Masquerade

By Joseph Wyndham

A breath-taking rollercoaster of a storyline thriller, enmeshed in a dastardly conspiracy saturated with villainy; a powerful criminal organisation insidiously controlling both western corporate business and governments is tracked and challenged by a desiccated network of hacktivists.

 

George Dark is a highly skilled master of disguise, fixated and driven by personal loss, despite his own perils, heroically seeks to bring down the evil criminal organisation. Taking terrible risks, heedless of appalling adversity, he undermines and challenges the syndicate in the context of huge stakes, wherein the very existence of western democracy will be a distant memory if Dark and his network fails.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joseph Wyndham
• Release date: May 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463091074

Book preview

Masquerade

Joseph Wyndham

Masquerade

Published by Christopher Thomas at Smashwords

Copyright 2018 Christopher Thomas

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.  This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

A Tentacle Twitched

Dark Deeds

No Little Break

Puppet Propaganda

Taking Stock

Kalyptra Genesis

Recount

Circularity

Wages of Sin

Business and Fratricide

Spectre of a Thief

Shadow Stalker

The Trappist

Prima Facie

Divided Loyalty

Gittins Responds

Resilience

The Brief

Choppy Waters

Road to Redemption

New Ally

Rural Retreat

Nascent Rebel

Dark Dilema

Alta Heist

Rendition

Key Node

Cold Calling

Riot

Express Delivery

Setup

Kidnap

Bad Blood

De Facto Foe

Distressed Damsel

Ensnared

Extraction

Improbable Allies

Inside Information

Antidote

Volte Face

Rat Run

Cordillera de la Ramada

Justitia

Tribulation

Reformation

A Tentacle Twitched

They say knowledge is power, in Julian Dark’s case, knowledge instilled a feeling of terror. He had been caught red handed and he knew it. Dark had been prying into classified state documents and he had just discovered the most outrageous secret. He clattered up the archive’s concrete stairs in a state of panic as the terrible repercussions of his discovery began to sink in.  His mind was a tumult of conflicting emotions as he fled outside into Whitehall. He had verified his suspicion that the Home Secretary was personally involved in a long running corruption scandal ensuring substantial Government contracts were awarded to associates. Upon learning the associate’s names he now feared for his life. The list named powerful men, including organised crime bosses, heads of black ops security companies, and brutal third world dictators. But his overriding emotion was terror, this illicit knowledge made him a target.

The chill of a grey April afternoon brought Dark up short. For the first time in an hour his brain began to function logically. Whatever happened, he had to pass the photocopied documents in his briefcase, proving the Home Secretary’s corruption, to his associate, Heinz Gombricht. He began to stride down Whitehall, oblivious to his surroundings. Dark worked as a Senior Economist in the Foreign and Commonwealth Service. Gombricht worked for the Austrian Diplomatic service. They were close friends and colleagues. They had long held suspicions that a secret cabal of Multi-National Companies were bribing Government Officials for contracts.

Dark had good reason to be terrified, as soon as he signed the chit to visit the Home Office section of the Archive, the Clerk followed a Standing Instruction to immediately notify MI5. Unbeknownst to Dark that moment had placed him in grave danger. As he left the building, he was marked and followed by a group of undercover agents, whose orders were to retrieve Dark’s briefcase and at all costs prevent him contacting or passing the briefcase to anyone.

Dark was well aware his whistle-blowing not only flouted the Official Secrets Act, but the authorities would brand him a traitor. That was indeed frightening, but corruption had become so blatant and commonplace in political circles, he felt it his patriotic duty to expose those responsible.

Dark knew full well that within hours of him passing the photocopies to his colleague Heinz Gombricht, a firestorm of public indignation would force the Government to face a vote of no confidence in the House.  And more pertinently, would cause outrage in Establishment circles about their nefarious secrets becoming public knowledge. The very same thoughts were causing considerable alarm in the Home Secretary’s inner sanctum. The Right Honourable Reginald Crowthorne had just been informed of the theft by Dick Pargetter, the Head of MI5. Crowthorne’s cultured voice grew shrill as he fluctuated between fury and blind panic at the news of this latest act of treachery. Recent scandals about questions for cash in the House had exposed the growing rift developing between the public and their masters. Crowthorne didn’t know precisely what had been stolen, but whatever, it would inevitably be catastrophic.

Now listen here, Pargetter, this is a direct order. You are ensure that briefcase is in my possession within the hour, do you hear? This is a matter of National Security, use any and all means to retrieve that briefcase.

Pargetter was not unaccustomed to such orders, but he wanted absolute confirmation. Minister, are you sanctioning a kill?

Crowthorne barked, Indeed. In fact I demand it.

Yes Minister. But I must have that in writing.

Of course, dear boy. Now get on with it. And no loose ends!

Crowthorne’s hands shook as he lit a cheroot and began pacing his opulent office. He had no intention whatsoever of committing such an order to print, after all, he needed plausible deniability.

Back at Whitehall, a group of MI5 agents were stalking their mark, like a pack of wolves. They formed a loose semi-circle behind Dark; now they had orders to terminate, they made no effort to conceal themselves, on the contrary, they wanted Dark to see them and panic, it would make their job easier. In front of Dark another pack of wolves waited, sat astride powerful motorbikes, MI5 operatives disguised as Hells Angels.

Dark was still in a state of turmoil as he hurried down Whitehall.  He gradually became aware that people were staring intently at him, he looked round, puzzled and saw the reason. A gang of six hard men shoved people out of their way as they closed in on him.  Instinctively he broke into a stumbling trot.

Oh my God! They know already!

The Establishment made it their job to know, their spies and informers were everywhere reporting unacceptable behaviour on friend and family alike. They knew everything about everyone.

The wolves closed in on Dark, herding him into Great Charles Street. Desperately, Dark looked for an escape, but at every turn another wolf made him veer away, sending him inexorably toward the bikers. By now blind panic paralysed Dark’s mind, he stumbled down the road, suddenly he found himself in the midst of a group of American tourists. They called loudly to each other as they posed before an old fashioned red phone box. Instinctively Dark pushed the milling tourists out of his way and ignoring cries of indignation, he dived into the phone box.

He ducked down and checked for his pursuers, there none to be seen. Satisfied he had bought some time, his only thought now was to alert Heinz that he had the evidence they so desperately needed and that he, Dark, was in grave danger. His hands trembled violently as he dialled Heinz; he cursed nonstop while he waited for the ring tone. Eventually there was a distant click.

Hello? Heinz, is that you?

Heinz’s voice sounded metallic, Julian? What’s wrong?

Dark cut him short, Quiet! Listen. I’ve photocopied the diary, it’s as we thought. It proves Crowthorne and his cronies are receiving huge bribes for giving contracts to the Corporatists.

Bloody hell! We’ve got the bastards!

Not quite, they’ve know I’ve been to the archive and there is a gang chasing me, they’re determined to stop us.

Damn! Where are you?

I’m leaving the photocopied diaries folded in the directory in a phone box in Great Charles Street off Whitehall, get here as fast as you can to pick them up. You might just make it before they discover I don’t have them. But you must hurry!

Julian, wait!

Too late, Dark dropped the call and hastily shoved the photocopies inside the directory then pushed it back into its cubby hole.

Just then the door yanked open, petrified, Dark spun round dreading seeing his tormentors, instead an irate elderly American clad entirely in beige, berated him.

Is that the way you English treat people nowadays?

Dark stammered, Sorry, emergency. Then pushed his way past the fuming American. Crouching low, he scrambled through the crowd and turned into Horse Guards. As he cleared the tourists Dark was relieved not to see anyone suspicious. But they were there in the shadows formed up in a horseshoe, gradually shepherding him toward their trap. Then as he made his way along Horse Guards, it was apparent he had been outflanked, the only route with no visible threat was St. James Park. Turning, Dark stumbled badly, once again gripped by icy panic, he abandoned any effort to hide and ran across the grass toward another group of tourists.

One of the MI5 agents radioed the bikers to intercept the mark. They had been lounging on the grass, near the lake, now they stood nonchalantly and after cat-calling three teenage girls casually wandered in Dark’s direction.

A thoroughly unfit Dark lurched and stumbled across the grass, burning breath came in staccato bursts, his legs felt like jelly, he was rapidly nearing collapse. Only a primal survival instinct kept him going. Another twenty yards and his legs gave up, he collided with one of the bikers and collapsed. He lay prone on the grass, chest heaving, the biker leaned over.

Hey! You just barged into me!

Dark saw only a shadow and heard only a vague noise.

Look where you’re going, man!

No response.

The biker jabbed Dark with his boot. He shouted.

Hey! I’m talking to you!

The biker raised his voice for the benefit of passers-by, You should look where you’re going. You could’ve hurt someone.

His companions encircled Dark, two of them grabbed him and hauled him to his feet.

Dark mumbled, Ss... sorry, didn’t ....

Sorry don’t cut it, mate! You nearly tore my jacket.

Dark gasped, Accident.

Accident or not, you’re gonna pay!

Frantically Dark looked around, No ... No money.

The biker grinned maliciously, No worries, I’ll beat it out of you. Suits me either way. And with that aimed a vicious blow into Dark’s solar plexus. Dark doubled up, every breath of air sucked out of his lungs. Another biker brought a baseball bat down on his shoulders with a resounding thud. Dark was pinioned by two, while the other six beat and kicked him with a practiced and methodical action. It only took a few moments, they let Dark fall to the ground like a discarded doll, mercifully unconscious, they carried on kicking his head, the surest way to kill. Suddenly, as one they rested, pausing for breath. They stood panting heavily, impassively watching their victim’s life blood pour from his mouth and ears, a large red pool gathered around his head.

Then business-like, the leader snapped, Get the briefcase. Let’s go!

Like well a drilled squad of troops they turned outward, expressions challenging any of the shocked onlookers to intervene. One of the bikers collected the case and they ran laughing and joking to the far end of the park.

In the shadow of a tree a man spoke into a radio, Control... Mission complete. Briefcase secured.

____________  ***  ____________

Ten years after his father, Julian’s murder, George Dark sat before a large illuminated mirror applying makeup. He lived in a converted warehouse in East London, although this was only one of many haunts. As someone who was wanted by most Western Governments he lived ‘off-grid’, never staying in one place for long lest his habits became predictable. In the ten years since his father had been killed in a Government sanctioned assassination, Dark had learned the art of disguise from his actress Mother, Felicity; he also gained a wide knowledge of the languages and cultures of Europe and Asia, and as a child of the nascent digital age he became an expert hacker. His skills and knowledge made him invisible to Government systems, allowing him to move around the world freely, without leaving a trail.  He had another reason for living off-grid besides avenging his father. A deep moral objection burned within him, he was a person, an individual with inalienable rights, he was more than an alpha-numeric code stored on impersonal Corporate databases jam-packed full of other people reduced to a alpha-number. He refused to be dehumanised in this way.

Dark suddenly remembered his Mother’s reproof, "Not like that George, darling. Less is best.’

Behind Dark, his handler, Heinz watched the TV news, Lord! Can you believe this nonsense? How do these people have the nerve to call themselves journalists; they just regurgitate Government propaganda, without challenge.

In the TV Studio, two attractive newsreaders smiled condescendingly at the camera while the programme’s theme tune faded. The woman studied her tablet then, Good evening, this is Rankah Jervis and Richard Brise with tonight’s headlines.

Brise adopted a sincere expression, The Home Secretary approves plans for widespread deployment of CCTV cameras equipped with Facial Recognition in the fight against terrorism.

Rankah added, A spokesperson for Libertas criticised the plan, saying it was another nail in the coffin of personal freedom, Britain is now a Police State.

Thank you Rankah, in other news, retail spending was up for the third consecutive quarter. The Prime Minister says, Britain’s business is booming."

Now it was Rankah’s turn to project empathy, In America, the White House confirmed a Syrian rebel base was destroyed by a drone strike last night. Reports of civilian casualties were strenuously denied. The Defence Secretary stated the rebels always used the local population as a shield, however the United States would not be deterred from attacking rebels wherever they hid.

Dark muttered, No mention of Yemen, then?  Who gives a shit about a humanitarian crisis when there’s no profit in it? A Government has to get its priorities right!

Heinz snorted, They only tell us what they want us to know, the awkward stuff is left out. Who knows what the truth is anymore?

Back in the darkened studio control room, a huge bank of monitors cast a ghostly glow over a row of technicians controlling the cameras, while three people sit on a raised dais directing the programme. The Studio Manager barked out, Camera two, focus on Rankah. Stand by Camera five, close-up on Richard.

He turned to his assistant, Did the engineering job loss story get cut?

Yeah, Bullmore sent over a revised schedule of stories he wanted to broadcast.

The Studio Manager snorted in disgust, Dear God! What have we come to? I remember a time when editors decided the headlines. Now they are micro-managed by some bloody Government lackey!

____________  ***  ____________

The Right Honourable Stryckland was hosting a business lunch in an exclusive restaurant in central London. He had invited six of his most powerful backers, all of them CEOs of multi-national Corporations based in the UK.

Stryckland cleared his throat, Gentlemen welcome, please be seated.

Geoffrey Lewis, a large bluff character, the CEO of SupaFoods PLC, a huge food processing company. Giles. It’s been a long time. We’re looking forward to your speech at the Mansion House. SupaFoods is expecting the Government to co-operate more fully with its business goals this term.

Geoffrey, to the point as ever.  I can safely say you won’t be disappointed. Stryckland waved at an aide, Hugo here has been burning the midnight oil incorporating your recommendation into the bill.

Lewis was dubious; You made a similar promise last time we met; how do I know you’ll keep your word this time?

Stryckland mentally counted to ten before answering. Because the Government has to! If it wants to retain your financial backing, it has to honour its promises, it’s that simple.

Rupert Blandford, an Investment Banker interrupted, And I trust the damned residency legislation is being revised. The Bank is concerned Giles! If there is no progress soon, we will have to reconsider your funding.

Rupert, please. Parliament has a busy schedule. The issue would have been resolved by now if it wasn’t for the fuss about shady tax deals with you lot!

Stryckland was under fire, these people were part of the corporate clique who ruled the West. They funded Government policies and expected results, they didn’t accept failure, non-compliance was almost always terminal for the person concerned.  The problem was Stryckland didn’t have complete control of Government MPs. The Prime Minister presided over a split party, MPs loyal to him accounted for just over half the whip, whilst Stryckland controlled the rest. Stryckland was having a great deal of trouble integrating his Corporatist friendly agenda of business and tax friendly legislation into law. MP’s loyal to the PM had thwarted him every time he tried. As far as the Corporatists were concerned, the current situation was untenable. Their goal was to do away with elected Governments altogether, and the UK was the prototype for a strategy that would see every country in Europe ruled with an ‘iron fist’ by the Corporatists.

Dark Deeds

Dark was a thief, a stealer of secrets. The Corporatists labelled him a terrorist and put a five million dollar price tag on his head.  The Corporatists controlled the major Multi-Nationals and Western Governments and were desperate to stop Dark exposing their activities.  They had many immoral secrets which they were determined to keep hidden. Dark's activities risked exposing those wicked deeds.

Consequently George Dark was a fugitive, hunted in every country in the West. The only thing preventing Dark’s capture was his genius at disguise.

To stay alive Dark lived outside the boundaries of normal society. Beyond the reach of the databases and surveillance systems used to scrutinize and control ordinary people. He was invisible to these systems.  The sheer mass of humanity in modern cities masked his presence to the all-seeing cyber systems.  In the twenty-first century information technology had reduced people to mere codes, alphanumeric characters in hegemonic databases. People had been stripped of their personalities, humanity and idiosyncrasies. For his part, Dark refused to be labelled and categorised by an insentient box of microchips and wires. Every fibre of his being rebelled at the suffocating and systematic attempts by these impersonal data-banks to de-humanise him.

To fight the persistent encroachment of Government control systems, Dark used his expertise for disguise and acting. As a loner, he could assume a new identity as easily as someone putting on an overcoat as they walked out of their front door. He could adapt his body language, change his accent, with skilfully faked identity documents he immediately became a different person. All the easier to confuse the cyber systems.

Security Forces such as MI6 or the CIA monitored non-compliance amongst the public.  Governments were determined to silence anyone who dared speak out against their ominous activities. Governments violated National, International laws and human rights treaties without a second thought in their frantic attempts to mask the truth. The Oligarchs, alarmed that the public might listen to the brave individuals who questioned their activities, called them 'terrorists'. If there was one thing that kept the Corporatists awake at night, it was the fear that their control of the ironically named 'Free World' would be exposed.  Dark was determined to shatter this illusion and show people they were being cynically manipulated.  The Corporatists were aware that their grip on power would be destroyed instantly if the public turned against them.

In the beginning Dark fought against the system's impersonalised brutality and manipulation. He soon realised the real agenda was to control society so it became subservient to the Corporatists.  So he concentrated his efforts on helping people regain their individual liberties.  He dedicated his life to tear down the carefully constructed mask of secrecy. To shine a spotlight into the dark avaricious machinations of Corporatism.

As far as the Corporatists were concerned, Dark and his contemporaries were treacherous terrorists not freedom fighters, who were hell-bent on destroying a carefully constructed network of alliances that had taken decades to build.  Their response was predictable and brutal.  They sent national security services to covertly stalk the terrorists and eliminate them.

Tonight Dark had to steal more secrets.  His Swiss associate Heinz wanted evidence to link a Senior British Government Minister with a Security firm they suspected of operating a private army inside the UK.  They wanted to know its business associates, its owners, directors, and suppliers. They knew Albion Security was a company, which worked exclusively for European Governments. The sixty four thousand dollar question was, were they ordinary suppliers, or was there something nefarious to hide.  It was public knowledge that Albion provided low level security guards for Government buildings, courts and prisoner transfers. But recently a radical newspaper, The ‘Enquirer’ had discovered a series of payments to the Company from an unusual source.  One of the analysts at The Hacker network had connected this snippet of information with reports of increased street level surveillance upon anti Government activists. There had been fights at opposition group meetings, intimidation of high profile activists.  The analysts at the Hacker network drew the obvious historical parallel with paramilitary units used to intimidate political opponents in 1930s Spain, Italy, Russia and Germany.  Surveillance, harassment and assaults were the usual modus operandii.  Normally carried out in such a way that the Corporatists could plausible deny any connection to the violence. The question vexing Dark was this:  Firstly, could he prove beyond doubt that Albion Security were responsible for the unrest? Secondly, prove Albion Security were following explicit directions from someone close to the Corporatists, i.e. the British Government.

Dark slumped back in his chair and rubbed his temples. He had a thumping headache after staring at the computer and drinking too much.  The sound of heavy rain spitting against the window caught his attention, he walked over to look outside.  In the distance a solitary street lamp tinged the rain a grubby orange, while a gusting wind snatched plastic bags along the street. Dark thought it a depressing scene. Damn, he would have to go out in this later. He checked the time, he would need to get a move on if he wasn't going to be late for the shift.

He walked over to a workbench in the corner of the room.  The laminating machine hummed as he powered it up.  Taking a small plastic sleeve from the shelf, he carefully slid a head and shoulders photo inside.  It was one of his stock disguises. Unkempt moustache, tousled, greasy wig. Four day's growth on his face. A pair of cheap thick rimmed glasses completed the disguise.

Plastic crackled as the edges sealed, Dark inspected the badge closely, the photo sat squarely in the sleeve, his alias printed neatly below the agency logo.  It would easily pass the cursory inspection normally afforded when clocking on to the night shift.  He placed the ID card on the worktop and went into the bathroom to transform himself into the person in the photo.

Three days before, he found the agency that recruited for Albion Security's cleaning staff. Their web site was an off the shelf product and easily hacked.  He found a list of their operatives and added his new fake persona.  The Cleaning Operatives were made up of the usual of itinerant workers, they were a transient underclass invisible yet indispensable to society.  It would be easy to blend in, people appeared and then disappeared regularly.  Avaricious recruitment agencies didn't bother checking the apprehensive individuals who came looking for work and didn’t ask awkward questions.  If someone failed to turn up for work, a call to a gang master would see a dozen of desperate new faces at the door.

Nine O'clock. Dark regarded his image in the bathroom mirror, he studied it carefully, checking his new disguise.  He took a great deal of effort when creating his impersonation. The mask would have to be comfortable to wear and pass close scrutiny by co-workers for many hours, no matter how hot or cold he became. Eventually, satisfied with the results, he switched off the light and slammed the front door behind him.

Albion's offices were located in an anonymous inner city business park, surrounded by drab boxlike housing. At ten o'clock precisely Dark shambled through the underground entrance leading to the Supervisor's desk.  The same cleaning uniform was used by all the workers agencies, so Dark's clothing fitted in with the other cleaners.  It was grubby, patched up in places, worn at the knees, he looked unremarkable, as intended.  The Supervisor glanced at Dark and barely looked at his name tag.  He was in, simple.

Dark yawned as he pushed his cleaning trolley along the dimly lit subterranean tunnel.  He thought about a chilled beer and a film when he got home.  But first there was work to do. Tonight's job would take place on the tenth floor of this office block.  He pushed his trolley through the fire doors into the service area in the basement.  He pressed a button and waited for a lift to arrive.  Mentally, he ran through the sequence of events need to break into a Briggs & Jewels digital time lock.  Unconsciously his hand reached around to the small of his back, checking the leather pouch containing his tools. Satisfied he dipped his hand into the cold dirty water of his mop bucket to make sure the combination breaker was still submerged in its waterproof case. The lift arrived with a ping, the doors opened and disgorged two cleaners and a supervisor.  They ignored Dark and brushed past, noisily chattering and gesticulating about tonight's big game on the radio.

The supervisor, a short rotund Thai with a cherubic face which belied a domineering attitude, turned back.  You're the new temp?  Got your job sheet?  You know which floor you are going to?

Dark played the fool, he looked at the floor shuffling from one foot to the other, eager to please. Yes, boss. I'm good, I'm good. I'll be done quick like. You can rely on me.

The supervisor regarded him with distaste, Fine!  Don't take all night! We've got homes to go to. Understand?

Dark kept up the pretence, Yes, yes. It's OK. Very OK, soon be done. Boss.

He stepped into the lift alone and leaned against the cool bare aluminium. ‘That should keep him out of my hair.’

The doors opened at the eighth floor. He pushed his trolley into the foyer and checked his job sheet. He had the whole floor to clean. 

The corridors were dark and deserted, the office staff had long gone.  The only people around were security.  After years of undercover work Dark knew that many security staff became lax when they had been on the job for a while.  They got into a routine and like most of the cleaning staff were illegals, so they kept their heads down and minded their own business for fear of being asked awkward questions.

He decided to clean for a while before going up to the tenth floor and looking for evidence. He found an office in a corridor close to the lift and began vacuuming.  He calculated he would have thirty minutes to get into the office, make the search and get out again undetected.

Eventually Dark pushed the trolley around to the lifts.  Thankfully the lift arrived empty, he took a cardkey from his tool bag.

In today's climate of paranoia, Albion protected sensitive areas of its business with multiple layers of sophisticated security systems.  In this case staff involved in sensitive work were located on the tenth, eleventh and twelfth floors. These floors could only be accessed by lift and an encrypted card key.  Only thirty of these cards had been issued. Dark had made the thirty first, a copy of the Financial Officer's card.

The tenth floor was deserted. Without hesitation Dark turned right, he had memorised the layout of the offices.  Getting past the state of the art security protecting the office doors would be tricky but feasible. The whole suite comprised a cube constructed of sapphire and titanium bullet proof windows with a titanium and carbon-composite walls.  The carbon ceramic armour clad outer doors were protected by a 'Briggs & Jewels' digital time lock, meaning the doors could only be opened during normal office hours and only then with the correct code. Modern electronic safes employ multiple key combinations to secure the door. A standard code just unlocked the door, a distress code unlocked the door but sent a silent alarm to security and the police. The consensus of expert opinion being this manufacturer's clock and codes with two hundred and fifty six bit encryption were impossible to crack.  Dark had broken numerous two hundred and fifty six bit encryption and knew better.

Dark retrieved a waterproof bag from the bucket of dirty water and carefully opened the protective wrapper then pulled out a slim carbon fibre box of electronic gadgetry.  Outwardly there was no indication of where the lock itself might be located, only a handle was visible. Dark stooped and placed the device six inches from the floor close to the edge of the door.  Then he pulled the trolley close to the door and using it as a ladder stretched up to place a duplicate device at the top of the door.  Climbing down he attached a number of leads from the box around the door handle.  He pressed the power button and watched as the device came to life.  One by one, a line of LEDs flickering on a small display.  He waited as the LEDs gradually turned from red to amber finally flickering to a constant green as the device found the combination.  A display panel showed the current time 02:19 hours.  Satisfied the device had identified all available connections, Dark pressed another button and the device began to advance the lock's internal clock to 08:00 hours. A few minutes and he would be in. Dark waited, one minute, then two. He tugged at the door, nothing, it was unyielding. Bloody thing! Hurry up! It must have a time delay fitted. The building plans didn't mention that. Eventually after what seemed like an eternity a heavy metallic click announced the door was ready to open.

Just then Dark heard distant voices. "Bloody Hell! He jumped up on the trolley and grabbed the top terminal of the lock cracker. Then gingerly he jumped down grabbing the other device as he landed. Throwing the gadget on the trolley, he heaved the heavy door pulling the trolley inside with him.  Hurriedly he closed the door and dropped the lock so it wouldn't open if the guards decided to check the door.

Breathing heavily he slumped to the floor.  Sweat trickled down his back as he listened intently for the guard's approach.  He heard distant footsteps on the marble floor outside the entrance. They had stopped after all.  There was an interminable silence. ‘What were they doing?’ Then he heard a burst of static on the radio as a message came through, the footsteps moved away.

No Little Break

Dark walked into a small reception area. He pushed open a door at the far end and entered a hallway flanked by a suite of six offices all with glass partitions.

He knew from the building plans there were no alarms to worry about once he was inside the time lock door. So he set about searching for the documents he needed. Dark walked into a large modern office with minimalist décor.  Huge oil paintings depicting British military prowess at Balaclava, Rourke's Drift and Waterloo hung on three walls. Incongruously a large Regency walnut bookcase filled the remaining wall. Opposite the entrance a large chrome and wood desk, in the centre of the room a meeting table and chairs, two large burgundy leather sofas against the far wall.  Dark sat at the desk.  He scanned the desktop, everything was neatly arranged.  Computer screens, keyboard, telephone, blotter, remote control, no clutter.  Nothing amiss.  One lock secured all three drawers; he took out his key pick and seconds later the drawers were open.

Dark was about to search the desk when he saw the silhouettes of two security guards through the opaque wall of the office.  Christ! What were they doing back so soon?  The silhouettes paused briefly to listen to a radio message, then sauntered off. Dark heard muted sounds along the corridor, they must be checking doors. Silence. He wondered if they could see through the opaque glass. He decided to wait a few minutes and see what happened.  The two shadows returned and stopped, seemingly unsure of what to do. He crouched down by the desk.  The faint sound of a two-way radio burst into life.  His mind raced, had he been discovered?  One of the guards responded, cutting the static.  Dark strained to hear but could not make out anything.  The radio burst into life again, sounding inordinately loud.  A guard clicked the radio off.  Dark could hear their mumbled conversation as they marched onwards passing the time-lock door. Dark remembered there was a maintenance area there.  They were obviously checking it for something.

He turned his attention once more to the contents of the desk drawers.  It revealed nothing more than office paraphernalia.  A jotting pad and assorted biros and pencils.  The second drawer contained correspondence.  The third, deeper drawer, contained suspense files, expenses claims, meeting agendas.  He sat back and scanned the desk once more.  It was then he noticed a slim panel under the main lip of the desk. He tugged it but it didn't move.  There was no obvious means of unlocking it, however in the course of prodding and pushing, he felt it give, then spring smoothly open. Inside the drawer was a small dictating machine, a cheque book and a few sheets of A5 paper filled with small densely packed hand written notes.

He picked up the dictating machine, selected the most recent track and listened.  He smiled grimly, rewound the recording further back and listened once more.  Satisfied he now had evidence to link Albion to a senior Government Minister and by implication to the murder, he copied the recording onto his MP3 player and photographed the notes.

Satisfied the desk had given up its secrets, Dark wandered over to the antique bookcase and inspected it closely. It was huge, it filled the whole wall.  It contained scores of volumes of leather bound books and atlases. Most books had a military theme.  There were biographies of Alexander, Caesar, Bonaparte, Wellington, Rommel, Zhukov and Vo Nguyen Giap a large tome of British Regimental War Diaries; Military campaigns in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Dark wandered over to the far left side of the bookcase, nothing unusual here. The bindings seemed genuine. The book spines looked faded, well-worn and studied frequently.  He moved slowly to his right letting his eye wander randomly over the covers.  He had nearly reached the end when he retraced a few steps. Something had caught his eye? He retraced his steps and waited patiently for the answer to come to him as he scanned the covers. Three volumes of The Grand Tour.  Now what would a student of military history need with an eighteenth century travel guide to Europe?  He carefully opened the bookcase