Chapter 48

 

 

DAY 2

 

 

1133 hrs.

 

A hand nudged her shoulder. “Get up!”

Calla’s eyes rolled with heavy lids struggling to stay open. The dense liquid had repressed her. Her head pulsated as if her skull had been used for drumming practice. She wasn’t sure how long she’d suffered loss of reflexes, sensation, and consciousness. After several attempts her eyes stayed open, barely making out the images in front of her. She gazed up, taking in the comfortable space, which after a few seconds she recognized as the empty first class cabin of a British Airways 747.

Calla rose from a semi reclined position in one of fourteen seats, where she imagined she’d slept unconscious. Uncertain how long, she rubbed her eyes and mopped sweat from her perspiring brow.

Her eyes fell on a strong face. A man, probably in his mid-thirties with deep-set black eyes, short black hair in an uncomplicated crew-cut style above a square face and defined cheekbones. Lacking any empathy in his eyes, she didn’t recognize the athletic individual whom instinct alerted was doubtless a proficient field agent. She should know. She’d been around enough field ops by now.

With broad shoulders and clearly less than twenty percent body fat in one lean physique, he gaped at her. He reclined in the compartment next to hers, looking something like a hawk with an agenda. A trained operative no doubt. Mindless captor!

Her first instinct was to fist his leering face. He wore worn dark-blue jeans, a smart shirt under a navy jumper and a stylish, black-leather jacket. His military boots looked new and Calla imagined he was methodical in his ways.

Convinced she could outmaneuver him by making a dart down the cabin stairs and off the plane, she decided against it. Yet questions infiltrated her mind. How had he forged a passport and transported her unconscious from the Colorado slopes? Who was he? How dangerous was he?

She recalled the blast . . . Nash . . . the gagging feeling.

Calla raised her head an inch. “Where are we?”

He rubbed his tight jaw. “You’ve endured quite a ride. How’s your head?”

His English was faultless with a hint of an international, American twang, and tones not readily associated with any single state or city. Calla massaged her temple with her left hand and scanned the cabin. “Where are the passengers?”

“Disembarking.”

“Where exactly are they disembarking?”

He remained silent, his expression revealing complete nonchalance. Her eyes wandered round the cabin before glancing outside the windows, where she caught sight of parallel east-west runways. “Heathrow.”

She attempted to stand, then felt resistance from her arm. Her eyes wandered to her wrist, where her left hand was cuffed to his. She eyed the man in front of her, anger welling in her face. It was more proximity than she wished of anyone, although under other circumstances, she might have found him uncouth, almost intriguing. “Is this necessary?”

“Sorry, but my orders are to not let you out of my sight. I know you could make a quick getaway given half the chance.”

Calla’s eyes narrowed, darkening a shade. How had the thorough agent hauled her through airport security and on a plane, without interference in Colorado from border authorities? Was he working with the Metropolitan police in London? Was she under arrest? For what?

She grabbed the edge of the seat. “What do you want?”

He smirked. “If it were up to me, I would make some rather thought-provoking requests right about now.”

Calla straightened her neck to relieve the ache in her shoulders. “Watch it, errand boy.”

He altered the position of his head slightly so he could observe her with depth. “Why you would choose to associate with someone unsuitable for you, I’ve no idea.”

“No, I wouldn’t imagine it to be in your capacity.”

He raised his chin. “You could do better.”

“You don’t measure up to him. Nash is three times the man you are.”

He moved in and touched her warming cheek.

Calla steered as far away as the restraints would allow. “Back off.”

He drew back. “However, I’ve only been instructed to bring you in alive, and if need be, use whatever methods I consider necessary.”

Calla despised his complacent tone and self-assured manner. She turned away from his musky smell, a man secure in his physique. He made sure every inch of him screamed of masculinity attempting to make members of the opposite sex idolize an encounter with him. Her stomach churned at the notion. “You need a sedative for that testosterone overdose.”

She glimpsed at her disheveled clothes and noticed that she still wore the same jeans and the knitted sweater she had on the afternoon Nash had taken her to explore Almont.

What had become of her snowsuit? Calla rose and studied the man opposite her who was a good few inches taller than her. “What did you do to Nash?”

“You need not concern yourself with amateurs.”

“You mean like you.”

She tugged at the cuffed wrist. The abrupt movement sliced a tiny tear in the leather of his jacket. “And you are?”

His face rearranged itself into a grin, taken aback by the strength in her tug. A gleam appeared in his eyes. “You can call me, Lascar.”

“Get these off my wrist, before that cocky face suffers some minor scaring.”

“Not likely.”

“Tread lightly, Lascar.”

“Calla Cress. That is your name. Here’s how this will play,” he said, glancing out the window at the last disembarking passengers who made their way into the terminal building. “You’ll come with me, quietly.”

He padded his coat pocket and exposed a concealed Sig226 handgun in the inside of his jacket. “I’ll lead the way. We’ll mosey through the diplomatic immigration line arranged for us, just as we did in Colorado. Keep your cool and I may have just enough fortitude to resist the urge to break your arm.”

Calla crushed an impulse to resist. Was he serious? Did he think he could force her through Heathrow? Through London? Where would he take her? Where would the journey end?

Agent or not? How did you get a gun on a commercial plane? Perhaps, he was connected to the government or maybe ISTF.

Calla scrutinized the etched lines on his face, and shunned the permanent sneer that kept resurfacing. She could do little while still cuffed to him. She’d play along for now, and forced her rigid body to relax. “What are we doing in London?”

“This is your home is, isn’t it?”

She shrugged.

Outside, the crew took leave of the aircraft. Lascar jerked her cuffed wrist. “Let’s move.”

She resisted for three seconds. “And if I don’t.”

He leaned forward, positioning his head inches from hers, his eyes fixed on her focused gaze. “I’ll be more than willing to continue the journey the same way it began.”

He heaved her toward the exit, a shove that bruised her upper arm. Lascar padded a small, medicinal bottle in his other jacket pocket, proving the lengths he’d go to obtain her cooperation.

Chloroform, no doubt. One of the original anesthetics used in early operating procedures.

How primitive.

Calla took two steady paces to the cabin staircase, then swiveled round as she set foot on the bottom of the stairs. “Where are we going?”

He pressurized her arm tighter nudging her forward. “Your questions are not mine to answer.”

 

 

 

COTSWOLDS, ENGLAND

1145 hrs.

 

The taut, BMW S.X. Concept decelerated into the secluded driveway with its hardline nose moving toward the grand oak entrance. Set in the scenic, rolling countryside, the ancient manor lay in what Nash imagined were once attractive gardens, overlooking a sixty-four-acre estate.

The lights of the manor were on. Nash switched off the engine, parked the car in the pebbled, parking space and pushed the door open. He stepped out on the dusty driveway. Stan Cress, Calla’s ex-MI6 father was home.

Nash caught sight of several cement bags in the compound, a few meters behind a heap of light construction equipment. Was Stan refurbishing? He didn’t strike Nash as one to stay home at any length, given his past in the Secret Intelligence Service or better known as MI6.

Nash’s eyes moved to the west wall of the manor. Part of the Elizabethan Cotswold estate was singed with black soot, still visible from the chimney stacks and the gabled, turreted style of the front wall. He paused for a few seconds and stared at the door. So much for the break from this. He’d learned as much as he could from Stan about Calla’s past, but much of it was still a mystery, especially her family history. Someone had taken Calla from him and she needed help. Stan hadn’t given her all the answers. It ends here, and today.

He moseyed up to the front entrance and rang the doorbell. A few seconds later, a tall man of athletic build appeared at the wooden oak door. His aristocratic stance called for respect, which Nash assumed he’d often received.

Nash evaluated his emerald eyes, a shade darker than Calla’s. Stan’s hair was graying but evermore elegantly than most. He stood staring at Nash with a strong and rugged profile. “I was glad to get your call. Come on in.”

Nash strolled into the entryway behind Calla’s tall father. The interiors could have used help, even though the home had once been exquisite. Judging from the stone structure, Nash’s historic interest in architecture told him the principal part of the house was probably finished in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Partly timbered, the main construction was set in honey-colored, Cotswold stone.

They digressed through the Tudor-style wing corridor with its leaded windows, before settling into a light kitchen that had recently undergone modern renovation. The revamped stone floors, molded plaster paneling, colored marble finishing and refurbished stamp work, visible along the kitchen wall, all added to the recent repair works.

Stan strode to a glass cabinet and pulled out an espresso cup. “May I offer you something?”

“No, thanks.”

Stan studied Nash for a moment before reverting to his coffee making. “What brings you here?” he said, pausing as he brewed a shot of black espresso working carefully with the amount of water, pressure and timing of his loud machine. “I’m glad you came. You and Calla disappeared with no trace.”

Stan bore a smooth expression as he swerved round to face Nash.

Not certain he wanted to discuss his little escape with Calla, Nash took a seat at the kitchen table. “That was her call. Perhaps you can tell me what she was running from. After all, from the minute she was born, you orchestrated events around her life.”

The machine frothed a strong scent of capao, a dark roasted Brazilian bean. Stan filled his cup with the caffeine and a dose of steaming water before taking a sip. “It wasn’t a decision we took lightly.”

“You wanted to keep her from the operatives. Why?”

“Nash, why now? What’s this all about?”

Nash ignored his drift and drew his brows together. “Isn’t that why you came looking for me with Colton from CIA?”

Stan grimaced twitching his left cheek. He guzzled the hot liquid and made himself another Americano before switching off the machine. “Hm—”

Nash felt a lump in his throat. Would Stan tell him more now than when they’d first met? “Stan, thirty years ago you came to the CIA and asked them to help protect your family after you’d deciphered quite a large chunk of the Deveron Manuscript, and before you hid it. Colton was heading the government’s Paranormal Espionage Program at the time and was a good friend. Wasn’t he? He came to me and told me about your dilemma with British Intelligence Services.”

Nash watched for a response before continuing.

None surfaced.

Nash’s jaw tightened. “They wouldn’t protect your family despite the years of service. You left Calla at the orphanage and two years ago, you and Colton, though retired sought me to find and protect her.”

“And you did a splendid job.”

Nash scrutinized Stan’s face. “She’s gone. And if I’m to help her, I need you to tell me the truth. I’ve come to get your help.”

Stan placed the empty cup on the granite counter, his face thunderous. “Calla’s gone? What do you mean gone?”

Nash pursed his lips. “Kidnapped.”

Stan moved to the table and took a seat opposite him.

Nash leaned forward a sense of determination growing in him. “We started talking months ago when you asked me to protect her. You told me details about the operatives. Some were difficult to believe, some made complete sense. But I now need to know it all. The more I know, the more I can help.”

“What do you need to know?”

“At that time, I didn’t ask. All I cared about was making certain I understood whether the operatives posed any threat to US national security, especially around their guarded cyber activities. But that was before I met Calla.”

Stan’s face was carefully controlled as he watched Nash in silence.

Nash’s mind swirled with doubts about the man, his motives and most importantly his feelings. He’d willingly abandoned his daughter, yet kept an eye on her from a distance, choosing not to contact her all her life, until six months ago.

Was he all right? He was struggling with something, especially when Nash had mentioned Calla’s name in relation to the operatives.

Stan rimmed his coffee cup with a rigid finger, anger crossing his face. “Who took her?”

“I was hoping you could tell me?”

Stan dipped his head slightly. “Laskfell?”

Nash shifted in his seat, rotating his broad shoulders as he recalled the trouble Mason had caused them. He hadn’t thought about him after he’d escorted the criminal with the Metropolitan police to Belmarsh. “Mason’s behind bars awaiting trial due to start in a few days and he’ll probably be extradited to Langley. His are crimes under law in the UK and the US.”

“Calla has never been safe the minute Mason learned of her existence.”

Nash refused to register the significance of his words. “Mason can send an assassin after Calla, but this time, I don’t think it’s him.”

“Then who is it?”

Nash shot up and ambled to the window overlooking a sizable conservatory. “I think it was an operative, you know, supposedly one of the good guys?”

Stan was silent for several seconds. His shoulders hunched in defeat. “So, they’ll not leave her alone,” he said quietly.

Nash swiveled to face him, an imperceptible tone of pleading attacking his voice. “Why, Stan? Why won’t they leave her alone?” He tossed a hand in the air. “I closed my eyes to anything related to the operatives months ago. All I care about is her.”

Stan gently drummed the cup on the counter. “You love her, don’t you?”

Nash did not respond. He burrowed a hand through his hair. More than she’ll ever know.

Stan stood and took the empty cup to the sink. “I’m not sure you’re ready for what you’re looking for. These operatives have ways that frustrated me for years. Calla has never been safe around them.”

Nash squinted an eye as Stan’s face hardened, blood rising to his cheeks. He spat in the sink. “This is exactly why we hid the Deveron Manuscript. Calla and the Deveron are like a cord linked at conception. She can’t escape it. Her mother and I tried.”

“I’ve listened to enough of that. Calla can decide who she wants to be. And from what I see, she has. She left London wanting to shove the whole operatives business behind her.” He pushed his hands in the pocket of his dark denim’s. “From what I’ve investigated of the operatives, I can’t say I blame her.”

Stan watched him with a squint in his eyes. “What bothers you about the operatives?”

Nash’s expression shifted as a state of numb dread settled in his gut. “I used to think my job was to apprehend criminals, serve my country home and abroad. For a while, I did all right. But the moment I was asked to investigate the operatives and their cyber capabilities, somehow these operatives are—”

“Be careful what you say, Nash. I don’t think it was always that way.” Stan joined him by the window, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe Calla can change that.”

Nash searched Stan’s thoughtful face. “How?”

“Have you caught the latest intelligence on Mason?”

Nash watched as the older man, though on in years, yet very much lithe in build, tried to change the subject. “I’ve been on a plane for more than ten hours and drove straight here as soon as I found my car.”

“I’ve been doing some investigating myself and follow British intelligence coming from Belmarsh. Call it a curse, I can’t leave the life of a spy, especially now when it concerns Calla. I owe her much.”

“What about Laskfell?”

Stan meandered to a pile of papers on a table next to the wood-burner, perhaps the only decorative piece in his kitchen. “I came across this.” He picked up the stash. “A day ago, a British Museum curator visited Mason and she left Belmarsh incapacitated in an ambulance.”

Nash reached for the papers and scanned them. “This is Veda Westall, Calla’s boss. What’s wrong with her?”

“From what you see there, it’s not clear, only that she lost sense of reason and her body collapsed in shock. That top form is her medical analysis at the scene. She was the ninth person to fall victim to what is puzzling ISTF and MI5 at the moment. The baffling thing is, the whole time, guards are present. Mason has no physical contact with any of his victims when they are debilitated.”

Nash felt his body tensing, recalling the look in Mason’s eye when he’d hurled him over a boisterous African waterfall, in Uganda, leaving him to his death. “How’s he doing it? I inspected his cell myself. Jack and I know every item of technology in that cell. Something must be on camera. Have all the visitors reacted this way?”

“They all leave in similar conditions.”

“Why has the magistrate not withheld Mason’s visitation rights?”

“Up until now, his victims have recovered. At least the doctors narrow it to shock. Except, Westall. She’s in a coma.”

“No. Not her.”

“One other person has also been left unharmed. Allegra Driscoll. About the surveillance cameras, nothing is unusual.”

Nash paced the length of the kitchen before settling his back against the sink. “I wonder whether the rumors are true—”

“What rumors?”

Nash studied Stan’s face ignoring his query. “There’s something authorities are not paying attention to.”

“Like what? That’s just it, Nash, no one so far can figure it out.”

“Impossible. There’s an explanation for everything.”

“I hear you, Nash. But remember who we’re dealing with. Laskfell is no ordinary prisoner. He has sinister ways that few know of, heightened capabilities and astuteness. And honestly, secrets best kept buried in that judicious brain of his.”

“You mean like Calla?”

“Every operative is different and has different potencies. We need to figure out Mason’s strongest ones and what he intends to do with them.”

“But what has that got to do with Calla?”

“Mason is up to something, and something the operatives don’t like.” He eyed Nash, his face marked with loathing and pain. “The operatives need Calla. Hers are the only capabilities that match Laskfell’s intellectually, physically and psychologically. She’s the only one whose genetic makeup is identical to his. And he knows it too.”

Tightness formed in Nash’s eyes. Any threat that came Calla’s way depleted him in ways he was could not explain.

Stan was not done. “And Nash, she’s in serious trouble if they plan to do what I think they will.”

 

 

 

1202 hrs.

 

The walk through immigration had been swift with Lascar flashing a set of credentials in the diplomatic line, undisputed by the UK Border Agency. Once outside Terminal Five’s international pickup point, a 360-Rolls-Royce Phantom waited with two discreet operatives lingering at the doors. Calla studied their nonchalant manner, as they acknowledged Lascar and waited for them to settle in the back seats.

The first man, a hefty Ghanaian took the driver’s seat and the second, a slim, red-haired individual, settled in the passenger seat. Is this how far Vortigern is prepared to go? Abduction?

Calla set her head against the headrest of the limousine, her mind conspiring punitive thoughts. What the heck is Vortigern thinking? He’d sent a special operative in Lascar to find her. Why?

Calla glimpsed in the dark mirror ahead as Lascar sank into the seat next to her, nearer than she appreciated. She turned her gaze out the window at the drab, London, October mist.

They zipped on the M4 highway to London and Calla avoided eye contact. She churned thoughts around her head. What would she say to Vortigern, the operative who’d revealed much about her ancestry and her special assignment as an operative?

Assignment? She wanted none of this. Just to move on. She’d just turned thirty and had spent most her life in doubt. She was beginning to make sense of it. And now this!

Her chance at a life with Nash, who’d been vindictively ripped from her side, was gone.

Was Nash all right? What had they done to him?

Mission? Calling? Calla didn’t believe in such things. A rational individual, she’d always been an academic. Logic and reason had been her rear guard, until six months ago. Back then, her life had altered, discovering she could achieve feats most men and women could not imagine. Calla could combat with the forte of three men, defy gravity and her acrobatic aptitude and heightened reflexes when it came to danger were above normal. She needed Nash to help her hone this incomprehensible prowess. Nash, of all people, knew field work firsthand, a former marine and lieutenant having trained soldiers and military ops for years. He knew the real her. No one else did.

Was she ready to face it all again?

Heck! They’d forced her to reconsider her decision, her anonymity and . . . She would need to use every restraint to face whatever Vortigern had in store. Calla bit her bottom lip prepared for their pending meeting. Whatever Vortigern wanted, Lascar was privy to and only too willing to assist in the endeavor. They exchanged no words for the hour’s ride into the fatiguing, concrete and glass intricacy of London City, a small part of the metropolis and a leading center of global finance. The historic core of greater London came into view, strewn with tapered skyscrapers, hoarded by a sea of focused traders.

What were they doing here?

The Phantom pulled up in front of the Gherkin skyscraper, with its spiraling pattern of diamond-shaped windows. The iconic landmark was recognized as one of the city’s most important examples of contemporary architecture, given its spiraling diagrid geometry. She held back the urge to break the cuff restraint on her hand, outsmart Lascar and permanently wipe the smirk on his face.

If Lascar were an operative, how much did he know about her? Every operative was different with varying strengths and proficiencies. Call it curiosity, she wanted to know what Vortigern wanted with her. This time she wouldn’t be trusting. Anyone who interfered with her was to be kept at bay.

Did Vortigern mean harm? I don’t think so.

Lascar tried to hide his intense inquisitiveness about her. Though hostile in every manner imaginable, she guessed he wasn’t as hawkish as he seemed. Just an overdose of masculine conviction. Though determined to sway her with his intimidation, it spelled out one thing. Machismo!

Lascar jerked Calla out of the Phantom. She glanced up the forty-one floors of the arch shaped skyscraper with its alternating pattern of dark and light colored glass. Minutes later, they proceeded through to the glass elevator. Lascar called the thirty-ninth floor and in seconds, they meandered toward a spacious office, giving enough natural daylight and stunning views of the city, captured through floor-to-ceiling windows. And there he stood, tall and authoritarian. Like the first time she’d met Vortigern, the silver-haired, suave gentleman exuded grace and poise. This time, he was styled in a modish gray suit and not the blinding, silver-white, combat attire, operatives wore. He greeted them with chagrined disposition.

The dour look with which Calla returned his greeting, bred diametrically opposed friction. Lascar pulled her forward.

“I wasn’t aware you’d gone corporate. Have we abandoned coves, Vortigern?” she said.

“We too like to occupy presence in the more functional parts of society.”

“I see.”

Vortigern had not changed in the last few months, stunning and imposing with his tall frame and supple, silver hair. Vortigern studied Calla with an ageless, calm face despite the ruthlessness with which he’d authorized. “Forgive my methods, but when I heard you’d left London without a trace, I had to use ulterior modes to find you.”

Tightness formed in her eyes as she observed him. Lascar removed the cuffs.

Calla stroked her wrist and wheeled round to face him. Her next decision was brief, but overdue. In one swift movement, she rammed her elbow across Lascar’s jaw, a clout that caught him off guard.

He landed on the marble by Calla’s feet, grappling his chin with a moan, before leveling his lower jaw with his hands. He tipped his head back and snickered. “I had that coming. Vortigern, operation completed, as requested.”

With eyes still on Lascar, Calla placed a foot on the subdued operative’s thigh and leaned forward. “What did you do to Nash?”

Lascar eyed her. “Aren’t we done with that topic? Nash’s no longer your concern. Don’t you see that? I’d use your energy now to get to know . . . me. Your new best friend.”

Vortigern interrupted the discourteous stares between them. “Lascar did as instructed.”

Calla raised her chin to follow Vortigern’s intent. Her tone, unreceptive and tenacious surprised her. “Oh and was that to blow up Nash’s house?”

Vortigern turned to Lascar. “You blew up his house?”

Lascar shot up in one brisk surge. “Just a little charred.” He sidled toward Calla. “I don’t see how they’ll need it any longer. Without a place to hide, she stays here.”

Calla calculated the agitated tone in his voice when he spoke of Nash with a look of resentment and if she were correct, a trace of loathing, perhaps envy. He despises Nash.

Had Vortigern not been in the room, she knew what she would have done with that cocky smirk.

Vortigern’s voice broke her thoughts. “Thanks, Lascar. Leave us. I need to speak with her alone.”

Lascar shambled out of the office.

Calla hoped in heaven’s name she wouldn’t see him again. Her eyes bore into Vortigern. She needed straight answers from the head operative, one she thought she esteemed. “Why Vortigern?”

“I warned you.”

“Who is that six-foot slab of muscle, mostly in the brain, and very little respect?”

Vortigern strolled to his desk. “Good to see you, Calla. Lascar is more capable than you think.”

“Really? Do you train operatives to abduct attack, shun and burn?”

“Sit. Lascar’s my son and a capable operative who’s been trained a long time to work with you. He was the only one I could trust to get you.”

“Your son? I imagine like son, like father? I thought operatives were the good guys. What do you want, Vortigern? How did you find me?”

“Please, sit.”

Calla remained standing. “How did you find us?”

“With the look you gave Nash the last time I saw you, it wasn’t difficult. We have a few operatives in the NSA. I must admit, your marine is quite thorough. It did take us six months.”

“I’m not staying.”

Vortigern raised an eyebrow. “I see.”

A forlorn expression burdened his face as he took a seat at his desk. “I’m sorry, Calla. I ran out of options. We ran out of options.”

“Options? For what?”

“Mason.”

“What about him?”

“He’s up to something fierce.”

“And that’s my problem because—”

“I know that I had no right to infringe on your decision.”

“Finally, an apology.”

“As I said, we ran out of options. A new hack has penetrated global computers causing more headaches than we need.”

“All because of a hack? Surely you operatives can handle a simple hack. You’ve had centuries worth of access to technologies the world knows nothing of. You can handle more than that?”

“Not like this one. Most hacks can be overridden. This one breaks the rules. Once we find a remedy, the algorithms shift and we have to start again. It functions with its own mind.”

Calla folded her arms over her chest. “A computer virus with its own mind? Sounds like singularity technology, you know the upcoming conception of technologies greater than human intelligence.”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t buy it. Every hack is controlled by someone. Every piece of software has vulnerabilities.”

“Not this one. It’s so dissimilar to any worm we’ve ever seen. We’ve been following the activity on this distinct sequencer created by our operative base in Central London. The hack has manifested as an information altering, manipulating virus.”

“Can’t you override it as we did last time?”

His face surrendered no information.

“ With impenetrable firewalls engineered by the carbonados’ dynamisms and their matchless, sequencing formulas.” Calla said.

“No. That’s why we need you. Your mind can see patterns in technology, language and logarithms. This virus attacks one day from one location and one day another and eats up pockets of valuable, global data. Financial, medical, and legal, you name it.”

“You could isolate the activity on the systems mainframe that we conceived to spot any infrequent movement. Here let me see.”

She marched to his desk and scrutinized the program. “This isn’t just random data, these are global government records. It’s using very sophisticated language to infiltrate computers across the globe . . . look here, that’s NASA, and here, medical research centers in Kyoto, Seattle and Zurich, and even the UK government’s own systems. There seems to be a pattern. It’s stealing control of the earth’s best and most innovative networks and scrambling them using automated programming language.”

“How does it work?”

“Not sure yet, but the language used is composed of a blend of social and alternating, linguistic forms and analogues used in dialects. That means its stealing known computer language and creating its own. It would take centuries to decode it. Who’s doing this?”

“The activity escalated forty-eight hours ago. I’d say, Mason.”

“It’s very clever. It’s like taking all language, human or computer, and creating a new processor language. I’m not sure how we would begin on a code to break this. What does he hope to accomplish? Controlling global computers is too easy for Mason. There’s no challenge in it for him.”

“We’re not sure at this point.”

Calla hit several few keys and waited for a new window to open. She read the logarithms for a few seconds before settling into a chair opposite Vortigern. “I think I know.”

Vortigern’s eyes bore into her. “What?”

“Looks like Mason is using a sophisticated virus that automates by building databases of information to source from and thereby access malware that attacks the hardware layers of anything that uses technology. He has gained long-term access to every-system and smart network on this globe that uses the slightest bit of technology.”

“But that’s everything.”

“Precisely, cell phones, power plants, government networks and even your razor. He’s figured the world uses technology for everything. Not even a child’s toy runs without a battery or wireless remote control these days.”

“This is huge, Calla.”

“Sounds like big brother with not only a huge spying problem, but an additive touchscreen habit. He’ll be able to override any byte influenced structure that uses satellites, electricity and generated power systems. If I’m right, and I sure hope I’m not, soon no organization will be out of his reach, even those of ISTF, the NSA, MI6, you name it. The question is, how did he by pass the firewalls of the most sophisticated systems?”

“Either someone helped him or he stole the information.”

“Exactly what I’m thinking and knowing him, it’s the latter.”

“How’s he stealing it? He’s been detained for more than six months with no access to any network. We’ve bugged the secret service, spy cameras in his cell,” Vortigern said.

“Whereas your spying cameras have been operational for six months, Mason’s plan has had its gears in motion for decades. That’s how he does things. He’s one of the most patient people on Earth. Never in a hurry, but at the right time, when the iron is hot he strikes!” she said, her fist ramming the pristine desk.

“Hang on a second. We traced government intelligence from Belmarsh yesterday, Mason has been visited by innovative minds and people in society, like heads of state, Nobel Prize winners and—”

“Do you think they’re working with him?”

“Who knows? It’s happened before.”

Quiet footsteps resonated from the hall and startled them as a figure approached. Calla never thought she’d see the face again that stood before her.