Sweet Talking Money

by Harry Bingham

  ‘I wouldn’t have gone all the way if I hadn’t liked you. I don’t even know why I did go all the way.’

  He shook her hand free. ‘I’ll be crucified if any of the gear goes missing. Some of them machines cost a million quid, apparently.’

  Meg shook her head. ‘They don’t want anything like that. Just papers. They’ll copy them, not take them. You can stick around and check they don’t swipe anything.’

  ‘It’s not the job, Meg. The job sucks. But there’s a principle thing, I suppose. And anyway, there are dogs and stuff. You wouldn’t want to mess with them. I’m sorry, Meg. I do like you.’

  ‘Yeah, I think I like you too. I’m not just saying that.’

  He pulled his pants up and reached for his trousers, simultaneously giving her a full-on kiss on the mouth. ‘The answer’s no, though, Meg. Sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry too … Don’t you even want to know why my friends want to burgle the place?’

  ‘No, not really, no. I wish you hadn’t even –’

  ‘Look, I want to tell you, OK?’

  Degsy had his trousers on now, though not his shoes. He was halfway between leaving and staying. He looked down at Meg, who was still naked, stretched out on the scattered sofa cushions. ‘Yeah. Alright then,’ he said, accepting her plea. ‘Why?’

  So Meg told him. The whole story, pretty much. The big bad corporation, the science they wanted to crush, Altmeyer’s treacherous role in the whole game. Degsy listened without interruption, lighting cigarettes for them both and planting one in Meg’s mouth as she spoke.

  At the end of it, he was thoughtful. ‘I had a mate once, gay bloke, died of AIDS. Just got thinner and thinner, weaker and weaker, until he was gone. Used to be a right laugh, too.’

  Meg nodded. She’d told him about the rats that Cameron had saved, the promise that she could repeat the trick with humans.

  ‘When were your friends thinking of coming?’

  ‘Put it this way, they’re down at the Fox and Hounds right now, waiting for a call.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Meg. Not that you’re pushy or anything.’ He sat amidst the shower of cushions, in his trousers, belt in his hand, shirt in a screwed-up ball at his feet. He dragged at his cigarette, as though asking it for an answer. ‘It would need to be after midnight. And there’s nothing I can do about the dogs. And there’s a couple of perimeter guards, who spend most of their time watching telly, far as I can tell, but they prowl around a bit too. Plus there’s a real more-than-my-job’s-worth type over at the Manor. And mobile patrols as well, and not even I know when they’re coming … It’s dead chancy, but if you want to …’ He shrugged his acceptance.

  Meg grinned at him. ‘You’re a star.’

  Rolling over so that she straddled him with her still-naked legs, she flicked her cigarette and his away into a nearby bin. ‘You a one-shot man, Degsy, or’ve you got a second barrel down there?’

  TWENTY-SIX

  1

  In an upstairs room at the Fox and Hounds, the raiders assembled. Cameron was obviously modelling herself on Purdy in The Avengers: long black boots, black leggings, black gloves, a black cotton rollneck, and a black silk scarf which she wore in loops and swags around her neck. Except maybe in the heel of her boot, you wouldn’t have been able to place a fifty pence piece anywhere in her clothing and hope to have it pass detection.

  Bryn, too, was dressed in dark clothes, with a tool bag and torch at his waist. At Bryn’s invitation, his brother Dai was there as well, ready to bring a bit of extra muscle to the proceedings. Despite Meg’s blithe confidence that everything would run according to plan, Bryn had never heard of a strategy failing because too much force had been deployed and when it came to delivering force, few people were more reliable than Dai.

  Mungo was there too, in ballooning khaki trousers and a grubby black T-shirt. His luminous trainers had caused some concern to Dai, but a more immediate problem was emerging.

  ‘Dogs?’ said Mungo.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Like, presum’bly we’re talking big slavering wolfhounds that’ve been fed, like, just one yoghurt in the last century, or maybe one of them cream cheese an’ celery dip things which girls eat.’

  ‘They’re guard dogs, Mungo. German shepherds. They’ll attack, but they won’t eat you. And we’re taking every possible precaution.’ Bryn indicated his brother: sixteen stone of thorough-going precaution.

  ‘I don’t mind terriers too much, ’cept for the barky ones. Or what are those things with droopy ears and big eyes, going, like, give me a cuddle?’

  ‘They’re not going to guard the premises with cocker spaniels, Mungo, sorry.’

  ‘’S just I’ve only got two arms, an’ I’m not massively keen to donate one of them to the save-a-starving-wolfhound-of-terror appeal, specially as when you think of all the drugs I do and all the crap food I eat, I doubt if my arm would be, like, incredibly healthy.’

  ‘You’re bailing out?’

  ‘Sorry, man. Dogs give me the jumpin’ heebie-jeebies. Always have.’

  ‘Well, you’d better stay then.’ Bryn’s voice hardened, not from anger but from worry. Mungo was the only one qualified to recognise the critical clues which might enable him to get access to the IT system. Without Mungo, the whole burglary might prove purposeless.

  ‘That’s OK, don’t worry,’ said Cameron gently in deliberate counterpoint to Bryn’s hardness. ‘I used to be terrified of dogs. And with a bit of luck we’ll find enough paperwork to give me what I need.’

  ‘No worries,’ said Mungo blithely. He fished around in a bag he’d brought with him and took out a video camera, a laptop, and a couple of lengths of flex. ‘Thought it might be a case of canine calamity. so I brought this. Video hooks into the laptop. Hook the laptop up to a phone jack, an I’ve got internet access to the pictures. Take a poke round, an’ I can tell you if there’s anything worth snitching. Virtual burglary.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Dai, not for the first time that evening and most certainly not the last. ‘Clever, that.’

  Bryn nodded, somewhat relieved, but keen to get going. He repeated his instructions for the last time to Kati and Meg.

  ‘OK, you two, I need you to guard the gate. Kati, I want you five hundred yards to the east, Meg five hundred yards to the west. Any time a car goes past you, call me, one ring only, I’ve damped down the sound so it won’t reach much further than me. If I get two rings, one from each of you, then I know the car’s gone right on past. If I only get one ring, then we’ve got a problem, because the car’s gone in through the gate. OK?’ Kati and Meg nodded. ‘Meantime, Mungo, I guess you’d best stay here, where we can reach you.’

  ‘No, I’ll come with Meg. I’m not missing out.’ Since Mungo’s beating, Meg had forgiven him his weirdness and they were well on their way to becoming friends.

  ‘But you need to be by a phone. You just said you needed internet access.’

  ‘Whoooh! You don’t need to get all twentieth century with me.’ From his bag, he pulled out another laptop with a mobile phone taped to it with black insulating tape, like a piece of hi-tech battlefield equipment made combat-ready by its squaddie proprietor. ‘Virtual and mobile, alright?’

  Bryn nodded approval. He turned to Cameron and Dai.

  Airy assent from Cameron, for whom a little burglary appeared to be the most natural thing in the world; a heavy grunt of assent from Dai.

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  2

  Dai put his hands together to make a platform. Bryn stood on it and reached for the top of the wall as his brother heaved. Making himself secure, he withdrew a pair of wire-cutters from his tool belt and began to snip the razor wire. Three rolls of the vicious stuff hung along the wall. Bryn had got through the first two rolls, and was well into the third when a muffled bleat came from his phone.

  ‘Down,’ he snapped.

  He dropped from the wall, flung himself to the ground, checking to see that the others had followed suit. Fo
r thirty seconds they lay, cheeks pressed to the freezing mud and damp grass. A car swept by, headlights breaking the darkness harmlessly above their heads. Bryn waited until a second ring from Meg’s end of the road told him that the car had driven on by.

  ‘OK,’ he said, stepping back into position on his brother’s hands.

  In another minute the last roll of wire was cut through, and the whole entangled section flopped to the ground on the far side of the wall. Bryn probed the ground below with his torch, shutting the beam off as soon as he had found a safe place to jump away from the dangerous coils. He jumped down and used a stick to tow the wire away into the safety of the rhododendrons. He hauled himself quickly back on to the wall, nervous of the dogs.

  ‘OK. Cameron.’

  Dai took Cameron’s boot in his hands and shot her upwards. She was still ascending fast as Bryn grabbed her, bundling her on to the wall, then over on to the ground. He reached down again, and muscle tugged against muscle as Dai heaved his way up.

  ‘Guys, I think …’ Cameron’s warning ended abruptly. In the blackness, a grey shape moved with frightening speed. A low growl, the dangerous sort, was audible. Cameron backed against the wall, very scared. The growl intensified, winding up into a spring.

  ‘Good boy,’ said Dai. ‘Good lad.’

  He was good with dogs, always had been. He’d taken over sheepdog training from his father aged fourteen, and if he’d ever trained one to respond to anything other than swearwords and blasphemies, he’d have stood a fair chance in competition. But those weren’t the skills he called on now. ‘Good dog,’ he said again as he tumbled off the wall and crashed down on to the dog’s chest and shoulder, knocking the breath from its body and leaving it three-quarters stunned. He wrestled the animal’s front half into his jacket, from which it already began to stir in an attempt to escape. It was Dai’s turn now to speak with a kind of nervous urgency.

  ‘Cameron, love, would you mind …?’

  Cameron didn’t need to be told. She moved fast, sweeping her veterinary syringe into the dog’s side and ramming the plunger home all in one practised motion. The German shepherd crumpled and fell.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Dai, dropping it. ‘Never seen one go like that before.’

  ‘Triple dose,’ said Cameron. ‘I figure my Hippocratic oath doesn’t apply to animals. I wasn’t kidding when I said I was terrified of the things.’

  The raiding party beat its way through the bushes, scattering chunks of stewing steak, each spiked with a tablet of high-dose anaesthetic. Degsy had said there were four dogs on patrol, vicious brutes every one of them.

  At the edge of the lawn, they paused briefly. A ground frost glittered from the grass, and a thin mist lay, not more than six foot deep, in long wreaths over the ground. Nothing and no one was visible, but there was always the possibility that their movement in the moonlight would attract the attention of either guards or dogs, so they ran together across the lawn, boots crunching on the hard surface, assembling again in the shadow of the loading bay. A low voice greeted them.

  ‘How’s the A-team? Alright?’

  ‘Degsy, hi. I’m Bryn.’

  Introductions were swiftly made. Degsy produced a roll of duct tape and let himself be bound at ankles, knees, wrists and elbows.

  ‘That should do it,’ he said, once he was trussed like a chicken. ‘Overpowered by intruders after gallant resistance, Degsy “Hammerfist” Parlour was commended for outstanding bravery.’ Then, as Dai tossed him over his shoulder like a sack of grain, he added, ‘Go easy, mate. And remember to stuff something in my mouth if anyone comes snooping. I ought to be yelling, remember. I’m a trained professional.’

  They set off into the science block, following the route that Degsy and Meg had taken a few hours earlier. The plan was to leave no trace of their visit inside the science area and, if possible, to leave Degsy with an unbesmirched record. The break-in through the razor wire would be discovered come the morning, but Bryn intended to give the investigators plenty of reasons for looking elsewhere. It would be a busy night. He looked at Cameron. From here on, she was in control.

  ‘Systems or papers? What’s your first priority?’

  ‘Papers,’ she said. ‘Degsy mentioned a safe.’

  Degsy nodded, and, with Dai carrying him, he led them upstairs to an unprepossessing safe, manufactured back when burgundy was still a fashionable colour.

  ‘You’ve got the combination?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah. Right-hand pocket,’ he said, adding, ‘pardon,’ as Cameron’s hands thrust further than expected.

  She withdrew the slip and calmly began to twist the dial on the safe, forwards and back, as though she did this kind of thing for a living. She reached the last number, then twirled the dial back round until it locked into position. She opened the safe.

  3

  Inside there were half a dozen buff folders and a box of petty cash. Nothing else.

  ‘That’s it?’ said Dai.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Bryn, passing the folders to Cameron.

  The front page of the first file was marked in big letters: ‘Respiritron – the next step in respiratory disorders’. She quickly assessed the files’ contents and looked up with a quick smile. ‘Oh, this is it, alright. You may as well go do Mungo’s stuff. I’m going to be a while.’

  Bryn nodded and left. Degsy pointed out the IT administration bay and as Dai acted as internet-cameraman, Bryn hung on the phone to his young assistant. Mungo was silent to begin with as he watched the pictures coming through on his laptop. ‘Droid-city,’ he commented. ‘Clean desk nightmaresville.’

  ‘Any of the folders help, any of the papers?’ said Dai, sweeping the camera along a rack of coloured files, clearly in common use.

  ‘Yeah, maybe. Let’s have a look-see.’

  Dai held the camera vertically down as Bryn turned pages under the lens.

  ‘Network traffic by department … by date … by security code … by server. Wow-ee. This guy’s ay-nal. Network traffic alphabetically by employee number. This is a very sad person, man. You should put some drugs in his OJ or something. How ‘bout the red folder?’

  For a full hour, Mungo examined the papers available in the IT area, but the site was a model of IT security. There were no passwords recorded, nothing on paper describing security procedures or countermeasures. Mungo did manage to glean some information on the overall network architecture. ‘But it’s not good news, man. It’s things like they use packet switching everywhere. They’ve got armageddon firewalls round their internet ports, and their password construction requirements are top end, man; seven-digit, mixed character set, regular change. That’s not good news, not good news at all.’

  ‘Pity I can’t stay here all night,’ said Dai. ‘Film the bugger typing his password.’

  A voice at the doorway startled them.

  ‘Why not?’

  Bryn and Dai leapt with tension. Whirling round, braced for action, they saw Cameron lounging against the doorpost.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Dai. ‘You gave me a shock.’

  ‘Why not do just that?’ said Cameron again. ‘They’ve already installed the camera.’ She nodded upwards at the ceiling, where one of Altmeyer’s ever-present security cameras winked at them. ‘It’s even pointing at his desk.’

  Bryn followed her gaze with his eye. ‘Bloody brilliant, woman,’ he said, his Welsh accent and vocabulary always more noticeable in his brother’s presence. ‘Fantastic idea.’

  Degsy nodded. ‘Getting the tapes is no problem. I can just go in and get them.’

  This time it was Bryn’s turn to haul Degsy around. He took him downstairs to the deserted security booth, where a row of monitors switched images between the different cameras. Degsy, still taped up like the victim of a jewel heist, told Bryn how to use the security console to bring one of the cameras to screen and hold it there. Having done so, Bryn phoned upstairs.

  ‘We’ve got you in view. Cameron, you be the IT guy. Dai,
can you get the camera to zoom in a bit more?’

  Cameron sat at the keyboard, typing nonsense, as Dai manually zoomed the camera in. ‘Not too far,’ said Bryn. ‘We don’t want to give the game away. That’s OK. And up a bit. Left.’ Dai fiddled until Bryn was satisfied. ‘OK, Cameron. Type some more. Slowly.’

  She typed. The camera angle wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t bad. Her left shoulder obscured the bottom right-hand corner of the keyboard, and if the IT guy was broader-shouldered than she was – and though Cameron was tall, she was enviably slim – then more of the keyboard would fall into shadow. No matter. Bryn studied the picture closely. Like most Americans, Cameron was a touch typist. Her eight fingers rested on the home keys, her thumbs on the space bar. When she hit a key, only one of her fingers moved; up, down, occasionally left or right to reach the keys in the centre or on the edges of the pad. Bryn watched intently for a while. ‘Do it slowly,’ he said. ‘When we have it on tape, we can play it slow motion, but right now I just want to check to see if it works at all.’

  Cameron moved her fingers, absent-mindedly, slow-motion across the keyboard. Bryn studied her intently. Right hand, middle finger, up. Right hand, ring finger, no movement from the home key, just a quick downstroke to depress the key. Right hand again. Ring finger again. Up one key and depress. Bryn figured out the letters in triplets. ILO VEA LLE NIL OVE ALL ENI. He wrote them down, staring at them as Cameron’s long fingers went on playing, dreamy, unregarded. There was something funny about the letters she chose. They weren’t random, there was a pattern there. Then he saw it: I love Allen, I love Allen, I love Allen. Feeling sick, he screwed up his sheet of paper and threw it in the bin. Why the hell shouldn’t she love her boyfriend? Why wouldn’t she? All the same, blind with the blackness of jealousy, he could bear no more. He blundered up, jabbing the monitors back to their pre-set position, grabbing Degsy roughly for the trudge back upstairs.