Necropolis Rising (2 page)

“
Jesus God!” Sean snarled at Whittington’s prone body. “What kind of sick fuck are you?”

Whittington answered by sitting up and looking at him, and in the doctor’s eyes the men saw nothing. And while Whittington wasn’t known for compassion, his eyes were now devoid of what little humanity he may have possessed. His eyes were dead; yet his body still moved.

“
I shot you!” Sam cried and, to illustrate this, he let off two more shots at the doctor’s body as it began to crawl towards him. But Whittington didn’t stop. Instead, he clambered over the coffee table, launching his gore splattered body at Sam, who was too stunned to raise his weapon.

Whittington landed, knocking Sam flat and the two of them rolled across the heavy mauve shag pile, a tangle of arms and legs, making it impossible for Sean to take a clear shot.

“
Get out of the way, Sam!” he yelled in desperation; his hands wrapped around the pistol grip.

Suddenly there was a terrible cry of pain and Sam’s face came into view, his nose was gone; chewed away by the thing that was Whittington and his eyes rolled back into his head as the doctor located his neck and clamped onto it before yanking his mouth away, bringing with it a tattered strip of flesh and a tangled web of veins.

Sean watched as the arms of his dying colleague flailed in the air. Then he noted that Sam still held the Browning. And in that moment the gun went off, the bullet shattered Sean’s shin before striking the home-made Thermite device in the doorway behind him.

The explosion drowned out the screams, ripping into the room, into the flesh of the living and the dead before consuming the mobile lab in a wall of searing flame.

Another huge explosion punched out the windows, showering the city below with powdered glass and flame and debris.

As the oxygen rushed into the room the flames raged, consuming all in its fiery wrath; purging the room of the awful things that it held only a few moments ago.

But for the city nineteen floors below, it was already far too late.

***

2

The room contained four people, three sitting on chairs of chrome and wood, and one standing, facing them. Behind the person at the front, a power point presentation unfolded on the stark white wall, the images an eclectic mix of building schematics and various Google Earth shots of Birmingham City Centre.

The man at the front was Kevin O’Connell, and he was an architect. Not an architect in the true sense of the word; he didn’t sit at a draftsman’s desk and design buildings of glittering steel and glass that earned him industry awards and acclaim. No, he did not do such things, but he did
create
, he did design and build things that had earned him far more money and international renown from his peers than any member of the Royal Society of Architects could ever imagine.

If O’Connell was considered a criminal, it was only ever in the eyes of those he had wronged. Because O’Connell was good at what he did. And because he was good, he had never been caught or linked to any wrong doing. That was why his services were always sought. That was why he operated a waiting list.

“
Now listen up,” O’Connell said in a voice that had resonance. “This is the last briefing before we get this job done. The last chance to make sure it’s nailed. Up until now it’s been need to know, and now we all need to
listen
.”

He paced backwards and forwards, his steps slow and considered; his well-built frame exhibiting no evidence of anxiety.

But it hadn’t always been this way. Not by a long shot.

“
The job is simple enough,” O’Connell said smoothly. “But the timing makes it a bitch.”

“
Speakin’ of bitches, where’s Suzie?”

O’Connell eyed the large man sitting slouched in the chair directly in front of him. Stu Kunaka wasn’t slouching because he was disinterested or drunk or just plain slovenly. Stu was sprawled in the chair because it was the only way he could fit his large, muscular frame into it.

“
She’ll be here,” O’Connell said, undeterred.

“
She don’t need no briefin’, then?” Stu questioned with a smile. “Her bootie’s turnin’ you into a pussy cat, boss.”

“
Better that than just a
pussy
, Stu,” O’Connell said deadpan. Only Stu could get away with the cheap shots. Not because of his size, not because of his special forces background or his ability to hurt people very easily and very effectively. But because these two men went back. Way back to a time where honour had more value to them than money.

“
Let’s stay focused, Gentlemen,” O’Connell said blatantly ignoring Stu’s original question. He hit a button on the remote in his hand and the image of a building flashed up on the wall behind him.

“
This is the object of our desire for the next twenty four hours. And this is why this whole operation has been organized on a need to know basis.”

“
Want to tell us what that is, boss?” The comment came from a slender man of Asian decent. Amir Singh stroked his thick, silken beard as he talked. He was softly spoken which made him appear unassuming. This was part of his trade, the consummate con man; able to talk people into doing things that, in hindsight, they may never do again.

“
This, Amir, is the home of the National Criminal Intelligence DNA Database,” O’Connell explained. “It holds the DNA profiles of anyone charged with a crime. In 2006 there were over four million profiles and on average it grows by 30,000 samples per month. So do the math.”

“
Okay,” Amir said. “So that’s the building; so what are we stealing? Information?”

“
That’s the joy, Amir. We’re not stealing anything,” a young, spotty faced guy sitting on the other side of Stu said. Gaz Clarke had to lift himself out of his seat and peer round Stu’s bulk just so that Amir could see him. His emerald eyes flitted over to O’Connell for sanction. O’Connell gave it with a nod of his head.

“
The samples can not only link criminals to the crime scene, they can also indirectly link them to any member of their family,” Clarke explained. “This is not good for some
family
businesses; especially those who have an interest in maintaining a degree of discretion.”

“
So?” Amir asked. “If we’re not stealing anything, what are we doing?”

“
We’re going to stir the stew,” Clarke said with a wink. “I’m going to give it the mother of all viruses.”

“
So we’re to take it out?” Stu asked not masking his surprise. “Couldn’t we do that by just hacking into their main frame and dumping the virus in the hole?”

“
Sure,” Clarke said with a contemptuous sniff, “if
all
we were doing is taking it out! But that would be child’s play and -”

“
And not what our clients
want
,” O’Connell butted in. “Clarke’s on board because he’s a malicious, but clever, little cyber-fucker. The virus will just keep the network busy whilst the Programme he’s created rides piggy-back and embeds into the operating system. It’s important that it remains undetected, since then we can get it to do exactly what we’ve promised our employers.”

“
Which is what?” Amir asked.

“
Access the data and manipulate it. Alter results, muddy the waters; and plant our own material. What better way to take out a rival than have them convicted using their DNA profile?”

“
Sounds like sci-fi bullshit,” Stu said.

“
Yes?” O’Connell queried. “Well it’s sci-fi bullshit that will earn this outfit 100 million.”

“
What about the security?” Amir asked. “I’m no computer expert but even I know about firewalls and anti virus software.”

“
We have a man, who can,” O’Connell said. “At our word he will deactivate the firewall for thirty seconds, and let the dummy virus and the Programme in. The virus will be quarantined, but by then our Programme will be replicating the system. But we will have to manually implant the virus from a terminal inside the NCIDD building, bypassing the state of the art external firewall.”

“
100 million,” Stu smiled. “That’s some pay cheque. Who’s funding this gig?”

“
Who do you think?” O’Connell said

“
The Consortium
?” Stu offered.

O’Connell nodded. “That’s our employer for the next twenty-four hours.”

“
Jesus,” Clarke muttered.

The Consortium
. It shouldn’t be able to exist, but it did, an organization comprising some of the most influential and esoteric bosses the crime world had to offer, an international criminal council presiding over a clandestine empire.

“
If we pull this off,” O’Connell said, “it will be used as a model worldwide. A franchise that will be worth billions.”

“
And if we fail?” Amir asked.

“
There is no “fail”, Amir,” O’Connell’s reply was as cold as steel. “If you have any reservations then you stow them in dark places. There’s no backing out. There’s no failure. The Consortium has the names of all involved on this job. That was part of the deal; part of their investment. It comes at cost, you got that?”

Amir nodded unhappily.

“
The money is secured and ready to be wired to our offshore accounts. I’ve a lot riding on this gig,” O’Connell announced. “There’s no going back. And there’s more to lose than professional reputation.”

Clarke opened his mouth to reply when the door to the room crashed open with such force the door handle left a dent in the back wall. O'Connell, Kunaka and Amir wheeled, producing an assortment of hand guns, all cocked at once; filling the room with thick, multiple clicks.

Suzie Hanks marched into the room, her body lithe and graceful, and her pretty face tight, and angry. She pulled a lock of blonde hair from the corner of her mouth; oblivious to the guns trained on her.

“
Jesus, Suzie!” O’Connell said at her approach. “We could’ve shot you! What happened to the secret knock?”

“
Fuck the secret knock,” Suzie said heading for O’Connell’s laptop and punching at the keys. “We’ve got a problem!”

***

“
Shit,” O’Connell spat the word across the room. The others looked up at him.

They were all huddled around the laptop which Suzie had clicked onto the iPlayer. The images on the screen could have been straight from a big budget Hollywood movie. Armored personnel carriers were pulling up and discharging troops onto the streets, each man carrying a rifle, their faces hidden behind gas masks. The camera panned, following a squad of soldiers as they ran to a high-backed truck and began pulling free rolls of razor wire. The whole scene was one of organized urgency.

“
Assessment?” O’Connell said to Stu.

“
Containment,” the big man’s reply was simple and final. “Something big is going down.”

“
If you guys could be quiet for a second,” Suzie hissed, “maybe we’ll get to hear what’s going on.”

On screen, the camera had found a female reporter who was standing in the rain, her hair lank and her shoulders shrugging off the water.

“
The true nature of this crisis is not exactly known,” the woman was saying. “All we can confirm is that there has been an explosion at Hilton Towers and as we speak the City of Birmingham has been cordoned off by the military; no-one is being allowed in, or out, of the city. As most in Birmingham will already be aware, Hilton Towers is home to Dr. Richard Whittington who has achieved a fair amount of adverse publicity due to his pro-vivisection stance in the late seventies. Over the past three decades, his staunch advocacy of such practices has made him an active target for animal rights extremists in the UK.”

The reporter paused as a huge lorry drove past, taking the opportunity to drag her damp fringe out of her eyes before continuing as the big engine receded.

“
Dr. Whittington is no stranger to controversy. His alleged involvement in MOD experiments with biological weapons in the seventies were uncovered by our investigative team only last year; leading to a Government denial of the existence of such a program. Whatever the speculations surrounding Dr. Whittington and his

nefarious scientific activities, the facts are: tonight he is quite possibly dead and Birmingham City is effectively locked down.”

O’Connell’s eyes narrowed and his hands balled into fists. Standing by his side Stu Kunaka allowed a smile to play on his lips.

“
You wanna say “shit” again, boss or shall I say it for ya?”

***

3

“
An examination of the book and its authors would suggest quite a conservative agenda. (I also accept that the final mix of contributions will also determine this). I think there is a real danger that this book will only serve to fuel the divide even further.”

Professor George Mitchell sat back in his office chair, hit the “save” key on his keyboard and smiled.
There, that’ll put them in their place
, he thought. There was nothing more satisfying than reviewing a book proposal from some young upstart and rubbishing it, tearing it to pieces the way a fox savages a hapless rabbit in a field.