Hepton, curious, looked up for a moment from his screen and saw Harry standing just inside the far door, holding it open as her eyes swept the room. She seemed to be carrying a plastic bag.
He froze momentarily, watching her. ‘She’s the one who’s been trying to kill me,’ he stated, his voice cool. Then he concentrated on the screen again. Any second now she would see him. And she would kill him. But he had so little time left anyway, so little time to crack the whole COFFIN thing wide open. And what a foul stench he’d release. So rotten and pungent that no one could ignore it any longer. It didn’t matter if he died right here and now, just so long as he wrecked their plans.
‘Hello, Martin.’
She was in front of him, standing on the other side of the console, her head and shoulders visible above the monitor, the rest of her body hidden from his view. He didn’t glance up from the screen. Instead, with quiet pressure from his left index finger, he pressed the number 2.
ENTER INTERLOCK PROGRAM
A message flashed onto the screen: WARNING! INTERPHASE USER TIME NOW UP. INFORMING CONTROL OF THIS TRANSACTION. PRESS RETURN TO CONTINUE. YOU ARE NOW BEING MONITORED BY CONTROL.
Monitored by controclass="underline" that meant someone would now be watching his every move, ready to negate it if they could. (Harry in front of him! Don’t think about her!) He had to finish this quickly, but without allowing them to work out just what he was up to. (Harry standing right there, a rustling of plastic. The carrier bag.) It wouldn’t be easy.
‘Hello, Martin,’ she said again. ‘Bring your hands where I can see them.’ And this time he did look up. He couldn’t help himself. He gazed towards her dark glassy eyes. And found himself staring down the barrel of a gun, so close that he could swear he could see the bullet resting at the end of the long, long chamber.
Then the gun seemed to speak. ‘Goodbye, Martin.’
38
‘What the hell is this?’
Villiers had ushered Dreyfuss into a series of rooms, separated by glass wall dividers. The rooms were packed with electronics Dreyfuss didn’t — couldn’t — recognise. It wasn’t like in the old movies he’d seen, banks of flashing lights and huge rolls of tape rotating on their mainframe computer spools. It wasn’t even like Argos mission control. It was cool and peaceful, and the machines made a low, soothing sound, while six dot matrix printers disgorged their data and a row of six television monitors showed a mixture of satellite pictures and computer graphics. DAT machines recorded without apparent end the digital transmissions from... well, wherever. Telemetry? Satellite waves? Computer language? Dreyfuss thought all three were possible. COFFIN seemed to have limitless access and limitless funds. But then COFFIN was potentially the largest army the world had ever seen.
And in a corner of this most impressive of the rooms sat Jilly.
Surrounded by state-of-the-art hardware, her captors had chosen a good old-fashioned method of securing her: rope bands looping around her body and the chair-back, and around her wrists; an adhesive gag for her mouth. Except that on closer inspection, Dreyfuss saw that the bands were made of thin plastic strips, secured by metal clips. Unbreakable, and painful to fight and chafe against. He ran to the chair and placed his hands on her shoulders. Her eyes were wild with surprise at seeing him, and she tried to speak, mouthing her frustration against the restraining pad.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked awkwardly, no other more sensible words coming to mind. She nodded briskly.
A man in a white coat was standing over one of the recording machines, checking line levels. He seemed relieved to see Villiers.
‘Thank God!’ he snapped. ‘I’m a scientist, you know, not a bloody gaoler.’
Villiers ignored the outburst. ‘This is Major Dreyfuss,’ he said. ‘And Major Dreyfuss, this’ — pointing his gun hand at the man — ‘is Henry Fagin, head of this... establishment.’
‘A bloody pawn more like,’ Fagin muttered, loud enough to be heard. He was still bent over his machines, moving from one to the next like a commander inspecting his troops.
‘What is this place?’ Dreyfuss said, looking around him. One hand still rested on Jilly’s shoulder, kneading the skin gently, calming her.
The reply came from Fagin. ‘It’s a listening post. Off-limits to Zephyr personnel. They don’t even know it’s here. Officially, it’s an offshoot of Menwith Hill.’
‘Menwith Hill?’
‘Yes. That’s an NSA operation, American personnel. The job is SIGINT, signals intelligence, picking up all sorts of information while it’s in transit.’ He gave a sly glance in Dreyfuss’ direction. ‘Nothing’s safe any more, not if it’s being transmitted. It still gets from A to B, of course.’
‘But on the way it’s listened to?’
Fagin slapped one of the machines proudly. ‘And copied. You name it: telephone conversations, rocket telemetry. Here, take a listen.’ He flipped a switch and a stream of noise started issuing from the speakers set into the walls. ‘Know what that is?’ he asked, his face opening into a smirk. ‘Computers talking to one another. Satellite computers.’ He pointed earthwards. ‘The ground asks Zephyr for close-ups of RAF Buchan.’ His finger jerked skywards. ‘Zephyr transmits this request to the other satellite, which then sends it live shots of a base in Wales, made to look like Buchan.’ He pointed downwards again. ‘Zephyr then sends these pictures to the ground. It’s quite easy if you think about it.’
‘You’re forgetting, Fagin,’ interrupted Villiers, ‘Major Dreyfuss doesn’t need to think about it. He was there when the satellite was launched.’
‘And when the crew were murdered,’ said Dreyfuss coldly. Villiers just shrugged.
‘A US branch decision. What could we do?’
‘I’ll tell you what you did do, though,’ said Dreyfuss, remembering Hepton’s story. ‘You killed a man called Paul Vincent, you tried to murder Martin Hepton, you murdered Cam Devereux, and God knows, that may only be the tip of the dagger.’
Villiers shrugged again but seemed, if anything, pleased by Dreyfuss’ catalogue. He glanced at one of four clocks on the wall, each one set for a different time zone.
‘Harry should have disposed of Mr Hepton by now.’
On hearing this, Jilly screamed behind her gag, her face purple with effort. Villiers was delighted by this effect and lifted his head to laugh. But a choking sound from Fagin cut him off.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
Fagin was studying one of the computer screens. He pressed a few buttons, then studied the screen again. ‘There’s a fifteen-minute access alarm on the interface,’ he explained quietly. ‘And it’s just gone off.’ He turned to Villiers, his eyes twinkling with humour. ‘Somebody’s trying to out-sting our own little sting.’
‘Can you stop it?’ Villiers sounded wary.
‘Oh yes. Every time the intruder makes a move, I’ll just order the computer to make another. A bit like chess. Strange, though. He’s in, but he’s not doing anything.’
As Villiers peered at the computer screen, Dreyfuss knew he had to make his own move. But Villiers wasn’t his target: Fagin was. Fagin could wreck everything. He had to take him out. He threw himself forward and grabbed the scientist, pulling him to himself as a shield, then backed away. Villiers was already aiming his gun, undecided whether to risk the shot.
Fagin saw his hesitation. ‘For God’s sake,’ he pleaded.