by KC McLaren
ThornScope
Federation of Europe
BOOK 1
KC McLaren
Kevin C McLaren has asserted his right under the Copyright Designs and Patent Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this book.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the author/publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 Kevin C McLaren
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-1537784458
DEDICATION
To my dear wife Dolores, who convinced me to start my writing journey.
To my good friends, Bill, Giddy and Pauline for putting up with reading the outlines a million times…
SYNOPSIS
Jonathan Beckett is the coding genius behind the United Kingdom’s world leading surveillance and security net, ThornScope. A platform protecting the national interests from enemies of the state, hackers, terrorists, friends or foes. But those in power wanted more including stripping away the privacy rights of its citizens ThornScope protected. The government wanted control. No guns, no warfare, just absolute totalitarianism through public and business reliance on the need for day-to-day technology.
So Beckett dropped off the grid, disappeared to protect his source code and security protocols that prevented absolute Big Brother surveillance.
David Strickland, the onetime British Prime Minister and Beckett’s nemesis, has other plans. For the last two years the country has been negotiating its withdrawal from the European Union and Strickland is convinced the country is being undermined at every diplomatic turn. He is convinced the faceless bureaucrats threaten the core of the UK as a sovereign state. His plan is simple. If a Federation of Europe can’t be stopped, using the technology the United Kingdom has, he will create a Federation dominated, led and controlled by the British.
There is one part of the plan missing – Jonathan Beckett.
Chapter 1 | Strickland
IN RURAL BUCKINGHAMSHIRE STOOD the grand estate of former UK Prime Minister David Strickland. It stood in acres of woodland, paddocks and enough outer buildings to house a small village. Highgate Hall served as his main home and the base of his operations.
Strickland stood beside a long dark oak table that sat heavy in the middle of his large opulent study and enjoyed the wealth the room exuded.
Could the day’s result equal the pleasure? By the same token, will the years of bloody meticulous planning yield rewards?
As he waited for his guests to arrive, he pondered on the word bloody. Yes, he concluded, literally bloody and with no doubt, the size of the events ahead demanded further bloodshed. He smiled at the thought.
In the middle of the oak table lay a late eighteenth century French crafted wooden box, a recent and expensive acquisition. He found it hard to take his attention away from the magnificent and painstaking craftsmanship.
The design truly graced his presence, but it was the content that filled him with intrigue and delightful anticipation. He opened it to show its one precious item, a small glass vial nestled in a deep dark velvet surround. How odd, something worth so little had become part of a chain of events to decide not only his destiny, but the future of the country. Impatient, but knowing he didn’t have long to wait, he closed the box.
Chapter 2 | The pickup
JONATHAN BECKETT WALKED ALONG OXFORD STREET, one of London’s busiest shopping districts. It stretched out for over two miles from Tottenham Court Road Tube Station to Marble Arch. Proud and tempting flagship stores, including Debenhams, John Lewis lined the road including the largest, Selfridges. His destination and meeting point.
He strolled along and engaged in one of his favourite pastimes of people-watching. It amused him to discover shoppers rushed from shop to shop looking for tempting gifts for the upcoming season’s festivities. Up ahead local council workers busied themselves putting up the traditional Oxford Street Christmas lights. He smiled, thinking wasn’t it only the first week of November? He continued walking mindful of the cliché bright red scarf wrapped around his neck. ‘Be at this meet point… Wear a red scarf…’ What next? A secret handshake?
A light snow drifted onto his face, unusual for this time of year. Although it didn’t settle on the ground, it created a mush of soggy grey puddles. With a cheeky smirk he looked on as a crowd of shoppers tried in vain to navigate them only to be splashed by others trying to do the same. Nevertheless, puddles aside the chilly freshness put him in good humour.
Although still early the street lamps stirred into life. Their awakening glow bounced off the delicate falling snowflakes as the day surrendered to the dark veil of night that crept over the busy city. Darkness aside, he arrived at the main entrance of Selfridges and peered into the display window. Ten minutes early, enough time to partake in a few moments of pointless window shopping. The display showed a joyful and snowy scene of alluring mannequins dressed in an array of festive and expensive apparel. In fact, they looked as if they smirked with a chorus of ‘Buy me, buy me, please buy me…’ No thanks, I’ve enough problems with this scarf. One of them, who had a similar red scarf, stood there somewhat perplexed and rigid, a look of disdain on its white plastic face. His own, a fancier brighter red, looked much more appealing.
It was jealous.
He laughed and brought the tail end up waving it at the window, “You want this one? Let me know if you want to swap, just ask.”
After a few more impatient minutes taunting the smirking mannequin, he felt a tug on the back of his coat. He turned around, there to his surprise appeared to be a smallish girl gawking up at him. A teenager? The girl’s riveting blue eyes contrasted against her gaunt, underfed, and too-soon-worn-out-features, it was not what he was expecting.
The girl tried to shove something into his hand. “Here, that’s for you.”
He raised an eyebrow realising he still held the end tail of the scarf. “What is? I haven’t any loose change on me if that’s what you want. Move along now, I’m waiting for someone.”
She ignored him, “You’re the one wearing the red scarf mate. You think I’ll nick it? I’m here to give you this.”
He let go of the scarf. At over six-feet tall he towered over the girl, making him self-conscious and could see her trying to look smaller and wondered how old she could be. And yet the tone of the young girl’s voice made him believe she must be older than the bleak-edge-demure presented. Most likely still in her late teens or early twenties.
Did he frighten her? He had no intention of frightening anyone. Not his style. Therefore, removing the deadpan mannequin expression, he smiled and with disbelief wondered if she could be the contact. Her impatient blue eyes brought him from his momentary daze.
“Hey! Didn’t you hear me? I’m told to give you this. I’m here to meet you,” she said motioning a package, a white envelope, towards his hands.
Not from London, from the North, most likely Leeds he decided. She didn’t care for his friendly smile. The mannequin was friendlier. “Yes, thank you,” he replied taking the package. “Anything else?” The defensive glare made it plain to Jonathan she didn’t want any prolonged conversation, polite or otherwise.
The girl looked around as if someone in the shadows observed them. “Nope, I’ve got nothing else, just the package,”
She looked so small in the old oversized army coat she wore with a backpack slung over her shoulders. What a waste, just another one of life’s drifters doing their best to make a buck.
“I’m told you
’d give me a tenner…” she said.
He laughed, “Flipping heck. Not the shy hopeless defenceless little street girl then?”
She stared up and ignored the question. Was she playing him? He took out his wallet and fetched out a ten-pound note. “Sorry, here you are,” he replied.
She snatched the money out of his hand and shoved it into one of her pockets then turned and walked away. Transfixed, he watched as she paused waiting for a gap in the traffic. The light from the street lamp bathed over her casting an eerie orange glow and the surrounding noise to Jonathan became a distant echo. She turned around and locked her eyes onto his, the glow, that concentrated onto her face melted away the child features.
With maturity in her voice, she said, “Be careful out there today, not everything is what it seems, Jonathan.”
Chapter 3 | Thoughts
STRICKLAND LOOKED AROUND THE study one more time, apart from one wall and lined from floor to ceiling with bookcases, they contained a classical collection of leather-bound books. Writings of great wars, expeditions and the great political leaders. He gazed towards the south wall. The bespoke built-in shelving held his most precious collection and dedicated to one such beast. A huge figure of a man regarded as one of the greatest wartime leaders of the 20th century. It amused him that the wall always caught the eye of the privileged visitor. The author’s writings, with every speech given, and every book written, sat prominent around the big fat cigar portrait displayed in the middle.
When serving as the Labour Prime Minister it titillated him no end to watch the expressions of irony on many a visitor’s face. Why this political leader? Was it a callous joke? Colleagues expressed concern that the grand display of such a man suggested betrayal. He never dignified the intimation. Then again, he mused, those who asked in such a manner never survived too long in his political playground either.
An avid reader, the collection imparted to him strength and fortitude throughout his political life, he felt indebted to the author. Thank you, Sir Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill, former Conservative Prime Minister. With agreed irony, Strickland admired Churchill more than any other. He glanced back to the French wooden box and smiled. With a nod towards the portrait, he said aloud, “Well, Mr Churchill, not the way you may have had things done. But, I'm sure you appreciate the sentiment.”
Strickland used his collection for both study and research which helped shaped his views over the years. A historical scholar, he earned a degree in history and politics from Oxford and later in life awarded honorary degrees from renowned universities including Cambridge, Harvard, Princeton and Stanford.
After leaving political office, and the resentment had abated, he found himself in great demand. Book deals, directorships and the lecture circuit had enabled him to amass a small fortune in a few years. But Strickland had accumulated significant wealth long before leaving office, his real fortune hidden from the prying eyes of political oversight.
He walked across the polished wooden floor to the north wall. On it hung a prominent painting covering two-thirds the entire surface. It stared out across the study, the centrepiece of the room and whilst he had collected many paintings over the years, this had become his favourite. The painting, purchased in an anonymous auction in Berlin, displayed a hellish scene of burning buildings and dead bodies by the well-known 15th and 16th century artist Hieronymus Bosh. He admired the canvas. Yes, history will admire him as he intended to own it – he smirked at the paraphrased Churchill miss-quote. Churchill was not the only one with a third eye he thought to himself.
He turned away as a knock on the main study door drove his thoughts away from the painting. That’ll be Christopher, his personal secretary. A good young man, even though he was an arrogant snob with a trust fund and lofty sense of entitlement to go with it. He smirked to himself thinking how delightful it was having a Conservative Member of Parliament’s son serving a former Labour Party Prime Minister. Now that was ironic. He liked the chap or maybe it was using him as a punching bag he enjoyed more.
“Enter,” Strickland summoned.
Christopher entered the study. “Sir,” he replied, “your guests have arrived. Shall I show them in?” he asked.
Strickland cut him off, “Make sure they are well cared for, I will be ready in a short while…”
A typical tactic, no matter who the guests he always kept them waiting for a few minutes, if not longer. It was his playground, his game, and the stakes were higher for him than anyone else. At least in his mind.
Chapter 4 | Welcome Home
THE WORDS OF THE girl rattled him, did he hear her right? “Be careful out there today, not everything is what it seems, Jonathan.”
What did she mean? How did she know his name?
Shocked at the maturity in the girl’s tone Jonathan took a step backward, convinced her blue eyes had twinkled with a flashing, knowing wink. He tried calling out to her but within seconds she’d disappeared into a sea of oblivious shoppers crowding Oxford Street.
How the hell had she got his name? He must have mentioned it to someone in the group. Something else niggled at the back of his mind as she handed over the envelope. At last it came to him. Finger! That was it, her fingernails. They were clean and not bitten, didn’t fit the persona. He rationalised what she said and decided the girl was no street kid, just another underground anarchist playing a role, playing him, taking his money. Yes, he decided, nothing more than a street hustler.
Shrugging his shoulders, he returned his attention to the envelope and removed a USB thumb drive and sheet of paper; it had simple typed written instructions. OK, the usual then.
He couldn’t shrug off the thoughts of the girl. What if she knew his real identity? He’d been off-grid for a long time, his identity buried deep, far too deep for anyone to find him. A necessity to safeguard something more important than his own wellbeing. He closed his eyes to help him try to understand only to have haunting images of the past creep into his mind. No one should have died, no one. Damn it, he should have known better, should have reacted faster. He was the one responsible. The deep-rooted and ever present guilt shrouded over and grew, spreading inside him. A wave of nausea came over him as the touch of betrayal circled in his stomach, awakening images of innocent death.
He opened his eyes to the sound of a car horn, shocked to find himself in the middle of traffic. In front of him an on-coming taxi came to a sudden stop, “What the…” Johnathan's hands slammed onto the vehicle’s bonnet. Someone cried out, “GET OUT THE BLOODY WAY, YOU MORON.”
He hurried back to the pavement. Damn it, get a grip. Not here, not now he mumbled. He took long deep breaths banishing the unwelcomed thoughts back into their black-dog nightmare box.
As the taxi driver poked his head out of his window Jonathan raised a hand up in a sign of an apology.
The cabbie shouted, “Get a cup coffee mate, bit early in the day for the drink,” He shook his head in annoyance and drove off on his way.
Jonathan rushed back to the pavement. It wasn’t the first time he had lost his sense of surroundings. When he first got off the grid for months he had wandered around the city more or less living on the streets. He chastised himself, having an open ended suite booked at the Ritz could not qualify as homeless. But there were many times he drank himself into a bottomless pit of despair and even tried the street drugs that were available. The hotel was discrete, sometimes he would go missing for days at a time. They’d always bring him in, wash him and leave him to sleep off the drink. But nothing or no one could pay the bill for his guilt.
Keep positive he told himself. Whilst he had protected himself from prying eyes on the net, and when it suited him, he’d help leak sensitive information onto the web. ‘The public had the right to know’, the group he worked with reasoned, the material uploaded to internet sites that supported the mantra. Information which, without a doubt, unwelcomed disclosures by his former government clientele. He didn’t do it because of malice or contempt, and not
for monetary gain.
He took one last gulp of air drawing it deep into his lungs and told himself, “It’s OK. Just be calm,” he put the note and thumb drive into his coat pocket. The note instructed him to find an internet cafe and upload the files to an unnamed website. The cafe had the ports disabled, but access had never been a problem for someone of his ilk.
He pushed up his collar against the frosty air then turned and walked back to the shop display window. Calmer and eyeing the jealous mannequin he returned its mocking glare.
“Bollocks,” he said out loud throwing the loose end of the scarf around his neck, “I’m keeping the damn thing.” With that, he turned on his heels and walked off towards the café.
The snow continued to fall through the early evening air, the street lamps catching them in their winter’s dance. As he reached the entrance, he couldn’t help feel someone was watching. He took a quick look around, was the girl still nearby? He shrugged off the thoughts and walked in, it was busier than usual so he headed over to the serving bar and ordered a coffee. After an extended wait his coffee arrived and noticed a computer space become available. He grabbed his coffee and walked over to the work station. He couldn’t help himself take a gaze around the crowded café to make sure no one looked his way. Not that anyone was, but felt better for the effort and inserted the personal USB thumb drive into the computer’s port.
The USB drive was special, not something anyone else could buy. It had its own power source, a tiny battery that delivered a charge when required. With the computer’s USB port disabled, the thumb drive passed a small current to the wiring within the port and once found, his encrypted software came to life. It attached itself to the computer’s security algorithms convincing the operating system it belonged and posed no threat. A small dialogue box popped up confirming it activation. He clicked ‘OK’ which removed the message from the screen and then launched the internet browser. The computer displayed a page which asked for personal information and credit card details to pay for the session. It took less than a few seconds to get control and bypass the security.
