Tim Heath Thriller Boxset

by Tim Heath

  “Where does that leave us? I thought you said this thing worked! We paid one million pounds for it for Pete's sake!”

  “It does work; it is working. Look, it's collecting data from all your telephones and devices now.”

  And true to form, it was. Information, contacts, numbers. They were all appearing on the screen in front of them; the group of agents and government officials recognised their details flashing up briefly on the screen. Then, after about ten seconds, it vanished.

  “Look! It's wiped it! Oh no, shut that thing off quickly!” and without explaining any more, the technician switched it off as fast as he could.

  “What is it?” asked someone from the national team, himself a senior figure in the country.

  “It's stripping out the data and sending it on somewhere. We've been tricked.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, whoever sold us this, has taken everything. They've got the lot. We've got nothing.”

  “The blueprints for the power plant?”

  “They've gone. It's all gone. We've lost it all.”

  “Damn it!” screamed the head of MI5. It might be enough to bring down the whole government with it.

  “There is a joint task force meeting this very minute looking at what military response we are to make against this act of terrorism,” said the senior government figure. “I'm due there later today. I cannot take them this news, that this information was stolen from right under our noses. Give me something to take to them! That's an order!”

  And with that, he stormed off. The meeting was over.

  The truth was, they had nothing to go on. They didn't know what had happened. They could only guess, and wait. Soon, it would be clear who had taken all the information. How the British responded to that truth, was as yet unknown.

  In a small room on the second floor of the Chinese Embassy in London, four men and one woman stood around a small table, smiling at one another.

  “We have the blueprints back?” the most senior figure asked.

  “Yes, it's all here––and we got a bonus, too. MI5 contacts, code names and a lot more, plus most of the government's code names as well. The device pulled the information from them all as they came to check it. We've shut it down now. They can't trace it back to us.”

  “Good. It's worked perfectly. Now we must take this back to Beijing. You've done well, each of you. We need to make our exit now.”

  As always, one member of the team stayed in the shadows. The Shadow Man was their most prized asset, their secret weapon. He would be the only one remaining behind. He would be their expert eyes on the grid. If anything needed doing, they would send him a coded message, and they knew he would be able to get the job done.

  The room became empty, people going their separate ways. There was a scheduled diplomatic flight leaving later that day, it was a normal event, having been planned for ages. It made perfect sense for them to all be on that flight. Still, no chances would be taken.

  Walking down the stairs, the senior man spoke to his comrades one last time.

  “You have done me proud. There had been a great crime done against our Motherland when the British stole from us these most valuable blueprints. They've been struck a blow. Next time, they will think twice. But each of you has distinguished yourselves. You can hold your heads up high. The Supreme Commander will want to see you each personally; it will be your greatest honour. Our finest hour. I salute every one of you. You have done us all proud.”

  And with that, he gave each of them a hug, which was highly unusual. The protocol could be put to one side, just this time, given the circumstances.

  Their exit raised no problems. Airports around the country were starting to open again, the movement of people continuing as it had done before, even if life still felt sombre. Just after four o'clock that same day, the Chinese jet took off, heading home, with a stop in Dubai to refuel on the way. They were all-clear, they were gone.

  A new team would be bought into the Embassy the following week, fresh faces that knew nothing of what had taken place. And left behind, should he need to be called into action, was their Shadow Man.

  The discussion with the military subcommittee had been heated. There were warmongers on both sides of the party line, political enemies who now found surprising alliances. Others, though, wanted a steady response, a measured course of action, based on sound understanding.

  Data from John's hidden recorder had been recovered, his story verified. It made perfect sense that those behind the hit squad on the hospital, the seven who had been captured and were currently held in an American prison camp, were working directly for whoever had sabotaged the launch of the probes. The data was being analysed for what it could give them. Any ideas, any clues.

  There was intense pressure being put on the Prime Minister to declare war. British battleships––the HMS Ocean and Defender––were already sailing south from their Portsmouth base, heading for the coast of Africa. They would be joined by others very soon. At the moment it was just a precaution. The Americans, and unlike how they had reacted after 9/11, were suggesting caution rather than attack.

  War was in the air. It had been a calculated attack on the UK, that had been intended to wipe them from the face of the Earth. They had been saved by one of their own, John Westlake, who had stepped in and stopped it. Newspapers that decades before had been so opposed to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were now leading the call for action to be taken against those responsible.

  The Prime Minister had yet to speak to the Queen. If war was to be declared on anyone, it had to be after consulting with her. That was the protocol. Even in times of chaos, procedures would be strictly adhered to.

  News that the power plant blueprints had gone missing had been very disappointing, especially to the Prime Minister. Unaware of the origins of the plans in the first place, he'd seen this project as legacy making. He would be the man seen as creating a future for the nation through his time in charge. Now, there was little he could do. Was war to be his lasting legacy? He thought about other leaders, his predecessors in the UK like John Major and Tony Blair. Men who had taken the nation into a war fought on foreign soil. This war had already come to England. London would take years to recover from these terrorist attacks, as they were now called. That was the one thing keeping the PM from declaring war. If it was the actions of a single terrorist unit, regardless of how big they were, that was one thing. New tactics would be needed to fight back against that. But if they found out that this was the act of a nation or group of countries, then in his mind, it was no longer an act of terror but an act of war. The ships were on their way. Britain had the fire-power to win any war fought in Africa. And someone, soon, had to pay. It was just the work of the intelligence community to tell them who it was that was ultimately responsible.

  In a quiet part of the garden, away from the tensions of the conference room, the Prime Minister and Foreign Secretary strolling, deep in conversation. Friends for a long time, the PM was glad he had an ear with whom to share his thoughts.

  “How did we not see this coming?” said the PM, talking about the loss of the blueprints.

  “They used the smoke-screen well. We were so distracted by the incident that we didn't see it coming. No one did.”

  “And we had good reason to. The nation's existence rested on what happened at that base. It had to be our focus. Tell me, was it an opportunist or was it all planned?”

  “That's an excellent question. One I've been thinking through myself a lot. There are many mysteries to all that has happened over the last month, holes in our knowledge. The device was a plant. The money we paid for it is gone; however our guys had bugged the bag, whoever they were, they were better. We never did know where it came from; we thought we were onto a winner. But we played straight into their hands on that one. My question is, how did they know we had the blueprints in the first place?”

  “Tell me, Michael. Is there anything I need to know about t
he origins of those plans, that might bring some light to the situation? Anything that affects the actions I might have to take shortly?”

  “It's probably better if you don't ask that.”

  “I see. That's what I feared.”

  “There's also the question of that team we snatched. Names, passports, the lot. Seven wounded but alive, one killed. Who shot them? Who planted that data on them? How did they know where they were when we didn't?”

  “Yes, I see there are more questions for which we maybe we will ever have answers. Tell me, should we go to war over this?”

  “Honestly, I don't know. The country has lost hundreds of thousands of people through this nuclear disaster. That is a huge loss, a national crisis. To fight a war is to risk more lives lost. Not to respond might appear to say that Britain is broken, that anyone can do this to us and get away with it. It's a tough call, and one I don't think, in all honesty, we are ready to make. We need a little more time.”

  “That's what I think, too. There seems to be no problem with getting the ships into place. We've sent two ships south already. Maybe the threat of war will give us some impact in the region? Some friendly countries will perhaps offer up exactly who it was behind it all? Who knows?”

  “Who knows, indeed. Look, whatever you decide, I'm with you. But I think it's time we went back inside and continued the discussions. We need to present a united front. The last thing we need is the opposition spouting off how you are not doing enough to protect this nation.”

  Nothing more was said, as they made their way back inside. Already, nearly five hundred miles south, in the North Atlantic Ocean, two British navy ships were making their way to the north-west coast of the African continent. It was hoped, that by the time the giant vessels got much further, a clear decision would have been made about what they did next.

  For Lorna, the last few days had been difficult, and quite a blur. She'd gone through several meetings, counselling sessions of sorts, aimed at helping her speak, to get things off her chest. They hadn't done as much good as she'd hoped. In truth, her final conversations with John had been the most significant release.

  Now she was walking through the front door to her home for the first time in over two months. In some ways, the house suddenly felt very homely. Naturally, there was dust and a stale smell. It had been left empty for a long time, but there was something comfortingly familiar about it all. In the hallway, a wedding photo hanging on the wall, Lorna just stood there for a few minutes, looking at the picture, taking in the memories.

  James was dead.

  She was going to have to deal with that, just as she'd had to deal with so much other death around her recently. Alison, a colleague who became a real friend throughout it all. And of course John. A man she owed so much to, and even at the end, faced with the truth behind the lies, he'd continued. He'd done what was asked. She remembered at that moment that John had said he'd once met James. She would have loved to know how that had been, but there was no way to find out. Still, it was a nice thought in her mind, to think of these two men, who'd both had such an impact on her life, talking with each other. She was sure they would have been friends. Lorna turned from the photo and all its associated memories and walked into the kitchen. It was relatively clean and fresh. Outside, the garden was a mess. She would have to get someone in for that; it wasn't her thing. That had been James' domain. Lorna realised at that moment that she would miss the little things as well as the big.

  Over the next twenty minutes, she walked into every room, slowly taking in each moment, allowing the memories of good times to come and have their say. She was going to deal with her mourning in her special way. And though there was sadness, the loss of someone she loved dearly, there was hope too. A belief which had brought her through this whole experience, and through the chaos. Hope that had enabled her to keep going where others might have stopped.

  When her mini-tour of the house had finished, she went back downstairs and made herself a cup of tea. Sitting in her chair, her favourite one, she felt a glimpse of happiness. She was home. Yes, it was now about living life differently. But it would be life to the full. Looking out into the garden, forgetting all its untidiness, she saw her future. She saw into the years to come, and they were going to be good. Nothing could ever be as terrible as the experiences she had just endured. The future was hers now to discover, and more than that, to live.

  She placed her tea back on the table next to her chair, a smile on her face. Smiling. The smiling girl. Next to her tea sat a plastic pregnancy tester, the blue lines on it clear even from where she was sitting. It was not just herself that she needed to think about now.

  The Shadow Man

  A follow on novel (but Stand-Alone) to The Last Prophet

  1

  The Present Day

  Cuba

  There was a strong wind blowing up from the south as was only too familiar in that godforsaken corner of the world. A tail end of a tropical storm that had got as far as Puerto Rico but not affected Cuba quite yet. Just the driving torrents of sheet-like rain. No one would want to be outside on such a day.

  The guards, bored as well as wet to the core, were on high alert––had been, in fact, for the previous month. The rain was just something they had to put up with. American soldiers who were standing on American soil, regardless of what their communist neighbours felt about it. The naval base that sat near the detention facility was also now on alert. Guantanamo Bay was off limits at the best of times. It was not the Islamists, however, that they were most concerned with at that moment. This threat was only more recently discovered.

  The plane was spotted flying very low over the sea by a patrol boat some distance to the west of Camp X-Ray. That was now Cuban airspace. The small aircraft made land just north of Manzanillo and continued to fly under the radar. Right around the camp, sirens could be heard ringing out their bleak warning. Everyone knew the drill by now. He was coming.

  “I want eyes on the seven prisoners,” barked a US marine to his team. Ten men turned and ran to the wing in which the seven Africans were still being held. Handed over by the British nearly five years before, they’d been part of a nuclear attack of unprecedented scale that had left London, and the nation for that matter, on their knees. Half a decade on, these remaining seven Africans, presumed to be special forces though no one had ever claimed them, started to suggest they were finally ready to make a bargain. The silence had been broken. The eighth member of their Special Ops team had been killed at the time, the other seven all wounded but left alive by their as yet unknown attacker. The British had been pressing the Americans to get some information on this mysterious individual, any information to build a profile of the man. The approach of a low flying aircraft told the Americans they might now have their answer.

  Moments later, the faint drone of a twin-engined plane could be heard in the distance, the sound coming and going as the wind battered the coastline with ever-increasing force. How anyone was able to fly in that weather was a mystery.

  Huge stadium-like floodlights were raised to the sky, aimed at the direction from which their radar suggested the plane was approaching, but it was hopeless at that moment. Too dark and too far off to make anything out. Regardless, naval personnel used night vision equipment to scan the horizon.

  One minute later a man said, “I have visual, coming in low at eleven o’clock.” Two snipers were in position, checking their weapons one final time as they tried to make themselves comfortable, though on a night such as that one comfort was going to be impossible.

  The sound of the engines grew increasingly stronger, even above the noise of the wind and rain. Everyone was already soaked to the skin.

  “It’ll be overhead in sixty-seconds,” the man with visual said, not taking his eyes from the night vision goggles for one moment.

  In D-wing, the seven African prisoners each sat in their cell––isolated and alone. They could hear the sirens, there had been enough drills during their
five-year stay so far, and therefore they didn’t have any idea of the danger they were now personally facing. Their time at Camp X-Ray had been terrible. Torture, intimidation for sure, but it was the isolation that was the hardest to deal with; not to mention the darkness. They too now heard the sound of a small plane making a pass overhead. The camp was a no-fly zone, and they knew that much. Something was up.

  “Parachutist sighted!” came another shout. He was low, jumping from what must have been less than five hundred feet, the chute opening moments later, not more than three hundred feet above the ground. The strong winds meant that opening any higher and he’d never be able to control his descent. As it was, it was going to be hard. The camp was large, but there were hundreds of soldiers there. Get the landing wrong, and he’d be dead before he even hit the ground. It took just seconds to make the descent, the parachutist landing perfectly on the roof of C-Wing.

  Orders were barked out from those in command, soldiers quickly surrounding the building, men climbing the stairs inside, others up the ladders on the outside, all heading for the roof.

  “Freeze!” the first marine demanded, his voice carrying aggressive authority, his weapon trained on the target, his team fanning around behind him, each with their gun fixed on the small parachutist crouching in front of them. The parachute was flapping wildly in the wind, some of the cords now tangled into the structure of the roof itself.

  “Get on your knees and place your hands on your head,” the soldier ordered. The wind was getting stronger. The man complied. His movements were slow, careful. He had not said a word during the whole encounter. The actions of a man who knew the game was up. Three marines raced forward, pressing his body to the ground, doing a quick search for weapons then placing handcuffs on the intruder before lifting him to his feet. He was not much more than five feet tall. He was apparently of Asian descent.