by Albert Able
When Rudi told him that their safe delivery had been confirmed, Carl Peterson was delighted and immediately notified Mustafa that the weapons were now ready and that he would soon be advised of the time and location for the first detonation.
“Well, Rudi” Peterson patronisingly addressed his son, “now that I have successfully prepared and confirmed the safe arrival of the devices to Mustafa, we are ready to start our project.”
“Are you quite sure those Iraqi scientists are to be trusted?” Rudy queried.
“There is always a risk with these kinds of people, but they do have specialised skills and we have used these before. Importantly, we may have to use them again but I suppose at some stage we will have to address the situation.” Peterson looked at Rudi and shrugged his shoulders.
The following day, after Carl Peterson had left to re-join Le Monde, and sensing another opportunity to ingratiate himself with his father, Rudi called up the list of former Syndicate enforcers on his computer, selected two names and made the first call.
Rudi was lucky with his first attempt and emulating his father’s direct style issued the enforcer with his specific instructions.
When he had completed that call he summoned up another name from his computer files and selected the number to call.
Rudi was as excited as a young puppy with a new toy when two days later, he learned that the badly charred bodies of two nuclear research scientists were pulled from a mystery fire at an apartment in Bombay’s sprawling suburbs.
The enforcer had done his job well; the newspaper reported that the two men who shared the apartment were foreign nuclear scientists and believed to have been on holiday, and that both had been asphyxiated through smoke inhalation from the fire, which was probably caused by a cigarette.
There would be no report appearing in any news columns about the death of an unidentifiable male following a hit and run accident in one of Bombay’s sprawling suburban streets.
***
Jerry Fielding was sitting at his deck at the SKY-SEC security office. He had just returned from the airport after delivering Alex Scott and was about to start composing the obligatory report on his visit when the e-mail asking for ‘full details of Alex Scott and the purpose of his visit’ flashed on to his screen.
Jerry was vastly experienced in all forms of deception and had seen almost too much action, yet such a message, with all its implications, sent a cold shudder through his nervous system.
Jerry immediately compiled his reports, attaching copies of the standard security searches he had made on both Alex Scott and his company CTB Securities prior to the visit, adding ‘Mr Scott has expressed interest in our ‘Multiple Unit Surveillance’ system and was given the full demonstration by our sales team. I am advised by sales that he has left them with details of the properties to be equipped so that we can follow up with a full specification and quotation. Mr Scott returned to London from San Francisco on the noon flight today.’
Jerry emailed the messages and then left the office giving a cheery wave to the young lady at the reception desk: “I have to go out. I’ll be on the mobile if you need me.”
“OK, Jerry,” she replied without looking up as she took the next telephone call: “SKY-SEC Amanda speaking, how can.....”
The door closed behind the departing Jerry Fielding cutting off any further sound. But he didn’t really notice as his mind tussled with the latest development. It was the second time that Jerry Fielding had received an e-mail from that remote address. On the first occasion, a little over six months ago, two brilliant young men lost their lives in a mystery helicopter explosion; their project co-ordinator was also found floating in the lake a few days afterwards.
***
The mobile telephone vibrated silently in Mustafa’s pocket.
“Mustafa,” he said casually and listened for a moment. “Let me get this straight. You now have four nuclear devices and you want me to find volunteers to deliver them?” He listened patiently for a while then and apparently totally unphased by the request, replied: “Ah, I thought for a moment you were going to ask me to do all this for the same fee?”
He paused for another moment. “The next ten days? I don’t see why not.” He listened again. “Alright I’ll have everything ready ten days from now, then you take it from there.”
Mustafa continued to listen intently and then with significant surprise in his tone: “Now let me get this quite clear, you need suitable couriers, shall we call them, to attack targets as yet to be specified, possibly in London, Paris, Rome, Moscow and New York. Are you quite sure that’s all?” Mustafa added facetiously.
The voice at the other end erupted.
“Sorry,” Mustafa snapped back defensively. “Believe me, I know you don’t make jokes.” Then he countered defiantly: “By the same token when I say I can deliver, I also mean it.”
Once again he listened and carefully noted the detailed instructions. “That’s all understood, and you should use the same number as today if you need anything else.”
Mustafa pressed the off button and spoke aloud to the empty room. “My God, Mr Black, you must be completely off your head.” But then the thought of the extra two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, which would soon be sitting in his numbered Swiss bank account, instantly prevented any further surges of conscience.
***
Alex Scott arrived at London Heathrow a little after six in the morning and had arranged for Hans de Wolf to meet him.
Hans looked deliberately at his watch and shook his head as he greeted Alex. “Welcome back, and no I didn’t mind getting up in the middle of the night just to save you a couple of pounds on a train ticket!”
“You wouldn’t want me spending my children’s inheritance when I could have the pleasure of your company at this time of the day?” Alex shook the offered hand.
Hans had parked his car on the disabled bay close to ‘Arrivals’. A police office was already taking the number as they approached.
“Disabled only I’m afraid, Sir” The officer cheerfully observed and continued completing the ticket.
“Sorry officer forgot to put my permit up.” Hans called out as he limped up to the car and tapping his metal limb just above the knee.
“Hum.” The officer responded to the metallic noise “You’re still supposed to have and display a valid Disabled Permit you know,” he responded, good humouredly cancelling the ticket and folding his pad away.
Hans made an exaggerated show of dragging his prosthetic leg onto the driving seat. “Thanks once again and my apologies, officer. I won’t forget again.”
As they drove away Alex chuckled. “You’re even meaner than me, you crafty old bugger, too tight even to pay for your Disabled Disc?”
“With the amount of business you’ve produced lately we can’t afford such luxuries.” Hans grinned and then asked: “So when are you going to tell me about your trip?”
“Well now, that is very interesting.” Alex clicked his seat belt into place. “We have definitely stumbled on a whole ‘can of worms’ and much more if my gut feeling is anything to go on.” Alex settled back comfortably into his seat.
“As far as their security systems go, they are pretty good, though I am quite sure ours are probably better technically. But we could certainly learn something from their presentation and marketing methods. However, what is much more important is their eavesdropping ability. It looks as though they can - and are - monitoring any transmission they choose. You were right to warn me not to use the mobile because Jerry Fielding (that’s their security man who took me under his wing) also told me that they can monitor calls from local call boxes and hotel switch boards. Do you think the screen or whatever it is you’ve sorted out for our mobiles can handle all their stuff?”
Hans listened without interruption. “In short, yes. Have you no fa
ith?” he growled.
They drove in silence for a while.
“You’re right, of course. We mustn’t underestimate them - they’re a cunning bunch of buggers alright,” Hans pursed his lips, “and yet their technology is so simple, once you’ve sussed it out. The only thing I haven’t managed to resolve yet is tracing their calls to the true source. Once I’ve done that, we will well and truly have the upper hand.”
“And how soon do you think that will be?”
“Well if I didn’t have to waste my time running errands to save the petty cash, I expect I would have solved it by now!” Hans snapped back.
Alex smiled, closed his eyes and sat back in silence for the rest of the journey.
Later that morning Alex telephoned the Boss. “We must meet, can’t trust the phones any more!”
“Do you remember our ‘old spot at site Thirty-three’?” the Boss responded immediately.
“Absolutely, see you there.”
‘Meet at thirty three’ was their old code to meet at three o’clock at the Jamaica Inn in the City of London.
The sandstone step to the Jamaica Inn has been worn onto a deep hollow over the years as thousands upon thousands of their customers traversed their door. Lunchtime, being the busiest period, it is not always possible to find a table or even a corner for a chat, but by three in the afternoon the numbers are thinning out.
Alex arrived early and found an empty table just inside the door and away from the bustle of the bar. He was already sitting at the table when the Boss arrived; standing up politely Alex greeted him. “Gin and Tonic?”
“Have you ever known me drink anything else?” The Boss raised his eyebrows and thrust out his hand in greeting.
“Just as well, isn’t it?” Alex grabbed the hand and pointed to the drinks already on the table.
They both sat down. “Now then, what have you got to tell me, eh?” the Boss dived in; he’d never had time for small talk.
“We are definitely on to something in the US. For a start, SKY-SEC has a complete surveillance network of its own, not just around their property but covering much of the surrounding area, possibly for several miles. I understand that they can trace any mobile even if it has been compressed or scrambled, they can even detect its source!” Alex picked up his drink. “Cheers,” he said automatically and sipped at the freshly squeezed orange juice.
“Cheers,” the Boss echoed, but didn’t drink.
“Why, I wonder, do they need to do all that?” Alex furrowed his brow. “Incidentally, I was greeted by a man called Jerry Fielding. Does that name mean anything to us?”
“Jerry Fielding?” The Boss squinted in thought. “Can’t say that it does, but I can easily check.”
“Well, he tried to befriend me and he defiantly knows much more than he was prepared to say. He said that he came across my file some time in the past. He seemed kosher but I’m just not comfortable with him - but you never can tell.”
Alex leaned towards the Boss. “You know the whole time I was there I had that feeling that I was like a fish on a line and they knew all about me, whereas we knew very little about them. So, Boss, apart from Jerry Fielding I wonder if you can use your contacts to dig a bit deeper to see who really is behind SKY-SEC and find out a bit more of its history?”
“I’ll get on to that right away.” The Boss raised his bushy eyebrows. “So how are we going to communicate if they are monitoring our calls?”
“Hans can only protect us for short periods,” Alex leaned forward. “You see, he has discovered that their cloaking devise is self perpetuating. In other words it automatically changes its format every few days. It is also clever enough that if it thinks it has been compromised it will change again, possibly within the hour. So each time Hans cracks the new code it detects it and automatically repairs the leak. Hans says that it will take him weeks to match that technology and find some kind of automatic de-cloaking device. By that time it will be a good old-fashioned stand off. In the meantime we don’t use any electronic systems until Hans calls to say its safe, agreed?” Alex sat back and sipped his juice. “The good new is that Hans thinks he has found a way of tracing their cloaking devices signal to its control source.”
“’Thinks’ he has found?” the Boss replied, exasperated. “And that’s the good news? ”
He shook his head. “I know we have no proof yet, but this is all typical Syndicate.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “We are almost certain they are out there somewhere planning something, but we don’t know what.” He sighed. “Bloody frustrating.” He shook his head in exasperation.
“The only thing I know for sure ...” the Boss’s mobile telephone bleeped, interrupting the moment. He fumbled for the tiny instrument. “Yes?” he snapped.
Alex leaned across and grabbed the instrument and listened, a voice at the other end said. “Comrade, it’s Yuri.”
“Sorry, wrong number.” Alex spoke abruptly, terminated the call and flicked the off button.
“What the hell, Alex?” the Boss retorted angrily.
“Sorry, Boss, but absolutely no calls until Hans clears the circuit.” He handed the instrument back. “Do you know a Yuri? Because that’s who it was, so as soon as Hans calls to give us a safe period you can call him back.”
The only Yuri the boss knew was of course the Yuri Drumenco of St Petersburg, “Yuri? Oh God Sophie, I hope she’s not involved! You remember she’s taken her gap year over there to perfect her Russian.” The Boss suddenly looked anxious. “I must get back to him somehow.”
“Look, I’ll have to go back to the workshop to talk with Hans. There has to be some safe way that we can communicate.” Alex stood up. “I suggest that you get back to the Club; you should be able to make local calls from their internal system. Just don’t use any of our names because that is what triggers their computer. I’ll get back ASAP.”
Twenty minutes later Alex was sitting with Hans. “We must have some easy way of communicating?” Alex pleaded.
Hans smiled. “Am I not continuously telling you that the biggest problems are usually solved by the simplest solutions?” He cocked his head to one side. “See here.” He passed over a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen. “Just write your massage and Fax it. You can write?”
“You’re not serious?” Alex gasped.
“I wish I wasn’t, I have to admit their technology seems to be light years away from mine. I really thought I had it in the bag but not now. I’m sorry,” he admitted with a sigh, “but they have some kind of an edge, and for the moment I have not been able to find it.”
Hans looked exhausted; he had hardly slept for three days. “The only thing I can tell you for the moment is that their keyword search program seems to work on sound recognition and does not appear to recognise pictorial images - and I’m not joking about the fax idea, at least for the moment.”
“OK, I’ll tell the Boss, he can use the fax at the Club.” Alex made to leave. “The best thing you can do now, Hans, is to get a few hours sleep. Then you’ll be better equipped to crack these bastards’ system!”
“I guess you’re right. See, occasionally you do have the odd good idea.” Hans smiled weakly and bid Alex goodbye.
Alex went straight back to the Chelsea Arts Club.
The Boss had been busy. “I did as you suggested and made some local calls from the Club’s office. First, I called an old pal from the Home Office. They have a private communications circuit that I assume has not been tapped by our friends,” he looked pleased with himself. “Then I did the same thing to a friend at the Ministry of Defence!”
“I hope to God you’re right,” Alex replied. “So have you found out anything?”
“You’re never going to believe what I’ve found out. You better sit down.”
Alex did as he was told.
“It was H
enshaw’s idea; he was in the SAS - communications, you know.” The Boss handed Alex two faxed sheets of paper.
“Hans had the same idea,” Alex muttered in amazement as he scanned through the neatly penned notes.
“I have faxed these people so far,” the Boss passed across a list of names and numbers, “and received these replies to date. I also faxed Yuri telling him not to telephone as my phone was bugged. I received this reply,” the Boss handed Alex the sheet of paper:
‘Message understood. Sophie perfect no need to worry. But serious problem with possible stolen tactical nuclear weapons. Need urgent advice before local officials get the information and cause major international incident. Yuri.’
“Then how about this one?”
Though deadly serious, the Boss was clearly enjoying himself as he passed another fax sheet to Alex.
‘Sir Adrian
Re your interest Jerry Fielding.
This is a Top Secret file, (ok your old security clearance.)
Fielding Senior agent CIA, real name Jerry Thornton, worked briefly with your departments Angola diamond case, and retired four years ago.
RE: the Cx4 communication system, understand it uses our military satellite links however just learned that some of the technology came from an American supplier SKY-SEC so based on what you suspect can’t guarantee security.
Alice’
“What time is it?” the Boss asked, taking back the faxes.
Alex looked at his watch “Almost five,” he responded absently, more interested in the origin of the messages.
“Ah yes, Gin and Tonic time.” The Boss pressed the call button twice.
Henshaw appeared within seconds. “Here are the details of flights to St Petersburg you asked for, Sir Adrian.”
Henshaw greeted Alex, bowing his head minutely as passed over the fax. “A freshly pressed orange juice isn’t it, Sir?”
“Thank you and yes please.” Alex admired Henshaw’s apparent ability to mind read.
