The Last Hack

by Christopher Brookmyre

  He slips down a narrow alley leading behind the building and commences his climb. It is an ascent that he would normally manage in a matter of seconds, but doing it one-handed in the driving rain means he has to take his time and be ultra-cautious.

  He stalls on the branch of a drainpipe next to the gents toilets window, listening for sounds from inside. He has to wait a couple of minutes through toilet flushes and running taps before deciding it’s safe to proceed. He levers the window up using the pen he had left wedged at the base to prevent it falling fully shut, then tumbles awkwardly inside.

  He catches sight of himself in the mirror. His hair and face are soaking, and the reversed jacket looks inexplicable in this context. The bloodstains on his shirt collar are obvious too.

  He should never have come back here. He looks conspicuously like someone who has been outside in the rain, possibly to have a fight. He should leave immediately, he decides. The only question is whether it would be better to go back out the window unseen, or hasten directly out of the main entrance where he will be caught on camera as per his original intention.

  His mind is made up for him when the door opens and two guys stumble in, clearly well refreshed. One of them is holding a glass of red wine that he rests on the edge of a wash-hand basin as he heads for the urinals.

  ‘Shit, mate, what happened to you?’ he asks.

  Parlabane finds inspiration.

  ‘Said the wrong thing, as usual. Someone threw a glass of wine over me. Got my face and hair.’

  Parlabane spies a hopper full of used hand towels and looks for the fresh ones. They’re all gone as it has clearly been a busy night. He settles for fishing one out of the hopper and gives his hair a rub with it.

  ‘What was it you said that was worth that?’ the other bloke asks.

  ‘Oh, this woman was telling me how much she liked Dickens and I think I could maybe have phrased my reply a little more carefully.’

  The bloke laughs a pissed laugh and Parlabane exits, still holding on to the hand towel as a prop for his cover story. He rubs at his head with it as he makes his way through the building, deliberately catching people’s eyes and exchanging brief remarks. Once his hair looks dry he can make for the exit. It’s all about what gets caught on camera: when he entered and when he left.

  Then he sees Lee dead ahead, just inside one of the dining areas. She breaks away from the group she is standing with and heads straight for him. She doesn’t look pleased.

  ‘Jack, where the fuck did you get to?’

  ‘Oh, sorry. Someone spilled some wine on me so I had to go to the bathroom and clean up. Got it out of my hair but my jacket and my shirt are—’

  ‘And was the bathroom at home in Edinburgh? I haven’t seen you in two hours.’

  ‘Sorry. It’s a big place.’

  ‘Candace was giving a speech and she wanted you to say a few words. We had everybody searching for you. You’re soaking and this looks more like bloodstains than wine to me. I ask you again: where the fuck have you been?’

  He attempts an exasperated smile, as if to insist he is confused by her failure to find him, but he knows he isn’t selling it. Lee wouldn’t be where she is if she couldn’t smell a story, far less a lie.

  His alibi isn’t merely collapsing, it has turned into the complete opposite. His absence has been made conspicuous before the entire gathering, meaning there is now a whole restaurant full of witnesses who can testify that he was missing during the very time the murder took place.

  BREAKFAST TELEVISION

  I wake up to the sound of the alarm on my phone. It’s set on repeat to get me up at seven each day so that I can get Lilly to school on time. There is a bleary moment in which the familiar sound is comforting, until I realise I am not even in my bed. I am slumped at the kitchen table, where I have nodded off in front of the laptop, a puddle of drool soaking into the crook of my arm beneath where my head has been resting.

  I don’t know how long I have been out: I feel knackered, so obviously not long enough, but like my laptop, there is no reboot required: we both come out of sleep mode lightning fast and ready to resume.

  I look at the screen and remember the last thing I did. Makes sense. I could never have nodded off until I knew that task was finished. I remember seeing the clock read four-thirty, and according to the data, the upload was completed at 4.55.

  Lilly is normally an early riser, up and dressed and fixing herself some cereal before I stagger my way into the kitchen in response to my alarm. Luckily she has not appeared yet, which gives me time to hunt through the mess for an undamaged bowl. I find an ancient plastic one with the Powerpuff Girls on the rim, which she’s had since she was about five. I pour her some cornflakes and milk and leave it out for her in the living room, then stick my head around the bedroom door.

  The soft sound of my voice isn’t enough. She is still well out of it, as is sometimes the case if she has been up late the night before. I gently shake her into life, then give her a cuddle as I remind her about the state of the place and warn her to stay out of the kitchen.

  ‘Can I watch TV on your computer?’ is the first thing she says, priority one from before she went to sleep.

  ‘Sure.’

  I move the laptop to the living room and open a browser, figuring I can find some cartoons for her while I grab a desperately needed shower. I go to the BBC website and am about to run a search on the iPlayer when I see the headline: ‘Controversial entrepreneur Leo Cruz murdered’. It’s among the top stories.

  Swallowing, I click on the link. A video package launches at the top of the story. There’s a male reporter speaking straight to camera from behind police cordons outside Tricorn House. It is dark and raining behind him – this must have been earlier this morning.

  ‘Police are releasing few details at this stage but have confirmed that Leo Cruz was found dead last night after the alarm was raised by a security guard. It is believed that Mr Cruz may have interrupted a burglar, and there are unconfirmed reports that Synergis was also the target of a simultaneous cyber-attack, in what may have been an extreme act of industrial espionage.’

  I feel Lilly’s hand nudging my shoulder.

  ‘Sam, you said I could watch cartoons.’

  ‘Just a sec, Lilly.’

  I notice a LIVE link beneath the playback window and click on that. It takes me to a more recent page where the emerging details are laid out in hyperlinked bullet points beneath a new video, still buffering.

  • Police confirm theft of prototype device at Synergis offices.

  • Cowboy or visionary: Leo Cruz’s controversial rise and fall.

  • Police on hunt for white male in his 40s.

  The new video begins to stream, a banner declaring it as being live.

  ‘But you said …’

  ‘Lilly, in a minute,’ I scold.

  I am watching a gaunt and dazed woman appear amid camera flashes and the clicks of a dozen shutters. She looks as tired and wrung-out as I feel: her eyes dark-rimmed and red from tears, her face a picture of shock and disbelief. She is holding a piece of paper in both hands, like if she lets go she will fly apart.

  A caption says: ‘Jane Dunwoodie, Head of Research and Development at Synergis’.

  ‘You said a sec then you said a minute. Sam, it’s not fair.’

  ‘LILLY, A MINUTE,’ I shout, turning up the volume on the laptop.

  Her lip trembles then she goes off crying. I feel shitty again but I can’t take my attention from the screen. I know she’ll be back in a minute, as she hasn’t touched her cornflakes. Her hurt will be gone soon. The hurt I’m staring at will last a lot longer.

  Until a few seconds ago, to me Jane Dunwoodie meant only a name, a user account to be hacked and exploited. Too late, I’m seeing that this is a person, and it feels the same as when I found out what I had done to Keisha.

  Her voice is faint and shaky at times as she reads her statement, but she just about keeps it together.

  ‘
I have only known Leo Cruz for a couple of years, but I very quickly learned that he was a remarkable man. Nothing like the caricature the media often drew, but rather someone inspired by innovation more than by money. I have seldom met anyone with so much enthusiasm or who was so determined that an idea should succeed. I have lost a colleague and a friend, but what I have not lost is his inspiration.’

  I think she’s finished and it feels like a relief, as I hate watching these things at the best of times: people suffering in front of my eyes, their feelings pouring out raw. Then she swallows, prompting another wave of flashes and shutter clicks, and a moment later she continues.

  Her voice is flat, but this only heightens the impact, as though she is trying to hold back what she is feeling to get through this.

  ‘I have spoken to Aldous Syne and broken the news. Having known Leo for more than two decades, Aldous was distraught and I am making this statement right now at this most difficult time on the understanding that his grief and his privacy will not be disturbed. Leo and I have worked tirelessly at realising Aldous’s revolutionary new design, and we are in agreement that we should honour Leo by seeing it through. Clearly, there are people who feel threatened and envious regarding what we have been developing here, but we will not allow them to win by destroying Leo’s dream. Whatever it takes, and whatever help we might need in completing it, his vision will live on. Thank you.’

  There is another burst of shutters as she withdraws, and the camera turns to the reporter again.

  ‘As you can see, Jane Dunwoodie is representative of the state of shock reverberating all around Synergis as people wake up to this news. You may have already heard that police believe Mr Cruz was murdered when he interrupted a burglar in the process of stealing a prototype device. Now, it is not known what that device does, but clearly those at Synergis are concerned that this design might be reverse-engineered, particularly as it has been confirmed that design documents were simultaneously stolen last night via a cyber-attack. Jeremy Aldergrave, the Attorney General’s new cybercrime czar, has stated that all of his department’s resources will be deployed in tracing the person or persons responsible and bringing them to justice.’

  Lilly comes back in, looking sheepish and apologetic. I hate it when she acts like she’s afraid of me. I never want her to be afraid of anyone, let alone her sister.

  I decide to stop probing the hurting tooth, and click off the report, finding her some cartoons instead.

  The full resources of the cybercrime task force are being deployed to find me. They won’t even need to suit up if Zodiac decides simply to toss me to them like he did Cicatrix. I have to hope Jack is right about that bargaining chip he’s holding.

  I shower and change, welcoming the feel of the towel and of fresh clothes almost as much as the hot water. I caught a sniff of myself earlier and it was pretty ripe. The kitchen is never warm after dark unless the oven is on but I haven’t sweated so much as I did last night.

  It feels insane to be pursuing the usual routine this morning, when there could be feds at the door any second, but I don’t have much choice. I can hardly take Lilly on the run, and I’d rather she was safely at school if they opt for a ludicrously overpowered show of force like they did for poor Cic.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I call out, picking up her schoolbag from the hall floor.

  She ignores me, giggling at what is on the screen.

  ‘Now, Lilly,’ I warn.

  Still she blanks me. I should have seen this coming. It’s her way of hitting back at me for shouting at her.

  ‘Do you want me to get you a new DVD player?’

  ‘Yes,’ she nods.

  I don’t need to fill in the rest. She grabs her blazer and steps out on to the landing as I lock the door. I wonder what the point of that is after yesterday, as there’s nothing left to steal. Then I remember that my laptop is sitting in the living room, rather than tucked away in its hidey-hole. I was wrong-footed by Lilly watching her cartoons on that instead of her own machine.

  I decide I don’t have time. We’re already running it close this morning, and I’ll be back in forty minutes.

  I am halfway towards the stairs when I hear the sirens. They’re not an exotic sound around here but something tells me they’re heading this way, and in a matter of seconds I see four cars slewing crazily towards the flats from either side.

  I tell Lilly to stop where she is as I look over the balcony. I see cops charging from the vehicles, running towards the stairways at either side. They’re dressed in body armour, carrying SMGs, two pulling up the rear with a battering ram.

  I’m guessing they’ll be coming in the back also, cutting off all exits.

  I notice Lilly is peering over the side too.

  ‘Are they here about the burglars?’ she asks.

  I can hear the clatter of boots coming from the stairwell. They’ll be here in a few more seconds.

  I hug Lilly to me and tell her I’m sorry.

  CANCELLED FLIGHT

  Parlabane is woken by the sound of an insistent hammering and comes round with a horrible jolt of dual realisations. The first is that it is morning and he must have been asleep for hours: something that was not supposed to happen due to fear of the second, which is that the cops are at his door.

  He’s blown it, and for something so daft, so weak: telling himself he needed to put his head down for ten minutes as it was thumping and he was starting to feel a bit woozy. Ten minutes, twenty at most.

  He was meant to be gone by now, though he’d have to confess he hadn’t decided where. He only knew he couldn’t wait around to be caught. He left the restaurant as soon as he could extricate himself from what appeared to be a job-threateningly awkward conversation with Lee (though it was moot if he wasn’t going to be able to show up for said job any more), then rushed to find a cash machine before the clock struck midnight.

  He made two maximum permitted withdrawals either side of twelve. He could already hear the prosecutor present this in court as the actions of a guilty man, but his hope in the meantime was that it might buy him a few days if his location couldn’t be traced by any card transactions.

  He headed back to Mairi’s place and sat glued to the news sites for a few hours. Then he packed a bag with the intention of disappearing, of lying low somewhere he could make some calls and follow whatever leads Sam’s hacking skills came up with. He didn’t know where: he would work that out once his head was clearer. All he needed was to lie down for a little while.

  The hammering resumes, hard and angry. A demand, not a request, to open the door.

  He sits up and instinctively looks to the window. He could get out that way, but they’re bound to have people watching all possible exits. Plus his arm still hurts like a bastard too, as do several of his ribs. He decides he’d best spare Mairi the damage and come quietly.

  THROWN TO THE WOLVES

  I hear the hurried scuffing of boots on concrete rising from beneath us and I can’t work out why I’m not seeing them yet. It’s like that bit in Aliens when the sensors show the monsters as being in the same room but Ripley and Hicks can’t see anything: then it dawns on them that the monsters are directly above.

  In my case it takes the scuffing of boots on concrete to become the crash and splintering of metal on wood for me to realise that the intruders are directly below.

  ‘Sorry for what?’ Lilly asks.

  ‘For shouting at you,’ I say.

  For some reason they’ve made a mistake and gone to the wrong address. I reckon I can get her down the stairs and past them, out of harm’s way before they realise they’ve screwed up.

  I lean over the barrier and have a look down, which is when I get it: they haven’t made a mistake. They’re piling into the Cohens’ place. I carried out the entire hack using their Wi-Fi, and it’s been traced to their address.

  What I don’t get is how. My location should have been anonymised throughout. The virtual private network was set to make it appear to anyone
tracing it as though the hack originated in California.

  I flash back to last night, and the moment of anxiety when my VPN stuttered on start-up, briefly threatening not to load.

  Christ. I’ve been hacked. My VPN software has been sabotaged, though I can’t see how that was possible. I always boot from the memory card I keep in my bra.

  I think about how the place was torn apart, drawers opened, every potential hidey-hole uncovered. Now I know what they were really looking for. They got hold of my laptop and installed something that would disable my VPN, then they put it back, apparently the only thing in the place left untouched.

  Fuck. I walked into this with my eyes shut. Zodiac demanded to be kept up to date with my plans so that he could approve them, but I didn’t see the real reason. It was also why he set me a deadline. He needed notice. He needed to be ready.

  He knew I was going in last night. I told him how I planned to get around the 2FA obstacle using the Tube strike as my cover, then go directly to Tricorn House once I had remote access to the network.

  Everything I did is going to be traceable. Somebody came here and did this to make sure the cops would turn up plenty of evidence of my hack after I was found dead in the freezer. They didn’t bargain on Jack being there instead, but this gives them something even more damning: a conspiracy.

  ‘Lilly, I need to pop back to the flat for something.’

  ‘Won’t we be late?’

  ‘We’ll have to walk a little faster, that’s all. Wait there, I’ll be two seconds.’

  I leave her on the landing while I hurry back inside, as I don’t want Lilly seeing what I’m up to and asking awkward questions. I grab my laptop from the living room and the neoprene cover from where I left it in the kitchen, stuffing one inside the other then both inside a shoulder bag. I take my extra phones and all the cash I’ve got hidden, then go to my bedroom where I lift a change of underwear, an act that forces me to admit what I’m truly facing here.