by Tony Batton
She had her personal laptop in front of her. It was an unusual machine – a friend had described it as the ugly offspring of a clipboard and a sandwich toaster. Millie had built it from scratch using many custom parts, so it shared almost no commonality with a regular system. The design was not without problems; it had poor structural integrity, and frequently overheated. But it worked differently from regular computers, and that made it particularly difficult to trace. This was useful because, when researching stuff for her blog, being traced was a bad thing. 'Millie.On.Truths' had become a conspiracy theory community. Not about aliens and the abominable snowman, but rather one that investigated strange and illegal goings on in large companies and governments, focusing on the use of ‘Big Data’ and the possibilities of the Deep Web and Dark Web. She looked for anything that people were trying to hide that the public had a right to know.
Last month she had written an exposé on illegal activities conducted by one of the trading teams at a privately-owned investment bank. The bank’s lawyers had tried to bring her down, but they couldn't find her. Millie was good at hiding, but knew that if she ever failed she could always fall back on the defence that what she had written was the truth. As her homepage proudly proclaimed, she believed that 'The Truth Should Be Out There.'
"What are you doing?" Kevin asked, looking up from his phone. He picked up the donut and took another bite.
"Replying to a message."
"So not more hacking, then?"
"That presupposes I was doing any hacking."
"Well were you?"
Millie closed her laptop and stared at him. "What do you think?"
"I don't know. And maybe I don't want to know." He hesitated. "Is it to find stuff for your blog?"
Millie froze. "What?"
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "This woman was asking about it."
She reached forward and gripped his arm. "What woman?"
"She spoke to me at the station this morning. Sorry, should have mentioned it sooner." He pulled away, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a brown paper envelope. "She gave me this to give to you."
Millie reached out to take it from him, then hesitated. "What was she wearing?"
"Why does it matter?"
"A uniform of some kind? A business suit? Workman’s overalls?"
"A leather jacket, I think."
"And what’s in the envelope?"
"She didn’t say, and I haven’t looked. She just said you’d find it interesting."
Millie frowned, then took it from him and tore it open. There was a single sheet of paper inside with neat black print on crisp white.
I’m a big fan of your work. You should investigate ZAT Systems. Specifically, the Darwin Project. But be careful, they won’t take it lying down.
Millie read it twice, then checked again inside the envelope. "Is that it?"
Kevin took the sheet. "Is it an anonymous tip?"
"ZAT are hardly an unexpected target. I mean, what’s not dodgy about an arms manufacturer?"
"Is that what they do? I haven’t heard of them."
"They’re one of the largest tech companies headquartered in London. Their CEO’s written a best-selling book. I thought everyone knew who they were."
Kevin shrugged. "What about the Darwin Project bit?"
Millie scratched her nose. "Without knowing who this woman was, it’s hard to assess if it’s worth any time."
"So what do you do now?"
"I’ll create a deep-net trawler, build a result matrix, look for the connections and patterns. If I get nothing then I’ll adjust parameters and run it again. It’s a bit like treasure hunting with a metal detector."
"So is this, like, a ‘Big Data’ thing?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What would you know about that?"
Kevin shrugged. "I watched a bunch of YouTube videos. I didn’t find it persuasive that we could solve the world’s biggest problems with a spreadsheet. I figure it’s complete nonsense. Like astrology."
"I don’t know about astrology, but Big Data is the real deal – they should teach it at school, except the government is twenty years behind in setting the curriculum. Although to be fair, until recently we didn’t have the right tools for the job - whether it was sufficiently complex mathematical models or powerful enough computers, let alone the raw data itself. Now the world has changed."
Kevin puffed out his cheeks. "Whatever you say."
Millie smiled. "Researchers were provided with the engineering data for all British Navy vessels. That included all engine and ship systems performance metrics, all service reports, all maintenance and repair reports. They were able to anticipate, with 93% accuracy, where undetected part failures were most likely to occur. That meant they could perform pre-emptive maintenance, which was on average 68% lower in cost. The study also looked into the Navy’s supply chain. Over 10,000 companies were part of its ship-building programme. From that data they predicted with 87% accuracy whether suppliers were likely to default on their contract obligations, which meant they could be proactive and ensure they had alternates ready to step-in."
"So?"
"So they saved a great deal of money."
Kevin frowned. "Isn’t this all rather subjective? And it’s just one example, based on one data sample."
"Quite the reverse. It’s entirely objective. Also - and I can’t stress this point enough - it’s not a sample. That’s the point of Big Data – it’s everything. It’s like a RAW image in photography: you can take it and re-analyse it in any way you want. It’s not about specifics at the individual level: it’s about how, once you aggregate, useful patterns start to emerge." She paused. "Well, sometimes. Sometimes it’s nothing, but sometimes you strike gold." She glanced at the envelope. "Maybe you’ve set me on a path of discovery with this after all."
"Glad to be of service."
She smiled and pulled a five pound note from her pocket, placing it on the table in front of Kevin.
"What’s that for?"
"I don’t know about you, but I’m going to need another donut."
Sixteen
Jenson walked over, extending his hand to the woman in the reception area. She held a black leather folio in one hand, her eyes flicking around behind her plastic-rimmed glasses, as if she was recording everything.
"If MI5 had told us you were coming," he said, "we could have put on a welcome party."
She returned his handshake. "Our audit team don’t want the welcome party. We want to see things as they are every day."
He gestured towards the internal security gate. "Of course. But haven’t we already passed your site audit?"
"Despite what Mr. Saxton may have said, we’re not restarting this project without a fresh review of your security systems. This shouldn’t come as a surprise."
Jenson nodded to the security guard, who snapped to attention and opened the gate. They stepped through into a large foyer lined with banks of lifts. "I only ask because this building has over two thousand rooms, and a complex, layered security system. It might take you several weeks to review every element properly. And of course we’ll need to escort you throughout your visit."
"That won’t be necessary. In fact it will probably hinder my work."
"Well that’s unfortunate, but neither our insurance nor our contracts with third parties permit an unsupervised visitor in the premises: it’s part of our security protocol." He tipped his head. "It’s also stated in the contract."
The woman adjusted her glasses. "Very well. I’m going to need full access to your physical and electronic security: everything relevant or potentially relevant to the project."
Jenson nodded. "I hope you’re ready to be impressed."
"I’m holding my breath."
Three hours later the woman emerged from the ZAT building, and crossed the street. A black cab pulled up alongside her. Without speaking to the driver, she got in and they sped away. The driver reached back over his shoulder and handed her a mobile ph
one, then closed the privacy screen. The woman removed her wig, peeled off her fake eyebrows, then held the phone to her ear and spoke, her accent shifting. "I’ve just completed my review."
"Any issues with Jenson?" replied the familiar metallic voice.
"None that I observed. He just seemed keen to show everything in the best light."
"What about Saxton?"
"The seed was planted. I expect he’ll be taking steps shortly. I’ll have the write-up to you in a couple of hours, but I thought you’d like the highlights immediately. The place is a fortress. It would be easier to hit a Las Vegas casino. I’ll start investigating contingencies when I return to the office."
"Keep me posted."
The woman clicked the phone off.
Jenson watched the woman with the black folio drive away. She had seemed rather too intense to be a government employee, but his people had run detailed background checks on her the moment she’d announced herself at reception and she had checked out. Despite her attempt at a poker face, he was pretty sure the inspection had gone well. It was one problem off the list. But there were plenty more to deal with.
He pulled out his phone but it rang before he could dial. He frowned at the screen. A withheld number? With a mutter, he declined the call. Nobody who had his number would withhold their own.
The phone rang again.
This time it was his daughter’s mobile. He answered quickly. "I’m sorry, Teresa, but I can’t talk now—"
"Sorry to disappoint you, Greg," said a female voice with a faintly Venezuelan accent. "I needed you to answer this time."
Jenson’s mind span. He knew the voice. "Regina? How, have you got…" He shivered. "What have you done with my daughter?"
"I’ve no idea where the lovely Teresa is. I just got my people to hack your phone to mis-display the caller."
"That’s impossible."
"I have a contact in the manufacturer’s R&D team, who got me their master codes. The ones they swear do not exist. Now, I just want to discuss some business."
"You know I cannot."
"Come on. Are we not friends?"
"We were friends. Times have changed."
"Make time. For me."
Jenson shook his head. "When and where?"
Seventeen
The Mercedes SL600 picked Michael up from in front of Infinity Law’s offices at exactly midday, providing a welcome break from a morning spent reviewing documents relating to their client’s proposed business sale. The roads were busy, but the driver seemed to have the uncanny ability to predict the best route. In what felt like no time, Michael found himself standing outside a historic private club located just off Piccadilly.
He was greeted by a porter, and was whisked through a security check, up several floors in an express lift, then along an opulent hallway to a spacious dining room. In the corner, on a dais raised up above the other tables, sat a grey-haired figure, unmistakable from his photograph. Wearing his trademark wood-rimmed glasses, Maxwell Errington rose to his feet and waved.
Michael shook the older man’s hand. "It’s very kind of you to invite me for lunch."
"It’s my pleasure. I try to have a chat with all our new joiners. In the old days I would have been involved in your recruitment. But time moves on." Errington sat down and beckoned that Michael should as well.
Michael gazed out of the large window next to them, looking across scattered rooftops to Green Park in the distance. A waiter appeared and opened a bottle of red wine, then filled their glasses.
"How’s your first day going?" Errington asked.
Michael shrugged. "I’ve been straight into some client work. Kara gave me—"
"Ah yes, Ms Simmons. Now there’s a fire-cracker." He gave a half wink. "You’d be wise to keep a close eye on her."
Michael swallowed. "Of course. I’m going to be primarily working for her for the first few months. At least that was what Duncan said at the interview."
"And how did you like the island?" Errington cleared his throat. "My island, that is."
"It’s quite a weapon to have in your armory."
"Never regretted buying it. Particularly since I paid an obscenely low price. But then I had leverage over the seller." He picked up a menu. "Always a good thing to have."
"I’ll remember that."
"You should. It’s what Infinity does best. It’s what makes my firm different." Errington cleared his throat. "Of course it's not really my firm anymore, as Duncan keeps reminding me. But I like to keep my eye on things." He picked up his glass. "Your good health."
Michael raised his own glass. "Pardon me, but what do you mean, it’s not your firm? Aren’t you the Senior Partner?"
"Duncan is Managing Partner: he runs the firm. The Senior Partner is more of a figurehead – a friendly old consultant they wheel out for important clients to reassure them there’s been no change in approach. Which is ironic, because change is why clients need us." Errington snorted. "Now let’s eat. You OK if I order for both of us?"
The meal was scheduled for six courses, so after the main dish of marinated veal they took a breather. Errington sat back in his chair. "I’ve read your CV. Useful to see how you describe yourself. Of course we don’t stop there - we like to know everything about our team."
"I believe you. Duncan showed me the report."
Errington smiled. "That little stunt. It's supposed to intimidate you." He paused. "Did it?"
Michael shrugged. "The firm's reputation precedes it. I was expecting the unexpected."
Errington nodded. "Good. Now I hear you’re something of an expert in this technological nonsense that is apparently taking over the world."
Michael shrugged. "It’s my father who was in computers. I just picked a little of it up."
"Was? What does he do now?"
"He died when I was a boy." Michael paused. "I expect that was in the file."
Errington didn’t blink. "One of our biggest challenges is that there is too much information to process and remember. But I’ve no doubt your father would be proud of you now. Our firm’s reputation is second to none, even if relatively few know we exist."
"Your reputation may be more widespread than you realise."
Errington’s eyes crinkled into a smile. "They do say there's no such thing as bad publicity. Of course it's all nonsense spread by that confounded interweb thing. I keep hoping the fad will pass."
Michael coughed. "I think you’re swimming against a tidal wave."
Errington sat back in his chair, his eyebrow rising slightly.
"What I mean is that everything in business involves technology now: every modern company is built on it. If you can't talk tech, you can't talk business."
"You’ve been here five minutes, and already you’re telling me what to do." Errington gave a smile. "I think you will fit in here very well. Very well indeed."
The waiter returned and reached to replace a bottle of mineral water, but caught Errington’s glass with his cuff and sent it tumbling into his lap.
The Senior Partner’s look would have sunk a battleship. "You idiot!"
"I’m so very sorry, Sir. I’ll get—"
Errington waved him off, wiping his trousers with a spare napkin. "Just bring the next course." The waiter nodded and vanished into the kitchen, at which point Errington signaled curtly to the restaurant manager. He continued dabbing at his trousers without looking up when the man arrived next to the table. "If I see that waiter again, I will terminate my membership. Do I make myself clear?"
The man nodded immediately. "We appreciate your patience and understanding." He vanished into the kitchen.
Errington tapped his glasses. "Let that be a lesson. If you have a motivated supplier, use it to your advantage. I expect people who do things for me to do the very best they can. Every time. Getting rid of a man like that is a service to this club and its members." He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing, all hint of a smile gone. "This is a tough world we live in. And our business is
to navigate one of the toughest parts. You need to be ready to make the right decision on a moment’s notice."
"And that justifies things like this?" Michael asked. "It was just a glass of water."
Errington snorted. "You can be more subtle, if you have the art. Show people what you want them to see. If I turn up in a stretch limo then I don't just want to get from A to B. I want you to see the limo and me, at that moment. Everything we do should happen for a reason."
"Like what just happened with the glass of water?" Michael folded his arms. "Perhaps you staged that situation just to get a reaction out of me."
Errington stared at him for several seconds. "You are the first associate that’s ever said that."
"Am I right?"
"What matters is that you thought of the possibility." He raised his glass. "Welcome to Infinity."
Michael raised his own glass, then heard a soft chiming.
Errington pulled a mobile phone from his pocket. He listened briefly to someone at the other end, then clicked it off. "It’s Kara. That client meeting you have tomorrow has been brought forward. It’s happening now."
Michael hesitated.
"Your mother’s a psychiatrist, isn’t she?" Errington said.
Michael frowned at the non sequitur. "She’s retired, but yes."
"And she wrote a book – ‘I Can Make You Do Anything’, wasn’t it?"
"That’s right. Why do you—"
"While you work at Infinity you’d do well to remember that’s exactly what we expect of you – anything and everything. If someone needs you for client work then, unless you’re dead, you jump." Errington gestured to the exit. "So, jump."