Quantum Breach

by Powell, Mark

  After a few seconds, a voice came back through the intercom. The speaker was clearly Middle Eastern.

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  ‘Okay, you hang on.’ After a few seconds, the door opened and a tall, thin man with smartly trimmed beard stood in the doorway. ‘Come in and be quick.’

  That was one of the four, but where were the other three, thought Stowe. ‘I’m Barry and this is Jimmy,’ Stowe informed the man. ‘Are you Mr Azul?’

  ‘No, I just work here,’ the man responded curtly.

  ‘Anybody else here, boss?’ McCabe asked. ‘It’s just we need to gas and can’t have you breathing this shit in.’

  The man looked annoyed and cautious but said nothing. He gestured for them to follow and walked them to a door at the far end of the marble hallway.

  ‘You start in basement. That is where the pests are. You no need be up here,’ the man said abruptly.

  ‘Okay, but we have to gas on this level too, as roaches start from the roof, mate. They fl y in down the vents and chimneys,’ Stowe informed the man.

  McCabe almost burst out laughing at that one, but bit his lip.

  McCabe then heard Mooney splutter into the radio and he knew Mooney would be smirking at Stowe’s pathetic attempts to convince the man.

  The man paused. ‘Okay, you wait here, I check with my boss. We are in this room, no fi replace, we do business, so no gas, you stay out please, you understand me.’ His hands were gesturing for them to stay put.

  ‘Sure,’ Stowe replied, raising his hand in acceptance.

  They placed their black canvas bags down on the fl oor, knelt down and unzipped them. Just as Stowe reached inside his bag, he saw the man fl inch; he seemed to be getting suspicious. The man then walked back and stood over Stowe.

  ‘You show me what is in the bag,’ demanded the man, his fi nger jabbing the air and pointing at the bags.

  He was now very agitated. Both Stowe and McCabe knew that if he looked inside the bags, he would see the telltale black stun grenades and quantum breach 290709.indd 49

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  shout for his mates. Game over. This man was clearly no fool. But at least they were inside the house now.

  As he leaned over to inspect McCabe’s black bag, his eyes straining to see what was inside, McCabe felt the velocity blood spatter across his face, just after he heard the cough of the Sig as it spat out a bullet. The man fell back hard against the wall and slumped down, leaving a trail of blood and brain matter as he went. Stowe had slotted him with his Sig right up under his chin. The man’s eyes rolled back, a gush of air expelling from his lungs.

  Not waiting, McCabe sprang up and pulled out a fl ash bang, his fi ngers deftly pulling the pin. He then stood to one side of the door where he could hear voices. Stowe followed and stood to the other side, his MP5 retrieved from his bag, cocked and ready. They both pulled down their respirators and looked at each other.

  ‘Go, go, go!’ shouted Stowe, knowing the teams would now move.

  McCabe stood back and kicked open the door with one swift kick whilst tumbling in the grenades. A second or two, they went off. A bright white fl ash and a thumping bang echoed around the house. Both were fully accustomed to the fl ash bang effects. Any civilian would be completely debilitated, however.

  Two men could be seen stumbling around in the white smoke. One of the two men held his hands up around his ears. He was screaming in Arabic while the other was swinging around what looked like a Glock pistol. Stowe dropped both with a burst from his MP5. No time to try and secure them.

  ‘Two terrorists down. Clear!’ shouted Stowe.

  Upon hearing the ‘Go’ signal, Alpha had breached the skylight, unleashed a few fl ash bangs and Mooney was already sweeping the top fl oor, drawing heavy breaths through his respirator. Charlie team had breached the basement door. The Remington had dutifully removed the pathetic door hinges and granted access, so they were now inside the basement. Doing a quick count in his head, Stowe knew that one more player was loose in the house, if the Intel he had been given was indeed quantum breach 290709.indd 50

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  correct. One thing he did know was that he was not in the room they had just cleared as the fi rst man down had implied.

  ‘Alpha Charlie, come in, over,’ barked McCabe.

  ‘Clear,’ came across the air from Charlie team, who had now swept the basement of the house. This meant the last terrorist was somewhere upstairs. Charlie team appeared in the hallway a few moments later.

  Stowe gestured for them to stand by, and then for McCabe to follow him. They headed for the stairs. Charlie team would remain on the ground fl oor blocking any entry or escape. Just then, Alpha team came up on radio.

  ‘Clear, come up— we have something.’

  As Stowe and McCabe reached the top of the long winding stairway, McCabe could see, through the thinning gas smoke, Mooney with his boot hard up against the chest of a man sitting against a wall, his hands secured behind him in zip tie-cuffs. Mooney had already given him a good battering by the looks of him. He had blood running out of his mouth and a large gash to his head where Mooney had hit him with the butt of his weapon.

  ‘This dick is for you, I think. It’s Bashir,’ Mooney said, looking directly at McCabe.

  As McCabe stepped forward, Stowe put his hand in front of him.

  ‘We need him alive my friend. Interrogate him.’

  ‘Like hell. This bastard killed Kate,’ replied McCabe.

  After a brief pause, Stowe dropped his arm.

  ‘Okay! I will give you this one. But you owe me. Come on, ladies, out of here. Leave our man here to dispose of this piece of shit.’ Stowe gestured to the others to follow him. Mooney gave the man a last kick on his way past.

  McCabe paused for a few seconds, thinking about Kate, then stepped forward and reached inside his overalls. He pulled out a roll of piano wire. Bashir sat on the fl oor looking at him, his eyes defi ant and cold. He then spat at McCabe. McCabe responded by placing a well-aimed boot directly into his mouth, sending shattered teeth and quantum breach 290709.indd 51

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  blood everywhere. Bashir screamed and started to spit out more blood.

  McCabe was in no mood for being a nice guy. His heart was full of hate.

  His killer instinct was now entirely in control of his emotions.

  McCabe wrapped one end of the wire around the banister rail.

  The other he started to wrap tightly around the neck of Bashir whilst thumping down on him with his fi sts to render him still.

  ‘This is for Kate Marshall. Remember her? A UN doctor, you piece of shit! She was there helping your people. The good ones, the ones who deserved her.’

  He then hoisted Bashir up and dragged him over to the banister rail.

  Bashir was struggling and muttering in Arabic. McCabe took a step back and brought a boot down hard on his knee, instantly shattering the joint.

  Bashir let out a blood-curdling scream and dropped to the fl oor.

  With that, McCabe took a fi rm hold of him and heaved him up and over the banister, watching him drop. As the piano wire drew taut, his body jerked to a halt, the wire slicing through his neck, just stopping at the bone. Blood poured out of his severed jugular vein, bubbles of air expelled from his neck. McCabe then walked calmly down the stairs, pausing for a second and looking up at Bashir, his limp body swinging.

  McCabe’s face was expressionless.

  ‘Justice,’ he muttered. He then continued down the stairs and walked directly out of the house.

  ‘You okay, my friend?’ Stowe asked when McCabe appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Never felt better.’

  McCabe then paused, looking directly at S
towe, his face only inches from Stowe’s. ‘This wouldn’t have been necessary if a certain team had done its job and saved Kate, now would it?’

  Stowe was taken aback by McCabe’s comment. ‘A simple “thank you” would have been nice for getting you this opportunity,’ Stowe replied.

  McCabe just turned and walked off.

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  THREE

  The thin steel locker door next to McCabe slammed shut, a result of the heavy-handedness of its user, and McCabe immediately snapped to, almost ready to draw a virtual weapon from its holster. He realised he was still on the wooden bench; he must have drifted off for a few minutes. His sweat now dried, he could tell he smelt rank. Regaining his composure, he got up, undressed and headed for the shower. His knuckles were swollen and sore. They started to sting under the hot water, but the steam on his body felt good. He loved the feeling of the hot water, his muscles relaxing as each minute passed.

  After drying himself off, he pulled on his jeans and grey T-shirt. He then realised that by thinking back on his last mission, taking out Kate’s killer, he had in a strange way buried a ghost. Justice in his world had been served. It was also the last time he had seen Brian Stowe, almost six years ago. McCabe didn’t even know if Stowe was still alive. Such a man never stopped moving from one crisis to another, often hiding under a foreign fl ag, which was MI5 code for the many identities agents used.

  Besides, Stowe was a spook. That meant he would always be a man of the shadows.

  McCabe smiled to himself as he remembered what had brought him out to Asia under a civilian banner. After leaving the regiment in 1993, he had landed a job as a bodyguard, this being the normal path for most ex-troopers. One of his assignments in 1996—he had taken a slight break after Kate’s death—was to babysit a rich banker quantum breach 290709.indd 53

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  with sensitive bowel syndrome, some chairman of a stuffy British bank.

  McCabe almost laughed out loud remembering how he spent most of his time standing outside of men’s washrooms, often thinking the only threat this guy had was turning himself inside out and vanishing down the toilet bowl. But at least the job had paid him well.

  It was here in Singapore that he met Simon Jones, a former 42

  Commando Royal Marine. He recalled how he was out for a quiet beer at Harry’s bar on Boat Quay. This particular bar was semi-famous; among its customers had been Nick Leeson, the very rogue trader that had brought down Barings and inspired his brother Steven’s dinner stories. Boat Quay was one of Singapore’s more popular hangouts for expatriate bankers and tourists. England was playing at home against the infamous French at rugby.

  As with most bars along the quay, this one was heaving with expat males drinking beer and being rather loud. McCabe learned how Jones had left the Marines and obtained a job as an FX spot trader via an old buddy of his. It turned out that Jones did McCabe the same favour, introducing him to his boss who was himself ex-army, despite McCabe being 32 years old, which for a novice trader even then was considered too old. Six months later and McCabe found himself sitting behind a desk trading foreign exchange. It turned out he had quite a brilliance for it and was making good money—more money, in fact, than he had ever made as a soldier. After a year, he was given his own dealing book to manage. The only downside for McCabe was that it was a desk job. He felt caged, suffocated. He longed for the fresh air and outdoor life, not to mention the danger that had once motivated him despite the risks.

  As McCabe fi nished dressing, his mind turned to Kate. As he did so, he could almost feel the tears welling up in his eyes, not that he would ever cry in public. After a few moments, fi nally pulling on his boots, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his battered brown-leather wallet. Reaching inside, he carefully slid out two pictures from one of the folds. Both bore the crinkled signs of photographs that had been looked at many times.

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  The fi rst was a picture of his daughter Elizabeth, or Beth, as he called her. She was posing in front of his Ducati motorcycle. McCabe always smiled when he saw her. A real beauty she was. Then he looked at the second picture. It was a photo of Kate standing, as so many tourists do, in front of the Sydney Opera House in a girlish pose. McCabe had been on business, Kate had gone with him, and the picture was taken three weeks before she left for Beirut. He couldn’t bear to part with it. His eyes were transfi xed and full of love. In many ways she was still with him. Jolting back to reality, he placed the pictures back into his wallet, slid the wallet into his pocket, bent down and picked up his sports bag and headed for home.

  The offi ce was once again a swarming pit of stressed-out traders, running around one minute, deathly still the next. Every day saw the fi nancial markets of the world plunge to even lower depths of despair.

  Just when people regained a shred of confi dence, another bank would announce to the world that it had lost billions of dollars. This news sent the market once again crashing to the fl oor.

  Ying bounded up with a surprising spring in her step. The atmosphere was hardly one that infused such happiness, but then again, it was a Friday. Her face was beaming, which seemed strange to McCabe.

  ‘Boss, I sold out that position for you. We are now fl at.’ She looked like a runway model who just made the big time, dressed in an Anthea Chan suit from her Perfect in Black collection.

  ‘Okay,’ McCabe said in a tone that implied he didn’t really give a shit. It had fi nally hit him last night whilst at the gym that he’d had enough of this sycophantic corporate world. Banking was nothing more than a pool of feeding sharks. He was truly beginning to hate it.

  In an attempt to shake him out of his dark mood, Ying piped up,

  ‘So it’s the weekend. What’s on for you, boss?’

  His head turned suddenly towards Ying. ‘I have my daughter for quantum breach 290709.indd 55

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  the weekend. We’re going to see a movie,’ McCabe answered. This acknowledgment at least drew a smile from his earlier deadpan face.

  ‘Oh, that is so sweet. Oh, by the way, some guy called for you when you were well-zoned out,’ said Ying, gesturing with her hands as if to imply McCabe was a radical hippie. ‘He sounded kind of cold though,’

  she remarked.

  McCabe looked up instinctively, wondering who it was. ‘What did he sound like?’ asked McCabe, just shooting in the dark to try and establish a nationality at least.

  ‘Oh, he was … very English. In fact, very well spoken. Said he would call back. Didn’t leave a contact number though. Sorry.’ Ying felt a bit useless and wished she had found out more about the caller.

  ‘Okay, never mind. I’m sure he’ll call back if it’s important. So what are you working on now?’ asked McCabe.

  ‘One of the new traders in Dubai, some Brit by the name of John, needs some help. It’s their busy time. They’ve requested I go over for a few weeks to help. Is that cool with you, boss? Can you at least give it some thought please?’ Ying bolted one of her cutest looks at McCabe to sweeten the request. She then turned and tottered off back to her desk.

  In Dubai the heat was reaching 40 degrees Celsius and climbing. The tarmac on the roads was sticky and pools of tar were visible, looking like dark patches of oil on the surface. Fitting, considering that Dubai’s very foundations were built on the proceeds of such a substance.

  Harish Aziz, a tall, slim, athletic-framed and well-groomed man with tanned olive skin and chestnut brown eyes, was settling down to start his day. Aziz was a salesman for Commodities products, only a few weeks into his new role at the bank. Not much was known about him other than he had been hired locally. He had simply appeared one morning and begun his activities.<
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  To the casual observer, he was an attractive man, though not heart-stoppingly so, with a cool, sophisticated air about him. But on the quantum breach 290709.indd 56

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  other hand, he could also look like an arrogant bastard whose slippery appearance would make you puke. Above all, he was an educated man. His linguistic abilities alone were impressive. He was fl uent in four languages: his native Arabic, English, German and Spanish, with a smattering of Burmese.

  His days at Princeton had rewarded him with a PhD in physics. Not that he used his qualifi cation now. The lure of money had taken him on a very different path. His family was deep in debt from mounting medical bills. His sister was in need of expensive operations and post-surgical treatment to correct a severe spinal injury resulting from a car crash. A UN truck full of soldiers had supposedly jumped a red light and hit her car, leaving her almost paralysed. As such, Aziz hated the UN and all it stood for.

  Aziz’s natural intelligence was an asset that now served him well.

  He much preferred keeping himself to himself, never really entering into any of the offi ce banter. His desk was free of clutter other than one family photograph. At that moment, he sat perched on the edge of his chair, intently studying the profi les of several companies.

  His eyes were focused on the profi le of Tai Investments Corporation.

  This was the pinnacle of his client’s power. Tai’s pre-tax profi ts were in the high billions. Strange, Aziz noted, given that Tai Investments had only been established about two years earlier and it had then set up a Special Purpose Vehicle, or SPV as it was known in the trade, Moon Star Holdings Limited, registered in the British Virgin Islands. Nothing new there, as this was common practice by companies to best address their ‘off-shore tax interests’—a polite way of saying ‘tax hygiene’, he thought.

  He then moved on down the Moon Star organisation structure, searching for two specifi c sub-companies. The instructions his shadowy lady boss had given him were explicit and involved the Al Safad Shipping Corporation, registered in the UAE, and TJ Cargo Pacifi c, registered out of Pakistan.

  Aziz, now happy that he had easily found the two clients he quantum breach 290709.indd 57