Two black clad soldiers got out of the 4x4 as he approached them, one took charge of his canvas holdall, and the other ran a handheld security scanner over his clothing. He got into the rear seat and a moment later was being driven along an unmade track towards, Castle Drago. High trees were moving past on either side and the vehicle soon drove through the gloomy sanctuary of the woods and out into the rugged Cornish landscape.
Dillon wound down the window and breathed in the pleasant fresh scent. Rain spat through the gap and he revelled in the shocking coolness on his face. He saw himself imposed over the image of the rolling countryside: Dillon, reflected in glass — unruly dark hair, heavy stubble, dark brooding eyes. A somewhat weathered face that had taken one too many punches. A strong chiseled chin — he thrust it forward, and then grinned weakly at his reflection.
Ugly bastard, he mused, and subconsciously pulled out the packet of cigarettes and lit one, reminding himself that he really should quit.
The castle was impressive. Completely restored. Very expensive.
Dillon went through the usual security scans and check-in rigmarole and was then shown up to his room by one of the uniformed orderlies. He immediately unpacked, showered and shaved, and then spent twenty minutes thoroughly searching the room for bugs and cameras. Satisfied that his room was neither bugged with listening devices or cameras he then went and familiarised himself with every aspect of the castle. He walked around, smoking, checking out entrances and exits. He sat for a while in the main lobby, watching the people coming and going, and being eyed himself by two of the security service guards armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 machine carbines. A waiter approached and asked him if he required a drink. He asked for a single malt whisky and then shook his head, telling himself off.
You’ve got one day left before Kirill and his niece arrive, he mused. The last thing you need is alcohol to blur your thinking.
Ignoring his own advice, he ordered a bottle of the best single malt from the castle’s cellar to be sent up to his room. When the waiter had disappeared he went outside and stood under the high covered portico and smoked a cigarette. The rain was still falling heavily and the wind was not giving in — blowing a gale from the west. He finished his smoke and went back up to his room for a drink and to watch TV for a while before dinner.
He sent an email to Vince Sharp in London, to which the reply was almost immediate. Keep off the booze! He laughed, and downed the glass of whisky in one gulp. He felt the tension he had been feeling since his arrival at the castle temporarily leave him — he refilled his glass, but again the guilt of having even a single drink nagged at him. It was always the same thoughts that returned with the booze — was he going mad…
“ I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Jake. Your mind is all over the place and running a-muck everywhere you go.” Issy had shouted this at him as she’d walked out of his apartment and out of his life for good. And her words had haunted him ever since.
He had let Issy walk out without a proper farewell and had thrown a long friendship into oblivion. She had known there was a problem — a needle in his mind, a splinter through his soul — and had begged him to tell her what was wrong. But he could not. How could he describe the feeling he got when he killed in mere words? How could he define the torment and torture, his misery — that came afterwards?
He could not — would not — expose that part of his psyche to anyone…
Dillon laughed drunkenly at that and refilled his glass, spilling whisky over the back of his hand. He could remember when the black beast had first manifested itself and, how he had to admit to himself, that without it he would almost certainly be dead many times over by now. This part of his mind, that he could neither understand or get away from in his life, had pushed him on to murder without mercy or compassion.
Dillon felt weakness and this enigma inside his head was untroubled by fear or doubt or even consequences and had maimed and slaughtered with precision and yet.
Dillon couldn’t help wondering if he would rather be dead. What it would be like — to be normal, without the killing?
What life would be like — if he had chosen a different path to walk along?
Dillon fell into a fitful and uneasy sleep, images of the people that he had murdered in the line of duty floating up from the depths of his mind. They accused him, fingers pointing, silent dead mouths open and screaming at him.
F&CI Com-intercept. Transcript of recent Reuter’s news article.
Reports have been flooding in from all of the major banking institutions around the globe of a potentially malicious computer virus attack — so far unnamed — which has apparently indiscriminately entered tens of millions of machines in quick succession and within thirty seconds of even the most powerful network systems booting-up.
From America to Iceland, from London to Sydney. No country or major city is unaffected. According to IT analysts and experts, the suspected virus has been placed at the highest level of threat and enters the network through a back door using Port 7597. Once in, it detects and installs itself in sectors of the operating system where it then remains in what appears to be a dormant state and with no apparent detriment to the infected machines. Because of the speed at which the virus replicates itself, the hard discs are being urgently examined by a number of anti-virus software organisations who are already estimating that should the virus become malicious it is likely to cause upwards of US$6.5 billion damage.
IT experts predict that there is a secondary script hidden within the main body of the virus and that this is likely to contain the real threat. This element of the virus will deliver the payload — with devastating effects. The banking world is still coming to terms with this massive global security breech and is now on high alert. However, there is no way of knowing when the real attack will take place or whether anti-virus software can be written fast enough… The question is why has this virus been released on the world of high finance — and to what end?
Chapter 2
Dillon woke early the next morning, got out of bed and immediately wished he hadn’t. The pounding in both his temples made him wince, like hitting your thumb with a hammer, that sort of pain. He made a mental note to quit the cigarettes and the booze just as soon as this assignment was over. Outside it was still raining persistently, as it had been when he had arrived in Cornwall the day before, heavy thunderous skies painted a dreary and miserable picture for the day ahead.
He phoned down to housekeeping and ordered a full English breakfast with coffee and toast to be brought up to his room. Ten minutes later there was a knock at the door and a uniformed orderly stepped into the room and placed the tray down onto a circular oak table by the window.
As Dillon was finishing breakfast; the mobile phone that Tatiana had given him in Scotland, started to vibrate on the table. He picked it up and was not surprised to have been sent an email from Edward Levenson-Jones. It simply outlined the timetable that he would be working to for the next few hours and gave him the location address for Professor Kirill’s lectures. Dillon was somewhat surprised that Kirill was not giving his talks inside the well equipped conference center at Castle Drago. His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing tone of the bedside telephone, the sergeant major at the other end informed him that his transport and escort detail were waiting outside the main entrance.
The Range Rover swept through the heavy iron gates and up the gravel drive, went through a stone archway and parked in a large walled courtyard at the rear of the impressive period house. Dillon checked the mobile phone for any messages and then accessed three coded menus; the phone flickered at him with red digits. Dillon smiled