Bridge had thought the photo was of a stealth bomber, all strange angles and swept wings, but then realised there was no cockpit or viewport. This was itself a drone, an attack craft designed to be controlled by a remote pilot in a command headquarters halfway around the world, with limited software for autonomous flight and targeting.
“This is just one potential model, using the same anti-radar design principles as a stealth bomber. There are several prototypes in development for the hardware, but whatever the final design, it will use Exphoria software technology.”
“Is the hardware a joint operation, too? Like a drone version of the Eurofighter?”
Chisholme bristled at Bridge’s interruption, but nodded. “Something like that, although we do rather hope to keep more of a lid on the finances this time around. Giles?”
The screen changed from a still image to a video. It showed a more traditional-looking drone flying over a mostly empty airfield. The letters X-4 were stencilled on the drone’s fuselage. As they watched, the drone made some high-speed manoeuvres, then resumed a direct flight path. A barrage of small missiles flew toward it from below. The drone deftly avoided them all, and fired its own payload while taking evasive action. The camera quickly panned down to the grey airstrip below, where a dozen blue cars were all tightly parked, surrounding a single red car in the middle. The missile bullseyed the red car, while above it the unharmed drone cruised on.
“Impressive,” said Bridge. “Targeting error correction isn’t easy. Full marks to the pilot, too.”
Chisholme half-smiled. “On the contrary, all the pilot did was feed in target parameters and activate lift-off. The evasive manoeuvres, and the ultimate firing decision, were made entirely by the UAV. The corrective targeting you mentioned is also a core part of the Exphoria system. We believe this kind of actively engaged drone will become standard in the next decade of warfare.” The image changed again, this time to a large steel building. It was wide and low, isolated and incongruous within a sunlit pastoral environment, surrounded by grassy fields and hills. The building had no windows. “The software is being developed by a joint team here, just outside Agenbeux in northern France, under cover of a company called Guichetech who make software for retail outlets. Supermarket tills, entry kiosk cash registers, that sort of thing. It’s in the Champagne region. Ms Dunston and her French counterparts selected it as the best compromise of security and access.”
A map appeared on the video screen, and Bridge saw the facility wasn’t too far from where her sister was staying. Their childhood had been spent in the Rhône-Alpes region, and Izzy’s farmhouse was in Côte-d’Or, just a couple of hours’ drive north of their home town. Keep on north for another few hours and you’d be in Agenbeux.
Dunston broke her train of thought. “It’s also suitable because the presence of British people doesn’t raise too many eyebrows in such a tourist-heavy area.”
The slideshow moved through several images, showing the exterior of the building, the security fence surrounding the grounds perimeter, and the topography of the region.
“How many people work there?” asked Henri, on the video link.
“Total staff is one hundred and twenty-eight,” said Chisholme. “Just over eighty French, the remainder British — though that includes the site manager, who’s from our office. All thoroughly vetted by both us and la Défense.”
Bridge guessed that last bit was included because the MoD was offended by the suggestion of a mole slipping through that vetting process, and was laying groundwork that would enable them to shift blame onto le Ministère de la Défense if necessary. The entente cordiale had its limits.
Henri Mourad whistled quietly. “That’s a lot of people to sift through. Is there a deadline on this?”
“That’s rather the kicker,” said Dunston. “As you saw from the demonstration video, Exphoria is at an advanced stage, and nearing completion. Phase one of the programme will be feature-complete in a little more than two weeks.”
Bridge whistled. “That’s not a kicker, that’s an own goal. So our first job has to be narrowing down the candidates, filtering out people we can eliminate entirely. I can start on that as soon as I have access to personnel files.”
“You’ll have access to everything we have, including our copies of the French vetting files, but I’m afraid that’s all,” said Giles. “We can’t be certain the mole isn’t at la Défense itself, so we’re not informing them of this operation.”
Henri looked worried. “They won’t like that.”
“And I don’t much like a mole going undetected, so today, nobody’s happy.” Giles shut down the slideshow for emphasis; there would be no argument.
“That just leaves one rather important question,” said Chisholme. “Who are they working for? Any theories?”
“Plenty,” said Giles, “but no hard evidence to point fingers with yet. And we can’t rule out that this could be ISIS or someone similar.”
“Isn’t it a bit sophisticated for them?” asked Dunston.
“It would be an escalation, but not beyond their reach,” said Bridge. She couldn’t decide if the thought of Ten being killed by terrorists was better or worse than falling victim to common spies. “ISIS are surprisingly tech-savvy. The CTA comes across them fairly regularly in the course of our monitoring.”
Chisholme closed his files, tucked them away in his briefcase, and stood. “This is the point where I bid you good day,” he said. “Emily, Giles, keep me up to date but leave out the gory details. Don’t need to know, don’t want to know.”
“Naturally,” said Giles, holding the door open for the civil servant. “Preliminary report as soon as.” Giles closed the door behind Chisholme, then turned back and clapped his hands. “Let’s get down to the business end. Henri, you’re in Paris, correct? How long would it take you to drive to Agenbeux?”
“Not too long,” said Henri, looking at a map off-screen. “I’d say two or three hours,
