Copacabana: International Crime Noir: Liverpool - Rio de Janeiro

by Jack Rylance

  “No, Jacob. You’re taking nothing with you. Not a single possession. You simply vanish into thin air.”

  “And what if anyone asks my mother where I’m gone?”

  “If pushed, she’ll tell them that you went down South, got yourself a job, became a productive member of society. I’ve already explained the options to her. Maybe you could hear that in her voice. She’s under no illusions, believe me. The best her only son can hope for is to disappear without a trace.”

  They left the bedroom, went downstairs, Wilkins leading the way. Jacob’s mother was standing there in the hallway beneath them in a state of shock, arms folded tightly across her chest. “The man said that I’ll never see you again, love.”

  “It’s early days, Ma. I don’t know when, but I promise I’ll be in touch.”

  “Very, very unlikely,” Wilkins added, stepping to one side.

  His mother moved forward now, took hold of her son and crushed him against her, not wanting to let go. It was left to Wilkins to cut short this goodbye by placing a hand on Jacob’s shoulder, explaining that his time was up. As Jacob pulled backwards, he tried fixing his mother with an intense look which would stay with her as a source of comfort. “Please look after yourself, Ma. And remember what I said. Have a little faith.”

  Together the two of them left by the front door. Outside, the May afternoon had turned overcast with heavy grey clouds moving across a grubby-looking sky. At the end of the short drive, a silver Range Rover Vogue with blacked-out windows was parked up. Wilkins approached the SUV, guiding Jacob by the elbow, and opened the back door to it. Then, with the greatest reluctance, Jacob got in.

  Code Red - Chapter Two

  “Well, wherever they’re sending you to, it can’t be much worse than here,” added Wilkins as the Range Rover pulled away from the curb, patting Jacob on the knee.

  “What would you know?” Jacob replied.

  “Actually, I grew up in a similar dump. As for yourself, I understand you could have gone to Cambridge and studied computer science. Had the full scholarship lined up and everything.”

  Jacob only shrugged.

  “Well you certainly dodged a bullet there. Nineteen years of age and still living under your mother’s roof. I can see that you’ve been living the dream instead.”

  “I make all the money I need.”

  “Oh yes, with your apps business. What’s it called? Tabz? You know, in hindsight, you might have been better off pursuing a future in digital commerce rather than exposing highly classified military secrets for the sheer hell of it.”

  At this Jacob looked away, out of the window, in an effort to bring their talk to a close.

  They skirted Liverpool city centre, came down onto the dock road, and continued along it. Close to the estuary waters, passing old wharfs by. Was he to be placed on a ship? It seemed unlikely, but they were not headed for any airport that Jacob knew of. Instead the journey continued through Litherland and Crosby, keeping near to the coastline, edging Northwards whilst maintaining illegal speeds. The driver up front had no obvious interest in his passengers and never once used the rear view mirror to inspect either one of them, even with Jacob staring often at the man’s reflection. Wilkins meanwhile had taken out a Sony Xperia and started tapping away on its keys. Then he lifted the device to his ear and made a terse phone call, keeping to a long string of yes’s and no’s. As he did so, Jacob watched the scenery go by – dunes, beaches, golf courses – thinking to imprint it on his memory. Some small token of home.

  It was only when the RAF airbase came into view, on the vehicle’s left, that Jacob had a good idea of where they were headed. Not much further at all. He could remember passing this place one time before, with his father at the wheel of a white Ford Orion, on a day trip to Ainsdale Beach. Back in the mid-nineties. Now his suspicions were confirmed as the Range Rover slowed its speed, turned into the base’s drive, and stopped at the main checkpoint. There was a large sign, RAF Woodvale, away to Jacob’s right on a freshly cut lawn.

  A uniformed guard walked out of the small security post, took papers from the driver’s outstretched hand, and studied them in detail. Then he nodded gravely at the writing, returned the documentation. The metal barrier was raised. Wilkins pocketed his phone and turned to face his travel companion. “I’m going to give you one single tip, Jacob. When the man on this plane starts up asking questions, then you should cast your mind back, put your memory at his disposal, and answer him as correctly as you can. Chap by the name of Graves. The fact is they know near enough everything already, but this way they might possibly stop short of shooting you full of drugs or sticking your head down the khazi.”

  “The khazi?”

  “The toilet, Jacob.” Wilkins shook his head. “I don’t know, the youth of today…”

  The base looked like a throwback to an earlier time, with a number of large old fashioned air hangars lined up in a row. But as the Range Rover shot clear of the last of these, making light work of the speed bumps, Jacob caught sight of the plane in question. It lay directly up ahead, perfectly alone. An unmarked, grey Gulfstream V.

  The Range Rover approached the plane at speed, crossing the runway tarmac, and then broke smoothly to a stop. “Well Jacob. This is where you get off,” Wilkins said.

  “Nothing happens to my mother. I have your word on that?”

  “Of course. We’re not sadists. Simply professionals.”

  Jacob opened the door for himself, climbed out, heard the ominous sound of the Rolls Royce engines ticking over. He climbed those steps pulled up against the front of the plane. At the midpoint he turned and took one last look backwards at the desolate airfield, as if still trying to find something to hold on to, disorientated by the speed at which his life had changed forever.

  Code Red - Chapter Three

  At the entrance to the aircraft, in place of stewardesses, Jacob was greeted by two expressionless men in dark blue suits, both six foot plus, a day’s stubble on their skulls. No sooner had he stepped on board than one of them moved past him and began securing the door for take-off. The other rapped on that separate door leading to the flight deck and moments later the plane began to reverse around. This second man then gestured for Jacob to move down the single wide aisle, walking closely behind him, until they’d neared a large oval-shaped table with a walnut finish, taking up a third of the available cabin space. There, another man was sat down, reading from a printed dossier with plain blue wraps.

  Slightly older than the two agents on the flight, his own suit of clothes was pitch black. He had red hair, expensively groomed, and pale thin lips shut tight. He looked up at Jacob and nodded towards the seat opposite. “Sit down. Buckle up.” Jacob noticed that the man possessed distinctive blue eyes also, but unlike those of Wilkins these were darting, restless, brimming with discontent. His voice, by way of contrast, was smooth, belonging to a Southern state. This must be Graves, Jacob thought. The man Wilkins had mentioned. The one he was told he should fear.

  Jacob did as asked, lowering himself down into the black leather chair opposite. He found the two parts of the safety belt and clicked them together.

  “Wilkins explained your situation?” Graves asked.

  “Basically I’m screwed is what he said.”

  At this, Graves nodded approvingly. “That’s a highly accurate assessment right there.”

  “I’d love to know what the press would make of all of this,” Jacob replied. “Young Man Kidnapped by US Government. Threats Made Against his Family’s life.”

  “I thought Wilkins had been through this with you. You don’t get to lodge a protest and the newspapers are no more than an irrelevance. The crime you committed grants us license to do as we see fit.”

  “Different accent, same bullcrap,” Jacob muttered.

  “Speak up, Wylde.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Believe me, the next time you shoot off your mouth, I will have your ass canned, whatever your potential value. There’s st
ill a room with your name on it at a maximum security jail of my choosing. I could make that call now and have you transferred there by this evening. Either that or else I’m sure we could squeeze you in at Guatanamo Bay.” The man spoke without raising his voice and yet the words hit home. Jacob knew it was time to leave off.

  The plane had been taxiing along the runway, now it thrust forwards and up into the air, leaving England behind. Graves watched the earth fall away for the best part of a minute, then turned back to confront Jacob.

  “It seems that you left our best programmers for dead and made a mockery of their latest encryption techniques. In doing that, you’ve set a new benchmark. The problem is you need to remain at that level or else improve upon it. But falling back is not an option here. There can be no future for you unless you continue to sprinkle your magic. Basically your “genius” is ours to use up.”

  As they reached cruising altitude, one of the agents carried a tray over to the table. It contained a large insulated jug of black coffee. Two cups. Graves poured for Jacob first, filled his cup close to the brim. “Drink up, Wylde. I want you alert. Have about a thousand questions to ask you before we get to where we’re going.”

  Then, after filling his own cup to the middle mark, Graves picked up a graphite laptop from the seat next to him. He placed it on the table, opened the lid, and adjusted the screen until satisfied with its exact position. In the back of the laptop, a small red light appeared. Then it shot out a beam which moved up and down Jacob’s face repeatedly, as if taking a precise reading from it. At the same time, Graves concentrated on the screen in front of him, typed a word or two via the keyboard, then looked back at Jacob again.

  “OK, so when did you first encounter The DoubleDareCrew?”

  Code Red - Rogue Hackers Trilogy

  Available, with all other books in this series, through Kindle HERE

  You Cannot Hack Your Destiny . . .

  Young hacker, Jacob Wylde, is plagued by strange visions which haunt his dreams and hint at a mysterious destiny. Caught red-handed with US military designs, he is sent to PROPS, a top secret research facility where a handful of tech criminals are trained for active duty as cyber spies. Here Jacob meets Rebecca Kent, a committed hacktivist with secrets of her own and a burning desire to escape the facility.

  As their relationship grows, dark forces are already at work, plotting the pair’s ultimate destruction. And once the attack is underway, the two of them are forced headlong into a deadly race against time…

  “A great debut novel; it has intrigue, compelling characters and romance.” – Jude Livingston

  “Good characters, exciting plot and believable technology. Fast paced with just enough twists and turns to keep you guessing.” – Amazon Reviewer

  “The plot itself is very strong, taking surprising twists and turns all the way through. There is one moment in particular that was a huge shock for me but I won’t spoil!” – Time To Shine

  Remote - An Island Mystery - Chapter One

  Then it was Chiang Mai and the cheapest hotel I could find there. Another destination I’d drifted into rather than gravitating towards. Not the worst place to review my situation, especially as I’d secured a deep discount for a month’s stay, and yet for all kinds of reasons it was no longer enough to go with the flow.

  In the afternoons I sat by the hotel’s small murky pool without ever once swimming in it. Preferring to keep to the water’s edge in my broken-down plastic chair. Watching as pigeons landed on the head and shoulders of an ornamental stone figure near the front gate. Its features chipped away by the elements and blurred by centuries of time. At these moments I would have my ear buds screwed in tight, my media player on shuffle, and a can of something cold and fizzy and sugary to hand. That plus a box of Marlboro cigarettes, thanks to a recently renewed smoking habit (in spite of the grisly images on the local packs). And while the songs rotated I would think about everything I was capable of in theory, but could not, somehow, bring about. Poring over these failings without making much of an impact on them. Countless notes to self flitting vainly across my mind.

  Of late I’d got into the habit of acting as if all this aimless wandering was a homage to Zen or Tao, but in truth I was a long way from embracing life’s great flux. Something inside of me continued to resist meaningful change, even while accepting I had need of it. Which was why, wherever I went, I found myself clinging to a small handful of bars, restaurants, streets. Hypnotised by another makeshift routine. Reluctant to reach beyond it. And yet still I had no wish to return to the UK and its familiar set of problems, knowing that nothing awaited me there except more of what I’d purposefully left behind.

  Despite a respectable degree from Warwick University, and four long years of showing it to prospective employers, I’d failed completely to embark on any type of career before leaving home. Instead ending up in several menial jobs on a temporary basis. Jobs that had nothing in common with each other except a lack of meaningful future and a salary of less than £7 an hour. All of which helped explain why, as the result of a family tragedy, I’d decided to embark at the age of 26 upon a belated gap year.

  A generation ago this was how you got to see something of the world before settling into a post-graduate existence. A final youthful blow-out before you headed back to your country of origin and started on a clearly defined path. But there was no such promise to this day and age as far as I could tell. Meaning that foreign travel was not just a romantic idea but also a practical option if you could only gain a foothold overseas. Which was why others were upping sticks on the lookout for those places where they could keep their costs low and earn a crust any which way. Pitching up their tents elsewhere without a thought for heading homewards. Nomads in essence. And this had been my big idea also. To join the travelling band of semi-permanent exiles.

  However, the business of building a life on the road meant chancing upon the right opportunity and seizing it wholeheartedly. Either that or having the nerve to spirit one up out of thin air. But so far my own expedition had yielded little in the way of clear cut openings and nor had I gone to great lengths to track any down. Instead my trip to Asia was turning out just as my brother and sister had expected it to and bore all the hallmarks of a costly mistake.

  Remote - An Island Mystery - Chapter Two

  That night, not for the first time, I fled my self-absorption by going out and getting rotten drunk. Beginning at that bar on the edge of the old town, a stone’s throw from its ancient gates, where I’d soon enough made myself comfortable. Becoming part of the furniture like any number of ex-pats (who I quickly fell in with), sinking my travel budget into beer, whisky, tequila, rum. Then I pushed on to a nearby nightclub, fraternising with a group of boisterous Australians, buying rounds of drinks that I could ill afford.

  A little before dawn I set out for my hotel. A short distance normally, but now it became a trek on account of my alcoholic intake and the mazy path it had me weave. I’ve no recollection of reaching my room on the 7th floor, but reach it I must have before sleeping for a couple of hours. Then I woke disorientated, with only one thought on my mind: to make for the communal bathroom at the end of the corridor and empty my bladder there.

  Nearing the bathroom, the ground beneath me gave way suddenly as I slipped on a wet patch of floor and landed in a heap before I knew it. Banging my head in the process. I didn’t lose consciousness, however. Instead the whole situation came into clearer focus. For it was only then, spread-eagled on the hard surface, that I registered my nakedness. And even as this fact dawned on me, two hotel cleaners made themselves known, a mere six feet away. Impassive witnesses to one hell of a view.

  Dragging myself back to my room I fell back into a heavy slumber, too wasted for angst. But when I finally rose that same night I had my fill of it. Plus I’d acquired a large bump on my forehead just in case I wanted to write the whole thing off as a sordid dream. Feeling shitty I slunk out of the hotel, where word of my performance must su
rely have circulated. Then, after forcing a chicken curry down my neck, I returned to my usual watering hole and tried taking the edge off my hangover with a few bottles of Chiang. None of the regulars were present, but I was happy enough to look inwards, nurse my self loathing, and try to figure out – yet again – where to go from here.

  Now, more than ever, there was a decision to make and returning home didn’t seem like the worst case scenario, especially if I couldn’t pull myself together. After four months on the road I’d witnessed countless examples of what could happen if you only used travel to let yourself go. You saw such characters everywhere as The East was chock full of them. Tropical bums, impoverished refuseniks, Westerners gone to seed. Men, for the most part, in their thirties, forties, and beyond. Bottomfeeding off of backpackers and showing plenty of evidence of psychic wear and tear. If that was to be my fate then better to head for the relative safety of England, even if it did involve a shame-faced retreat and another minimum wage gig.

  It was as I debated this question anew that the bar bell rang out, triggered by a fresh arrival who I’d talked to once before. A Chicagoan entrepreneur engaged in buying solar panels from China, and waiting on word of a possible big deal. Judging by the nature of his entrance, word had finally arrived, and it had proven very good indeed. And so the drinks were on Freddy, whatever the hell you like, although I only opted for another lager. Hot on the heels of that offering, the landlady broke open a bottle of Mehkong and offered a round of free shots. But I put a hand over my glass as the bottle hovered over it and shook my head determinedly (a show of abstinence that struck her as crazy judging by the look on her face).