The God Complex: A Thriller Page 9

  The second circle was trickier, with far fewer dots and a center she was struggling to pinpoint. Peru, Chile or Bolivia was as close as she could guess without a more detailed map to use as a reference. Her knowledge of ancient sites in the area wasn’t particularly great either. The only one she knew for definite was Machu Picchu in Peru, but without a better map she couldn’t be sure and given the number of dots, there were obviously plenty more than she was aware of.

  So, all she had was dots in two circles and a huge amount of unaccounted for data. She clicked again on the dots, but nothing happened; there were no hidden links. She moved the small arrow around the page hoping its icon would change to a pointing index finger. She tried the corners of the image and every pixel on the screen. Nothing.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re making our final approach,” the captain announced. “Please fasten your seat belts.”

  Sophie checked her watch, surprised at how quickly they had reached ‘nowhere’. She had been at it for hours. The rest of the cabin had fallen asleep while she had persevered with trying to unlock the mystery of Professor Harris’ work.

  She hit the keyboard in frustration, and when her palm made contact with the space bar, a small window appeared on the screen requesting a password. A password window unlocked by ‘Space’?! She could have kicked herself. She typed ‘Sophie’, the last word the professor had uttered before dying according to Cash. The window flashed back, asking again for the password; it wasn’t Sophie.

  Sophie wracked her brain as the plane touched down. What did she know that would unlock the files? It must be something Professor Harris would have known she would know.

  “Any luck?” asked Cash, joining her as the plane rolled to a stop.

  “Not yet, there’s a password protecting his files.”

  “Sophie?”

  “Tried.”

  “Kyle?”

  “He’d have said that to you.”

  “I didn’t know who Kyle was then.”

  Sophie typed it in and hit ‘Return’. The password window reappeared, this time with a warning: , ‘One attempt remaining’.

  “That’s not good,” Cash commented.

  Sophie closed the lid of the laptop and removed the flash drive.

  “Don’t we need that?” asked Rigs, directing the question quietly to Cash.

  “Yes, but it’s borrowed. We’ll need to buy one here,” Sophie said, handing the laptop over to the steward.

  “You’ve not looked out of the window, have you?” asked Cash.

  Sophie bent down and looked at a wall of trees. She looked across to the other side, to another wall of trees.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “Nowhere,” said Rigs, turning to Cash. “Ask him how much for his laptop,”

  The steward shrugged.

  “A thousand dollars?” Cash offered.

  The steward immediately handed the laptop over.

  “Where are we?” Sophie asked Cash.

  “Rigs’ family’s hunting lodge. You can only get here by plane. It really is nowhere. It’s not on any maps or charts.”

  “It’s obviously somewhere…”

  “Northern Montana, not far from the Canadian border.”

  A jeep appeared by the plane’s steps as they disembarked. The man that exited the jeep was as mountain as they came, with a rugged and haggard face half covered by a graying beard. His face easily said seventy, while his strong, muscular frame and rigid composure spoke of a man at least twenty years younger. Despite the lines, his face glowed, a welcoming warmth and a sparkle lighting his eyes when he caught sight of Rigs. He rushed forward and threw two meaty, powerful arms around Rigs, bellowing, “Master Jake!”

  Rigs took a few seconds to recover from the over familiar and unwelcome contact, although he did his best to hide his discomfort.

  “Everyone, this is Uncle Bill, he looks after the lodge,” Rigs said, his eyes fixed on the ground.

  “Just Bill, please,” the big man said, beckoning them towards the jeep and clasping another hand fondly on Rigs’ shoulder.

  “What about the crew?” asked Cash.

  Rigs looked back. “I assume they’ll head back to the nearest major airport and pick up another charter.”

  “Where they will most likely see a news channel or newspaper with our faces on it?”

  “Ah, good point, we can’t let them do that.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  Chapter 19

  Defense Initiative Services

  New York

  The relentless onslaught of news continued. The scandal was the largest to have ever rocked the nation. Mike Yates hadn’t been able to take his eyes off the screen. The latest revelation was that the first lady was also implicated in the plot to kill the President, which of course was beyond ludicrous, but there it was, being reported as though guilt needn’t be proved.

  It was all rubbish, every piece of it, fabricated rubbish. Travis Davies, his former boss at the CIA and the man who had made him who he was, a traitor? Never! The man bled red, white, and blue and passed gas to the tune of ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’ The list implicated almost every member of the National Security Council and a number of the individuals Mike had assumed he had been working with for years. If not them, who was he really working for?

  He had spent most of the night with a notepad in front of him, going over the operations that he had undertaken over the years and jotting down what he remembered. There were no other records. To deny knowledge of something meant ensuring there was no proof available that you couldn’t deny. DIS up until earlier that afternoon had been proudly paper free, even the toilet roll was a paper substitute, an inside joke to emphasize how paper free they were. The extent of their records was a code number attached to a payment. Invoices were sent to anonymous Hotmail accounts and payments received almost exclusively from small offshore private banks. In short, other than what he remembered in his head, there was nothing that tied DIS to anything.

  It was perfect and disastrous. Mike looked again at the news screen to another breaking story. The FBI had been formally put in charge of the operation. Another high-level appointee had passed the treason test, noted Mike, turning back to his pad. He tried to connect the dots, assassinations and industrial sabotage across the globe. High-level officials, large multi-nationals, local reporters and small businesses… there was no discernible pattern, and in many cases, no conceivable reason behind the operations that had been ordered.

  He had three current operations that stood out from the crowd: Santa Cruz, California; London, England; and Algeciras, Spain. Santa Cruz had piqued his interest. He could see that someone in the government could have conceivably gained from the initial target— the destruction of the most powerful telescope ever launched into space. However, the subsequent fallout from the incriminating evidence they had subsequently planted on Gray’s body, with a copy to the press, had done nothing but weaken the nation. And that was not something Mike Yates had ever signed up to do.

  London, England. He considered the target and the operation, but it made no sense. He reached for his phone; it was 11:52 p.m. in New York, 4:52 a.m. in London. The operation was only a few hours away, and his people would be getting ready. In his four years at the helm, Mike had always delivered. He had nagging doubts from time to time, but the money had bought his conscience. No more, he thought, not this time. He grabbed the handset, and it rang in his hand.

  “Hello?” he answered, flustered at the coincidence and timing of the call, instantly on alert.

  “Mr. Yates,” drawled a voice Mike recognized. It was the chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence and one of the men who had hired Mike.

  “Senator, what can I do for you at this hour?”

  “A troubling day, Mike, some truly shocking revelations.”

  “I caught the news, startling and most unbelievable.”

  “If only,” said the Senator.

  “They…they’
re true?” asked Mike, unable to hide his surprise.

  “Mike, as you are aware, we’re tasked with a role to protect and defend. Sometimes that role takes unexpected and unchartered turns, turns that none of us think will lead to our destination but ultimately and in time even the route that seemed to take us so off course brings us back to exactly where we wanted to be.”

  Mike had stopped listening and started looking around. The purpose and time of the call was no coincidence. They were aware of his loss of faith, his loss of trust in DIS. They were watching him.

  “Senator, I hear what you’re saying,” said Mike, checking all of the more obvious spots for pinhole cameras.

  “Mike, you realize assignments at DIS don’t require an explanation or a justification for why they are to be undertaken?”

  “Of course, Senator.”

  “However, in this instance I may waive that for you. I understand this job may seem to have achieved the exact opposite of what you expect us to do.”

  Mike sat back down. The call had become far more interesting than concerning. “It certainly does seem strange that almost all those in National Security Council are implicated as traitors.”

  “What I’m about to tell you is not to be repeated,” said the Senator sternly.

  “Of course not, sir.”

  “Twenty people in the US were aware of the disarmament pact prior to today’s signing.”

  “They knew it was happening?” asked Mike, shocked.

  “It was very well managed,” said the Senator. “Of those twenty, one was the President. Of the other nineteen, we know at least two are planning an attempt to stop the treaty, up to and including assassination. We just don’t know which two.”

  “So they arrested them all and branded them all traitors?”

  “What would you rather, that we didn’t, and the President was assassinated and the nuclear arms race continues as a result?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So, while we uncover the culpable two, we hold the nineteen.”

  “And the two assassins?”

  “Unfortunate timing for them and opportune for the plan, a good conspiracy needs a couple of government assassins.”

  “There were plenty among the dead you could have implicated.”

  “Dead assassins don’t pose a threat, they don’t create tension for the newshounds.”

  “I recruited those men into the CIA!” said Mike angrily. “They’re good men!”

  “Good agents too?”

  “Excellent, among the very best.”

  “In which case they’ll prove how good they are. I’m sure they’ll survive until the warrant for their arrest is lifted.”

  “With every citizen and law enforcement officer in the land looking for them, I’m not so sure.”

  “I’ve read their files,” said the Senator. “Trust me, if they lived up to your expectations after you left the agency, they’ll put up a good fight,” he surmised. “So are we good?”

  Mike considered what the Senator, a man responsible for the oversight and full spectrum of the United States intelligence community, had said. If any man in the country was going to be aware of exactly what was going on, it was him.

  “Yes, we’re good.”

  “Excellent, now burn that fucking notepad and go home to your family and that multimillion dollar apartment we pay for,” he commanded.

  Mike replaced the handset slowly. The confirmation that they were watching him was not pleasant. However, that dulled in comparison to the reference to his ‘lovely family and multimillion dollar home’. The threat of what had been left unsaid was even more chilling: ‘while you still can!’ Mike was their guy; he did what he was told when he was told. He was bought and paid for, as was his family. Mike struck a match and burned both the notepad and his thoughts.

  Chapter 20

  Burgess Park, Southwark

  London, England

  Preparations for the event had been underway for weeks, and it was to be a very special event. Southwark, a suburb to the Southeast of London, was one of the more deprived areas of the capital with an unfortunate title. For the previous few years, Southwark had acquired the title of ‘Underage Pregnancy Capital of the United Kingdom’, a title that no self-respecting borough wished to acquire, let alone retain for years as the undisputed champion. After many years of hard work, programs and centers, such as the spectacular adventure playground at Burgess Park, Southwark had finally shifted the tide and children were once again enjoying being children. Their underage pregnancy rates had plummeted and they had finally lost their unwanted title.

  The results that Southwark had achieved were astounding and an example to all other communities. The Prime Minister and the Mayor of London seldom joined forces for such local achievements, but both were keen to promote Southwark’s great work, each trying to claim the credit for the turnaround as a result of their policies. However, neither was responsible for the crowds that had been gathering since early that morning. The crowds were there to see the King, Queen and their young children, the prince and princess, who would also be in attendance.

  Giles Tremellan was a professional ‘former’. He was a former public school boy, a former Oxford University student, a former officer in the British Special Forces, a former Commander of the Metropolitan Police Force and a former Cabinet Minister. It seemed that everything he had ever done had been ‘formerly’. At 57, Giles had become a pundit for the news channels, able to cover innumerable subjects, all highlighting the relevant portion of his experience given the subject matter of the day.

  With the overwhelming security task of protecting the royals, the PM and the Mayor in one location, one day after the disarmament treaty, Giles was the hottest pundit in London. His expertise in large police security operations and his insight into the Metropolitan Police Force’s Protection Command unit, as its former commander, responsible for all government and royal protection details, were invaluable. His ability to comment on the SAS’ Special Projects Team, the UK’s hardcore answer to the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team, a team he had intimate knowledge of from his days in the SAS, were unique. His ability to intermingle all of this with his understanding of the impact of the disarmament process as a former Defense Minister in the UK government was priceless.

  Today, his phone rang endlessly but remained unanswered. For all the reasons he would have made the best pundit, it also made him the ideal head of the DIS team in London, the one role he was not a ‘former’ of but for which he was very much in the current, although nobody knew about it, except for his small team and Mike Yates, his boss in the US.

  He examined the route again. He knew exactly where the SAS team would be stationed. They were his biggest concern. They were ruthless and their training relentless, as good as his men’s.

  This was a rush job and would have been far easier had it not been for the time restriction set by the speeches. Whatever happened, the job had to be completed prior to the speeches. Whatever was to be said, it wasn’t something the client wanted the world to hear. With a vantage point across the road in a fourth four flat overlooking the conference center in the park, Giles checked his watch. They had fifteen minutes before the speeches were scheduled to start.

  “Hard drive and all evidence wiped at source,” came a radio update from a DIS operative.

  “Copy, out,” replied Giles, not taking his eyes away from the entourage that was making its way along Albany Road towards the park.

  “All clear here,” came a reply from a second DIS operative. “No copies at base location.”

  “Copy, out,” replied Giles. He picked out the DIS agents dressed in Metropolitan Police uniforms stationed at the entrance to the park. The entourage was nearing them; it was going to be close, but they needed to know the base location and other copies had been accounted for.

  “Takedown is a go, I repeat, takedown is a go,” he said hardly hearing himself speak over the roars that erupted as the young royal family came in
to view. The Prime Minister in the car behind them was virtually ignored while the crowd concentrated on their new King and Queen.

  Chapter 21

  Archaeological dig site

  Algeciras, Spain

  Overlooking the rock of Gibraltar, the Spaniards in Algeciras were reminded constantly of the British occupation of a land they had lost over three hundred years earlier. None of that, however, concerned Dr. Pyotr Vilic. He was interested in a time long before the sovereignty of the land was an issue. After twenty years of detailed research into the history of Neanderthals in the area, he was closing in on what he believed would alter the path of history.

  His research had taken him across Europe, tracing the spread of the Neanderthals to the point where he believed the last of the Neanderthals had finally existed, some 30,000 years earlier. The previous evening had been the most exciting of his career. The dig had found an underground cave that his seismic readings had pointed to. With light all but gone, they had had no option but to delay further digging until that morning. However, it hadn’t stopped him letting the world know he was on the brink of what he believed to be one of the most important finds in human pre-history. He had not disclosed his location but hinted at a Southern European site. Only he and his five assistants knew exactly where the site was to be found and Pyotr intended to keep it that way until after they had entered the cave. From what they were able to see with their torches through the small hole that had been the final breakthrough, it was mind blowing and history altering.

  The slow progress since daylight had broken was both frustrating and exhilarating. The painstaking need to preserve all artifacts meant that their access hole grew only marginally by the hour. After five hours of painstaking work, the hole was finally getting to the point where they could slide down and into the cave. From what they could see, the cave would easily allow them to stand up. They just needed to get in there. The paintings on the walls that they had already been able to catch sight of through the slowly growing hole were groundbreaking and far more detailed than anything ever seen before.