“They’ve moved the pre-conference meeting from tomorrow morning to tonight. Two hours time in fact. Apparently there’s some major crisis involving the state network tender that only I can solve. The Chief Executive has asked for me personally, so it must be serious. They’re getting really twitchy about what might happen if we don’t get it.”
“But what about Clare?” Michael said, watching as his daughter approached where they were standing.
“Look, I know,” Colette said angrily. “Don’t make this any harder than it is.”
Putting his arm around Colette, he pulled her tightly to him, resting his head gently on hers.
“I know. I wasn’t having a go at you. You shouldn’t be so good at your job and indispensable to them. What would they do without you? Do you really have to go now?”
Colette nodded, thankful she’d packed her overnight bag for the conference before they’d left for the competition. It would have to do for two nights now she thought as Clare reached the pair of them.
“What’s the matter mummy?” she asked, looking into her mother’s moist, reddened eyes.
Colette dropped down onto her haunches, gripped her daughter’s hands, and looked straight into her wide blue eyes.
“You remember the conference that I’m going to tomorrow? Well, they’ve moved the time of it, and I’ve got to leave for it now.”
A look of disappointment washed rapidly across Clare’s pale features.
“What, now?” she said, fighting back the tears, determined not to show how she really felt, and knowing how important mummy’s work was.
Colette nodded, pulling her daughter close to her, tears rolling down her own cheeks.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, feeling herself choke-up as she spoke.
Clare pulled away gently from the embrace, looking her mother squarely in the face. She knew she had to be grown up about it.
“It’s OK. I understand,” she said. “Daddy’s told me how important your work is and how busy you are.” Gulping, determined not to cry, she added: “They’ll be other dance competitions.”
Colette squeezed Clare’s hands before holding her tight again, proud of her daughter’s response.
“You’d better go,” Michael said gently. “The sooner you go, the sooner you can come home.”
Nodding, Colette rose to her feet and smiled warmly at Clare, wiping the tears from her face.
“I’ll talk to you on the phone tomorrow? OK darling?” she said.
“I’d like that,” Clare said softly.
And turning she ran back quickly down the aisle towards her friends, unable to stop her own tears from finally streaming down her face.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
As the key slid into the lock of his front door Michael cast a nonchalant look up and down his street, checking to see if he was being followed or watched. He knew he wasn’t particularly adept at being subtle about these things. He certainly wasn’t as well practiced as his four counterparts in Aldershot. Perhaps there were some things he should be thankful for he thought as nothing appeared suspicious about this quiet surburban street. But then nobody would have predicted a brutal murder would have occurred here. But it had.
Closing the door behind him, he felt pleasant warmth envelop him as the wonders of central heating filled the house. If nothing else, coming home was worth it for some comfort, despite the unpleasant memories lingering there.
A photograph of Clare taken at one of her ballet performances where she had the lead part hung on the hallway wall. Her happy smile shone from the picture. The framed memory quickly doubled his determination. They had to succeed in what they were doing.
Walking over the pile of letters, flyers and newspapers scattered over his doormat Michael moved into his lounge, slumping onto his new sofa. Bills and pizza menus could wait.
As his television flickered into life and he reached for his console he was aware at some subconscious level that his disposition was changing. Not so many days ago, the slightest mention of Colette and Clare’s murders had made him want to seek refuge from the horror of the details, reducing him to sweaty waves of nausea. But now he actively sought it out. Any detail or piece of information about them, about UKCitizensNet, about the anti-net campaigners, and even about Trevellion, needed to be absorbed, assimilated and rationalised. It was only through understanding it could his determination for revenge be truly sated. No detail could be ignored. No stone unturned, in case someone or something that was complicit escaped his wrath.
Gone, at least inwardly, was the mild mannered husband and father he’d once been. Their lives, and their deaths, would count for something.
The UKCitizensNet logo appeared on the screen and Michael hit the ‘Video’ button on his console, typing in the channel number for BBC News 24. The news presenter might have been different from hours earlier in the mobile home, but the facts being pumped out were still the same. Had the world not moved on in the last few hours?
A reporter, standing outside 10 Downing Street was detailing the relevance of a mini summit between the Saudi President and the Prime Minister.
Michael rolled his eyes in boredom and minor irritation and tapped the ‘Web’ button on the console. He blinked as the screen didn’t melt into the familiar UKCitizensNet logo. Instead, it dissolved into an image of Colette, standing impassively, dressed in black as she had stood before him previously. Michael slid off the sofa and onto his knees.
Is this a dream?
Reaching forward he touched the screen, running his finger across Colette’s cheek. There was no human warmth. Just the cold sensation and static of the TV screen. Tears began to well in his eyes and roll gently down his reddening cheeks.
“Don’t cry Michael,” the voice said as Colette’s soft tones filled the room. “You must be strong. Vengeance must be ours. Clare’s death must be avenged. Only you can do that. You know what to do.”
Michael looked directly into Colette’s unmoving eyes.
“Trevellion,” he whispered, the sound barely audible.
“The enemy is wider than you think,” Colette continued. “Who foils the signs of false prophets and makes fools of diviners, who overthrows the learning of the wise and turns it into nonsense.”
Michael’s expression changed from one of sadness to total bewilderment.
Why are you still baffling me with obscure references I don’t understand?
“Michael, you must read and understand the Books of Isaiah and Revelation. The truth lies within. The truth lies with the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”
Michael ran his fingers through his hair in confusion, scrabbling around for a pen and a piece of paper to note it down before he forgot.
“After this I saw four angels standing at the four corners of the earth, holding back the four winds of the earth so no wind could blow on the earth, on the sea, or on any tree. Then I saw another angel ascending from the east, who had the seal of the living God. He shouted out with a loud voice to the four angels who had been given permission to damage the earth and the sea.”
“Colette, I don’t understand what these words mean or why they’re important. What have they got to do with Trevellion? Who is the wider enemy? What do biblical references from the Books of Revelation and Isaiah and the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have to do with anything? Or with your death or Clare’s?
I must be losing my mind. None of this makes the remotest sense. And how would Colette know about this? She was never religious, and certainly never quoted books from the bible. I doubted she ever heard of the Book of Isaiah. I certainly haven’t.
Slumping back against the sofa Michael began to laugh. Not from happiness, but at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Colette was dead and he was talking to his TV screen.
I must be hallucinating to see her image, never mind hear her voice.
Closing his eyes for a second he cleared his mind as best he could of the nonsense he was thinking.
Will she still be
there when I opened them again?
Opening his eyes again, Colette was still looking at him from the screen. She was murmuring something about how she loved him and Clare, and how their killer must be caught. He watched as her impassive faced blinked intermittently. Her mouth barely moved, but the words kept coming.
“Find them, and take vengeance on them all. Do it for Clare. Our daughter,” the voice said with little emotion.
Although it was clearly her voice, her tone was constant with no rises or fall in emotion or intonation. Just a steady dispassionate series of statements and commands. It was as if she had been brainwashed or was reading from an autocue Michael thought, exhaling loudly, his chest rising heavily as the air rushed from his lungs.
Before he could reply the screen went black again for a few moments before a new image appeared. A box filled three quarters of the screen, and what appeared to be a poorly shot home movie began to play. Michael watched, confused but transfixed.
It was dusk. Dark malevolent-looking clouds filled the sky. A smartly dressed man in an expensive-looking suit was trudging across a lush green field. His back was to the camera. In his left hand he was holding a large brown canvas sack, draw strings at the top pulled tightly shut. Every few steps across the slightly damp grass he had to readjust his hold on the sack which clearly contained something heavy and awkward to carry. The anonymous man was approaching a small wood. The person holding the camera quickly panned round from side to side, looking to see if anyone was around before returning focus on the other man and the cumbersome sack. It was clear wherever they were was isolated. There were no signs of habitation or roads. Just rolling fields and trees for as far as the eye could see.
Reaching the wood the smartly dressed man stopped, turning around to face the camera.
Come on, show me who you are.
But as the man turned his face had been blurred out to prevent identification. No matter which way his head turned, the image remained blurred.
Turning back to face the wood the camera continued to follow the man with his sack as he ventured into the trees. The visibility reduced slightly but was still good enough for Michael to see what was happening.
In the back of his mind a terrible sense of dread was beginning to grow. Nausea welled up inside. Less than a minute passed before the man stopped, dropping the sack to the floor where it lay crumpled and misshapen.
What had been out of shot previously came into view as the person holding the camera handed the smartly dressed man a long black shovel. Michael clasped his hands to his mouth.
“No. No. Oh God, no.”
As the hole in the ground grew, and the face of the man remained blurred, the camera periodically moved around looking out for prying eyes. There were none in this diabolical place. Finally, the smartly dressed man placed the shovel against a nearby tree. The hole was deep enough.
Moving over to the sack he picked it up, his left hand positioned next to the hole so the drawstrings were adjacent to it. Releasing the tension on the drawstrings he moved to the other end of the sack. In one swift motion he flipped it upwards and the contents spilled out, sliding into the ground.
As Clare’s lifeless body came to rest in the dark ground Michael vomited instantly onto his carpet. Clawing helplessly at the screen he was oblivious to kneeling in his own vomit.
“No, you sick bastards, leave her alone. No, Clare.”
His words tailed off into a whimper as he began to cry uncontrollably, the obscene images relaying in front of him. But it wasn’t just the pain of seeing Clare’s body being so mercilessly dumped to the ground. It was more than that. He hadn’t been able to protect her, to save his little girl from these monsters.
And now, here they were on screen. Recording their crime for their own perverted voyeuristic pleasure.
What sort of animal does that to a little girl?
The smartly dressed man began to shovel the dirt he’d removed over Clare’s lifeless, broken body.
Collapsing to the floor Michael lashed out in blind rage, kicking his leg out in a furious motion, smashing into the coffee table next to him. Instantly, the glass top shattered, spraying the floor below, covering his prone body. The noise of the glass breaking snapped Michael back to consciousness. Looking up he pulled himself away from the shards of glass, his heart pounding in his ears.
Pulling his leg away he was aware of a burning sensation in his right calf. A crimson stain spread across his trouser leg as a jagged shard of glass pointed upwards from the wound. Pulling the glass from his leg he turned back to the screen. The smartly dressed man had finished covering the body with dirt and they were leaving the scene of their atrocity.
Once more Michael looked at the blurred face as he walked away. As the man disappeared from the view of the camera the film finished. The screen melted back to the image of Colette looking on impassively.
“A founder of sects, much trouble for the accuser: a beast in the theatre prepares the scene and plot. The author ennobled by acts of older times; the world is confused by schismatic sects.”
She paused long enough for Michael to scribble down a few of the cryptic words, her face as blank and expressionless as always.
“For Clare,” she said finally before her image disappeared and BBC News 24 returned.
But, instead of the news still focusing on the visit of the Saudi president, another story now had top billing. And this time Michael was interested.
His expression contorted into a scowl as he watched Vincent Trevellion sitting at a table. A high-ranking policeman with a resolute expression sat beside him. A gang of eager reporters sat before them, cameras poised, audio equipment recording their every word.
Trevellion was wearing yet another expensive suit. But this suit was different - and familiar. A suit that had crossed a field. A suit that had carried a sack. And a suit that had dug a grave for his daughter.
Scrolling across the bottom of the screen was the new headline: “Police seek cyber terrorists”. The high-ranking policeman was the first to speak.
“Following the well-publicised attack on UKCitizensNet our officers have been working with SemComNet and Vincent Trevellion to identify the perpetrators of what amounts to an act of cyber terrorism. We can now confirm we are looking for the following four individuals who we believe are responsible for this crime.”
A giant plasma LCD display suspended above where Trevellion and the policeman sat flickered into life. Photographs of Michael’s four accomplices appeared on the screen. Michael blinked as the faces were barely recognizable to the haunted, tired faces he had spent days looking at. These were pictures of four well-groomed, energetic-looking men, far removed from the squalor of their current existence.
“We believe these men have been on the run and in hiding for some time so their appearances may have changed since these photographs were taken. We advise the public not to approach these men as we consider them to be extremely dangerous. They are also wanted in connection with other related cyber crimes. We are also currently investigating whether any other individuals were involved in this act of terrorism. If you have any information about this crime or their whereabouts please email or contact the police using the details on your screen.”
As the policeman stopped talking an email address and telephone number flashed on the screen. Taking it as their prompt, the gathered reporters began their mad scrum to elicit more details about the case. The first question was aimed at Trevellion by a young reporter who looked barely out of university.
“What can you tell us about the damage to UKCitizensNet and the impact it might have on the service?” he asked noisily over the hum of the other reporters.
“UKCitizensNet is a robust system, using the most sophisticated security measures in the world. What we experienced by this anti-net sect was nothing more than a scratch on the surface. No damage was done. And no problems were experienced by any UKCitizensNet users. All it has done is strengthen our resolve to catch these cyber terro
rists. SemComNet will assist the police in whatever ways it can.”
Michael snorted disdainfully at Trevellion’s practiced, politician’s answer. He had to warn the other four they were now being publicly sought by the authorities. They had to progress their plan even more swiftly now.
But despite this, something Trevellion had said bothered him.
‘Anti-net sect’
As the phrase reverberated around his thoughts, his mind was filled with the image of Colette and her warnings about ‘schismatic sects’.
He knew now he had to be more careful than ever. Not just from the authorities who were closing in on them, but also from his four accomplices. The ‘wider enemy’ could be anywhere.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“What the fuck are we going to do?” Green said anxiously, chewing his bottom lip and rocking nervously from one foot to another.
The four men had seen the police news conference on BBC News 24, Sky News and reported on UKCitizensNet. Their faces had been splashed over all of the screens along with the assertion they were extremely dangerous. The irony would have been amusing if their situation wasn’t now so precarious.
Brown attempted to calm the situation.
“We’ve been able to hide ourselves away from the world for almost two years. No-one has found us so far,” he said, surveying the bank of screens in front of them.
“But that was before our fucking pictures were broadcast over the entire internet, excuse me, UK-fucking-CitizensNet. How the hell could they have pieced together it was us is what I want to know?”
“Come on, let’s not kid ourselves,” Smith said despondently. “They’re into everything. They’ll have access to every semantic database out there.”
“Yes, but how did they specifically know it was us?” Green persisted. “They couldn’t have pinpointed where the attack came from because of our IP scrambler, and if they had that doesn’t tell them who we are. Someone must have tipped them off somehow.”
The Codex File (2012) Page 23
