Chimera Code (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (19 page)

It was over an hour past dawn. The sun had risen, a bright
flash over the horizon. The ocean had turned from the murky halflight inkiness to the brilliant blue of a new day - and a blow-torch
heat beating down upon them. Their heading was monitored and
maintained by the auto-pilot. Clear blue water was all around them
interspersed with small isolated islands...

The powerful inboard diesel’s pushed the metal hulled cruiser
forward at a steady twenty-nine knots. Schools of silver coloured fish
scattered as the boat aggressively cut through the Sea of Crete.

Tatiana moaned tenderly, fingers coming up to touch the sensitive
area of her shoulder that had so recently been punctured; Dillon had
claimed that it was healing nicely, but to Tatiana it felt like it was on
fire... a poker through the wound searing her flesh. The sun rose; so
did the temperature. Dillon turned on the air-conditioning inside the
bridge, and the cool air flowed into the cabin. Dillon settled into the
seat and checked the gauges and data readouts on the three monitors.

They passed an island on the starboard side, where a small group
of people swimming and sunbathing in a crescent shaped sandy cove,
waved as they went by. The few houses that could be seen were built
of stone, wood and white-washed rendered walls, which glowed in
the strong sunlight. Dillon waved back as they rumbled by. Tatiana,
smiling for the first time in many hours, also waved back at the people
on the beach.

They left the idyllic island behind, on a heading for Santorini,
the cruiser eating the sea with ease. They pressed on; mile after mile,
hour after hour, under the singular piercing eye of the baking sun. It
was incredibly hot outside, almost unbearable even with the breeze
coming off the sea.

Another two hours saw them approaching the most southerly tip
of Santorini. Dillon remained on course for another twenty minutes
and then disengaged the auto-pilot. As they approached the west coast
bay of Thira he took the helm, and brought the forty-five foot cruiser
to a sudden stop, the boat gently rocking on the swell. Reddish-purple
cliffs, created by a violent volcanic eruption around 1600BC, rose up
hundreds of feet before them.

“Up there,” he said simply.
“What?”
“One of Ferran & Cardini’s monitoring stations... and Ezra.”
Tatiana stared. “All I see is a lot of red rock, Dillon. I obviously

knew that there was a facility somewhere in the Cyclades - after all,
I
am
a Ferran & Cardini special operation’s liaison officer - but I had
no idea that it was located on Santorini!” Tatiana’s voice was a little
strained, her gaze looking skywards.

“We’ll moor up alongside the old dock at the far end, away from
the other boats. It’s still too early for the cruise ships, but when they
do start to arrive, there will be hundreds of tourists putting ashore
here. And then we’ll take the cable car up to the top. Someone will be
waiting, of that you can be sure. They’ll have watchers. We haven’t got
this far without being tagged, even with the radar jamming activated.
Let’s just hope that Ezra hasn’t given his men the order to shoot us
on sight. But then, that wouldn’t be his code of conduct, would it
now, Tats?” He gave Tatiana a sly sideways glance. And she knew; the
mistrust was still there. He wasn’t sure if she was real or... or what? A
Government spy?

But then, in all the years she had known him, Dillon had never
truly trusted anyone. It would have surprised her if he had changed
now.

The silence of the early morning was fractured by the tinkling
bells of the mules making their way down to the port for the cruise
ship arrivals. Those adventurous enough, mount-up, and are taken up
the 853 feet of ancient trail way, all the way to the top of the cliffs.
Dillon and Tatiana, were not in the mood for a mule ride, and took
the cable car all the way up the almost sheer cliff face to the town
perched on top. As they stepped outside, they were greeted by four
black-suited men. They were all sporting concealed weapons under
their jackets; Dillon assumed that they would be carrying 9mm Glock
automatics, standard issue and his favoured weapon. Dillon watched
them warily, his own Glock in his hand with the safety off, inside his
jacket pocket.

“Hello boys. It’s good of Ezra to send a welcoming party, but we
don’t want to cause a scene. Do we?”
“You’re to leave Santorini at once,” said a large man in Greek.
He moved forward, patent leather shoes covered in dust. “You are not
welcome here.”
“But maybe I’d like to catch up with an old work colleague while
I’m visiting this magnificent island. Perhaps you know old Mr Happy
Ezra?”
“There is no one on Santorini of that name,” said the big man.
Tatiana leaned across Dillon and saw one of the other men grin,
the big man looked sternly at his subordinate, dark eyes narrowing, his
expression reprimanding.
“Tell him that his niece, Tatiana, is here.”
The man stared. He did not blink. Then he nodded at one of
the other men, who spoke briefly into his concealed microphone,
and then went and whispered conspiratorially in the big man’s ear.
He spoke quickly to the others and then turned to Dillon and said.
“We walk straight through to the far side of the town, and then to the
white-washed villa on the hillside. Try nothing funny or Arte’ here...”
he patted the other man on the shoulder: “Well, his gun is silenced
and he will gladly kill you both without a second thought.”
The large man led them through the narrow streets of Thira, past
cosy bars and restaurants, and chic fashionable shops and boutiques.
Dillon walked with Tatiana at his side; Arte’ was directly behind them
all the way to the high electric gates of a large white-washed villa.
And then they were inside the grounds of Ezra’s villa complex.
Inside Ezra’s lair.
The black suited men followed them, automatic weapons now
on full view, bristling, safety catches switched to off. As they walked
through the colourful landscaped gardens, men and women were
busy tending the borders and harvesting oranges from the trees in
the orchard, while men rode sit-on mowers cutting the acres of grass.
They turned a corner and, Dillon licked his lips nervously, and decided
that he did not like this place...
Ezra was waiting, hands on hips, eyes staring out across his
domain, mind deep in thought. Dillon halted at the bottom of the
veranda steps, and allowed one of Ezra’s personal bodyguards to take
his Glock from him. Tatiana stood at Dillon’s side, one foot resting on
the first step, gazing up at the blazing sun for a moment before fixing
her eyes on her - uncle.
Ezra looked round and his gaze met Tatiana’s. He smiled briefly,
and then he looked at Dillon and glowered, the kindly expression of
a moment before disappearing from his face.
“You either have the nerve of the devil by coming here, or a death
wish, Dillon. And before you say anything, I still haven’t forgiven you
for shooting me in the ass with that hollow-point. It took out most of
my hip, you know? And now I’m reminded of it every day with this
infernal limp. So, Dillon. You’d better have a very good reason for
daring to come here.”
Dillon said nothing. He made no move. He merely allowed his
gaze to remain fixed on Ezra, a silent connection - a linking of minds
that Tatiana did not quite understand.
“I was told that you had retired to an eccentric hermit-like
existence in the Highlands of Scotland, Dillon.”
“I had,” said Dillon softly.
“I don’t understand,” whispered Ezra, eyes intense.
“It was... interrupted. And when I shot you, Ezra, it was to keep
you alive, not to kill you.”
There came a long uncomfortable pause
“You are a legend within the Ferran & Cardini history files, you
know.”
“That is misplaced, and you know it, Ezra. But thanks for trying
to boost my ego...” Dillon said softly.
“How so? One cannot become a legend without the actions to
back it up. You were
revered
by your peers and the partners and
feared
by your quarry.” The contempt in Ezra’s voice could not be missed.
“You’re only alive today because of the bullet I put in you, Ezra.
I know we’ve never seen eye-to-eye - because of my relationship with
Tatiana, and because of my reputation... And I know you will have
read all of those emails sent out by MI5 when they embarked on the
smear campaign against me... But you have it really, really wrong. I
know you will find it hard to trust me on this... but you need to hear
us out, Ezra, because we need your help...”
Ezra was silent. He lifted Dillon’s 9mm Glock and played with it
in his bear-like hands.
Dillon calmed his heart rate; he relaxed his muscles and readied
himself - for Ezra’s body language was all wrong, it was the body
language of someone in preparation.
Dillon’s eyes surveyed the available weaponry and he realised,
realised too late that maybe he had overestimated Ezra’s ability to
forgive and forget.
And then it came to Dillon, an understanding that Ezra was the
same. The same as Dillon, the same
breed
...
“This is dangerous
,
”
Dillon’s sub-conscious told him.
Dillon closed his eyes momentarily as pain seared through his
exhausted mind, through his head, burning bright red with white hot
edges; he dropped slowly to his knees, cold sweats gripping him, and
Ezra no longer existed and nothing mattered and the adrenalin that
had been keeping him going for so long was no more there. His head
rolled from side to side as a cloak of darkness wrapped itself around
his mind. A low moan growled through his lips and Tatiana was with
him, holding Dillon in her arms. She stroked his brow free of sweat,
rocked with him at the foot of the steps and looked up at Ezra.
“Get him inside. In the cool. Now!”
“What is wrong with him?” Came Ezra’s deep voice.
“I don’t know. He’s most likely exhausted... Help him, uncle.
Please help him.”
Ezra gestured and the biggest bodyguard approached, lifting
Dillon easily and carrying him up the steps and into the villa and
depositing him in one of the guest bedrooms. Ezra stepped into the
air-conditioned room behind Tatiana, “I will help him now, Tatiana.
But I cannot guarantee what will come later.”
“What? You really can’t see it, can you?”
“See what?” Growled the big Greek.
“You can’t see for the red mist of anger and hatred. Haven’t
you realised after all these years, that you and Dillon are the same.
You call him an Assassin; a force to be reckoned with. And what
the fuck were you when you were a Ferran & Cardini field officer?
What the hell were you doing in Berlin, and Istanbul, and then later in
South Africa, in the first place? You are kindred spirits... and you are
a fucking
hypocrite.”
Ezra stood for a moment, staring hard at Tatiana. She lowered
her eyes then, a feeling of overstepping the line causing her face to
redden with embarrassment. Ezra stepped forward and placed his
large hands on her shoulders and then kissed her on the forehead.
“I have missed you, young lady. And despite everything I said to you
before, I wish you no harm. I’m over the moon that you’ve come back
to your uncle Ezra.”
“And what about Dillon. Do you wish him harm?”
“Dillon will come to no harm while he is a guest in my home. I
promise.”
Ezra lifted Tatiana’s head. Wiped tears from her cheeks. “I’m
sorry. Can you ever forgive me for what I said just now? I do know
that Dillon is fundamentally a good man, honest, and loyal to the end.
But I also understand that you’re pissed-off with him for putting a
bullet in your ass, but he did save your life.”
Ezra raised his hands in mock submission, “Let us not dwell on
this now. I will hopefully see you both at dinner, which will be served
at eight o’clock on the south veranda.” The big Greek then turned and
left the room as the afternoon sunlight drifted through the plantation
blinds.

GCHQ Transcript 5.
INTERCEPT OF RECENT NEWS
INCIDENT LEVEL 5 CLASSIFICATIONS.
At 04.30 AM (GMT), a number of leading banking
institutions from a number of EU countries
including Italy, Austria, Belgium and Germany
reported computer system failures, leading to
an involuntary suspension of trading for a 30
second period.
When systems were re-booted, bank officials
found that during this 30 second involuntary
shut-down, certain government holding accounts
had been accessed and an undisclosed amount
taken from each of them. However, early
speculation by some experts estimate up to
seven hundred million Euros of tax-payers money
had been snatched from each account that had
been hacked into.
Prior to this, no bank had reported any
technical failures or any suspicious factors.
A spokesperson for Interpol made this comment:
Interpol is working closely with Intelligence
Services from all of those countries who have
suffered this computer hacking disaster. We are
comparing data of organised crime syndicates
including terrorist organisations and are also
combining computer crime departments in order
to maximise available resources.

The small private Boeing jet flashed through the moonlight,
engines whining in deceleration. Mountains reared all around, snow
capped peaks soaring skywards. The sleek aircraft banked and came
smoothly down to land amid and seemingly
within
the mountains,
undercarriage dipping as tyres made contact with the tarmac runway.

The plane taxied to a halt and a single emergency vehicle at the
rough rocky perimeter of the runway sat watching in the extreme
cold, headlights blazing through the light snow fall. A black Range
Rover raced across the apron as the cabin door was opened and the
on-board steps lowered.

The only passenger aboard the private jet stepped out, the fur
collar of his coat pulled up around his face, shielding him from the
biting north wind. He was a man of small build with sandy coloured
hair that was softly greying at the temples and was neatly trimmed and
combed. He wore an expensive Italian suit and the finest handcrafted
Italian shoes. He carried a slim aluminium briefcase in one perfectly
manicured hand, and descended the steps with measured care,
apparently unaffected by the Arctic conditions of cold that contrasted
so dramatically with the comfortable conditions of the recently
pressurised aircraft cabin.

“Professor Kirill, welcome back, sir.” The voice was heavily
accented, and Kirill nodded at the man garbed in black military
combat gear. Kirill seemed unconcerned that his bodyguard was now
more heavily armed and carried a black Heckler & Koch MP6 carbine,
and a webbing belt sporting half a dozen hand-grenades.

The driver of the black Range Rover opened the rear door and
Kirill climbed into the warm air-conditioned interior. The door clicked
solidly shut, protecting the occupant from the inclement weather
outside. The military-clad man climbed into the front passenger seat,
and a moment later the heavy off-road luxury vehicle was purring
and driving off the tarmac runway and onto an un-made track carved
between two mountain ranges.

They drove in silence. At first the track was pot-holed and rough
and, then merged into a narrow country road, slushy and strewn with
natural debris from recent storms. They drove around tight bends and
along even narrower lanes until they were almost at their destination,
the Range Rover’s heavy off-road tyres humming and bumping, and
eventually came to a crossroads. All the while Kirill sat, perfectly
composed, eyes closed, mind-set calm.

They turned left, the track started as a gentle incline and after half
a mile became steeper as it wound its way up the mountain side; and
as the terrain became more hostile, the Range Rover demonstrated its
ability to cope with even the worst off-road conditions. Kirill allowed
himself to smile at this rough and, some might say inhospitable, Godforsaken place that was such a contrast to the luxuriant interior of the
vehicle he was travelling in. The thought pleased him.

They had to stop once, while the track was cleared of fallen
rocks. With a wave of apology, the bodyguard slowly - painfully slowly
- removed the debris out of thevehicle’s path and Kirill was on his way
without emotion flickering even for an instant on his neatly barbered
face. His bright eyes stared straight ahead.

The Range Rover rumbled and bumped up the mountain side, its
destination the Kirill Government research establishment, somewhere
in the middle of the Scottish Highlands - its purpose un-guessable.

Kirill required very little sleep; he considered it to be nothing
more than an interruption in his busy non-stop schedule. Ordinary
people slept, and Kirill was no ordinary person...

“Sir.”
Kirill looked into the rear-view mirror and the eyes of the driver.
“Are we there?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Range Rover halted at a sheer slab of impenetrable rock.

The interior was cool; controlled. Polished stone floors stretched
away in the large reception area; it was almost like a hotel, with low
leather couches and tall potted palms placed strategically. A long
curved reception desk stretched along one wall and glass elevators
in clear shafts went down to the carefully temperature and humiditycontrolled depths where the main servers and the virus software
research and development was carried out.

Kirill shook hands with Gregson, the head of the virus software
R and D department.
“How are you, sir?”
“Well, Gregson. Considering I was shot and almost killed

recently.”
“I heard about that, sir. We were all sad to hear about your niece.
She was a nice kid. Was it true that it was an assassination attempt?”
Kirill stared malevolently at the man, who had suddenly become
very pale.
“I... I... meant...”
“You will never mention my niece again,” the words were spoken
softly.
“Yes, of course, Professor Kirill.”
“Tell me what the overall status is with Scorpion
communications?”
“Since the total wipe-out of Scorpion HQ in London nobody
seems to know what is going on. All G8 communications have been
suspended by GCHQ - we tried to find out who had been in the
building at the time, but this information was withheld from us. And
considering that their main Hub had been destroyed...”
Kirill merely nodded, then asked, “How successful has the
Chimera accelerator programme been?”
“We have successfully hacked into 99% of all networks targeted.”
“And what of the 1%?”
Gregson smiled smugly, “That was our own network, sir. We set
up a trial hack using one of our most powerful stand-alone processors,
which was loaded with an exact copy of Chimera, and then routed
around the planet back to this establishment. The attack programme
was analysed, located, and terminated within a millionth of a second
by Chimera.”
“How?”
“Since the last time you were here, professor, Chimera’s
chameleon script has further developed itself. By the time the attack
programme had reached it, Chimera had completely re-written itself,
and was no longer the hunted but rather the hunter.”
“Excellent, Gregson. So Chimera is ready then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what of the un-scheduled access into the registry files?
The system must have lit up like a Christmas tree.”
“Yes, sir. This is still a mystery to us. Ramus has called several
times, and wants to speak to you upon your return.”
Kirill left the group behind and stepped into the elevator and the
calming silence as the glass door closed behind him. The tube hissed
away and carried him down to his luxury living quarters on the lower
level floor that he occupied alone. He kicked off his shoes, draped his
jacket over the back of a low backed chair and walked past a variety of
sculptures and carvings towards his study. He went straight to one of
the fine cherry wood cabinets, which concealed a humidor, and from
inside the temperature controlled cabinet he pulled a fine handmade
Cuban cigar, then poured himself a brandy and sat back in his plush
leather high-back chair. The comm. buzzed.
Kirill took a long draw from the cigar, enjoying the rich smooth
flavour, which filled his senses with its fullness, then hit the button.
“Yes?”
“I have several things on my mind, Kirill. How much time will
you need to apply the final elements to the Chimera Programme?”
“Two days, at most. The Gopher Protocol Code just needs a
little fine tuning.”
“And we will start to see the results, when?”
“Almost immediately. I am assured that Chimera will work at a
99% rate.”
“And the Satan virus and worm release element has been installed
and implemented?
“I am assured, by my top programmer, that if a computer is
connected to the World Wide Web at the time of launching the Satan
virus it
will
become infected. Irrespective of any anti-virus protection
installed.”
“Excellent. Howare you feelingafter your near-death encounter?”
“I have felt better.” Kirill smiled nastily. He stubbed out the
cigar, took a sip of brandy and swivelled round in his chair to stare
at one of his many fine oil paintings. This one in particular was his
favourite as it could hold his gaze and never cease to amaze him; he
loved the way the artist had captured, forever in time, the serenity of
the lake scene. He loved the way in which the early morning lighting
and rising mist, created a surreal calm in a world of mayhem.
“I have a piece of good news for you. Jake Dillon - has been
located. Tracked. He is presently on the Greek Island of Santorini.
Despite Dillon’s best attempts to evade us it would seem that our
extensive network of satellites has worked well. We tracked him,
but his destination is quite obvious - he seeks Ezra, at that infernal
listening and monitoring station, I wish I could forget about.”
“Ezra,” said Kirill through an exhalation of smoke. “There is a
name I have not heard for a very long time.”
“I had hoped that he would have died by now,” came the soft
voice at the other end of the comm. “But then, Dillon is almost doing
us a favour. They have discovered the covert location of the European
collective Government’s establishment for software research and
development. Yes by an amazing coincidence, it would seem that
Ezra is the man who seeks to create his own version of the Chimera
Programme.”
“The fool,” snorted Kirill. “He would need years to develop
anything like my Chimera Programme!”
“I agree,” Said Ramus, “but the fact still remains that he has
working knowledge, available technology, and copies of the basic
Chimera blue-prints and cryptographic algorithms. We need to ensure
the safety of this information - we must either retrieve or destroy
them. We can kill two birds with one stone.”
“How many Assassins will you send?”
“Have no fear, old friend. I will send enough,” said the voice of
Ramus softly. “There cannot be that much resistance; after all, we will
have the element of surprise on our side.” He laughed softly.
“The Assassins will erase them all.”
“Good.”
“Our time is coming, Kirill. Can you taste it? Our time is
definitely coming and when we have complete control, we will not
abuse our power, we will not fritter away our resources like so many
political powers have done through the ages, and let evil corrupt men
rule the world. We will be just and fair... not weak and pathetic... but
to get that far, first there must be mayhem and suffering on a global
scale...”
Dark eyes glittered and there came a pause. A long and thoughtful
pause. “I have a request,” said Kirill eventually. He was still facing
the oil painting that dominated the wall, but something was changing
within him, something strange, and something he could hardly bear.
Somehow the colours were disappointing to him now; what he craved
was reality.
“And what is that?” asked Ramus.
“Dillon: I want a guarantee. I want that bastard dead.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Said Ramus.
* * *

Night was turning to dawn across the Scottish Highlands.
Outside, the temperature had plummeted and the sky was
perfectly clear, stars fading into temporary oblivion as the sun
embarks on its daily journey. Kirill still sat in his chair, the room now
in total darkness, only the glow of a cigar in his hand evidence that
he remained in the deep underground office, awake, alert, dark eyes
glittering. He scratched at the scar on his belly self consciously.
He stared at images of the mountain range, just a blackened
outline in the low cold light of dawn, stark and foreboding on the
monitor screen. Nothing stirred; there were no lights, no movement,
and no intrusions. This place was emptiness; this place was a void.
The establishment was invisible; a non place; a deniable spectre in the
maw of the Scottish wilderness.
Kirill smiled softly to himself.
All around him, in the silence, he could almost feel the hive of
activity. A small army of workers: programmers, hardware engineers,
hackers, the world’s finest computing minds working together on
some of the most excitingly advanced projects ever embarked upon.
The Chimera Programme. The first-ever self-learning chameleon
virus programme.
The prototype of an artificial
mind
. That knows no boundaries.
The ultimate
virus
...
Kirill had created Chimera to be used against terrorists and
organised crime syndicates. But had soon realised that with some fine
tuning, it could be used to bring down, almost any network including;
banks, military installations, police and other emergency services and
government departments: it could infiltrate any type of computer,
and, within the blink of and eye, access encrypted files and extract
every scrap of information, before shutting the computer down.
Permanently
. It would be the perfect weapon. It would make him, and
Ramus, and the
others
... it would make them rich, it would make them
powerful but - more importantly...
It would make them God.
Kirill sighed, exhaling a spiral of white smoke into the darkness.
Diffused light invaded the black. A figure stepped forward, and soft
bare footsteps approached.
He gazed up at the figure, naked now, body perfectly toned,
perfectly formed; muscular and tanned. Kirill licked his lips and met
the blue-eyed gaze of the young blond-haired woman. To Kirill, this
was his idea of the perfect female - athletic and nubile.
Kirill’s gaze travelled down, and then back up again across the
perfectly formed thighs, hips, stomach, breasts - and to the face. The
tanned skin with her piercingly blue eyes.
The face was beautiful.
Cold and beautiful.
Kirill smiled a strange twisted smile.
He could feel desire and lust rise up through his body. “If only
you were real,” he said picking up the remote handset off of his desk,
and ending the three dimensional hologram programme, the room
was thrown back into total blackness.