Treasonable Intent Read online

  Fawzia put her foot down as they reached the M4. She knew the car was being tracked by the Security Services and would be marked as “Non-Intervention” for traffic enforcement. Unless she had an accident with a civilian vehicle she could speed as fast as she liked, and fast driving was one of her attributes. Ray finished his texting as the car surged past Heathrow airport.

  “My name is Ray Singh,” he suddenly and surprisingly divulged in a rather distant and resigned tone, “I am third generation British Asian on my father’s side and my mother is from Uxbridge. This is where I was born and raised.” He gestured at the fleeting suburbs passing the windscreen. I went to Oxford and was recruited directly into MI5, eight years ago.”

  Fawzia winced inwardly. A direct entrant. Not exactly rich in life’s experiences. This was going to be a long twenty four hours in his company.

  Whilst her army corps and the security services shared the title “Military Intelligence” the two organisations were markedly different. In her mind she was primarily a soldier with the ethos and discipline of an elite unit within the British army. Seconded to the Specialist Reconnaissance Regiment for three years and now with JCW she was proud of her military status. Whilst she could, and had, fought in combat, her real weapons were some of the most sophisticated surveillance and cyber technologies ever made. She had been deployed into hostile and dangerous places across the planet and pitted against hardened and well trained extremists. In contrast she regarded the Security Service as a rag bag of over-promoted college kids, ex-police and paid informants, all supported by a dubious list of community based agents in such far flung places as Swindon and Bradford. Most of them lived comfortably and slept in their own beds at night. Their enemies were often ill trained amateurs with personality disorders and mental health issues and although she recognised that brought its own challenges, she also knew the odds were stacked against them on UK soil. She gave up trying to build bridges: “A degree in politics, philosophy and economics presumably being sound preparation for a career in Special Events? “The sarcasm in her voice was clear.

  Ray was looking at her. He clearly did not appreciate her tone. “My degree is in Mathematics and I am one the few people in the service who has the highest category of encryption clearance. I’ve also spent three years under-cover, breaking up various bomb plots. I think that is why I am now in Special Events.” Having got that out of the way he pulled out his phone again and switched it to record. “So tell me about your two colleagues on those site inspections”. Fawzia sighed quietly; fixed her gaze on the road and resigned herself to the interrogation that followed.

  Forty minutes later they were sitting in a car park adjacent to the campus of Oxford Brooks University. Across from the Jaguar, behind 2 metre high fences, cameras and a pair of electronic gates defended a low concrete bunker set in the middle of some 20 hectares of undulating grass pasture. A single lane of tarmac wound through the contours from the entrance to the building. Behind the gate stood two men in undistinguished security uniforms. To the side of the gate was a simple sign “The Lansing Research Virology Centre”. The only other signage around was on the fencing simply commanding “Keep Out. Authorised Personnel Only.”

  Ray flipped open his briefing sheets and extracted his own authorisation. “Doesn’t look like a state of emergency” he muttered “and those two don’t look as though they could stop anything much.”

  Fawzia scanned the scene. “They have deployed two drones doing low level sweeps across the compound and I spotted one of the dogs loose by the south perimeter fence. Otherwise all the hardening will be on the inner perimeter.”

  If Ray was impressed he didn’t show it. “So why these three key locations?” he asked.

  “No idea”, she replied, after a deliberate pause. He looked hard at her face.

  “Genuinely” she said, “all I know is that these sites have only become operational in the last eight months or so. We were part of the process of signing it off. The other two key sites, The National Cyber Defence Centre in London and GCHQ in Cheltenham, were already up and running and have been assessed numerous times. However I have no real idea of what each one does or how they connect into our wider cyber defence network or indeed any other network. So in a nutshell I don’t know why these locations are key.” She opened the folder Olsson had given her and checked her secure tablet. Thirty seconds later she said: “Ready to go.”

  Ray closed his briefing papers and folded his authorisation into his jacket pocket before switching off his phone. Fawzia was still taking in the perimeter: “I’m afraid we have to walk. No vehicles allowed near the building in the circumstances,” she said. He moved swiftly out of the car but was still behind Fawzia when they reached the gate and handed their passes through the bars. She had been right. The fencing along the side of the blacktop suddenly became the focus of attention as three very large dogs ran to investigate the visitors. “That’s why we don’t get an escort” she said “we aren’t going off track with them on the other side of the fence.” Ray nodded. He had expected German Shepherds but these three were something else, bigger, hairier and meaner. “Ironically they are called Moscow Watch Dogs” she said to him. ”Just avoid eye contact.” Ray fixed his gaze on the swooping drones as they photographed them throughout the whole ten minute walk to the inner compound. The dogs stalked them all the way.

  Hidden from view by careful landscaping the inner perimeter was surrounded by a three metre high concrete wall broken only by a pair of steel gates. Every fifty metres there was an armed guard in a small pill box at the base of the structure. All wore the uniform of Military Police. Outside the gate stood their official reception committee, a young Captain accompanied by two sergeants who saluted as Fawzia presented her authority card.

  The review took nearly three hours. They both had to wear protective over-suits once inside the building and the whole environment was clinical, with lots of anti-contamination protocols and layers of physical and digital security. Fawzia typed her notes and ran the assessment through her tablet. It gave her access to the necessary documents and a chance to test the security systems. Ray hardly spoke throughout but it was obvious to Fawzia he was not only monitoring her but also absorbing as much information as he could. Towards the end of the visit they reached a series of glass partitioned and air-conditioned rooms below ground. They were filled with banks of file servers. Two rooms were blacked out with opaque dark glass. Fawzia asked about the face and retina recognition locks on the doors. The Captain confirmed they worked but that none of those few people with access were currently on site. It seemed odd and she wasn’t convinced that there were not people at work behind the glass. Despite her misgivings she had to let it pass. The place was a fortress. If there were even more secure zones beyond the glass, it was not within her authority to see them.

  At the end of the visit she made two recommendations. Firstly to revise the evacuation procedure in the event of fire. It had been “evolved” over the last couple of fire tests but now contained some confusing protocols. Secondly she insisted that an Apache attack helicopter was always on standby within 10 minutes flight time to assist the base in the event of an attack.

  When they returned to the car she agreed that Ray should drive the next leg.

  “Corsham, I presume” he said, the first hint of tiredness in his voice. “Yes” she replied “but I am afraid that took a little longer than I expected. We will need to make good time.” With that challenge she shut her eyes and reclined her seat. Ray thought about continuing his questioning but decided to concentrate on driving. The car sped out of the campus and headed towards Wiltshire.

  Chapter Three

  The Prime Minister finished reading the briefing notes and looked up over her glasses. Sir Alistair shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Despite years of experience in a variety of sensitive roles and having risen to become permanent secretary at the Ministry of Defence, he found these occasions difficult to judge.

  “So we are under
attack, but we don’t know who is behind this?” The hint of incredulity in her voice was enough to warn him that this was going to be a difficult conversation.

  “I’m afraid we do not have the evidence to point the finger at this stage. Rest assured it is only a matter of time” he said smoothly. The Prime Minister snorted and looked around the Cabinet room. The Foreign Secretary couldn’t contain himself. “Surely it has to be one of the usual suspects” he blurted, “Russia, China, Iran or North Korea? Who do the Israelis think is behind this?”

  Sir Alistair looked uncomfortably at his shoes before replying. “They think it is Iran. As do the CIA, as do most of our European allies.”

  The Secretary of State for Defence sprang to life. “They think that because it suits them to do so at the moment. They have no hard evidence. In our current context I think we need to suspect all of them but my instinct points to Russia.” He was a politician with a diminishing reputation. Those present knew his intervention was more about touting a populist view than the result of robust analysis.

  The Prime minister raised her hand “The obvious suspect” she said, “but we need answers not speculation. If this threat manifests itself in some incident or other we will need to go on the front foot with our NATO allies and they will want evidence.”

  The Foreign Secretary looked vexed. “It is going to take some explaining to the British public how a small gang of terrorists can physically threaten our entire cyber defence system. Especially so when most people cannot imagine it as anything other than a virtual reality of codes and encryption.”

  The PM looked irritated. “Are we seriously saying they are planning to bomb GCHQ or some other location? What good will that do them? It is a matter of software systems not hardware. I would have thought it was more likely they are going to break into the network to try and hack it.”

  “Not quite” piped up Alicia Court, the Head of MI5. “The system is like an onion. It has layers. Six months ago we added another layer behind the core at GCHQ and the National Cyber Defence Centre. It is virtually impossible to hack into it. You will recall we named it Rose Garden and it uses a number of physical interfaces at the cutting edge of science. Unfortunately if they were to be physically destroyed, it would undermine the whole system.”

  The Prime Minister resisted asking for further detail. She had been aware of Rose Garden going live some months earlier and having to referee some bitter arguments about its control. In the end the options chosen were sold to her as putting the UK ahead of the game in cyber warfare. Only now were the disadvantages becoming apparent. She looked again at her briefing notes before speaking. “Rose Garden is split over three secure installations. To attack them would require military force on a scale we can hardly imagine.”

  The Home Secretary had kept her powder dry during the meeting but decided now was the time to enter the fray. Her words rushed out in an excited babble. “The PM is right. Are you suggesting this group may have weapons of mass destruction? There will be outrage if this terror cell inflicts any harm on our armed forces or collateral damage on civilians. Why don’t we arrest and interrogate them. It would give us answers and nullify the immediate risk.”

  “We have no evidence they have such weapons” said Sir Alistair, trying to be calm.

  “We have no evidence they don’t” came the retort from the Home Secretary.

  It was Alicia Court who, unexpectedly, responded. “Arrest is an option Home Secretary, but one we do not have to exercise until they look like making a hostile move. They are not going anywhere at the moment. They are surrounded by SAS and under constant surveillance. With every passing hour we not only have the chance of learning more about them but also increase the chance of their contacts being revealed. They may be waiting for a signal. They may be waiting for weapons or others to join them. We need to be there when that happens otherwise we risk leaving the remaining threat out there.”

  Sir Alistair looked askance at her intervention. He felt that heads of security services should leave political management to the permanent secretaries of the civil service.

  The Prime Minister read the body language. So here is a woman who knows her own mind she thought and it makes the male establishment uncomfortable. “So you advise we wait?” She asked Alicia directly.

  “Not wait” came the reply, “but act in accordance with the plan we have developed. Operation Lightening.” Alicia realised she was becoming too animated. “We just need a little more time” she added quietly.

  “How much time?” queried the Home Secretary.

  At this point Sir Alistair took back the initiative. “Twenty four hours to secure our cyber defence and a further twenty four to identify and neutralise our attackers. If we cannot do so, then we arrest the cell.”

  The Prime minister responded “Very well. Forty eight hours. We will reconvene then but I want hourly updates. Meeting adjourned.” Within seconds she was out of the room and into the morning sunshine of Downing Street where a car whisked her away to her next appointment.

  Alicia raced straight back to her office. She had been lucky to get away. The hapless Head of MI6 had been button-holed at the door and led into a side room. He was still back in Downing Street with the Foreign Secretary, doubtless explaining again why they couldn’t yet identify the enemy behind this plot. She walked briskly and within twenty minutes was at her desk. Her first task was to check on the situation on the ground in the Cotswolds. She punched in the codes for her secure line. In a few moments the familiar Welsh voice of Nia Williams came through the desk speaker. Mrs Williams was the Head of Counter Terrorism at MI5 and reported directly to her. “Morning Ma’am” the voice was even and calm “How did it go?”

  Alicia went through what had happened at the MOD and then reported on the meeting with the PM including her intervention with the Home Secretary. When she finished there was a momentary pause before the lyric tones came through: “Well done Ma’am. Good job all round. Brilliant to get Lightening sanctioned and operational in this timescale. Important also to stop the hot heads from jumping the gun on this operation.”

  Alicia smiled to herself. Mrs Williams was nicknamed “The Dragon” not only because of her fierce national pride in her homeland but also because, like its emblem, she had a harsh and pointed tongue. Praise, even for peers and her bosses, was rare and hard earned. “And how are things in the Cotswolds?” Alicia asked.

  “Surreal” came the instant response. “I am ensconced here in our forward command vehicle which looks every inch a luxury mobile home from the outside. Inside it is a cramped and dimly lit sweat box of screens and communications equipment. We are parked up in a holiday park amongst families and their pets less than a mile from where our four suspects are presumably planning some horrific attack. The only good news is that I have Assistant Chief Constable Mark Daniels co-ordinating the civilian side and keeping me company.” There was a faint male laugh in the background.

  Alicia had tried to dissuade her from taking personal charge of the forward operation to contain the terror cell but it had proved hopeless. At just over sixty three years of age Nia Williams was not going to pass up what was probably her last chance to defend her country in the field. Alicia had felt she would be better handling the investigation into the leak and co-ordinating that from London. In the end that task had fallen to Peter Whittington, Head of Special Events. The Dragon had got her own way again.

  Nia Williams updated Alicia on what was happening. The holiday rental cottage was just outside the popular Cotswold village of Bourton-on-the-Water. As such it was well positioned as a base to attack GCHQ in Cheltenham or the facility in Oxford. A little further away was Corsham Military base in Wiltshire. Three of the five key sites. The suspects had arrived in the late evening and unloaded their cases before appearing to retire for the night. Within an hour there was a very discreet ring of steel around the property. Special Air Service had two teams around the cottage and had set up visual and listening surveillance as well
as sensor sweeps for traces indicating nuclear or chemical agents. They were, however, set constraints set out in their operational plan which hampered the extent to which they could observe the foursome. There was clearly a considerable nervousness “on high” about spooking this terrorist cell and forcing them to go to ground.

  Beyond the SAS teams, discreetly hidden from view, were nearly five hundred military and first responders including specialist hazardous materials and decontamination teams. The two roads that led from the cottage had unmarked police cars parked on them in rotation with armed officers and under tarpaulin covers in a nearby field were four armoured personnel carriers. Two naval attack helicopters were put in place by dawn, again under tarpaulins, on the back of low loaders. The wait began.

  At 10.26 the following morning, three of the suspects left in the Renault, leaving Li Yang Chow at the cottage. They drove directly to nearby Stow on the Wold where they had a coffee in a small café and bought some food provisions in the local butcher and grocery shops. By 12.07 they were back. Nothing indicated that they had spotted the extremely complex and challenging surveillance operation that had followed their every move. Whilst Li watched daytime television, the SAS team had positioned a camera in a tree in the garden looking through living room window. The various directional microphones were focussed on capturing every conversation between them. Mostly it was in English although the Ali couple spoke Arabic to each other in private conversation. Keller spoke with a North American accent, possibly from New England or Upper New York State. He seemed to be in charge. Most of the conversation was about what was on the television. To the listeners it soon became obvious they were well trained not to give anything away, assuming always that they could be overheard. The pipe cameras inserted through the walls covered about 50% of the interior. Frustratingly a couple of the cases they had loaded from the car were being stored in a downstairs pantry out of sight. These were a real concern as they clearly did not contain clothes or anything else for ordinary day to day use. The assumption was that they were explosives or firearms.