Repercussion

Thursday. 1200 hours. Lebanon.

A restaurant near Shtawrah in the Biqa’ Valley.

Shtawrah lies on the Beirut – Damascus highway. The town’s commercial centre was still in a good state of repair despite having survived years of civil war. Over the years, various terrorist groups had used the training camps scattered around the town. The Israelis had regularly flattened them. It was said that, providing the Israeli air force continued to aim straight, it would be possible to get on with life and continue trading.

The restaurant, a whitewashed building, lies above the town on the Beirut highway. The stark interior, white concrete walls decorated with the occasional splash of colour from hanging rugs, was a complete contrast to the sweeping views of the Biqa’ valley. Despite its basic décor it felt welcoming, with the aromas of strong coffee and tobacco smoke.

Two men, both in traditional Arab dress, sat near the window. They gazed out at the view, despite the haze, it was just possible to see Balabakk forty kilometres away. The waiter who had just delivered their order heard one say, ‘It's quiet here now. Do you remember when the American battleship used to fire shells the size of cars into the mountains? They'd scared the Japanese in the Second World War, but did they really think it'd have the same effect on the Lebanese?’

Both men laughed while watching the waiter retreat towards the kitchens. Muhammad Hamaduna, the unshaven, larger of the two men, leant forward. ‘Bin Laden has disturbed an anthill; they’re running aggressively in all directions. The all-powerful Americans can’t cope when things happen in their country but are quite willing to be aggressive to others around the world,’ he said.

The other man, Husayn Murad, leant forward, flicking the ends of his shemagh back over his shoulder. His face was the picture of unadulterated hatred. Sunken eyes gleamed pure malevolence emphasising his large hooked nose. ‘The capitalist Infidels only understand aggression when they deliver it in other people’s lands,’ he hissed. ‘Their arrogance will be their downfall.’

He glared around the room. ‘Whoever allies himself against the believers is one of them. Their punishment will be their destruction alongside the kaffirs. They couldn’t have conceived a jihad would be waged in their own country. They don’t understand that as there's no pure Islamic state, and as Islam must declare war on unbelief, we're fighting on a global battlefield. Our long-planned operation against kaffirs has already begun. The timing had to be brought forward as the kaffirs were planning to make some arrests.’ His expression hardened. ‘They thought the destruction of their symbol of power on 9/11 was bad. This time, they'll kill each other.’ His face softened. ‘Al Qaeda will begin the Jihad, but then the kaffirs will inflict the damage themselves. The Jihad will be silent, as if delivered by a ghost.’ He sat back and saying, ‘In their language, our long-term investment has now matured.’

*****

Chapter One

Back to the top

12th September

US 0415 hours UK 0915 hours Europe 1015 hours

Thursday. 0415 hours.

An apartment in Boston.

The man sat in semi-darkness, the only illumination his computer screen. He sat back from the keyboard, a satisfied expression on his face, thinking. Camilini’s a genius. His program worked; it’s ironic that such intelligence is then wasted on stupid scams. He had such potential. It’s a shame that he’ll find out shortly that nobody threatens my overall objective.

Immediately, he picked up his phone. It was answered straight away. ‘Do it,’ he said, and cut the connection.

He allowed himself a few moments to dwell on the last few years and the planning that had been necessary to get them into the position they were in now. The pawns had been set in motion; the final piece they needed was in the air. He smiled at the thought of the chaos he’d cause the security agencies. He wondered if they’d ever see the significance of the Hindu names. He laughed. Vishnu: the preserver of the universe, in their case, capitalism. He felt drained but satisfied; their long-term goal would be achieved in a few hours. Revenge would be sweet as the capitalist society went into self-destruct.

Nothing could stop them now. The countdown had begun.

Thursday. 0500 hours. New York.

A Deserted Dock.

The blonde-haired woman started driving immediately she received the call and heard the words, ‘Do it.’ She glanced in her mirror at the sleeping man on the back seat thinking, you stupid bastard. Good job I don’t do feelings.

She parked the Chevy, motioning for the man to leave the warmth of the car.

‘Gee, a ride to the Big Apple for an early morning visit to a deserted dock,’ he mumbled. He shivered and looked along the dock, taking in the decay and run-down buildings, trying to snuggle deeper into his parka as the chill found its way through to his T-shirt underneath, dampening his cocky attitude. The mist rising from the oily water only made him feel colder. They stood for a moment in the silence before he asked petulantly, ‘And what are we doing here, babe?’

‘You had the chance to make a lot of money with your hacking, instead you tried to pull another scam.’

His attempt at a smug smile vanished when he realised she was serious. The blonde woman suddenly pulled a pistol from the pocket of her fancy fur-lined jacket. She lashed out, hitting him in the face with the gun.

He recoiled and started to back away, fear etched across his face. He looked at the vision of beauty in a different light. The long shapely legs beneath a short leather skirt and full breasts covered by a tight fitting red jumper visible under her open jacket all looked the same. It was only when he searched her face did he see the blue eyes were now like ice. He cowered, suddenly realising why they were there.

‘Why did you do it?’ she asked as she reached into her other pocket and brought out a silencer, which she began screwing onto the barrel.

Terrified, he shuffled backwards towards the edge of the old wooden dock, rubbing his hand across his face, now sticky with blood. He glanced at his hand, shock replaced the pain momentarily; it was his blood. She unhurriedly raised the pistol and pulled the trigger twice. He grabbed at his chest, disbelief registering on his face, before he toppled into the mist-covered water below. The noise of the silenced pistol and the splash as the body hit the water hardly disturbed the stillness.

‘My name is not Babe,’ she said. Without a backward glance she walked towards the Chevy, her heels loud in the shrouds of mist.

Thursday. 1100 hours. France.

St-Astier.

Ginger Symonds was sitting in the sun nursing a glass of cold beer. Most of the other tables were occupied at the café and the street was still busy with people. The atmospheric old town centre still contained a few Renaissance houses.

Ginger didn’t notice, he was deep in thought. His guidebook and papers were scattered on the table, forgotten. He still couldn’t believe his luck when his mate Charlie had rung him and asked if he was free for a couple of weeks. Charlie now worked for a TV company and had been given, what he called, a small advance to help fund the research for a proposed cooking programme. Small? Hell, he could’ve survived weeks on that much. Charlie explained he’d got a problem. His researcher had called in long-term sick after he’d smashed his car up and Charlie still needed some work done by the end of the month. He’d remembered Ginger spoke French and knew his way around.

What a sales pitch Charlie had spun! All he had to do is write a quick report-cum-guide about the hidden little gems and out-of-the-way places that offer gastronomic and alcoholic delights in the Dordogne and surrounding area. What a great excuse to roam around sampling the superb wines from Bergerac, Cahors and Saint Emilion. God knows what unknown little snifters you’ll find.

He must have been desperate as he continued trying to sell it. Imagine the opportunity for you to visit many of the ‘fermes auberge’ and sample their local delicacies. But it got better when he said, mention the TV Company and you’ll be treated like a visiting dignitary. Now, that had seemed too good to be true. The only downside was that Ginger was so far down the food chain that Charlie wouldn’t give him the name of the celebrity chef. Some crap about having a choice of chefs and not being sure who was going to sign. That was a real downer whenever he got asked. But being ‘between jobs’ again, single again, and the wrong side of forty, he’d worked hard on not being too enthusiastic, before ‘ripping Charlie’s arm off’ accepting.

His thoughts moved to when he’d known Charlie, in the days when they were young and crazy. The good old days, otherwise known as army service.

The Sappers had been great, either building things or blowing them up. 9 Parachute Squadron, the Para Engineers, had offered it all, the adrenaline rush from parachuting, high standard of fitness and professionalism when working. They’d worked hard and played hard, no matter what the job was. It had given the squadron one hell of a reputation, one they were proud of, but not appreciated by those outside the squadron. It’d been a small, elite club with a devil may care attitude to the dangers involved.

Either his thumping headache or the waiter hovering brought him back to reality. The waiter gestured at the empty glass; obviously he couldn’t have people just sitting around at a busy time of day. Ginger ordered some food as he needed something to sustain him other than alcohol. He’d had a great time for the last three days, maybe the wine tasting had got out of control a couple of times, but he’d managed to write a few notes and keep the receipts for his expenses. He dug into his latest possession to find some money to pay his bill. He was proud of his worn-out leather porte-monnaie or handbag as he called it. Bet the lads would take the piss out of me for carrying a handbag, part of going native, he thought, makes me look like a local.

This was the life, hassle-free. Well, not quite. He still had to produce results and even he could manage that. What could go wrong?

*****

Chapter Two

Back to the top

13th September

US 0100 hours UK 0600 hours Europe 0700 hours

Friday. 0100 hours. Maryland. USA.

NSA Crypto City.

Secure beneath the ground, protected by razor wire, bomb-sniffing dogs, armed police and its own SWAT team, lives the heart of the NSA. Described as the Black Chamber, it listens to trillions of words a day using the very latest technology. Echelon, which monitors the majority of electronic communication in the world; Carnivore, which intercepts email; Tempest, a technology that can read a computer monitor’s display from over a block away. The Special Operations Unit is housed in one small area.

The bored duty personnel were discussing currency transactions when their section leader joined them.

‘Money makes money. That guy yesterday transferred half a million dollars to a bank in Paris and has just transferred it to an account in Washington. Now, that’s how people make money fast.’

The section leader was interested. ‘How do you know they made money?’

‘Well, why else would you transfer it from an investments bank?’

The section leader was a little puzzled. ‘You say they’ve just transferred it? The markets closed hours ago. Show me the logs.’

The section leader pointed at the screen. ‘Why did you check the user address?’

‘Well, the transfer went to a numbered account and then this computer accessed the account so he must be cleared to gain access, so I figured it must be his.’

The section leader looked at the log, shaking his head. ‘Something’s not right. A transfer of half a million dollars was made from Midtown Investments, Boston to a numbered account in Paris. You believe that the account belongs to M.Ullman because he accessed the account. He then transfers the money to an account called GTM in Washington DC in the middle of the night. Print it out, something stinks.’

Another computer flashed an alert.

‘Look, something weird has happened,’ an operator said to his section leader. He pointed at the screen. ‘What the hell's going on? We’ve been trying to trace any electronic transfers from that account and haven't had any luck. This is the first time since 9/11 that any movement has registered. This time, it’s even showing the account number. Now we’ve got on that account, let’s see who benefits from the transfer.’

‘You ain’t gonna believe this,’ another operator said, leaning back in his chair. ‘That’s a set-up if ever I saw one.’ He tapped the screen. ‘That account is connected to him in Marseilles. Don Giromaldi must have pissed somebody off! Maybe someone didn’t like him getting away with a self-imposed exile and avoiding the heat of a Senate Hearing.’

The section leader grabbed a phone. ‘Chris, get down here. We got a breakthrough on a money transfer. You ain't gonna believe this, but one of so-called retired Don Giromaldi’s accounts, just received six hundred grand.’

He was interrupted by another shout. ‘The money is being transferred again. Half the money has been exchanged into Euros on transfer. Recipient account; some guy called Stefano Tonezza.’

The operator sat back, ‘Shit, this guy has a death wish; he’s one of Giromaldi’s lieutenants. Hope he’s got good life insurance. Boy, he’s gonna need it.’

The section leader looked around with a serious expression on his face. ‘Death wish? Look at the time, it’s 01:00 hours on a Friday morning, it’s six in the morning in London. We're certain to notice these transfers and so were lots of other people.’

He shook his head. ‘That is cold, calculated, murder.’

Friday. 1700 hours. Boston. USA.

Laurel Manse, 4469 Reynolds Boulevard.

Laurel Manse is a large house set in several acres of grounds. John Century, the owner, entered the house after walking his dog beside the lake.

The library was lined on three walls with oak bookshelves. The big grandfather clock in the corner ticked loudly in the otherwise silent room. That stillness was only broken when the three occupants drank their coffee. The three men were all dressed in expensive suits and had the look of those who were used to being in a position of power. All three looked up when the owner entered the room; he took his seat after ensuring the door was closed.

‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ Century said, and was answered by a chorus of greetings. ‘Sorry for calling this meeting at such short notice. Thank you all for coming. The hypothetical situation we discussed many times in the past has finally occurred. Our contact in the Pentagon has informed me that a man called Michael Ullman has disappeared from a research establishment. He’s stolen the key to the National Security System. In the wrong hands, someone would have the means to threaten our society and cause chaos. It’s believed that he escaped to Europe and disappeared. We do know that he intends to visit his mother who lives in a place called Saint-Astier, near a town called Perigueux in the Dordogne region, France. Yet again, the authorities have done damn all about it. They’ve allowed this man to escape through their political infighting and lack of cooperation. The potential for a cyber terrorist is huge and time is not on our side. The national security network has been compromised which means he's got access to the complete system. We took the decision to form contingency plans to deal with these people who steal our industrial secrets. The situation is especially embarrassing for me as my company has contracts with this particular research centre. Our friend in the Pentagon gave us a contact, someone capable of resolving this sort of problem. I’ve already taken the liberty of contacting this man. Gentlemen, we must agree to go ahead immediately with our plans to make an example of those involved in the theft of technical information from our country and be prepared to fund any consequent costs.’

The grey-haired man sitting nearest to the grandfather clock looked up, his eyes seeking agreement from the other two men. They both slowly nodded their heads; the slow ticking of the grandfather clock seemed to get louder. He looked back to their host. ‘John, I believe I can speak for the others,’ he said. ‘We’re unanimous in our agreement to prevent this sort of threat against our country and we’ll do whatever necessary to prevent it happening. This Ullman poses a threat and we must take a stand; we must give a clear signal to those who intend to threaten or steal from us, that we mean business. If our security services can’t stop the rot, we will.’

With a wintry smile, Century stood up and crossed the room to his computer. ‘I’ve already outlined the problem to our man, to maintain security we’ve agreed to communicate through the Internet using a 256-bit encryption system.’ He looked at the screen. ‘We can transfer documents and information without ever meeting. He’s insisted that I get a cell phone so that we can communicate quickly, if necessary. He’s waiting for our answer, as he's got to move very fast. The project that Ullman was working on was called Brahma; it’s named after the Hindu god and means the Creator. Our contact in Washington suggested our representative uses the name Shiva, and we're called Vishnu.’ Century took a breath. ‘We all still want Shiva to resolve the problem of this thief and Project Brahma, if he's in possession of it?’ He looked at the men, who nodded.

One of the men cleared his throat. ‘We’ve no choice, have we? Shiva must make sure his elimination is high profile and ensure that people know why. It’d be better if it was here in the States so that it'll be a deterrent for other scientists and engineers who think their company owes them something.’

‘How much will he cost?’ another of the group asked.

‘$1,500,000 American will cover all the expenses involved and he'll clear up any loose ends,’ Century replied.

Silence.

‘We’ve no options as time is running out. Shiva must move now or Ullman and his project will disappear. I've already given Shiva all the details.’ They crowded round the computer and looked at the screen, as their host began typing.

Vishnu; the contract price is agreed.

Shiva; Information you require within an hour. Get details of the project; confirm what I am looking for. I will locate the man in the meantime. Goodbye.

‘Gee some social skills. What guarantee do we have that he’ll do all he's promised?’

‘Our contact in the Pentagon set it up, he said Shiva has a very good reputation in this field.’ Century replied.

‘Why would our contact in the Pentagon have connections like that?’

Century shook his head before answering, ‘I’ve no idea. He also said that he never wanted his name mentioned. We all know what could happen to our companies if he even suspects we’ve broken our word.’

With grave expressions they all shook hands and went outside to their cars. Century returned to the library, his expression bleak. Discussing a hypothetical situation over dinner had been easy, unlike the reality of issuing the order for a high-profile execution. He broke out in a cold sweat and suddenly felt sick, the enormity of their decision had just hit home. What if it all goes wrong?

*****

Chapter Three

Back to the top

13th September

US 1715 hours UK 2215 hours Europe 2315 hours

Friday. 2215 hours. London.

The man known as Shiva sat back in his chair. These cafés were wonderful; now in most towns all over the world, offering instant global communications and complete anonymity. He could've been in almost any city in the world due to retail globalisation and a cosmopolitan society. He smiled, as an iconic double-decker trundled past outside, thinking, even that’s no guarantee you’re in London any more. Hmm, they’ll be extinct here soon – but no doubt, someone will have no trouble selling and then exporting another part of British history.

The wonders of modern technology, he thought, as he swiftly opened the files containing the contract details from his email and stored them on a memory stick. Automatically, he began deleting his presence from the computer. Shiva smiled as he slipped another stick into the USB port on the machine. Another little marvel, he thought, as it totally erased any sign of his existence from the hard drive. He glanced around the room; once satisfied no one was paying him too much attention, he strolled out of the cyber café like any other anonymous punter. No one would have taken much notice of the tall, unshaven, dark haired man. Casually dressed, in washed out jeans and well-worn chino jacket, he looked like a mature student.

Shiva walked down the bustling street passing the mobile phone store where he'd purchased a cheap mobile earlier in the day. The salesperson had called it, ‘The bargain of the week.’ That bloody phone had better work, he thought, glancing into the store window.

This contract intrigued him, but at the same time made him very wary. Why would a group of what he believed to be industrialists and businessmen, get involved in what amounted to the theft of a very sensitive project from the military? And why would that justify a public execution? Where was their information coming from? The quality suggested a very high level source. The CIA should handle a security breach of this nature. Shiva began to consider his options: as a matter of course, the CIA should already be involved and should be several hours ahead of him. How was it possible that there had been a delay allowing him to get ahead? He was no stranger to ‘Black Bag’ operations, where government departments could deny any involvement. What did the group hope to gain from it?

Back at his hotel, he used his new mobile to ring his contact in France. His expression was grim as he remembered the man, cold, callous but very efficient.

‘Jean-Yves?’ Shiva asked. He got a positive grunt from the other end. ‘The contract I mentioned earlier is confirmed. My name for this contract is Shiva. OK?’

Another grunt.

‘Do you need any further information for the collection of the merchandise?’

‘The arrangements are made; all I need are the final details. Will there be any competition?’ he demanded, in precise English with a strong French accent.

Shiva smiled. ‘The merchandise is already on the move.’

‘Will the transaction be opposed?’ Jean-Yves asked again.

‘My information is limited, but not if you move fast. But you’ll have official company very soon,’ Shiva assured him.

‘Delivery?’ Jean-Yves asked, a slight tinge of excitement in his voice.

‘Take it home with you; I’ll do an exchange with you tomorrow night.’

‘OK. Same price as before. Any problems and you pay any expenses.’

‘Good. Make sure it stays in good condition and don’t lose any CDs it’s got in its luggage. I’ll confirm final details tomorrow.’ Shiva cut the connection.

Shiva thought about the former Legionnaire. He remembered the cropped grey hair and invariable black leather coat. He’d noticed the slight change in his voice and realised that Jean-Yves missed the danger and the excitement.

Friday. 2315 hours. France.

St-Astier.

Funny old thing that, a drop of pop and some grub makes you feel wide-awake again, Ginger thought, as he contemplated his day so far. Amazing the difference that woman made! Must arrange to meet a beautiful woman every lunchtime as she galvanised me into action. Must be good for me! He pictured her enchanting green eyes, her brown hair pulled back into a knot at the back of her head. He could hear her infectious laugh and see her dazzling smile. He remembered every word of their short conversation and, despite being in complete awe of her, had even got her phone number.

He'd come back to the café at almost nine, after, much to his surprise, he'd finished writing up his notes. He'd visited a cheese-maker, but it had really taxed his French. The guy’s accent was terrible, kept using words that didn’t appear in the dictionary and throwing in technical cheese-making terms. Ginger had driven away absolutely knackered, with a head that felt like it was full of cotton wool.

He'd ordered the set menu in the café that included the obligatory half-a-dozen courses and bottle of red wine. He’d fond memories of the first time he experienced the ‘French lunch’. It was years ago, just before his GCSE exams. He'd been sent to France to stay with a family. It’d been a steep learning curve from the start. He was met at Le Havre by some people he didn’t know, who spoke no English at all. The family turned up 36 hours later, and despite speaking fluent English, would only translate words when requested. He'd enjoyed the trip though; the youngest daughter was the same age as him. The family Sunday lunch was a nightmare, with the Grandmother sitting at the top of the table. The meal was going slowly as Ginger kept having seconds of every course, as no one had warned him how many courses were involved. As the guest, everyone had to wait for Ginger to start and finish. Then a plate with a whole crab on it was put before him. Ginger had seen crab paste, which came in a bottle. He had pulled crabs out of the sea on fishing line, but what the hell do you do with a dead one on a plate? Patience was not Grandmother’s strong point. There was a loud grunt and she started to bash then rip her crab to bits. Ginger was engrossed shadowing the Grandmother, blow by rip, when he became aware that everyone was watching him. He was embarrassed to find that he was now the source of entertainment as the others delicately dismembered their crabs. Maybe Grandmother lacked a certain finesse?

Claude, the barman, had introduced him to several people when he'd finished his meal. He'd joined the group and the wine had flowed along with the conversation. After a while he began to feel chilled out. But slowly maudlin thoughts filled his mind. Why do I always feel detached or on the edge of the group? It’s not as though I’m unsociable. Fair enough, I don’t mind my own company but I do enjoy the company of others and join in with the conversation. Perhaps it’s because I like to think before I speak rather than rabbiting on. Maybe that’s why I’m referred to as the ‘quiet man’. Maybe I’m getting paranoid? Grumpy