Somerset House in London, England was best known for the official departments who had
worked there to maintain the country’s record of births, marriages and deaths and of course
the dreaded Inland Revenue, the tax man. The beautiful and very large mansion had always
contained important societies over the centuries. The Royal Academy of the Arts, The Royal
Society, the oldest scientific society in Britain. Now it is still a centre for art and culture but
some government departments remain hidden away from the visitors of the general public,
who form a perfect front, for the most secretive of secret departments.
It is an imposing building, a Georgian aspect with giant columns either side of a large
wooden door that leads into a colossal hallway that extends to the sky above. It is a building
where anyone used to be able to ascertain who or what they are and where they came from. It
was all a matter of public record, your data. However, people who have signed the official
secrets act and belong to section electronicA have a lot more data than meets the official eye.
No one truly knows who they are and where they came from, even the recruiters for this
section of MI6, Britains’ secret intelligence agency.
If you walk up the marble staircase and turn right, there is a lift. Standing inside this lift, you
can go up and down to the various exhibitions as many visitors discover each day. But the
government employees of section electronicA can also go through the lift. All you need to
press is the level one, three and six buttons in a strict order making a secret door open onto a
bland corridor that ends in a metal door. After pressing one’s eye against the retina
recognition scanner you hear the hiss of the door sliding back, allowing you into a glass
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cubicle. The door closes behind you and the extra security checks begin. Firstly, the gamma
radiation scan that is similar to an x-ray but takes a scan of your digital skeleton and
compares it to that on your personnel file. Secondly, the air around you is analysed for
explosives and tobacco – it is a strictly no smoking zone and then finally you have to speak a
few words. Usually, most employees recite a few lines of Shakespeare, occasionally a bright
spark sings some “One Direction” to annoy the security guards who monitor every action. If
you meet all the entry criteria you are allowed into the department, which is rather boring
after all the high technology for entry. There are a series of medium sized desks mounted
with large PC screens, telephones and personal junk, complemented by rather smart and
comfortable black leather chairs. The real technological secrets of section electronicA are in
the giant super computers housed in the basement 100 metres below ground. The section
naming using the word Electronic was an obvious choice but A was a designation by the
previous Prime Minister, Gordon Brown. At a cabinet meeting one summer morning he
signed off the £100 million expenditure to create the department. J, the new head of the
section had asked him what he wanted to call it and the PM hadn’t clearly heard as he was
signing the order, obviously distracted by the huge expenditure. Therefore he had rudely
replied ‘A?’ in a broad Scottish accent, and thereafter the section was called ElectronicA as
J’s little joke with the Civil Service bureaucrats.
In the darkest corner of the department, Wolf had both his feet on the beech desk. No senior
agent ever objected, they always left Wolf alone and although he was truly a loner that was
not why he got the nickname Wolf, as everyone knew that wolves hunt in packs. No, the
nickname was earned from his colleagues because of his cunning ability to electronically
stalk his prey and bring them down in a swift, clean movement that never failed. No one
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knew his real name anymore as he was a persona non grata but Wolf was the best there was
in the entire section of ElectronicA. Wolf, real name John Smith, a nobody, a no one. He had
been acquired by the section from a deprived area of Manchester called Moss side. At age 13
he had been running a successful set of internet shopping scams for the gang masters of the
area. When his talent had come to the attention of the local head of CID, who was a former
colleague of J, he had been sent to meet the head of ElectronicA, rather than enter a juvenile
detention centre. John Smith had been tough since he was a baby. As hard as nails with no
family, only a succession of brothers to fend for him and the black brotherhood who had been
using his talent for committing crime. Smith was skinny, 2 metres tall and sported dreadlocks.
He always wore yellow and green clothes to advertise his Jamaican roots and if he chose to
speak to a colleague in the section, it was always about work or how he was proud to be
black and equally proud of his Bob Marley music. He was also a Rastafarian and wanted the
people of the world to live in peace and harmony but Wolf never touched drugs unlike the
idiots of the brotherhood. He was too clever for that.
Wolf’s keyboard was slung across his lap. His dark brown dreadlocks touched it as he sat
contemplating the latest data on MI6’s WA program. WA - Walking Attributes was an old
system now, The BBC had suggested it might exist on the TV programme called Spooks in
2011. It was four years old then and was considered useless now. Wolf sometimes still played
with it as he liked the simplicity of the concept. The computer software would track a person
caught walking on CCTV, Closed Circuit Television, when their face could not be seen and
therefore identified. The program conceptualised the person’s size, weight and sex against
known parameters. These were stored and used to review other images on cameras in the
vicinity and when a match was made, invariably the change of view meant that MI6 could see
the face. A simple ID system but only useful when reviewing CCTV footage near to the
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initial illegal activity. Wolf had taken the idea a stage further and was in the process of testing
his new program. His amended software took the image of individuals near known terrorist
targets or places under surveillance and broke them down to their individual pixels. These
were analysed by the computer to determine how the pixels immediately alongside each other
moved and shimmied, and it was this relationship that allowed Wolf to determine the type of
fibre that had been used in the clothes worn. With a little help from The CIA’s grey spectrum
analyser, the result was changed into a full colour spectrum, which could be applied on all the
UK’s CCTV coverage that was piped into the giant computers in the basement. It was simple,
colours and fabrics for known terrorists could be traced across the UK’s grainy and black and
white CCTV pictures. The system was so close to success but he needed time to perfect it.
Time that was in short supply as Wolf’s expertise was deemed more important by J for
working on MI6’s – spatial awareness module, or SPAM for short. It was also SPAM that was
driving Wolf nuts that afternoon as he reassembled the program code. SPAM took all the
known electronic messages from digitalised telephone signals, to Facebook, emails, Twitter
and electronic images on the World Wide Web and automatically assembled a profile against
known intelligence concerns. Once the search criteria had been input into the SPAM search
engine, it would identify potential digital signals that were related to the query and the
electronic sources of any potential terrorists. However, that Monday morning, the program
was looping and finding false negatives. Wolf pressed the search button again and waited
impatiently for a result. SPAM returned a positive hit within ten seconds but it was a massive
database of names instead of a handful of people. The result suggested a few thousand IP
addresses i.e. the computer address by which every PC on the World Wide Web can be
identified and therefore physically located. It was an impossible result against his advanced
search term “Euro debt crisis”. Wolf threw his keyboard on the desk in disgust.
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‘Computers – nothing changes, garbage in and garbage out. Such rubbish.’ He grumbled
constantly when working at his desk and longed to be out in the field. He thrived on action
and the adrenaline that pumped through his body when in a dangerous situation. However, he
secretly loved every minute of his job and seven years after joining the team he was the main
technician surpassing the brightest minds in the country. He was always quiet around the
other technicians, which they took as smugness, but in fact he was simply a loner, that belied
the name - Wolf.
A red on white “Urgent” message flashed across the width of his computer screen and
simultaneously the telephone on his desk loudly buzzed three times. It was the signal to
attend the operations meeting room as quickly as possible. Wolf blew out a loud sigh,
‘more boring chat and no action.’ He surmised it would be about Peru or Chile as “the South
American Spring” gathered pace against the dictatorships. A new thrust for freedom by the
people, that was threatening to destabilise the world like in the Middle East in 2011.
Reluctantly, he rolled his legs off the desk and replaced his “Vans” that were waiting on the
grey carpet. Smoothly pushing himself upright showed his athleticism as he moved at speed
and without a sound. Nonchalantly Wolf strolled with long slow strides to the far end of the
giant room, furtively he glanced to his left and right to see who else was moving for the
meeting.
Inside the operations meeting room, J the head of MI6 was worried. He sat waiting patiently
for his electronicA elite team to arrive and was considering the red “Top Secret – for your
eyes only” file that was open on the desk in front of him. It had been placed there a few
minutes earlier by Brett Smart, of the CIA, a graduate of Princeton University, not just an
honours graduate he had been way above honours. Brett glanced at the man called Johnson.
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He had been told that the Brit was one of the best, but J’s appearance suggested he had been
one of the best. Porky, with heavy jowls resting on his starched white collar, the top British
agent had run to fat from his last decade in The Office. J used to be a field man, a ruthless
agent known to have eliminated some of the top Al Qaeda leaders in the Yemen and
Afghanistan, including the real Bin Laden, ten years before the double’s death in Pakistan.
Johnson still had steel grey hair and piercing black eyes. They made him look shrewd but the
Tweed jacket with leather elbow pads and brown trousers that needed pressing made him
look like a well-dressed tramp. Brett glanced at the man again. He never judged anyone by
their appearance. He judged a fellow agent by what he said and what he did. That was what
counted under pressure. J pushed the file back to Smart and appraised him carefully. Smart by
name and Smart by nature. The Yank had a short crew cut, he appeared to be a typical Ivy
Leaguer - athletic, a smart dresser in his dark blue suit, white shirt and yellow tie and like all
CIA men the shoes hidden beneath the table would be highly polished.
Brett spoke. ‘As you can see, I am here on behalf of The American President.’
J ran his hands through his grey hair. ‘I know Smart, the PM took your President’s call. That
is the only reason I am entertaining you.’ J didn’t want any American help. He held a
personal grudge against the Central Intelligence Agency. The section head in Yemen had let
him down badly and four British agents had died with three more still languishing in squalid
hell holes that the Yemenis called gaols. But not for much longer, the SAS would sort that
soon enough. ‘I’ve read the report but I want you to brief my team. Okay?’
‘Sure thing, J.’
‘Next time and at all times you call me Mr Johnson or sir. Okay B?’ Brett took the point and
dropped his gaze. It was pointless arguing with a knight of the realm, Sir Donald Johnson,
order of the garter, Victoria Cross and known hard man. J had gone beyond the call of duty
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when serving his Queen and country. He had given up the lives of his friends when duty
demanded. All for Britain. J watched the five elite members of his team gradually assemble in
the soundproofed room.
Wolf was the last man to arrive. Brett raised a mental eyelid at the untidy Rastafarian in the
dirty yellow and green T-shirt proclaiming “love is free, so was Haile Selassie”, across the
front.
Once Wolf had sat down, J introduced each of the team members. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this
is one of our American friends who wants to shares some news with us. His name is Brett
Smart. I can assure you that both the PM and the Home Secretary have authorised total
cooperation on this matter.’ He paused for breath. ‘On your left Mr Smart is Sybil – head of
counter-intelligence. She and her team comb the world for snippets of information and make
them into a cohesive whole.’
Sybil nodded. ‘Like a jigsaw’ she murmured.
J continued. ‘On your right is Matthews – he deals with matters in a more physical way.’
Brett looked at the dude. He looked hard, 2.4 metres tall and built like Shrek but Brett
reckoned he could take him. ‘Next in line is Claypole, who is our money man. I can’t afford
to ditch him, although in my day, a budget meant less than a budgie and both went cheep.’
Smith smiled at his boss’s little joke. ‘That leaves Morrison – an agent who is the master of
twenty languages and a top impersonator and of course Wolf, our head technician.’ J turned to
Brett and nodded for him to begin. Brett stood immediately and went to the front of the room
as a screen slid from the ceiling. It was the latest LG 96 inch, high definition. Brett pressed
the remote control in his left hand and the first image appeared. It was labelled, “Top Secret”.
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Brett talked slowly with a southern drawl. ‘I am here on behalf of The President’. As an
afterthought, he added ‘of America.’ He said it, to make them sit up and pay attention but it
had the opposite effect on the irregular team.
Wolf spoke for the rest of them. ‘Well as a Yank, you wouldn’t be here on behalf of The
President of France would you?’ Smart talking Wolf was always ready with a quip. The rest
of the team pretended to yawn, waving derisory hands in front of mouths.
J stepped in immediately. ‘Mr Smart, this team is the best we have in MI6 and they, like me,
don’t suffer fools gladly. You will find they become interested when the subject becomes
interesting.’
Brett decided to cut the preamble and flicked through the remaining images within five
minutes. ‘We, The CIA, need help from the top experts in the field of counter espionage. In
particular, we need people on side who understand and question what the hell has been
happening in the world’s Stock and Money markets.’ A series of graphs flashed across the
screen showing the demise of the FTSE, Dow Jones and Nikkei. ‘The arrows in purple
indicate the days when we have all seen, that is every one of the G8 countries, the most
unstable of trading.’
Sybil queried. ‘We know how bad it has been, so why those particular days and what does
unstable really mean in CIA terms?’
Brett explained. ‘As an example, the FTSE and Dow Jones plummeted by 10 per cent
yesterday in a coordinated, yes even a synchronised way. No one understands why and of
course, statistically it was an impossible event. The time delays, the difference between the
computer systems, the type of stocks that fell. There was a definite pattern, a blip that has
been seen before. Tracing back, we have three other blips in the last year across the main
trading countries i.e. the G8, the eight richest nations on earth.’
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Matthews joined in. ‘But there is no major catastrophe in any of the world’s richest countries.
So that doesn’t make sense.’
‘Precisely’ said Brett, ‘it was as if the computers had been taken over. Trades were made
automatically that caused the freefall in stocks and share prices. The other examples also
involved commodities like gold and copper, even cocoa for god’s sake.’
Claypole rubbed his chin as he helped the brainstorming session. ‘The falls – you say were
coordinated across all the major trading floors from Tokyo to London, New York to
Frankfurt?’ Brett nodded and allowed Claypole to continue. ‘Of course, we know that they
are totally integrated in one massive computerised neural network. But do you realise that
most of the world’s debt is owned indirectly by the Chinese and oil rich Arab nations?’
Morrison threw his pen on the table and joined the debate. ‘That might explain everything,
those damned Chinese are trying to destabilise The West.’
It was Wolf who commented. ‘Why would they want to do that? Our stability is fundamental
to the growth of their industry as they supply 23 per cent of the world’s production, they are
the number one player now and much higher than the Americans at 18 .’
Morrison was out of his depth. ‘Erm, well it must be the Arabs trying to make us realise that
money isn’t everything and Islam answers all our needs.’
Sybil joined in. Her tone was exasperated. ‘Get real Morro, even our CIA man knows that
can’t be true. Smart by name, but not dumb by nature. True followers of Allah want us all to
live in peace and harmony...except for the Iranian hard liners of course.’
Brett showed the detailed breakdown of the four blips. ‘Lady and gentlemen, we are at a loss
why this happened. We have no idea who might be behind it. Nor how they managed it and
finally, what the hell they will do next time? As I said, these are blips on the event horizon.’
He turned off the screen and sat down opposite Wolf.
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Wolf looked daggers at him. ‘I don’t know you Smart, but I don’t like yanks. In fact I don’t
like Smart Yanks asking for British help when usually you profess to know it all.’
Brett remained calm. ‘And I don’t like Brits, Limey. But I do what I am told and my
President and the head of the CIA must mistakenly believe that you and your colleagues have
some sort of special talent... boy how wrong can they be?’
The two men slammed their chairs to the floor as they stood in anger and faced each other.
‘Boys, boys, boys. Anyone would think you were back in school.’ J’s calm demeanour held a
steely warning as they backed down and reluctantly picked up their chairs. Both men
continued to sit in silence and glare at each other. J continued as the heat and testosterone
dissipated from the air. ‘We know from the heads of state in each of the G8, that nobody
triggered any rumours to make the markets melt down. We know that there are no adverse
disasters in the world as Matthews pointed out, no Tsunamis or volcanoes. So what do we
know?’
Wolf filled the silence with a quiet but assertive opinion. ‘There can only be one answer
boss.’ He paused as J turned his piercing grey eyes on him. The stare was scary and made
Wolf swallow hard before continuing.
J queried, ‘one answer? Think before you speak please or don’t speak at all.’
Wolf didn’t need to think too deeply. He had been playing scenarios for global domination on
his MI6 disaster recovery program for weeks. ‘It’s something I have been computer
modelling on our SPAM system. I think someone else is controlling the world financial
network behind the scenes. The thing is, they are playing at it, ducking and diving but having
a nibble here and there. Almost like a test program.’
J asked Brett if he understood what was meant by SPAM.
‘Yes. Yes Mr Johnson.’ J paused and glared at the yank.
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‘In that case our internal security is not as tight as it should be!’
Brett laughed loudly and turned his attention to Wolf. ‘Come on you crazy Limey, your
postulation would take hundreds of the best brains in the world and a monolithic amount of
computing power, three times more than the Cray computers we have in The Pentagon at
Washington DC and boy is that an awesome amount of computing power.’
Wolf opened his arms in offering on the table, palms face up. ‘Precisely, so where do you get
those experts and who has been buying hundreds of servers around the globe?’ They all
reflected on Wolf’s wise words. It was just possible, wasn’t it? He added a final rejoinder. ‘If
they are serious, this is cyber-terrorism like the world has never known.’
‘How so?’ Brett was now interested in the theory. Wolf was more like himself than he
realised behind the crazy demeanour.
Wolf gave his opinion. ‘It seems like they are testing a system. That means the real event
could provoke a meltdown of the world’s financial systems, provided they can engineer their
resources correctly.’
‘What do you mean by that Wolf?’ Brett started to be more polite out of respect.
‘More brains behind the technology, computers never make decisions which are as intuitive
as the human brain. Humans make the real decisions and humans must lurk behind your
blips.’
J loudly clapped his hands together. ‘This is your brief then gentlemen. Examine all server
sales over the last three years and try and find a pattern. Also, start laterally thinking within
your departments and tell me where the devil they could find enough people to do this. We
reassemble at 4 am, you have 24 hours to answer these questions.’ He stood quickly and
marched out of the room, leaving the others to slowly follow.
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