Interface: A Techno Thriller

by Tony Batton

  He snatched it from her and flicked through the pages. "I can see. Lots of nice pictures."

  "Oh shut up, you. Why do I bother?"

  Tom handed the book back and stood up. "Actually I've tried learning languages before. Never managed to keep any of it in."

  "How you made it through law school, I will never know. I thought you had to remember hundreds of cases."

  "Rote learning: most of it was gone a week later. You know, if I were to spend time learning a language, it would be Java or C++."

  "You want to be able to talk to a computer? What would a lawyer need with that?" She laughed. "Just tap icons like everybody else."

  Tom shrugged. "Maybe you're right. Anyway, buona fortuna with the test."

  She tipped her head. "Oh, by the way, did you hear about that guy at your company whose house blew up?"

  "What?"

  She picked up her newspaper and handed it to him. "I'm sure everyone will be talking about it when you get to work. Read up on your way in."

  ◇ ◇ ◇

  The Jubilee Line train jostled and bumped its way down the tunnel, but Tom was not aware of the jerking of the carriage. He continued to stare at the photo on the front page of Jo's newspaper. Richard Armstrong: the engineer from the launch party who had tried to talk with him. The story didn't say much: a faulty gas cooker, just him in the house. The police were investigating the scene but preliminary indications were that it was just a tragic accident.

  He wasn't sure why the story was so unsettling. There was no reason to believe Armstrong's death was anything other than an awful coincidence. Yet the man had seemed agitated about something at the party. He could see his face vividly in his mind. What had he been trying to say?

  The journey passed quickly, and almost before Tom knew it, he was back at CERUS Tower. He looked up as he walked through the entrance way, reflexively waving his card at the security gate and heading for the lift. Around him he could almost feel the building buzzing. Before he could reach the lift, he heard someone call his name. One of the security guards was hurrying over from the front desk.

  "Mr Faraday! I was instructed to intercept you. Mr Marron asked that I take you to the CCTV suite."

  Tom followed the guard to a service elevator. Heavy doors clunked together then they descended to Level Minus 2.

  "I've not been below ground before here," he said as they stepped into a brightly lit corridor. "How far down does it go?"

  She shrugged. "A ways. Along here, please."

  At the end of the corridor she opened a security door and they walked into a room with a huge bank of display screens, the central one covering half the wall.

  "I have the footage from the launch event ready," she said, typing onto a keypad. "If you care to look at the main screen."

  An image of the function room on Level 69 appeared, with people setting up the stage and the lighting. The guard tapped the controls and the video accelerated then slowed as guests started to arrive.

  "Anything in particular you're looking for?" she asked.

  "I wanted to know who I spoke to. I'm having trouble remembering some details about the evening."

  "Why don't I speed things up?" She tapped the controls.

  Tom watched as people seemed to scurry into the room. He saw himself arrive and stand near the back. The security guard paused the footage as Tom spoke with Neil Bradley then with Samantha. The room suddenly got much brighter as Bern arrived on stage and began his speech. Then Tom saw himself talking with Armstrong, until the engineer abruptly hurried off. Bern swung the bottle of champagne and smashed it on the second attempt. When the CEO left, the main spotlights were turned off and the room dimmed again. Moments later, the woman in the black dress appeared.

  "Pause it," Tom said, pointing at the screen. "Who is she?"

  The guard adjusted the controls and zoomed in. "I can't get a clear image." Her hands danced over the controls. As the face got larger it seemed to pixelate. The guard sighed. "The resolution appears degraded. The lower light doesn't help. I can make the image larger, but not sharper."

  "Is there another camera?"

  "There are four in the room, but the others cover different angles."

  "Fine. Roll it forward then."

  Tom watched as the woman handed him a glass of what he remembered had been cognac. Then the image went dark.

  "What happened?" asked Tom.

  "I don't know," replied the guard. "That's all there is."

  "I'm afraid," said a voice from the doorway, "that we've been having some teething problems with the CCTV system."

  Tom turned to see Peter Marron walk in. "What about cameras elsewhere in the building?"

  "I thought you just needed to see who you spoke with? Is there something else you were looking for?"

  Tom closed his eyes. He seemed to be getting a headache, a pulsing in the base of his skull: almost a buzzing.

  "No, not really. I guess I just thought it would all come flooding back, but apparently not. Thank you for your help, though."

  "No problem. How are things by the way? Are you feeling better?"

  "Just fine. The clinic have released me."

  "Well isn't that good news! Were you happy with their care?"

  "Nothing but the best."

  "I'll be sure to mention that if I speak to them."

  ◇ ◇ ◇

  Tom arrived back at his office and closed the door. It was odd that he remembered meeting the woman in the black dress clearly, but absolutely nothing afterwards, not even leaving the party. How could his memory loss be so specific?

  His phone rang. It was his secretary, Samantha. "I've got a call about your 11 o'clock meeting."

  He frowned. "What 11 o'clock meeting?"

  "I assumed you scheduled it."

  Tom sighed. Perhaps this was an arrangement he had made at the party. "Put it through."

  There was a click. "Hi, Tom, my name is Kate. I appreciate you taking my call. I'd like to--"

  "Did we meet Friday night?" Tom cut in.

  "You mean at the launch party?" A pause. "I was there."

  "I'm so sorry I've not been in touch. It's been quite a week." He paused as a thought occurred to him. Could this be the woman in the black dress? "Do you deal in terminations?"

  She seemed to hesitate. "You could say it's linked to what I do. Can you make 11am today?"

  "I think I can move my diary around. Do you have a meeting room booked?"

  "Why don't I buy you a coffee? There's a café on the corner across from CERUS Tower."

  "I'll see you there."

  TWENTY-FIVE

  KATE CHECKED HER WATCH: 10:59am. She sat in the coffee shop, in a booth near the back with a clear view across the concourse. She recognised Faraday when he was still fifty metres away and stood to wave. He turned in her direction and wove his way towards her.

  "Kate?" he asked, his expression suddenly hesitant. He looked a little disappointed.

  "Hello, Tom," she said, extending her hand. "Thanks for coming."

  Tom cleared his throat. "My apologies for not getting back to you. I had some problems with my computer and I lost my schedule."

  Kate hesitated. "Oh... Ah... Never mind. It's all worked out, right?" she said, smiling brightly. She placed a crisp white business card on the table.

  KATE THOMPSON

  EXECUTIVE SEARCH

  He let out a sigh. "I thought you worked at CERUS. I think there's been a misunderstanding. I've only just started this job and I'm not looking to move."

  "No harm in having a conversation? Like we agreed, no?" Her eyes narrowed as Tom looked away and shifted in his seat.

  "Sorry if I wasn't clearer, er, before but... well, I think it'd be a waste of your time."

  "Most people are flattered to be headhunted."

  He shrugged. "I was headhunted for my current role."

  "A man of your talents, I guess that's no surprise. Still I imagine you'll be keen to keep your options open, given the thing
s I heard at that party."

  He frowned sharply. "What things?"

  She let a smile play across her lips. "Why don't we do dinner? On me, naturally." He started to shake his head, so she quickly hurried on. "Come on, Tom. Some gossip about your new job. And, yes, I'll probably talk a bit of business too, but what's the harm? Don't you want to at least hear about other possibilities? There's an Italian Restaurant called Brocca opposite Baker Street Tube. Why don't we say 8pm?"

  ◇ ◇ ◇

  A battered grey transit van was parked across the road from the coffee shop. It displayed a business parking permit, although neither that, nor indeed its number plate, were genuine.

  In the back, Harry Winston was eating a cold meat pie while watching the grainy video-feed from the three different cameras he had co-opted. There was audio as well, but the quality was proving very poor. He watched as Tom Faraday met with a woman who gave her name as Kate and claimed to be in recruitment. He noted a few bullet points down for his client's executive summary, although he would be forwarding a full package of audio and video too.

  Winston swallowed the remains of the pie and threw the wrapper on a pile of rubbish in one corner. Then he reached for a flask of tea and filled a large grubby mug. He loved these twenty-four hour surveillance gigs. It made him smile inside to think of the fees ticking up and up. This client was a little unnerving to deal with, but he was always clear about what he wanted and Winston respected that. He looked back at the monitors and saw that Tom was now leaving the coffee shop and heading towards CERUS Tower. He would soon be out of the range of his systems. Time for a short nap, he thought with a smile.

  TWENTY-SIX

  PETER MARRON'S OFFICE WAS SITUATED on the north-east corner of Level 88, looking out towards the Thames Barrier and Dartford Crossing. The rest of the HR team worked in an open plan area spread creatively across the rest of the floor. Marron emerged from the lift, hands in pockets, and walked through the floor, nodding to anyone who looked up. They could all see Marron's desk through the glass walls and he could see all of them – when he wanted to. He entered his office and closed the door then touched a control dial and the glass panels instantly became opaque.

  He walked over to an oversized chess set on a coffee table in the corner of the room. A game was in play: the clean and elegant Staunton-design pieces poised between moves. Marron pulled his phone from his pocket and opened a message. It contained a move for white. He moved the bishop as indicated, then paused to regard the result: a single piece, a single move with repercussions throughout the board. He had a week to reflect before giving his response, which was good because he had other things on his mind.

  He pulled out a second mobile phone and sent a short text: Thanks for doing a great job. Then he turned to the interior wall on his right and produced a remote control, placing his thumb over its image scanner. There was a soft chime then a section of the wall swung inwards. Marron stepped through. The door closed silently behind him.

  He had gone to great lengths to ensure the room behind the hidden door was no longer marked on any floor plans or schematics. It was a control room wired directly into the building's central computer and communications system, with its own network and power systems, completely separate both technically and physically from the building's main grid. The whole room was connected to back-up generators entirely unrelated to the main systems. He sat in the oversized swivel chair, looking over the various screens in front of him. From here he could see and control the entire building. If somebody sneezed in a corridor on Level 28, he would know. If CERUS Tower were a space ship, this control room would be the Bridge: just one that almost nobody knew about.

  Marron turned to one of the terminals and opened an encrypted communications app. The call connected almost instantly. "Dr Chatsworth, why have you released Faraday from your care without informing me first?"

  There was a pause. "You're not someone I like giving bad news to."

  "I certainly prefer it to 'no news'. So the tests were negative?"

  "Yes, but I wanted more information before updating you."

  Marron sucked in his top lip. "Don't keep anything from me again." He closed the call and eased back in his chair.

  His mobile vibrated: it was a text message from an anonymous forwarding service. It contained a string of eight digits. The digits themselves were irrelevant, but it meant something had come up. He slid his chair over to a different computer, pulled on a headset, and logged himself into a separate comms program. Then he dialled the sender of the message. It was answered immediately.

  "This is Winston," came the reply, soft and metallic.

  "What's happened?"

  "Faraday had coffee with a woman. A recruiter."

  A half smile crossed Marron's face. "Is that right?"

  "Her name is Kate Thompson. She works for some small agency, not well known."

  "Then she's probably not very good."

  "At recruiting, probably not, since it's a cover identity. She's actually a reporter, real name Kate Turner."

  "Does he know?"

  "Not as far as I could tell. But they're meeting for dinner tonight at an Italian restaurant in Baker Street."

  "You'll monitor them, of course."

  "Sure. But it's hard to get sound remotely if they're in a crowded restaurant. And I've had no opportunity to go in and prep the place."

  "Are you telling me I should hire somebody better?"

  "I'll sort something out."

  "I'm sure you will."

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE APARTMENT BLOCK WAS TWO storeys high and painted a functional mid-brown. In her ground floor unit, Daniella Lawrence forced the suitcase shut. She'd packed light, but still there were so many things she couldn't bear to part with. And she did not expect to return. Not after she'd read the paper that morning. It was time to activate her exit strategy. Or perhaps she should think of it as her 'return' strategy.

  She'd managed to book a flight to Paris that left in six hours, but it was at least a five-hour drive to the airport. Four if you didn't value your vehicle's suspension. Three if you didn't value your life at intersections.

  There was a knock at the door. She tensed and moved quietly to it. The knocking repeated, only louder.

  "Who is it?" she called.

  "Director Kimoto." His clipped tones were unmistakeable.

  Lawrence moved closer. "Are you alone?"

  "Yes." He sounded puzzled. "Why?"

  She wrenched the door open and saw him standing on his own in the corridor. With a quick glance left and right, she pulled him inside and closed the door.

  "What is going on, Dr Lawrence? A couple of the staff said you left in a great hurry. I thought something might be wrong." He pointed at the suitcase on the bed. "Is something wrong?"

  "I have to go."

  "Where? For how long?" Kimoto frowned. "I hope you're not leaving because of what I said the other day."

  Lawrence shook her head. "There were always two reasons I might have to leave. Either they became aware of me. Or I became aware of them." She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Nobody is coming looking for me."

  He gazed at her for several long moments, before bowing his head. "Then I wish you God speed. And I thank you for everything you've done for us. You have made a difference. You have saved lives; we will not forget that." He left, closing the door behind him.

  Lawrence shook her head. Where she was going she would be trying to save more than a few lives. With Richard Armstrong dead, she had no choice: she could hide away no longer. It was time she risked the world discovering that Dominique Lentz was not dead after all.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TOM ARRIVED AT BROCCA AT exactly 8pm and found it packed. The manager smiled when he gave Kate's name, then guided him through the crowd. She sat in a booth near the back.

  "Nice place," he said, as they shook hands.

  "It's a favourite of mine. Very authentic."

  The waiter handed them both me
nus and vanished. Tom studied the options. "It does look good."

  She laughed. "Speak Italian, do you?"

  "No, why?"

  "They've given us the wrong menus."

  He looked at the intricately printed sheets of paper inside their folder. Nothing seemed wrong.

  "I prefer not to have to reach for the dictionary when I order," Kate said. She waved at the waiter. "English menus, please."

  "Of course." He whisked the menus from them, and moments later Tom was staring at the contents of a new faux-leather folder. It looked exactly the same. Kate ordered for them both: pesto calamari, then broiled salmon, along with a bottle of Dolcetto.

  "So why did you choose law?" she asked, holding up her wine glass. "I mean, aside from the money."

  "Don't knock the money. We all have bills and student loans."

  "Yes, but there are plenty of other jobs that pay well."

  "Working with the law is one way to grasp how business works. It's one of the sets of rules that everybody has to operate within." He shrugged. "And I just didn't like adding up enough to be an accountant."

  "And CERUS?"

  "They made me an offer I couldn't refuse."

  "But how do you feel about them keeping the company's financial difficulties from you when you were hired?" She paused. "Unless they didn't. Which would be even more interesting."

  "I'm aware of the rumours, but, as far as I'm concerned, that's all they are."

  "Maybe." She paused. "Talking of the news, did you know Richard Armstrong?"

  Tom shrugged. "He was an engineer. It's a huge company and I've only been there a few days. Why would you think I would know him?" Tom felt his headache returning, stabbing at the base of his skull. Behind him, two mobile phones went off loudly. There were mutterings from diners and embarrassed rummagings as their owners protested that the phones had been on mute. Tom rubbed his temples.