BOUND
Parlabane climbs to his feet, various aches announcing themselves now that he is upright. He walks delicately towards the door, which is still being urgently pummelled.
He hears a voice.
‘Jack, open up. It’s me.’
Then the hammering starts again.
It’s Sam. She’s standing outside in a heavy jacket with a bag slung over her shoulder. As soon as he opens the door she barges past him into the flat.
As she disappears inside, he hears the squeak of a hinge down the hall and sees Han’s head sticking out. He looks sleepy but concerned.
‘Everything okay, man?’
‘Peachy. Sorry for the noise.’
‘No problem.’
Parlabane turns to face Sam, who already has her laptop out and is reading the Wi-Fi password off the side of Mairi’s router.
‘What are you doing here? How did you find me?’
She answers with a sneery look that tells him precisely how stupid his question was.
‘I thought you were the cops at my door,’ he adds.
‘I’m here because they’ve already been to mine.’
‘What?’
‘Well, to my downstairs neighbours, poor bastards. Saw them getting taken away in a police van. I was leeching their Wi-Fi so the hack got traced to there.’
‘How could they do that? And so soon? I thought you used a VPN.’
‘I did. Somebody burgled my flat yesterday. Trashed the place to make it look like junkies, but they planted some malware in my laptop. I weeded it out on the bus over here. This whole thing was a set-up to put me in the frame for Cruz. If it wasn’t that I was piggybacking on to their connection, I’d be in custody right now. It’s only a matter of time before the feds work it out, so I needed to get gone.’
‘And you thought the safest place to lie low would be with the guy the cops are after for the murder of the person you hacked? I was about to go on the lam myself. Would be gone already if I hadn’t fallen asleep.’
The sneery face is gone. She looks frightened.
‘I don’t have anybody else, Jack.’
He nods, letting her know he understands she has nowhere else to turn. But the time has come to let her know he understands other things too.
‘What about Lilly?’
Sam shoots him a look of surprise and vulnerability. He’s not supposed to know this stuff.
‘You’re not the only one who can find things out, Sam. I know about your mum too.’
She stands silent for a second, and in that moment, something passes between them. Something unspoken, something important.
Sam swallows.
‘Lilly’s in school. I dropped her off before I came here.’
‘And what happens at four o’clock?’
She lowers her head like it’s suddenly heavy.
‘We need to find who did this, Jack. Whatever it takes.’
‘It’s going to take us disappearing, you know that, right?’
She nods then swallows again, searching for her voice. It is quiet but determined.
‘The only way I can be there for Lilly again is if we can find this bastard.’
‘Have we anything to go on yet?’
‘Not so far, but it’s early. The worm is on the hook.’
‘You mean your wee surprise package. What do you mean it’s early? Shouldn’t someone have bitten by now?’
‘Not necessarily. My instructions from Zodiac were to upload the project materials to a particular file storage site.’
‘And you did that last night, right? From Synergis.’
‘Yes and no. Last night I uploaded them direct from Synergis to my file storage site. I didn’t upload them to the one Zodiac specified until about four o’clock this morning, after I had installed my malware payload.’
‘Which is what?’
‘Something called Stoolpigeon. Once you download and execute the file, it tries to discover its physical location via every means available and sends the results to me.’
‘But won’t Zodiac’s anti-virus software pick that up?’
‘That’s why I was up so late. I embedded it among the Project RBA materials and compressed the whole thing into a zip file. As soon as you click to open the compressed file, you execute the Stoolpigeon package.’
‘Sounds very technical.’
‘Actually the embedding is the easy bit: the real trick most of the time is convincing some sucker to download the zip file your malware is hidden in. In this case that part was a given, so now I’m just waiting for Zodiac to download the RBA stuff and for Stoolpigeon to tell us where he is.’
‘Unless he’s already got it by other means,’ Parlabane reminds her.
Sam’s look of determination fades instantly into doubt.
‘You’re right. He had other people working this.’
‘Either way, we can’t hang around here waiting for something to happen. We need to get gone.’
‘Where, though?’
‘At this stage that matters less than how. We can’t use public transport because it’s too exposed and we need to stay off the grid.’
‘What does that leave?’
‘We have to acquire a car.’
‘Hire a car? We’d get caught twice as fast that way. There are registration-scanning cameras everywhere, and your driver’s licence and credit card details would be logged.’
‘You misheard me. I said acquire.’
AIRPORT PARKING AND OTHER MODERN ROBBERIES
An hour later they are in a minicab heading to Stansted Airport. Parlabane is wearing a thick scarf around his neck and a winter hat with earflaps. He does not take off either article throughout the duration of the journey, despite the driver observing the statutory protocol by which it is required that the interior of a private-hire vehicle should at all times maintain a temperature adequate to safely cook a Christmas turkey.
Sam is wearing an improvised niqab that she has fashioned from a black dress she found in Mairi’s wardrobe, an act of vandalism that he fears may cost him their relationship.
She has also performed varying degrees of surgery on his laptop and his back-up mobile. His instinct was to be wary but frankly he’s past worrying. He is better simply accepting an abject loss of control and letting her handle it. If he gets out of this mess he’s going to go live someplace where there are no computers, no internet and no mobile reception.
Only Sam’s eyes are showing as she sits alongside him in the back of the cab, doing things on her phone that he cannot begin to comprehend. They don’t look a well-matched pair: the devout Muslim woman and the weirdo bell-end. In fact, they look very conspicuously like two passengers who have a suspicious reason not to be identified.
However, this is not actually a problem, as he explained before they left.
‘Shouldn’t we have the cab pick us up somewhere else?’ Sam had asked. ‘Around the corner maybe? I suppose there’s lots of addresses inside this building but they’re bound to know you’re living here.’
‘That’s what I’m counting on,’ he replied.
‘Why?’
‘If the cops look, I want the cab company’s records to show that two people got picked up from here and taken to the airport. It’s to sow a bit of uncertainty. UK Border’s systems will show that we haven’t left the country, but they’ll be aware that high-tech criminal types like us might have acquired new passports.’
Parlabane’s phone vibrates while the cab idles at a set of lights. He feels his pulse quicken in apprehension about who the message might be from. There is literally nobody in his life that it would be good news to hear from right now. He pulls the device from his pocket and sees that he has an email alerting him that a new recording has been made by the device hidden inside the keyboard they sent to Winter.
What an auspicious day for the bastard to finally show up again at his office.
He clicks on the link and listens back to this latest one-way phone conversat
ion, in which Winter is discussing the morning’s tragic news. He doesn’t exactly sound distraught.
‘We’re only a couple of hours into trading but the share price is already beginning to tank. No, I wouldn’t make any offers yet: it would seem inappropriate, but more importantly, it’s only going to fall further. Yeah, I saw it too. That Dunwoodie woman is all defiance at the moment, but it’s emotion talking. In the cold light of day, once the tears have dried, trying to haul the carcass of someone’s half-finished project up a steep slope won’t look like such an attractive prospect.
‘Absolutely. She and the other shareholders will be very amenable to a purchase offer so that they can all move on. Yeah, wasn’t I just saying how things can change overnight? Not the way I’d have preferred it, but you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’
Not the way I’d have preferred it. Sure. But then he would say that, wouldn’t he?
The cab drifts on to a slip road off the motorway, the sound of a plane booming somewhere overhead.
‘That Stoolpigeon squawking yet?’ Parlabane asks quietly.
‘Still nothing. My counter says the file has been downloaded, though: just hasn’t been launched yet.’
‘Bugger.’
‘It’ll come.’
‘Do you still have the RBA files on that thing?’ he enquires, indicating her laptop.
‘No way. I deleted them from my hard drive as soon as I uploaded the malware version. The originals are still on my storage server, though. Why?’
‘I want you to email a download link to my mate Spammy. The bastard probably won’t be up for another four hours, but if he can take a look at the blueprints he might be able to tell us what this prototype actually is.’
Parlabane pays the driver then retrieves his suitcase from the boot. There’s very little in it, but he wants it to look as though he and Sam have packed for a long trip. They watch the taxi disappear from view then hop on the shuttle to one of the long-stay car parks.
The rain is off, but there is a strong breeze blowing litter along the walkway. They choose a vantage point from where they can see the cars coming in, scrutinising each new arrival. They are on the hunt for someone travelling alone, with luggage large enough to indicate they will be gone more than a couple of nights. When such a candidate appears, they watch very closely what is done with their keys: zip pockets are a no-no, inside pockets too. Ideally what they are looking for is a strappy shoulder tote or a handbag with magnetic fasteners.
‘Her?’ Sam suggests, indicating a peroxide-blonde middle-aged woman who has exited a black Nissan Qashqai.
Parlabane gives her the nod, notes the registration, and they move in as rehearsed.
Sam adjusts her makeshift niqab, which has threatened to come down over her eyes, then strides ahead, a leather bag they found in Mairi’s wardrobe slung over her shoulder. She intercepts and overtakes the target so that both of them are now heading for the shelter where the shuttle bus picks up. Once she is a few paces in front, Sam subtly pings free a clip from the shoulder strap, causing the bag to tumble to the ground. It spills coins, tampons, make-up, mints, gloves, wet wipes and a compact brolly on to the tarmac.
The woman comes to a halt behind Sam and crouches down to help her retrieve the articles that are now scattered across an impressive radius. She places her own bag carefully down on the ground, conscious of the danger of items falling out as she bends over to pick up Sam’s fugitive belongings.
Parlabane arrives at the rear, stopping his pull-along suitcase so that it screens the woman from her bag. He swiftly crouches down to remove her car keys from a flip pocket on the front, apparently on route to offering his own assistance.
‘Thank you. Thank you so much,’ Sam says, gathering the last of her things and standing up again.
They retrieve their various articles of luggage and continue to the bus shelter, where they and a few other waiting passengers board the shuttle. Sam takes a seat at the front, close to the door, Parlabane continuing further inside.
A few minutes later the bus comes to a stop in front of the main terminal and Sam gets off first. Parlabane encounters the peroxide woman again as they both retrieve their luggage from the shelves. She gestures towards the figure in the niqab now passing the bus window outside.
‘At least we know that one doesn’t have a bomb in her bag,’ she says with a chuckle.
Parlabane allows himself a smile, which he knows she will misinterpret. He is always taken aback by how people simply assume complete strangers are going to share their casual racism, but on this occasion he is genuinely amused, because he is about to steal this woman’s car.
Parlabane watches her wheel her suitcase towards the terminal. He caught a glance at her booking print-out when he was dipping her bag: she’s off to Tenerife for a week, and she isn’t going to be noticing the loss of her vehicle from a beach in the Canaries.
He doubts they’ll be able to evade the authorities that long, but at least this gives them some freedom to manoeuvre.
He heads for the main parking office, near the passenger entrance to the short-stay car park.
‘I’m really hoping you can help me out here,’ he says to one of the attendants on duty.
His colleague is apparently on his break, eating a pot noodle in front of his computer monitor, which is showing the BBC website.
‘My ticket just blew away in the wind as I was getting off the shuttle bus. I thought I’d better report it at this end of the holiday, you know? Can you issue me a new one?’
‘I’m afraid that for the long-stay parking there’s a minimum charge for lost tickets at a full week’s rate.’
‘I know, but my licence plate was scanned at the barrier, so you should have proof I only came in ten minutes ago. That’s why I came here right away.’
‘Let me have a look. What’s your registration?’
Parlabane rhymes it off, though as he does so his attention is drawn to the screen in front of the bloke eating noodles. One of the images above a story link is a photo-fit that he is sure is intended to be him. The photo-fit is far from a close likeness, though it’s a sight better than it would have been had he not found himself the focus of the security guard’s attention by being trapped inside that freezer.
There is an immediate instinct to walk away, but that would only draw more attention. He has to hold his nerve, follow this through, analyse the situation rationally: the guy looking at the screen is not looking at him, and the guy who has been looking at him has not been looking at the screen.
He keeps his eyes down, resisting the strong temptation to steal another glance at the monitor, but he knows that might cause the attendant to check what has caught his attention.
The attendant hands him a ticket.
‘Here you go, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
He takes the ticket and turns around, feeling his heart thump. He just got lucky, but he knows that won’t last. Like most such images, the danger is not going to be from a close encounter with a parking attendant or some other stranger who’s never seen him before. Somebody at Synergis, somebody at Broadwave, or maybe even somebody who was at the party last night, is going to see that picture then put two and two together.
Parlabane rolls his case along to catch the shuttle bus, which Sam is already aboard. She is sitting near the front, tapping away at her phone as always.
‘Don’t you kids ever look out the window and watch the world go by?’ he asks rhetorically, sitting down in the row behind her. ‘What are you checking up on now?’
‘Synergis share activity. After your Winter update, I thought I’d take a look.’
‘So what’s happening?’
‘A lot of people are ditching Synergis shares, which is no surprise given this morning’s news. But the weird thing is that after an initial dive, the price has been holding steady.’
‘I’m sorry, this shit baffles me. What’s weird about that?’
‘With everyone trying to sel
l, you’d expect it to keep falling. The fact that it’s not means someone is buying: somebody is picking up Synergis stock.’
‘Winter.’
‘Despite what he said this morning, he’s already making his move: increasing his own holding so he has more sway and a bigger slice when the Chinese start carving things up.’
‘Impressive intel. How do you know about all this stuff?’
‘Juice, one of my Uninvited buddies, showed me some cool sites for tracking stock trades. He used to make a bit of money short-selling when he knew we were about to do a hack. There’s always a drop in the price due to security concerns and corporate embarrassment.’
‘You weren’t tempted?’
‘I never had the money to make it worthwhile, but even if I did, it’s too close to blackhat territory for my taste. I know people think I’m a criminal, but I do have a code of ethics. There’s lines I won’t cross. Plus I was paranoid that someone might spot a pattern and trace the trades. Juice obviously wasn’t so worried. He’s been doing it for ages.’
‘Why do you say “he”? Couldn’t Juice be a she like you?’
‘Rule thirty, Jack. There are no girls on the internet.’
The bus drops them at the long-stay car park once again, and soon they are climbing into the black Qashqai. Sam pulls off her improvised niqab and Parlabane decides he can finally remove the hat and scarf, both of which were concealing the fact that he has shaved his head; or more accurately, Sam has shaved it.
It was as they searched through the flat for any possible means of disguise that she happened upon Mairi’s bikini line trimmer, whereupon inspiration struck. Parlabane would have to confess it wasn’t the most enticing idea he had ever heard, but nor did he have a strong argument against it. Sam started with scissors then moved on to the trimmer, before finishing things off with his own disposable razor.
Want You Gone Page 30