Cold Intent

by Tony Salter

  It didn’t take me long to realise that I was out of options. How ridiculous was that? A few technical problems and I was stuck. Luckily, I was young and fit and it was only about five miles back to Chelsea. It wouldn’t take much more than an hour to walk.

  I ended up walking for almost two hours and my cool new shoes had managed to gouge a nasty crater into my left heel along the way. For the last half hour, every step felt as though someone was driving a knife into my foot. I couldn’t get Julie’s face out of my mind. That last stare she’d directed at me after she was found guilty. For the first time, I understood how my mother must have felt as her grasp on reality weakened.

  The automatic door opened, and I hobbled into my flat. At least my Pulsar Trust was still working – for a moment I’d worried that I wouldn’t actually be able to get inside. My TV didn’t come on though and, by the time I’d realised that and found a blister plaster, I’d managed to get spots of blood all over my new cream-coloured carpet. It was turning out to be a nightmare day.

  I only managed to see the funny side of the evening as I reached the bottom of a large whisky. I was determined not to believe that Julie was behind my technical issues and thought back to my dad telling me stories of the early days of digital technology and how clunky everything had been. I’d never experienced that. My entire life had been based on tech not being a big deal. All the hidden chips and codebases operated seamlessly in the background. Things just worked. By the time I became an adult, the concepts of cash, or maps, or keys, or passports were already clunky hangovers from another world.

  During those two years with Julie and Pulsar, I’d come to understand more than most about the web of technology which supported our daily lives, and how each individual filament was both essential and fragile. Even knowing that, I never applied that knowledge to my reality. In my world that web was unbreakable.

  Until something actually did break.

  I finished a second whisky and hopped to my bedroom. My phone was still dead; hopefully I’d be able to find out more tomorrow in the office but, if the system crash was global, stock markets would go crazy the moment they went back online. There should be plenty of opportunities for MySafe if we got our PR spin right.

  I set my alarm for five-thirty. I would need to be in early.

  The moon was still up as I walked along the Chelsea Embankment to the MySafe offices. When we took over Pulsar, we’d moved everyone out of Shard Two – the Board had wanted to distance itself as much as possible from Julie Martin. Making a clean break was easier said than done though – over seventy per cent of our revenues still came from Pulsar legacy products and subscriptions.

  Shard Two was amazing, but it was worth moving to be able to walk to work – especially since the new garden trackway had been completed. London was definitely regaining its place as one of the top cities in the world and, on a normal day, I’d have relished those fifteen minutes of peace and quiet. After the events of the previous night however, I found myself looking over my shoulder as I walked, imagining Julie lying in wait for me dressed in some clever disguise. A stupid thing to worry about. She’d be long gone by now. She wouldn’t forget about me, but she’d look after herself first.

  Nothing appeared out of the ordinary as I walked – my phone was still out of action and I’d been expecting to see some sign of the system meltdown. At least that was one positive development. The problems had probably only affected a few people, and I’d been hyping myself up for no reason.

  After ten minutes in the office and a quick talk with Johan, our IT manager, I realised exactly how few people had actually experienced technical issues. It had been one … Me.

  Why had I assumed anything different? Julie was free and the whole world seemed to be conspiring against me. I left Johan to figure out what had gone wrong and went up to see Dave.

  We began by sharing our stunned amazement – and closet terror – about Julie’s escape, and then I caught him up on the disastrous end to the dinner with Nicki. Dave had already read the investigator’s report and was, if anything, even more suspicious than Uncle Daz.

  ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much,’ he said in a truly cringeworthy attempt at an English accent.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Come on, Sam,’ he said. ‘Wake up and smell the doughnuts. Your new sister’s an AI expert working for a secretive political consultancy. D’you think she didn’t run checks on you as well? Even if she didn’t, there’s no way she’s actually surprised or upset by the fact that you did.’

  Crass and insensitive perhaps, but he probably had a point. ‘So, what are you saying?’

  ‘How should I know?’ he said. ‘I wasn’t even there … but something smells like a trawlerfull of rotting halibut.’

  I always found it difficult to know when Dave was being smart or incredibly stupid and, while I was trying to figure that out, there was a knock at the door. It was Johan from IT.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ he said, leaning his head around the door before stepping half into the office. ‘I’ve got the results for Mr Blackwell’s system outage. He said it was urgent.’

  ‘What system outage?’ said Dave.

  ‘I’ll explain in a minute,’ I said, turning to Johan. ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Your TV, phone and a number of your other accounts have been locked for non-payment,’ he said. ‘Technically, your systems are fine.’

  ‘Non-payment?’ I said. ‘But that’s not possible.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve dug as far as I can. You’ll need to check with your bank.’

  As Johan sidled out of the door, I reached over and picked up Dave’s datapad.

  ‘Can I borrow this for a sec?’ I said.

  ‘Sure,’ said Dave. ‘Knock yourself out. And then you tell me what’s going on, right?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, barely listening and already in the process of logging in to my bank.

  As I looked at the words on the screen in front of me, something snapped and my pent-up stress and frustration erupted.

  You have attempted three logins with an incorrect password or username. Your online access is now locked. Please contact your account manager by telephone on ….

  ‘… and now they’ve locked me out of fucking online banking,’ I shouted, looking for something to throw or break. ‘I’ll have to sit in a phone queue for hours. Just what I bloody need.’

  I got up and stormed out of Dave’s office, leaving him sitting wide-eyed and speechless.

  ‘Just take the datapad if you want …’ he said.

  Dave was in meetings all morning and I’d calmed down by the time I saw him again.

  ‘What was that all about?’ he said, as I handed him back his datapad.

  ‘All of my direct debits bounced,’ I said. ‘Because I transferred ten thousand euros out of my current account which left it massively in the red.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t, obviously,’ I said. ‘That’s what’s disturbing. The bank has an instruction from me, asking them to move the funds to my deposit account.’

  ‘And you didn’t make that instruction?’

  ‘Correct,’ I said. ‘It appears to have come from me, but I had nothing to do with it. I must have been hacked. Can you call your guys from Milinsky?’

  Dave and I looked at each other without speaking. I knew what he was thinking. Surely she couldn’t have moved that fast? It must be a coincidence.

  It had taken me hours to unravel the mess caused by a simple bank transfer. Hours of my life I’d never get back. Each supplier I spoke to had automatically moved me to a bad debtor list and consequently treated me almost like a criminal. I shuddered as I imagined what life must be like for all those people who actually couldn’t pay their bills every month.

  When my phone eventually blinked back into life, I saw three missed calls – one from my Dad and two from Nicki. I slumped down into my chair with a sigh. Thank God for that.
I’d really thought that she was going to give up on me. My Dad could wait …

  ‘Nicki?’

  ‘Hi, Sam. You took your time.’

  ‘Sorry. I’ve had problems with my phone. You OK?’

  ‘Yes. I’m fine. And I’m sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have reacted like that.’

  ‘I get it. It’s all been a bit much, hasn’t it? If it helps, I’m sorry too.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Let’s put it behind us. Anyway. I’m about to get on a plane, so can’t talk more right now. I’m only away for a couple of days. Shall we get together when I’m back.’

  ‘Absolutely. Where are you going?’

  ‘Italy. Rome. A new client. I decided to go a couple of days early. Take a bit of time and space to think.’ The phone was silent for several seconds. ‘I read the report by the way. Thanks for sharing it with me.’

  ‘Anything you didn’t know?’

  ‘Let’s wait and discuss it face-to-face. I’ll message you.’

  I found myself almost giggling out loud as I leant back in my chair and stretched out my arms. Maybe things would work out after all.

  Running Free

  I’d been in police custody of one kind or another for over a year and, despite my best efforts, institutional influences and prison habits had crept up on me. For the first few days after I got out, I found myself stuck motionless at odd moments, waiting to be told what to do or where to go next. It was the strangest feeling, almost like I was being operated by remote control.

  It didn’t take me long to flush that poison out of my system though and, by the time I was south of Lyon, I was myself again. The Autoroute du Soleil stretched out in front of me, almost empty at four in the morning. The mid-range BMW saloon wrapped me in a smooth cocoon, and I had plenty of time to think as the kilometres flashed by.

  Getting out of Downview had been easy. Prison walls and locked gates could always be opened with the right inside help and I’d learned many years earlier that anyone who claimed to be incorruptible was simply someone who’d not yet been offered a large enough bribe. As Winston Churchill once said: ‘Madam, we’ve already established what you are, we’re just discussing the price’.

  Sophie, the guard on my floor hadn’t been terribly expensive as it turned out. A small satchel with fifty thousand in cash had done the trick. She’d brought in the wig, some make-up and a tiny, clever device which very few people knew existed. We’d developed the Pulsar Trust identity cloner as a proof of concept and I’d kept hold of the only three examples ever made.

  I’d left Sophie unconscious on my bed – the poor girl had believed she wouldn’t be suspected of involvement if I drugged her – and then I walked out unchallenged. I looked like her, I was wearing her uniform and, most importantly, all the security door scanners checked my newly cloned Pulsar Trust ID implants and confirmed that I was indeed Sophie Talbot.

  Simon had a car waiting and, within the hour, I was stepping onto a forty-foot yacht moored on the Hamble river. It was a clear, warm night, and I sat outside on the deck, sipping a glass of Cristal as the lights of Portsmouth faded behind us. The sails went up once we cleared the Needles Channel and the engine noise stopped with a sweet sigh. I’d given instructions that the crew were not to speak to me and all I could hear was the wind filling the sails and the oil-black waters surging against the hull.

  I’d been in no hurry. We would take two days to sail around the coast of Brittany and down to La Rochelle. There would be warrants out for my arrest everywhere in any case and they’d probably be looking for Sophie Talbot’s ID as well. Fortunately, the woman who arrived three days later at La Rochelle had been someone else entirely.

  The whole process had been seamless; I made a mental note to give Simon a bonus, or perhaps a special gift. He’d earned it.

  Dawn was a sliver of mother-of-pearl on the horizon as I drove past Aix and I felt a brief moment of melancholy when I pictured my old Provence house. It had been almost perfect. No use crying over spilt milk though and, in any case, the Peschici villa was just as beautiful in its own way.

  I reached for my sunglasses and drove onwards into the rising sun.

  I didn’t need to be in Rome for two more days and took my time, following the coast road all the way along the French and Italian Rivieras from Cannes to Santa Marinella. I had plenty of places to stay as Simon had rented six holiday villas, staggered out along my route. Even with my freshly cloned identity, we both felt private rentals were a safer bet than hotels. The police still used facial recognition and my disguise wasn’t perfect. Better safe than sorry.

  My meeting was set for Monday lunchtime and I spent the Sunday night in Talamone on the southern coast of Tuscany. The Villa Presidio was an old Spanish castle, set at the end of a long single-track road and looking out over the cliffs. It had been used as a set for a number of well-known movies which made it feel strangely familiar as I drove in through the massive stone gate pillars.

  The keys were where they were supposed to be, the fridge was well stocked and I spent a quiet evening on the terrace, looking out over the Med and working out what I was going to say the next day.

  I would find it more difficult to avoid cameras and police in Rome and I couldn’t help thinking back to that moment eighteen months earlier when that bloody police captain had walked up to me and arrested me. Captain Roberto de Alfaro was definitely in my little black book and would pay his penance in due course.

  The morning chill from the thick stone walls and marble tiles made me shiver as I sat doing my make-up in front of the ornate, gold-framed mirror. I’d allowed an extra twenty minutes to make sure my temporary disguise was just right, and I rubbed the last touch of foundation into my cheeks, wincing at the thought of the surgery I had planned.

  I hated the thought of going through all of that again. When I’d changed from Jax to Julie, I really had believed it would be the last time and my fists clenched involuntarily with anger and resentment when I pictured all the idiots who had interfered with my plans.

  Beauty wasn’t only skin deep – they would break bones and stretch, pull and tear until a different person appeared – that was the point after all. But that person would be a stranger and, after enough changes of name and appearance, it became hard to keep a grip on reality.

  I didn’t mind the pain – there were drugs for that. My struggle was with something deeper, something which tore at my soul. I’d been there before and it was harder every time. The moments of shock when I saw myself in the mirror for the first time would haunt me for months and even years afterwards.

  It had to be done, unfortunately. There could be no mistakes this time. I would keep a low profile at the Peschici villa until the work was complete, and I had healed. Then I would emerge into the autumn sunshine, iridescent wings glinting in the low light. It would be hard, but I would still have Nicki. And I would still have my revenge …

  We were meeting at a small trattoria in the EUR district, much more relaxed than the centre of Rome and easy to reach from the coast. Being back in Rome, in Italy, felt like coming home. I arrived early and as I sat drinking my first coffee of the day, I was struck by a wonderful revelation – I was going to be happy here. I would settle in to the villa in Peschici and stay there. My days of global travelling were over and I wouldn’t miss any of it. Anyone or anything I needed could come to me.

  I smiled, leant back in the chair and rolled my shoulders in the warm velvet air. Then I reached for my coffee cup and stopped, fingertips almost brushing the porcelain handle. No hint of a tremble; I felt good and was certain the meeting was going to go well. Even after four days of freedom, my pallid skin still looked as though I’d been freshly dragged from an open grave, but a few days of Southern Mediterranean sun would soon fix that.

  Nicki must have been wondering who her mysterious new potential client might be. Simon had arranged for my Italian lawyers to set up this meeting on behalf of a “major industrialist” who was considering runnin
g for the 2043 presidential elections. Politics in Italy hadn’t changed much in my lifetime – priorities had little to do with governing the country, and plenty to do with protecting wealth and power. Fertile territory for Odell and worth a personal visit from Nicki. Besides, the enigmatic Signor X had insisted on meeting the boss.

  I watched her arrive from my vantage point in the far corner of the small terrace. The waiter pointed towards me, Nicki turned, took one step and stopped. With the sun behind her, I couldn’t see the expression on her face which was a shame. I would have loved to know if she was delighted, surprised, horrified, or a combination of all three.

  She gathered herself quickly, half-ran over to the table, sat down and leant close to me.

  ‘Julie!’ she whispered, eyes flicking from side to side as though she expected me to be arrested at any second. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘It’s lovely to see you too, Nicki,’ I said, with a grin.

  Nicki’s cheeks reddened as she reached across the table to take my hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s amazing to see you. I was surprised. When I heard you’d …’

  ‘… I got bored of being in prison,’ I said. ‘My appeal was going to take at least six months and I didn’t want to wait.’

  ‘But … but aren’t you in danger?’

  ‘Are you planning on turning me in?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘Then I don’t think I’m in any danger.’

  She relaxed back into her chair and listened as I told her a sanitised version of my escape. It wouldn’t do to reveal all of my secrets, even to Nicki. Once I’d brought her up to date, we ordered drinks and talked about Rome – it was Nicki’s first time and she’d spent the weekend wearing holes in her shoes as she tried to do the impossible and see everything all at once.