By the time he strides in, about ten minutes late, there are roughly thirty people seated around the auditorium, the company’s forthcoming new model represented both in physical form at the front and in exploded view on a projector screen. Winter barely glances at the waiting assembly, and if he even notices Parlabane, he doesn’t give any indication of recognising him, or of having any questions over his being here. Parlabane guesses he isn’t sufficiently familiar with the personnel to have any expectations of who ought or ought not to be present.
Metal Box founder Craig Elder, something of a legend in British hi-fi design, kicks things off by delivering a presentation on the company’s new music streaming system.
His talk is very techy, not a primer for a future marketing pitch, though the end user is clearly seldom far from his thoughts. Parlabane watches Winter to see what he is making of it all. He sits on the far right of the front row sporting a scowly and brow-furrowed expression, one that Parlabane initially interprets as intense concentration but which turns out to be growing disquiet.
He suddenly cuts Elder off, holding his hand out like a traffic cop while loudly saying: ‘Woah. Woah. Woah. Woah. Woah.’
Elder stops and looks towards Winter. The room has descended into silence, one all the more profound from the effects of the sound insulation. There is a long, unnerving couple of seconds of this before Winter speaks again: one more word.
‘Woah.’
Parlabane learns a great deal in that single moment. It’s that superfluous sixth woah that says ‘arsehole’ louder than any sound that’s ever been blasted from the speakers in this room.
‘This is not what was agreed when I was here six weeks ago.’
‘There have been a few refinements, certainly, but the overall—’
‘Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.’
Winter gets to his feet. It’s a weird dynamic: he is addressing Elder as though they are the only ones in the room, and yet Parlabane reckons Winter is only too aware this is in front of an audience.
‘Why was the design altered from the one I signed off on?’
‘It’s hardly a fundamental alteration. When we built the prototype, we discovered that—’
‘Look, I don’t want to hear it, it’s pointless. You’ll say what you believe, I’ll say what I believe and by sheer force of personality, I’ll win, so why don’t we save ourselves the bother and cut to that part?’
King arsehole.
When the show is over, Parlabane files out with the rest of the audience, Winter remaining behind for some one-on-one time with Elder, like Jack witnessed with him and Cruz.
Out in the foyer, Parlabane is expecting a little more awkwardness from Agnieszka due to having witnessed this. Instead she gives him a rather knowing smile, which is when he realises part of the reason she invited him today was that she wanted him to see something like this.
‘He’s got a very hands-on style,’ Parlabane suggests.
‘He’s a complex individual,’ is her diplomatic response.
‘How will you handle it?’
‘The usual. We’ll tell him what he wants to hear and then carry on as we planned. He likes to come in and micro-manage, then you don’t see him for weeks, but when he comes back he forgets everything he was so insistent about the last time and starts demanding other stuff.’
He spots Winter emerging from the lecture theatre and quickly ascertains that he has Agnieszka’s consent to buttonhole him here.
Parlabane intercepts him close to the double doors from the foyer into a corridor leading to the main stairs.
‘Mr Winter? I’m Jack Parlabane, from Broadwave. I was wondering if I could grab you for a quick chat.’
He can tell Winter is about to brush him off, but then something flickers in his face, and he needs a moment to process it.
‘Do I know you from somewhere?’
His tone is accusatory rather than curious. He is making no attempt to be charming, and Parlabane isn’t sure he would know how even if the notion occurred to him.
Parlabane takes advantage of briefly having the floor, effectively answering Winter’s question with a couple of his own.
‘Can you tell me about your involvement in Synergis? Are you looking to expand your interest?’
There’s been an update behind his eyes. Back at Synergis, Winter couldn’t have been pleased that someone had witnessed that little moment between him and Cruz. He is even less pleased that the witness has pitched up in front of him again.
‘I can’t talk about Synergis. I would be in violation of a non-disclosure agreement even if I were to confirm any involvement with the company.’
Parlabane suppresses a wry smile at the inevitable mention of an NDA. Any time he hears this excuse he is reminded of a kid saying ‘Keys up!’ while playing tig or hide-and-seek. To the speaker it’s an invisible force-field nobody can penetrate, but to everyone else he just looks like a fanny who won’t play the game.
‘Off the record then, are you surprised that Leo Cruz is looking to grow the company when everyone assumed he was planning to break it up? Did you have designs on acquiring it yourself before he stepped in?’
Winter once more seems like he is about to blank him and walk away, but he appears to think better of it. Parlabane recognises the look: Winter is wondering if he might be the one who has something to learn from the encounter.
‘I can talk to you off the record, but only as long as I know it really is off the record.’
‘You have my word.’
‘Which is worth considerably less than me knowing for sure that you don’t have any hidden microphones, mobiles, body cameras, bugs or anything else stashed away. Ditch your jacket and your shoulder bag. You can leave them in the foyer. Then we’re going to go somewhere you can turn out your pockets and show me there’s nothing under your shirt.’
‘If that’s what it takes.’
‘That’s what it takes. Follow me.’
Parlabane follows Winter out into the corridor, but instead of heading for the stairs, he is led around a corner into a narrow passage towards a fire exit.
‘All right, pull up your shirt,’ Winter says.
Parlabane complies, revealing that he has nothing concealed beneath.
With Parlabane’s hands still gripping his shirt, Winter drives a fist into his midriff, winding him and lifting him off the floor. Less than a second later, Winter is behind him, slamming his face against the wall and bending an arm up his back.
He speaks right into Parlabane’s ear, quiet but threatening.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘I’m Jack Parlabane,’ he manages to splutter, his guts demanding he bend over for relief but Winter’s hands pinning him upright. There is a proficiency about his violence. He is powerful and fast, with the speed and balance of a boxer.
‘I’m with Broadwave.’
‘I don’t care who you’re with. It’s where you are and where you’ve been that bothers me. Leo Cruz might enjoy acting the showman, but I don’t appreciate having cunts like you looking into my business.’
He sends a sharp, controlled blow into Parlabane’s side, below the ribs. The pain is phenomenal.
‘I see your fucking face again, I’ll leave it so you can’t look in the mirror without feeling sick. Do you hear me?’
Parlabane gasps enough breath to whisper a faint reply.
‘Loud and clear.’
Winter strides away, leaving Parlabane doubled over. He needs a while before he can go back out where he’ll be seen. He guesses he’s looking pale and conspicuously shocked, not to mention shaking. He just wants to grab his stuff and get out of here, whereupon he will take great pains to comply with Winter’s demand.
The fucker definitely isn’t going to see Parlabane’s face again. But that doesn’t mean he won’t be there.
COVERT SURVEILLANCE
‘I think I’ve met our prime suspect,’ Parlabane says, filling Sam in on his encounter at Metal Box.
; He’s been trying to phone her for an hour. She apologises for all the missed calls, saying she had switched her mobile to silent at the cinema and forgot to reset it. He knows this isn’t true. She had it on silent because she’s at work, in a sandwich bar in Ilford. She still hasn’t discovered the tracking device.
He wonders why she’s lying. He knows she’s struggling for money, but she clearly thinks there is some kind of shame attached to her work. He’s still finding it tough to reconcile the cyber-menace whose felicitations have so terrified him in recent years with this shy and anxious young woman; the cocky and ostentatious hacktivist with someone knuckling under in a McJob in order to look after her vulnerable younger sister. He guesses there is only one side of her that she ever wants him to see.
‘You reckon this guy could be Zodiac?’
‘I’m not sure. But he’s got claws in Synergis and he stands to gain if they suffer a loss. If their prototype plans get stolen, it would surely make the other investors less sure about seeing a long-term return.’
‘We need to get up in his business,’ she states.
It sounds less like a suggestion than a vow.
‘Agreed. But we need to keep our distance. He already knows my face, and if he really is Zodiac, then he knows yours too. Any suggestions?’
‘I’ll need to give it some thought. First thing to come to mind is a Teensy HID, but I’m not sure that’s an option.’
‘Why not? What is it?’
‘Teensy is a microcontroller system that you can use to program a hidden internal device. The idea is you put one inside a peripheral that plugs into a computer: a keyboard or a mouse, for instance. Trojan horse principle, except you’re using hardware to deliver the software.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘It’s not something you can pick up at Maplin’s. I know one or two potential sources, but I can’t trust them any more. So unless you happen to know a shit-hot electronics engineer who can be relied upon to keep his mouth shut, then like I said, it’s not an option.’
Parlabane allows himself a smile, thinking of an electronics engineer in Paisley whose discretion can be guaranteed, not least because opening his mouth to talk to somebody would constitute unnecessary effort.
‘Tell me what you need.’
FILE TRANSFER PROTOCOL
I see from the clock that it’s after half one. Urban Picnic has been going like a fair since before twelve, and I’m starting to worry that I’ll miss my window. I had a break around half eleven, which was when I saw all the missed calls from Jack. I nipped outside to talk to him, partly so nobody could earwig, but also so Jack couldn’t get a sense of where I was phoning from.
My problem is I need to make this next call during lunchtime, when there is a greater chance that the person I’m asking for will be out of the office.
Yeah, I know that sounds wrong, but bear with me.
There’s enough of a lull around 1.40, and I indicate to the boss that I’m desperate for the toilet. She gives me the nod, gesturing with two fingers how many minutes I’ve got.
More than I’ll need.
I close the door and take out my mobile.
‘Good afternoon, Gatekeeper Systems, how can I help?’
I ask for David Frew, the bloke who issued the coffee-stained memo regarding the major systems upgrade that Gatekeeper have got scheduled for tomorrow.
‘I’m afraid Mr Frew is on his lunch at the moment. Can I take a message?’
‘No, that won’t be necessary. I’m calling from Data Stream. I just wanted to confirm with David that everything is still set for our team coming in to work on your servers tomorrow.’
‘Yes, totally. We’re expecting you around ten, is that right?’
‘Ten, absolutely. Looking forward to it.’
I have to drop Lilly at the school early so that Jack can pick me up and get us to Gatekeeper HQ in Colchester before the Data Stream people get there. I get a bit short with her because she’s dragging her heels. She doesn’t understand why she’s got to be ready half an hour earlier than usual, and she hates any disruption to her normal routine. She looks a bit huffy when I leave her at the gate, which makes me feel like shit.
I don’t say much on the drive. I’m psyching myself up, as well as revising the info in my head: names and positions of people both at Gatekeeper and at Data Stream. I’ve been researching this for days, but you can never be sure it’s enough.
As we pull into the car park, my guts are like jelly and I need to pee. All I can think about is Paul Wiley getting led away in handcuffs. I’m worried about what the cops might be finding out from him, what dots they could be joining. I picture them appearing outside our flat with their battering rams and their machine guns, imagine how scared Lilly would be. She’d have nightmares for ever.
We watch the Data Stream people arrive. I count seven of them. I’d have preferred more but the building is big enough that every face isn’t going to be known to everybody else. My invisibility cloak here is that the Data Stream people are going to assume I’m with Gatekeeper, and the Gatekeeper people are going to assume I’m with Data Stream.
We give it half an hour after the visitors are inside, then it’s time. I’m armed with two manila folders, a clipboard, a laptop and a lanyard displaying an ID I faked up last night, the Data Stream logo prominently displayed above my mug shot.
‘You okay?’ Jack asks as I open the car door. ‘You want to test the blind speed dial one more time?’
‘No, I got it. Just make sure you’ve got the right MP3 cued up in case of emergency.’
As I walk towards the building’s front entrance I force myself to think about the Teen Titans episode I watched with Lilly last night. My instinct is to rehearse my lines in my head, but I suspect that’s only going to make it more likely I’ll trip over them. I picture Raven glowering at Robin; I can even see the scratch on the right-hand side of the reclaimed laptop’s display.
There is a barrier system to the right of the reception desk, which staff can open with a swipe of their IDs. Visitors need to be buzzed through.
I walk towards the barrier briskly, hugging the clipboard and folders to my chest with my left arm, the laptop bag slung over my shoulder. At the last second I hold up the lanyard with my free right hand and turn to face the woman at the desk.
‘Can you buzz me back in? I’m with Data Stream. I had to nip out to fetch something from my car.’
‘Yeah, on you go.’
She barely looks at me, simply hits a button and the glass panels of the barrier slide apart. The irony of Gatekeeper’s core business is not lost on me. They manufacture state-of-the-art controlled-entry barrier systems, so that unauthorised randoms can’t simply walk in the front door.
I’m so read up on Gatekeeper at this point, they could be my specialist subject on Mastermind. The system they’ve installed at Tricorn House is top of the range, controlling not only the barriers at the main entrance, but the lifts and the doors to various restricted sectors of the building. It is operated using a program called GEM: Gatekeeper Entry Management.
Each client uses a tailor-made release of the software, identified by a code and an account number. Thanks to the hard disk we got from our first dumpster dive, I’ve got both for Tricorn House. I’m not here only to snag a copy of their unique version of GEM, however. I’m after the source code, and some nice person is going to give it to me, because I’m going to ask in precisely the right way.
I take off the Data Stream lanyard once I’m past the front desk. My heart is hammering but though I’m scared, I’m also recognising the upside of this sensation: it’s like the buzz from a hack, except supercharged.
Hackers on steroids.
I explore the building, catching the occasional glance but rarely a second one. The other thing making me invisible is the clipboard. Whenever I pause to look at anything, be it an office, an individual computer screen or a group of people, I take notes. This was Jack’s idea.
&n
bsp; ‘Nobody will ask you anything because as soon as they see the clipboard they’ll instantly be hoping you don’t come over and ask them anything.’
So far it’s working very well in terms of reducing eye contact. Nobody wants to be bothered while they’re trying to get on with their work.
I watch several of the Data Stream people gathered around a server stack. I write down names, cross-referring with the lists I gleaned online. I identify Angela Pike and Ian Nelson, two of the senior IT staff at Gatekeeper. The former is working very closely with the Data Stream visitors, while the latter appears to be minding the store, keeping an eye on the everyday running of the network systems.
I locate the account manager named on the documentation we got from our dumpster dive. His name is Derek Travers and he is Gatekeeper’s primary liaison with Tricorn House. He sits at a cluster of four desks in the Sales and Customer Care department.
I need to get Derek to trust me, and the best way to make that happen is to have him be the one who calls me for help.
I sweep the corridors looking for a discreet spot to base myself. I was hoping for an empty desk somewhere but I actually find an empty office. I’m not sure this is for the best, and I wonder if I should keep looking. My head tells me that hiding in plain sight would be better: sitting openly in view of other staff, all of them assuming I’m supposed to be there, rather than hiding myself away. My gut tells me that privacy is always preferable when you’re up to no good, and I’m not sure my nerves can take the plain sight option.
I slip into the office and close the door, noting the name outside: Sophie Oswald, Head of Marketing. I get out my secondary mobile, an old crappy effort with a pay-as-you-go SIM. My proper phone remains in my hip pocket. I call the building’s main number, which gets me through to the switchboard.
‘Oh, hi, I’ve been calling Sophie Oswald and I keep getting bounced to voicemail. Do you know if she’s definitely in today?’
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