Resurface
A Thriller
Tony Batton
21st Century Thrillers
Contents
Synopsis
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Acknowledgments
About the Author
A Chief Executive in jail,
a company in tatters.
A hidden facility pushing
the boundaries of
scientific research.
A deadly assassin on
a mission for revenge.
An item of unstable technology
stolen from a CIA black site.
A plot to make us more than human,
whatever the risks.
A young man
that connects them all.
RESURFACE
First UK Edition v.001 - © Tony Batton, 2016
All rights reserved
First published in 2016 by 21st Century Thrillers. The right of Tony Batton to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchase.
Find out more about the author at: www.tonybatton.com. And to get a FREE short techno-thriller, go to:
www.tonybatton.com/free-story
One
Twenty-Six Years Ago
A bell jangled angrily as Amelia Fourier opened the restaurant door. She inhaled the sharp tang of fried onions and felt her stomach lurch – she had planned for so many things, but the odour had not been one of them. Adjusting the bag on her shoulder, she held her breath and stepped through the doorway.
Outside a steady stream of traffic droned past, headlights blurry in the drizzling rain, but few vehicles pulled over. The car park was nearly empty, as was the restaurant, with no other buildings for nearly a mile in either direction. Isolation had been one of her primary selection criteria: part of the detailed planning and preparation that had gone into this meeting, which was not surprising given the stakes.
The man sat in a booth next to a condensation-smeared window. He wore an unremarkable grey suit, his hair cut militarily short, although she thought she could see the first signs of baldness. His eyes did not even flicker her way, yet Amelia had no doubt he had seen her. She ignored the waitress, tucked the heavy bag under her arm, and slid onto the seat opposite him.
He glanced up from the plastic-coated menu. "French fries for breakfast, what's not to like?"
She swung her head around the room, counting four other patrons. "It hasn't drawn much business. I assume they're all your people, Mr...?"
He placed the menu down and spread his hands on the table. "Fine. Everyone in here, including the waitress, is part of my team. And you don't need to know my name."
"Behind that Ivy League accent, I can hear the edge of something else. Spanish or Italian, maybe?"
The man shrugged. "We're all from somewhere. And sometimes we want to leave that somewhere behind. Isn't that why you're here?" He produced a large, crisp white envelope, and placed it on the table.
Amelia held herself still, fighting the urge to grab the envelope and run. Although she wouldn't get too far in her present condition. She opened her black sports holdall and withdrew a thick card folder. She placed it on the table and slid it towards him. "That's everything I could access: schematics, test results, design parameters. CERUS Biotech's finest work."
He picked it up and started to flick through the pages. "You're sure you weren't detected?"
"If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't be here. You do with it what you will, but I don't want to know."
"We won't be able to do anything if we can't make it work."
"Not my concern." Amelia reached into the bag a second time and lifted out a cube-shaped object, wrapped in brown paper and tape.
The man frowned. "What is that?"
"I couldn't very well leave it unattended."
He coughed and shrank back. "I wasn't expecting... Is it safe?"
"The case is shielded. And of course it's just a prototype – not fully fu
nctional: I've been clear about that."
"I don't have the arrangements in place—"
"You want me to take it away?" She watched him think it over, knowing there was only one possible outcome.
He turned away, holding a finger to his ear, and muttered a few words that Amelia couldn't make out. He listened, nodded, then turned back. "We're arranging a secure transport. Our deal can proceed."
"I'm glad to hear it. And I'm sure this is doing no harm to your career prospects."
"That's of no consequence, Ma'am. I'm just doing my duty."
"Rationalise it how you wish." She looked pointedly at the envelope. "Now it's your turn."
He slid it slowly across the table. "My superiors would probably shoot me for asking, but I have to know—"
"Why didn't I ask for more? Because this isn't about money." She gave a half laugh, then carefully opened the envelope. A passport. Drivers licence. A selection of other identification documents. Two credit cards. "They look authentic."
"They should." The man cleared his throat. "You didn't want to change your first name?"
"No, I like it." She placed the documents in the holdall, closed it and rose to her feet, grimacing at the aches in her legs.
He stood and shook her hand. "Goodbye Amelia Faraday. I wish you both," he glanced at her belly, "the very best."
Two
PRESENT DAY
DEPUTY DIRECTOR CONNOR Truman marched down the corridor of the Langley office building. He knocked once on the door at the end then entered, nodding to the man who sat at the long meeting table: CIA Director Lazlo Banetti was a squat, grizzled man with ominous eyebrows and an unreadable expression.
"What was wrong with my office?" Banetti said, rubbing a hand over his shaven head.
"We generally assume the NSA has it bugged. This needs to be for your ears only." Truman set his tablet computer on the table and began playing a video recording. On screen was a view of the side entrance of a metal-clad building. Stencilled on a small door were the words 'Government Facility - Strictly Private Property'. Below that was an eight-digit number. Two government security guards walked through the field of view. As soon as they passed out of sight, a figure clad in black sprinted from the shadows and straight up to the camera. For a moment, the man's face was framed in the shot. Then the image went blank.
"No other cameras?" Banetti asked.
"Already disabled. Within seconds of that last camera going out, all systems at the building went off-line - only for a couple of minutes, but it was long enough for them to get inside the warehouse and take something. It raised a flag and you were contacted directly; you were in a national security council meeting, so the call diverted to me. The item taken is described as a Level Seven storage pod, but I've been unable to learn what was in it," Truman coughed. "Or anything else about the facility. Classified above my level of clearance, apparently."
"Level Seven?" Banetti appeared to freeze. "What was the number on that door?"
Truman glanced at his notes. "8543-0009."
"Tell me that isn't Warehouse 102."
"I wasn't aware you took such a great interest in our storage facilities."
"It's an off-grid federal black site. It goes three storeys below ground."
"With only a few guards?"
"We try not to draw too much attention to what it really is, so we rely rather heavily on security systems. The face of the intruder - bring it up again."
Truman tapped his tablet and the image appeared on screen. "I had it enhanced but the resolution isn't great: the face looks a little flat. Male, Caucasian. I've already run him through the joint agencies criminal database. No hits."
Banetti stared at the screen. "He won't be in them. He's someone we've been trying to locate for more than twelve months. A British national named Thomas Faraday. Until this point we've found no trace of him."
"Isn't it odd then that he let his face be recorded?"
"Maybe. My more immediate concern is that Mr Faraday has taken a very valuable, very dangerous piece of technology. What do you know about CERUS Biotech?"
"Beyond what was in the news, very little. I never gave the rumours much credence."
Banetti raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you should have. Go home and pack. You're on a flight to London in..." Banetti glanced at his watch, "four hours. By then your clearance will have been upgraded and you can read the full brief. You'll need to be up to date when you land."
Truman gave a snort. "I can't just leave. Quite apart from my executive responsibilities, I'm working two dozen active cases."
"I'll reassign all of it. This is more important."
"I see. Why London?"
"So you can meet with an old friend of mine."
Three
THE BOAT WAS A DULL grey: at first glance, quite unremarkable. It looked a little like one of the twenty-metre-long motor launches operated by the Metropolitan Police. But what was beneath the exterior was entirely different. It sat too low in the water, and moved with a nimbleness that belied its considerable weight, the result of its strengthened armour plating and the high-tech equipment woven into its structure. Its two 400-horsepower engines delivered a cruising speed of sixty knots, though it was considerably faster over shorter distances. It was one of a few special craft operated by the Security Service, MI5. Today, it was being used for a special purpose, not recorded in any official log.
On the top deck a woman in a smart grey suit stood looking out across the Thames. Here in London's Docklands the river was wide and slow, sweeping a great languorous arc, and the boat was holding station with almost no thrust. It was positioned in the shadow of a tall, glass-fronted office tower. She turned to a crewman standing behind her. "Bring him up."
The man spoke into his earpiece. A door at the foot of a flight of stairs down into the belly of the craft opened. Two heavily built guards steered an older man upwards. He was handcuffed and wore orange prison overalls. The man held up the handcuffs. "Are these really necessary, Stephanie?"
Stephanie Reems glanced at the steel bracelets. "I hear you're a good swimmer, Mr Bern, so I prefer not to take any chances."
William Bern looked up at the office building towering above them. "It's not like you to be so theatrical."
"Just reminding you what you've lost."
"Lost isn't the word I would use." He paused. "Had stolen would better describe the situation."
Reems bit her lower lip. "When we arrested you, you sang like a bird. Then you got your lawyers involved and your approach changed completely. It was like you were ready to atone and then..."
"Perhaps I just came to my senses."
"Perhaps you just wanted to spend some time with that attractive young lawyer you hired." Reems leaned towards him. "Or were you affected by your own nano agents? Perhaps those in the truth nano you were developing."
Bern shrugged. "I'm not responsible for everything that happened at CERUS. As I've said before, it seems that some of my team continued their work on that discontinued project despite my express orders to the contrary."
"You really threw Marron under the bus there, didn't you?" Reems' expression hardened. "You were in charge, and you are responsible. I know you didn't tell us everything. I know you had more than we found."
Bern looked at her. "Fallen under the spell of conspiracy theorists, Director?"
Reems looked up at the CERUS Tower. "We know you had another site."
"We had lots of other sites, but we were in the process of migrating everyone to this building. That's hardly a secret."
"I don't mean a site listed in your brochure. Tell me about the beta site. Where you ran the more legally-questionable tests. We've run detailed analysis of every project in your inventory. There are too many gaps in the technology map: things that must have been achieved elsewhere."
"Perhaps the gaps are simply where the data was deleted when my... son hacked the building systems?"
"There truly is no love lost there, is there?"
"Don't romanticise this. I never knew about him."
"Is that right? Or perhaps you just didn't want your late wife to know about your affair."
"Adultery isn't a crime." Bern leant on the rail of the boat and looked up at CERUS Tower. "Why are we here, Stephanie? To trade insults? To run over the same old arguments? I'm not some monster. I'm a revolutionary. A ground-breaker, an innovator. Maybe the world isn't quite ready for my ideas, but that's not my fault. I won't let idiocy stand in the way of progress."
"Incarceration is your more immediate problem."
Bern sighed. "What do you want?"
"I just told you what I want." She glared at him. "The problem is trying to work out what you want."
"What I want is to change the world." His hands tightened on the railing. "It is so frustrating when people try to derail the plan because of their own mis-guided agendas."
"Based on something trivial like safety?"
"If safety was an absolute we'd never have invented aeroplanes or cars."
"Not even a hint of contrition. Why did Marron react so differently?"
"I can't speak for Peter. How is he doing, by the way?"
"He accepted responsibility."
"Well he did kill my wife. Did they ever find his daughter?"
Reems shook her head. "They certainly looked."
"Quite a piece of work, that one."
Reems' phone buzzed and she stepped away from Bern to answer it. She listened carefully then clicked it off and signalled to the guards.
"Are we done?" asked Bern. "How disappointing. I presumed you'd brought a picnic."
"I have a meeting."
"Must be important for you to let it interrupt our quality time together."
"Given that you are telling me nothing that I didn't know already, I'd say I've overestimated your importance."
"Given the questions you've asked, I'd say you've underestimated it. You do realise you're not the only government that would like to get hold of my tech. Perhaps some of them might be more pleasant to do business with."
"You're in no position to do business with anyone except me."
"Say it, if it helps you believe it."