Andrew Towning
Chimera Code
Andrew Towning
Andrew had his first Jake Dillon adventure thriller published in 2006 — The Chimera Code is fourth in the series. His writing is a reflection of his extensive travels and inherent interest in national security and covert operations. Andrew lives in Dorset, where many of Dillon’s tours take him. Andrew lives with his family and is currently completing the fifth Dillon novel, due for publication in 2013.
DEDICATION
This novel is dedicated to the memory of my Father 1939 — 2012
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks to L and S, two very talented IT Social Engineers who, after a chance meeting in a bar and many conversations later, were unwaveringly generous with their technical advice, interest and most of all their patience during the writing of this novel. You both know who you are! Also, my special thanks to Zoe Wilson whose professionalism, energy and zest is truly inspiring.
Prologue
Assassins
My name is Legion: for we are many.
The old winch-house jutted defiantly out from the jagged cliff top. Sections of the stonework had fallen away far below, revealing toothless gaps in the sheer elevations — the dark smile of an old Ukrainian revolutionary. The two-storey building, that had endured hundreds of years of the harsh mountain elements, had once been the only route up and in to the fortress that over — lord the entire valley for as far as the eye could see. This had long ago been defended against marauding invaders but now and for centuries past, had only been smashed and bombarded by wind, rain and snow intent on a gradual stripping away of its outer defenses.
Something — a quick stealth-like movement — the only sound the rushing of air as it skimmed easily, almost fluidly across the mountain face on the end of the high-tensile line. A figure shrouded by darkness, protected by the night and its moonless sky of brooding black clouds. It landed lightly on the aged timbers of a narrow walkway. And, through the glass of a narrow window, dull light shone out into the gloom.
The figure emerged from the shadows and moved forward with the light-footedness of a stalking cat. Then it paused, listening, a static outline against the night, before sliding once again into the darkness and vanishing: a ghost; mist; a black dream.
There was a deep oppressive silence in the dimly lit corridor, at one end of which was a solid oak arched door, the single portal for the protected sanctuary.
Seated, three heavy-set Ukrainian guards, full beards and their hair grease-smeared and lank, were armed with GRACH MP-443 pistols and shoulder-slung Nikonov AN-94 ‘Abakan’ assault rifles. One of them, sitting with the earphones of his MP3 player firmly plugged into his ears, was rocking back and forth on his wooden chair against the stone wall. The other two were playing cards across a small makeshift table by the warm light of an oil-burning lantern; their brutal scarred features softened temporarily by the amber glow, a bottle of cheap vodka their only shared release from the boredom of duty.
There was a soft clatter, muffled, from back along the shadowed corridor and the two men, who were playing cards, exchanged bloodshot gazes over the smeared bottle. One man, the leaner of the two, removed the American cigarette from his lips and discarded it on to the flagstone floor. “Your turn, Comrade.”
The larger of the two men shook his head. “It’ll be a fucking bear again. They come down here looking for food.”
“Not at this time of night. They don’t like the dark — or the bullets. Go on, you stinking good-for-nothing, go and check who’s there.” He grinned, baring rotten and heavily tobacco stained teeth. “Anyway, we’re safe. If they’d got this far they would have triggered the perimeter sensors. Andthere are Special Forces bodyguards in there with the Comrade himself,” he sneered. “We have nothing to be afraid of.”
Cursing, the other man stood and checked his pistol and Nikonov. The magazines were both full and he flicked the safety off. “I used to enjoy shooting bears” he muttered, and with his bloodshot eyes as alert as they could ever be in the gloom, he left the friendly glow of the lamp.
The other Ukrainian guard sat, shuffling the cards with the expert hands of a man practiced in guard duty. His eyes shifted right to the digital display of the monitor on the wall, its black plastic surround and LED warning lamps out of place against the rough stone work. It registered normal. Nothing. No intruders. Nothing to worry about. But the hi-tech electronics made him nervous. He was a guard trained with traditional weapons: guns and bullets. He did not rate fancy gadgets…
There was a sound somewhere in the distance — almost inaudible — like the air being let out of a tyre.
The seated man frowned, his brow furrowed, his eyes darting over to the LED monitor, then back to the gloom of the empty corridor. He kicked the other guard, who woke with a start and, who instinctively brought the Nikonov, that had been resting on his lap, up in a menacing arc. The other man stood up and with a fluid sweeping action of the back of his large hand, struck the man heavily across the face, knocking him off the chair and across the stone floor. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, but he knew better than to strike out against his superior officer, instead he picked himself up and stood to attention.
The lean Ukrainian soldier moved towards the gloom of the corridor. “Mikhail, are you there, Comrade?” His words echoed, alone, through to the other end. When no reply came, he picked up the Nikonov and switched it to fully automatic. He moved with a smooth military precision that indicated a history of violence and, despite his sleazy appearance, a cold precise professionalism kicked in; he motioned for the other man to stay on guard at the door, as he crept forward close to the wall, suddenly alert, all senses buzzing with a sudden rush of adrenalin. He reached a junction in the corridor and glanced tentatively to the left, gun muzzle tracing an imaginary arc of fire. The half-open distant iron door showed only a beam of faint moonlight breaking briefly through the clouds and spilling over the walkway. There was no sign of Mikhail.
The guard started to back away — and was slammed off his feet, flung against the wall, a tungsten tipped arrow shaft protruding from his forehead. His Nikonov AN-94 clattered deafeningly on the granite slab floor. Blood trickled from the tiny wound, running across his face, and onto his chin and over his fatigues. His eyes, open and lifeless, stared unseeing at the ceiling as his legs and arms continued to twitch, while blood pooled around him from the smashed skull and formed a slowly growing viscous puddle on the floor.
One of ten elite units, supremely proficient and lethally effective in the violent worlds of; counter-terrorism, protection of government and political VIPs and covert operations worldwide. This was supposed to be an easy gig. Protection: close quarters, waiting for one of the British Government’s many top-class analysts to arrive in order to verify certain information carried — stolen — by Valentin Vladimirovich Ivankov.
Ivankov, Russian born, lately of Venice, Italy, and before that involved with some nefarious desert activity in Libya. He was a man with a unique profession. He was an internationally renowned and highly respected archaeologist, but had since his university days been a spy for the former soviet KGB. In the corner of the fortified living quarters sat an aluminium case containing the tools of his trade. The metalwork had been handcrafted to a very individual and precise design: the case had been created with an inner and outer skin with concealed X-Ray proof compartments in between for the sole purpose of smuggling. On this occasion Ivankov was carrying encoded documents stored on an SD (secure digital) memory card, which looked just like the one in his professional Nikon digital SLR camera. He knew the British Government would pay a high price to get their hands on the information that was stored on the card.