Prediction

by Tony Batton

  He shrank back, scrabbling for the door handle only to find it locked. "But you’re not—"

  "I am whatever they need me to be." She raised the gun.

  "Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it."

  She gave a little laugh and tapped her glasses. "That was exactly what my instructions said you would say." She sighed. "I’ve never really liked you, Gordon. You’re the one who fired Michael, and he’d done nothing wrong."

  "But you told me to! You’d have had me killed if I hadn’t."

  She shrugged. And then she pulled the trigger.

  Seventy-One

  Maxwell Errington drove his Bentley at slightly over the speed limit, laughing inwardly at the tiny breach of the law. Breaking the rules, but not enough to get noticed, had been a useful approach over the years. Rain streamed in the headlights, and Rachmaninov blasted from the car's bespoke sound system as he headed west, towards home.

  The car phone rang and he grimaced at the name that popped up on the display, having been dodging the caller for several hours. Now he couldn’t delay things any longer. He pressed to answer.

  "Max, where have you been?" Duncan Nichol asked with what sounded like forced calm. "Are you OK?"

  Errington smiled to himself. Nichol was ready to make a move he had long wanted to make, but he was still being polite. He’d always been far too much of a gentleman to run Infinity properly. "I'm fine, Duncan. Just driving home."

  "I left you several messages."

  "Did you?" Errington replied. He had, of course, listened to them. "What about?"

  "About the meeting between our biggest client and the government that took place this morning."

  "Oh yes. What about it?"

  Nichol gave a sharp intake of breath. "Everything about it, Max. Everything."

  "Well it didn't go exactly as planned, I will admit. But you can’t win them all."

  "We lost a major contract for one of our best clients because of your ties to an arms dealer. And then we lost the client. I need you to come to the office. Right now."

  Errington counted slowly to five. "It's rather late and I have an engagement this evening. How about tomorrow afternoon? I think I'm free then, but check with my secretary—"

  "I wanted to do this face to face, but if you won't come in, I'll do it now."

  "Do what, Duncan?"

  "I have sufficient cause to invoke Clause 17 of the partnership agreement. We will vote you out at the next meeting. I have unanimous support from the other partners. Or you could go quietly and immediately." He paused. "It would be better for everyone if you did."

  Errington laughed. "Over my dead body. Or perhaps," he gave a chuckle, "over yours."

  "You’re only drawing out the inevitable."

  "No, Duncan, the truth is that you have no idea what’s going on. You never have. It’s why I promoted you."

  "Believe me when I say—"

  "Goodnight, Duncan." Errington disconnected the call. The music swelled again as he drove on, close to home now. The automatic gates to his house swung open and he parked in front of the large three-storey residence, next to two large black vans he had not seen there before.

  As he got out, he heard a cough from behind him. He turned to see Kara Simmons, dressed all in black.

  "I thought you'd need me, Max." She walked over and patted him on the shoulder.

  "Where is my wife?"

  "She's been called away. As per my instructions."

  He turned as sliding doors on both vans opened and four men stepped out. They were clad in combat gear and carrying automatic weapons.

  "It's time," Kara said. "You need to come with us."

  "Are the guns really necessary?" Errington asked as he looked around him.

  The first man shrugged and pointed to the back of one of the vans.

  "Exciting times ahead, Max," said Kara.

  Errington nodded and climbed in.

  Seventy-Two

  Michael marched through the front door of his house, mind racing. Since the day he had been fired – joining Infinity, meeting Millie, Saxton’s arrest – nothing had been a coincidence. All of it was linked.

  He moved to the study and pulled out his Infinity laptop, plugging in the headset and slipping it over his ears. He wasn't supposed to use the machine for his own purposes, but he didn’t care anymore. Why had he been brought into all of this right now? Why had he, someone who was linked to both ZAT and a project related to Parallel through his father, become involved now? Was anyone telling him the truth?

  He felt like the answers were in his head, if he only knew how to unlock them. If he could find one corner piece in the puzzle, the relevance of others might become apparent. He glared at his laptop. Infinity used information to its advantage. But where was that information coming from? It wasn't just the result of using a bespoke search engine.

  He began to type in the search field, but was startled when the front doorbell rang. He moved through the hallway, looked through the spyhole, then immediately pulled the door open.

  It was his mother.

  "What are you doing here at this hour?"

  She frowned at him. "I got your text."

  "I didn't send you anything."

  Nina pulled out her phone and showed it to him. The screen displayed a message, apparently from him, sent perhaps three hours earlier: Need to speak to you now. Here. Can’t discuss over the phone.

  "I never sent that. Look." Michael pulled his own phone out, then blinked as he saw the message was in his sent log. "I don't understand." He beckoned her inside.

  Nina walked past him, sniffing the air. "Been drinking?"

  Michael rubbed the bridge of his nose and considered matters. He could feel the beer in his system, but knew he wasn’t remotely drunk enough to have used his phone then forgotten it.

  "Did you speak to Jenson?"

  "I decided not to – I actually listened to your advice, so you can count it a win, like you made me do what you wanted for once."

  "Wonderful. Can we sit down? There’s something I need to tell you."

  Michael nodded and led them into the lounge. They sat on the sofa.

  "Listen," Nina said, "I wasn’t completely honest with you the other day. It's time you knew the truth about what your father did." She took a deep breath. "I don't hate your father because he killed himself." She paused. "At least, that's not the main reason."

  Michael swallowed. "What are you talking about?"

  "One weekend I went to visit a friend up in Liverpool, but came back a day early. I thought I'd surprise you both. You were downstairs in the den, messing around with computers as usual, or so I thought." She blinked, a tear streaming down her cheek. "When I walked in, you were sitting on a beanbag, your eyes staring. You had some... headgear on. It had wires coming out of it, plugged into computer equipment your father had set up."

  "That sounds... weird."

  "I called out and he looked up, startled. He told me everything was OK, but I mustn't touch anything." Nina’s voice rose. "He was lying. You were barely conscious." She shook her head. "I ran over to get the equipment off you. Your father tried to stop me, but I pushed him aside and I ripped the headgear from you. You gasped like you were coming up for air."

  Michael stared at her blankly. "I think I remember a headset, but I don’t remember it being a big deal."

  "Craig was experimenting with brain manipulation."

  "Dad was a computer expert, not a neurologist. This doesn’t make any sense. Mum, are you OK?"

  "It did something to the electrical activity in your brain – disrupted the patterns."

  "What are you talking about? Why wouldn’t I remember it, and why wouldn’t you have told me about it before?"

  "You don’t remember because it affected your memory. And as for not mentioning it, part of the treatment regimen was to not worry you with the specifics."

  "You think I could have forgotten a whole recovery program? This is all a bit hard to digest
." Michael reached out and gripped his mother's hand. "Did you ask Dad why he put this thing on my head?"

  "He said he was trying to create a new type of computer system – he didn’t really explain it. Then he died in the explosion shortly afterwards. In hindsight maybe he couldn't live with what he'd done."

  Michael leaned forward, looking into her eyes. "This computer he was working on: was it Darwin?"

  "After what I just told you, that’s what you’re interested in?"

  "I think it could matter a great deal."

  "I came here to tell you the truth, so you wouldn't need to dig any further."

  He put his hands over hers. "It's possible Darwin really worked."

  She pulled her hands free. "Are you listening to me? Your father was lucky I didn't have him arrested."

  "I can’t believe he meant to harm me."

  "Intentional? Negligent? What’s the difference?" She sniffed. "You’ll just have to make up your own mind. I can’t do that for you."

  "Don’t be like that. What I mean is—"

  "I know what you mean. You don’t trust me."

  Michael gripped his head in hands. "This is a lot to take in. I need some time to think it over—"

  "Take all the time you need. I’m going home. Coming here was obviously a mistake." She stared at him, then cleared her throat. "Since you started that new job, everything’s gone wrong. If I had my way, you’d never cross their doorstep again." She shook her head. "I'll show myself out." And she left.

  Michael sat back on the sofa, stunned. The buzz from the beer had been replaced by confusion and something almost like fear.

  He felt like Pandora's box had been ripped open in front of him. But who owned the box? It could only be Infinity.

  It was almost ironic that his mother should mention his new firm, and ask him to stay away. Because that was exactly where Michael needed to go, if he was to find someone in a position to give him answers. Not Maxwell Errington: the old man was clearly in too deep to ever come clean. No, he needed to speak with Duncan Nichol: Nichol had always come across as a practical man, someone who could be reasoned with – if you could pull the right levers. And very quickly he knew just which one would work.

  Michael pulled out his phone and typed out a message. Duncan, we need to talk ASAP. Face-to-face if possible. I have a plan for getting ZAT back on board.

  The reply was almost immediate. I’m working in my office. Meet me here.

  Seventy-Three

  Morton sat in the secure booth, awaiting the connection, but this was not his regularly scheduled call: it was an additional update he had requested.

  "You want to discuss the boy?" Marcia asked in the same soft, metallic tones.

  "That’s right," Morton replied. "The situation has changed, as I’m sure you have noted on the system. His mother went to see him: an intervention we had not expected."

  "You’re telling me she’s a risk?"

  "We couldn’t get any sound on their discussion from any of the devices installed in his house. Faults happen, but rarely so inconveniently."

  "You think she tampered with them?"

  "She’s a retired psychologist and technophobe, so it seems unlikely."

  "I’ll flag it to maintenance. Meanwhile work with what we have."

  Morton paused. "We should activate full-time monitoring until we have sufficient data."

  "That could, in itself, draw attention."

  "Yes, but hasn’t Michael Adams been flagged as special interest with regard to Project Green? Should we not be managing his situation proactively?"

  There was a pause. "It was not my intention to fetter you, Morton – and your analysis has merits. You continue to demonstrate excellence in your operations."

  He swallowed. "I’ll requisition a team to follow both—"

  "Negative. I’ll handle this myself, with independent resource."

  "Marcia, what is Project Green about?"

  There was a pause. "I appreciate your personal interest, but we have to follow the system. Even I don’t know everything. Even I am just following the plan."

  "This lack of information-sharing seems counter-productive; surely I can work more effectively if I have more data. And am I not the best person to manage London-based surveillance?"

  "Usually, but I think we need something more than surveillance. We need to stress test Mr Adams. When we do, we’ll see who steps forward to save him."

  "And if nobody does?"

  "Then," replied Marcia, "he wasn’t as important as we thought."

  "You’re saying the system might be mistaken?"

  "It just makes predictions. It doesn’t see the future." She hesitated, her tone becoming warmer. "By the way, good work with Saxton."

  "It is disappointing to lose such a high-level resource, especially given Maxwell Errington’s exit."

  "Both were necessary losses. Now I have to join another meeting." The call abruptly disconnected.

  Morton stared at the blank screen for several long moments before he left the booth.

  It was far from scientific, but something felt wrong. For the first time ever after speaking to Marcia, he felt that she had lied.

  Seventy-Four

  In Duncan Nichol’s ninth floor office, Michael noted only one thing out of place. It was late on a wet autumn night, but expensive lighting made the inside feel warm and reassuring. Rows of legal reference books were arrayed with precision on two bays of shelving, perhaps more for show than utility. Several carefully-arranged and expensive pieces of sculpture were artfully displayed using individually crafted stands, while on a large dresser a whisky decanter and six glasses sat undisturbed. At one end of the room an oversized desk bore two ultra hi-definition computer monitors. In front of them sat a large cup of, presumably now cold, black coffee, its surface pearling in the light from the screens.

  Michael stood on the far side of the room, next to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Heavy spats of rain smacked the glass as he removed his wire-framed glasses and wiped away perspiration with a handkerchief. Apart from the sound of the rain, the room was quiet, lacking even the hum of air-conditioning. There was nothing to remove the metallic tang of blood hanging in the air.

  Nichol lay face-up on the expensive block flooring to one side of the desk. Three tidily-placed bullet holes ruptured his chest. Nichol’s face bore an awful rictus of surprise. Perhaps that wasn’t remarkable – did anyone ever expect to get shot in their own office?

  Michael slid on his glasses, feeling his veins pulse at his temples. The blood was the worst part: thick and unreal in the halogen lighting, oozing into tiny cracks in the block-work. He was fighting the urge to vomit, and wasn’t confident he would win.

  Who had done this? How had they got into the building, past the not inconsiderable security? And, above all, why?

  He blinked. His brain felt dulled by the sight of the body. He needed to talk to someone he could trust.

  But before he did that there was, of course, one call he had to make first. He picked up the desk phone, pressed for an outside line, then 999.

  The reply was immediate. "Emergency: which service do you require?"

  "Police," he said in a detached voice. "I want to report a murder."

  The operator was calm and reassuring as she worked through her checklist. He answered each question quickly and clearly. But as he gave the building’s address, he could tell something was wrong. She sounded distracted, as if she were listening to someone else at the same time. When he put down the phone, he saw red, white and blue flashing in the window, reflected from the street below.

  They’re already here? Who knew to call them?

  And something suddenly clicked in Michael’s mind. Was it no coincidence that he was here? Was he being set up?

  He spun around, thinking fast. Had he touched anything in the room that would suggest he was guilty? He didn’t think so, but who knew what a forensic team might make of the scene? He’d done nothing except stand and s
tare, yet that might not matter: if someone really wanted to make it look like he was responsible, the evidence would be there. He fought the urge to scream. He couldn’t run: the building security team, the police switchboard, even the taxi driver that had dropped him here could all attest to his presence. He had rendered himself helpless, with no choice but to sit and wait for the situation to play out. Because it was clear that this murder was not the end-game, just one piece in a dark puzzle that he was barely starting to comprehend.

  A soft chime broke the silence. Through the office’s open door he saw the lift was rising up from the ground floor - within a minute the police team would arrive. And if he didn’t start working out what was going on, then being sent to prison for a murder he didn’t commit might be the least of his worries.

  Seventy-Five

  The raid started at exactly 6:00am. Five grey vans pulled up outside ZAT’s facility in Reading, each bearing ZAT logos, although closer examination would have revealed the paint was barely dry. While a delivery was scheduled, the security guard thought it odd that a consignment would arrive so early; instead of raising the barrier, he stepped forwards to question the first driver.

  As he did so, the side door of the van slid open and a man wearing a balaclava stepped out. Without ceremony, he jabbed a taser into the guard’s chest, who shook and collapsed. The man reached into the guard’s booth and raised the barrier. The five vans drove smoothly into the compound and five armed men stepped from the back of each. Without discussion, they moved towards a heavy-goods door and held up a black device to the control panel. It beeped angrily, but opened. All of them moved into the building.

  A guard on the top floor of the facility, just back from his tea break, looked out in time to see the start of the commotion. Within seconds he was pressing the emergency alarm to lock down the site and summon the police. The typical response time was ten minutes.