by J. S. Monroe
“Is everything alright? she asked. “You didn’t come and get me.”
“Everything’s fine.”
Charlotte was looking past me at the decorator kneeling in the corner. I turned around to look at him.
“He’s alive, it’s alright.”
“At least sit him on a chair.”
*
Charlotte was good on the computer, said it was part of her training. Within ten minutes she had called up a display similar to the one I had stared at all day in the office. The other screens were on, too. One, at the far end, was flickering, horizontal bars rippling across the glass. It was an odd sight, the empty seats, the silence. I expected Toxo to walk in at any moment, scratching his balls, talking about his latest encounter.
“Problem,” Charlotte said, cutting across my thoughts. “It’s not letting me log on as Kiruna.”
“Why not?”
“The system’s set up automatically for JKA.”
She sat back and fit a cigarette.
“So what do we do now?” I asked.
“We need a password.”
She hesitated a moment, exhaling smoke, then pulled her chair forward and set to work again. I felt excluded by her tenacity. For the next thirty minutes she attempted to hack into Kiruna Kredit using words she said were common currency in MI5. If she didn’t come up with the right one, she said, there was little else we could do. There was also the possibility that the real Kiruna might be logged on and notice that someone else was trying.
I paced the empty space, frustrated, trying to help, throwing out suggestions: “Semtex”, “Stella”, “Collins”. She didn’t even bother to type them in. Her patience was even more annoying. She sat placidly, systematically working her way through a mental list of seemingly innocent words. Every five attempts she was barred, and had to re-boot the system, start again. At times her choices seemed alphabetical – “deal”, “demon”, “dice” – then she would suddenly type in something from her past – “Armagh”, “Enniskillen”.
“No one tries this many times,” I said, walking over to the decorator. He was now sitting in a chair, head bowed forward. I checked the twine, pulling on it aggressively.
“Patience, Dutchie. It’s a machine, not a person.”
“They’re sitting somewhere, watching us, having a good laugh. I know they are.”
“Do you have any other ideas?”
I didn’t and went outside for a smoke.
*
“We’re in,” she said calmly as I came back through the door.
“How?” I asked, walking quickly over to her. I looked at the screen. Sure enough, Kiruna was up and running, ready to deal. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just have.”
“What was the word?” I asked, walking away, down past the row of flickering screens. Each one was now showing the same display.
“Does it matter?”
I looked across at her. She was like a prim teacher, her back straight.
“Yeah, it does. What was it?”
“You don’t need to know. It’s irrelevant.”
“A State secret, huh? You take the piss you do. Tell me what the fucking word was.” I was shouting now and the decorator looked up.
Charlotte studied the ground then lifted her head reluctantly. “Douglas,” she said quietly.
I stared at her in disbelief. For a moment I thought she was addressing me. Then I realised. The implications flooded over me, too many to contemplate.
“It’s a coincidence, Dutchie. Nothing more. The word changes every day. They often use names of people.”
I sat down quietly at a desk two down from her and lit another cigarette. She was right, it was chance, random. Even so, I could have done without it. The name had always felt uncomfortable, as a child, in the City. If it meant everything was a set up, that Walter was implicated in some way, it also meant that Charlotte was involved. But she wasn’t. She wouldn’t have been sitting here with me if she was. Perhaps it was just one of MI5’s sick little jokes.
“Start thinking of banks,” she said. “There’s a list in the book.” She nodded at my briefcase on the ground between us. I opened it and pulled out How the City Works. “Look at the list in the back,” she said, hesitating, “and pray for a little luck.”
*
We both knew that if we managed to make contact with a terrorist, we might inadvertently set in motion another bomb attack. It was a risk, but more people would be killed in the long run if we didn’t try. That’s how she explained it. I expressed less concern. We didn’t know what the message “NOT FOR ME TKS BIFN” actually meant, if anything, but it seemed logical to assume that it was either a blank refusal by a bomber, or an acceptance to provide back-up. We weren’t exactly about to start World War Three.
I stood with my back against the desk, legs crossed, and started calling out company names, like a roll call, students of capitalism. Each time I said a name she typed in the initials, inserting L for London if necessary, then flagged up the message “SEK/ESP 3 M SWP32/28”. No one in their right mind would look twice at the call. I tried to imagine them all in their dealing rooms. Perhaps it was a quiet day. At JKA, Dan would be ordering people about, Pete would be crunching numbers, dreaming of Debbie.
“Chuckster, he was a tosser, right?” I said, watching her type.
“He appealed to women more than men. He was easy company, flattering. Nice bum too.”
“Credit Lux.”
We were getting on better now that I had something to do.
“You weren’t jealous were you, Dutchie?” she asked.
I didn’t answer. On the screen a message had suddenly appeared. “NOT FOR ME TKS BIFN.” We both stared at the words, barely daring to breathe.
“I hope we haven’t lit any fuses,” she said quietly. “What’s the address?”
I fumbled with the book, trying to find the entry. “Canada Square. Canary Wharf,” I replied. “Just up the road.”
“We’re looking for someone with the initials C.M.”
I walked away from the screen, tapping the book against my legs, and then turned back, just to check I wasn’t imagining it. The message was still there. “C.M.” – who could that be?
“First of all we’ve got to find out their full name,” she said, “then, well, it’s up to you what we do next.” She swivelled around in her chair and looked across at me. “All I need is a picture of him.”
“It might not be a man,” I said, my thoughts beginning to run ahead of me.
“Okay. Let’s assume C.M. is a woman. Fair enough. Are there many female dealers?”
“A few,” I said, looking out of the window.
“So where does that leave us?” she asked. We both knew we were on to something, desperately close in fact, but neither of us knew the next move.
“We could ring reception, I suppose,” she said. “Say we’ve found a company diary with the initials C.M. on it.”
I looked at her again. That was it. Reception.
“I’ll take her some flowers,” I said impulsively.
“What?”
“Turn up at reception, say I’m a dealer, fallen for someone with the initials C.M. Sex on the superhighway. It happens all the time.”
“And then what?”
“I insist on giving them personally. She comes down, we know who the other bomber is.”
I knew at once that I was right, that we had found our next move, but Charlotte was hesitating, playing the long game.
“There might be more than one bomber,” she said.
“We’re running out of time, Charlotte,” I replied, putting the book away and locking the case.
“I still think we should keep calling round the banks.”
“What, until someone buys the kronas? We don’t know what might happen. We don’t know what we might have already set in motion.”
I nodded at the screen.
“I didn’t think you cared,” she said.
; I picked up the case and started walking towards the door. I didn’t care. I was just in a hurry.
“OK, so you’ve given her the flowers, then what?” she asked, pushing back her seat and standing up.
“Follow her home. Ask her if she was in Oxford Street on 22nd December.”
“And if she wasn’t?”
I stopped and turned towards her. “I’ll kill her anyway.”
I knew the words would shock her. I needed to say them myself. I felt animated by the charge they left in the air. It was down to basics now. Life with Annalese had been too complicated. The state was trying to kill me. I needed to retaliate first. It was as simple as that. Just like the good old days.
Charlotte went over towards the main power switch in the corner, next to the alarm.
“Wait,” I said, walking back to where she had been sitting. I put the case down and sat in front of the screen.
“What are you doing?” she asked, still standing in the corner.
“The system thinks we’re Kiruna, right?”
“Dutchie.”
“This won’t take a second. Get me back to JKA, will you?”
“But you said we haven’t got time.”
“Just do it,” I said, knowing my tone would frighten her.
She came over and reluctantly exited from Kiruna, then booted up the system again. JKA’s signature came on line.
“Party-time,” I said quietly.
I had to do it, reassert myself, show that the last few weeks had been an academic exercise, a means, nothing more. I typed in the following message, feeling sorry for Pete (it was nothing personal): USD/DEM IN 100 USD. I knew I didn’t have long. Someone at JKA would block me, but it was a gesture.
“Dutchie,” Charlotte said. I ignored her. A reply had appeared on the screen: 1.5320/1.5300. Without hesitating I typed in 1.5320 TKS BYE and stood up, smiling.
“What have you done?” Charlotte asked, intrigued.
“Left them with a little present.” Dan would do his nut.
I activated the alarm system and we walked out, leaving the door ajar. It was Charlotte’s suggestion. The police would untie the decorator when they came to investigate the alarm.
26
I stepped off the train at Canary Wharf and walked through the chrome framed doors to the shopping mall at the bottom of the tower. Charlotte dropped back, watching me from the other side of the hall. The wealth of the place took me by surprise, every surface glistening with an expensive sheen. I bought a dozen red carnations from a floral boutique, and stepped on to the escalator. Glancing around to get my bearings, I looked up at the vast slabs of marble rising on every side, opulent, unblemished.
Downstairs I set off across more marble towards the bank of lifts. I was preparing my story for the reception desk up ahead when I heard a familiar voice behind me.
“Douglas.”
I froze. I didn’t know whether to ignore it and step through the lift doors, now opening, or turn around. I turned to see Dan from JKA coming towards me, his big hand outstretched.
“What are you doing around here?” he asked, smiling.
“Job interview,” I replied, glancing at the waiting lift. What did he know? My abrupt exit from JKA’s foyer would have been seen by someone. Rumours would have been circulating within minutes.
“Who isn’t?” he said. “You probably heard. It’s all change at JKA.”
“No?”
“Briggs, the boss, he was sacked.”
“Sacked? Why?”
“Interfering with a minor. Officially. Unofficially it was his own son. Can you believe that?”
I winced. No, I couldn’t believe it. Briggs messed up inadvertently by talking to Walter, the ombudsman, so MI5 had cashed in their collateral. At least it wasn’t a horse.
“Which firm, anyway?” Dan asked, looking at the carnations.
“Credit Lux.”
“Good outfit. Nice bunch of lads over there. Hope the flowers clinch it,” he added, winking.
He patted me on the side of my arm and walked away. I glanced up towards the mall and saw Charlotte leaning over the balcony rail. Breathing a sigh of relief, I nodded to her discreetly and walked on.
The reception desk was thorough but no trouble. Credit Lux was on the thirty-eighth floor, the guard said, before asking me to sign in. The only other person in the lift was a man in a beaten leather jacket with shoulder-length hair which he kept sweeping back. Propped up against the wall next to him was a large thin black case. He had a canvas bag slung over one shoulder and I could see a flash-gun poking out of one of the pockets. I wondered how Charlotte was going to take her photos. A muscle in my left calf began to twitch violently. I pressed my foot down hard into the floor, and lifted my toes, trying to stop the spasm. Dan could have made life a lot worse. Clearly my departure from JKA had raised few suspicions. In fact, it must have seemed a sensible thing to do. JKA was the joke of the City, no place to gain work experience.
The lift opened and I turned right, following signs to reception. A man brushed passed me as I pushed through the swing doors, catching against my flowers with his elbow. I walked on to the desk.
“You shouldn’t have bothered,” the security guard said, beaming up at me. I wasn’t in the mood, and glared back at him. “Yes, sir,” he continued, clearing his throat. “What can I do for you?”
I put my briefcase on the floor between my legs and cradled the flowers loosely. “I want to deliver these to a dealer, a friend of mine,” I began.
“And the name?”
“I don’t know the name. I only know her initials. C.M.” I paused for a reaction; the guard duly looked up at me.
“Early stages is it?” he asked.
“Yeah, early stages.”
“Shan’t breathe a word, but I can’t call her down if I don’t have a name, can I?”
I could see he was beginning to enjoy himself.
“I don’t know it,” I said coldly. “We haven’t met yet. We’ve only talked on Reuters, the computer system.” I waved the flowers in the direction of his own terminal on the desk. He looked at me for a moment, weighing up the possibilities, wondering whether I had become a security risk. I managed a smile.
“C.M., you say?” he said, not convinced. I watched his bruised thumbnail track down the list of phone extensions, and stop.
“Bad news I’m afraid,” he continued, his head still down. He had a small blister on the top of his head. “Depending on which way you fancy it, of course.” He looked up at me, unable to resist a grin. “The only C.M. I’ve got is a man. Carl Meacham.”
“That’s the one,” I replied, too hastily. “It’s not what you think. It’s for a friend.”
“Of course, sir. You’ve just missed him anyway. He went out barely a minute ago.”
I didn’t wait to explain any further. It was the man I had passed on the way in, I was sure of it. I left the flowers on the desk, picked up my briefcase, and walked quickly to the lifts, stabbing at the button impatiently. The security guard was already on the phone to someone, looking at me as he talked.
Nobody was in the lift and I had a clear run down. As the doors opened on the ground floor I spotted the man at the top of the escalator, walking towards the station. I looked around for Charlotte but couldn’t see her. She must have come up in the lift behind me, ready to take a photo at reception. I couldn’t wait for her and ran across the concourse to the train. The man was boarding near the front. I jumped on as the conductor was closing the doors, and sat down near the back.
“That was cutting it fine,” Charlotte said from somewhere. I turned around. She was sitting two seats behind me. The train moved off and she came forward.
“The bastard was on his way out as I was going in,” I said.
“I know. I was behind you. Different lift.”
“How did you know it was him?”
She hesitated and we both looked at the man sitting passively up ahead. His hair was rich and black, well oiled.
There was something Hispanic about his complexion. He wasn’t tall but he had broad shoulders. The back and sides of his head had been shaved severely. Charlotte still said nothing. I glanced at her. Her skin was paler than usual.
“I’ve seen him before,” she said eventually.
“Where?”
“Standing in a queue.”
“At the supermarket?”
She nodded. I looked at the man again, more cautiously this time. He suddenly had pedigree, form. I felt my legs glow. According to Charlotte he had killed a string of British soldiers, not just her friend.
“Did you get any photos?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. We sat there in silence. I knew what she was thinking, that she had no excuse now, no career considerations. I wondered how close the friend had been. Would she be able to see it through this time? I doubted it.
“How well did you know him?” I asked casually, looking out of the train window. A luxury yacht was moored alongside a deserted boulevard beneath us. I would have to come back here, the place had changed.
“We were engaged,” she said quietly.
“And you did nothing?”
“I came back to England, asked for a transfer.”
Her tone was becoming defensive, tetchy, and she signalled for me to keep my voice down, nodding at the man. He was out of earshot. The train was made up of two carriages linked by a flattened, circular plate, hypnotic in its loud, grinding movements as it followed the curves of the line. There were no more than ten people on board, spread thinly through both carriages.
“Who was that on the phone the other night?” I continued, barely lowering my voice. “The posh git you were talking to.”
She looked at me for a moment, genuinely surprised.
“There’s nowhere lower for you to sink really, is there?” she said.
“And you’ve never listened to anyone else’s conversation? It’s your job, isn’t it?”