by Tor Fleck
‘Excuse me.’
The teenagers glanced up in unison. The male – a Harry Styles lookalike, if Harry Styles had grown up on a diet of carrots and lived in a burrow – giggled through his enormous front teeth. The female – shyly demure, with a red spot on the tip of her nose that looked like it’d explode if she sneezed – kicked her partner under the table.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Paul, looking down at them. ‘I wonder if you could help me.’
Harry Styles and Red Nose blinked back dumbly.
‘I haven’t got my glasses with me,’ said Paul, ‘and I need help to see something on my computer. It’s over there.’ He pointed across the room.
Harry giggled again and covered his mouth with one of the smallest hands Paul had ever seen in a human. Red Nose scraped her chair back and stood up. ‘Sure,’ she said, with a shrug. ‘Why not.’
‘I’m trying to work out what’s in that blur,’ said Paul, pointing at Alice’s profile pic. ‘Right there, behind the woman.’
Red Nose leaned over and squinted. ‘It’s a bit fuzzy. Actually, I think it might be a picture of somebody. Hang on.’ She went and got Harry, dragging him reluctantly over to Paul’s computer. They squinted at the screen together.
‘It’s definitely two people,’ said Harry.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Red Nose. ‘It looks more like somebody on their own.’ She looked at Paul. ‘You know, there’s software that can un-pixelate images,’ she said.
Paul scratched at his cheek. ‘Yeah?’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Harry. ‘There’s apps for most things. You do know what an app is, don’t you?’
‘Ignore my little brother,’ said Red Nose. ‘It’s past his bed time.’ Harry punched his sister on the arm. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘I don’t think you’ll be able to download it on the library computer, but you could do it on your phone. You do have a smartpho – ’ She stopped when she saw Paul grinning at her. ‘Sorry,’ she said, turning red, and leant over the computer. She typed in ‘depxlit.com’ and clicked on the link. ‘There you go,’ she said. ‘It’s not perfect, but it should make it a bit clearer, hopefully enough to make out what it is.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ said Paul. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Red Nose. ‘C’mon, you.’ She hauled Harry to his feet and took him back to the study area. ‘Algebra. Ten more minutes.’
Paul found the website on his phone and downloaded the app. While he waited on it installing he changed his search to ‘Tor-izon’. There were more articles than before. Their problems seemed to be escalating. They were now cited in more than ten insolvency cases, involving both financial and retail organisations, and one major tech company. Paul followed the links to the tech story. It had recently gone bust and Tor-izon had taken over the residual stock. Another article hinted at an imminent criminal investigation against Tor, with prosecutors in both the UK and US confident they had sufficient evidence to press charges. The noose was tightening, which would partly explain the chair and Tor’s temper tantrum earlier. Paul dug deeper. Buried away on the fourth page he found an article from 2009, written by the murdered journalist Pedro Silvestre. Silvestre had claimed that Tor was responsible for a number of contract killings involving the top brass of a large financial conglomerate. Three executives had died mysteriously, and Silvestre had pointed the finger directly at Tor, claiming that not only was he a totalitarian testicle (Paul paraphrased as he read), he was also the Godfather of a mafioso-style crime syndicate. Paul’s phone pinged, interrupting his search. The app had installed. He saved Alice’s profile pic to his phone and uploaded it to the app. When he clicked the de-pixelate button the image vanished, and then began to reconfigure, line by line, from the top of the screen. When it reached the pixelated area the upload paused.
Paul shook his phone. ‘Come on!’ The app resumed, and slowly the area re-emerged, clear and pixel free. First the top of a picture frame, and then the detail of a photograph: a wall, a doorway, and then, finally, a figure. It was the red-headed woman, dressed in gown and mortar board, standing outside some university building. It was the same photograph he’d found buried away in Alice’s office. What the fuck? His phone pinged again. Alice.
Celini’s Italian, Ashton Lane.
7pm.
See you there.
X
Paul closed down the computer. He needed to get back to Alice’s office, right now. God knows what other secrets she might have hidden away.
25
Helsinki, 14th November, 5.23am
Hank Garfield shouldn’t be sweating. The snow is up way past his ankles and the wind chill is a teeth-chattering minus seven. In a previous life he’d carried out so many cool-headed missions for the CIA they’ve melted into one. And in this life – the one where he’s Head of Logistics for ArmCor Security, the world’s go-to firm for all high-profile, high-risk events – he’d be out on his arse if he crumbled under pressure. So no, Hank Garfield shouldn’t be sweating. And yet he is. Big time.
Hank wipes his forehead and trudges through the pit-black arctic night. From the murk appear a couple of half-frozen security guards, loitering under the light of the command centre entrance. Hank feels his legs buckle beneath him. Shit. He stumbles slightly and recovers, but it’s enough to alert the guards. Twenty year-old Leo Blackman, aptly named, drops his cigarette and reaches for his holster. Coby Desmond, white, two years younger, and prematurely moustached, flashes a quivery torchlight in Hank’s face. ‘Halt!’
‘At ease, gentlemen,’ says Hank, his smile forced. Coby drops the torch and nods.
‘Early start this morning, sir?’ asks the slender Leo, feigning alertness.
‘Things to do.’ Hank flashes his lanyard quickly before they spot his trembling hand. Leo punches a code into the door, allowing Garfield through. When the door clicks behind him, he marches down the steel-lined corridor and takes a left into the gent’s loo. Inside the furthest cubicle from the door he leans against the wall and tries to take control of his breathing. I must be calm ... I must be calm ... He repeats the mantra over and over in his head. Pressing two fingers to his wrist, he checks his heart rate. 235bpm. Too fast. Far too fast. He closes his eyes and inhales. Twice. Three times. Four. I must be calm … I must be calm ... 183bpm. Better.
Hank opens his wallet and runs a thumb across a photo of his two kids, Alice and Mia, aged 3 and 4. A tear wells in his eye. No. I – must – be – calm. He mouths the words out loud this time. Outside the cubicle he runs his wrists under the cold tap, avoiding eye contact with his reflection in the mirror. The door swings open. It’s David Truman, Hank’s young and over-enthusiastic assistant. Fuck. Hank turns off the tap.
‘Oh – er – good morning, sir,’ stammers Truman, embarrassed at bumping into his boss in the loo. ‘I didn’t expect – ’
‘Truman, it’s 5.30am,’ interrupts Hank. ‘Why the fuck are you here?’
Truman blinks rapidly. ‘I – er – thought I would familiarise myself with the layout of the auditorium,’ he says. ‘Yesterday you said you would quiz me.’
‘Just keep out of my way,’ snaps Hank, drying his hands on a paper towel.
‘Of course, sir, no problem.’ Truman is bobbing up and down like a child.
‘For God’s sake go!’ says Hank, and Truman scampers off to the urinals. Hank needs a concrete reason to keep Truman away. Something plausible. At the door he stops and turns.
‘Oh, and Truman?’
Truman swivels, caught mid-pee. ‘Er – yes, sir?’
‘One of the camera docks is misbehaving in the auditorium. See if you can find out where.’
‘Will do, sir,’ nods Truman.
‘Okay,’ says Hank, already out the door and marching towards the control room. ‘See you at 11.00am for the daily briefing, and not before!’
I must be cal –
‘Morning, sir!’ The guard at the control room door snaps absurdly to attention. His colleagues must have tipped h
im off that Garfield was on his way. Hank flashes his badge and nods, slipping through the opened door with nervous relief.
The control room is empty, the hot hum of the hard drives filling the stale air. Hank takes off his jacket, loosens his tie, and navigates his way past racks of state-of-the-art circuitry to his desk at the back of the room. He logs in to the system and works quickly through protocols and firewalls until he reaches the central security portal, the inner sanctum of the network. He throws a swift glance at the door and at the CCTV camera above it, its lens aimed straight at him. He lowers his head slightly, half-obscured by the monitor, and reaches into his mouth. Twist. Tug. The molar comes out easily, a tiny USB embedded in its crown. Hank sits back up. Checks the door. Inserts the USB into the hard drive and waits for it to load. His head is roaring like an express train. I must be calm … I must be calm ...
Hank pulls the contents of a folder across to the hard drive. Install. Now for the security hub. The hack penetrates the security patch system, setting up temporary halt codes in each area of the network: cameras, trips, heat and light sensors, body scanners, noise detectors. Hank’s heart thumps as ports and junctions systematically flick from red to green. Done! Next, the schedule box. Hank types quickly. Sunday 4th February - 3.25am – 3.28am. He sets a three-minute system halt to minimise exposure risk and clicks Go. The hardware buzzes and whirrs as the halt point races back through the network, registering the date and time in each patch. Hank glances up again. He can feel the sweat running down the inside of his shirt. All he needs is –
The control room door swings open and Garfield’s right-hand man, Ed Harker, appears, sharing a laugh with the guard on the door.
‘Fuck,’ mutters Hank, stealing a look at the status bar. C’mon.
Harker steps down into the heart of the room. ‘Well, good morning,’ he smiles. He seems surprised to see Hank. ‘In to catch the worm?’
‘What?’ Another look at the status bar. 80% complete.
‘You’re an early bird,’ says Harker. ‘What are you worrying about now?’
‘I’m worrying about an empty coffee cup,’ says Garfield. Please … turn around.
Harker turns and heads over to the coffee station. ‘You took the words right out of my parched mouth. Black, no sugar, isn’t it?’
Hank’s eyes are glued to the screen. 92%. ‘Could you put a couple of sugars in that?’ he says, not looking up. I need to find a way to stall him.
‘Your funeral,’ says Harker.
98%.
Harker rummages in the cabinet for sugar. ‘So,’ he says, ‘three weeks to D–Day.’
99%. Come on!
‘Is this your third or fourth G20?’ Clink clink. Harker stirs the coffee.
PING! 100% task complete. Hank closes down the USB and whips his tooth out of the port.
‘Here,’ says Harker, placing the mug of coffee on Hank’s desk. ‘So … what are you doing?’ He squints at the security network flashing on the screen.
‘I think there’s a problem with one of the cameras in the main auditorium,’ says Hank. ‘I’m just running a system check to try and locate the issue.’
‘You really don’t have a life, do you?’ Harker smiles and sips his coffee.
‘I sent Truman down there to check.’
‘Oh God, is Truman in? That boy is after our jobs.’
‘Don’t worry,’ says Hank, ‘he’ll be in there for hours. I’ve set him an impossible task.’
‘Ha!’ Harker barks. ‘You look worried, my friend. Is here anything I should know about?’
‘Like?’
‘Like with the system. The clock’s ticking and I’ve worked with you long enough to recognise that face.’ He points at Hank’s creased and sweaty brow.
Hank can’t bring himself to meet Harker’s gaze. ‘I just like to keep on top of things,’ he says.
‘Don’t I know it,’ grins Harker. ‘You’re the company’s secret weapon.’
‘So why are you in so early?’ asks Hank, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
‘Oh, you know…’
‘Your wife?’
‘Yeah. She’s – well, let’s just say it’s easier for me to deal with 50,000 rampaging anti-capitalist anarchists than deal with her.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘C’est la vie.’ Harker spins on his heels and heads over to his desk, far enough away for Hank to start covering his virtual tracks without being seen. As Harker mumbles on about his domestic woes, Hank erases his digital footprint, deleting all trace of the hack from the system, until the temporary halt is completely cloaked and undetectable. He closes the network and stands up. A sudden pressure in his temples has him reeling.
‘You okay?’ asks Harker from across the room.
‘I’ve just been sitting too long,’ says Hank. ‘I need to get some air.’ He climbs the stairs and leaves the room, avoiding eye contact with the guard on the way out. In the open space of the central compound he makes a bee-line for the power substation, over by the perimeter fence. The panic and nausea returns and he has to hold a hand to his mouth to quell his rapid breathing. It helps, but not much.
There’s a blind spot – forty seconds’ worth – between the rear of the substation and the fence, out of eye-shot of the guards and the CCTV camera mounted on the gate. There, Hank scrabbles with his phone, pushing buttons. He holds the handset to his ear. He’s chosen his location well. The electrically charged drone surging through the substation is enough to scramble the call. He’s safe. For now.
The number connects, and is answered before the first ring.
‘Done,’ manages Hank, his voice all but gone. ‘Three minutes.’ He waits. White noise hisses in his ear. ‘Hello?’ No response. Just more hiss and the click of static. ‘My kids,’ says Hank. ‘Are they safe?’ There’s a desperation to his voice that no amount of time in the CIA can mask.
The line is unbearably silent. And then…
‘Of course,’ says a female voice sharply. The call disconnects.
Hank’s eyes are watering again. Whatever chaotic hell he’s brought upon the world, his kids are safe at last. Nothing else matters. He did what any father would do. And in three weeks’ time he’ll be with them again, with new names and new lives, far away from the madness about to come. Pretending to check the locks on the substation unit door, he waves at the guards and makes his way slowly back to the control centre, muttering to himself as he crosses the compound.
I must be calm … I must be calm …
26
Celini’s Bistro was a cosy, family-run Italian restaurant occupying a tiny space above one of the chain pubs that had taken over Ashton Lane. Paul had walked past it twice before he’d noticed the entrance at the top of an external staircase. As it was, he was still early. So early that his table wasn’t ready yet. He ordered a brandy from the bar as he waited, and eyed the scattered clientele: an elderly couple in tweed, a businessman on his laptop, and a trio of Asian students. In contrast to how he felt inside, the ambience was relaxed. He downed the brandy in one, just as the waiter beckoned him to a table at the rear of the restaurant.
‘Would you like another drink, sir?’ the waiter asked as Paul sat down.
‘Another double brandy please,’ said Paul, handing over his empty glass. ‘Oh, and a pint of 80 shilling.’ When the waiter left Paul checked his watch, then nervously rearranged the cutlery in front of him. Relax. He fixed his eyes on the door. Come on, come on. The waiter came back with his drink and Paul gulped it down. He checked his watch again, then looked up. Finally! Alice stood by the door, shaking a damp umbrella. She saw Paul and waved, but he didn’t wave back.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘It’s been meeting after meeting all day.’
‘May I take your coat, madam?’ asked the returning waiter with faked politeness. Alice slipped it off and handed it to him, along with her wet umbrella. ‘Sorry,’ she said, with one of her disarming smiles, ‘it’s coming down in s
heets out there.’ Paul had to turn away. He couldn’t bear to look at her.
‘Would you like a drink?’ the waiter asked, grappling with the dripping garments.
‘White wine spritzer, please,’ said Alice, flashing her gleaming white teeth. At least her drinking habits are consistent, thought Paul. As she sat down she reached for his hand, but he pulled it away. ‘How are you feeling today?’ she asked. ‘How’s the pain?’ She looked concerned, but Paul wasn’t buying it.
‘Fine and dandy,’ he replied sarcastically. They sat in silence for a few moments. Alice glanced over to the bar, as though mentally willing her drink to hurry up. When the waiter finally returned, she thanked him, and took a long, slow sip of her spritzer. ‘Oh,’ she said, closing her eyes, ‘I needed that.’
‘So, did you do your degree in London?’ asked Paul. Alice’s eyes flicked opened. She seemed surprised. ‘Er … yes,’ she replied. ‘‘What made you think of that?’
‘I was reminiscing about my own degree today,’ said Paul, ‘and how much I enjoyed it. Did you enjoy yours?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Alice. ‘It was just a stepping stone really. What did you study?’
‘Creative writing and literature.’
‘Course you did. I should have known that.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Sounds a lot more fun than what I did.’
‘What was that again?’
‘Media and Politics. It seems like a lifetime ago.’
‘I thought you said you studied Law.’
‘Law?’ Alice’s eyebrows shot up a little higher than normal. Gotcha.
‘Isn’t that what the certificate says in your office?’ Paul’s paranoia was building.
‘You’ve been in my office again?’ Feigned anger. To mask the guilt.
‘Your phone rang,’ lied Paul. ‘I went in to answer it.’