Professor Pavel Zeman was twenty minutes into his team briefing when the pain hit him low in the stomach. He reeled, tried to recover and hold it together, but the grimace on his face and the perspiration on his brow told his audience that something was wrong.
In front of him in the conference room sat his development team of thirty people, each an expert in their chosen scientific field and all under his direct control to bring the project to fruition. As Senior Technology Development Manager of the Pandora Project, Professor Pavel Zeman’s role was to give the regular weekly briefing on how the tech was developing, any problems and when they could expect to carry out the final batch of tests before completion.
He had spoken on the current problems facing the overheating of the catalysts and how the next generation of 3D printed parts would be available soon for them to test. He presented a slide on the silent hypersonic engine of Pandora and how it was in advance of anything that the Chinese and Americans had. The team had laughed because they knew that the Americans were remedial in hypersonic research and development and that they were so far behind the curve that it wasn’t even funny anymore.
He had talked through the success that they were having, the engineers and the electrical experts, on harnessing the electrical current propulsion system and its backup engines. He had read out the findings of the ‘stealth team’ and their production of the quantum holographic shell casing that provided Pandora with a level of invisibility.
Finally, the good news; he had field reports from the north of the island, where the team responsible for the development of the next generation of ‘liquid metal’ bullets that supplied Pandora’s rail-gun armament system informed him that the bullets were holding their integrity against a variety of robust targets.
Professor Zeman looked them all over, then watched as they made notes on pads and studied him gravely. He stated that the project was running behind schedule and that the data that he meticulously studied, analysed and presented told him that it would be another year before the project would be finished. The weapons and the stealth systems were in place – but the most important part of Pandora, the hypersonic element, the speed that they hoped would be eight times the speed of sound, was sadly in a state of hiatus.
He knew what he told them was a lie. The truth was he had the correct calculations and technicalities stored in his head, safely kept. The truth was the hypersonic engine was technically ready now. But by keeping the correct calculations back and replacing them with false data, he was wilfully sabotaging the advancement of the project for the next twelve months.
The pain in his stomach hit him again, stronger this time.
The liquid capsule he had taken an hour again had kicked in almost to the exact minute. The pill was designed to simulate stomach cramps and the pain, while not severe, was designed to whiten the skin and induce nausea in its host. The pill, and Pavel Zeman’s acting abilities, made it look halfway convincing. He bent over again and dropped his notes onto the floor for dramatic effect.
“Professor, are you alright?”
It was Lerhman, one of his support staff, who was up from his seat and holding out a hand to stabilise his senior colleague.
“I’ll… I’m… fine. I’ll be fine,” said Pavel Zeman, just as a third wave attacked him, lower down in the stomach this time. He started to dry heave.
“Perhaps we should leave the briefing until tomorrow, Herr Professor,” said Jurgen, one of the cooling system specialists.
Professor Pavel Zeman straightened up and took a deep breath. He was white as a sheet and trembling. God, this time he felt like he was about to vomit! “I… I think that is a good idea. I apologise, my friends, I will be much better tomorrow.”
“Perhaps we should call the doctor?” said someone else.
“No, it is fine. I will make an appointment with my own physician in Vienna, I will do it today. Thank you, my friends, thank you so much for your concern. I really appreciate your kindness,” said Pavel, forcing a smile.
And whatever else spies do to deceive the gullible.
Langt Arr, the long scar, was a privately owned island located twelve miles off the coast of the Norwegian mainland, facing the inlet to Narvin. It was eighty acres of isolated beauty that could only be reached by helicopter or speedboat and only by invitation.
On the right side of the island and protected by a forest of Norwegian pines were the personnel accommodations. They were cabins mostly, that housed up to five individuals at a time with private lodges reserved for senior operations directors. It was a paradise that allowed the staff on the island, in their down time, to relax, fish (cod and mackerel were the catch of the season), bird-watch or just enjoy the clean air.
The island had been bought directly from the Norwegian government over a decade ago through a series of front companies, but with the main end-user being Trillium Industries International for ‘Research and Development’ purposes.
What the R&D consisted of was never stipulated. But the fact that the island had a discreet, but well-armed security presence, both on land and around its coastline, suggested it wasn’t just conducting ecological experiments. In fact Langt Arr was one of the most secret R&D bases in Trillium Industries’ extensive range of facilities. It was here that the next level of UAV assassination technologies was being created.
The testing sites were broken down into four separate buildings, with specialists from each discipline – hypersonic, weapons, stealth and communications – being restricted to their own theatre of operations and cross-pollination was actively discouraged.
At the far end of the island was the track. The track was a half mile test rail, covered by a sheet metal canopy to hinder satellite surveillance, where the hypersonic engine was tested. On test days, it was not unusual to become aware of several flashes of light that would illuminate the sky as the test trolley was thrown from end to end, trying to reach its target speed of seven times the speed of sound, followed by a distant crack of energy that reverberated across the valley… or perhaps at the Weapons Station the faint suppressed noise of heavy automatic gunfire giving a DUD-DUD-DUD noise behind soundproofed walls… and occasionally the thump of controlled explosives as the limitations of the liquid chemicals against a variety of structures and targets were detonated.
But the jewel in the crown of the test site was the Box, an octagonal structure that housed the restricted and heavily protected prototype of the UAV assassination drone – the Pandora.
It was such a beautiful place to create a machine of death.
The story of Pandora’s Box was legendary. In mythology, it was where all of humanity’s fears and terrors were kept. So it was apt that the Trillium scientists, like modern day Prometheuses, chose to contain their terror weapons in secret locations.
The ‘Box’ was a secure testing vault that was roughly the size of a small warehouse. It was here that the Trillium scientists devoted to bringing Pandora to life would run tests on the equipment and work on the prototype models, endlessly tinkering and tweaking it. The area was secured and closed off only to those engineers and senior project leads who had sufficient security clearance.
In the quiet moments, usually when the working day was over, Professor Pavel Zeman would come down to the box, swipe his security card, hear the hiss of the electronic doors and enter. Then he would ruminate and inspect the hypersonic missile in front of him. As Pavel Zeman, an expert in hypersonic advancement, he admired the technology in front of him, was even proud of it. But as Sailfish, the Fisherman’s spy and as a committed pacifist, he hated the creature that he had helped to build.
The Pandora was, like its namesake, able to pack a multitude of dangerous technology into a relatively small space. When completed, it would be capable of travelling eight times faster than the speed of sound, it was virtually silent in flight and had the added advantage of quantum holographic invisibility. Because it was capable of flying at very low altitude, it was able to ‘skim’ and therefore avoid any radar that was able to track it. It also had the added advantage of being controlled by a virtual pilot, or being directed through a remote GPS location system.
But to add to its delivery system was its advanced weapons arsenal, which made it truly terrifying. A plasma rail gun, with state-of-the-art facial recognition software, that was able to emit a linear burst of energy at a rapid pace, making it an easily directed energy weapon to a specific target for assassination. And of course there was the kamikaze element to Pandora in which, if the situation demanded it and there was no other option, it could be turned into an improvised explosive device; a missile.
Pandora was the length of a small family car, except that instead of right angles and sharp corners it was flat and sleek with rounded contours. The outer casing was dull, allowing it to have a low identification signature, making it virtually invisible to both radar and to the naked eye. The project team had nicknamed it the ‘Plectrum’ because of its arrowhead shape and slender profile. It was the next generation assassination vehicle.
The fact that Pandora was stalled was down to his technical sabotage. He had changed the calculations, subtly and cautiously over the years, making the missile clumsy, erratic and so far not fit for purpose. The correct information was stored safely in his extensive memory. He didn’t trust the cloud, or holding it on USB pen drives or any kind of digital hardware. No, it was in his good, old-fashioned memory where Pandora lived and that made it more secure, but also dangerous for him.
He knew that both he and Pandora were living on borrowed time. He thought of them both as intertwined secret lovers, ready in an embrace of death.
Oh, once his defection was secured, he was sure that Trillium would eventually find his successor to deliver their project to them. But that would take time and effort. Sailfish would have slowed down Pandora for years, maybe even a decade… he hoped.
Behind him, he heard the doors open and close automatically, a hiss of air, nothing more and he was shaken from his musings. He knew who it was instantly.
It was Markovic, the Serb, the spy catcher.
“I thought we could have a short briefing about your… how would you describe it? Condition? Illness? It is nothing to worry about, purely routine, when one of our people wants to leave the island outside of their normal specified leave time.”
The accent was deep and thick. Markovic sat in a suit that was two sizes too small for him. His face was bland, but his eyes radiated a concentration that was the trademark of the professional interrogator. They were sitting in the Security Chief’s office, a dark, foreboding room of wood and chrome, and before him he had a slim file in a plastic wallet that Pavel assumed was about him.
“You have been with Trillium for how many years now?”
“Five. Two at the Hypersonic Research Section in Oslo and the last three engaged on Pandora here on the island,” replied Pavel. “Since Schulmann, er… left. That was when I took over the day-to-day running of the project.”
Markovic nodded sagely. “Ah yes, when your esteemed colleague was removed, an unfortunate incident. But having dalliances with under-aged prostitutes made him a security risk. Sometimes it is necessary to remove people. It was unfortunate about Herr Schulmannn’s accident once he had returned back to Germany. A fatal car-crash, I understand.”
“He was a great loss to the project,” said Pavel blandly. It was like a game of chess; each trying to read the other.
“It says here that you have a sister in Berlin?”
“Yes. Sabina. She has a little boy, my nephew.”
“Just so. What does she do in Berlin?”
“She is studying art at the university. She is in her second year,” replied Pavel proudly, but really alarm bells were ringing at the mention of his sister and his nephew. That was dangerous ground.
“And how does she provide for herself?” asked Markovic, taking a ballpoint pen from his lapel pocket and clicking at the button triumphantly.
Pavel shrugged. “Part of my salary goes into an account for her and my nephew every month. She also works as a waitress to supplement her money.”
“And you speak to her how often?”
“By phone, very rarely as per the rules on the island, but several times a month I will email her. All our conversations are family-focused and my work here is never mentioned,” said Pavel earnestly. He assumed, correctly, that all telephone conversations and email traffic were monitored by the security section.
Markovic tapped the file with the pen and nodded. The answer seemed to satisfy him. “As you know, my role here is Chief of Counter-Intelligence and Security. I look for the unusual. I look for inconsistencies. I look for conspiracies.”
“That is my understanding of your job.” Pavel had heard stories about Markovic’s history; Serb intelligence during the conflict, responsible for ethnic cleansing so the rumour went, ran small teams; a spy-catcher. “But I can assure you that I have been thoroughly vetted by Trillium many times over the years.”
“Of course, it is simply my job to see shadows everywhere. Sometimes it can be a curse,” said Markovic, smiling. But the smile was forced, like an unfaithful husband telling his wife that he loves her before slipping out to his mistress. “Now, this… condition of yours? Why are you travelling all the way to Vienna to see a consultant? I’m sure we can bring a qualified specialist here?”
“Doctor Schmidt has been my physician for many years, ever since my condition was suspected. Pancreatic cancer is a specialised field. It is not about money and what you can buy. He is one of the leading specialists in his field. You can check his credentials and bona fides,” said Pavel gravely.
Markovic nodded and looked through the file absentmindedly. “Oh, trust me, we have.”
“Then you must know that a man of his standing and reputation does not come when someone snaps their fingers. He is Austrian and proud. I consider myself fortunate that he has taken on my case.”
Markovic ignored him and instead continued tapping his fingers while his eyes, those of the hunter, were scanning the file, looking for a clue or an inconsistency in the paperwork. “And the timing? That concerns me. Are you not in the latter stages of finishing your current project?”
Pavel had waited for this moment. He knew it would happen at some point and he had practised what he would say and how he would say it. It was vital that he get the tone correct. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure if I am allowed to discuss the details with you. I’m not sure you have the necessary clearance for that?”
Markovic’s face flushed and his fists clenched involuntarily. That stung and Pavel feared that he had pushed back too much. “Please answer my question. I have no need for technical specifics. I understand that there have been… delays. As senior lead on this project, surely you must be able to explain why?”
“I can. But not to you. That is not within your remit. However, I can explain to the Trillium board and Head Office, if you would like to call them,” said Pavel smoothly.
Markovic flipped over several pages of the file, letting the silence deafen the room. “You see, my job is not only to protect the security around this facility, this island… my job as Chief of CI is to protect the information inside your head. Trillium invests a lot of resources and time in its people. It expects its people to deliver on what they know. And we are there to provide duty of care to our information and those that hold that information. Do you see my point?”
Pavel nodded. “Okay. So what would you have me do? I can stay here and wait until my condition is untreated and becomes debilitating, thus jeopardising the whole project, especially at this relatively late stage, or…”
“Professor, I will recommend that Trillium approves your visit to your physician in Vienna for obvious medical reasons.”
“Thank you.”
But Markovic was not yet finished. “However, this will come with strict limitations.”
“I don’t understand.”
Markovic sat back in his chair and studied the scientist. “You will be provided with a small, but effective, security team to accompany you. My people, people that I have trained. They will be your personal bodyguards while you are away from the island. They will stay with you, help you travel, make sure that no harm comes to you.”
And also spy on me for their master, thought Zeman.
“This is acceptable?”
Pavel nodded, the relief clear on his face. “Very much so, thank you, Director Markovic.”
Markovic closed the file and placed it in a drawer under his desk. He turned to glare directly at Pavel. “While you are away, you do not discuss the work that you conduct here. Not with anybody. You do not make new friends or casual acquaintances; you do not meet strangers in the hotel bar or engage in gossip. If you want a woman to fuck at the hotel, my people will arrange it and take all necessary precautions. Do you understand?”
“My only concern is to consult with my physician. Sex is not a priority for me at the moment.”
Markovic clasped his hands together and nodded sagely. “I understand, I understand. I have only been to Vienna once in my life, but I remember it as a wonderful city. There was a fantastic café there, the Café Central, very famous and very beautiful.”
“It is still there. I will order an Einspanner there in your honour, Director,” said Pavel, referring to the strong black coffee served in a glass and topped with cream.
Markovic held Pavel’s eyes for a few more moments, trying to gauge if there was any subterfuge there, but finding none. Then he was all business. “I will make arrangements for your security and travel.”
“Thank you.”
Pavel stood and left the room, his legs shaking, but still keeping his outward composure. He had no doubts that Markovic was a ruthless hunter of men and trained to see subterfuge. But the Serbian counter-intelligence officer didn’t have three things that he, Pavel Zeman, had. He had a computer virus hidden on a USB stick that was concealed inside the board of the chess set in his lodge, he had an extraordinary memory to record the scientific data and information… and, best of all, he had an escape plan already in place.
He crossed the grounds of the main compound and took the stone path to the private lodges of the senior directors. His quarters were luxurious by comparison to some of his fellow colleagues, with a large, well-furnished lounge, well-stocked kitchen and a bedroom with a view of the mountains in the distance. He sat at the desk in his study and opened up a word document on his personal laptop. The laptop was rarely used for writing anything, instead it was there to watch movies, play video games and listen to music. To the casual observer, or even a trained counter-intelligence officer, it was completely innocent.
But hidden on the laptop was a piece of software disguised as a photo editor. A seemingly ordinary word file could be ‘dropped’ into the software and the message, the text, would be hidden deep within the pixels of a photographic image. Only someone with the encrypted key and correct software could open it.
He spent twenty minutes completing his private message and then he hid it inside a photograph of the Duomo in Florence, Italy. The original message in the word document, he erased completely from the system. With that completed, he opened up his private email and began to write:
Hi, little bear
I hope you are both well. Work is busy and the food is still the same. Same shit, different day. I hope Aunt Marta is well and have you heard from her recently?
I have decided to make an appointment to visit Herr Schmidt in Vienna. I feel it is the right decision. I am concerned that if I ignore it, then the situation with my health might deteriorate.
My employers have been very gracious in their response and have allowed me several days’ absence to make my appointment as well as travel time. They have also been kind enough to provide me with some chaperones to ensure that my travel goes smoothly and that I am safe. So I do not want you to worry.
I will be staying at the Hotel Vienna Grand as is usual when I see Doctor Schmidt. If I’m going to get bad news, I at least want to do it in style and be comfortable. I will be there on the 12th and leave on the 13th of next month. I will let you know what he says.
All my love
Pavel
P.S. Attached is the place I still long to visit once my work here is done and the Doctor has given me the all-clear. I love you both.
Pavel read through the message three times to make sure that he had covered everything. He clicked on his contacts list, found the right recipient and then attached the photo. In the final moments, his finger lingered over the ‘send’ button, pausing, deciding whether to commit to this course of action or to cancel it all and go back to the life he had been given.
Then he dismissed the negativity and clicked the ‘send’ button, his hand shaking, and he felt the fear bite at him and he knew now that his choice was made and his fate was sealed.
Berlin, 24 hours later…
In her mind was only one thing. The cell phone.
Sabina had never had reason to use it before. She charged it up regularly, probably once a month and would then replace it in the lock box at the secure banking facility that was hired on a six-monthly basis. Once a month, she would drop Marco off early at the Kindergarten and take the bus into the west of the city to open up the lockbox at the bank.
She would present herself to the front desk, standing there in her ripped jeans and old leather biker jacket, and the security and bank staff would inspect her with a critical eye while she showed her ID. They probably thought that she was a drug dealer or an ‘escort’, putting money away for a rainy day.
It had become her routine for the past few years and in some ways it gave her comfort, made her feel that little bit closer to her missing brother. If she wanted to communicate anything to her controllers, she used the tried and tested, and safe, online messaging system via a specific website forum that discussed the intricacies of bourbon and whiskey. She could talk about the pros and cons of a rye versus a mash for hours.
But for this, for her brother’s emergency protocols, his escape, she would only ever use the cell phone hidden away. The message, she was sure, she had to hope and have faith, would get through to the man who was responsible for their protection and welfare.
The fiction had to play. The fiction had to be plausible otherwise her brother was at risk.
She had received the email the previous night from her brother. To the casual observer, it looked benign, nothing more than gossip between family members; he was busy at work, the food was okay… but he had been a bit unsettled recently, felt ill at times and was thinking of reaching out to the expert, the consultant that specialised in pancreatic cancer, over the next few weeks. But it was the recognition code that he hoped Aunt Marta was well and have you heard from her recently? It was that which tipped her off.
They did indeed have an Aunt Marta who lived happily in Prague, in case anyone checked, but they were rarely in touch; besides, ‘Aunt Marta’ in this context meant that her brother wanted to activate his escape protocol.
The fiction had to play.
Attached to the email, encrypted, disguised as a meaningless image of her brother’s favourite place, the place that he wanted to visit one day, the Duomo in Florence, Italy, was a Jpeg that had contained a hidden message in the pixels that only his handler would be able to retrieve with similar specialist software. Even she could not decipher it. It was a personal message from her brother to his controller, the Fisherman.
She had been shown down the stairs to the secure lock room that kept dozens of secure trays inserted into the walls. When she had retrieved her own lockbox, she had then been escorted to a private room and told to press the buzzer when she was finished.
When she was alone, she lifted the lid on the metal tray and lifted out the only item inside. It was a cheap cell phone, practical but hardly high-tech by today’s standards, but really, as long as it was able to make a phone call she didn’t care what it looked like and neither did her controllers on the other end of the line. She pressed the number one on the key pad. It was on speed dial to get through to a specific number. She heard the ring-ring and then, on the fourth ring, it went straight to voicemail; a woman’s voice, German, but speaking English.
“There is no one available at the moment. Your call is registered. Please hang up and we will contact you.”
She hung up, unsure of what to do next and beginning to panic. Should she wait here in the secure room of the bank? Should she go home? What? As if by way of an answer, the cell phone vibrated in her hand. She stared at it as if it was an alien object, then she gathered herself and pressed the green ‘answer’ button.
“Yes?” she said nervously, her heart pounding like a trip hammer.
“You have a message for us?” The voice was clinical, male, not caring one way or the other if there was a message or not.
Sabina closed her eyes and focused, willing herself to remember the prepared message that had been drummed into her many years ago. “The Sailfish needs the Fisherman to catch his fall.”
“Repeat, please.”
She did, and this time with more confidence. “The Sailfish needs the Fisherman to catch his fall!”
“Thank you, your message has been received…”
“Wait… my brother, what shall I…” she said desperately, trying to keep the volume of her voice under control.
“We will contact you soon.”
She looked down at the cell phone. It made another burr from its vibration setting and then it died. Impossible – it was charged up fully! How could they have done that? Was it even possible to do that? Her controllers had killed the phone, wiping it from existence. She slipped it into the pocket in her jacket. Her instructions were to dispose of it once she had used it. She even had a spot picked out where she would get rid of it; in the river, under the bridge where it was deep.
She pressed the buzzer on the desk and waited for the security guard to escort her out. Later, she didn’t even remember the details of leaving the bank, only knowing that she would never return there again in her life and thank God for that. The place to her represented containment and terror.
Out on the street, her legs shaking with fear, she took a moment to compose herself. She closed her eyes but all she could see was herself as a child, kneeling in front of an explosive device, pressing buttons frantically, trying to disarm it. A bad dream? A panic attack? Only time would tell if it was just her psyche or a piece of intuitive foreshadowing.
She just hoped that she had not set off a ticking time-bomb in real life for all of them.
The private jet, a Learjet 60, was an hour out from its final destination of Warsaw, Poland. Both its passengers had made the long flight from New York and were now keen to land, get to their hotel and relax.
The interior of the Learjet was luxuriously furnished with cream leather seats, dining table and large screen TV. It had been loaned by a private benefactor personally to The Seer for whenever she needed to travel.
The woman’s assistant made his way back into the main cabin. He had been speaking on the latest state-of-the-art sat-phone for the last five minutes, frantically trying to get some clear information.
“It’s confirmed,” said Slotkin, moving into his seat opposite her. “The emergency protocol has been activated. How do you want to handle it?”
The Seer turned her face away from his voice and focused her inner mind. The business here in Europe was only temporary; it would be completed in a day, a business meeting of sorts with one of her contacts in Ukranian military intelligence. Once it was done, she would turn her mind to the new problem at hand. But really, there was only one solution; it would be passed to her best operative, the Fisherman.
She turned her head in his direction. “Have the plane ready to be refuelled when we land and set a new flight plan for tomorrow. Arrange a meeting with him, the usual way.”
“Destination?” asked Slotkin.
“London.”