Deadlock by Mark Walden Page B

instrumental in steering his rise through the political ranks and now all of that appeared to have been wasted effort. While it would not have been the first time that a member of their shadowy world had occupied the White House, it would have been extremely useful for her future plans if she had been able to dictate the response of the United States government once those plans went into full effect.
    ‘How did this happen?’ Furan said angrily. Her entire head was covered in horrific twisted burn scars, such that there was no longer any trace of her once great beauty. She wore gloves, a long black coat and a high-necked black blouse that covered every other square centimetre of her skin.
    ‘We’re not sure,’ the nervous-looking man standing on the other side of her desk said. ‘Our sources within the American intelligence services have told us that they are just as puzzled about what happened. Somebody took out Ronson’s security detail and the two pilots and then it appears that they crashed the plane into the ocean with the senator still on board. They found floating debris from the crash this morning, but they’re still searching for the plane’s flight recorder. They should know more when they find it. Whoever did this, it was a suicide mission, so they’re working on the assumption that it was an act of terrorism at this point.’
    ‘You’re assuming that whoever was responsible was on board when it crashed,’ Furan replied. ‘And why did the secret service logs show Ronson’s wife and child as having left the hotel for the airport and yet they were later found unconscious in their room.’
    ‘As I say,’ the man replied, ‘there are many unanswered questions.’
    ‘First our cell leader in London is pushed in front of a train and then someone steals a data slab from our field office in Chicago. Raskoff may have insisted that there was no sensitive data on the device that was stolen, but I fear it may be more than a coincidence that within a week our American cell commander is dead too. It looks to me like someone has declared open season on senior members of our organisation and I think I know exactly who that is.’
    ‘Nero,’ the man replied.
    ‘Yes,’ Furan said with a nod. ‘I expected reprisals after we attacked his beloved students, of course, but I did not think they would be this effective or brutal. I knew he would send Natalya after us, but there’s more to it than that. I want our best men on this. I want to know how they got to Ronson and I want to know where they intend to hit us next. Project Absalom is at too critical a stage for us to be distracted by this now. Increase the security details on our senior commanders and brief them fully on the threat. Make sure that any sighting of Raven is reported immediately. She will not catch us out so easily again.’
    ‘Understood,’ the man replied with a nod and walked out of her office.
    Furan stood up from her desk and walked over to the far wall where a portrait of her late brother, Pietor Furan, hung. She stared at the picture for a few seconds before reaching out and laying a hand on the canvas.
    ‘Soon, Pietor,’ she said softly, ‘soon you will be avenged.’

    The young man ran across the crowded office, carrying a single sheet of paper. He stopped at an office door on the other side of the room that bore the words ‘Robert Flack, Director of Operations, Artemis Section’. He knocked once on the door and a few seconds later a voice shouted for him to come in.
    ‘What can I do for you, Mr Simons?’ Flack asked as the young analyst walked into his office.
    ‘I thought you’d want to see this, sir,’ Simons said, placing the sheet of paper on the desk in front of him. Printed on it was a black-and-white image that, judging by the poor quality, had been captured from a surveillance-camera feed. It showed a fuzzy image of a teenage boy and a tall dark-haired woman walking through a pair of large glass doors. The only thing