Gierek interrupted again. 'Think of it like a silver dollar spinning on its edge. All the data in computers – all the magnetisation – it just comes down to heads and tails. If it's heads, the computer sees a 1. If it's tails, it sees a zero. And our software keeps that silver dollar spinning on its edge until you decide whether you want heads or tails.'
MacIntyre's head was spinning too. He was ready to cut to the chase. 'And all this translates into control of remote computers?'
Gierek nodded. 'Exactly.'
'Control of your competitors' computers to be precise,' Marinov said. 'Maybe we should show you?'
MacIntyre's mouth was dry. If this worked like they said, he could guarantee the shareholders their share of Asia.
'OK,' he croaked. 'Show me.'
Gierek punched a few keys. 'We set it up to interact with Global Energy's servers in Tokyo. For the demo we had to slip a Trojan into their system to activate the entanglement. But with your help we can do much better.'
'If we kept using the Trojan, it would be found eventually,' Marinov said. 'But bear with us – it's just a demo. With Red Spot's software subsidiary dominating the e-security industry, you'll be able to do this untraceably. It will be in your product as it is shipped.'
MacIntyre's eyes were drawn up from the screen towards Marinov's. It was like being hypnotised, he thought. He pulled his gaze downwards again, and stared at the numbers. Here, at last, was something that made sense: the power utilities pricing charts for Tokyo. He knew this screen well. Energy was all about supply and demand – and cost. Utilities bought power from the cheapest source; the supply companies used sophisticated programs to keep their prices down yet still make a profit from their power stations' outputs.
'So we're now ready to hike Global's prices,' Marinov said. 'We've got the dollars spinning on their edges. Will it be heads or tails?'
MacIntyre could see Marinov's face reflected in the screen. There was no hint of a smile. Just those eyes.
'What would you like to set their price to?' Marinov said.
MacIntyre looked at the figures. 'One-eight-one,' he said.
Gierek tapped at the keyboard. The screen refreshed. Global Energy were selling at 181 – not much higher than Red Spot's price, but high enough to price them out of the market.
The next week had been terrifying; he was convinced they would somehow trace it back to him. Marinov's repeated assurances that the entanglement was untraceable did no good – he hardly slept for four nights. But Global's share of the Japanese market had dropped like a stone. That rush, the phone calls, the boardroom gloating; that was how it started. It was like the first rush of cocaine. Only better: the high lasted.
Leaning back against the vinyl, MacIntyre stared at the grey plastic box on the desk. Somewhere inside it, the entanglement link had atoms shaking down other atoms inside grey boxes in Indonesia, resetting data buffers, altering chip functions. Jakarta Power and Light had bought the hardware configuration routines from Red Spot's software division. Thanks to MacIntyre's access, Marinov had been able to insert Gierek's entanglement protocols into the software. What a team they made.
And their influence was untraceable; it lay in the setup for the magnetic fields that flipped the 0s and 1s in the data storage. Who could ever find the atom that had flipped a bit from halfway across the world? No one ever looked at anything at that level. Marinov was a genius.
Somehow, MacIntyre didn't see Gierek in the same way. He knew the quantum stuff, but it was Marinov who seemed to be leading the work.
And now they had finally cracked the quantum computer too. Frankly, that terrified him. The same atom clusters could sit, entangled together, in their weird superposition state: a 256-bit register holding the key to every code on the planet. Government protocols, nuclear test data, military communications – terrorist networks, of course – all accessible in seconds.
MacIntyre shuddered. He didn't really want a part of it, especially the thing they were planning with the planes. But they needed him to get the entanglement software into the flight-control systems of all those aircraft. And, let's face it, he was involved, like it or not. Still, Red Spot would come out of this development with government contracts, that was assured. The shareholders could never be told about the means, but what did they care? They paid him to take risks like this. He was paid to put himself on the line in a gamble that could reasonably be expected to push the share price higher in the long term. Once the opportunity presented itself, it was pretty much his duty. He was no lawyer, but he knew what was expected of him.
He glanced at his watch. Three more configurations to set before heading into the downtown office. He'd be a little late today, but no one would care. The share price; that was what they cared about. And that had skyrocketed since they started outperforming their competitors at every turn. Gabriel MacIntyre was a master strategist, everybody said so.
Damn right.
CHAPTER 7
THE REVOLVING DOOR WAS still turning as the Jaguar pulled away. Across the street, Angelo was closing up his deli for the day. He waved, and smiled. Nathaniel Virgo waved back and surveyed the scene, breathed it in like smelling salts. The clouds had cleared, and the muddle of architecture that ranged along Wardour Street was lit by the cold sunshine of approaching winter.
The couriers were still there, chatting amiably, a couple of them studying maps and arguing about routes and congestion charges and football grounds. Up the street, outside the George and Dragon, men in suits and sunglasses stood drinking golden lager, wiping away raindrops from the elevated tables before leaning unsteady elbows onto the damp wood. Soho seemed defiant like the sun; the cafes even had clients sitting outside now, polished chrome tables displaying speckled cappuccinos. A man in a production house T-shirt and jeans falling from his hips brushed past, two film reels in huge silver canisters under his arm.
Virgo's lie had spun out of control for a couple of minutes. Delaney wanted to know why mailing a blank disk back to its owner was so important that he'd done it first thing that morning. He had shrugged. Said Radcliffe seemed like a bit of a crackpot, a waste of time, and he just thought he should send it back. There had been another long pause, and then Delaney's face seemed to lighten. He'd instructed the two agents to take Virgo back to his place of work; they led him out of the room, across the corridor and up some steps. Through another door they emerged into the courtyard where the Jag was still parked. Virgo shook his head. That whole fast march through the damp, echoing corridors – probably his public removal from the Herald office, too – had been designed to soften him up.
First thing to do when he got back was to Fed-Ex the disk back to Radcliffe: Delaney would surely check for it. But the timing would be wrong. He'd have to spin out the lie a bit – get someone to say they forgot to send it straight away like he'd asked.
Not that he had to send the disk. After all, if Radcliffe's death had anything to do with this disk, what kind of story was he sitting on here?
The adrenaline creep was beginning. It always started like this: the sly chemical suggestion of right place, right time; the sudden exhilarating sniff of a lead. Virgo pushed the feeling back. He didn't want this story. He wasn't doing dangerous any more. And he was going away with his family tomorrow, come hell or high water. Radcliffe would still be dead when Virgo got back from Cuba; if the trail was cold by then, so be it. He had made promises to Rachel and Katie, and this time he meant to keep them.
But he could send a blank disk back to Radcliffe and get someone to look at the real one in his absence. Just in case.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, and dialled. Old friends could come in useful sometimes. Especially old friends who worked in the Metropolitan Police's digital forensics labs.
He stopped mid-stride in front of the lift. 'Andy? Hi, it's Nat. I need a favour.'
All eyes fell on Virgo as he stepped into the office. Virgo raised a hand.
'The show's over, citizens – go back to your live
s.'
There were a few smirks, and the eyes dropped back to their screens. Deadlines were imminent, and he was suddenly a non-story.
He'd put the disk in the courier bag he used for hand luggage, inside the front flap pocket. He checked it was still there. It was. Why wouldn't it be?
Andy would be here in fifteen minutes; he'd agreed to take the disk and have a look. As always, Virgo felt slightly guilty at the request – he inevitably couched it as 'one last favour, I promise'. It was a breach of regulations, and Andy would probably lose his job if anyone found out. But he'd looked at tapes, hard drives, all kinds of stuff, over the years for Virgo's investigations, and never once had there been a problem. Andy insisted he liked the break from the drudgery of standard police work.
Virgo walked over to the stationery cupboard and pulled out a blank CD, a plain brown envelope and a plastic Fed-Ex bag. Back at his desk he slipped the disk into the brown envelope. He scribbled the address from Radcliffe's card onto the paperwork, then onto the plastic bag. In a few minutes, the disk would be gone. All he had to do now was tell his editor what was going on.
'Paul Radcliffe?'
Mercer's voice sent Virgo's pen skidding down the plastic, leaving an ugly blue scar on the label.
'Isn't that the guy they wanted to talk to you about?' Mercer was looking over Virgo's shoulder. 'What are you sending him? We need to talk, Nat – come into my office.'
Virgo grabbed Radcliffe's disk and followed Mercer through the newsroom. Mercer shut the door of his partitioned office behind them.
'Have a seat,' he said. Virgo laid the disk gently on the table between them.
'Tell me what that was all about this morning,' Mercer said. 'I've not had a reporter pulled out of here by the security services before – not even you. What's going on?'
'It was about a guy I met in Baltimore. He's been killed.'
Mercer put a hand on the disk. 'And he gave you this?'
Virgo shrugged. 'It's blank. As far as I can tell.'
'But you were about to send it back to him?'
'I told them I'd already done that.' Virgo looked up. 'But I'm giving it to a contact at the digital forensics lab. I thought there might be more to it.'
Mercer held silent for a few seconds, then leaned in towards the table. 'They'll check whether you sent it, you know.'
'I know. The lie was a reflex. A good one. I think there might be something going on with a quantum computer.'
Mercer fell silent again, then looked up and grinned. 'You just can't keep out of the action, can you? I told you there was something in Imogen's story. You said it was all rubbish. Were you wrong for once, Nathaniel Virgo?'
Virgo laughed, then glanced at his watch again. 'My contact will be here in a moment. I have to go and meet him downstairs, on the street.'
'And then what?'
'And then I'm going on holiday, remember?' He looked up. Mercer's features radiated disappointment. 'Oh come on, haven't I earned a holiday?'
Mercer steepled his hands together and gave Virgo a measuring look.
'Can't you put it off? The timing's terrible.'
'The timing's always terrible. That's why I've hardly taken a day off in two years. I had a month off after Katie's accident, and pretty much nothing since.'
Her name hung in the air between them. He and Mercer never talked about their shared guilt over Katie's injury, but they both felt it, suffered it, like a presence.
Mercer leaned back in his chair. 'You're right,' he said. 'The man's dead. Tell your guy to get the disk back to me when he's done with it. I'll cover your back if they come calling.'
'Thanks, Charles.' He got up. 'I have to go. He – the forensics guy – he's called Andy Davenport. I'll give him your direct line and your mobile. Don't get him into any trouble – he's an old friend, and a bloody useful one.'
Virgo headed back across the office, finished packaging up the blank disk, and dropped it in the courier mail tray. Picking up Radcliffe's disk, he went through to the lift lobby. He would meet Andy Davenport, do some shopping for beachwear, and then head home. Everything else would wait until he got back.
CHAPTER 8
THE SALES ASSISTANT SMILED. 'Good choice,' she said.
Virgo wondered if she was flirting with him. She was – what? – nineteen? Very pretty. Her big brown eyes looked up at him as she tucked the beach shorts into the brown bag.
'My boyfriend has a pair of these.'
Oh. She was just trying to make him feel better about being old enough to be her father.
Still, he needed new shorts: his old ones had fallen apart when he hit the stones and gravel too hard coming off his bodyboard last summer. A weekend in Brighton: that was all the holiday they had managed. Katie passed the time sulking about the lack of sand – the pebbles hurt to lie on, she said. She had a point: it wasn't exactly Cuba. But by sundown tomorrow, they'd be striding over miles of golden sand, sipping mojitos as the sun fell into the sea.
He took back his credit card, then walked out onto Oxford Street. He called Rachel. Her phone was switched off, as he knew it would be. She worked for a decent firm, but the senior architects were all men and the clients were demanding; with some of them, she had to give the impression that she had no life outside of work. She could always tell, she said, when the client was disappointed that a woman was handling their project. No one ever said it out loud. It was in the eyes. In the things they didn't say.
He went straight through to her voicemail.
'Hi Rach. It's been a very James Bond afternoon. Call me if you get a chance.'
He headed towards the tube. Oxford Street was preparing for Christmas – had been for weeks now. By Christmas, after all, retail was gearing up for the January sales. It was like climate change: all the seasons were blurring into one. The population seemed to be happy with it, though: there was no longer any noticeable lull between the January crowds, the summer sales and the Christmas shopping rush.
Oxford Circus station was closed, the steel gate pulled across to bar the entrance. Waiting crowds spilled out onto the pavement, threatening and engulfing the shoppers, hindering their urgent passage into Regent Street. It was always the same when it rained. People panicked and ignored the emerging sun; instead they ducked underground, clogging up London's arteries.
He stood in the throng, absent-mindedly looking back along the street to see whether a bus would come to save him. It was never worth the risk; there was no telling when the gate would slide open again and permit him a descent into the stifling tunnels.
Slowly, gradually, frustrated faces peeled hesitantly away from the crowd. They left singly or in pairs, with a huffy sigh, and other faces shuffled into the gaps and wondered whether they too should give up. Virgo looked behind him again down Oxford Street. There were no buses. He glanced up and around. There must have been a time when Oxford Circus didn't exist, when Regent Street was a narrow carriageway. And before that it must have been fields or forest. It was hard to imagine.
The gates opened, and he shuffled in with the rest of London: down the stairs, through the rattling gates, and down again, through the escalator chutes and turning, on autopilot, towards the trails of sky-blue paint that announced the Victoria Line.
The platform was airless. New oxygen only arrived with each train, pushed into the tunnel to stifle the adrenaline of those who stood wondering if this would be the day someone – some psycho on day release – pushed them onto the tracks. Three minutes till the next train. Two stops to Victoria, change trains, then a billion more stops to Richmond. He hadn't missed the commute while he was away. When the train came, and he relaxed into the seat, the jet lag caught up and took over.
'Hi, Dad.'
Virgo put his head round the door of the sitting room. Katie was watching TV with two friends.
'Hi, sweetheart.'
He kept out of their way – he'd only embarrass her if he tried to interact with them. The curse of the teenage daughter: damned if you do, damn
ed if you don't. He went through to the kitchen and pulled a beer from the refrigerator. When Rachel got home, they'd all go out for some food. As far as he was concerned, the holidays had started.
CHAPTER 9
'CAN'T YOU FIND HIM?'
Gabriel MacIntyre sat back in the booth. A burger joint, for Christ's sake. The coffee was barely drinkable, and the menu – look at this stuff. America's obesity problem, neatly encapsulated on laminated card.
He shifted his body to take a look around. Sure enough, there were a lot of fat people in there. He avoided these kinds of places as a rule, ate sushi – macrobiotic even – most of the time. Jennie had wanted her birthday party at a Burger King, and he had given in to that – what daddy wouldn't? But he hadn't eaten anything. He wasn't going to put that crap into his mouth. He worked hard to maintain his looks, his trim physique. If only something could be done about his hair. It was definitely thinning – and much faster lately. That would be the stress of the job. The shareholders were always hungry, and winning out in the global energy markets was becoming more demanding every day. But then, his troubles went far beyond the job. Working with Marinov, being in his debt, had become more stressful than he thought.
And now Laszlo Gierek had disappeared.
MacIntyre turned back round. Across the table, Marinov exuded an unnatural calm. Here was the source of his success, come back to bite him in the ass. The most successful vice-president in Red Spot's history, a rising star in the Fortune lists, a career built on the jello foundation of a Bulgarian programmer-turned-gangster and a reliance on under-the-counter technology. This morning, everything had been beautiful. And now he was swimming in crap.
'What do you know about Gierek?'
Marinov smiled. 'I know a lot about him. More than anyone. He's been working for me for years. And it is all about to pay off.'
MacIntyre's stomach tightened. 'Is that what it's all about in the end? The money? I've already given you hundreds of thousands for his skills. For the entanglement software. Do you really need more?'
Entanglement Page 4