Quantum Breach

by Powell, Mark

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  Mark Powell

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  to an authority of espionage, fi erce loyalty and a requirement of absolute secrecy—in short he was an instrument of death and deceit.

  Stowe and McCabe shared a long history, having met whilst trying out for selection into the Parachute Regiment. They were both ‘crap hats’, the affectionate name for any raw recruit who had not yet earned the coveted Red Beret. McCabe and Stowe had been paired in one of the many initiation tests known as Milling (a form of no-rules boxing until one party was knocked out or quit). Neither Stowe nor McCabe went down from the barrage of punches exchanged between them; as a result, a mutual respect developed between them.

  Together, they represented a pair of 38-year-old hard cases with military records that would impress the most cynical of battle-tested soldiers. Having both joined the Parachute Regiment at the tender age of 17 in 1981, a year later they found themselves embroiled in the Falklands War and trudging through the mud, grass and sheep shit in order to help liberate the island. As their exploits continued over the years, they both elected to try out for the notorious elite SAS, a selection process that has seen the most agile and hardened of men fail.

  McCabe passed fi rst time, more due to his ability to blend in and not stand out. He was the defi nitive ‘grey man’ who passed all his tests but kept his mouth shut. Stowe, on the other hand, needed a second attempt. Not that he wasn’t super-fi t and smart: he was just too good and made it known by mouthing off about how easy it was. SAS

  instructors hated attitude, especially from big mouths who had not yet passed their strict criteria. ‘Who Dares, Wins’ was only for those they accepted; ‘Who Boasts, Gets Fucked’ was kept for upstarts like Stowe.

  Undeterred by having been failed, Stowe trained every day for three months with an ex-trooper by the name of Taffy. Taffy, a giant of a man and one of the regiment’s legends, ran him ragged, ate his Mars Bars, sucked his boiled sweets and showed him no mercy at all. Stowe was fi nally badged at the tender age of 22. Eight years later, unlike McCabe, he was recruited into the service of MI5.

  Stowe was well spoken with a clipped, public school accent. To a quantum breach 290709.indd 23

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  stranger, he would have appeared to have grown up in some place like Surrey. This was, in fact, far from the reality of his grey, cold Glasgow estate roots. He was the defi nitive hard man with the emotional range of a rock, perhaps the after-effects of constantly seeing his mother beaten to within an inch of her life by his drunken father. He stood at 5 feet 11 inches, a solid stature, with dark brown eyes and often long, messy brown hair. The dark stubble around his strong jaw line was fi nished off with a pure white-toothed smile.

  McCabe suddenly regained his focus when Ying tapped him on the arm.

  ‘Boss, you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fi ne. What’s up?’ He felt like he had been dragged back to a world in which he did not belong.

  How long have I been reminiscing? he thought, as the image of Stowe still hung in his mind. Straightening himself up in his chair, he spun around to face his screen, saw the currencies were still dropping like stones, and knew he had to sell out his long position—and fast.

  Looking at Ying with concern written all over his face, his eyes dark and sunken, he said, ‘Yes, do it. Do it now.’

  He banged down the mouse of his computer hard on the desk to demonstrate his frustration with the loss he knew he would make. Ying fl inched and quickly stood up, turned and started to walk back to her own desk situated across the other side of the Dealing Room. As she walked, she deliberately swayed her hips. She knew that every trader in the room would stop and follow her back with their eyes. She was hot stuff and she knew it.

  As McCabe sat at his desk rubbing his thumb on his left index fi nger and looking at the other traders still running around with panic written all over their faces, he knew that life at BCB that day was for sure far better than at most other banks. BCB had, via a series of shrewd investment and cost control moves, coupled with what seemed to be quantum breach 290709.indd 24

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  good strategy, remained isolated from the credit crisis in the US. But now the global market was affected with the impact hitting everyone, irrespective of which bank you worked for.

  Banking is a game of opportunity and risk; calculated risk supposedly, but greed and self-gain was the endgame for many. Bonuses are the white rabbit all bankers in their wonderland chase, the ticket to fi nancial freedom. However, one small mistake can cost millions, and the dream can be shattered in an instant. The dreams of many that day were, for sure, on the rocks. For many, there would be no second chance.

  Cry not for the warrior who dies by the sword, but the innocent victim of his acts, McCabe thought. He knew all too well this warrior code. It was no different for the bankers of this modern-day battlefi eld of money, greed and political power.

  McCabe was on extended time: 45 was way past the sell-by date for any trader worth his salt and he knew it. As he scanned the Dealing Room, he could see young guys who could be no more than 26 or 28

  who were essentially doing the same job as he. The girls seemed to be even younger. The only difference was he had to manage some of them, but that was more just making sure they turned up each day. Not at all like the time he had a platoon of men to lead. What chance then for an ex-soldier and banker if his bank collapsed or he was fi red? None at all, was his sense.

  He suddenly felt alone and insecure. His heart was racing, his throat dry, his mind full of unanswered questions. His fi sts were clenched so tightly, the blood was draining from his hands. How could he afford the expensive school fees for his daughter, Elizabeth, if he lost his job? The school she went to was the British school in Singapore and the fees were $8,000 a term. Kelly, his ex-wife, also lived in Singapore, only a few miles away from him. She could not afford the fees on her own. They had both agreed that she would move from the UK so that he could see Beth every day and he would pay her rent and Beth’s school fees; a good deal for him, considering everything. He could see in his mind the joy quantum breach 290709.indd 25

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  on his daughter’s face when she went off to school each day. She loved it and was doing very well there, top grades in her English and math.

  What if he was let go for a younger, smarter trader? he thought. He still had a mortgage to pay in London. This is clearly not a good day at all, he thought, as he felt his heart racing faster and faster.

  ‘Damn it!’ he erupted, thumping his fi st down hard on the desk.

  Glances from other traders momentarily fell upon him, their own conversations not even halting as they turned their heads. But the blank stares soon dissipated as a feral shout was a very normal occurrence in their fi eld. He had to do something, and fast, to scramble out of the rut. After all, this was why they paid him: to make decisions, make money and mitigate risk. The trouble was that risk—of a very different kind—was what sparked McCabe’s true talents.

  Knowing he was about to lose the plot, the anger and frustration mounting inside him, he stood up and decided to leave for the day.

  Grabbing his bag, he headed straight out of the offi ce for the gym. He needed to punch nine bells of shit out of something.

  Twenty minutes later, given the gym was only a short walk away, he sat alone, hunched over his knees on a small wooden bench in the boxing gym, staring blankly down at the fl oor, his hands twisting a small tatty white towel he used to wipe off the sweat from his face, as if he were trying to wring the neck of a rabbit. His stress began working its way out through his fi ngertips. The smell of sweat and mouldy leather hung in the air.

  As he sat there unaware of the other people around him, the wooden slats of the bench reminding him it wa
s not intended for long stays, he began to focus on the realisation that he was in a false world. It was a world that served greed and had no real value in his eyes. Why did he suffer the stress of his job each day, the constant pressure to make money for the bank, the sleepless nights when he ended the day on a loss position, knowing the next day he would have to walk in with a confi dent look on his face and square the position and once again try to make a profi t. It was millions upon millions he played with each quantum breach 290709.indd 26

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  day, more money than he would ever see in his working life, but he gambled it like it was nothing at all. In a strange way, when displayed in such large numbers, money seemed to lose its value, the reality of the amount hidden behind its computer image. His job was nothing more than legitimised gambling.

  His eyes widened as he lifted his head. He had concluded it was all about the damn money, just the money! God, what had his life amounted to? He was a corporate number on an HR balance sheet and his master was greed. As that realisation hit him hard, he straightened himself up and threw the towel down on the fl oor in front of him.

  Reaching inside his green canvas sports bag, he pulled out his boxing gloves. They were black and worn from the years of pounding bags and other boxers’ faces, perhaps long past due for renewal, but he loved them. They were soft and supple and felt good on his hands.

  As he pulled on each one, he felt a second wind fl ush through his body, like a surge of energy. He stood up from the bench and banged his fi sts hard together. He was looking forward to this workout and he was determined now to punch out his anger and stress.

  McCabe trained twice a week at the gym, a place owned by his good friend Ian Caswell. The two of them often sparred together. Both being hard boxers, they provided each other with a tough workout. McCabe respected Ian and had grown to like him over the years. He respected the devotion Ian had to coaching young kids and youths who had fallen off the rails, and to charity events for the blind. McCabe also respected Ian for his simple but dedicated lifestyle.

  Boxing had become popular in Singapore ever since McCabe ran an event with an ex-boot neck pal, Simon Jones—Black Tie Fight Night, a gala dinner held at one of Singapore’s premier hotels for 700 corporate guests and the who’s-who of Singapore. A thousand people had turned up that June 15, 2006. It was fi lmed by the local TV station and drew fi ghters from around the Southeast Asia region. The title showcase event was between Daudi Bhari, the reigning Asia Pacifi c welterweight from Indonesia, and Bart Abapo, a hard street-fi ghter from Manila. The fi ght quantum breach 290709.indd 27

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  went ten rounds, with Daudi narrowly retaining the title.

  McCabe was actually more focused on the celebrity DJ who sat beside him that night, his date for the evening. In his eyes, she was beautiful. Her eyes were like black pools of rain. The relationship faded out, however, just like all his other attempts at romance. McCabe had trouble holding down any relationship since his divorce and an affair that had ripped his heart clean out. He had anger deep within him, dark ghostly anger that turned him cold and distant. When these dark moods descended upon him, he drove away everyone, even his closest friends. He would delete phone numbers, cancel appointments, hide himself away. His own solitary company was the only safe haven. Days later, he would emerge as if nothing was wrong. His women, however, would not tolerate such crazy behaviour.

  As McCabe stood in front of the heavy leather bag suspended from an iron girder above his head, his punches drove into the bag with increasing power, his fi sts driving home his frustrations with every punch. As each punch landed, the bag swung away despite its weight of almost 200 pounds, while the thick chain holding it rattled against the girder above. Sweat began to run down his face in torrents, his eyes stinging but intently transfi xed on the bag. It was as if he had stepped out of the body in which he felt caged and suffocated, the body of a corporate banker. His spirit was now far away in a land of gun smoke and adrenaline.

  After an hour of relentless and ruthless punching, he stood back, his arms falling limply to his sides. His sweat began to drip onto the fl oor, his entire body was drenched. His hands were throbbing from the hard battering he had given the bag. Something had changed within him: he felt lighter and more alive, his breathing steadied as his head began to clear. As he walked into the changing room and sat back down on the wooden bench, his mind once again drifted away.

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  TWO

  France, May 2002

  The rain was hard and carried an icy chill that afternoon when Brian Stowe arrived unannounced by helicopter at Domaine de Vin, the secluded French estate McCabe had bought a year or so before. The house was set down a long, narrow, sandy track which wound its way through an oak wood almost a half-mile off the main road. Only a few of the local people of this beautiful corner of southwest France would even know it was there. Given its proximity to the Spanish border and the Pyrenees mountain range, 25 miles directly south, it had beautiful mountain trails that McCabe often took his daughter exploring. They would spend a few hours walking the narrow rocky pathways and playing in the icy water of the mountain streams.

  McCabe would dutifully explain to his daughter the various aspects of mountain safety, how to observe the weather and not get lost. Not that she could understand any of this at the tender age of two.

  McCabe loved the outdoors: the air was pure and it somehow energised him and cleansed his soul. He felt his spirit was free there. To him, the small fortune he had spent doing up his home was worth every euro. It was his castle and he felt safe there.

  As Stowe walked up to McCabe, he pulled down the hood of his anorak. The two of them stood for a minute or two looking at each other, as if trying to psych each other out. Finally, McCabe offered his right hand, which Stowe received with a fi rm grip and shook.

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  ‘It’s been a long time, Stowe. Never thought I would see you again.

  I hear you’re a spook now.’ McCabe showed no emotion in his voice, yet the wry smile on his face clearly showed he was pleased to see his old friend. A smile broke on Stowe’s face.

  ‘Yeah, I’m a grey ghost now. It’s kind of nostalgic we meet again, don’t you think?’

  ‘You know what nostalgic means? It’s another word for new pain from an old wound,’ McCabe replied sarcastically.

  Stowe half-smiled, but knew it was a deliberate dig. The pair of them turned and walked towards the farmhouse that sat on the edge of the fi eld some 500 yards away. McCabe felt the mud squelching underfoot as he walked. He also noticed out of the corner of his eye another man running off towards the far side of the fi eld. They were both silent. Not a word was spoken until they reached the house and went inside, the warm air from the house hitting them both in the face as they stepped inside the kitchen. McCabe pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and gestured for Stowe to sit down.

  ‘So how have you been?’ asked Stowe.

  ‘Good, no complaints,’ McCabe responded.

  Stowe’s eyes were focused on McCabe. The pair of them not only sounded overly formal in their words, but they were acting like a pair of boxers sizing each other up before the big fi ght.

  McCabe started fi lling the kettle—hot tea was always a welcome drink for any visitor—but then he suddenly paused and put the kettle down on the draining board. Stowe picked up on this gesture, his eyes now focused on McCabe’s back. McCabe turned and walked very slowly around the kitchen table, his steps deliberate, his eyes scanning the side windows of the kitchen to his right. Not once breaking his stare, which was directed on the outside, he edged around to the back door. His movements had been so purposeful, not at all casual, that Stowe had
immediately detected that McCabe had seen something.

  Pausing for a few seconds, McCabe saw the shadow move again, this time outside the back door. Nothing escaped his attention. With one quantum breach 290709.indd 30

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  smooth action, McCabe opened the back door and stepped outside, a few moments later returning, pulling in with him a small weasel of a man by the scruff of his neck. Before the man could utter a single word, McCabe had brought up his knee directly into the man’s groin and slammed him down onto the hard stone fl oor. A boot delivered with some force to his ribs to fi nish him off followed. The sharp scream of pain was instant. Stowe remained seated as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  ‘Still have the edge then, McCabe,’ Stowe said calmly.

  ‘One of yours, Stowe?’ McCabe spat out.

  ‘Yup, he’s one of my boys,’ Stowe admitted.

  McCabe’s tone was angry. ‘Thought so. You know better than to have one of your men sneak about without me knowing. I saw him the moment he left the heli. What’s the deal?’

  ‘Can’t be too careful these days. You might have gone soft. Or turned rogue, for all I know.’

  The man lying on the stone fl oor was Kevin Wells, a junior spook, fresh out of the spook classroom, assigned to Stowe for six months.

  Stowe was to teach him the art of MI5 covert fi eldwork; surprising given Stowe had an appalling track record for his trainees staying alive.

  Cautiously Wells started to get to his feet, holding his side. The boot to the ribs had most likely cracked one of them. Wincing with pain, he glared at McCabe. Then his stare fl icked to Stowe. Stowe’s eyes were sending a clear message: ‘Leave’. Realising this, Wells turned and walked out, muttering under his breath.

  McCabe considered that had it been him thrown to the fl oor, a fresh young spook with his arse kicked, he would defi nitely seek revenge.