Under Fire: (A Dan Taylor thriller)

by Amphlett, Rachel

  ‘Computer hacking and system infiltration attacks,’ said the analyst. ‘Preventing people breaking into organisations’ computers and taking control.’

  Dan leaned back in his seat. ‘Well, at least we know where he got the idea to develop a system to protect computers from those sorts of things, and why he’s been kidnapped, right?’ He looked around the table, then at the analyst, who was glaring at him, his mouth silently opening and closing.

  Dan grinned. ‘Sorry – did I spoil it for you?’

  Chapter 14

  Malta

  Hassan walked through the villa, his footsteps echoing through the living area as he strode among the rooms. The white walls reflected the winter sun streaming through partially opened windows and cast silhouettes on the tiled floors. A light breeze blew through the property, aided by slowly turning ceiling fans.

  He breathed in the scent of jasmine. Towards the back of the house he could hear raised voices from the kitchen as lunch was prepared. He smiled, revelling in the atmosphere, and the fact his plans were slowly but surely falling into place.

  He slowed as he turned into a wide hallway, crossed a decorative rug and approached the study. He adjusted the sweater draped casually across his shoulders over a navy blue polo shirt, and thrust his hands into the pockets of his beige trousers. He nodded to the bodyguard standing in front of the heavy wood-panelled door and waited while the man stood to one side, pushed open the door and respectfully stepped out of Hassan’s way, his head bowed.

  Hassan strode over to a desk which had been set beside patio doors. He reached out to touch a briefcase that had been placed on the desk. Picking it up, he felt the weight in his hands. He closed his eyes and remembered. This is an investment.

  He glanced up at Mustapha, who waited patiently by the patio doors, gazing out across the barren landscape.

  The second of the two bodyguards waited for Hassan’s signal, then slid open the tinted glass-panelled patio door. Hassan closed his eyes, savouring the faint sea breeze that wafted in from the adjacent cliffs, and then lifted his face up to the sun at its zenith in the blue sky.

  Lowering his chin, he opened his eyes and gazed at the barren landscape in front of him. The farm had long since ceased producing anything of use, with many of its outbuildings falling into disrepair from years of neglect. The stone walls, erected a century ago by skilled stonemasons, would in all likelihood remain long after Hassan had finished with the property.

  He tested the weight of the briefcase in his hand and stepped out onto the flag-stoned terrace, pulling his sunglasses off his head and over his eyes in one fluid motion.

  A pagoda provided shade over the area of the patio nearest the house, climbing plants left to entangle themselves up and over the wooden frame, providing natural shade from the noonday sun. A wrought iron round table and four chairs were placed under the shade. Two of the chairs were empty while their former occupants stood to the left of the shaded area, smoking cigarettes and talking animatedly between themselves.

  The other two chairs were taken up by one man who sat in one, and languidly stretched his legs across to the other. He appeared to be watching the other two men converse, a lazy smile playing across his lips. As he heard Hassan approach he turned his head and looked up at his host.

  ‘Everything okay?’

  Hassan nodded, and placed the briefcase on the table. ‘Your money is in there.’

  The man smiled, turned to the two smokers and signalled them over. They nodded, ground out their cigarettes on the flagstones and walked towards him. ‘You won’t be insulted if we count it?’

  Hassan shook his head. ‘I’m an honourable man, Mr Ivanov, but no, I won’t be insulted.’

  He waited as Dmitri Ivanov swung the briefcase round, looked at the combination lock, glanced up at Hassan, smiled and flicked the briefcase open. ‘If you’re so honourable, Hassan, how is it you know my personal pin code?’

  Hassan shrugged. ‘I like to know who I’m dealing with.’

  Ivanov shook his head and laughed. ‘I guess I’ll be changing my passwords.’ He pushed the briefcase towards his two colleagues. ‘You know what to do.’

  The men pulled up chairs and began sifting through the bundles of American dollars, methodically stacking the one hundred dollar notes as they progressed through the case.

  ‘Walk with me,’ said Hassan and turned, pacing across the patio area and towards a short flight of steps.

  Ivanov eased himself upright, took a sharp intake of breath as his knees clicked, and followed.

  The two men left the confines of the house and its unkempt garden. Ivanov caught up with Hassan and the men walked in silence. They stopped near an outbuilding which, compared with the others, appeared to have been recently repaired.

  ‘Were there any problems?’

  Ivanov glanced at the new doors and locks, the metalwork shining in the sun. ‘None. Your contact in the Iranian Navy diverted a frigate under the guise of investigating a reported sighting of an American vessel and we took control of the torpedoes from them at sea. It was a textbook manoeuvre.’

  ‘How will he explain their disappearance?’

  ‘Competently. He’s been paid generously for his help – and my contacts will use his family to remind him of his obligations to you if required.’

  Hassan nodded. ‘There’s no damage after passing through the Suez?’

  Ivanov shook his head. ‘None. We did as you commanded and followed a large Tunisian cargo ship to disguise our progress. We surfaced earlier and checked the hull – it’s holding up well.’

  Hassan smiled. ‘The Israelis will be shocked to find they’re not the only ones who can successfully manoeuvre through the Canal.’

  ‘They usually have the support of the Egyptians when they do.’

  Hassan waved his hand. ‘No matter. It is done now.’ He lifted his chin towards the building and handed the Kazakh a set of keys. ‘Everything you and your men need is in there. The other supplies are in the cellar of the main villa.’

  Ivanov nodded. ‘How do we move it all?’

  ‘There’s a passageway from the cellar to the cove. A gift from the smugglers who used to roam these parts.’

  ‘We’ll start straight away.’

  ‘It will probably take you a few nights to prepare everything.’ Hassan turned to the man, and placed his hand on his shoulder and squeezed. ‘I have to briefly return to England but I’ll be back before you depart. It would be an honour for me to have you here as my guests until it’s time for you to leave.’

  The other man nodded. ‘And it would be our honour to accept.’

  ‘Good.’ Hassan turned from the building and began walking through the parched grass back towards the house.

  ‘Hassan?’

  He stopped and turned, frowning. ‘What?’

  Ivanov stood where they’d been talking, tossing the keys in his hand. ‘What’s in it for you?’

  Hassan cocked his head to one side, thinking. ‘Satisfaction,’ he finally said, then turned and began walking again, smiling as he heard the other man running to catch up.

  ‘Satisfaction,’ he murmured to himself, and raised his head to watch a hawk floating in the air currents above the cliffs.

  Chapter 15

  London

  Dan rubbed his hand over his eyes, scowled as he felt the stubble on his face and sighed, leaning back in the leather swivel chair.

  ‘Run it again.’

  The woman next to him pushed her glasses up her nose, leaned forward and moused over the playback controls. ‘How many times is this?’

  ‘I lost count after we hit double figures.’ He frowned. ‘Is there another camera angle we can try – perhaps from the port side, rather than the jetty?’

  The woman gathered up her long red hair, grabbed a pen from the desk and shoved it through the loose tendrils, sweeping her hair out of the way. That done, she began to scroll through the list of closed circuit cameras situated around the Ras Laffan f
acility.

  ‘You realise I could be using my amazing analytical skills to help David, and you could do this yourself, don’t you?’

  ‘Four eyes are better than two Philippa,’ said Dan. ‘You rarely miss anything happening around here, so you’re stuck with me.’

  ‘Huh.’ Philippa found the recording she was looking for and hit ‘play’.

  They stared in silence at the now familiar scene – the port lit up by arc lights, the LNG tanker moored alongside the jetty, its bulk silhouetted against the overhead lights behind it.

  Dan drummed his fingers on the control desk as he watched, his eyes scanning the scene, hunting.

  ‘What exactly are you looking for?’ asked Philippa, stifling a yawn.

  Dan held up a report in his hand, his attention to the recording unwavering. ‘One of the engineers at the port said he saw the ship lift out of the water just before the initial explosion,’ he said. ‘To me, that sounds either like an explosive device fitted to the ship or jetty – or a torpedo.’

  Philippa nodded and leaned closer to the screen, entranced. They cried out at the same time.

  ‘Stop the recording!’ Dan leaned forward and pointed to the screen, his finger resting under the image of the ship, the beginning of an explosion frozen in time.

  Philippa rewound the image a few seconds and then began working through the recording one frame at a time.

  ‘There!’ Dan jabbed his finger at the water surrounding the ship, its black depths reflecting the port lights.

  The analyst frowned. ‘What am I looking at?’

  Dan rubbed his finger along the water line in front of the ship. ‘See how the water looks different here compared with the regular wave motion?’

  Philippa nodded.

  ‘Run it forward frame by frame up to the explosion. You’ll see the point of impact,’ Dan said.

  Philippa did as he instructed and watched open-mouthed as Dan’s finger traced the tracks of an underwater missile heading towards the ship. A fraction of a second later there was a minute pause, followed by a blinding white and yellow flash as the hull disintegrated.

  She turned and stared at Dan. ‘Holy crap.’

  ‘Can you capture some images of that?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure. Do you want them printed or emailed?’

  ‘Emailed – send them to the Vice-Admiral to see what he thinks. I reckon we’re on the right track about a submarine being used, but I’d like his opinion.’

  Philippa nodded, her fingers sweeping over the keyboard in front of her. ‘Okay, that’s done – what next?’

  ‘Keep playing the recording,’ said Dan. ‘The transcript of the interview with the engineer says there was a second explosion a few moments later.’

  They turned their attention back to the screen and watched in silence, neither of them aware they held their breath, anticipating the next strike. As the digital display counted off two minutes from the first explosion, a second blast illuminated the already burning jetty.

  ‘There!’ said Philippa. She paused the recording and pointed to the dark expanse of water. She sat back in her chair, a smile forming. ‘Got you.’

  Dan frowned, peering at the picture frozen on the screen. ‘I think it’s time the Sheik organised a dive team to take a closer look at that ship’s hull.’

  Philippa leaned forward and picked up the phone. ‘Better still, I’ll organise it,’ she said. ‘If there are any traces of explosives under there, I want them sent back here for analysis so we can see what we’re up against.’

  ‘Or who,’ muttered Dan. He patted Philippa on the shoulder as he stood up. ‘Good work.’

  Philippa nodded and smiled, already giving orders to her team over the phone.

  Chapter 16

  Dan walked into the conference room, the lights automatically flickering on as he strode over to the table and dumped the pile of paperwork on the wooden surface.

  Mitch followed, carrying a coffee in each hand, a rolled up map under one arm. He kicked the door shut behind him, handed one of the coffees to Dan, tossed the map onto the table and began to sift through the papers. ‘Where do you want to start?’

  Dan frowned as he flicked through a document. ‘The Admiral made some phone calls – these are transcripts of calls made to the police over the past two years where people have reported anything suspicious which might be a threat to national security.’ He took a slurp of coffee. ‘We’ll go through everything here. See if anything catches your attention and could link into what we know so far – anything that just seems odd. Go with your gut instinct.’

  Mitch nodded. ‘Okay.’ He pulled out a chair, picked up a report and put his feet up on the desk as he began reading.

  Dan paced around the conference table as he discarded one document and selected another, reading as he walked. His eyes quickly scanned one page then he flicked to the next.

  The reports were a mixture of transcripts of calls that had been monitored and flagged by the security services as warranting attention, but no further immediate action, and phone calls from the public directly to the security services or police where suspicious activities were thought to have taken place. Many of the issues had already been investigated by either the police or security services but had been deemed to be of a non-urgent threat. Others remained flagged until a threat could be ascertained.

  As the morning wore on, the pile of discarded transcripts grew larger and Dan felt the words merging into one another, swimming on the page. He glanced up at Mitch who had a similarly bored expression on his face. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘No, and I think I just read the same paragraph three times.’

  Dan sighed and put down the document he was reading. He glanced at his watch. ‘We’re not going to do this properly if we don’t have a break. Wasn’t it your round for lunch?’ He absently turned to the next page and scanned the first few lines.

  ‘Mitch?’ Dan looked over at his colleague who was sitting transfixed at the report he was reading. ‘You okay?’

  Mitch nodded slowly. ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘What is it?’

  A smile slowly spread across the other man’s face. ‘I think I’ve got something.’ He put down the report he was reading and slid it across the table to Dan. ‘What do you think?’

  Dan picked it up. As his eyes skimmed the text, his heartbeat began to race. He looked up at Mitch and grinned. ‘I think we’re going to visit a museum. And you can buy lunch on the way.’

  ***

  Omani Embassy, London

  Hassan Nazari stopped writing and looked up at the sound of a loud knock on the door to his private office.

  ‘Come,’ he commanded, putting back the fountain pen into its gold case. He carefully blotted the page, glanced at the diplomatic seal across its heading, and slipped it into a plain white envelope which he then tucked under the desk blotter. As the door opened he folded his arms across the desk and waited, expectantly.

  A tall man entered the room. Thin, his body not quite filling the pale grey suit jacket and trousers which he wore, his white shirt disguising a painfully concave chest. His face appeared etched with concentration, slight frown lines furrowing above his eyes.

  As he approached the desk, Hassan could hear the man’s rasping breath and shivered. To so many, that sound was the last noise they heard. As a courtesy, he stood up to greet his visitor. He stepped around the desk, put his hands on the arms of the taller man and gently squeezed.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ he lied. Although the man was useful, Hassan abhorred Fahd Baqir. Not only was he taller, he was pure evil – Hassan swore it leaked through the man’s pores. ‘Your lungs are not good today?’

  The man shook his head, spluttered, and pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. He coughed into it, and then glared at his host.

  ‘This damn cold and damp weather Hassan,’ he growled. ‘Why on earth did you get me sent here?’

  Hassan frowned. ‘Because under the new accords, I’m only allow
ed into the country for a short stay each time. You, on the other hand, have been granted asylum – it’s much easier for you to move around.’

  He gestured to a seat opposite his desk and Baqir lowered himself into it, grimacing as he did so.

  Hassan sat in his own chair and lifted an eyebrow.

  ‘Rheumatism,’ spat Baqir. ‘The sooner I move to a warmer climate, the better.’

  Hassan smiled benevolently. ‘Not long now. Tell me,’ he said easing forward, his smile disappearing, ‘what progress have you made?’

  Baqir sighed, a bronchial wheeze escaping his lips. ‘It is very difficult to cite progress when you forbid me to use my most successful techniques.’

  Hassan shook his head. ‘That can’t happen, Baqir. We discussed this at the beginning. If something goes wrong and he dies, we’re lost. He’s a civilian, not a soldier. Being interrogated for any length of time is going to stress his system, so we have to be selective in our approach.’ He leaned back. ‘So, what have you got?’

  Baqir held up his hand, raised himself slowly from the chair and shuffled over to the door. He opened it, spoke briefly to someone waiting outside, and then closed the door.

  As Baqir returned to the desk, Hassan noticed a battered briefcase in his hand. He pointed to it as the older man sat down and placed it on the desk between them.

  ‘This is his?’

  Baqir nodded. ‘We found nothing of use in it.’ He gestured to the locks and pushed it closer to Hassan. ‘Open it. It’s not locked. See for yourself.’

  Hassan turned the case around to face him. He ran his fingers over the worn, cracked black leather, opened it and flicked through the contents, frowning. A paperback crime novel sat on top of a pile of documents. Hassan tossed the book to one side and began flicking through the paperwork. They appeared to be scopes of work, notes of client’s requirements, and hastily scribbled notes on A4 pages torn from notepads and clipped together.

  Hassan threw the pages onto his desk and pushed his fingers into the various pockets. He pulled out two ballpoint pens, a ruler and a faded business card. He peered over the lid at Baqir.