The Exphoria Code

by Antony Johnston

  At her father’s funeral, she did the bare minimum required of her: turn up, be present, accept people’s condolences. She said little, and at the small reception afterwards spent most of the time either locked in a bathroom stall, or standing outside smoking. It was the first time her mother had seen her smoke, but to Bridge’s surprise, she didn’t object. What if she had, anyway? What was there to say, what was there to do? In a matter of centuries — the blink of an eye, in cosmic terms — everything Bridge was, everything she’d done and was yet to achieve, would be dust. Nobody would know she’d ever existed. So what was the point? Why bother doing anything?

  Because there was one constant, one thing that gave existence in this cold universe a singular purpose. Truth.

  Even through grieving for her father, and troubles at school, Bridge’s affinity for mathematics and computers never wavered. They’d always been good subjects for her, but now she had an epiphany that mathematics was the true language of the universe. Numbers couldn’t lie, couldn’t deceive, couldn’t be incorrect.

  Numbers couldn’t die.

  Later, looking back, she understood that it had ultimately saved her from depression. She spent the summer holiday after her father’s death locked in her room, her computer in constant activity, obsessed with code. Not just computer code, but DNA sequencing, astrophysics, quantum mechanics, chemical formulae: the codes of existence, of life itself. Cold, implacable, unassailable Truth.

  Later that year she was arrested for the first time. A vegetarian message board she frequented linked to an exposé revealing a chain of abattoirs that followed inhumane and unhygienic practices. But instead of being penalised for it, the company continued to enjoy local subsidies, because the owner was related to a local councillor. All of the message board posters decried the scandal. Many of them bemoaned that the slaughterhouses’ true conditions would never make the national news, because if they did then surely everyone who saw it would realise the error of their ways and go veggie. Some of them voiced a desire to shut down the abattoirs. One outlined a plan to sneak into a facility, steal chunks of raw meat waiting to be processed, and throw them at the councillor during a public meeting. But none of them actually did anything.

  Bridge did.

  It wasn’t much — there was only so much a fifteen-year-old ensconced in her bedroom with a computer could do, no matter how determined — but it was something she knew none of the other board members were capable of. She found the website of the corrupt councillor, hacked into the disappointingly insecure server, and defaced the home page. An admission of guilt, a statement of his wrongdoings, screengrabs from the leaked surveillance footage that had exposed the abattoirs, and a hand-drawn diagram showing his relationship to the owner. Finally, she used GIMP to alter his welcoming photo. She painted devil horns over his head, added crudely-drawn blood leaking from his blank eyes and plastic smile, and superimposed a pile of cattle carcasses spilling out of his shirt.

  When the police marched her out of her house into a waiting car, Bridge wasn’t afraid or nervous. What she felt was something she’d never truly known before — the thrill that came from complete certainty, of knowing that she had absolutely, undeniably, done the right thing. She had told the truth.

  The police wouldn’t say how they caught her, but she knew immediately it was, ultimately, her own hubris. She’d been unable to resist bragging on the message board. Either someone from the police was monitoring the board, or another member had ratted her out. It didn’t matter, because she had no intention of denying it. She was proud of what she’d done. She’d scaled the mountain and shouted from its summit.

  They let her off with a fine, because of her youth and her family’s standing in the community. Her mother cried that even in death, her father was still protecting Bridge from consequences. Their relationship, hardly stellar to begin with, had never been the same after that.

  Later in life, Bridge would cringe at some of her actions during those complex years. But that thrill of certainty propelled her through, and saved her from herself. By her nineteenth birthday she’d known two people who’d committed suicide, three more who’d attempted it, and she suspected at least another two of having tried, but would never admit it. Whereas Bridge, despite what many assumed, never contemplated taking her own life. What was the sense in it, when any moment unwilling death could come calling? Bridge’s unshakeable, inarguable, immovable belief in the value of truth was the closest thing she had to a religion.

  Ironically, much of her work at SIS consisted of telling lies upon lies. But they were merely a means to an end, only to deceive the unworthy, and the truth itself never wavered. The problem was that, like quantum waves, truth could exist in a state of uncertainty before it collapsed into the real. And the truth here at Agenbeux was bifurcated, existing in two equally likely states until Bridge could climb the last stretch, crest the peak, and define reality by its observation.

  Either Voclaine was the mole…or he wasn’t. How certain could Bridge be?

  That was the simple, but enormous, question that had nagged her the night before, sending her back to the spreadsheet to search for truth in numbers. She’d almost fallen asleep at her desk, with the secure partition still open, but managed to stay awake long enough to log out and crawl into bed. She slept quickly, before she even had a chance to set Radio 3 playing. And when she woke five minutes before her alarm, as always, the question was still there — as if it had merely paused while she slept, waiting for Bridge to regain consciousness so it could resume its endless loop.

  If Voclaine wasn’t the mole, who was?

  She tried to maintain a semblance of normality when she arrived at the facility that morning, but couldn’t shake the feeling everyone was staring at her, watching her. Surely Montgomery hadn’t told them. That would be outrageous. She tested the waters by chatting to some project leads over first coffee, pretending she wanted to speak with Voclaine this morning, and did they happen to know where he was? They were amazed she hadn’t heard that Voclaine hadn’t been seen since he was marched into a room during security checks the previous evening. Nobody knew why, or where he was now. Bridge faked amazement while sighing with relief inside, and returned to her office to conduct her scheduled morning interview with Montgomery’s secretary.

  But she remained distracted throughout, unable to really focus on the secretary’s answers. At one point she asked if Bridge was OK, as she looked unwell. She said she was fine, but she couldn’t stop replaying the Voclaine interview in her mind, looking for something she’d missed. Some piece of truth she’d been unable to see the first time around, because she was overwhelmed by excitement and confusion that Voclaine could be the mole, as she’d suspected.

  Voclaine fitted the profile. The mole had to be smart. Cunning, quiet, secretive — and the Frenchman was all those things. But the mole would also know how to deflect suspicion. How not to draw attention to himself by, say, destroying his private phone the moment someone discovered it. Was it possible Voclaine threw himself on his sword because he was guilty…but not of being a mole? Maybe he was embezzling. Maybe that ‘family phone’ was actually full of porn. Or maybe he was just paranoid.

  The golden rule of tracing leaks was simple and eternal. Cui bono? Whose life was now made easier, if Bridge thought she had her man?

  There was only one candidate.

  But it was absurd, wasn’t it? Montgomery was the most senior British civil servant at the facility, literally trusted with overseeing the entire software operation. If he was dodgy, wouldn’t the MoD know? Wouldn’t SIS, and Giles, know? Besides, he had no expertise. Montgomery’s file credited him with experience at managing teams and projects, but there was no indication he knew the first thing about computer programming. Voclaine would know what to look for, where to find it, and understand what he was looking at. Whereas Montgomery, unless he was leading a double life as a hardcore coder, didn’t know on
e end of a Unix linefeed from the other. Then again, would that matter? If Bridge’s hunch was right, the mole wouldn’t need to know what he was looking at. All he had to do was take photos of the screen.

  A horrible thought crashed into her mind. Were there two moles?

  Exphoria was an important project; something any number of hostile states would love to get their hands on if they knew it existed. The notion that it could have been infiltrated by more than one foreign actor was plausible, if unlikely. But the two most senior managers at the entire facility? That would be incredible.

  And yet, and yet. She remembered watching through the glass, as Montgomery lost his composure while questioning Voclaine. As if he had something to prove. He’d said something, something that bothered her at the time but she’d put it out of her mind…

  “Don’t look at her, look at me.” Of all the things he could have said to call Voclaine’s attention away from the mirror, all the ways he could have phrased it, he said that. Don’t look at her. Had he been trying to give Bridge away? Trying to signal to Voclaine that it was she who watched from behind the mirror, she who was behind the whole thing? He hadn’t named Bridge, but it wouldn’t take a spy to figure out that the new arrival from London asking lots of questions was the her in question. Had he hoped to blow her cover, so she’d be forced to return to England?

  It was the final straw that broke the back of her focus. She wouldn’t get any more work done today. The secretary had nothing to hide, and her only remaining scheduled interviews were with Voclaine and Montgomery. Pointless. What could she do instead?

  The answer came as simply as the question. She stepped out for a smoke break, almost expecting to see Voclaine loitering in his usual corner of the compound, puffing away on a cigarette. Despite everything, she found herself missing his sarcastic, cynical asides. When she returned inside, as she approached her office, something wasn’t right. The door was open. But she was sure, absolutely sure, that she’d closed it behind her when she left for the compound. Hadn’t she?

  Montgomery stood at her desk, tapping on her laptop keyboard. He looked up as she entered, flustered.

  “Can I help you, James?” Bridge asked.

  “Ah, there you are. I was just, just wondering what your schedule was for today. If you still needed to talk to me. With Voclaine gone, you know.” He moved to click something with the trackpad, but from this angle she couldn’t see the screen.

  “Please don’t do that.”

  “Oh, I was closing your calendar. Sorry, sorry. I’ll leave you to it.”

  Bridge stood aside to let him through the door. After he passed, she said, “James?”

  He stopped, looked back. “Yes?”

  “There’s a copy of my schedule in your email.”

  He paused, then said, “Really? Ah, François must have dealt with that. I didn’t realise. Well, very good. Carry on.” He walked into his office, closing the door behind him.

  Bridge checked the Dell. She hadn’t logged out when she left the room, which was foolish, but there was nothing in the unrestricted partition that would give her away. If anyone thought to check the disk volume, they might wonder what the separate partition, small and unrelated to the OS, was for. But she doubted Montgomery would know where to find the partition map, much less wonder at its composition. She couldn’t risk logging into it here at Guichetech, in case someone noticed it on the network, but made a mental note to check it as soon as she was outside the facility with a signal. And that, she now knew, would be very soon.

  She spent the next twenty minutes with nonsense work, tidying up spreadsheets and pretending to think. But her mind had been made up since returning to find Montgomery standing at her laptop. She closed the lid, gathered her things, and knocked on his door.

  “Entrez,” he called from inside. Bridge opened the door to find Montgomery alone, lost in thought. “Oh, um, Ms Short. How are things?”

  “Mostly fine, but…I’m afraid I’m rather unwell this morning.”

  Montgomery seemed to palpably relax at the news, and adopted a sympathetic expression. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Anything serious?”

  “Stomach pains,” she said meaningfully, hoping that would curtail any further questions. “I think maybe I should go back to the guest house and lie down for an hour or two, if that’s OK?”

  “Ah,” said Montgomery, understanding. “Well, um, why not take the afternoon off, if you need it? After all,” he half-smiled, “you have your man. You’re just here for show, now, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Just for show. Thank you, James.” She smiled, and left to go and break into his apartment.

  49

  The Russian had put him in an impossible position.

  He had no realistic way of obtaining more code, whether by taking photographs or any other method. He couldn’t very well come clean to the MoD, or security services, and hope they’d be lenient. He knew they wouldn’t, and they might throw him to the French authorities, who would almost certainly be worse. And he couldn’t stay here. Sooner or later Bridget Short would realise that Voclaine wasn’t the mole, and her attention would return to other suspects. Meanwhile, Montgomery had been foolish enough to make himself look suspicious when he tried to get into her laptop that morning. He was due to return to England in less than a week, after the final deadline. But did he really think he could string both the Russian and Ms Short along for all that time?

  A knock at the door broke his train of thought. His heart sank when Ms Short entered. Surely she was here to accuse him, and that would be the end of it. But to his surprise, she merely complained of ‘stomach pains’, and asked to go home for a while. She didn’t need to be more specific. Montgomery suggested she not only return to her guest house, but that she stay there and recuperate for the rest of the day. He couldn’t believe his luck, but such a sudden proximity to catastrophe cemented the only realistic option open to him.

  He had to run.

  The Swiss account was still there, but for how long? The Russians didn’t seem to realise it, but he was certain they would when they discovered he’d abandoned them, and so a plan formulated in his mind. He would drive to the bank in

  Switzerland, switch the money to a fresh account at a different bank, withdraw a large amount in cash, use some of it to buy a new car under a fake name, and keep the remainder hidden inside the vehicle while he found a place to live incognito.

  He would take the gun the Russian had given Montgomery, in case anyone tried to stop him. He’d tossed it on his bedside table as soon as he returned home that night, but as the Russian had said, even unloaded it could be a useful bluff. And surely there were places in Switzerland, of all countries, where he could buy ammunition.

  Finally, he would drive his existing hire car off a cliff, to fake his own death.

  He thought of his family, then, and realised he was more saddened by the thought of never seeing his children again than his wife. Perhaps because he knew she’d be fine. If he was assumed to be dead, she could live off his life insurance and pension. She might even find a new husband, though he didn’t like to think so. He wondered how much his children would grieve for him. They were still in high school, not yet blunted by the harsh winds of adulthood.

  He waited until lunchtime, then took the mini-tablet from his desk drawer and placed it in his bag. He shouldn’t take it out of the facility at all, but with Ms Short gone, nobody was checking for second devices at security. Besides, the tablet contained perhaps the last pictures of his family he would ever see, and its SD card held several hundred photos he hadn’t yet given to the Russian. They might be useful as a bargaining chip if they hunted him down. Which they would surely do.

  Perhaps he could sell the photos to the Chinese.

  Montgomery shouldered the bag, took a deep breath, and headed back to his apartment.

  50

 
“Thanks for joining me,” said Andrea Thomson as the black cab drove slowly through East London. “Figured it couldn’t hurt to have someone with me who knows what they’re looking for.”

  “You mean a geek,” said Steve Wicker.

  Andrea smiled in return. “If you like.”

  “I thought Lisa Hebden was liaising with you and Six on this one?”

  “Not any more.”

  Andrea had spent ten minutes on an early call with Hebden, and her boss Sundar Patel at GCHQ, explaining that they almost missed this very lead because they didn’t follow SIS’ instructions. Andrea stopped short of delivering the bollocking herself, leaving that to Patel, but made her feelings known. Then she asked to borrow Steve Wicker, one of the surveillance service’s youngest and brightest, for a recce.

  She’d worked with Steve several times before, turning to him when she needed something non-specialised from the surveillance division, and as the car rolled towards Shoreditch high street she reflected on how much he and Brigitte Sharp had in common, now that she thought about it. Both began as self-taught hackers running afoul of the law, and both seemed to operate on a combination of equal parts instinct and logic that marked them out from their colleagues in the computer divisions.

  Andrea realised with surprise that the main difference between them was to be found in her own reactions. In Brigitte she found those qualities maddening, but in Steve she found them reassuring. No doubt Joan would have a field day with that, but gender aside, perhaps the difference in their ambitions was also a factor. Despite her protests, Brigitte obviously wanted to be a field officer. By contrast, Steve was never happier than when sitting behind a keyboard. He was only with Andrea now because, when she’d looked into the Shoreditch offices to which she’d followed the young man from the pub two nights ago, her guess had been proven right. The third floor did indeed belong to a tech startup, a relatively new outfit called ‘SignalAir’. They were something to do with wifi technology, a subject way over her head, so she wanted someone there as a bullshit sniffer. And while the security service still employed some technical specialists, these days the best and brightest geeks were generally found at GCHQ.