down to check the words. They were in English.
In January and November 2024, I will destroy the traditions of trade so that America is forced to use technology to save its commerce with the world. World organisations will face a crisis.
She raised her eyebrows - this was more interesting. She remembered all those accounts of 9/11: some said Al Qaeda had attacked New York’s World Trade Centre because they really believed all the world’s trade was coordinated from inside the building. Was this threat similar?
And more unusually, it was so specific. It gave a date, several years off – why 2024? It was too far away to be threatening. When eventually the date had come and gone, the threat would seem redundant. Silly even. Unless, of course, it was accurate …
She scrolled down the screen.
… and in March 2043, I will undermine your technology and throw all your international trade into confusion. You may stop me in September 2043, but by January 2044 I will have succeeded. Your trade will have become like an ocean that is everywhere and nowhere.
Sally sipped her latte once more. What sort of whack-job made threats – predictions, even – thirty years out?
She shook her head, dismissing it all. Oh well, one for the tech boys …
She pointed the mouse to an icon at the top. A drop-down list appeared:
Ignore
Add to Watchlist one (low priority)
Add to Watchlist two (medium priority)
Add to Watchlist three (high priority)
Request further technical services (tracing)
Sally drew the cursor down until the last option was highlighted. She clicked it, then watched as the grainy image vanished from her computer screen.
Twenty-Two
Schlosshotel Cecilienhof
Potsdam, near Berlin
6.15 p.m. CET (5.15 p.m. GMT)
----
B ack at the hotel , Myles wondered how close to death he had been. Whoever had pumped carbon monoxide into the room had certainly meant harm. But had they tried to kill him and failed, or just tried to scare him – and succeeded?
He picked up the phone and began to dial. After two rings, a familiar voice answered.
‘Helen Bridle speaking.’
‘It’s me,’ said Myles, noticing her voice picked up when she recognised him. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said. ‘How have you been?’
‘I’m still looking into Corporal Bradley - looks like he’s had quite an unusual life …’
‘How’s Berlin?’
‘Interesting, and the team I’m with is even more interesting,’ he said. Gradually
Myles got round to telling her about the carbon monoxide attack. Helen’s voice became agitated and he tried to calm her down. ‘It’s alright, honey. Whoever it was: if they had wanted to kill me, they would have done it.’
Helen wasn’t persuaded. ‘Or they’ll just try again. Who do you think it was?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. Myles tried to recall the vague presence he felt in the room while he was losing consciousness. Even when they had placed a boot on his neck, they had stayed calm. Myles thought they might have been wearing a gas mask, although he hadn’t been able to see them properly. ‘They might have just wanted Stolz’s papers.’
‘Which means it wasn’t one of your team, right?’ Helen’s logic was sharp. Zenyalena, Jean-François, Heike-Ann and Glenn all had access to Stolz’s documents, so they didn’t need to steal them.
‘Yes, and they were with a lawyer at the time,’ he said.
‘So, they have an alibi,’ she added. ‘Someone else broke in to steal Stolz’s files, and they could do something similar again. Stay safe, you understand? Don’t risk your life for bits of paper. OK?’
‘Love you, Helen.’
Myles replaced the receiver, and immediately regretted doing so. He missed her deeply, and wondered if he should take more of her advice.
The team had arranged to meet back in their private meeting room of the Cecilienhof Hotel. Jean-François was reading a book about Nazis and their interest in the occult when Myles arrived, hobbling up the stairs to meet
In January and November 2024, I will destroy the traditions of trade so that America is forced to use technology to save its commerce with the world. World organisations will face a crisis.
She raised her eyebrows - this was more interesting. She remembered all those accounts of 9/11: some said Al Qaeda had attacked New York’s World Trade Centre because they really believed all the world’s trade was coordinated from inside the building. Was this threat similar?
And more unusually, it was so specific. It gave a date, several years off – why 2024? It was too far away to be threatening. When eventually the date had come and gone, the threat would seem redundant. Silly even. Unless, of course, it was accurate …
She scrolled down the screen.
… and in March 2043, I will undermine your technology and throw all your international trade into confusion. You may stop me in September 2043, but by January 2044 I will have succeeded. Your trade will have become like an ocean that is everywhere and nowhere.
Sally sipped her latte once more. What sort of whack-job made threats – predictions, even – thirty years out?
She shook her head, dismissing it all. Oh well, one for the tech boys …
She pointed the mouse to an icon at the top. A drop-down list appeared:
Ignore
Add to Watchlist one (low priority)
Add to Watchlist two (medium priority)
Add to Watchlist three (high priority)
Request further technical services (tracing)
Sally drew the cursor down until the last option was highlighted. She clicked it, then watched as the grainy image vanished from her computer screen.
Twenty-Two
Schlosshotel Cecilienhof
Potsdam, near Berlin
6.15 p.m. CET (5.15 p.m. GMT)
----
B ack at the hotel , Myles wondered how close to death he had been. Whoever had pumped carbon monoxide into the room had certainly meant harm. But had they tried to kill him and failed, or just tried to scare him – and succeeded?
He picked up the phone and began to dial. After two rings, a familiar voice answered.
‘Helen Bridle speaking.’
‘It’s me,’ said Myles, noticing her voice picked up when she recognised him. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said. ‘How have you been?’
‘I’m still looking into Corporal Bradley - looks like he’s had quite an unusual life …’
‘How’s Berlin?’
‘Interesting, and the team I’m with is even more interesting,’ he said. Gradually
Myles got round to telling her about the carbon monoxide attack. Helen’s voice became agitated and he tried to calm her down. ‘It’s alright, honey. Whoever it was: if they had wanted to kill me, they would have done it.’
Helen wasn’t persuaded. ‘Or they’ll just try again. Who do you think it was?’
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. Myles tried to recall the vague presence he felt in the room while he was losing consciousness. Even when they had placed a boot on his neck, they had stayed calm. Myles thought they might have been wearing a gas mask, although he hadn’t been able to see them properly. ‘They might have just wanted Stolz’s papers.’
‘Which means it wasn’t one of your team, right?’ Helen’s logic was sharp. Zenyalena, Jean-François, Heike-Ann and Glenn all had access to Stolz’s documents, so they didn’t need to steal them.
‘Yes, and they were with a lawyer at the time,’ he said.
‘So, they have an alibi,’ she added. ‘Someone else broke in to steal Stolz’s files, and they could do something similar again. Stay safe, you understand? Don’t risk your life for bits of paper. OK?’
‘Love you, Helen.’
Myles replaced the receiver, and immediately regretted doing so. He missed her deeply, and wondered if he should take more of her advice.
The team had arranged to meet back in their private meeting room of the Cecilienhof Hotel. Jean-François was reading a book about Nazis and their interest in the occult when Myles arrived, hobbling up the stairs to meet
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