The Pulsar Files, page 10
part #1 of Matt Flynn Series
David, Sir Raymond’s personal assistant, opened the door.
‘Good morning, David, how are you?’ Matt asked.
‘Good morning, Mr Flynn. I’m fine, thanks for asking. Here, let me take your coat.’
Matt handed him his coat and David turned to hang it.
‘Let me take you through to Sir Raymond.’
Sir Raymond Deacon was the antithesis of everyone’s idea of a baronial house inhabitant. He didn’t wear tweed, he didn’t drive a Rolls Royce, smoke cigars or speak with a plummy Oxbridge accent. Sir Raymond, a former Scotland Yard Assistant Commissioner, was the main architect of HSA and temporarily took over as Director when Gill took a bullet, putting him out of action for three months. Sir Raymond could shoot, didn’t grumble about spending hours in a surveillance car and was a good interrogator of scumbags, some just as likely to spit on their questioner as talk to them.
‘Matt, it’s good to see you again,’ he said throwing his newspaper down and walking over to shake Matt’s hand.
‘How are you? Come over by the fire and take a seat.’
The drawing room of dark, wood-panelled walls, traditional furniture and a large fireplace, which someone of Matt’s height could walk inside, matched the exterior of the house. He took a seat on one of the settees, set either side of the fireplace and opposite the Eighth Baron of Clifton and minister at the Home Office.
‘I hear good things about HSA, Matt. A few chief constables and a couple of government ministers who should know better envisioned an unwashed and bloodied Jason Bourne roaming our streets, pointing his gun at petrified passers-by. I think Gill has steered the organisation close to the original vision set out in my paper, a cross between US Homeland Security and the FBI, strong investigative skills coupled with the power and muscle to back it up. Touch wood,’ he said tapping the fireplace, ‘no banana skins yet.’
‘Surprising given the fine line we walk.’
It was good to hear Sir Raymond’s vote of confidence. Even though Matt regarded him as a friend, his department would have no compunction shutting down HSA if the clamour of MPs and the public, alarmed at their methods or lack of success, became too great.
The door opened and David came into the room wheeling a trolley. Matt always felt spoiled whenever he visited Clifton Manor as ‘coffee and biscuits’ was never less than could be found at afternoon tea in one of London’s top hotels. The following day after a boozy night always left him feeling hungry. He and Emma didn’t leave The Star until closing time, she drowning her sorrows at the death of a suspect and Matt joining in just to be sociable.
He filled a plate with a couple of sandwiches, a few biscuits and a slice of David’s wife’s signature Battenberg cake; baked nectar.
‘What case are you working on at the moment, Matt?’
He explained about Katić and his suspicion about a tie-in with the balloon accident in Oxford.
‘It amazes me we’re still letting these people into the country.’
‘A false passport and a new identity as a tractor salesman. What can we do?’
Raymond pulled out his notebook. ‘I don’t know but I’ll damn well ask Border Force. If we can find a way of stopping these people at ports and airports, you and everyone else who are trying to make this island more secure will find the job very much easier.’
‘I can’t argue with you there.’
‘How’s Gill?’
Matt talked to him about HSA’s boss, the Director Templeton Gill, although Raymond seemed to know well enough.
‘How’s Lisa?’ Matt asked.
A cloud passed over Raymond’s usually optimistic face.
‘No change since your last visit, when was it, six weeks ago?’
Matt nodded. ‘Sorry it’s been so long.’
‘Don’t worry, I know you’re busy. She still doesn’t go out, stays in her room and doesn’t say much.’
‘Post Traumatic Stress Disorder affects everybody in different ways. Not every reaction has been documented either.’
‘The doctors say the same and I tell you Matt, I’ve seen enough of the men in white coats to last me a lifetime. Despite spending my entire career in the service of government, I’d resign on the spot if they ever tried transferring me to the Department of Health.’
Matt smiled and knew he wasn’t joking. ‘I should go up and see her. She can probably hear us talking.’
‘Go on. She loves it when you come to see her.’
‘Don’t I remind her of what happened?’
‘I asked one of the psych doctors and he said no. She rationalises the incident. You’re part of the solution, not the problem.’
He climbed the stairs with some trepidation. Such a lovely girl, Lisa, but unable to leave the prison she had created for herself. Six months ago, Matt rescued her from the clutches of an Arab terrorist. His explosive device failed to detonate as the ministerial car containing the Defence Secretary arrived outside the Home office where he was attending a meeting. He then began firing at the minister’s bulletproof car with an AK47 and when the bullets didn’t penetrate the interior, grabbed the nearest passer-by and highjacked a car. The kidnap victim was Lisa Deacon, when she came out of the building after visiting her father.
Not content to wait until he reached heaven and received his promised gaggle of virgins, he couldn’t resist Lisa’s obvious charms and raped her time and again. Matt often experienced remorse at the taking of a life but not this one. Her attacker was dead before he hit the ground. He did Matt a favour by pulling out a gun as no way did he want the terrorist’s ugly mug being plastered all over newspapers during a long and expensive trial which would only torment his victim one more time.
He knocked and on hearing her say, ‘Come in,’ he pushed open the door.
She had her back to him, writing something as she sat at the elegant mahogany bureau.
‘What is it Dad?’ she said in an irritated voice that teenagers reserved for talking to their parents.
When he didn’t reply she turned.
‘My God! Matt, it’s you!’ She pushed her chair back with some force and rushed towards him. She threw her arms around him in an almost child-like gesture. If Emma was standing beside him, she would suspect something untoward was going on between them.
‘It’s so good to see you,’ she gushed, struggling to get the words out. ‘It’s ages since the last time you came to see me. Come on,’ she said taking his hand, ‘sit with me at the window.’
‘How have you been?’
‘Same as before,’ she said as her sunny disposition faded like the warmth when the sun disappeared behind a thick cloud. ‘I’m still scared to go out, and I spend most of the time in this room with my laptop and diary.’
Aged twenty-three, Lisa at times spoke and acted like a teenager, as if the ordeal she’d gone through had knocked years off her age. Her reaction at not going out, not saying much, losing contact with friends was extreme but not unusual in PTSD cases, according to many psychologists. It would take time and luckily that wouldn’t present a problem as her father was rich, and he could hire any professional help he cared to if he believed their contribution would make a difference.
‘The last time we met,’ Matt said, ‘you told me you were writing your own comments on social media instead of just reading what other people were up to.’
‘That’s right and now I’m getting good at it. Come and I’ll show you what I’ve been doing.’
Chapter 19
‘You don’t answer my calls or emails for weeks and when you do, you tell me I’m the nastiest hack who’s ever set her scaly paws on this earth,’ Louise Walker said, her face red. ‘Then yesterday, you ask me to drop everything and come to Oxford and talk to you. Please explain; I’d be very interested to hear what you’ve got to say.’
They were seated inside a pub called The Head of the River, close to the window. This was where Louise wanted to sit, against the wishes of Chris Anderson who said he didn’t want to be visible to anyone outside. His choice of seating was in the depths of the bar, beside a continuously beeping gaming machine and within sniffing distance of the urinal, clean at this early hour of the day, but still smelling of strong chemicals. Her dad often said she could be as stubborn as a mule and he had a point, as all her journalistic training told her to kowtow to the demands of a valuable source like the one in front of her, but not today.
She’d been to Oxford three times before on the off-chance of an interview with ‘the boy who survived’, but each time she returned to London empty-handed. Now, at the point when Jed, a handsome colleague at the national newspaper where she worked, had finally summoned up the courage to ask her out, the call came from Chris begging her to come to Oxford.
‘What can I say, Louise? I’m sorry for giving you the run-around, and to show my appreciation, I’d like to buy you a drink. What’s your poison?’
‘Apology accepted; a Diet Coke please.’
‘I think you’ll need something a bit stronger when you hear what I have to say.’
‘Oh, go on then, you’ve twisted my arm. Make it a vodka and lime.’
‘Coming up.’
He turned and walked to the bar. The barman ambled over to him with the easy manner they often reserved for quiet lunchtimes, the customer interrupting his perusal of the sports section or the pretty girls on the centre pages. Chris returned a few minutes later with her drink plus a whisky and a pint of ale for himself.
‘Splashing the cash about aren’t you, Chris? Are you trying to spend all your student loan before you go back to university?’
‘I’m surprised you’ve heard of student loans, you being Scottish and all.’
‘I live in London for your information, but I’m a journalist, I know all sorts of things.’
He sat down with his back to the window, glancing over his shoulder before reaching for the whisky glass and taking a gulp. ‘Medicinal purposes,’ he said, ‘I don’t often drink spirits but I needed something stronger than beer.’
‘Fill your boots.’
He put his drink down and leaned towards her, speaking in hushed tones. ‘I asked to meet with you today because I think I know the reason why my family was murdered.’
‘What? Whoever said anything about them being murdered? I’m here to talk about someone left orphaned by a tragic accident.’
‘Things have changed. I’m talking about a serious investigative story here, not a feature on some five-minute celebrity. Can you handle it or do I need to be talking to someone else?’
‘Of course I can handle it, don’t you worry. I’m just a bit shocked by what you said.’
‘You sure, because this is big?’
‘I’m sure you’re right but what makes you think they were murdered?’
‘It’ll make more sense if I show you.’ He lifted the laptop beside him, opened the cover, tapped a few keys, and turned it round for her to see.
‘Read this email.’
She scanned it, part of her mind believing this was some sort of a wind-up, his way of getting back at her for some insult or factual error in the many articles she’d written at the time of the accident.
‘Who’s Daniel Leppo?’
‘He’s Head of International Security at Dragon Technologies.’
‘International being everything outside the US?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who’s the guy the email was sent to?’
‘Latif Artha.’
‘And?’
‘He’s a ballistics and helicopter expert at an equipment testing company called QuinTec.’
‘Chris, this Q&A session is all very interesting, but we could go on like this all day. Why don’t you just cut to the chase and explain to me what I’m looking at? Tell me where you got it and how it’s related to the balloon accident.’
‘Sorry, I’m being an idiot. You’re right.’
For the next fifteen minutes her head began to fill with a host of new words, acronyms and ideas, words like Dragon, Pulsar and the Arrow Battlefield System. ‘So,’ she said after he stopped for a breather, ‘you think people at Dragon Technologies are out to get you because you hacked into their computers?’
‘I thought so at first, but it would be a bit extreme, don’t you think? Companies are happy to see hackers hauled before a court and thrown in prison for a couple of years.’
‘If you’ve annoyed them this much, did you do something more than just muck around with their systems? I’m not an expert on those things, but did you leave behind a nasty virus or wipe important files?’
‘No, I would never do anything like that. It may surprise you, but there are ethics among hackers. I’m what’s called a white hat hacker, not a black hat hacker, if you know the difference.’
‘I don’t but I can guess. A bit like white witches and black witches.’
He didn’t respond to her little dig and carried on. ‘I think they’re pissed because they know in the documents I hacked from their system there’s enough evidence of illegality here and in the US, for the UK government and NATO to wash their hands of any interest in their new helicopter, the Pulsar. It’s such a big deal, it would in all likelihood bankrupt Dragon and make a dent in the finances of their US parent company.’
‘If this is true...’
‘Of course it’s bloody true! Do you think I’m making this up?’
He turned to look out the window again and she noticed his hands trembling.
‘Calm down Chris, no need to attract any attention to ourselves, even if it’s only a small group of locals more interested in their beer than what we’re doing.’
He turned back. ‘Sorry, but if you don’t believe it’s serious, take a look at this.’ He retrieved the laptop and spent a few minutes tapping the keys before handing it back. ‘There are memos here written on their headed notepaper detailing payments made to UK politicians, visits to nightclubs, the use of prostitutes, trips on private yachts, the whole stinking mess.’
She scrolled down the screen at a steady pace and it didn’t take her long to realise this material was something her boss would call ‘prima facie’ evidence. Something they could publish and withstand external scrutiny, despite the threat of litigation.
She blew out a long, slow puff of air. ‘Some of the names here I recognise, MPs and senior military figures. You’re right, Chris, maybe I have been a bit too cautious in not believing you at first.’
‘If just a small part of this gets out, it would blow the lid off Dragon’s dirty can of tricks and force the police to look at them for killing my family.’
‘It would put the boot into a few political careers at the same time, I would think. What I need to do now is to sit down for a good hour or so and go through each of these documents in detail and send a sample over to my editor, see if he can sort the legal end out.’
‘Excellent news, I think we’re getting somewhere at last,’ he said rubbing his hands together in obvious pleasure. ‘You make a start and I’ll bring over some more drinks.’
‘No, no. I can’t work here,’ Louise said. ‘I need a quiet space, free from distractions,’ and pushing her half-finished drink away, ‘I need to keep a clear head.’
Louise and Chris left the pub a few minutes later and climbed into Chris’s car. Chris drove while Louise called her boss, Kingsley Vincent.
‘Hello Kingsley, it’s Louise.’
‘Now if it isn’t Scoop Walker. What have you got for me this time? I know, another big story about your drunken countrymen, or do you need me to authorise your travel to Ibiza to chase a recalcitrant father who’s holed up in a nightclub?’
‘Very funny. Any more of this kind of talk and people will think you like me.’
‘You know I do, Louise. I hide it well.’
‘Listen carefully, I think I’m about to make your week.’
‘I doubt it unless you’ve decided to resign.’
She tried to speak but her mouth clamped shut as a white van rocketed out of a side road and slewed across their path. Chris jammed on the brakes and stopped in time. To her horror, the doors of the van flew open and two men got out and ran towards their car, their faces set in stony seriousness.
Before she could scream ‘road rage,’ or ‘drunk driver,’ Chris bellowed in her ear, ‘It’s them Louise! Do something!’
The passenger door of their car opened and a hand reached inside and grabbed her arm. Without thinking, she swung the phone in her hand, her boss still on the other end of the line, and whacked her assailant hard on the side of his temple with the edge. To her surprise, his knees buckled and he and her phone dropped to the ground. She leapt out of the car, took one look at the stricken man, on all fours and trying to get up, and swung a foot at his wedding tackle with a ferocity she didn’t know she possessed.
She ran to the front of the car where the other attacker was hauling Chris towards the van, his arm in a stranglehold around his neck
‘Hit him Chris!’ she shouted, but he didn’t respond either because he was too frightened or couldn’t hear. She looked around for a weapon, and spotted Chris’s laptop lying inside the car. She ran over, grabbed it and raced towards the struggling pair. She lifted it high above her head and crashed the edge down on the back of the assailant’s head. It didn’t have the same debilitating effect as her phone on the other guy, but enough to slacken his grip. Chris struggled free, his arms and legs flailing in a wild panic. In the resultant melee, Chris’s thumb jabbed into his assailant’s eye, causing him to double over in agony.
Chris stared uncomprehending at the injured figure in front of him, and for a moment she felt sure he was about to lean over and apologise. Chris’s car was unusable, jammed right up against the van and with several cars stopped close behind them. Gripping the laptop under one arm, she grabbed Chris’s hand with her other hand and ran across the road, dodging through slow-moving traffic as cars tried to weave their way past stranded vehicles, towards a waiting bus. While they waited in the queue, she stepped back to look at the scene, making sure they weren’t being followed. They climbed aboard.
