by Finn Óg
I looked up at him from the anonymity of my parked car, musing on the fact that less than 18 hours had passed since I had confronted him in New York. I wondered how he would react if he could see me now, sitting below him. The upper hand is important, psychologically. I reckoned he would think I was still in Manhattan, scrabbling around for a lead. His ignorance gave me a certain degree of comfort, but not as much comfort as the realisation that I could see his legs quite clearly. The base of the balcony was made of glass plates. I decided to wait a while longer to establish his routine. An hour later he appeared again in a plume of vapour, gnawing on his pipe, before sliding the door to return inside.
Eventually another light came on, followed by the first light going off, and then a softer glow beneath a blind. The recce had given me plenty of time to think. I knew from the receptionist that there were potentially five bedrooms in the apartment, but there was a light in just one. I felt strongly that he was alone, for the moment, but that it was too soon to deal with him. I needed to interrogate his computer properly. He would be able to locate it as soon as I connected it to the internet. I know my way around tech pretty well, but I decided I needed expert help.
I drove straight to Dublin and appeared, unannounced, at midnight, on the doorstep of the charity woman. She was, of course, enormously impressed, but agreed to help. Her twin was similarly amused to be hauled out of bed at that hour, but by 1 a.m. her face was aglow with the reflection of the professor’s computer. Within minutes there were wires going into and sticking out of it, as she copied the entire contents onto a stick the size of my finger.
“Ah, bollocks,” I heard her say, about twenty minutes into the process.
“What is it?” her sister asked.
“He’s got an MDM, it’s wiping.”
I knew broadly what that meant, some sort of mobile device manager. I just closed my eyes and prayed.
The twin worked furiously with the keyboard and then the cables. “Ok, now we see what the diddly-dory is,” she said, as she untethered the tutor’s computer and stuffed the drive into her own laptop. “Ah it’s grand. His hard drive’s all there, that’s it all cracked too. There shouldn’t be any files you can’t see.”
I was tempted to get her to help me navigate around its contents, but I was more tempted to do something else while it was still dark outside.
“Can you find a number for him, a contact number?” I asked her.
“Sure, it’ll be here in his text messages.” She stirred two fingers around the track pad.
“Oh, an American number,” she said, and read it to me. I wrote it down on the back of his receptionist’s notepaper.
“This is all totally illegal like,” the twin said, “but if she’s involved,” she nodded at her sister, “I’m sure it’s all for some worthy cause.”
Twenty minutes later, I bought yet another burner phone from an Indian man at a service station, on Dublin’s M50. It was a tiny place, cheap as chips, and its security cameras were dummies. Then I roasted up the road at over one hundred miles an hour. At my dad’s workshop, I was surprised to find my FedEx’d bag had beaten me back. I threw a wrap of pozidrives, a socket set and a suction handle into it, and headed for Belfast. I gave a lot of thought to the practicalities of my next move, and virtually none to the implications. My mind craved relief.
I thanked God for the affluence of the people on that Belfast street. That type of wealth could purchase privacy through influence on the city’s planning committee. The apartment block occupied by the professor had been designed with meticulous attention to detail. No balcony was visible from the windows of any other flat, and the lush trees gave me just about enough cover to clamber up, my tools swinging precariously from my belt.
Four a.m. is the time when virtually nothing happens. It is the decent period between asleep and awake. I knew this from countless dreadful hours spent on surveillance – in gutters, in refuse sites, on cliffs and in cars, watching bad people get rest, while my limbs seized. By 4 a.m. I had unfastened the glass floor of the small balcony, and raised it against the balustrade. By 5 a.m., the professor was dead.
Suicide seemed to me to be the best option. Murder would invite vigorous inquiry by the police, but of greater concern was what the professor’s friends would make of it all.
It was incredibly easy, really. All I had to do was call him. I debated what to say, but nothing seemed fitting. Nothing that would definitely achieve what I wanted. So I chose just to spook him. I needed him to know I was close by; I needed to place him under pressure, so that he would move without thinking. I also needed him to move in the right direction. The phone rang three times before he answered.
“Hello?” he sounded like he had managed to get to sleep.
“You’re in Belfast, you’re in an apartment, and you’re finished,” I said, and ended the call. Then I watched.
No lights came on, which didn’t surprise me. I imagined him lying there, stock still, computing. He was not a physical man, he would interrogate the silence and worry that there was someone inside the apartment. He might stay in bed and wait for daylight, which was alarmingly imminent, but he might eventually take a look around. Fifteen minutes passed and I knew that my window to make this clean and easy, was closing. I stared at the balcony doors and ground my teeth.
Suddenly a tiny blue dot appeared behind the glass, which confused me initially, until it partly illuminated a small fog, and I realised it was his vape working furiously. He was looking out. I hunched over in the seat and held the burner phone between my knees, found settings, and removed the caller identification. Then I texted him.
“You have been compromised. He’s coming to the apartment. Find a back way out.” Which did the trick.
I sat up and saw the glow of his phone as it received the message. Then I caught a glimpse of his face as the French door slid back, and then nothing.
It was silent. I didn’t even hear the impact. Fumbling for the car’s internal light switch, I made sure it would not come on when I opened the door, and walked over to where the professor lay. He was totally and utterly dead. His shoulders had somehow hit the ground first, his head stove in to his chest. I found his phone in his dressing gown pocket. Incredibly, it was largely intact, save for a crack across the screen. I used his cold dead thumb to unlock it, and then took it around behind a set of bins to re-set the pass-key. The last attention I paid to it was to place it in airplane mode, and then I dropped it into my own pocket.
The climb to the balcony was easier because of the adrenaline. The risk was higher given that I was now a killer; previously, I’d been just a burglar. The glass was replaced with greater care than it had been removed. The post-mortem examination would show no evidence of bruising or pushing, there were no fingerprints, and it would be assumed the Professor had jumped. I was gone by 5 a.m.
It was enormously satisfying, and it was the biggest mistake I could have made.
The burner phone went into the Lagan River as I crossed Shaw’s bridge, closely followed by the professor’s laptop. I was freezing, because I was tired, and I needed either coffee or sleep. I wanted to get to the boat, fire up the Eberspacher heater, and interrogate the tutor’s files.
Once aboard, I realised how big my error had been. It took an hour to erase my laptop, and replace it, in its entirety, with his. I couldn’t do it all without connecting to the internet, which was a huge risk, but I realised I had no choice. Eventually, I tapped my way through his folders and became increasingly frustrated at the lack of detail in there. Much of it was work-related – strategy for investment, advice for media communications, copies of speeches. His e-mail seemed very regimented, very factual and perfunctory.
There was an application on the desktop I was unfamiliar with, which appeared to be a video-conferencing tool. I hammered around it for a while looking for a record of conversations, but it looked like a live streaming hook-up app, probably a bit like Skype. However, there was another application which appeare
d to have the means to capture and record whatever was shown on the screen. That seemed like an exciting prospect, but I struggled to find any evidence that the professor had made any such recordings. I went back to the hook-up software, opened his profile, and found the last number dialled. It was scribbled down on the increasingly dilapidated piece of paper the receptionist had given me. Then I became distracted by guilt; the old woman and her husband were still locked up, and my conscience forced me ashore to make the call.
If the professor’s friends were tracking his phone, I wanted to confuse them as much as possible. I drove fifteen miles before stopping, and pulled out the handset. What harm, I reckoned. Using it would only serve to blow more smoke around the place. If some copper did manage to piece the crazy pattern together in years to come, I deserved to get caught.
Ten a.m. in Belfast was 5 a.m. in New York. I dialled the number the receptionist had given me.
“Yes?” the nurse sounded alarmed.
I put on the best North American accent I could manage. “I’m calling about the old lady, and,” I paused, realising that I didn’t know her name, “and her husband, umm, Hans.”
“Hans is her brother,” came the curt reply, which taught me not to make assumptions. “It’s the middle of the night. Who are you, what’s going on?”
“They’re stuck, in a room inside the house. I don’t have time to go into detail, but they need help. Can you help them?”
“Sure, of course, are they ok?”
“They’re fine,” I imagined, “can you go now?”
“Uh huh, I’m getting up right now.”
“Thank you so much,” I said, and tapped the big red button.
The receptionist and Hans had been banged up for a full day and a half. I had caused them pain, but I could live with it. It was time to move on.
I was about to swipe the phone back into airplane mode, when something occurred to me. Someone involved in the professor’s brand of grotesque behaviour might want to maintain some form of insurance policy. He was part of a group after all, and groups often argue, individuals fall out. If one of them was compromised, what was to stop that person from betraying the others in return for some sort of leniency?
I stared at the phone and put myself in the professor’s place. He was, by definition, a clever man. If he’d made any sensitive or secret recordings, it would make sense that he would not keep them on his hard drive. Computers are cumbersome. You can’t take them everywhere with you. They break, and he had learned the hard way that they can get mixed up at airports. So, if not on a computer, where would he keep an insurance policy? On a pen drive or an SD card? Probably, I thought. But drives and cards can be lost or stolen more easily than computers, and in any case, one requires a computer to view the contents.
I had no reason to get excited. It was a very long shot, but the phone in my hand seemed to offer an opening. Staring at the settings option, I began to wonder whether he might keep his insurance on hand, or actually in his hand.
I punched in the new code I had assigned to the professor’s phone, and swiped through to his photos folder. It was empty. My heart sank a little. Then I opened his iMovie, which was also empty. I thumped my head back against the headrest, and allowed the frustration to pass. Realising that I had left the phone live, I went back to trigger the airplane mode once more. In settings and in haste I nudged the screen, and the option for iCloud caught my eye.
While I understood the premise of cloud technology, I wasn’t a regular user. I knew that everything was stored on a server somewhere. It saved space on devices, until the user dragged down whatever music or movies they desired. I messed about in the options for a while, but it didn’t seem obvious to me how to view the contents of his cloud. I realised however, that if he did have any photos or videos, I might be able to share them with someone else. Assuming he kept them on the cloud at all.
But who to share them with?
I could only remember a few e-mail addresses by heart; my parents and my dead wife’s. And, of course, Fran, and the charity woman. I had no desire to involve anybody new, so I appealed to Charity. “Hi,” I said, when she picked up.
“Do you never sleep?” she began.
“I need another favour,” I said, “is your sister there?”
“She is.”
“I want to share some photos with you, but I can’t see them. Maybe she can talk me through it? I’m sorry, it’s complicated. I don’t even know if they’re there.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about, so here, talk to her.”
The phone rumbled as it was handed over, and I could hear a few mumbled words of explanation. Then the twin came on the line. There followed a list of instructions and actions I will never be able to re-trace, but after five minutes I was put back onto Charity.
“So, I think I’ve shared an iCloud account with you. Can you have a look and see if there are any videos or photos on it, please. I’ll call you back shortly?”
“I’m tied up all morning. Will this afternoon do?” she asked.
“No, I’m sorry, it’s really important. Can you have a look, please?”
“Right, so, I’ll call you back as soon as I can. And Sam?”
“Yes?”
“I’m really grateful for all you’ve done, but this is wearing a bit thin now.”
“Understood,” I told her. “But again, this is really important.”
“Is it dangerous?” she asked. I hadn’t the heart to lie to her.
“For me, yes. For you, I don’t think so, but honestly, I don’t know yet.”
22
I drove to the closest town and fed coins into a public phone, like rounds into a gun belt. My forehead rested against the glass, my eyes closed, as ring after ring became a dead tone. At least I knew my folks’ phones were charged, which suggested they were ok. But then if everything was grand, why would they not answer? The sickness in my gut grew and grew, and I debated whether to buy another cell phone and text them the number to get in touch. But in my tiredness and twisted logic, I feared that someone else might be keeping their phones alive, in the hope that I would do just that. That would allow such a person to trace my movements, and leave me unable to do anything.
I had no clear idea of where Isla and my parents were, and racked through the scenarios involved in finding out. The next call I made was to a Naval base in Scotland. “Min, it’s Sam.”
“How are you getting on, pal?”
“Not great, Min. I need another favour. If you trace some mobile phones, old ones – not iPhones – can other people see that trace being activated?”
“The short answer is, I don’t know mate, but I can find out.”
“How long will it take?”
“Well, the long fella you met at the marina, he’s the boffin. He’s on exercise, but I could get in touch. Are you in big diffs?”
“Isla could be.”
“Right,” was all he said, understated as usual, but he got it.
“If nobody else can track the trace, can you do it for me? The phones belong to my parents. I’ll text you the numbers. They’re minding Isla, and they’re AWOL.”
“Right. It’ll be at least twelve hours before I can do anything pal.”
“Thanks Min,” I said, and hung up.
Then my service rituals began to surface. When you can realistically achieve nothing, rest, or eat. The time will come when you need energy. I went back to the boat, rolled onto my bunk, and closed my eyes.
Three hours later I woke in a panic, I hadn’t intended to sleep for more than one hour. I didn’t want anyone to know where the boat was moored, and I was, by that stage, utterly paranoid about using cell phones. So, I used the boat’s VHF radio to make a ship-to-shore call, routed through the Isle of Man.
“Where have you been?” The last thing she sounded was charitable. I ignored the question.
“Is there anything on the cloud?”
“Yes, and it’s fucking frightening. For
you. And now, I think, for me.”
The ship-to-shore call had turned fractious; the charity woman had steadfastly refused to e-mail or transfer any of what she had found, and I’d heard her sister in the background, instructing her not to say anything further on the line. She told me to meet her at the usual place, so I hit the road and parked outside the Applegreen Garage on the M1, just north of Dublin.
Ninety minutes later I watched as Charity hurried over to my rental from her hairdresser’s car. Her twin was behind her, and she climbed into the back seat. Both looked angry. “What the actual fuck have you got us in to?” the sister barked at the back of my head.
“What’s on the cloud?” I turned to the charity sister, who looked more terrified than cross.
“Show him,” the twin said, “I don’t fucking believe this,” she muttered.
The charitable sister pulled an iPad mini from her bag. “We’ve watched three recordings so far.”
The twin chimed in. “They’re encrypted. I have special software. It takes ages to process them. It’s churning away in the background.”
“How many are there?” I asked.
The screen lit up then. “That’s another one cracked,” said the twin. “Play it, Sis.”
Charity shook her head. “No, he needs to see them in order. Otherwise we’ll all be as confused as each other. Here’s the first one.”
She tapped the screen and two boxes appeared, one larger than the other. The heads and shoulders of two people appeared, apparently looking towards their own web cams. On the right was the Professor, but the main talker was a man with a refined English accent. He was well-tended, not a hair out of place, a club tie round his neck, and a golf tan. He was doing the talking. “How can we be sure this man, this stranger, knows anything about us?”