by Rob Aspinall
I also know there are procedures for turning a network off and then back on again. It's not like rebooting your laptop after you get the spinning rainbow of death. Bad shit happens when you do what I'm about to do.
And that's reach behind a stack and yank this plug out of the wall. Or do the same thing on the opposite stack. Or switch these wires around. Or push these buttons. Or loosen this power lead at the rear of this computer tower. I check my watch and wait.
It's tense.
Someone could come through to the back any minute and find me here.
Not too easy to explain when there are only two keys to this room—one carried by Loretta and the other by Withers.
My watch reaches thirty seconds. I reckon I give it another twenty.
I walk over to the door. Check the corridor. Still clear, but not for long.
My watch gets to forty-five seconds.
Fifty.
Okay.
I push the plugs back in, but leave the power lead loose on the back of the computer tower. The wires I switched can stay as they are.
I hurry out of the server room. I hear a man's voice on the other side of the staff entrance door.
Shit, it's Withers.
36
Sidney Withers pushed through the staff door into the back corridor. He found the fire inspector returning an extinguisher to its fixing on the wall. The inspector was a big man in black t-shirt, jeans and a baseball cap.
"What's going on here?" Withers said.
The inspector made a note on a clipboard. "Annual safety inspection," he said in a strange accent. American, but only just. Like he wasn't a native to the country.
"I know it's a damn inspection," Withers said. "What have you been doing? You been fiddling with wires?"
"Only the fire alarm system," the inspector said.
"Well our servers just went down," Withers said.
"I know, I was about to tell you," the inspector said. "Lucky I checked the system before they did, otherwise I'd of had to come back another time."
"You must have done something," Withers said.
"Don't look at me, buddy. I wanted to check in your server room, but it's locked. I'm guessing it's through that door there, unless you keep your drives in the restroom or vault."
Withers looked past the inspector to a grey door at the end of the corridor. He walked towards it and tried the handle. The inspector was right. There's no way he could have got in. Withers reached inside a trouser pocket. He searched through a ring of keys and found the correct one. He inserted it in the keyhole and turned the handle. The server room was stacked either side with hard drives. He looked at the mess of wires and drives. He didn't understand the technicalities. But he did remember technical support telling him not to touch anything or turn anything on or off.
Withers flapped his arms in frustration.
The fire inspector put his head inside the door and looked around the room. "Yeah, all looks fine in here," he said. He made another note on the clipboard as Withers closed and locked the server room door behind them. "Okay Mr Withers, the good news is you've passed. And with flying colours."
"Well, whoopie-do," Withers said, as the pair of them re-entered the bank floor.
"I suppose I'd better leave you to it," the inspector said, appearing keen to escape Withers' wrath. "Your new certificate will be in the mail."
As the inspector walked out of the bank, Withers shepherded a handful of lingering customers towards the entrance. "I'm terribly sorry, ladies and gentlemen, we've had a power outage on our servers, which means our systems are down. I'm going to have to ask you to leave as we close the bank temporarily. Again, my apologies for any inconvenience. We'll have everything back up and running soon."
Withers ignored the grumbles of the customers and corralled them out through the front entrance. He was embarrassed, ashamed, but he had more important matters to attend to.
Miss Cox for one and Welch for another. Withers resolved to handling Miss Cox first. He came up with an ingenious plan. He would tell her the servers were down and ask for her private number. Once he had her number, he might have a fighting chance of securing a date with her. From the way she was acting, he was sure he did.
Withers opened the door to his office. "I'm sorry about the wait, Miss—" He stopped in his tracks. His desk was empty. So too the visitor chair. Withers cursed himself. Cursed the servers. Cursed the damn fire inspector. He watched Harry lock up, the tellers talking amongst themselves behind the payment counter.
As Withers returned to his desk, Loretta appeared in the doorway, mobile phone to her ear. "Tech support say they can't fix it remotely. They'll have to come out and work onsite."
Withers checked his watch. "Well what time can they get out here?"
"Two at the latest."
"We close at four," Withers said.
Loretta shrugged.
"Okay, tell them to get here as soon as they can."
"Hello?" Loretta said. "Yes, two will be fine." She put a hand over the phone. "There'll be a call-out charge," she said. "Time and a half weekend rate."
"I'll pay them double if they can get it fixed by three," Withers said. "I need to make that transaction."
Loretta turned and left the office, making the arrangements.
Withers removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes with finger and thumb. "Today of all days," he said.
At that very same moment, his own phone buzzed and slid across his desk. He picked it up. It was Welch.
37
I close the server door shut and lock it. I pull out the key and hold it flat against the underside of the clipboard. I take an extinguisher off the wall. As Withers enters the corridor. I put the extinguisher back and tick another box on the checklist. I scribble out a note next to the box. It's nonsense. Blue biro scrawl no one could make out. I breathe a sigh of relief and nod at Withers. He's not a happy camper. Whatever I did to those servers—it worked.
The guy interrogates me. Accuses me of messing with the servers. I point out the server room is locked. He tries the handle. Opens it up. I stick my head in the room behind him and pretend to check for fire hazards. I give it the all-clear. Tell him the branch has passed the inspection. He couldn't give a toss.
I come out of the corridor into the bank. It's quiet chaos. Tellers can't give or receive money. The deposit machines are screwed. And Harry's got his hands full with grumbling customers.
I pass by Withers' office. The door wide open. Darla's already blown the joint, her job done.
Meanwhile, Loretta passes me by, on the phone to the bank's computer geeks. I take the key from under the clipboard and drop it by my side in a closed fist. I brush past Loretta and slide the key into her pocket.
She pauses, a hand over the phone. "You all done?"
"All done," I say. "Something wrong here?"
"The servers are down," she says.
"Tough break," I say. "I'll leave you to it."
Loretta gets back on the phone. I stride across the bank and nod at Harry. He ignores me, hassled by customers.
I walk through the front entrance and out onto the street. I round the corner and open the passenger door to Darla's yellow Mini.
I shut the door. Darla starts the engine. She pulls off the blonde wig. "Whew, that was exciting," she says, buzzing from the job. "My heart's pounding."
"You get a look at any paperwork?" I ask.
"He had it stamped and signed," she says. "But I knocked his coffee all over it."
“Atta girl," I say, as she pulls fast away from the kerb.
A few blocks on, she looks over at me. Bites her lip.
"What?" I say.
She pulls sharp on the wheel. Turns into a basement car park. It's dim, secluded and empty. She guns the car to the far corner. Slams to a stop a foot from the breeze block wall.
"Christ," I say. "You could have killed us."
Darla leaps out of the driver's seat and onto my lap. She kisses me hard, high on adrena
line with energy to burn. I run a hand through her long dark hair and start to kiss her back. I wonder if I should.
It's deadline day, after all.
Lots still to do.
And I'm expecting company.
But she handled the job like a pro.
She's starting to grow on me.
And I won't deny she looks incredible in that dress.
Plus, she's unbuckling my belt.
It would be rude not to.
Ah, sod it. I might be dead in a few hours.
38
The flight from Los Angeles touched down. It rolled to a stop on the tarmac of Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport. The passengers filtered off the plane into the terminal. They picked up their cases from baggage claim. But one passenger bypassed the carousels. He strode straight for the car rental desks.
Mr Box liked to travel light, after all.
He strode across the concourse to HQ Rentals, with its yellow logo on black.
A well-groomed young man waited behind the desk in a black suit and yellow tie. "How may I help you, sir?"
"I believe I have a car reserved."
The clerk turned his attention to his computer screen, his skin tanned and his teeth a flash of white. Mr Box noticed a clump of gel towards the back of his light-brown hair. It suggested the young man had got ready in a rush. The morning after the Friday night before, perhaps.
Mr Box noticed things like that.
"And the name?" the clerk asked.
"Smith," Mr Box said. "Mr D. Smith."
The rental clerk's fingers ran over the keyboard. His eyes scanned the screen. He clicked on a mouse. "Ah, Mr Smith. Here we are. You're with Mainline Oil."
"That's right," said Mr Box.
"Then you're a Diamond Express member," he said, "which means there's no paperwork to fill in." The clerk unlocked a drawer behind the desk. He took out a key fob and slid it across the counter. "Everything's ready for you, Mr Smith."
"Nothing to sign?" Mr Box asked.
"Nothing to sign," the clerk said, beaming--as if there was a certain smile reserved for Diamond Express members,
Mr Box picked up the key fob. He looked left and right. "Where do I find the car?"
"Oh yes, of course," the clerk said, walking around to the front of the desk. He threw an arm to the right of Mr Box, pointing at a set of automatic doors a hundred yards further on. "Through those doors and over the road. There's a shuttle every five minutes. It will take you to the parking lot. You'll find the bay number on that yellow sticker on the key ring."
Mr Box looked at the key ring. Saw a sticker folded into a band around the ring. It said F24. "Ah yes, thank you."
"Have a pleasant journey," the rental clerk said, returning to his desk.
Mr Box strolled along the concourse. He exited through the automatic doors and across a road used for pickups and drop-offs.
He waited and climbed into a branded HQ shuttle van with a handful of other customers. A short drive later, he stepped out of the shuttle and found himself wandering between aisles of cars.
A green circular sign on a white post said F. Mr Box followed the numbers painted at the front of each bay to twenty-four. The lights on the car flashed and the doors unlocked automatically.
Mr Box looked the car up and down. It was a white Ford Taurus. Standard spec. He opened the boot. It was empty. He lifted the floor panel and checked underneath. Just a spare. So he ran his hands along the edges of the boot. Found nothing.
Mr Box closed the lid and walked around to the driver's door. He slipped inside. The car was fresh from a valet service and smelled like it. He looked around. In the glovebox, on the backseats, the footwells. He leaned over and felt under the lip of the front passenger seat. His right hand came upon a lever. He pulled it and slid the seat back a foot. This gave him room to bend over and reach his left hand all the way under the seat. Again, he groped around. His hand passed over a hard plastic box, taped to the underside of the seat. He pulled it free and slid it out. He sat upright with it in both hands. It was a large black box. Quite heavy on his lap. The lid had a catch. He pushed the button and opened it up. Inside, he found a collection of parts. He ran a hand over them. Exactly as requested.
Mr Box closed the lid.
He opened the glove box.
The box fitted snug inside. He closed the panel on the glovebox and slipped the key fob for the car in his jacket pocket. He secured his seatbelt, checked the car was in park and pushed the start button.
The engine started. The dash came into life. He tapped on the screen on the central console and selected GPS. Mr Box typed Rattlesnake into the search box. It brought up the town and plotted him a route. Mr Box released the parking brake and backed out of the space.
39
Chris Gallagher stirred awake. His face hot and sticky against the pillow. He didn't remember much from the night before. Nor did he remember climbing into his tent for the night.
He did remember whisky, beer, singing and the best barbecued steak he'd tasted in years.
He pushed himself up off the foam mattress, feeling like a car crash. His brain pounded against his skull. His stomach turned with a sickly feeling. The tent was hot and the air foul. He looked himself up and down. He'd managed to open the buttons on his shirt, but hadn't made it out of the shirt itself. One trouser leg was still on, the other was off, with work boots still laced up on his feet. An empty whisky bottle lay on its side next to the sleeping bag. Gallagher checked his watch. "Ah shit," he said, voice croaking deep and dry.
If he'd had the energy, Gallagher would have scrambled out of bed in a hurry.
It was gone nine a.m.
Welch had texted him the night before. Told him to mobilise the crews ahead of time. Not to start digging, but to set up permanent camp ready for further exploration of the site.
Gallagher knew questions were being asked at board level about the project. Not least the escalating timescales and costs. He'd been in the meetings--at the back of the room, of course. The senior executives had been under fire. And there was only one way shit could roll--downhill.
Gallagher forced the loose trouser leg over his boot. He pulled it up his leg and fastened his belt. He buttoned up his shirt. Saw that the buttons didn't match. Tucked it in his waist anyway and reached for his hard hat. He crawled out through the unzipped door to the tent and staggered to his feet.
The air was fresh, mixed with coffee and sizzling bacon on a nearby grill.
Cows murmured in the distance.
The sun was bright. Too bright. Gallagher found his sunglasses in his shirt pocket. A miracle they hadn't snapped in two under his slumbering weight. He opened them out and slid them on, reached inside a trouser pocket and found his phone.
No calls. No texts since the night before. Utter relief. If Welch called now, at least he was in a position to lie.
Gallagher looked out across the temporary camp. Men staggered left and right. Some with coffee. Some with bacon in buns left over from the night before. He saw Jim Potts crawl out of the next tent along, holding his head. The pair of them made themselves a drink from a large steel dispenser.
Gallagher couldn't stomach any food, but if there's one thing he needed, it was a strong black coffee. As he sipped on the drink from a styrofoam cup, he began to come to his senses. He and Jim wandered through the camp. Most of the crew were young. Quicker to shake off the effects of a heavy night. Some laughed at the state of the pair of them as they ate breakfast.
Well, Gallagher would show them.
"Let's see how fresh you really are," he said to himself, returning to his tent. He found his loud hailer, turned it on and turned it up. "Listen up and saddle up ladies," he said, walking through the camp. "Time to go to work."
There was a collective groan.
A handful of weak protests.
Stragglers appeared out of their tents, pulling on trousers and boots.
"I want everyone out in those fields in the next twenty
minutes. Hard hats on . . . You all know the drill."
Gallagher turned off the loud hailer.
"You bastard," Jim said.
"If I have to suffer, so does everyone," Gallagher said. "Come on, I'll lead the way."
"Alright, alright," Jim said, nursing his coffee. "But I've seen you driving the morning after."
"What are you saying?"
"Just try not to hit any damn cows." Jim said.
As they walked to their cars, Gallagher watched the convoy gear up. Men climbed in trucks. Others in earth movers. Crews stepped up onto the backs of pickups.
"You remember where we parked?" he asked Jim.
Jim laughed. Gallagher sipped on his coffee. He looked up to see a cab pull forward, only for its trailer to detach and slam to the ground.
The trailer was full, nose-to-tail with diggers.
"Son of a—" Jim said.
The same thing happened to the next truck along. Air lines snapped and snaked. The trailer detached and flopped to the ground. It would make it impossible to reattach them to the cabs. Not without a rescue truck.
Gallagher was about to curse, when another truck with a fixed trailer spilled over with metal scaffolding. The straps holding a mountain of poles in place came loose. The scaffolding rolled over the edge and bounced with a loud clang over the patchy grass. Crew members scrambled out of the way. A pickup swerved and crashed into another. The drivers got out and argued over who was at fault.
Then there were the earth movers. The sound of grinding ignitions.
"Shit, half of 'em are still drunk," Jim said, as they reached their car.
Gallagher looked at his Buick. The front left was flat. He bent down, his body screaming at him, his head pounding fiercer. He ran a hand over the tyre. "Shit, I picked up a nail," he said. "This job is fucking cursed." Gallagher rose to his feet and looked out across the camp. It was chaos.
"Well, we're not doing anything in a hurry now," Jim said.