Brett spoke. ‘As you can see, I am here on behalf of The American President.’
J ran his hands through his grey hair. ‘I know Smart, the PM took your President’s call. That is the only reason I am entertaining you.’ J didn’t want any American help. He held a personal grudge against the Central Intelligence Agency. The section head in Yemen had let him down badly and four British agents had died with three more still languishing in squalid hell holes that the Yemenis called gaols. But not for much longer, the SAS would sort that soon enough. ‘I’ve read the report but I want you to brief my team. Okay?’
‘Sure thing, J.’
‘Next time and at all times you call me Mr Johnson or sir. Okay B?’ Brett took the point and dropped his gaze. It was pointless arguing with a knight of the realm, Sir Donald Johnson, order of the garter, Victoria Cross and known hard man. J had gone beyond the call of duty when serving his Queen and country. He had given up the lives of his friends when duty demanded. All for Britain. J watched the five elite members of his team gradually assemble in the soundproofed room.
Wolf was the last man to arrive. Brett raised a mental eyelid at the untidy Rastafarian in the dirty yellow and green T-shirt proclaiming “love is free, so was Haile Selassie”, across the front.
Once Wolf had sat down, J introduced each of the team members. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is one of our American friends who wants to shares some news with us. His name is Brett Smart. I can assure you that both the PM and the Home Secretary have authorised total cooperation on this matter.’ He paused for breath. ‘On your left Mr Smart is Sybil – head of counter-intelligence. She and her team comb the world for snippets of information and make them into a cohesive whole.’
Sybil nodded. ‘Like a jigsaw’ she murmured.
J continued. ‘On your right is Matthews – he deals with matters in a more physical way.’ Brett looked at the dude. He looked hard, 2.4 metres tall and built like Shrek but Brett reckoned he could take him. ‘Next in line is Claypole, who is our money man. I can’t afford to ditch him, although in my day, a budget meant less than a budgie and both went cheep.’ Smith smiled at his boss’s little joke. ‘That leaves Morrison – an agent who is the master of twenty languages and a top impersonator and of course Wolf, our head technician.’ J turned to Brett and nodded for him to begin. Brett stood immediately and went to the front of the room as a screen slid from the ceiling. It was the latest LG 96 inch, high definition. Brett pressed the remote control in his left hand and the first image appeared. It was labelled, “Top Secret”.
Brett talked slowly with a southern drawl. ‘I am here on behalf of The President’. As an afterthought, he added ‘of America.’ He said it, to make them sit up and pay attention but it had the opposite effect on the irregular team.
Wolf spoke for the rest of them. ‘Well as a Yank, you wouldn’t be here on behalf of The President of France would you?’ Smart talking Wolf was always ready with a quip. The rest of the team pretended to yawn, waving derisory hands in front of mouths.
J stepped in immediately. ‘Mr Smart, this team is the best we have in MI6 and they, like me, don’t suffer fools gladly. You will find they become interested when the subject becomes interesting.’
Brett decided to cut the preamble and flicked through the remaining images within five minutes. ‘We, The CIA, need help from the top experts in the field of counter espionage. In particular, we need people on side who understand and question what the hell has been happening in the world’s Stock and Money markets.’ A series of graphs flashed across the screen showing the demise of the FTSE, Dow Jones and Nikkei. ‘The arrows in purple indicate the days when we have all seen, that is every one of the G8 countries, the most unstable of trading.’
Sybil queried. ‘We know how bad it has been, so why those particular days and what does unstable really mean in CIA terms?’
Brett explained. ‘As an example, the FTSE and Dow Jones plummeted by 10 per cent yesterday in a coordinated, yes even a synchronised way. No one understands why and of course, statistically it was an impossible event. The time delays, the difference between the computer systems, the type of stocks that fell. There was a definite pattern, a blip that has been seen before. Tracing back, we have three other blips in the last year across the main trading countries i.e. the G8, the eight richest nations on earth.’
Matthews joined in. ‘But there is no major catastrophe in any of the world’s richest countries. So that doesn’t make sense.’
‘Precisely’ said Brett, ‘it was as if the computers had been taken over. Trades were made automatically that caused the freefall in stocks and share prices. The other examples also involved commodities like gold and copper, even cocoa for god’s sake.’
Claypole rubbed his chin as he helped the brainstorming session. ‘The falls – you say were coordinated across all the major trading floors from Tokyo to London, New York to Frankfurt?’ Brett nodded and allowed Claypole to continue. ‘Of course, we know that they are totally integrated in one massive computerised neural network. But do you realise that most of the world’s debt is owned indirectly by the Chinese and oil rich Arab nations?’
Morrison threw his pen on the table and joined the debate. ‘That might explain everything, those damned Chinese are trying to destabilise The West.’
It was Wolf who commented. ‘Why would they want to do that? Our stability is fundamental to the growth of their industry as they supply 23 per cent of the world’s production, they are the number one player now and much higher than the Americans at 18 .’
Morrison was out of his depth. ‘Erm, well it must be the Arabs trying to make us realise that money isn’t everything and Islam answers all our needs.’
Sybil joined in. Her tone was exasperated. ‘Get real Morro, even our CIA man knows that can’t be true. Smart by name, but not dumb by nature. True followers of Allah want us all to live in peace and harmony...except for the Iranian hard liners of course.’
Brett showed the detailed breakdown of the four blips. ‘Lady and gentlemen, we are at a loss why this happened. We have no idea who might be behind it. Nor how they managed it and finally, what the hell they will do next time? As I said, these are blips on the event horizon.’ He turned off the screen and sat down opposite Wolf.
Wolf looked daggers at him. ‘I don’t know you Smart, but I don’t like yanks. In fact I don’t like Smart Yanks asking for British help when usually you profess to know it all.’
Brett remained calm. ‘And I don’t like Brits, Limey. But I do what I am told and my President and the head of the CIA must mistakenly believe that you and your colleagues have some sort of special talent... boy how wrong can they be?’
The two men slammed their chairs to the floor as they stood in anger and faced each other.
‘Boys, boys, boys. Anyone would think you were back in school.’ J’s calm demeanour held a steely warning as they backed down and reluctantly picked up their chairs. Both men continued to sit in silence and glare at each other. J continued as the heat and testosterone dissipated from the air. ‘We know from the heads of state in each of the G8, that nobody triggered any rumours to make the markets melt down. We know that there are no adverse disasters in the world as Matthews pointed out, no Tsunamis or volcanoes. So what do we know?’
Wolf filled the silence with a quiet but assertive opinion. ‘There can only be one answer boss.’ He paused as J turned his piercing grey eyes on him. The stare was scary and made Wolf swallow hard before continuing.
J queried, ‘one answer? Think before you speak please or don’t speak at all.’
Wolf didn’t need to think too deeply. He had been playing scenarios for global domination on his MI6 disaster recovery program for weeks. ‘It’s something I have been computer modelling on our SPAM system. I think someone else is controlling the world financial network behind the scenes. The thing is, they are playing at it, ducking and diving but having a nibble here and there. Almost like a test program.’<
br />
J asked Brett if he understood what was meant by SPAM.
‘Yes. Yes Mr Johnson.’ J paused and glared at the yank.
‘In that case our internal security is not as tight as it should be!’
Brett laughed loudly and turned his attention to Wolf. ‘Come on you crazy Limey, your postulation would take hundreds of the best brains in the world and a monolithic amount of computing power, three times more than the Cray computers we have in The Pentagon at Washington DC and boy is that an awesome amount of computing power.’
Wolf opened his arms in offering on the table, palms face up. ‘Precisely, so where do you get those experts and who has been buying hundreds of servers around the globe?’ They all reflected on Wolf’s wise words. It was just possible, wasn’t it? He added a final rejoinder. ‘If they are serious, this is cyber-terrorism like the world has never known.’
‘How so?’ Brett was now interested in the theory. Wolf was more like himself than he realised behind the crazy demeanour.
Wolf gave his opinion. ‘It seems like they are testing a system. That means the real event could provoke a meltdown of the world’s financial systems, provided they can engineer their resources correctly.’
‘What do you mean by that Wolf?’ Brett started to be more polite out of respect.
‘More brains behind the technology, computers never make decisions which are as intuitive as the human brain. Humans make the real decisions and humans must lurk behind your blips.’
J loudly clapped his hands together. ‘This is your brief then gentlemen. Examine all server sales over the last three years and try and find a pattern. Also, start laterally thinking within your departments and tell me where the devil they could find enough people to do this. We reassemble at 4 am, you have 24 hours to answer these questions.’ He stood quickly and marched out of the room, leaving the others to slowly follow.
Chapter 4
The Place
Sunday morning was always taken at a slow pace in the George household. Jack and Timmo sat on the bench drawn against the breakfast table and waited impatiently for one of their parents to rise and serve food. The very thought of helping themselves to cereals was totally abhorrent to the pair of them. Jack was showing his younger brother a few of the fight moves he had learned at school before the summer holidays. Timmo the dimmo hadn’t quite worked out why Jack did the moves and he suffered each time because Timmo, being a dimmo, hadn’t asked to try the same moves on his elder brother.
‘Do you get it yet?’ Jack had Timmo’s head tucked under his left arm in a vice-like grip and was proceeding to bang his head on the hard pine top.
‘Ummmm....umm noo...’ came a muffled reply.
‘I said do you get it?’ He let Timmo go free.
‘That was a good move bro. It really hurt!’ Jack ruffled his brother’s hair. He didn’t hate him, it was just that he got in the way sometimes. Timmo continued as he straightened his clothes. ‘Did you learn anything else from your mates at school?’ Jack smiled with glee at his brother’s innocence and grasped Timmo’s bare wrist with both his hands.
‘We call this the Chinese burn.’ Twisting opposite ways the skin was stretched to breaking point. A scream rent the air, causing dad to rush into the kitchen from the bathroom upstairs. He had half a face covered in shaving cream. ‘What is it? Who’s died?’ He relaxed immediately as he saw the Chinese torture occurring on the breakfast table. At least there was no blood to clean up, this time.
He said, ‘boys will be boys’ and turned to leave them to it, as his wife followed him into the kitchen and spun her husband around to join in her recrimination.
‘Brainless boys and clever girls. Sometimes I wish I had had a daughter, a nice charming girl like Kate.’ Her boys both put their tongues out and pretended to gag at the thought, whilst nudging each other in the ribs. Timmo nudged a little harder than Jack expected and then a little lower than expected, which winded Jack for a good two minutes. Dad was placing Shreddies and Coco Pops on the table with full fat milk.
Timmo asked in his nicest, creeping voice. ‘Dad...can’t we have croissants out of the freezer today? Please dad?’
By this time, Jack had recovered and joined in. ‘No, you need to eat healthily, especially after the F and C last night.’
Jennifer put her arms around her two boys. ‘Are you going to promise your mum you will behave all day? I can’t think what you might find to do with all this holiday? Let me try – what about cricket?’ They both shook their heads negatively. ‘Fishing in the pond then? I know, you want to clean your dad’s and my car?’
It was Jack who remonstrated first. ‘Mum... we have only just broken up for the holidays, chores are definitely out.’
‘Even for £5 a car?’
He thought for a moment. ‘It’s a deal, £10 for two but no chamois leathering.’
She wagged her finger at him. ‘No, £10 with chamois leathering and including hoovering out the insides.’
Jack hesitated too long as Timmo offered his services. ‘I’ll do it mum. And yours dad.’
His dad was apologetic. ‘You can’t do it Timmo, you know you always leave marks on the paintwork or get distracted spraying the hosepipe everywhere.’
Jack closed the deal. ‘£10 for two, right? Leathering and hoovering but cash in advance.’
His mum stepped back and looked down at her beloved boys. She had her hands on the hips of her pink fluffy dressing gown. ‘It’s a deal but you have to let Timmo help and pay him £3.’ Jack sulked and didn’t reply. ‘And also, I will bake you both some croissants’.
‘Deal mum!’ came in unison.
The boys were hyper, making dad turn away in despair. ‘Why do I bother? All my discipline through the week and then your mum blows it away.’ But he was joking, he too wanted to spoil his boys.
* * *
Roger and Kate called at The George’s house to collect Jack and set off towards their secret hideout – The Place. Licko the dog, ran in front of them and sniffed each post and rock in strict sequence, whereas Timmo lagged 20 metres behind the group, pretending not to follow them, although he knew exactly where they were going. 20 metres behind Timmo lurked Wispy the cat, happy to tag along in the background and always hoping the children would share any food.
Jack turned back and shouted at his brother. ‘Get lost dimmo, you are too young to come with us.’ Timmo politely imitated Jack by loudly shouting back.
‘I’m only four years younger and remember that last time when I made you all a cup of tea.’
Kate looked knowingly at Roger before addressing Jack. ‘It’s no trouble at all if he hangs around with us Jack, really no trouble.’ Jack picked up a stone and turned to throw it at his brother. It landed close to Wispy, making her leap to one side and stop her pursuit. She thought it was meant for her personally and so she slunk off home.
‘Get lost I said.’ Roger tried to appease his mate as he turned back around.
‘Really, it is really no trouble at all Jack. He did make a rather spiffing cup of tea last time we were at The Place.’
Jack shrugged his shoulders as he spoke. ‘You two don’t understand what a pain younger brothers can be. I love him dearly but...’
Kate clasped Jack’s arm making him immediately pull away. She said plaintively. ‘Don’t ignore him Jack. The love within a family is everything in life, nothing else really matters apart from your health.’ She was of course making him feel part of her pain, as her words reflected the sadness when she lost her mum.
He sighed and shouted over his shoulder. ‘Okay Timmo, you can make the tea again and for goodness sake, don’t come too close to us until we reach the house. Somebody maybe watching!’ They were two poor excuses to welcome him and reject him at the same time but Timmo was delighted to be considered old enough to join in with Jack’s gang.
‘The Place’, was an old Georgian House with beautiful columns either side of its huge panelled door. It had been built in 1786 and wa
s set slightly outside of the village with five acres of formal gardens, which were now Christleton’s playing fields.
The red brick walls were still very much the same as when it was built, but many of the windows had been broken with stones thrown by the children of the village and all the blue paintwork had nearly peeled off the window frames and doors. No one in the village knew who owned it, They knew it was built for the Jones’s who had controlled the canal basin and locks under Chester’s city walls. The Jones’s fortune had been built on the trade up the Dee estuary, from larger ports like Ellesmere and Liverpool. Moving products by barge on the inland waterways, but as the river silted up, and the first railways were built, the family’s fortunes had gone into decline. Some distant relative who lived in Spain, now owned the old house but they never visited it. They considered it as “money in the bank”, an asset to be sold as a nursing home someday after the debt crisis had come out of its treble dip recession.
The children glanced up and down the road to make sure no one was watching them and then in a single line, they clambered through the hole in the beech hedge facing the morning sun. Scrambling up the overgrown and steep lawn, they approached the side of the house and surreptitiously lowered themselves one by one down the open hatchway that led to the cellars. Licko was told to ‘stay’, by Roger and the dog crept under the nearest stand of privet to relax in the shade with his tongue out as he panted from his exertions up the road.