by D S Kane
“I’m just calling to congratulate you and wish you great good fortune in your new career. China will do all it can to assist you. You have already made me proud. Imagine your value to us, with you working for the CIA.”
Samantha wanted to end the call, but knew that doing so would cause a bigger problem for her than for her mother. She merely said, “Yes, mother. I will do my best. Please, I have to get some sleep before I go to my first day at this new job.”
Her mother had said goodbye and terminated the call. Samantha felt an unending sadness crease the skin around her eyes. That night she had dreamed of dragons breathing smoke and burning her as fire shot out of their mouths. She woke up drenched.
And now, as she dressed while the sun rose, she bore a grim expression. She remembered the turnaround line from Christabel, a Robert Earl Keen song: “Things ain’t never what they seem when you find yourself living in your own dream.” But for Samantha, it seemed more like her worst nightmare.
* * *
For Laura Hunter and Dave Nordman, this was one of the happiest and most important days of their lives. It was the start day for the first jobs of their careers.
The one thing they had been able to coordinate was that they would both be based in the Bay Area. For Laura, no real negotiating was necessary, since she would be working for Google in Mountain View. Dave had had a harder time getting the NSA to agree to let him work at their San Francisco satellite office.
Laura let Dave use the bathroom of their new, tiny apartment first, before the sun rose. When it was her turn, she said over her shoulder, “Get us both coffees.”
“Okay. It’s brewing.”
She finished her morning ablutions and walked to their small closet. She pulled a rather plain dress from it and pulled it over her head. “Whatcha wearing, Dave?”
“Suit and tie. Gotta run.” He kissed her and she heard the door close. He’d be taking BART to downtown San Francisco from their apartment in San Bruno, while she drove their old Chevy to Mountain View.
She thought as she swallowed the last of her coffee, “So lucky.”
* * *
As the sun poked through the fog, Glen Sarkov awoke determined to wreak vengeance on all those who had done damage to his life. He dressed in his only suit, a perfect fit of blue pinstripes. He had found an apartment he couldn’t afford, but it was only a block away from the CIA’s satellite office in downtown San Francisco. He viewed his reflection in the mirror and forced a smile. Yes, that’ll do just fine. He closed the door to his apartment and walked to the elevator.
CHAPTER 22
Bowmore, Islay, Scotland
May 27, 8:56 p.m.
Jon and Ann hurried through a breakfast of English bacon, coddled eggs, and terrible coffee at the hostel. After they grabbed their suitcases, they ran down the street to the tour bus. As they closed the distance, they saw the tour director, Moira, pacing outside the bus.
The bus was empty. Jon asked, “We should be leaving for Edinburgh in a few minutes. Where are the other tourists?”
Moira shrugged. “The others all took Ubers back to Edinburgh sometime last night after dinner.”
Jon shrugged. “Oh. That figures. So, what about us and you?”
The young woman seemed even younger this morning. She ran her fingers through her red hair, wet from the rain falling. “The local police wanted all of us to remain in Bowmore until they had completed their investigation. But I’m frightened. One of the passengers told me they’re all afraid of being the next victim of this serial killer. The news is calling the murderer—him or her—the ‘tour bus kelpie.’”
Ann remembered the statues they had passed on their way north from Edinburgh. MacTavish had told the tourists on the bus that the kelpies were mysterious creatures in the guise of young women who would lure men into the ocean and drag them to their deaths under the waves. She asked Moira, “But won’t the local police be angry that they left before their investigators find the murderer? Isn’t everyone a suspect?”
Moira said, “Yes, but better to be locked up in jail in Edinburgh than dead in Islay.”
Jon grinned. “Ah, yes. Well, our tour is over then. We might as well be on our way back to Edinburgh,”
Moira shook her head. “Not me. When I informed my boss, he told me to wait here until the office could decide what they wanted me to do. Besides, there are no more Lyft or Ubers drivers left in Bowmore, so I think you’ll have to wait. I have your cell numbers and I’ll call you when I know what we can do.”
Jon faced Ann. “Let’s go for coffee.”
Ann shrugged. “Sure.”
As soon as they were beyond Moira’s ability to overhear them, Jon said, “We need a plan. And before that, we need to figure some things out.”
Ann nodded.
But when they found a restaurant open for breakfast, Jon and Ann sat at a table where, just above a whisper, he said “We need to research Moira and see if she really is who she said she is.”
They finished their coffee and trotted back to the hostel, dragging their spinner suitcases behind them. In their room, Ann sat on their tiny bed and used her cellphone to hack into the files the local police had on the murder. It turned into a forty-five-minute waste of time.
Then she and Jon reviewed what she’d found and Jon saw a few connections the police had missed. Jon pointed to a line of one of the reports. “MacTavish also matches up with another name. Two names for one person. I believe she may be a spy.”
Ann shook her head. “Is that a bad joke?”
Jon said, “No joke. You know that trick you developed after the CypherGhost overdosed you with Bug-Lok nanodevices? Your ability to use your brain to enter the internet? It’s what we need now. I’d hoped we could avoid relying on your special abilities to keep anyone from noticing them, but now, I think it’s worth the risk. Can you locate each of the surviving tourists and see if any of them works for an intelligence service? And then could you get us all the information on both of Moira’s identities? That would give us something we might be able to use.”
Ann shook her head. “Jon, your first assumption was correct. It’s dangerous for me to use my little bag of tricks. You realize that if anyone besides you, Avram, the Wings, and my parents find out, I could become a target for every spy agency on earth.”
Jon remained silent, thinking about whether it was too risky. He remembered when a hacker who called herself “CypherGhost” had stolen and overdosed Ann with nanobug devices a few years back. When ingested, a single such device would find its way through the bloodstream to the medulla oblongata and attach itself to a neural ganglion, where it could access the auditory and visual cortex. The device contained circuitry that could transmit what the subject saw and heard through the nearest internet connection back to whoever controlled it. And in a variant of the device, it could then inject a fatal dose of ricin, thus eliminating whomever the subject was. The device was designed to disappear from the subject’s body within six weeks. But Ann had been dosed with over a thousand devices, and the overdose gave her brain access to the internet long after the devices were gone from her. It also allowed her to shoot flames from her fingers, but doing that would leave her weak or unconscious.
She sat on the bed and closed her eyes to focus her concentration. She saw a local-area network in a nearby grocery store and pushed her consciousness into it, then through the internet she connected to traffic cams between Islay and Edinburgh, searching for Uber cars carrying the fleeing tourists. It took what seemed like forever for her to see the three cars, one behind the other. All the former tourists in the cars seemed to be normal people with vacation time used to escape their boring lives. She scanned each one’s passport and then did a deep dive into the data their cellphones contained. From what she could see, none of them seemed likely to be connected with an intelligence service.
As she finished scanning the last of the eleven tourists, she noticed two cars following the three Ubers. One was filled with three men speaking Russian an
d the other with two men speaking what sounded to Ann like Chinese. Ann understood a smattering of Russian, having been taught by Cassie’s uncle Misha. She could hear one of the Russians talking about the tourists, claiming that even if they had to kill every last one of the tourists, they’d find the spy and collect the thumb drive holding the plans. Another of the Russians laughed and mentioned how much fun it had been to torture three of them to death.
Ann forced her consciousness to London and MI-6’s headquarters. She scanned the server files for any mention of “Moira MacTavish.” Once again, it took what seemed like forever for her to find something useful. She memorized the intelligence and returned her consciousness back to the hostel. The most important thing she remembered was the name Lorinda MacFey. Emerging back, she felt overwhelming tiredness.
Jon was holding her shoulders. “You okay?”
She nodded. “That took a big bite out of me. But I know what we needed to discover. Let me take a brief nap.”
Jon released his hold. “Okay. Anything you need?”
She considered his offer. “I guess I could use a cup of coffee when I wake up.” Then, she closed her eyes.
* * *
Ann swallowed her last gulp of coffee and faced Jon. “Okay, then. Here’s what I found. I don’t think any of the tourists is involved in this. But our tour director isn’t really Moira MacTavish. She assumes that name whenever she becomes either a tour director or an information wholesaler. As an information wholesaler, she does dead drops, mostly for MI-6. But they suspect she copies whatever she’s given to courier and then sells it to everyone who wants to buy. Her real name is Lorinda MacFey and she lives in one of the smaller towns just north of Edinburgh.”
Jon looked at his wristwatch. “You’ve been out for almost an hour. I expect MacTavish or MacFey or whatever we want to call her will contact us soon with her exit strategy for departing Edinburgh.”
Ann giggled. “That’s not what I’d call an exit strategy. It’s an escape plan.”
“Whatever.” They waited ten more minutes and Jon’s cell buzzed. He viewed its screen and smiled. “Time to go.” They carried their suitcases with them down to the corner where Moira was in the bus driver’s seat, the motor running.
Jon and Ann stuffed their luggage in the bus boot and took seats behind Moira. As Moira closed the doors, Ann tapped her on the shoulder.
“Before we leave, Jon and I have a few questions for you.”
Moira turned in her seat to face them. “Ask fast. We need to get out of Islay.”
Jon said, “It appears that you aren’t entirely who you say you are. Please explain your identity and your real role in this matter.”
Moira’s face remained unflinching. “What do you mean?”
Ann said, “Would you prefer “Moira MacTavish” or “Lorinda MacFey”?
This time, Moira looked like she’d felt a strong electric shock. “What did you say?”
Ann suppressed a smile. “According to your MI-6 file, you bear both names. What’s your real name? Do you have one?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
Jon said, “We work for an intelligence service. The Mossad. So tell us then, who are you?”
Moira held up her hands as if she were trying to stop an object flying towards her head. “Enough! Okay, so ‘Lorinda’ is my real name and ‘Moira’ is the name I prefer to use when I’m doing courier work. I pick up and drop off ‘packages’ for some covert group that recruited me for that purpose. It’s all I do for them and not very often. But it pays very well and I’m saving enough for me to go to college.”
Jon stroked his chin. He faced Ann. “Your guess was spot on.” Now he faced their tour guide. “Moira, do you know who your employer really is?”
She shrugged. “What does it matter?”
Ann said, “You’re a flunky for MI-6. And you’re the reason those people in your care were murdered.”
Moira started crying. “Yes. I know.”
Jon asked, “What was your purpose on this trip?”
Moira said, “Pick up a thumb drive and carry it back to London next weekend, which is my week off.”
Jon nodded and Moira continued. “I didn’t know which passenger was the carrier I was supposed to retrieve the thumb drive from. But the carrier was supposed to leave the drive on top of the fireplace at Laphroaig Distillery. And it wasn’t there when it was time to leave.”
Jon and Ann exchanged looks.
Jon said, “Ah, the drive. Yes, I have it. Found it stuck between the cushions on the bus. Seems that our first murder victim stashed it there. I presume that even being tortured to death didn’t get him to reveal its location. I’ve sent a copy of the data within it to my handlers. The data on it was stolen from the State of Israel.”
Moira’s face dissolved into a panicky expression. “But if I don’t deliver it to London, I could lose my job.”
Ann broke out laughing. “Ridiculous! People are dying and you’re worried about money?”
Moira remained silent.
Jon asked, “What’s our best step for leaving Islay? This bus will be watched. It’s like having a huge billboard sign on our backs.”
Moira finally spoke. “Don’t try stealing a car. All the natives are watchful after the three murders. I think we should drive below the speed limit to the ferry and leave the bus in the parking lot. Then carjack one of the vehicles on the ferry.”
Jon shook his head. “Yes, to the first part. No, to the second. We should hitch a ride when we’re off the ferry. Or, steal a car from the lot on the destination side.”
Ann said, “Sounds better to me. Let’s get out of Islay.”
Ann and Jon sat in the first row of seats behind Moira as she drove the bus along the country roads toward the ferry back to Scotland’s mainland.
Ann asked Jon, “Should we bring the thumb drive to MI-6 headquarters at Vauxhall Cross?”
Jon sat in thought. “I need to contact Avram.”
* * *
The police station was actually two seats at the bar in McSorley’s Tavern. Police Chief Luther Brown reread the folders that he and his deputy, Angus MacGarrett, had assembled on the three murders.
Brown shook his head. “No leads and three dead bodies. How could this happen?”
MacGarrett shrugged. “We haven’t any forensics. When I reported this to Scotland Yard, they more or less said we should go hang ourselves. Even if Jack the Ripper was to show up, they’d be more interested in counterterrorism, not simple Agatha Christies. We’re fucked.”
Brown shook his head. “No need for foul language. But why these three?”
“I don’t know. And you don’t know. And we won’t be getting any help. I say we go and get Mrs. Morley’s cat out of the tree. She called it in over two hours ago.”
The two police officers finished their beers and walked to the squad car parked in front of the bar. The tree in question was several blocks away from the tavern.
CHAPTER 23
Bowmore, Islay, Scotland
May 28, 9:21 a.m.
As the tour bus left Bowmore’s town center, Jon heard the unmistakable sound of helicopter rotors and scanned the sky through the windows of the tour bus. “A chopper, following us. It’s unmarked.”
Moira asked, “What should we do?”
Jon said, “Just keep driving as if we’ve noticed nothing. Don’t speed. Let them assume we’re unaware of them.”
But the chopper closed the distance. It stayed about two hundred yards behind them and followed their every move down the road.
Ann asked Jon, “If you think they’re a threat, I can take them out. Should I?”
Jon touched her fingers. “No, dearest.”
As they neared the harbor, the chopper closed the distance between them to about two hundred feet.
Jon whispered in her ear, “They’re too far away for you to destroy the helicopter with your flaming fingers trick.”
Ann watched them and nodded.
&nb
sp; They drove for nearly an hour and reached the port with their tail still in place.
Moira asked, “What’s the plan?”
Jon said, “Park and we board the ferry. If they follow, I’m not sure what would work, but I’m thinking up a plan.”
Moira parked the bus in one of the lots near the port, and the three ran to the counter and bought tickets for the ferry to the Scottish mainland.
The helicopter landed across the street. As Jon, Ann, and Moira ran into the ferry that had started boarding, four large men exited the chopper and ran toward the ferry.
* * *
William Wing stood at the front of the conference room, a chalkboard behind him filled with Venn diagrams. “The Ashmel project was designed to produce a diagram of every communications line between every intelligence service,” he explained. “Now we know the names and titles of every handler, every operative, and every mole in each intelligence service, as well as their rank. We can see who they’re stealing and dealing intel for, and we can see what each service has as its priorities. It’s encyclopedic.”
Betsy stood beside William. She added, “But there’s more! We’ve discovered that there are AIs that exist as moles within the agencies. The preponderance of these AIs belong to Iran, Russia, China, North Korea, and the United States. Each one is altering the records of the competing countries’ intelligence on a continuous basis. And, Avram, there are a few AIs that don’t seem to belong to any particular intelligence service. We think they might belong to corporations or NGOs, but we’re not sure. Anyway, some of them are looting the Mossad’s intel.”
“You also said there are missing links,” replied Avram. “Tell me about those.”
William said, “From the intel we already possess, we see that MI-6 hasn’t any AIs or moles in other services. But MI-6 has tried to get the data, just as we have. So far, without success. The intel Jon Sommers sent to us would complete the global picture to include MI-6 if it were delivered to Vauxhall Cross and became actionable. As soon as they upload the intel on the thumb drive, it will transmit their roster right back to us, just as it was designed to do by Ashmel’s startup, Modus Fi. We think you should have him give it back to the courier.”
