by Gabriel Kron
Rourke turned to the smart board and expected to see a picture of Bateman being displayed. It wasn’t, the board was blank.
“Sorry,” said a voice from the corner of the room. “We’re here,” the technician tapped his keyboard and the smart board flashed up Daniel Bateman’s photograph. Below it was a variety of other basic data.
“Right, thank you. Bateman is accused of the killing of four people in Stuttgart.” The images of Sophia Locke, Johann Locke, Dominik Becker and Detective Mueller displayed across the bottom of the screen. “It includes an officer assigned to the BKA, Detective Mueller, who was on his trail at the time. It appears that there is restricted technology involved in the form of a nuclear device.”
The room went silent when Rourke mentioned nuclear.
“Are we chasing down a dirty bomb sir?” asked one of the team.
“We don’t know the full story yet, whether it actually involves an actual bomb or whether it is just the plans for such a device. But the information he has must not be allowed to be sold or passed on,” Rourke lied. “We do know that Bateman escaped Germany and is now back on UK soil. So people, you have the case files. I want a live feed from GCHQ searching for any communications from Bateman and those that knew him. Greg, please trawl as much data as possible about Bateman and his associates. Let’s get intercepts going and I want someone outside his house. He may return to it even though the Yard has already searched it. Can someone please liaise with Special Branch and the BKA and drag across all their information and leads. Bateman can’t hide for long. We know where he was, where he worked, who he’s visited. German State Security has frozen his accounts so he has to be getting help from somewhere or someone.”
These people knew their jobs. If Rourke hadn’t directed them, they would have initiated all the relevant protocols and procedures anyhow. In fact, if he had arrived half an hour later, that is exactly what they would have been doing.
Rourke checked his watch, a 1945 British Military issue Omega chronometer.
“Thank you everyone, this is to be called Operation—” Rourke looked around the room for inspiration and found none. “Operation Bellring.”
BKA Headquarters,Wiesbaden, Germany. Day38
Director Werner was frustrated about the lack of the BKA's progress on the Bateman case and consequently the late Detective Mueller’s case. He knew it wasn’t for lack of effort from his detective, Sebastian Wolf. This case had so many loose ends that it was ridiculous to have been so close to Bateman and on more than one occasion, only to see him slip through their fingers.
What was even more frustrating was that one of the statements placed blame firmly with Detective Mueller. In fact, the accusations of Maria Becker, the bereaved wife of Dominik Becker, were such that if true, would the biggest case of corruption in the BKA’s history.
Werner desperately wanted to be able to protect the department’s already dented reputation by solving the Bateman case and tying up the loose ends involving Mueller.
The phone call he had just received had put any prospect of that well out of the ball park.
There was a knock at his door. It was Detective Wolf.
“Sebastian, I’ve just had a call from British SIS, who are also wanting to apprehend Daniel Bateman. They have requested all of our files and our full cooperation in their investigation,” Werner said after Wolf had given him a quick summary of the week’s progress, or lack thereof.
“Okay, well the London liaison officer can deal with that, I’ll copy all our files over,” Wolf said.
“No, I want you to take them over yourself please, Sebastian. In person. Something stinks and it’s blowing up around us. Have you had any more from the Becker woman?”
“No, she’s due to come in to make a formal statement.”
“Good, good. I just hope that what she claims isn’t true.”
“So do I sir.”
“And what about Mueller’s wife, how’s she taking it?” Werner asked.
“Ex-wife sir, they divorced four year ago,” Wolf said, surprised the Inspector didn’t know. “But yes, we’ve spoken to her and no, she knows nothing, hadn’t seen him in nearly two months.”
Westcote Avenue, South London. Day 38.
Becs drove past 32A Westcote Avenue, for the second time so I could make sure the place wasn’t being watched. When she heard that I wanted to visit my old flat to get some items from the basement, she insisted on coming with me. I agreed on the condition I went in alone.
I had seen the DO NOT CROSS - POLICE tape across the entrance and a notice fixed to the glass, but had no intention of using the front door. I knew a way in through the side of the house directly into the basement.
“Best check these phones,” I suggested unlocking the cheap pay-as-you-go phone Clive had found in a drawer. Becs called the phone, which vibrated in my hand.
“Please don’t be long,” Becs said.
“I won’t. Call me if anyone approaches the house.”
“I will, just get out quick if I do.”
“Stop worrying,” I said knowing that there was plenty to worry about. I grabbed the holdall to put what I needed in, kissed Becs and got out.
“Listen. Just in case someone does turn up, I’ll meet you in the next road down, er, Vickers, I think.”
“Just be quick.”
The side gate to the house was unlocked and making my way down the alley I used a small torch to find the old coal chute to the basement. A pair of rusted but functional iron doors were hidden behind two large paving slabs rested up against the wall. Struggling, I shifted the two concrete paving slabs to one side, exposing the old doors. Rusted hinges crunched as I forced the doors open.
With a bamboo cane from a nearby flower pot I spun it around in the chute to clear the old cobwebs out and slid in feet first. I had built a single skin of bricks at the bottom of the chute to secure the basement for my workshop, but I knew it wouldn’t take much to break it down. My bricklaying skills left a lot to be desired.
Laying on my back in the darkness of the chute, I planted both feet firmly on the wall. I pulled my legs back and kicked out hard. My feet hit what felt like a solid wall. It didn’t move at all. I tried again, but it felt absolutely solid. Maybe my bricklaying was better than I thought.
“Oh come on!” I hissed under my breath and repeatedly kicked the wall until at last, something moved. The sound of the wall had changed — finally I had broken the mortar. I could feel the wall give a little as I pressed against it. One final double footed kick and it broke its bonding. The wall caved in and I crashed into the basement, landing awkwardly on top of one of the benches and a pile of bricks.
I was hoping the automatic lights would come on, but I guess the electric company had cut me off and my own emergency power backup would have run itself flat after all this time trying to keep the freezer running. I dreaded to think what now lived in the fridge.
My LED head torch shone around the workshop. Dust from the wall was still in the air causing the torch to form a shaft of light across the once familiar workshop. It had been searched in the same manner as before. The contents of every shelf and cupboard had been strewn across the floor — a sight I was getting used to. This was not an organised search like I would have expected the Police to perform. This was like a manic search or a deliberate act of destruction. The various devices and machines that had been on the benches were missing. Notably missing was a new device I had been experimenting with for the fast electrolysis of water.
Had they found my safe? That was where I kept my laptop, camera gear, money and the typical documents and papers that needed secure storage. It was set into the floor under the basement stairs and was hidden under a small chest of drawers.
The chest of drawers was still there, emptied, but still hiding the safe which was also still locked. It had a classic combination lock and it took me two attempts to dial in the combination accurately. I loaded my spare laptop, some notebooks and the money I had stashed into
the holdall and placed it by the coal chute.
The basement door was difficult to push open, it was jammed by my technical library having been scattered across the hallway. I picked up one of the old brass technical instruments I liked to collect, a geological microscope, and placed it by the door. It was a piece of kit I knew Clive didn’t have and I wanted to study the carbon brush found at the Locke farm more closely.
The same thorough destructive search technique had also been applied to my bedroom as well. All I really wanted was my leather jacket and another pair of shoes or trainers.
I saw the blue flashing lights outside just before the phone in my pocket began to vibrate. I answered it as I made my way back out of my bedroom.
“Dan, get out now, the police are here!” Becs said in a panicked whisper. “They’re talking to your neighbour, she must have reported noise. Get out now.”
“I know I’m coming, I’ll see you in Vickers,” I said as I tried to quietly scramble across the scattered books.
Just as I reached to the basement door I could hear the front door being opened. This is too bloody close for comfort.
Putting on my leather jacket I stuffed the microscope and trainers into the holdall and pushed it up the coal chute. As I climbed up onto the workbench I could hear police radios upstairs amongst the footsteps of officers checking around. It wasn't long before they would check the basement. A beam of torchlight lit up the stairs as one of the officers started making his way down. I had to hurry.
I pushed myself up and just managed to pull my feet out of the way as the torchlight shone straight into the chute. Luckily, the angle meant I was hidden.
“It’s clear down here!” the officer shouted back upstairs.
“Clear here too,” came a distant reply from the kitchen.
I was relieved when darkness fell again and I heard the officer climb the stairs.
“She probably heard a cat or something,” I heard as the basement door was closed.
I poked my head out first and when it was obviously clear I gently crawled out and made my way down the back garden. In the darkness, I climbed the five foot brick wall that backed onto number 15 Vickers Road. The house lights were on and I could see the young couple in their lounge watching TV. Unlikely they were going to see me as I sneaked along their side alley to the street.
Becs wasn’t there. Where was she? I couldn’t just stand around waiting, so I started walking. My heart missed a beat when I saw a police car pull into the street. It drove past me slowly, and then carried on without stopping.
I was just starting to panic about where Becs was, when I saw her little Fiat 500 parked in front of a Ford Transit.
“Jesus, that was close,” I said as I climbed into the passenger seat.
“I called as soon as they arrived,” Becs said pulling away.
“How did they know?”
“Oh it was definitely your neighbour. She met them at the door. She must have heard you.”
“My place is completely trashed. Every shelf, cupboard, box, bag, you name it, they’ve trashed it, just like the Lockes.”
“The safe?”
“No. They didn't find it. I’ve got most of what I came for.”
“Good. Let’s go back to that lonely hotel room of yours then,” Becs said and smiled.
The Den. Day 39.
Mark knew it was a mistake to start taking an active interest in the targets that Colin Mundy gave him — Colin had warned him against it. Mark had always promised himself that he would only ever fulfil these contracts if he felt happy about it. He hadn’t been fully happy with the last and had questioned its legitimacy.
Since then, he had only been tasked with level 1 and 2 actions, mostly against individuals. He didn’t know if this was because there weren’t any other high level sanctions, or if Colin was now restricting him. He did know that Colin had other hackers on similar contracts.
What Colin didn’t realise was just how involved and proficient Mark had become. The level 4 and above sanctions involved sophisticated hardware and software. Mark had turned its use into an art form. Using modified IBM AS400 hardware packet sniffers on his own 2.488 Gbps, OC-48 internet backbones, Mark was able to implement communication protocols that allowed him to navigate the entire internet at a far deeper level than anyone else.
He likened the work of GCHQ and the NSA to flying above the internet highway: watching, monitoring, and intervening with the traffic. Mark had developed what he called The UnderNet Protocol and it was more akin to tunnelling under the internet highway, out of sight, watching without being watched.
The world was becoming an eSmart world, where every electronic item in the household or business would be connected to the internet sending information back to the relevant companies for billing, usage or servicing needs. This meant that every piece of electronics would have its own unique set of identifying numbers called IP addresses, and if computer based, a processor serial number or PSN.
Knowing the IP addresses and PSNs allowed Mark to monitor, enter and control the computers behind the IP address or PSN, sidestepping Firewalls, virus protectors and IP masks. The UnderNet protocol created a transparent internet.
In the case of the level 4 sanction on the group of people from the OTG, the PSNs allowed Mark to keep track of all the members, even though their accounts had been disabled. There was only one member to have gone completely cold and those accounts had already been sanctioned before Mark’s services had been employed.
Mark rarely paid attention to names attached to the sanctions. His Trawler search programs would obviously show who was who, but most of Mark’s work needed IP address numbers, account numbers, database indexes, and software keys. Anything that provided a unique identifier. Names themselves just didn’t do that.
Mark felt excited as he adjusted a final line of software code and compiled it. He was about to test his latest cyber-espionage utility. Software that was going to allow him to start User-Mapping a target. With User-Mapping, he would be able to see who the target was communicating with, being watched by or even being hacked by.
With a single click on Launch, his User-Mapping utility was pushed onto the PC’s of several of the OTG sanction list. Soon the little programs would start to self-replicate and start sending back the communicating IP addresses via the UnderNet protocol.
User-mapping the OTG wasn’t a task he had been asked to perform. He launched the utility on the OTG members so that he could see who else was secretly nosing around their computers. And to see if they had been successful yet with the machine they were calling the Lockridge Device.
He had questioned Colin over the legitimacy of the level 4 sanction, because to Mark's frame of reference, the discovery of a cheap form of energy that could help everyone around the world, especially the poor, was worth shouting about. And yet here he was being paid large sums of money to suppress any such findings in order to protect the status-quo of the global economy. An economy so broken by the banking crash of 2008 (and the subsequent recessions) that pensioners faced with excessive heating bills were dying because they couldn’t afford to heat their often sub-standard homes. Eat or Heat was the tag line in many news outlets.
When Mark lost his grandmother, the home-care visitor who had discovered her told him “Patty” had been scared to put the heating on because of the excessive bills. On the morning she was found, there had been a sudden cold snap that had plunged the country into minus temperatures for a few days.
Mark felt sick when he had learned of this. Sick with guilt because he earned so much and didn’t have anything to worry about and had been totally unaware how his grandmother was.
What was even more shocking was his own parents admitting they had the same worries. Mark promised himself and his parents that he would not let it happen again.
Free heating could help save between twenty and thirty thousand lives every year in the UK alone.
Victoria Cross, London. Day 39.
Wolf had
to admit that he only recognised the British SIS headquarters on the bank of the River Thames from its appearance in James Bond movies.
He liked London, had visited many times over the years, sometimes for work, but mostly for holidays. Today he deliberately walked over Vauxhall Bridge so that he could view the building that he had been told was nicknamed “Legoland” by insiders.
As he approached 85 Albert Embankment, Vauxhall Cross, the official address for the building, his phone started vibrating.
“Ja, was willst du?” Wolf answered leaning against the side of the bridge and looking down the river towards the London Eye.
“Sebastian, Maria Becker hat uns einige neue Beweise zukommen lassen...” said Officer Brunner, one of the officers working the Bateman Mueller case.
Officer Brunner told Wolf that Maria Becker had handed in a gun and claimed that she had told him her late husband, Dominik Becker, had taken it from Detective Mueller. She also maintained Detective Mueller had tried to use it to kill Bateman but her husband had prevented him from doing so and that was why she knew that Mueller had killed her husband.
If this was true then it was possible forensics may be able to prove it. He told Officer Brunner to send them the gun. Layering of the fingerprints would show who handled it and in what order, but that was only if it hadn’t been wiped clean or gloves hadn’t been worn.
Despite the image of a Lego building, Wolf liked what he saw. As he entered the main entrance, a security guard standing next to the current threat level board requested he put keys, phones, wallets, cases — in fact just about everything — on a tray that passed through an X-ray machine. The level of security was hardly surprising when the Current Threat Level was at SUBSTANTIAL. Wolf walked through the security arch that scanned his body for anything metallic and collected his case and other items on the other side.
“General William Rourke, please,” Wolf said when asked who he wanted to see. The receptionist made a phone call and told Wolf that someone would be down to collect him soon.
