one directly ahead of him and then ran and planted himself behind it. He kept doing this for at least five hundred yards, hoping that his pursuers were behind him. He didn't know where he was going. But his aim was survival. He reasoned that, in order to escape, he must survive. He wished that he had that M14 he had used in basic. He'd been great at night firing on the range. The infra-red scope had intrigued him. He only hoped his tree hopping had blocked it now. The undergrowth was deeper and thicker here. More fallen leaves and more dead branches and twigs. He'd change strategy. Maybe let them get ahead of him. Maybe see how many of them there were. On impulse he chose a a place and burrowed himself deep into the undergrowth, leaving just enough opening between the dead branches to keep a tunnel of vision. Then he lay totally still. Even suppressed his breathing. It seemed interminable. But only two minutes had passed when the rustle of tramping feet vibrated the ground around him. They passed, three of them, within five feet of him. His ear to the ground acted almost like a tuning fork telling him exactly how many and the cadence of their movement. His eyes confirmed his ears. He waited till the sounds receded and then he got up and followed them, again moving rapidly from tree to tree. The third man was a straggler and it didn't take MacDara long to close the distance. An arm lock on his adam's apple and a karate chop disabled him. Surely and silently. MacDara relieved him of the Uzi that he carried as well as the six-inch hunting knife. He covered the body with undergrowth and moved on. The other two were ahead of him. They apparently hadn't missed their buddy. MacDara checked his compass again and saw that he was travelling due east. Which didn't help him at all. But he no longer felt naked. He started to track the two ahead of him. Stealthily. Suddenly he heard voices and he moved closer. Now he could see four of them. Two others had joined. Getting even closer he picked up what they were saying:
"How the hell could you lo
se him?"
"Shit, man, we don't know. He was on the scope and then he wasn't. We haven't seen him since."
"Where's Simms?"
"I don't fucking know! He was there a minute ago. Maybe he stopped to take a shit!"
"Don't get fucking wise on me! If we lose this prick, Colonel George ain't gonna be too happy."
"OK, let's fan out. Back the way you came."
MacDara didn't hang around when he heard that. He moved fast. Too fast. His feet landed on a branch that snapped loud enough to give him away. He kept running. The bullets started coming again. He knew he couldn't outrun them so he stood his ground at the next tree. The first of his pursuers caught the full burst of fire from MacDara's Uzi square in the chest. His scream ended in gurgles as he crumpled where he stood. The second one kept advancing, carried forward by his own momentum. He seemed to be firing from the hip, a steady stream of bullets in MacDara's direction but well wide of their mark. MacDara waited till he was abreast of him and shot him in the belly. The other two must have taken cover. Everything had turned silent. But MacDara had the advantage now. He wasn't going to wait there like a sitting duck. He moved out, circled wide, checked his compass, and went on a bearing directly south. Something about his instinct. It never failed him. A couple of hundred yards later he hit the dirt track again. It was running south-west and he followed it in the underbrush. He was lucky. Two jeeps roared past in the direction he had come from. More of them. He had eluded the two following him for the moment. That wouldn't last long. He had to keep on the move. If they were reinforced by the two jeeploads that had just passed the deck would be stacked against him. Hell, maybe it already was. But I don't know that, MacDara told himself. Gotta keep going.
