The Deadly Lies
Page 19
JEFF PACED up and down, his boots clattering on the wooden floor of the loft space of 101 Grain Street. Nick was in the kitchen area, brewing coffee. They had left Fortran and Cobol to supervise the evening stragglers at the hackfest. The eager ones who wanted to work long into the night. Nick had given strict instructions for the doors to close by midnight.
The late-night call of Charter Ninety-Nine had just started, and there was a gloomy mood among the participants.
“Can you repeat that, Britannia?” said Jeff. “I just want to make sure I heard you right.”
“Um, yes,” said an English voice from the speakers. “So, we decided to check through the European police reports for the last couple of days. And it seems that the Spanish police discovered the body of Bernhardt Freude in a car accident just south of Girona in eastern Spain, two days ago.”
“Hey,” said a new voice on the speakers. “East Coast here. Why did no one in Europe check this earlier? Once you knew Bernhardt had taken off, surely—”
“East Coast,” interrupted Jeff. He stopped pacing. “Don’t waste time trying to point the finger of blame at people. It’s not helpful. Britannia, do you think it was an accident?”
There was a pause. Nick carried two cups of coffee across from the kitchen and handed one to Jeff.
Britannia spoke again.
“That stretch of road is a notorious accident black spot in Spain. He was driving a sports car. The police are still examining the vehicle, but—”
“Yeah, yeah,” cut in East Coast. “So we’ll probably never know. My question is, where the hell is Karl Michael?”
Britannia attempted to interrupt.
“Okay, I should have said ‘Germany’ and not used names,” responded East Coast. “Sorry. But it looks mighty suspicious, don’t you think?”
“I was going to tell you,” said the English voice. “We had a text earlier. Germany can only join by messaging. Apparently they’ve had a problem with voice communications.”
Jeff looked at Nick. “What the fuck’s going on?” he asked. “We could launch the assault in a few months. Less if we finish the History Writer files sooner. But with Bernhardt dead, and now it looks like Karl Michael’s gone—” He took a sip of coffee. “—I think we’re under attack.”
The voice of East Coast came from the speaker. “Did you say we’re under attack, Jeff? ’Cos that’s what I’ve been thinking for a while. Ever since Bernhardt disappeared. You know what? I say we shut down the project. At least until we know what the fuck’s going on.”
“Um, excuse me again,” said Britannia. “If you switch to the message service on your screens, you’ll see Germany has joined us.”
Jeff looked up at the display on the wall and read a series of messages as they slowly appeared on the screen.
Dominic Delingpole has the DG chip. He arrives in San Francisco from London at 14:25 tomorrow. An agent will intercept him and recover the chip. It is in hand. We agree with East Coast. The project should be shut down.
Jeff looked at Nick, who shook his head.
“It stinks,” whispered Nick. “Who the fuck’s this agent in San Francisco? If there is one, we’d know it.”
Jeff nodded. He turned back to the screen.
“There’s no reason to shut down the project. Once we get the DG chip tomorrow, the assault can still go ahead. With or without the Originator.”
He leaned in to Nick and whispered close to his ear. “Tomorrow, we’ll go to the airport. I’ll use my contact there to intercept Delingpole. He’ll never get to the arrivals hall.”
STEVE’S EVENING had been frustrating. Mike, or LeatherCop, had moved to Washington State nearly a year ago. Despite Steve’s best efforts of persuasion, LeatherCop would not, or maybe could not, pull any strings for him in the San Francisco Police Department. Annoyed, Steve left the twinks of QBAR and went for a walk down the street.
It was a clear evening, and the Castro was busy. He was tempted to go back to the apartment, find some reasonable talent on Grindr, and hook up for the evening. If Sinon came back early, they could make a threesome of it.
Steve paused when he reached the Castro Theater. It was screening Trainspotting, one of his all-time top-ten movies. As he weighed up the options open to him for his evening’s entertainment, the nagging ache from his groin confirmed his decision. For the moment, an evening of sex would probably end with a lot of unwelcome pain.
Steve sighed and chose Trainspotting.
IT WAS just on midnight when Steve emerged from the Castro Theater. He shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears. It was a long time since he had been to a gay movie sing-along of The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. Here in San Francisco, the audiences clearly sang more enthusiastically, and far louder, than the sedate British audiences of Brighton. Steve had failed to notice that Trainspotting was on every night that week, except tonight. He tried to persuade himself it was an easy mistake to make. Maybe it was the painkillers the hospital had given him. Perhaps he should have avoided drinking beer while taking them.
Only when Hugo Weaving began to mime his way through the opening musical number of “I’ve Never Been to Me” did Steve realize his error. By then he was trapped in the middle of a row. Steve decided to sit it out. Maybe the film would be better than he remembered.
Two hours later, Steve stood outside the Castro Theater and swore he would never go to another gay movie sing-along again, not even if they did one for Trainspotting. He looked at the time on his mobile. It was after midnight. Dominic and Jonathan would have landed at Heathrow Airport by now. He needed somewhere to talk to them, and he needed a drink.
He walked to the Twin Peaks Tavern on the corner, pushed open the door, and went inside. It was busy but not packed, as he had expected it to be. While he waited to buy a beer at the bar, a text message from Dominic announced that he and Jonathan were settled in the first-class lounge at Heathrow, ready to talk.
Steve picked up his beer and headed for a spare seat at a table near the back. There were two other people sitting there, a middle-aged man and a woman. They were clearly Castro tourists, probably from out of town, on the gay tour of San Francisco. They eyed the shaven-headed Steve suspiciously as he walked up to the table. Steve had chosen not to wear his skintight jeans because of the continued soreness after his operation. Instead, he wore a pair of long sweatshorts. But he still wore his 14 hole Grinders boots and navy blue Fred Perry shirt.
“Seat’s not taken, is it?” asked Steve, sitting at the table.
“It sure ain’t now,” growled the man. He looked at his wife. “You ready to go, Dolores?” He scowled at Steve and added, “It’s suddenly got real crowded in here.”
Steve smirked and saluted as Dolores and her husband squeezed past him and made their way over to the far end of the bar. He opened his laptop and plugged in the headphones. After a few moments, Dominic’s face appeared on the screen.
“You guys okay?” asked Steve.
Dominic smiled and held up a cocktail glass to the camera. “We’re here in the first-class lounge, thanks to you.”
Jonathan’s face appeared alongside his husband’s.
“Can you believe it?” asked Jonathan. “Dominic drinking alcohol at half past eight in the morning. I’m afraid I’m a very bad influence.”
Steve laughed. “About time, mate,” he said. “Any sign of the Downpatrick woman?” As Steve spoke, he brought up another screen on his computer.
“No sighting so far,” replied Jonathan. “But it was a terrifying few minutes back in Barcelona. Even with hunky Alfonso parading his weapon—”
“She’s getting to Heathrow in about thirty minutes,” interrupted Steve. He switched the screen back to Dominic and Jonathan and saw the looks on their faces.
“Sorry, mate,” Steve continued. “I just checked on the flight records. She took the one that left just after yours. But don’t worry. She can’t leave London for the States. I made sure of that. No airline’s going to t
ake her when she hasn’t got an ESTA visa waiver.”
“Is that gorilla with a shaved head flying with her?” asked Jonathan. “Although I must say, they’re each as bad as the other. He just has better tattoos.”
Steve nodded. “Yes. They both got the flight.” He could see Dominic had slumped back in his seat. “Look, don’t worry. You’re in the first-class area. There’s no way they can get to you. You’ll be on your way here in a couple of hours. I’ll be at the airport to meet you.”
Dominic leaned forward again. “Yes, but what do we do then? Bernhardt didn’t really give me any instructions for the computer chip apart from the location and a date. What are we supposed to do with it?”
Steve waved his hand again. “I’m shacked up with this really cool guy called Sinon. He’s pretty well worked it out. He reckons the chip gives access to a bunch of financial computer servers near Sacramento. Once we’ve got the chip here, we can analyze it.”
Steve took a drink of his beer before continuing, “Sinon’s a great guy. From England. He’ll help us sort this one out.”
Chapter 27
THE BUS lurched again. Pete put his foot down in the gangway and held on to the seat in front to steady himself. Alongside him in the window seat, Captain Roberts laid her hands on a brown cardboard folder resting on her laptop to stop the contents falling to the floor.
Pete looked forward to see what the holdup was. The bus was in a slow line of traffic, crawling toward construction work. The highway narrowed to a single line past the works. It looked like they were close to Union Street, not long before they arrived at their stop to get off.
He shifted his gaze to Captain Roberts as she tidied the collection of documents in the cardboard folder. It contained about fifteen battered pieces of paper belonging to Pete, including mortgage payment receipts, utility bills, his old driver’s license, and a letter from the Department of Veterans Affairs. In the last year, since Pete had become homeless, he had kept them safe and dry, whatever the situation he found himself in.
“I can’t see it’s going to be any different this time, Captain Roberts,” said Pete. “I’ve been to the Social Security a million times. They just kick me out.”
The Salvation Army captain looked over her reading glasses at him. “Pete, it will be different now. You’ve got someone who’ll explain your case for you.” She paused before she added, “Calmly.” Captain Roberts patted his knee. In the confines of the cramped bus seat, Pete felt uncomfortable.
“These documents are very conclusive,” she continued. “If you’d gathered them together like this in the first place, you could have maybe sorted this mistake out three years ago.”
“Mistake?” Pete’s voice got louder. “It’s a helluva lot more than a mistake, Captain Roberts.” He grasped the back of the seat in front of him and breathed hard.
“I’ve been destroyed these last three years,” he continued, staring straight ahead of him. “I lost the house, the car, my pension. And no one believed me.” He looked at Captain Roberts. “So you’ve gotta understand if I get a little skeptical about all this shit.”
Captain Roberts sighed.
“The woman we’re meeting is a very experienced lawyer in matters like these. She’s going to represent you at the Social Security hearing this morning. The person from Washington Law Help said she’s dealt with a lot of similar cases before. She’s highly recommended and is doing it for you pro bono.”
Captain Roberts took off her reading glasses and looked kindly at Pete. “That means it’s free. Just keep calm, once we get in there. Let her do the talking, and I’m sure it’ll be just fine.”
“MR. BROWN, delighted to meet you.”
The woman’s voice was strong and authoritative. It was a deep voice, coming from someone who appeared to be little more than five feet tall. Pete reckoned she was no older than thirty. She wore a tailored pinstripe suit, a white blouse, and he noticed her shoes were ankle-high, stiletto-heeled boots, with some kind of intricate pattern embossed on the leather. The woman extended her hand toward Pete as he stepped into the small, windowless waiting room. Her fingernails were long and painted a vivid red. The bracelet on her wrist was laden with small metal charms, and it jangled as they shook hands.
“My name’s Sandra Levy,” she continued briskly. “I’m a lawyer with Braithewaite’s here in Seattle. I specialize in identity theft.” She turned to Captain Roberts. “Captain, thank you so much for contacting me. This is a most intriguing case. I’ve discovered that Pete’s not the only person who’s been affected in this way.”
Sandra Levy indicated two molded-plastic chairs at the small round table in the middle of the room. “Please, take a seat.” The young lawyer sat down opposite them and opened a large ring binder of papers.
Captain Roberts pushed the brown cardboard folder she had been clutching across the table. “Pete’s brought all the paperwork you asked for,” she said. “I hope it’s going to be useful.”
Sandra pulled the folder toward her and smiled. “Oh yes. This is the start of reclaiming your place in the world, Mr. Brown.”
Pete looked up at the mention of his name. Sandra was staring straight at him, her head slightly tilted, a broad smile on her face. He was struck by how bright and sparkling her eyes were, even in the flat fluorescent light of the room.
“Mr. Brown,” she continued. “I’m afraid you are what we call a cyber ghost. You no longer exist in the computer systems of the United States. That means you can’t function as a person in real life.”
She picked out a document from her ring binder and passed it across the table to Captain Roberts and Pete. “What’s surprising in your case, Mr. Brown, is that you have completely disappeared. What usually happens in the case of cyber ghosts like you is that the Social Security Administration makes an error and puts you on their Death Master File.”
“Oh my goodness,” said Captain Roberts, putting her hand up to her mouth.
“Yes,” continued the young lawyer. “Sounds pretty gruesome, doesn’t it? The SSA started the Death Master File in 1980. It’s supposed to stop identity fraud. The problem is, people who are alive, like Mr. Brown, get stuck on it by accident.”
She pointed to the document on the table in front of Captain Roberts and Pete. “Those are the statistics. Each year, over twelve thousand people in the US are declared dead when they’re very much alive. It screws up their lives. Banks won’t touch them. Their homes can get repossessed. They lose their pensions.” She looked directly at Pete. “Very similar to what happened to you.”
She searched through the ring binder and pulled out a spiral-bound report. “Except in your case, things are different. We ran this report on your presence in cyberspace.” She opened its cover and began to flick through the pages. “You don’t even come up on the Death Master File. You don’t appear anywhere, on any database on the internet. It’s as though you’ve been wiped off the earth.”
STEVE LEANED back in the leather passenger seat and rested his Grinder boots against the glove compartment of the electric-blue Range Rover Sport. He looked out his window at the blue waters of San Francisco Bay as the car sped south along the Bayshore Freeway. A sign flashed past showing Airport—2 Miles.
“Go on, then,” said Steve, turning to Sinon next to him. “Where do you get your cash for swanky motors like this, then?”
Sinon’s window was down, and his left arm rested on the sill, his hand holding the roof of the car.
“Same way as you,” he replied. “I work for whoever pays me. And just at the moment”—he looked across the front seat at Steve and winked—“I’ve got a bloody good client paying me bloody well. So I thought I’d get a decent wagon to go get your friends from the airport.” He laughed. “Sit back and enjoy the ride. It’s a long drive up to Plainfield. You wanna do it in comfort, don’t you?”
Steve took out his laptop and rested it on his thighs. He pulled up a map of Plainfield on the screen and switched to a street image view.
“I know how to get to the data center,” replied Sinon. “I told you, I did some stuff with WRI a couple of years ago. The entrance is in a barn. There’s an elevator that takes you down to the server rooms.”
Steve had reopened the text message Bernhardt sent to Dominic. “Presumably these other numbers are the access code. But what’s with the date?”
“That’ll be the expiry for the access code,” replied Sinon. “That’s why we’ve got to get them up there today, before the code expires.”
Steve closed the text message and turned to some of the files he had downloaded to track down his father.
“What’s that you’re looking at?” asked Sinon.
“My dad lives up in Seattle,” replied Steve. “Or rather, he did. He seems to have disappeared off the map. I’ve been into all the main indexes. But his records have vanished.”
Sinon waved his hand in the air and made spooky noises. “Another cyber ghost,” he said with a grin. “There’s a lot of that in the States. The electronic records are crap here. I guess you tried his employment records. Where did he work?”
Steve was trying to get an internet connection, without success.
“Funnily enough, it was WRI,” he replied, looking up at last. “He worked in security.”
Sinon’s hands twitched for a moment on the steering wheel.
“Really?” he said. He signaled and pulled over to the right-hand lane to turn off at the airport exit. “How long ago was that?”