Chapter 81
Sweat continued to trickle down the prime minister’s forehead. Calla’s mind could sense his thoughts and his heartbeat sounded loud in her head. It was days like these she wished she couldn’t dig deep into dangerous minds and record their thoughts. Though still not clear what he was hiding, she didn’t like it.
“Don’t know what this is all about,” he said, barely concealing his irritation.
“You have that kind of money otherwise why would a hacker risk getting a message past GCHQ noses and right into your inbox? Should I send my decryption to them? I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to relate the details of the full message in plain sight to you.”
“No! Don’t do that.”
He lowered into a seat by the table and placed his head in clasped hands for several moments. “Okay, it arrived two days ago. I’ve been trying to send the money undetected to the buyer, the auctioneer as you mentioned.”
“Bingo. Looks like my work here is done. I suggest you report this to the British Museum’s head curator of lost art and the proper authorities.”
Calla glanced round the room, her senses drawing her to the shelves along the wall. Three art volumes, all recently used, drew her attention. She could almost smell the sweat deposits produced by someone in a hurry.
She zeroed-in on the fingerprints and sent the information to her brain that ran them through a database via a microscopic nerve that Jack, her ISTF agent friend, had implanted in her brain.
The nerve behaved like a smart central processing unit. The outer layer of her eye received transmissions and sent it to the nerve that projected images directly into her eye. Five hours spent at the ISTF headquarters had allowed her to memorize every criminal database in existence. An exercise she’d found daunting, to the point of fainting. But they had to know what she was capable of.
She blinked, capturing images within her line of sight, which was three times better than twenty-twenty vision.
She blinked again. The nerve running through her eye lens connected to the downloaded government services. Just as she’d thought. The fingerprints weren’t registered on the MI6, ISTF or the Metropolitan Police databases.
“How did you know it was art on offer? Nobody knew,” the prime minister said.
“There are artifacts people will pay ridiculous sums for.”
“Was that information in the message?”
“It doesn’t have to be. A large chunk of the Bayeux Tapestry has been missing for centuries. Seems like you have a little habit of collecting rare, stolen or missing artifacts. Is it a hobby or a bad habit?”
His expression dulled. “How did you know it was the Bayeux Tapestry?”
“There are many things a museum curator must know about art. Only the rare, missing or stolen pieces are priced above their value. A quick tour of your den tells me such art is of interest. There are books with three bent pages on your shelf, all addressing a common subject, prime minister, the Tapestry’s real and black market value.”
“How do you do that? You didn’t even look at them.”
Calla ignored his question, reached for a book and ran her finger down a bent page. “The Bayeux Tapestry tells the real story of William the Conqueror and Harold, Earl of Wessex, the men who led the Norman and Saxon armies in 1066?” She closed the book. “Surely a prize for any art collector.”
“Yes, I’m aware.”
“Then you’d agree that it’s arguably the most famous piece of embroidery in history. But its real value is the missing piece. The Tapestry shows the Norman conquest of England, and it’s rumored to be a marvel of medieval Europe. However, since it was found by scholars in the eighteenth century, its original final scene has been missing. Looks like this hacker has found it and offered it to you.”
“Can you trace where this hacker is?”
“The message says they’ll contact you. You don’t contact them. I’ll try to establish the identity of this person. Have you met them by chance?”
“No.”
“Why can’t you report this to the responsible authorities that I’ve told you what the message says, prime minister?” Calla said with an air of indifference.
“It’s not only the Bayeux Tapestry that’s on offer.”
Calla stopped and turned her head.
The prime minister’s eyes lit up. “I assume the artifact has been thrown in to get the real deal. That’s why I bid for it.”
Calla set the book down on the desk and turned with a quick snap of her shoulders. “What’s the real deal?”
“This hacker hasn’t only accessed my password and everything about me. They first came proposing they had the Bayeux Tapestry, but they also said they had more.”
“How did they first contact you?”
“Through a black Internet portal that only members can access.” He turned the laptop. “See this. It’s called the Vault, I’m told,” he said pointing to an email with the same symbol she’d noted.
He reached for the laptop and tapped a series of passwords including a fingerprint scan that launched a secure website. Calla glared at the monotone website dominated by the same symbols in the cipher, a series of gibberish code.
“Are you saying you are a member of a secret buyers’ club for stolen art?”
He nodded.
She pursed her lips. “How so?”
“First, I was just buying lost art. I know, a despicable habit of mine. Yet now I fear as prime minister the stakes are higher.”
Calla’s heightened senses picked up movement in the curtain. A shadow. At first, she ignored it but then it appeared again.
This time by the door.
Calla’s mind calculated the speed of the bullet and stretched for the prime minister launching him to the floor. A second shot reverberated on the lower floors. Then loud footsteps charged to the closed door.
An ambush.
Calla set a firm hand on the prime minister’s back. “Stay down and don’t move.”
He whimpered as Calla shot up and charged to the door.
It was ajar. She slammed her shoulder against the frame, crashing the door against a forceful boot until it slammed in his face, keeping him out. She locked the door.
She heard more thuds beneath them.
There were two of them. A swift pop meant fire exchange with the security guards had begun and they were onto the intruder downstairs. She drew in a sharp breath. But she’d seen a second attacker in this very room. The prime minister remained covered with his giant hands over his ears.
The strike came from above.
Calla glanced upward where a dark-suited figure clung to the ceiling with his bare hands. Her eyes fell on the mechanical grippers attached to the gloves, inspired by gecko feet, and suit that the intruder used. Calla had first seen them in use at the ISTF training center in Isleworth, West London. The figure crawled along the ceiling, his suit gripping the surface of cement like a giant lizard hunting prey.
Calla pursed her lips and anger crossed her face. They’d been busy in that ISTF technology lab taking inspiration from reptiles and now, a suit not yet released to ISTF agents had been stolen. She studied the intruder move along the ceiling, possibly aided by synthetic materials; carbon nano tubes to be exact, that behaved the same way as geckos.
The underside of the dark suit glimmered in the light displaying what looked like tire tread covered with millions of microscopic hairs each splitting into hundreds of tips. That’s how they gripped onto the wall.
He was an operative and one out of order bringing an unfair fight against mere low-tech armed security guards.
Calla took a deep breath.
Like a lizard, he clung to the ceiling, his head dangling upside down and swung his leg at her. She retreated evading the thrust of his boot. The attacker leaped off the ceiling and landed with a thud on the oak floors. He shot up and slowly advanced.
Calla froze. She had to get to an advantage position quickly and hold it.
He lunged forward with a fist that zipped past her chin as she drew her head backward. Calla remained still in an en garde stance, her fingers knotted in a ball, bouncing on her toes.
He was now two meters from her, his feet on the ground masked with a visor he was a mystery to her, but his cowardice became clear when he reached for a small fire arm. Calla had seconds and slammed the pistol out of his grip. His frame drew into focus and he turned his head to the whimpering prime minister.
She realized his intent. Calla placed herself between him and the prime minister and high-kicked him in the jaw. He reflexed back for a second and came in for the shove. She kneed him and he went down grunting. His body collapsed in a dead faint.
Calla circled him, studying the dark suit. Before she could remove the mask, twitching movement drew her eyes to his curling fist.
Instinct slowed her response when he lunged upward and dove in for a tackle. She stepped in and hammered him in the stomach with her elbow, then stepped through his legs and launched him over her shoulder.
For close to ten seconds he remained immobile on the floor.
She spun facing the back of the den and checked on the prime minister. Byrne sucked in small intakes of breath as beads of sweat poured down his forehead. His stunned eyes narrowed with suspicion.
Their attention turned to the attacker who shot to his feet with a thud. “Prime Minister Byrne. You like a gamble.”
The hoarse voice barked the words almost spitting them. It was a her. “The list is going to the next bidder.”
Calla couldn’t place the voice.
With that, she shot past Calla and threw herself out the window. Calla dashed to the window and searched the night as she nursed her sore hands.
He, or more like she, was gone.
Calla turned to the prime minister and watched him draw himself into a sitting position. She headed back to the desk and grabbed the tablet. The emails suddenly self-erased. The beeping ceased and the message disappeared. A clever hack that could erase itself. She’d memorized the ciphers. They were now the only clue to how easily a hacker had infiltrated government systems. She headed to the door as a security guard drew into frame.
“Is the prime minister okay?”
“He’ll live. Is Mrs. Byrne all right?
“Shaken, but fine,” the guard replied.
“Who were they?”
“No clue but they carry very sophisticated firearms. Far better than anything we’ve ever seen. They came in through the windows. Were they here the whole time?”
“No,” Calla said. “But long enough.”
The earlier hot summer’s day would explain that. Though the evening had cooled off, the top floor windows had been opened to draw in a breeze but not those on level two or down, protocol for special government buildings.
When she was certain it was clear she made her way to the prime minister and queried his eyes. “What is ‘the list’?”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
“I’m afraid it does.”
“A list will be circulated in a digital auction to a group identifying themselves as the Blackhorse Group if I don’t pay up,” Byrne said. “They are giving me a first glimpse … a first opportunity to bid, if you like. No! We can’t let that happen,” he said with fierce self-control.
“Why not? What is this list and who is auctioning it? What do you know?”
The prime minister barely concealed his irritation. “I’m afraid you don’t want to know what the list is. It will ignite war, a cyber war among bidding countries.”
“Explain that.”
“I don’t know what the list is exactly, but I know there are certain superior technologies that will impact our planet’s future that are up for grabs on the list to be submitted to the digital auction. Think of it. Technology science and technological secrets from around the world. The auctioneer has them and the country that gets ahead will have advantage.”
“What sort of technologies are we looking at? Biological, military—”
“Miss Cress, decades ago it was the space race, then it was the arms race, I’m afraid in today’s world it is now the technology and science race that will determine the superpowers of the future. I’ve heard rumors the Blackhorse Group will get a first pass at the bidding. One by one advanced technologies valuable to any government will be auctioned off on the black Internet, the Vault, and we don’t know what they are.”
“I see.”
“But there is another thing, what’s to say that some of what Britain holds dear is not on that list? My private details and files could be the first things being auctioned on that list. We either stop the auctions or get in on them immediately.”
Calla suddenly understood. Byrne had gambled. “What do they have on you and how did they get it?”
He remained quiet.
“Tell me more about the Blackhorse Group individuals?”
“I don’t know much. All I know is when I first refused to pay…”
“First refused? So, you’ve been in communication with them?”
He turned to the security guard. “Leave us.”
The guard glanced at Calla for a few seconds and then turned to leave.
“I was looking for a simple way to transfer the funds for the Tapestry undetected and that was why I hesitated. I have money in offshore accounts and with my policy on offshore tax evasion, I couldn’t be seen indulging.”
“That’s why the hacker sent you a probing message to pay up.”
“Exactly. When I missed the deadline, that’s when the messages about the list came. The first messages were clear. This is the first encrypted one. I started to panic. Suddenly I knew it wasn’t about art anymore. They had my details, my secrets, the government secrets and God knows what value that would fetch on the black market.”
“You think you’re on the list.”
“Yes. A hacker will send government secrets to the black Internet and sell access to our governments most classified information and technologies. And who knows who is in this Blackhorse Group. Enemies, allies…what I know and have access to is powerful. I shouldn’t have gambled. It’s now costing me the government.”
“Looks like the hacker sent you not only an encrypted message tonight of what physical havoc they can do, but what damage they could do to the country, potentially civilization.”
“And our allies.”
“Prime minister, have you opened wide our government secrets to a criminal because of your insane love of stolen and rare art?”
“I can explain.”
“No need. If you’re on this list and they will expose it if you don’t pay up, then there’s more to be had and sold. What is the hacker really selling and why?”
“What’s to stop this hacker from selling the list even if I pay up? How does anyone get to participate in the digital auction?”
“Invitation only.”
Calla scanned her mind for the memorized encryption. “Why would they send this to you if you couldn’t read it?”
“Chances are they thought I would find someone in GCHQ to read it and further expose me. That’s why I called you, the Decrypter.”
“I’m going to have to join the auction to bid for the list.”
“You can’t unless you are a member of the Blackhorse Group.”
“Something tells me you might be.”
A mask of fear gripped Byrne’s face. “You don’t understand.”
Calla met his gaze squarely, mocking his fear. “Try me.”
“I was invited to join the group the day I was elected. I ignored it until they came and invited me again in my second year of office.”
“In an online auction, I take it?”
“Yes.”
“How did you first get involved with them?”
He winced for a moment. “Natalie.”
“Your wife?” Calla said, a flicker of surprise choking her voice.
Calla paced the room slowly. “You’ve not only been buying stolen art but have been willing to buy government secrets from your very own allies. This haggler will sell the secrets to any bidder. What are those secrets? What are we dealing with? Do we have to buy them back?”
“I don’t know exactly what is being auctioned. GCHQ tells me the Blackhorse auctions shift each time in cyber space. They’ve been monitoring the group for a while. These auctions have happened before, but they know nothing more.”
“Nothing?”
“They don’t know how they happen or when or who is controlling them. All we know is that, as a government, we need to be part of the auction. These auctions are a dangerous threat to global and national cyber security. The technologies they use are so sophisticated. Today they are selling art, tomorrow perhaps the codes to biological warfare. What will they auction next and how? I need you to take care of this. That list can’t be auctioned. If government files are on it and I mean government secrets, details on nuclear technology not to mention trade secrets, God knows what else this hacker will do.”
“You have been busy, Prime Minister Byrne, has the job been boring? Unfortunately, I didn’t sign on to do anything of the sort. That is, bail you out of abusing your position.”
“If you don’t there won’t be a government to protect anymore you’re the only one who can fix this, Cress. I don’t know how you do it, but you fixed the last two cyber binds the country was in.”
Calla sank into the seat, crossed her legs and clasped her hands with her back aching from her earlier struggle with the intruder. She clasped a hand over the back of her neck. “This isn’t really a cybercrime as much as it is a moral bind that you’re in.”
His eyes begged her to consider. Her skin prickled at the tension radiating from him. “My guess is that this person isn’t only after making a buck. That’s too easy. They chose you because you have access to much more. “
“How do you know that?”
“A hunch.”
Her head turned at a shuffle by the door. Three security guard rushed in followed by Mrs. Byrne.
The first man’s eyes bulged as he spoke. “Prime minister you need to see this.”
“What is it?”
“I think you need to follow me.”
The prime minister’s eyes drifted to his wife. Natalie had narrow eyes the color of fine silver. Her straight, brown hair was worn in a style that reminded Calla of a drifting cloud. She was very tall and had a curvy build. Her skin was cream-colored covered by a wardrobe that was typically practical with a lot of white most times Calla had seen her on TV or in public. Tonight, white was the color of her cheeks as well as fear clawed through her.
The group followed the security personnel to the upper floors until they made it to the master bedroom. Luxurious fabrics and restored antiques personalized every inch of the room. Natalie Byrne was a woman with expensive taste much like her husband.
“Eric,” she said. “This came on to my tablet a few minutes ago.”
Mrs. Byrne handed the tablet to her husband. “What’s going on here? I was trying to sleep when I saw this and called security.”
Calla eyed the tablet in her hands. “May I?”
Natalie glanced at Calla for a few seconds not sure what to make of her in her private room.
“It’s okay, Natalie. She’s here to help,” the prime minister said.
Calla took the tablet. A black screen beeped with red laser shafts streaking from left to right in synchronized lines.
“I was browsing the Internet when a personalized message appeared,” Natalie said.
Calla looked at her briefly. “What did the message say?”
“It was a voice message. Encrypted and deep.”
“It told me three times to take a message to my husband. But it didn’t tell me what the message was. That’s when I alerted security.”
“When we got to it, the message stopped instantly,” said the security man.
The tablet beeped and ran several lines of encrypted data in fast movements as Calla focused as the same code scrolled from left to right. “I’ll need to take this to have it fully decrypted.”
The prime minister asked the security guards to leave. He then turned to Natalie. “Miss Cress is the best cryptanalyst the government has seen and she works for one of our secret government agencies the ISTF. She takes after her father who once was MI6’s best. We can trust her. She is a special cyber and cultural agent for the British government.”
Natalie dropped her shoulders before heading for the door without a word but a simple nod of acknowledgment.
Calla’s stare met the prime minister’s. He made a visible effort to hide his anxiety. “I know what you are going to say. This is a mess. I have three more years in office and I need to clean up my act. I’ve asked you once before to lead ISTF, not only the UK arm, but I would give you every intelligence necessary if you would consider leading the full organization. Look how you decrypted that message.”
“I don’t need a title or an organization.”
“Is it the same hacker?” he said possibly remembering his earlier ordeal with the break in.
“It’s the same code for sure. But I’m going to need more time on this one.”
“It’s about the list, isn’t it?”
“Frankly, I’ve had it with this mysterious list. I need you to tell GCHQ everything you know.”
“They are on a need to know basis. Michael Compton and his team at GCHQ don’t come even near to doing what you can with a cipher.”
“Does ISTF know about the list?”
“No. When we joined ISTF, we agreed that our government first establishes what we want to know before we involve the full alliance and four other governments.” He stepped closer, his eyes bulging. “Someone is on to me and knows how to wage in and out of here, one of the world’s most secure residences. Unannounced and undetected they have shown skills and technologies that we are still stringing together in our military labs. What was that thing in here earlier?”
Calla observed the angst in the prime minister’s eyes. It was hard to believe he was one of the most powerful men in the world. But something about this list and a hack into his personal shady affairs had torn his insides more than getting caught. There were many unanswered questions, like why would a hacker send him a message he couldn’t read and no government code breaker either.
She’d unscrambled many unreadable codes in the last several months but no one knew her ability to decipher just about any document, language or puzzle. Could it be that the message wasn’t intended for the prime minister, but for her? Was it for secret eyes only? Who were those secret eyes? No, it couldn’t be.
Chief of ISTF was a tall order for anybody. That’s why she’d turned down the prime minister’s offer. At twenty-eight, she was one of the youngest curators at the British Museum in London, in charge of the late Roman and Byzantine collections. That’s all she’d ever cared to do until the then head of ISTF, Mason Laskfell, had taken an interest in her peculiar abilities first evidenced when he came to the British Museum to review security procedures of “natural treasures” as he’d called them. “Incidentally you are one of them,” he’d said.
She remembered wincing. She was hardly that. Calla had just been promoted to curator having worked her way up from cataloger, to restorer and then to curatorial assistant. Holding masters degrees in two fields of specialization, Linguistics from Cambridge and History from the University of Chicago, her ability to see historical data and information as the lifeblood of human advancement allowed her to perceive the world in more accurate detail than the average person.
Her skills and proficiency at paying special attention to specifics were needed at the British Museum. Most days at the museum she evaluated the best way to preserve waterlogged, wooden artifacts, conducted x-ray analysis, tracked inventory and submitted items for radioactive dating. But that seemed a long way from what she was doing now. Cracking codes and ciphers, and wrestling any criminal that got in her way.
As a linguist and historian, periodically various organizations like ISTF and even the government called on her for her special knack in restoration science and her knowledge of the role languages play in social and cultural situations. She’d often tackled sensitive intelligence, sometimes relating to the methods of cipher communications used by domestic and foreign powers.
“You okay?” the prime minister said.
Calla raised her chin. “This is how this will work. I’ll do this on my terms. First rule, I only trust two people. I won’t give you their names. You can continue to wonder. I need full access to classified government information I deem necessary to do this job.” Calla squinted. Something wasn’t right. “If this note on the tablet says what I think it does it’s not just your bank account that’s in serious trouble.”