by Tony Batton
"This is a stitch up," Craig said. "And I’m sure Darwin is behind it. We have to do something." He picked up his coat and bag.
"What are you going to do? Breaking him out of custody?"
"He's my son."
"You'll just get yourself arrested."
"Then what’s your suggestion? Call a lawyer?"
"Maybe. What’s your plan?"
"Whatever it takes," Craig scowled. "You’d do the same for your daughter."
"True. But that doesn’t make it a good idea—"
Millie cleared her throat. "I can get him out. I am a hacker. And I can certainly hack a regular police station. I did it once as part of a penetration test I ran for Saxton a couple of years ago."
"And they didn’t fix the flaws you found?"
She tipped her head on one side. "They fixed the ones I told them about."
Jenson smiled. "You’re a real piece of work."
"I’ve been called worse. Look, I should be the one to go. If Craig turns up, Michael might be so distracted by seeing his dead father that he’ll forget to escape."
Craig nodded. "But what about the Darwin tracker?"
Millie stood up. "At the moment I might be part of the problem. Why don’t you and Gregory here try and come up with a new approach. Make some brilliant deductive leap."
Craig glanced at Jenson. "Work with him? He was pointing a gun at me a few hours ago."
"And a few hours before that, you and I did the same with each other."
Jenson frowned. "She’s making sense. We need a new tactic. I don’t like all these police around; either they’ll start asking questions or Darwin will access their systems to spy on us. We need to go to a different location: and as luck would have it, I have a special lab we can use." He pulled out a notepad and scribbled on it, then tore of the page and handed it to Millie. "Meet us here when you’re ready."
Millie squinted. "Dark red ink on black paper? I can barely read it."
"Good. And if any image recognition system has it in view, it should have similar difficulties."
Millie nodded. "I’ll see you both soon. Hopefully I’ll be bringing a friend."
Eighty
The Docklands apartment was owned by an overseas businessman who used it for one week every three months. A cleaner came in weekly to keep the place freshened up and sort through any mail. The owner relied on a consumer electronics security package to alert him of any intruders. Obviously that had not presented Astrid Kelly with a problem.
In the spacious living room, behind floor-to-ceiling triple-glazed windows, she sat watching the BBC evening news. Home Secretary Charlotte Rostrum was holding a press conference where she skillfully avoided giving meaningful answers about MI5 Director Warwick Saxton. Wasn’t such an arrest unprecedented, she was asked. Director Saxton is cooperating with our ongoing investigation, she replied. Nobody is above the law.
If only that were true, thought Kelly, as she muted the sound and turned to the secure tablet that Saxton had given her. It was a flat dark grey, with a non-reflective display housed in a ruggedised case like all tablets issued by the British intelligence services. It was a neutral, impenetrable way of transferring classified information. Today, it would tell her what she had to do.
Glancing around to check that her anti-monitoring devices were operational, she pressed the power button. The screen lit up. Then pale red words appeared on a black background.
ERROR. OPERATING SYSTEM NOT FOUND.
Kelly froze. She quickly rebooted the unit. The same message appeared.
Cursing, she pulled a diagnostic panel from her bag, then levered the tablet from its case to allow connectivity. As she did so, a folded piece of A4 paper fluttered to the ground. She picked it up. It was blank. These cases did not always stay attached and sometimes paper could be used to ensure a perfect fit. It was an old-school ‘hack’ for the new tech. Something Saxton would have found amusing. Putting the paper aside, she ran the analysis.
Thirty seconds later it confirmed her worse fears. The unit was blank. Or had been compromised to such a degree that her analytics tools could make no sense of it. Perhaps Kinek had somehow tampered with it when they were inside Saxton’s house. Or perhaps it had simply malfunctioned. From a practical point, all that mattered was that she could not access the Director’s instructions.
What was she supposed to do now? She thought back to her conversation with Saxton yesterday. What exactly had he said to her?
It’s going to mean you warming to the task and showing a bit of zest. Remember this conversation: in case of trouble it’ll tell you what you need to know.
She snatched up the folded sheet of paper, pulling a flashlight from her pocket and holding it close. Within seconds the heat began to cause a reaction. Words written in lemon juice began to turn brown, becoming visible. They were in Saxton’s distinctive handwriting.
It occurred to me after a conversation with Gregory Jenson that this system we are fighting might even be able to scan handwriting. This should make things a little harder for them. We have been trying to build a unique weapon in the field of intelligence. Now we find our enemy already has the same tool. When your enemy knows everything about you, you have a problem. Somehow we have to take that advantage away. This is my first attempt. You have to do better. Be smart. Be alert. Be unpredictable.
And note the patterns around you. Things happen for a reason.
Kelly leaned back. The note was a low-tech solution to a hi-tech problem, but the instructions boiled down to little more than ‘I have no instructions. Think for yourself.’
She looked back at the television and saw another breaking-news story about a lawyer with links to ZAT being arrested for murder. A stock photo of Michael Adams popped up.
Kelly coughed, recognising the son of the late Craig Adams instantly. And thinking for herself, she knew what she had to do.
Eighty-One
Michael lay on the cell’s foam bed unable to sleep, in part because of the lack of comfort, but mostly because of the thoughts charging through his head. Next to him was a battered paperback he had selected from the reading trolley: a copy of John Grisham’s The Firm had been the only book available that had not been a cozy romance or epic fantasy. He’d selected it out of a sense of irony, not from any real desire to read, but there was nothing much else to look at except the blinking light of the CCTV camera and the metal reinforced door with no handle.
What was he supposed to do now? He didn’t even know if Infinity was in control of events or just a pawn in a larger game. He didn’t feel he had near enough pieces of the puzzle to see some overall picture. Meanwhile he was stuck here, trapped and vulnerable. Every instinct was telling him to get away, but what could he do by himself? His mother hadn’t even come to see him and he’d warned Eve away too. As for Millie, they’d only been passing acquaintances – and he had no idea how to contact her from where he was. He stared blankly at the wall, hoping for a moment of inspiration. And he was struck by the impression that something had changed.
The CCTV’s light was off.
He frowned and got to his feet, advancing on the camera and snapping his fingers. Nothing happened. Previously it had reacted immediately to movement.
Michael moved quickly to the door and pushed. His heart raced as it began to swing outwards.
What should he do? Was it an opportunity or a trap? Was he safer here or outside?
A garbled voice floated from an intercom. "Go left then left, then open the fire door to your right. I’ll be waiting. You have thirty seconds before a guard comes to investigate the faulty camera. Go!"
Michael stepped through the door. In the distance he could hear two people shouting. Above him another CCTV camera was also off. He turned left, walked ten metres down a featureless corridor, then left down another. On his right was the fire door. The raised voices were getting closer. He pushed.
No alarm sounded as the door opened.
Outside a slim figure stood in the s
hadow of a tree.
"How much of an invitation do you need?" Millie asked. "I thought perhaps you’d decided to stay put."
"If you’re ever accused of a murder you didn’t commit," he replied, "maybe you’ll be a little cautious."
"Wasn’t it two murders?"
"It could yet be three. Can we get out of here?" He gave a smile. "Also thanks for this."
"Yeah, well, I felt sorry for you." She led the way across the road to a large Mercedes with tinted windows.
Michael raised his eyebrows. "How did you get this car? Did you steal it?"
"It’s a long story." She unlocked the doors. "Now get in."
Michael eased into the passenger seat, while Millie jumped behind the wheel and slipped the automatic gearbox into drive.
"Seriously, where did you get this car?" he asked.
Before Millie could reply, a woman spoke from behind them, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "An excellent question." An automatic pistol bearing a silencer wavered between them. "Now drive."
Michael started to turn around, but the barrel of the pistol struck him on the side of his head.
"Keep looking straight ahead. You, girl, drive steady."
Millie ground her teeth. "Where are we going?"
"To the address I’ve programmed in the Satnav," the woman commanded.
"So you can kill us?"
"That depends on how you answer my questions when we get there."
Eighty-Two
In Jenson’s secret laboratory, Craig pushed back from his bench. "Loathe as I am to stop, I really need some fresh air. I’m just not making any progress."
Jenson shook his head. "I don’t think we should go outside. We don’t want to give away any clues as to our whereabouts."
"Then I need something else to take my mind off things. My brain needs to reset."
"What about alcohol?"
Craig grimaced.
Jenson stood up. "Why don’t I show you my toy cupboard? I have a number of things here that ZAT developed to the prototype stage, but didn’t progress."
"You’d show me your top secret IP to me?"
"When it comes down to it, I’m just a big kid who likes to show off. And you’re one of very few people who might actually appreciate it." Jenson pulled out his phone and tapped in a list of instructions. A hatchway in the floor slid back to reveal a metal ladder. "My basement has a basement."
They both climbed down the ladder. LED lights activated all around, revealing a room with three rows of metal cabinets, all with glowing electronic locks.
"What would you like to see?" Jenson asked. "I have a number of processor designs that failed. Types of ammunition that didn’t work, including smart bullets with micro-drone functionality so they’d fire round corners."
"You’re kidding?"
Jenson shrugged. "They never worked correctly. Aiming them wasn’t easy. And they kept overheating in the barrel – by which I mean they exploded before making it out of the gun. Fortunately we only ever test-fired them using robots."
"What else do you have?"
"Powered combat armour, abandoned for cohesion issues, and adaptive contact lenses with a partially-working HUD feature. And of course the failed control system for the micro-drones. It’s an Aladdin’s cave of broken treasures."
"You don’t trust anyone much, do you? Even in a second level basement, you still have everything locked away."
"These things are dangerous. I couldn’t risk anyone getting into them."
"Like your self-destructing bullets?"
"Worse than that." Jenson walked over to one cabinet, pressed his palm to the lock, then pulled out a drawer. In it were rows and rows of black wafers. "These are explosives."
Craig jerked back as Jenson pulled one out. It was the size of small coin.
"They were developed for the micro-drones. They’re ceramic units, undetectable to most scanners: low weight, high yield. They’re actually inert unless activated by specific computer signals. They won’t go off if you drop them."
"How reassuring."
"They’re one of the few things down here that actually works as intended." Jenson hesitated. "Can I ask you something?"
"When someone asks that, I’m always wary. But if you must."
"Why did you really do it? Fake your death?"
Craig blinked. "To save my son."
"That’s what you said. But how did you make the decision? That’s a lot of faith to place in a system."
"It had been right multiple other times."
"But this was something different: a huge long-term prediction."
"It’s a machine. It can’t lie."
"It could still be wrong. But then, I guess you were the one who programmed it."
"In a sense. I put the pieces in place: an inspirational piece of coding housed in hardware built on a unique design. Then it kind of… evolved."
"What I don’t understand is that if you were supposed to stay in hiding, if you were supposed to stay dead, why did you come back?"
"Because things didn’t play out like I was told. Michael was being drawn into ZAT and your new plans. This couldn’t have been meant to happen."
"So," Jenson frowned, "Darwin was wrong after all?"
"That’s what I’m trying to work out. If it was wrong about this, who knows what else it was wrong about."
"Maybe you should never have built it in the first place."
"I think that every day. Not that you ever did anything to stop me. Quite the reverse."
"Then maybe I was wrong too." Jenson’s phone chimed and he looked at its display.
"You get a signal down here?"
"My phone works everywhere. I set a subroutine to track Millie."
"Does she know?"
"I certainly didn’t tell her. I haven’t decided if I trust her yet."
"I trusted her enough to take charge of rescuing my son."
Jenson opened a map on his phone. "Why is she there? They’re way off course. Are you OK on your own for a bit while I check what’s going on? Look at anything you like: maybe it will give you some inspiration. Just don’t forget to close up when you’re done."
Craig nodded. "Bring them back safe."
Jenson looked at the ceramic explosive he held in his hand. He placed it back on the shelf. "I’ll be as quick as I can."
Craig watched Jenson climb back up the ladder. He waited a few minutes, but nobody returned.
He thought again about what Jenson had said. Had Darwin been wrong?
He pulled out his own phone and found he had a signal, just a very faint one. He called a pre-programmed number. It was answered immediately.
"David Barr, Private Detective."
Craig cleared his throat. "This is Cory Ashcroft."
"Mr A, what can I do for you? As I said, always happy to—"
"How did we first meet?"
There was a pause. "You contacted me, as I recall. I assume you saw one of my flyers or found one of my business cards."
"But why did I find it?"
"I may have dropped off a few at the bookshop you work at."
"And how do you know where I work?"
"As I said, I like to verify my clients."
"Your business cards were all over the place for the week I started working at the bookshop. Then I never saw another again."
"I don’t know what to tell you. I’m lazy. When I have some printed, I drop them in a small area and don’t repeat till the business dries up."
"Did someone tell you to get my attention? To plant the idea in my mind that a private detective might be something I need?"
Barr’s voice wavered. "Do you have something new you want me to investigate?"
"No thanks," Craig replied, cutting off the call. "That’s all I needed to know." He put the phone in his pocket, and turned back to the ceramic explosive that Jenson had left on the shelf.
Eighty-Three
Morton stood surveying the floor of the main control room wit
h the unshakeable sensation that something was wrong. The handling of Saxton’s situation still had him confused. Rarely did Kinek take such drastic action. Usually they gave nudges; now they were putting people in custody. And what had happened with Michael Adams? Morton knew that he had featured repeatedly in their recent plans. Yet now Adams had been arrested for something he did not do, all to test some hypothesis. Kinek’s weapon was supposed to be the truth. Why would they use a lie? What would push them to take such a path?
He knew that when people were desperate they made desperate choices. Was Kinek’s system – all but omnipotent for so long – faltering? It shouldn’t be possible. Redundancy was built into everything they did; their carefully-constructed intelligence-gathering machine was a network, with each centre of operation, such as this one in London, acting as a hub. The failure of even multiple components of the system should mean the remainder would still allow the whole to function properly, perhaps without the same degree of error-checking and perhaps not as quickly, but it should still work. Moreover, each system was logically and physically separate, the connections between routed through people to avoid the automatic propagation and proliferation of viruses and other insidious code. Regardless of a problem in one or more parts, the system should still have been able to answer his question: where is Maxwell Errington? Yet the system's considered response had been ANSWER NOT KNOWN, INSUFFICIENT DATA OR INSUFFICIENT PROCESSING CYCLES AVAILABLE.
He closed his eyes and listened.
People were talking. Normally this room was almost silent, except for the hiss of cooling fans. But now, above that hiss, he could just make out urgent whispers. When he opened his eyes, he could see furtive looks exchanged between several of the operators. He quickly marched over to the nearest: a woman in her twenties.