Armageddon Heights (a thriller)

by D. M. Mitchell

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Napier, if I upset you,’ said Villiers. ‘It was never intended. I shall be more careful in future.’

  Napier eyed him, swallowed down the fury that frothed in his throat. He would take care of the little shit soon enough.

  They were in Villier’s apartment in Canary Wharf. It came as a surprise to Napier to discover Villiers had been put up in an exclusive part of the docklands, tucked away, but even this relatively tiny living space would have been the aspiration of many a City businessman or woman. He’d commented on it when he’d first entered the apartment.

  ‘Come up on the lottery, Villiers?’

  ‘Mr Lindegaard’s generosity,’ he replied, and left it at that.

  So why was Lindegaard being so generous in the first place? What had Villiers got that merited this special attention?

  He was about to find out.

  ‘Let’s cut to the chase, Villiers,’ he said, leaning forward in his chair. Just being in the man’s presence made him feel dirty. ‘Mr Lindegaard told me you had something to tell me.’

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ Villiers said. Deliberate delaying tactics. Make the fish dangle on the line a little while longer, enjoy the moment before you land it in the basket.

  ‘Forget the niceties, Villiers,’ Napier said sharply. ‘You and me are never going to swap recipes.’

  ‘I was only trying to be sociable, sir.’

  Sir. Another meaning beneath the unctuous way it rolled off his tongue. ‘Well it doesn’t become you. Tell me what you’ve got and don’t waste my time.’

  Villiers nodded slowly. ‘Very well, Mr Napier. I assume your new man, Mr Levoir, is already hard at work with his team trying to squeeze out any data from the equipment we found at CSL’s operations base.’

  ‘You know he is. If he can even work, given the trauma you put him through. Why do that, Villiers? Why drag him into it?’

  Villiers ignored the question. ‘If Levoir were to find anything it could prove very valuable…’

  ‘That was the intention, yes.’

  ‘It could tell us how they managed to infiltrate your systems and creep almost undetected under your very noses, managing to keep one step ahead of you at every turn.’

  Napier nodded. ‘It could. It’s what I hope. You’re not telling me anything new here, Villiers.’

  ‘Of course. Please bear with me. This latest development with the ampoule we found at the scene – it was common belief, and one to which you still hold, Mr Napier, I believe, that CSL must operate a chemist’s lab somewhere, a very sizeable and sophisticated setup necessary to synthesise tremethelene, an operation that could not exist without the aid of considerable financial backup and a network of underground facilities. Couple this with their IT capability, to be able to replicate some of your most advanced computer software, confirmed the existence of a sizeable setup to everyone, even Mr Lindegaard. CSL had to be a large organisation – or relatively large. But as you know, that line of thinking has been at odds with the intel that’s been coming through to you. All indications are that CSL consists of a very small number of people. But how can that be?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Napier. ‘We need to be looking for a large outfit. All this small-scale stuff is a smokescreen. Anyway, you’re boring me, Villiers. Get to the point.’

  ‘I worked for them in the early days. I find it hard to believe they ballooned so large so fast, especially as they were all but stamped out of existence following Jeremy Lindegaard’s murder. Their leaders were arrested, imprisoned, and their assets seized and disposed of. Gone. But no, they’re back, and with far more sophisticated larger capability than ever before. In such a short space of time they cannot have grown from nothing to the organisation they are now. The ampoule we found has been tested and its pure tremethelene – it’s not synthesised. Which means it had to come directly from us.’

  ‘From us? There’s no us about it, Villiers. You’re not a part of this organisation, remember that. Not even the tiniest part. You’re part-time. Very part-time,’ he added. ‘What you say about the tremethelene cannot be true. I’ll order another test, even more aggressive, even more thorough. It cannot be pure. It has to be synthesised.’

  ‘Because to be pure means the trouble goes deeper than even Mr Lindegaard envisaged. The only way that level of security can be breached is for there to be someone at the very heart of operations who allowed access to the ampoules. Yeah, sure there’s a mole, there has to be, but the tremethelene ampoules put it in a different light. It has to be someone high up, or with seriously good connections within the organisation that’s the mole.’

  ‘That’s absurd!’ Napier fired. ‘As I’m overall head of security you’re coming pretty close to openly criticising me, Villiers. I know the checks I have put in place to be flawless. Everyone has been thoroughly vetted. I’d know if anyone in my team was a mole. What’s happening is that Mr Lindegaard is thrashing about trying to find answers to CSL and has started looking in all manner of places to find them. He’s so desperate he’s willing to clutch at any straw. CSL is no two-bit operation. It’s large, sophisticated and heavily financed. They’re manufacturing tremethelene themselves.’

  Villier’s rose from his seat. ‘Do you mind if I have a drink? All this espionage stuff is thirsty work.’ He went to a well-stocked cabinet and pulled out a bottle of vodka. He was aware of Napier simmering away behind him as he poured slowly. He turned, raised his glass. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

  ‘Get on with it, Villiers,’ Napier said, glowering. ‘I have to be somewhere soon.’

  ‘Going to see how Mr Levoir is doing? He’s already made some kind of breakthrough.’

  Napier’s eyes narrowed. ‘How’d you hear that?’

  Villiers smiled as he put the glass of vodka to his thin lips. ‘I didn’t. I just assumed by your impatience to be off. So he has come up with something already? My, he is good.’

  ‘How’s the ear?’ Napier asked bluntly.

  Villier’s smile faded. ‘It’s getting better.’

  ‘Don’t mess with me, Villiers,’ he warned. ‘You might have Mr Lindegaard’s ear – no pun intended – but in my experience it will prove to be a short-lived shield you’re hiding behind. Once that’s gone…’

  ‘Who’s financing CSL?’ Villiers said suddenly, coming back to his seat.

  ‘If I knew that we’d be halfway to solving how to get rid of them.’

  ‘Surely if the setup is so sophisticated, the network so huge, the investment in IT and labs as expensive as you’d like everyone to believe then where is the investor? Mr Lindegaard has carried out numerous searches and come up with a blank each time. And if anyone can pin down any large global shipment of money and resources it has to be Mr Lindegaard. Why is it that no such investor has been found?’

  ‘Because they’re good, that’s why.’

  ‘Too good. Maybe that whole big-business setup is a smokescreen, too.’

  ‘You’re talking bollocks, Villiers,’ said Napier. He got to his feet. ‘We’re finished here. I’m done playing games with you. You think you can stamp all over my expertise with impunity, but you’ve got me wrong if you think I’ll stand for any more of your crap.’ He moved swiftly towards the slender man, grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him from his seat. The glass of vodka was knocked from his hand as Napier pushed the man over to the large window. A row of brightly-lit apartments against a crisp night sky provided the backdrop as Napier unfastened the window lock and swung the window open. A cold draught and the rasping sound of traffic flooded in. Villiers looked over his shoulder as Napier forced him backwards onto the balcony beyond. They came to a crashing halt at the rail.

  ‘What are you doing, Mr Napier?’ Villiers said, his voice scratchy and thin with escalating fear. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you…’

  ‘And I didn’t mean to throw your scrawny little arse over the edge of this balcony five floors up, but hey, it just happened when I wasn’t really thinking about it.’
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  Villiers felt himself being lifted off his feet by Napier, his slight weight no trouble for the well-built man. He tottered alarmingly on the rail, glancing down and seeing a line of cars, buses and taxis passing under him like so many toys. The water in the docks glistened peacefully under the lights.

  ‘I helped you, Mr Napier. I only did it for you…’

  ‘You made me look like an imbecile, as if I couldn’t have gotten the results by myself. You went behind my back, deliberately challenging my authority, also making me look weak. And someone died because of it. Now you think you can trample all over my many years of experience so brazenly. Why do you suppose I’m pissed? Look, do you seriously think Mr Lindegaard will cry over your broken bones when they scrape you up off the pavement? You think you’re the only one who can waste a guy and get away with it?’ He pushed harder until Villiers was dangerously close to falling over the edge of the rail. He held him there, his eyes blazing, his lips set into a hard, thin line.

  ‘I know the names of the moles,’ Mr Napier, he said shakily, forcing a quivering smile. ‘I was getting round to telling you. You didn’t give me a chance.’

  ‘Their names?’

  He shrugged. ‘Let me back onto the balcony, please, Mr Napier…’

  Sucking in a noisy breath through his nose, Napier relented and pulled him back from the edge. Villiers gasped in relief, straightened his clothing and looked over the edge of the rail. ‘I didn’t realise it was so far up…’

  ‘Their names, Villiers. Quit stalling.’

  ‘Can we go back inside? It’s a little draughty out here,’ Villiers said, looking a tad shaken up by the experience.

  ‘You’ll tell me now. If what I hear doesn’t make me happy you’re going to play Superman.’

  With a feeble glance over his shoulder, Villiers reached into his pocket and took out a piece of paper. ‘This information came from Roland Fuller.’ He handed the paper over.

  Napier read it.

  ‘Cobalt?’ he said quietly. Napier looked up. ‘That doesn’t make any sense. What the fuck is Cobalt?’

  ‘Not a what, but a who, Mr Napier. Fuller told me the mole was codenamed Cobalt.’

  Napier blinked as he studied the name again, as if doing so would make more sense of it. ‘So what is the use of knowing a codename if we don’t know who Cobalt really is? It’s useless. Fuller was messing with you, Villiers.’

  ‘He told me who Cobalt is. He also told me we’re dealing with a small-scale operation here, not the huge affair you’d like to believe exists. It’s true – Mr Lindegaard’s multi-billion pound operation is being hacked into by an organisation that consists of no more than eight core people, if that. They’re being fed expertise and resources by the mole operating at a high level within Mr Lindegaard’s precious company. Like a mosquito sucking just enough blood to replenish itself before the prick of its bite is felt.’ He offered an apologetic jerk of the shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Napier, but it’s true.’

  Robert Napier staggered back, still clutching the paper. He went to the cabinet and poured out a large glass of vodka. Downed half of it in one gulp. ‘So who is Cobalt?’

  ‘I thought you’d worked that out already, Mr Napier.’

  He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I thought that’s why you’d brought him over to London with you…’

  ‘Adrian Levoir? You’re telling me Adrian Levoir is this so-called mole Cobalt?’ He forced out a cold laugh. ‘That’s a load of bollocks.’

  ‘Is it, Mr Napier? Think about it. Who is the one person on your team who has managed to spot the majority of the incursions into the Heights by CSL? It was Levoir. Think that’s a coincidence? Think it’s purely down to his finely-honed skills? He knew where CSL were going to hit, so every now and again he’d let you know about it, you’d send in the Sentinels and CSL always managed to avoid them. The computers are networked. Somehow he’s been able to gain access to his team’s systems and effectively block out anything he doesn’t want them to see, and see only that which he needs them to. He’s managed to help hide most incursions, inform CSL of any developments in your system’s security and thus keep CSL always one step ahead of the game. Somehow he’s also been able to gain access to stocks of tremethelene – how exactly he achieved this we have yet to pin down, but we’re certain it’s him. He’s good, very good, both technically and being able to keep his real identity and purpose a closely guarded secret.’

  ‘I cannot believe…’ Napier said, the words stinging him.

  ‘It’s not your fault, Mr Napier. He’s good, like I say. The best of the best. If it hadn’t been for Fuller we’d have never found him out. I know you’re sceptical, but he’s worked his way up within the organisation to place himself not only within the team you perhaps trust the most, but has now managed to get himself working directly alongside you, even now being given some of the most sensitive and valuable material you’ve ever managed to get from CSL. What’s more, we’ve intercepted texts on his phone. Someone from CSL has been contacting him.

  ‘His phone?’ Napier said, his mind reeling.

  ‘Tapped, like all employees’ phones are, company or private. We’ve traced the origin of the texts sent to him – they’re certainly not from his mother in Albuquerque! Rather tellingly they originate from London. Another coincidence? He’s our man.’

  ‘I’ve had him checked out twice,’ said Napier. ‘He’s clean.’

  ‘He’s as dirty as a used piece of toilet paper,’ Mr Napier. ‘He only looks clean on the outside. CSL have been very thorough in ensuring his true identity has been so submerged we might never have discovered it if Fuller hadn’t blabbed.’

  Napier sat down, drained his glass and gave a little cough as the alcohol hit the back of his throat. ‘Fuller could be wrong,’ he said feebly.

  ‘Fuller could be, but it all adds up,’ said Villiers, a triumphant glaze over his eyes. ‘On your behalf, I’ve seen to it that Levoir has already been called off the work he’s doing now. He might already have had the chance to simply destroy any useful data that’s on those hard drives.’

  ‘He said he was onto something,’ Napier said.

  ‘So soon? Think about it. Either he’s very, very good or he’s lying through his teeth. Of course he’ll say he’s onto something to keep you happy and throw us off CSL’s scent,’ said Villiers. ‘He can tell you anything that he wants and you’ll believe him. Send you all scampering in different directions till you’re running around like headless chickens. He’s been doing a great job of that until now.’

  ‘Mr Lindegaard knows all this?’

  ‘Some of it, Mr Napier. In truth, it was he that ordered the immediate cessation of Levoir’s work pending your decision. But to avoid causing too much suspicion he’s been sent back to the hotel where he’s staying, the cause of the shutdown supposedly an electrical fault that is potentially dangerous. But Mr Lindegaard knows very little. I told him it was best I speak with you first, as you were in charge of things. See, I’m not as bad as you paint me, Mr Napier. I did it for you.’

  ‘I need to meet with Mr Lindegaard, go over this…’

  ‘Mr Lindegaard wants Levoir removed as soon as we’ve got what we can out of him.’

  ‘Removed?’

  ‘He told me in no uncertain terms to let you know that’s what he wants. I think we both know what he means. But of course, you can confirm that with Mr Lindegaard directly, if you wish.’

  ‘Removed. You mean he wants the kid dead?’

  ‘It’s not for me to be quite so bold as to say such a thing directly, Mr Napier. But if his removal is causing you concern I can offer the services of my man Jungius, if that would be of any assistance. He has a flair for getting information out of people and disposing cleanly of irksome issues.’

  Napier stiffened. ‘I’ll take care of Levoir in my own way. I guess I owe you my thanks,’ he offered begrudgingly.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Villiers, standing to his ful
l height with his hands behind his back. ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘But now I’m finished with you and I don’t want to see you near me again, get it?’

  ‘It’s a shame I cannot be of more help, Mr Napier. I could be, if you’d let me.’

  ‘I can do fine without you.’

  Robert Napier strode purposefully from the room, slamming the door shut on Villier’s insufferable grinning face.

  He had urgent business to attend to.

  19

  Mounting Apprehension.

  It was in all the newspapers and on television.

  Private John Travers had been released from captivity. He’d been held prisoner by the insurgents for the better part of two years. They’d been trying to locate his whereabouts for ages, hopeful but sporadic reports and sightings of him coming out of insurgent-held territory, only to be followed up to reveal the rumours were as substantial as smoke. In the beginning, the government got involved, as much as they could under their policy of no deals with terrorists, deriding the cowardly taking of a British soldier hostage in an operation that served no purpose other than to intensify the enmity between the opposing sides and further hindering any attempt at peacekeeping or the ultimate aim of a ceasefire and peace talks. The British ambassador beat his chest ineffectually, talked of imposing sanctions on a people crippled by decades of war, whispered of deals for the stricken soldier’s release that never appeared to fully materialise. And then, after nearly a year of talk and more talk with no sign of the captured Travers, the government sort of washed their hands of the affair, or so Samuel Wade and his regimental comrades thought.

  It was as if Private John Travers had vanished from the face of the earth and everyone seemed to say, not outwardly, of course, that there was nothing could be done in the face of such grim inevitability. Some even dared to whisper that Travers might be dead, but Wade did not give up hope. If the roles had been reversed and he had been taken instead of Travers, he knew his friend would never have given up on him. But he was helpless. For a start, he was still in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces; and secondly the botched patrol and its aftermath – five British soldiers dead, including Lieutenant Solway, the man who gave the fateful orders to split up the patrol – affected Wade deeply. Okay, so he didn’t let it show, but, the loss of Travers aside, Wade’s mind was in a mess. He couldn’t sleep, he was dosed up on a variety of tablets, he lost all appetite, and he had terrifying, recurring nightmares. But most of all he was being eaten away by the highly corrosive acid that is guilt. Why had he alone out of the three of them in their part of the patrol managed to get away? Peterson was dead. Travers was almost certainly dead, having suffered heaven knows what at the hands of his captors. And yet he, Samuel Wade, was still very much alive and daily detested the fact.