Invasion (9 page)

‘Of course.’ He gave a small, amused bow. ‘Ali Omar, junior trade delegate from the Indian High Commission, at your service.’

Cooper took an instant dislike to Ali, but he couldn’t decide if it was his good looks or his over-confident manner that rubbed him up the wrong way. He expected Ali to be a typical low-level civil servant, intimidated by Cooper’s status and cowed by the opulent surroundings, but this Ali was neither. He shrugged off the feelings and concentrated on the real issue
;
getting Aleema to London.

‘You’ve brought the item?’

‘Let’s talk in your office,’ murmured Ali.

Cooper led the way, slipping out of the reception room and upstairs to his private study. He closed the door and invited Ali to sit, taking a seat behind his own desk.

‘I’ll stand,’ Ali said. ‘Listen, there’s a problem with the passport.’

‘Shh!’ Cooper ordered, a finger to his lips, his eyes darting towards the door.
‘Keep your voice down.’

‘Relax, Geoff, no one can hear us,’ smiled Ali. ‘That door’s a foot thick.’

Yes, too assured by half, observed Cooper.

‘It’s the entry visa,’ Ali explained. ‘Cairo have just changed their stamp. It’s going to take a while before I can get one and replicate it in Aleema’s passport.’

Cooper sighed heavily. ‘How long?’

‘A month. Maybe two.’

‘Shit.
Bloody shit.
’
Cooper helped himself to a large brandy from a decanter on the desk and leaned back in his chair. ‘
Sorry, w
ould you like a drink? You can’t rush off straight away. It’ll look suspicious.’

‘Thanks. Ginger ale.’ Ali slipped into a chair, crossing his legs.

Cooper picked up the phone and punched a number, quickly slamming the phone back in its cradle. ‘Bloody hell, Charlotte’s downstairs.
W
ait here. I’ll get it myself.’

The moment Cooper left the room, Ali got to his feet and went to the computer on the desk. The back of the machine had eight USB ports, two of them already in use
. He
fished an object from his pocket, a tiny device that, when plugged in, was barely noticeable. Rearranging the mess of cables to further disguise the minuscule device, Ali crossed the room and sat back down. He wasn’t a technical man, he couldn’t tell if it was working or not, but someone, somewhere, would let him know if the exercise had been successful.

Two kilometres away across the Thames, on the fifth floor of a commercial office building in Waterloo, two men sat patiently behind a large desk watching a single, lifeless computer screen. In the corner of the screen, a cursor blinked slowly, the only sign that the system was actually drawing power. Each man had in front of him a powerful notebook computer and their eyes flicked occasionally between both systems as they continued their vigil.

The office suite was empty, hired through a bogus front company on a long-term lease, and consisted of a single desk, two chairs and a telephone. There was food and water in the small kitchenette and, in the corner office, two sleeping bags lay spread out on foam roll mats. They shouldn’t have to wait long, their superior had informed them. An hour, maybe two. And so it had proved.

The computer screen suddenly sprang into life and lines of coded information began scrolling down it at a rapid rate. Both men reacted quickly and launched into their pre-planned
tasks as fingers flew across keyboards. They
watched with satisfaction
as they uploaded the sophisticated software program that burrowed in past the remote system’s defences undetected and began its discovery program, mapping out the file structure of the massive, integrated governmental and defence systems across the river in Whitehall.

One of the men smiled. A brilliant and gifted software engineer, he’d worked on some of the most sophisticated systems in the world – and cracked them all. The device plugged into Cooper’s workstation was an encrypted transmitter that held on its tiny hard drive an undetectable software program that allowed the men in Waterloo to gain high-level access to the British government’s computer networks. Once past the firewall and system defences they would be able to navigate anywhere, roaming between the myriad of server clusters and packet routers, through LAN-side security firewalls and across floor hubs. In fact, they’d be able to go anywhere that Cooper’s software profile gave them access to, and a lot more besides. Including the Ministry of Defence systems.

Within hours, the software program had hacked and cracked several top-level passwords, gaining undetected access to the Defence’s
most secure data areas. Terabytes
of secret data began humming across the river
;
defence budgets, strategy documents, war plan scenarios, briefing papers, naval and air assets, civil emergency planning, troop deployments, manning records, reservist quotas, infrastructure, munitions deployments… the list went on.
And the data flowed eastwards.

The weeks turned into months and Geoffrey Cooper’s
mood darkened. There were problems with the passport, the visa
, Ali
was sick, on holiday, couldn’t meet because he thought he was being followed, and all the while Cooper brooded, his temper slowly fraying, his nights sleepless, his suspicions deepening. He was desperate for contact with Aleema, desperate for her to finally escape her degrading existence and join him in London. Desperate for the love of a beautiful young woman. And so he did nothing, and waited.

Meanwhile, the device attached to the Foreign Secretary’s computer continued
its program, squirting enormous amounts of sensitive information
to its host in
Waterloo and, from there, on to military planners in Arabia.

Geoffrey Cooper stood in the lower basement of Downing Street and cursed his bad luck. This bloody ham-fisted surveillance and raising of the security alert levels could ruin everything. And he was so close. A few more days, Ali had finally promised him. He couldn’t afford to upset the Arabians now, couldn’t risk
a diplomatic incident that would negate a trip to the palace in Egypt. He had to try and nip this thing in the bud, use his influence to diffuse the situation. He felt suddenly frightened, dreading the thought of never seeing Aleema again.

In a worst case scenario, Cooper would get Aleema to the consulate and process an asylum application from there. It’d be messy, and questions would be asked, but what the hell. Fucking Ali wasn’t seeing his end of the deal through, anyway. The bastard was stalling, Cooper was convinced of that now. Probably wanted Aleema for himself. Not a chance, old son.

Feeling a little more confident, Cooper trotted up the stairs and walked out of Number Ten. When he got back to the office, he’d email the Arabian Ambassador to try and organise a trip to the palace. Shouldn’t be too difficult, as long as the shit didn’t hit the fan in the next few days.

As he slid across
the soft leather seats of his waiting limousine, Cooper realised he could use Harry’s meeting with the Yank Ambassador as leverage for private talks at Sharm-el-Sheik. He’d hint at a new, warmer climate of AngloUS relations, thawing the frosty association that had existed for the last few years. Yes, the Arabians would be very interested in that, knowing their distrust of America. And he’d apologise to Harry, in person, tomorrow. Once he was on his good side he’d enquire about that dinner, how it went, what was discussed, pass it all on to the guys at the palace. Meanwhile, passport or not, he’d tell Aleema to head for Cairo. Either way, she was getting out.

Yes, he smiled to himself, things were starting to look a little rosier now he’d taken matters into his own hands. He reached for his cell phone to check messages. Four missed calls, number blocked. That was Ali, no
doubt. The passport must finally be ready.

Things really were looking up.

Target One sat in the cab of the UPS van, gripping the steering wheel hard to try and stop his hands from shaking. Seven minutes earlier, he’d pulled up outside Richmond House, the Department of Health ministerial building on Whitehall, and hopped out onto the street, looking every inch the UPS employee in his smart brown uniform and cap. The package he was delivering
to the DOH civil servant was genuine,
as was the UPS delivery note and hand-held scanner, thanks to a contact at the depot in Southwark. He made his delivery in the foyer of the government building, obtained the necessary signature and walked back to the van where he now sat, repeatedly glancing at his watch.

His looked across
the road, towards Downing Street, his primary target. Pretending to study his paperwork, he peered over the top of his clipboard and studied the famous cul-de-sac that was home to the British Prime Minister. The tall security gates loomed large and unauthorised traffic was forbidden, but Target One only had to get close to inflict the required devastation. Part of him wanted to witness the glorious day of victory, to see the planes fly overhead, to hear the sound of gunfire thundering across the city, but mostly he longed for Paradise. It was just the transition from this life to the next that troubled him, the pain he might feel, the prospect of failure, or maybe even a sudden, inexplicable urge to live that would turn him from the path he had chosen. No, he consoled himself, nothing would go wrong and today would be the day he died. And that was the reason his hands shook so badly.

Buried beneath the cardboard
packages that filled the rear of the vehicle was a one thousand pound bomb. In addition to the explosives, the cavities of the van’s side panels and doors had been filled with a deadly mix of nuts, bolts and nails. All Target One had to do was to drive the bomb as close as possible to Downing Street and detonate it. This is what he’d been chosen for, he reminded himself. This was his destiny.

Still, his hands shook with the enormity of what he was about to do. But he wouldn’t be alone, oh no. He was reassured in the knowledge that, at that very moment, there would be others like him around the country, watching their own targets and checking their own watches. Target One took comfort in the fact that they would all meet in paradise in a very short time.

He glanced at his watch again. Time was short now. He reached down between the seats and retrieved the detonator, a small plastic cylinder with a metal pressure switch on top. A fibre optic cable attached to the bottom snaked
away into the device at the rear of the vehicle. Once armed, it worked much like a hand-grenade. If he maintained pressure on the switch the bomb was safe. As soon as he released the pressure, the switch would close and complete a small electrical circuit, detonating the device. He twisted his wrist and watched the minute hand of his watch creep towards the top of the hour. It was nearly time.

Whitehall was busy. The pavements thronged with commuters and tourists, the roads thick with rush hour traffic. With a deep breath, Target One reached under the dashboard and punched a button, simultaneously
depressing
the trigger switch with his thumb. A small red LED glowed in his palm. The massive bomb beneath him was now armed.

With his free hand he started the van’s engine, while his lips began to move in silent prayer.

The phone rang again as Cooper climbed out of his vehicle, the number blocked. Ali. He breezed past security and climbed the staircase, answering the phone on the fifth ring.

‘Yes?’

‘Ah, Foreign Secretary. It’s me, Ali.’

Cooper looked around, his voice a harsh whisper. ‘For God’s sake, I said no names.’

‘Relax, Geoff,’ Ali chuckled.

Cooper almost exploded with anger, but he still needed Ali on side. He took a deep breath. ‘You’re right. Sorry. Busy day, that’s all. You have some news?’

‘No, not really. Where have you been, anyway? I’ve been trying to reach you for the last hour.’

Ali sounded faintly amused. What was going on here? Cooper decided
right then
to cut Ali out of the loop, get Aleema to Cairo, to the consulate, claim asylum. This guy was a waste of bloody time.

‘Well, if you’ve no news then why are you ringing me?’ He tried and failed to keep the irritation from his voice.

‘Listen, you don’t have much time, Geoff. I’ve sent you an e-mail. You should check it, before it’s too late.’

Cooper froze, a cold wave of fear suddenly washing over him. ‘What do you mean? What the hell are you talking about?’

‘It’s
over, Geoff. You, Aleema, everything. You’ve played your part. Now check your email.’

The
line went
dead. Cooper
stood frozen on
the
staircase, unable to comprehend what had just happened. He’d been cut adrift, that much was clear. But the manner of it, the tone, seemed so… final. He began to sweat profusely, sick to his stomach, gripped by a sense of impending
disaster. He took the stairs two at a time, slamming the door to his office.

An e-mail icon flashed intermittently
on his workstation terminal. His mouth dry, he touched the icon and a digital movie file began to play. Confusion twisted Cooper’s face. What was this? It was a home movie, two kids playing on a beach somewhere, azure-blue waters washing gently on white sands behind them. The Gulf, Cooper realised, dabbing at his neck with a handkerchief. The children looked young, maybe five or six, dark-skinned, Arabic. Who the hell were they? Suddenly, the camera panned to the right and his heart skipped
a beat. Aleema. She was still beautiful
as ever, but her beauty no longer filled Cooper with longing and excitement. Instead, he felt dread. This wasn’t the Aleema he knew and loved.

The delicate make-up
was gone, along with the flowing silk robes. In their place, Aleema wore an unflattering military uniform, a baggy desert-pattern
camouflage shirt and trousers tucked into high-legged boots, her dark tresses scraped back into a tight bun. She stared into the lens, a blank expression on her face. No, not blank, Cooper realised, simply emotionless. One of the children ran to her and grasped her legs and she bent down, suddenly beaming that familiar, perfect smile.

A man entered the frame and scooped up the child. He was roughly the same age as Aleema, dark and handsome, also dressed in combat uniform. They embraced and Cooper felt a sharp stab of jealousy as he watched them, watched the way Aleema looked at the man, how she stroked his face and laughed, the love, the admiration in her eyes impossible to ignore. They were a couple, that much was obvious, the children theirs, by-products of their love for each other.

In the top corner of the screen Cooper noticed the date stamp. Two days ago. His fingers stabbed at the keyboard, Aleema’s beautiful face frozen on the screen. It was a message, plain and simple; farewell to the fool called Geoffrey Cooper. For a long time he just stared at her image, his emotions ranging from utter despair to fear and rage. Then, with a cry of frustration, he picked up the display and hurled it across the room where it shattered on the floor. All the strength left his legs and he slumped into his chair. He felt totally crushed, his hopes and dreams
as shattered
and irreparable
as the computer screen lying in pieces across his ornate office. What had she done? What had he done? He’d been baited and caught, like a fish in a net. But for what purpose? So what if she was a spy? He’d said nothing, passed nothing to her that could incriminate him. What the bloody hell was going on?

He refused to accept the fact that Aleema felt nothing. Those special times they’d
enjoyed
together, the words of love exchanged between them, her pain at their parting. All a ruse? Impossible. The game was up, though. He knew this would come out. Maybe that’s what Ali meant when he said something
about being too late. Maybe the press had got hold of it. In that case he was ruined, his career gone. Cooper slid deeper into his chair. On swift reflection he realised he didn’t care. He was no spy. Besides, when all was said and done, it was only losing Aleema that really hurt. Without her he had nothing. In his mind he’d included her in his life, his future plans. Now she was gone forever.

Cooper opened a desk drawer, retrieved a glass and bottle and poured himself a generous brandy. He took a large gulp, the liquid burning a fiery path down the back of his throat. There was a knock at the door and h
is stern, middle-aged secretary Charlotte, entered the room. She observed Cooper splayed in his
chair, drink in hand and tie askew. She tutted under her breath and took a step forward, looking down in alarm
as her shoe crunched on the wreckage of the computer screen.

‘Foreign Secretary? Is everything all right, Sir?’

Without looking up, Cooper tipped the contents of his glass down his throat a
nd refilled it. ‘Be a good girl
Charlotte, and fuck off. I’ve had rather a day of it.’

Speechless,
his secretary
backed away, closing the door behind her.