Quantum Breach

by Powell, Mark

  ‘No, impossible, I trust them. You’re the one who’s lying. You just want the money,’ Ying fi red back. Ying also knew for sure that this lady was now bluffi ng, as McCabe and Stowe didn’t even know about the CD, so how could she state they were interested only in having it?

  ‘Very well. Take her away,’ the woman commanded. ‘You think about it, Ying. We will talk again later.’

  Then Ying faintly heard a chair scrape back on the fl oor and footsteps. Her hands and feet were untied, the blood rushing back into her fi ngers. Pain followed. She was then hauled back up and dragged by her arms back down the steps, her feet banging on the hard stone steps as she went.

  As the door to the room where she was being kept opened, the bag was yanked off her head, her lungs immediately drawing in a sharp breath. Despite the mouldy air in the room, to her it was bliss. She started to cough and splutter as she hit the fl oor. The door slammed behind her and, after a few moments, all was dark again.

  As she lay on the fl oor, she began to think she could not hold out for long. This was not a Hollywood movie. She might have to tell the woman where the CD was. The only trouble was, she had left it at the hotel reception desk for McCabe. There was no telling if he had it now or not. The only thought in her head now was whether she would quantum breach 290709.indd 203

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  survive even if she did tell them.

  Her mind drifted off. She recalled how she had made love to Stowe, his powerful body hard-pressed against hers. She could feel his heart beating, his warm breath on her face. She loved it, he made her feel so special. She loved the feeling. He was like a wild beast that she had tamed.

  Her fi ngers could feel the tiny scars on his body; they were like Braille, each scar had a story to tell. Her fi ngers were now feeling the stone fl oor as if touching Stowe. She wanted him now more than anything.

  Some time later, she heard footsteps. Her mind was now beginning to play tricks, as she associated that sound with pain and torture. What would McCabe and Stowe do? They would fi ght. As the door opened, a different man slid in a bowl of food, a small thin man with overly large eyes, his head balding. The door then slammed shut again. As she walked across the room, no longer chained, her hands feeling her way, it occurred to her that she was clearly of no use to them dead: she had something they needed. As she reached the bowl, she felt inside it. It felt like bread and fruit. She had to eat, her stomach was now painful and craving any form of food, so she slowly took a bite. It tasted so good, having not eaten in ages. The bread was still warm and fresh, the fruit sweet and juicy in her mouth.

  An hour or so later, the door swung open again: it was the ‘Aggressor’, as she had dubbed him. He walked in and lifted her up, the smaller man behind him forcing the damp and fi lthy bag once again over her head.

  This time, a rope was tied around her neck, making the bag fi t even tighter. She could hardly breathe. Every breath was, indeed, a fi ght. She panicked and started to struggle.

  ‘Please, please! I beg you! I can’t breathe!’

  As the ropes around her wrists drew tight, she began to pass out, the air in the bag too hot and thin to breathe, and then it came, the freezing cold water, sending her into a dark sleep.

  When she came to, she began to cough, her head encased in a soaked canvas bag. It was like being suffocated, and it was hell, her lungs gasping to draw in air.

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  Then the voice: ‘You tell me where is the CD. If you do not, I will have little choice but to continue this torture. Be smart, Ying. For your own sake.’

  Ying almost began to feel assured by the voice. It gave her connection, and she wanted to hear it. Hearing it made her realise she was still alive.

  Then, realising the stupidity of her thought, Ying forced an image of Stowe into her head, his defi ant stare now etched on her own.

  ‘Very well. Begin,’ the voice commanded, and a stinging pain seared up through Ying’s body, jolting her senses. She had been hit with something across her ankles, and it came again, only this time harder.

  She screamed and strained her entire body hard in the chair, feeling the skin burn on her wrists.

  ‘Tell me, Ying, or this will be your mother!’

  Ying froze. Seeing this reaction, the woman smiled and stood up, her chair again scraping back on the fl oor. She walked over towards Ying, now half-naked and shivering in the chair. Leaning very close to Ying’s ear, the voice whispered, ‘You think I can’t reach them, fi nd out where they live? Do not underestimate me, Ying. You can save them.

  Just tell me, I am your friend, I can make him stop, just say the word.’

  She paused, then continued. ‘They will not come for you, Ying, those Westerners. They don’t care. You have done your job.’

  Hearing this, Ying felt sick. The thought of her family being hurt was too much to swallow. Ying then knew she had very little choice, she needed to buy time. ‘Okay, please, no more. I will try and remember where I put it, please.’ Silence now greeted her.

  ‘You have 12 hours to remember. Take her away.’ The woman’s voice was now harsh but clear. Ying was once again dragged out, down the stairs, her legs being bumped and scraped on the stone steps before she was thrown back into the dark room.

  After a few moments, she noticed that the shaft of light remained; it penetrated through the gap and breathed relief on her. The door at the top of the narrow steps had been left open. Maybe she was winning, she quantum breach 290709.indd 205

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  thought. This made her feel better, despite the fact that her arms and legs were now very bruised. As she peered through the slit in the door, all she could see was the stone steps; she counted them, eight in total. At least this made her feel better; no light at all was hell.

  Stowe and McCabe, having enjoyed a much needed meal and break, were now back at the British High Commission, sitting around a large meeting room table. A knock came at the door and a lady in her mid-thirties entered.

  ‘Line 1 for you, Mr Stowe.’ She then left.

  Stowe placed the phone on Speaker. ‘Stowe.’

  ‘So Mr Stowe, we talk at last. I hear you need my help.’

  Stowe and McCabe’s eyes locked on to each other: they knew instantly who this was. A woman’s voice, distinct and clear: it had to be the Rain Angel.

  ‘Yes, we need to locate someone. We think they are being held by members of Afzal Jihad,’ Stowe replied. McCabe just sat listening.

  After a long pause, they got a response. ‘I hear she is alive, but may not be for long. They seek to retrieve information this girl has stolen from them.’

  McCabe stood up, his hands now splayed across the table, his eyes burning into the phone. Stowe was also on his feet; he moved closer to the phone. They shot each other glances, knowing that this was the lead they needed. The fact she had indicated that Ying was still alive saved them having to ask for a proof of life.

  Stowe paused, then asked the pinnacle question: ‘Can you get us the location of the hostage?’ Stowe looked at McCabe when he asked this, his voice calm yet fi rm.

  Silence followed, then, ‘I will need a bargaining chip. Nothing comes for free, Mr Stowe.’

  Not hesitating, Stowe replied, ‘What had you in mind?’ Silence again followed.

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  ‘Are you there?’ Stowe asked, as if wanting to now apply some pressure.

  ‘Yes, Mr Stowe. I will talk to my contacts and get back to you, this time tomorrow.’ With that, the phone went dead.

  ‘Yes!’ Stowe punched the air almost as if he had already rescued Ying.

  McCabe walked around to the same side of the table and looked
his friend straight in the eyes.

  ‘She seems to know where Ying is. I know you don’t believe me, but instinct tells me she knows. All that bullshit about talking to her contacts; it’s her, I know it is. We should start to get the teams mobilised, ready to go in.’ McCabe placed a hand on Stowe’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m still not sure your hunch is right, McCabe, but the important thing is that Ying is alive.’ Stowe was clearly relieved.

  For the next few moments, they stood in the room, as if trying to think about what to do next. Stowe suddenly went very pale, and sat down hard on the chair. Noticing this, McCabe asked, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘My God; it is her. Think about it.’ Stowe suddenly thumped down his hand on the table.

  ‘Her? You want to elaborate?’

  ‘The lady, all this while: in the café with Aziz, the inside knowledge.

  It’s her, the Rain Angel. Everything leads to her. She’s the bloody mastermind. Has to be. Remember, she said “she is alive”. I just said someone. I did not say or indicate it was a woman we were looking for.’ McCabe looked directly at Stowe, his eyes suddenly grasping what Stowe was getting at.

  ‘At last you see it my way,’ McCabe said. ‘The question now, my friend, is how do we trap her if our instincts are correct?’

  ‘I’m told she is protected. Too high up to touch. They use her to play the game, my friend,’ said Stowe.

  ‘The game! You spooks,’ McCabe grunted.

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  The next day, Stowe and McCabe walked boldly into Thames House, having caught the night fl ight out of Mumbai to London. As Stowe presented his theory to Trent, it was clear from the angry frown on his face that he either did not buy their story or like it one bit.

  ‘Have you any idea, Stowe, who this woman is and whom she knows? The bloody Home Secretary is a friend of her husband’s. If you are wrong, we could all get fi red. As for you, McCabe, technically you are a civilian, so you would vanish into a deep, dark hole, courtesy of MI6.’

  ‘No, sir, I didn’t know. But to be frank, I don’t care. We need to know now and fast. We have to bring her in,’ Stowe said forcefully.

  After pausing and much rubbing of his face, Trent looked at both of them. ‘Listen. Sit down, the pair of you. This does not leave the room, is that clear?’ Trent paused.

  ‘We have used this woman for a number of years now, almost ten to be exact. Rain Angel is the wife of the current ambassador of an important Middle Eastern country. She is very—and I mean very—

  high profi le indeed, given her successes in abating terrorist acts, not to mention her husband’s success in relations with the UK and US of late. Her network of contacts alone is vast. Fact is, we know she is not completely clean. We tend to turn a blind eye in return for information.

  But this? You think she is using a bank to clean billions in cash… ’

  Trent himself was close to astounded. He almost repeated himself.

  ‘International terrorism, billions of dollars in banking fraud… Are you both mad?’

  McCabe stepped forward. ‘Sir, it seems very likely given the coincidences, we have to fi nd out one way or another that would either eliminate her or… ’ McCabe paused.

  ‘Christ alive, we would be a laughing stock if this is true. Can you imagine MI5 and 6 being found to have used a member of Afzal Jihad?

  Good God alive.’ Trent was now very agitated.

  ‘I’m afraid there is more to it, sir. We also think she has brokered together a drug cartel with the Afzal Jihad. Some kind of partnership quantum breach 290709.indd 208

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  has been formed; drug money, sir,’ Stowe concluded.

  Trent just stared at the both of them for a minute, then uttered,

  ‘Give me a few hours. Do nothing until you hear from me, is that clear?’

  ‘Clear as crystal, sir,’ Stowe responded.

  ‘In the meantime, sir, I would like your permission to get an Immediate Action team together. I’m not without my own contacts, at least on standby,’ McCabe said.

  Trent looked over at McCabe and nodded. ‘I will call Sykes. Leave it with me. Now get out, I have work to do.’

  After they had left his offi ce, Trent placed his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes. ‘Christ,’ he muttered. He then buzzed his assistant.

  ‘Eileen, track down Colonel Sykes for me. I need him here pronto.’

  He then picked up his mobile phone and typed a simple text message. It read, ‘They are on to you, abort, I can only stall for a short while.’ Then after sending it, he deleted the record of the message and returned the phone to his jacket pocket.

  Lieutenant Colonel Robert Sykes, a 20-year veteran of SAS

  Operations, was a charismatic man whose military reputation was legendary. Educated at Oxford, he was fl uent in four languages. His polished exterior only served to hide a hardened soldier beneath. He knew both Stowe and McCabe well; he also knew that together they were a deadly combination. He understood that Stowe was the hard man, more instinctive than refl ective while McCabe was the more thoughtful one: shrewder, a more complex individual altogether. Above all, he knew that both men were highly trained and effective; together they would be big trouble.

  It only took 30 minutes for Sykes to reach Thames House. He had been on his way home for a family visit when the call came in. The detour off the M25 ring road was nothing for him. His navy blue Range Rover effortlessly glided him through the 20-odd miles. As he entered Trent’s offi ce, he caught sight of Stowe and McCabe who had walked back in after being summoned by Trent.

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  ‘Good God alive: two wolves and not a drop of blood in sight,’

  Sykes delighted in saying. ‘McCabe, nice to see you, old chap. You look well.’ Sykes held out his hand and shook hands with McCabe.

  ‘Always a pleasure, never a chore, sir,’ McCabe said, jesting, but maintaining a formal approach to his former colonel. Deep down, however, he wanted to kick him in the teeth for not standing up for him over the shooting incident Stowe had been involved in.

  Trent cleared his throat and ended the greetings with his report.

  ‘Okay, now listen, I have just had it confi rmed by the “boffi ns” here that

  “Rain Angel” is in Mumbai. She was tagged as entering the country a week ago using an American passport. Her real name is Mrs Chamat, the wife of a high-ranking Lebanese diplomat here in London. Anyway, in my book, the fact she is in Mumbai supports your suspicion, Stowe.’

  McCabe shot Stowe a glance, as if to say ‘your suspicions?’

  Trent continued, ‘Not good news at all, so we have to play this one very carefully. But I still need proof. I have a meeting with the top brass this afternoon to discuss how we handle this. The links to the Home Secretary are very sensitive.’

  Stowe and McCabe looked at each other, both half-breaking a knowing smile, thinking about Trent having to be diplomatic to the Home Secretary.

  ‘The news doesn’t get much better, I’m afraid,’ Trent continued. ‘I can only authorise Sykes here to give you limited support. That means, gentlemen, it’s going to be down to you two characters to lead the extraction, if, indeed, it gets to that point.’ Trent paused and took a sip of water.

  ‘Limited, sir? How limited?’ McCabe enquired.

  ‘Two men at best,’ Sykes replied. ‘It just so happens I have two guys, both top men, bored rigid after running a little errand for me in Jakarta.

  How about I have them swing by Mumbai on their way back home, sort of tourist stop if you catch my drift.’ Sykes winked at McCabe.

  Trent then butted in, ‘In short, gentlemen, this never happened.

  You get in, you get out, period. Now the impo
rtant bit: I need this CD

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  that she claims your girl Ying has. If it contains what the Rain Angel claims and your girl Ying really does have it, we need it.’

  At this point, McCabe and Stowe looked at each other. It was the fi rst time they heard that the information Ying was rumoured to have was in the form of a CD. They had both picked up on this point when mentioned by Trent.

  ‘We simply can’t have that kind of information loose. Oh, and another thing, the Singaporeans want her back alive. They don’t like their citizens being caught up in this kind of thing. I had to negotiate very hard for them not to send in their own team. However, they will be sending a doctor and two offi cials to ensure her safe passage back home.’

  ‘That’s if she is still alive, sir, and we trust what this woman is saying,’ Stowe said with a note of desperation. His face showed his clear concern.

  ‘Quite, Stowe. I suggest the three of you sit down and work out what you need, then update me once you have spoken to Rain Angel again. That’s it for now.’ Trent then waved them out.

  As they left his offi ce and walked into a vacant meeting room a few doors down, Rose tapped on the door. Rose was a 32-year-old woman who had joined MI5 via her own application. She had formerly been a research editor for a London newspaper, and she was now one of Stowe’s best operations logistic planners.

  ‘Hey, boss, I will have your updated visas and equipment ready upon your arrival. MI6 will also have two men meet you at the airport.

  Communications will be set up and patched through directly to Trent’s offi ce. Anything else?’ Rose paused.

  ‘No thanks, not for now,’ Stowe replied.

  ‘Okay, chaps, so what do you need?’ Sykes enquired.

  ‘These two men—which squadron, Sykes?’ McCabe asked.

  Sykes turned his head towards McCabe as he settled himself into one of the chairs. ‘D Squadron, both top men, so don’t worry, they know the drill.’

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  McCabe then grunted as if to imply he would be the judge of that.