by Tony Batton
At his current location.
Now.
He looked up and saw a slim woman sitting on a bench facing the river. Unlike last time, she wore black Lycra running-gear and a padded jacket, along with a baseball cap pulled low, but he recognised the plastic-rimmed glasses.
She turned and smiled. "Good morning, Morton."
He walked towards her. "Cortez." He sat at the other end of the bench. "Why aren’t we following protocol? This location can’t be secure."
"Urgency dictates. And the area is clear for our purposes." She handed over a red file.
"I haven’t seen one of these in a while." Morton leafed through the document, his eyebrows starting to raise. "Maxwell Errington? You’re joking?"
"This order comes directly from Marcia. The prediction has been verified. Errington has become a liability."
"He’s been a reliable resource for years."
Cortez adjusted her glasses. "I’m not sure what you expect me to say. The Board has validated the strategy."
"And there are to be no warnings? No opportunity for him to correct?"
"That is not the plan. Experience indicates such warnings don’t work."
Morton closed the folder and handed it back to her. "I note I’m to speak with Saxton again. What if he just has me arrested? Again?"
"That is one mistake we predict he will have learned from."
"Let’s hope that proves accurate." He stood. "Have you met her? In person?"
"Who?"
"Marcia."
Cortez tipped her head to one side. "Why do you ask?"
"Given that you work directly for her, I wondered if—" He hesitated. "This all feels wrong."
"My purpose is not to make you feel right. My purpose is to deliver your instructions."
"And my purpose is to follow the truth. Isn’t that what we’re all supposed to do?"
Cortez straightened. "Are you suggesting I’m lying?"
"Is this to do with Project Green?"
"You need to remember the colour of the folder I’ve just given you."
Morton stared at her for several long moments, then nodded. "I will see it done."
Fifty-Nine
Millie put down the screwdriver and surveyed her handiwork. The main door of her apartment now featured a somewhat ugly addition - a heavy duty padlock latched through a reinforced hasp - the lock itself so new it squeaked - something she’d address once she had the correct type of lubricant. With a bit more time, she’d come up with something more elegant, especially if she engaged the services of a locksmith. For now her apartment was better protected, even if the modifications were not permitted under the building’s regulations - something she would worry about later. She had even tagged her high-value possessions with active tracers, disguised as radio station stickers, just to be on the safe side.
She put away her tools and returned to her office. Collapsing in her chair, she idly picked up the secure drive that Saxton had left, flipping it over in her hand. It felt dense, almost like what was stored on it was heavy, which the engineer in her knew was a ridiculous notion.
She couldn’t help being drawn to the challenge, but she hated the very idea of working with the establishment again. And yet she was stuck on her other projects.
Millie had looked back over her research into Craig Adams, re-reading the obituaries, reviewing the few photos she had located, and studying her notes on the rumours about Project Darwin. Craig had died in an explosion; a leak in a gas pipe in his private workshop, ignited by a tiny spark. There had been a full police investigation, which found that the leak had been created intentionally. There were traces of other chemicals at the scene, but nothing to raise any suspicion of foul play once they found the note. Of Craig there had been little to bury. He had been identified from dental records and trace DNA. She shook her head. What a way to lose your father.
Millie's phone vibrated with a message from an unknown number.
Need to speak with you now. It’s Michael. Don’t call my usual number: it’s not secure.
The message ended with the address of coffee shop about a mile away and she was pleased to note that he was using a burner phone. At least he wasn’t a complete idiot. She sent a quick reply, gathered her things, then closed the door and engaged the new padlock.
She waited an hour at the meeting spot, but Michael did not arrive. She sent several messages asking if there was a problem. There were no replies. Eventually she rang the number. An automated response informed her it was unobtainable. Millie stared at her phone. Was he just messing with her? It didn’t seem like his kind of behaviour at all.
And then it clicked. Someone wanted her out of her apartment.
In seconds she was outside, hailing a taxi.
Back outside her apartment, she gasped for breath, having run up three floors. The door was still closed, but as she turned her key in the padlock she noticed that it didn’t squeak as it had that morning. Swearing, she stuffed it into her pocket and ran inside, heading for her office, her gaze flicking around. Everything looked as orderly as she had left it. The secure drive hadn't been moved. Everything was there, except for one item.
Craig's laptop.
Millie growled. Whoever had taken it had known exactly what they were looking for.
Sixty
At 9:00am, after a remarkably quick drive through rush hour traffic from his mother’s house, Michael walked into Infinity’s main boardroom. Around the table sat Maxwell Errington, Duncan Nichol and Kara.
"Nice of you to join us," Kara said, raising an eyebrow.
"I’m sorry," Michael replied, "I was delayed—"
"No need for apologies," Errington said. "I’m sure you were working late into the night, analysing reports, spotting patterns, making use of all that wonderful technology and information we’ve given you."
"Can we please focus," Nichol said. "All I want to know is that we’re ready for the meeting with Saxton tomorrow."
"ZAT is my client," Errington replied. "I’ll say when we’re ready—"
"I would remind you, Max, that ZAT is the firm’s client. And we can’t afford to drop the ball on this."
"The analysis is almost complete. Kara, perhaps you’d like to share our findings?"
She nodded. "We’ve found a dozen similar examples where the government exercised discretion, reasonably or unreasonably, to end a major procurement. They’re not binding precedents, but we believe they will be politically persuasive. We still haven’t received the evidence that Saxton claims to have in connection with the drone attack, which will form the thrust of our unfairness argument. We’ve prepared a motion to formally demand it on a confidential basis."
Michael cleared his throat. "Also, we are prepared to formally refute their demand to release the project materials. If they want ZAT to stop, then they can’t have their current work. That should focus their minds."
Errington nodded. "See, Duncan, we’re all over it."
Nichol frowned. "Hardly sounds cut and dried—"
"Just let me get in the room with Saxton. Then there’ll only be one outcome."
"Do you have something on him?" Nichol stabbed his finger on the table. "Tell me you’re not going to threaten the head of MI5?"
"Threaten is such an inflammatory word. Persuade is a much better one. I will make him see the right way. As I’m sure Michael did with a certain hacker yesterday."
Nichol turned towards Michael. "What, exactly, did he have you do?"
Michael swallowed hard. "We identified a hacker attempting to breach ZAT’s security. I met with her and made sure she understood the ramifications of her actions."
Errington nodded, adjusting his glasses. "See? Fast and effective. Michael did his job, and I’m sure this hacker will now do the right thing."
Nichol frowned. "Max, you can’t conduct business this way anymore. The world has changed."
"A lot of people wish that it had. And, sure, technology advances. But people are still the same." He
turned to Michael. "How did it feel, having that power over her?"
"I… er." Michael hesitated. "I was, as you said, just doing my job."
"It’s OK to relish the moment."
Kara laughed. "He’s still new. He’ll adjust."
"Fair enough. And when he does, I’m sure he’ll change everything." Errington pushed back his chair and stood up. "Anyway, I’ve got another meeting to get to. Don’t worry. I’ll be at my persuasive best tomorrow." He gave Nichol a mock salute.
"Let’s hope you’re right," Nichol replied. "Or things are going to get really bad for all of us."
Sixty-One
It was the middle of the night when Cory parked his tired old car in the heavily cobwebbed barn then, clutching a black backpack, made his way through the dark to the dilapidated cottage where he lived. Tucked on the edge of a wood in the grounds surrounding a Berkshire farmhouse some thirty miles west of London, the cottage was barely known even to those who knew the area well and, at first glance, did not look inhabited. He let himself in the back door, his heart still pounding.
Outside he heard the farm’s dog barking loudly, as it did most nights, announcing every passing fox and rabbit. Cory felt the weight of the backpack and its contents, and his heart raced faster.
He opened the door to the basement and descended the creaking stairs. At the bottom was his overcrowded workshop, every square inch of wall and desk space full of equipment. With a dance of his fingertips, he fired up a number of computers, then placed the backpack on his chair. It was nearly 3:00am, but he wasn't ready for sleep. In fact a strong cup of coffee was in order. He turned to ascend the stairs and froze.
A woman stood there, pointing a gun at him.
"Back towards the chair," she said.
Cory stared at her face and realised he recognised her. "Please put that down." He took two steps backwards. "I don't mean you any harm."
"I’m not going to say the same." Her eyes flashed. "My name is Millie, but, given that you just broke into my apartment, you know that already. I tracked you." She held up a black device. It flashed with green light as she pointed it at the backpack. "Or rather, I tracked the sticker on the thing you took."
Cory sighed and eased the bag open, withdrawing a large flat slab of metal and plastic.
"And there we go," she said. "My laptop."
"Actually," he replied, "it’s not yours. And I’m not sure why you had it."
She narrowed her eyes. "You’re right: it’s not my laptop." She smiled. "It's yours."
"Yes, that's what I was going to—"
"Of course the last photo I have of you was taken quite a while ago, but you haven't completely lost your looks."
He leaned back on the desk.
"The family resemblance is still there." She pointed the gun at him. "Hello, Mr Adams." She paused. "Or do you mind if I call you Craig?"
Millie stood, waiting for the man to answer.
He took a long time. Eventually he looked up. "Craig Adams is dead."
"I've spent a lot of time researching you recently: I know what you look like. Or at least what you looked like fifteen years ago."
His eyes flickered. "You’re ruining everything."
"Am I? You started this when you broke into my apartment."
"You stole my laptop."
"Somebody sent me your laptop." She paused. "Has someone been holding you captive?"
"It's a long and difficult story."
"Does it involve Darwin?"
He looked at her sharply.
"It was on your laptop. A five-year-old could have broken the encryption with today's computers. At least part of it anyway."
He scowled at her. "If we're going to talk, perhaps you could stop pointing the gun at me?"
Millie looked at the handgun, then pointed it away from him. She squeezed the trigger and there was a loud click. A yellow splat formed on the wall.
"A paintball gun?"
"It did the job." She placed the weapon in a holster at her belt. "Does Michael know you’re alive? Does his mother?"
"Nobody knows. And it has to stay that way."
"How are you still alive? I read the newspaper articles about the explosion. They found your body."
"You ask a lot of questions."
"It’s what I do. And if you don’t answer them I’ll go report you to the police for breaking and entering."
"You’re not going to do that." He pulled a pistol from a concealed holster. "Just so we’re clear," he said quietly, "this is not a paintball gun."
"I see that. Don’t do anything stupid now."
"What I do will be logical and necessary. I’ll be doing it to save my son’s life."
"I don’t believe you."
"You really think you know me, just from your poxy research? That you can predict what I'll do?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Isn't that what your computer system was supposed to do?"
He jerked the gun. "I’m just trying to protect my son. How do you know him?"
"Let’s just say our interests are aligned."
"Something related to your blog?"
Millie sighed. "Is my side hustle the worse-kept secret in London?"
"It’s on a public site. How is it supposed to be a secret?"
"My identity is the secret."
"It took about five minutes to uncover. Have you not tried hacking yourself?"
"Look, could you put that gun down? You’re scaring me."
"I’ve been in hiding for fifteen years. You are the first person to realise I am in fact still alive. Now I’m trying to work out what I do. You probably should be scared."
"Maybe I can help you. If the truth behind why you faked your death has anything to do with Darwin, I might be one of the few people who can actually understand what’s going on. After all, I know what it was designed to do. And that really scared me."
"Probably the smartest thing you’ve said yet." Craig lowered the gun. "Are you thirsty? I could murder a drink."
Millie frowned. "That’s an unnerving choice of words, but sure."
They sat in Craig’s lounge, nursing large glasses of whisky.
Millie frowned. "Say that last part again."
Craig nodded. "Like I said, I realised that Darwin was far more powerful than I had intended. And that someone very dangerous indeed had become interested in it."
"How did you know that?"
"Darwin told me."
Millie blinked. "Darwin told you?"
"Darwin was a predictive analytics engine. It made forecasts based on available data. I ran a number of tests. Its accuracy was above 99%, though only where it had sufficient data and sufficient time to run its analysis."
"So who was the threat?"
"The system didn't know. You have to understand, it was far from perfect. It had severe limitations, frustrating constraints that meant it could only do a small part of what you might ask. I never got to the bottom of it before I had to act."
"Meaning faking your own death?"
"I had to destroy Darwin and stop anyone ever building another. If I’d still been around, they would have done anything to coerce me, including threatening Michael. And if I’d refused, they’d have killed him. It was the only way."
"You’ve been living off the grid for fifteen years. Why reveal yourself now?"
"I heard Michael had changed jobs. I’ve been keeping the most distant of tabs on him, but when I realised who he was working for now I knew something was wrong. Infinity Law used to represent ZAT."
"They still do – it’s why I met Michael. ZAT worked out that I was checking them out and sent him as their lawyer to drop a few threats hoping I’d do the sensible thing and back off."
Craig shook his head. "That doesn’t make sense. Jenson would normally fight back immediately with something more than a few threats."
"Perhaps he's changed. Or perhaps he’s just got bigger fish to fry."
"Maybe. I’m not sure how this laptop survived with Darwin
schematics onboard. I need to work out what it means."
"Are you going to tell Michael you're alive?"
He sighed. "Have you been listening? Leave me with my laptop and you can forget that you ever saw me. You don’t want to be mixed up in this."
"You’re sure Darwin was actually destroyed?"
Craig closed his eyes. "The working system was in the barn. Everything else was incomplete or non-functional. But this laptop should have been destroyed with everything else. It should have been in that barn. I’ve never thought to check, and of course doing so would have been a risk."
Millie frowned. "How could you 'check'?"
"If Darwin is in operation, if it is connected to the net, then it will leave a trace for those who know where to look. I'd have to construct a special piece of hardware, but if it’s there I can find it."
"How hard would that be?"
"Not very." He closed his eyes in thought. "You could help me get the parts."
"What makes you think I’d help you?"
"Because I’ve read your blog. That’s the kind of person you are."
She smiled. "Fair enough. Tell me what you need."
Sixty-Two
Millie set the bag of parts down on the table, then began carefully pulling out the components, each wrapped in its own clear, antistatic bag.
"Where's the motherboard I specified?" Craig asked, peering through reading glasses at the receipt.
"They didn't have it. The one I bought is functionally equivalent."
Craig made a tutting sound. "I'll tell you what is—"
"I'm helping you out at great personal risk, so be nice. Or you can go and find some other technical genius to assist you."