Code Red Lipstick (3 page)

Cold, stale air filled Jessica's nostrils as she pulled the door behind her and stepped into the lift. She pressed the button to her left and crouched down; her legs still felt like jelly. The lift jolted as it descended to the basement. Once it stopped, she heaved open the grille.

Becky would never believe Jessica if she told her about the bunker. The walls and ceilings were lined with titanium-aluminium alloy, which was bullet- and bombproof. The house could come under mortar attack but it'd still be safe down here. Her dad even stored enough food and water for a week.

She flicked a switch and a computer suite was flooded with light. She looked about. This wasn't how she'd left it last night. She'd made sure everything was exactly as she'd found it when she'd borrowed the iPad; Dad would kill her if he thought she was using his equipment unsupervised. Files marked “MI6 confidential” were strewn over the floor. She knelt down and flicked one open. It contained the names of MI6 agents in Algeria. Another file listed French agents and a third was marked “Vectra”. It contained a grainy photo of a dark-haired man, wearing sunglasses.

She pulled out her mobile and quickly rang her dad but it went straight to voicemail again.

Now what should she do?

This was seriously freaking bad news. The intruder must have been looking for MI6 agents, but what was Dad doing with their files after all this time anyway? They were dated this year. She looked around the room. On the right-hand side were the cupboards where he kept his equipment from his MI6 days, along with new purchases she secretly borrowed whenever he was away. She pulled open the drawers containing pens, key rings and hand-held games consoles – all hiding surveillance bugs. They were untouched, together with the equipment for picking locks and bugging phones. The intruder wasn't interested in a stack of fake driving licences and passports either.

Jessica stared at the ranks of computers and television screens. Her dad used the computer on the far side for monitoring tracking devices. It could trace where a person was anywhere in the world. A second computer identified and sifted through voice patterns. It was so sophisticated, it could get rid of all the background noise in a busy bar and pick up the words of a target who was whispering something in someone's ear. Both computers were turned off. She checked the CCTV equipment. Interior and exterior shots for the last month had been totally erased. The intruder hadn't taken any chances.

She flopped down in the chair in front of her dad's main computer. This was bad.
Really
,
really
bad. A green light flickered on the side of the black screen. It was already switched on. She tapped the keyboard and her dad's files appeared, scrolling down the screen. Whoever had broken in was an exceptionally good hacker. Dad never took chances with his work computer, unlike his iPad. Even she didn't know how to get in. It was protected with a series of encrypted passwords, but the intruder had still managed to access his secret files.

She flicked through the open documents. They were all about someone called Sam Bishop. One was a photo file containing pictures of a man in his thirties. He had bright blue eyes and dark hair. He appeared to be staring into direct sunlight, his hand shielding his right eye. In another, he was standing with his arm thrown around a grey-haired woman's shoulder.

She clicked open a letter her dad had scanned into the computer. It was from Mrs Bishop, of 33 Crabtree Gardens, Hastings, dated 6th January. It read:

Dear Mr Cole

I have given much consideration to our telephone conversation and decided that I do wish to employ you to find Sam. My fears for his safety grow by the day and I feel I have nowhere left to turn.

As we discussed, Sam was sacked from Allegra Knight Skincare Company, based in Paris, last October after he allegedly failed a random drug test. He was also accused of stealing items from the company. The French police believe he's gone on the run in Europe to escape prosecution, as he's made no attempt to re-enter the United Kingdom or get in touch with friends and family.

I refuse to believe this explanation and remain convinced the French police are involved in a cover-up. My son has been anti-drugs since he saw the impact of cannabis use on a few of his former school friends. I do not believe he is taking drugs.

I admit he seemed unhappy the last time we spoke. He wouldn't tell me what was bothering him but did talk about returning to Cambridge University soon to continue his research.

The company has been in touch to offer its support and to invite me to visit their offices in Paris, but my ill health prevents me from taking up its offer. I would be very grateful if you could visit on my behalf and investigate his disappearance.

Yours sincerely

Louisa Bishop

The final document was a copy of a small local newspaper cutting, dated last November.

MISSING SCIENTIST SPARKS POLICE PROBE

French police are investigating the disappearance of British scientist Sam Bishop, it was revealed yesterday.

The thirty-four-year-old, who was a postgraduate from Cambridge University, was sacked by Allegra Knight Skincare Company (AKSC) on October 30. He has not been seen since.

Local police confirmed they wish to speak to him about the theft of a laptop, confidential lab books and equipment from the company.

Former colleagues in Cambridge say his disappearance is out of character. He had been working as a research scientist at the global beauty firm for six months.

Allegra Knight, founder of AKSC, said: “We are extremely worried about Sam Bishop. Our thoughts are with his family and friends.”

Miss Knight was the first ever “supermodel” in the early 1970s and a muse for every major designer, including Chanel, Givenchy, Valentino and Christian Dior.

She retired from modelling in the 1980s and disappeared from public life before launching AKSC five years ago.

Jessica reread the newspaper article and clicked back to the photograph, intrigued. Why was the intruder interested in you, Sam?

The young man smiled back enigmatically, refusing to give up his secrets. She decided to take a copy of everything to show her dad what had been accessed and hit “print”. As she closed the files, her eyes were drawn to a tiny thumbnail folder at the bottom of the screen. She clicked on to it and waited for it to open. That was odd. The file had no date. It just existed, which was impossible. It must have come from somewhere. Encrypted pages suddenly appeared on the screen – random numbers and letters, apart from the words
Sam Bishop
and
Starfish
, which stood out.

She plugged her dad's external scanner into the computer and did a more detailed search on its origins. She tapped her fingernails on the desk, or what was left of them. They were bitten down and one had started to bleed. She hadn't realized she'd picked it. She jumped as she heard a noise. Was that the lift? She half-expected the intruder to jump out again, but it was just the central heating coming on upstairs.

Calm down, Jessica.

The info flashed up on the device. The file had been uploaded today at 12.32 p.m., the time of the break-in. She stared back at the computer screen, stunned. Had the intruder planted this on her dad's hard drive? Why would they do that?

She tried to click open the toolbar but the mouse wasn't working. She jiggled it about, back and forth, but nothing happened. Suddenly, the cursor moved across the computer screen even though she wasn't touching the mouse any more. It clicked on the top right-hand corner and closed the file. Someone had taken over control of the computer. She tried to move the mouse again but the cursor hit the “shut down” command and the computer logged off. She flopped back in her chair.

Ohmigod.

Someone had got into her dad's computer. They must have been alerted as soon as she logged on and somehow piggybacked their way into the programme without her noticing.

Someone, somewhere, was watching her every move.

Jessica jumped as her mobile rang. It flashed up
PRIVATE
NUMBER
.

“Hello?”

“Jessica!”

“Dad! I've been trying to get hold of you. Someone's—”

He cut in, his voice barely a whisper but urgent.

“Code Red.”

The line went dead. “Dad?”

She didn't have time to panic. Quickly, she dialled the number he'd made her memorize. She'd never had to use it before. It was a system her dad had devised when ringing 999 wouldn't be enough. She had to dial the number and give the code. She had no idea who or what was at the other end but guessed it must be connected to MI6. It gave eight rings.

“Hello?” a man said sharply. “Hello. Who is this?”

“I'd like to order a dozen white roses,” Jessica said mechanically.

“What?” His voice was low and gravelly.

Something about it made Jessica pause. “I said I'd like to order a dozen white roses.”

The man took a sharp intake of breath. “You've got the wrong number. This isn't a florist.”

“It can't be the wrong number, I dialled it right. Dad gave me this number.”

The man paused for a split second. “Your dad gave you the wrong number. Don't call again.”

The line went dead.

“No!” She slammed the phone down on the desk. She'd dialled the right number, she knew she had. Why hadn't he helped? Code Red was her dad's signal that he was in mortal danger. Anything could have happened.

She had to find him.

She looked about the room. She couldn't risk alerting the hacker by using any of her dad's equipment. But she could track him through his credit card; she had an online banking app on her phone. She clicked on a bookmark and brought up her dad's account. She knew his passwords from helping with the accounts and easily called up his last few transactions. He'd bought a Saturday morning Eurostar ticket to Paris and paid for a week upfront at the Hôtel Relais Saint-Jacques. He'd also been in Paris early last week – staying in the same hotel and eating in various restaurants and cafés, according to the charges.

He was looking for Sam Bishop.

His hotel was a start. She could try and track him from there. She'd had a Parisian au pair when she was little and could speak French fluently, so getting about on her own wouldn't be a hassle. First, she'd go to MI6 and report everything that had happened. It was the next best thing to Code Red. The security service could alert Interpol and start looking for him. They'd have to do
something
. As she strode into the lift, she noticed something was wrong with the account. It was £503,031 in credit. As if! She hit “refresh” but the figures remained the same. There'd been a £500,000 transfer on Saturday afternoon from a bank in the British Virgin Islands.

How on earth had he managed to earn that much? Did it have something to do with Sam Bishop?

Back in the ground floor study, she quickly texted Becky, telling her she was ill and wouldn't be back for afternoon lessons. She had a quick scout around her dad's bedroom, which contained lots of framed photos of her and Mum. She couldn't find anything useful. He was always pretty careful with work stuff and didn't leave files or gadgets lying around.

She reset the burglar alarm, grabbed her rucksack and headed outside. She let out a cry as she collided with something warm and solid: a man wearing a long black coat. His grey eyes were expressionless; his lips thin and pinched. He stared down at her unblinking, without even the hint of a smile.

Jessica held her breath, her back pressed against the door. Her dad's Code Red message might actually have worked.

“Jessica Cole?”

She nodded, calculating whether she could knock him off guard and get back into the house if he turned out to be the intruder, returning to finish her off. She was a brown belt at kick-boxing. She didn't have enough room to swing a punch but could easily bring her knee up into his groin before sticking a thumb in his eye. They weren't moves that'd help her earn a black belt, but she'd been taught how to use them in dangerous situations. This certainly felt like one of them.

“We're from the Foreign Office. You need to come with us.”

He suddenly took a step backwards, as if he'd read her mind and didn't particularly fancy a knee to his nether regions.

“We?” Jessica said.

He nodded over his shoulder.

Another man climbed out of a black Merc parked outside the house.

“I believe you were trying to order a dozen white roses?” he said coldly. “You need to come right now.”

So the telephone number was right!

Taking a deep breath, she followed him down the path and climbed into the back seat of the Merc. It had blacked-out windows. The door shut firmly behind her. She knew without even trying that the door would be locked. She couldn't get out. The man slid into the passenger seat.

“Where are you taking me? Do you know where my dad is? How—?”

A dividing screen slid silently up, cutting her off in mid-sentence.

“I guess not. Thanks for nothing!”

She hung on to the door handle as the driver sped through west London. Soon, the River Thames was in sight. The traffic was light and the Merc made fast progress, jumping a few red lights as it glided up the Embankment.

She watched the bridges whizz past and noticed a few barges on the river. It suddenly hit her. She knew where they were going. There was no question. It had to be MI6 HQ. The Merc suddenly swerved off the road.

Now where were they taking her?

She pulled out her mum's pendant from beneath her blouse and rubbed it between her fingers; it always helped calm her down whenever she was feeling stressed. The car slowed down as it approached a shabby-looking building with torn cream shutters and peeling grey paint. The sign “no vacancies” hung in the window below the name Hotel Celeste. The driver aimed towards a sign for underground parking marked
GUESTS
ONLY
. The car glided smoothly beneath the barrier into the bowels of the building and stopped next to another black Merc. She frowned. Both cars looked out of place. This definitely wasn't the type of hotel that had Merc drivers as clientele. Clapped-out Fiesta drivers, maybe.

The door swung open, catching her unawares. Her “minder” moved a fraction of an inch, allowing her just enough room to squeeze out.

“This way.” The man jerked his head towards a door.

She followed slowly. As she stepped through the back door, she smelt fresh flowers instead of the reek of damp and fried breakfasts she'd been expecting. It didn't look anything like a hotel either. She couldn't see a reception area or pamphlets lying about detailing London's attractions. The floor was wood panelled and recently polished. She caught a glimpse of a study and a sitting room as she passed by.

“Where are we?”

The man remained silent as he climbed the stairs. She hesitated. She didn't care what the sign on the building said – this definitely wasn't a hotel. Where were all the staff and guests? She remembered what her dad had told her about MI6 safe houses being dotted around the country. Was the hotel sign a cover for one?

She climbed two flights of stairs after the man, taking in the old-fashioned prints of butterflies lining the walls. He paused, out of breath, and cleared his throat as they reached a landing. A corridor stretched to the left and right.

“Second door on the left.” The man jerked his head down the corridor. “They'll be ready for you in a few minutes.”

“Who will be ready for me?” she shot back.

“I'm not at liberty to say. You won't have to wait long.”

She walked towards the door, clenching her fists. She had to be ready for anything. She took a deep breath and walked in. The room smelt strongly of pine furniture polish. In the centre was a long wooden table with a dozen chairs. The pale cream walls were dotted with uninspiring paintings of sea scenes and country cottages.

“Wait here.”

She turned around. Mr Personality-Less stood right behind her, invading her personal space again.

“It's been
so
cool meeting you,” she said. “We should hang out together soon.”

He scowled as he retreated. She half expected to hear the door lock but there was silence. She checked her mobile. Zero network coverage. Who was she going to call anyway? This was her best shot at helping Dad.

She stepped backwards as the door clicked open.