‘Time for me may well be limited,’ he said after a bit. ‘Free time, that is.’
Maric smiled. ‘This is true for both of us. Makes the time more fun though, doesn’t it?’
Cass almost laughed; maybe they weren’t that different after all. Knowing the game could be over at any moment certainly made him feel more alive.
Brian Freeman’s phone rang in the other room and Cass’ heart stopped. This was it. He stared at Maric and the hacker winked.
‘Let’s go and see if Fate is on your side.’
‘I don’t believe in Fate,’ Cass said automatically. As he followed the slim man along the corridor, he wondered if that was still strictly true.
‘There,’ Freeman said after he ended the call, ‘that’s who the account belongs to. It’s a medical facility, and not Flush5 either. She couldn’t go deeply enough through the layers to see who the final owner was, but my money would be on our Mr Bright.’
‘What kind of medical facility?’ Cass frowned as he looked at the address. The name of the place, Calthorpe House, didn’t give much away. What had all those medical tests revealed? Was there something seriously wrong with his nephew?
‘Guess that’s up to you to find out.’ Freeman got to his feet. ‘I’ll let you have Wharton and Osborne. They’re good blokes, and they like you.’ He gave a tired laugh. ‘Fuck knows why. You must still have some of that old Charlie Sutton charm. But first we need to get back to the house and get some sleep.’ He held up the small, sleek laptop. ‘And I can keep this?’
‘It’s yours,’ Maric smiled. ‘You paid for it.’
‘It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, son.’
‘Likewise.’ The hacker followed them to the door. Night had somehow disappeared into morning and now the building was alive with the sounds of water rushing through pipes as showers woke the residents up, and doors slamming as they answered the siren call of the office. For a while it had felt like they were the only people alive in the block, and thinking of how these people had all been asleep throughout the activity of the night made Cass wonder again at how little anyone understood of the world around them. What had Dr Cornell said? Nothing is real. The world is on its head. How right was the old man going to turn out to be?
‘Good luck, gentlemen.’ Maric opened the door. ‘And goodbye.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
The two days since DeVore’s panicked phone call had passed relatively quietly. At first Mr Bright wondered if DeVore’s nerves would get the better of him and make him call Mr Dublin or one of the others, but it appeared not. Perhaps the rumours of his own current moment of instability hadn’t reached the House of Intervention yet.
That was quite likely, of course, since Mr Bellew’s clumsy attempts at a coup had failed and the House of Intervention had gone back to its normal place in the world; keeping watch over the inhabitants, letting Mr Bright know if anything too untoward appeared in the data stream. Outside of the Inner Cohort’s annual reviews it was a forgotten place, and he doubted that Mr Dublin had remembered DeVore yet, or got around to explaining what he believed to be a shift in the powerbase.
That thought gave him some sense of comfort. Mr Dublin was good – Mr Bright quite respected him – but he had a long way to go to reach the top of this game they all played. Perhaps Mr Dublin was too pure for the machinations required in the First’s absence; he certainly lacked fire. It had always been Mr Rasnic of the pair who Glowed the brightest.
He fought back disappointment as he stared down at the reports that had slowly trickled back to him. He’d hoped to have found the emissary by now, but there was still no trace. And it was highly unlikely an emissary would have been sent here alone, not after all this time – so where could they be hiding? He’d expected to hear something of them by now. After all, he knew how long it had taken those who’d travelled to learn to hide what they truly were, how to fight the urge to become and be. Surely the emissary would not have such restraint?
He drummed his fingers on the desk, his neatly clipped nails tapping like cockroaches on tiles. He always prided himself on maintaining his calm, and for the first time he knew that was slipping. He focused his mind; he was still the Architect. He might not have led them here, but this was his place. It was born of all their flavours and personalities, the First’s most of all, but he understood the way it worked better than anyone. So if there was no trace of the emissary there were two possible reasons: the first, the emissary had gone, and that he discounted; logic dictated that if they couldn’t find the Walkways back, then neither could the emissary. After all, they had created the Walkways, not him, so they had the advantage in that regard.
The others might be in awe of an emissary, but he wasn’t. They were only servants, after all, messengers. He hadn’t been able to see much beyond the brilliant Glow in the CCTV footage of the car, but he had a good idea who the emissary was – he would have picked someone close to the First, and Mr Bright’s memory was still good when it came to those who had chosen their side and stayed behind. It didn’t do anything to ease his nervousness, though. If he’d sent them here, then he was prepared to lose them, two whom he had always claimed to love. Everyone was expendable: that was a lesson they had all learned quickly. It would appear that hadn’t changed.
Mr Bright brought his mind back to the present. It was, after all, all there was.
If the emissary couldn’t get home, and there was no evidence of any unexplained becoming, then there really was only one explanation: the emissary and companion didn’t want to bring any attention to themselves, so this was no great heralding of war. Whatever the emissary’s message was, it wasn’t to be delivered to the entirety of the cohorts – so who was it for? It had to be the First, the only one he would have any interest in among those who had left. Was it a warning of the impending attack?
His mobile phone started ringing, but he ignored it. He wanted to think. Why would he warn the First? Did he hope that after all this time the First would come back to the fold? His mobile paused, and then started again with its insistent pealing. The First wouldn’t turn his back and flee, leaving them all to the fate the Interventionists were projecting. Surely they would fight all over again if they had to, even if it meant their own destruction – surely?
The phone on his desk joined his mobile, both now demanding his attention, out of time and tone with each other and making thinking impossible, but still he ignored them. It was only when the intercom started buzzing too that his stomach chilled. What now? He went for the intercom first.
An hour and a half later, all thoughts of the emissary had been pushed to the back of his mind; that could wait. He had a far more immediate problem: The Bank was in turmoil; its companies in disarray as their shares were being dumped unexpectedly on the stock market. CEOs were scrambling to reassure the public and various governments that there were no problems, and desperately trying to buy their own stock back before others did – mainly unsuccessfully. This had apparently been going on for some hours and only now was anyone coming to him about it? He was seething.
‘Who’s doing this?’ he snapped into the phone, immediately annoyed at revealing his irritation in his voice. He hadn’t wanted the conference call with The Bank’s founders; he had not liked being told he had to have it. ‘And why was I not told immediately?’
There was a long pause, no one wanting to say anything, until eventually the British billionaire broke the silence. ‘Um … you’re doing this, apparently. All of the companies and corporations affected are from those owned by you and your own private cabal, whoever they are. Staff received email orders – from you – telling them to sell a certain amount of stock, none in amounts that would raise alarm, but as a whole … well, here we are.’
‘My email?’ Mr Bright had control of his voice again, but his brain was racing. ‘Only a handful of people have that – the instructions cannot possibly have come from me.’
‘Not your direct email – we know your obs
essional desire for privacy – but there is no doubt they came from you: the instructions came from the email addresses you have set up for each of the companies affected.’
‘That’s why we hadn’t spoken to you,’ the American computer geek cut in. ‘It wasn’t until the bigger picture became clear that we realised that something was going wrong.’
‘This needs to be stopped,’ the Englishman said. ‘The Bank was formed to create stability – that’s why we agreed to partner with you despite how little you share with us. You must deal with this immediately.’
‘I will take care of it.’ Mr Bright’s smooth voice displayed none of his inner rage, though his eyes burned and he felt himself on the brink of becoming. To be spoken to like this by Mr Dublin, that would have been bad enough – but these little people? No matter how right they were, it was beyond acceptable. For the first time he felt as if his power really might be wrested from him. Mr Dublin would hear about this soon, that much was certain, and then it would be all over for him. He needed to contain this – whatever this was – and fast.
He ended the conversation and breathed deeply until the burst of Glow had faded.
His immediate thought was this was Mr Dublin, or perhaps the errant Mr Craven, following in the footsteps of Mr Bellew and trying to take him down by proving that he was losing control. But even if that were the case, they would have needed someone to have broken into The Bank’s system to find a way to access his hidden email addresses and passwords. No one knew those. Within the cohorts they had always trusted each other, at least until relatively recently, and no one had even asked for access to his systems. Until the First started sleeping and the Dying came among them they had been happy for him and the First Cohort to take care of things – it wasn’t as if anyone was lacking for anything they wanted. For a very, very long time they had all been contented.
Not any more, he thought; now they were all obsessed with the Dying and the idea that their world was crumbling and taking them all with it. So let them panic. They’d always needed a strong leader, and as soon as the First was ready to face them, they’d realise that nothing was over. This world was hardier than they gave it credit. He hit the intercom button. ‘Get all the network administrators in. I want to know how we were hacked and who allowed it to happen. I want images of every person who’s been in and out – staff as well as visitors – checked. Access every database worldwide for people capable of doing this. I want to know who it is, and who hired them.’
Perhaps the trail wouldn’t lead directly back to one of the Inner Cohort, but it would go far enough for him to find out who had done this. He didn’t wait for the answer but pressed a small button on his desk, and the concealed computer console rose. First he needed to send out instructions to buy back the stock, regardless of cost, and then he had to change all his email settings. He would also need to transfer money from his X account to make sure everything was stabilised.
He quietly cursed Mr Dublin or Mr Craven for their actions; this had to be their doing. To try and take him down was one thing, but to add more uncertainty to the short lives of those who existed in ignorance of their heritage lacked vision. He expected more from those who had known greatness. He logged into the sub-network and moved expertly through the files until he came to the overview of the X-section accounts. As he went to click on X1, his own sector’s finances, he froze. For a second, he couldn’t react at all. Each column was in flux, figures moving in and out of them too fast for even his eyes to keep track of.
His heart pounded and a cold sweat burst into life in the palms of his normally dry hands. Surely not even Mr Craven would do this? Creating havoc out there was one thing – but this was Network business.
He clenched his teeth and allowed himself to burn slightly to ease the moment of panic.
When his breathing was steady once again, he looked at the columns and set up a new command to register the totals. He needed to see how much they were losing. The command ran and he looked at the figure it produced, he frowned slightly, his initial panic replaced by thoughtfulness. The balance remained the same, despite the constant changes in the numbers in each of the columns. So the money was moving between the accounts, but not out of them.
He opened a second page and retrieved the stored balances. Only twenty-five million pounds of the billions the Network held were missing, gone over the past forty-eight hours. He went back to the screen where the figures were changing several times within each blink of an eye. So why this trickery if it wasn’t to drain the accounts? His fingernails tapped the desk once more. It was all smoke and mirrors, he decided, allowing himself a tight smile, a way of stopping him tracking how the twenty-five million had gone and to where, for now at least.
He ignored the huge sense of relief; admitting he was relieved would also be an admittance that he’d been afraid. Whoever was playing with him was cleverer than he’d given them credit for: they’d created enough of a mess to cause him trouble, but not enough that the trouble couldn’t be put right. This was just part of the game, not the end move, and he was an expert when it came to games. He started resetting his passwords.
The phone on the desk rang again, and this time he answered it straight away. It wasn’t Mr Dublin, and he was glad. If he could manage it he needed some time before speaking to that one.
‘Sir?’ The voice at the other end was nervous, and Mr Bright was pleased. News of Asher Red’s rather unpleasant termination of employment had spread through the small group of those aware of who really controlled the machinations of The Bank. It was all rumour, of course, not actual facts, but a little fear could go a long way. Asher Red had failed to serve his purpose in many ways, but at least with his ending he’d managed to find a way to please Mr Bright. It was good that at least someone out there was still nervous of his reaction to their news.
‘Yes?’
‘We’ve been going through the external and reception camera footage—’
‘Have you got the hacker?’ The problem with fear was that it invariably prevented people from getting to the point quickly, and he was in no mood for hesitancy.
‘Not yet, sir, but one of the night network administrators said that there was a visit from a telephone engineer on his shift two nights ago. The engineer needed access to the systems. The administrator called and checked with the company and it was all legit so he let him in.’
‘Did he stay with him?’
‘No; he was sorting out some problems on the third floor at the time – Japan’s markets were open and he was under pressure to get them sorted. He said he left the engineer to it and then let him out when he was finished.’
‘Fire him. And get a picture of the engineer and run it. He’s the man we’re looking for. Let me know when you have a match.’
‘There’s another thing.’
The phone had been halfway to the cradle, but he grabbed it back. ‘What?’
‘We did find something else in the footage. I’m sending it to you now.’ He paused. ‘It’s that policeman. It was filmed the night before we were hacked.’
Mr Bright put down the phone and waited for the file to arrive. He clicked on it and there he was, Cassius Jones. He looked different – thinner. His hair was longer. Both changes suited him; he looked more reminiscent of his heritage, of what was so strong in his blood. On the screen Cass Jones smoked into the cold night, and Mr Bright found himself smiling. So Cassius Jones turns up to simply stare at The Bank, and shortly afterwards all hell breaks loose around them. Coincidence? Mr Bright didn’t believe in coincidences. So this wasn’t the work of Mr Dublin and Mr Craven after all: this was Cassius Jones, bringing a war to his table – but who else? Who was standing with him? He couldn’t be acting alone.
He felt his mood lifting slightly: a new game with DI Cass Jones. Of all the Jones family, he was the one who had turned out to be the least disappointing. He had something of the rebel in him. Mr Bright poured himself a brandy. He supposed that was a matter of blood too.
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘I’ve dreamed it,’ the old man said. He was sitting on the side of the bed. He hadn’t got as far as leaving the safety of their small apartment yet, but since she’d told him of the First’s waking, she was pleased to see his spirits had definitely lifted. Each day he was eating more, and now he insisted on getting up and walking around their rooms. Whatever doubts he’d had about his old long-lost friend seemed to have passed; now he wanted to be well when he saw the First again. It made her own tired heart lift, helped her to ignore the truth, that the red in her hair was fading and that she too was getting weaker. She hoped the First called for them soon. She was conserving what energy she had for that.
‘I’ve dreamed him coming here.’ He looked at her with a vague wonder in his thin, sagging face. His mouth hung open, revealing just two teeth remaining. They shone like stars in the vast gaps of darkness around them. She was surprised he wasn’t lisping.
‘What do you see in your dream?’ She sat alongside him.
‘A great battle,’ the old man said softly, his eyes drifting to some faraway place, ‘the trumpeters filling the sky – this sky – with perfect music. I’m leading them, just as I always do.’
‘Then it must truly be perfect music.’ She smiled at him. The music in his dream was beautiful and terrible; she knew that because she’d had the dream herself.
‘He has no mercy. This world is destroyed.’ The old man spoke in bursts, as if reliving the images. ‘This is the final battle of this great war, setting brother against brother.’
‘Except this time, the rebels don’t stand a chance, do they?’ she said. ‘They’re out of practice. They die in the dust and the darkness.’
He looked at her, his watery eyes wide. ‘You’ve seen it too?’
She shrugged her delicate shoulders. ‘I’ve dreamed it, just like you have.’
The Chosen Seed: The Dog-Faced Gods Book Three Page 18