Fuelling the Fire

by Roland Ladley

  “Good. Claire, David’s PA, will look after you, although she will need sensitive handling. As you know, she’s been with David forever. And I have a daily cabal at five o’clock. I don’t expect any prebriefing, unless you think that’s needed. Come along tomorrow afternoon. And, of course, my door is always open.” He smiled.

  Jane knew he meant it. Sir Clive Morton had a reputation for being a first-rate leader: tough, fair, and human. She guessed you didn’t become the head of SIS without learning a thing or two about leadership and management.

  And that was the end of the meeting. He went back to his desk, and she left the office unsure of how heavy the weight of this new responsibility would be.

  She would start to find out about now. Jane looked across and around the conference table at the assembled team. This wasn’t going to be easy. Jane was junior to at least two of the staff here. She hoped she knew them well enough for them to get on with where they all found themselves. I’ll know soon enough.

  “OK, team. Order please.”

  The murmuring stopped, and everyone turned to face her. Jane was standing. The others sitting were Tim and Justin—Middle East contacts; Mike–GCHQ, Sue—Defence Intelligence; Sam—analyst; and Claire, David’s PA, whom she had asked to sit at her right-hand side. Jane took some comfort from that.

  “First an update on David, not that there’s much to give.” Out of habit, she looked down at her watch. “As of seven o’clock this morning, David was still in an induced coma and remains in isolation. The doctors have ruled out most natural conditions, such as a heart attack, a stroke, or an aneurism. They”—she stopped midsentence—“they think David might have been attacked. Spiked, poisoned, who knows what.”

  For such a small group of people, the spontaneous incredulity levels rose perceptibly. Jane could see by their expressions that what she had just told them had hit them hard.

  “Look, calm down.” Oops, that was a bit too patronising. She was still standing and pressed her hands downward as if to dampen the atmosphere. It did the trick. They were looking her way again.

  “I know. It seems incredibly unlikely that anything like this could happen in London. But, as we know, we’ve seen the likes of it before. But not an attack on one of ours.” She steadied herself. “Ordinarily this information would be on close hold, and, of course, nothing will be disclosed to the press by anyone, or any of us. The reason I have been given authority to tell you that David may have been spiked, is that we”—she paused, collecting herself—“we are all being asked to take special precautions when we are outside the building.”

  Tim spoke without being asked.

  “What do you mean? Are we targets? Should we be looking over our shoulders all the time?”

  Jane sensed a degree of fear in the tone of Tim’s delivery. Jane had heard that he’d last been in the field a couple of decades ago and had been withdrawn for “personal reasons.” He was, however, very dedicated and particularly good at manipulating field agents and getting the best from them. That was his job. And he did it well.

  “No, Tim.” She needed to qualify that statement—to take out some of the intrigue. “I don’t think so. But I’ve been asked to tell all of you to take more care than you would normally, that’s all. And I think that’s a sensible suggestion under the circumstances.”

  Jane looked across at Sam. She was the only one who had shown little emotion, nor spoken to anyone. Her very junior position would make her disinclined to ask questions, but her impassiveness was either a sign of remarkable composure or a disinterest in the current situation.

  So she surprised Jane by putting up her hand.

  “Yes, Sam?”

  “Do we know how Mrs. Jennings is?”

  Bless her.

  “The chief saw her last night. She’s holding up well, apparently. Thanks.” She looked away from Sam, back to the whole team, “Any other questions on David’s situation?”

  Nothing.

  “OK, Glasshouse. I guess we’ve all read each other’s reports. There is nothing on the wires about the fate of James and Groves. As you saw from my report, which I gleaned from the notes of yesterday afternoon’s JIC meeting, the FCO will lead with the press should the two soldiers be executed. And, now we know that both men were very likely to have been holed up in the compound—well done, Sam and Frank.” She looked directly at Sam and nodded. “Any press release will include a statement that the military did try to effect a rescue but missed the pair by a whisker.”

  She pointed toward Tim.

  “Tim, anything on the ground from Yemen that wasn’t in your report?”

  Tim still seemed agitated; he shuffled around in his chair as he spoke.

  “No, Jane. The safe house has seen a little movement. A couple of men entering and exiting the property. And you have the photos of that—but nothing significant. All of our other contacts have hit a brick wall.”

  “Mike?”

  Mike was playing with a pencil. He stopped and looked across at Jane. “Nothing to add from GCHQ. There is still admin-type traffic coming into and out of the safe house in Sana’a. Other than that, it’s all pretty quiet with regard to Glasshouse. Sorry.”

  “Thanks Mike. OK, let’s do what we do. My guess is the next event will be the execution of the two men and its disclosure. At that point we might be able to piece some more intelligence together and maybe give DI and the SF something to target. Although, by now, the horses will certainly have bolted.” She hated the metaphor as soon as she said it.

  “Please keep Glasshouse near the top of your list, and keep pressing your contacts. You never know—we might just get lucky. Thanks, everyone.”

  She knew that they had almost no chance of getting lucky, unless Daesh decided to drive the SRR soldiers directly into a friendly police station and give themselves up. Even if new intelligence were forthcoming, the JIC would be loath to relaunch SF without certainty of success. The two SRR soldiers were as good as damned. If they weren’t dead already.

  The thought that the fate of the two soldiers depended almost exclusively on the intelligence her team gathered made Jane force out a sigh—rather more loudly than she would have wanted. It was now her job to direct the appropriate intelligence gathering. It was a big task.

  Do I really want this sort of responsibility? She was already beginning to understand why David always looked so tired.

  As Sam walked out of the conference room, Jane gave her a friendly wave. She’d need to speak to her at some point about the abuse of her authority while she was away, but that could wait for a bit. Possibly until Op Glasshouse was closed.

  She checked her watch again. She had a call lined up with the CIA’s DD in twenty minutes. He had asked to speak to her. She guessed it was about David and the current Op. Did he have some positive info on Manning and Bell? There was always hope.

  As she gathered up her things, she noticed that Claire was still sitting beside her.

  Without looking up, Claire said, “Well done.”

  Jane smiled, relief gently washing over her when she realised that she wasn’t doing this completely on her own.

  “Thank you. Thanks very much, Claire.” Jane placed her hand on Claire’s shoulder.

  “Can I give you some advice?”

  Perplexed, Jane replied, “Yes, sure.”

  “Sit down next time. Only stand when you need to be emphatic.”

  Jane thought about it and nodded.

  “Thanks. Yes, thanks. Good advice.”

  Claire smiled at her; gathered her tablet, pen, and notepad; and, as she left the room, finished with, “I’ll go and put the kettle on.”

  Schloss Neuenburg, Germany

  Wolfgang pulled back from his laptop and stretched. He had been so engrossed in his work that he’d forgotten about more fundamental questions, like what to do about the apartment in Dresden. There was nothing there that he couldn’t live without, and the bills were paid by direct debit, so he could leave the place as it was indef
initely. He supposed he could go back at some point and collect what few valuables there were, or he could pay somebody to do that for him. He’d have to see.

  Although many would find it strange, he wasn’t going to involve the police. He’d looked over the video a couple of times, and he had to agree with Sam’s final words on the matter. This wasn’t a normal break-in. Someone was either trying to find something that they thought Wolfgang was hiding, or they were hoping to scare him. Maybe both? The last thing he needed at the moment was the polizei all over him like a rash.

  He had the luxury of not having to think about the apartment for a while—he could just let it stew. He wasn’t a procrastinator by design, but some things were best left to find their own way.

  His research was intriguing. Last night he had set up a delayed ping to eight potential ports on the now defunct New York server. It had certainly been closed down—an enquiry earlier in the evening had come up with a time out. But, sometimes people think they’ve closed down web addresses and portals, but every so often they miss things, or leave a trace. Electronics have a habit of doing that—a bit like the historical architecture. The Romans build a city. It gets ransacked by the Gauls; they build on top of it—as it was obviously a good place to live. The Gauls move on, and some other empire takes over; so it goes on. Now, in the twenty-first century, a new block of flats is about to be built where the Romans once used to bathe. And guess what? As the pile drivers move in to create the foundations of the new high-rise monstrosity, they unearth the residue of ancient Roman habitation thought lost for ever.

  Servers, websites, e-mail addresses, and all computers have a tendency to leave a trace, a shadow. And if you know where to look . . .

  Using his craftiest Rainbow coding, he had set his machine to ping, open, and then grab anything it could find at the web and IP addresses related to the original search. The programme had been timed to start at six thirty that morning, German time, making it just past one o’clock in the morning in New York. He’d hoped that by then everyone in New York would be out of their offices. All he had to do was surprise the servers.

  And it had worked. Well, sort of. The ping-and-grab strategy had accessed just one port and had lasted microseconds before it was closed down. As a result, he now had three e-mail addresses associated with the original IP address, a whole group of e-mails—a number of them only titles and the first couple of lines—and six associated documents. In such a short time, he was lucky to have what he had.

  The good news was that he might be able to trace and hack the e-mail addresses. The bad news was that the rest all looked innocuous: reports on power companies; research into oil and gas start-ups. It seemed pretty tame. He’d need to look over the whole lot again.

  He rolled his head from side to side, stretching. Looking left through his bedroom window, he could see the morning’s mist still clinging to the trees, dark pointy evergreens dominating over wistful pale grey. To his right was a minor portrait of his grandfather, who had a kind smile but had sharp, penetrating eyes. Wolfgang imagined Grossvater Hans gently nodding his head, urging him on.

  The burden of lineage.

  He turned back to his screen. As he reflected on what he had, scrolling through e-mail titles, one thing did stand out—something that was a mirror of his own research. There was an e-mail entitled “The 1979 Pennsylvania nuclear meltdown: accident or arson?” He’d very recently watched a CNN report on the same incident, and, after investigation, had decided that it needed to be included in the Lattice. It was a gut reaction that came from nowhere. It didn’t meet his “somebody was murdered” criterion, but evidence was now emerging that the meltdown was not an accident and might have been planned.

  Nobody had died—he heard Sam’s recent accusation regarding the incident ringing in his ears. But they could have—or should have?

  Or, was the incident not about killing people per se, but designed to undermine nuclear energy as a whole? That thought had just come to him.

  Have I been missing something?

  Maybe this wasn’t about killing people. Maybe it was about money. Power? Influence?

  Maybe it was about killing an industry. Did the airliner crashes kill prominent industrialists?

  Why were the New York people investigating the same incident as he was, whilst also looking at firms and companies that generate power? And why were they so sensitive to his hacking that they’d launched an attack on his servers?

  What nerve had he touched?

  He needed to look over the results again. Maybe now was the time to call for a second opinion. Another pair of eyes.

  Why did he feel that he trusted Sam Green enough to ask for her help?

  Underground Carriage, Northern Line, Approaching Colliers Wood, London

  It had been a shitty day, not made any better by being stared at by a spotty youth who sat directly opposite her. The carriage clickety-clacked through the darkness, all manner of humans surrounding her. Thankfully none were in her personal space. It was well beyond commuting time, but she knew she wasn’t alone in having just left work. There were plenty of men in suits, top buttons undone and ties at half-mast. Leather briefcases nowadays usurped by small rucksacks with big labels. Women wearing smart blouses, warm woollen skirts, and matching jackets jostled for room. There was a nurse—she could be going to work or coming home. And a couple of late-night shoppers, Sainsbury’s bags brimming with overpackaged processed meat and not enough veg.

  The lout opposite chewed and stared. Sam stared back. Others would be nervous about a visual engagement with “the youth of today,” but he didn’t bother her. Her council estate background, combined with ten years in the army, enabled Sam to see that the spotty youth was only twelve weeks of army training away from becoming a half-decent human being. And he was an operational tour away, in some far-off war zone, from being her best mate.

  Still, he chewed and stared. Sam got bored, breathed out heavily, and tried hard not to think of poor old David lying unconscious in his hospital bed. When she left the office, she had stuck her head around Jane’s door and asked for an update.

  “Nothing to add, I’m afraid. Are you off home?”

  “Yes. You should too.”

  Jane smiled. “Just a bit more to do. And, Sam . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “We will need to talk about the e-mails at some point.”

  “Of course, Jane, I understand.”

  And she was off. Down the stairs, a quick wave to Barry at the front desk, who nonchalantly waved back. Then through the airlock and out in the direction of the tube.

  That afternoon, she and Frank had worked hard with the latest images that had become available on the cloud. Along with those from GCHQ, who might pick up some rogue signal traffic, the pair of them were the most likely to uncover something useful from the raw intelligence that was available. What they needed was a stroke of luck. Sam secretly held out for a photo of a Daesh flag that matched that in the original video. Or, maybe a chance sighting of one of the men from the training camp from Captain James’s original shots—or even one of the vehicles. She remembered all the details as if she were looking at them now. She just needed to find a match.

  There was nothing today, though. There were plenty of new images to process as part of their ongoing work of trying to match militants moving eastward through the refugee conduits across Europe. But nothing that seemed to help the two SRR soldiers.

  By 6.45, well beyond their regulated working hours, she and Frank had agreed that they were in danger of going picture blind and might miss something. Even the best analysts lose focus—both literally and metaphorically—if they spend too long at a monitor. It was time to go home and restart the whole business tomorrow morning.

  Her station was approaching. The carriage was now only a quarter full. Spotty youth was still staring at her. And chewing. Idiot.

  It was time to move. Sam stood, picking up her daysack and shouldering it. The youth did the same. In such
a small space between the facing bench seats of the carriage, they almost touched each other. He was about the same height as Sam, probably seventeen or eighteen. Chunky. Ugly. And he was so close she could smell him. Cheap lager.

  Catching her by surprise, he grabbed her arm above her elbow. Not so it hurt, but enough to seemingly take control.

  “D’you wanna a shag?” His chin was on her shoulder, his mouth close to her ear. The words were quiet, a little slurred. Nobody else would have heard.

  Just then it seemed like the carriage was empty, although there were probably about ten other passengers around and about. But Sam knew she was on her own. Very few people would help if this lout decided to have a go. She didn’t blame her fellow passengers. He might be carrying a knife. Best not to get involved.

  Instinctively, Sam pulled back a fraction and turned to him so their faces were no more than an inch apart, nose to nose. He was still holding her arm, but that action seemed to unnerve him. He loosened his grip. A little.

  “With you? Do me a favour—I’d rather stick knitting needles in my eyes.” She spat it out.

  The lad coughed a laugh, finding Sam’s retort amusing.

  What he didn’t find so funny was the force with which Sam’s forehead came down on his nose. He yelped, let go of Sam’s arm, and brought both hands to his face, blood already seeping from his nostrils.

  “You broke my nose, you bitch! You broke my fucking nose!” His words were deadened by his hands, which were held close to his face.

  Sam didn’t hear any further protestations, as she was out of the carriage and running swiftly up the stairs. Attack and run. It always worked for her.

  She ran and ran, only stopping just short of the corner of her street. She checked behind her—nothing. The idiot hadn’t followed her. She took three or four deep breaths, and, feeling much more positive about life all of a sudden—how did that work?—she walked the short distance to her flat.

  It took her about an hour to shower, change, and knock up her stock-in-trade spaghetti and something red, accompanied by a green leaf salad, covered in the best homemade dressing this side of Lyon. As she munched away at her food, she opened her secure tablet and accessed her e-mails. There was a new one from Jane. It had a red flag to one side, signifying its importance. The title was: “SRR soldiers.”