The Codex File (2012) (6 page)

The other two men, Stephen Smith and Richard Green, sitting at computers opposite, looked up from their own activities.

“
Then, that’s it, isn’t it? We’re fucked. They’re definitely onto us if they’ve shut down our account,” Green said, panic cracking his voice.

“
It could be a coincidence,” Jones replied with little conviction, but knowing it couldn’t be.

Somehow the masked men that had been trailing them, and whomever they worked for, had discovered their discrete bank account in Geneva. It had been the only way to safeguard their resources in the event of any unforeseen accidents. But now they were onto this too.

Out of the corner of his eye Jones glanced at the propane canisters on the warehouse floor below. Looking away he turned to Brown who’d slumped back in his chair.

“
Get onto the CRB database and check to see if we’ve made an appearance in there. If they want to apply real leverage to us, the easiest way to get cooperation from all law enforcement agencies is to give us all a record. Check it out now, and bloody hurry.”

11.50pm.

Jones returned to his own screen, searching one server directory after another. A few minutes later his attention stopped on one area of a new server. His searching had taken him onto a Defence Department directory. About half-way down the screen he eyed a seemingly bland report produced by the National e-Government Strategy Group - a group of powerful commercial CEOs representing the UK computing industry and senior government ministers and civil servants. The report title suggested nothing more interesting than timetables for UKCitizensNet and how it would be implemented throughout the country. He almost dismissed it as irrelevant, but at the last moment he noticed in the meta-data description of the document the name Miles Winston, the Secretary of State for Defence. Intrigued as to why he should have an interest in the network he began to delve deeper into the Defence Department’s interest.

Documents containing the names of covert operatives working in foreign countries, surveillance activities, and information collected from moles and informants scrolled past. And whilst ordinarily most of this classified information would have been worth a discrete look, this evening he breezed straight past it.

Accessing a directory entitled ‘Networks’ he waited impatiently as its contents scrolled up on screen. His gaze stopped on a folder named ‘CODEX’. Casting a hasty glance at the clock he delved into the files hoping it might just contain something relevant to UKCitizensNet.

11.58pm.

A feeling of euphoria surged through him. Part way down the directory listing one file stood out:
CODEX file OP09/ST - UKCitizensNet implementation and development
.

Checking his flash drive was secure in the USB port he called up the PDF file, waiting anxiously as it loaded on screen.

Come on, come on. Load damn you.

The electronic file was issued by the Defence Department, the filename, also the title of report, sat prominently at the top of the screen.

What the hell is CODEX? And why is the Defence Department so interested in a new computer network? It doesn’t add up.

The first few paragraphs stated the classified nature of the information before detailing the government’s timetable for introducing the new network.

There’s nothing new in this information. Why the hell is it covered by the Official Secrets Act?

11.59pm.

More information on the successful contractor for UKCitizensNet followed with details of key personnel. None of it seemed relevant to his search, and he could feel his frustration rising as he scrolled further into the document.

Finally, his eye caught the title of a paragraph:
Phase I - Primary Targets
. Three names were included on the page and he began scanning the text.

Name: Colette Robertson

Position: Technical Director, SW Technologies

Skills: Semantic web technologies, financial management, broadband integration, legal and regulatory compliance

Dependants: Michael Robertson (husband); Clare Robertson (daughter)

Current personnel status: Colette Robertson (deceased), 16/9/10), Michael Robertson (active), Clare Robertson (deceased) 16/9/10)

Principal operatives: Sebastian Tate, CODEX Unit 2

Name: David Langley

Position: Technical Consultant, ACE Solutions

Before Jones could read any further all the information vanished. The same thing had happened to the other machines in the small office.

The computer clock read 12:00.

Without warning a fresh message flashed up on all four monitors simultaneously, and as he read the words he knew he’d missed his chance to save the document.

Access to the internet is now prohibited in the UK. If you possess a UKCitizensNet activation code please use this when UKCitizensNet becomes active at 9.00am, January 1
^st
, 2011.

The four men looked at each other, none of them saying a word. In nine hours time UKCitizensNet would begin and online freedom would be gone.

Jones turned to Brown who was now clutching a handful of papers that had just emerged from the printer.

“
Did you get into the Criminal Records Bureau in time?” he asked anxiously.

Brown nodded, handing him the pile of papers.

The first sheet was a criminal record report in his name - his real name. A surly-looking mugshot and an array of personal details were at the top of the document. What was underneath sealed his fate, and those of the other men.

Under ‘Arrests and Convictions’ were numerous entries relating to electronic crimes, all in breach of the Computers Misuse Act: hacking offences, access to restricted data, and dissemination of confidential material. It was followed by more alleged crimes relating to online extortion, identity theft, and correspondence with other criminal elements.

Looking up briefly at the three other men he quickly read the other ‘invented’ criminal records, all lengthy and incriminating.

“
There’s going to be nowhere for any of us to hide now, you realise that don’t you?” Brown said flatly, a slight tone of panic cracking his voice.

Screwing up the printouts Jones angrily tossed the paper balls in the direction of the window behind his computer.

“
Well, I guess that settles it. We’ve run out of time and I’ve got no proof.” He sighed, before adding rhetorically: “How many fucking hours have we spent looking for something, anything?”

The other three men shook their heads, fighting back their own anger and disappointment.

“
We mustn’t lose our resolve now. We need to stick to the original plan. It’s the only way we can safeguard our families and expose UKCitizensNet,” Jones said defiantly.

The statement was met with silence as each of the men looked through the glass screen to the propane canisters below.

A resigned smile crossed Brown’s face.

“
So where does your wife think you are tonight then?” he asked quietly, standing up from his chair to stretch his legs.

“
At our regular card game,” Jones replied, also rising.

The other two men nodded. They’d given the same explanation to their own families. At least their stories would be consistent once it was done.

Taking one final glance at the canisters Jones turned back to his colleagues, before pulling a small photograph of his wife from his shirt pocket. Margaret was smiling as always, it was one of the things he’d always loved about her. She could always find the positive in every situation. How he needed her to do this now.

A feeling of sorrow washed over him. He knew he’d never hold her again. But at least after tonight, she’d be safe - all their families would be safe. And for now, in the absence of any proof of the conspiracy threatening all their lives, that was what mattered.

“
If they know about the bank account, they probably know about this place too. It’s not going to be long before they get here. Gather up any information, flash drives or hard drives you’ve got and dispose of it as we agreed. Make sure you’re back here in 20 minutes. I’ll get things ready here.”

Without another word the three remaining men set about their task as the clock ticked on towards 12.20am.

Rubbing the tiredness from his eyes Jones reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of matches before heading towards the stairs that led to the warehouse below.

The black Volvo estate drifted carefully along the access road to the industrial park, its lights off as the driver searched for the warehouse. One unit after another slipped by, the premises largely empty apart from the odd delivery lorry delivering supplies for the following morning.

“
Take a right up here,” the passenger said, glancing at the SatNav.

Turning right, a warehouse on the left hand side at the far end of the road came sharply into view, two upstairs windows illuminated. Drawing closer to the building the silhouettes of figures passing backwards and forwards across the windows could be clearly seen.

Slipping into the car park of a unit half-way up the road the men quickly exited their car, each holding a semi-automatic rifle. Both men pulled black balaclavas over their heads before the driver pulled out a handheld electronic device.

A schematic of the building appeared on screen and the men rapidly processed the location of the building’s entry points. There were two entrances, one on the far right of the building, the other on the left side, virtually opposite. The schematic had been overlaid with a real-time infra-red satellite image of the building. Inside the boundaries of the warehouse four red, moving markers indicated their targets were all present.

“
You take the left entrance, I’ll take the right,” the driver whispered, pointing at the building as they approached.

Reaching the perimeter of the warehouse’s car park the two men separated. Before they got more than ten yards apart the night sky was lit up as a searing fireball erupted from the warehouse sending them sprawling to the ground.

Concrete and metal debris cascaded all around the car park as the two men rolled over to protect themselves from the blast. An orange and grey plume of smoke rose from where the warehouse had once been, gently rising up into the sky as the fire raged below.

Scrabbling on their knees the two men took cover behind a low brick wall, pushing their backs against the protective barrier as a second smaller explosion tore through what was remaining of the warehouse’s aluminum structure.

“
You OK?” the driver said, wiping away some of the debris from the black combat gear he was wearing.

“
Yeah, I think so,” his partner replied, casting a look at the inferno raging behind them. “What the fuck happened?”

“
Beats me,” the driver replied. “The boss isn’t going to be happy though. He doesn’t like deviation from the plan. Not that it matters. No-one could have survived that.”

Slipping his hand into his trouser pocket the driver pulled out his mobile phone and dialed the number he needed.

“
Is it done?” a clipped, familiar voice asked when the call was answered.

“
Yes sir, Mr Tate, the job’s complete. The warehouse has been destroyed…No, there are no survivors.”

Michael Robertson woke in the familiar room. A room that had been his cell for 18 months.

He knew he’d be free soon. Free to return to the life he’d once had.

Their words, not his.

Sitting up on the narrow uncomfortable bed he ran his fingers through his untidy dark brown hair before shaking his head in an attempt to purge the nightmare from his thoughts. It was the same nightmare he had every night - the moment he found Colette’s mutilated body in their bed.

The duvet was on the floor at the foot of the bed. The sheets were stained crimson, barely a spot of white remaining. Colette was bound to the bed, her wrists fastened to the bedstead, her ankles taped together. Bloodied duct tape was pulled over Colette’s mouth, and what looked like a piece of rubber tubing was hanging limply from her swollen lips.

Every morning he’d wake up, a cold sweat enveloping him, his heart racing until the images faded for another day.

What a joke. How can I ever return to the life I had.

His wife had been brutally butchered in the most horrific way imaginable. And if that hadn’t been bad enough it had been quickly followed by Clare’s disappearance, and the discovery of their cat, Harry, in the back garden, bludgeoned to death. On the night it all happened the mother of one of Clare’s friends was supposed to have picked his daughter up from her ballet rehearsal, an extra session her teacher had organised ahead of the performance at the weekend.

Michael’s expression became more serious, a frown creasing his forehead, before he exhaled loudly, letting go of the anger that was slowly building. At the time all he could think of was that if the teacher hadn’t organised the extra rehearsal then Clare wouldn’t have been there, and she wouldn’t have been taken. Maybe then she would’ve still been alive.