The movie reference would be lost on most people, but he knew Kara would appreciate it.

  ‘Nerd.’

  The hacker beckoned them inside.

  Malte secured the door behind them as Lucy made a beeline for a first aid kit. The place hadn’t changed much in the last half-decade. The walls were stripped to bare brick, the windows sealed up, the high-ceilinged interior divided into three main sections – a kitchen area, a workspace and a set of bunk beds. The wind outside moaned through the air vents, giving the scene a grim chorus.

  Lights burned around the work area, powered by battery packs stored in the basement for such an eventuality as a power outage. Kara’s ruggedised laptop had centre stage, its screen alight with data.

  ‘How is that thing still working?’ Lucy nodded at the machine as she peeled off the makeshift bandage around her leg and tended to her wound.

  ‘Please,’ said Kara. ‘We go looking for a military-grade transient electromagnetic device, of course I’m going to bring my most hardened gear.’ She tapped the laptop lovingly. ‘It’s tempest-screened, ray-shielded and armour-plated. It could get struck by lightning and you’d still be able to check your emails.’ She waved at the air. ‘Most of the tech in this place was fried like everything else, but I managed to get some systems back up. Lucky for us no one was using it.’

  ‘Yeah, lucky. Good job.’ Marc gave her a pat on the shoulder and helped himself to a bottle of isotonic drink cooling on the counter. ‘We’ll patch up, re-arm and stage from here.’

  He looked around, then sat heavily on a threadbare sofa in the middle of the room, blowing out a sigh.

  ‘Someone want to bring me up to speed?’ Lucy winced as she applied an anti-infective and fresh dressings to the cut in her thigh. ‘Start with what you didn’t tell me.’

  Marc, Malte and Kara exchanged glances.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said the Englishman. ‘But I needed you to keep Grace occupied while we set it up.’

  Kara threw Malte a questioning look, asking, Where is Grace? The Finn made a silent throat-cutting motion. The hacker pursed her lips and nodded.

  ‘We knew she’d stab us in the back,’ continued Marc. ‘So I put a contingency plan in place. Kara calls the law and tells them we’re here, lets them come after us.’ He held up a hand before Lucy could complain. ‘I know, it’s a shitty plan, but as usual, our options sucked.’

  ‘I don’t like being outside the loop,’ retorted Lucy.

  ‘Won’t happen again,’ he promised.

  ‘How’d the Coasties find us, anyhow?’ She looked at Kara.

  ‘Rubicon-issue smartphones have a redundant emergency tracer installed in them,’ said the hacker. ‘Even if the device is zapped by an EMP, the last thing it does is crack a tiny low-level radiation source inside the case. That can be located with the right gear. I tracked that, and gave the co-ordinates to the Feds.’

  Marc pulled his spyPhone from his pocket and his expression turned sorrowful.

  ‘Ah, bollocks.’ He gave it a shake and heard what sounded like particles of sand shifting around inside it. ‘It’s buggered. And this was the last one. I feel like I’ve lost an old mate.’

  Kara took it off him. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘We could have ended up shot or in jail.’ Lucy came over and snatched the drink bottle from him, draining the rest of it.

  ‘I did say it was a shitty plan. I’m not denying that.’

  She sat next to him. ‘I hope you got a better one to follow.’

  ‘I have.’ He shook his head. ‘You’re not going to like it.’

  ‘Do I ever?’ She made a come on gesture. ‘Back on the boat, that name you mentioned to Cassidy. Titanpointe. Where do I know that from?’

  Kara’s jaw dropped. ‘Did she just say . . .?’

  Marc nodded. ‘Titanpointe is the designation for a classified NSA facility right here in the Big Apple. It’s a monitoring and security hub that sits on top of the main digital communications lines going up and down the east coast, and beyond.’

  ‘The NSA use it to spy on the internet,’ said Kara. ‘Read your emails, watch your cat videos . . .’

  ‘But it’s also a protective measure.’ Marc made a turning motion with his hand. ‘In the event of a catastrophic incident that could potentially affect the whole of the US digital network, it can reboot the system.’ He mimed the action, as if typing on a keyboard. ‘It’s supposed to be the unjammable fail safe.’

  ‘You know a lot about it,’ noted Malte.

  ‘Let’s say that MI6 and GCHQ took a few passes at the thing back in the day, and leave it at that, yeah?’

  ‘But the fail safe isn’t kicking in?’ Lucy said, off Marc’s nod. ‘So the interrupt, that tech from the lab in Turkey, how does that figure into this?’

  ‘The Combine implanted it inside Titanpointe, inside the hub,’ said Marc.

  ‘It’s preventing the network from rebooting itself,’ said Kara. ‘Every second the interrupt is active, stocks, shares and currency values are in a nosedive, and the Combine rake in the profit from betting against them. Eventually, it will self-correct, but that could take days. By then, trillions of dollars will have been wiped off the US economy. And then there’s the knock-on effect to global markets—’

  ‘Enough,’ said Lucy, raising her hands. ‘I get it.’ She looked at Marc. ‘So we find the interrupt, disconnect it, stop the . . . whatever. The system reboots, the Combine are shit out of luck, right? Where is this thing?’

  ‘Thomas Street. Number 33, the Long Lines building.’

  She grinned. ‘Hey, no problem, that’s like a mile away . . .’ Then the expression slipped off her face as she realised what Marc was referring to. ‘Wait. You’re talking about that blind skyscraper in the middle of Tribeca. Five hundred feet high, not a single window. Like something out of The X-Files.’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  Of course, Lucy knew the building they were referring to; anyone who knew Manhattan would – the sinister sandstone-coloured tower that lurked behind the nearby Federal Building. There were countless urban legends about the place, ranging from UFO-nut tinfoil-hat stuff to details of mass surveillance programs based there, as leaked by intelligence community whistle-blowers.

  She took a second to process that.

  ‘We have to break into an NSA secure facility, inside a hardened building designed to withstand a nuclear attack, in the middle of a city-wide power outage, during the worst storm of the year. That’s your plan?’

  Marc nodded. ‘I said you weren’t going to like it.’

  TWENTY

  Sunset over the Alps brought new snowfall, and with it fell the plots displayed on the screens around Rutger Bremmens. Outside the temperature plummeted, and the indicators of the global financial sphere were on a similar downward trend, fuelled by panic in the markets as the news from New York echoed around the planet.

  The data feed from the NY Stock Exchange was dead, a blackened pane among the cascades of failure-red dominating the other indicators. Another glass screen showed news from several international channels, and all of them had the same images behind their talking heads – shaky hand-held video of Manhattan’s stormy skyline, shrouded in darkness.

  Bremmens lost himself in his work, tapping at the tablet computer with his wrinkled fingers, the glow of the screens reflecting in his unfashionably bulky glasses. Nearby, Glovkonin rested against a thick wooden balustrade and watched the banker in his element, the older man’s bloodless face taking on a vacant quality as he communed with his numbers. Bremmens blinked his watery blue eyes, muttering under his breath.

  ‘Why do you wear those?’ Glovkonin asked, bored with his inactivity. He pointed at his face.

  ‘What?’ Bremmens retorted sharply, perturbed by the distraction.

  ‘The spectacles?’ Glovkonin pushed off and approached him, swirling the brandy in the glass he held. ‘I’ve never understood that affectation. You could afford the finest ophthalmic medicine in the world.’

  Bremmens blanched, losing pace for a moment.

  ‘The thought of someone firing laser beams into my corneas sickens me.’

  ‘If you cannot see clearly, imagine what you might miss.’ It amused Glovkonin that something so mundane could unsettle the banker. But then, he was a peculiar sort, fussy and obsessive over some details, and blinkered in other matters. At length, the Russian relented and gestured at the screens. ‘How goes it?’

  ‘It goes as well as it did when you asked me that question thirty-two minutes ago,’ Bremmens said irritably, and he pointed to a secondary display where the value of the Combine’s monetary worth showed as a rising graph. ‘We grow wealthier by the minute. Does that satisfy you?’ He didn’t pause for a reply. ‘Please do not distract me.’

  The older man’s tone chafed, and Glovkonin considered a retort, but then a voice called out from the floor below.

  ‘Sir?’

  It was Misha, his bodyguard. He held a satellite phone in one hand and the ex-soldier’s craggy face was sombre. Standing at Misha’s side, the bland aide working for Bremmens looked equally discomfited.

  ‘There has been a development.’

  The Swiss muttered again and put his work on standby, stalking away down the wide stairs back to the atrium level. Glovkonin followed him, draining the last dregs of his brandy as they descended.

  ‘I left strict instructions not to disturb us,’ Bremmens told his aide.

  ‘Unless certain criteria were met,’ said the man, shifting nervously. ‘They have been.’

  ‘Speak up,’ snapped Glovkonin, glaring at Misha.

  ‘There is an unconfirmed report from New York,’ said the bodyguard, his voice a sullen bear’s growl. ‘The American Coast Guard opened fire on Mr Cassidy’s yacht. He may be dead.’

  Bremmens stiffened, turning to his aide.

  ‘Is this accurate?’

  ‘It is difficult to get confirmation, given the situation in the city,’ said the younger man. ‘But the initial report appears to be authentic.’

  Glovkonin schooled his grave expression, but inwardly he smiled. After making contact with the woman Grace, his generous offer to her hinged on the completion of two actions: first, that she betray any efforts by the remnants of Rubicon to interfere with the New York operation; and second, that she find a way to terminate Connaught Cassidy III after the fact.

  Has she succeeded?

  The end result was the same. The controlling cabal of the organisation known as the Combine now comprised solely the Russian oligarch and the Swiss financier.

  ‘You are dismissed. You and the rest of the staff are to remain in quarters,’ snapped Bremmens. ‘I do not wish to see any of you again until you have complete information on this matter.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the aide, and he backed away, bowing anxiously like some courtier chastised by his king.

  Glovkonin told Misha to make himself scarce, and then it was only he and the banker in the echoing room before the roaring fireplace. The older man stared into the middle distance, recalculating, mentally sifting through the profits and losses in his head as he balanced Cassidy’s death against their current situation.

  The Russian strolled back to the well-stocked bar and selected a bottle of Zuger Kirsch, slow-pouring a measure of the brandy into a fresh glass.

  ‘This is an unexpected development,’ he offered.

  After a moment, Bremmens came back from his contemplation.

  ‘Unexpected,’ he echoed, ‘but we can adapt.’ He advanced on Glovkonin, distrust glittering in his gaze. ‘First Giovanni meets his end, and now Connaught. The timing is suspicious.’

  Glovkonin savoured the brandy. ‘We have many enemies.’

  ‘Did you do this?’ With unexpected speed, Bremmens grabbed Glovkonin’s arm before he could raise the glass to his lips again. His bony fingers dug into the Russian’s skin through the sleeve of his Brioni jacket. ‘You cannot lie to me,’ he said, ‘I see your ambitions, Pytor. You wear them as plainly as these tailored suits you fetishise.’

  ‘If Cassidy drew the attention of law enforcement, that is no one’s fault but his,’ the Russian grated. ‘You know the man. A braggart. A bully. And sloppy with it, like most Americans. Convinced of his own infallibility.’

  Bremmens never blinked, staring into Glovkonin’s eyes. It was like looking at a machine, something bereft of emotions. The Russian recalled the Italian joking about the Swiss, describing the older man as ‘a flesh-and-blood lie detector’. He saw that now, as Bremmens searched his face for indications of deception.

  But Pytor Glovkonin had learned to lie from the best.

  ‘I am not responsible,’ he said firmly, and gestured with the brandy bottle. ‘Come. We will salute Cassidy with a drink and then discuss what must happen next.’

  Bremmens let go, allowing him to pour another glass.

  ‘I know you had Celeste Toussaint murdered,’ he said quietly, fishing for a response.

  Glovkonin did not react. ‘She wasn’t good for the Combine.’ It was not quite a confession, but it was close enough. The waspish French media mogul had been Glovkonin’s barrier to the Combine’s inner circle, and her unwillingness to allow him access to the cabal had sealed her fate. Her death had left a void that the Russian eagerly filled. ‘She was self-indulgent. She lacked vision.’

  ‘I do not disagree with that characterisation,’ said Bremmens. ‘But still . . .’

  ‘But what?’ Glovkonin turned and offered him the other glass. ‘Be truthful. You were wholly indifferent to Toussaint’s death. In fact, it benefited your portfolio.’

  ‘Both points are correct,’ he allowed, taking the brandy.

  ‘So no more dwelling on those absent.’ The Russian raised his glass. ‘Let us toast present partnerships.’ He took a deep draught, savouring the taste. Bremmens did the same, a flush of colour coming to the banker’s pale cheeks.

  The other man blinked as the brandy warmed him, completely unaware that Glovkonin had added something extra to his glass.

  The Russian moved towards the fireplace, and Bremmens took a sluggish step after him, his expression showing the first signs of confusion.

  ‘Do you know the difference between you and me, Rutger?’ Glovkonin didn’t wait for him to reply. ‘Your experience has taken you very far. But it has ossified your thought processes. Your focus is strong and extremely precise.’ He nodded to himself, as his words filled the room. ‘But it is narrow. Outside your areas of expertise, you are poorly equipped. Da Silvio and Cassidy – they complemented you in their own ways. You covered one another’s shortcomings.’

  ‘I . . .’ Bremmens swayed, putting out a hand to the mantel to steady himself. ‘I feel giddy . . .?’

  ‘I, on the other hand, make a plan for every outcome,’ Glovkonin continued, speaking as much for himself as for the other man’s benefit. ‘I ensure that no matter what end state transpires, it will be one that benefits me.’ He put aside his glass and brought his hands together, in a conciliatory gesture. ‘When the smoke clears, blame will be apportioned. The millions of people who will lose their money over the next hours . . . they will need to find someone responsible.’

  ‘What did . . .?’ The glass in Bremmens’s hand slipped from his fingers and shattered against the floor. He peered down at the fragments, as if he could not connect the broken pieces of crystal with the torpid thoughts oozing through his mind. ‘Something in the . . . brandy . . .’

  ‘Yes.’ Glovkonin put a friendly arm around the banker’s shoulder, guiding him away from the fireplace and towards the doors at the rear of the house. ‘An interesting cocktail of chemicals, put together by a comrade of mine who once served the KGB. The first blocks the enzymes in your body that break down alcohol, allowing any you imbibe to enter your bloodstream much quicker than normal. The second element renders the victim rather suggestible. The third makes the other two untraceable to any conventional post-mortem toxicology tests.’

  ‘What . . .?’ They were at the doors now, and Glovkonin pushed them open, allowing the bitter alpine wind to wash over them. Bremmens immediately began to shiver violently. ‘So cold . . .’

  ‘Let’s take a walk,’ insisted Glovkonin.

  The icy chill was a mother’s embrace to the Russian, and he directed the other man off the warmed path and into the ankle-deep snow. Fresh falls drifted down out of the sky, settling in silence around them.

  Glovkonin reached up and gently plucked the thick spectacles from the banker’s pinched features.

  ‘No . . .’ Bremmens said weakly, ‘Without those, I cannot see. My vision is very poor . . .’

  He tried to take them back, but the long fingers that had been like claws moments before had become feeble.

  ‘You have no need of these.’ Glovkonin tucked the glasses in his jacket pocket. ‘We will walk. And eventually, you will fall.’

  The snow deepened, coming up to their shins as they passed beneath the trees. The ground stretched away towards the valley beneath. Gravity drew their path down the steepening slope towards the darkness, away from the estate.

  ‘I d-do not . . . uh-understand . . .’ The banker’s teeth chattered, making it hard for him to speak.

  ‘Tomorrow, Federal Police officers and specialists from the financial crimes division will arrive here with a warrant for your arrest.’ Glovkonin pushed Bremmens forward, so he was walking in front of him. ‘I have arranged it so that you and poor Cassidy appear to be the masterminds behind what took place in New York City.’ He halted, letting the older man carry on into the snow. ‘You can be certain the Swiss government will not wish to be connected to anything that would make their banking system appear untrustworthy. They will be happy to lay the blame on rogue actors.’

  Bremmens muttered something, but he was too far away for Glovkonin to hear it. The older man stumbled and tottered over, crashing into a snowdrift. He tried to get to his feet, frantically shivering, peering in every direction, unable to get his bearings.