by Ian Rankin
‘You’re saying nobody’s noticed any of this?’
‘Buchan is isolated, as are the other chosen bases. The fact that the troops were pulling out gave the perfect cover for some excavation and building work. There was already a small underground chamber there, to protect the systems against nuclear attack. We disguised a building programme as a dismantling programme. The Scots are a wonderful nation, Major. They keep themselves to themselves, and so long as no one’s interfering with them, they’re happy to turn a blind eye to most things.’
Dreyfuss nodded. ‘But,’ he said, ‘you couldn’t hope to hide the construction work from the skies?’
‘Exactly. Which is where Zephyr came in. I must say, the generals proposed a simple but ingenious idea. Tap into the surveillance satellite, and you can transmit anything you like. So that’s what they did.’
‘But I was on the shuttle that launched the pirate satellite.’ It was a comment, nothing more. Dreyfuss was still looking for a chance to wrest the gun away from this insane man.
‘Indeed you were,’ Villiers said, smiling again. ‘There was little that could be done about that. The mission had been planned for ages. The US pull-out was supposed to be amicable. To have suddenly announced that a Briton was no longer to go up in the shuttle would have been more than a mite suspicious.’
‘More suspicious than blowing the shuttle up?’ Dreyfuss felt queasy now, thinking of how heartlessly the crew of Argos had been dispatched.
‘Yes.’ Villiers seemed surprised by the question. ‘I mean, shuttles do crash, don’t they? Anyway, the generals made Zephyr work for them, rather than against them, which is a brilliant strategy. Of course, having decided that a Briton must go up, COFFIN had to be sure that the least capable member of the shortlist was chosen.’ He was really enjoying himself now. He waved the gun across Dreyfuss’ body, then up and down from head to toes. ‘So there was the least risk of your seeing anything suspicious and reporting those suspicions back to Earth before the crash-landing. It all worked well enough, except that you survived the landing. At first, everyone thought you had amnesia, and decided to allow you a lease of life. And by the time General Esterhazy realised what a threat you really were, it was too late. You’d gone. And now here you are.’
‘Yes, here I am.’ Dreyfuss shook his head. ‘I still don’t understand, though. The ground crew, the technicians who worked on the Argos satellite, they must have known its purpose.’
‘Why should they?’ Villiers opened his arms for a second: not long enough for Dreyfuss to consider charging him, but enough to give him hope of a later opportunity. ‘They built to a military design. They didn’t need to know what that design’s intention ultimately was, and’ – Villiers stressed his final words – ‘they just followed orders, the way they’d been taught.’ He stared at the screens for a moment, then pointed to one. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘there’s your friend Hepton now. He’s in the control room.’
Dreyfuss looked. Hepton was seated at his console, unaware of the camera trained on his sector of the room.
‘Won’t be long now till Harry finds him,’ Villiers said. His face took on a glaze of sincerity. ‘But what you really must try to understand,’ he continued, ‘is that COFFIN is operating for the greater good. It’s defence we’re talking about.’
‘It’s more like murder we’re talking about,’ Dreyfuss growled.
Villiers’ gun hand twitched. ‘The greater good,’ he repeated, robotically. Dreyfuss remembered then what Parfit had said about Villiers: a cold-blooded killer with a history of instability. He tried to calm himself. The last thing he wanted to do right this second was die.
‘Well, if that’s what you believe,’ he said evenly.
‘We do, Major Dreyfuss. Believe me, we do.’ Villiers paused, seeming to drink in his own sense of power. ‘Any more questions?’ he asked. Dreyfuss shook his head. ‘Then if you’ll follow me, or rather, precede me through here …’ He lifted his left arm to unbolt another door.
Dreyfuss stood, taking a final look at the surveillance screen. He had no way of letting Hepton know Harry was on her way. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘I thought you wanted to find Miss Watson?’ said Villiers. ‘Besides, you haven’t seen half of what we’re doing here. Not nearly half.’
Then he pulled open the door to another world.
37
It had all gone smoothly at first. Hepton had done a spot of hacking in his time, and the process still intrigued and enthralled him. Once, he had found himself hacking into a company’s computer at the same time as another hacker. They had exchanged greetings before the other hacker identified himself as a member of the Chaos Club in West Germany; he was hacking from the Ruhr Valley into a computer system in Milton Keynes. Contact with the Chaos Club had taught Hepton much about hacking, and for a time he’d been hooked. But after a while, personnel records and medical files ceased to hold their one-time interest, and he’d given the sport up.
Like cycling, however, you never forgot the ‘how’. Having accessed the Zephyr onboard computer, he found that COFFIN 762 was the code to unlock the interface between the two satellites, or rather between their two computers. The code was simple enough: COFFIN hadn’t been expecting anyone to attempt an access, or to have the knowledge so to do. Otherwise they would not have been so unimaginative with the password, and they would surely have used a less simplistic numerical combination. Izzard’s black box had done its job, finding the number sequence in a space of minutes.
Nick Christopher was watching over Hepton’s shoulder, interested and excited but trying to look unimpressed so as not to draw undue attention to the console.
But meantime, Hepton was stuck. He’d got this far, but progressing any further seemed an impossibility, for there was a further code to be gleaned, and he had run out of ideas.
What is your name?
COFFIN
Thank you, COFFIN. Please wait.
---------------------------------------------------
---------------------------------------------------
What is your identifier number?
762
Identifier number accepted. Welcome to interphase control at 19:45 hours. You have fifteen minutes online remaining before engagement of protection circuitry. Do you wish to access:
1. Classification?
2. Interlock?
3. Transmission?
4. Quit?
Hepton wasn’t sure, but had taken a chance on Interlock, pressing the number 2 on his keyboard.
Interlock control required. State access password.
And that was where he had so far drawn the blank. He was in, but he wasn’t in. He could speak to the damned computer, but it wouldn’t do what he wanted until he’d found the password. COFFIN had already been used, so it wouldn’t be anything similar. He had an idea.
ZEPHYR
Incorrect password. Please try again.
He sat there staring at the screen. If not ZEPHYR, then what?
‘Try Argos,’ Nick Christopher suggested. Hepton typed in the letters.
Incorrect password. Please try again.
Hepton snarled, then typed in FUCK YOU and pressed the keyboard’s return button.
Fuck you too, 762, came the onscreen reply.
‘I hate computers with an inbuilt sense of humour,’ Christopher commented. Then he touched Hepton’s shoulder. Hepton looked up and saw that a security guard had entered the room. The guard stopped and held a murmured conversation with one of the new controllers. Hepton didn’t like this one bit. He reached around the side of the computer screen and turned the brightness and contrast knobs as low as they would go, blacking out the screen. Then he turned to Christopher. The guard was looking in their direction now.
‘Does that guard know you?’ Hepton whispered.
‘I’ve seen him around,’ Nick said, trying hard not to sound nervous.
‘Yes, but has he seen you around?’
‘We’
ve nodded to one another in the corridor.’
‘Does he know your name?’
Nick shrugged. ‘I don’t think so. We’re not that close.’
Hepton’s hand went to his trousers and unclipped the ID badge, slipping it into the pocket. ‘Do you have a name badge?’ he whispered. As well as the official ID, some of the staff owned larger, rectangular badges made from stiffened card and boasting name only. These had been given out at the beginning of the Zephyr project, a stopgap until the proper IDs had been made. But Nick had held onto his, finding its inverted mistake – CHRISTOPHER NICHOLAS – amusing. He reached into his shirt pocket now, brought out the badge and laid it in the palm of Hepton’s hand. Pretending to fuss with his keyboard, Hepton attached the badge prominently to his own shirt.
A moment later, the guard confronted them.
‘Yes?’ Hepton asked imperiously. The guard stared at the name tag, then at Nick, whose face he recognised. He seemed confused, shook his head.
‘Nothing, sorry,’ he said, moving away again. Hepton watched from the corner of his eye as the guard said a few reassuring words to the controller, then left the room. He sighed and turned the screen back on. He was still no further forward. He stared upwards, seeking inspiration, and found himself gazing into the single black lens of a video camera, angled into the room from one corner.
‘Shit!’ he said. ‘I forgot about that.’
‘About what?’
‘That camera.’ Its red light was on, too. There was no doubt about it: it was beaming his picture back to security. Perhaps he had even less time than he had thought. He stared around the room. Two controllers were laughing over a photo in the newspaper …
Newspaper!
‘Nick,’ he said, ‘do you still do those crosswords?’
‘Yes, why?’ Nick Christopher sounded scared: he had an inkling now that this was all very serious after all.
‘Got a thesaurus?’
‘Sure. Stay there.’ As if Hepton were going to leave! A moment later, he returned with a large paperback book.
‘Look up zephyr for me,’ Hepton ordered.
Christopher started flipping through pages. ‘Why zephyr?’ he asked.
‘Because I don’t suppose Argos will be in there, and we’ve already used coffin.’
‘Okay.’ Christopher had found zephyr in the index, and now sought the correct section. ‘Three-five-two,’ he said to himself. ‘Right, here we are.’ He held open the book, his hands tense, as though he might at any moment tear the pages in half.
‘Start at the top,’ commanded Hepton.
‘“Breeze”,’ Christopher read.
Hepton typed the word in: incorrect.
‘“Breath of air”.’
Hepton was dubious, but typed it anyway: incorrect.
‘Next,’ he said.
‘“Waft”, “whiff”, “puff”, “gust” …’
Hepton entered all four individually: incorrect.
‘Damn this thing!’ he cursed.
One of the older operatives came up to the console.
‘Hi, Martin,’ he said. ‘What happened to the holiday?’
‘Just clearing things up, Gary,’ Hepton said, his grin as tight as a rictus.
Gary took a look at the screen.
‘It’s a game,’ said Christopher grimly. Gary sensed that he wasn’t wanted.
‘That’s nice,’ he said, moving away. Hepton watched him go.
‘Next,’ he said.
Christopher had lost his place. There was a pause while he found it.
‘Next!’ Hepton hissed.
‘Jesus, Martin, I’m doing my best. Hold on, here we are. “Capful of wind”.’
Hepton stared at him, saw he was serious and shook his head. Then tapped the letters in anyway. Incorrect.
‘“Light breeze”, “fresh breeze”, “stiff breeze”,’ Christopher concluded, closing the book with a thump.
‘That’s it?’ Hepton asked.
‘That’s it.’
‘Okay.’ Hepton thought hard, seeking another way.
‘What about a dictionary?’ Christopher suggested.
Hepton nodded vigorously, then, while the large red book was being fetched, rubbed at his aching temples. Time was rushing by. Soon he would run out of his online allocation, and the satellite’s computer would warn its guardians that someone was attempting to tamper with it. They would try to shut him down right then … that was supposing security didn’t get to him first.
‘Here you go.’
Hepton took the book. There was a mark on the cover where Nick’s palm had left some sweat.
‘What are you looking for?’ Christopher asked.
‘Straws to clutch at,’ muttered Hepton. He turned to the back and found zephyr. ‘“The west wind”,’ he read aloud, ‘“gentle breeze, the god of the west wind”.’ He closed the dictionary and handed it back, then turned to his keyboard. The west wind. Well, what the hell. He started to type.
WEST WIND. Then the return key.
There was a pause, and he held his breath, then: Incorrect password. Please try again.
Nick Christopher cursed quietly, but Hepton was staring at the screen. There had been a pause, a very slight pause, before the computer had responded. As though it were checking … As though it weren’t sure. He typed again, his fingers solid on each plastic key.
WESTWIND. This time with no space. Then the return.
There was another pause, if anything longer than the first, then the screen kicked into life.
Welcome to interlock option on interphase. Do you wish to:
1. Change interlock coding?
2. Enter interlock program?
3. Check interlock co-ordinates?
4. Oversee interlock?
5. Disengage interlock?
Nick Christopher sucked in air and leaned lower towards the screen. ‘You’ve done it!’ he gasped.
Hepton almost leapt out of his chair, but gripped its arms with his hands instead. Yes, he was in! He was right there in the nerve centre of the American satellite! He wondered if someone somewhere in a tracking station in the US was watching a screen and beginning to worry. He hoped so. Because he was going to give them a show.
Christopher slapped his back. ‘You clever sod,’ he whispered, his voice trembling. ‘You’ve actually done it.’
‘Now watch this,’ said Hepton. But Nick’s attention had switched to something else. He was looking over towards the far door, his antennae twitching.
‘She’s new,’ he said. ‘Must be part of the skeleton crew. A bit tasty for a skeleton, though. No, wait a second, I’ve seen her before …’
Hepton, curious, looked up for a moment from his screen and saw Harry standing just inside the far door, holding it open as her eyes swept the room. She seemed to be carrying a plastic bag.
He froze momentarily, watching her. ‘She’s the one who’s been trying to kill me,’ he stated, his voice cool. Then he concentrated on the screen again. Any second now she would see him. And she would kill him. But he had so little time left anyway, so little time to crack the whole COFFIN thing wide open. And what a foul stench he’d release. So rotten and pungent that no one could ignore it any longer. It didn’t matter if he died right here and now, just so long as he wrecked their plans.
‘Hello, Martin.’
She was in front of him, standing on the other side of the console, her head and shoulders visible above the monitor, the rest of her body hidden from his view. He didn’t glance up from the screen. Instead, with quiet pressure from his left index finger, he pressed the number 2.
ENTER INTERLOCK PROGRAM
A message flashed onto the screen: WARNING! INTERPHASE USER TIME NOW UP. INFORMING CONTROL OF THIS TRANSACTION. PRESS RETURN TO CONTINUE. YOU ARE NOW BEING MONITORED BY CONTROL.
Monitored by control: that meant someone would now be watching his every move, ready to negate it if they could. (Harry in front of him! Don’t think about her!) He had to finis
h this quickly, but without allowing them to work out just what he was up to. (Harry standing right there, a rustling of plastic. The carrier bag.) It wouldn’t be easy.
‘Hello, Martin,’ she said again. ‘Bring your hands where I can see them.’ And this time he did look up. He couldn’t help himself. He gazed towards her dark glassy eyes. And found himself staring down the barrel of a gun, so close that he could swear he could see the bullet resting at the end of the long, long chamber.
Then the gun seemed to speak. ‘Goodbye, Martin.’
38
‘What the hell is this?’
Villiers had ushered Dreyfuss into a series of rooms, separated by glass wall dividers. The rooms were packed with electronics Dreyfuss didn’t – couldn’t – recognise. It wasn’t like in the old movies he’d seen, banks of flashing lights and huge rolls of tape rotating on their mainframe computer spools. It wasn’t even like Argos mission control. It was cool and peaceful, and the machines made a low, soothing sound, while six dot matrix printers disgorged their data and a row of six television monitors showed a mixture of satellite pictures and computer graphics. DAT machines recorded without apparent end the digital transmissions from … well, wherever. Telemetry? Satellite waves? Computer language? Dreyfuss thought all three were possible. COFFIN seemed to have limitless access and limitless funds. But then COFFIN was potentially the largest army the world had ever seen.
And in a corner of this most impressive of the rooms sat Jilly.
Surrounded by state-of-the-art hardware, her captors had chosen a good old-fashioned method of securing her: rope bands looping around her body and the chair-back, and around her wrists; an adhesive gag for her mouth. Except that on closer inspection, Dreyfuss saw that the bands were made of thin plastic strips, secured by metal clips. Unbreakable, and painful to fight and chafe against. He ran to the chair and placed his hands on her shoulders. Her eyes were wild with surprise at seeing him, and she tried to speak, mouthing her frustration against the restraining pad.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked awkwardly, no other more sensible words coming to mind. She nodded briskly.
A man in a white coat was standing over one of the recording machines, checking line levels. He seemed relieved to see Villiers.