The Codex File (2012)

by Miles Etherton

  Having used UKCitizensNet and eCitTV a few times he was rapidly appreciating the benefits and convenience of these integrated technologies.

  “Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?” Vera asked, leading Michael into what he expected was one of many sitting rooms.

  “Coffee please, black,” Michael replied as Vera disappeared to whichever wing of the house the kitchen was in.

  The house was no less impressive on the inside. Neatly varnished wooden beams criss-crossed the ceiling, meeting in a well-defined apex. An antique clock hung above the ornate wood-burning stove opposite where he sat and looked as if it had been recently used.

  Michael had breathed a sigh of relief when he’d entered the house. The familiar malodorous scents of his own home were banished from here. Instead, he’d been met with the smell of succulent roast beef cooking. Freshly cut flowers had decorated the large reception area. It was probably because someone had been living in the house again since David Langley’s murder he’d thought.

  Looking around the room again, and from the house in general, it was clear David Langley had been on good money at ACE Solutions. If Vincent Trevellion’s office and wardrobe was any indicator, he was on a similar salary.

  Colette had obviously been working for the wrong company he thought. Admittedly she’d been on a good salary, better than his. But nothing on this scale. It was probably why SW Technologies had been close to going into receivership on a couple of occasions, and why the state network tender had been such an important project for them. Redundancies had been looming if they didn’t get the tender he remembered Colette telling him. He never had discovered whether anyone lost their job when SemComNet got the contract.

  Michael’s eyes were drawn to a small framed photograph on the walnut table on the other side of the room. Crossing to the table he picked up the photograph. A chubby man, probably in his 40s, was smiling. His arm was around Vera Langley who was smiling back happily.

  “That’s my David,” Vera said proudly.

  Carrying a wooden tray laden with two cups of coffee and a plate of chocolate biscuits, she placed it down carefully on the coffee table.

  Michael turned to face the woman. A sorrowful look crossed her face as she tenderly stroked the photograph of her late son.

  Sitting down in one of the plump floral sofas, Michael said: “Thank you for seeing me Mrs Langley.”

  “Call me Vera.”

  “Thank you for seeing me Vera. I know it can’t be easy having all those memories brought back to you.”

  “What’s done is done,” she shrugged. “Even if they ever catch who killed my David or your wife and daughter it won’t bring them back. What’s done is done.”

  “Were you living here when it happened?” Michael asked.

  Vera shook her head as she sipped her coffee.

  “No, I was living in Guildford. My husband, David’s father, had only recently died. David had invited me to come and live with him in his big house. But I said no. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Weybridge, it’s just it wasn’t my home. And what man in his 40s really wants to live with his mother anyway?”

  She smiled mischievously.

  Michael sighed inwardly as Vera’s tale of tragedy and loss unfolded. Like him, she’d lost her closest family in one fell swoop. Yet she seemed to have coped with it with more strength and humility than he’d ever shown. There was no bitterness or anger in her. And her loss had been as great as his.

  “The house came to me in the will and I didn’t have the heart to sell it. David so loved this house,” she beamed.

  “I can see why,” Michael acknowledged, reaching for a chocolate biscuit.

  ‘In the end I sold my house and moved here.”

  “I’m genuinely sorry for your loss,” Michael said quietly.

  “I know you can sympathise.”

  “Yes, everybody’s been very sympathetic. Even my employer.”

  “How so?”

  “I’ve been signed off work on full pay and pension until I’m ready to return.”

  “That’s nice,” Vera replied thoughtfully. “David’s employer was very supportive to me as well. I suppose there are some decent people out there after all.”

  Michael smiled weakly. Yes, there were some. But still that evil monster was out there as well.

  “Vera, I know this might sound strange, but did David have a computer at home, or keep any files relating to his work here?”

  “Come with me,” Vera said, easing herself up slowly from the sofa.

  Following into a hallway and through the drawing room Vera led the way into a tidy study. There was no colour in the room, no recently cut flowers, no life. The room was painted in a pale grey, lacking the style of the rest of the house. Michael feared the worse.

  “I’ll leave you to do whatever you need to do,” Vera said finally.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind me having a look around here?”

  “No, not at all,” Vera replied quietly. But as she reached the doorway she added: “Don’t be too long. It happened in here.”

  Before Michael could reply Vera had left and he was alone in the cold, characterless room. A room, that like his own bedroom, had witnessed atrocity.

  On the desk was a large touch-screen tablet. On either side were two well-filled bookcases. He carefully studied the assortment of computer manuals, project management guides, and business process methodologies, all crammed on the sturdy-looking shelves. Programming languages and terms he had never heard of ran up the spines in bright lettering. Looking around the room he began to sigh at the lack of hard-copy files in the study.

  Sliding open the four drawers of the desk revealed nothing more than stationery, yet another Java manual and a complicated looking calculator.

  But still no hard-copy files.

  He frowned. Did everything have to be electronic these days? Forever consigned to some corner of cyberspace.

  Sliding the desk drawers shut Michael wheeled the black armless swivel chair out from under the desk. Sitting in front of the dusty tablet device he pressed the ‘On’ button and waited expectantly, his pulse racing. Within a few moments a message appeared at the top of the screen.

  ‘Unformatted Primary Hard Disk. Please insert System Disk and press Enter.’

  His stomach lurched and his muscles began to ache as his tension seeped through him. Feeling that all too familiar sense of dread he leant back in the comfortable chair, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

  The computer’s hard disk had been formatted. Just like Colette’s machine.

  Were both of these machines robbed of vital information relating to their work? Why not just delete the data from the machine?

  Digging into the depths of what was patchy computer knowledge at best, he remembered the few basic lessons Colette had given him on their home computer.

  “Never panic if you accidentally delete a file. Most files can be retrieved one way or another.”

  Then had come the warning.

  “Never ever, deliberately or accidentally, try and format the hard disk, you won’t be able to retrieve any information after that. Not unless you really know what you’re doing”

  Michael exhaled loudly. If the intention was to irrevocably destroy data on the computer then why not just take a hammer to the hard disk? Why be a butcher to the flesh yet reverential in destroying technology, the proclaimed enemy of the anti-net activists’ cause? It didn’t quite add up.

  Michael’s reflections were interrupted as Vera hobbled back into the characterless study.

  “Any luck?” she asked pleasantly, although not really sure what Michael was looking for. She’d assumed he was still trying to make sense of what had happened. And if she could help, then that was fine.

  “Not really,” Michael lied, not wanting to burden her with thoughts that even he really didn’t understand.

  “I dug this out for you,” Vera said, passing Michael several typed sheets of stapled paper.

  ‘Minute
s of confidential meeting between David Langley (ACE Solutions) and Colette Robertson (SW Technologies), Subject: Potential use of advanced Java applet technologies.”

  “I found it about a month after David died. It was amongst a pile of newspapers in the drawing room.”

  “Did you take this to the police?”

  “There didn’t seem much point. Mr. Trevellion, who was also attacked, had already identified David’s killer. Besides I didn’t want the police going over every inch of David’s house again.”

  Michael nodded and half-smiled.

  “You can have it if you want.” Vera continued.

  “Thank you,” Michael said quietly, quickly scanning the content.

  The meanings on the page didn’t mean very much to him. But at least it was a little bit Colette. And at the moment, that was all he had.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Vincent Trevellion sat on the uncomfortable wooden chair in the long quiet corridor and reached for his mobile phone. Why did all government buildings look this dull he thought? Long characterless corridors, door after door concealing nameless grey bureaucrats who were one cog in the government wheel.

  Dialing the number of his office he looked at Sebastian Tate’s door opposite. He hated being kept waiting at the best of times. But particularly when it was by Sebastian Tate, his government contact, and to all extent and purposes his boss for this project.

  How many people really knew what went on behind the doors in this hidden retreat he wondered? From what Tate had told him those in the know about CODEX were a very exclusive club indeed.

  CODEX, or Covert Operations and Defence Exercises, had been setup by the current administration as a means to conduct specific operations outside the normal defence and Secret Service arrangements. The operations, or CODEX projects, were individually sanctioned by the Prime Minister in conjunction with the Secretary of State for Defence and if they were ever to be classified in security terms would have been a long way north of Top Secret. From there they were passed to Sebastian Tate and his small team to implement and run. That was as far as the knowledge went. A small group operating outside the normal mechanisms of law, scrutiny or accountability.

  Tate had once told him the financing of the specially selected projects came from a slush fund the Prime Minister had at his own personal disposal. The Secretary of State suggested how the money might be best used when a project had been identified. Tate had the job of actually spending it on the necessary resources and personnel.

  Normally, CODEX operatives tended to be former MI5 or MI6 agents, ex-SAS or Special Forces. Only in rare cases were recruits inducted from the civilian sector, depending on the nature of the project. Trevellion was one of the chosen few.

  No other security group, police force or army unit had any knowledge of CODEX. Not even MI5 or the Cabinet. CODEX was the strictest security definition of ‘need to know’.

  And as Trevellion quickly discovered, the UKCitizensNet plan, or at least parts of it, was classified as a CODEX project.

  Tate had recruited Trevellion three years earlier from a rival software company supplying advanced logistical systems for the defence industry. When Tate had revealed the full plan of what UKCitizensNet would ultimately deliver, Trevellion hadn’t taken much convincing to become part of the select team for this CODEX project. Patriotism and the chance to change the future with technology had been sufficient motivation.

  Trevellion had also quickly discovered Sebastian Tate could be very persuasive in his negotiations. A Cambridge education in law at Trinity College, a former visiting fellow of his Alma Mater, coupled with 20 years experience on the bench as Queen’s Council and a naturally direct manner, ensured things got done, and the right people recruited. It was one of the reasons he was so well-suited to join the project. Plain-speaking and a steely determination to get things done defined his own rise up the corporate ladder. Tate had quickly seen himself in his young protege. It wasn’t a fact either men enjoyed, although they both silently acknowledged the personal similarities.

  Over time, he’d discovered the circles Tate had moved in during his time as a barrister had brought him into contact with many interesting individuals within the government. Either defending them or advised them on specific technicalities of a legal issue. Eventually, he’d been approached by MI5 and had been recruited as a special advisor on covert operations. A large web of international contacts and a razor sharp mind made him an obvious choice. Assignments in Iraq, Kosovo and Afghanistan had soon followed running operations that never made the news. Projects that weren’t officially part of the war effort.

  Such was the success of his work that when the McCoy’s new government had won its landslide electoral victory he was quickly approached. And within months the CODEX programme had begun and the plan for UKCitizensNet was put into action.

  Once the CODEX blueprint for UKCitizensNet had been developed expansion at SemComNet, run by the eminent Sir Donald Allison, had led to a deputy’s position becoming available. Trevellion had been the obvious choice and the project had quickly been underway.

  Trevellion had quickly gained the trust and admiration of Sir Donald and was a key part in delivering UKCitizensNet on the 5G semantic web platform to the entire country.

  Tate had stayed in the background but had watched developments with interest, waiting for his moment to pounce. And once Colette Robertson and David Langley were taken care of, and SemComNet had secured the tender, the stakes had been raised. Now things were getting serious. They always did with Tate. It had been that way from the first time they’d met in Tate’s reclusive office.

  Tate looked up from the thick paper file, neatly arranged on the desk in front of him. For a few long seconds he didn’t say a word, his gaze moving slowly across Trevellion’s face, taking in every detail, looking for the one weakness in his expression. One possible emotional vulnerability that might somehow get exploited at a crucial stage in the future, jeopardising the success of the whole project.

  But as hard as he looked, between the details in the CODEX file and Trevellion’s face, there was nothing. No discernible weakness. He was the ideal ‘insider’ to get infiltrated into SemComNet.

  The sales pitch had been easy. They always were. People with Trevellion’s ambitions and thirst for power never needed much convincing. And so it had proved. There were just a few rules of the game his future prodigy needed to be aware of.

  “So, Vincent, tell me, do you have a wife, girlfriend, boyfriend for that matter?”

  Trevellion’s eyes widened slightly at the unusual question. The last two hours had been spent discussing CODEX protocols and project deliverables once he was firmly in place at SemComNet. What the development needs were for UKCitizensNet, who the targets were, and most important who was expendable had been the topics of conversation. All thoroughly discussed. Every permutation analysed, and then dismissed or recorded as required.

  But now this question?

  “What relevance does that have?” Trevellion replied seriously. “You’re not hiring me for my ability to sustain relationships are you?”

  Tate’s cold, grey eyes narrowed almost to the point of being closed, his brow furrowing as he leant forward.

  “Just answer the question. I don’t ask anything I don’t need to know the answer to.”

  Trevellion scowled before responding.

  “There is a woman. A management consultant for a firm of venture capitalists.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “Well, if you call a year serious, then yes. But if you mean marriage, then no.”

  Tate pulled open his desk drawer, pulling out a bottle of single malt whisky and a glass, not offering one to Trevellion.

  “Does she have anything on you which could be construed as blackmail potential?” Tate asked directly, looking hawkishly over the top of his glasses.

  Trevellion’s features tightened, his own eyes narrowing slightly as he absorbed the implications of the enquiry.

&n
bsp; “There’s nothing in the relationship, or any other for that matter, that could be a source of embarrassment for me, or for you,” he replied coldly, holding Tate’s intent, inscrutable gaze throughout.

  A thin smile fleetingly crossed Tate’s face, and then was gone before it might even have been observed.

  “You have two choices then. Either you marry her or you end it. CODEX projects demand all their operatives are 100% focused on the job in hand. If you’re trying to operate with your head emotionally fucked-up over some woman then you’re no good to us. You’d be a bloody liability. And we can’t afford to take that risk. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  As opposed to addling your brain with whisky at 10 in the morning, Trevellion thought wryly, suppressing the urge to share his observation.

  Trevellion nodded obediently, his thoughts wandering onto the management consultant and the time they’d spent together. The year had been good. But they were both ambitious, that had been part of the attraction. More physical than emotional. Terminating the relationship wouldn’t be a big deal for either of them.

  Priorities changed all the time in their respective businesses. And in the last two hours his had changed more than he could ever have imagined. Tate was offering him the chance to shape the future. And who could turn that down?

  Sebastian Tate’s door opened and he appeared in the doorway, beckoning for him to enter. Trevellion rose from his seat, delivering his orders to one of his project teams through his mobile phone, before abruptly ending the call.

  “You sound agitated Vincent. I trust everything is running smoothly at SemComNet?”

  “Fucking regional servers have experienced some downtime recently.”

  Moving into the large office, overlooking the Houses of Parliament and the City of Westminster, he sat at Tate’s desk. Tate took the chair opposite.

  “Nothing to worry about I hope?”

  He began to polish his glasses, holding Trevellion’s gaze, unblinking and intense.