by Tony Batton
To be absolutely certain, he ran a check on the system-data files. No file had been altered. But several had been accessed at almost exactly the same moment as the network had briefly gone down. He brought up the details: the files had been accessed from within the building.
Marron straightened in his chair. There were few people with the expertise and capability to break CERUS' interior security systems. A brute-force hack would have taken several thousand years. Whoever had accessed the files had insider knowledge of the system.
So what had they been looking for? It was still a vast ocean of information, almost impossible to navigate without very specific knowledge. But, as he checked, he realised that it had been navigated. The perpetrator had made an unfettered beeline for Project Tantalus. How had they even known to look? And who could have done this? Whoever it was had looked over everything related to the project. Even Subject Zero. At least some details weren't in those files, but it was still a substantial breach. He needed to know who had done it. And he needed to find them.
The fault that had triggered the reboot had manifested itself without a specific point of incidence: the whole subnet had failed. At first he thought he'd have to run analysis on everyone, but no. It had to be a visitor or intruder. No employee would be brazen and stupid enough to attempt it. He set the system running a search of the CCTV footage from an hour before the incident, targeting visitors and scanning with facial recognition and pattern-matching software to identify suspicious behaviour. A dozen possible targets flagged. Most were known quantities: people who'd been doing business with CERUS for years. But two were new to his list. One was a man who was quickly identified as a representative of a local charity that CERUS wanted to align with. The other was a woman: Daniella Lawrence. He'd not heard the name before, although her face had a familiarity about it. He ran some broader searches and found several Daniella Lawrences of the same approximate age: a hairdresser, a teacher, a musician, and a medical doctor who worked in West Africa. This woman looked like none of them.
He isolated her activity in the CCTV footage. She sat, working on a laptop like it was an extension of her hands, occasionally glancing around. He zoomed in, the high resolution footage clarifying. There was something about her mannerisms, about those eyes, but he couldn't place it. Whoever she was, she knew what she was doing.
But so did he. He called up other CCTV footage and quickly viewed the same woman arriving. He saw the guard giving her the guide to the tower, the small souvenir booklet that every visitor was provided with. A memento of their visit. At least that was one of the guide's purposes. It also contained a paper-circuit tracking device that would activate once per hour for approximately a week and attempt to connect to a local network. If it could, it would send a message giving its GPS coordinates. Apart from those few seconds' of activity every hour, it was almost impossible to detect.
Marron smiled. If she still had the guide, he could find her.
FORTY-TWO
THE BARN WAS ONE OF a number of old outbuildings on the farm, located a few miles from Windsor, an hour west of London. Lentz had, years previously, struck a deal with the farmer to use the wooden structure for long-term storage of some old machinery. It wasn't an accurate description of what she did with the place, but the farmer had never seemed all that interested in the details of her activities.
She always checked on the barn when she returned to the UK, to make sure it was equipped and ready for her; today that care was going to pay dividends. She navigated the unmade road in the dim headlights of her twenty-year-old transit van: a vehicle that had once been white but was now several shades of dirty grey. Parking in the lane, she pulled out her phone and accessed a hidden wireless network. The barn's security system told her the site had not been disturbed.
Removing a heavy key from her pocket, she undid the oversized padlock and let herself in, strip lights flickering on and illuminating the space. It was full of old tractors and other farm machinery, very little of it ever likely to work again. Lentz pushed aside a deceptively light tractor wheel, revealing a trapdoor, and descended into a space full of equipment that was not so out of date and considerably more functional. She pulled dust sheets away to reveal a number of computer servers and three large computer displays. Every inch of wall space was decked with racking, all loaded with electronic components and mechanical parts, except for a single shelf on which stood a line of faded photos of two little girls and a child's remote-controlled car, decades old.
Lentz set her laptop on an empty desk and began scrolling through what she had managed to download from CERUS Tower. Unfortunately it was very little. She did not have enough to perform any useful analysis. She knew they were combining Tantalus with nanotechnology, but none of the specifics.
But she could guess a lot. It made her giddy and sick at the same time. The scientist in her almost couldn't contain herself: the humanitarian she had become wanted to scream.
Should she just go to the police? Last time that strategy had got her 'killed' – at least as far as CERUS was concerned. And to give her story any credibility she would have to reveal who she was, which was a can of worms she did not want opened. At this point, it was her one real advantage over CERUS.
So what should she do? She could try to re-enter CERUS Tower, but she doubted that would work. She was lucky she had got away undetected this time.
She opened her bag and removed the CERUS Tower guide, flicking through its pages. It was supposed to be a guide to the building, to the company, but it told her nothing she needed to know, just what they wanted her to know. As if it were more for their benefit than hers. She threw the guide aside and adjusted her wig, which still itched.
She needed to think laterally. Where else might CERUS data be stored? They were undoubtedly doing work at sites other than the Tower. Working at the old Eastwell site had taught her that Bern always planned carefully with special locations completely ring-fenced from the main operation. Nothing in the data she had downloaded indicated where the latest might be.
Sighing, she turned to her folders of publicly available data on CERUS Tower. The plans and specifications, down to power and sewer supply, were available for inspection at the local council offices; Lentz had made a nuisance of herself over the years, challenging the design plans at various stages. She hadn't been able to stop the Tower being built, but she'd made Bern's life difficult. And she'd archived a wealth of information about every aspect of the design of the building. Just nothing that would help her now.
So where else could she look?
And then it hit her.
Armstrong.
He had clearly been acting against CERUS. He must have acquired data and hidden it somewhere. Had they recovered it? Or was that why they'd blown up his house? Was it still somewhere among the ruins?
She palmed the van keys. It was worth a look.
FORTY-THREE
TOM WOKE WITH A GASP, sucking in a deep breath of air. It felt like he had been thrown into a tub of ice water, yet he was completely dry. Breathing hard, he looked around. He was still in the office at the clinic, but he was tied to the chair. He started to test his bonds, then something made him look up.
And he froze.
Chatsworth sat opposite. And he was dead. At least that was Tom's presumption, based on the grey of his skin and terrible bulging eyes.
The door opened and a woman walked in. Not in a black dress this time, as she had been at the launch of CERUS Tower, but Tom recognised her in an instant.
She looked at him with mild surprise. "You aren't supposed to be awake yet. This is awkward."
Tom was so angry, had so many questions, that they jammed in his throat. He coughed and managed to spit out, "You killed him. Why?"
"He had become a liability." She placed an electronic device with a keypad and display on Chatsworth's desk. "Don't go anywhere," she said, and walked from the room.
Tom assessed his options. He was tied up and still groggy, although his hea
d was clearing fast. Perhaps he could negotiate a way out of this? But then he shook his head. She had basically admitted to murder in front of him. She wouldn't let him leave.
The woman returned, dragging a large metal cylinder.
"What is that?" he asked.
She placed it next to the desk then clipped the device to it. "It's an oxygen tank. I need an accelerant because there's no mains gas supply to this room." She tapped some numbers into the device and the digits 15:00 appeared.
"Three o'clock tomorrow afternoon?" he asked hopefully.
She turned to him. "Fifteen minutes. Sorry, Tom. I'm under instructions to clean up this mess."
"So you're just going to leave me here? To watch that countdown?"
She seemed to consider that, then reached into a pocket and withdrew a familiar item.
"This is the tranquilliser gun that the doctor used on you." She raised it and aimed. "I was told you were special: that we're alike. But I didn't see it at the party and I don't see it now."
And she fired.
The same click, the same sting, then he was fading, fading...
◇ ◇ ◇
Tom woke with a start, still sitting in the chair. In front of him the red glow of the timer glared.
3:01... 3:00... 2:59...
In shock he sat up and immediately realised he was untied. For a moment he wondered why, then realised he had, again, woken up much faster than expected. She hadn't wanted to leave evidence of him being tied up, so that this looked like another 'accident'. Could that be enough to save him?
2:43... 2:42... 2:41...
He lurched over to the timer and looked at it closely. He couldn't quite say why but it felt complicated. There were several buttons of different colours, but no markings.
2:19... 2:18... 2:17...
Should he try to disarm it? Might he just set it off? Something in his head was telling him to have a go: that he could do this. He looked across at Chatsworth. If he did not act fast, he would be joining the doctor.
2:07... 2:06... 2:05...
He took a decision. With renewed energy he ran to the door.
It was locked. And the key was gone.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed hard. The door groaned in its frame but held. He tried again, throwing his full weight against it, but was thrown back onto the floor. There could only be a minute and a half left now. He thought back to when Kate had rescued him from the mugger. He remembered the flash of movement as she had kicked. So much power and accuracy. He had tried a few kicks like that since in front of his bedroom mirror, feeling like a fool but curious too. He tried to recall what it felt like, then kicked out.
He bounced off the door again.
1:10... 1:09... 1:08...
Adrenalin racing, he shook his head, drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes. He could see the kick in his mind. He watched how her leg moved: the exact way it extended and accelerated. He could do that. He could recreate it.
He kicked again.
The door burst open. With a whoop of triumph he leapt through then ran towards the emergency stairwell, bounded down two flights of stairs and out through a fire door.
Behind him a hot angry explosion blossomed.
FORTY-FOUR
KATE EASED HER VW BEETLE to a stop outside the gates of the Angstrom Clinic and turned off the tiny engine. It was a dark, cloudless night and the only illumination came from two rather feeble streetlamps.
"OK, now what?" she asked, looking at her watch.
"I still think we should call the police," Jo said. "After what we discovered in Harley Street--" She stopped as a motorbike glided smoothly out of the private road and past the Beetle, the rider turning briefly to look at them. The electric gates buzzed and began to close.
Kate shook her head. "Do you think Tom is confronting Chatsworth?"
"Probably. He looked pretty mad."
"Then we should get in there and stop him."
"You think they'll just let us in?"
"I didn't mean we should ask for permission--"
In the distance was the sharp, percussive bang of an explosion.
Jo threw herself out of the car and ran to peer through the gates. In the distance there was an angry red glow. She moved towards the gates as they clicked shut. "We have to get in there!"
"Actually maybe we should call the police," Kate said, also climbing out of the car.
Jo stabbed at the buzzer. "You call them! I need to find Tom!"
From inside the clinic grounds, they heard the pounding of someone running towards them, gasping for breath.
A moment later, Tom pelted into the dim illumination of the streetlights. He saw them and froze. "What are you two doing here?"
Jo gripped the bars. "We wanted to stop you doing something stupid." She looked back in the direction of the explosion. "What happened?"
"We need to get out of here. It's not safe. I'll tell you on the way." He glared at the metal bars and kicked at them. "Jo, do you have a hacksaw in your bag?" he called through the bars.
"Don't be ridiculous." She unshouldered her rucksack. "I do have ten metres of climbing rope, though."
"What on earth is that for?" asked Kate.
Jo shrugged as she pulled the rope out and slung one end over the top of the gate to Tom. "Just in case." She pulled the rope tight.
"Just in case of what?" asked Kate.
Tom started climbing: he hauled himself quickly over as Jo nodded approvingly. The moment he jumped down to stand next to her, shivering despite the mild night, she wrapped her arms around him.
He hugged her back for a moment and then pushed her firmly away. "Let's get out of here."
FORTY-FIVE
IT WAS THE EARLY HOURS of the morning. Marron sat in the back of the dark grey Ford Mondeo: a boring vehicle perfect for this mission. The car made its way onto the M4 motorway, heading west. Twenty minutes ago the tracer in the CERUS guide had pinged its latest location: a farm on the outskirts of Windsor. Whoever this woman might prove to be, he knew where she was. It was time to have a conversation.
With him in the car were two of his more reliable security staff, not part of the regular CERUS Tower security team. They were both gruff ex-military and more than capable with the range of weapons that they were carrying.
His phone rang: Alex's number. "Is it done?" he asked.
"There was a complication."
"What do you mean?"
"Chatsworth has been managed. But Faraday escaped."
"How is that possible?"
"I left him tranq'd in a locked room for the bomb to take care of, but now I'm looking at him, climbing over the gates of the clinic. I'm not sure how he recovered so quickly."
"Then why are we talking?"
"That would be the complication. There are two people with him: one is his flatmate, the other is the reporter."
"I thought he'd gone to the clinic alone."
"Apparently they followed him. I figured I'd best check with you before I act."
Marron muttered. "You're going to have to manage all of them."
"Is that kind of body count acceptable?"
"No, but what is the alternative?" He paused. "I want you to call in some support."
"I can deal with three civilians."
"I'm sure you can, but I can't take any chances. The reporter has already proven she has some self-defence skills, and Faraday is apparently less predictable than we believed. No mistakes this time, Alex."
"Working alone is how I avoid mistakes."
"Just do as you're told."
There was a pause. "I monitored their conversation. They're returning to his apartment."
"Then you know where to set up. Be there first."
"Understood."
Marron click the phone off. "How long?" he asked the driver.
"Twenty-five minutes, Sir," the driver replied, tapping a navigation screen on the dashboard.
"Make it twenty."
◇ ◇ ◇
Nineteen minutes later, they pulled off the side road onto a gravel track, powerful headlights illuminating the way. They wound through a stand of trees and came to a halt fifty metres from a large wooden structure.
"This is the location," the driver said, "but it looks like an old barn."
Marron leaned forward, looking at the display on his phone. "The signal hasn't rebroadcast in the last hour."
"I see no signs of occupation. You want me to drive closer?"
Marron shook his head. "Let's proceed on foot."
The three men grabbed powerful torches and walked quietly around the building.
"Those tyre tracks look fresh," said the driver, pointing at the ground. "But it might not mean anything."
Marron walked over to the main door. There was a very large padlock in place. As he looked closer, he could see it was well-oiled.
"Is it a trick?" asked the driver. "Did she make it look like the signal came from here?"
Marron frowned. "If she knew about it, she'd probably just disable it rather than try anything more complicated. Perhaps she came here then went elsewhere."
"Want us to break in and have a look around? I've got tools in the car."
Marron sucked in his lower lip. "I'm not sure. Perhaps--" His phone rang. Another member of his team.
"The system raised a flag," the man reported. "The cameras we placed at Armstrong's house. The same woman who entered the Tower has just arrived there."
"Get a team in place, but don't do anything until I get close." Marron clicked the phone off and turned to the driver. "I need you to take me to Armstrong's house: the target is there."
