Cyber Terror (11 page)

Toby looked astounded. Opposite him, sitting on a chair, an unshaven man jumped with shock. Recovering quickly, he reached out for a remote control on the coffee table beside him.

Convinced that he was holding an improvised bomb, Jordan drew back his robotic arm and tried to fling the container out of the door. But it didn’t fly anywhere. The device clung to the
sticky glove.

The terrorist – or whatever he was – pushed a key on his remote.

Jordan braced himself, but nothing happened.

Taken by surprise, the man fiddled with the remote, probably resetting it.

Jordan wrenched the bomb away from his right hand with his left. Now it was firmly attached to his other hand. In that instant, he knew that, if it went off, he’d lose his real arm.
Minimum.

The bomber began to smile. He was gloating. He delayed the detonation to enjoy the strange sight of Jordan’s dilemma.

Jordan peeled off the left-hand glove with his false fingers and wrapped it round the pot. With his real hand bare, he could now throw the device. He’d never been any good with that arm,
though, so it wouldn’t go far and it wouldn’t be accurate.

The intruder had had enough amusement. He decided it was time to press the button. And this time he wasn’t going to make a mistake.

Jordan lobbed the container behind the large sofa and flung himself to the ground.

The deafening noise of the blast was followed immediately by the shock wave. The windows shattered. Curtains ripped and flailed. Pictures flew off the walls. Furniture collapsed. Toby was hurled
sideways along with the armchair. The TV exploded. The heavy sofa lunged at Jordan. The ceiling lifted momentarily. Pulverized by the explosion, clouds of plaster filled the air.

The bomb took only a couple of seconds to destroy much of the room, but time appeared to slow. Jordan saw it all at reduced speed. His right arm came up protectively in front of him and
deflected the settee. The remote control seemed to hover in the air while the man who had activated it was thrust forward against a broken cabinet.

The first to recover his wits, Jordan scrambled towards Toby. “Are you all right?” he asked, tearing off the pilot’s gag.

Clearly confused, Toby replied, “Can’t hear.”

Jordan shouted, “Are you okay?”

Toby took a deep breath and then coughed violently. “I think so. Sort of.”

The armchair was shredded. It had taken the force of the blast and probably saved the pilot.

Toby looked around. “My house!” he cried. Still frightened, he added, “What about...?”

The room was fogged with particles of plaster. Even Jordan struggled to see through it, but he detected the bomber’s heat signature in the infrared. He was sprawled across the floor on the
far side. Picking his way over to him, Jordan saw glass from the cabinet door protruding from his neck and an extraordinary volume of blood. In a loud voice, Jordan said, “He’s out of
it. Dead.”

Jordan wished that he was standing over Short Circuit. He wished that he’d just concluded his second mission. But it wasn’t over. This man’s methods were nothing like Short
Circuit’s cyber terrorism.

“What’s this all about?” Jordan asked as he clambered over the wreckage and began to untie Toby. “Do you know?”

The pilot clicked into gear. “What time is it?”

“About half past two.” Jordan loosened enough cord to free Toby’s left arm.

The pilot looked down at his wrist. “Two twenty-six. We’ve got four minutes before take-off!”

“What?”

“There were two of them. The other one’s exactly like me. Could be my double. He took my pilot’s licence, clothes and ID. He’s had flying lessons. He’s posing as
me. He’s going to kill the pilot and crash the plane into the Houses of Parliament!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Toby nodded towards the bomber. “He was revelling in it. On a high about what they were doing.”

Jordan undid the remaining knot.

“He smashed my landline and mobile,” Toby said, unravelling himself from the loops of rope. “Give me yours. Quick. I’ve got to stop that flight.”

Jordan handed over his phone.

Almost at once, Toby looked crestfallen. “I don’t know the number!”

“What number?”

“Airport security. I’ve got it on speed-dial. I don’t need to remember it.” He glanced at his watch again. Panicking, he yelled, “That flight’s always on
schedule. They’re about to take off!”

A crowd of neighbours had assembled on the lawn outside. One or two were brave enough to approach the front, but they probably thought no one was at home. They might even think they’d seen
Toby leaving earlier.

Jordan reclaimed his phone and keyed in his emergency number again. “I know someone who can help. Is it going from Heathrow?”

Toby nodded. “Flight BA460 for Madrid. Terminal 3.”

“What’s the problem?” Angel asked in Jordan’s ear.

“You’ve got to stop Flight BA460 from Heathrow to Madrid. Two-thirty. One of the pilots isn’t who he says he is. He’s going to crash the plane in London. On
Parliament.”

“What? Okay. I trust you. I’ll get on to the airport. Stop it first, ask questions later.”

Jordan ended the brief call. He could just make out a distant siren. No doubt one of the locals had called the emergency services to the scene of the explosion.

“Is that it?” Toby asked.

Jordan nodded. “My...friend will sort it out.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Toby looked blank. “Who are you?”

Jordan shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. But...”

“What?”

“They’ll take you to hospital,” Jordan said. “Fix you up. I’d like to have a talk, but I’d rather not be around when the police arrive, if I don’t have
to be. Best not to mention me, eh? It complicates things. I’ll visit you in about an hour. Okay?”

“I suppose so. But how do I know the plane...?”

“Watch telly while you’re waiting. Hope there’s nothing about one coming down on London.”

To avoid the swarm of concerned neighbours, Jordan made for the back door.

Of all the threats to airport security, a terrorist piloting an aeroplane was the scenario that the authorities feared most. Angel did not tell them that his information came
from a teenager. He simply activated the coded alert and Heathrow swung into action.

Flight BA460 had left its gate and was taxiing slowly towards the main runway. Allocated a slot, it was in a queue for take-off. It was too risky to recall the aircraft because the rogue pilot
would guess that he’d been rumbled. The security staff dreaded what he might do.

They decided to invent a crisis that would allow them to cancel all flights instead of picking on one. Air traffic control announced an immediate airport shutdown. “We have a Boeing 757
turning back for emergency landing with a fuel leak from its right wing. Clear all air traffic. Repeat. Clear all traffic. Return to gates in sequence.” To make it look realistic, all of
Heathrow’s fire appliances raced to the runway and lined up in readiness.

As soon as Flight BA460 pulled up to its gate, it was stormed by specially trained officers. The fake pilot was led away and the authorities set about repairing the chaos to their schedules.
Hundreds of disgruntled passengers never got to know that a boy called Jordan Stryker had averted carnage. They knew only hours of disruption to their flights.

Dodging round patients, visitors and staff, Jordan hurried to Accident and Emergency, where Toby Cotterill had been taken.

Parts of the pilot’s arms and legs were sheathed in bandages. His bruised face was patchy blue and his dark hair was still dusted with powdered plaster. He looked like he’d just
survived a few rounds with a champion boxer.

Jordan waved a hand towards the television attached to the ceiling. “Have you heard? No crashes on the news. Just a false alarm over an iffy plane and major delays.”

Toby nodded.

Jordan waited for a nurse to stride past before pulling up a chair. “I wanted to ask you a few things.”

“Fire away,” Toby said. “I owe you.”

“How did you get on with Captain Lazenby?”

“He’s a fine man and a good work colleague. I mean, he
was
.”

“That didn’t stop you having a go at him in the newspapers.”

Toby’s battered face took on a red flush. “I hope it didn’t come across like that. I was having a go at everyone else, because they treated him like a god and the rest of the
crew like we didn’t matter. You’d think we were all sitting around having a laugh and a drink while Phil saved our lives. You know, after the Edinburgh incident, I didn’t work
with him much.”

“You fell out?”

“No. We do what our masters tell us. We just didn’t get paired up that often.”

“Did he have anything to do with drugs?”

Toby raised his eyebrows. “We all do. Our sleep patterns are all over the place. One pill to help us sleep, a different pill to keep us awake. Passengers like their pilots to be awake at
the controls.”

Jordan smiled. “What about illegal drugs?”

“No chance. He wasn’t that sort.”

“Where were you when you heard he’d died?”

“In a Paris hotel, watching BBC News, waiting for the sleeping pill to kick in,” Toby answered. He shook his head sadly. “News was scrolling across the bottom of the screen.
Hero pilot dies
.”

Jordan remembered that Paris was the first place mentioned in the Lemon Jelly song. He said, “You get around. Could call you a ramblin’ man.”

Toby’s face creased with puzzlement. “Um... I suppose so.”

His reaction was not suspicious. Jordan changed tactics. “How did you meet Carlton Reed?”

“Who?” Toby said, genuinely mystified.

“Sorry. I thought... Anyway, how about someone or something called Forew?”

Toby shook his head. “You’re strange. And I never found out how you got into my house.”

“Through a bedroom window.” With a wry grin, Jordan added, “I might have damaged it a bit.”

“It’s not the only damage. I won’t press charges of breaking and entering.” He pointed at the wall clock and said, “The police are coming to interview me in a few
minutes. I guess you’ll want to evaporate before they arrive.”

Jordan nodded. “I can do without the hassle.”

“If I thought for one moment you were a bad guy...”

“I’m not.”

“I can tell,” Toby replied. “Are you still off the record?”

“It’s best, yes.”

Smiling, Toby shook his head. “You’d better do your disappearing act, then.”

Jordan stood up. “Thanks for the warning,” he said. “This time,
you
can have the glory for keeping a planeload of passengers safe.”

“I’m annoyed with you,” said Angel.

Jordan knew that Unit Red’s chief had a stern side to his nature. He stretched out his arms and asked, “Why? What have I done?”

“You took unauthorized time off your case. You went outside your brief.”

For a moment, Jordan didn’t get it. Then he laughed. “You mean, saving the Houses of Parliament and a lot of politicians?”

Angel’s face finally cracked. “The public will never forgive you.”

“They’ll never know.”

“That’s true,” Angel replied. “Neither will the passengers. They’ll be enjoying Madrid, not realizing how close they were to dying in a disaster.” He
hesitated before adding, “You did well.”

“I got lucky.”

“Not as lucky as the MPs,” Angel said. “But I’m glad you’re getting used to the Unit Red way of doing things.”

“How do you mean?”

“Plenty of hard work, quite a bit of danger, a small amount of luck and no credit at all. But up here,” he said, tapping the side of his head, “you feel good. Sometimes –
like now – very good indeed.”

“I’d feel even better if I’d got Short Circuit as well. I’m pretty sure it’s not Toby Cotterill. For one thing, he was in Paris when I was in Ipswich with Phil
Lazenby. And the bloke with the bomb didn’t do things like Short Circuit, did he?”

“No,” Angel replied. “We’re interrogating his mate – the fake pilot – right now. Leave that angle to me. Kate said you were sniffing out a drug
connection.”

Jordan shook his head. “No sign of it yet.”

But Angel’s comment made him think again. He remembered the first line on the pilot’s notepad.
Ipswich 28/4
. Using his BCI, he went online and searched on
Ipswich 28th
April 2012
. It was a Saturday and there were several events on in the town that day. One in particular caught his eye. There had been a stamp fair. He wasn’t sure what happened at a stamp
fair, so he logged on to the organizer’s site. Apparently, about twenty dealers had turned up to sell collectible postage stamps.

Jordan closed his eyes and sighed.

“What’s up?” Angel asked.

“False alarm,” Jordan admitted. “Phil Lazenby had a collection of stamps. I saw Dutch ones. Maybe he had Colombian ones in a different folder. I bet he phoned someone about
what was on sale at a stamp fair on the twenty-eighth of April. It was stamps, not drugs.”

“It’s marvellous what you can do with an online brain,” said Angel. “Which reminds me. Raven’s got something for you. A file’s come in from Dipak
Hardikar.”

“Right,” Jordan replied. “I’ll go and see her.”

When Jordan walked into the computer room, Raven twisted round and said, “Oh, it’s you.”

It wasn’t the warmest of welcomes. “Hi,” he said. “Dipak’s sent me something.”

“Yes. An e-mail with an attachment.” She threw a mass of black hair over her shoulder. “Want to see it on screen or are you going to do it in your amazing brain?”

Approaching her from the side, Jordan noticed how skinny she was. She would have looked in place strutting down a catwalk. Not really tempted to take a peek at her with terahertz vision, Jordan
answered, “The screen’s easier.”

“Here you go.” She twisted the monitor so he could read it easily.

In his e-mail, Dipak explained that he hadn’t yet been able to break into the bank that handled HiSpec’s finances, but he had found staff details from a five-year-old file buried in
the deep web.

Raven asked, “Do you want to open it now?”