Prediction

by Tony Batton

  "What the hell happened?" he asked without preamble, then raised a hand. "Wait, not out here." They followed him into his office and waited until he had slammed the door closed.

  "There was a complication," Kara replied. "It seems our illustrious senior partner recently met with Regina Rose."

  Nichol jerked as if stung. "I thought Max had severed that relationship years ago. How did Jenson react?"

  "He suggested he was going to look for alternative representation."

  Nichol turned and walked over to an ornate whisky decanter, picking up one of the matching tumblers next to it. "Could this day get any worse?"

  Kara cleared her throat. "Hold that thought. Saxton is going to order a government audit of the firm."

  "What?"

  "You know," Kara said, "that I would normally be the last person to suggest this, but Max hasn’t been himself. He seems… distracted. Perhaps it might be time to reduce his workload." She blinked twice, as if trying to dislodge an eyelash. "Although obviously that's something for the partners to decide on."

  Nichol shook his head, then pulled out his phone and dialed a number. "Max, it’s Duncan. Call me. It's urgent." He hung up and looked at Kara. "You were supposed to rein the old guy in: make sure he didn’t do anything stupid."

  "Nobody tells Max what to do."

  "As I said when you were promoted to Senior Associate, you need to avoid buying into his bullshit."

  Kara flexed one fist. "If you’ve got something on your mind, Duncan, then say it."

  He frowned. "Go home. Take a couple of days off. We’ll talk next week about how you go forward. Or not."

  She stared at him, flared her nostrils, then spun and walked back towards the lifts.

  Michael quickly followed her when Duncan waved him away. He managed to squeeze between the lift doors just as they were closing.

  "What are we supposed to do now?" he asked.

  "We carry on doing our jobs."

  "Why did you stick the knife in with Errington?"

  She raised an eyebrow. "Sometimes you need to notice which way the river is flowing." She tapped a finger on his chest. "Max has had a great run, but it's time for the new guard now."

  "Meaning you?"

  "I meant us. But maybe you don't want it."

  Michael shook his head. "I’m no quitter."

  She tipped her head to one side. "I’m glad to hear it. It means we have work to do. I think we’d best stay out of Duncan’s way for today. We’ll reconvene back at my place." She scribbled an address on the back of a business card. "See me there in an hour."

  Sixty-Six

  It was 6:30pm when the taxi dropped Michael at Kara’s apartment building in Islington. He stared up at the modern five storey block then pressed the intercom. There was a long delay, then a metallic voice crackled. "Come on up. Fifth floor."

  The door buzzed and he walked in, nodding at the security guard as he stepped into the lift. In moments he was on the fifth level. The landing had just a single door, slightly ajar.

  "In here," called Kara.

  Michael strode down a corridor, finding himself in a large open-plan living area, floor to ceiling windows looking west across the rooftops. Kara sat on the sofa, wrapped in a dark-red bathrobe. She held a large brandy glass in her hand.

  Michael hesitated in the doorway. "I'm sorry. I didn't realise you weren't dressed..."

  She raised an eyebrow. "I needed a bath after today. Get yourself a drink."

  Michael walked over to the kitchen area and grabbed some juice from the fridge.

  Kara sighed. "No. A drink." She nodded at a large bottle of aged cognac with a glass next to it. "We’ve earned it."

  Michael poured himself a small measure and sat on the armchair opposite her.

  She raised her glass and nodded at him. "Here’s to new beginnings at Infinity."

  "You sound very positive. What are we going to do about ZAT?"

  "The damage is done. We just need to move on."

  "So there are elements outside our control."

  She laughed. "Don't be bandying words like those around the office. The point is that nothing is supposed to be."

  "I thought Max would have a lever with Saxton like we had with Chalmers?"

  Kara tipped her head on one side. "My, my, Michael

  Michael held his hands up. "I'm just assuming. But I guess if there was a point of leverage we'd have found it and used it."

  "Maybe we did, but it hasn't borne fruit. Does it matter now?"

  Michael took a sip of his own brandy. "You keep going on about how important it is to know more than everyone else, but how does it work? I mean, with the internet anyone can find out the answer to almost any question. How do we maintain the edge?"

  "They still have to know which questions to ask." She rotated her glass slowly. "I need to talk something through with you, and I would value your input. That's as close I'm going to get to giving you a compliment, so enjoy it."

  "Thanks."

  "This is all very important to my future role and to the continued success of… the initiative."

  Michael looked at her. "You mean the firm?"

  Kara sighed. "Shall I tell you what I want?"

  "Be my guest."

  "Good, because I’m your boss and you have to do what I say. Now stand up."

  Michael got cautiously to his feet as she moved over to him, brushing a fleck off his jacket lapel. He went to step back, but was blocked by the armchair.

  She put her glass down and placed her palms on his shoulders. "I was told you were special. That we couldn’t do this without you. That you were fundamental to the… plan."

  "I’m not following you." A mixture of perfume and cognac wafted over him.

  She closed her eyes, leaned towards him, seeming to sniff the air.

  Michael took a step to one side, pushing her hands from his suit. "Kara, I’m… What are you doing?"

  Kara tipped her head. "When we first met, I asked you if you were too busy to share a drink with the person who’s going to change your life. What’s your answer tonight?"

  Michael swallowed. "I’d better go."

  "Ah, but I predict that you won’t." She moved closer, her lips centimetres from his. Her lipstick was blood red, glistening from the cognac. She reached forward and kissed him, letting her lips linger on his.

  For a moment his brain froze. Then he pulled back sharply. "You shouldn’t have… I’d like you to stop."

  "Really?" She shrugged. "Anyway, I have what we need. As for whether we can do this without you, I guess we’re going to find out."

  "What are you talking about?" Michael asked with a frown. "You know, if we’re speaking of good questions, did you really text me that day to set up the interview? I certainly don’t remember replying to you."

  "Does it matter? It’s all just part of the plan."

  "What does that mean?"

  "You think I just happened to be there the day you were fired?"

  Michael froze. "You knew? Did the firm know?"

  She coughed, and gave an irritated look. "Just a guess. You looked desperate." She picked up her glass and took a sip. "Finish your drink."

  Michael stared at his glass. "I think I’ve had enough."

  She reached forward again, her fingers wrapping around his arm.

  He pulled back, but her grip was startlingly strong and, for the briefest moment, he wasn’t sure he could pull free. "I’m going to leave now."

  Kara snorted. "Fine. I certainly have more important places to be." She collapsed back onto the sofa. "Just don’t walk out with one of my best glasses."

  Michael set his cognac down and made for the door.

  "You need to look to the future," she called. "Don’t get stuck in the past."

  Sixty-Seven

  Millie parked her car opposite the ZAT building. It was gone midnight and the road was almost deserted, but there was still a sense of activity. The City of London never really slept. She glanced at her pass
enger and realised Craig had not looked up at the looming office block; he remained engrossed in his laptop. She poked him on the shoulder. "In your own time."

  "I’m working here."

  "Since you appear to be unaware, I thought I’d flag that we have arrived."

  He gave a snort. "Of course I’m aware. I’ve been running a penetration test on the building’s security for the last five minutes."

  "Good luck with that. I’ve spent the last few days getting nowhere."

  "Ah, but I used to work there and left behind a gateway system. The good news is that it still seems to be operational."

  "And you waited till now to tell me this?"

  "Like I said, I didn’t know if it would work. But it’s fine: I’m busy deactivating alarms and looping the CCTV footage as we speak."

  "We can just walk in the front door?"

  "That would be ridiculous. More a side door." He yawned. "Why are you so anxious? I thought this type of thing would be your bread and butter."

  "I tend towards remote activism. Site visits aren’t my thing." She glared at him. "If this goes wrong… I don’t want to end up in jail."

  "Then you clearly don’t appreciate what’s at stake. Now let’s go."

  "We can’t leave the car here. We’ll be towed inside twenty minutes, even at this time of night."

  "No we won’t," Craig replied, rummaging in his bag. He pulled out a small printer and plugged it into his laptop. In seconds a coloured square of cardboard emerged. He handed the card to her.

  Millie frowned. "A resident parking permit? Is it real?"

  "Real enough."

  She shook her head and placed it on the dashboard. Then she looked up at the aluminium and glass building across the street.

  "Don’t think about it too much," he said.

  "Overthinking is what I do."

  "We stand a very good chance of pulling this off. Over 60%, by my calculations."

  "I’m going to jail, aren’t I?"

  "Not if someone shoots you first." Craig opened his car door.

  She glared at him. "Speaking of which, you’re leaving your gun behind, aren’t you?"

  He frowned. "It might come in handy. It’s quite the tool of persuasion."

  "And if someone sees it, they might just shoot you before giving you a chance to speak."

  He shrugged, then pulled the weapon from his belt. "Wasn’t loaded anyway." He placed it under the seat. Now follow me."

  Gregory Jenson walked into his penthouse office, darkened the windows, and pulled out his mobile phone, pressing the top number on his speed dial list.

  Teresa replied almost immediately. "What’s up, Dad?"

  "You OK, sweetheart?"

  "I'm bored. Where’s Astrid? She’s so much nicer than your other security people. They have no sense of humour."

  Jenson frowned. He hadn’t received an update from Kelly. "She’s running an errand for me."

  "They won’t let me outside even for a moment. I’m going stir-crazy stuck in the house."

  "Look, I’ll get Kelly to take you out to the Swiss apartment in a few days' time."

  "Will you be there?"

  "Not straight away. There are some things I need to take care of—"

  "Fine, whatever. I’m tired. Let’s talk in the morning."

  Jenson heard her disconnect. He sighed and poured himself an excessively large glass of twenty-year-old single malt. He rarely drank in the office, but he needed something to adjust his thinking. His daughter was safe, but his other problems were very much ongoing.

  All the time he had spent briefing Errington and the Infinity team, the hours wasted producing the documentation they had demanded – and they had demanded everything relating to Parallel – all of it for nothing. Maxwell Errington had lied to him. He was working for the woman who had tried to kidnap his daughter. But then Errington had been removed from the equation by the perfect counterplay.

  Once again Jenson was left puzzling why the government had been so quick to cancel Parallel, notwithstanding the crime he was alleged to have committed. The government needed this system. They were falling behind in intelligence analysis. You had to run fast even to stand still these days with technology. Did they have some alternative he was not aware of? It seemed improbable. There was nothing like Parallel. There never had been.

  Except, of course, for Darwin. Similar in its brilliance, it had been ahead of Parallel in its software design, though of course fifteen years behind in terms of its hardware. But the system had been completely unintelligible without Craig Adams to explain it. Its logical structure had been apparently random, almost organic. No one else could make it work. So it was consigned to a historical footnote. After all, perhaps it would never have worked like they had hoped. But none of this helped: it was all in the past. He had to deal with the now.

  He had visited Duncan Nichol to formally fire that sorry excuse for a law firm. It had made him feel better, briefly, watching the pain in the man’s eyes as he saw their future billings evaporate. But it had solved nothing. He still had a cancelled project.

  Jenson knocked back the single malt and poured himself another. Perhaps he was thinking about this the wrong way. Why would someone want to stop the project? Were his scientists compromised? Were they working for someone else? He shook his head. He had worked with Chow for years. And, like the others, his reputation would be built on this piece of work: they all needed it to succeed. So was a third party involved? He had many business rivals who would love to see him fail, but none had the necessary reach.

  Deciding he needed a change of scenery, he descended in the lift to the laboratory level. He arrived at Research Room 8, went through the lengthy access process, then stepped inside the tidy room, pacing slowly about as he tried to think the problem through anew. Clearly one of his assumptions about the situation was wrong.

  He pulled out his phone and called Saxton on his private line. It went straight to voicemail.

  Jenson frowned. ‘This phone is never switched off,’ Saxton had said.

  Was something wrong? Was he caught up in some sort of a major incident? He’d just opened the BBC News page on his phone when he noticed that the building had sent him a security alert.

  Someone had breached the new building protocols Kelly had recommended. They had done so using codes that would have worked without question a week ago. Growling, Jenson turned and pressed a hidden button. It scanned and confirmed his thumbprint, then a panel slid back to reveal a number of weapons. Without hesitation he selected a semi-automatic rifle.

  If he was being accused of using his technology to defend himself and his family, he might as well actually do it.

  Sixty-Eight

  Saxton’s London home was a five-storey Victorian mansion in west London. It was near the centre of a terrace, opposite a row of similar properties, all painted a splendid white with sharp black trimming. The woman in black knew that there was a permanent security presence outside, even when the house was not occupied. The street was brightly lit and be-decked with CCTV. It made covert entry almost impossible. Which was why she stood on the roof, having climbed into position across a number of the adjoining properties, disabling various security measures on the way. Using an insulated tool, she popped open the lock on a trapdoor into the roof. In a blur she dropped through. Rising from a crouch, she pulled out a handheld device.

  The data displayed showed the four occupants of the house were exactly where she expected them to be. The two security officers were in the downstairs lobby, reading the newspaper. The house maid was in her room, having fallen asleep while reading too. The family were all away for the week except the man of the house, who was working late in his study.

  The top floor of the house was a loft conversion. Two bedrooms and a small gymnasium, fitted out with an expensive treadmill and exercise bike that looked like they had not been used. She moved past them and descended a flight of stairs. There were CCTV cameras on each floor, but their lights were
off. She ignored three more bedrooms, and descended to the fourth floor. She kept her footsteps light: there was no reaction from below.

  The office door was closed. She padded soundlessly towards it then paused, listening intently. No one else in the house moved. She eased the door open.

  Warwick Saxton looked up, his eyes widening. "I didn’t see a meeting in my diary."

  "No," replied Astrid Kelly, stepping inside and closing the door softly. "I thought I’d just drop in unannounced."

  "You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you."

  "You’re lucky you didn’t try." She shifted her injured shoulder. "Now are you going to offer me a drink? I believe I’ve earnt it."

  Kelly sat on the edge of Saxton’s desk, each of them holding a crystal tumbler with a generous measure of aged cognac. One display screen showed a picture of the lobby, the other had layouts of each floor, marked with coloured icons to place the guards and the maid.

  "You’re supposed to be maintaining your cover at ZAT and protecting Jenson. Should I be worried?"

  "Probably." Kelly took a sip of her cognac. "Jenson did not instigate the micro-drone attack on his daughter’s kidnappers. The group that has been monitoring him has become active. I was trying to clarify who they were when one of their operatives intercepted me: a highly-skilled woman, clearly a professional killer."

  "Do you need a clean-up crew? I don’t really want those requests coming from me. You know there’s a secure line to call—"

  "If only. She is very much at large, and I should be dead. She was waiting for me when I went to collect equipment from a ZAT black site in Wapping."

  "Jenson has a black site in Wapping?"

  "Yes, but that’s not the interesting part. She knew exactly who I was. And what I was doing. Nobody should have that intel."

  "Did she mention Kinek?"

  "It didn’t come up. I was too busy dodging her arrows."

  "Literal arrows? From a bow?"

  Kelly nodded. "I was hit by one coated in toxin, after which I fell in the Thames. It’s pure luck that I was fished out by a passing cargo vessel."