by Tony Batton
"Interesting." Saxton opened his eyes. "You actually trust me."
Busby’s mouth curled into a smile. "No more than you should trust me. But you and I have been round the block enough that I feel you deserve a fair hearing. We all play politics, even if we’re not politicians. All maneuvering, jostling for position, trying to predict what will happen next."
"Thank you."
"Don’t mention it." Busby glanced around. "Seriously, don’t. No need to encourage those seeking to end the old boys’ network."
"The very idea that maintaining human connections is bad makes me angry. Especially when computer connections are rapidly consuming all." Saxton shook his head. "What are you going to want for this show of support?"
Busby started to examine the strings of his racquet. "Hadn’t even crossed my mind. But since you ask, if you do ever get this thing built, I would certainly like to be near the front of the queue to use it."
"I’ll bear that in mind."
Forty-Nine
In the opulent lounge of the Cunard Hotel, just off Embankment, Morton pushed away his half-finished cup of mint tea and checked his Breitling chronograph. He was due on site in exactly one hour, which meant there was protocol to follow, and Morton always followed protocol.
He slipped out of the hotel lobby onto the street and looked left and right, before jumping into the black cab at the front of the taxi rank, asking for Kings Cross Station. But eight hundred metres later, he asked the irritated driver to let him out. He promptly crossed the road and caught the double-decker H92 bus north-west towards Hyde Park. He took a seat on the top floor at the rear. All the time his eyes were scanning around him, the high viewpoint meaning he could follow the traffic in every direction. The constant bus stops made it very difficult for any vehicle to follow him unobtrusively.
At Green Park he exited the bus and descended into the underpass, as if he were entering the Tube Station, but he strolled through and climbed the stairs to emerge on the other side of the road. From there he made his way north. After two hundred metres, he turned sharply into a side street and arrived at a grey four-storey office block. He paused, looking behind him; still nobody seemed to be following.
An array of brass plaques next to the front door proclaimed that each floor was home to a different business. There was no obvious external security. There were two travel agencies, the representative office of an overseas bank, and a technology start-up that, from what Morton had seen, looked like it might be about to stop. Typical London office space. Except it was not.
He walked through the door and nodded to the bored-looking security guard, then glanced up at the six high-definition CCTV cameras that he knew were trained on him, even though none was visible. This was the final check. If there was anything about him that they didn’t like then he would get no further.
But a soft tone sounded from somewhere and the guard nodded over his shoulder. Morton walked towards a door as it swung inwards. Behind it was a short corridor that ended at a lift, its doors open. He stepped inside and it whisked him downwards. Way down.
Morton stepped from the lift into a throng of activity. People flowed around him, their images reflected translucently in the polished marble floors, all going somewhere with a purpose. There were a few nods of acknowledgement, mostly deferential, but nobody stopped to speak. There was too much going on. Normally he would go and check on the main floor, but right now he needed guidance, so he turned away from the crowds towards a door bracketed by two security guards, though the booth's automated systems were more than sufficient to deny entry to any who weren’t fully authorised.
He placed his hand on the flat panel next to the door. It read his palm. A small optical device scanned his face, then narrowed to a tight beam and focussed on his left eye, confirming a retinal match. That got the door open.
Morton stepped inside. The booth was clad in panels intended to baffle audio and electromagnetic frequencies; once the door was closed there could be no form of eavesdropping. It held a single desk and chair, and three viewing screens. He watched the door hiss shut then he took his place. As he sunk into the imitation leather there were soft beeps and percussive tones as it checked his weight and measured the dimensions of his impression in the upholstery. DNA analysis was likely next year, but currently the process was too slow. And business at Kinek could never wait.
"IDENTIFY," said a mechanical voice that seemed to emanate from the air.
"Morton. Director, London Office," he replied, in crisp tones. There was a brief pause, then the screens in front of him flickered into life. A single word appeared: READY? "Initiate," he said. There was only one person he would be calling from the booth, and she answered immediately.
"This is Marcia. How can I be of assistance?" As always her voice was soft and faintly metallic. Morton assumed the signal must be routed through a considerable maze of electronics and telecoms. It had to be untraceable. A web within a web. Kinek’s operations were too important to be risked in any way.
"I trust I find you well. Thank you for arranging my release from custody."
"We could hardly leave you there to fester. What did you want to discuss?"
"The new client request."
"Regina Rose? I noted that on the update list. Didn't the system recommend to proceed?"
"I'm proposing we reconsider."
"On what basis? The system has obviously vetted her."
"I reviewed the reports and there are a number of unknowns. Gaps in our knowledge. I’d suggest she has the means to cause us... inconvenience. Discomfort even."
"So you’d have us say no and hang Maxwell Errington out to dry? One of our most trusted partners?"
Morton cleared his throat. "You’re saying we should give Rose what she wants?"
"We just give her information. She still has to choose what to do next. Morton, we are all just cogs in the machine. You may not know why you are doing some of this. I may not either. It’s not for us to try to spot patterns: that’s what the system does, on behalf of the Board. It is all part of the plan."
"So what do you want me to do?"
"Send Cortez."
Morton swallowed. "I will afford her my full support."
"Thank you. The Board continues to value your management of the London office. You are a credit to our operation."
"I am delighted to hear that. Thank you for your ongoing support."
Morton remained in the seat for several minutes after the call disconnected. Something felt wrong. Previously when he had made a recommendation, Marcia always considered it. Kinek’s network of offices, each with their own specially-constructed computers, could draw sense from the oceans of information available. But while these artificial minds could spot patterns, the human element was fundamental. There had to be checks and balances: the final decision could never be passed off to a system.
So what had changed? Why had Marcia been so quick to dismiss him? Why had she deployed an operative in London who didn’t report through Morton? Had he lost faith in what they were doing here?
He caught himself. This wasn’t a question of faith. The system didn’t work because of belief. It worked because of data.
Morton left the booth and walked towards the main floor. Under warm artificial light a hundred operatives sat at the rows of terminals, their heads bowed in concentration. He knew they would be processing questions, analysing options and making recommendations. These recommendations were passed to him and, after adding his own commentary, he shared them with Marcia and the Board. That was how the system worked. But was it working as it should?
At the rear of the room was a large airlock door. Morton walked up to it and went through the same security process he followed to gain access to the booth. With soft tones the door swung inwards and he stepped through into a much smaller room, allowing the metal panel to close automatically behind him. The hum of human activity vanished, replaced by the gentle vibration of cooling fans. In front of him stood the many cabinets that housed the
Kinek London system: the platform which drove their business.
All the lights were green.
He walked over to a terminal and queried the performance log. It flashed up on the screen and he smiled. The system was working normally.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Obviously any errors made had been human. Perhaps if he had a bit more faith, he wouldn’t doubt it.
Fifty
The file on Millie Wright had been prepared by an external agency, although there was no record of the company’s name. A log of her movements showed that she typically had an early breakfast at the same café: an independent, owner-operated place, not part of a national chain. It was rumoured to serve the best cappuccino in south London. At 6am, Michael found the prospect more than a little persuasive.
He saw Millie the moment he walked in. She was ensconced in a corner booth, with coffee and pastries and an odd-looking laptop. He queued for a cappuccino, then walked over to her table. She looked up as he approached, eyes narrowing.
"Good morning," he said. "Mind if I sit for a moment?"
She smiled broadly. "And there was I, getting all lonely."
"There's a matter I'd like to discuss. To our mutual advantage."
"No thanks."
Michael reached into his pocket and withdrew his Infinity Law business card, placing it on the table. "This will only take a moment."
She glanced at the card. "Somehow I doubt that. What’s this about?"
He sat, placing his coffee next to hers. "Nice café."
"Clearly I come here too often. Have you been following me?"
"No."
"If this is a job offer, I’m not interested."
"It’s not a job offer. We want you to stop your inappropriate investigations of one of our clients, ZAT Systems."
She tapped her lips. "Name doesn’t ring a bell."
"Very funny. But this is not a joke."
"So you work for an arms manufacturer?"
"I don’t work for them. They’re a client."
"The kind of client you want? They, quite literally, kill people. They make smoking guns."
"Alcohol kills people. Cars kill people. Fast food kills people."
"Look, my point is, they’re hardly a surprising target for someone like me. And you talking to me makes it seem all the more likely that they have something to hide that should be public knowledge. Why else hire an expensive lawyer?"
"Perhaps to defend their right to carry on business without disruption."
"It's a free country."
"That doesn’t mean you can flout its laws. For example, the Computer Misuse Act."
"What exactly do you think I’ve done?"
"You’ve been attempting a hack. We have evidence."
"Look, no offence, but if your firm had anything of substance they would have sent somebody more important than you. Besides, what are you going to do? Sue me?"
"Well, yes. That is exactly what we’re going to do. That and pass our files on to the police. This is a very serious matter, and my firm will get to the truth. It always does."
She laughed. "I've heard that about a few organisations recently. But it's what you decide to do with that truth that matters."
"You have to stop what you’re doing or we will take steps."
She looked at him. "You don’t want to threaten me. Really you don’t. Now I think your moment is over. Go and lawyer somewhere else."
Michael stood up. "Just because you know stuff about computers, you think you own the world."
"I know quite a lot about computers. And – newsflash – computers run the world. It’s not something that’s going to change. The old world, including you lawyers, is going to get left behind."
"Nobody knows what’s going to happen. Nobody can predict that."
"Your father tell you that?"
"My mother actually." Michael took a deep breath. "I don't know why you’re not taking this seriously."
"Maybe I’m just not taking you seriously." She finished her coffee. "And maybe you should read some of what I’ve written: it’s all on my blog. If you want to speak again, you know where I'll be every weekday morning." She stood up and packed her laptop into her bag. "Enjoy your day."
Fifty-One
Regina Rose stood on the deck of the Evolution, cursing the name of Maxwell Errington. Nobody from Kinek had responded to the messages she had sent. Meanwhile her buyer had been calling for updates. Rose wasn’t sure how much longer she could stall. Had Errington been wasting her time with this recommendation? She looked around for somebody to shout at, but her crew members were wisely keeping their distance. Muttering, she stomped across the deck and into her private quarters.
A stranger stood waiting for her. The woman wore plastic-rimmed glasses and a grey business suit. Her long hair was pinned back, her expression flat. Rose began turning, ready to run.
"I wouldn’t do that," the woman said, adjusting her glasses. She carried a leather briefcase in one hand.
Rose hesitated. "You should know, friend, that I have ten armed men on deck."
"To be honest I expected more. But they’re on deck, while I am here."
"And what are you here to do?"
The woman tapped her briefcase. "My name is Cortez, and I’m here to discuss your request for assistance."
Rose’s eyes narrowed. "You’re from Kinek? How did you get on board?"
"We never divulge secrets we aren’t being paid to divulge. And let’s not waste time arguing about it. Let’s focus on what’s going to happen next."
Rose ground her teeth. "You could be here to kill me."
"If I were, you’d be dead already. I’m here to do business. Are you?"
"I’m still a little unclear on what exactly your organisation does."
Cortez raised an eyebrow. "We do many things, Ms Rose. We advise in unique situations. We’re like a consultancy of last resort. I can't go into specific examples – each client’s projects are necessarily confidential – but if I was to express it in a few words, I’d say that we change minds."
"If you’re so effective, why have I never heard of you?"
"Because we keep a necessarily low profile. But we’ve heard of you, Ms Rose." Cortez placed her briefcase on the table and clicked it open. She removed the only item, a grey card folder, and slid it across the table to Rose then clicked the briefcase shut again. "We call these, rather unimaginatively, grey files. Have a read."
Rose opened it to the first page. It bore her name. Below was a short summary. Of her. She frowned, turning the pages, seeing more and more information that she had no idea had been collected.
"Call it a demonstration. You may not grasp who you are dealing with, but we certainly do."
"Did Max give you this?" Rose hesitated. "And how the hell did he—"
"Mr. Errington had no involvement in its sourcing."
Rose’s eyes flared. "Is this some kind of threat?"
"We’re just establishing credibility."
"Or you could be a government agent." Rose flicked her hand into her jacket pocket and removed the loaded automatic pistol she always carried there. "I think I’ve changed my mind."
Cortez’s eyes followed the movement of the gun, but she did not flinch. "Do you think I would be here if we thought you would simply shoot me?"
Rose pointed the gun at her head. "You have no idea what I will or won’t do."
"Actually our analysis is usually pretty reliable."
"Maybe you should challenge that perception." She shouted an order and two huge bodyguards burst through the door, clearly confused to see the woman standing there. "Take her below," Rose said. "Tie her up, while I consider what to do with her."
"Our analysis," said Cortez evenly, "suggested you would be slow to trust. Meaning a demonstration would be required." Then she moved.
The two bodyguards – both strong, highly trained men – never grasped what was happening. Compared to her, they fought in slow motio
n. She twisted and flexed, taking both their weapons from their hip holsters, then spinning and cracking the grips down on their temples. Both groaned and collapsed. Without hesitating, Cortez checked the guns, then twisted and pointed them at Rose.
She took a step back.
Cortez smiled, flipped the pistols in the air, caught them by the barrels, then placed them on Rose’s desk, before stepping back. "Assuming the question of trust has been resolved, shall we talk business?"
Rose swallowed. "Who the hell are you?"
"The woman who can help you get what you want from Gregory Jenson."
"He’s an old friend who seems to have forgotten his old friends."
"And you want to buy micro-drones from him."
Rose nodded. "I need both the drones and the full design schematics. My customer’s requirements will be ongoing and I can’t rely on ZAT to manufacture any more."
"At Kinek we connect people with the information they need to get stuff done. But that’s all we do. I understand you to be a do-er, though, so it shouldn’t be a problem."
"The last time someone locked horns with Jenson, he used the damn drones against them. What’s to prevent him doing so again?"
Cortez smiled. "Our brief will tell you everything you need to know. Now, we need to discuss our price."
Rose cracked her knuckles. "I suppose you are well aware of the market value of the drones,"
"We’re about to tell you how to steal them. What do you think?" She paused. "Our price comes in two parts. First there’s money. Then there’s a matter we need your help with."
Rose frowned. "You need my help?"
"While you’re on site, there’s something else we want you to obtain."
Fifty-Two
Eve was on a late shift, so when Michael arrived home he had the house to himself. He put his briefcase on the floor, kicked off his shoes, and quickly prepared a solo dinner of microwaved lasagna. Then he poured himself a glass of something red from a bottle Eve must have already opened, and settled onto the sofa to channel surf. But nothing on television really caught his attention, and his mind wandered back to his meeting with Millie. She had not appeared in the least concerned by anything he had said. He had expected an independent journalist would have been intimidated. Was she just naive? Somehow that didn’t feel right. Somehow he felt there must be more to her.