The Lucifer Network

by Geoffrey Archer

  Talbot gulped. ‘I appreciate your concern, but you must also appreciate mine.’ He pulled a chart from the shelf above his desk and spread it out.

  ‘We’re here,’ he explained, jabbing a finger at it. ‘There are fishing boats in the area and there’s a Croatian naval presence on Lastovo. If I stick a mast up to transmit, there’s a serious risk of detection. So far as we know we’ve got away with being here. When that bloodbath on Palagra is discovered, there should be nothing to say that NATO forces were involved and I won’t do anything to jeopardise that.’ He said it with absolute firmness.

  Sam nodded. He understood perfectly. No point in arguing.

  ‘So when’s the soonest I can talk to London?’

  ‘We have a scheduled rendezvous with HMS Suffolk in three hours from now, in international waters close to the Italian coast. If we crank the speed up, then once we’re beyond the Croatian territorial limit I could come up to PD to transmit and still make the rendezvous on time. Five minutes long enough for you?’

  ‘It’ll have to be. When d’you expect that to happen?’

  ‘In about an hour’s time. It’s the best I can do for you.’

  Sam looked at his watch, which he’d left on Vienna time. 7.15 a.m. London an hour earlier.

  ‘Then let’s just pray we’re not too late, Commander.’

  ‘Amen to that.’

  Vienna

  08.30 hrs

  Igor Chursin stared out of the window of the hotel. It was in a mixed residential and business area close to one of the main railway stations in Vienna, a city he’d been to only once before. On the street below, the day’s activities had begun. A van was delivering confectionery to a corner shop. An elderly man was exercising a small dog which yapped at a postman. He relished the intricacy of the scene after twelve months of isolation on Palagra.

  Chursin had breakfasted in his room. He was a jowly man of forty-five, who’d had a tendency to put on weight before his appetite was blunted by the diet served up by the Croatian they’d hired to cook and housekeep for the past twelve months. His fair hair, once straggly, had been cropped short by the same, multi-skilled young man.

  The flight from Split had delivered him to the Austrian capital the previous evening but he’d not yet had his instructions from ‘Peter’. Last night, after a short tram ride from his hotel, he’d found an Internet café that stayed open late and had sent him an e-mail to break the news about the enforced closure of the laboratory in the Adriatic. He’d remained on-line for an hour, hoping for instructions on where to deliver the vials of lethal serum that he’d brought to Vienna, but the café had closed before an answer came. The bottles which he’d transported so perilously in his hand luggage had spent the night in the refrigerator in his hotel room, but if they weren’t used or chilled properly within a few days, the virus was going to die.

  To some extent, that was what he wished to happen. A year ago when he’d accepted the invitation to work for a handsome salary instead of a poverty-line wage which was seldom paid, he’d turned a blind eye to the motives of his new employers. Since then, he’d stifled his conscience and partaken in acts of unimaginable inhumanity in the interests of attaining the new life he dreamed of. But now that he was delivering the products of his labours, he was experiencing a guilt he was finding hard to suppress.

  It was the development of the vaccine that had taken them so much time. Without it, the administration of the modified smallpox virus would be potentially lethal to anyone bent on using it. Although the project had been prematurely terminated, Chursin was convinced he had a triumph on his hands. The youth who’d been injected with the vaccine had been infected fourteen days before he absconded. Normally by that time the fevers and pains would have developed, but the youth had been clear. All Chursin lacked was proof.

  He looked at his watch. The Internet café would open again in fifteen minutes. He took the plastic bucket from on top of the fridge and filled it with ice from the machine at the end of the corridor, then dumped it into the insulated coolbag he’d used for transporting the vials from Split. Finally, he extricated the bottles from amongst the whisky miniatures in the minibar and put them in the bag. The last thing he wanted was for the maid to discover them while he was out.

  A tram came after a five-minute wait at the stop. He arrived at the café just as the doors were being unlocked. He logged on, but to his dismay found no response to his e-mail to Peter. He ordered another coffee and sat down to wait. There was nothing else he could do.

  The Adriatic Sea

  09.15 hrs Zulu

  First to be winched into the Sea King was Arthur Harris, strapped to a stretcher. He’d regained consciousness and been able to make enough sense to ask for morphine.

  Two hours earlier the submarine had put up a mast to burst-transmit Lieutenant Phipps’s written report to London and for Sam to be patched through to his controller. Waddell had spent the night at Vauxhall Cross, waiting for news.

  In the interests of speed Sam had trimmed the detail of what had happened on Palagra.

  ‘The bottom line is that we have a clear link to Harry Jackman and to Vienna,’ he’d concluded. ‘The circle’s been closed, Duncan. It has to be Schenk.’

  ‘You’d have thought so. Unfortunately the Austrians are having no luck in making anything stick. Schenk agreed to be interviewed by the security police last night, but he changed his story. Claims never to have met Harry Jackman. Says he made up what he said to Julie, to hurt her.’

  ‘He’s lying.’

  ‘We’ve no proof of that. And finding a Vienna flight timetable on Chursin’s computer doesn’t provide us with any.’

  ‘What about Schenk’s Croatian wife?’ Sam had asked, exasperated at the failure to nail the doctor. ‘Any connection between her family and the island of Palagra?’

  ‘Nothing recorded. We’re hamstrung here. Can’t make too many obvious enquiries without attracting suspicion that we had something do with the bloodbath on Palagra. So we’re having to rely on the Austrian security police for now. There are several key links still missing, Sam. We need something with Schenk’s name on it. We also need something that links Palagra to the rabies variant used against the EU officials.’

  ‘I’m still hoping to find that on the computer,’ Sam had told him. ‘Where’s Schenk now?’

  ‘Back in Vienna.’

  ‘Under surveillance?’

  ‘The Austrians are tapping his phone and Collins has somebody watching him. Of course, after what you’ve come up with, we’ll urge the Austrians to interview him again. By the way, the Met’s caught the London bomber.’

  ‘Brilliant! And?’

  ‘A loner, by the look of it. Being run through e-mail by some racist mastermind calling himself Peter. And before you ask, there’s nothing we’ve uncovered that suggests that Peter is Schenk.’

  ‘Damn. Any new racist attacks?’

  ‘Yes. A firebomb in Stockholm last night. A Turkish family burned to death. An eyewitness saw one man throwing petrol into a takeaway. The family lived above it.’

  ‘God, what a bunch of bastards. So what’ve we got?’

  ‘Looks like an international network of lone wolves, being directed by a central puppetmaster. If we can take him out, then the whole structure’ll probably collapse. And for my money, the place for you to be is still Vienna, even if the evidence is circumstantial. The RAF are helicoptering you and the marines to Gioia del Colle – that’s the Italian air base the RAF use for Bosnia operations. There’s an HS125 waiting. It can drop you off in Austria before taking the rest of the party back to Lyneham.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  Sam was last to be winched up to the Sea King. As he was dragged backwards over the sill, he looked down and saw Commander Talbot wave briefly from the top of the fin. Sam gave a thumbs up. His old service had done them proud.

  The helicopter banked away. As he looked back, fine jets of spray erupted from the bow and stern. The submarine was losing no time
in returning to the invisibility that was her natural element.

  London

  The morning call from the Computer Crime Unit came at a quarter to ten, shortly after Steph had arrived in the Special Branch offices on the sixteenth floor at the Yard. She’d heard about the Stockholm bomb on the radio at 7 a.m.

  ‘Your friend Peter’s gone verbal again.’ The voice belonged to the analyst who’d been working on the hard disk the previous evening. Didn’t computer nerds need sleep, Stephanie wondered.

  ‘I’ll be right over.’

  She took the lift and was there in three minutes.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ she asked, dropping into a chair. She saw a camp bed in the corner of the room and understood how the technician had survived the night.

  ‘For a fascist he sounds eerily kind and thoughtful,’ the computer specialist commented. ‘Full of concern about our friend’s personal problems. Look.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘Read for yourself.’

  Stephanie wheeled the chair in closer.

  Anthony,

  I have seen on television what happened at Golders Green. At such difficult times we must find all the strength we have within ourselves. On the path to great achievements there are always tragedies. You must not blame yourself. In war there are many accidents.

  Of course for now there must be a delay before your next mission. A few weeks perhaps. And your next target must be chosen with such care that a mistake is impossible.

  You told me you were worried about Sandra. Take some time to find out what she knows. If she cannot support what you and I believe in, then it cannot be right for her to continue to share your life. You must be brave about this. I also have must to make such a sacrifice.

  Stephanie blinked. The last sentence contained the first full error in what had been almost flawless grammar. A simple typo? Or a clue to the man’s nationality? She tried to hear a voice in the words. An accent. Trying to find a match with the Austrian doctor Sam suspected.

  ‘No way of knowing where this man lives?’ she checked.

  ‘It could be anywhere on the planet. The mailbox is registered under the name of Vino Blanco, with a fictitious address in Liechtenstein.’

  Stephanie looked at the screen again. There was one more paragraph.

  Courage, my friend. Protect yourself in whatever way you must. If it is safe for Sandra to live, then make the separation quickly and be kind to her. If it is not safe and she must be silenced, then it is possible I can help you with that.

  ‘Blimey,’ Stephanie exclaimed, reading the last line again. ‘Is he offering to kill her for him, or what?’

  ‘Like I said,’ the technician smiled. ‘He’s thoughtful. And the sign-off’s a gem.’

  Stephanie gaped at it.

  Chin up! Peter.

  ‘That’s almost Woosterish,’ she mouthed.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Never mind.’ The lad was too young to understand. ‘Print it for me, would you? I’m going to think of a reply. Something to entice Peter into the open. That’s if I can persuade Southall crime squad to keep mum about Petrie’s arrest for a little longer.’

  ‘You’ll have your work cut out,’ the analyst told her. ‘You heard the nine o’clock news this morning?’

  ‘No.’ Steph’s heart sank. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘There was a report from Stepney. Neighbours talking. How Rob Petrie seemed a decent enough guy. Kept himself to himself . . . All the usual stuff.’

  ‘Bloody hell! How did it get out?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Steph snatched up the phone and dialled Southall, demanding to speak to the DCI in charge of the investigation. She had to hold on for a couple of minutes.

  ‘Who’s been blabbing?’ she demanded when he came on the line.

  ‘Not us,’ he assured her. ‘But one of the other residents of Windsor Court works for the local BBC.’

  Steph groaned. ‘Has Petrie told you anything?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘Charges?’

  ‘This afternoon, probably. Tomorrow morning at the latest.’

  Steph grasped her forehead and rubbed it. ‘Have you said anything to the media yet?’

  ‘No, but the Yard press office has had to confirm that we’re questioning a man.’

  Steph sighed. ‘Thanks.’

  She rang off. The hard copy of Peter’s e-mail which the computer analyst handed her would be the last communication they got from the man. However little it told her about his identity, she was going to have to make the most of it. And so was Sam. Wherever the hell he was.

  Vienna

  It was after eleven before Igor Chursin got the e-mail response he’d been waiting for. By then his heart was palpitating from all the caffeine he’d consumed. He took careful note of the instructions, then returned to the hotel to vacate his room before the midday checkout time. By the end of the day if all went to plan, he would be well away from here, with his final payment filling his briefcase and his dream of a new life coming closer to fruition.

  He had no luggage with him. The few personal items he’d possessed on Palagra had been left there. By now they would have been burned by Sasha and the Croats. He’d worn the same shirt for three days now and it smelled of sweat.

  The instructions from Peter told him to take a tram to the Währingerstrasse U-Bahn station then telephone a mobile phone number and give the code word Prinz. He would be told where to go for the rendezvous. The tone of the e-mail had been cool but understanding, ending with the philosophical words, on the path to great achievements there are always setbacks.

  The trams round the Ring were frequent and Chursin reached his destination quickly. He took the escalator down to the subway station which doubled as a tram terminus for routes heading west towards the Wienerwald. The first phone box he tried was broken, but the second worked. The mobile phone number rang four times before it was answered, in German.

  ‘This is Prinz,’ he responded in English.

  ‘Ja. You must to take the Strassenbahn Nummer achtunddreissig, number mmm . . . thirty-eight, you unnerstand?’

  ‘Strassenbahn?’

  ‘Streetcar.’

  ‘Number thirty-eight . . .’

  ‘Ja. To Grinzing. It is end station. You wait and we will come.’

  ‘How will I recognise you?’

  But the line had already died. He was unfazed by all this subterfuge. It had been the same on his previous visit a few months ago and he well understood the need for it. They would be watching to make sure he wasn’t being followed – for his protection as well as for theirs. The people he was working for had treated him fairly up to now and he had faith they would do so until the end. He replaced the receiver, collected some change from the refund recess, then looked round at the tram stops, reading the numbers. A thirty-eight was waiting for the off.

  He’d bought himself a twenty-four-hour transport pass when he’d arrived at the airport last night, so took his seat without recourse to the ticket machine behind the driver’s cab. Within a couple of minutes the tram was grinding up the slope to street level and humming its way north through residential districts of the city. There was a comfortable orderliness to much of the Austrian capital that reminded him of Russia in better days.

  The journey to Grinzing took twenty-five minutes. On the last stages of the route, the tram climbed steadily. Most passengers seemed to be tourists with cameras round their necks and when they reached the terminus Chursin saw why. Grinzing was a pretty village of mellow yellow houses, souvenir shops and taverns. He stepped down from the vehicle and stood to one side as the other passengers dispersed. The tram trundled round a loop line to head back into the city and he was alone on the pavement, the coolbag full of smallpox dangling from one hand and a plastic shopping bag from the other.

  He waited for a good five minutes before an elderly Volkswagen Golf pulled up and a dark-haired woman leaned out from the driver’s window.

  ‘Herr Prinz?’

 
‘Yes.’

  ‘Please.’ The rear door of the car opened for him to get in. Chursin slid onto the back seat and the woman drove off. The car wound through the village, climbing steadily. Next to the woman driver was a brown-haired man who kept his eyes on the road as if not trusting her ability to avoid the kerbs. His head was like a small dog’s, wiry and pointed. Neither of them spoke as the car left the built-up area and headed into woodland interspersed with vineyards. Their silence made Chursin uneasy.

  After about ten minutes, the woman swung the car into a lane which quickly became a rutted track, ending at a small, darkly painted wooden house with a barn behind it. The large doors were open. The woman drove in and switched off.

  Still without speaking, she got out and indicated he should do the same. Chursin was uncomfortable with this couple. It had been more straightforward with the professional-sounding man he’d dealt with last time. There was something sinister about this pair. A cold efficiency about their actions that was not entirely human. And the garage had a faint smell of chloroform about it.

  ‘You will show us what you have brought,’ the man told him, walking over to a workbench and indicating that Chursin should open his bag on it.

  ‘You have money for me?’ he checked, defensively.

  ‘Ja, ja. Alles in Ordnung,’ the man grunted, opening a drawer in the workbench and pulling out a fat brown envelope.

  Chursin’s eyes widened at the thickness of it. He unzipped the seal on the coolbag and removed four bottles.

  ‘These contain serum,’ he explained, holding up the two larger ones. ‘Infected serum. Other two bottles are vaccine.’

  ‘It is good?’ the terrier-faced man asked him. ‘It will protect us?’

  ‘One hundred per cent.’ Mentally Chursin crossed his fingers as he said it.

  ‘We must use the vaccine how long before?’ the woman checked.

  ‘Any time before infection.’

  ‘And for the virus you have . . .’ She didn’t know the English word. ‘Eine Spritze?’

  Chursin picked up his plastic shopping bag and pulled out an insecticide spray with a pump handle and a reservoir tank.