The Last Hack

by Christopher Brookmyre

  ‘Can’t you just tell them it’s to do with the case and it’s confidential? That way they’ll never know.’

  ‘Yes, but if they were to find out later that I was lying, the consequences would be severe. I can’t put myself in a position whereby my client could effectively blackmail me in future by revealing my previous deceit.’

  Bledsoe says he’ll look into the possibilities, but it’s last thing on a Friday so it sounds like a big no to me.

  By the time the call is over, I am tracking seventeen new downloads of the Synergis package.

  I feel another kick to the gut.

  ‘Shit toasters.’

  ‘What?’ asks Jack.

  ‘Lansing said he’d let us know when and where Zodiac told him to forward the files. He was lying. He’s sent me nothing but the package is popping up all over the place.’

  ‘Why so many?’

  ‘Zodiac must have given Lansing about twenty addresses to send it on to. Probably has each of those recipients primed to forward it to multiple addresses too, so that it puts him at several removes. But the headline news is it looks like we might not be on the same side after all.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  Jack turns his laptop screen to face me.

  Both our pictures are now heading the BBC story; probably on the homepage too. No artist’s impressions any more: in Jack’s case it’s his photo byline pic, and in mine this goggle-eyed horror from my school website.

  Jack’s voice is a hollow whisper.

  ‘The bastard’s named us.’

  BREAKING STORY

  Parlabane scans the text a second time, looking beyond the initial shock value to parse how much the police must know, and more importantly how they know it. There is no reference to the CCTV footage from inside Synergis, so at least they haven’t decrypted that yet.

  It doesn’t say how he was identified, or how they got Sam’s name either. Both of them coming in at the same time could only have been due to one source: Lansing is trying to stay onside with Zodiac while simultaneously scoring points with the authorities before they come after him. It’s a tricky hand to play, but Parlabane reckons the devious bastard might have the right cards to pull it off.

  There is no description of him having a shaven head, which is a mercy. Lansing must have decided it was wise not to share the minor detail that these two wanted fugitives had been to his house. There’s nothing about the niqab either. Lansing never saw that, but this indicates he is probably the police’s only source at this stage.

  That won’t last long now that their names and photos are public.

  Sam takes out her phone and starts dialling.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asks.

  ‘I want to give Mel a quick ring and speak to Lilly, make sure she knows I haven’t abandoned her.’

  ‘You can’t. In fact, you need to kill your phone, right now. Take out the SIM and the battery.’

  ‘I just need to speak to her for a few seconds,’ she pleads. ‘It’s not a contract phone. They don’t have my details.’

  ‘The police don’t need your details. All they need is one person to tell them your number and then they can track that device.’

  She looks hurt but she knows he’s right. She snaps the back off the handset.

  ‘What about yours?’ she asks, with a hint of petulance.

  ‘Literally nobody has this number. This is a back-up I got after you hacked my main phone.’

  She looks sheepishly apologetic about this, but there’s not time to dwell on sins of the past.

  ‘I hope the Wi-Fi in this place is stable,’ he says.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we’re going to have to find a way of extricating ourselves from this hyper-gravity vortex of shit without leaving our hotel room.’

  Sam doesn’t look particularly fazed by this prospect.

  ‘You’d be amazed at the places I’ve been without leaving my flat,’ she responds.

  ‘Yes, but the problem is that they’ve all ultimately led you to where we’re sitting now.’

  He gets her to call room service. They haven’t eaten all day and he doesn’t know what the night will bring.

  Sam dons the niqab again when they hear the knock at the door, while Parlabane hides out in the bathroom until the waiter has left. On his suggestion she ordered a starter, a main and a dessert to conceal that the order is for two people.

  They eat on their knees in front of their laptops, both scanning news sites for any fresh updates. Sam reports that there are now more than twenty activations of her modified zip file, pinging in from locations all across the globe.

  ‘Still no word from your mate Spammy?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ve learned not to hold my breath when it comes to the big man.’

  ‘Sure. But it would be helpful to know what it is we’ve stolen.’

  Parlabane is finishing off the last of the chips when he notices a new banner at the top of the BBC story.

  ‘LIVE: Synergis to make “significant announcement” at press conference.’

  He clicks on the link and is about to direct Sam’s attention to it when he observes that her sharper reflexes have ensured she already has it open on her screen.

  The live stream shows what he recognises as the reception lobby inside the Synergis offices, the camera pointed at an improvised podium created by erecting two pop-up banners displaying the company logo. Journalists and photographers can be seen still getting into position in the foreground, but nobody from Synergis is yet centre-stage.

  A scrolling marquee across the bottom states: ‘Synergis press conference imminent, live from Tricorn House’, to explain why the stream is currently broadcasting the visual equivalent of dead air. Then, as a veteran of a thousand such events, Parlabane recognises the ripple that passes through a room when the principal has made an appearance.

  It is Tanya Collier, Cruz’s PA, who is preparing to take her place in front of the microphones, shutter clicks and flashes playing herald. Matthew Coleridge is standing behind her, grim-faced, placing a hand on her shoulder in a gesture of support.

  Parlabane stiffens. These are the two Synergis staffers he most feared might recognise him from the artist’s impression, but that’s no longer relevant. Everybody knows who they’re looking for now.

  She is not here to talk about the murder, however.

  She clears her throat, asks for everyone’s attention and begins reading from a prepared statement. She seems nervous and uncomfortable, her bloodshot eyes indicating she is only able to get through this because she’s already all cried out.

  Her delivery is stiff and halting, not helped by the content. Parlabane recognises a statement worked out by committee and thoroughly lawyered.

  ‘These are not the circumstances under which one would ever wish to announce a new product, particularly one that has taken years of quiet development by an inspired individual, and the concerted efforts of everyone at our company. In fact, it seems almost crass and barely even relevant to be talking about business and about electronics right now, but there are reasons why it is highly relevant. There are reasons why it is imperative.’

  She takes a moment, swallowing and glancing down at the sheet of paper in her hands. In keeping with the rhythm of these things, her pause is accompanied by a renewed burst of camera activity.

  ‘The work that has gone into what was stolen last night means that this announcement deserves a greater fanfare; the sum of our collective endeavours ought to be unveiled at a glamorous and polished event, with a marketing and publicity campaign primed and set to roll out. However, what happened to our boss, our colleague and our friend Leo Cruz means that we feel duty-bound to act in defence of his legacy.

  ‘We have been made aware that blueprints and design documents are already being offered for sale on the dark web, and we are certain that our prototype was stolen for the purpose of retro-engineering. We are therefore taking the reluctant and otherwise premature step of rele
asing details of a project that we did not intend to reveal for at least eighteen months. These details consist of early marketing materials, proof-of-concept documents and development reports demonstrating how close we are to realising our vision. They are live on the Synergis website, as of now.’

  Sam navigates there in a blur of fingers.

  Tanya pauses again. Parlabane can already see reporters’ arms shooting upright but a hand gesture indicates that she is not finished.

  ‘As of yesterday, we felt we were at least two years away from bringing this product to market. We still intend to see this through. However, we are aware that a larger competitor, with access to our prototype and our blueprints, might be able to develop a similar device sooner, especially as so much of the development has been done for them. That is why we want the world to know what has been taken from us. Someone in this industry has blood on their hands, and we will not allow them to simply wash it away.’

  There is an eruption of questions. She dips her head as though recoiling, turns to the side and retreats from view.

  He looks across to Sam, who is already scrolling through what she has downloaded.

  ‘So what are we looking at?’ he asks. ‘Is it something worth killing Leo Cruz for?’

  Sam angles her screen towards him, her face a portrait of concern.

  ‘Worth killing Leo Cruz, the two of us and anybody else who gets in the way.’

  GAME-CHANGER

  Parlabane catches a glimpse of a logo and a name, the same as he saw on the flight case. The document on screen is entitled ‘The Synergis Dimension’, but before he can get a proper look at the text, Sam has clicked on a different file and launched a video.

  The footage is not slick and professional. The definition is high enough, but it has been done for testing and documentation purposes, not for presentation. The framing is functional and the zoom static, suggesting the camera is on a tripod and being operated by someone who knows little more than how to point it in the right direction and set it recording.

  It shows Cruz. He is filmed from a few feet away inside a blank-walled room Parlabane never saw on either of his visits. Given that there is an MRI scanner dominating the space, it seems safe to assume this was filmed somewhere else.

  Cruz is holding the prototype device in the upturned palm of his left hand, then plugs a cable into one end, connecting it to the scanner.

  Someone off-camera is talking to him, but Parlabane doesn’t recognise the voice. Whoever he is, he sounds quietly spoken, a distracted air about his delivery. With a start, Parlabane realises he might be listening to Aldous Syne.

  ‘You ready?’ he asks.

  Cruz climbs on to the scanner’s bed, glancing beyond the camera to whoever is back there.

  There is a low hum as the MRI scan commences, at which point the camera tracks right, focusing on the table where the prototype sits. After a few seconds, an image appears, floating in the air above the table. Parlabane is reminded of the briefing scenes in Star Wars movies, except that instead of a Death Star, he is looking at a human brain. Leo Cruz’s brain, to be precise.

  The device is rendering the MRI scan as a three-dimensional holographic model, in real time.

  The implications are colossal.

  ‘Okay, need to give my brain something to work with,’ Cruz says. ‘Like we discussed. Countdown. Give me a word.’

  ‘Camouflage,’ replies the other man.

  ‘Right, let’s see. Flame. Mole. Clam. Golf.’

  Flashes appear like tiny fireworks on the hologram, displaying the live activity as Cruz searches for anagrams.

  Parlabane feels a chill, listening to the boyish pleasure in Cruz’s voice and witnessing the excitement in his face. This is the man whose corpse he woke up alongside less than twenty-four hours ago, here looking forward to a bright future that was literally in his possession.

  The video ends. Sam turns to Parlabane.

  ‘This is incredible,’ she says, her voice almost reduced to a whisper. ‘Real-time 3D modelling of scanner data. Do you have any idea what that means? It could be the start of a new understanding of things like Lilly’s condition.’

  Parlabane goes to his bag and takes out the prototype. Sam all but pounces to snatch it from him, turning it over in her hands. Lacking a scanner to connect to, the device remains a lifeless lump of metal, but Sam is nonetheless regarding it with rapt reverence.

  ‘How does it work?’ she asks.

  ‘You’re asking the wrong guy. When I was in Cruz’s office, I saw documents pertaining to the purchase of a firm called Optronix, which makes laser projectors. And among the stuff we got from the dumpster dive was a bulk purchase order for e-cigarettes.’

  He points to one edge of the device, where there are two tiny circular apertures side by side.

  ‘One of these is the laser and the other must be a vapour outlet, for projecting holographic images without a surface. However, the real magic must be in whatever interprets the data. A new chipset devised by Syne.’

  ‘This could change lives, save lives,’ Sam says, still reeling from the implications. Then she’s reeling from a new one.

  ‘Unless we’ve just helped someone put a spoke in it. Jesus, I couldn’t live with that.’

  ‘Nobody’s going to be able to put a spoke in this,’ Parlabane assures her. ‘Not now that the world knows about it. The entire medical profession is going to be coveting this device, not to mention the entire electronics industry. This will put Synergis right back in the vanguard.’

  ‘I guess that’s why they were calling it RBA.’

  As she says this, Parlabane remembers that there is someone who has already been coveting it for a while.

  ‘Winter has the inside track on this. He’s an investor.’

  ‘Lansing told us Zodiac was an electronics geek.’

  ‘And the industry people I spoke to said Winter was a sociopath with a keen eye for innovation.’

  ‘He wants the Dimension for himself.’

  ‘Yes,’ Parlabane agrees. ‘Though this announcement is going to throw his strategy a curve. His slice of the company will be worth a lot more, but if his main game was to buy out his fellow investors after Cruz’s death caused the share price to tank, then I suspect he’s out of luck.’

  ‘But surely Winter couldn’t profit from cashing out his Synergis stock then develop his own rival product from a stolen idea? Someone would join the dots back to a guy who had prior inside knowledge of the Dimension’s development.’

  ‘There were all kinds of non-disclosure agreements covering the project, so it might not be that easy to prove who knew what when. But right now that’s moot, because whether it’s Winter or anybody else, Zodiac doesn’t actually have the prototype. We do.’

  Sam glances down at the Dimension like it’s an alien artefact. ‘So why hasn’t he been in touch asking for it? Is it possible he hasn’t actually opened the flight case? Or was the person who attacked you another middle man who hasn’t made his drop yet?’

  It’s a question that has been troubling Parlabane too, but it’s only as Sam asks it that he sees the answer.

  ‘It’s because he has a problem: he doesn’t have any leverage. He blackmailed you into this using the threat of prison, but with the cops after you for robbery and murder, the RSGN hack is barely an issue any more. In fact, right now he has a vested interest in you not being caught until you’ve handed over the merchandise. He knows he’s got nothing to offer, nothing to scare you with, so he won’t be back in touch until one of those things changes.’

  ‘So like you said, we do have a bargaining chip.’

  Parlabane lifts it from Sam’s hand and places it carefully back inside his jacket.

  Her eyes trace the movement, reluctant to have given it up. The Precious.

  His mobile vibrates against his chest. Must be another email, as nobody has this number to be sending him any texts. He swipes the screen and sees that the message is from Lee, its entirety displayed i
n the preview window:

  Where the fuck are you? Answer your phone or you’re fucking fired.

  She’s been calling the other number, the phone that got taken last night.

  He goes into the bathroom for at least a token degree of privacy and calls her, wondering as he dials how quickly the cops can trace a signal.

  ‘Lee. It’s me.’

  ‘Jack, for fuck’s sake. Where have you been? Where are you?’

  Her tone is testy, to say the least.

  ‘I’d rather not disclose that. It’s complicated.’

  ‘You don’t say. The cops have been here looking for you, asking questions, taking statements.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘I told them the truth: I don’t know. I tried calling you right in front of them. I’ve left about six messages. We’re not at the stage where I’m prepared to lie to the police for you.’

  ‘We’re not at the stage where I’d ask you to.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s not just me they spoke to. They asked if anyone knew where you were last night, so they’ve got several statements to the effect that you conspicuously fucked off from a party for several hours then came back spattered in what you claimed was red wine. What the fuck is going on?’

  ‘Is there any point in saying it’s not what it looks like?’

  ‘Well, to the police it looks like you murdered Leo Cruz. They’ve been to your flat, must have been talking to your neighbours. Somebody saw you leave with a woman in a niqab, so they were asking us who that might be, whether you had a girlfriend.’

  He knows it’s the least of his concerns, and that what happened between them wasn’t supposed to mean anything, but he can still hear an edge of hurt to her voice.

  It’s the lying. The mistrust. She deserves better.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he tells her, meaning it on so many levels.

  He hangs up.

  Parlabane allows himself a sigh, a moment to gather his breath. He wouldn’t have thought it possible two minutes ago, but everything just got a lot more complicated.