by Andrew Lane
Bex stared at him. ‘So what do you suggest?’
Bradley shook his head. ‘I hadn’t got that far. Get me better quickly perhaps?’
‘Maybe I could go,’ Kieron said quietly.
‘Or maybe recruit someone else we know,’ Bradley went on. ‘Someone with security clearance we can work with.’
‘I could go,’ Kieron said again.
‘We could maybe recruit a medic who could go with you,’ Bex mused, looking at Bradley. ‘They could make sure you’re OK while you’re working, and treat you if there’s a problem.’
‘Or I could go,’ Kieron repeated, louder. ‘You’re not listening to me.’
Bex sighed. ‘We were listening to you,’ she said. ‘We just didn’t want to hear what you were saying.’
Bradley shook his head. He was still holding onto the door frame with both hands. ‘No – it’s better that I go.’
‘Can you do me a favour?’ Bex asked him. ‘Can you just release your grip on that door frame?’
There was a long silence before Bradley answered. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘If I do that I’ll fall over.’
Bex nodded. ‘I thought as much. Your knuckles are very white. Your whole body weight is being supported by your hands, isn’t it?’
He paused. Kieron assumed he was trying to think of a response that didn’t give away the fact that he was seriously incapacitated. ‘Maybe,’ he said in the end.
Kieron was marshalling a killer argument in his head that would completely nail the discussion when his mobile rang. ‘Sorry,’ he said, pulling the mobile from his pocket, ‘I should have – oh.’ The words on the screen suddenly registered in his brain. ‘It’s my mum. I need to take this.’
‘James Bond’s mum never phones him when he’s on a mission!’ Sam’s voice floated in from somewhere behind Bradley.
Kieron swiped the screen to accept the call as he headed into the bathroom for privacy – and to avoid any more embarrassment. ‘Hello? Mum?’
‘Kieron? You could answer your phone more often, you know? I’ve left seven messages!’
‘You left three messages,’ he pointed out. ‘And one of those was you telling a barista in a coffee shop somewhere that the coffee beans he’d used for your latte were burned. I think you’d pocket-dialled by accident.’
‘They were burned,’ she said defensively. ‘He tried to tell me the coffee was supposed to taste that way, but I wasn’t having it.’ She suddenly seemed to remember that she was supposed to be the one on the offensive. ‘Anyway, where are you? I haven’t seen you for days!’
‘That’s because you come home late and leave early. We hardly overlap.’ Before she could get all apologetic and he could hear the tears lurking somewhere behind her voice, he quickly continued: ‘Not that it matters – I’m fine on my own. Well, not really on my own. I’ve got Sam.’
‘Just Sam?’ she asked. ‘Not that I’ve got anything against him – I love him to bits – but there’s something unhealthy about two goth teenagers spending all their time together. That’s how high-school massacres start. I know – I’ve read it in the newspapers.’
‘We’re not goths,’ he said patiently, for what seemed like the millionth time, ‘we’re greebs. And we’re not going to go round any local Newcastle schools shooting people. Not even with foam bullets fired by springs from brightly coloured plastic guns.’
‘But you have got other friends, haven’t you? And by “friends”, I mean people other than those groups of kids you see hanging around the bus station.’
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘some of those kids in the bus station are my friends, and the only reason we hang around there is that we don’t like coffee and they won’t let us in bars.’ Before she could go on, he added quickly, ‘And, yes, I do have other friends. I’m round their house now, playing on the computer.’ Not too far from the truth, he thought.
‘Oh – anyone I know? What are their names?’
‘Bex and Bradley,’ he said, then immediately started cursing himself. He’d been so tied up with trying to mollify his mother that he’d given out their real names!
‘Bex and Bradley. I don’t know them, do I? Are they from school?’
‘No,’ he said, still trying to think of a way of diverting the conversation. ‘I only met them recently.’
‘And this Bex – short for “Rebecca”, I assume? Are you … interested in her. I mean, more than just friends? Do we need to have a conversation about this?’
‘It’s not like that,’ he said. He felt a slight twang of anxiety somewhere inside his heart. It wasn’t like that with anyone – that was his problem. The closest thing he had to a girl he liked was Sam’s sister Courtney, and not only was she too old for him but she was apparently interested in Bradley. Which was fine. ‘You needn’t worry – we can save that conversation for another time. Or just not have it at all – I’ve been doing biology for years at school. I know all about it.’
‘It’s not the biology I’m worried about – it’s the sociology.’ She paused, and Kieron imagined her shrugging. ‘Well, I hope this Bradley and Bex are decent people. Maybe you could arrange for me to meet their parents. Who knows – we might get on.’ A different, strange tone crept into her voice, and Kieron understood with a slight shock that he must be becoming an adult without realising, because he recognised it as self-pity. ‘It’s not as if I have many friends around Newcastle.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ he said reassuringly, but without the slightest intention of following through. ‘But why don’t you and I try and spend an evening together. We could go out for a pizza, and maybe see a movie. There has to be something we can both watch without one of us wanting to throw up.’
His mum laughed, as he’d hoped. ‘Hey, now that you’ve grown out of Thomas the Tank Engine I think I can cope. I don’t mind superhero movies, or action thrillers.’
‘Let’s do it then,’ he said, and he was surprised to feel a warm, affectionate glow in his chest.
‘I’ll clear an evening,’ she said. ‘Look, you take care of yourself. You’re very precious to me. And you’re growing up so fast. I’m scared I’m going to miss whole chunks of your life.’
‘Love you too.’ Before his mother could get all mushy, he said hurriedly, ‘Gotta go. Let me know when you want to do the pizza-and-movie night.’
‘I will. Make sure you shower, and change your clothes, and brush your teeth properly. Girls don’t like boys who smell of sweat or whose breath stinks.’
And then she was gone. He took a breath, trying to steady himself. He felt as if he was somehow balancing on a thin wall, trying not to fall. One side of the wall was childhood, which he’d enjoyed but grown out of, and the other side was adulthood, which scared and fascinated him in equal measure.
Eventually he slipped the phone back into his pocket and went to join the others.
Bradley had sat down by now, and Sam had joined him on the sofa. Bex was still sitting where she had been when he left. She looked … angry. Frustrated.
‘You’re right, Kieron,’ Bradley said. ‘It has to be you that goes to America to investigate the Goldfinch Institute.’
Kieron felt a swelling sense of happiness and, yes, nervousness. He tried to keep the elation from his face as Bradley went on:
‘There are a great many reasons why it shouldn’t be you, and we’ve gone through most of them in the past few minutes, but in the end it all comes down to three simple facts: the mission needs to be undertaken so that SIS-TERR don’t start getting suspicious about us; Bex’s cover would be blown because she would be recognised instantly by this Tara Gallagher; and I can’t provide Bex with the technical and operational support she needs – not until I’m better.’ He looked as if the words pained him. They probably did. ‘So that leaves us with one simple alternative – you go, and Bex goes with you. She provides the support via the ARCC kit, and you do the investigation.’ His gaze flicked across to Bex, who had her arms crossed and was staring at the wall, then b
ack to Kieron. ‘But at the slightest sign that anything is going wrong, we pull you out. Understood? No heroics.’
‘No crashing trucks, starting fires or electrocuting people,’ Sam added.
‘Not helping,’ Kieron told him. He looked back at Bradley. Bearing in mind the conversation he’d only just had with his mother, he said hesitantly, ‘I know my mum doesn’t spend much time in the flat, but even so, she’s going to realise that I’m not around. And I mean really not around, not just “out with Sam” not around. “In another country” not around.’
Bradley opened his mouth to say something, but Bex interrupted. ‘We’ve talked about that as well,’ she said. ‘You mentioned that your favourite band were rehearsing and recording their new album in Albuquerque?’
‘Lethal Insomnia,’ Sam added helpfully.
‘Yes – Lethal Insomnia.’ The way she said the band’s name made it sound as if there were invisible quotation marks around it. ‘We thought we could invent a fake competition which you’ve supposedly won. Maybe we can say it’s something through a website, or something you entered when you saw a flyer in their last album. We’ll tell your mother that the prize is an all-expenses-paid trip to Albuquerque to see Lethal Insomnia rehearsing their new album. Studio access and tour, three nights in a hotel, all food paid for, plus flights there and back. How could she possibly refuse you permission to go? It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.’
‘She’s not stupid,’ Kieron pointed out. ‘She’ll know that any online competition where a teenager goes to America by himself is likely to be fake.’
‘You’re right,’ Bradley said. ‘We thought we’d make the trip for two. Chances are that your mother won’t be able to take the time off work – you’ve told us about all the overtime she does – but even if she thinks she can, we can get inside her firm’s computer system using the ARCC kit and create some work crisis that means she needs to stay in Newcastle.’
‘She’ll just say I can’t go.’ Kieron’s initial elation was collapsing like a slowly leaking balloon. ‘Not by myself.’
Bradley nodded. ‘But what if we tell her that Bex will go as well, in the guise of someone from the publicity company who ran the competition? She’ll be looking after you all the time, as far as your mother knows.’
Kieron ran the plan through his head. ‘I guess it might work,’ he said cautiously. ‘She’d have to meet Bex of course. She wouldn’t just let me go to America with some woman she’d never seen.’ He glanced across at Bex. ‘And you’d need to stress that this trip would be educational – not just fun. You know – experiencing the sights and sounds of another country, gaining an insight into the music business. That kind of thing.’
‘Maybe,’ Sam said, thinking as he was talking, ‘Bex could tell her that there’s even a possibility that the visit could lead to a job working on the band’s publicity or something here in the UK. You know how she’s worried that you’re never going to get a decent job.’
‘Can we fly first class?’ Kieron asked hopefully.
‘In your dreams,’ Bex snorted.
‘But it is a competition. Winners of competitions usually get treated to first-class travel, and limousines, and all kinds of luxury stuff.’
‘I refer you to my previous answer.’ Bex’s expression was serious. ‘That cover story goes out of the window the moment you say goodbye to your mother. After that, we’ll assume false identities and we’ll just be two travellers flying to New Mexico.’
Sam cleared his throat. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I was going to ask about that. If Kieron’s mum isn’t allowed to go – for obvious reasons – maybe I could take her place. I mean, I’ve seen these competitions. My mum cuts them out of magazines and enters them all the time. Our kitchen table is littered with coupons and entry forms. They all say the same thing: “The winner and a friend will travel to” wherever it is.’ He glanced around expectantly. ‘Well, I’m the only friend he’s got. Can I come?’
Bex shook her head. ‘I hate to break this to you, Sam,’ she said, ‘but this is actually work. We’re not really going to see this band recording their album. It’s not actually a competition.’
‘Oh,’ he said, crestfallen. ‘I just thought –’
‘Don’t think. You’re staying here.’
‘OK.’
Bradley raised a hand. ‘I had a thought about what happens when you get there,’ he said. ‘Let me run this past you.’ He paused, gathering his thoughts. ‘We obviously need to be able to get Kieron inside the Goldfinch Institute itself, so he can take a look around. There’s not a lot he – or you – can do from a hotel room, apart from talk to friends and relatives of the people who’ve died and maybe covertly access the autopsy reports, and we can do that from here. What if we give Kieron a reason to be there? What if we give him a fake identity as, oh, say a teenage computer nerd who’s apparently invented a new way of breaking computer encryption, or speeding up processing, or something like that. He’s flown out to Albuquerque to talk to the guy who runs the Goldfinch Institute –’
‘Todd Zanderbergen,’ Bex said.
‘Yes, him. We’ll need to construct the cover story carefully, and make sure Kieron sounds like he knows what he’s talking about, but that’s the kind of thing we do anyway.’ He suddenly looked rueful. ‘The kind of thing I used to do anyway.’ He glanced over at Kieron. ‘Ever done any amateur dramatics?’
‘He was a tree once,’ Sam chipped in, ‘in a school production of Hansel and Gretel.’
‘I did more than that,’ Kieron pointed out, annoyed. ‘I had a starring role in Bertolt Brecht’s Mother Courage and Her Children, and I was also in Ayckbourn’s Ernie’s Incredible Illucinations. I’ve got a lot of stage experience. The only thing you’ve ever done is be the front end of the pantomime horse in Cinderella. And your head fell off.’
‘It wasn’t attached properly,’ Sam objected.
‘OK, that’s all good,’ Bex said firmly. ‘We know what we’ve got to do: firstly, fake a website for this competition; secondly, send a letter to Kieron at his home address telling him he’s won; thirdly, arrange fake passports and travel documents; fourthly, book flights and hotel rooms; and fifthly, if that’s even a word, get in touch with Todd Zanderbergen and arrange an appointment with him. Oh, and sixthly: somehow find something that Kieron can take along and demonstrate that looks as if it might be some cutting-edge software.’ She smiled brightly. ‘All in a day’s work for us.’
‘And seventhly,’ Kieron added, ‘we need to craft some kind of Trojan computer virus and put it on a USB stick.’ He frowned. ‘Maybe we could put a non-disclosure agreement on the USB stick and ask this Todd guy to check it over. When he plugs the stick into his system it’ll copy over. Simple.’
‘I’ll go low-tech and make some phone calls about the travel arrangements,’ Bradley said.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right doing that?’ Bex asked, concerned.
He nodded. ‘As long as I’m not wearing those glasses, I’m fine. And I’ve got a couple of unregistered “burner” phones I can use that can’t be traced back to us. It’s the software and hardware that Kieron’s going to have to take into the Goldfinch Institute that I’m more worried about.’
‘Actually,’ Kieron said, ‘I think I might have a solution for that. Give me half an hour to do some research.’
Bex and Bradley didn’t look convinced, but were soon busy with their own tasks.
While Bradley went off to get the fake passports organised and Bex logged into her laptop to start mocking-up the fake Lethal Insomnia competition website, Kieron gestured to Sam to come and join him. ‘The Goldfinch Institute is into non-lethal weapons,’ he explained. ‘Their big publicity thing is that they’re trying to move armies and police forces away from lethal measures and more towards things that don’t kill people. If we can persuade them that I’ve developed a really good non-lethal weapon, they’ll be interested in talking to me.’
Sam looked sceptical. ‘You’r
e going to come up with a completely new type of non-lethal weapon?’ he said. ‘Something that nobody’s ever thought of before? In the next half-hour?’
‘It doesn’t actually have to work,’ Kieron pointed out reasonably. ‘It just has to look like it might. And we don’t have to actually invent it – we just have to find someone who already has, and then steal it from them so we can use it.’
‘Oh,’ Sam said, relieved. ‘For a moment there I thought you were suggesting something impossibly difficult and incredibly risky.’
For the next half-hour the two of them swapped ideas, mainly based on things they’d seen in computer games. They fairly quickly abandoned the crude solutions that most police forces used – solid projectiles that acted like a punch to the stomach or Tasers that delivered an incapacitating dose of electricity to the nervous system. Anaesthetic gases were obviously beyond their capabilities – nobody would believe that a teenager would whip up a batch of anaesthetic gas in his garage. They discussed for a while the ‘vortex ring guns’ Kieron had seen Bex use in Pakistan – weapons that used explosively driven rings of compressed air to knock people over, or knock them out – but they were part of Agni Patel’s arsenal, and Kieron was pretty sure that Bex wouldn’t want him to reveal them.
‘What about sound?’ Sam suggested eventually.
‘What?’
‘Have you ever heard of the “brown note”?’
Kieron shook his head. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘It’s a theoretical musical note below the limit of human hearing that’s supposed to have “an effect” on the body.’
Kieron was dubious. ‘What kind of “effect”?’
Sam smiled. ‘It’s supposed to make you want to – how do I put this? – go to the toilet. Suddenly and uncontrollably.’
Kieron slowly shook his head. ‘I’m guessing it’s not called the “brown note” because it’s like white noise but different?’
‘Oh no. I’ve seen it mentioned on the Internet, and also on TV sometimes. Nobody’s ever identified the note itself, but it would be the perfect non-lethal weapon. And it’s the kind of thing you might find while you were mucking around with a synthesiser or a bass guitar and a big amp.’