The Recarn Chronicles- Omnibus Edition Read online

  Most people, whether rich or poor, normally went to STCs when they’d had enough of this life. People used these facilities for many reasons; maybe they were physically or mentally ill and could no longer cope with life or maybe they’d had a good life and just felt that it was time to go. Quit whilst you’re ahead. Some would self-terminate because their lives didn’t match up to their expectations and were in a hurry to start their next life, not considering that they could potentially be rushing towards a new life that was much worse than the one they were about to leave behind. Perhaps the saddest cases were those whose children were in financial difficulties and the parents chose to die so that their offspring could claim their inheritances earlier than expected.

  After about ten minutes of watching his memories unfurl in front of his eyes, Nathan reached down to a cushioned pad located on the right-hand side of the recliner. He placed his hand upon the pad and applied a little pressure. The pad registered his fingerprints and took a tiny DNA sample. When the machine was satisfied that the person that it was about to terminate was indeed Nathan, he felt light pressure on the back of his neck. This was the machine injecting just the correct amount of deadly chemicals to kill him.

  Exactly five minutes later, the head of Nathan’s personal security team received an automated message from the machine. Nathan had trusted this team with his life and was now trusting them with his death. It was done. Nathan was gone.

  There was to be no funeral, no memorial service. Everybody knew that Nathan would be coming back. They didn’t know exactly when, and they certainly had no idea who he would be, but they were in no doubt that he would return to lead The Order. The team knew exactly what it needed to do. Two members placed Nathan’s body upon a trolley and his corpse was wheeled into the adjoining room containing a furnace that had been pre-heated to over one thousand degrees Centigrade. Nathan was placed inside the cremation chamber, and the door to the oven closed.

  The team had been fully briefed as to the identity of his temporary replacement and were fully aware of their responsibilities should the incumbent refuse to relinquish his position upon the return of the now incinerated Pindar. The members of this elite group had passed the task down from father or mother to son or daughter for centuries. Their unswerving loyalty was exceedingly well rewarded and their discretion was beyond refute.

  In the Great Chamber, as soon as Nathan Smith’s death had been confirmed, Thomas was sworn in as Pindar. He knew exactly what was expected of him and he would perform his duties to the letter and to the best of his ability. Nathan Smith would return in around twenty years’ time to find that the Illuminati had been left in good hands.

  Or so he thought.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  09:30 THURSDAY 26 JANUARY 2051

  Maurice Boone was an accountant. In fact, he was a very good accountant. He used to make a reasonable living but the salary crash of the previous decade had hit him hard, just as it’d hit everybody hard. The only people who were not affected detrimentally were the already privately rich, ONP officials, and employees of the Illuminati, who were naturally looked after. As it was, the Boone family had been surviving well until now. There hadn’t been much money left for little luxuries or even to put aside as savings, but they’d always been able to pay their bills. However, crises such as Caitlin’s illness couldn’t be budgeted for. Health insurance would have solved the problem but the couple couldn’t afford that. Premiums had gone through the roof and, although the family had had private health insurance before the salary reduction, they’d been forced to let it lapse in order to pay for day-to-day expenses such as electricity, clothing and food.

  Just after the salary crash, Maurice had been lucky enough to be offered some private work by a man simply known as the Businessman. Nobody knew what exactly the Businessman did or how he made his money. All that was known was that he was obscenely rich. Rumours were rife that he was perhaps the head of a drugs cartel, or that he was some kind of gangster, maybe even a modern day Al Capone. Surely he had to be some kind of criminal. Everybody was convinced that the Businessman’s dealings were shady, an opinion that was difficult for Maurice not to share. If he wasn’t operating outside the law why did he need to maintain a veil of anonymity? Maurice’s work for the Businessman required creative accounting to ‘lose’ a large sum of money. Maurice hadn’t told his wife about his work for the Businessman – as far as she knew, Maurice could have been doing private work for anybody – but, by doing this work, he’d earned good money and the eternal gratitude of the man. It had helped for a while but sudden influxes of unexpected income, by their very nature don’t last forever. Bills are paid, some essentials are bought, and it’s soon back to square one. Although Maurice never met the Businessman face to face (very few had) he’d been told that should he ever need help he should contact him. If the Businessman was in a position to help, he would. Being owed a favour by the Businessman was a good position to be in.

  Of course, the Businessman could have lent Maurice the amount of money that he needed for Caitlin’s treatment, or even made a gift of it (it would have been a mere drop in the ocean to him), but he didn’t want to set a precedent. It was, however, well within his power to help him in another way.

  The only solution that Maurice could see was to steal the money from somebody who wouldn’t even feel the effects of its loss. He couldn’t see how he could get such a large amount of money legally. He’d felt very uncomfortable doing the work for the Businessman previously, not being sure which side of the judicial fence he’d been standing, but he didn’t see any alternative. Not if he wanted to save the life of his daughter.

  He went over to the fridge, took out a chilled bottle of Fosters Ice lager, flipped off the cap, took a sip of the beer and sat back down at the kitchen table. Michelle was at netball practice and Karen was at the gym. Karen wouldn’t have approved of him drinking straight from the bottle but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her and he allowed himself this small act of rebellion when she wasn’t around.

  The task at hand was to decide upon a suitable target and then work out how to execute the robbery. Naturally, he’d seen lots of robberies in the movies but he’d never done anything like this before and would need expert help. Maybe the Businessman would be able to give him a few names of people who could help him; he must have some shady contacts.

  However, having now decided to steal the money, he had to think about how much he should steal as it would affect the choice of victim. Obviously, he needed to steal more than just the sum required for Caitlin’s treatment; he couldn’t do the job on his own and his accomplices – whoever they were – wouldn’t help him out of the goodness of their hearts. They would need to be paid, and they wouldn’t come cheap. He had no doubt of that. Plus, there was the question of Caitlin’s aftercare. He tried to think of who he could target. Many very wealthy people lived in the city but they would also keep their money in the bank. And a bank robbery was out of the question. It would be too public and far too dangerous. Many banks now were protected by sensors connected to automatic pulse guns. They were supposed to be set to ‘stun’ but there had been instances, whether by accident or design, when bank-robbers had been killed. The technology, although very good, was obviously not infallible and getting himself killed wouldn’t help Caitlin at all. He needed to think of something else. He suddenly gripped the edge of the table and uttered the name, Christian Parks.

  Christian Parks was a professional footballer who was a man of many phobias - one of which was a pathological distrust of banks and financial institutions. He wasn’t quite at the stage where he would stuff wads of notes underneath his mattress, but he was pretty close. Whilst the rest of the world was totally on board with virtual banking and making cloud-based purchases and sales, bancophobic Christian was completely unable to function as the rest of society did. He preferred to pay a substantial retainer to a ‘fixer’ who, as soon as his salary was paid into a bank account, would withdraw the cash and t
ransport it to his house (so Christian could count it), before taking it to an ultra-secure, impregnable location. Christian would visit his money frequently, just as someone might visit a favourite relative. The fixer had warned him many times that the layover at his house was asking for trouble, but Christian insisted upon it. Each time the money was in transit, it would be by heavily guarded convey along with nine other convoys dispatched simultaneously, following different routes to different destinations, so that anyone wishing to rob such a convoy would have to attack all ten to be sure of success. That would be unfeasible, both logistically and financially. The time that the money spent at Christian’s house was the only weak link.

  Christian Parks wasn’t even a regular first-team player but he still earned one million pounds per week. The salary was paid monthly, so there would be four million pounds in cash for twenty-four hours at least, plenty enough to pay Caitlin’s medical bills. That would leave three million pounds to be shared between the accomplices. And there had to be others involved; that was a non-negotiable certainty. Maurice wouldn’t even get past the gate on his own.

  ***

  Maurice still had an hour or so before Karen would return from the gym. Taking the Businessman’s card out of his wallet, he placed it on the kitchen table and pressed his right thumb down on the top right corner of the card. His thumbprint activated the ink on the card allowing a previously invisible telephone number to be seen printed on the front. The card automatically connected with Maurice’s comms system and called the Businessman’s number, but not before engaging the scrambler so that the conversation couldn’t be heard or at least understood by others. Maurice picked up the business card and cradled it in the palm of his hand. The call was connected and a male silhouette was displayed on the LED screen on the wall.

  “Yes, Mr Boone. What can I do for you?”

  Maurice was a bit taken aback. It hadn’t occurred to him that since the business card had initiated the call, it had also identified him to the Businessman.

  “Um. Hello sir. I wonder if you remember that I did some sensitive work for you a while back.”

  “I remember, Mr Boone.”

  “Well… you said to contact you if I ever needed help. Help that probably only you could provide.”

  “I remember, Mr Boone.”

  “Sorry to trouble you Sir, but I need to find a rather large sum of money quickly.”

  “To pay for your daughter’s kidney transplant, I assume?”

  Maurice was stunned. How did the Businessman know about Caitlin’s illness? The silhouette cupped its chin in one hand.

  “I can see you’re surprised that I know about your daughter’s tragic situation. There’s not much happens in this city without me knowing about it. So?”

  “So I was hoping that you could recommend two or three of your associates, experts in breaking and entering into high-security establishments.”

  “Business premises or a private residence?”

  “A private home.”

  “And what would be the revenue from this endeavour?”

  “About four million pounds.”

  “Well, you need seven hundred and eighty-three thousand pounds for the treatment, so that would leave two hundred and seventeen thousand pounds for you. The rest of the spoils must be shared equally with the other team members, of course.”

  Again, how did the Businessman knew how much Caitlin’s treatment would cost?

  “Of course.”

  “Who is the target?”

  “Christian Marks.”

  “The footballer?”

  “That’s him. Yes.”

  “Good choice. He’s not a bad player but he’s not the sharpest tool in the toolbox.”

  This time Maurice wasn’t surprised at the Businessman’s knowledge. It was common knowledge that Marks had issues with the trustworthiness of the banking system.

  “And when do you intend to relieve Mr Marks of his monthly salary?”

  “It needs to be soon. I’m working to a deadline.”

  “Of course you are. Well, the timing is right as he’ll be receiving his salary today and liquidating the cash tomorrow. The team that you’ll need? I’m thinking of yourself, someone to get you past the security system, and two others to bypass Mr Marks’s security personnel. That should be enough. Normally I’d require a finder’s fee, which in this case would be the two hundred and seventeen thousand pounds left of your share – after the medical fee has been paid to Doctor Stefansson.”

  Maurice didn’t bother to ask how he knew the name of the doctor involved. He’d rapidly come to the point when he thought it safer to assume that the Businessman knew everything about everything. The Businessman continued.

  “However, in this instance, I’m willing to waive this fee.”

  This wasn’t an act of charity on the part of the Businessman. Maurice was fully aware of the consequences of this offer. It meant that he would forever be indebted to the Businessman; he would be in his pocket. He didn’t like the idea of this, but he’d no choice. One day he might receive a call to do something for the Businessman. And he wouldn’t be in a position to refuse.

  “My associates will be in touch with you tomorrow. Goodbye Mr Boone.”

  The LED screen switched itself off. Maurice was left wondering if he was doing the right thing. Suddenly his hand felt hot and he opened his hand to reveal a pile of ash where the business card had been.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  14:17 FRIDAY 27 JANUARY 2051

  The café was almost empty. Maurice sat at a table in a corner, sipping his second cup of tea. The weather was bitterly cold and he was extremely grateful for the hot brew. Earlier that day a card had been delivered by hand, a rather antiquated delivery system considering that almost all communication was now by e-mail, SMS, or video-call. A number of the Businessman’s associates used this low-level technology for a very good reason; it was so old and so few people used it that it tended to be more secure than the other forms of communication, resistant to prying electronic eyes and ears. The card had contained encrypted instructions for an appointment with an associate of the Businessman. That’s why he was sitting at a table in the Antique Plaza Café, wearing a shirt and tie. That had confused him too. Why did he have to wear a shirt and tie? It had definitely said to do so on the card. He was sure it had. But it was too late to check now for, just like the Businessman’s visiting card, it had self-destructed and was now just a small pile of ash sitting in Maurice’s kitchen bin.

  A slim, very dapper man with a rather angular face and a sharply pointed goatee beard protruding from his chin walked through the automatic door of the café. He approached Maurice’s table and shook the accountant’s hand vigorously.

  “Hello there Maurice, my old friend. I haven’t seen you for ages.”

  Maurice had never seen the man before in his life but knew why he was there and played along.

  “Yes, it must be over five years…. Excuse me, I feel such a fool – I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Manfred. Manfred Götze. You remember. We were at that seminar together.”

  “Of course. How can I forget that seminar? All those nights at the bar.”

  “Yes, Maurice. Good times.”

  Manfred leaned forward and straightened Maurice’s tie, discreetly transferring an electronic signal inhibitor from his index finger to the back of the knot of Maurice’s tie.

  “Excuse my forwardness Maurice, but your tie was crooked.”

  Maurice hadn’t noticed it happen but the café was now completely empty. The two other customers who had been enjoying a romantic morning coffee together had vanished. Even the server and the girl at the cash-desk had gone. Now he and Manfred were totally alone. Manfred leaned back in his chair, visibly more relaxed now that security protocols were in place.

  “I understand you have a security problem.”

  Maurice’s mind made a mental inventory of his home security precautions. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it
was down to nervousness.

  “Um… no. I think my home is safe.”

  “No, Maurice. You need my help in bypassing a sophisticated security system. Christian Marks’s security system. Am I correct?”

  “Ah. Yes.”

  “Well, your troubles are over.”

  “If only.”

  “No. They are. The operation is scheduled for 3 a.m. tomorrow morning.”

  “That quick? I haven’t had time to plan anything.”

  “That’s all been taken care of Maurice. You didn’t honestly think that we’d leave something as critical as planning to steal four million pounds to you, did you?”

  “To be honest, I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “And that’s why I’m here, so you don’t have to think.”

  Maurice was quite happy to let Manfred take control. All he was interested in was getting enough money to pay for Caitlin’s treatment. The rest he preferred to leave to the experts.

  “Just be on the corner of Regent Street and Piccadilly Circus at two o’clock tomorrow morning, with a dark holdall - one big enough to hold a million pounds. I’ll explain the plan then. Less time for you to forget it and no time for you to blab about it. Understood?”

  “Understood. Erm…how big does the bag need to be?”

  Maurice had no concept of what a million pounds in large notes looked like.

  “A regular sports bag should do it.”

  “Really? A sports bag? For a million pounds?”

  “People always think that a large sum of money will take up more space than it actually does.”