by L. A. Larkin
‘No, Serena. That’s too dangerous. I’ll try emailing it to the journos attending today. Surely one of them will have enough guts to publish it?’
‘John, we’ve been through this. It’s not going to happen. What did Tracey say? She couldn’t even get The Post to print it. I couldn’t get Channel One to take the story. They all need Gene-Asis’ advertising revenue. It doesn’t matter how much the journos want to print it, it’s not up to them.’
John rubbed his tired eyes.
‘All right then, we put it on YouTube. Forget the media. We’ll rely on public outrage.’
‘It’ll be taken off YouTube before you know it. Anyway, I want Bukowski to experience the public humiliation first hand. It’s got to be at the launch.’
‘Then one of us has to be inside the Gene-Asis building and that’s far too dangerous.’
‘I’m going to get this footage running at the Gene-Asis launch, whatever it takes. Now, tell me what I have to do.’
‘God, Serena,’ he said, shaking his bent head, ‘their security will be impenetrable today. We just can’t do it.’
‘We can and I’m doing it.’
Serena’s lips were clenched and her hands in tight fists. She had a look of grim determination that John recognised.
‘You’re not going inside,’ he said.
‘I am. I started this and I’ll finish it. And I need you here. You might still be able to breach the shield. You need to stay here and do what you do best.’
‘Someone will recognise you. They’ll have spy-eyes checking every face entering the foyer, as well as biometric testing for every guest. You’ll never get through.’
‘How about the back of the building?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘They’ve gone all out on the catering for this. They’re bringing in some of the top chefs in New York. All the food is made using Supercrop Ultra products. I’ve seen the invitations. And they’ve contracted a catering company for their waiting staff called … what was their name? I was mistakenly copied in to an email about it. Something French, like “Par Excellence”. Yes, that’s it. So, that’s how I get in: I become one of their waitresses.’
‘That could work. All the security focus will be on the main entrance where the guests arrive. The caterers won’t get anywhere near as much attention.’
‘I need you to work your hacking magic and get my name on their waiting staff list for today’s event.’
‘And what if I say no, I won’t do it?’
‘Then I’ll try another way.’
John shook his head. He took a large gulp of water, hacked into the Par Excellence server and altered the running sheets to include Sarah Bradley as a silver service waitress, and then added some fake references to her file. The sheets told her she needed to be at the catering company’s HQ in the West Village at 8.30 am, to pick up her security pass, uniform and instructions.
‘I haven’t got long,’ she said.
‘I know. If they say they can’t find your social security number, just tell them there’s a mistake and you’ll sort it out later. The person in charge won’t have time to muck about with your pay details.’
‘No worries. Now, remind me of the building layout and how to run the documentary.’
In a few seconds, John had the layout of the 119th floor on screen.
‘Here is the auditorium, which seats 600 people. Because of the spiral shape of the building, the seating forms a complete circle; a bit like a mini football stadium. In the middle, in the ceiling, is the 3D holographic projector. It will project images in this central space, twelve metres wide by ten metres high. It’s awesome technology,’ John enthused.
‘So where are the controls for the projector?’
‘The controls are here in the roof above the auditorium. I hope you’re not frightened of heights. You’ll need to climb up this ladder into the roof space. When you’re up there, you’ll be able to walk but only hunched over, as the space is pretty narrow. The floor is solid, so you won’t fall through or anything. They might have this ladder guarded but the roof space is our only option, as we need you right next to the projector. If you don’t get near enough, the image you project will be very weak and fuzzy, and people may not be able to hear the footage properly.’
‘What do I do when I’m in there?’
‘Can you pass me your smartphone?’ She did so. ‘I’ll pre-program it to intercept Bukowski’s signal and tell the projector to run our doco. All you have to do is turn it on and press this command key.’ He pointed.
‘Where is the big feast taking place?’
‘On the same floor. The other half of the floor is set up for corporate entertainment, with the kitchens over here,’ he said, pointing at the screen. ‘You’ll enter via the ground-floor deliveries entrance, at the back of the building on West 46th. There is a service lift, which will be programmed only to open on the ground floor and the 119th floor, so no one can snoop around.’
‘What if something goes wrong and I can’t get the handheld to work?’
‘It will work, Serena. I promise you. But to ease your mind, we can have a Plan C. I’ll copy the documentary onto this memory key. You can always try handing it to one of the journalists, if all else fails.’
John held a silver ring with a rectangular black stone, inlaid with a metallic design.
‘That’s a memory key?’
‘Sure is. See, when I lift the gem off the circular band, it has a metal prong protruding from it. I can plug this prong into the side of my laptop or any smartphone.’
‘You should launch a range of jewellery made from memory keys,’ she said, trying to break the tension. She looked at the clock. ‘I’d better get ready.’ John took her hand. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ ‘I’m sure. I’m shit-scared, but I’m sure.’ ‘If you don’t come out by twelve-thirty, I’m calling the cops.’
Chapter 69
Serena stepped into the bone-chilling wind, her black woollen hat pulled down over her ears. Her thick black coat was done up tightly and her precious smartphone hidden in her pocket. On her way to the subway station, she couldn’t resist crossing Broadway and stopping in Duffy Square to look at the Gene-Asis building, already cordoned off. Outside the main entrance lay a massive red carpet and she counted four armed security guards. Through the black glass, she could see nothing of the interior until a woman left the building. The open doors revealed a floor-to-ceiling glass wall about ten metres from the entrance, which stopped people moving any further into the building. This glass wall was interspersed with metal detectors and retina scanners. There were eight of these security barriers, each of which was manned by two armed guards. She failed to register an exterior camera pointing straight at her.
Was she shivering because of the sub-zero temperature or because she felt overawed by her task?
Serena’s feet were growing numb, her boots failing to insulate them from the icy cold pavement. She looked around her at the bright colours and lights of Times Square; at the huge billboards, and moving images zooming around buildings and climbing up skyscrapers, like ivy growing up trees. Traffic shunted by in a confusing mesh of crossed lanes; yellow taxis, FedEx trucks, cars of every shape and size, motorbikes. People shuffled along sidewalks, waiting to get the ‘green hand’ so they could cross the madly busy roads. Cameras flashed as tourists gaped.
Four blocks away, she saw One Times Square, with five huge billboards and electronic screens clinging to the building. It stood there, a giant wedge between the traffic on Broadway and Seventh Avenue going south. The bottom billboard was for a new movie, The Tainted. Above it, bright orange letters whisked around the building on electronic ticker tape, as if following a train track round and round the building. She read the words ‘Wall Street Journal’ before they disappeared round a corner, replaced instantly by the latest share prices.
Above this, an NBC interview was taking place on the Panasonic screen: with Al Bukowski, grinning confidently. He res
embled some dark god, looking down on his people. If anyone wanted to listen to the interview, all they had to do was tune in their smartphones. Above the Panasonic screen, a corporate advertisement for Gene-Asis was running, the screen the height of several floors. And, above this, sat the biggest Cup Noodles she’d ever seen. At the very top of One Times Square, the electronic screen sold Discover Card’s benefits like a beacon of light offering salvation to the world.
Serena made her way through the throngs of people to the subway entrance. Stepping down the grit-covered steps, a gust of icy wind ripped into her coat. The draughty ticketing booth, with its varnished wood and brass trimmings, looked like it had been there for many years. Opposite the booth were the turnstiles and, beyond them, the platform.
‘Sheridan Square, please.’
Serena handed the attendant a ten-dollar note.
‘Other platform.’
Serena couldn’t hear her. The woman was sitting way back from the microphone and made no attempt to raise her voice.
‘Sorry, I can’t hear you.’
Still refusing to move, the woman raised her voice a notch and pointed in the direction of the steps.
‘You need to go round the other side. Other platform.’
This side was going north and Serena wanted to go south. Retracing her steps, she noticed an Hispanic man in an unzipped padded jacket and yellow beanie leaning against a ticket machine. He was reading a magazine, as cold gusts flicked around him. He dropped something. The wind blew it along the tiled floor. He stamped on it. For a fleeting second, she glimpsed the person in the photograph. It was a woman wearing a black coat, looking up, her blonde hair peeking from beneath her black hat. It was a photo of Serena outside the Gene-Asis building; the security camera must have taken it. Sprinting up the steps, two at a time, she left the subway station in a hurry. If she were right, that man was either a cop, or working for Gene-Asis. And she didn’t fancy meeting either. Spying the entrance for south-bound trains over the other side of the road, she darted through the traffic, a yellow cab narrowly missing her and honking loudly.
Running down the steps, she dropped her ticket into the turnstile machine and moved along the busy platform, weaving in and out of people, until she stood behind a group of teenagers at the farthest end. The Hispanic man raced onto the platform, looking up and down its length. He looked her way. There was an unmistakable look of recognition on his face.
He immediately barged along the platform in her direction. As his jacket opened for a second, she saw the glint of gunmetal.
The next subway train was about to arrive, with another one a minute later. She watched the yellow beanie move through the crowds. He was now about halfway to her. Serena backed into the tiled wall. A shot of adrenaline fired heat through her body. What to do? He was now only twenty metres away and increasing his pace, pushing through the tightly packed crowds on the platform.
Down the black arch of the tunnel, the train’s bright lights heralded its arrival before it slowed to a stop. He was now aggressively shoving past people, another man objecting with a ‘Watch it, buddy’. The teenagers jostled forward. Serena pushed through them and into the carriage, staking her claim to a position right by the sliding doors. The doors began to close and her pursuer jumped into the next carriage. Just as the doors were about to shut completely she dived through the narrowing gap, back onto the platform.
One carriage down, she saw the man’s arm shoot into the narrowing gap. She stared in horror as he forced the doors to open. She ripped an umbrella from a businessman’s hand and whacked her enemy’s knuckles as hard as she could, and hit them again as the businessman shouted at her. Her pursuer yelped in pain and released the doors as the train moved off. Dropping the umbrella and running down the other end of the platform, she tried to merge with a recently arrived group of English tourists.
What would he do? Would he take the next train back to this station? If Serena didn’t get to Par Excellence in the next twenty minutes, she’d blow their whole plan. She had to take the next train.
The doors opened and she leaped on quickly, picking up a discarded newspaper from the floor. Taking a seat, she hid behind its open pages, breathing heavily. She hoped her pursuer wasn’t working with anyone else who might have boarded with her. The doors closed. In her carriage was a woman with a baby in a pram, some English tourists, a man listening to music through headphones, and businesspeople. The train rattled through the tunnel. The baby in the pram started to cry and its embarrassed mother rocked the stroller.
At each stop, Serena’s heart beat faster. One more to go—Sheridan Square was the next station. Terrified she’d see the Hispanic man waiting for her, she stared through the glass doors but saw only her warped reflection in their curve. The train rattled to a stop and, like a sprinter, she leaped through them and ran. At the exit, she stared confusedly at the busy junction.
She had to be certain she’d lost her pursuer before she arrived at Par Excellence, so she ducked into a women’s clothing shop. Spying a pale-blue puffer jacket with a faux-fur-lined hood, she yanked it off its hanger and dived for the changing rooms, locking herself in a cubicle.
‘Excuse me, can I check how many items you have?’ someone called over the top of her door.
She quickly opened the door and showed the jacket to the shop assistant, who eyed her suspiciously. She locked the door again and sat in the chair. Dripping with perspiration, she removed her black coat, placing the daypack carefully on the floor.
‘How you going in there? Can I get you anything?’
‘No, thanks,’ she called back. ‘I’ll take this.’
Leaving her black coat behind, she paid for the new jacket. She put it on and pulled the pale-blue hood over her head, almost completely hiding her face. If they were looking for a woman in a black coat, this might help throw them off the scent.
Hurriedly, she walked round the corner to Par Excellence.
Chapter 70
In her crisp black high-collared shirt with gold buttons, and black trousers, Serena wheeled in a trolley laden with neatly folded starched tablecloths. The uniform lacked pockets, so her smartphone was buried deeply beneath the tablecloths.
She was stopped at the Gene-Asis deliveries entrance by two armed security guards, one of whom scanned the security pass hanging around her neck. They then ran a metal detector over her body. When they moved it over the trolley, it beeped loudly.
‘Metal trolley,’ she shrugged. A spy-eye above the entrance, like an eyeball on a telescopic lens, watched her. Serena kept her head angled slightly down, not permitting the spy-eye a good look at her face. If she were recognised, she was dead.
‘Move on,’ the security guard said.
She took the oversized service elevator with other Par Excellence staff. The doors opened behind the kitchens on the 119th floor, where the chefs in white hats had been hard at work all morning. Pans clanked, the chefs shouted and the heat was unbearable, but the rich smells emanating from the kitchens were mouthwatering.
She wheeled her trolley to a corner of the massive banquet room, where tables and chairs were already laid out. She checked her watch: it was 9.45 am. The guests would be arriving from midday. The presentation was taking place from 12.15 to 12.45 pm, after which lunch would be served. Serena scanned the ceiling for spy-eyes. They were everywhere, moving every now and again to zoom in on an individual.
Serena had her blonde hair tied back in a neat ponytail and wore a pair of lightly tinted glasses John had lent her. They were very different from the glasses she’d worn at Gene-Asis. They made everything slightly fuzzy but she hoped the tinting might help prevent her being recognised.
She had to find somewhere to hide her handheld because she was about to use all the tablecloths. It was too early to make her way to the projector; her absence would be noticed and the alarm raised. She planned to move into the projector’s roof space at the very last moment.
‘Lay out the tablecloths and then lay th
e tables. The cutlery’s over there,’ her supervisor instructed.
‘I’ll help,’ said a girl, with dark hair in a bun, taking the next tablecloth from the trolley. One by one, the piles of linen got lower and lower. Picking up the neatly folded tablecloth wrapped around the smartphone, and laying another one on top, she told her workmate that they were both stained and she’d get some clean ones. Before the girl could check them, she scuttled off to the kitchens, where a prep chef nearly knocked the phone from her hand as he shot out of the pantry.
‘Look where you’re going,’ he snapped.
She ducked inside. Shelves were stacked high with food, but there were no spy-eyes. Nearest her were boxes of vegetables and fruit, bags of flour, huge tins of food, large sauce bottles, bags of coffee, coffee filters, and ten massive bags of rice stacked in a corner. She wedged the smartphone behind the last rice bag, hoping that not all the rice was to be used that morning.
Taking more tablecloths, she returned to laying the tables.
‘Smell this,’ said the florist, wafting a six-headed tulip under Serena’s nose. It looked like Medusa.
‘Smells like a rose.’
‘Exactly. Amazing what Gene-Asis can do!’
As Serena placed the polished cutlery on the tables, she searched for a valid excuse to go to the auditorium. Toying desperately with a number of equally weak reasons, she hedged her bets and cornered her supervisor.
‘I’ve laid all the tables. Does the podium need any preparation—water or anything?’
‘Four jugs of water with slices of lime, and eight glasses. Off you go. Shoo!’
Serena prepared the jugs, then ducked into the pantry with a large tray. She laid the phone underneath a white cloth, and then placed the jugs and glasses around it. She gingerly entered the auditorium with her heavy burden, and had to hold back a gasp.
In front of her was an enormous 3D holographic image of Bukowski. He was speaking, the image so clear that he appeared solid and real, except for the fact the projection was twice as tall as the man. The technicians were doing a test run.