THE ORANGE MOON AFFAIR

by AFN CLARKE

  The following morning, the Daily Telegraph carried a front-page story of a fire caused by an electrical fault that had decimated the Venus Automotive factory, causing the loss of valuable jobs in the province and a statement from the Prime Minister that the car plant would be rebuilt. De Costas' name was not mentioned in the column and other newspapers carried the story on page two with little interest. The only other piece of news that caught my attention was that the body of Adrian Newell was recovered after he was washed into the sea while fishing off rocks near Falmouth.

  “They're circling the wagons,” I said coldly, not caring a jot about Adrian, however it did mean that I would have to put in an appearance at the company and stop the Board appointing another Chairman.

  “We don't have much time,” Oldfield broke in. “Somebody is already accessing the cloud link.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “Because they're are probably hooked into a super computer that can decrypt just about anything two hundred times faster than we can.”

  “Anyway to stop them?”

  “Maybe if I can backtrack a trace.” He typed furiously while Julie, Danny, Paul and myself paced the room. After a few minutes Oldfield looked up. “We have about a minute before they break through. I traced the code to a super computer operating out of Estonia.”

  “Now there's a surprise,” Danny said sarcastically. “Who would have thought?”

  “Can you download those files onto Stacy's hard drive? We can then disconnect it from the internet.”

  “Already did that,” Oldfield snorted, as if I had insulted his expertise in the worst possible way. “And sent back a worm that'll take them some time to unblock.”

  “Could somebody tell me what's going on,” Julie said quietly. We had been so absorbed that we had forgotten she could not hear. I took her on one side and explained what we had found and what was happening.

  “Okay we're offline,” Oldfield said, sitting back and taking a deep breath. “I've shut down all Internet access through this IP and closed your father and stepmother's accounts.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I also closed my University account, because no doubt they'll have accessed that too.”

  Danny laid his hand Oldfield's shoulder. “We'll fix you up with secure access. It'll take twenty-four hours. In the meantime we'll use this,” he said holding up his mobile satellite phone.

  For the next two hours we poured through the files Oldfield had downloaded, sifting through every single piece of information looking for any anomalies. The members of ISEC were an assorted lot, which included recently retired senior military figures from Britain and the USA, who were listed as security advisers. What caught my eye were two investment banks whose names I remember seeing on some Gunn Group company memos. The Griffin Trust of Atlanta and the Von Kurt Fund of Münster. At the time I paid little attention and Adrian Newell had brushed them off as hedge funds owned by the Gunn Group for utilising foreign investments.

  But as I read the file it became clear that they were arbitrage banks engaged in the sale and acquisition of Government bonds in many countries, of which the members of ISEC were either senior government officials or the actual leaders of those countries. On their website the organisation touted itself as an International 'Think Tank' with no political ties or agenda.

  “This is interesting,” Julie said breaking in my thoughts. She was lying back on the settee looking through a sheaf of papers. “It's a calendar which is completely blank except for a small notation on the 25th of each month 'ISEC-MT 8pm'.” She looked up. “What on earth does that mean?”

  “Every month ISEC have a meeting at the same time in the same place.” Not a very useful thing for me to say, but I was tired and my arm and leg hurt like hell. Danny was in the corner of the room deep in conversation on the sat phone and Paul was going through the computer records with Oldfield. I felt like a spare part, brain in neutral and my usefulness over at this point.

  The telephone rang eight times before Morgan answered.

  "Hello?" her voice was thick with sleep and annoyed at being woken at three o'clock in the morning.

  “Morgan? It's Thomas. Thomas Gunn."

  There was a long pause. "Thomas? Is that really you?" sounding a little more awake.

  "Yes. I've got a couple of questions for you. Something I'd like you to do for me."

  "I might have guessed," she said abruptly. "We read about the Venus Automotive factory getting burnt out. We thought you'd be one of the bodies." She paused again. "It's a shock to hear the voice of a dead man at three in the morning."

  "I'm O.K. Tell the doc he did a good job."

  "I will. What did you ring for, Thomas? You said you wanted me to do something for you. What is it?"

  "Have you heard of the Griffin Trust Company?"

  "I have."

  "Could you do a bit of digging for me? I want to know if there is a connection with any companies in Eastern Europe."

  "Yeah, now you mention it, there is something that I came across a few months ago. The Federal Reserve Bank of Atlanta just appointed the former President of Griffin Trust, Ted Lieberman, to its board. Lieberman recently travelled to Estonia as part of a 'fact-finding' mission set up by Senator Kyle Kingston-Smith, who was formally CEO of Shale Corp in Texas."

  "Anything else you can find out would be great. There's one more thing. Why didn't you tell me Julie survived the crash?"

  “You know why, Thomas,” she said softly. “I'll find out what I can about Lieberman and the Griffin Trust.”

  "Thanks. Morgan. I'm going to be busy for a few days so here's a number you can call and leave the information." I gave her Edwards iPhone number.

  "Okay. Just take care, you hear, I'll get back to you," she said and the phone went dead in my hands. I stared at the wall.

  What had any of this to do with nuclear isotope enhanced Depleted Uranium bullets and a car company in Northern Ireland? None of it seemed to make any sense at all. The ISEC was a 'Think Tank', albeit not of the calibre of the Bilderberg Group, but still involved in similar activities.

  So we were looking at parallel issues.

  Financial and Military.

  I thought of the multinational companies over the years that had been responsible for the successful coups in Africa, South America and Middle Eastern countries. Coups in which the outcome not necessarily been beneficial to western governments as there had been no effective control over the new Government.

  I let my mind wander, considering almost impossible scenarios and came back to the list of the members of the ISEC consisting of Government leaders, military chiefs and the heads of International banks and hedge funds. All the countries represented held valuable resources. The economic value of those resources, such as uranium, gold, columbite tantalite, iron ore, coal, platinum and much more were conservatively valued at over $50 trillion per year.

  By laying waste to entire countries through revolution and violence, the way was paved to create a new society; a new industrial climate; a new wealth built upon the misery and deprivation that all forms of war bring. Was that the aim of the ISEC? Was it a global market place for international power brokers? And if so how on earth was I going to prove that.

  Gradually it was beginning to become clear to me just why there had been so many attempts on my life, and why my father had been killed. There was nothing in the file to directly incriminate anyone of illegal activities, but once the knowledge of the real aims of the ISEC were known, that would spell disaster. All I had were some half baked ideas and disconnected activities, none of which would stand up to scrutiny.

  "About a two years ago, about the time you were injured in Afghanistan, Sir Ivan was approached by an American from the ISEC, or should I say from a man from the Griffin Trust,” Radley informed us, standing near the fireplace, warming himself. He had flown to the Hall in the late afternoon. “With him was a German woman from the Von Kurt Fund. Your father wouldn't play ball until your stepmo
ther had her accident and became an addict. They tried to blackmail him with Mary’s drug addiction, but he wouldn’t play their game, and contacted Danny who brought him to me. We asked him to play along, to work for them, to use the Gunn Group as the investment vehicle for the ISEC and operations like the one in Northern Ireland.” Radley talked quietly and I looked across at Danny, who avoided my eyes. “Your father kept a secret file. De Costas' knew what he was doing, but didn't know where this information was kept. Neither did we. How we first came to hear of the organisation doesn't matter. Just know that information came our way concerning several ex-Army Generals trying to form their own private armies in the guise of security companies." He paused to pour himself a cup of coffee. "We started to track and log all the people we knew who might possibly have been connected. Your father didn't trust anyone and kept the information he had garnered secret. He called me from Belfast to arrange a meeting on his return, but as you know, that never happened.”

  “And that's where I came into the picture,” I said slowly. “You knew that the only person he would trust was me.”

  “Correct.”

  "Then why all the deception? Why didn’t you just tell me all this when I came back from Gozo?"

  "If they thought you were in on it, then they would quite probably have regrouped in a different form. Hamish McDougall was there to keep an eye on you, and I was keeping an eye on him. For a while they were happy that you knew nothing. But you decided to investigate, and that's when, in their eyes, you became expendable, just like your father. The only thing we could do was keep an eye on you, trust you were as good as your training and service suggested, and then wait and see what happened."

  There was a tide of anger beginning to rise inside me. “Your strange sense of security got two innocent women killed in Northern Ireland."

  "Yes, it did. And that is something I have to live with.” Radley looked me in the eye and I believed him, the anger dissipating slowly.

  "Now that you've got your information, you don't need us anymore."

  "That’s up to you.”

  “Or is it?”

  He didn't answer my question immediately, just watched me carefully.

  “Thomas,” Danny began, then bit his lip as I stared at him coldly. “Believe it or not we are on the same side. And we need you.”

  “Really,” I said sarcastically. “And just what else are you keeping from me?”

  “We need you to infiltrate ISEC headquarters here in the UK. Adrian Newell was to attend a seminar as the guest speaker at a location in Scotland, near Perth. We have the address and have added a Mr James Camden, newly appointed Chief Financial Officer of EuroTrend Mining, to the guest list.”

  Of course it was a company within Gunn Group Industries and naturally I was now James Camden. Radley was insistent on using me until I cracked or died.

  “You'll have Danny, Paul and the tech team as back-up.” Radley seemed to be enjoying himself.

  "This is a nanotechnology transmitter. The effective range is about five hundred metres.” The technician, who had been introduced to me as Bill, explained as I stared through the microscope at the device that looked like a bundle of globes stuck onto a tubular object. “It uses whatever transmitter or receiver is in the vicinity to boost its signal. We can then access either voice or video dependent upon the component it is piggybacking upon. Your body's own electrical circuit powers it.”

  “And this goes in my body?” It was a stupid question and I was wondering what the hell science was going to think up next, recalling an article I read some time ago about the potential toxicity of nanotechnology in the human body.

  “We coated the molecular nanowire transistors with a non-leaching polymer and a built-in organic self-destruct,” he explained patiently, as if that was supposed to placate me.

  “Oh great. Now I'm an experiment in 'Mission Impossible'.”

  “What?”

  “A film. Tom Cruise. Action adventure.”

  “We deal in reality here Mr Gunn, not fiction.”

  “I hope so, Bill. I really hope so.”

  He looked at me with disgust. “I'll inject it into the base of your thumb. You have a nice scar there which will hide the pin prick.” He need not have sounded so enthusiastic. I have to admit the needle was so tiny I didn't feel anything.

  “And just when does this little beauty self-destruct?”

  “Three days. It'll be absorbed into the blood stream and be ejected as waste.”

  “Wonderful,” I muttered with as much lack of enthusiasm as I could. “And just how do I communicate?”

  “Just talk.”

  “Into my hand?” I was feeling more like Maxwell Smart than Thomas Gunn.

  He gave me a witheringly tired look. “Just talk, we'll pick it up.”

  “And what about you talking to me.”

  “One way only. We're working on the receiver side. Should be ready in six months. Quite an interesting nano ear implant actually.”

  Julie watched the whole procedure nervously. Something had changed over the past few days. She was withdrawn, quiet, and unresponsive to my attempts at lovemaking. The Hall had become the centre for the operation and we were no longer alone. Surrounded by technicians, secret service and MI5 officers our lives were not ours anymore and I knew Julie was feeling the strain. Over the past few weeks much had happened that changed us, and we were not able to focus on our relationship. And when we were alone in the quiet of the flat at the back of the Hall, it was with the knowledge that there were guards outside the door and in the grounds.

  Mary returned to the Hall under cover of darkness, her place in the hospital filled by a brain dead car accident victim with no family. She was still seriously ill from the affects of the heroin and the prognosis wasn't looking too promising. Radley provided around the clock medical care.

  'It's the least he can do,' I thought angrily, trying to purge all emotion from my mind and concentrate on the task at hand. Tomorrow night I was heading into the enemy's lair.

  SEVENTEEN

  The Gunn Group Gulfstream 550 drew up near the Perth airport hangers and lurched to a stop, the whine of the engines slowly disappearing as the pilot flipped off the switches. I went forward and opened the doors. There, pulling up beside the aircraft, was a black Mercedes saloon. The uniformed chauffeur got out and opened the rear passenger door. He took my bags and waited until I had made myself comfortable in the back seat, then shut the door without a word.

  The drive out to the mansion was uneventful and I tried to relax and enjoy the rugged scenery. It was difficult, because there was a knot in my throat trying to throttle me. Disconcertingly, the chauffeur drove in silence without once glancing in the rear view mirror.

  After what seemed an age of twisting roads and hills, we turned off the main road onto a private road that wound its way over a hill between open areas of heath land where sheep grazed lazily.

  On the tops of the mountains in the distance there was snow, and the sheep's breath hung like a fine fog in the cold still air.

  Beyond a formidable gatehouse and narrow bridge that crossed a fast flowing river, the driveway to the mansion must have been a good half mile long. Eventually the brooding grey stone building appeared around a corner, tucked back into the side of yet another hill.

  The chauffeur stopped the car, got out and opened the door for me. At the top of the stone steps, as if by magic, two people appeared. One I took to be a servant as he came down the steps and took my bags from the boot of the car. The other was obviously the welcoming committee. He came towards me with his hand outstretched. His grip was firm and dry.

  "Welcome, Mr Camden. I'm glad you could make it. My name is Charles Lambert." The voice was cultured and sounded friendly enough. Only the eyes held a hint of danger. They were slate grey like the building and just as cold. The smile that played around the lips never touched his eyes. “I trust you had a pleasant journey. Come and meet some of the guests. They haven't all arrived yet,
but we expect them soon.” He led the way. "I was very sad to hear about the sudden death of Mr Newell." There was no sadness in his expression.

  "Very sad indeed, and so unexpected. Please call me James.” I was surprised at the ease with which I matched Lambert's detached tone.

  "I'll show you to your room and then let you loose with the others. We don't expect to begin for a few hours yet, so feel free to explore the grounds if wish." The inside of the mansion was as forbidding as the outside. Dim corners and suits of armour, large oil paintings Highland Chieftains and heavy wood panelled walls. The bedroom that I was allocated wasn't any more cheerful, with a huge carved wooden four-poster bed and ancient drapes. Only the view of the window across the land and the mountains was worth looking at. Once I had dropped off my bags, which I was sure would be inspected as soon as I left the room, Charles Lambert led me downstairs, showed me the bar, games room, lounge and dining-room. There were a few other men in the lounge gathered in a small group. He introduced me and then left.

  All the men were of my age and held senior executive positions in high technology computer and research companies, as well as the banking and investment companies that were already on the list of ISEC members. And all were ambitious, aggressive young financial executives. I doubted there would be anyone amongst them I could trust. The conversation was all shop, so I decided to do a little research into how I was going to get out of this place when the need arose.

  I excused myself and went out into the cold late morning air, and walked down the main driveway that led down to the river and the guarded bridge we had crossed earlier. At the bridge I turned right and followed the curve of the river to the back of the mansion where desolate sparsely treed moorland stretched to dark forbidding mountains beyond. Any escape in that direction would be folly unless fully equipped to deal with the harsh reality of the rugged Scottish countryside in winter. The river was a different proposition. It was about twenty metres across, fairly shallow but fast flowing. The only way to the far bank was either by the bridge or an ice-cold swim. There were guards and barriers at either end of the bridge, so that wasn't a reasonable choice.