by Greg Elswood
‘Well take a seat and I’ll bring them over.’
Brandon sat at the table with his back to the wall, from where he had a clear view of the door and the counter. He set his laptop on the table and placed the satchel behind it to discourage anyone else from sitting opposite him, although the shop wasn’t full and Brandon suspected that most of the trade would be take-away.
Brandon opened up his Proximity program and set the power to its lowest setting, more than enough range to reach the café door. He highlighted his new pride and joy: the Replicant file he had tested successfully on his own devices. It was more invasive than the benign Sleeper bug he had released at Stratford. This time he needed to check self-replication and transmission, so he had no choice but to let something more dangerous into the wild, but it was still only a slimmed down version of the final virus he had developed for the ultimate cyber-attack. That one would have far more serious and sinister consequences, and Brandon couldn’t risk letting that into the open until the day itself.
Finally, he selected the pre-prepared lonely-hearts message that would appear on the target devices. He was all set.
Two of the other tables were occupied. In front of him, a young couple held hands and chatted, with their phones on the table in front of them. To his right, seated side-by-side against the wall, two men studied a tablet screen, which the younger one prodded every few seconds. He appeared to be demonstrating something to the older man, who looked every inch the fintech entrepreneur.
At the counter, a uniformed security guard poked at his smartphone as he waited for his coffee, and a middle-aged woman looked at the chalkboard behind Gianluca, deciding what to order.
Looking good. With a deep breath, Brandon pressed the button to transmit Replicant. He concentrated on his screen, but out of the corner of his eye he kept tabs on his targets and listened for tell-tale signs that Proximity was working. He didn’t have long to wait.
‘What the heck? Bloody cheek!’
Everyone in the café looked at the security guard. Brandon saw that the man’s screen had turned bright purple, but he jabbed it to close the message box and the colour disappeared. He muttered something under his breath and then returned to the game he had been playing.
As far as the guard was concerned, that was the end of it, but Brandon looked at his own screen and saw that one new live version of Replicant had been activated and was preparing to replicate itself. Within a second, it had accessed the connectivity and transmission functions on the security guard’s smartphone and had started to broadcast an identical message to the one it had just received. This was invisible to the guard, who was oblivious to the fact that his smartphone was now a miniature version of Proximity.
A faint chime sounded from behind the shop counter and Gianluca reached for his phone. One of the two phones on the table occupied by the young couple vibrated and the screen lit up. Only Brandon appeared to notice the coincidence of their timing and, like the security guard before them, the phones’ owners dismissed the message and went back to what they were doing.
Brandon looked down; the Replicant count had risen to three.
Another ping sounded. ‘Did you just get that message too, the one about feeling lonely?’ the young woman asked her partner, and she tilted the man’s screen towards her. ‘Yes, same one, very odd. But, in our case, I reckon the answer is “no”, eh?’
Four. Brandon smiled.
He glanced at the two men by the wall. Why hadn’t their tablet been contaminated? Then he saw that the younger man was putting it away in his bag, which would explain it, but didn’t they also have phones with them?
Brandon was delighted with the results of his first test, which proved that Proximity could infect other people’s devices with Replicant. He’d never doubted it, but the key to his project was that these devices would then go on to transmit the same bug to others. A secondary infection, and then a third, a fourth and so on, and theoretically the infected population would grow exponentially.
So far, all of the infections had come from his laptop, but now came the moment of truth. Would the virus live up to its name? It was easy to test. All he had to do was stop his own version of Proximity from broadcasting.
He turned off his transmission, and waited.
A smart young woman entered the café and approached the counter. ‘Buongiorno, Louisa, my princess, how are you?’ Gianluca said, throwing his arms in the air with typical gusto.
‘Oh, not so bad, thank you, other than this dreary weather. A strong latte please.’ She fished around in her bag for a few seconds, but then looked up at Gianluca with a furrowed brow. ‘Sorry, I don’t have my purse. Can I pay on my phone?’
‘Of course, that’s fine, go ahead, almost everyone does it now.’
Louisa held her phone towards the reader but, before it reached, it chimed. She glanced at the purple screen, shook her head and pressed the display, and then held her phone back to the reader.
Brandon held his breath and looked at his laptop. Five.
He sat there staring at the screen for a few seconds. It works! The woman’s phone could only have been infected by one of the other Replicant viruses, not his own. He trembled at the implications. Now the rate of infection would accelerate, and every device that left the café would be capable of transmitting the virus further afield.
For another ten minutes, Brandon watched the count rise, by which time he had recorded a total of twenty-five new infections of Replicant. But there wouldn’t be many more after that. Brandon had built a time limit into the program to avoid the replication process running out of control. He knew how vital it was to keep a low profile, and the last thing he needed was to have a runaway pop-up reveal his program before the big day. He felt a bit like the scientists involved in the first test of the atomic bomb during the Manhattan Project, where legend has it that no one knew for sure that the chain reaction wouldn’t keep going and ignite the Earth’s entire atmosphere, engulfing mankind in the ultimate nuclear holocaust. Brandon had some doubts about this popular myth, but he wouldn’t take such a chance with Proximity.
Satisfied with his morning’s work, he rose from his table. The two men by the wall were leaving at the same time and Brandon thanked the younger one who held the door for him. It reminded Brandon about his only unanswered question. Why had neither of them received the virus? Deep in thought at the question, Brandon almost walked into the back of the older man, who suddenly stopped a few yards along Worship Street.
‘Oh, sorry, excuse me,’ Brandon said and he stepped round him.
The man reached into his pocket and addressed his companion. ‘Sorry, Jake, I need to get my phone. It’s been buzzing incessantly and I’ve been trying to ignore it, but it’s beginning to bug me. Sorry.’
Brandon glanced at the smartphone’s purple screen and smiled. Twenty-six.
***
The key turned in the lock. Michael sprang up, dashed into the kitchen and tipped his cigarette ends into the bin. Just in time.
He had only just finished clearing away the evidence of Jenny’s earlier visit. He was prepared to be caught in the act of smoking, but Jenny was another matter entirely. She had left less than quarter an hour earlier and he’d almost had to push her out of the door, but not before she had demanded that he say it again. Of course, I will tell Orla about us soon. He scowled. She had left it so late that he would have said anything.
Fortunately, Orla was home a little later than usual, otherwise it would have been a close-run thing. It was almost as if Jenny wanted Orla to arrive home to discover them together. He just hoped that he could stall her for another couple of days, then it would all be over.
‘Hi Orla, how was the Refuge?’ Michael asked. ‘You’re home a bit later than usual.’
Orla placed her keys on the table and dropped her bag onto the sofa, then looked at Michael for a few moments. It was unlike him to ask after her work at the Refuge. But she took his question as an encouraging sign of his interes
t in what she was doing. Or maybe it was his attempt at an olive branch after yesterday.
‘Sorry I’m a bit late. One of our homeless men was brought in last night after being beaten up. I’ve known him for a while and have mentioned him to you before. His name’s Jacob, the one who wanders around the Barbican. He’s been caught a couple of times taking trips to the top of the towers, remember him?’
Michael nodded, although he wasn’t interested in Jacob. He had only asked about the Refuge in case there was any news about Maria.
‘So, I popped in to see how he was before coming home. He was a bit of a mess, but I think he’ll be fine. But it means I’m in a bit of a rush for work now, sorry.’
Orla expected Michael to object and ask her to come to bed, but to her relief he appeared to be listening to her story.
‘That’s too bad, and I hope the guy will be OK. I guess the homeless often get into scrapes.’
‘Yes, unfortunately they do.’ She pulled off her top and trousers. ‘In fact, Jacob was attacked twice in one day. The first time was in broad daylight at Liverpool Street yesterday morning, and of all people it was one of the Broadgate security men there who assaulted him. You’d expect more of people who are supposed to be there for our safety. I’ve a good mind to report him when I get to work. I’m sure our bosses wouldn’t be happy with someone like him providing security for our firm.’
Orla took off her bra and turned to the bathroom. ‘Actually, that’s not a bad idea. I know his name, after all,’ she said, more to herself than to Michael.
Michael watched Orla’s back all the way to the bathroom and then heard her turn on the shower. He sauntered to the door and spied on her through the crack for a few moments, the water running down her back and over the curve of her buttocks. He was tempted. He knew he wouldn’t get many more chances, but he also suspected he’d be pushing his luck and he didn’t want to get on Orla’s wrong side right now. What a shame. But at least he’d had a good time with Jenny this morning, so he returned to the bedroom, where he reclined against his pillow and grabbed the TV remote. He flicked through the channels, but found little of interest. He yawned and glanced to the side.
His Killers T-shirt lay crumpled on the floor by the front door.
How on earth had he missed that and, more to the point, how had Orla not seen it? With no time to worry about that, Michael snatched up the T-shirt, buried it in a drawer and dashed back to bed, just in time to hear Orla turn off the shower.
The TV had stopped at a news channel, where the newsreader was talking about the London Underground strike. Michael was about to turn it off, when the newsreader’s next comment caught his attention.
‘And this was the scene at Liverpool Street station earlier, as thousands of commuters queued for buses and taxis.’
The screen switched to long queues of people filling the upper walkways of Liverpool Street, three or four deep, as they waited for buses from Broadgate or Bishopsgate.
‘Others waited in vain on the main concourse for the Underground station to open, but many of them have since given up and have now started the long walk to work.’
The picture switched to a seething mass of people crowded around the shutters to the Underground station, but as the camera angle panned out to reveal the whole chaotic scene, Michael wasn’t looking at the queues, and he certainly wasn’t feeling sorry for the commuters. He got up from the bed and peered at the centre of the screen, where two temporary stalls were inundated with people, swarming around them and reaching over each other to grab free snacks, even in the melee of the tube strike.
‘Oh my God,’ Michael whispered. ‘This is it, this is what we have to hit. Forget the market, this is far bigger.’
He marvelled at how many hundreds of people stood there, packed so close together, and at the centre, someone was giving away food. That could be us. There’s hardly anywhere to escape and it would be carnage; an absolute bloodbath. Why didn’t we think of this earlier? ‘I need to call Paddy, he’ll love this.’
‘Are you OK Michael?’ Wrapped in a towel, Orla was surprised to see Michael talking to himself by the TV. ‘You seem a little agitated.’
‘Oh, yes, I’m fine, I was just watching the TV. All those people trying to get to work. Lucky you can walk, eh?’
Michael had recovered his poise, but as his devious mind whirred with the logistics of it all, an inspired thought struck him.
‘Actually, Orla, I was thinking about what you said before, you know, about the man who was assaulted.’
‘Jacob, you mean? What about him?’
‘Yes, that’s the one, Jacob. These pictures of Liverpool Street reminded me. What did you say was the name of the security guard who attacked Jacob yesterday? If you want, I can go down there later and warn him off, you know, make it clear someone knows he’s stepping out of line. I think that would be better than you reporting him. He could cause you trouble, but he doesn’t know me, does he?’
Orla studied Michael. For the second time since she’d arrived home, she couldn’t work out if he was up to something. He’d never offered anything like this before and he generally had little sympathy for anyone at the Refuge.
‘I don’t think I said his name. And what if you get into trouble? Jacob said this guy is always surrounded by his thuggish colleagues. You might get hurt.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that, I’ll turn on the Irish charm,’ he said and gave her a silly grin. ‘If that doesn’t work, I will still have made my point and he’ll know he’s being watched. You can always report him through your work tomorrow if he turns nasty. How about it, deal?’
Orla couldn’t think of a reasonable objection and it was clear that Michael was determined to do it. She wasn’t sure why it was suddenly so important to him, but she had little choice but to concede.
‘OK, but be careful. I don’t want you getting beaten up like Jacob. The security guard’s name is Bill. I can’t remember what surname Jacob gave, something starting with a “C” I think, but I can’t imagine there are too many guards called Bill working down there.’
‘Great, I’ll have a quiet word with this Bill creep. I’ll do it when you’re at work, no fuss, just a man-to-man chat.’
‘Talking of work, Michael, what were you doing yesterday? You finished up pretty late. I didn’t even hear you come home.’
‘Oh, it was an urgent call-out for one of our clients. They had a bit of an emergency at their IT centre. It may be the same today, but I’ll let you know later.’
‘But why are all your clothes dirty? The ones you took off last night look like they’ve been through an army assault course.’
‘Oh, those…’ He was irritated with himself for such a simple error. ‘Yes, there was quite a bit of crawling around on the floor, and this company’s idea of a clean environment for their computers leaves a bit to be desired. I’m sure they’ll wash up alright.’
Orla frowned and Michael wondered if his tale had been too flimsy. But it wasn’t his clothes that perplexed her, but hers.
‘Michael, have you seen my jumper, the long turquoise one? You know, the one you always say is green. I thought I’d left it out last night to wear to work today, but I can’t find it now. That’s really odd. You haven’t moved it have you?’
Michael knew instantly where it was, but he shook his head. ‘No, I don’t remember seeing it.’ He closed his eyes and saw Jenny, wearing nothing but Orla’s jumper.
‘Well I don’t have time to search for it now as I’m going to be late. This one will have to do.’ Orla took a cardigan from the shelf and pulled it on.
‘Must fly, see you later.’ She kissed Michael goodbye, before turning and rushing out, grabbing her keys from the table as she left.
Michael sat back down on the bed and exhaled loudly. The last few minutes had been a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions, and he needed time to think. What had just happened?
His weakness for the fairer sex was catching up with him and he won
dered whether he now had to deal with all three women. Maria’s elimination had already been decided. She knew too much about the lock-up and would see the merchandise, so she had to go. Orla’s association with Maria and her knowledge of Michael counted against her, and she was also asking too many questions. Orla therefore had to go as well. But what about Jenny? She wasn’t directly involved, but she was starting to become a danger, possibly even a bit crazy with the risks she was taking trying to let Orla know about his infidelity. Why would she steal Orla’s jumper and leave his T-shirt where it could be seen? Damn, she may have to go too. It was getting complicated.
But now, just as these three women had threatened to blow the mission off course, the clouds had parted with the news report from Liverpool Street. Michael was confident they could pull off his alternative plan, and surely Paddy and the Brethren would buy it. This was going to be bigger and far deadlier than they had ever imagined. Better still, there was a clear way to ensure that all three women were included in the slaughter. With that, no one would come looking for him. He’d be just another missing person statistic, one of the many presumed lost, along with Orla, Maria and Jenny.
He laughed at the thought. Happy days.
***
Michael wasn’t the only person enjoying the news that morning. Brandon plugged his laptop into its cradle after his successful test at Gianluca’s coffee shop, then flopped into the chair in front of his screens. Although he was tired from lack of sleep and the nervous energy expended during the test, he couldn’t stop smiling, and every few seconds he chuckled to himself as he imagined his victims prodding their purple screens. What a morning.
He needed to take his mind off Proximity and Replicant for a while, and what better way than to catch up on the markets? It wouldn’t be most people’s chosen way to unwind, but Brandon loved to relax at work in his den. Where others would read a book or play a puzzle, Brandon would review financial charts or work on a complex algorithm. He liked music but rarely remembered the lyrics, yet he never missed a word when listening to the market news. He enjoyed the drama and tension of a good action movie, especially science fiction or anything with futuristic technology, but he preferred the cut and thrust of finance and the thrill of beating the professionals with his computer-generated models. There were no two ways about it; the markets won every time.