by Jack Rylance
The Petiole ― A Perfect Hideaway
Only this time, in both margins of the page, an animation began flashing at him, with heart-shaped confetti drifting down the screen, collecting in two deep piles. A spectacle so irritating that Mark cursed its reappearance under his breath and closed the window with a violent prod of his left mouse button. Telling the advert, in parting, where it could stick its hard sell.
Bonus - A Study in Revenge - Chapter 3
It felt apt that they should meet here again—in Georgia Strauss’s handsome office. The same place where the two of them had reached an understanding all those months ago. Now, after no small amount of time and effort, they were finally executing on the big idea that had brought them together—Sally and the security analyst she’d hired.
The room itself remained Spartan but not unwelcoming, largely thanks to the recessed lighting and the wallpaper’s warm earthen tones. At the centre of the wooden floor, between the two chairs, stood a desk made of walnut without a single scrap of paper placed on top of it. An oasis of discretion. Nothing to see here, was the message it sent. One that had resonated with Sally the first time she’d visited Georgia’s office. The vibrant painting hanging on the wall to her left was the only change from before— a modern work by an artist she was distantly aware of and whose name she now tried to recall. “That’s new?” she asked, referring to it.
“It is. You like it? Not too florid?” Georgia answered.
“Not at all. Beatriz Milhazes?”
“That’s right. Her prices recently dropped to the point where I could afford one of the smaller works, with a little help from you.”
Sally shook her head, dismissing the idea. “It’s your money. You’ve certainly earned it.”
Georgia smiled and put her hands flat on the table as if summoning all her acumen. “Shall we?”
“Get down to it? Yes, of course.”
“On Monday I put our case to Margaret Rothwell.”
“And she’s onside now?” Sally asked.
“Yes, she is,” Georgia confirmed.
“Which gives us a majority on the board?”
“That’s right.”
“And as for the investigation itself?”
“They’re just about done compiling the evidence, about to go gangbusters,” Georgia said. “I don’t know the exact day yet—I thought it better not to press Millington—but he’ll let me know within the week.”
“With our man deeply implicated?”
“Oh, yes. He’s very much of interest to them. Really, the timing is perfect. After the flak they’ve been getting recently for colluding with big business, it’s the perfect moment to serve somebody’s head on a plate.”
“And the small matter of his phone?” Sally asked.
“Totally compromised. It’s simply a case of pressing send.”
“Good. I think that puts us on schedule, unless there’s anything else we need to do?”
Georgia paused for a moment, then shook her head. “I’m the last person to encourage complacency, but I’d say we’re covered for now. Although I’d argue against spending any more time in London until the fateful day.”
“I know. I’m leaving tomorrow, don’t worry.”
“Anything else arises you’ll be the first to know, as always.”
“Thanks. For everything.”
Now it was Georgia’s turn to waive the gratitude away. “Thank me if this all plays out to your satisfaction.”
Sally nodded at the comment. “OK.”
She and Georgia had met at the end of a long and tiring search Sally had conducted, trying to find somebody exceptionally competent that she could also trust to an unusual degree. It was a tall order under any circumstances, but especially so given what she had in mind.
At first she’d flirted with the dark web to find what she was looking for. But all the smoke and mirrors and anonymity unnerved her, as it meant she couldn’t take anybody at their word without resorting to a leap of faith—the kind of leap that could quite easily result in blackmail. No, what she needed was an organisation with physical premises and a solid reputation for being discreet. Of course, the possibility had remained that such a firm would baulk at the assignment or, worse still, feel moved to contact the appropriate authorities. In all likelihood it would depend on to what extent they viewed her plan as an act of sadism rather than a fair settling of scores.
To narrow the search, Sally had concerned herself with two main criteria: those firms whose client bases included large multinationals and thus demonstrated the right level of moral ambivalence; and those with past or present ties to the security services, suggesting access to high-end contacts that might come into play. And yet still she’d conducted eight meetings before the one with Georgia brought the process to a close, all those earlier encounters sadly lacking in major respects.
Clearly it had troubled the other companies that she was a private individual of no illustrious parentage, notable professional standing, or discernible wealth. A concern they were all far too anxious to address, as if the first thing that needed investigating was what Sally thought she was doing there on their premises. In the majority of cases, they’d started quoting high, six-figure prices at her within the first couple of minutes—the “absolute minimum” their services would cost—confident this would act as a deterrence. But instead of setting them straight, Sally only played up to their misreading of the situation, made her terse excuses, and walked out the door.
Even when this failed to happen, there was never a moment when she felt comfortable sharing her story or was ever tempted to do so. Something on each occasion pulled her up short, to the point where Sally started to fear it was a paralysis she would never move beyond; that her provisional plan would remain a pipe dream for all her immense wealth. Which was when the telling answer had presented itself.
Georgia Strauss—Security Analyst
The website had not been there the last time she’d entered the search terms a fortnight earlier. In fact it looked entirely new—which explained its prior absence—and there was not much to go on in the way of information as yet. Still, something about that same economy of detail had appealed to Sally—a certain style to the layout and a laconic quality about the text. It was hard to put her finger on, but it spoke of a self-confidence that was more tactful than smug. Definitely a plus. And so she’d sent an e-mail to the analyst in question, and they had agreed to meet two days hence at her premises in Mayfair.
Unlike her peers, Georgia had not greeted Sally with scepticism. Instead, they talked for the first five minutes about the fact that the office space had been newly acquired, the paint on the walls barely dry, just as the stationery was fresh from the printers and the masthead only affixed to the door for a grand total of three days. And this degree of informality put Sally sufficiently at ease for her to then volunteer her reservations. “Probably this is something you’ve heard before, but I’m not sure how to begin, exactly. Or even whether I should.”
Georgia nodded. “It’s a difficult decision, I know. Without an introduction from somebody you trust in turn, we start at a real disadvantage. So maybe I should begin by telling you a little more about me?”
“I would appreciate that.”
“OK. Well as I alluded to on my website, until recently I was employed by her majesty’s government. There I cut exactly those corners that enabled me to do my job, at a time when such corner-cutting was strongly encouraged. And then, thanks to the magic of politics, that same conduct suddenly became highly frowned upon, and one fine day I learned that I was to be made an example of, as if I were the exception and not the rule.” Georgia picked up her espresso and drained half the double shot before returning the cup to its saucer. “And so an unflattering assessment of me would conclude that I’m a disgraced intelligence officer, although, for my own sanity if nothing else, I continue to think of myself as one who was unfairly treated.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sally remarked.
�
�And so I could tell you I made this move to the private sector because it was ‘an exciting challenge’ or represented ‘a wonderful opportunity,’ but really, neither of those things are true.”
“But you still have friends in high places, I take it?”
Georgia paused thoughtfully. “People in high places aren’t looking for friendships, generally, so much as highly advantageous trade-offs. But I have access to one or two figures, yes.”
Sally had heard enough to start making a tentative disclosure of her own, and this she now did. Embarking on the revelation. Setting the scene with enormous care. Straining to do it justice. Striving neither to sensationalize the events nor downplay their impact on her. In all this she was greatly encouraged by the quality of silence that Georgia conveyed. A silence vouched for by the look on her face, as if every syllable Sally uttered was being carefully weighed. And so she chose to share everything. The whole, sorry tale. Until this moment, nobody had heard a word of it. It had been the sole province of her beleaguered mind, replayed endlessly, echoing down through the sleepless nights. But now it moved beyond her private understanding, and in the confines of this softly lit room, with its appealing air of intimacy, she knew that her suffering had been released into the wilds.
At the end of Sally’s account, Georgia Strauss allowed herself an appropriately long pause. “We’ve all been in bad relationships,” she said.
Sally shook her head vehemently, stung by the remark. “That’s not what this was.” For a brief moment she was on the verge of getting up and walking away. Then she brought her emotions to heel, reconsidered the tone of Georgia’s voice, and realised that she was playing devil’s advocate. Pushing her buttons to gauge Sally’s response. In other words, this woman was vetting Sally just as much as Sally was vetting her. Which was exactly what she needed, Sally realised. Not an adversary, but somebody who would challenge every aspect of her wishful thinking and shoot down every last trace of her hubris.
At Sally’s protest, Georgia had nodded solemnly, watching as she’d wrestled herself under control. “No. I do believe you,” she said. “And so now you would have it that he suffers a great deal?”
“Yes. That’s the idea.”
“OK.”
“So what would your undivided attention cost me?”
Georgia finished drinking her coffee, put the cup down again. “For me to work for you exclusively? Sixty-five thousand pounds sterling, every calendar month.”
“Fine.”
“And you’re absolutely sure you want to do this?”
“That’s a lot of money to talk yourself out of.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m genuinely interested, but I think you deserve to be challenged once at the outset. Be assured, after this I’ll never raise the subject again.”
Sally nodded. “And I do appreciate that, but I’m all of one mind, believe me.”
“Good. I’ll clear the decks, then. We can get started right away.”
***
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Code Red - Chapter One
The front door bell rang and Jacob Wylde heard his mother move to answer it. There was an exchange of words and then the sound of footsteps coming back inside, entering the downstairs lounge. A low male voice was audible, but nothing of the man’s conversation. Instead of trying to listen, Jacob swivelled round in his chair and returned to the computer he’d built himself last year. Although there wasn’t a shred of data left on the cutting-edge machine – of that he’d made sure – he still tried running one last scan, almost as an act of superstition. Even though, no matter what they did to the hard drive, nothing recorded on it could link him back to the massive crime. And yet this didn’t stop Jacob’s heart from pounding furiously as he hoped and prayed the unannounced house call was perfectly innocent.
A false alarm.
Hearing further movement below, he shut the computer down in mid-operation. The door to the lounge opened and then his mother called up to him from the foot of the stairs. “Jacob. You have a visitor.” The seriousness of the situation was there in her voice, expressed as naked fear. He had never heard his mother sound that way before and suddenly it became obvious that the worst case scenario was upon him. All he could so was turn in his seat and await that person whose heavy steps he could hear now, getting closer all the time.
It was a man in his forties who entered through the doorway to Jacob’s bedroom. 5’10 with thinning blonde hair, dressed for the summer, as if he’d had his holidays cut short and hadn’t bothered to change back into work clothes. Immediately the stranger shot Jacob a mean little smile. Despite his casual wear, he was all about the business.
The man stared about him, pulled up the spare desk chair, pushed it over to where Jacob was seated. Then he sat down opposite, so that their knees were almost touching, allowing Jacob a good look of his cold blue eyes.
“Oh Jacob,” the man said. “What have you gone and done…”
“Who are you?”
“The name’s Wilkins. I belong to government circles but it’s you and your crazy antics that have brought me here today. ”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Jacob told him.
“Unfortunately, it makes all the sense in the world. Which is why I thought we might begin with an admission of guilt.”
“Really, I don’t know what you’re on about.”
“I’m talking about Project Eames, Jacob. And about your unveiling of this classified prototype to the entire bloody world.”
“I thought they’d caught the people who did that.”
“All but one. Goes by the nickname RockSteady.”
“And you’re saying that that’s me?”
“It is you, Jacob, and I’m going to ask you to stop with the lies now. Better that we consider your options from here on out. You do actually have a couple of possibilities as things stand.”
Jacob looked again at the man’s pale blue eyes. They were unflinching, alert, tempting him to confess. But instead he smiled and shook his head with conviction. “You’ve made a huge mistake. I think I’d like to talk to a lawyer now.”
Wilkins nodded back without it meaning anything. Then he let out a deep loud sigh. “The thing is – you don’t get to enjoy it.”
“Enjoy what?”
“Dicking us around.”
“Like I said, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes you do, Jacob. That’s the problem. And this thing that you’ve done means that the usual rules don’t apply. You’ve graduated to the world where anything can happen if and when it’s thought necessary. The stakes are ridiculously high and so we get to act like monsters if that’s what it takes. My job is to bring this fact home to you. The full significance of what you’ve done.”
“So you’re saying I can’t see a lawyer?”
“That’s the least of it. Let’s consider your family for a minute, or should I say your mother, as it amounts to the same thing. Something terrible might be made to happen her, Jacob. That is not impossible if you don’t change your tune.”
At this Jacob reared up out of his chair and shouted down into the man’s face, his voice cutting up rough. “That’s not going to happen!”
Wilkins looked up and responded calmly. “No? OK. Fine. Then you need to talk to me openly. We don’t have a lot of time here.”
Jacob’s heart bristled with anger, even as he tried bringing it under control. In the meantime, Wilkins did no more than watch and wait for him to come clean.
“OK. I may have played some part in it,” Jacob said finally, lowering himself back onto his seat.
“The thing is, when our own programmers pieced your escapade together, and read back through all the logs, it seems that your buddies simply did all the donkey work. It was you, almost single-handedly, who achieved the impossible – or what was considered impossible up until a month ago – and penetrated the most forbidding barriers Lockheed Martin have ever erected around their system. This wa
sn’t a case of you simply lending a hand, Jacob. You were the one who made this break-in a reality.”
“And what will happen to the others now?”
“Your fellow cyber-terrorists? Oh, they get to be made an example of, plain and simple. Every single one of them is going to end up in jail for the longest time.”
“So you have what you want then.”
“No, Jacob. Clearly we don’t. What we would like, more than anything, is to put the cat back into the bag and withdraw Project Eames from worldwide circulation; but clearly that’s impossible now. You have made it so. This was like Christmas and New Year rolled into one for our Chinese friends. Their best people have been working on gaining access to this information for the best of two years, and then you stroll along and hand it to them on a plate, doing supreme damage to the defence capabilities of the United States, and, by extension, ourselves. Billions and billions of pounds will be needed to rectify this mess. Incalculable budgets. And where are we going to find the money? Under your bed?” With this, Wilkins leaned over and lifted up one corner of the quilt as if to check.
Jacob sat there, dazed, staring at the beige coloured carpet between his feet. Finally he looked back up. “So what happens to me now?”
“You actually possess a get out of jail card on account of your god given genius. Enormously unfair, all things considered, but there it is. Obviously, you have a very, very special gift. And this very special gift permits you to stay away from prison.”
“So, what? I come down to London with you?”
“London!” Wilkins laughed. “No, Jacob. Our American partners are insistent that we hand you over to them directly. In fact, they are waiting for you even as we speak, which is why we really must cut these niceties short.” With this, Wilkins rose to his feet.
Jacob’s hesitation was brief. He felt like he had no option but to comply – given these threats which sounded all too believable – and so he stood up once more, went to the far corner of the room, and made to pick up his Quicksilver day sack.