Wreckoning

by Lee Harding

  Chapter 12

  15th November 10:10

  Upton University nestled between an idyllic lake snaking through London’s Green Belt and a dense forest of giant cedars. Part of the campus incorporated a stately manor built on the ruins of a 15th Century castle. It had been erected on a hillock and a winding road led up the slope to the entrance. Cobbled stone steps formed a steep staircase and Alana found herself having to stop to catch her breath.

  She took the break to enjoy the landscape. A flood of nostalgia swept over her. Upton had been her first choice and when they offered her a place she and her mother wept together. Later that day they drove north for a walk along the river’s edge. They laughed and joked about all the adventures she would have. It was rare to see her mum smile like that and she had squeezed her hand tight.

  The bulk of the campus spread through the surrounding acres of flat land. A Students Union sat smack in the centre, a venue that always made Alana blush. She could still hear the dim echo of the countless parties and all-night drinking sessions. The sports hall lay to the east. For some unknown reason she had decided to sign up for the gymnastics team. There was a world of difference between rolling around on her bedroom mattress and the kinds of flips and impossible bends required. She was mildly successful at archery but after an evening with Jack Daniels her aim went high. Poor Rosa had to be rushed to the emergency room for a painful extraction.

  A howling wind screeched from the summit. She turned to face it, her hair held tight within her hat, and began to climb. When she finally reached the top her cheeks were flushed and she was gasping. Her hand automatically went to her bag for a cigarette but she let it go limp. This is good exercise, enjoy the fresh air. Giving up the fags was more of a challenge than she anticipated. She popped out a nicotine gum and chewed while making her way to the main campus building.

  The manor’s cracked façade was overrun with clinging ivy. The plants weaved around to help hold it together. Magnificent columns once acted like turrets to scope oncoming assailants across the valley. Statues of proud, seated lions faced outwards as if protecting their cubs and long windows gave tiny glimpses into what Alana always called her Hogwarts.

  She savoured the familiar crunch as her boots sank into the tiny red pebbles. The sound reminded her of her exam results. All her friends jumped in jubilation on this very spot. They then raced down to the computer department to share the news with Professor Phillip who uncorked a well concealed bottle of malt whisky to celebrate.

  The original doors to the stately home had long since been replaced with an automatic sliding door. As Alana stepped inside an unwelcome new addition confronted her.

  “Please place all your items in here and step forwards.”

  The security guard shook a container. The red eye of the metal detector blinked accusingly.

  “What’s all this for?” Alana said while placing her handbag and phone into the box. The guard didn’t reply and put it on a conveyor belt. He studied the x-ray and Alana thanked God she hadn’t packed a spare set of underwear. He handed the items back and returned to his seat.

  What else has changed?

  Several students stood chatting idly as she made her way to the reception. A huge tapestry of Lord Eaton-Hogg hung on the wall, a previous proprietor of the Upton manor and a fellow alumnus. In 1876 he decided to build a new university on the grounds of his estate to fulfil his vision of bettering young minds. One custom that still existed was to tip your hat at the tapestry and Alana found herself touching her forehead as she left the entrance hall.

  The door to the reception was open and she walked straight in. A young man in a polo neck was sitting behind a raised desk. She had to lift herself on her tiptoes to speak to him.

  “Hi there. Would Professor Preston be teaching today?”

  “He no longer works here.” The young man stood up. Alana noticed he was wearing a name badge pinned to his chest that read Martin.

  “Why, is he ill?”

  “Professor Preston retired two years ago. He was seventy-two, you know.”

  That’d explain why he’s not replying to his university email.

  “Do you have his home number?”

  Martin laughed. A loud whistle came out of his hairy nose. “You think I can give out private faculty member details?”

  “But it’s important that I speak to him. It’s an emergency.”

  Martin clasped his hand over his mouth in mock surprise then moved some papers around as if looking for something.

  “Well if it’s an emergency then I’ll break protocol straight away. Would you like his bank account number and sort code too? Maybe his credit card details?”

  He laughed again. Alana felt like ripping those nose hairs out in a clump. She resisted the urge and changed tactics.

  “You’re Martin, right? I thought I recognized you. I was speaking with some of the girls back there and they said there was a hot guy working on the ground floor here called Marty.”

  The receptionist’s mocking smile dropped. “Nobody calls me Marty, and for your information I already have a girlfriend. We are very much in love.” He crossed his arms as if trying to convince her he was telling the truth.

  Next plan, Alana?

  “That’s great, Martin. Okay, I’ll tell you the truth. My name’s Alana White and I’m a journalist working on the cyber-attack story. You’ve heard about the impending strike on the police and courts?”

  “I’m not a mole living underground.”

  Alana clenched her fists. “Well, I’m working with Detective Inspector Grant of the Cyber Terrorism Unit to follow a lead. Professor Preston is vital to our enquiries.”

  She slid the business card Michael had given her from her purse and turned it so Martin could see the Scotland Yard insignia. Inspecting it thoroughly, he looked at Alana, squinted then looked back down at the card.

  “Also,” she added, “there may be a reward for anyone who can aid the investigation.”

  “I have an ample salary,” Martin said.

  Quickly Alana added, “Not necessarily a monetary reward but certainly a mention in my newscast. You would be an international hero, Martin.”

  Alana watched as his eyes glazed over. Got you. She suppressed a smile as he imagined himself becoming a celebrity overnight. He blinked, turned to check if anyone else was in the office, then typed on his computer. A minute later he pulled a sheet of paper from the whirring printer. As he handed it to her he licked his lips.

  “My full name is Martin Rea Earl. The Second. You won’t forget it, will you? Rea is spelled R-E-A.”

  Alana prised the sheet from his hands. “I couldn’t forget a name like that if I tried. I’m sure His Majesty will one day thank you personally.”

  Leaving the geek to flounder in his delusions of grandeur, Alana stuffed the paper into her bag and walked to the exit. Once outside, she took shelter and withdrew the professor’s details. It gave his home address, landline, and private email.

  It took two hours by train with a tube ride and a bus run to reach the quaint little cottage residing at 42 Innertree View. It was exactly how she pictured the Professor’s home. The final house at the end of a winding cul-de-sac was concealed behind a billowing willow tree. All its branches hung bare and its leafy cargo was strewn over the lawn. The constant downpour had left a deep reservoir of watery sludge at the bottom of the garden. Alana hiked up her jeans as she made her way to the front door. She didn’t see a car and cursed herself for not phoning first. But she had wanted her visit to be a surprise and had bought a box of chocolates on the way.

  Alana never trusted doorbells, not knowing if they worked or not, so instead she elected to knock loudly three times. She saw some movement through the frosted glass and the warped outline of a familiar face grew clearer as it drew closer. The door opened and her old lecturer stared blankly out.

  “Hello, miss. How can I help you on this blustery day?”

  “Hi, Professor. It’s me, Alana White. I
was in your class. Graduated two years ago?”

  There was moment of confusion then sudden clarity.

  “Alana, of course. I apologize for the delay in recognition. You’ve let your hair go curly.”

  Alana swept her locks behind her shoulders while trying to forget the punk revival during her final term at Upton.

  “But how did you get my home address? I hope you didn’t hack into the university mainframe,” he chortled.

  “Actually that’s sort of the reason I came.”

  She was shivering. Phillip realized his lack of manners and pushed the door wide.

  “Please come in out of the cold,” he said. “Beatrice is out walking the dogs.”

  As Alana entered the aroma of baking gingerbread made her stomach give an involuntary rumble.

  “You’re ready for some lunch. I’m making gingerbread men but could fix you up a sandwich if you wish?”

  “I couldn’t possibly...”

  “Nonsense. I believe I have some stilton in the larder.”

  Phillip padded along a narrow corridor in his slippers. Alana noticed he was hunched slightly and had a limp in his left leg. His distinctive brown corduroys matched his cream Aran sweater. He had retained a fine crop of silver hair which was brushed firmly to the front of his scalp.

  They entered the kitchen. A crimson Aga stove worked hard in the corner. Flour coated the worktop in the centre of the room and an assortment of bowls and cutters filled the sink by the window. Pictures of family members hung along the walls. Three young boys gave cheeky grins from the frames.

  “My grandsons: Simon, Rupert, and Samuel. Triplets. You think this place looks a mess now? Wait until those little tykes have been here.”

  Alana smiled. She had entered an enchanted cottage and wanted to curl up beside the cooker and tumble into an endless sleep.

  “Please, sit down.”

  She pulled out a high chair that had stilts for legs and with some difficulty climbed to sit on it. Phillip cleared away the excess flour into the bin with a wet cloth, dried the surface, and then began to make her a sandwich. After a few minutes he presented her with thick sliced bread stacked with a rough cut of honey-roasted ham, stilton cheese, and a generous dollop of homemade chutney. Alana thanked him while eyeing the sandwich. She wolfed it down with a pint of whole cream milk. Phillip watched her eat and when she had finished offered her a biscuit.

  “No thanks, Professor. That was really filling.”

  “The gingerbread men will be ready soon but you can bring some back with you.”

  Alana remembered the chocolates. “I brought these.”

  He took them with a short bow. “How lovely, thank you.”

  “You’re probably wondering why I’m here,” she began.

  “I know exactly why you’re here.”

  Alana raised her eyebrows. “You do?”

  “You are here to ask me about a group of hackers called Wreckoning, which is an excellent pun if I might add.”

  Seeing the smile on his face made her continue without question. “I also need your help with a personal matter.”

  “I hope it’s not boyfriend trouble. I’m really no good at that sort of thing.”

  “It’s about an email. I was using my private account when I received a message with no subject. It came from an address that resembles my name: al@n.a.”

  She opened her bag and gave him a print-out. He read it twice.

  “Who was Cameron Faith?”

  “Yes, that’s all the message said.”

  “Cameron Faith, as in your father?”

  Alana sighed. “Yeah.”

  “And does he know about this email?”

  It hadn’t occurred to her that Phillip didn’t know her father was dead and it hit like a thunderbolt.

  “He...he died two years ago this month.”

  The older man bowed his head and remained quiet. Then he spoke softly.

  “I am very sorry to hear that. Cameron was an excellent student and I know he would have been proud of all your achievements at Upton. The last I’d heard he was involved in that computer games business.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Alana said trying to compose herself.

  “Did you know he and John McBride pioneered the world’s first multi-headed Worm? They speak of a computer virus in such negative terms nowadays but there’s a real poetry in the programming; just like in any language, I suppose. It was part of their dissertation into anti-virus software. Leave it to them to create something that could circumvent those safeguards.”

  “My father was a hacker?”

  “Good lord, no. Not in the modern sense of the word, anyhow. Traditional hacking was more or less tinkering; trying to make the original code do something it wasn’t intended to do. Cameron and John were software engineers. They could devise complex systems that stretched even my intellect. Your father loved cryptography and had a natural flair for creating puzzles in code.”

  I remember, Alana thought. She recalled how her father devised conundrums for her to solve when she was ten. At the time she enjoyed the challenge and Cameron’s visits were frequent. She especially liked the alphabet ciphers, each letter representing a number. It felt like being a spy.

  “Cameron and John were best friends and after leaving Upton they formed a games company together,” Phillip said.

  “Yeah, Crackerjack Games. It was very successful until it went bust for some reason. I’m not sure why but it was around the time my father left me and my mum.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I only knew Cameron for four years while I lectured him. Try not to judge him too harshly, though. A man’s reasons for his actions are often not so clear.”

  Alana wanted to argue but decided against it.

  “Would it be possible to forward me the anonymous email you received? Perhaps there’s something I can glean from the header data.”

  “I will. I tried replying but it automatically sent the message again.”

  “Probably a special algorithm that parses your response searching for key words that will auto generate a different message.”

  “You mean a computer emailed me?”

  Phillip laughed. “Now come, Alana. We covered this in your second year.”

  “I must have been ill that day,” she said sheepishly.

  “Someone has obviously programmed a full conversation into a series of emails which can only be unlocked by you giving the right answers. In essence, Alana, you are the key.”

  The key. There was that phrase again.

  “Professor Phillip, there’s something else. When the attack on the media companies happened my office workstation was the first one targeted. The police found a file hidden on my hard drive called alana.txt. It said I was the key.”

  A buzzer sounded making them jump.

  “My goodness, that gave me a fright,” Phillip said. “I believe the gingerbread men are ready.”

  He folded a cloth in half and opened the oven doors. Three rows of little men all holding hands sizzled on the uppermost tray. He set them on the cooling rack.

  “Alana, I’m unsure why you’ve been singled out. Perhaps you’re being targeted because of your job. Have you written any articles that someone would take umbrage over?”

  “No more than any other journalist.”

  “It could of course be a cruel joke. Maybe it was someone who has a vendetta against your father and now that he’s not alive wants to pass their venom onto you. But this is mere speculation. We need more facts. Forward me the email and I will do some researching of my own.”

  “Thanks, Professor.”

  “And for the last time please call me Phillip. I’m officially retired anyway.”

  “Thank you, Phillip.”

  Alana left with a container full of freshly baked gingerbread men tucked under her arm and walked to the bus stop. She knew what she had to do. Her father was intrinsic to solving this puzzle but she had barely known the man. It was time to demand the ful
l truth from her mother.

  Chapter 13

  16th November 14:08

  The S Class Mercedes sped like a bullet through the countryside. It zigzagged past an elderly couple who stuttered along at a torpid thirty and barely missed an exiting tractor. Charlie didn’t seem to notice. He pushed into sixth gear and listened to his boss.

  “My meeting with David Flair was quite enlightening,” Michael said.

  “The COO of Hydra Security?”

  “Of the UK division. Their main offices are in San Francisco. I didn’t realize the extent Hydra controls most of the IT contracts for the public and private sectors here; over seventy percent of the top five hundred companies and most government departments. They only became a publicly trading company six years ago.”

  “What did Flair say?”

  “Precisely what I knew he would. That they were taking the hacking threat extremely seriously, that they had provided every measure possible to stop the attack, that there was no need to worry as their new suite of tools had a hundred percent success rate against all known malware exploits.”

  “So what do we take from that?”

  “That they’re scared out of their wits. I checked Hydra’s stock price before we left. Looks like a slide in a children’s play park. Flair forgot to mention their software was unable to prevent the first strike.”

  “Mike, has is ever occurred to you there’s a link between the cyber-attacks? Maybe someone in Hydra is using their network against them?”

  Michael switched on his tablet computer and rested it on his lap. “I put that question to Flair who naturally denied any involvement. I told him to screen his employees and check his internal logs for signs of misuse. He told me that was done regularly but would double his efforts.”

  “You’re showing off because you have the Prime Minister in your pocket,” Charlie said and laughed.

  “Don’t remind me. Olsen is passing me orders directly from Downing Street. Noble’s not a happy chappie. I just hope today’s visit isn’t a waste of time.”

  Michael connected securely to his email account. “Here’s a message from Dr Merkel.”