Tropic of Death (12 page)

‘Is that a code name?’

‘No. We’ve established there’s a software dealer who goes by that name. He’s known in seafront bars and cyber cafes and has criminal associates. There’s no police file with that alias and we haven’t been able to find him, so for the moment we’re stumped.

This is civilian territory. My unit will do the legwork, no problem, though what we need is access to intelligence that can narrow the field.’ He turned to the man in the grey suit. ‘Luker?’

Luker nodded. ‘I’ll issue a directive as soon as we finish here tonight. You’ll get whatever we can find out about him.’

‘Okay. Good.’

‘Let me get something straight,’ interrupted Molloy, slapping his folder shut. ‘Just how long has this damn
Rheingold
disk been out there? Are we talking hours, days, what?’

‘Weeks,’ answered Maddox stiffly. ‘A comparison shows the two hard copies we retrieved, detailing radiation levels, were downloaded from a section of the Steinberg report. They must have come from the disk.’

‘So when the two printouts were contained, the threat wasn’t.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘And for all you know this dealer could have touted the disk to the highest bidder. He could have sold it. He could have stuck it on eBay and auctioned it over the internet. It could already be in the hands of middle men or arms traders or terrorists!’

‘Calm down,’ interjected the director-general. ‘It’s just as likely this Stonefish has gone to ground, taking the disk with him.

Now we know who the link man is we’ve got a better chance of containing the threat. And we need to get on with it.’ He looked around the table. ‘And while we’re on the subject, what’s the latest on the alert?’

‘Bad news,’ answered Luker. ‘The four terrorist suspects may already be in Whitley. There’s been a positive ID of their van travelling north on the Bruce Highway about sixty k south of here. And a raid’s been conducted on a market garden site they were using in Sydney’s outer suburbs. They left behind maps of the Queensland coast, false documents and bomb-making residues.

I’m told there’s little doubt they’re an active terrorist cell.’

‘Great surveillance op,’ commented Molloy. ‘The proverbial stable door.’

‘And we don’t have the luxury of hindsight,’ added Baxter.

‘You’ve heard the prime minister’s warning. The fate of Afghanistan has repercussions in our part of the world. Each setback emboldens the recruitment activities of terrorist groups, with the stability of our whole region at risk. We can’t afford to relax. We can’t afford to hesitate. We have to assume these men pose a direct threat to us.’

‘Okay,’ said Molloy. ‘Worst-case scenario. The Fixer is here and the cell has linked up with him. They could be priming an attack as we speak.’

‘Then we can’t waste time. So - any other updates?’

‘I need to mention one other potential problem, sir,’ answered Maddox. ‘It comes in the shape of a detective sergeant.’

‘What on earth are the police up to?’

‘Not the police, just one woman officer. Her name’s Van Hassel.

Her photo’s in the file.’ Maddox slid a copy to the centre of the table. ‘I couldn’t brief you before, sir, but we seized her inside Steinberg’s house in the company of Steinberg’s dead body.’

‘What the hell was she doing there?’

‘She’s a profiler, on secondment from Melbourne, and she claims her visit was intended as a social call. She’d have me think she found out nothing.’

‘But you don’t believe her.’

‘We’ve pulled a recording of a phone conversation with Steinberg,’ said Maddox. ‘She’s made the very connection we can’t allow her to follow up. I don’t trust her and she doesn’t trust us.’

‘In what way?’

‘Inspector Bryce tells me Van Hassel thinks base security is relevant to his murder investigation.’

‘The stakes are too high,’ said Molloy. ‘Treat her as a hostile.’

‘Just hold on a moment,’ insisted Luker. ‘We’re talking about a law-enforcement officer here.’

‘No one can be allowed to jeopardise the project.’

‘And we can handle her to make sure she doesn’t.’ Luker picked up Van Hassel’s photo and gazed at it. ‘She’s absolutely right, of course. Base security is relevant. A severed head at the gates makes that plain enough. She should be allowed to pursue her inquiries - up to a point that we decide on.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ asked the director-general.

‘The security review. You’re inviting various officials to pad out the numbers. Include her in the police delegation.’

Baxter thought about it. ‘I hear what you’re saying. Drafting her onto the review panel would be a way of keeping her on a tight leash. But you’ll also need to keep an eye on her.’

Luker studied Van Hassel’s image again and smiled. ‘I can do that.’

‘All right, then. But before we go, I’ve got a final reminder for all of you.’ Baxter cast a pointed gaze around the table. ‘We’re approaching the crucial phase of the Panopticon Project, when we’ll have it fully up and running on a permanent basis. At the same time, the worst possible time, we’re under siege. I use the word advisedly. Our enemies are manoeuvring against us, we’re being probed for weaknesses, lined up for attack. I want no one here to doubt that we will respond to any direct threat with the amount of force needed to destroy it. Our responsibility, with its global implications, requires nothing less. Unfortunately our enemies are proliferating. The protest movement, with its rainbow coalition of low-lifes and anarchists, is pretty much a known quantity. The terrorist presence, of which we’ve had alarming indications, is much less identifiable and much more dangerous.

We need to make sure everyone maintains the highest vigilance.

Covertly, the same goes for the missing disk and whoever handles it. That is potentially the most destructive weapon that can be used against us. We cannot let that happen.’ He watched the nods of agreement. ‘So, all in all, the last thing we need on our patch is a rogue police officer. I’ll go along with the suggestion - for now - of inviting her onto the review panel. But, Luker, if she doesn’t toe the line all bets are off. We’ll deal with her as an active threat and do what’s necessary. Agreed?’

Luker tossed Rita’s photo onto the table and turned to the director-general.

‘Agreed,’ he said.

17
In the dead of night, several hours after the committee members had reviewed the forces against them, a new enemy was preparing to launch a strike on the research base. He posed a threat they had not anticipated. There was no alert protocol in place to identify him. Although they knew his name, his background wasn’t political, militant or terrorist. And his plan of attack was neither paramilitary nor confrontational. He possessed no bombs, no guns and no conventional ammunition. His weapons of assault were electronic. And his target was the Panopticon Project. If he could crash its control system, disable or simply rip off and expose it, he would be satisfied. His motive was personal revenge. The aim was to inflict as much damage as possible and achieve a belated victory for his murdered lover, Rachel Macarthur.

Frederick James Hopper, as he was known to the police -

Freddy to his friends, Edge Freddy to fellow hackers - inhabited a twilight subculture whose methods were partly subversive, partly criminal. Throughout his volatile relationship with Rachel he’d paid scant attention to the protest movement. Even while being subjected to passionate arguments on the topic, he’d often found his mind wandering to issues more relevant to his own familiar territory, the environment of cyberspace. His distracted response had irked her almost as much as his lack of emotional commitment, and all her disappointments had come back to haunt him in the wake of her horrific death.

The pain of his sudden loss had hit Freddy hard, together with the bitter realisation that he’d taken Rachel for granted. Being hauled in as a suspect by the police had compounded his sense of despair and triggered a prolonged binge. It dulled the trauma but produced a sickening haze as he ingested every drug that came to hand and drowned his self-recriminations in a sea of vodka.

Eventually, after achieving a temporary oblivion, he surfaced to a new clarity. It allowed him to focus on one thing: the searing injustice of Rachel’s political assassination, for he had no doubts that was what she’d been the victim of. It transformed his grief into an aching need for vengeance.

The countdown was beginning as Freddy turned his transit van onto the promenade by the docks. There was no one else about. The night was clear but humid, the sea frothing against breakwaters and jetties, the gleam of the harbour lights soaked up by the dark swell of the tide. He followed the road around the fringes of the town, past the tidal basin, coal-loading terminal, rail yards and coal storage, then drove onto the old industrial flats awaiting redevelopment. Most of the sites were abandoned - empty factories, offices, corrugated-iron sheds rusting behind chain-link fences. The row of hoardings had attracted an accumulation of weeds and wind-blown litter.

Apart from a scrap-metal prowler the road was deserted as Freddy swung his van across a vacant sprawl of concrete and headed for a line of disused warehouses. He’d made his secret base in one of these. No one bothered him here. No one like corporate lawyers from software firms. No one like the law.

He pulled into the loading bay, jumped out and opened the back of the van. He eased out a large carton and carried it over to a set of metal stairs, steadied himself and climbed carefully to his warehouse loft. The upper storey resembled an electronic junk shop - tables and benches were crowded with various generations of computer terminals, and between the table legs was a spaghetti-mess of cables and wiring. A desk was cluttered with stacks of disks, and circuit boards spilled from metal cabinets. For his creature comforts there was a swivel chair, a coffee machine, a fridge and a double divan bed with a rumpled duvet.

He swept aside the stale remains of a McDonald’s burger and slid the carton onto a coffee table. Then he knelt down, snapped open the cardboard flaps and tossed away the layers of foam plastic padding. A creased label fell out of the packaging, stamped with the words
Property of the Australian Defence Force
, but Freddy just kicked it under a bench. Inside the carton were the special components he’d been waiting for, including a helmet and gloves.

He began to connect them to a computer control deck but his mobile phone interrupted him. He pulled it from his jacket pocket and checked the incoming number. He didn’t recognise it.

‘Who’s that?’

A voice said, ‘Who do you think?’

‘Stonefish?’ asked Freddy.

‘Hi there, cowboy. Have you taken delivery?’

‘Half an hour ago. I’m wiring the helmet in now.’

‘Hey, go for it,’ said Stonefish. ‘Have you opened the little black box?’

‘No.’

‘Open it.’

Freddy did as he was told, prising open a container about the size of a glasses case. Wedged in the moulded interior was a type of device Freddy hadn’t seen before. He plucked it out and examined it, a solid multifaceted object in matt black with a metal connector protruding.

‘Okay, what am I holding?’ he asked. ‘And why is it a funny shape?’

‘That’s a military code-breaker, just developed,’ answered Stonefish, ‘and the shape is a dodecahedron, but I’ve no idea why. It’s designed to work with the helmet and gloves, and you’ll need to plug it into a self-powered hub.’

‘No problem.’

‘And watch your fingers. That’s a mean little combo you’ll be riding.’

‘Good.’ Freddy went back to connecting the helmet as he spoke. ‘And I’m going to test it tonight.’

‘By trying to crack Whitley Sands?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe my arse. You can’t wait.’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘Not for me.’

‘What does that mean?’ Freddy stopped his work on the helmet.

‘Are you sure the ADF can’t track this gear?’

‘You’ve got my guarantee.’

‘And that’s worth the horseshit it’s written on,’ said Freddy, resuming his task. ‘This helmet’s more lightweight than the last.’

‘Everything’s better. Gives you high-res VR. But watch your reflexes with the gloves. They’re hypersensitive. The whole package can make you dizzy, send you into a spin.’

‘You’ve tried it?’

‘Just briefly, on delivery. But it’s what you need to ride the code-breaker. Seriously though, Freddy, don’t get burnt. The Sands has got a vicious firewall. I’m reliably informed it’s equipped with feedback devices that can barbecue your brain.’

‘My brain’s already pan-fried.’ Freddy chuckled. ‘I won’t let the bastards get me. What about you, Stonefish? Where are you hiding these days?’

‘Somewhere I can’t be found.’

‘Why? Who’s on your case?’

‘People who enforce their copyright with an axe. People who -‘

But he didn’t finish. Instead he said, ‘Rachel’s murder freaked me out, Freddy. That’s why I’m lying low. If you’re going after those pricks at the base, you’ve got my blessing. But a word of warning, watch your arse. Don’t ever let them catch you.’

The call ended. Freddy put down his mobile and frowned.

Stonefish’s obvious fear was unusual and unsettling but he wouldn’t let it divert him from his plan of attack. He took off his glasses to strap on the helmet, then hesitated. He stood up, a serious look on his face and a dryness in his mouth. He’d been carefully plotting this moment - the chance to bust into the core data of the research base. There was no need to rush it, but a definite need to psych himself up.

Freddy put his glasses back on, walked over to the fridge and got out a Coke. He yanked open the ring-pull and drank from the can. When he’d finished he tossed it into an empty packing crate and ran his fingers through his untidy straw-coloured hair. He felt like a combat pilot about to take a low-altitude flight over enemy territory. He could almost fit the role. Tall, precocious, youthful-looking, with the instincts of a daredevil and the brinkmanship of a gambler. Despite his precarious existence in the cybertech underworld, Freddy possessed a sort of street nobility - a hacker who could be trusted to deliver, a hustler with brains as well as a prodigious capacity for vodka.