The Hack

by Will Patching

  And Kylie.

  ‘Jeremy, I’m so worried for you. I’ll ask Dr Jones to make a house-call.’ His wife placed the tray on the antique dresser beside his rather grand four-poster bed, and he felt the mattress move as she sat beside him. ‘Have you taken anything? Do you want this?’ She offered an inhaler to him, for the angina.

  After a few deep sucks the pain eased, the elephant still there but shifting its weight a smidgeon.

  ‘Thanks Pat.’ He had been rude, foul to her and knew it. ‘I really don’t know what came over me. I’m so sorry love. I think I’ll be all right. I just need to rest a little.’ He gave her a weak smile and patted her hand, the reassurance and the apology lightening her expression.

  He had never planned to hurt her, desperately wanting a life that was good and normal, but something vile lurked inside him. It had driven him to do things he knew would not merely hurt her, but disgust her. Shock her. Horrify her.

  ‘I’ll call Dr Jones anyway. Do you want me to inform your office?’

  ‘Please, Pat. There’s nothing too desperate today. Tell them I’ll be in tomorrow.’ He closed his eyes, thinking. He actually loved this woman. If only he could have been a stronger man. A better man. The man she thought he was.

  The bed shifted again as she headed for the door.

  ‘Pat, I’m sorry. For everything... I really do love you.’ He looked at her, saw her smiling as she stood at the door, could see the affection in her eyes.

  He felt wretched.

  ‘Hush, darling. You’ll feel better once you’ve seen the doctor.’ She closed the door softly behind her.

  But, as he lay there, Sir Jeremy knew that it would take more than a prescription from his GP to make things better.

  He had to think. How could he stop things unravelling? Dragging him down?

  Dragging them all down.

  ***

  Gary Knight loved his job, and most days he bounded into his Holborn office ready to ‘kick ass’, as George would say. Today things were rather different. George Simm would have nothing to say, ever again.

  Gary had been beavering away with his team the previous day, hammering out some new ideas for marketing SimmpleTravel.com through the latest social media, when news of George’s death had reached him.

  Gary had been devastated.

  Some twelve years previously, George Simm had made a presentation to the Marketing Undergraduates at Oxford University, expounding his views that the internet had yet to fully revolutionise the travel industry, and predicted the eventual unbundling of traditional travel operators’ package deals. He planned a new way of selling holidays.

  SimmpleTravel was, at that stage, little more than a shell company with an idea, a gleam in Simm’s eye. But Simm knew his stuff; he had already made a very good living from the travel business as an agent in the States, and again in the UK. SimmpleTravel.com was his newborn baby, his dream for the future.

  Gary sat mesmerised as Simm’s fervent belief touched a chord, setting something vibrating deep inside him. After the presentation Gary cornered the internet guru, quizzing him for thirty minutes, his excitement building as he realised the fantastic potential of what Simm planned. George had responded likewise, it was a meeting of minds, and Gary was offered a job on the spot.

  With just seven months of his degree course left to go, Gary made the best decision of his life, gave up his studies and joined George Simm as the Marketing Manager of the fledgling company.

  At just thirty-two years of age he was now on the board of Directors, Marketing Director in name, but really George’s deputy. His income was well into six figures and his share options phenomenal.

  Life’s lottery had been good to Gary, endowed him with classic looks combined with an easy charm and confidence with women that gave him a well-deserved reputation as a Casanova. To top it all his glamour model girlfriend knew and accepted that she was not the only woman in his life. He owned a Porsche and a penthouse in the smart docklands complex at Canary Wharf, with spectacular views over London.

  Despite the vagaries of the stock markets, Gary was now worth in excess of fifteen million pounds. This was a spectacular chunk of capital for any college dropout.

  At least, he had been worth around fifteen million until yesterday. News of George’s death had wiped some ten percent off the value of the company. This had personally cost Gary one and a half million pounds. He was well aware that the value of his company was largely based on market perception and their investors’ continued confidence in the management’s ability to carry on growing the customer base and profits at an exponential rate. It was a virtual company in many respects, their assets minimal, their real value tied up in the brand and their efficient route to market, largely based on George’s expertise with the internet.

  But he had more important things on his mind this morning.

  The previous evening he had spoken to Gloria Simm, tearfully commiserating, promising to drive the company forward, to pick up the reins for her, to keep the company growing, alive and thriving in honour of George’s memory.

  And now this.

  Gary normally read the FT on the tube ride to work, but he had almost died of shock when he picked up the pink pages at the newsagent today. He had spotted the tabloid rag, The Crusader, which had a picture of George and his kids below the screaming headline, accusing his friend, mentor, boss, bringer of great fortune, of being a child molester.

  It must be a mistake. Gary’s thoughts were not on stock prices or marketing or making the company even greater. His thoughts were with Gloria.

  They would have to clear George’s name. Gary wanted a fitting epitaph for the great man, not this.

  Worse for Gary, who sat at his desk, phone in hand, staring at the odious headlines, was that he knew he had to make a call.

  With a heavy heart and tear-filled eyes he dialled Gloria’s number, doubting she was sleeping, even though it was the early hours of the morning in Boston. He hoped she was awake, would pick up the phone and talk to him. He desperately wanted her to hear the accursed news from him, not some damned carping hack reporter.

  ***

  At the gates of a mansion on the outskirts of Boston, almost within sight of the hallowed halls of Harvard University, the CNN, BBC and Fox news vans had set up, surrounded by photographers and other reporters clamouring for news.

  Jackals, thought Gloria Simm as she twitched the curtains to get a better view. Jackals preying on the carcass of her dead husband.

  She returned to the sofa, staggering slightly. Tears welled again as she pushed her fingers through her hair, the normally immaculate styling a tangled matted mess. Her brain was fuzzy from the cocktail of pills and booze, that night’s consumption higher than normal in her quest for elusive sleep. She wanted the children with her, but they were not home yet.

  The selfish brats, she thought.

  When news of George’s death had reached her, it seemed just a cruel trick, a twist of fate, her husband murdered in his room in Thailand for God knows what. She had spoken to the press last night with great dignity, flanked by her attorney, the man fielding questions, reassuring the world that SimmpleTravel would continue ever upwards.

  And after, when she had reached the sanctuary of her home, she had tried to find oblivion in alcohol and sedatives, had broken down and cried, raged against the unfairness of the world.

  She knew the press always intrude, but this was beyond her. The phones had rung and rung, had been ringing non-stop until she had finally unplugged them, all twelve of the blessed things.

  The TV was on, and though not watching, just weeping, thinking of days long past, happier days, Gloria came back to the present with a jolt.

  The CNN broadcast was just too fanciful to believe.

  A glamorous girl, wrapped in fake fur to battle the chill of the night, was standing outside Gloria’s gates with her imposing home in the background, talking into the microphone about her husband and spouting some nonsense about him be
ing a paedophile under investigation by the FBI and the CIA.

  Gloria’s sense of reality, already seriously stretched, began to disintegrate. Just a few days earlier, she had been the perfect corporate wife. She was the hostess, charity fundraiser, the model mother, the rock of the family. Wealthy beyond imagine, she was living the American dream, her life a whirl of society parties, fashion shows, art exhibitions, charity fundraisers, plastic surgery, therapy, pills and booze.

  The disbelief, grief and shock at the cruel act that had created her widowhood were now elevated to such a level she started to doubt her own sanity.

  The CIA and FBI?

  Gloria’s eyes focused on the TV, the presenter’s lips blossomed, filling the screen, then her mind. Words surrounded her as if floating in the room, whispering in her ears, echoing off the walls and finally bouncing inside her head.

  That night, Gloria Simm began to lose her mind.

  ***

  The head of GUSSET was in his office, a rare thing for him to be working at this unholy hour, his temper no longer under control. ‘I-WANT-THIS-MOTHERFUCKER-FOUND!’

  Cody’s eardrums rattled and he took an involuntary step back as his boss stood, the sudden movement upending his chair which toppled and crashed to the floor behind him.

  Teague did not notice, his meaty red face thrust itself across the desk and Cody irrationally wondered if his life was in danger. His boss continued bellowing.

  ‘One low grade intercept you said. Now I’ve got official documents plastered on the web, and the conspiracy theorists are having a field day at our expense...’ He paused, and took a moment to massage his shoulders. Cody spoke.

  ‘Sorry boss, we’re – ’

  ‘Don’t interrupt! In a few hours my boss will be here and will probably rip my head off and crap down my neck.’ He paused for breath but Cody stayed silent. ‘CNN and every other one of those shit-stirring outfits have been non-stop blasting us for this. And I can’t deny a thing. Christ, I can’t give them anything. No friggin comment. That won’t hold them long, Cody.’

  He blew out his cheeks, picked up the chair and sat down heavily. Like Atlas, Cody thought, the whole world on his shoulders.

  ‘Well say something!’

  Cody hesitated. ‘Er... Boss, we’ve got nothing on the guy. We’re working on it but don’t hold out much hope. Unless he hacks us again...’ Cody tailed off with a shrug. ‘Even then I can’t guarantee we’ll get him.’ He knew his boss didn’t want to hear this, but Cody wouldn’t mislead him.

  The boss’s anger seemed aimed at himself as much as at Cody. He visibly tried to calm himself, looked up at the ceiling and asked, ‘Why didn’t I read that report from Thailand?’ He shook his head, the question aimed at no one. He had been too busy, and Cody had told him it was nothing important. His eyes dropped to the young man’s. ‘Okay son, I want you to prepare a presentation, double quick time. The moment the Director walks through his door he will want solutions,’ he glanced at his watch, ‘and we’ve got less than four hours. I want everything your team are doing, every angle, every possible avenue, anything that could help us nail this bastard. Okay?’

  Cody nodded, unsure whether to speak. His boss continued.

  ‘I want those websites’ owners squeezed till their nuts are dry.’

  ‘We’re on that one boss, we’ve tracked thirty sites so far that were among the first to post the report and we may have some positive results today, but...’ Another ominous shrug. Cody realised this definitely was not what Teague wanted to hear, and the man’s voice pierced him like steel.

  ‘Please tell me you can track the son of a bitch. He cannot cut and paste this stuff without leaving some sort of trail for you to follow. Someone has to be accountable for spreading this crap around.’

  ‘Sorry boss... The leads we’ve tracked back have hit a brick wall. And the world and his wife can spread it around now. This guy’s good.’

  Teague eyeballed the young man, strangling the words of admiration as they blurted from Cody’s mouth.

  ‘Don’t give me that geek-shit. Our guys are better. The best. We got the best computer technology in the world too. Just do it!’

  Cody nodded, about to leave. ‘Anything else boss?’

  ‘Yeah, remember one thing. I don’t care how good he is. We have to find him. Hell, I’d like him working here! But right now he constitutes a major threat to national security. Got it?’

  ‘Sure thing. I’d like to meet him too.’

  As Cody left, Teague sat at his desk considering the two current headaches. The geek was on the loose and able to access their systems any time he chose. And the press would hound him until they had the truth behind the Agency’s comments on Simm.

  Hell, he thought, he needed some answers for the Director. Maybe there was some stuff in the archives, some FBI file tucked somewhere, something on Simm he could use.

  Christ, he would manufacture it if necessary.

  He buzzed down to the archive section. He wanted everything they had on Simm. Right away.

  ***

  Charles Tandy puffed on his fat cigar, filling his office with the pungent smoke, occasionally flapping a chubby hand to help disperse a cloud. His feet were on his desk, his hands behind his head, and he was reclining the full extent his leather swivel chair would allow. He cast his eye over the stories, headlines and awards, the photographs of him with the worthy and famous, mounted on the walls, almost entirely covering the available space.

  He pondered where he might find room for the latest edition, already set in a glassed frame awaiting its rightful place in his hall of fame.

  The frame was propped up on his knees, and Charles was allowing himself to indulge in a moment of self-congratulation before cracking on with the day’s work. Despite only four hours kip he was bright and bullish, eyes alert and sparkling, ready to tackle the next stage of the story he already thought of as the Simm saga. He knew the general public had a short attention span, but felt this one might go the full ten days, the maximum he had ever managed to keep a story selling extra copy.

  His major competitor, an editor he respected but disliked intensely and trusted less, had phoned Charles almost the moment he had arrived in the office. To ‘congratulate’ him.

  Charles knew only too well the man was spitting jealous, on a fishing expedition to find out how he did it, where he got the tip off for the story before anyone else, and wanted to know just who the hell is this Kate O’Sullivan anyway? Charles enjoyed sparring with the man, accepted the congratulations – was that the grinding of teeth he could hear? – and gave the man exactly what he expected.

  Zilch.

  Tandy’s moment of savouring his victory was interrupted as the door opened and a head appeared. Not just any head, but the one with the scrap of black fuzz, an apology for a Hitler moustache that had slipped and got stuck below the mouth before dropping off the pointed chin. To Charles this was an absurd tuft of fluff and a source of constant banter between him and its owner, his star reporter.

  ‘Hi Chief. Busy?’

  ‘C’mon in you scruffy grease ball. And get a shave. Here,’ Charles flipped his brass letter opener at the other man as he sat, adding, ‘have one on me!’

  Charles’s belly flubbered a little as he laughed at his own feeble joke, but smoke caught in his throat and he started to cough.

  ‘You still trying to kill yourself boss? You’d better keep this... it might be quicker!’ The knife spun back, and Tandy’s mirthful coughing fit caused him to sit upright and stub his cigar. Gus Valens continued, ‘Go on boss, spit it up. There’s nothing like a good hack!’

  The pun finished Tandy off, already in great humour from his scoop and the call from his opponent. He laughed, spluttered and finally blew his nose to clear his airways. He looked at Gus through teary eyes, just as another hit him again. ‘I knew you were phlegmatic boss, but this is ridiculous...’

  Charles’s abused lungs rattled again, and phlegm made its noisy passage as Cha
rles wheezed and hawked. Finally he managed to speak. ‘You’ll be the death of me son – and before you say I hope so just remember who it was who got you into this business!’

  They grinned at each other and Charles, now recovered sufficiently, continued. ‘Let me guess. You want to know who this O’Sullivan girl is. Frightened she’ll knock you off your perch son?’

  ‘Sod that boss! I’m not ready to hand over to anyone yet. No, I want a crack at the follow up story. It can run and run.’

  ‘Whoa!’ Charles expected this, but wasn’t keen to mix Gus and Kate just yet. She was good, full of potential and, with a bit of training, may even make a great newshound. He enjoyed testing people, liked to push them, see what they were made of, whether they had balls. Well young Kate had a whole Wimbledon fortnight’s worth. Yeah, he thought, I like her.

  ‘Aw come on boss. This has blown everything else out the water... What’re you planning, seven, eight pages today? I just want a chunk. It’s a great story.’

  Charles thought about his plans. He expected to sell another three quarters of a million extra copies over the next week or so and had already sketched in his mind how to follow up the scoop. The art was in making it happen, wringing as many extra copies from the story as possible.

  ‘Okay, if you were working on it what would you do son?’

  ‘Great!’ Gus grinned and stroked his tuft of fuzz. ‘We’ve got the Simm background, family and friends to interview, maybe dig some dirt there. His company shares are plummeting on the back of our article boss, this SimmpleTravel outfit. Someone needs to get onto that right off – what links are there with the pervert travel thing? Was it just Simm? Could it be part of SimmpleTravel? Or some other company he set up?’ Gus thrust himself forward and placed his hands palm down on his boss’s desk, eyes shining. ‘And there’s the CIA and the connection with the President. Surely we can rattle their cages, scare up a few stories.’

  Tandy watched Gus, thinking the ‘boy’ was so like him, how he had been twenty years before.

  Gus went on, his enthusiasm peaking. ‘Best of all, we’ve got a murder in Thailand. Some lucky bleeder’s to go out there and find out what went on. Shock horror – Thailand has a sex industry! Big deal, but what really will shock our readers is the kiddie porn angle, the human trafficking and sex slavery, especially if we can expose the pervs from the UK who go there to take advantage. Asia has been struggling with this for years. And Simm’s firm setting out to do business there! It’s a gem boss. And if you want a volunteer...’