Avenger (4 page)

Pointer's skin had become almost translucent, like a fish that hugs the inky darkness of the deepest ocean bed where no light ever penetrates.

Only his cheeks and forehead showed any colour: they were a vivid, veiny red. But the redness was no early warning of high blood pressure or stress. Pointer was always calm now. His heartbeat was still normal, even though everything else about him had changed. The redness on his face came from the hours he spent sitting in the darkness in front of his computer screen. As Pointer stared at the screen, the screen stared back, gradually etching its imprint onto his face.

Computer technology and the Internet had been Pointer's life, and he had chosen the Internet as his method of operation. And as his teenage son had been taken away, he chose other teenagers as the foot soldiers in his war of revenge.

They were not easy to find, but he found them. He ventured into the Web, searching for the depressed, the disaffected, the disillusioned. He looked in on chat sites, learning the language of the young. Computer speak. Techno talk.

He began his painstakingly slow and ultra-cautious search for potential collaborators, moving gradually to the most obscure Internet sites. Suicide chat rooms and suicide cults. He quickly identified and rejected the merely bored kids seeking some excitement, and those rebelling against over-protective parents, or the brokenhearted recently dumped by a girl- or boyfriend. And Pointer was far too skilled for any watchdog police officers posing online as teenagers. He knew exactly who to avoid. And who to target.

And when he identified his targets, he struck. He went only for English speakers: if it was not their native tongue, they had to be fluent in the language. Black Star could not afford any misunderstandings. Slowly and carefully he entered into online communication, beginning by sending pop-ups onto their computer screens.

Some, he helped, when there was a problem that could be solved by his special computer skills. And once he had helped, and they were in his debt, he took the next step, entering into actual online conversations, commiserating with the disaffected, cultivating the disillusioned and depressed, sowing the seeds of his plan. Only when he was completely sure did he introduce the theme of suicide. And one by one, Pointer – now calling himself Black Star – recruited his foot soldiers.

The first bombings had taken place in England, partly because that was where the first and strongest contacts had been made. But it also seemed like justice to Black Star, because Chuck had been on his way to an interview with an English finance company when he was killed. England was Black Star's testing ground, but after the Newcastle bombing it was time to move on to other parts of the world.

Black Star had followed the news reports of the British bombings on the Internet and the American television news. He was pleased to see that the British press had begun referring to his bombers as 'Angels of Death'.

They were his 'Angels of Death' and there were more in waiting. His recruits were few in number; there could never be legions of young people committed enough to walk willingly to their deaths. But further recruits were being cultivated and were almost ready for the final order. They waited in many countries of the world. In Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Pakistan and Israel among others. And, of course, they waited in the USA But for the USA, Black Star was grooming one very special Angel of Death.

Elena was in the hotel garden, having just finished one of her regular sessions with psychiatrist Dr Ruth Jacobson.

She didn't mind the sessions, and she knew precisely why she and the doctor were having these regular 'little chats'. Marcie Deveraux couldn't afford for her to crack up. One impulsive response to a provocative comment and Elena could easily give the game away and ruin the entire operation.

And once out on the ground, if they ever got that far, it would be even more difficult as Elena would be beyond direct control.

So she was being closely monitored.

Elena liked Dr Jacobson. In some ways she reminded her of Jane Brooker, the woman who ran Foxcroft residential home with her husband Dave. Jane loved a good old chat over a cup of tea, especially with some of the older girls.

Jane was straight and honest, and Elena instinctively knew that Dr Jacobson was too. Unlike Deveraux. Elena would never trust Deveraux.

During the session Elena had spoken a lot about how she missed her dad. He had disappeared again just when she thought they were, at last, beginning to understand each other and forge a proper relationship.

'The trouble is,' she said to Dr Jacobson, 'even if he is trying to contact me now, there's no way he can find me. They made up this story for the people at Foxcroft and social services. So Dad wouldn't know how to reach me.' Her usually bright face suddenly became hard and distant. 'But knowing Dad, he's probably not given me a single thought since he walked out again.'

The session wound up and Elena went out into the garden to think through everything they had spoken about. She was sitting on a bench, watching a gang of sparrows noisily fighting over some breadcrumbs thrown onto the grass by the hotel chef, when Danny emerged from the side door and came strolling over.

He smiled. 'All right?'

Elena raised her eyebrows. 'Not really.'

Danny sat on the bench. 'Why? Has the fruit doctor been giving you a hard time?'

'It's nothing to do with Dr Jacobson,' said Elena coldly as the battle for the breadcrumbs ended and the sparrows flew away. She turned to look at Danny. 'It's you!'

'Me? What have I done?'

'D'you know what day it was yesterday?'

'Yeah . . . Wednesday.'

Elena sighed and shook her head. 'It was my birthday. Thanks for remembering.'

Danny's eyes widened. 'Was it?'

'You didn't forget last year. But then you weren't totally obsessed by all this stuff, like you are now.'

'I'm really sorry, Elena.'

'I didn't get one card. Not
one!
I never expected anyone else to think of it, but I thought you'd remember.'

'I'll go and get you a present. Today.'

'I don't want a stupid present. Not now – it's too late.'

They sat in silence for a moment, Elena still angry and Danny considering what she had said about him being obsessed by the mission. 'Look, once this is over we'll go back to how it was. I'll get a job, you'll do your A-levels, and then—'

'It'll never be over, Danny,' said Elena angrily. 'Not for you. You love it, you know you do. I see it every time your granddad sets us one of his tests. You want to be as good as him. You want to
be
him.'

It was true, he realized that. And it wasn't just this mission; the whole clandestine world of the Secret Service was fascinating and exciting. He felt part of it, as though he belonged. For years he had dreamed of a career as an army officer. But this was something else. Something more. Something in which he felt there was scope to be not just a team player, but also an individual.

And however much Danny tried to follow orders and instructions, there was a part of him that needed to be the individual, to make his own decisions, right or wrong.

But Elena was special to him – he knew that too. And he had messed up big time. 'I'm sorry, really I am. But what we're doing is important.'

'I know it's important, I'm not stupid. But you were the one who wanted this sort of life, not me. I had everything planned. A-levels, university, a great job as a computer scientist.'

Elena sighed with irritation and then stood up and started back towards the hotel. But then she stopped and turned round. 'What I did before was for
you,
you and your granddad. I never wanted to be part of something like this.'

'But we are,' said Danny. 'There's no going back now.'

Elena nodded. 'I know. But when it's over, I want a . . . a normal life.'

Danny stood up. 'Look, I'll always be there for you, Elena. I promise.'

Elena shook her head and smiled. Her anger had gone. 'Yeah. And I bet you forget my birthday next year too.'

Jeff Williams and Kiyoshi Tanaka had never met and were separated by 6,619 miles, but they had much in common.

They were both just eighteen, they both lived at home with their parents and they were both computer science students. And the two teenagers also shared a passion with many thousands of others around the world. Trains. They were real-life train-spotters.

Maybe it was the model train sets they had both been given as children that had sparked the initial love of trains in both boys. But there was another element to train-spotting that suited both Jeff and Kiyoshi: it was a solitary pastime. And both teenagers were regarded as loners. Outsiders. Not one of the gang. They had both put up with their fair share of bullying over the years. Nothing too terrible; nothing like being regularly beaten up. But it was the constant drip, drip, drip of ridicule and sarcasm that had ground them down. Made them hate life. Made them want to get their own back on a hostile world . . .

Jeff's particular interest was freight trains. He would spend hours watching the seemingly endless trains, with their double engines front and back, snake their way around the hills overlooking Pittsburgh. He would check engine numbers, count the freight wagons, note the type of freight and write everything down in a little book. He never ceased to wonder at the fact that the trains were so long that the front section had crossed Pittsburgh and disappeared into the hills while the rear trucks were still on the other side of the city.

Kiyoshi's special fascination was for the sleek, aerodynamic, high-speed trains that carried up to four million people a day in and out of Tokyo's Shinjuku Station.

Both teenagers had told Black Star about their love of trains and railways during their early online conversations. And it was their enthusiasm that had given Black Star the ghoulish idea of devising and preparing their suicides for exactly the same moment.

A synchronized act of terrorism was right and fitting for Black Star, as it was the synchronized act of terrorism on 9/11 that had sparked the quest for revenge.

So, at 7:30 a.m., as the early commuters began spilling from a train at Shinjuku Station, Kiyoshi went to the middle of the platform, pulled the twine in his right hand and exploded the device strapped to his body.

Jeff's suicide had actually taken place a few minutes earlier: the time in Pittsburgh was 6:24 p.m. It should have been equally spectacular. Jeff had picked the precise spot where he would lie down on the tracks and explode the device as the freight train approached. He knew the device would not be enough to destroy the train itself. But Jeff's bomb was going to blow away a whole section of the track. The approaching train would be derailed and much of it would then tumble down the hillside towards the city.

But Jeff got it wrong. He prepared the device, just as he had been instructed, strapped it to his body, and had the detonating twine ready. He borrowed his dad's car, drove off into the hills and found his parking spot.

As he switched off the car's engine, opened the driver's door and got out, something made him take the twine in his right hand and pull it gently, just to test the pressure.

But the pull was not gentle enough. The bomb exploded. A few minutes later, at exactly 6:30 p.m., the freight train began to pass by. The train driver looked out of his cab and saw the smouldering hulk of a burning Ford.

Jeff had simply disappeared. Later they found the remains of his body. And his notebook.

Deveraux's boss at MI5 arrived first thing the following morning and was swiftly in conversation behind a locked door with Deveraux, Fergus and Dr Jacobson.

Dudley – he was known only as Dudley, and few people in the Secret Service knew for certain whether it was his first or his second name – was the one who had convinced Danny and Elena that their help with the mission was vital. They hadn't seen him since then. They were unlikely to see him now.

He tossed a copy of the
Mirror
onto the desk. Its headline was similar to the ones splashed across the front page of every other daily newspaper.

ANGELS OF DEATH
STRIKE AGAIN

'We must move this on now, sir,' said Deveraux urgently. 'We have to get Elena to push Black Star into giving us more to go on. We know now that these kids are making the devices themselves. Something Black Star tells Elena will give us the clues we need.'

The air in the operations room was already stale and heavy. The desktops were cluttered with empty coffee cups, discarded newspapers and opened files of the most recent data.

'I'm aware of your views, Marcie,' said Dudley. 'But I have to take into consideration other opinions.' He looked at the psychiatrist. 'Doctor, is there any more you can tell us about Black Star?'

Dr Ruth Jacobson's regular presence at the hotel had a dual purpose. Not only was she overseeing Elena's emotional welfare and ensuring she wasn't succumbing to Black Star's grooming, she was also attempting to put together a psychological profile of the bomb master. It was a major part of her job, and during her career she had helped police and the security services to track down a number of highly dangerous criminals, ranging from serial killers to terrorists.

There were those within the police and the security services who regarded her work as a waste of both time and resources and thought that her success was based on little more than lucky hunches and educated guesses. But others – and fortunately they were in the majority – knew the full value of Ruth Jacobson's incisive mind.

Since Elena had resumed her online conversations with Black Star, Dr Jacobson had been fully involved, studying transcripts of the conversations and analysing every single word in her attempt to form a picture of the bomb master.

'I'm fairly certain now that Black Star is a man,' she said, leafing through the transcripts.

Deveraux looked unimpressed. 'I've known that all along.'

Dr Jacobson was not thrown by Deveraux's dismissive attitude; she was fully aware that the high-flying MI5 agent was one of the sceptics. 'But I think now that he's not a young man. He's middle aged, at least.'

Deveraux suddenly seemed interested. 'And what makes you think that?'

Dr Jacobson put the papers she was holding down on the desk. 'For a start he seems . . . experienced. And some of the phrases he uses – they're more . . . mature.'

She pointed to a line in the typed transcript of the last conversation. 'Look at this. He says, "It's my
role
to help others."
Role
is an unusual word these days. I think a young man would have said "job". And look here, in the next sentence. He says, "I understand completely." It's grammatically correct, but most people today would say, "I completely understand" – particularly young people. There are other examples in earlier conversations.'

Deveraux said nothing for a moment as she tried to form her own mental picture of a middle-aged man, sitting in front of a computer screen somewhere in the world, luring teenagers to their deaths. It was irritating to admit to herself that Dr Jacobson was probably right. 'Sick bastard, whoever he is.'

'Mentally disturbed, certainly. Perhaps unhinged in some way by a catastrophe in his own life.'

'Are you asking me to feel sorry for him?' snapped Deveraux.

'I'm giving you my professional opinion,' replied Dr Jacobson calmly. 'My thinking at the moment is that he's carefully learned to converse online like young people. To make them feel as though they're communicating with one of their own. But personal history always leaves its traces.'

Dudley nodded. 'Have you said anything to Elena about this?'

Dr Jacobson glanced at Fergus and then at Deveraux before replying. 'No. Elena is a remarkable young girl, but we have to remember her age and the fact that she's gone through an extremely traumatic time over the past few years – losing her mother, then the business with her father . . .'

Fergus spotted the almost unnoticeable look that passed between Deveraux and Dudley.

'But you do feel she is strong enough to continue?' said Dudley to Dr Jacobson. 'And to carry this on to the second phase, if it is necessary?'

'As I said, she is a remarkable young woman. She's coping, but I have concerns.' She glanced at Deveraux. 'She's doing OK for the moment, but some news of her father would help.'

'There is no news,' said Deveraux impatiently. 'Joey Omolodon is a loser. He's either lying low somewhere or has skipped the country.'

'Nevertheless, if you hear anything—'

'Then Elena will be the first to know. Now, can we get back to business.'

Dudley picked up his coffee cup and drank the last mouthful of the cold, bitter liquid. He grimaced as he placed the cup carefully back on its saucer. 'Should we put someone else at the computer? Danny perhaps?'

Dr Jacobson shook her head. 'Good idea, but it's too late now. Black Star would spot it immediately. He knows Elena's computer language. Everyone has their own unique way of abbreviating text, and if Danny stopped to think about Elena's way of replying, BS would smell a rat.'

Dudley nodded and then turned to Fergus. 'And your thoughts, Mr Watts?'

Fergus had trained raw recruits before. He knew exactly what was required out in the field. 'Operationally, neither Danny or Elena are ready. Sitting behind a computer is one thing, but being out on the ground is completely different. I need more time.'

Dudley sighed and glanced at the newspapers scattered about the desktop. 'Unfortunately time is one of the many things we do not have on our side. This is now a global situation. Other national security organizations will be taking their own measures, but for the moment it's been decided that we in this country keep what we know to ourselves. And make our own moves.'

He stood up and slowly and deliberately began to button up the overcoat he wore in almost all weathers. Fergus watched him, not for a single moment taken in by Dudley's gentlemanly ways and polite manners. No one got to his position in the Security Service by being Mister Nice Guy.

Dudley secured the top button and brushed away an invisible speck of dust from the collar of his coat. 'We take the risk,' he said. 'We get Elena to convince Black Star that she's completely ready to move on to the second stage. We must hope that that is enough to lure him into making a mistake.' He looked at Fergus. 'And my decision is final.'