Terminal Black

by Adrian Magson

  Rik’s place was in a brick-built, four-storey block perched over a line of shops comprising a small supermarket, a fabrics store and a betting shop. The street was littered with the remains of a market Harry recalled from previous visits. Other shops lined the far side, colourful and busy, a close community in the heart of the city.

  He entered the foyer and climbed the stairs, his footsteps echoing on the tiles. Except for a small child wailing indistinctly in the background, the building was quiet, the outside noise dulled to a faint murmur. He tried Rik’s door. Locked. Then he knocked, a gentle rattle of knuckles, more friend than official if anyone else was listening. No point disturbing the other tenants unless he had to.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The voice was soft, and came from the door to his left. The speaker was a man, tall, rail-thin and with a brush of untidy grey hair and sallow skin with a few liver spots. He was wearing shorts and a vivid Hawaiian shirt over flip-flops and was watching Harry with a steady gaze.

  ‘I’m here to see Rik,’ said Harry. He stepped closer and smiled, friendly, reassuring.

  ‘Haven’t seen the young fella in a while,’ the man replied easily. ‘You a friend?’

  ‘We used to work together. I was looking to catch up. It can wait.’

  ‘Ah. You local?’

  ‘No. Warwick. Down for the day.’ Anything to throw off Cramer’s men if they came calling. A friend from Warwick? Cramer would probably see through it but his men might not.

  ‘I never been to Warwick,’ the man said. ‘Good cricket team. Keep telling myself I should get up there.’

  ‘You should.’ Harry turned away.

  ‘Wait.’ The man held up a hand. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Harry,’ he said. ‘You?’

  The man almost cracked a smile. ‘I’m Adam. He said you might come round. He said to ask the name of the place where you first met.’

  Harry hesitated. Was this Rik playing silly buggers or was he being careful for once? ‘Red Station.’

  ‘He told me just before he left to ask whoever came calling two questions.’

  ‘Did I pass the test?’

  ‘You did. Lucky for you I was in, right? I’m not always here, see; I move around a bit, seeing friends, doing odd jobs here and there.’ He glanced back inside the flat. ‘Hang on a moment.’ He disappeared inside, and re-emerged holding a plain white envelope. ‘It’s none of my business, but if you don’t mind me asking, what do you two do for a living? I know Rik works with computers – he helped me sort out mine when it froze on me. Never seen anyone work so fast. Like magic.’

  ‘We’re in cyber security,’ Harry told him. ‘Corporate protection, mostly. Anti-hacking and computer theft, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Ah, right.’ Adam nodded slowly, his eyes losing interest. ‘So not the guns and dark glasses type, then, with the squiggly wire thing?’ He pointed at his ear, referencing a bodyguard’s comms earpiece.

  ‘Not really,’ Harry replied. ‘Everybody asks that. We’re more high-tech.’

  ‘I should have guessed, him being the way he is. But those t-shirts – and the hair.’ He gave a bark of laughter. ‘Sticky-uppy.’ He flicked his fingers up either side of his head and laughed again.

  ‘It’s a lost cause,’ Harry agreed. ‘I’m trying to get him to drop the t-shirts. It’s not really good for the corporate image. But he’s a tough one to break.’

  The man appeared to relax and handed over the envelope. Harry felt the shape of a key through the paper.

  ‘He said to give you this. I hope he’s OK, you know? Be nice to see him again.’ With that the man turned and went back inside, closing the door.

  Harry opened the envelope and extracted the key. It was standard Yale, silver. What else could he do but use it? He walked back to Rik’s door and inserted it in the lock. A smooth number of clicks and the door opened.

  FOURTEEN

  A rush of stale air washed over him, but no smell to signal bad news. He closed the door behind him and tuned in to the silence. He was standing in a small lobby, bare save for a single hook on the wall holding an umbrella and a long scarf, and a small battered camel seat stool holding a phone, a pencil and a virginal pad of sticky notes. On the floor nearby was a small pile of post, mostly junk mail with assorted dross; a couple of pizza menus from a takeaway down the street, an invitation to join a spa near King’s Cross and a variety of leaflets for various insurance plans, a funeral service company (too late but no doubt trawling for future custom) and several carpet offers. Also a fitness boot camp, the idea of which would have frightened Rik stiff. Rik didn’t do fit; if he’d had a religion it would have been against it.

  Harry checked the phone for messages. Empty. Two steps across the lobby placed him in a living room. Nothing had changed since his last visit. But then, Rik wasn’t big on staying on-trend, furniture-wise. The same L-shaped sofa, a glass-topped table with four steel-and-plastic folding chairs, a space-age steel-and-glass coffee table, a flat-screen television and music centre, but not much else. IKEA, Harry thought. Patron saint of singles who don’t get home much.

  Brushed aluminium spotlights featured freely, and he flicked them on. The floor here was woodblock, covered like everything else with a layer of dust. Except, he noted, for some faint scuff marks, just visible under the glare of the spotlights.

  He wondered how much dust could accumulate in a place like this after a few days of inactivity. Enough to leave a few marks, obviously.

  He did a rough-and-ready scout of the place first, gaining impressions, looking for obvious signs of something wrong. When that produced nothing he settled down to a room-by-room trawl. The bedroom was the easiest, proving Rik did nothing there but sleep. There were few clothes, all Rik’s, with no signs of double occupancy, occasional or regular, nothing remotely feminine or temporary. The bathroom was just that: taps, shower, bath and cabinet, an untidy collection of shampoos, deodorants, shaving creams and hair gels, as if Rik had never settled on a single brand. A place to visit when necessary but not for idling.

  The kitchen showed Rik was a keen user of local takeaways, with an empty fridge and a cooker that had never been used in anger. He checked the freezer section just in case, but there were no bags or boxes holding anything remotely useful that might tell him where Rik had gone or why.

  A corkboard on the wall held a few photos of Rik with his mother. Tucked into the edge of the board, they looked as if they had been taken not long ago. On impulse he took one of Rik grinning inanely into the camera. He was wearing a Deep Purple t-shirt and his hair looked even wilder than usual. Probably taken by his mother. Harry tucked it into his pocket.

  Other than the IKEA collection the living room held an ancient bureau with the gleam of highly-polished care over many years. He figured it must have belonged to Rik’s mother. It held an assortment of papers, some photos, invoices and guarantees, along with all the other paper dross people keep because they didn’t know what else to do with it. No helpful travel tickets, though; no brochures showing that he’d simply bunked off on a break to Ibiza or one of those other favoured hotspots of the young, single and blissfully uncaring.

  It took Harry a while to realize that there was something else missing.

  No computer.

  Every time he’d been here before it had been sitting on the table, a high-end laptop with the power light winking. But not now. It suggested Rik had taken it with him, unless Cramer’s people had snaffled it. It was probably them who’d left the footprints in the dust, too; no way would he have left Rik’s flat unchecked. It would have been the first place they’d call, like a dog heading for its favourite lamp-post.

  He went through the place again, this time looking for computer peripherals, like a power lead or memory sticks. But there was nothing. He tried to recall if Rik had ever referred to using the cloud, and remembered him saying it wasn’t as secure as people thought, a bit like putting all your private correspondence out on the pavement and allowing people to b
rowse through it at their leisure. So that was a no.

  He sat down on the sofa and stared around. How the hell did he move forward on this? Rik wasn’t a seasoned field operative, but he knew how to vanish and cover his tracks if he had to, a skill Harry had drummed into him.

  Passport. He hadn’t found a passport. He stood up and searched the bureau again. Nothing. That wasn’t a good sign; it suggested he’d gone overseas.

  Come on, brain, he growled softly. Engage. There must be something. Why else would he have left the key to his flat and no clues about what he was doing?

  He did another trawl, his concern growing, a fingertip search in and under every item of furniture, checking for panels, behind heating ducts and lifting the only carpet, in the bedroom. He came up empty. The place was a clue desert, save for the scuff marks on the woodblock floor in the living room. That in itself was something. Was that what had happened – that all traces of any recent activities had been erased after his departure?

  He was heading for the door when his old phone pinged. He took it out and checked the screen. A Netflix email. He deleted it, then saw a number of accumulated messages he hadn’t had a chance to go through. Most of them were unimportant or could wait.

  Except for a WhatsApp message.

  It was from Rik.

  He returned to the sofa and sat down.

  It was dated from last week, when his phone was out of action.

  Nathalie Baier. Westminster Inn. Frid. The words were insignificant in their normalness, a few keystrokes which told him nothing. But which Friday? And no explanation of why Rik had sent it or who Nathalie Baier might be. He knew the hotel vaguely, located a short stroll from Westminster Abbey and Big Ben. Tourist territory … but for those with money rather than budget trippers, like members of parliament and staff caught short by a late sitting. He pictured it in his mind, dragging an image from memory. Glass and white stone-block was the overall impression, intimidating, almost, with a don’t-touch-me look about it. It was hardly Rik’s kind of haunt, but who knew; he hadn’t seen him in a long time so maybe his tastes had changed.

  There was another message, dated a couple of days later, with a photo of an old apartment building. Grey and uninviting, a fifties-era Soviet concrete monster. He’d seen many like it over the years and recognized the style. The text below it read: Building 1, Apt 24. 4th floor. Stepyanka District, Minsk, Belarus.

  Harry left the flat and made his way back to his own place in Islington. His mind was buzzing. Were these messages significant, and if so, why? And if it was important, why hadn’t Rik called him on his landline? Along the way he picked up a familiar figure: the man in the suit. He ignored him. If Cramer wanted to waste time and manpower keeping an eye on his movements that was his problem. He would have made it a priority to cover all the expected locations, including Rik’s mother’s place, his flat and now Harry’s own address.

  As soon as he was inside he switched on his PC and called up his emails. While waiting, he dialled Rik’s mobile number. No signal.

  He was trying to think of anyone who might know Rik’s recent movements. With his mother gone, it was a short and unproductive exercise. In between work Rik had kept to his own narrow circle of contacts, usually referred to vaguely as ‘a mate’ or ‘a guy’ – and once even ‘a girl’. That last reference had sent a flush to his face, Harry recalled, and he’d moved on quickly. Some of the contacts Harry knew were in the hacking community, about which he’d known little and preferred to leave that way. They were a small, secrecy-obsessed group who kept a low profile and operated under a variety of tags, numbers or even graphics, none of which pointed towards a real identity. It would be a waste of time asking them, he decided, even if he could reach out to them. Without Rik’s lead, he’d never get anywhere.

  He walked over to the window, chewing over a course of action, and checked the street. There was no sign of the woman with the bad feet, but the man in the suit was standing in the shade of a doorway further down, chewing on a roll.

  Harry took out the card with Cramer’s number and rang him. It was picked up immediately.

  ‘Are you having me followed?’

  There was a slight pause. ‘Not my decision. I’m afraid my superiors insisted on it.’

  ‘Just the one?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘I’ve counted two tails. One suit, male, in his thirties, with specs. He’s still hanging around. The other is a woman. Older. Rolls when she walks.’

  ‘The woman’s mine. Former Czech intelligence from years back. Her name’s Alicia. Are you sure about the man?’

  ‘I know a tail when I see one.’ He didn’t bother asking how Six came to be employing former foreign intel members for surveillance work in London. Instead he told him where the sightings had been, that the woman was no longer visible but the man was eating his lunch.

  Cramer swore quietly, then said, ‘Alicia’s mine, but not the male. Sounds like someone on a rush job. Leave it with me. I’ll have someone check the CCTV coverage.’

  ‘You do that – and call Alicia off. I’ll work better knowing I’m not being watched. On the subject of CCTV, have you had anybody check departures at ports and airports?’

  ‘Some, yes. But we’re stretched at the moment. Have you got a lead?’

  ‘Not yet. Did you check his flat?’

  ‘Of course. It was the first port of call.’

  ‘Did you take his laptop?’

  ‘Hang on.’ There was an empty air sound and voices in the background, then Cramer said, ‘No. There wasn’t one. Why?’

  ‘I think he might have gone travelling.’

  ‘That’s what we thought. On the CCTV thing, you’ll have to help. I can supply one tech to access and run the footage but you’ll have to assist with scanning it yourself. You know Ferris’s physical profile better than anyone so that’ll save time. I’ll text you details of where and when. It will be a satellite location.’

  ‘Why not Thames House? Isn’t that where all your techs live?’ Actually the last thing Harry wanted was to set foot inside the MI5 headquarters; he was merely having a quiet dig to see if Cramer rose to the bait.

  ‘Nice try.’ The chuckle was devoid of humour. ‘You and I both know that there’ll be another ice age before you’re allowed back inside that particular building.’

  FIFTEEN

  ‘Which is your favourite leg, Rik?’ Kraush was standing in front of him, holding a small cardboard package in one hand and the taser in the other. On the floor nearby was what Rik guessed was a small transmitter device with an aerial. There was also another chair, a twin of the one he was sitting on.

  Rik shook himself. It felt late in the day and he’d been nodding off, exhaustion and the tension of his situation having got to him. He hadn’t heard Kraush come in. ‘Why do you want to know that? And who are you people?’ The questions were automatic, hoping for a response that might offer a chink of light in this nightmare.

  But Kraush didn’t play ball. Instead he lifted the taser. ‘Do we really have to go through this again?’ His face was blank, the voice bored.

  ‘Left,’ Rik said. ‘My left leg.’

  ‘Good. Please lift up that trouser leg for me.’ As he spoke he dragged the other chair forward and sat down in front of Rik, placing the taser on the floor. Irina appeared in the doorway. She was holding a pistol and watching Rik with an expectant smile on her face. Something told Rik she wouldn’t worry for a split second about using it on him if he tried anything as crazy as having a go at her colleague.

  Kraush opened the package and took something from it. It was green plastic and looked like a bracelet with a small box attached to one side.

  Rik stared. ‘You’re putting a tracker on me?’

  ‘It’s more than a tracking device.’ Kraush placed the bracelet around Rik’s ankle and fastened the buckle with a series of clicks, securing it with a screwdriver. Then he turned and picked up the transmitter. He pressed a button and waited, before no
dding. ‘This device sends out and receives signals to and from your tracker every twentieth of a second. While the signals are being sent and received, confirming that the tracker has not been tampered with, you are perfectly safe.’

  ‘Safe?’ Rik felt his groin recoil at the thoughts pounding through his head. What was this maniac talking about?

  ‘Remember this carefully, because it’s important. If you move beyond a five-hundred-metre radius of this transmitter, the signal will be interrupted. If you try to undo the buckle or cut the bracelet off, contact will be lost and the same thing happens. If you try to cut the box unit off, also the same.’ He smiled without humour. ‘I advise you not to do any of these things.’

  Rick didn’t want to ask, but he was caught up in a circular conversation he’d had no part in devising. ‘What would happen?’

  ‘The box on the bracelet contains a small charge of explosive—’

  ‘What? That’s nuts!’

  ‘— so do any of the things I have advised you not to do, and you will certainly lose a leg, possibly both. We’re a long way from the nearest medical facility and neither Irina nor I know about treating serious wounds.’ He stepped closer and picked up the notepad he’d left for Rik. ‘In other words you will die. Not immediately, I confess, and in great pain.’

  ‘But that’s insane! A stray radio signal might set it off!’

  ‘No. It won’t. The technology is very advanced. Only the absence of a signal will do that.’ He smiled. ‘I advise you not to test it out.’ He leafed through the notepad, stopping to check something, then handed it back. ‘You have not given this much thought. You have written lines of meaningless code, but that is not what we want.’

  Rik said nothing. His mind was in a whirl trying to cope with what was happening. These people had considered all the moves, including using advanced military technology to hobble him.

  And that meant they weren’t simply random hackers working for financial gain. This was a lot more serious.