by Tony Batton
And yet this was where he had signed-in then been whisked to the top floor to meet with Morton and his colleagues. With a sigh he saw that the lifts were out of use. He moved to the staircase and began climbing, his leather shoes echoing on the concrete steps. Only slightly out of breath, he reached the eighth floor and emerged into another lobby.
He remembered the view from the windows to his left. But the entire space had been stripped out. Buckled aluminium and cracked plasterboard were piled at one end. Overhead, the air-conditioning and lighting systems hung exposed. Of Kinek there was no trace. Saxton swore and kicked at a broken ceiling tile on the floor.
There was the shrill sound of a mobile phone ringing, but it was not his. He looked around and saw it sitting on a stack of wooden doors, then walked over and answered it. A woman’s voice, soft and faintly metallic, echoed in his ear.
"Hello, Warwick."
"What is going on? Who is this?"
"My name is Marcia. I run what you know as Kinek."
Saxton walked around the floor, double-checking he really was alone.
"I presumed it was already obvious that we aren’t what we appeared to be."
"Then what is Kinek?" Saxton reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black credit-card sized object.
"We’re an organisation that changes things. With the help of our network of friends. And that includes you."
"Well that friendship ends right now."
"Don’t be so hasty—"
"Why on earth would I have anything more to do with you?" Saxton held the black object up to the phone: it clipped on magnetically.
"I can be very persuasive."
"If you think you can blackmail me, you have another thing coming—"
"Let’s try to keep things civil." She paused. "Also your tracer isn’t going to work."
"You can see me?" He jerked his head around, but could see no obvious camera.
"I can do lots of things. Not all of them will be things you want to happen. You’re going to have to learn that even on your best day you’re always going to be a step behind. Now, we need you to do something."
The black credit-card sized object beeped an error code. Saxton pulled it off the phone and glared at it. "Why should I believe anything you’ve just said?"
"We’ve conducted classified investigations for you over the last eighteen months, and yet you had no idea who we are. I think when we ask you for something, you’d be wise to take us seriously. Now throw the phone away."
Saxton blinked. "Why?"
"Because there’s some proprietary technology in there I’d rather you didn’t get to dissect. And also because you don't want it in your hand when it explodes."
"Oh really—" Saxton noticed the handset was feeling very warm. Swearing, he threw it across the room. There was a bang and a flash, and bits of plastic flew in every direction. Not a big explosion. But enough to make a point.
Saxton clenched his hands. He hadn’t achieved his current rank by being pushed around. Kinek seemed to hold all the cards, but it was time to change that.
Twenty-Five
It was 10:00pm when Michael walked into the lounge and found Eve watching the BBC News Channel. In her hand was a very large glass of wine.
"So this is what you signed up for?" she said, tapping her watch to indicate how late it was.
"It was my first day. Did you really think it would be a short one?" He poured himself a glass of wine and sat next to her. "What’s new?"
"Not much." She sipped from her glass. "Your mother called."
"I have given her my mobile number, like a dozen times." Michael replied. "What did she want?"
"To invite you for dinner tomorrow. Actually she asked me as well, but fortunately I’ll be on shift. Please tell me you had fun with your new job."
"I got taken out for lunch by none other than Maxwell Errington."
"The founder? I thought he’d retired."
"Semi-retired." Michael paused. "How did you know his name?"
"It’s amazing what you can dig up if you know how to Google. For example, what about your actual boss? Kara Simmons, isn’t it? She went to Fiji with you, didn’t she?" Eve turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "I found her profile photo. Quite a knockout, wouldn’t you say?"
Michael hesitated. "Some might say that. "
"And you?"
"I'd say that I work for her."
"Well I don't like it, some other woman able to order you around. That's supposed to be my thing."
"You wish."
"And the work? What have they got you doing?"
He coughed. "I can’t talk about it."
"Ha." She paused. "Wait, you're serious? At your last job, you told me about that secret tube station they uncovered."
"That was different. And it had already become public."
"I tell you about my work."
"Maybe you shouldn't."
"Whatever." She pointed at his new laptop bag. "New computer?"
"Company issue. Bit of a rocket ship."
"Let’s see then." She patted her lap.
"Look, I’m sorry. They made me sign a specific NDA, so I can’t show you anything—"
"Grief, I was only pretending to be interested." She turned back to the television, cradling her glass of wine.
Michael sighed. "And how was your day?"
Eve frowned. "Very, very long, and equally frustrating."
He leaned forward. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Maybe I’m not allowed to."
"Don’t be like that."
She puffed out her cheeks. "I don't think I'm going to get my preferred option on the next rotation – don't think I've been savvy enough with the politics. Other people seem to know who to speak to."
"You're the best in your group. They should give you whatever position you ask for, and be grateful."
She snorted. "You're biased. Look, let's forget about all this." She held up the bottle of wine. "Another glass?"
Michael groaned. "I really want to. But I've got some work to finish for tomorrow."
She rolled her eyes again. "I’m going to have a bath." She refilled her glass and walked from the room.
Michael reached for his new laptop. It was only 10:30pm. He could easily squeeze in a productive three hours.
Twenty-Six
The apartment block was only two years old, built to a price, not a specification. From the outside it was stylish and harmonious with the other buildings. Inside things were more basic. The elevators were unreliable, the rooms were small and the fittings were of minimal quality. But the location was excellent and, at the asking price, Millie Wright had jumped at the chance to climb onto the property ladder. A place to call her own: a base while her plans to become rich and infamous took shape.
But three years on she was still doing the same job, and her blog was still not making money: it was hard to monetise when you had to stay anonymous. Should she think about a change of plan, perhaps look for more consulting work? In the past that had proved lucrative when she’d been prepared to ‘hold her nose’ with regard to who she worked with.
Distracted and hungry, Millie rummaged for the last slice of her seafood-special pizza, sliding it onto a chipped dinner plate. She threw the box into the corner and turned back to her five computer screens.
Her analysis of ZAT’s IT systems had been frustrating and, so far, almost fruitless. The firm had a wall of steel around its technology infrastructure. Their systems were completely non-standard, not just avoiding commonly used protocols, but even the uncommon ones. Of course given the sensitivity of what they did, it was hardly surprising. The company was a high-profile target for conspiracy theorists, but her path had crossed theirs more directly not long ago.
There was a knock at the door. Millie blinked up at the clock – it showed nearly 11:00pm – then walked along the hallway to the front door. "Who is it?" she called.
"DHL," a muffled voice replied.
She frowned
and peered through the peep hole. A uniformed youth stood holding a large package. "Do you normally call this late?" she asked through the letterbox.
"There’s been a mix up at the depot and we’re trying to clear the backlog."
"Can I see some ID?"
The guy yawned and pulled a plastic card from his belt. It had a very bored-looking photo on it. She unchained the door then pulled it open.
"Sorry to disturb you so late," he muttered, sounding more sorry for himself than for her. He handed her the box and walked off.
"Don’t you need me to sign anything?" she called.
"Nah, I’ll just scrawl something on the paperwork." He vanished into the lift.
Millie stepped back inside, kicking the door closed, and walked into her office. The box was about the size of an airline carry-on bag. It was wrapped, rather messily, in brown parcel tape, and was dotted with several ‘FRAGILE’ and ‘URGENT’ stickers.
She had not ordered anything. Was it a mistake? With a sigh she ripped through the tape with her keys. Pulling aside brown paper, polystyrene chips and bubble wrap, she eventually got to the contents. And whistled.
It was a laptop computer. She rummaged further in the box and pulled out a single printed sheet of paper. It said the package had come to her as the result of an eBay transaction. But there were no details as to the vendor. Millie carefully lifted the laptop out and placed it on her desk. It had an odd design, even compared to her custom-built effort. And it looked old: practically an antique in computer terms. The case was shiny black, but scratched in several places, with a couple of stickers from what seemed to be fruit packaging plastered to it. And then one other sticker. Faded and peeling badly, but unmistakable. ZAT Systems.
Millie felt her mouth go dry. Had the anonymous tipster sent it?
She cracked her knuckles then looked disappointedly at her empty coffee cup. With a mutter, she padded into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle. If you were going to analyse a top-secret computer, a hot cup of coffee was definitely a requirement.
Twenty-Seven
Warwick Saxton nodded to his security detail and set off across the meadows behind his country house, keeping his dog on his lead for now because there were a couple of horses in an enclosure at one side of the field who wouldn’t appreciate the canine attention. The weather was calm and clear, but the last twelve hours had been anything but – one-long series of conference calls about the attempted kidnapping of Gregory Jenson’s daughter.
The six kidnappers were dead, struck by explosive shells. Who had fired them, and how, had so far baffled his forensic team. Also alarming was the fact that Jenson had attempted to rescue Teresa himself. And as for who might have been behind the kidnapping, Jenson had insisted he had no idea. That made Saxton instantly suspicious. Jenson was a rich, powerful man. He had to have some clue who his enemies were. And if he wanted to protect his daughter, surely he would share what he knew?
So many questions, but few answers. If only Project Parallel was functional, he could ask the system why someone would kidnap Jenson’s daughter. Could it just be about money? There were easier, richer targets to strike. For technology, or information? Jenson had refused to be drawn into speculation.
Saxton closed his eyes and thought hard. Had he mis-read the entire situation? Were the kidnappers killed by a team Jenson had been operating? If so, what should he do about it? Jenson was ZAT. Without him, Project Parallel would be critically impacted. MI5 could not afford that.
Saxton crossed into the next field and saw another dog walker throwing a ball.
He had heard nothing further from Kinek, but he knew it was only a matter of time. He was close to raising the matter with Charlotte Rostrum, at which point he might as well put his neck on a block and hand her an axe. But what else could he do? There were few people he trusted in MI5. Everyone disclosed everything now, lest they be found in breach of policy. Of course there was one person he could contact, one who undoubtedly could help. But that would require an apology. Plus he was pretty sure it would be laughed at.
He bent down and let his dog off the lead, watching him tear across the field and began chasing the other dog, a chocolate Labrador. He made his way over, waving at the other owner. As he got closer, he froze.
"Good evening, Mr Saxton," said Morton. "I know your security detail is watching, so act like I’m someone you know."
"You are someone I know. Is there any reason I shouldn’t have you arrested right now?"
"Because I have some information to give to you."
"I’m sure the demands will follow."
Morton nodded. "Kinek is a business, though one that few know exists. That is one reason behind our success. You’ve had first-hand demonstration of our capabilities. Our skills are in demand. To be blunt, you are not our only client, and sometimes two clients’ interests come into conflict."
"So who gets priority?"
"An excellent question. We weigh up the benefits. It’s quite mathematical, largely dispassionate. It is, as economists would say, efficient."
"What does this have to do with me?"
"You know of the failed attempt to kidnap the daughter of Gregory Jenson?" Morton reached into a pocket and removed a small tablet computer. He unlocked it and handed it across.
Saxton stared at the screen. It showed a camera recording overlaid with streams of data. A slender figure stood inside what looked like a barn, surrounded by large armed men. She lunged, throwing herself to the ground. Then the men seemed to… explode. "Is this—"
"The barn where she was held? Yes, it is." The footage ended then started again from a different angle. "You’re watching a high-tech weapons attack. A weapon described by its manufacturer as a micro-drone."
Saxton felt an icy trickle run down his back. "I’m not aware of such a product."
"A British manufacturer had one in development. But then you know that."
"It wasn’t… it isn’t functional."
"So you say," Morton pointed at the screen, "yet the evidence to the contrary is compelling."
"How on earth do you have this? Were you watching the school? Were you part of the attack? You must have known this was coming."
"We are experts at accessing data."
"So why are you showing me this? It’s his daughter, for goodness sake! Do you have a child, Morton? If what you’re showing me is right, surely you can understand why he did what he did."
"Understanding it doesn’t make it legal."
Saxton swore, handing the tablet back to Morton.
"We can trace the drones back to fully functional units built by ZAT."
"Then what do you want from me?"
"Arrest Jenson."
"Why?"
"We have our reasons."
"The interests of other clients?" Saxton hissed. "You seem to have this all figured out."
"We realise this is a big decision, so we'll give you a little time to think it over. Twenty-four hours. After that we’ll give this material to the press, and make it perfectly clear that you sat on it."
Saxton’s eyes flashed. "Actually I can give you my decision right now." He whistled sharply and his dog ran straight over. He knelt down and reattached his lead. "I don’t care who you think you are, but I will not be manipulated in this way." He whistled again, but differently. A complicated three tone sound.
From four different locations, men in combat gear broke cover, automatic weapons drawn. They advanced swiftly on the two dog walkers.
Morton looked at them, shrugged, and raised his hands. "This is unfortunate."
Saxton nodded to the men. "Cuff him." He turned back to Morton. "Your methods might have worked on other… clients, but I will not be intimidated. In my experience whenever someone claims to know everything, it isn’t true."
Morton held out his wrists and the handcuffs were clicked into place. "We can discuss things further next time."
"There won’t be a next time." Saxton nodded to the men, watching as they
grabbed Morton by the shoulders and propelled him towards the armour-clad van that had just pulled into view.
Twenty-Eight
Michael’s mother, Nina, lived two hours’ drive west of London, in a quiet village in the Cotswolds. Michael skipped lunch to get away from work by six. The traffic was only mildly terrible, so he just managed to make it by eight.
Nina welcomed him with a stiff hug and a distracted smile just visible behind the oversized glasses she now favoured, but which made her eyes look disturbingly large. She beckoned him into the house they had shared with his father. It was too big for her now, but she had shown no inclination to move.
Dinner was two fancy micro-waved meals: herb marinated lamb shanks and kumara mash. His mother had never been the most enthusiastic of cooks. Their conversation skipped over lightweight matters: life in the village, her garden, her upcoming ten-day visit to Sydney, followed by ten days hopping around some Pacific Islands. She was out of the country maybe one week in four nowadays. He still couldn’t understand why an ambitious professor of psychology, author of the controversial book I Can Make You Do Anything, had left her professional life behind. But then so much had changed since his father died.
After they’d eaten, they settled in the lounge on fading but comfortable sofas.
"Eve too busy to come see me?" Nina asked as she poured coffee.
"She’s not my girlfriend, Mum. Plus you know what it’s like as a junior doctor. I hardly see her myself."
"I’m worried about you two, the hours you both work. When are you ever going to find time to start a family?"
"Give up, won’t you?"
"Neither of you are getting any younger. Or are you both going to be slaves to your careers?"
"We both want to make our mark." Michael took a deep breath. "Speaking of careers, I’ve just started a new job."
Nina looked up, puzzled. "You only just joined the last place."
"I was there four years."
"Doesn’t time fly." She sipped from her cup.