Under Fire: (A Dan Taylor thriller) (8 page)

The security chief lunged at him, grabbed his collar and shoved him against the wall of the building.

‘This is my command,’ he hissed, ‘and you’re nobody. Get out of my sight. You were meant to be here as an observer. Instead, I’ve got one person dead and my boss is in a critical condition.
My
team will handle this, not you!’

Dan pushed the man’s grip off his jacket. ‘Big mistake,’ he snarled.

He turned his back on the man and walked down the alley, pulling his mobile phone from his pocket as he walked, scrolled through the contacts list until he found the name he wanted and hit the dial button. It went to voicemail.

He ended the call, stepped out into the main street and flagged down a black taxi, cursing under his breath.

Malta

Paul Spiteri revved the engines of the multi-million dollar yacht as it broke through the waves of the small natural harbour. Squinting against the glare of the rising sun on the horizon, he smoked a cigarette, his lined face screwed up in concentration. He coughed gently and waved the nicotine-laden air out of the open window next to the controls.

The skipper cast his eyes over the coastline as the engines powered the craft away from the coastline and out to open water. Travelling parallel to the steep cliffs, Paul turned the wheel of the boat and gazed fondly at the familiar surroundings. Unlike the coastline further north, the area hadn’t yet been discovered by mainstream tourists.

After collecting the boat from the Greek Islands for its new owner, Paul had called in for supplies at his home port of Marsaxxlokk before starting the mammoth task of taking the motor yacht through the Atlantic to New York. He smiled, already spending the payment in his mind, while he put the yacht through its paces and ran the final checks before heading towards the international marina at Vittoriosa.

Spiteri steered the motor yacht round a steep outcrop of rocks which jutted out from the cliff face, sheltering the villa above from view. As he swung the boat left and out towards his usual fishing ground, the cigarette fell from his mouth, while Spiteri, eyes wide open, gaped at the sight ahead.

A large black shape slowly sank beneath the surface two hundred metres from the yacht, churning the waves in its wake, and then disappeared under the water.

Spiteri guided the yacht a little closer, awed by the sight. He wiped the sweat from his eyes. As he drew closer, the enormous rocks above blocked the sunlight. Spiteri shivered. He craned his neck, looking up the length of the cliffs. Jagged openings appeared in the limestone rock, remnants of Neolithic and Bronze Age settlements which were rife along the Maltese coastline.

He strained his eyes as the yacht rocked in the waters. Leaning over the edge of the chrome railing which ran the length of the vessel, he peered into the dark depths, trying to spot the shape he’d seen.

Spiteri stepped back to the controls and slowed the engines, before he returned to the deck rail and looked up at the cliff face which towered over him. He thought he’d heard a shout. Leaning out of the wheelhouse, he peered upwards. There was no-one in sight. He killed the engines, and reached into his shirt pocket for another cigarette.

He leaned against the frame of the wheelhouse, smoking his cigarette and squinting down at the churning waters, deep in thought.

The gunshot blew him backwards into the wheelhouse, the bullet exiting through his shoulder leaving a gaping wound. As he lay slumped on the floor, lungs blown apart from the force of the shot, he held his hand up in front of his face, shock and pain registering as he stared in horror at the blood covering his fingers.

A movement in the cliff face from one of the openings caught his attention and Spiteri’s eyes wandered up at the cave mouth as a figure came into sight. It was a man, tall, and carrying a sniper’s rifle, the glare from the rising sun glinting off the sight as the man peered down at him. Spiteri’s eyes opened wide in fright. He tried to scream as the sniper took aim and fired a last fatal shot.

The sniper dropped the rifle, and crawled towards a fifty calibre gun positioned within the cave opening. He carefully aimed at the hull of the motor yacht. Squeezing the trigger, he fired at the fibreglass hull, below the water line.

Using the gun’s sight, the sniper checked his handiwork. Sure enough, water was beginning to leak into the boat. As the weight of the water began to increase, the boat slowly began to sink out of sight, taking Spiteri’s body with it.

Satisfied, the sniper pulled the weapon out of sight and disappeared.

***

The civil servant stepped to one side and allowed Dan into the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

Five men, all with grim faces, sat around an enormous wooden oval table which filled most of the room.

David turned in his chair and stood up to greet him. ‘Good timing Dan. Take a seat anywhere you like. You’ve already met the Vice-Admiral. You also know Sheik Masoud Al-Shahiri and the Secretary of State for Defence’s representative, Hugh Porchester.’

Dan acknowledged the men and took a seat facing the door.

David sat back down and continued. ‘The gentleman to my right is Richard Fletcher, who has carried out studies for the Government in relation to energy security in the UK.’

Dan shook hands with Fletcher. ‘What’s the latest?’

David pointed to a large digital display at the end of the room. On it, a news channel’s footage of the Ras Laffan port disaster played repeatedly, showing aerial footage from a helicopter hovering over the stricken LNG tanker wallowing across the burning jetty. ‘This is.’

Dan glanced at the television report, then at the Sheik. ‘Any thoughts about this message you received last night?’

The Sheik nodded miserably. ‘It would seem my enemies really did not want me to strike a deal with your Government, Mr Taylor.’ He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead.

‘Do we know anything about the waiter?’ asked Dan.

David nodded and passed a photograph across the table to him. ‘Ibrahim Abbas. Born in Markazi Province, Iran. He moved here as a ten-year-old with his parents in 1978 when the Revolution began. Acquired British citizenship in 1992.’

Dan frowned. ‘How the hell did he get caught up in this?’

‘He’s been working for the hotel for the past two years,’ said David, reading from his notes. ‘No criminal record, not even a parking fine.’

‘Could he have been blackmailed?’ suggested the Admiral.

‘I do have a statement from his wife to say he was fond of playing cards,’ agreed David. ‘Maybe he had a cash incentive waved at him.’

‘Perhaps that’s why he was chosen,’ mused Dan.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, the Iranians couldn’t attend the gala themselves,’ said Dan, ‘so perhaps they sent a messenger?’

‘That’s a very strong claim to be making without any hard evidence,’ said Porchester, holding up his finger in warning. ‘We are certainly not going to jump to conclusions.’

‘This could ruin me forever,’ said the Sheik. ‘My family’s reputation…’ He fell silent.

‘With all due respect, Sheik,’ said Porchester, ‘I don’t think we can assume that to be the case until we’ve investigated other possibilities.’

‘It seems highly circumstantial,’ said David. He turned to the Sheik. ‘How long will supplies of LNG be interrupted by this accident?’

The Sheik shook his head. ‘It depends on how long it will take to remove the tanker and ensure there are no pieces left in the seabed in the port area that could damage other ships.’

He sighed. ‘In the meantime, our clients are going to start checking the wording of our export contracts very closely and will probably start charging us for late supply. There are already three LNG super-tankers waiting in the main breakwater to enter port – their owners will be talking to their insurers about our culpability in them losing money while they wait. We also have one fully-loaded tanker in port which has to be checked for damage. We were able to get one Q-Max tanker out of the port and on its way to the UK before the attack.’

‘If I could interrupt,’ said Fletcher, ‘we’ve looked at weather projections for the next three months and the UK’s current gas reserves are not going to withstand a prolonged delay to its supply chain. The demand on our ability to provide sufficient gas for industry and domestic use is going to be immense.’

David glanced across the table. ‘How bad could it get, Richard?’

The other man looked at his hands and Dan heard him sigh before he answered. ‘Based on what happened a few years ago when our supplies were diminished beyond our expectations, we can expect a significant loss of life – mostly in the aged population percentile and those deemed “at risk” by the medical profession. Existing hospitalised cases of pneumonia, that sort of thing. Also, if we factor in the probability of increases in cold and influenza cases due to the cold weather, we’d have to start expecting fatalities in the very young too.’

Dan shook his head. ‘We take it for granted our homes are going to be warm every time we flick a switch,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t seem possible that we’re faced with such a crisis.’

‘Rationing would have to start within days,’ said Fletcher. ‘We can’t predict how long Ras Laffan is going to be out of action.’

Porchester signalled to the civil servant standing by the door. ‘I’ll have my department make some phone calls – we’ll ask the Tunisians to release a tanker to us. At least that will buy us some time.’

He murmured instructions to the civil servant, who nodded once before hurrying from the room.

Dan leaned forward. ‘We should get a team to look into the reports coming out of the preliminary investigations. I’ve only heard of ships this size collapsing in port when they’re fully loaded with ore – I’ve never heard of an empty tanker just sinking, have you?’ He turned to the Vice-Admiral, who shook his head.

‘It does seem strange. I’ll help you with that investigation – we can’t rule out sabotage at the moment. We’ve currently got two destroyers travelling through the Atlantic. I’ll send them to meet the Q-Max tanker – that should stop any attack at sea on those supplies.’

Dan nodded. ‘This might not be a personal attack against the Sheik, but an attack on the United Kingdom’s gas supply. If this isn’t an accident, the perpetrators of such an attack will have put the UK in a very vulnerable position.’

Porchester blanched. ‘Don’t be preposterous! I can’t go back to the Prime Minister and tell him that this country is under attack based on a ship sinking in port! The Sheik is right – this is a local problem, nothing to do with the UK.’ He stood up. ‘I’m very sorry about the whole thing, Sheik, I really am, but these are conspiracy theories, nothing more.’ He turned to David. ‘Send me a copy of the reports as soon as you get them. Then reconvene a meeting and we’ll discuss what
really
happened and what you’re going to do about it.’

Porchester stalked across the room and ripped open the door, slamming it behind him.

‘Well,’ said Dan. ‘That was helpful.’

The Sheik shook his head. ‘I am just glad our computer systems were upgraded eighteen months ago,’ he murmured. ‘If they hadn’t, this disaster could have been a lot worse.’

Dan turned to face the man, and noticed the worry lines which creased his face. ‘What upgrade?’

The Sheik smiled briefly. ‘A British engineer approached us at an energy conference in Dubai. He had invented a computer programme which would sit within our existing controls system. In the event of an emergency, it would allow one system user in the main control room to run the entire facility.’

Dan frowned. ‘How?’

‘The software he designed automatically sourced data in the system which could pinpoint where a problem was occurring within seconds, then protect the facility by shutting valves and pipes around the problem area and isolate it.’ The Sheik paused. ‘Not only that,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘he was also aware of our concerns regarding certain
viruses
that had appeared in the Middle East, software attacks on utilities companies and the like. His programme was designed to attack those viruses and dismantle them in real time – as the virus was trying to attack the system.’ The Sheik glanced up at the news report repeating silently on the wall-mounted television, then back at Dan. ‘His system saved our facility from being completely destroyed.’

Dan leaned back in his chair and looked at David, who was already pulling out his mobile phone. ‘What was the engineer’s name?’

***

‘Grant Swift,’ began the analyst. ‘Born in Bristol, May 1974. Educated at Tudor House in Berkshire, gained exceptional grades and was accepted to Churchill College, Cambridge in 1992, where he studied computer programming and physics.’

The analyst paused and flicked to the next page in the brief. He cleared his throat and made the mistake of glancing up at Dan, who was glaring at him, drumming his fingers on the table.

‘Ahem,’ the analyst coughed, ‘Mr Swift appears to have then accepted a job in the city with IBM where he stayed for eight years before leaving and setting up his own consultancy firm.’

The Sheik impatiently flicked his hand. ‘Yes, yes – all of this I know. I had my own people check Mr Swift’s credentials very thoroughly before we offered him a contract.’ He shrugged and picked up his water glass.

The analyst blushed, glanced at David and battled on. ‘For the first two years of his consultancy business, Mr Swift worked in secret with the Centre for the Protection of National Infrastructure.’ He paused and raised an eyebrow as the sound of the Sheik choking on his water interrupted him.

‘This we did not know,’ said the Sheik, spluttering into a napkin.

David suppressed a smile and indicated that the analyst should continue.

‘During that time, it is likely Mr Swift was assisting the CPNI with investigations into malware and Distributed Denial of Service attacks.’

‘Wait,’ said Dan, leaning forward. ‘What?’

‘Computer hacking and system infiltration attacks,’ said the analyst. ‘Preventing people breaking into organisations’ computers and taking control.’