The Tower

Before Liv could react Tariq stepped in front of her, shielding her body with his. ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘It’s the water you want, you do not have to kill to get it.’

‘Do not tell me what I want. No one tells Azra’iel what he wants.’

‘It’s OK,’ Liv said in English, moving from behind him, doing her best to ignore the gun as it swung back to point at her.

‘What are you – American? English?’ the rider said, picking up on the switch in language.

‘American. I’m from New Jersey.’

Azra’iel sat high in his saddle and swept his arm across the desert landscape. ‘This is where I am from. My family has lived on this land for two thousand years. We have seen the great Caliphs come and go, then the Mongols, and then the Turks.’ He jabbed the barrel of his gun at the ribbons on his chest. ‘Saddam Hussein gave me these himself for defending his Republic against the American invaders, but he was an idiot and now he is dead. I was not fighting for him, I was fighting for the land. And now the land belongs to me.’

Liv held his gaze and slowly shook her head. ‘The land does not belong to any man,’ she said. ‘It is we who belong to the land.’

‘You are wrong, goddess. It belongs to any man who will fight for it – this is what my people have learned – and you did not fight.’

‘No. We welcomed you. We invited you to share it, in peace. Isn’t that a better way?’

The jagged smile returned. ‘Better for me.’ He turned away and raised his voice so all could hear. ‘This oasis is ours now. I give you a choice. You can leave or you can die. You have two minutes to fill your canteens. I advise you to take as much as you can. The desert is not as friendly or as welcoming as your goddess.’ He turned his horse and started walking away.

‘We could fall back to the transport shed,’ Tariq whispered. ‘There are guns there. We could make a stand. Or if we make a diversion when we head through the gates I think I might be able to make it to the top of one of the towers and turn the big guns on them.’

‘Then what? Bury the bodies, wait for the next lot of people to show up and kill them too?’

‘What else can we do? We won’t last two days out in the desert without water. Better to fight and maybe die here quickly than slowly out there in the furnace.’

‘Better not to die at all,’ she said.

‘You have something else in mind?’

She swept her hand through the water, her fingers dragging through the cool, wet earth at the bottom, remembering the symbols on the Starmap. ‘No,’ she said, watching the swirls of earth eddying in the clear water, turning it a dusty red. There was something familiar about all this, she had seen something like it in the stone. She tried to concentrate on it and bring it to the front of her mind but it continued to elude her, like something glimpsed at the edge of her vision. ‘If you want to go, then go,’ she said, turning to Tariq. ‘I’m sure you could make it to Al-Hillah on foot before the thirst takes hold.’

‘What about you?’

She glanced up at the gravesite, visible through the line of riders and the chain-link fence. ‘I’m staying here,’ she said, ‘or as close as I can manage without getting shot.’

Her hand passed through the water again, sending larger clouds of red mud spreading in the water as she stood and walked towards the riders.

‘Goodbye, Malik,’ she said, as she passed through the line.

His smile faltered and he made as if to reply but she was already gone, striding towards the open gate and out into the desert without once looking back to see if anyone was following her.

19 (#ulink_66ab61bb-3813-5a61-99d7-651f3618dfa7)

The National Cyber Crime Task Force was buried deep in the Maryland bedrock and housed a huge bank of central databases that fed the entire law enforcement network as well as hard drives and backup files relating to hundreds of thousands of cases – everything from simple internet scams and corporate fraud to online paedophile rings and major terrorist networks.

The main machine room was practically deserted by the time Shepherd stepped into its air-conditioned gloom. He had stopped to splash water on his face and grab something to eat after Franklin had failed to make good on his offer to buy him a burger, wolfing down a doughnut and a cup of coffee on his way over. No food or drink was allowed in the cyber crimes labs. A seated figure was silhouetted against three large flatscreen monitors on the far side of the room, his fingers punching code into a keyboard so fast it sounded like tap dancing. He turned at the sound of Shepherd’s approach and smiled a greeting. ‘Agent Franklin said you’d be along.’

Agent Smith was one of the senior instructors in the cyber crimes division. There was a rumour that did the rounds each year that the Agent Smith of the Matrix movies had been based on him and there was certainly more than a passing physical resemblance – same dark hair receding from a widow’s peak, same sharp features on top of a whip-thin frame – but that was as far as the comparison went. The real Agent Smith was just about the friendliest instructor in the building, generous with his time and endlessly patient with those who were never going to pound the cyber beat but needed to understand enough to pass the module anyway.

‘I’ve set you up with a ghost file,’ he said, nodding at the terminal to the right of his.

Shepherd sat at the desk and assessed the data. In cyber crime there are two types of evidence: physical and digital. Physical evidence is the actual hardware itself. Often in the chain of evidence it has to be shown that a suspect has used a certain computer, so fingerprints or even microscopic flakes of skin beneath the keys of keyboards are sought to prove it. Digital evidence is different. Files and directories can be cloned or copied and worked on by several teams of people at once to crunch the data faster. These clones are called ghost files and Shepherd was looking at one now, an exact copy of everything on Dr Kinderman’s hard drive. ‘Find anything yet?’ he asked.

Smith continued to machine gun code into his terminal. ‘The most interesting thing I’ve found so far is nothing.’ He hit a key and folders started opening, rippling down his main screen like a deck of cards, every single one of them empty. ‘Everything you would expect is there up until eight months ago, then there’s nothing at all. No directories, no sub-directories, no caches. Whoever cleaned this out really knew what they were doing.’

Shepherd had been hanging on to the hope that Smith would find something in Dr Kinderman’s personal files, an email, or a virus that had originated elsewhere with a pathway that might give them a new lead. But the efficiency and skill with which the drive had been forensically wiped just threw more suspicion on Kinderman. ‘You want me to start checking through the older data, see what I can find?’

‘You can if you want but I think it will be a waste of time. Anyone this thorough is unlikely to have left anything behind – I’m pretty sure anything incriminating on the drives would have been in the chunk of data that’s now missing. I was just about to run it through CARBON, see what that throws up.’ He hit Return and a progress bar popped up on the screen, then he sat back with a small grin on his face that had ‘ask me’ written all over it.

‘What’s CARBON?’ Shepherd obliged.

‘That is something very confidential that I can only divulge to you now you are a serving Special Agent. But what I am about to tell you does not get mentioned in the classroom, understood?’ Shepherd nodded.

‘Back in the typewriter days, before photocopiers even, the only way you could get an exact copy of a typed document was to sandwich carbon paper between two blank sheets. The force of the typewriter letters striking the top sheet would leave a carbon trace on the bottom one, producing a copy. This application does a similar thing. It records keystrokes, only the user doesn’t know anything about it. In fact very few people do.

‘After 9/11, when homeland security became the number one priority and the usual concerns for civil rights and privacy went out of the window, the US Government cut a very high-level deal with all the major computer chip manufacturers. Not sure if you know this but 99% of all the world’s microchips are made in South Korea. So you can imagine, having the American government in your corner when you’ve got North Korea as a neighbour must have been a powerful persuader in the discussions. Anyway the deal was simple. All they had to do in exchange for Uncle Sam’s undying gratitude and future unspecified favours was to modify their product a little. Ever since then, each new chip produced has an extra partition of memory built into it that doesn’t show up on any directory and can only be accessed by certain approved law enforcement agencies with the right software.’ He pointed at the progress bar on the screen as it closed in on 100%. ‘CARBON. Basically, they created the ultimate in Spyware. Normal virus protection doesn’t even see it because it’s not code, it’s built right into the hardware.’

The progress bar disappeared and a document opened, crammed solid with words and numbers. ‘The data is pretty raw,’ he said, his fingers resuming their tap routine, ‘and because of the covert nature of the technology the memory cache is relatively small to keep it hidden so it has to constantly dump old data to keep recording new stuff, just like media disks on security cameras. Usually it holds about a week’s worth of activity. I’m just going to run a filter to split the data out a little and pick out any hot or unusual high-frequency words.’ He executed a new command and another window popped open. ‘This is where you can make yourself useful.’

Shepherd leaned in as words started to appear in the window, gleaned from the raw data. He recognized almost all of them. ‘Ophiuchus is a constellation,’ he said, working his way down the growing list. ‘Andromeda is a galaxy and all those long numbers beginning with PGC are from the Principal Galaxy Catalogue. Red-Shift is an astronomical term for what happens to distant light …’

They continued in this way for several minutes, Smith highlighted everything Shepherd recognized until they reached the bottom of the list and Smith hit Delete to get rid of all the isolated words. There were now just two remaining:

MALA

T

Shepherd fished a notebook from his pocket and flipped back through the entries he had made at Goddard. There was the T again in the last entry Dr Kinderman had made in his diary:

T

end of days.

A thought struck him, something about the T and what it might mean in relation to Hubble. He found the contact numbers he had taken down and dialled one, checking the time as he waited for it to connect. The line clicked a few times before a ring tone cut in. Shepherd held his breath as he waited for someone to answer.

20 (#ulink_a462e72f-0b6e-5d8b-bdaa-87c809f7d117)

Two floors above Shepherd, Franklin sat in a small office, door closed, his face illuminated by a different computer screen.

During his more than twenty years’ service in the bureau he had learned a lot about himself. He knew he wasn’t the most instinctive of investigators, didn’t have the genius he had seen in some to ask exactly the right question at exactly the right time and had never been the one in a midnight incident room to make the single connection that pulled everything together. But he was dogged and he knew people. He could tap them like a tuning fork and listen to the sound they made. He always knew when the note was wrong and right now, with Shepherd, it was screeching like nails on a blackboard.

On the screen in front of him were Shepherd’s Bureau application forms and resumé. He had been scouring them for the last twenty minutes, cross-checking the missing two years against social security records, credit-scoring agencies, anything that might give him a steer on where Shepherd was and what he had been doing. So far the only small discrepancy he had found was on the standard Questionnaire for National Security Positions. There was a new addition to the form, a declaration of faith, added by a Republican government riding high on the wave of post 9/11 hysteria. The Democrats had fought it, citing it as a dangerous erosion of the Constitution and its separation of religion and state, but the Republicans maintained that it would help identify Muslim candidates whose background and cultural knowledge could prove insightful in the war on terror. The bill had just squeaked through, but only after a compromise had been agreed that the new section should be optional and no candidate could be penalized for not filling it in. Shepherd had exercised that option and left his blank.

This in itself was unremarkable, but in Franklin’s experience the only people who chose not to fill in the faith section were atheists. Shepherd’s resumé showed he had spent several years at a hardcore Catholic boarding school and yet he hadn’t ticked the box declaring himself to be Catholic. It was a small point but it added to Franklin’s distrust of him. There was something hardwired into his DNA that could not allow himself to entirely trust anyone who did not, in one way or another, have a healthy fear of God. It was one of the central tenets of the Irish, whispered down to him on whisky breath by his father and uncles when they were swaying with patriotism for a country none of them had ever set foot in: never trust a man who does not have God in his heart, and never trust a man who will not take a drink with you.

He sat back in his chair, reaching for his phone.

Thinking about his da’ had tugged at something inside him. Maybe it was Christmas and the usual guilt that came with that. It was too late to call so he scrolled down the contacts list to the entry for Marie and opened up a blank text: