Nano (19 page)

62

J-Alpha pulled himself up and stared in astonishment at the Cage.

‘The way to the roof is clear. Will you be okay with the body?' Chloe asked, her voice coming through a set of speakers on the front of the Cage.

J-Alpha merely saluted and Chloe turned, heading for the emergency stairs, leaving the SAS man to drag Azrael's body back up to the roof.

The door onto the stairs was still there but it hung limp from where Steph had melted the lock and kicked it in. If anything, the fire raging in the stairwell was now even hotter and fiercer than it had been an hour earlier. It presented only a modest stumbling block for Chloe in the Cage.

She pushed through the opening and onto the concrete platform that led to a short flight of stairs. The walls were black with soot and dripping with an unsavoury-looking oily substance. Chloe leapt half a dozen steps to the next platform, turned a corner and descended the second flight down to Floor 201. She didn't hang around there. The level had been scanned earlier and she knew there were no life signs. She took the next turn, started to descend to the mezzanine and approached the final flight of stairs to 200. The entire staircase was covered with rubble, floor to ceiling.

‘No wonder survivors couldn't get beyond 199,' she said to herself. ‘The other emergency exit must be blocked too, and this mess must go on past the door and down the next flight of stairs.'

Adjusting the controls, Chloe manoeuvred the Cage and started to clear a path through the wreckage, lifting huge chunks of concrete and placing them behind her to one side of the stairs, leaving an escape path back up. Half the roof had caved in, bringing with it steel beams, insulation, metal pipes, plastic sheets, a complete menagerie of twisted and smashed-up bits of infrastructure.

Even using the full might of the Cage, the going was tough, the wreckage was densely packed and many times as Chloe clasped a chunk of rubble with one of the arms of the machine, it simply crumbled into a pile of small pieces that had to be scooped away. Water poured down the stairs from a burst sprinkler on the floor above and turned the powdered detritus to a sticky paste. It felt like wading through soft cheese and it took Chloe 10 minutes working at full stretch to clear a path to the emergency door leading from the stairwell onto Floor 200. She scanned her console, probing the barrier with her sensors, trying to find the easiest route through the chaos between here and 199.

A few metres down the next stairwell leading to the mezzanine above 199, things started to get a little easier. A large metal tank lay across the stairs where it had crashed down from the ceiling. The steps were covered with oil. She lifted the tank and placed it to one side of the mezzanine. Back on the final flight of stairs down to 199, the steps were strewn with smaller chunks of debris. She made short work of this and was soon through.

Chloe turned slightly in her seat, looked down at the control panel and then out through the front glass panel. In the corner of her eye she glimpsed a strange shape as it slid out of view. Spinning the Cage around, she brought it to an abrupt halt. Another flicker of movement. She jerked in her seat just as a dark shape reared up at the glass. It was the head of massive python, mouth agape, eyes furious and bewildered.

She was so stunned she almost lost control. Instinctively, she fell back in her seat, shielding her face. Getting a grip, she lowered her hands and leaned forwards to peer into the face of the terrified creature. It swung away and fell out of sight beneath the Cage before reappearing. Its underbelly, a wonder of intricate patterns, slithered over the glass front panel. The entire snake, at least 7 metres of it, disappeared into the rubble piled up behind the Cage.

‘Wow!' Chloe exclaimed, taking several deep breaths. She strode down the last few steps and onto the platform. The door onto 199 swung into view. An old man was sitting with his back to the door, his head slumped forwards. Chloe could just make out his lined and crinkled face, his bald head catching the light, his fez on the floor half a metre away. Next to that stood a wicker basket, once home to his snake.

63

Base One, Tintara

‘So, Syb. What we got?'

‘A man who has covered his tracks extremely well,' the computer replied.

Tom laughed. ‘Yes but Syb, you love a challenge, don't you?'

‘The man on the roof uses the alias Azrael, the Anglicised adaptation of the Arabic word
Azra'eil
, which translates as –'

‘Angel of Death,' Tom said quietly and stared at the holoscreen above his keyboard. He was now lying on his bed, head rested against a pile of pillows, the holographic image hanging in the air in front of him. It showed a picture of the man they had seen on the roof, a shot taken clandestinely by British Intelligence a year before when Azrael had been working in Beirut.

‘That's correct. His real name is Marcus Hewson. British, ex-SAS. Saw action in Afghanistan and Iraq. Decorated, reached rank of Captain, then in 2004 he was moved to a desk job, training recruits at the British Army base in Aldershot.'

Tom stared at the image of an upright figure in army uniform. ‘What went wrong?' he said.

‘Wife and daughter were killed in a city centre outrage in 2006.'

Archive reports popped up on the screen. A headline declared: ‘Eight Innocents Killed in Seconds'. It went on to describe how an escaped psychiatric patient, Norman Gardiner, had slaughtered eight shoppers in the town of Bracknell. Two of the victims had been Emily and Charlotte Hewson. Following this on the screen came Hewson's decommissioning documents and then a surprise: a death certificate, Marcus Hewson's.

‘It's not completely clear how it was done,' Sybil said. ‘A body was never found, but after the statutory seven years, a death certificate was filed. MI6 and the CIA are both aware of Azrael's existence. It is possible they may also know of the man's background. He has been implicated in a number of assassinations and terrorist attacks during the past eight years, including the murder of the Australian Foreign Minister, Craig Holland, a year ago and the bomb blast at Westbahnhof, the central railway station in Vienna.'

‘Thanks, Syb. At least there's something to work on there.'

‘There's more, Tom.'

‘Oh good!'

‘The name Azrael created a cascade response in my quantum processor.'

‘Sounds painful.'

‘Azrael is an epithet with obvious theological meaning. We have encountered this before.'

‘No!' Tom exclaimed, realising the implications. ‘You. Are. Joking!'

‘I'm not programmed for original comedic repartee.'

Tom was staring at the holoscreen without really taking it in. ‘The Four Horsemen!' he said slowly. ‘Any tangible links, Syb?'

‘I scoured the entire database covering the operation at the Californian Conference Center last year. There was no reference to anyone or anything named Azrael.'

‘Oh.'

‘But then I went through the files we captured at the time from the Four Horsemen. Do you remember?'

‘Of course, Sybil. It was as a result of my heroic cyberbattle with Francine Gygax. We found their operational files.'

‘Yes and in those I've discovered the name Azrael.'

‘In connection to what?'

‘Azrael was the Dragon's second, his understudy. If the Dragon had been rendered inoperable earlier, Azrael would have stepped in. However, he was never used and moved up the hierarchy of those working for the Four Horsemen when the Dragon was killed.'

‘So the Four Horsemen are behind the attack on the Cloud Tower.'

‘And quite possibly the attack on the Eurotunnel.'

‘But why?' Tom asked.

‘To answer that I'll need a lot more data,' Sybil responded.

The buzzer of Tom's comms sounded. ‘Tom?' It was Mark.

‘Mark. What's happening over there?'

‘The SAS have gone in and taken out the terrorist.'

‘That's good, right?'

‘It's good that he no longer poses a threat, but he killed three men. And we won't have the chance of pumping him for information.'

‘That was always going to be unlikely, wasn't it, Mark? Somehow, I don't think he would have been the cooperative type.'

‘No, you're probably right. Do you know something I don't?'

‘Well, as a matter-of-fact, yes I do. Sybil and I have unearthed some interesting stuff about our newly deceased terrorist.' Tom filled Mark in on the background to Azrael. ‘But the really interesting thing is who the bastard was working for.'

‘Who?'

‘Our old buddies, the Four Horsemen.'

Mark was as surprised as Tom had been. ‘Well, that is
very
interesting. I'll pass it on to the intelligence agencies, see what they can do.'

Tom was nodding, watching Mark's face on the holoscreen. ‘I'd like to see those freaks pay. Sybil thinks it's possible they are also involved in the Eurotunnel incident.'

A ‘boing' came from Tom's computer, a sound effect used to notify him if any relevant breaking news came in from the web. He scanned the three sentences scrolling across his screen. ‘CYBERATTACK AT ITAM HEADQUARTERS, GENEVA. STAFF THREATENED BY CYBERTERRORISTS . . . BUILDING EVACUATED. ITAM UNDER COMPLETE COMPUTER LOCKDOWN.'

‘Mark, I'm getting something through from Sybil's weblinks.'

‘What?'

He read the lines.

‘What's ITAM?'

Sybil cut in: ‘International Trade and Management Incorporated. A very large, very powerful multinational. Estimated market value is $114 billion, making it the 31st richest company in the world.'

There was an ominous silence in Tom's room and on the flightdeck of the Big Mac. Then, Tom said, ‘Sybil, are ITAM involved with the Cloud Tower?'

‘They are 46 per cent shareholders.'

‘And Eurotunnel?'

‘They have no involvement with SNCF, which is the national French Railway company, but ITAM are 81 per cent shareholders in Eurostar (UK) Ltd, which shares ownership of the infrastructure and Eurotunnel railway system.'

‘Well, Tom,' Mark said. ‘I think you and Sybil have your work cut out.'

64

‘Okay, computer, here we go,' Tom said, flexing his fingers unnecessarily. ‘Syb, let's see what sort of defences these goons have in place.'

He tapped at the light keyboard, inputting a succession of passwords and alphanumeric codes. In under a millisecond Sybil had located the ITAM headquarters in cyberspace. Keeping out of range of any search-bots – cyber ‘organisms' whose sole role was to detect intruders almost like a satellite defence mechanism trying to spot alien invaders in some computer game – Sybil analysed the parameters of the cyber-attack against the ITAM network.

It took the E-Force quantum computer less than 3 seconds to construct a comprehensive image of the enemy.

‘The attack on ITAM's system is extremely thorough, Tom,' Sybil said, the computer's voice resounding around the now silent room.

‘Well, I would expect it to be.'

‘This is probably the best computer invasion I have ever encountered,' Sybil added.

‘Good. I like a challenge.'

‘The invasion took less than 4 milliseconds. In that time the intruder, who I still cannot identify, assumed complete control of a million terabyte system. A not insignificant achievement.'

‘No,' Tom commented, scanning the information flashing across his screen. ‘No, that is . . . pretty –'

‘CYBERATTACK!' Sybil's voice had been replaced by a screechy alarm preset, a sound Tom had always hated.

‘Okay, Syb. You locked down?'

No reply.

‘Sybil?'

No reply.

Tom stabbed at his light keyboard, never moving his line of sight away from the screen. ‘Shit!' he exclaimed. ‘Sybil, talk to me!'

Nothing.

Tom took several deep breaths. He had been in this situation before. He had survived and Sybil had survived. It was the nature of the game – attack and counter-attack. He would get the measure of this new opponent and he would win. He had the greatest computer in the world, the most powerful machine ever created by humankind.

He dashed his fingers over the light keyboard at phe- nomenal speed. The holoscreen flashed with digits, colours, encrypted lines of text – codes only he and Sybil understood. All the time he was breathing steadily. He had recently begun to take a serious interest in yogic exercise and had spent an hour a day for the past two months simply modifying and improving his breathing technique. He found it greatly increased his ability to concentrate and to focus on a single task no matter what sort of stress he was placed under. But even Tom had to admit quietly that, at this particular moment, he was testing his newfound breathing skills to their limit.

He looked away from the screen to check a control panel just to the right of his bed. A light was flashing on the strip of shiny plastic. It would have to wait, he thought, and snapped back to the holoscreen. The 3D image of a devil – eyes blazing red, flames licking around a grinning, cruel, mocking face – filled the holoscreen with terrifying clarity.

65

Floor 199, Cloud Tower, Dubai

Steph stared down at Abu who was looking at her, awestruck. ‘You're a very resourceful boy, aren't you?' she said, smiling.

‘I like computers and electronics,' Abu replied earnestly. ‘I didn't steal anything. It was all smashed up.'

Steph lowered herself onto a beaten-up wall outside the shop front of
Cloud Electrics
and laughed. ‘I wouldn't worry about that, Abu.'

He still looked at her seriously, not quite knowing what to make of the E-Force rescuer in her cybersuit.

‘Are you really from E-Force? You're really Stephanie Jacobs?'

‘Yes and yes,' Steph replied.

Then Abu smiled for the first time since the building had been hit almost three hours earlier.

‘Now,' Steph said. ‘Are you alone, Abu?'

The kid shook his head. ‘No. There are some grown-ups in the café.' He pointed along the side of the building towards the Oasis. As they stared, Mohammed and Frank emerged through the doorway.

Steph took Abu's hand and helped him clamber over piles of jagged debris. He called out to the adults as he and Steph came around the far side of the rubble. Mohammed and Frank looked up simultaneously, watching Steph and the boy walk over to the café. The two men stared at the new arrival suspiciously. But then Frank's expression changed to one of surprise.

‘My God!' the Australian exclaimed. ‘I don't believe it!'

‘What is it, my friend?' Mohammed asked, turning to Frank.

‘Only bloody E-Force, mate.'

Mohammed looked confused and stared at Stephanie's strange outfit.

‘The emergency rescue team. You know, “Meet a New Breed of Hero”?'

Slowly a little realisation came into Mohammed's face. ‘I think I have heard of this,' he said slowly.

Steph took a step forwards. ‘How many of you are there?'

Mohammed answered. ‘I've seen some people on the emergency stairs. Five survivors. The last we saw of them they were checking out Floor 198. Our group consists of me, Frank, another man, Saeed Khalid, and two women, Frank's wife, Carmen, and a young American woman, Jessica Frantelli.'

A sound came from the centre of the mall. Steph span around and saw a small group of people heading towards them.

‘They're the people we saw on the stairs,' Mohammed said, a little surprised. ‘Plus a couple more.'

There were seven of them now: four men and three women. They all looked exhausted but one of them, a tall woman wearing a shredded business suit, appeared to speak for them. She looked in her mid-thirties but it was difficult to judge because she was filthy, her hair a mess with black smudges around her eyes and a streak of dried blood running down her right cheek. She had a nasty-looking gash along the other side of her face and blood had dripped from her neck and soaked the collar of her blouse.

She approached Steph and shook her head in surprise. ‘Well, you are a welcome sight,' she said and stuck out a hand. ‘Charlotte Emmington, PA to the Tower Supervisor, Ahmad bin Zadhi. Unfortunately, he's dead.' Her voice was crisp, pure BBC English. ‘This is one hell of a mess, is it not?'

Steph raised her eyebrows. ‘Stephanie Jacobs,' she said. ‘There are seven of you? Have you seen any other survivors?'

The small group gathered behind Charlotte Emmington. All of them were injured in some way or another.

A woman in a torn floral-patterned dress stepped forwards. ‘Only this man,' she said and nodded towards Mohammed, ‘the boy and one other man with them. That was maybe a couple of hours ago on the emergency stairs. I've lost track of time. We tried to find a way down but it was completely blocked. We met Charlotte here and another survivor, Trevor West, about half an hour ago.' She nodded towards one of the men in the group.

‘Let's get you into the café,' Steph said. ‘I can talk to you all and we can patch up your wounds.'

Charlotte Emmington stopped for a second as she passed Stephanie on her way to the café. ‘We are grateful,' she said.