Day Zero

by James Swallow

  Coyle laughed. “It looks like you got that wrong then, doesn’t it?”

  An offended silence followed. Then, “Or perhaps we overestimated your abilities.”

  Still chuckling, Coyle made himself coffee. “If I had known, I would have devised a contingency plan. Since I did not, I am forced to improvise. Now that we are on the same page, however, we should discuss how best to–”

  “It will be handled today.”

  The words came sharp and brittle, the way one might mention an unpleasant task that nonetheless needed doing, and would be done. Coyle paused, and then took a sip of coffee. “How?”

  “It is of no relevance.”

  “I disagree.”

  “That too is of no relevance. What are you planning to do about Tell?”

  Coyle considered throwing Zero Day’s own words back at them, but decided it would be unprofessional. “I believe I’ve managed to locate where Tell is hiding. Once the drone is recharged and rearmed, I’ll send it back out on the hunt. Tell will not see the sunset.” He paused. “Unless another unmentioned complication should rear its head, that is.”

  “It will not.”

  Coyle grunted. “That still leaves Holden to deal with.”

  “George Holden is no longer an issue.”

  Coyle hesitated. “He’s dead? How?”

  “It is of no–”

  “Relevance, yes, fine.” Coyle rubbed his face. “Then Tell is the last. And DedSec. And afterwards…”

  “You will be paid the remainder of your fee, as promised.” A pause. “We would encourage you to leave London as soon as possible, once Tell is dead. Things will be… chaotic, in the aftermath.”

  Coyle knew better than to ask the obvious question. Instead, he took another swallow of coffee and grunted his assent. Zero Day ended the call abruptly.

  “Good day to you as well,” he muttered. He wandered back to the window, still sipping at his coffee. He thought longingly of home, of his wife and daughter.

  And he thought of Zero Day, and the threats they had made. So far, they did not seem to realise he was on their trail – or maybe they knew, but did not care.

  The drone chimed, signalling that it had completed its recharge cycle. He set his coffee down and turned to rearm it.

  Forty-eight hours left.

  Sarah stood by the window, watching the rain fall across Whitechapel. She had a mug of tea in hand, and there was a half-eaten energy bar in her desk drawer. She felt a vague tug of excitement as she considered the day ahead. The TOAN conference was in two days, and her party as well.

  No. Her revolt.

  There hadn’t been a proper backbench rebellion in a few years. Murmurings, stirrings, the occasional outburst. But a proper rebellion took coordination – cunning. It took the right cause, as well. Something backbenchers from all the parties could get behind. Governmental overreach was as good a reason as any.

  She took a swallow of tea, watching the rain slide across the glass. It would be risky, but what was life without a bit of risk? Besides which, a politician’s career was one of risk management. Doing nothing was as bad as doing something stupid. You had to be seen to do something noteworthy, else when election time rolled around, your constituency, not to mention your party, forgot your name.

  “Knock-knock,” someone said, from behind her.

  “Winston,” Sarah said, turning to greet her visitor. “You look like you’ve barely slept. Rough night?”

  Winston looked… rumpled, which was not a word she normally associated with him. She hadn’t been expecting him to pop by so early. “You could say that. Have you seen today’s headlines?”

  “No, I’ve been busy. Why?”

  Winston showed her the screen of his Optik. It was a video of a body being pulled out of Regent’s Canal. A photograph flashed on the display – a corporate ID: George Holden. Sarah sat down abruptly. “Damn it.”

  “You met with him yesterday, didn’t you?” Winston lowered his Optik. “I saw that on the evening news. GBB was quite scathing about the inappropriateness of a backbencher inserting herself into an active investigation.”

  “Then I must be doing something right.”

  “This is no laughing matter, Sarah. You have to calm down. Let the Met do their job – hell, let Albion do theirs, whatever that might be this week.” He sat down opposite her. “I’m getting pressure from the party to distance myself from you.”

  Sarah paused. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “I am definitely doing something right, then.” Sarah leaned back, a speculative expression on her face. Inside, however, she was worried.

  “You’re taking this far too lightly, Sarah. I hope we don’t wake up one morning to find you mysteriously renditioned to a black site and detained for the foreseeable.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to come and rescue me, won’t you?”

  “I like you Sarah, but not that much.” Winston looked at her. “I think you should back off, calm it down. We should cancel this get-together of yours and keep our heads down until we see how it all shakes out.”

  “By then it might well be too late,” she said, softly. She frowned. “Holden used the ‘C’ word.”

  “How rude of him.”

  “Not that one. Conspiracy.” She pulled out her own Optik. News reports flashed by, most of them concerned with the conference, but one caught her eye. Albion, along with the Met, were investigating a shooting near Whitechapel Station. “There was another shooting last night.”

  “I know. A member of the fabled DedSec, if my sources are to be believed.”

  “It would be, wouldn’t it?” She looked at him. “You see what they’re doing, of course? With DedSec?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Albion is positioning DedSec as a terror threat. You were at lunch. Remember what Cass said?”

  Winston nodded, somewhat reluctantly. “Do you think there’s anything to it?”

  Sarah paused, considering. She and Winston had clashed as often as they’d stood side-by-side. They weren’t friends, but then again they were of similar minds on many subjects. He’d been in her corner since the start of this, whatever it was, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t go his own way if he thought it was to his own advantage.

  Finally, she sat forward and said, “I do. DedSec are something, definitely, but they’re not terrorists. Not as far as I can tell. They haven’t blown anything up, after all.”

  “We both know there’s more to terrorism than bombs.”

  She nodded. “Yes, but so far, they’ve contented themselves to graffiti and unorthodox wealth redistribution…”

  “You can call it theft, Sarah. We’re alone here.”

  She smiled. “If it were my money, I might. But it’s not. The only damage they’ve done is cosmetic – a few propaganda bombs in inconvenient places. They’re hacktivists, nothing more.”

  “For now,” Winston said. “But you said Holden mentioned a conspiracy. Related to DedSec?”

  “Not directly, no. But it’s all tied in. He sent me a picture, of a man he claimed was involved in the shootings. And a number.”

  “So… Holden was involved?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  “Have you told the police?”

  “Not as such.”

  Winston sat back, a stunned look on his face. “This is not good, Sarah. Joking aside, you could be arrested for this.”

  “I don’t think we’ve quite reached that point yet. Here, I’m sending the photo to you.” Sarah sent the data through to Winston’s Optik.

  “What? Why? I don’t want it!”

  “Too late, already sent. Take a look at it – do you recognise him?”

  Winston peered at the image, a scowl on his face. After a moment, he shook his head. “No. No bells here, I’m relieved to report.”

  “What about the number?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think you could look into it for me?”<
br />
  Winston was silent for a moment. Then, “Why would I do that?”

  “It would mean I owe you a favour.”

  “Can’t your assistant do it?”

  “If I thought Faulkner wasn’t going to be knocking on my door later this afternoon, I would. But like you yourself just said, I need to be careful.”

  Winston looked at the picture again, and sat back. “You think all this has to do with the shooting?” he said, in a worried tone. “An actual conspiracy?”

  “There are too many coincidences piling up for it to be unrelated.” Sarah tapped her fingers on the desk, thinking. “You said it yourself – something’s happening. We can’t see it, but it’s there. Prowling in the dark. I think all of this smells like someone scrambling to hide something, and I want to know it is before it leaps out to bite us on the rear.”

  “If Faulkner is involved, he’ll know Holden sent this to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “He might come after you as well.”

  Sarah nodded slowly. “I expect he’ll be here before the day is out.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Assure him I have no idea what he’s talking about.” She tapped at her Optik, deleting Holden’s information from her device.

  Winston smiled. “You know they say nothing is ever truly deleted when it comes to computers.”

  “Yes, but it buys us some time, I think.” She looked away. “Faulkner doesn’t care about me. I’m a gadfly, nothing more. Albion has bigger prey in mind.”

  “DedSec, you mean?”

  “Alas, I was actually thinking of London,” she said, softly. She looked at him. “Get me that information, Winston. It might hold the solution to our Albion problem.”

  Winston pushed himself to his feet. “You’re going to owe me for this, you know. More than just a favour this time, I think.”

  “A small price to pay.”

  Sarah saw him out, then stopped by Hannah’s door. “You heard?”

  Hannah jolted guiltily, and Sarah knew she’d been eavesdropping. She turned in her seat. “I… might have, yes.”

  “You have access to my work files and email,” Sarah said. It wasn’t a question. “I need you to make copies of everything Holden sent us and get them somewhere safe, well away from here – set up a private server or something. Whatever it is tech-savvy people do. Then scrub everything. I want nothing directly connecting us to Holden. Do you understand?”

  “You think Faulkner will come for us?”

  “I think Faulkner has been looking for an excuse, and we might have just given him one. If he calls, put him off. But he won’t call. He’ll bust in, looking to make an entrance and catch us on the back foot. Let him.”

  Hannah frowned quizzically. “What?”

  “Let him scare you. Be scared.”

  “He does scare me,” Hannah said.

  “Good. Let him see it. You can cry if you like.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the sooner he gets what he wants, the sooner he’ll piss off. And the sooner that happens, the sooner we can find out what’s actually going on.”

  Sarah paused. “One more thing: is there anything I should know, before the inevitable?”

  Hannah looked at her. “What do you mean?”

  Sarah stared back, wondering how far to push it. Wondering whether she actually wanted to know. Hannah was an excellent assistant, a positive genius at ferreting out information. She’d never asked how Hannah found out the things she did. Hannah often told her – lunches with disgruntled employees, friends of friends, she said – but such explanations never quite had the ring of truth. Normally, she let them slide. But here and now, it could sink them. “Those two reporters… the ones you vouched for, they were the ones behind that business at the police station, weren’t they?”

  “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hannah said. “I’m sorry.”

  For a moment, Sarah almost believed her. She wanted to believe her. “I’m sorry as well,” she said.

  As she turned to leave, Hannah said, “You’re right.”

  Sarah paused. “Obviously.” Then, “About what?”

  “DedSec. They’re not terrorists.”

  “You sound certain of that.”

  “I am.” Hannah looked at her. “Whatever’s going on, they’re the only ones trying to stop it. I can’t tell you how I know that, but… I do. They’re the only ones looking out for this city right now.”

  Sarah knocked on the doorframe, pondering this. Then she turned away.

  “No. They’re not the only ones.”

  25: Marcus Tell

  Olly climbed the steps slowly. He was still tired, though he’d gotten some sleep in the station. It wasn’t the first time he’d slept rough, but he was regretting it now. The morning was cold, and the coffee in his hands was hot. He stopped, leaning against the rail, and looked up. The source of the camera’s signal was upstairs – a flat on the sixth storey of apartment residential building near the Royal Victoria Docks.

  He’d changed clothes the night before, scavenging new threads from a donation bin. Nothing fit right, but that was a small price to pay. He’d washed up with supplies purchased from a Boots in the station. Mouthwash and coffee didn’t mix well. Liz’s Optik – his Optik now – pinged and he pulled it out, checking messages. It still hadn’t synched properly with his display, but that would come in time.

  The message was from Krish, consisting of emoji’s and a number to call. Olly made the call. Krish picked up the first buzz. “Where the hell are you, fam?”

  “Hello to you too.” Olly took a sip of coffee. “I’m downstairs from Tell’s flat. His other flat, I guess. What’s up?”

  “What’s up? Are you mental? Why didn’t you come back here?”

  “We need to find this guy. Bagley filled you in?”

  “Yeah, but–”

  “Then you know everything.” He paused. Then, more softly: “You know about L… Redqueen, yeah? What happened?”

  “Yeah, man. It’s on the telly, all over. They ain’t said shit about her, but Bagley confirmed it.” Krish was silent for a moment. “The cops got her body. We’re putting together something to get it back… somebody to pretend to be family, maybe?”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Olly laughed. The sound was raw and ugly to his ears. He’d dreamed about Liz last night –the sound of the shot, and her face had been superimposed over his memory of Dempsey’s. “Not that I think she’d care.”

  “Maybe not. But we do.”

  Suddenly uncomfortable, Olly changed the subject. “What about this Tell’s flat?”

  “Albion, bruv. They’re all over it. Even found the camera.”

  “Shit.” That meant they’d know where Tell himself was soon enough. They wouldn’t be far behind him.

  “It’s bare mad, fam. We got everyone talking every which way. Someone, Dalton maybe, or Sabine, sent strong word – sit tight and wait for further instructions. Meantime, we’re going through all that data you gave Bagley, trying to figure out where that drone came from.”

  “Did you tell them…” Olly began

  “That you were still running around? Nah. So far nobody but me has noticed you ain’t back yet.” Krish paused. “You’d best hurry though, yeah?”

  “Why? Think they’ll be pissed off?”

  “They already pissed off, fam. Shit’s about to go down.” Krish hesitated. “Stay chill, Olly. And if you find anything – I mean, anything…”

  “I’ll contact you,” Olly said. He ended the call, finished his coffee, and started up the stairs again. He put his Optik away and fished out his stun gun. It hadn’t done him much good so far, but it might come in handy if Tell got stroppy. If he was even here. For all Olly knew, his quarry had already run again. If Olly were in his place, he’d have done the same.

  But he hoped not. This was his only lead.

  On the sixth floor, Olly crept slowly along the corridor, trying to make as littl
e noise as possible. When he reached the door, he made to knock – only for it to swing open before he could touch it.

  “Come in,” someone said, from inside.

  Olly hesitated, trying to decide whether to run. An older man stepped into view, a revolver held confidently in his hand. “Do not run. Come inside. Quickly now, before someone sees.”

  Olly swallowed and did as he was ordered. “Are– are you Marcus Tell?”

  “If I am?” The old man closed the door and motioned for Olly to move through on into the kitchen. The flat was small, but classy. Like a photo from a realty company’s website.

  “I…” Olly hesitated again. “Look, can you get the gun out of my face?”

  “No. What do you want?”

  “That depends.”

  Tell – Olly was fairly certain it was him now – frowned. “Why were you in my flat? And where is your friend? Not attempting anything foolish, I hope.”

  “We were looking for you. And no. She’s… she’s dead.”

  “How?”

  “A drone,” Olly said. He looked at the older man. “Just like the one that shot the guy who stole your Optik a few days ago. Remember him?”

  Tell frowned. “I do. Come. Sit. You look done in. I will make some tea.” He lowered his weapon and gestured to a nearby table.

  “Tea?” Olly said in disbelief. “We ain’t got time for a brew-up, mate. That drone is still out there.”

  “Indeed. Do you have my Optik?”

  Olly hesitated. “No. I lost it.”

  “Then the chances of the drone finding us are slim. At least for the moment. Sit.” He indicated a chair.

  Seeing no other option, Olly sat. He looked around. The décor was straight out of an old soap opera, like those his mum used to watch all the time.

  “What is this place?”

  “My flat. I have several. This is one.” Tell put the kettle on, then sat opposite Olly. He set the pistol down on the table. “You came after me alone?” He shook his head. “The folly of youth.” Tell tapped the pistol with a finger. “You are not the police. Nor are you Albion. A criminal, then?”

  “No.” Olly paused. “Well, maybe?”

  Tell smiled at that. “Ah. DedSec.”