She couldn’t spin this. She’d killed one of her own. One of Caesar’s top operatives. You didn’t get to walk away from something like that. Not even her.
“What would you do?” she asked him. “Fight? Run away? Blow your head off? Actually, don’t answer that.”
Acid knew what she had to do – leave everything behind and disappear. For good. South America perhaps, or Asia. Somewhere they’d never find her.
She glanced up at Old Ernie. His face said it was risky. It said they could still find her.
“Well, what else can I do?” she said. “I mean, I could try reasoning with Caesar. We do go way back, and I am sort of his favourite – or I was – but I don’t know, that seems even riskier.”
The only other option of course was to kill them first, before they got to her. But that would mean taking on the whole of Annihilation Pest Control, Caesar included. Even the thought of that made Acid’s head hurt. She glanced up at Hemingway and shook her head. It was a ridiculous notion. A suicide mission.
“Voilà, mademoiselle.” The barman placed the Dry Martini down in front of her, along with a small silver pedestal that held small bowls of shiny, pitted olives and salted peanuts.
“Merci beaucoup.” Acid took a long drink. It was strong, dry, ice cold. Perfect. And so needed. The barman returned a few seconds later with Spook’s drink, the same as Acid’s but with the addition of a single ice cube made of pure olive juice.
Acid told the barman to keep the tab open and took the drinks over to Spook, who was fiddling with a coaster. “Put that down,” she snapped. “I need you to concentrate.”
She took the seat opposite and sipped at her drink as Spook continued to peruse the décor. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. A rare moment of serenity, here in the eye of the storm. But it also brought the realisation they were total strangers.
Acid regarded a Hemingway print over Spook’s shoulder. “You know he killed himself with a rifle he bought from Abercrombie and Fitch.” She raised her glass. “Let’s hear it for America.”
“Hey. We’re not all like that, you know,” Spook mumbled. “Some of us think they should ban firearms.”
Acid rolled her eyes. “Oh god, you’re not one of those, are you?”
“What? Someone who doesn’t like innocent people – school kids – getting killed? A liberal snowflake? Yeah, I guess I am. I guess you’re not.”
“I’m a rebel, sweetie. A libertine.” Acid ran her finger round the edge of her glass. “I just think gun control – politics, even – those are concepts for people who believe life is supposed to have rules.” She took a long sip of her drink. The kid looked disappointed, but what the hell did she expect? Twelve hours earlier she’d been ready to kill her.
“What about actual laws?” Spook asked. “Are they pointless too?”
Acid puffed out her cheeks. “Laws are made by rich old men to benefit other rich old men.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes. Really. Like those ready to pay a quarter of a million dollars to have you killed.” Spook’s eyes widened. “That’s right, you heard.”
“Okay, wow. But still, you can’t put them all in the same boat. Laws are made to protect the innocent. You know, like… don’t kill people.”
Acid leaned forward, pointing. “Most of the people I kill deserve it. You don’t usually get a price placed on your head unless you’re into dodgy stuff yourself.”
Spook tilted her head. “Not everyone deserves it. Do they?”
“You’re an exception.” Acid gripped the table with both hands. “People in power don’t give two shits about the likes of me or you. They deserve everything they get.”
“Is that what you tell yourself, so you can sleep at night?”
“Piss off.” Acid picked up her drink. This was why she didn’t mix with civilians. She was better off with her own people. Where she didn’t have to think too deeply about her choices.
“Don’t forget it was me who bit that dude,” Spook said. “I know you finished it but… well… I’m not some wet-behind-the-ear loser.”
Acid was about to respond but thought better of it. Instead she drank as another silence fell between them. Longer this time. It was Acid who broke it a few minutes later.
“Go on then, the suspense is killing me. How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“About my mother. The way you threw that out as I was leaving – Whitman killing the sex-worker – that was your big play. Which tells me you know about my mum. About me. You called me Alice.”
Spook took a sip of her drink and pulled a face. “Jesus, that’s strong.” Acid glared at her. “Okay, what do you want to know?”
“All of it.”
“I’m a hacker. I’m good at finding information on people.”
“Even people who are supposed to be dead?”
“I guess. You’ve got an interesting back story.”
Acid looked around. But no one in the small cocktail bar was interested in them. “I was told all records of who I was had been erased,” she said. “Caesar has his best people working on it.”
“Maybe his best people aren’t as good as they think they are.”
Acid thought of Raaz Terabyte, and how much she’d like to be there when she found out this geeky American – with her timid demeanour and terrible fashion sense – had bested her.
“I knew it was a gamble, meeting face to face,” Spook continued. “Or idiotic. But I also knew I had to humanise myself to you. Make me more than a target. From everything I found out about you, I hoped you might still have a soul in there. Somewhere.”
“Is that right?” Acid said. “You think I’m some bleeding heart, do you? Because you’re wrong. I kill people.”
Spook swallowed. “Yeah. But here we are. You were coming to help me get away. You said so before that guy arrived. I’d say my gamble paid off.”
Acid lowered her voice. “All right, say that’s true – you haven’t answered my question. How did you know about my mum? How did you know that would change anything?”
Spook shifted in her seat. She paused, as if readying herself to answer the question in a way that would be agreeable. In a way that wouldn’t get her head blown off.
“I’ve been a hacker since I was nine years old,” she began. “I can get in anywhere, find anything. You must have done your research on me. I was one of the youngest people to get accepted into the MIT, aced all my classes, could have walked into any job in Silicon Valley.”
“So why London?”
Spook shuddered, dropping her gaze to the glass, running her thumb down the stem. “I went through a bad break-up. I had to get away from the States for a while. I know it’s a cliché, but there you go. And I liked London, and the Cerberix job paid well. I knew it wouldn’t be forever. The whole point was we were training the AI to do the job.”
Acid finished her drink and gestured for the barman to start up a second. “A break-up so bad you had to put four thousand miles between you? This guy must have been a real piece of work.”
Spook narrowed her eyes. “Who says it was a guy?”
“Oh? I see.” Acid paused. “But I still don’t get how you found out about me. Like I said, they deleted my entire past.”
Spook sat up straight. “Nothing is completely deleted these days. If you know what you’re doing. First thing was to work out who was coming for me. So I hacked into Kent Clarkson’s personal emails. Found a thread between him and your boss. That’s Caesar, right?”
“Correct, Beowulf Caesar. A great man. Once. Still is maybe. To some.” She caught herself and waved it away, gestured for Spook to continue.
“Well, he spoke highly of you as well. His most deadly operative, he said. Didn’t help my anxiety at all. But he mentioned your name, Acid Vanilla, so I hacked into the Annihilation portal and downloaded your profile. Then I built a rudimentary spider program to scan the web, analysing old news articles, censuses, police and hospital reports. Any i
nformation fitting your profile. I also ran some facial recognition software I’ve been developing that examined any relevant photos it found. After that I had it search through files that had been superficially deleted. Those in trash cans and Time Machine software. That’s where the gold is if you know how to access them. And I know how.”
Acid was impressed. But didn’t let on.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle.” The waiter appeared at the side of the table. He placed down Acid’s new drink and picked up her empty glass.
“Do you want another?” she asked Spook.
“No.” She put her hand over her glass. “I’m still drinking this one.”
“Cheap date.”
“I just want to keep alert,” Spook mumbled. But her cheeks were red.
“Go on then. You found photos of me?” Acid asked, once the barman had left them.
“It took some time. But I found an old article stored on a library’s internal server. A newspaper report, about a young girl who got sent to a young offender’s institute for killing her mother’s attacker. Alice Vandella.”
She looked at Acid as she said the name. But if she was waiting for a response, she’d be waiting a long time. Acid sipped her fresh drink.
“The article had a photo – of young Alice. I downloaded it and imprinted it over your photo from the Annihilation Pest Control portal. Perfect match. So then I delved deeper, found out Alice’s mother, Louisa, had been hospitalised many times over the years. Broken bones, bruises. Seems to have got herself mixed up with some bad men. Plus there were regular STI tests. Once every month or so. I didn’t need an algorithm to put two and two together. She was a sex-worker, right?”
“All right, enough,” Acid snapped. She had a sudden urge to flip the table over.
The bats said, Do it.
“S-sorry,” Spook stammered. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine. Shush.” She held her hand up and Spook did as she was told.
Another long silence. Acid drank as the surroundings faded away. Her eyes darted left and right. Speed-thinking.
“I was able to download a list of names – Annihilation Pest Control operatives,” Spook whispered. “Raaz Terabyte needs to up her game. Or should I say, Rona Tabet does. Her real name, if you didn’t know. I take it operatives use their real initials to come up with their codename?”
“That’s correct.”
“Well, that confirmed it for me. A.V. Alice Vandella. Acid Vanilla. It’s poetic. I’m guessing you chose it because acid is something abrasive and harsh, juxtaposed with something sweet and pleasant.”
“Not quite, but nice theory.”
“What I couldn’t find out,” Spook went on, “was how you went from being in the young offender’s institute to working for Caesar. That part is dark.”
Acid put her drink down. “Story for another time,” she said, sitting back. “Right now we have to work out how the two of us are going to stay alive.”
Spook twisted her mouth. “Is it that bad?”
“Yes, Spook, it’s that bad. The fact Caesar sent Barabbas means he was already doubting me. Once he finds out I’ve killed him and I’m helping you, he’ll throw everything he’s got at us.”
“You can’t talk to him? Try to explain?”
“Explain what? That I’ve gone rogue? Defied his orders? That I can’t even think straight with all the noise in my head? That I feel like swallowing a bullet myself?”
Spook picked up her glass and took a large gulp. “Sorry, I just meant… I don’t know… I’m way out of my depth here.”
Acid took a deep breath. “I know Caesar. He’ll take this personally. He’ll want blood. Not only that, Cerberix are a big client.”
“What do we do?” Spook asked.
Acid zipped up her jacket. “We don’t do anything,” she said. “I’m sorry, kid, I said I’d help you escape Paris and I will -we’ll get to London and I’ll sort us out new aliases and passports - but then you’re on your own. I suggest you go far away, somewhere no one can find you.” She pointed at Spook’s drink. “You finishing that?” Spook shook her head. Acid picked up the glass and drank it down.
“But where do I go?” Spook asked. “And what about Whitman? What about getting justice for Paula?”
Acid sighed. “I don’t do vigilante work. Not my bag. I’m officially retired as of now.” She reached over and touched Spook on the arm. “You’ll be all right. But we need to move fast. The longer we stay in Paris, the more dangerous it’s going to get.”
“I need to get my stuff,” Spook said. “From Whitman’s place.”
“No. Can’t happen.”
“But my passport is there.” Spook’s voice rose and an old man on the next table looked over at them.
Acid spoke through gritted teeth. “Why the hell did you leave it there?”
“I was going back to get it. But I didn’t get chance, did I? Barbarella was waiting for me.”
“Barabbas.”
“Whatever. Plus there’s a thumb-drive in the flat that contains a video of Paula Silva getting murdered. I don’t know about you, but I think it’s kinda of disrespectful to leave that lying around.”
The hairs on the back of Acid’s neck pricked up. She got to her feet.
“Fine. We’ll get your damn passport.” She took out a hundred-euro note and placed it under one of the glasses. “But from now on, you keep your head down and you keep your mouth shut. You hear me? Because the way I’m feeling, I’m ready to kill you and then myself. In that order.”
Twenty-Three
Sinclair Whitman wasn’t even trying to hide his scorn. “Man alive, will you cheer the hell up? For Christ’s sake.”
“Don’t blaspheme, Sinclair. You know I don’t like that.” Kent turned from peering out the airplane window. “And I don’t need to cheer up, I’m fine.”
“Tell that to your face, will ya?” Sinclair raised his glass as whisky sloshed over the side. Kent wasn’t counting, but it was at least his third since they’d set off. “What’s the matter with you? We’re about to become number one. Globally.”
Kent forced a smile, not easy with this tension headache he’d had since yesterday.
“Come on, Kent, you’re even making me depressed. I know the keynote is a big deal, but you’re a whizz at this kind of thing. Always have been. That’s why I knew you were the man to invest in all those years ago. Here, have one, will you?” Sinclair picked up the cut-glass decanter and poured him out a large scotch.
“Thanks.” He accepted the glass and took a sip. It left a satisfying burn across his lips and down his throat.
“Go on, son, what is it?” Sinclair asked. He wasn’t going to leave it.
“I’m just concerned,” Kent replied. He placed his glass down in the centre of a round leather coaster. “I’ve not yet had concrete confirmation that the… bug in the system has been removed.” He held onto the glass and twisted it round as he spoke.
“Bug in the system? What the hell are you talking about?”
Kent lifted his eyes off the glass and glanced around the cabin. It was his private jet and only the two of them travelling out today (even Marcy, his die-hard PA was on the next flight out from San Fran) but after everything that had happened, he was inclined to be jumpy.
“The people I hired to take care of your – our – little problem. They’ve not yet confirmed the recording has been recovered. Or that they’ve taken care of… well, what needed taking care of.”
Sinclair took a large gulp of his scotch, finishing it. “You said it was all sorted.”
“I thought it was. They assured me they had it under control. But it’s been five days and I’ve not heard from them.”
Sinclair sat back in his seat, his usual cocksure deportment slipping into something approaching unease. Or was he plain old pissed? Kent couldn’t be sure.
“We can’t have this hanging over our head, son. Hell, in ten days we’re going out live to thirty countries on that webcast and y
ou need to be bringing your A-game.” He slammed his fist into his open palm.
“Yes. I am aware of this, Sinclair. Which explains why I’m antsy right now.”
“No need to shout, Kent.”
“Well, you asked.”
“Yes, and now I know.” He paused a moment. “Call them. See what the hell’s going on. If they can’t, or won’t, solve this problem for us, then we hire someone else.”
Kent considered it. “So, what? I say, ‘Hi, I’m just calling to find out whether you’ve managed to kill our employee and retrieve the recording of our CFO strangling a hooker?”’
Sinclair was pouring himself another scotch. “Why not?”
“Well, for one thing we don’t know who’d be listening. That’s why we’re in this mess. What if someone hears, records me? Then we’re both fucked.”
Sinclair sat forward. “Pull yourself together, Kent. For Christ’s sake.”
“Hey. What did I say?”
“Oh, come off it. This is not the time to be pious.”
Kent finished his scotch and handed his glass back for a refill. “Maybe I can call via a different route. Mask the IP.”
“There we go, it’ll be fine.” He was smiling now. He handed Kent a full glass. “You’re overthinking it. Get some answers, and if it’s not what we want we hire someone else. Someone who’ll get it done. Today. I’m yet to find a problem where money can’t buy you the answer. There’s always a way. Now, cheers.”
Kent didn’t answer. He didn’t drink either.
“He said not to call him – the main man, Beowulf Caesar – he said he’d call me. Was adamant.”
Sinclair belched. “Fuck that, we’re the ones paying this shmuck, we decide what happens.” He gestured to the phone, moulded into the arm rest of the seat opposite. “Call him. We touch down in London in five hours. We need this done. Agreed?”
Kent moved over to the seat with the phone. “Agreed.”
Twenty-Four
Caesar had been eyeing up a particularly tricky long-range putt when he heard the gentle knocking on the door of his office. Although, really, it was more of a soft tap than a knock – almost apologetic – as if whoever was knocking didn’t want to be heard. He glanced over at the Sinister Sisters, both drinking chamomile tea on the far side of the room. They hadn’t heard the door, or if they had were pretending they hadn’t.
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