by Tomas Black
“Sorry, folks. Won’t happen again.”
Renshaw made one last check, then attached his safety harness to a central rail that ran the entire circumference of the upper dome. He moved among the climbers, removing sections of the safety rail as he did so, allowing each pair of climbers unrestricted access onto the side of the building.
“Contestants, take your positions,” he shouted.
Drum and Brock moved out to the edge of the platform, slowly letting the rope out through their belay rings. They stood with their backs to the empty void and leaned out, bracing their feet on the edge of the safety platform.
Drum looked to his left. Mei Ling and her companion were already out and in position. He looked to his right and watched the Spanish contingent crawl to the edge; however, the team from Lloyd’s was in disarray. One of them had had second thoughts and was crawling back on his hands and knees to the service hatch. Not a risk his backbone was prepared to underwrite, thought Drum. The remaining team member simply shrugged and backed out into space.
“On your marks,” shouted Renshaw.
The service hatch opened and a large man stepped out onto the platform dressed in the same jumpsuit as Renshaw. He looked around and appeared lost. Drum noticed he had a large scar close to his right eye that left it partially closed. He saw Drum staring and hurried off along the platform to where the remaining Lloyd’s team member was hanging in mid-air.
“Get set,” continued Renshaw.
A klaxon blasted out a loud wailing sound. Brock and Drum both pushed off hard from the edge of the platform, letting the rope slip through their belay rings, allowing them to fall in a graceful, controlled arc towards the side of the building. Both men landed in unison, planting their feet squarely against the exterior fabric of the building. Drum glanced to his right and noticed that the team from Madrid had made it to the first level, although their jump had come up short, leaving them a few metres above. The solo Lloyd’s team member had completely botched his takeoff and was being pulled back up, Renshaw deeming his skills inadequate for the descent. Strike two for the risk-takers.
Team China was already making their second jump with Mei Ling nimbly pushing herself way out from the side of the building in a wide, sweeping arc, her rope slipping fast through her belay ring. Her partner wasn’t far behind.
“We’d better get going,” grunted Brock. “This could be embarrassing.” He pushed off in a giant leap that took him almost level with Mei Ling’s companion.
“We’re not supposed to win,” shouted Drum as he pushed off, following the downward arc of his friend.
“Bollocks,” came back the reply.
Drum landed with both feet thudding against the side of the building, rattling the safety glass of the large diamond-shaped windows. He looked up and saw the Spanish team descending in small, cautious bounces. They were out of the race. Mei Ling was crouching close to the side of the building, preparing for a hard push-off to increase her rate of descent. The woman was fearless.
Not wanting to fall behind, Drum pushed off and let his rope slip for as long as he dared. He fell back, his rope screaming through the steel ring and carabiner of his harness. He glanced up and noticed the big man looking down at him over the edge of the safety platform. Drum thought it odd that he was still there. Safety protocol dictated that the space above them be kept clear of all personnel during the descent except for one safety officer. Drum had a bad feeling about the guy.
His swing had started to return him to the side of the building. Drum realised he was coming in too hot, and quickly tightened the rope around his belay ring to slow himself down. He judged his trajectory would place him just above Brock and within a few metres of Mei Ling and her companion. He braced both legs in anticipation of the impact.
He heard a loud grinding noise from above, and his rope suddenly went slack. He fell a few metres before his rope snapped taut, causing him to bounce and spin on the end of it. He missed his landing and slammed into a window which vibrated wildly within its casing, causing spectators inside the building to cry out and shrink back. There were screams from the spectators below, fearing the glass would fail and come crashing to the ground.
“Drum, I’m coming,” shouted Brock, and pushed himself sideways beneath Drum’s position.
Drum looked up and felt his stomach churn as the tension in the rope evaporated and he fell. Time appeared to slow as his mind raced through every conceivable means of survival. He tried to grasp the great diamond-shaped panes of glass, now slipping by, but they were smooth and tight-fitting with no crevice or gap to grab onto; Brock was pushing and swinging to his position, but he would never make it in time; and then there was Mei Ling, suspended sideways on her rope and running hard against the side of the building towards him like a circus acrobat. Time sped up as his mind exhausted all likely outcomes, and he accepted the realisation that nothing could stop him from hitting the hard pavement below.
“Drum, grab my hand!” shouted Brock, and swung hard towards him. Drum twisted in mid-air and reached out. Their bodies clashed and Drum grasped hold of Brock’s sleeve for a moment before it slipped through his fingers and he continued his fall to the ground.
He turned and saw Mei Ling below him and several metres to his left. She cried out and leapt in mid-stride from the side of the building like a graceful ballet dancer in full flight across a stage, her legs and body arched from the physical effort, the movement sending her out and across the bulging perimeter of glass and steel towards him. It was all in the timing, he thought.
He flung his arms wide as she crashed into him, grasping hold of her slim waist, sending them both spinning and bouncing on the end of her rope as her swing crested the top of its arc. She grunted as her safety harness tightened from his extra weight and cried out something in Mandarin that he didn’t understand.
“You’re crushing me,” she gasped.
Drum realised he had her in a bearhug and relaxed his hold. He grabbed onto her harness as they started to swing back across the building, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Slip the belay line,” he shouted, “or we’ll crash into the facade.”
Mei Ling did not hold on to him but used her free hands and arms to control the belay line, letting it slip gradually through the steel ring hooked onto her harness in a controlled descent that took them to within twenty metres of the courtyard at the bottom of their swing.
“Hold on, we’re almost there,” she said, as they swung gently upwards for what Drum hoped would be the last time.
Mei Ling let out the belay line until they were a few metres above the courtyard. Drum couldn’t hold on any longer and let go, landing and rolling to break his fall. He lay there for a few minutes, looking up at the clear blue sky, waiting for the surge of adrenalin to subside. He got up and dusted himself down, checking he was in one piece.
An alarmed Alice came running up to him. “Ben, Ben, are you all right?”
“A little sore, but nothing broken.” He looked over to where Mei Ling and her partner were unhitching from their ropes and removing their safety harnesses. She turned and waved to him. He was about to walk over when he was surrounded by news crews and reporters wanting interviews. He noticed Mei Ling quickly ditch her gear and disappear into the lobby of the building along with her colleague. Not someone who seeks attention, he thought.
Expectant reporters thrust microphones under his nose and shouted out questions, wanting to be the first to scoop a story.
Drum held up his hands. “People, thank you for your concern. My office manager will make a statement on my behalf.”
“I will?”
“I need to speak to the safety officer.”
“You do?”
“Thank you, Alice. You’re a brick.”
“Right,” she said, frowning.
He made a gap in the mass of reporters and marched swiftly to the lobby of the building where he was met by Brock and Renshaw. A gaggle of reporters tried to follow him in,
but they were barred by building security.
“Drum, you all right?” said Renshaw, a look of deep concern on his face. “I don’t have a clue how this could have happened.”
“Not your fault,” said Drum, “you followed procedure to the letter.”
“Couldn’t have done it better myself,” said Brock.
“Thanks, gents.”
“But check all my equipment, especially the carabiner that attached to the building,” added Drum. “There must have been a reason it failed.”
“I’ll get straight on it,” said Renshaw, and headed back out to the courtyard and into the scrum of reporters that had now surrounded the front of the building.
“I don’t envy his chances with the press,” said Brock. “What do you think happened.”
“Well, Charles checked that fastening at least twice, and I certainly checked it, which leaves only one possibility.”
“Someone tampered with it,” said Brock.
“I can’t think of any other logical explanation, or who would do such a thing.”
“Well, most of the Russian mafia was gunning for you, this time last year. Not to mention Victor. Then there was that woman from MI6—”
“Right, right, there’s a long list, but that’s ancient history.” He recalled the big man with the scar down one eye. “I think it’s connected somehow to our Chinese friends.”
“Mei Ling?” said Brock, “Really?”
“In any event,” said Drum, “I intend to find out.”
CHAPTER TWO
Moretti
It was almost 8.30am by the time Drum had showered and changed in the fitness centre in the Gherkin’s basement. He parted ways with Brock who headed back to his restaurant, Ives, in Leadenhall Market, nearby. In fact, nowhere was very far from anywhere else in the City—the financial district—which comprised just one square mile of real estate in the heart of London. It was a city within a city with its own police force and a governing corporation through which billions of pounds of finance flowed daily. It kept Drum and the organisation he worked for, ROD, very busy.
His phone buzzed. “Hello, Alice.”
“I wish you hadn’t done that.”
He immediately felt guilty. “Sorry, Alice.”
“People with my history try to avoid the press. Now I’m all over the news.”
“It was thoughtless of me. It won’t happen again.”
“I should think not.”
Alice Pritchard—if that was ever her actual name—had joined his small cybersecurity consultancy a year ago, ostensibly as his office manager. An attractive woman in her sixties, she had been dating his father, William. “I’ve met someone,” he’d said. “At the bowls club—nice lady, looking for a part-time job. Thought she could be your office manager. Lord knows you need one.”
It turned out that Alice could do more than type or run his office—although she did both highly efficiently. While her resume spoke of her time as a civil servant, it omitted, for obvious reasons, that she had spent a considerable amount of time working for British Intelligence. What her role had been in the service was highly classified, and not even Drum’s security clearance could unlock her file. But Alice’s history and contacts in the security service had been invaluable to him over the past year, and she was now an integral part of the team.
“Who am I meeting?”
There was a pause as Alice retrieved the details of his next appointment. “You’re meeting with Francesca Moretti of Hatcher-Barnet and McKinley. She has suggested a late breakfast—Liverpool Street Station.”
“The burger place on platform 10.”
Alice sighed. “The hotel—entrance on Liverpool Street. You should just make it.”
“I’m leaving now.”
He left via the back of the Gherkin to avoid the press and stepped out onto Bury Street, walking the short distance to Bevis Marks and the old synagogue after which the road was named. From there it was a short walk to the Liverpool Street entrance of the hotel.
There has been a hotel attached to Liverpool Street Station since 1884. Originally called the Great Eastern, it is a large and impressive Victorian building with a red-brick facade. He and William used to occasionally meet here when his father worked in Spitalfields Market nearby. He remembered it as a dreary, run-down watering-hole for tired City workers waiting for the next train home, with dark-stained floorboards and dingy, dark-panelled walls. So he was shocked when a smartly dressed doorman greeted him at the entrance to the plush lobby of a modern boutique hotel. Inside, all things Victorian had been stripped away—the only element remaining of the hotel’s former glory was its red brick exterior.
He asked directions to the dining room but was instead escorted to the concierge across the marbled expanse of the lobby, illuminated by a massive light well at its centre, which gave the place an airy feel. Well-heeled City execs lounged on plush leather couches, beneath tall potted palms and large expanses of foliage.
A corpulent, moustachioed man in a smart grey suit greeted him at the desk. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Ben Drummond for Francesca Moretti—for breakfast.”
He waited as the concierge sifted through his messages. He retrieved the note he was looking for and smiled. “Ah, yes, Mr Drummond. Ms Moretti is waiting for you at her table. If you’d like to follow me.”
He followed the concierge through the lobby to a pair of large glass doors where he was handed over to a waiter who took him through to the dining room. Like the lobby, the dining room was richly furnished and spaciously laid out with tables adorned with starched white linen and lit by natural sunlight from another central light well. He found Francesca Moretti at a corner table, drinking coffee and reading the Financial Times. She stood and smiled when she saw him, lighting up that part of the dining room with a radiance that made the rest of the room seem dull in comparison. Drum thought her to be in her early to mid-thirties. He admired her thick, dark hair that fell to her shoulders in a cascade of curls. Her suit was all business—two-piece, dark grey with matching heels. She held out a well-manicured hand as he approached.
“Mr Drummond,” she said, with just a hint of an Italian accent, “I’m so pleased you could make it.”
“Please, call me Ben,” he said, shaking her hand.
They sat and a waiter immediately came to take their order. Drum was hungry after the exertions of the morning—a near-death experience had that effect on him. He waited until Moretti had inspected the menu.
“They do a passable sfogliatelle here,” she said, looking past the waiter at a table laden with pastries. “What do you think?”
“I’ll just have croissants, jam and coffee, thank you.”
“That sounds great. I’ll have the same. No, wait. Just bring a selection of pastries and coffee. Thank you.” The waiter scurried off with their order.
She gave him a concerned look and frowned “I wasn’t sure you were coming. Not after this morning. The incident at the Gherkin was featured on this morning’s news.”
He’d hope to escape the limelight. Like Alice, he didn’t relish the media spotlight.
“I had a bit of a falling out with my partner,” he quipped. “Nothing serious.”
“Were you hurt?”
“No, just my pride.”
The waiter arrived promptly with their order, which gave him an excuse to change the subject.
“I was just told about the assignment this morning, Ms Moretti, but I don’t know any of the details. Perhaps you can fill me in?”
She picked a pastry, richly filled with custard and jam, from her plate and brought it to her mouth. “Francesca, please,” she said, before taking a generous bite. “Oh, God. This is delicious. Try one.”
“My croissants are fine,” he said, pouring the coffee. “The assignment?”
She dabbed her mouth with her napkin, “Yes, of course. What do you know about the company Salenko Security Systems?”
“I’ve heard of them. A new start-
up based in Cambridge, run by a guy called Marco Salenko. Czech, I think.”
“Ukrainian,” she corrected.
“Anyway, he purports to have invented a new cybersecurity system. From what I’ve read, it’s a type of firewall, linked to a backend machine learning Algol that can analyse incoming intrusions on the fly. It can supposedly adapt to any type of attack—even zero-day exploits. But other than that, I know very little about the man or his company.”
“Well, you seem to be better informed than most of the techs I’ve talked to, Ben. And you’re right, his technology looks very promising—once you cut through all the hype. Which is where my company comes in.”
“Which does what, exactly.”
“Hatcher-Barnet and McKinley is an investment bank, specialising in the IPO of tech firms. We are the lead underwriter representing a syndicate of smaller investment banks, each with a stake in the forthcoming public offering.”
“The company's going public?” said Drum, a little surprised. “That’s rather quick. Why the rush?”
Moretti shrugged. “It’s no secret that Salenko has courted several angel investors who have ploughed a great deal of money into the company. I guess they’re looking to cash in on their investment.”
Drum also knew that the lead underwriter of the IPO would make a killing in the process—providing everything went according to plan and the float attracted enough suitable investors. “What makes this company different from a hundred others in the field,” said Drum.
“Salenko claims to have made a breakthrough with his AI. It’ll stop any attack and revolutionise cybersecurity as we know it.”
Drum smiled and demolished the rest of his breakfast.
“You’re sceptical?”
“It’s just that every new tech firm trying to push their software claims it’s based on an advanced Artificial Intelligence when in fact it’s just another algorithm.”
She nodded. “You’re right, of course. Which is why they assigned me to this project.”
Drum was curious. “What is your background, exactly—if you don’t mind me asking?”