Chimera Code (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (5 page)

Dillon peered out of the glass cockpit as the rotor blades above
picked up pace with a rhythmic whooshing sound. He grinned like a
young boy - unable to contain his pleasure - as he felt the power of
the machine around him wind-up to take-off speed.

The Bell-Robinson R22 Beta II, lifted off from the snow-covered
heli-pad, located on the west lawn of Dillon’s castle, and rose up into
the crisp morning air of the Scottish Highlands. Snow tumbled off
the helicopters skids as Dillon banked it around to the right and he
watched the mountains drop away beneath him. Exhilaration filled
him as the nose of the Bell dipped and the helicopter increased speed
as he eased forward and the Bell’s air-cooled four-cylinder engine
pitch changed with the adjustment. He had always felt alive from
the thrill of flying and ensconced in his specially adapted HIDSS - a
Helmet Integrated Display Sighting System - Dillon could execute any
procedure with the blink of an eye.

The intercom in Dillon’s helmet came alive as a familiar voice
filtered out through the tiny speakers.
“Hi, Jake, you hear me up there with the birds, mate?”
“I hear you loud and clear, Vince.”
“I thought those choppers were for millionaire playboys, not

roughnecks like you?”
“They are, but they made an exception in my case.”
“Is it fast?”
“Tops out at around 102 knots and climbs at a rate of 1000 feet

“Taking the scenic route, I don’t blame you. Let me know when
you’re nearing your destination. And remember to stay on this secure
channel.”

Dillon settled back in his seat as the Bell hummed at its cruising
speed of 96 knots. He activated the stealth mode, one of the extras
he had fitted by the manufacturer before it had left their factory, and
cruised down the coastline of England. He checked the mobile phone
that Tatiana had given him and noticed that he had one new email. It
contained the operational instructions for the assignment. Protection
duties in support of British Special Air Service and MI6 operatives.
That’s all he needed, these boys would not welcome him in Cornwall
with open arms and smiling faces. These boys would resent him being
there at all. This was LJ’s way of easing him back into the Ferran &
Cardini fold... and then he would feel the dark side of his psyche
spread its wings and wait in abeyance for the killing to start...

He felt a cold shiver run up and down his spine.
He returned the mobile device back to his jacket pocket. “I
should have stayed in Scotland,” he mused, settling deeper into the
helicopter’s padded seat; the original had been structured in hard
polycarbonate, very uncomfortable, so Dillon had it replaced with
something more luxurious.
Dillon had engaged the auto-pilot system which was now flying
the compact two-man helicopter at low altitude down the east coast
of England, the cold dark waters of the North Sea a few hundred
feet below him as the Bell’s stealth system worked seamlessly to
automatically adjust its course so as to evade detection by radar
stations and other more sophisticated probing detection equipment.
He continued on down the coast, only stopping once to re-fuel at a
small private airfield just outside Ipswich. He then set a course inland
over Oxfordshire, and then headed due south towards the Isle of
Wight, picking up the southern coast of England and passing over
Bournemouth on his way down the rugged Jurassic coastline towards
Cornwall and his final destination - Castle Drago. The further west he
flew the worse the weather became; rain and wind buffeting the small
helicopter.
The speakers inside his helmet crackled and the next moment
Vince Sharp’s voice was being piped into his ears. “You okay, Jake?”
“If you call high winds and torrential rain okay, then yes, I’m
doing just fine.”
“I’ve estimated that you should be at Castle Drago in
approximately ten minutes. LJ has asked me to thank you for
undertaking this assignment and wishes you all the very best.”
“Sounds ominous. Couldn’t he have said that to me personally?”
“Sorry mate. He’s currently in Argentina - some sort of
government crisis thing...”
“What’s Castle Drago like?”
Nice little pad they’ve got hidden away in the middle of nowhere,
mate. We’ve been given strict instructions that you’re not to land
anywhere near to the main building. There’s a Heli-pad in the middle
of a wooded area due south of the main residence - that’s where you
put down and they’ll send a reception party to meet you.”
“Nice.”
“Do I detect thereturn of that legendary surly contemptuousness,
Mr Dillon?”
“Vince?”
“Yes mate?”
“Fuck off.”
“Okay. Before I forget, de-activate that stealth mode you’ve got
fitted before you get within three miles of them. They’ll want to track
you on their radar screens as you approach.”
“Roger that. Over and out.” Dillon grinned; flicked two switches
and the Bell swooped down from the sky towards the undulating
and heavily wooded landscape below. He watched the treetops as he
headed inland from the coast and eventually spotted the clearing with
a large ‘H’ in the middle of a concrete hard-stand. A few moments
later he had touched down and had shut down all on-board systems.
At the edge of the clearing a black Range Rover was waiting for him.
He stepped down from the cockpit, the wind and rain hitting him
with all its might, closed the cockpit door and armed the security
system. Should the Bell be tampered with or stolen, Dillon was able
see what was going down on the small LCD screen on the remote
key, which was wirelessly linked to the Bell’s on-board camera. The
remote operated a small explosive device that would detonate inside
the engine compartment. The end result was the same whether the
helicopter was in the air or on the ground - instantaneous death to
anyone in or close to the machine at the time of detonation - the
remote had a range of one hundred miles.
Two black clad soldiers got out of the 4x4 as he approached
them, one took charge of his canvas holdall, and the other ran a
handheld security scanner over his clothing. He got into the rear seat
and a moment later was being driven along an unmade track towards,
Castle Drago. High trees were moving past on either side and the
vehicle soon drove through the gloomy sanctuary of the woods and
out into the rugged Cornish landscape.
Dillon wound down the window and breathed in the pleasant
fresh scent. Rain spat through the gap and he revelled in the shocking
coolness on his face. He saw himself imposed over the image of the
rolling countryside: Dillon, reflected in glass - unruly dark hair, heavy
stubble, dark brooding eyes. A somewhat weathered face that had
taken one too many punches. A strong chiseled chin - he thrust it
forward, and then grinned weakly at his reflection.
Ugly bastard, he mused, and subconsciously pulled out the packet
of cigarettes and lit one, reminding himself that he really should quit.
The castle was impressive. Completely restored. Very expensive.
Dillon went through the usual security scans and check-in
rigmarole and was then shown up to his room by one of the uniformed
orderlies. He immediately unpacked, showered and shaved, and then
spent twenty minutes thoroughly searching the room for bugs and
cameras. Satisfied that his room was neither bugged with listening
devices or cameras he then went and familiarised himself with every
aspect of the castle. He walked around, smoking, checking out
entrances and exits. He sat for a while in the main lobby, watching
the people coming and going, and being eyed himself by two of the
security service guards armed with Heckler & Koch MP5 machine
carbines. A waiter approached and asked him if he required a drink.
He asked for a single malt whisky and then shook his head, telling
himself off.
You’ve got one day left before Kirill and his niece arrive, he
mused. The last thing you need is alcohol to blur your thinking.
Ignoring his own advice, he ordered a bottle of the best single
malt from the castle’s cellar to be sent up to his room. When the waiter
had disappeared he went outside and stood under the high covered
portico and smoked a cigarette. The rain was still falling heavily and
the wind was not giving in - blowing a gale from the west. He finished
his smoke and went back up to his room for a drink and to watch TV
for a while before dinner.
He sent an email to Vince Sharp in London, to which the reply
was almost immediate.
Keep off the booze!
He laughed, and downed the
glass of whisky in one gulp. He felt the tension he had been feeling
since his arrival at the castle temporarily leave him - he refilled his
glass, but again the guilt of having even a single drink nagged at him.
It was always the same thoughts that returned with the booze - was
he going mad...

“
I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Jake. Your mind is all over the place
and running a-muck everywhere you go
.” Issy had shouted this at him as
she’d walked out of his apartment and out of his life for good. And
her words had haunted him ever since.

He had let Issy walk out without a proper farewell and had
thrown a long friendship into oblivion. She had known there was
a problem - a needle in his mind, a splinter through his soul - and
had begged him to tell her what was wrong. But he could not. How
could he describe the feeling he got when he killed in mere words?
How could he define the torment and torture, his misery - that came
afterwards?

He could not - would not - expose that part of his psyche to
anyone...
Dillon laughed drunkenly at that and refilled his glass, spilling
whisky over the back of his hand. He could remember when the black
beast had first manifested itself and, how he had to admit to himself,
that without it he would almost certainly be dead many times over by
now. This part of his mind, that he could neither understand or get
away from in his life, had pushed him on to murder without mercy or
compassion.
Dillon felt weakness and this enigma inside his head was
untroubled by fear or doubt or even consequences and had
maimed
and
slaughtered
with precision and yet.
Dillon couldn’t help wondering if he would rather be dead.
What it would be like - to be normal, without the killing?
What life would be like - if he had chosen a different path to
walk along?
Dillon fell into a fitful and uneasy sleep, images of the people
that he had murdered in the line of duty floating up from the depths
of his mind. They accused him, fingers pointing, silent dead mouths
open and screaming at him.

knowing when the real attack will take place or
whether anti-virus software can be written fast
enough... The question is why has this virus
been released on the world of high finance - and
to what end?

Dillon woke early the next morning, got out of bed and
immediately wished he hadn’t. The pounding in both his temples
made him wince, like hitting your thumb with a hammer, that sort
of pain. He made a mental note to quit the cigarettes and the booze
just as soon as this assignment was over. Outside it was still raining
persistently, as it had been when he had arrived in Cornwall the day
before, heavy thunderous skies painted a dreary and miserable picture
for the day ahead.

He phoned down to housekeeping and ordered a full English
breakfast with coffee and toast to be brought up to his room. Ten
minutes later there was a knock at the door and a uniformed orderly
stepped into the room and placed the tray down onto a circular oak
table by the window.

As Dillon was finishing breakfast; the mobile phone that Tatiana
had given him in Scotland, started to vibrate on the table. He picked
it up and was not surprised to have been sent an email from Edward
Levenson-Jones. It simply outlined the timetable that he would be
working to for the next few hours and gave him the location address
for Professor Kirill’s lectures. Dillon was somewhat surprised that
Kirill was not giving his talks inside the well equipped conference
center at Castle Drago. His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing
tone of the bedside telephone, the sergeant major at the other end
informed him that his transport and escort detail were waiting outside
the main entrance.

The Range Rover swept through the heavy iron gates and up
the gravel drive, went through a stone archway and parked in a large
walled courtyard at the rear of the impressive period house. Dillon
checked the mobile phone for any messages and then accessed three
coded menus; the phone flickered at him with red digits. Dillon smiled
- the wonders of technological advancements would ensure that the
anti-bug mode jammed or scrambled any listening devices that were
within its range.

Dillon got out of the luxurious interior, light-weight running
shoes crunching on gravel and lit a cigarette. He looked up at the two
hundred and fifty year old home of Professor Kirill, a magnificent,
yet pretentious structure with its giant classicism, almost awe inspiring
with its dressed stone dominated by four turreted corner towers. The
windows were tall and narrow with leaded light panes of glass and set
back into stone. Visually, Dillon thought as he walked back through
the stone archway and around to the front of the building; this was
a tense and formal place, almost emotionless. The spectacular open
portico, sitting atop broad layers of steps, only endorsed what he was
thinking.

The rain had eased a little, but the heavy clouds were still
rumbling around almost directly above. Dillon walked back into the
courtyard and across to what would have been originally a kitchen
service door. He was met by one of the MI6 suits who were crawling
all over the place.

“You Dillon?” The surly spook snarled at him, the flash of
gleaming white teeth in the process.
“That’s me.” Dillon took a heavy pull on his cigarette and smoke
plumed around him. He coughed. “Must remember to try and give
these frightful things up.”
“We don’t need you here; we’re doing just fine without you, hard
man.”
Dillon held up his hands. “Wow, tiger. I’m simply here to observe,
my friend. Now, I’d appreciate it if you would get the fuck out of my
face before I decide not to be so friendly towards you.” He smiled and
blew smoke into the young spook’s face.
Holding eye contact, the agent used a comm. to confirm Dillon’s
identity and stood aside to allow him to enter the building. With a
glance over his shoulder, Dillon noted the sniper on the roof of the
garage block opposite as he moved inside.
His stomach groaned at him. He reached the door. At least a
dozen men in the grounds, he thought. Good. He wasn’t meant to
have seen half of them:
even better.
He walked through the kitchens and along semi-darkened
corridors until he came to the service stairs that led up to the main
house. Outside, the sound of rolling thunder made him look up as he
climbed the stone steps.

Dillon watched Zhenya Tarasova enter the richly decorated
room. She was much more beautiful than her photograph on file. Her
beauty stunned him. She wore her auburn hair mid length just below
her shoulders, a soft shimmering silken fan; she moved with elegance
and grace, and a light smile danced across her face when she saw
Dillon. She crossed to him, the only sound was high heels clicking
as she walked over the highly polished marble floor, and Dillon felt
himself irresistibly gazing into those beautiful Cossack eyes.

“You know why I am here?” he said softly.
“I know why you’re here, Mr Dillon,” she replied in near perfect
English. “And I am very grateful for you accepting to look after me.
Tatiana wasn’t being truthful when she described you. You’re much
more beautiful.”
Her voice was husky, something that Dillon had always found
attractive in a woman. He stood, smiled, and without speaking
motioned to her necklace, bracelets and rings. She looked at him
quizzically and Dillon made gestures for her to remove all of the
jewellery. He walked around her, checking the clasps on her elegant
deep red dress. Taking all of the items from her, he placed everything
on a low maple occasional table, and then motioned for Zhenya to
take off her shoes and follow him outside to the formal gardens.
She did so without question, and Dillon led her barefoot out into
the grounds. The rain had stopped and the clouds had started to drift
away to the east, the gardens scent, fresh, after the heavy rain of the
past two days.
“Where are we going?”
“Bear with me, Miss Tarasova. Down these steps and through
the stone arch, if you would, please.”
She laughed then, and Dillon heard the chink in the laughter; the
fear was there, well hidden - especially considering the girl was only
twenty-two years old - but still there.
They walked - Zhenya a step or two behind Dillon.
He stopped abruptly and turned round. He took her hand.
“You should be afraid. Especially as your uncle has received a
number of death threats and he considers them to be very real. Not
a hoax - but directly linked to this new software programme that he’s
developed for the military. Your uncle fears that those making the
threats may turn their attention on to you, as a soft alternative target
while both of you are down here in Cornwall, either to kidnap you or
to... well, I’m sure you understand the situation as well as I do. Now,
there are many agents here whose job it is to protect you and your
uncle. I am merely here to look out for you and to give back-up to
them - if required. To be your personal bodyguard, shall we say? But
I would like you to agree to one thing.”
Zhenya had gone white. Dillon could feel the clamminess of her
palm, against his own.
“Yes, Mr Dillon?”
“I want you do everything I ask - without question or hesitation.
I want your absolute trust - and never forget that I cannot be bought.
I’m wealthy enough in my own right and money does not interest me.
But I must know that when I say jump, you’ll jump without hesitation
- if you want to stay alive that is. Will you agree to this?”
She paused, and then smiled softly. “Yes. I will do what you ask.
But I too have a question.”
“Okay. Fire away?” Dillon was looking around the garden.
“Why did I have to remove all of my jewellery and shoes?”
“Bugs. Almost certainly put there by the MI6 guys here, they’re
only doing their job - but I wanted a little privacy. This little device,”
Dillon held up his mobile phone, “is particularly clever and very
effective at blocking and jamming, but I hate surprises. I trust myself
far more than technology. I have a little motto - better to be cautious
than
dead
.” He let the word hang in the air.
“Oh, I see.”
“So tell me, why do
you
think you’ve been threatened?”
“Since the death of my father, my uncle has treated me like his own
daughter. I have my own private living quarters at the establishment in
Scotland and we always eat dinner together every evening. My uncle
works extremely hard - he is a genius. All I know is that we suspect
terrorists want to get the new programme destroyed because it almost
certainly means that governments and agencies around the planet will
be able to locate and destroy them with extreme ease.”
“Why are
you
here in Cornwall?” asked Dillon. “Your uncle knew
before he left Scotland that your life could be in danger. After all, you
are his only living blood relation - the daughter he never had. You
should have been sent somewhere safe, away from the possibility of
extreme danger.”
Zhenya turned away from him, then stopped and picked a
brightly coloured flower. She held the small delicate petals to her nose
and, her eyes lowered, said softly; “My uncle is a man of unbending
principles and I admire that. He will not be intimidated and will always
stand by what he believes in. The truth is, he didn’t want me here at
all; but I also, will not have my life dictated by madmen who may or
may not carry out their loathsome threats. I am my own person, Mr
Dillon.” She met his gaze then said. “I will do what I wish. And to be
honest - if they can get to us here, then they can get to us anywhere
we choose to hide.” She said with contempt.
Dillon said, “I want you to know that I’ve never failed on a
protection assignment. He squeezed her hand gently. “If you do what
I say - when I say it, we might just stay alive if the bullets start flying.
Okay?”
“Okay.” Zhenya smiled a beautiful smile. She placed the flower
in his lapel button hole. “I want you to have this flower as a mark of
my friendship.” Dillon was touched by the girl’s gesture and followed
her back up towards the house. He watched the agents in the bushes
and, as clouds gathered once again overhead with the threat of more
heavy rain, did not envy their position. A smile crossed his face as he
walked over the gravel path that led back to the main house.

Dillon stood up and watched the older man approaching him.
He was of small build, with sandy coloured hair, soft grey at the
temples and a neatly trimmed goatee-beard. His eyes were sharp and
intelligent, his dress smart and expensive. Dillon shook the offered
hand - a remarkably powerful grip.

“A drink, Mr Dillon? Dillon was about to accept when Kirill
continued. “No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. Straight single malt
whisky without ice. Am I right?”

“Absolutely right, Professor. But, not while I’m working. Just
water will be fine.”
“It was extremely good of you to agree to this assignment. As I
understand it, you are virtually retired, yet you come, shall we say, with
the very highest of recommendations.”
“I’ve had many years to perfect my talents.” Dillon smiled wryly.
He took the glass and watched Kirill go and stand in front of the
fireplace and light a cigarette. The man fixed his gaze on Dillon who
sat back down and glanced over at Zhenya, who was seated on an
antique leather chair by one of the tall windows.
“In your opinion, Mr Dillon. Are we in great danger here?”
Asked Professor Kirill.
Dillon sipped at the glass of iced water. Placing it down on to
a small round side table at the side of his chair. He looked up at the
Professor and shrugged. “From what I’ve been told and the reports
I’ve read. I would say most definitely, yes. If I understand correctly,
you have been working for the British Government, and it would
seem that your work has gained you a few enemies.”
“The people you are referring to, Mr Dillon. Are nothing more
than cowards, they have heard rumours about a new programme that
I have developed - their fear is justified - it means the end for them.
But I must tell you that whilst I believe them to be cowards, that in
reality, they will try and fight back as sure as adversity stares them in
the face.
“Can you tell me about the new programme?”
“Even with your security clearance, that is still too highly
classified,” said Kirill softly. “All I can say is this, and I know that you
are fully aware of the Scorpion units. They exist to combat against the
terrorist threat wherever it may be found and my new programme will
be of tremendous assistance in their task. It is incredibly powerful and
is able to gain access and interact with any programme or database -
whether encrypted or not - in the blink of an eye. I have created a
programme that can locate computers being used by organised crime
syndicates and terrorist cells globally by accessing their every available
on-line resource. It then up-loads a tiny piece of mal-ware which
eventually destroys the hard drive. But not before taking control of
the system and downloading every single piece of data on it... Ahh,”
he sighed, relaxing slightly, the look of excitement in his eyes fading
to a more guarded unreadable expression. “But I’m getting ahead of
myself. As you pointed out earlier, this is still at the field trial stage and
very much only a prototype - it is not quite ready to be set free - yet.”
“It must be uniquely powerful and light years ahead of anything
else currently developed to evoke such interest... and a threat to your
life, Professor?” Dillon said, almost casually. “Maybe there are some
people who would prefer not to see it ever become operational?”
Kirill merely nodded, smiling, and sipped at his drink.
“This threat to Miss Tarasova - you do realise it could be merely
a double bluff?
You
could be the target.” Dillon said matter of factly.
“Of course, that possibility was the first thing that came to mind.
However, should the need arise - rest assured that I can handle myself,
Mr Dillon. I worked for the KGB for many years as a field operative.
Like you, I am very capable of staying alive. It is my niece who needs
protection now, I cannot watch over her twenty-four hours a day.
Edward Levenson-Jones will have sent you the schedule of events, I
will be giving lectures throughout the day and then there is the party
this evening.” He looked across the room at his niece. “I’m afraid her
stubborn nature will not keep her away and well...”
“I can only advise you to cancel, professor.”
“I will not cancel. And, I will not cower because of something
that might or might not happen.” Said Kirill, his face hardening.
Anyway the MI6 agents have said they will draft in more men if
needed. And of course, you’re here.” He smiled without humour,
showing tobacco stained teeth. “Zhenya will be safe. She can stay out
of the day’s proceedings...”
Zhenya turned to face them from where she was sitting. Her
eyes bright. “No I most certainly will not. I won’t hide myself away
either.” She sounded indignant.
“If that’s the way you want to play it.”
Dillon stood up and left the room. Rain was falling again and
he delved into his jacket pocket and pulled out the mobile phone,
turning it over in the palm of his hand. After a moment he connected
to the security services and checked that all of the agents assigned to
the protection unit were present and correct, but most importantly
stationed at their positions at various locales inside the building and
outside in the grounds. He set the device to automatically check and
update him every fifteen minutes until the day’s events and party that
evening were over.
Dillon cursed Kirill’s stubbornness. A party! For work colleagues
and Government dignitaries to celebrate a ‘milestone achievement’.
“Bloody hell, Kirill. Why couldn’t you just stay in Scotland?”
Dillon said aloud to himself.
Dillon had to admit to himself that he was annoyed. He hadn’t
realised that LJ had drafted him in on what he had thought was a
simple VIP protection assignment. Kirill was a top dog - a former KGB
operative, Government researcher and world renowned computer
program developer - and Dillon knew that he would therefore have
made some very powerful enemies along the way. That meant the
game was far more important than Dillon had been led to believe;
more important than Tatiana had led him to believe.
Dillon moved through the house, checking security points and
his own weapon and ammo stashes.
With this preamble came the electric feeling he always felt, the
excitement of the imminent danger and the promise of killing - that
was surely to follow.