by L. A. Larkin
‘No problem, Sue, nearly there. I’ll put it on the server and you can check spelling, grammar, etc while I keep working on it,’ Serena replied calmly. That would keep Sue occupied for a while.
Ron sidled up to her. ‘Amber. Sorry to hear you’re going. I’d organised a bit of a lunch to say goodbye but Sue says you have to keep working on something, so maybe we can do it another time?’
‘That’s lovely of you, Ron, but you guys go. Really. I’m almost finished and I should be able to join you, once security has frog-marched me from the building,’ she said with a wry smile. With the PAs gone, her task would be much easier.
‘Why don’t we wait? I can move the booking.’
‘No, no, you go, really.’
‘Well, if you don’t mind … I have to be back by one. It’ll just be me and Sal—Sue’s getting a sandwich.’
At that moment, Bukowski walked back into his office, and Serena reactivated the B0r3r keylogger, willing him to log back in. He stood with his back to her, staring out of the window, deep in contemplation.
Come on, I don’t have time for this. Log on now.
Bukowski sat at his desk, replacing his phone, and pressed his keyboard. Glancing around, she found Ron filing some documents behind her. Shit! He was meant to be going to lunch. She minimised the keylogging on her screen and waited until he had gone. She heard the filing cabinet lock with an electronic click, and then Ron and Sal left, followed by Sue, who gave Serena a superior nod.
‘Won’t be long,’ she said.
Serena maximised the keylogging image and read it carefully. ‘ARBukowski’, then ‘AM8ER’, then ‘1729465109’, being the new watch-fob code. He was logged in. Yes!
Henry, the CFO, with a balding, bearded man beside him, appeared at Bukowski’s door. Bukowski beckoned them in and Serena watched in despair as they sat down. He didn’t log out. Precious seconds ticked by.
Come on; get out of there, you two.
Bukowski was laughing and clapping his hands. The balding man was grinning and showing him something on his handheld. Another precious minute was lost. Then Serena noticed the keylogger record Bukowski logging out, which he hadn’t physically done. He hadn’t touched his keyboard again. The only explanation was that his watch-fob code had a two-minute life cycle: if his computer sensed no activity after precisely two minutes, it automatically logged out to keep security tight. This meant that from the time Serena viewed the new watch-fob code, she had less than two minutes to get into Bukowski’s office. How was she going to get him out of his office at precisely the moment she needed him to? Then she had an idea. Everybody had an Achilles heel, and Bukowski’s was his vanity.
She checked the time: nine minutes to go before Colin removed her fingerprint from Bukowski’s biometric mouse. At last Henry and his guest left Bukowski’s office, and Serena closed her eyes for a second with sheer relief. Bukowski logged back in, with a new ten-digit code, ‘3362917002’. Serena picked up the phone and dialled the florist in the building’s atrium.
‘Hi. I’d like an immediate delivery of the biggest bunch of flowers you have to be hand-delivered to Al Bukowski at Gene-Asis, signed, “From an admirer”. Oh, and can you make sure that he collects it personally from reception, on the second floor? Please don’t leave it with the receptionist or allow anyone else to collect it for him. It’s a special surprise, you see. But it has to be delivered right now.’ She gave her credit card details and hung up.
She waited and watched. Bukowski had clicked his way into a high security research and development folder. Inside it, he searched for a folder called ‘EKoch’. Serena recognised the name: Edelgard Koch was one of the four key scientists credited with genetically engineering Supercrop Ultra. Inside this folder, Bukowski did a search for ‘BlockerX202’. He scrolled down through the report, but she, unfortunately, couldn’t view its contents. What was ‘BlockerX202’?
He stopped clicking. She looked up to see him talking on the phone. He’d had a call on his direct line. Serena saw him grin. He nodded and ended the call. Logging out, he left his office, a smug smile on his face. The flowers must have arrived and he was going to collect them.
She checked her watch: it was 11.50 am, which left her five minutes before Colin stopped her using Bukowski’s mouse, and just under two minutes before Bukowski’s computer shut down. The only person around was Henry and he was deep in conversation. From her bag, she pulled out the tissue on which she had scrawled the file name she believed to be the professor’s research: ‘~^1~^G/569/:P`12/6/2011’. On the same tissue, she jotted down the current watch-fob code, ‘3362917002’, and ran into Bukowski’s office. Throwing herself into his chair, her shaking hand took hold of his mouse. The cursor moved: it was responding to her touch.
Not daring to look up, she tapped in ‘ARBukowski’, then ‘AM8ER’ and then ‘3362917002’. The screen lit up like the Harbour Bridge on New Year’s Eve. She had no idea where to find McPherson’s file, so she used the search facility and tapped in ‘~^1~^G/569/:P`12/6/2011’. The tiny magnifying glass icon found no file by that name. She then tried looking for any file containing the word McPherson and then Mutenda. No files. This didn’t make sense—it had to be there. She ignored the tightening in her chest and her plunging stomach. She tried to think logically and went to the R&D file, where she found a hundred or so folders, ordered alphabetically under the scientists’ names. As her eyes skimmed the list, she noted ‘EKoch’, making a mental note to copy the ‘BlockerX202’ file if she had time. But there was no file for FMcPherson and nothing even resembling file ‘~^1~^G/569/:P`12/6/2011’. Serena shot a look out into the executive suite: Henry hadn’t noticed her. Perspiration ran down the back of her neck. She stumbled across a folder entitled ‘Food Trials’. She clicked to open it and an icon popped up, demanding a password. Another password? What password? She couldn’t believe it. In desperation, she tried ‘AM8ER’. ‘Invalid password’ flashed on the screen, beeping loudly. Then ‘3362917002’. Invalid.
Think, Serena, think. What did Liz say about Bukowski’s computer security? Did Bukowski say anything?
She was at a dead end and she couldn’t see any way out. It was almost impossible to guess a password. Four minutes to go.
Think, for God’s sake. What do I know about Bukowski? He likes football, he loves Jen, he’s got a wanky numberplate, and he’s religious …
Then, like a dam bursting, she remembered Craig taunting Bukowski at the party about his Bible reading. His reaction had been unbelievably aggressive. What had Craig said? That he read his electronic Bible every morning. Now it all made sense. The professor’s letter had been more than a clue to help her locate Mutenda in Zimbabwe. He had been insistent that she read the Bible every day and then she would discover ‘the Truth’. The truth. The password.
Bukowski had his Bible minimised in a corner of his screen, so she maximised it. It was bookmarked at 1 Samuel, Chapter 17. She noticed that on the bookmarked page, every line had been given an electronic tick, up until the first line of verse 45. Serena recognised the story of David and Goliath. Racking her brains, she wondered if the ticks monitored more than the progress of Bukowski’s morning reading. Was this how he updated his password? The first line simply said, ‘David answered’.
Three minutes to go. Her perspiring hand slipped on the mouse as she tapped in ‘David answered’. The computer beeped loudly flashing ‘Invalid password’. She nervously deleted ‘answered’ and entered only the word ‘David’. The file instantly opened. She blinked with disbelief. She had done it.
Inside were about twenty files, all with encrypted names. Third down was file ‘~^1~^G/569/:P`12/6/2011’. Holding her breath, Serena opened it. She heard a door open and, jerking her head up, saw Henry showing his guest out. He was facing the other way but on his return would inevitably see her in Bukowski’s office.
Panicking, Serena scanned the file. Bukowski could arrive any second. She saw the words ‘Dr Fergus McPherson’ and ‘Gweru district’, an
d the date ‘December 6th 2011’. Halleluiah! She had hit the jackpot. Now to copy it. She retrieved a USB key from the folds of her sleeve but it didn’t fit the port. Gene-Asis must use uniquely designed keys. Her elation faded. She yanked open his drawers, searching for one, and found a mini DVD. That would do. She tore off the plastic film protection and pushed it into the side of the dock. One minute to go.
She pressed ‘Save as DVD’. The computer hummed for a few seconds and it was done. Closing that folder, she opened ‘EKoch’ and copied the ‘BlockerX202’ file onto the same DVD. Barely breathing, she ejected the disc, closing down all the windows. With DVD in hand, Serena ran from Bukowski’s office.
Chapter 51
Serena grabbed her handbag on the run, and placed the disc inside. She slowed as she spotted Henry at the elevators, bidding his guest farewell.
‘Thank you so much for coming in,’ he said, shaking the man’s hand.
Henry’s visitor and Serena stepped into the lift together, and she urgently pressed the ground-floor button. At that exact moment, Bukowski stepped out of another elevator, clutching a huge bouquet of roses and lilies. He didn’t notice Serena.
How long before Bukowski realises someone’s used his computer? How long before he wonders where I am?
Then she remembered she hadn’t ejected the B0r3r. She’d left it in his computer dock. If he found it, he would know she had information worth killing for. And he might trace it back to John. Her pounding heart quickened.
‘Warm day,’ commented the man, making polite conversation.
‘Yes, very,’ she replied, as she watched the spy-eye on the elevator’s ceiling move to gain a better view of her. Her mouth was dry with fear, but she needed to befriend this man.
‘I’m Mr Bukowski’s PA, by the way.’
‘Good to meet you.’
‘Your meeting went well?’ she asked.
‘Yes, went very well, I think.’
The doors opened and she walked out alongside him, chatting animatedly. As he placed his temporary pass in the slot of one of the security exit doors, Serena stayed close. The pass was swallowed and the massive doors slid open. She walked through with him, so that her exit from the building would not be registered. Hopefully, they’d think she was still inside.
Outside the atrium, cars flashed by, the sun reflecting off their windscreens. Serena spotted a passenger leaving a taxi on the other side of the road. Traffic flew by with an incessant whine but, without hesitating, she ran into the road. A delivery van narrowly missed her, the driver slamming on its breaks with an ear-piercing screech.
‘Hey! What the fuck ya doin’?’ he yelled through the open window.
She waved her arms at the taxi and its driver waited for her.
‘Where to?’
‘Emergency. Just drive,’ she shouted, throwing herself onto the back seat.
Two armed security guards in black and white uniforms raced from the building, heads moving rapidly from side to side, searching. One pointed at the taxi and they sped after her, dodging oncoming cars.
The taxi driver pulled away, frowning at her in the rearview mirror.
‘Where to?’
‘Darling Harbour car park, and please hurry,’ she said, watching the two guards weaving between the traffic. ‘I’ll pay double,’ she added.
‘You want fast, love, I’ll give you fast,’ and he drove up onto the kerb to illegally overtake a slow driver, then zoomed off.
Staring behind her, she saw the security guards had stopped running. One was talking into his earpiece, crimson-faced, leaning forward. She clutched her handbag as if it were the last life vest on a sinking ship and allowed the taxi’s air conditioning to cool her burning body.
‘Oh my God. What have I done?’ she whispered.
She had just committed a criminal offence and, what was more, Gene-Asis knew. Bukowski wouldn’t hesitate; not this time. If she had the right documents, she could destroy Gene-Asis, and Bukowski would do anything to stop her. The taxi driver pulled up outside the car park entrance and ran into the car park’s shady vaults. Serena checked if she had been followed. She couldn’t see anyone. This was too easy. But would they be waiting for her at her car? She ran down the concrete path, past the boom gates and row upon row of parked cars. She spotted the payment booth. Her car was parked nearby.
A Vietnamese man in the booth was focusing on a transaction for a customer. A large man with an army-style haircut waited in the queue, talking on his mobile, eyes focused on a footbridge leading to the car park.
Serena slowed down, not wanting to draw attention to herself. The Vietnamese man looked up and saw Serena. Eyes widening, he raised his hand and pointed at her energetically, mouthing words that couldn’t be heard through the glass booth. The man with the crew cut charged in her direction.
She ran, opening her bag, searching its messy interior for her car keys. She always placed them in the same pocket, so why couldn’t she find them? She shoved her hand in deeper, but they weren’t there.
‘Hey, lady, hang on.’
Serena looked over her shoulder. The man was running towards her, knocking people out of the way.
‘Amber, I just want to talk,’ he called. His voice was coarse, like sandpaper on wood.
Her hand touched something round and metal: it was the key ring. Her hands trembled as she pressed her remote locking system until she heard a click.
‘Stop!’
She threw open the door, hurling her bag on the floor and locked her doors again.
Bang. A large splayed hand slapped onto her window.
‘You gotta come with me, Amber. It’s no use running,’ he shouted, banging on her window, his face peering down at her like some hideous giant.
Starting the engine, she rammed the gears into first, speeding off. The wheels squealed, leaving a stink of burned rubber. He ran alongside her, pulling at the door handle, using his elbow to try to smash the glass.
‘Amber, the cops are coming.’ She doubted that.
She accelerated violently around a corner, losing the man, who stumbled to the floor.
Round and down she sped, concrete pillars passing by her in a blur. The exit gate was three floors down. She had to get there before her pursuer did; she guessed he would use the stairs. She could see the red and white exit boom gates ahead. He wasn’t there: she had beaten him to it. She accelerated up to the gates and then slammed on her brakes. She half-opened the window to insert her plastic pass into the machine.
An arm shot through the gap and grabbed her throat, forcing her head back into the headrest with a thud. The speed of the attack stunned her. She gasped for air, clawing at his hand. Her throat was being crushed.
Chapter 52
The car park boom gate rose but the car remained stationary. The man’s hand gripped Serena’s throat, her eyes bulging, her mouth gaping. Her lungs were about to burst, as she stretched her left arm towards the gearstick and, with her outstretched fingers, just managed to push it into first. Her foot went flat on the accelerator and the car lurched forward, his arm knocked away from her throat. He roared with pain, as the car wrenched his arm and dislocated his shoulder.
Hardly breathing, her throat tight and painful, she drove like a maniac. In the mirror, she saw him nursing his damaged arm.
Serena sped down one road after another. The traffic lights ahead flicked to amber and she accelerated across as they turned red. Her throat throbbed and she tried swallowing, but it was too painful. Even breathing hurt. She ducked and weaved through traffic, checking her rear-view mirror every few seconds. Serena needed to email the disc’s contents to the media as soon as possible. She didn’t trust the police and once the news was public, Gene-Asis would find it difficult to cover up. She pulled over and, removing her Tbyte from her bag, tried inserting the DVD. The Tbyte rejected the disc, spitting it out. It had some kind of special content protection and only John would know how to bypass it.
Frustrated, Serena drove off and
took a sharp left down a narrow side street. After a minute or two, signs in Mandarin and Cantonese started to appear over food stores. She passed a hair salon and a couple of run-down-looking importing and exporting businesses. Shiny orange-skinned ducks hung cooked and helpless from hooks in restaurant windows. The windows dripped with condensation. She was in Chinatown. Perfect.
She spotted a gap between a Juicy Fresh van and a beaten-up beige Datsun. The road sign said, ‘No standing’. She ignored it, parked, and headed out into the throng of people on George Street. Every person who walked towards her scared her. Every person who walked behind her might be following her. She took the next bus heading north, and got out at Wynyard. Crossing George Street, she took the next left and found what she was looking for—the entrance to John’s bank. She took the elevator to reception.
‘Can I see John Flynn, please? It’s Serena Swift.’
Her voice sounded raspy. It hurt to speak. The receptionist eyed Serena suspiciously, her eyes flicking onto the reddened skin of her neck and to her dishevelled clothes.
‘Is he expecting you?’
‘No, but he’ll see me.’
‘Will you take a seat, please?’
Serena was too agitated to sit and paced the reception area. A woman in a navy blue suit looked her up and down, and when Serena caught her eye, she returned her gaze to the Financial Review.
‘Serena, are you all right?’ John asked as he strode towards her.
‘John, I need to talk in private,’ she whispered, aware the receptionist was eavesdropping.
‘Of course. Come through.’
He took her into the elevator and pressed the button for level four. As the doors closed, he stepped forward and gently held her shoulders.
‘Serena, what’s happened? Oh my God, your neck.’
His blue eyes were angry.
‘Did Bukowski do this?’
‘No, a security guy. John, I’ve got it. The file. It’s in my bag,’ she said excitedly, ignoring her painful throat. ‘But I can’t read it.’