The Dark Web: The stunning new thriller from the author of The Angolan Clan (African Diamonds Book 3)

by Christopher Lowery

  ‘Everything’s going well on the testing of the upgrades. I’ve had one hundred per cent results on all my test networks, so unless something unexpected happens we’ll probably beat the deadline for the Shanghai delivery.’

  ‘Terrific, that’s great news.’ Tom was a shrewd man and sensed some reserve in Leo’s voice. ‘Is there anything unexpected that could happen, anything you can think of ?’

  Leo hesitated, then decided to phrase his concerns in the form of a question. ‘Do you by any chance know what the function of cell S470C887,999 is?’

  ‘You’re asking me if I know the function of one of the billion cells on the card? I haven’t got a clue. Why do you want to know? What’s special about that cell?’

  ‘It’s probably nothing, but that component seems to be giving me some problems. I just thought it might have some special significance that you’d know about.’

  ‘I’ll note it down and ask Shen when I meet him at the airport. He’s bound to know, if anyone does. What was the ID again?’

  Leo repeated the number slowly. ‘How did things go in the Big Apple?’

  ‘Some great business coming along. They’re excited about Mark VII and ACRE. We’ll brief you tomorrow. Gotta run now. Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers Tom. Travel safely.’ Leo closed the phone and sat back in his chair. He felt better, he’d told Tom, so now it was his problem. Both teams were running the tests prepared for them by Sharif and Ed the previous day, and there was not a lot he could do before the Pakistani returned. He walked along to Ed’s office to invite him for lunch at the Corner House. He said nothing about the strange cell. It was sunny and hot, and sunbathers were lounging on the beach, soaking up the rays without a care in the world. They ordered a couple of beers and chilled out for a while.

  London, England

  ‘Sounds like you’ve worked out a theory around this. Want to tell me what it is?’ Hugh Middleton and Ilona Tymoshenko were on the encrypted line with General Chillicott.

  ‘Ilona will explain. She’s done all the research, a quite remarkable exhibition of lateral thinking.’

  The woman looked at him in amazement. He never pays compliments. What’s going on? She rallied her thoughts. ‘We have two possible theories, involving either Daniel Oberhart or Shen Fu Liáng, both senior officers of XPC.’

  First, she outlined the connection between Oberhart’s family, MicroCentral, Hai-Sat the Chinese hedge fund and the possibility of sabotage to prevent the launch of XPC’s new encryption technology.

  Chillicott’s response was succinct. ‘I don’t buy it. The sabotage motive for the murder of a genius programmer could hold water if they’re desperate to avoid the new product launch, but the rest doesn’t hang together. You really think a Swiss company owned by a Chinese hedge fund could be involved with a Russian agent, offshore company subterfuge and ownership of a Chinese microprocessor company in Dubai? It just one of those peculiar coincidences that happen. It doesn’t connect with what we’ve discovered to date.’

  ‘Our opinion is that you’re probably correct, Billy, but we’re attempting to evaluate all possibilities with all the evidence available. Please continue with our theory about Liáng, Ilona.’

  ‘Very well. First of all, General, it’s the timing. From your side we’ve learned that Tsunami became active five years ago, including setting up well-hidden companies for the acquisition of Lee-Win for reasons which aren’t clear. And from our side, we know that Shen Fu Liáng left his job with GRU and started with Lee-Win, also five years ago. Then there’s an empty six-month time slot in Liáng’s history just before that which we can’t explain. The Dubai facility took eighteen months to build and was opened two and a half years ago. The decision making, planning and approvals must have taken at least a year, which means it was probably conceived at about the same time, five years ago.’

  Following Middleton’s instructions, Ilona omitted to mention the suspicious deaths of Liáng’s Chinese family in September 2012, and the probability that he had inherited a substantial fortune.

  She went on, ‘Then there are the unusual facts around ownership and management. XPC is owned by Lee-Win Micro-Technology in China, but after the death of Chongkun, his family sold the business in 2012. The current ownership of that company is a mystery and Tsunami is somehow involved with that. And Liáng was sent down from Shanghai to be their man on the ground in their new microprocessor design business in Dubai, even though he’s not a computer technician. He was with Lee-Win for only two years before going down to Dubai, but for eight years before that, he was trained with the GRU in Moscow and Washington as what you would call a “spook”. So why was he appointed as an Executive VP in XPC?’

  Ilona looked at Middleton, who nodded his head. She took a deep breath and said, ‘Our theory is that there may be a connection between Tsunami and Liáng, and they are involved in some kind of conspiracy in XPC through Lee-Win. Maybe the two of them were introduced or met in some way during that “lost” six-month period, and they’ve been working together for the last five years since then.’

  ‘Doing what?’ Chillicott’s reaction was that this was a wild goose chase. There was no proof that Tsunami and Liáng had ever met, never mind worked together.

  Middleton intervened. ‘We think there may be a potential source of information to provide the answer to that question, Billy.’

  Chillicott suddenly understood the reason for the call. ‘Leo Stewart?’ he said.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Dubai, United Arab Emirates

  Thursday, 8 July 2017

  Leo decided to take the rest of the day off. Sharif wasn’t there, the teams were doing their testing, he’d advised Tom of his concern and he’d worked almost every single day since he got to Dubai. He was due a break.

  ‘What about chilling out on Palm Jumeirah?’ he asked Ed. ‘We should see it once at least.’

  An hour later, they were riding along the ‘trunk’ of the artificial island, shaped like a seventeen-fronded palm tree, which had taken ten years to create. The broad avenue was lined with luxury hotels, restaurants and shopping malls, many of them still under construction, not a patch of sand in sight.

  Leo was looking around and up, mainly up. ‘Have you ever seen so many half-built skyscrapers in your entire life? We’re on an artificial island in the Persian Gulf and it’s like being in Manhattan or Vegas. What a downer.’

  ‘I’ve never been to Vegas, but it’s not exactly Crosby Beach in Merseyside,’ laughed the Liverpudlian. ‘Probably can’t get decent fish and chips.’

  The leaflet they’d been given about the island gave some impressive numbers: 3 billion cubic feet of sand dredged from the sea floor, 7 million tons of mountain rock to form the seven-mile crescent-shaped breakwater, a six-lane undersea tunnel connecting the island to the beaches on the crescent, and the Middle East’s first monorail running the length of the island. Less impressive was the estimate of a square mile of coral killed in the Persian Gulf, although the developers had apparently dropped two American fighter jets on the sea floor to create new reefs. The second and third islands were still on the drawing board and no one was sure whether the project would ever be completed.

  They rode the Harley to one of the beach hotels and spent a lazy afternoon admiring the bikini-clad girls posing around them. Leo was chilling out and feeling more relaxed than he had for a while. He realised that meeting the July 31st deadline had become an all-consuming passion with him, and now he knew they could make it, it was like a massive weight lifted from his shoulders. Ed was good company and they swapped stories and made the most of their day off.

  It was seven in the evening by the time he dropped Ed off at his apartment and continued to the XPC building on his bike. He worked up a sweat in the gym with an hour of kicking and punching to keep his hands and feet hard, then went home to prepare for tomorrow’s meeting and do the things he’d been neglecting lately, like sending emails to his family and listening to his favourite music.


  His mobile rang as he let himself into the apartment. ‘Hi Leo, it’s Angela.’

  ‘Oh. Hi there.’

  After their last encounter he wasn’t sure what to expect, and was surprised when she went on, ‘Listen, I’m really sorry about the other night. I’d had some bad news from home and I wasn’t fit company for anyone, especially not you. Can you please forgive me and let’s try again?’

  At the sound of her contrite tone he felt himself relenting. Maybe I was too hard on her, everyone has a bad day from time to time. ‘What did you have in mind?’ he asked.

  ‘How about calling in at 27 for a drink? We can chat a while, then see what we feel like?’

  ‘Sounds cool. See you there at ten?’

  ‘Great, can’t wait to see you again.’

  Leo prepared an agenda for the next morning’s meeting and sent it from his mobile to Tom and the others. When he got to the club, Angela was waiting at the bar, and she jumped up to kiss him when he came over. She was wearing a white cotton shift with a black and gold thread running through it that almost reached her knees. Her coffee-coloured skin shone under the dim club lights. She looked stunning and he felt great.

  At eleven-thirty, Angela said, ‘I’ve had enough of this for tonight. Let’s go back to my place.’

  She clung to him on the bike, arms around his chest, her hands grasping his shirt. After a moment, she undid the buttons and held his bare chest, her fingernails digging deep into his skin. Again, the ride didn’t take long enough for his liking.

  Her third-floor flat in Dubai Marina was miniscule compared to his, but furnished in a comfortable way with giant cushions and colourful wraps on the floor and a couch in the living room. A big table lamp of painted porcelain threw a soft light over the room. She went to the kitchenette to get him a beer and he spotted a Jenson record player on the dresser. Adele’s 25 was on the turntable and he switched it on again.

  ‘Feeling romantic, are you?’ She clinked her glass against his. ‘Here’s to us.’

  ‘You made me feel romantic the first time I saw you.’

  She put their glasses aside and pulled him to her, kissing his face and lips. He responded, their tongues intertwining in a passionate kiss.

  ‘Wait,’ she pushed him away. ‘I’ve got something for you, to show how sorry I am about Tuesday.’ She took off the Adele disc and put on ‘Stairway to Heaven’, then switched the lamp off and went into her bedroom. After a moment, she emerged again, her body silhouetted by the light behind her. ‘Here’s your stairway to heaven,’ she said. Angela pushed aside the straps of the cotton shift and it fell to the floor, exposing her small, high breasts, the nipples aroused, and her shaved pubes. Leo felt the blood rush to his penis. She came over to him and pulled him to his feet. ‘Come here,’ leading him into the bedroom.

  Angela’s lovemaking was like her personality, a strange combination of tenderness and malice. She kissed and stroked his body until he was mad with desire, then slapped his face. ‘I like rough sex,’ she said. ‘Hit me.’

  Apart from a tragic accident in South Africa, Leo had never hit anyone outside of the fight ring, and he wasn’t about to start. Instead, with one hand he pinned her down by her wrists, and with the other he opened her legs and thrust his penis inside her. She screamed and pulled his face to hers, biting his lip until it bled, then pushing her tongue into his mouth again. He plunged himself into her again and again until their bodies were joined like one, then with a massive final thrust they climaxed together and she cried out and clasped him to her, her nails clawing into his back.

  ‘Oh, Dios mio, oh my God!’ she gasped as he fell by her side. ‘That was maravilhoso.’

  Jimmy Paige’s last chord faded away behind Robert Plant’s final wail, and he kissed her lips gently. ‘If that’s Portuguese for awesome, I agree.’

  After their second session of frantic sex, Leo called time. ‘I’ve gotta get home. It’s almost three o’clock and I’ve got a meeting with my boss this morning. I’m sorry, but I have to go.’

  ‘Are you really sure? Can’t I tempt you one more time?’

  ‘You could tempt me, but you’d be very disappointed.’ He went to pick up his clothes from the living room floor. ‘I couldn’t take any more of that rough sex. I’m hurting everywhere.’

  At the door, he said, ‘How about I pick you up tonight to go to 27?’

  ‘If you can make it, that’ll be cool. Goodbye, Leo.’ She pecked his cheek.

  ‘See you tonight, Angela.’

  Leo’s mind was racing as he rode home, reliving the night’s surreal events. What an incredible woman. Whatever’s happening between us, it feels great. He dumped his clothes on a chair, fell on his bed and was asleep a minute later.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Dubai, United Arab Emirates

  Friday, 9 July 2017

  Leo was riding a dolphin across the calm, azure Mediterranean. Angela was clinging on behind him, her nails digging into his chest. A guitarist was riding another dolphin alongside him, playing the solo from ‘Stairway to Heaven’. His dream was shattered by a violent banging sound, and he realised it was someone knocking on the door. He struggled to clear his head then looked at his watch and went over, still in his boxer shorts, and called, ‘It’s six in the morning, who is it? What the hell do you want?’

  ‘It’s the police. Open the fucking door,’ a voice shouted back.

  He fumbled with the lock and pulled the door ajar with the safety chain still attached. ‘What’s going on?’

  Two men stood outside; they wore olive green shirts and berets and had guns holstered at their hips. One of them had a baton in his hand that he’d been using to bang on the door. ‘Are you Leo Stewart?’ he shouted.

  ‘Yes. What is it?’

  ‘Aftah, aftah. Open the door up, nigger. You’re under arrest.’

  Leo’s mind couldn’t function for a moment. ‘What do you mean?’

  He banged the baton against the door. ‘Open this fucking door now or we’ll blow it open.’ His hand went to his pistol.

  ‘OK, OK.’ Leo unfastened the safety chain and he pushed the door wide and strode in, followed by the other man, who had now drawn his gun.

  The policeman shoved the baton into his chest, pushing him towards the open bedroom door. ‘Get your clothes on nigger, you’re coming to the station.’

  ‘What are you arresting me for?’

  ‘For raping a woman.’ He smashed the stick across Leo’s back. Taharruk! Get dressed and bring some clothes, khinzir qadhar, filthy black rapist.’

  Leo staggered and almost fell. ‘What the fuck are you talking about? When am I supposed to have raped a woman?’

  ‘You know when, last night. I can see the marks on your face and body. Your cock must still be burning. Akhris! No more talking, get ready.’ He hit him again with the baton.

  Leo’s mind suddenly cleared, and the answer dawned on him. He felt sick at the realisation. It’s a honey trap. Angela’s cried rape against me. Rape is a death sentence. What the fuck’s going on?

  His shirt and trousers were on the chair where he’d dropped them and he picked them up, thinking furiously, forcing himself to stay calm, remembering the events in South Africa when he had turned the tables on his captors. I need a minute, that’s all I need.

  He went towards the bathroom, and the policeman hit him again and screamed, ‘Get dressed here, stay where you are.’

  Leo’s muscular fighter’s frame easily withstood the blows, and he mentally calculated the height of the two men at five ten or eleven. Both of them could be disabled with two swift Taekwondo kicks, but he knew it would only worsen the situation. He needed to avoid a fight, to think clever.

  ‘I have to use the toilet. Unless you want me to shit in your car.’ He had to get a message to someone before they took him to the prison. He’d heard enough stories to know that once in their custody, it would be too late.

  The man hesitated, ‘Hasanana. Be quick, filthy pig. I’m standing here
. Leave the door open and don’t try to be clever.’

  Leo went into the bathroom and half closed the door. He sat on the toilet seat, took his mobile from his trouser pocket and found Ed’s number, typed prison Hatim help, pressed Send then switched it off and shoved it back into his pocket.

  Standing up, he caught sight of himself in the cabinet mirror. There was a purple welt across his cheek where she’d slapped him, and his lip was cut and bruised. Crafty bitch, he thought. She’s set me up for a fall. He flushed the toilet and the policeman pushed the door open. The room stunk of their sweat.

  ‘Get ready and bring your stuff, or I’ll cut your balls off,’ he shouted. ‘Where’s your mobile?’

  Leo handed it over and the man shoved it in his shirt pocket. He grabbed some toilet things and another shirt and shorts and was pushed out of the flat, the baton smashing into his back as he walked to the elevator.

  Dubai, United Arab Emirates

  Ed Muire’s flat was in a nearby building in the park. He checked his phone when he got up at six-thirty and saw the text. There was no reply when he called Leo’s mobile. Panicked, he rang Tom Connor’s number. The American had arrived late the night before and was still in bed. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes as Ed read the message to him.

  ‘Wait a minute, Ed. I can’t understand anything you’re saying. Tell me again.’

  ‘It’s a text from Leo, he sent it at six-fourteen. It just says “prison Hatim help”, nothing else, and he’s not answering his mobile. I didn’t know what to do, so I called you.’

  Tom’s brain woke up with a start. ‘He’d only ask for Hatim’s help if he was in trouble. Why is he talking about prison? I’ll get Hatim on the case to find out what’s going on. Meet me at the office in half an hour, and we’ll take it from there. And Ed, call Sharif and get him back in here. This sounds like we need all hands on deck.’

  At eight-thirty, Tom received a call from Hatim. Ed, Shen and Daniel were in the office with him and Sharif arrived during the call. He didn’t speak for several minutes, making notes, his face becoming paler as he listened to the lawyer.