Chapter Two
Rousing the Beast – Evilest of Men – An Emergency Protocol – The Possibility of Fireworks –The Right People – CATE – A Soldier's Farewell – A Small Advantage – Local Resources.
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Cate was organising her things for the meeting in Spain. Her opposite numbers from most of the major British and European universities would be there and, for the first time, she would be representing her own school at the most senior of levels. She experienced a brief wobble: she'd better not mess this up or her new job might very quickly become her old job.
The weather-forecast advised Bilbao was likely to be on the warm side for the week or so she expected to be there, with highs in the low thirties. Fortunately, she had been assured the Sondika was a perfectly acceptable hotel, not terribly far from the airport, with indoor and outdoor pools, as well as being immediately adjacent to the coast. Apparently there was also a decent spa, as well as all the usual amenities. Expecting to be working some fairly long days, Cate thought she might as well make the most of the water should she find an opportunity. Picking up a couple of modest bikinis, she judged them against each other for relative inoffensiveness. Though she had no issue with skin, she felt her new role demanded a little more propriety.
Hearing the bedroom door open wider, she turned. "Which one of these is the most discreet?" she asked Mycroft, holding them in the air. "The blue and white, or the black one?"
"Neither," Mycroft paused, sliding his jacket over the arm of a chair. "They are both entirely too revealing." He sounded less than enthusiastic. "Perhaps you should stay indoors?" he suggested. "Or wear something a little more tent-like."
Giving him a seriously old fashioned look, Cate held up the black one. "I think this is the most sedate," she decided, laying it on the bed.
"I've never seen you in a bikini," Mycroft loosened his tie. "Perhaps if you were to put it on, I'd be able to offer a more informed opinion."
"You've seen me in a lot less than one of these," Cate grinned. "That never seemed to bother you."
Mycroft stopped undoing his cuffs and walked over to her. "What you don't realise, my love," he said, tweaking the costume off the bed, analysing it with a critical eye. "Is that it's not simply bare flesh that attracts the male of the species," he looked unimpressed by the pieces of fabric. "We appreciate a little mystery."
"I am not wearing this for anyone's appreciation but my own," Cate grabbed the garment, laughing. "Frankly," she added, "apart from you, I don't care what any man thinks of me."
Mycroft smiled casually. "Then there's a problem," he announced, "because I do."
Cate stopped laughing. "Seriously?" she said. "You think that me wearing a plain old bikini like this is going to start a riot?"
Mycroft stared at her as he continued folding back his cuffs.
"I don't believe you would think that," Cate was floored. Mycroft's continued silence was expressive. "Mycroft," she protested, "I am not some nubile, young, university thing. Nobody is even going to notice me."
Staring into Cate's eyes, Mycroft realised she was being entirely genuine. She really had no interest in how she might appear to others. He kept forgetting that, in her own mind, anything other than her intellectual ability was less than significant. Once again, he had to smile. He knew he was over-dramatising the situation, but he couldn't seem to help himself: the urge to wrap her up in his arms and keep everything hurtful away felt particularly strong today. Her impending absence was clearly provoking.
"Ignore me," he murmured, kissing her cheek. "I merely exhibit the common jealously of a newly-married man. I am contrite."
Assessing his expression, Cate looked sceptical. "You are not in the least contrite," she observed. "Nor would you do anything of a common nature." She smiled, light-heartedly. "Do you really think I'd arouse the inner beast in this?" holding the costume in front of her, Cate looked into a mirror, shaking her head in disbelief.
"At least one," Mycroft felt his throat constrict as an image of a bikini-clad Cate, lying in the sun, filled his mind. Of its own accord, his arm wrapped around her, tugging her gently back against his chest. "Put it on," he whispered in her ear. "And we'll see what it does."
###
Terminal Three at Heathrow was busy, but then it was always busy. Cate wondered for the umpteenth time if she might have been better off going by train, but she seemed to have even less time in her new role than she had before. There were so many meetings, and then there was the Academic Board and the VC's Committee, as well as all the external meetings and reports … Glad to be away from work for a few days, Cate was almost tempted to 'forget' her laptop. Only three hours from her office, yet this trip would be the first real test of how she might cope should she take the position on a permanent basis. Mycroft had farewelled her properly at home.
"You could commute," he suggested, unwilling to let her out of his arms.
Cate smiled blithely. "Mycroft, it's three hours each way by air," she grinned. "Even I can work out that a six-hour daily commute makes relatively little sense."
"Videoconference? Teleconference? V.R.?"
Laughing, Cate held him close. "I shall be away for no more than five days," she promised. "I will contact you tonight when I have a clearer picture of my schedule, and we can Skype for as long as you want."
"Did you pack a tent?" he asked, breathing the smell of her skin.
"Several," Cate hugged him. "Now kiss me goodbye or I shall miss my flight."
Taking care to perform this most husbandly of duties to the best of his ability, Cate was flushed and breathless when he let her go. "Evilest of men," she mumbled.
"My love," Mycroft's smile was gentle.
###
"The email was sent when?" He was already on the phone to Counter Terrorism Command, although Mycroft still preferred to think of them as Special Branch. Had they also received a copy? Though the mail had originally been addressed to The Queen's own private account, it had, naturally, been first vetted by a Private Secretary of the royal household. Her Majesty would never have seen this.
What worried Mycroft is that whoever sent this message, whoever was clever enough to have been able to locate and access this most secure of all royal accounts, would have known this fact. Therefore, the email was not written for the Queen: it had been written for someone like him. This immediately begged the question why? If a threat, then why alert the services? If a hoax, then equally foolish to divulge the originating server/ISP, as that was being tracked even now. If neither, then a distraction? If so, distraction for what? Everyone would be on alert and wary now of any potential problem, not matter how minor. The email itself made no sense. The delivery made no sense. Mycroft's trouble-spotting intuition was at high alert. Something was wrong.
Any threat made upon a royal these days was treated with the utmost seriousness. Too many previous incidents had passed relatively unnoticed, but no further risks could be taken: and this threat had been very specific, involving HRM, a car and at least one sniper. Copies of the threat had therefore already been sent to all the relevant M.I. offices, as well as the Met Police, the Home office, several security committees and Interpol.
Yet his instincts were going ballistic.
But where to start if there was nothing to see?
"Shut down all systems," he directed his Heads of Department. "I want everything offlined and validated." Ignoring the raised eyebrows and implied criticism, he was adamant. Something was wrong and he would go no further without checking everything. No matter how much it upset people. Immediately, an emergency shutdown protocol was enacted. Everything went very quiet.
"Virus!" The alarm spread throughout London's security forces as previously sheltered systems began to slam down or freeze. Somehow the hidden passenger aboard the message had managed to achieve the virtually impossible: to fool one ultra-secure system long enough to access one data stream. Given the low-level shared datachanels of many of the security services information storages, a virus only needed the merest foothold. Apparently one of the security committees servers had been less than fastidious in its subnet configuration.
"Worm!" The next disastrous revelation occurred as various stored data were mined before unbelieving eyes across Whitehall, Vauxhall Cross and Thames House, as file after file was attacked, corrupted and rendered useless.
"Everything stays down until we corral this parasite," Mycroft directed. "What have we lost?"
An intense young IT-type was staring unblinkingly at an on-screen flow of systems-architecture. "We appear to be in pretty good shape, Sir," she spoke distractedly, focussed almost exclusively on the screen before her. "Although all external data lines are down." Sitting, she tapped several keys in a predetermined sequence, calling up further screens. "All databases are in security override; surveillance is down, tracking is down; face-recognition is still working and we've lost comms."
Mycroft took a short breath. Thank God. Nothing irretrievable. "Are we secure?" he asked.
"For the moment, Sir," the young woman continued. "Although the program is still in active reconnaissance and may have been directed to expand its search parameters if the first strike failed." She looked up at Mycroft. "It's a clever little bugger," she nodded. "Sir," she added as an afterthought.
"Clever indeed," Mycroft looked thoughtful. "Fortunately, we appear to have its measure for the moment," he paused, narrowing his eyes at the IT expert. "And you are?"
"Ibarra, Sir," she offered. "Elixane Ibarra, Information Systems officer, but most people call me Elly."
"Then, Ms Ibarra," Mycroft smiled tightly. "I'd very much like you to monitor our situation from up here if you are able to do so," he paused. "I have a feeling there may be further questions for you to answer."
"We have a solid CSR, Sir," Ibarra nodded, arranging four separate simultaneous screen views, as if her statement made perfect and obvious sense. "So we're able to isolate all comms, especially suspects, via a network gatekeeper. We can determine and manipulate all incoming and actives through the GUI which," Ibarra screwed up her face, thinking, "works on Sun as well as NT platforms … so we have flexibility in redundant systems and space for contingencies."
One of the screen quadrants flashed with a small beeping noise. Ibarra reacted swiftly.
"Try and port-scan me, you little sod," she muttered, hammering away at the keyboard.
Smiling slightly at her combative tone, "Do you require assistance, Ms Ibarra?"
"Not for the moment, Sir," she said. "There are 65,536 potential ways into any system via the ports, and this program is trying for them all," she paused, typing in a brief line of code. "I'm protecting our virtue with everything I can think of, but our hacker is no script-kiddie." Producing another string of commands, "I'm running a vulnerability analysis now and may be able to propose countermeasures in due course."
It was ironic, Mycroft thought, reflecting that if nothing else, at least his department's recruitment criteria appeared to be working. Script-kiddie? Good grief.
Pulling out his Blackberry "Anthea," his voice was quiet. "Please contact my opposite numbers at MI5 and MI6 and Lestrade at the Met., and arrange for a secure conversation in a central, neutral location." Mycroft paused. "My office would seem appropriate."
Given the shambles their systems would be in, his colleagues across the City would scarcely be in a position to quibble. Despite the dire nature of the crisis, Mycroft enjoyed a fleeting but unambiguous moment of upmanship.
###
The taxies at the Bilbao airport were doing a roaring trade with their sudden influx of learnéd visitors. More than two hundred of who descended upon the place quite literally, within a few hours of each other.
Spanish being one of the most spoken Romance languages, Cate recalled learning it as either her fourth or fifth, but she couldn't remember. Sharing so many vocabularic and grammatical consistencies with the others, it was really more convenient to learn all five of the big ones simultaneously. The trick now was to keep on top of the differences.
Waiting outside in the afternoon sun, the heat was beginning to feel a little wearying. Rounding up several of her colleagues, Cate requisitioned the next cab and directed the driver to the Sondika, promising him riches galore, or at least enough for a round of beers, if he could get them all there inside of thirty minutes.
Managing it in twenty, the taxi screeched to a halt in the cooler shadow of the hotel. The fragrance of the nearby sea and the blessedly cooler breeze made everything much more pleasant. Though it was only mid-afternoon, Cate had a sudden urge for a cold, slightly alcoholic drink, and a walk along the beach. Reaching her room, she threw her briefcase on the bed, plugged in her laptop, and rummaged in her suitcase for the maligned swimsuit. Wrapping herself in an old beach-robe that really had seen better days, Cate stuck on an equally ancient pair of Raybans, grabbed some money and headed for the bar. It was hot; she was tired and thirsty, and work could happen tomorrow.
Striding through the still-incoming guests, Cate found the closest bar, and, now that she'd familiarised herself with the accent, greeted the barman in the local patois, asking him for advice of the nicest part of the nearest beach.
"Right behind you," he indicated with his head. "That's why the hotel was built here – plenty of good sand, nice and sheltered from the south winds, and good, deep water for the big boats."
Holding a tall glass filled mostly with ice and tonic, several slices of fresh lime and a very little gin, she walked down the beach sufficiently to be out of sight from the hotel. Wanting some peace, Cate found a large, sun-heated rock, and she sat back, sipping her chilled drink and wishing Mycroft could have been here – although she wasn't sure if he was actually a beach-type of person. An image of him walking across the sand in bare feet and a three-piece suit made her smile. This was their first separation since the wedding, and it was rather strange to be on her own again. Though the place was warm and pleasant, it felt like going on holiday by yourself: somewhat pointless and more than a little lonely if you had nobody with whom to share the experience.
Wanting to distract her thoughts from their current heading, Cate gazed out to sea. There were several very handsome yachts at anchor, but her eyes were drawn inevitably to the massive white cruiser that dominated the centre of the bay. At least eighty metres from bow to stern, the multi-decked boat – Cate saw the name Elivara – looked sleek and luxurious. It would be interesting to see what it was like on board. She liked boats, and this one was a stunner. The only thing that looked a touch odd was the large number of dinghies and tenders that, like a large family of ducklings, seemed to be moored to it. Cate shrugged: maybe they were having a party and the small craft belonged to the visitors.
Stretching out her legs on the warmed sand, sipping the mild cocktail, Cate felt herself on the edge of a doze. It was so quiet here, and warm, and the sound of the waves on the sand …
"So, we go at midnight tonight?" the voice was male, local by the accent. A mature voice.
"Yes. Everyone will be asleep, so we'll need to by quiet to avoid waking them up – we don't want to be rude," another man, also local, but younger. He sounded as if he were making a joke.
"Will the boat be well-lit or only running-lights?" the first man asked.
"Hey – it's a big event," the other responded. "A celebration, so everything will be lit up like a party."
Ah. Cate realised they were probably from the yacht, talking about some revelry onboard tonight. A surprise party, by the sounds of things.
"Will it be unobtrusive?" the speaker's voice was low with anticipation.
"I imagine there will be a few loud bangs," the second replied, laughing.
"Fireworks," Cate thought. A shame, but she expected to be well asleep by then. The opening speech of the conference was at nine-thirty in the morning.
About to return reluctantly to the hotel, Cate stopped as the two conversationalists strolled past her rock.
Greeting her in the local dialect, Cate realised they assumed she lived in the area. Clearly, her unfashionable outfit marked her as less of a tourist and more of a local.
"Watch out the hotel doesn't chase you off their property," the older man warned, smiling.
"The hotel doesn't even know I know about this place," Cate smiled back, her accent virtually identical to their own. "But I have to be getting back to my work, so," she shrugged. "Have a good evening."
The two men laughed. "We're going to have a spectacular evening," the older one laughed even louder. Clearly it was going to be quite a party. Cate smiled, shaking her head, as she turned back towards the hotel. Shame she wasn't invited.
###
The Home Secretary, Philip Evans, looked less than comfortable. "A bloody fiasco, the whole national system compromised," he refused tea and sat, gloomy and troubled.
The Director-General of MI5 and the current Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service looked calmly at each other across the meeting-room table. Politicians. No-one serious about national security would have made any of the basic errors this man had made. Let him stew. With luck, there'd be an increase in funding for both of their organisations to compensate. With real luck, he'd be 'reshuffled' in favour of someone who might actually know something about national security.
"Not entirely accurate, Home Secretary," Mycroft sipped his tea delicately.
"Well indeed not," Evans leaned on the table, staring. "And exactly how is yours the only department not to have suffered at the … hands of this epic fuck-up?"
Mycroft was silent. In the eyes of the nation, and especially the eyes of Parliament, the man was responsible for all security-related policies and counter-terrorism, yet was apparently unable to keep even his own technology safe. Not a good day to be a security analyst at the Home Office, he thought.
"Surely the important question, now, Minister," Mycroft included his MI counterparts in his glance, "is how to avoid a repeat of this event should similar conditions prevail."
Still looking for a scapegoat, the Home Secretary turned his aggravated gaze upon Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, sitting at the opposite end of the room.
"What are the police doing about all this?" he demanded. "Do you have any information that's of use, or am I expected to meet the PM with nothing in my hands apart from my arse and a letter of resignation?"
"Sir," Lestrade sat forward. "We've traced the originating server and ISP, but," he made a face," the computer used to send it was," he studied a notebook, "a zombie bot," he said.
Evans turned an unhealthy shade of dull red. "A what?" he snapped.
"Zombie bot, Sir" Lestrade repeated. "It's the name given to any computer that's been hijacked by a hacker," he added
"And this means ..?"
"It means we're still looking, Sir," Lestrade took a breath. "However we've assembled a viable list of potential local suspects – anyone who we know to have this level of hacking skills and who's likely to be interested in creating a spot of havoc," he paused, flicking to another page of notes. "We've also managed to speak with out Interpol colleagues on the phone – we still can't use the internet as their systems were targeted as well as ours – to see if any names leap out on the European scene." Shaking his head in frustration, the Inspector continued. "The real problem though," he sighed. "Is that this incursion could have originated anywhere in the world – if the attacker…"
"Terrorist," Evans snarled.
"If the terrorist had sufficient skill and understanding of global systems, he or she could have sent the virus from any computer at any location – China, even."
"You think the attack originated in China?" the Home Secretary turned puce.
"No Sir," Lestrade said. "It could have been from anywhere, and that's the real problem here – we simply do not have the facilities or personnel to adequately manage this type of threat."
"So," the Minister calmed slightly. "What do you need? More money? More people?"
Greg Lestrade looked around the table. "I can't speak for anyone else here, Sir," he said. "But I think we need to know how to keep up. I don't believe that throwing more money or increased personnel at this kind of problem will do any good at all unless the money is spent on the right kind of things, and we recruit the right kind of people."
Mycroft nodded agreement. Ministers tended to think in very small circles, and this increasingly common form of problem needed greater vision than would appear to be currently available in Westminster.
After the meeting ended, relatively fruitlessly to his eyes, Mycroft went in search of his most recent technology advisor. Elly Ibarra was in deep discussion with a twelve-year-old boy.
"Ms Ibarra?" Mycroft's tone asked the question.
"Sir," she turned the boy to face him, "this is Bobby."
"Bobby. And?"
"He's a programming genius."
"Ah," Mycroft understood. "Bobby works for this department?"
"Yes Sir," Ibarra nodded. "In the Mail room." Older than twelve, then.
Inspecting the silent young man sitting anxiously before him, Mycroft felt his intuition stir for a second time in as many hours. There was a feel of his brother about this one. "Can you stop this from happening again?" he asked quietly.
Nodding mutely, Bobby raised his eyebrows and attempted a brief smile. "I think so," he said, his voice very soft.
Nodding her support, Ibarra agreed. "I think we might be able to put something together, Sir," she said. "We've already broken the situation down into the main problem-vectors, so any resolution would be constructed along a directive of identification, containment and exclusion." Bobby turned over a creased envelope, handing it to her. "This would mean establishing …" reading scribbles from the scrap in her hand, Elly began enumerating a list on her fingers. "One. Countermeasures; we need to have access to a range of immediate-response measures to stop any attack dead. Two: Access authentication; where we can work out who and what and where is safe, and what is suspicious. Three: Threat; in that we really need to be very clear on what we want our systems to recognise as an ongoing threat, and four, Endpoint security, which is where you need to tell us how severe you want any retaliation to be," she looked serious. "We'd be breaking the rules by using elliptical curve cryptography, but it might work."
"Retaliation?" Mycroft was interested. The idea that it might be possible to actually strike back at these people was deeply attractive.
"Yes, Sir," Ibarra shrugged. "CATE would offer several approximations of lethality," she grinned up at him.
"C.A.T.E.," Mycroft articulated the acronym. He raised his eyebrows. A joke? "Do you know my wife, Ms Ibarra?" he asked.
"I didn't even know you were married, Sir," she answered. Not a joke. An omen, then.
"Very well," Mycroft considered and decided. "Please have the Mail room advised of Bobby's transfer to IT, and if anyone questions your activities, refer them to me."
Mycroft had no clear picture of their plan, but he remembered Lestrade's sincere request for the 'right' people. Perhaps they were already here. Mycroft smiled.
In the Mail room.
###
Dinner that evening had been a fairly raucous affair. What was it with academics at a conference? Some seemed to take it as a standing invitation to regress to student days. Still, better perhaps to have a friendly and collegial beginning to what might end up being a fairly fraught debate. Cate thought of the issues on her own agenda – some decisions, whichever way they went, would be contentious.
By the time she made it to her room for the night it was getting on for midnight and Cate was beginning to droop, but, as she wasn't at home, she knew Mycroft would still be in his office, working.
"Hello, darling." Even though she had seen him only that morning, it was still lovely to have his voice in her ears. She smiled, bringing the laptop over to the bed so she could sprawl while they talked.
"Hello, yourself," she grinned. "Had a good day?'
"Learned some new computer terms," he looked pensive. "I miss you."
"Only another four days to go," Cate wrinkled her nose. "And then you can give me a soldier's welcome home."
"Thought it was a soldier's farewell?"
Cate shrugged, a sly smile reaching her lips. "I'm not going to be pedantic about it."
There were some faint popping sounds outside the hotel.
"What's that noise?" Mycroft looked curious.
"I think there's a party on one of the yachts in the bay," Cate rubbed her eyes. "Fireworks, I expect."
Several of the popping noises came close together, nearer, too. Cate noticed there was also the sound of raised voices. For a moment, she thought it was shouting.
"Cate … those sounds," Mycroft was frowning. "Are you sure it's fireworks?"
About to go look out of the window, Cate heard some louder bangs much closer than before. "I'll just have a look," she said, "… hang on."
Sliding off the bed and opening her door, Cate looked out along the corridor. Nothing seemed to be amiss until several very loud bangs came from inside the hotel itself. She knew that sound. It wasn't a firework. Her heart began to thump as she ran back into her room, locking the door.
"What is it, Cate?" Mycroft's voice sounded tense. He could see her face in the laptop camera, and though by no means the clearest or most detailed of images, it was obvious she was worried.
"Mycroft, it's gunfire," she swallowed. "There are people firing guns in the hotel."
"Lock your door and put something in front of it," Mycroft had his Blackberry to his ear. Cate dragged a heavy wooden chair over to the door, wedging it beneath the handle. It would take some effort to shift from the outside.
"Darling, don't panic," he said. "I'm having the Bilbao Ertzaintza contacted as we speak. There should be some form of politzia there within minutes."
Cate took a deep breath. "Mycroft, my love," she was calm. "I'm not panicking and I realise there's nothing I can do except wait for help." Picking up her laptop, she replaced it on the desk, angling it so that the embedded camera could observe the entrance. "Can you see the door from there?" she asked.
Mycroft clenched his fist. He saw what she was doing and he knew why.
"Don't be brave, Cate," he warned. "If you do anything foolish I shall be extremely unhappy."
Seeing her husband's scowl, Cate smiled lightly. "Being prepared is not being brave," she said, considering the chair wedged against the door. There was no other furniture apart from the desk and the bed. There was nothing else she could use to bar the entrance.
"Cate …" she was distracted from Mycroft's voice by the noise of doors crashing open in the hotel corridor. Shouts and faint screams issued forth, although there were no more gunshots.
"Mycroft, listen," she said, turning to stare at his face on the screen. "I think they're coming for people on this floor. If they come for me, I shall leave this PC plugged in and online for you to use if you can. I don't know if it'll be any help, but it's all I can do at this stage." Cate scrambled to her feet, throwing a couple of things in the pockets of her slacks.
Making a decision, she pulled the chair from under the door-handle and opened the door. "I love you." Her words were quiet but clear. She waited.
From his office, Mycroft watched unbelievingly as Cate unlocked the door to stand calmly in the open doorway, although he saw immediately what she was doing. If she went along without fuss, they were less likely to inspect the room in detail and so the computer could remain unregarded for longer. She was insane. She was magnificent.
On the screen, he watched her flinch upright, stepping backwards into the room.
From behind the door, at eye-level, a man's hand appeared: the hand was clutching an ugly black pistol.
"Ven conmigo ahora!" The command was unmistakable whatever the language. Come with me now.
The last Mycroft saw of her were Cate's covertly waving fingers as she stepped from her room.
###
Walking ahead of the man with the gun, Cate found herself being herded into the main conference-room on the ground floor. It was already half-full with people dressed haphazardly in pyjamas and robes. There were only a few, like herself, still fully clothed. Cate was thankful she'd been up late: walking around in a nighty and little else would not have been her idea of comfortable, in this crowd. Looking around, she observed at least six men dressed in jeans and shirts, all holding handguns. They seemed overly casual; they way they stood, the way they looked. No rifles; no modern automatics. Not soldiers, then. Who were they, and what the hell was going on?
At the podium-end of the room, a tall man stood. He didn't have a gun that she could see. Looking closer at his face, Cate realised it was one of the men she'd heard in conversation on the beach that afternoon. She almost laughed. Some party.
"Quiet, everyone," the man's English was clear, though heavily accented. The large room gradually hushed.
"My name is Alazne Bidarte," he said, "and I shall be acting as your host for the next couple of days." Please …" he stopped as a general outcry rose around the gathered guests. "… Please do not be alarmed: this will all be over very shortly and then you will be able to return to your homes."
One of the older delegates to the conference stood up. "I demand to know what you intend to do with us and why you are treating guests to your country in such a disgraceful manner!"
"Calm yourself, old man," Bidarte smiled helpfully. "There will be a news broadcast very soon and the whole world will know about what we are doing here."
As Bidarte turned to speak with his compatriots, Cate heard something else in their words – a new thread of implication she hadn't realised was there before. This wasn't simply Spanish they were using; it was a very particular and regional dialect. Basque. These men were speaking Basque. And there was only one group who maintained use of this sub-language over the national version.
Cate frowned. The Spanish troubles were over, surely? A total cessation of all conflict had been in place since the previous year. Why then were these men with guns speaking Basque and holding people hostage in a region where there should have been no hostilities?
About to ask this very question aloud, Cate bit her tongue. It might be more prudent to keep that little fact quiet. Though a small advantage, secretly knowing their captors' every utterance might come in useful.
###
Though superficially calm, beneath the surface Mycroft's nerves were climbing over themselves with frustration. Of what was Cate in the middle? The Spanish police had been less than forthcoming; the Nacional de Intelligencia fell obstinately silent the moment Bilbao entered the conversation; the Spanish First Minister was not yet out of bed, and MI6 may as well have been reorganising their collective sock-drawer for all the help they had offered. It was farcical.
Very well: he would rely upon his own department's resources. Accessing an internal commline, he asked for the only person he thought might be able to actually do something practical. Assuming they were still here at this ungodly hour.
A knock sounded at his office door.
"Come in, Ms Ibarra," he swivelled his own laptop around on his desk for her to view: it still showed Cate's hotel room at the Sondika. There had been no further noise for over an hour. No gunshots, at least. Small mercies.
"Sir?" Elly Ibarra poked her head around the door. "I was just about to take Bobby home."
"Before you go, I'd value your assistance with this if you could." Mycroft indicated the laptop. Curious, Elly took a seat to better stare into the small screen.
"What is this?" she asked, fiddling with the screen contrast and brightness.
"It's my wife's room at a hotel in Bilbao," he said. "There seems to be some sort of coup taking place and she is in the thick of it all."
Taking his own seat, Mycroft steepled his fingers in thought. "She left the connection open in case it might be of use to us, but I lack the necessary skills to make this technology do everything I wish it to do," he paused, leaning forward, and intense expression on his features. "Can you help?"
Looking across his desk, Mycroft realised that the young woman's face had assumed a distant and somewhat troubled look.
"Bilbao?" she whispered. "Bilbao, Spain?"
"Yes, I know of only the one."
Ibarra sat up. "That's my hometown," she said. "I was born there. I know everything there is to know about the place … it's been perfectly quiet since …"
"Since?" Mycroft's tone made it clear he was in no mood for guessing games.
"Since ETA declared a ceasefire last year," she said. "Not everyone agreed, of course, but, well," she shrugged
ETA? Mycroft knew where all the regional leaders were currently located, and none of them were within a day's travel of Bilbao. He would have known if this had changed … unless communications were more damaged than previously thought.
"Did you know this was on record?" Ibarra asked, pointing.
"Can you replay from the beginning?" Mycroft wanted to hear Cate's voice as much as anything.
"I can make it do a lot more than that, Sir," Ibarra flexed her fingers and started work on the keyboard.
