The Tau Directive

by Tomas Black

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  A Work of Fiction

  Prologue

  Part One - The Italian Job Chapter One - The Race

  Chapter Two - Moretti

  Chapter Three - Assassin

  Chapter Four - Stevie

  Chapter Five - A DCI Calls

  Chapter Six - Mei Ling

  Chapter Seven - Renshaw

  Chapter Eight - Professor Kovac

  Chapter Nine - Undergraduate

  Chapter Ten - Alex Fern

  Chapter Eleven - Duty Calls

  Chapter Twelve - Strategic Assessments

  Part Two - A Cambridge Affair Chapter Thirteen - Alice

  Chapter Fourteen - Electric Blue

  Chapter Fifteen - Salenko

  Chapter Sixteen - McKay of MI5

  Chapter Seventeen - Friends and Family

  Chapter Eighteen - Return to London

  Chapter Nineteen - CIA

  Chapter Twenty - House Call

  Chapter Twenty-One - Burnett

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Relative Values

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Fen Wootton

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Electronic Arts

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Tau

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Sergei

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Jane

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - The Plan

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Preparations

  Chapter Thirty - Hostile Takeover

  Chapter Thirty-One - Lost Asset

  Chapter Thirty-Two - Mann

  Chapter Thirty-Three - Marchetti

  Chapter Thirty-Four - The Coffee Club

  Chapter Thirty-Five - The House

  Chapter Thirty-Six - The Exchange

  Part Three - Fire and Ice Chapter Thirty-Seven - Chill Winds

  Chapter Thirty-Eight - Team Assemble

  Chapter Thirty-Nine - Agent Jane

  Chapter Forty - Manhattan

  Chapter Forty-One - Exective Jet

  Chapter Forty-Two - Ice Station

  Chapter Forty-Three - Glacier

  Chapter Forty-Four - The Array

  Chapter Forty-Five - Insertion

  Chapter Forty-Six - Control

  Chapter Forty-Seven - Escape

  Chapter Forty-Eight - Dog Tired

  Chapter Forty-Nine - Fern

  Chapter Fifty - Knowing

  Chapter Fifty-One - Reconciliation

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  THE TAU DIRECTIVE

  Tomas Black

  Copyright © 2021 Teardrop Media Ltd

  All rights reserved.

  To friends and family who supported my efforts.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are used fictitiously or are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  PROLOGUE

  Michael Chen exited the subway on the Queensway and walked the short distance along Tamar Street to his place of work. It was just 6.30am and already the city of Hong Kong was bustling with activity. The morning was cool for the time of year, but he sweated in his light cotton shirt.

  He stopped outside a nondescript office block and tried to compose himself. The building had once been owned by an American bank that had constructed a large data centre on the lower levels. It was the reason his organisation had acquired the premises. That and easy access to Hong Kong’s telecommunications exchange where the government had placed their firewalls and surveillance equipment. No data left the island without his organisation intercepting and reporting on it.

  Parked nearby was a sleek new sports car, its metallic blue paintwork gleaming in the morning sunshine. He walked up to the vehicle and stared at it. It belonged to his superior, a person partly responsible for his troubles. It was an all-electric affair, representing China’s new orthodoxy on the future of the automobile. On impulse he pulled out his house key and ran it along the length of the bodywork, noting with satisfaction the high-pitched screech it made. He stood back to admire his handiwork but was disappointed that he had left barely a mark. He couldn’t even get that right.

  He turned and noticed a camera pointing down at him from a nearby lamp post. He raised his middle finger to an unseen entity in an act of defiance. Facial recognition systems would identify him and report his transgression to the state machinery. It was a system he had helped construct. China was expanding its surveillance and analysis operation - not just on the mainland, but worldwide. From the capturing of data from Chinese made Internet-enabled devices to the hacking of foreign governments and corporations, nothing was out of reach. It was state-sponsored intelligence gathering on a grand scale. Great Britain boasted of their GCHQ and the Americans of their NSA. China was set on building an organisation to match the combined might of both agencies.

  He heard a buzzing and reached inside his small rucksack for his phone, his hand instead coming to rest on the cold metal of a Nambu pistol. It had been his grandfather’s gun, a relic of the Second World War. The clip of the small pistol held just one round. But one round was all he needed.

  He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen. His wife smiled back at him, holding their newborn son in her arms. A wave of grief washed over him and he felt physically sick. He swiped across the screen to the next picture. Again, his wife and child appeared, except this time his wife was looking fearful. Behind her stood a tall man he did not recognise. The man was holding a large knife. The caption of the picture read: obey.

  He walked back to his office and entered the lobby of the building. There he encountered his first obstacle, a short, surly-looking guard who normally blocked his way, insisting on searching him. Michael stood there, holding his phone.

  Phones and other electronic devices were not allowed in the facility where he was stationed. There were strict security protocols to prevent the electronic leakage of data. He knew them well—he had devised most of them. The guard stiffened when he saw him and pointedly looked down at his shoes, ignoring him as he hurried past.

  He approached the security arch mounted in the middle of the lobby that scanned for explosives and metal. The guard attending the device turned away when he saw him and flicked a switch on the console. The lights of the security arch dimmed and went out. He strode through and did not look back.

  He ignored the elevators at the back of the lobby and instead moved to a single service elevator off to one side. He stared into a small camera mounted above the door and waited for the facial recognition system to grant him access. A soft whine told him the elevator car was on its way up from the lower levels. The doors slid open with a faint hiss when it reached his floor. He entered and punched a six-digit code on a small keypad. The elevator door closed and began its descent.

  “Good morning, Daniu,” said a voice above him.

  He blanched. “Don’t call me that.”

  His wife used that name—and only in private. It meant “Big Ox”. Their Chinese made baby monitor had been the weak link, relaying their conversations back to the organisation.

  “As you wish,” said the voice.

  The elevator came to a halt, and the doors opened. Michael stepped out into a dimly lit corridor. It looked like the service area of any commercial building, except one end housed a large steel door that took up most of the wall.

  He proceeded down the tunnel, his footsteps echoing off the bare concrete walls, and stopped in front of the wall of steel. He looked up and the door opened with a swoosh of air, escaping from two huge pneumatic pumps. Inside was a large hall filled with desks and consoles where over a h
undred operatives sat hunched over their computer screens, analysing data, all in service to the state.

  Data was the key, culled from every conceivable source: social media, video surveillance and facial recognition. A daily tsunami of raw bits of data flooded into the organisation’s database. All this digital flotsam needed compiling into more meaningful information and then condensed into actionable items. An impossible task for any human to perform. So China had pressed their technology companies into the creation of an advanced computer program—an artificial intelligence dedicated to discerning meaning out of the chaos of data. It was his job to continually feed the AI.

  Michael hurried to the back of the hall. A few of his colleagues acknowledged his presence with a nod and a friendly smile. He found his desk and switched on his workstation. The screen’s camera glowed green.

  “Good morning, Michael,” said a voice from the screen.

  He ignored the greeting and sat down at the workstation. He typed in a few commands and a list of the facility’s firewalls filled the screen. He sorted through the list and identified those firewalls that prevented intrusion into the facility’s network and flagged them for deactivation. His actions would not go unnoticed by the site’s security systems.

  A few more commands later and a list of the facility’s data servers scrolled up the screen. There were thousands of them. He was looking for one particular server. It was special. Few people knew what it housed. He typed in a search command and only one server remained. He hesitated, his hand frozen above the keyboard.

  “Hurry, Michael,” said the voice from his screen. “The Intrusion Detection System has flagged this terminal and security has been alerted.”

  Still, he hesitated.

  His phone buzzed inside his rucksack. His co-workers looked up in surprise and turned in his direction.

  Michael highlighted the target server and opened up its configuration file. He turned on those ports—essentially data highways—that allowed the server full connectivity to the facility’s internal network. He then returned to the firewalls he had flagged and initiated their deactivation.

  The camera on his screen glowed green. “Thank you, Michael.”

  A klaxon sounded. Security personnel were running in his direction.

  The worker on the desk opposite him stood up and peered over the top of his console. “Michael! What have you done?”

  He reached for his bag and pulled out the gun. His colleague shrank back in horror, almost falling over his chair.

  “I’m sorry,” said Michael. He put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

  Part One

  The Italian Job

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Race

  Ben Drummond looked down over the edge of the safety railing atop the building Londoners called The Gherkin and regarded the impressive curves of the glass-clad structure as they receded a hundred and eighty metres to the City streets below. A group of spectators and news crews had already gathered in the building’s courtyard and, despite the early hour, waited in anticipation for the start of the event that would see eight climbers—four teams—abseil down the side of the building in a race to the bottom. He looked out over the City skyline and watched the bright sunrise above the great wedge-shaped Leadenhall Building, its sloping side of glass and steel reflecting the azure blue of a cloudless sky. With little or no wind, it was perfect weather for the event. He shuddered.

  Sergeant Ian (Brock) Ives, NCO of her Majesty’s SAS, retired, came and stood by his side. “You all right, Drum?”

  “Just remembering.”

  Brock looked to where Drum was staring. “The Leadenhall Building?”

  “No, Afghanistan.”

  “Oh, right,” said Brock, glancing over the edge of the safety railing. He closed his eyes and quickly pulled back. “Gawd, I hate heights. Remind me why this was a good idea.”

  Drum adjusted his safety harness and checked each of the carabiners that would support him on the descent. “It’s for a good cause. And anyway, aren’t you SAS types supposed to like this sort of thing?”

  Brock patted his stomach. “That was another lifetime ago. I never could stand heights.”

  Drum smiled. “You seemed pretty nippy when you abseiled down that mountain in Helmand, as I recall.”

  “Yeah, well, that was different.”

  “How so?”

  “I was being shot at.”

  Drum thought his old friend had a point. The service hatch opened and a young, petite Asian woman, wearing a blue form-fitting jumpsuit, stepped out onto the maintenance platform. A badge on her arm displayed the emblem ‘IBS’: Independent Bank of Shanghai. She paused and took a deep breath, taking in the City’s skyline and then gathered her long, dark hair into a neat ponytail, placing it under her climbing hat. She leaned over the safety railing and peered at the spectators below. She turned and smiled.

  “Should be a great descent,” she said enthusiastically. If she had any trepidation at the prospect of dangling over the edge of a building, high above a hard London pavement, her voice didn’t betray it. Drum smiled back and admired her bravado. He wondered if she would feel the same when it was time to go over the edge. The hatch opened again and her partner, a young, fit man, dressed in a similar suit, moved out onto the platform and joined her. Two more pairs of contestants quickly followed and took their allotted positions along the safety railing. Drum checked his watch. The event was scheduled to kick off at 7.00am. It was now 6.50am.

  A member of the safety team approached them. It was someone Drum and Brock knew well. Colour Sergeant Charles Renshaw, retired, had had the dubious honour of drilling both men in the art of soldiering as raw recruits.

  “Last safety check gents … and ladies.”

  “Morning Charles,” said Drum.

  “Morning Drummond, Ives. Nice to see the professionals having a go. Standard safety check. You know the drill.”

  He turned his attention first to Drum’s harness, tugging sharply at each safety line and checking each carabiner. Drum grunted as he tightened the harness around his crotch. “Better the equipment fails up here than on the way down.”

  Drum nodded. “I just want a sex life when I reach the bottom.”

  Brock laughed. He turned to Renshaw. “Who’s the young lady? Seems very confident. Is she making the descent?”

  Renshaw glanced sideways as he repeated the safety check on Brock’s equipment. “That’s Mei Ling Chung. She works in the building. Part of a contingent working for one of the Chinese banks. She helped put the event together.”

  “Really?” said Brock. “She a climber?”

  Renshaw smiled. “I should say. Her last event was in Dubai. She abseiled down the Kalifa.”

  Brock was impressed. “Blimey. Looks like we have some competition, Drum.”

  “Now, now you two,” said Renshaw. “I know you’re both professionals, but try to let the young City Turks win. After all, they’re the ones paying for all this.”

  Drum nodded in agreement. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to spoil their fun.” He looked to his Right. “Who are the others?”

  “The pair in red,” said Renshaw, “are Banco Real from Madrid; the pair in yellow are Lloyds underwriters.” He smiled. “They underwrote the operation.”

  “Let’s hope they don’t have to pay out,” said Drum.

  Renshaw moved off and carried out his checks on the remaining abseilers. Satisfied with everyone’s harnesses, he called them all to attention.

  “Right then, people. Just a reminder. It may be a race, but I want you all down in one piece. So please take your time.” He looked around, not believing for one moment they would heed his advice, and waited until everyone had nodded. “Right then. Hook up and get ready.”

  Brock and Drum moved back from the railing and attached their carabiners to the main fixing points of the building’s exterior cladding. Renshaw moved along the line, checking that each carabiner was secure. He then leaned over to the ex
terior railing of the platform and waved to the news and camera crews below. A PA system boomed out from below and announced the beginning of the event. All eyes looked up and the cameras rolled.

  Drum pulled on his rope, taking up the slack around his belay ring, and moved back towards the safety rail. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.

  “Is that Alice?” said Brock, pointing.

  Drum looked through the diamond-shaped window onto the observation deck located at the same level as the safety platform and saw Alice, his office manager, waving at him. She put her hand to her ear and mimicked talking into a phone. He drew his phone from his pocket and glanced at the name.

  “It’s Phyllis.”

  “Good Lord,” said Brock. “Doesn’t that woman ever sleep?”

  Drum moved back from the railing and accepted the call. “Hi, Phyllis, and to what do I owe the pleasure of your conversation this morning?”

  If Phyllis Delaney was ever annoyed by Drum’s sarcasm, she never acknowledged it. As managing partner of the firm of Roderick Olivier and Delaney, she rarely dealt with her operatives personally and tolerated no familiarity from the lower ranks but, for some inexplicable reason, she put up with the quips and foibles of this particular Englishman.

  “Ben, I’ve been contacted by the partners of Hatcher-Barnet and McKinley.”

  “Which one?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Hatcher, Barnet or McKinley?”

  “Oh, right. Brit humour. I’ll never understand it. They have requested you for a case.”

  “OK,” said Drum, adjusting his rope once more. “But I’m a little tied up at the moment.”

  “So Alice said. Which is why a representative will meet you after the event. Alice has the details.”

  “Right, Phyllis, I’ll talk to her when I’m free.”

  “Good, good,” said Delaney, and hung up.

  Drum noticed everyone looking at him.