CONNECTED

by Denman, Simon

  “You know you're safe with me, Sergei. As we sit and savour this friendly drink together, you already know your money's safe with me. Now before you submit to that tiredness that's already weighing so heavily on your eyelids, let's just relieve you of the burden of looking after my money and that tiresome tape so I can slip out of your way, and let you relax into a contented sleep. In just a moment, we're going to get the money and the tape from the safe, and then you're going to settle back here, and give in to that comforting blanket of sleep.” She continued in this vein for a few more minutes, layering suggestion upon supposition and leading him gently down into a state of extreme relaxation and suggestibility. She then helped him slowly out of the chair and over to the safe. She glanced across at the oafish bouncer, who seemed to sense that something was wrong, but appeared to have no idea what it might be. Markov opened the safe and started to remove bundles of fifty pound notes.

  “Just the ten K now, Sergei,” she said gently, smiling across at the bouncer in reassurance. “Don't be too generous now.” She removed a cloth sack from her handbag and stashed the ten grand inside, patting Markov kindly on the shoulder and making reassuring noises. “Now the tape.”

  “But I like to watch tape,” said Markov drowsily.

  “I know, but if you give it to me now, I might invite you to my place so we can watch it together.”

  He smiled, reaching to the back of the safe, and withdrawing the old cassette. Shutting her eyes, and sighing deeply with relief, she took the tape, and slid it into the sack with the money. He closed the heavy steel door, spun the combination dial, and let himself be led back to the chair.

  She leant down positioning her ear close to his mouth as if trying to hear something he was about to whisper. “What was that?” she said, just loud enough for the bouncer to hear. “You want me to go now, so you can get some sleep... okay then Sergei.” She then placed a hand on his forehead and whispered in his ear. “Sleep now.” Resting Markov's head against the back of the chair, she tousled his hair with mock affection and began striding confidently towards the door. The bouncer glanced at Markov, looked across at Nadia, and then back at Markov again. He was clearly confused, presumably because this was not the chain of events he had been led to expect.

  “You know you really don't want to wake him now, just having already told you that he wants me to leave!” she said assertively and, she hoped, confusingly.

  “No... I ...” he said, looking duly confused.

  “Well thank you so much,” she said continuing towards him purposefully, as though he had already started moving to one side.

  “That's okay,” he said, finally stepping back and letting her pass.

  The urge to run out of the club as fast as her little Prada’s would carry her was strong, but she willed herself to remain calm and strolled out to the car as though what had just happened was the most natural thing in the world. Only when safely in the driver's seat, with her key in the ignition, did she allow herself a glance back towards the club. As expected, the bouncer was standing in the doorway looking more confused than ever. She grinned at him, and drove gently away, cool and confident.

  CHAPTER 16

  It had been a fitful night's sleep. On the train back from London the previous evening, Doug had resolved to tell Bullock the whole story, but this morning that resolution had diminished. Although still certain of the connections between Markov, the hacking and the stolen PC, he knew it was really no more than speculation. All he could prove was that someone with access to an old server, once used by Zhirkov, had been receiving his logged keystrokes. The rest, while seemingly a logical extrapolation of the facts, was completely without substance. Assuming Markov to be reasonably intelligent, the PC would now be long gone. So other than the coincidence of the hacker showing up at his club, there was probably nothing else linking the two men. Of course, Bullock might still find the information useful, even without any concrete proof connecting the pieces, but another factor had crept in, which was now clouding Doug's judgement. He couldn't be certain that he and Brian had been recognised by Markov as they had crouched outside his club the night before, but it seemed more than likely. Given this, and based on the previous week’s altercation in the High Street, then the man could now be looking to vent more of that scarily controlled anger. Doug sincerely hoped that Cindy had ceased all contact with the thug, but if not, he feared what might happen if such rage were unleashed on her. Witnessing Cindy’s protective intervention with the handbag from hell, it must have hit Markov (in more ways than one) that there had been something between them.

  He had sent her the text before lunch, partly in warning and partly because he so desperately wanted an excuse to see her again, but that had been three hours ago. He lay on his bed staring at the ceiling and bit into an overripe and somewhat powdery tasting apple. So much had happened in the last couple of weeks, it was hard to take in. If only he could wind back the clock, talk to Kal, and find out what the hell he had been up to. It all seemed to revolve around Dream-Zone, but why the Russians were so interested remained a mystery, the solution of which would require creation of the elusive combo file. He grabbed his laptop from the floor and opened the video editing software. Using the compiler, he began to examine the programme's code for hints as to how it worked. The style of programming struck Doug as rather clumsy, lacking the explanatory comments normally included to help other programmers decipher it. Eventually though, he managed to tease out the underlying structure and develop a plan as to how it might be modified. Strangely enough, there were some similarities between this task and the previous week's computing assignment. He remembered Becky's account of their tutor's comments and then paused. If the evolving fractals had helped him to accomplish that task, then perhaps it could help him with this one too. He excitedly located the fractal generator and clicked, once again marvelling at the curious feelings evoked within him. After a few moments to rest his eyes, he switched back to the video editing project. At first, he assumed he was looking at the wrong thing. Rather than the obscure, almost impenetrable syntax of the programming language, Doug could now see its underlying purpose as clearly as though it were written in plain English. He scrolled down through the code in silent wonder. While nothing on the screen had actually changed, his own mental projection of the content had somehow altered dramatically. It reminded him of learning French as a foreign exchange student in his early teens.

  Like most kids learning a foreign language in the English school system, Doug had filled his head with the vocabulary and grammar sufficient to pass exams, while lacking the ability to recall any of it fast enough to converse. Only after six weeks of total immersion with a French family in the Dordogne had the linguistic neural pathways become sufficiently entrenched to allow actual thinking in French. He still remembered the moment quite vividly. He had, one morning, been tucking into a hearty breakfast of fresh croissants and baguette, when his host had pushed a copy of “Le Figaro” across the rustic wooden table. Looking down, he started to read one of the stories before realising, for the first time in his life, that what he was seeing in the newsprint, rather than the usual string of words requiring translation into English, was its meaning.

  Similarly, as he now browsed the lines of code, it almost felt as though he were thinking in the computer programming language in which it was written. Quite how Dream-Zone had enabled this was beyond him, but right now, the ‘how’ seemed less important. He quickly set about modifying the programme to allow input from the fractal generator. Once again, his thoughts seemed to be conveyed to his typing fingers as naturally as if brushing his teeth. Temporarily at least, Dream-Zone appeared to be catapulting his programming ability from a level of conscious competence to one of unconscious competence. It seemed similar to the way people progress from learner driver, having to concentrate hard on every aspect of the vehicle's control, to experienced road user, in which the mind is free to engage multiple distractions, while unconsciously taking care of the d
riving. Except that instead of the thousands of hours required to become expert at such an activity, Dream-Zone was apparently doing it in a matter of minutes. There was one important difference however, insofar as the Dream-Zone effect seemed impermanent. At some point between finishing last week's assignment and today, the advantage had clearly worn off. Even so, with the separate Dream-Zone components capable of such cognitive enhancement, there was no telling what their combination might achieve. This was both exhilarating and terrifying, in equal measure. His mobile began to ring. It was Cindy. “Doug? I got your text. Thanks for the heads-up. Have you contacted them yet?”

  “Not yet. Cindy, I've been worried about you.” There was a long pause. “Cindy, are you there?”

  “Are you busy right now?”

  “Err...no...not particularly. What do you have in mind?”

  “We need to talk. I'm on my way to pick you up. Should be about twenty minutes. I'll call again when I get there.”

  “Look, I can handle it if you don't want to see me again, I just need to know,” said Doug, trying hard not to sound too desperate.

  “Let's just talk when I see you,” she said, and hung up.

  Doug looked at his mobile, going over the conversation in his head, and trying to extract clues from the intonation and choice of words, as to her intentions and feelings. It was no use, she had given nothing away. He looked at the computer screen, which once again displayed only a page of impenetrable code. Composing a quick email to Peter, he attached the work in progress and went to clean up.

  “Wow!” he said, climbing into the Porsche and stroking its soft red leather interior. “I was hoping I might get a chance to ride in this thing while actually conscious.”

  “Buckle up!” she said, putting her foot to the floor, and unleashing an acceleration greater than any Doug had before experienced in a vehicle without wings.

  “Holy shit!” he said, instinctively raising a hand to the dashboard as they approached the corner at a speed sufficient to send lesser vehicles into an uncontrollable spin. Barely braking, and without so much as a squeal of tyres, the car swung tightly around the bend and accelerated again towards Boundary Road.

  She glanced across at him. “It's my little indulgence - fun isn't it?”

  He turned towards her and once again felt himself falling head over heels.

  She smiled kindly. “Doug, I'm sorry I haven't called.”

  He waited for the rest, but it didn't come. Did she want to end it or not? The suspense was killing him, but at the same time, he didn't want to say anything that might force the wrong answer. Even the current uncertainty now seemed better than knowing it was definitely over.

  “So where are we going?” he asked, finally.

  “I don't know, I thought maybe we could go to a quiet pub somewhere and have a drink. Maybe even get a bite to eat later if you're up for it.”

  “Sounds good to me!” said Doug, feeling a bit more optimistic. He couldn't imagine why she would suggest dinner if her intention was only to dump him later.

  “So what makes you think Sergei has been - what did you say - hacking and stealing things?” she asked innocently, as if commenting on the weather.

  Doug carefully recounted the events of the previous day from the initial discovery of the key-logger through to the transfer of the computer base unit outside the club. Cindy listened quietly, her eyes focused on the road ahead, and occasionally raising her eyebrows in apparent surprise. He was just wondering whether to tell of the failed plan to confront Zhirkov when she pulled up outside a small country pub bordered by trees and open grassland. Doug got out and stretched, realising that in spite of its proximity to campus, this was not a pub he had come across before. It was an attractive old building with freshly painted white walls, contrasted with red windows and door. Cindy pointed her key fob at the Porsche, and it responded with a short yelp of acknowledgement accompanied by a flash of lights.

  Apart from the landlord and one old man sitting at the bar, clutching an empty pint jug, the establishment appeared empty. Doug glanced at his watch. It was a little after four. The old man watched as they made their way to the bar, his watery steel-grey eyes brimming with a combination of nostalgic envy and pitying recognition of the inevitable naivety of youth.

  “So what'll it be?” asked Cindy, opening her handbag and pulling out her wallet.

  “I think it'll have to be a pint of Old Speckled Hen,” Doug said eagerly, after spotting his favourite beer on tap.

  “You're very beautiful!” said the old man, his voice carrying the gentle detachment from social protocol so familiar in those of advancing years.

  “Thank you!” said Cindy, smiling at him and placing a hand on his upper arm. “May I offer you something as well?” she asked.

  “Very intelligent too!” said the old man, ignoring the offer and nodding knowingly at Doug.

  “Why, thank you again, kind sir! Would you allow me to buy you a drink?” she offered again, somewhat taken aback.

  For a few seconds, he looked her in the eyes. “No thank you,” he said, setting his glass on the counter, and getting slowly to his feet, “it's time I was on my way.” He then walked over, placed a hand on Doug's shoulder and whispered, “Femme fatale!”

  Doug smiled politely, and as the old man made his way to the door, turned to Cindy with a grin. To his surprise, she was staring after him, looking unaccountably hurt.

  “Don't worry,” whispered Doug, “the old guy probably doesn't know what he's saying half the time - except when he said you were beautiful and intelligent of course - he got that part right.”

  She gave a nervous little laugh and ordered a spritzer.

  “So what do you think about my theory of Markov stealing Dream-Zone?” Doug asked, as they took their seats at a table in the corner.

  “He's a night club owner and small time criminal. I can't see what he could want with some computer file you developed,” she replied, sceptically.

  “I've been thinking about that,” he said, undeterred. “I can't be certain, because I haven't yet been able to recreate what it was that Kal and Martin produced, but if the individual files are anything to go by, this thing could have some pretty amazing mind-altering properties.”

  “Mind altering? You mean like a drug?” she asked, looking more serious.

  “Well - yeah, kind of, I suppose. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I'm really starting to think it could be dangerous. I mean, I don't really know, but the only two people to have used this thing so far, have both committed suicide. If it gets into the public domain... ”He trailed off, not really wanting to accept it himself. “Well - people could get hurt.”

  Cindy's face had gone pale. She sat staring at her spritzer with a troubled expression as though preparing to say something. Doug pulled out his tobacco and rolled a cigarette. Patting his pockets, he sighed, “I don't suppose you have a light do you?”

  “In there,” she said, distractedly, nodding towards her bag on the empty chair beside him. Doug picked it up, grinning, as he felt the inertia of the training weight, and peered inside. Spotting something small and red, and assuming it to be a lighter, he pulled it out, holding the object up in front of his face and staring at it with a frown.

  “Yes, that's a memory stick!” said Cindy sarcastically. “There's also a match-book in there somewhere - it's white with some fancy restaurant logo on it.”

  “I've seen this before,” said Doug continuing to stare at the stick.

  “You're taking a degree in Computing, I should hope you have seen one of those before. What's the matter with you?”

  “No, I've seen this memory stick before. Not one like it, but this very one, I'm sure. And I saw it in a dream. A dream about you!”

  “Okay, so you dream about me – that's nice – and one time your mind included something that you'd noticed in my bag at some point or other.”

  “Maybe... But I don't remember ever seeing it in your bag. In fact I'm pretty sure I've never loo
ked inside your bag before. Isn't that weird? In the dream, you were giving it to Markov – in a strip club.”

  She looked at him hard for a few seconds, as if waiting for him to add some hidden meaning and then gave a dismissive snort. She took the memory stick, returning it to her bag and handed him the match-book. “Here, go and fill your lungs with carcinogens, while I buy you another pint. Sounds like you need it.”

  Doug took the matches and wandered absent-mindedly towards the door. Cindy's explanation made perfect sense. He couldn't recall seeing the device anywhere other than in that strange and vivid dream, but he supposed it was possible. Perhaps it had registered in his subconscious.

  Nadia ordered another two drinks and stood at the bar, deep in thought. “Everything all right love?” asked the landlord. “You look rumbled.”

  “Do I really? No, I'm fine – thanks,” she said, trying to compose her face into an expression of quiet contentment. She had been wondering how much more, if anything she might have to tell Doug about her involvement in all of this, but since arriving at the pub, it felt as though everybody already knew. First, the old man had made that parting shot about her being a Femme Fatale. Now Doug appeared to be taunting her with the memory stick, with which she had planned to steal Dream-Zone. Even the barman seemed to be picking up on something, of which she had no awareness. Was she losing her touch? And the day had started so well. Sergei would undoubtedly be in a foul mood after being so easily duped, but she had been careful not take any more from him than agreed. It had been tempting and almost certainly possible, but it would have risked a level of retribution from the Russian that she had no intention of inviting. The thing that was troubling her most though, was Doug's latest suggestion that people could end up getting hurt. The coincidence of both Kal and Martin committing suicide had not been lost on her of course, but somehow she had managed to push it to the back of her mind. She had detached herself from the possibility of any such consequences, in the same way she had overlooked the inherent illegality of the various businesses for which she had acted as accountant over the years. She had always been blessed with a conveniently errant moral compass, but she drew the line at knowingly allowing harm to be inflicted on the innocent. If Markov went ahead and sold it to Wong, as agreed, then Wong would be embedding it into his online gaming service. Cindy didn't know quite how it worked, but apparently a number of these Chinese online gaming companies had been resorting to increasingly underhand tactics, in order to gain competitive advantage in what was reputedly a multi-billion dollar marketplace. Until now, this skulduggery had mostly involved denial-of-service attacks, using armies of compromised personal computers to temporarily knock competitive services off-line. More recently though, there had been talk of incorporating flashing lights and hypnotic sounds, in an attempt to make the gaming experience more addictive. Markov was not especially computer literate, but he had a sound head for business, and had been quick to embrace the profitable new world of cybercrime, as a diversification from his cash cows of sex and drugs. Somehow, the students' work had come to his attention, and he had immediately spotted the market opportunity. None of that had previously posed any problem for Nadia's conscience, but this was different. If Dream-Zone really was capable of inciting suicide, then the thought of exposing tens of thousands of young people to its effects was simply unthinkable. For once, she feared she might have gone too far, and for the first time in a very long while, didn't know what to do about it.