Aust
16-02-2004, 17:01
James Rosse was a billionaire, and he lived like one. But, since his face had appeared on the front cover of Time magazine, ‘The Electronics’ king’ he had realised he had become a target.
To protect himself he had changed his routine considerably. Previously, he had been driven to work in a limousine, he was now driven in a Jaguar J-type. It contained all the functions he needed, DVD player, satellite T.V and a fold out desk, while being less noticeable and better protected. Its bodywork was covered in 6 inch reinforced steel plating, which kept him safe but did make the car bulkier. The windows were of bullet-proof tinted glass. Its wheels were bullet-proof as well. The car was electric which meant that a stray bullet could not ignite the fuel. He could take control of the car manually if the driver varied from the set course.
His driver was a retired FBI agent and carried a Glock pistol in a shoulder holster and a ball bearing cosh up his jumper. He wore bullet-proof armour. James, himself wore a bullet-proof vest and carried a Colt revolver, old but he liked the feel of it.
After the car had finished its 500 meter journey from James’s penthouse to the Fission-Chips’ HQ he would be led out of the car surrounded by 4 bodyguards, trained by both the royal marines and the SAS. They were all armed like his driver and 44 stories up a sniper would be peering out of an office watching his every move. The whole thing would be watched on security cameras that would be sent by satellite to MI5, the FBI and two security officers for review. Within 10 seconds he was whipped through the white doors and into Fission-Chips lobby surrounded by security guards. His receptionist, a black belt in karate and the Olympic shooting champion watched them as they crossed the lobby. Ross would then enter the lift on his own and a gel scanner would read his print and lift him to the 60 floor without stopping. He would enter a lobby and walk past two guards and another secretary to his office. He entered, the security measures were annoying but necessary, he had let them become routine and as every spy or intelligence agent can tell you routine can get you killed. James R Ross’s death day had come a-calling.
Shadow entered the lobby of Fission Chips, his real name wasn’t Shadow and anyone who knew his name was now dead, except for David Phillips. He, too, would be eliminated soon. Just as no one knew his name no one knew where he had come from or his date of birth. There was a rumour that he was Mexican and was about 29, but no one knew for sure. He was called Shadow because he liked to shadow his victims and work out their routine but for this job he had been given three days and for that he had demanded fifty thousand US dollars, half now half on completion, and he had been paid. Most of the money was sitting in a Swiss bank account along with thousands more dollars that he had gained from killing. He walked across the velvet carpet to the secretary and handed over his card, a card that read, ‘Sam Roberts, Maintenance personnel, lift repair.’ This man may have looked like Sam Roberts but he wasn’t. In fact Sam Roberts was lying dead in the Atlantic ocean with a knife in his back and concrete shoes on his feet. “Sam Roberts ma’am, lift repair.”
“You guys were in here last week,” Said the secretary in a harsh American twang,
“Found a faulty cable in lift twelve, need to fix it.”
“Go on then.” There was no faulty cable in lift twelve but she wasn’t to know that, maintenance people were in here all the time, what difference did one more make? Unaware that her mistake had cost the world’s richest man to die, she turned back to her copy of The Boston Times.
Shadow walked into lift thirteen waving away a delivery boy he sent it up to floor 61, the maintenance floor. He quickly hacked on to the tower’s main frame, fed a loop to the lift’s security camera and then made Ross’s lift do something it had never done before. It moved to floor 61.
He entered and climbed below the lift inserting a holographic projector where the lift’s camera should have been. Using his own laptop he fed it the picture of the lift and the lift appeared below him, just a hologram but very real. He climbed back into floor 61 and then set about making what he had done undetectable.
James Ross had an important schedule to attend to, but today he had time to relax until a meeting with a candidate for New York’s mayor and that was at ten. He filled in some papers authorising development of a new type of phone camera and then ordered a coffee. Putting up his feet, he opened a copy of The Times, still clinging to his English heritage and read until a message came through on his intercom telling him that his sectary was downstairs’ along with his security and that it was ten to ten. Folding his Times into a neat rectangle he put down his cold coffee and took the last steps he would ever take. If he had looked up he would have seen a small projector, but rich men do not look up on their way to a meeting. He just stepped into the lift and as his foot fell through the ‘floor’ a look of surprise appeared on his face and he fell. He was so surprised he didn’t cry out and in 10 seconds he was dead having hit the lift’s bottom with a thump.
The secretary raised the alarm ten minutes later and by time they found the body in 5 hours, Shadow had packed up and left leaving no trace he had ever been there. It would be blamed on a bizarre accident and though no one could explain how it had happened it was slowly forgotten.
Three days later a man who looked nothing like Sam Roberts exited terminal one in JFK airport bound for Switzerland and fifty thousand dollars richer.
To protect himself he had changed his routine considerably. Previously, he had been driven to work in a limousine, he was now driven in a Jaguar J-type. It contained all the functions he needed, DVD player, satellite T.V and a fold out desk, while being less noticeable and better protected. Its bodywork was covered in 6 inch reinforced steel plating, which kept him safe but did make the car bulkier. The windows were of bullet-proof tinted glass. Its wheels were bullet-proof as well. The car was electric which meant that a stray bullet could not ignite the fuel. He could take control of the car manually if the driver varied from the set course.
His driver was a retired FBI agent and carried a Glock pistol in a shoulder holster and a ball bearing cosh up his jumper. He wore bullet-proof armour. James, himself wore a bullet-proof vest and carried a Colt revolver, old but he liked the feel of it.
After the car had finished its 500 meter journey from James’s penthouse to the Fission-Chips’ HQ he would be led out of the car surrounded by 4 bodyguards, trained by both the royal marines and the SAS. They were all armed like his driver and 44 stories up a sniper would be peering out of an office watching his every move. The whole thing would be watched on security cameras that would be sent by satellite to MI5, the FBI and two security officers for review. Within 10 seconds he was whipped through the white doors and into Fission-Chips lobby surrounded by security guards. His receptionist, a black belt in karate and the Olympic shooting champion watched them as they crossed the lobby. Ross would then enter the lift on his own and a gel scanner would read his print and lift him to the 60 floor without stopping. He would enter a lobby and walk past two guards and another secretary to his office. He entered, the security measures were annoying but necessary, he had let them become routine and as every spy or intelligence agent can tell you routine can get you killed. James R Ross’s death day had come a-calling.
Shadow entered the lobby of Fission Chips, his real name wasn’t Shadow and anyone who knew his name was now dead, except for David Phillips. He, too, would be eliminated soon. Just as no one knew his name no one knew where he had come from or his date of birth. There was a rumour that he was Mexican and was about 29, but no one knew for sure. He was called Shadow because he liked to shadow his victims and work out their routine but for this job he had been given three days and for that he had demanded fifty thousand US dollars, half now half on completion, and he had been paid. Most of the money was sitting in a Swiss bank account along with thousands more dollars that he had gained from killing. He walked across the velvet carpet to the secretary and handed over his card, a card that read, ‘Sam Roberts, Maintenance personnel, lift repair.’ This man may have looked like Sam Roberts but he wasn’t. In fact Sam Roberts was lying dead in the Atlantic ocean with a knife in his back and concrete shoes on his feet. “Sam Roberts ma’am, lift repair.”
“You guys were in here last week,” Said the secretary in a harsh American twang,
“Found a faulty cable in lift twelve, need to fix it.”
“Go on then.” There was no faulty cable in lift twelve but she wasn’t to know that, maintenance people were in here all the time, what difference did one more make? Unaware that her mistake had cost the world’s richest man to die, she turned back to her copy of The Boston Times.
Shadow walked into lift thirteen waving away a delivery boy he sent it up to floor 61, the maintenance floor. He quickly hacked on to the tower’s main frame, fed a loop to the lift’s security camera and then made Ross’s lift do something it had never done before. It moved to floor 61.
He entered and climbed below the lift inserting a holographic projector where the lift’s camera should have been. Using his own laptop he fed it the picture of the lift and the lift appeared below him, just a hologram but very real. He climbed back into floor 61 and then set about making what he had done undetectable.
James Ross had an important schedule to attend to, but today he had time to relax until a meeting with a candidate for New York’s mayor and that was at ten. He filled in some papers authorising development of a new type of phone camera and then ordered a coffee. Putting up his feet, he opened a copy of The Times, still clinging to his English heritage and read until a message came through on his intercom telling him that his sectary was downstairs’ along with his security and that it was ten to ten. Folding his Times into a neat rectangle he put down his cold coffee and took the last steps he would ever take. If he had looked up he would have seen a small projector, but rich men do not look up on their way to a meeting. He just stepped into the lift and as his foot fell through the ‘floor’ a look of surprise appeared on his face and he fell. He was so surprised he didn’t cry out and in 10 seconds he was dead having hit the lift’s bottom with a thump.
The secretary raised the alarm ten minutes later and by time they found the body in 5 hours, Shadow had packed up and left leaving no trace he had ever been there. It would be blamed on a bizarre accident and though no one could explain how it had happened it was slowly forgotten.
Three days later a man who looked nothing like Sam Roberts exited terminal one in JFK airport bound for Switzerland and fifty thousand dollars richer.