Interface: A Techno Thriller

by Tony Batton

  "Actually, no, it isn't." She turned around to unlock a chest of drawers. From the top one, she removed a black metal box. She flipped the combination lock to the correct code and opened it to reveal a padded interior. From within, she lifted a small glass vial and placed it on the table.

  Geraldine peered closer. "And what is that? Some sort of chemical?"

  "Nanotech."

  Geraldine flinched back. "You're kidding."

  "Inert nano is pretty common now - it's simply a change to the way a material works on a nano scale. With inert nano, you can increase conductivity, reduce friction coefficients, but the change is a fixed one."

  "So this is inert nano?"

  "No. Armstrong said it was the other kind - intelligent nano. It changes reactively, based on data received and interpreted: the particles can adjust to variations in circumstance, including what is happening to other particles. They can talk to each other, adapt, and change. They communicate. At least they can once they're programmed."

  "Presuming the scientists are right. Can these things learn? What if they lose control?"

  Kate shrugged. "That is of course the principal reason intelligent nano is banned. That nanites might get to the point they can make their own decisions – evolve their own programming. And yet the potential for things like smart drugs, manufacturing, computing is undeniable."

  Geraldine reached out and picked up the vial. "This guy, Armstrong. He was one of the nanotech team?"

  Kate nodded. "And he's a company man. Twenty seven years." She picked up her glass and took a long sip. "He says he's not after money: claims it's just about stopping the research before it gets out of hand like it did twenty-five years ago."

  Geraldine's eyes narrowed. "If there's even a grain of truth in this, it's a huge risk for him to speak to you." She paused. "Despite his reluctance to go to the authorities, I think it's our duty to inform them. And this," she waggled the vial in the air, "is stolen property. We can't keep quiet about it."

  Kate sighed.

  "So let's be publicly loud, say, in a lead story." Geraldine stood. "If we're doing this, we can't afford to sit on it. First thing tomorrow, get on the phone and set up another meeting with Armstrong. Get the story: the whole story." Geraldine leaned over and picked up the folder. "And you know what? I might even read this." She hefted it in her hand and frowned. "Or at least some of it."

  SEVENTEEN

  DESPITE EVERYTHING THAT HAD HAPPENED to him since Friday night, Tom refused to miss his mother's anniversary. He usually went alone, but Dr Chatsworth and Jo had been adamant that it was not a good idea. In the end, they had compromised. Jo collected him from the Angstrom Clinic first thing in the morning in her reconditioned Mini Metro, which alternately stuttered and purred its way down the private road and out of the gates. A quick stop at a florist and they were heading northwest towards the M40.

  Two hours later, they were sixty miles outside of London in the tiny Oxfordshire village of Kingsford. They parked and Tom walked ahead. The gravestone was a simple granite slab, located at the rear of a walled field, opposite the small church. Tom's mother lay amongst the former school teachers, farmers, stockbrokers and shopkeepers of the small rural community that had welcomed her into its heart in the months before her passing. He stood looking around the carefully tended plots.

  Her death had been uncomfortably like the chaotic last few days. It had all happened so quickly. One moment she had been in perfect health, the next they were diagnosing her with terminal cancer. She had been based in the south of France at the time, in an old run-down villa in the mountains, while Tom lived in London during term-time, studying Law at University College London. After the diagnosis she had reluctantly moved back to the UK, taking an experimental course of treatment at a private hospital. Less than nine months later she was gone.

  Of course with hindsight he'd realised that she must have been feeling unwell, but why had she never mentioned it at the regular health checks she'd always gone to? Surely they couldn't have missed how ill she was if she'd given them any indication. Or maybe the health checks had been to do with her illness in the first place. Maybe the illness wasn't new at all and his mother had decided not to burden him.

  He wished he could go back and notice something, or say something to get her to confide in him. Of course it would have been hard, but nothing could have been harder than suddenly losing his only family. His father had died when Tom was only a few months old and both his parents had been only children. Jo was the closest thing he had to family now. He glanced over his shoulder and saw her standing at the edge of the graveyard, her hands in the pockets of her coat.

  Tom knelt by the gravestone and brushed aside a couple of stray weeds that had started to encroach. Then he removed the daffodils – plain and simple, as she always preferred – from their wrapping and placed them loosely in the small vase at the front of the grave.

  "Happy birthday, Mum," he whispered.

  Then he stood and walked back to Jo.

  ◇ ◇ ◇

  They stopped at a roadside café on the outskirts of Oxford. Tom cast his eye over the menu and ordered a huge all-day brunch.

  "Your appetite hasn't suffered from the poking and prodding they've been doing at the hospital then," Jo said, as she chose a tuna salad.

  He shrugged. "What can I say? I feel great. Getting the all clear from the clinic was a huge relief."

  She frowned. "All clear? Really?"

  "You were there. You heard the doctor."

  Jo drummed her fingers on the table. "I heard what he said. I just... I can't believe you're not more freaked out."

  The waitress reappeared and placed two large mugs of coffee in front of them. Tom waited until she had returned to the kitchen before speaking. "Freaked out about what?"

  "Someone gave you hard drugs. They could have killed you."

  "We don't know that I didn't choose to take them."

  Jo pulled at her ponytail. "Seriously? Tom, that is so not you. It's just not possible."

  "OK," he said. "But why would anyone give me drugs if I didn't agree in some moment of drunken idiocy? I wasn't robbed. I wasn't assaulted. I wasn't cut into pieces for my organs and spare parts."

  Jo made a face.

  "I could have died or suffered life-changing side effects, but that didn't happen. What's more my brand new employer has stepped in to cover the best medical care money can buy."

  Jo sniffed. "Whatever happened started at that party. Maybe CERUS are keen to look after you for more than simple liability reasons." Jo shook her head. "The whole thing stinks."

  Tom hesitated. "The HR director did make some comment about having had a lot of bad press on the building: said he wanted to avoid a story about a design fault causing an injury."

  "Well there you go. All about protecting their interests, not yours."

  "But what do you expect me to do? Go poking about asking questions? What if CERUS finds out I've taken drugs? What if they've got CCTV footage of me getting high with this woman in the black dress and they just don't want trouble over it happening in their sparkling new office building where every square inch is meant to be monitored."

  Their food arrived and they ate in silence for several minutes. Then Tom cleared his throat. "Look, I appreciate your concern, Jo. But I feel like I've had a lucky escape. Now's not the time to go pushing my luck."

  "Fine, but I think it's a mistake."

  EIGHTEEN

  CELIA BERN SAT AT THE best table in one of the best restaurants in London. To her left a huge window looked across at Tower Bridge, the two floodlit towers rising high above the Thames. Behind it was the Tower of London, location of the original 'watergate': predating the US scandal by several centuries, it always amused her American friends. But she was not meeting a friend today.

  She sipped from a glass of Chardonnay and surveyed the restaurant. City types were wooing clients all around, with the odd celebrity for colour: all mid-level movers and shakers. She moved
in higher circles and intended it to stay that way.

  A young, smartly-dressed figure approached her table. "Mind if I join you?" he asked in a tone that suggested he fully expected her to say yes.

  Celia looked up and gestured with one carefully manicured hand. "Have a seat."

  Neil Bradley slid smoothly into the chair opposite. "Isn't this a little public?"

  "Excellent acoustic dampening, very hard to be overheard, plus," she pointed at the window, "I like the view."

  "The bridge?"

  "And the Tower. That's where they used to deal with traitors, you know."

  "I hope you don't think of us in that way."

  She laughed. "I'm sure neither of us would want our head on a spike." She beckoned to the sommelier, who poured Bradley a glass of wine.

  "What's good here?" he asked.

  "Everything. Order what you like. William's paying."

  The waiter reappeared and they ordered. She selected roast partridge in a clementine sauce; he chose herbed venison cutlets on a bed of couscous. Alone again, they clinked glasses.

  "So," she said, "you have an update for me?"

  Bradley nodded. "He met with the customer yesterday. It went well."

  "Say what you will about William, he always has been a salesman."

  "And we've got the scientists on board."

  "No protests?"

  "None that money and professional ambition couldn't overcome." Bradley shrugged. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

  She smiled. "Such concern for my welfare. Something I've not seen from my husband in a decade."

  Bradley's eyes flickered. "Then he's not as smart as I was led to believe."

  Celia tipped her head. "You're cute, Neil, but right now I need you to be sharp."

  "OK. Although why not just divorce him?"

  She drained her wine glass. The sommelier immediately moved to fill it but she waved him away. "I haven't shared the photos with you, Neil. I don't feel any need to, but I'm sure you'd find them diverting. All of them young, mostly blonde, all tanned and... supple, I think is the word. I could just leave him but believe me when I say he has very good lawyers. It wouldn't be quick and he'd make it ugly. I want it all on my terms." She paused. "There's also the little problem that he has lost most of his money. By which I mean my money. I need those coffers replenished. Once the new Tantalus project is up and running, all I have to do is threaten to reveal it to the government and... well, I'm sure he'll see it my way. Either he can give me CERUS or he can give up his freedom and CERUS. I shall delight in watching him chose."

  NINETEEN

  IT WAS NEARLY 2AM BUT Richard Armstrong was not asleep. He sat in bed, working on his laptop, reviewing yet another set of recent data from Project Tantalus. Downstairs, his dog barked at something outside, most likely a fox, but Armstrong didn't even look up. There was so much to do, so much data to process and catalogue, and then to hide.

  He rubbed his forehead and looked at the empty whisky glass on the bedside table. Next to it was the cheap mobile phone that he'd bought especially for his plans. The reporter had been trying to contact him. She'd be better prepared this time, he was sure. He was about to make her career, to change her life, but how would it change his? Things would get ugly, no doubt; CERUS would try to discredit him, to dig up skeletons in his past. And of course there were a few. But he wasn't what mattered. What they were doing couldn't be allowed to continue. The world needed to know. He would live with the consequences.

  Armstrong's laptop beeped. His internet access had dropped out. A quick diagnostic revealed the router was operational, but had lost its net connection. It would probably need a manual reboot, which meant a trip downstairs. Sighing, he put the laptop down, padding to the top of the staircase. His hand flicked at the light switch.

  The light did not come on.

  He frowned again and moved carefully down the stairs in the darkness. Perhaps something electrical had flared and tripped the fuse for downstairs, though usually it popped when that happened, triggering a barking frenzy.

  "Hey, boy?" he called out. "You all right?" He moved into the kitchen and froze. In the moonlight streaming through the window he could see his dog lying on the floor.

  Before he could move, someone spoke from behind him. "Take a seat, Richard. At the kitchen table." It was a woman's voice. Educated. Calm.

  He spun in shock, but was blinded by the flare of a torch. Behind it he could just make out the silhouette of the intruder: a slender figure a little shorter than him. "Who the hell are you? What have you done to my dog?"

  "I'm someone who wants to talk to you." She waved the torch. "And for what it's worth, I would never kill an animal: your dog's just sleeping."

  "I'm calling the police." He began to move towards the phone on the kitchen bench. In the partial light he didn't see how quickly she moved. In less than a breath she'd caught his left arm and was twisting it sharply behind his back; he felt the joints strain and threaten to crack. He started to scream, but her elbow drove deep into his stomach and all he managed was a gasp.

  "You're not calling anyone." Her voice was perfectly calm. She pushed him roughly into one of the seats at the kitchen table then took a step back.

  His head spun with the rush. "There's money upstairs. I have a gold watch--"

  She took the seat opposite him. "I didn't come here for your watch."

  Armstrong felt his stomach knot. "I don't know who you think I am. I'm just an engineer."

  "I know exactly who you are. And who you work for."

  He swallowed. "I'm not permitted to talk about that."

  She raised an eyebrow. "You want to play that card?"

  "My employer takes secrecy very seriously."

  "It's a pity you didn't."

  Armstrong felt the temperature in the room drop.

  "You've been collating company data off the servers. Who have you given it to?"

  He shook his head. "No one. I mean, that's not true."

  She leaned forward, putting her elbows on the table. "What did you do with the nanites?"

  He felt his breath sticking in his throat.

  She rolled her eyes then leaned back, reaching into her lightweight jacket. She took out a pistol fitted with a silencer and placed it on the table.

  Armstrong blew out a hard breath. "You expect me to believe that's a real gun?"

  She shook her head. "You're really not grasping this situation." In a fluid motion she picked up the weapon and pulled the trigger.

  Even with a silencer, the gun was loud. Armstrong felt a hot, scorching sensation across his leg where the bullet had missed him by a hair's breadth.

  His voice started to crack. "I found out that CERUS has restarted nano manufacture." He looked at the brown burn mark on his trouser leg. "What's to stop you shooting me once I tell you?"

  "I promise that if you answer my questions, I will not shoot you with this gun. I also promise that I will shoot you if you don't."

  Armstrong swallowed. "I wanted to know why I'd been left off of the team involved in all the hush-hush important meetings, so I started digging."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Did you share what you found with anyone?"

  "I've passed no details across yet."

  "I'm pleased to hear it."

  "But somebody should," he hurried on. "This project is like Pandora's Box. We have no idea where it will lead." Armstrong shook his head. "And you're too young to know what happened last time."

  She smiled. "I'm not actually."

  He frowned. "But--"

  She slid the pistol back in her inside pocket, then pulled out a different weapon. "This is a tranquilliser gun. It's what I used on your dog." She aimed it at him and raised an eyebrow. "What I said was I wouldn't shoot you with the other gun."

  And she pulled the trigger.

  ◇ ◇ ◇

  The woman watched the dart hit Armstrong in the neck, his shock turning immediately to stupor. It only took seconds for him to fall uncons
cious. She laid him gently on the floor, next to his dog. Then she turned the oven and all the burners on the gas cooker on, leaving them unlit. Next, she placed a small black box with an antenna and single switch by Armstrong's foot. She opened the door to leave then, with a sigh, she walked back and dragged the dog out, closing the door behind her. She hid the dog in a bush away from the house. Then she walked away, pulling out an encrypted cell phone and dialling a number from memory.

  A man's voice replied. "Identify."

  "It's Alex," she said. "We caught him in time."

  "Good. Clean up and leave."

  She ended the call, then dialled a second number and pressed send.

  Behind her the night lit up with the blossom of a huge explosion, but she did not react. She just kept walking.

  TWENTY

  THE SUN SHONE OVER DOCKLANDS, though in the distance Tom saw a cluster of dark clouds. This time the CERUS security gates were fully functional, as were the lifts; in moments he was walking into his office, giving his desk a slightly wary glance. With careful movements he eased into his high-backed chair and let out a slow breath.

  He'd returned to the clinic for an early morning check-up. Chatsworth had seemed pleased with his progress. They still wanted him to return daily, but the doctor stressed it was merely a precaution.

  Samantha appeared at the door. "Morning," she said. "How are you feeling?"

  "Better thanks," replied Tom.

  "Try not to run before you can walk this time!" She smiled. "Your new company mobile is in your desk drawer by the way."

  "What meetings do I have today?"

  "I don't think you have anything yet. We didn't know if..." she hesitated, "when you'd be back."

  Tom frowned. "I spoke to an engineer at the launch party. I think he wanted to meet this week. Hasn't he been in touch?"