Decoy

  DECOY

  by

  Simon Mockler

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  80 Fifth Avenue, Suite 1101

  New York, New York 10011

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright ©2012 by Simon Mockler

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com.

  First Diversion Books edition December 2012.

  ISBN: 978-1-938120-71-8 (ebook)

  1

  There was a pain in his stomach. A whirling sickness, the sort he used to get on the Waltzer at the fairground. Jack blinked, blinded by an unbearable brightness. Where was he? His ears adjusted more quickly than his eyes. A dull electronic blip, monotonous, steady as a dripping tap. He raised his arm, watching as the blurred shape took on the form of his hand, like a diver emerging from deep under water. A plastic clip attached to his index finger, wires connected to a stack of clinical-looking machinery. He twisted his neck. A ghoulish green line darted across the screen with each blip. A heart monitor.

  The whirling sickness took flight, a thousand panicked butterflies beating against the lining of his stomach. What the hell was he doing in hospital? He rubbed his chin, feeling the growth of beard. Two weeks, maybe three for it to get that long. He heaved himself onto his elbows, and felt resistance from the wires and tubes that stuck uncomfortably into him. Five beds opposite held comatose figures. Three more to his right. One to his left. Think Jack, think.

  A fight. He frowned. Out on the grass in front of King’s College. He’d been outnumbered, three guys from the rugby team in a heavyweight ambush.

  The memory came back piecemeal. The sudden blow to the back of his neck, a coward’s punch that sent him sprawling forwards. He’d landed painfully on his right arm but spun instinctively, avoiding the heavy kick aimed at his ribs. On his feet again it was an even match. There might be three of them but he was a big guy and he’d been in a lot more fights growing up on army bases than they ever had at their posh private schools. Two quick punches at neck height and his heel in their kneecaps. He’d left them doubled over and dumbfounded. They wouldn’t be playing rugby for a while.

  No, it can’t have been that. He’d walked away with a couple of bruises and sore knuckles, nothing more. But the reason for the attack? Jack couldn’t think. His throat felt like sandpaper. Surely it wasn’t too much to expect a glass of water. Nurse, nurse, his voice a rasping whisper. No one responded. Footsteps echoed along a distant corridor. Where was the cord to pull, the button to press? He felt around beside the bed. Nothing. What kind of a ward was this? Ten patients and not a sodding nurse in sight.

  Jack collapsed back down, closed his eyes. The five beds opposite stayed with him. A mental image on his retina. Five white beds dealt like five cards. Five card poker, Texas Hold ’em. The high stakes game played once a month in the vaults of the College Chapel. He’d gambled and he’d lost against the rich boys. If he couldn’t work out how they’d cheated then he had a duty to pay, served him right. But he was broke . . . Was that the reason for the beating? Was that why they’d set the rugger buggers on him? Too bad for them he knew how to fight.

  Enough of this, he muttered under his breath, detaching the various wires and tubes from his body. I need a piss. He eased himself off the bed, feeling the cold linoleum under his feet. The corridor was quiet. Eerily so. No activity, no doctors walking up and down. Not even any signs reminding you to wash your hands, pointing you in the direction of the toilet.

  He tried the door opposite. A store cupboard. He was about to try another when he heard a car screech to a halt outside. Must be an emergency. He paused, listening for other noises, an announcement over the tannoy, a call for help. None came. A man in a white coat suddenly appeared at the far end of the corridor.

  “Hey, Doctor, wait!” Jack rasped, relieved to see another conscious person. The relief was short-lived. The man either didn’t hear or didn’t care. He was gone in a flash, down the stairs. Doors slammed below. Glass smashed. Startled voices and the sound of things breaking, being overturned. Jack was unnerved but he stayed put, listening. The noises were getting closer, the chaos of footsteps heading his way.

  He stepped into the cupboard, pulling the door closed behind him but leaving a crack to keep watch. He was acting on instinct now. Afraid but drawn to the thing that threatened him, wanting to see the danger. To stare it down and understand it. A trait he’d inherited from his father.

  Two men stopped outside the ward. One of them wore a grey suit and glasses. He looked studious, reminded Jack of his Computer Science Professor. The other was swarthy, built like a boxer with heavy shoulders and a sinewy neck. He had a square chin that looked like it would win a fight with a brick. The man in grey reached into a briefcase and pulled out a lab coat. He put it on and they entered the ward. Jack couldn’t see what was happening, but he could follow the shadows on the floor. Liquid shapes that pooled and reformed each time they moved. A quiet tear, the swift crack of bone, a brief grunt of physical effort, then the dull thud of a silenced weapon. The same process repeated nine times. Methodical, clinical, unhurried. They reappeared, the man in the lab coat wiping his stained hands and carefully folding a bundle of blood-soaked material into his brief case. He wasn’t careful enough, a pinkish shape fell to the floor with a soft splat, like soggy tissue paper. Jack stared, the sickness in his stomach momentarily forgotten.

  On the black and white tiles, no more than five centimetres in length, the head almost as large as the body, the limbs extending in unformed stumps, was a tiny foetus. It twitched every few seconds, a dark heart beating beneath the translucent, veiny skin. Inside its head a miniscule circuit, a green L.E.D that flashed intermittently. If it was human, it was only human in part. The man in the suit scooped it up and put it into his briefcase.

  Jack pulled the door shut, stepping backwards, clutching his sides, almost tripping over a bucket and mop. His breaths came thick and fast, his heart ready to explode. He reached out for the wall to steady himself but missed, falling onto a pile of grey blankets. Dust clouded the air. He pulled at the blankets, an attempt to hide under the covers, a childlike reflex. What the hell . . . is that thing inside of me?

  2

  Sir Clive Mortimer looked out over the Thames, his large feet resting on his Chippendale desk. The river flowed past the MI6 building, carrying with it innumerable secrets, the crimes of history. He loved the view; it was one of the best things about the office. He insisted they give it to him when he was promoted from Grey Ops to Cyber-Crime, the new division set up to deal with web-based terrorism. The fear of a large scale co-ordinated attack on military computers, power station IT systems and government databases was beginning to spook even the spooks.

  Claiming the office as his own had meant putting a few noses out of joint, but that was always the way in the Service. His former boss had said it was harder keeping on top of the internal politics than it was dealing with the threats from outside. Sir Clive didn’t agree, but then disagreeing with people was one of the things he did best. The intercom on his desk buzzed.

  “Sir Clive, we have a Code red, they need you in the ops room now.”

  “Thanks Charlotte,” he said. It annoyed him she didn’t knock on the door and deliver messages in person. What was the point in having a nice pair of legs if you didn’t let your boss get a look once in a while? He nodded at her as he walked past. She didn’t look up.

  The ops room was at the centre of the building, designed to be impregnable. The walls were over a metre thick, buil
t from reinforced concrete. It had its own air supply, a computer system complex enough to organise and run a small scale war and a wall of screens relaying continuous satellite feeds from around the world. The days of underfunding from central government were long gone. As soon as Al Qaeda slammed two planes into the Twin Towers the Security Services could write their own cheques. They made the most of it. It was just a shame no one had ordered comfier chairs, Sir Clive thought, shifting his large bulk awkwardly in the leather and chrome seat at the head of the table.

  He nodded at the faces gathered before him: Dr.James Calder, head of their technology research program, and his senior computer scientist, Mary Dalkeith. They worked from the lab in the basement, and hardly ever saw daylight. They were so focused Sir Clive doubted whether they even noticed.

  Next to them were his two most senior covert operations managers, good men; men he’d known for years and knew could be trusted. Blake Edwards, a former field operative with extensive experience running grey ops in Africa and the Middle East, and Ed Garner, an army Captain who, like Sir Clive, had began his career in the SAS. It was a good team, the right balance of brains and tactical skill for a division like Cyber-Crime. Sir Clive turned to Dr.Calder.

  “Well James, you called this meeting, I suggest you let us know why.” Dr.Calder cleared his throat and took a nervous sip of water.

  “Yes, quite, thank you Sir Clive.” He glanced quickly at Mary. “At a quarter to three this afternoon I received an e-mail from one of the scientists at a facility we’re using outside Cambridge. A research lab. They’re testing . . . ” he paused, looking round the room, uncertain how much detail he could divulge to those present. “They’re testing a new type of device. An adaptive computer program that uses organic matter. Synthetic biology, in essence.” Sir Clive looked at him sharply, his signal not to go into any more detail.

  “All the message said was ‘under attack’.” Dr.Calder continued, “Nothing more I’m afraid. We patched into their security system,” his fingers tapped quickly at his keyboard. “This is what we saw.”

  The screens at the far end of the room went blank, then grainy black and white. There were nine different views running at the same time, showing the wards, the car park, various corridors and the entrance to the lab. They watched the events that unfolded in the unreal, jerky motion of time lapse CCTV. A white van pulling up outside. Four men in black getting out, weapons held high, ready to use. It was peculiar watching without sound. The men just pointed their guns and figures fell, walls shook, windows collapsed in waterfalls of glass. Once they’d cleared the way another man walked briskly through the building, smartly dressed, briefcase at his side.

  “Who’s that?” Sir Clive asked, his eyes were focussed on the screen. “Isolate his face and run it through the system.” James tapped away, the rest of them continued watching the screens. The silent carnage that unfolded.

  “Professionals,” Sir Clive said, watching the grey figure working methodically and efficiently, opening up each body, taking what he needed. His voice a curious mixture of disgust and respect. Mary looked even paler than she usually did, if that was possible.

  “Where’s the video footage hosted, can we reach in to the server and delete it?” He asked.

  “No problem,” Mary replied. Her fingers poised over her keyboard “I can do that from here, but I’ll save it to our system first.” Sir Clive managed to pull his eyes away from the screen.

  “Ed, I want a two man team down there,” he said. “Explosives experts. Quick as you can. Use the helicopter. Go yourself if no one’s available. The last thing we need is police crawling all over the lab. I want it to burn so fiercely there’s no record of who was there or what was going on. Make it look like a chemical fire. Once the scene is cleared we’ll track the bastards down.” Ed was on his feet and ready to go.

  “Wait,” Sir Clive said, his hand aloft, his focus fixed on the screens. The team that ransacked the building had gone, the corridors and wards were still, but something had caught his attention.

  “Rewind.” He said, pointing at the furthest screen. Dr.Calder obeyed. “There, did you see it?” Sir Clive turned to the others round the table.

  “Again Dr.Calder, again. The shadow by the door, far end of the corridor. Watch it disappear.” They watched the screen. The dark line around the door, almost imperceptible, there one minute, gone the next. “Someone’s in there. Someone’s hiding,” Sir Clive said.

  “Fast forward,” he barked. The screen flicked forward, five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes. The corridor remained empty. At thirty minutes they saw him, a male figure cautiously opening the door. Tall, athletic in build. He lurched forward, clutched his stomach, vomited. Then ran down the corridor with unexpected and exceptional speed.

  “Rewind. Rewind! Where the hell did this guy come from?” They scanned the images. “Stop,” Sir Clive pointed at the view of the ward, the figure slowly pulling himself up, dragging himself out of bed.

  “Shit. One the guinea pigs appears to have gone walk-about.” He turned to Ed Garner, still standing by the door, waiting his order to move out. “Once you’ve blown the place to pieces you’re going to have to find that man. Preferably before the bastards that carried out the raid.”

  3

  Jack headed towards the light, blinking, disbelieving. He didn’t know what he’d find outside the door. He didn’t care. The unreality of the situation was too much for him. He just wanted to get out. The floor of his ward was covered in pools of dark liquid, the bodies opened, cruelly exposed. His stomach reacted violently. He ran, his most primal instinct, no idea where he was going, along corridors and down stairs, almost tripping over the fallen scientist who’d tried to get away.

  He made it to reception. Two more bodies. A woman slumped over her desk and a deliveryman in the wrong place at the wrong time. He blocked the doorway, the automatic glass doors opening and closing against his chest. Jack stepped over him, the unreality of it all a waking nightmare. He was outside now, standing in the cold, the winter wind tugging at his loose hospital gown, dead leaves blowing across the car park. He realised he was naked underneath. The coldness was welcome. It cut through the daze, helped clear the shock that fogged his brain.

  Should he get to a phone, call the police? Something inside him fought the impulse. Get away, you have to get away. Trust no one but yourself. He needed answers, not the endless questions he’d get from the local coppers.

  There was a range of expensive cars parked in front of the building. Mercedes, Jaguars, BMWs. He’d never get them started. An old Nissan Sunny was parked shamefully behind the hazardous waste bins. Perfect, he thought to himself, bunching his gown around his fist and smashing it through the rear window.

  He unlocked the front door and climbed in, pulling at the wires beneath the steering column, smiling as the connection was made and the engine coughed to life. The advantage of a misspent youth, some things you didn’t forget. And in this situation any connection with the past felt good. He revved the engine hard, crunching through the gears and accelerating out of the car park. As he swerved onto the main road he saw a sign, pale blue text on a white background. “Marcon Pharmaceuticals. Research and testing.” One thing was clear, he hadn’t been at a hospital.

  He reached for the radio, wanting to hear something from the real world, something ordinary. It was starting to get dark, the drive time DJs were playing classic rock hits. Queen, Thin Lizzy. Normally he wouldn’t be caught dead listening to dinosaur rock but tonight it made sense, the steady beat, the power chords, solid head-banging simplicity that kept his brain the right side of hysterical.

  He passed a sign for Cambridge. He must be on one of the A-roads that circled the city. 20 miles it said. He had no idea what he was going to do when he got there. He couldn’t turn up at College in a stolen car, half naked, with a full-on Robinson Crusoe beard. The head porter looked down his nose at h
im already, he’d take considerable delight in refusing to let him in.

  There was only one thing for it, Amanda’s house on Jesus Lane. Amanda was a junior doctor. Close to completing her final year of clinical. They’d been seeing each other on and off for a few weeks before he disappeared. She wasn’t his usual type. She was independent, frighteningly bright and not afraid of speaking her mind. She was also an uninhibited, sensual lover and the switch from one personality to the other thrilled him.

  Things had been going well, at least they’d gone well during the three dates and two nights they’d spent together. But that was before he’d disappeared. That was before he decided to turn up on her doorstep wearing nothing but a beard and a less-than-modest hospital gown.

  He parked the Nissan as close to the house as he could. It was dark now. Half past five on a winter’s evening and the street was almost deserted. He could feel his stomach rumbling. How long since he’d had solid food? Who knew? He leant his weight against the buzzer and waited. Footsteps padded down the stairs and a muffled voice said be there in a sec. Jack started to shiver.

  “What the hell?” Amanda’s housemate opened the door. Her voice was shrill, her face a picture of disgust. She tried to shut the door but Jack shoved his knee in the way. He grimaced as the door hit.

  “Tara it’s me, Jack, Jack Hartman. Amanda’s friend. Is she around?” His voice still sounded strange to him. An old man’s voice, wheezy and pained.

  Tara squinted, unwilling to open the door, but her body language relaxed a little, she seemed to recognise him through the beard.

  “Jack? Oh yes, I remember,” she pouted and tilted her head to one side, “aren’t you the guy who hasn’t called for three weeks?” she said sarcastically. Jack was too weak for explanations. “Can I just see Amanda please?” he said again.