White Gold (20 page)

Brisbane, Australia

Morris Delaney threw the whiteboard pen onto the desk and grinned at his guests. He took a long swallow of the twenty-year-old single malt in his glass and savoured the warm burn in his throat.

‘You’re absolutely sure this is going to work? We won’t have a second chance,’ asked Petrov.

Delaney nodded. ‘We built a smaller one and detonated that down one of the mine shafts to test it.’

Uli smiled. ‘I like your thinking. I presume it was remote?’

‘Yeah – middle of nowhere.’

Pallisder looked at the photograph in his hand and quickly put it down on the desk, realising his hands were beginning to shake. ‘How did you design the chamber?’

‘It’s easier if I show you rather than describe it,’ Delaney explained and gestured to Pallisder to sit down. Taking a marker pen, he drew the rough shape of the canister on a pad, and then added a smaller box shape with a series of dots around the frame.

‘The super-conducted precious metal – white gold powder in this case – is currently housed in a borosilicate glass cylinder. The glass cylinder sits in one side of this panelled housing. On the other side sits the timing device.’ He drew in a rough circuit system and connecting wires. ‘Once the timer begins its countdown, you’ve got about nine minutes to get clear of the area – otherwise you’re toast. The cylinder itself is just there for protection. The more we package the glass cylinder, the better protected it is and we can control the explosion with the timer.’

‘Why the glass cylinder?’

The other man grinned.

‘It’s the only way to stop the white gold powder from quantum tunnelling its way out and into the atmosphere before we’re ready. We’re the first to create a weapon using this stuff – most people are more interested in converting it back into gold because it generates a higher yield. Both the British and American governments are trying to build aircraft which will use its anti-gravitational capabilities. Using it as a weapon probably hasn’t crossed anybody’s radar.’

He threw the pen on the desk and sat down opposite Pallisder and Petrov. He pointed at the sketch of the glass cylinder. ‘During those nine minutes, we instigate a chain reaction which will begin to turn the white gold powder back into metallic gold.’

Petrov looked at him and raised his eyebrow. ‘When I agreed to help fund this project of yours, I said I wanted to create a major impact – lining the streets with gold wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.’

Delaney chuckled. ‘We’re a long way off from achieving that on any great scale, so you don’t have to worry.  When we tried to turn white powder gold back into metallic gold, it created radioactive material. Now we’ve just increased the quantities so when the two electrodes in the canister begin to burn…’

‘… you’ve got the equivalent of an atomic bomb,’ finished Pallisder.

Delaney nodded. ‘A small one compared with some, but it’ll get us the impact we’re after.’

Pallisder studied the drawing carefully. ‘What’s the radius of the blast?’

Delaney flicked through some notes. ‘Here you go – we added a bit more than the test device. I reckon you ought to hold fire buying any real estate within a twenty mile radius.’

Petrov laughed with Delaney. Neither man noticed Pallisder’s face go pale.

‘It’s the superconductivity created by this stuff that’s the threat to the coal, gas and oil industries,’ said Petrov. ‘If anyone works out how to generate power using this white gold stuff on a large scale, we’re finished.’

Delaney laughed and stood up, slapping the other man on the back. ‘I don’t think you need to worry there. By making an explosive device out of super-conducted heated gold – white gold powder – we can derail any further research into its viability as an alternative energy for years – probably decades.’

Uli shuffled in his seat. ‘Yes, but will it have the effect we want?’

‘Absolutely. Remember the old black and white film footage of that airship disaster? That was decades ago and people still won’t reconsider hydrogen as an alternative fuel on a large scale. When people think of hydrogen, they immediately think of the Hindenberg or hydrogen bombs.’

Pallisder glanced out the window. The sun was high over the city, reflecting the river traffic onto the windows of the skyscraper opposite. He stood up and stretched, trying to appear relaxed in front of the other two men.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘You appear to have it all under control Morris. When do you think you’ll be able to give us another update?’

Delaney walked the two men to the reception area. Pallisder blinked in the bright open space. He could feel the beginning of a headache starting to pulse in his temples.

‘I’ll know more in a few days,’ smiled Delaney. ‘I’m just waiting for confirmation from a contact to make sure our plan is still safe, then I’ll let you know.’

Pallisder nodded and, shaking hands with the two men, headed for the elevator.

He stepped out through the atrium of the office block and walked across to the waiting limousine. The driver stood next to the passenger door, waited until Pallisder was ready, then opened the door for him. Pallisder climbed in and savoured the cool air-conditioning. It was proving to be a hot summer.

‘Take me home,’ he said, and settled back into the leather seat for the ride.

London, England

Dan turned as Sarah appeared in the doorway of David’s office, her face flushed. ‘Both of you – come and look at this.’

She disappeared again. Dan looked at David. They both shrugged and hurried to where Sarah sat at the spare desk, a series of printed documents in her hand.

‘Okay, sit down,’ she said. ‘I want to run a theory by you.’

Sarah waited until Dan and David gave her their full attention.

‘What have you got?’ asked Dan.

Sarah handed them each a copy of the paperwork. ‘I was just having a flick through the stories on one of the news wires, catching up, when I came across this one. There was a house invasion at the beginning of January in Ramsgate in Kent. Nothing was taken but the place was trashed – presumably to make it look like a burglary.’

Dan opened his mouth to interrupt but Sarah held up her hand.

‘Hang on. There was a woman in the house at the time. The police think there was more than one intruder. By the time they’d finished with her, there wasn’t much left intact.’ She shivered. ‘The police report states she probably died as a result of blood loss.’

Dan leaned forward. ‘What’s it got to do with us?’

Sarah looked at him, a grim expression on her face. ‘I did a bit of digging around,’ she explained. ‘It turns out the woman is, sorry was, married to the captain of a freighter called
World’s End
. She paused. ‘He and the ship haven’t been seen since it left Singapore in January.’

David frowned. ‘I hate coincidences. The ship should have a transponder fitted to it – we should be able to track its current location with that.’

Sarah nodded. ‘I already thought of that.’ She turned back to her laptop. Her hands flew over the keyboard, a staccato string of commands flowing into the computer. She brought up two websites, and spun the computer monitor to face the two men.

‘Okay, we have couple of ways to track the ship. One, Lloyds Register – this will tell us who owns it and what it’s being used for. Two, we can use the transponder manufacturer’s website to track its progress.’

Dan scrolled through the screens. ‘This is a good start,’ he conceded, ‘but it only tells us where the ship is. We know Delaney’s using a car and it might be in a container, so how are we going to track that?’

Sarah smiled. ‘You’ve just voiced the concerns of western civilisation.’

She swung the keyboard back to her side of the desk and hit a couple of keys. ‘Here, look at this. A couple of years ago, several western governments worldwide demanded the maritime industry provide a better way of monitoring shipping containers. Through a Singapore-based financing initiative called the MINT Fund, several systems designers developed and manufactured tracking devices for containers.’

She flicked through various web pages. ‘All the devices in use now are reasonably effective at preventing theft of goods from container ships, as well as trying to stop them being used by terrorist organisations to move weapons and explosives.’

Dan stood up, stretching his back. ‘How do they work?’

Sarah swung her chair around to face him as he paced the room. ‘From what I can gather, the devices have sensors which monitor temperature control – you set it up just as the container is sealed and any fluctuation – whether warm or cold, or the container being opened before it’s timed to do so, or the angle of the container changes –an alarm is set off.’

‘On the ship, or at a remote location?’ asked Dan.

Sarah glanced at the screen. ‘According to this, it’s designed for electronic tracking, so it looks like most devices feed information via satellite up to a central database these shipping companies subscribe to and it provides them with real-time data, so remote would be my guess although I’d expect the ship’s bridge to receive notification of the same time. That would make sense in, say, cases of piracy – it would give the crew time to arm themselves, or get to a safe room on the ship.’

Dan sat on the edge of the desk and looked at the computer screen. ‘I wonder how reliable it is?’

Sarah tapped her forehead with her pen as she continued to scroll through the web pages. ‘I guess it’s fine – unless it gets switched off.’ She threw her pen down on the desk.

‘Okay,’ said David. ‘Here’s the plan. Go through the manufacturers’ websites. They should have subscriber databases you can log on to. Enter the ship’s name and search to see if there’s a transponder signal available for the freighter or each container they’re carrying.’

Sarah nodded. ‘I’ll do my best.’

David pointed at Dan. ‘You and I are going to start planning what to do when we find this bloody ship. Come with me.’

It was late, the office cleaners had nearly finished their rounds and the coffee machine had broken down two hours ago.

Sarah pushed her hair away from her face and continued her work, long fluid keystrokes creating strings of data on the computer screen, illuminating her face. Stopping, she sighed, ran her fingers through her hair – realising it needed a cut last month – then stopped and stared at the screen. She exhaled loudly.

‘What the…?’

She typed in the data string again, more slowly this time, then sat back and watched as the screen refreshed. She shook her head in disbelief and flipped her phone open. Hitting the speed dial, she got up and stretched.

‘‘lo?’ a voice answered.

‘Dan, it’s me, Sarah. We have a problem.’

‘What do you mean, it’s gone? Where?’

Dan sat at Sarah’s desk, re-arranging data on the screen and re-checking her work.

‘If I knew where, I would’ve said so on the phone – and don’t look at me like that, I’ve already double-checked the information before I phoned you. Look – no transponder signal anywhere. The hijackers must’ve destroyed it.’

She pointed as the computer screen once more filtered through the search strings and stopped. They both looked at the screen – nothing.  Dan threw his pen down on the desk and sighed. ‘We’re screwed.’

‘Maybe not.’ Philippa walked into the room and wandered over to Sarah’s desk, looking at the computer screen. ‘There are ways to find out.’

‘Right,’ said Sarah, sounding unconvinced. ‘Well, if you can find a missing freighter, she’s all yours,’ she added, and pushed the computer keyboard towards the other woman.

Philippa sat down at the desk and cracked her knuckles. Sarah glanced at Dan and rolled her eyes. He smiled, and put a finger to his lips.

‘You two get some rest – I’ll do this,’ said Philippa. ‘The thing is,’ she explained, ‘what you get on subscriber websites is filtered information. What we want to see is everything recorded by the tracking system and uploaded to the satellite.’

‘How do you do that?’ asked Sarah, now intrigued.

Philippa grinned. ‘Dial up the satellite and ask it – nicely, of course.’

Arctic Ocean

Brogan took a gulp of coffee and leaned against the side of the ship. The sun gave the grey clouds streaks of white and caught the waves in places, casting shadows across the sea. He squinted and glanced up at the ice-breaker in front of them. So far, they’d been making good progress but he guessed the ships would slow down once they reached Severnya Zemlya. He turned as the door next to him opened.

One of the hijackers stepped onto the deck and lit a cigarette. Brogan ignored him, took another sip of coffee and contemplated the endless grey scenery.

Brogan stepped through the studded metal doorway and into the cargo hold, the freighter’s engines rumbling through the soul of the ship and resonating through the walls.

The cargo hold resembled a large underground car park. Vehicles had been parked tightly together by the stevedores at Singapore. Four steel rope lashings held each car securely – two at the front and two at the rear of the vehicle to prevent any movement during the voyage.

Brogan walked between the lines of cars, occasionally stopping to check the tautness of the steel ropes. If the cars came loose in rough seas, they would move in the cargo hold and the combined shift in weight could sink the ship. The lashings creaked with the motion of the ship. Brogan nodded to himself, satisfied.

He made his way slowly to the front of the cargo hold, near the loading doors. As he walked around each of the vehicles, he bent down and checked the floor beneath them.

‘What are you doing?’

Brogan jumped. Another one of the hijackers stood behind him, an assault rifle resting across his folded arms. Brogan stood up.

‘I was just going round checking we didn’t have any fuel leaks. All these were loaded onto the ship with a full tank of petrol. We don’t want any accidents.’

The man grunted and left Brogan to carry on with his checks. The captain made his way over to the sleek black sedan parked on its own across two bays. He checked over his shoulder once more, and then bent down next to the vehicle’s front wheel arch.

Reaching under his thick sweater and into the waistband of his jeans, he drew out a small flat object. Sliding a switch on the side of it, he checked as a red LED light began to flash next to the switch. He reached forward and felt with his hand into the wheel arch until he found a lip of metal on which to place the object.

He withdrew his hand and untied his bootlace. He shuffled slightly in his crouching position and re-tied it to kill some time, then stood up slowly. He risked a glance around the hold, and saw one of the hijackers watching him.

He nodded, acknowledging his presence.

‘Can’t risk loose bootlaces round here,’ he shrugged. ‘Too many trip hazards.’

The other man nodded, then held up his gun and gestured for Brogan to move along. Brogan worked his way back through the rows of cars, back to the main staircase. The ship’s transponder might have been destroyed, he thought, but if anyone’s looking for the ship, they would now find the signal from the sedan somewhere in the middle of the Arctic.

Brisbane, Australia

Stephen Pallisder closed the door to his study, sat in the leather chair behind his desk and closed his eyes. Outside, his two children played in the garden, the sound of their shouts and laughter filtering through the window. He opened his eyes and reached out for the family portrait he kept on his desk. He held it carefully in his hands and smiled. It had taken half an hour just to get the kids to sit still and even then the photographer had been relieved when the ordeal was over.

Placing the photograph frame back on the desk, he opened a drawer and pulled out a business card. The Englishman had said to call him if he wanted to talk. Pallisder ran his hand over his face, feeling the damp from the sweat emanating from his cool skin. His hands shaking, he pulled his mobile phone from his jacket pocket and began to dial.
Too late to turn back now
.

The call was answered within seconds.

‘Mr Pallisder, I trust you’re well?’ said the man at the end of the line.

‘We need to talk, Mr Frazer,’ said Pallisder. ‘Now. Before I change my mind.’ He breathed out, and tried to stop his heart beating so hard.

‘I’m listening,’ said Mitch.

‘I need to know my family will be safe.’

‘We’ll move them until all this is over. What do you know?’

Pallisder took a deep breath and threw the business card on the desk. ‘He’s made a bomb. I-I had no idea it was going to get this serious. I thought we were just going to organise a few anti-environment rallies, scare a few people so they’d support us – I never would have given him the money if I knew what he had on his mind. He’s mad – he’s not listening to anyone any more. You’ve got to do something!’

‘Calm down,’ said Mitch. ‘You’re no use to us if you have a heart attack.’

Pallisder closed his eyes and gulped for air. He loosened his tie and threw it on the desk.

‘Who else knows?’ asked Mitch.

‘I don’t know – he won’t tell me who else is involved. But I think he might know someone in the government.’

‘Yours or ours?’

‘Yours.’

London, England

David stalked through the office, glowering. Agents changed direction and did their best to avoid his gaze, just in case it was their backside about to get a kicking.

Philippa glanced up over her glasses as he approached her desk. ‘Problem?’

‘Come with me,’ he ordered, as he walked past her without breaking stride and headed for his office.

Philippa stood up, locked her computer screen and picked up her notebook. She followed David and closed the door behind her. David was pacing the room. Suddenly, he stopped and turned, grabbed the cord for the window blinds and pulled them shut, shielding them from the prying eyes of other staff in the outer office.

Philippa calmly wandered over to the two-seat sofa and sat down, crossing her legs. She flicked her long hair over her shoulder and looked up at him. ‘What’s going on?’

He leaned against his desk. ‘We have an informant.’

Philippa paled. ‘But I screened all those agents out there myself – they’re solid. They’re…’

David shook his head. ‘It’s not one of them.’

‘Who is it?’

David sighed and ran his hand over his face, exhausted. ‘The Minister for Energy. The fucking Minister for Energy.’

‘Holy crap.’

David nodded. ‘You said it.’

Philippa slouched back on the sofa. ‘Who else knows?’

Standing up, David walked round his desk and sat down in his leather chair. ‘So far, the Prime Minister, the Home Secretary and the head of the Ministry of Defence. They’ll be keeping it contained of course until this is all over, one way or the other. We’re arranging to take the Minister out of circulation – we’ll move him up to a safe house at Brecon tonight. With any luck, they’ll chuck him in a room and throw away the fucking key.’ David banged his fist on the desk.

‘How much does he know?’ asked Philippa. ‘We haven’t used Dan or Sarah’s names in the briefing papers so surely they haven’t been compromised?’

David shook his head. ‘No – but Delaney will know we’re onto him now.’

Philippa drew small flowers on a page of her notebook, deep in thought. ‘What are you going to tell the media about the Minister? We can’t just make him disappear.’

‘There will be a press release issued at five this morning stating the Minister has been diagnosed with cancer and has been ordered to rest.’

Philippa studied David’s face. ‘Is it a terminal case?’

He nodded grimly. ‘Very. He’s unlikely to make it to the end of the month.’

Brisbane, Australia

Delaney slammed the door behind him. He bit his knuckle to stop himself from screaming out loud. Three years of planning and it was all in danger of falling apart.

He stalked across the room, reached his desk, then stooped down. He picked up the wastepaper basket and threw it across the room. It hit a painting on the far wall and tore a hole through the million-dollar masterpiece. The wastepaper basket fell down onto a mahogany side cabinet, smashing a crystal decanter and six glasses before falling to the floor, where it rolled to a stop, the painting crashing down on top of it.

Delaney glared at it, and surveyed the damage, panting. He pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his forehead, then turned and threw himself into the desk chair. He could feel his heart beating in his chest. He ignored the pain behind his ribs and concentrated on breathing heavily, pushing the oxygen into his system. He pinched his nose and closed his eyes.
Think
.

He had expected the Minister’s aide to tell him the politician was busy when he called. The message that the Minister was no longer at work and his whereabouts unknown had thrown Delaney off track. No-one could tell him where the Minister could be found.

He switched the television on in the corner of his room until he found the national twenty-four-hour news channel for the United Kingdom. The ticker-tape headline running across the bottom of the screen confirmed his fears. The Minister had made a mistake. Someone had found out.

He picked up the phone, dialled a series of digits for the UK and tapped his foot on the rug, waiting for the call to connect. A voice eventually answered. ‘Charles – are you watching the news? Right, get on a flight to Severnya Zemlya,’ said Delaney.’ I want you to board the ship there and make sure it arrives on time.’

He paused, listening.

‘Well, tell them you’re going on a cruise,’ he growled. He slammed the phone down, stood up and looked out his office window at the river below. No way would he let the plan fail now.