Gray Redemption

by Alan McDermott

“What will it involve?” Ellis asked.

  “I’ll have to create a virtual server and route their requests through it. I’ll also need to write a Windows service that intercepts the request. At that point I can switch principal identities.”

  “Before you forward the request with the new identity, can you make a note of every search they make?” Ellis pressed.

  “That shouldn’t be too hard,” Small said. “I can set up a separate database to record everything they are looking at. You’ll want to view the results real-time, I suppose?”

  “If you can, that would be great.”

  “No problem. I should have it all in place by Thursday morning.”

  With that matter dealt with, Ellis asked Harvey for an update on the search.

  “When they went into hiding last year they had friends pay for everything so that they couldn’t be traced,” he explained. “That doesn’t seem to be the case this time. None of their known acquaintances have any credit or debit card payments that suggest a planned disappearance.”

  “Are you saying they haven’t left a single trace?”

  “No, we have the use of their debit cards at an ATM, but that was late on the evening before the search started, and it was at South Mimms services on the M25. It’s at the junction with the A1, which means they could be anywhere north of London by now.”

  “If they actually headed north,” Farsi pointed out. “Let’s assume they know the card transactions will be picked up: do you think they’d use an ATM on their actual route?”

  Harvey had to concede that his colleague was right. “Then they could have headed in any direction, which gives us even less to go on than we had a minute ago.”

  Ellis knew that with a cold trail it would be almost impossible to locate their quarry. “What about phone conversations: they must have spoken to someone in the last few days.”

  “That’s where it gets interesting,” Harvey said. “We asked GCHQ for a list of all calls to and from their known numbers in the last two weeks and got a couple of interesting hits.”

  “Interesting how?”

  “Most of the calls in the preceding days were mundane, but Levine got one at midday the day before they disappeared. The number was an unregistered mobile originating from Singapore. A minute later Levine called Campbell and that was the last call either of them made.”

  “Do we have transcripts?” Ellis asked.

  “They came through this morning and we’ve been working up a lead,” Farsi said. “The call from Singapore was brief. The caller introduced himself as Timmy and said he had a message from the Sarge.”

  “The Sarge?” Ellis asked.

  “We’re working that up, just waiting for the MoD to get back to us,” Harvey said.

  “What was the message?”

  “That’s the interesting bit. All he said was ‘Saturday the ninth of April, option three.’”

  “That was just a couple of weeks ago,” Ellis said. “What’s the significance?”

  “Actually, the ninth of April this year was a Monday. We think he was referring to the same date last year.”

  Ellis couldn’t make the connection and asked them to spell it out.

  “That was the day Tom Gray’s eight associates went into hiding, and five days later his website went live,” Farsi explained.

  “So this Timmy has told them to do what they did a year ago, which is disappear. Could option three be an alternate hideaway they were planning to use?”

  “It could be,” Harvey admitted. “Unfortunately, we expected Tom Gray’s death to be the end of the matter, and no-one thought to question them about any other preparations they’d made.”

  Ellis thought for a moment. “So we don’t yet know where they are, but someone has told them to go into hiding. Have you checked the whereabouts of the other four members of Tom Gray’s team?”

  “Paul Bennett was killed in a road traffic accident at the start of the year and Tristram Barker-Fink died while on a security detail in Iraq. Phone records suggest the remaining two, Baines and Smart, took a contract job in Manila last Monday. We checked the number they were called from and it’s no longer in use, so we’ve asked the British Embassy to check it out for us.”

  “Have you got a recording?” She asked.

  “Not available, according to GCHQ, though they did send over the auto-transcript. The contact in Manila was someone called James, no surname mentioned.”

  “If we find Baines and Smart, they should be able to tell us what option three was,” Ellis pointed out.

  “It could be our best chance of finding Levine and Campbell,” Farsi agreed.

  “Then let’s concentrate on the leads we have,” Ellis said. “Find out all you can about Timmy and the Sarge, and track down Baines and Smart.”

  Chapter 4

  Monday April 30th 2012

  Vick woke once more to the smell of body odour and curry and began having second thoughts about tagging along with Tom Gray. Oh, for a hot shower and a soft comfortable bed rather than a stinking mattress on the floor of the cargo container they shared with more than a dozen others. Even an hour in the sun would have been appreciated, but the captain had made it clear that anyone sticking their head above deck would be dealt with severely, and she suspected that in the people-smuggling trade, severely often meant permanently. That meant two weeks in the lower hold and goodbye to her tan. At least there was a chiller unit pumping cold air into the compartment, otherwise the heat would have quickly become unbearable — perhaps even fatal — given the temperature in the Indian Ocean, especially during the earlier part of the journey.

  She looked down at Gray, who was still sleeping, as were most others in the cramped container. She ran her finger over the crescent-shaped scar on his cheek and tried to imagine what it must have been like to be in that building when it blew up around him.

  Vick had asked Gray to share the whole story with her, from the death of his son to his arrival on Basilan. He had tried to gloss over certain events but she’d insisted on hearing all of the details, even from Sonny’s and Len’s perspectives. It had certainly passed the time, but with another week to go until they reached Africa she was beginning to wonder if she’d made the right decision. There had been nothing to stop her from just going to the British embassy in Singapore, explaining her story and getting a flight home, but her heart had told her to stick with Tom.

  After a quick visit to the toilet, a Porta-Cabin-like structure located just outside the container, Vick returned and rummaged through one of their bags to find something to eat. They were served hot food twice a day but there was a limit to the amount of curry she could eat, so she found a tin of ham and tucked in.

  Gray woke next to her and yawned, immediately regretting the action.

  “Christ, it stinks in here.”

  “You’ve just noticed?” Vick asked, trying to ignore the smell as she chewed.

  Gray ignored the jibe and went to relieve himself. When he returned he grabbed a fork and helped Vick to finish off the cold meat.

  “Last night I thought of a way we could locate Farrar, but it’s a risk,” Gray said.

  “What’s your plan?”

  “We need someone on the inside, and I think I may have just the person.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  Gray shook his head. “An old adversary.”

  “Then yes, it does sound risky. Care to tell me more?”

  “I met him for just a few moments, but something about him told me he was honest and could be trusted,” Gray said.

  “How do you know he isn’t involved in the whole thing?” Vick persisted. “What if he just turns you all in?”

  “It was something Farrar told me last year. I remember he said something disparaging about MI5, which suggests they weren’t involved in all this.”

  Vick wasn’t convinced, but it was Gray’s call and he had made a few good ones in the last couple of weeks. Having said that, she’d have been a lot happier if Gray had packe
d an air freshener, and she told him as much.

  “Yeah, I never have one when I need one,” he sighed.

  * * *

  Azhar Al-Asiri prepared for one of his infrequent jaunts into the outside world. As always, he strapped on the bullet-proof vest and over that went the padding to add the appearance that he weighed a hundred pounds more than he actually did. The ensemble was completed by the full-length black burqa, transforming him from Al-Qaeda leader to humble wife.

  Outside, the vehicle was waiting. The Toyota Land Cruiser appeared to be ancient, but under the hood was a finely-tuned V10 engine, and the side panels were armour-plated. Al-Asiri stepped out into the street for the first time in weeks and made the short walk to the car, looking to any casual observer like a harmless octogenarian. He took a seat in the back and cranked the window a little: not so much that he would be exposed to any incoming small-arms fire, which the bullet-proof glass could easily handle.

  The drive was a short one and within ten minutes they arrived at the hotel, where his fellow passenger helped him out and escorted him through the lobby to the small elevator. They rode in silence up to the third floor and when the doors parted, Al-Asiri waited until his bodyguard checked the hallway for danger. After getting the all-clear, Al-Asiri followed him to room 317, where they found two men, one sitting on the bed, the other on a chair.

  Al-Asiri recognised one of them as part of his security detail, which meant the balding man in his fifties had to be Professor Munawar Uddin. Although he’d never met the man, Al-Asiri had been financing his work for the past five years, and as reports suggested the project was almost complete, he wanted to get the latest update in person.

  He removed the burqa and waited for the shock to pass from Uddin’s face.

  The professor had been told nothing about the purpose of his visit, just that he would be away from his facility for as short a time as possible. The last thing he’d ever expected was to meet the leader himself.

  Al-Asiri offered his greetings, dismissed the escorts and took a seat in the chair opposite the professor.

  “I understand the project is nearing completion,” he said when they were alone in the room. “Tell me about the latest test results.”

  Uddin took a moment to gather himself before explaining that the experiments carried out on Bonobos — once known as the pygmy chimpanzee and more closely related to man than apes — had shown a ninety-three percent success rate.

  “The virus we have developed successfully targeted the male Y chromosome in all of the test subjects. A few suffered testicular azoospermia, which is a complete lack of sperm in the semen, while the majority suffered a highly-reduced Y chromosome sperm count, roughly two percent of all sperm produced.”

  Al-Asiri was pleased with the update, but wasn’t about to celebrate a victory quite yet. “What are the chances of similar results in humans?” He asked.

  “The genetic differences between the two species are negligible, and the process of spermatocytogenesis is virtually identical.”

  The look Al-Asiri gave Uddin suggested a simplified explanation might be in order. “The formation of sperm starts with cells called spermatogonia. The spermatogonium splits to form two spermatocytes, which in turn split to become spermatids. These spermatids mature to become the spermatozoa.”

  Al-Asiri nodded for him to continue, though he didn’t pretend to understand the whole process.

  “Consider the spermatogonia to be templates: they are not in infinite supply, and so when they split some remain in the basal compartment to create further spermatogonia, while the others move to the adluminal compartment to enter the spermatidogenesis stage, the next step in the production of the spermatozoa.”

  “At what stage do the subjects become affected?” Al-Asiri asked, beginning to grow impatient.

  “W...well,” Uddin stammered, acutely aware of the need to get his point across, “at the initial spermatocytogenesis stage we have found a way to latch on the spermatogonia containing the Y chromosome, which produces male offspring. The virus destroys these cells, leaving just the female X chromosome spermatogonia. Eventually only X chromosome sperm will be produced by the subjects, which means all offspring will be born female.”

  “How soon is eventually?”

  Uddin swallowed, knowing the answer was not going to be accepted with good cheer.

  “It could take months, perhaps a year,” he said, awaiting the backlash.

  None came. Instead, Al-Asiri seemed quite happy with the timeframe.

  “What about delivery methods,” the head of Al-Qaeda asked.

  Uddin was happy for the subject to be changed and breathed a sigh. “The virus is a hybrid of Influenza A and so can be passed from person to person through airborne transfer. The lifespan outside of the host is an impressive one hour in the air, with a reduced period of around thirty minutes on door handles, work surfaces and other non-porous surfaces. On contact with skin and other porous surfaces, such as paper, the virus will die within a few minutes, but if anyone comes into contact with an infected surface and then touches their eyes, nose or mouth, they will be susceptible.”

  “What about introducing it into the water supply?” Al-Asiri suggested. “Surely that would have the greatest reach?”

  “From the very start of the project, the delivery method was a primary consideration. Your idea was one of the first we looked at, but investigations showed that most modern water purification processes use ultraviolet light to eliminate bacteria, viruses and mold from the sewage. Our virus would not be able to withstand such exposure to the UV radiation.”

  “Then what do you propose?”

  Uddin explained that the virus had an incubation period of four to five days, following which the subject would experience mild flu-like symptoms which would last two, perhaps three days at the most.

  “Introducing the virus into a densely populated area would have the maximum effect. Perhaps you could send infected subjects onto the London underground to spend the rush hour riding the tube, or have them attend an indoor concert.”

  Al-Asiri filed the suggestions away for later consideration, but he had a more pressing concern. “What about the selectivity issue?” He asked. “Can you guarantee that only westerners will be affected?”

  “There are no guarantees, but the differential allelic gene expression resulting from X-chromosome —”

  “Enough!” Al-Asiri said, his patience worn thin. “Just give me a number. Are you one hundred percent sure that it will affect only westerners, or just ten percent?”

  Uddin considered his answer carefully. While there had been extensive research in this area, it had yet to be proven conclusively that a particular race could be identified – never mind targeted – at the genome level. Nevertheless, his work with a variety of cell samples was had managed to produce the desired results in seventy-seven percent of trials, a figure he shared with Al-Asiri.

  The response was quiet contemplation for a few moments before Al-Asiri declared the number high enough for the project to go ahead.

  “Prepare as much as you can over the next ten days,” he said, rising from his seat. “I will be in touch with you after I have made other preparations.”

  He made sure his disguise was in place before leaving the scientist in the hotel room and making his way back to the car. Once settled, he reflected on how far things had come in the last few years, and how close their biggest victory now appeared.

  It was a shame that they would never be able to claim responsibility for it.

  * * *

  Veronica Ellis strode purposefully into the Technical Operations office, her mood destroyed by yet another phone conversation with James Farrar.

  “Any idea when it will be ready?” she asked Gerald Small, her tone a little harsher than she normally used on the staff.

  The technician continued tapping away on his keyboard.

  “Almost there.”

  Another few keystrokes and he declared the job done.r />
  “The next time he logs on to his computer, his account profile will be pulled from the central server. When this happens, the key logging application will extract itself and begin running. I’ll place an icon on your desktop that gives you a breakdown of every key he presses in real time.”

  Ellis thanked him and apologised for her abrupt manner. The thrice-daily calls from Farrar were beginning to grate on her nerves, especially as he now had three times the manpower working on the search.

  The accounts he’d requested had been set up a few days earlier and she had been through their searches only to find that they were simply duplicating much of the work her team had already done. None of their network activity had given any clues as to who they were working for, which was why she had requested that the key logging software be installed on their workstations. Unfortunately, it wasn’t standard software in the MI5 inventory and so she’d asked Small to code it up himself. Being more of an infrastructure specialist rather than a developer, it had taken Small a couple of days to get a working version ready to deploy.

  “Please let me know once it is activated,” she said as she left the office.

  Her next port of call was Andrew Harvey’s station, where she found him involved in a heated phone call. She waited for him to finish and then asked for an update on the two men they were concentrating on: The Sarge and Timmy.

  “We’ve been through the records of all eight men involved in the Tom Gray episode, and between them they served under five sergeants in the SAS. So far we’ve had no luck with four of them.”

  “What about the other one?” Ellis asked.

  “The other one was Tom Gray himself,” Farsi said, from the opposite desk, “so we kinda ruled him out, with him being dead and all.”

  Ellis conceded that it was a fair call. “What about Timmy? Did you manage to identify him?”

  “We’ve had seven hits and we’re working through them now,” Harvey told her.

  “Diplomatically, I hope,” recalling the conversation he was having when she arrived at his desk.