by Asia Mackay
‘Russia.’ Sandy swung his leg up on to the chair next to him. ‘That’s why we’re here. They’re about to gain control of a new weapon to use in the silent war they’ve been raging against the West. This meeting is to get you two up to speed and to discuss our plan of action with Six. Let’s all be at our most agreeable and we can get the hell out of here and I can get this hangman’s noose off.’ He motioned to the accessory knotted around his thickset neck. Sandy had always insisted that the poor sods who had to wear ties every day to a dreary nine-to-five were just ‘dead men walking’. If you couldn’t sit around all day in a T-shirt and battered combat trousers planning how to kill people, life was, to him, quite clearly not worth living.
The meeting room door was flung open and two men walked in. Handshakes and nods were exchanged. The shorter of the two, with broad shoulders and auburn hair, cut off Sandy as he was introducing us.
‘Alexis and I know each other. University.’
‘Yes. Right. Exactly.’ I had no idea who he was. He obviously saw through my super spy poker face as his face darkened. Just what I needed, some guy from Six having it in for me because I didn’t remember sitting next to him in a lecture.
It was only while he was droning on about Russia’s current political climate that his name came to me. Dugdale. Harry Dugdale. Duggers. He played a lot of rugby. Back then his hair was thicker, more foppish, his face a little less full. His gold signet ring tapped against the table as he used his hands to emphasise a point he was making. He still had that cocky self-assurance of someone to whom life had always come easily.
I recalled something else.
I had slept with him. No wonder he was pissed off I hadn’t remembered him. I tried to keep a straight face. It had only happened once, after some college event that involved black tie and a lot of vodka. I now remembered how he had had some weird obsession with sticking his tongue in my ears. I touched my ear, cringing at the unpleasantness of the memory. Maybe that was his thing. Some guys love the ear. Obviously now I kept thinking about it, I kept wanting to touch my ear. Maybe he would pick up on that and think I was mocking him. Or trying to seduce him. Shit, I touched it again. What was wrong with me? I sat on my hands as he continued his long-winded diatribe.
‘. . . make no mistake, this is a new cold war, waged through information campaigns, where knowledge is power. It’s a digital battlefield and right now Russia is winning. We already know our main ally has been compromised. I ask what more—’
Sandy cut in. ‘Look, we get it. We can’t count on America. The special relationship is over. Big Daddy’s dumped us for a Russian mistress. We need to kick the bitch out the marital bed and get our man back.’
‘Yes. Quite.’ Dugdale looked round at us all. ‘And things are about to get a hell of a lot worse. Rok-Tech is Russia’s largest privately owned technology corporation and our sources tell us they’ve just created software that could change the world as we know it. Richard, take us through it.’
Dugdale’s spectacled colleague leaned forward on to the table with his hands clasped.
‘Rok-Tech has created an app called VirtuWorld. They are at the final stages of testing and plan to launch it early next year. VirtuWorld has taken Google Street View to the next level. Users can put on a headset and walk virtually down any mapped street in the world. The possibilities are endless. You could “walk” from your house to a shop on the other side of town, ask the salesperson questions and even purchase an item to be delivered to your home. Your real address, obviously, not your virtual one.’ Richard sniggered as we all remained silent. ‘As you can interact with other users on VirtuWorld you could even arrange to meet a prospective luuuurrveee’ (I winced at Richard’s pronunciation of ‘love’) ‘interest in VirtuParis and go for a romantic walk along the Seine together. Eventually you would be able to VirtuHoliday in any destination you want. It’s really quite amazing.’
I could totally see the appeal of exploring new places without ever having to worry about the traumas of a flight with a baby.
Dugdale broke in to Richard’s delight. ‘Get to the point.’
Richard straightened up. ‘Just like with Google, Rok-Tech has its own fleet of cars with inbuilt scanners for mapping the streets. The difference is the software in the Rok-Tech scanners is able to spoof a building’s wireless network and record the Media Access Control address of every electronic device inside and store it on a central database. If any of those devices then download the hot new VirtuWorld app the database links their name and registration details to their MAC address, remote access is activated and . . . kaboom! Life as we know it will explode.’
He looked round at our blank faces.
‘Okay let’s say there’s a girl out there called Melissa . . . Melissa . . . Melissa X. If I’m in control of the VirtuWorld software I can search the VirtuWorld database for a “Melissa X”. If her name and details pop up, with one click I could go through her texts, emails, her photos, contacts, everything as if her phone was in my hand. I could even access her camera and start recording. And because I can also see every wireless network and mobile phone tower that has ever logged Melissa’s MAC address, I will know every place she’s ever been and now be able to track her movements in real-time.’ Richard let that sink in. ‘I can even do a search for what other MAC addresses were on the same network as her on the same date and time. I would know everyone she’s ever met with and when and where. She couldn’t lie. I would know.’ He tapped the side of his head.
I made a mental note to check in on the real Melissa in Richard’s life and warn her to stay the hell away from him.
Richard continued, ‘The very existence of the VirtuWorld software is a worrying sign of how things could escalate. Within ten years, our sources predict the majority of the whole world could be mapped and the software advanced to the point the app doesn’t need to have been downloaded to take control.’ Richard pushed his glasses back up his nose. ‘We could be looking at a future whereby we have to give up mobiles, iPads, in fact all digital hardware, to protect data and try to keep any semblance of privacy.’
Turning our phones against us.
I tried to imagine life without my mobile. What the hell would I stare at during those boring midnight feeds? And how on earth would I distract Gigi on a long car journey without the bright flashing images of YouTube? And no Google to answer my panicked ‘what kind of rash is a bad rash’ questions?
Dugdale cut into the silence, ‘As you can understand we can’t go public with this information – there would be wide-spread panic over the fact this technology even exists.’
‘I understand the need for discretion but couldn’t we at least come up with a story to discourage people from downloading the app?’ Even as I asked the question I knew what the answer would be.
‘We could,’ said Sandy slowly. ‘But as terrifying as it is to think of the damage it could do against us, it is exciting to think of how much it could do for us. Imagine if we had concerns about an upcoming terrorist attack – at the click of a button we could be monitoring the movements and conversations of a hundred different persons of interest and everyone in their immediate circle.’
‘That’s all very well, but what’s to stop our enemies doing the same to us?’ asked Jake.
‘Once we understand exactly how the VirtuWorld software operates our engineers could set up protection protocols to stop foreign powers using it against us,’ said Dugdale. ‘The current owner and chairman of Rok-Tech is eighty-five-year-old Viktor Tupolev. Upon his instruction Rok-Tech were in the process of setting up a black-market sale of the software to all interested international agencies. Being an astute businessman he recognised just how much everyone in the security services would be willing to pay for this technology. However a few days ago Tupolev had a massive stroke. He’s still alive but it looks as though there could be brain damage. Doctors are running tests.’
‘As if that stroke was really from natural causes,’ Sandy g
uffawed. ‘Dimitri Tupolev, his eldest son, will be the one taking over from his father as chairman of Rok-Tech. Dimitri has been living in London for seven years now, running Rok-Tech’s UK subsidiaries. Five months ago, as soon as we first heard rumours of the VirtuWorld software, we put Dimitri under surveillance and started gaining intelligence on him. It looks like even though his old man is a die-hard capitalist always wanting to add to his fortune, Dimitri is a die-hard supporter of The President. He subscribes to the regime’s belief that companies should advance the interests of the dear motherland.’
‘And that means not selling the software so only Russia can use it to her advantage.’
I shook my head. This was going to be one hell of a first mission back.
‘This spells disaster for the rest of the world,’ said Dugdale. ‘If Russia remains the only country with this technology, this weapon of mass intrusion, we might as well surrender. If you think The President can crush opponents and influence elections now, imagine what he can do with that kind of power.’
Sandy took his leg off the chair and pulled himself up. ‘Dimitri’s younger brother Sergei shares his father’s greed and he’s the man we need to ensure will take over Rok-Tech. He wants to sell the software to as many buyers as possible and get himself a nice big payday. Right now the Rok-Tech leadership is in limbo. Old man Tupolev needs to be declared incompetent before Dimitri can take over. The incompetency hearing has been set for three months’ time – in December. It’s the official process a billion-dollar company has to go through, but it will undoubtedly declare the old man unfit.’ Sandy paused to take a long gulp from his water glass while he gave his tie another yank. ‘Before Dimitri can be officially granted full control of Rok-Tech he must be covertly eliminated.’
‘So something a bit more subtle than radiation poisoning in a Knightsbridge hotel, then?’ Jake smirked. ‘This will be fun. A nice welcome back for you, Lex.’ We grinned at each other. The band was back together.
Dugdale cleared his throat. Perhaps being reminded that someone he once slept with was a trained killer made him feel uneasy.
‘I speak for Six when I confirm that we’re fully behind whatever action Eight deems fit to take. The Committee have instructed that we help as and when you need it.’
All of us within the Security Services answered only to the Committee. They were the ones who really ran this country. The prime minister and government were about as effective as a close-the-door button on a lift. There merely to give the appearance of control. The Committee believed in democracy. They just considered themselves a helping hand to make sure it went the right way. The best way for the country. We were part of the tiny percentage who knew that what was played out in the public eye very rarely reflected what was happening behind closed, reinforced doors.
Sandy stood up. ‘We’ll get things moving and keep you updated.’
The meeting was over. We had played nicely and they had let us know they were all too happy for the grown-ups to handle everything for them. With formal handshakes all round, I managed to avoid any more ear touching and made a fast exit.
*
Every time we visited Legoland I thought about how this world, away from the slime and grime of the sewers, could have been my life – if I didn’t have this part of me that could kill on command, for Queen and for country, while still having a good night’s sleep. Seeing Duggers reminded me how different the paths we had taken had been. Oxford University was nearly twelve years ago. Like me, he would have been recruited just before graduation. Both of us would have faced the same rigorous testing, the extreme psychological profiling and at the end been assigned a number. Five, Six or Eight. Just like in Harry Potter when the students of Hogwarts put their faith in the Sorting Hat, we had to trust the Committee had called it right. Got us right.
I thought back to Duggers’ discomfort at the mention of the planned hit. He had grimaced while I had smiled. They had got it right, all right.
Chapter Two
SANDY’S PLATFORM EIGHT-ISSUE black BMW was parked right outside Legoland, ready and waiting to whisk us back to Holborn and our underground world. I looked out of the tinted window as we weaved in and out of traffic, the siren on the roof making drivers freeze and get out of our way like startled rabbits. There was no emergency, but the logic had always been our time was better spent out of the car than in it.
I saw a woman up ahead waiting at the traffic lights with a pram. Before Gigi I had never noticed mothers and their babies. When I assessed a street, looking for threats, I glossed over the women pushing prams. Harmless. Irrelevant. Invisible. Now I saw them everywhere I looked. They stood out like beacons. I noticed the model of pram they were using. How old the baby was. How sweet the baby was. How old the mother was. How tired she looked. How flat her stomach was.
The woman looked up from fussing over the baby’s blanket as we came to a halt at the lights, waiting for a large coach to pass by, and stared straight at me. Her brow furrowed and she tilted her head slightly. I leant back from the window and looked away before remembering the car’s blackout glass and that it was her own reflection she was looking at so intently.
The coach moved and off we sped.
I tried not to think of my baby, in her pram, being pushed by someone other than me. In the front Jake and Sandy talked about the meeting over the noise of the siren, their ties already removed and stuffed in their pockets. It felt good to be back. Eliminating Dimitri Tupolev was not going to be easy. Working out how to kill someone covertly, to make it look like an accident or natural causes, was the crème de la crème of the assassinating game. It was like being given an incredibly difficult puzzle at school. Except more fun and involving poisons, guns and knives. It was Sudoku for the sadistic.
And I realised now how much I had missed it.
I don’t know when being a Rat became such an intrinsic part of me; at what point exactly it stopped being a job and became a calling, a way of life. I didn’t grow up wanting to kill people. I wasn’t one of those troubled children who had a propensity to pull the wings off flies or torture little puppies. Life was simple and unremarkable and nothing in my textbook childhood could have predicted my violent adulthood. I had no innate desire to take a life. What I did have was a need for something more than the nice, normal existence I was headed for. By the time I was a teenager I looked around at the sleepy town in Berkshire I was growing up in, and at my caring, middle-class parents and rather than being grateful for what I had it made me want to scream. It felt so predictable. Life was beige and I wanted fire-engine red. With a small sprinkling of leopard skin. I didn’t want to live on auto pilot, be just another nobody on life’s long treadmill. I wanted to have a strut in my walk, a flash in my eyes, a knowing secret to my smile. I wanted to be goddamn special.
I watched as the cars continued to part for us. This definitely made me feel special. Forget having the power to take a life; having the power to beat traffic is what really gave all us Rats a bit of a God complex.
Sandy turned off the siren as we pulled into the NCP car park in Covent Garden. He leaned round and looked at me.
‘Good to be back home, away from the Pigeons? Or are you rethinking things now you’re a mummy?’
In Eight we called those from Five and Six ‘Pigeons’ as they were scattered all round London and had the tendency to shit all over everything.
I was transferred to Five for the majority of my pregnancy to stay out of harm’s way and live my cover story of being ‘just a GCDSB data analyst’. The hours may have been nine to five and the work completely sedentary but the days had dragged by and felt much more tiring. I still wasn’t sure if that was down to pregnancy or the boredom of no deadly action.
I shrugged. ‘I’m still a Rat. This is where I belong.’
‘Thank fuck for that. Because we need you.’
We drove down and down until we reached what appeared to be the bottom level. We screeched past the rows of parked cars towards a large booth
at the far end. A sign advertising a hand car washing service hung above it. Once parked inside, Sandy inputted an eight-digit code into the keypad by his window and a metal roller door rattled down behind us. He then typed in a second, longer code and with a lurch the floor started lowering and we descended another level further underground. This was us. The lowest of the low. There was a high-pitched shriek as the lift mechanism came to a halt and the doors opened into Platform Eight’s very own private car park.
The expansive space, the size of two football fields, was lit by rows of overhead strip lighting. Ten identical white vans, a series of black cars like the one we had arrived in, as well as a few private cars were all parked neatly in a line. A number of Rats drove to work; free parking in central London was considered a real perk of the job. The other side of the car park had been commandeered by R & D as a space to build and test their latest inventions.
We got out of the car and headed for the tunnel that led to Platform Eight’s network of offices. On the streets above us people were deciding what sandwich to buy from Pret a Manger, browsing the rails at New Look, stocking up on condoms at Superdrug. Down here we had meetings discussing how someone was going to die. Life above ground was the bright, bustling place where everyone shared everything. Trending hashtags, viral videos, hysterical front pages; always in glossy-coloured, high-definition, full-megapixel glory. But it was all pretend. The real truth was quiet. Plotted out in grey faceless rooms, by grey faceless people. Us Rats were a part of this world. The gritty, dirty one where no one talked and no one tagged. But it was where everything was decided, and it was how everything got done.