Ethereum

by N C Mander

  He headed to the kitchen island, grabbing the pad of paper and pen that lived next to the phone, still flashing its bright red LED light at him – a reminder that Jane’s message needed attention. Blank sheet of paper in front of him, he ruminated on his options. Carefully he wrote down three headings.

  Flat.

  Work.

  Life.

  He paused. Then crossed out the last one and replaced it with ‘Health’.

  The first one was easy to deal with, thought Edison. He pulled out his mobile phone and scrolled through to find Tony’s number that he had taken from Charlie the previous evening with the promise to consider it as an option. He took a deep breath and hit dial. It didn’t ring for long before the call was answered.

  ‘Hullo,’ said Tony. His voice was gravelly, as if he hadn’t spoken for a while. He coughed to clear his throat.

  ‘Hi, Tony.’ Edison tried to sound casual, ‘This is Scott Edison.’

  ‘I know.’ Tony’s voice was cool. ‘Got your number in my phone.’ He paused. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Edison wondered why Tony had his number saved. They had never been close. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on the task in hand. He considered asking his former colleague how he was doing but decided that small talk wasn’t necessary, and there was a strong argument for keeping their engagement as transactional as possible. ‘I understand you have a room to rent?’

  Tony drew in a breath. ‘Mother-in-law finally kicking you out then?’ Edison couldn’t work out whether Tony was being scornful or sympathetic.

  Edison relaxed his shoulders, releasing some of the tension that had crept in as he tried to engage with the analyst who had, when they’d been colleagues, made life very difficult for him, failing to supply the appropriate or relevant intelligence about his operations. He laughed off the question, ‘Yeah, something like that.’

  ‘Well, the room is available.’ Tony went on to list the rent and bills. ‘Want to think about it?’

  ‘Not got much time for thinking,’ Edison said. ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘But are you good for it?’ Tony asked, needling Edison on his employment status.

  ‘Yeah,’ Edison lied. ‘I’ve got a few final interviews lined up.’

  ‘Really?’ Tony’s voice dripped with scepticism. ‘Do Five know?’

  ‘Listen, Tony,’ Edison snapped, ‘do you want to rent out the room or not?’ Edison knew Tony had money problems. He was servicing debt on a handful of credit cards whilst supporting his estranged girlfriend and their nine-year-old son and fourteen-year-old daughter on a junior civil servant’s salary. Not easy.

  ‘When do you want to move in?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure. Want to drop by Thames House, and I’ll give you a key. You hiring a van?’

  Edison surveyed his meagre belongings and thought of the paucity of clothing hanging in the wardrobe next door. ‘I’ll probably manage without.’

  ‘Ok,’ Tony said.

  ‘Ok,’ Edison replied, unsure how to end the conversation.

  ‘See you tomorrow, roomie,’ Tony tried a joke and hung up. Edison shivered, placing the phone back on the table and picking up the pen. He struck out ‘Flat’ on his list.

  *

  In Bethnal Green, Tony ended the call with a flourish of his bony finger and grinned. He was a pasty-faced man, with a tousle of lank brown hair. His front teeth were too large for him, which gave him an unfortunate resemblance to a rat. Spinning on his high-backed office chair, he turned his attention back to his computer screens. He had three large monitors arranged on his corner desk. In addition, there was a fifty-inch flat-screen television, showing the coverage of that day’s race in central London, on mute, hung on the wall nearby. Tony tapped a complicated password into the wireless keyboard, and the screens flickered into life. He had better let the boss know. He opened an incognito browser window and navigated his way to a suitably anonymous spot on the Dark Web. From there, he typed out a message: Physicist inbound. Tomorrow. He encrypted the message and sent it.

  He turned his attention to another screen on which two warriors, one mounted on a dragon and the other a phoenix, were duking it out in a battle. The phoenix-rider won, and Tony manipulated his victorious avatar onward to claim his bounty, three ingots of gold and a magic potion that would heal the wounds inflicted by the vanquished opponent. He accepted the congratulations of his fellow players over the game’s direct message system. He consulted the map which he kept open on the third screen and resolved to send his warrior off to explore a section of uncharted territory in the south-west of the domain.

  *

  Edison turned his attention to the next item: work. This would require some fuel. He made himself another cup of tea. What were his options? On leaving the Service, he had been advised on the suitable career paths from here as part of his debrief. Spies rarely made it to retirement age, but for the majority, they would usually be shuffled into a desk role, often in Cheltenham, once their value on active duty started to wane. Special individuals ascend to the senior ranks, are given a big desk and a suitable title. This had been Edison’s trajectory at one time. He fitted the bill. Astute and exceptionally good at his job, his private education had set him up well for playing the political game that came with promotion and increasing exposure to Five’s neighbours at Whitehall. Plus, he’d had the sponsorship of the Service’s top dog for most of his career. Those opportunities had evaporated somewhere between the decision he’d made to expose Hughes’ misdemeanours and the loss of his best asset. Those who did make it out of the civil service to seek employment in the private sector were quickly snapped up by a select group of approved private security firms as advisors on how to secure government contract work. Edison’s tainted reputation had meant these opportunities had been slow to materialise.

  There had been one genuine job offer, managing IT security for the University of Croydon. Edison had allowed the email exchange with the recruitment officer to fester in his inbox, such was his apathy for the job. Reluctantly, he pulled up the last missive he’d received, in which a paltry sum of money had been tabled. He shot off two lines to enquire about whether the position had been filled before pushing his phone away in disgust.

  *

  Tom rounded the bend at the bottom of the mall. The crowds, standing a dozen deep on either side of the course, were pounding on the hoardings that prevented them from surging onto the final stretch of the route. He snuck a peek at his runner’s watch. The clock was ticking toward the four-hour mark. There was a little over four hundred metres to the finish line, and Tom pushed hard to cross it inside the time he had set himself when he took on the challenge at the behest of Jamie, a junior member of his team at Penwill & Mallinson.

  Crossing the line, his legs nearly gave way beneath him, and he hobbled through the finish area. Tom felt a clap on his back as he queued to pick up his bag. ‘Nice one, old man,’ a voice beside him said. Tom turned to see Jamie’s grinning face and he grunted. ‘Did you enjoy it?’ Jamie went on.

  ‘Ask me again later,’ said Tom, handing his luggage tag over to a volunteer, who retrieved his rucksack from the vast pile on the wagon which had brought all the racers’ belongings from the start line.

  ‘Come on,’ said Jamie. ‘I left the rest of the team holding a spot in a pub on Piccadilly. Anna can’t stop crowing about how much cash we’ve raised for the refugees.’

  Tom hobbled off in pursuit of Jamie, whose pace belied the 26.2 miles he had also put in his legs that morning. Tom fumbled in his bag for his mobile as he walked. ‘Happy with your time then, Jamie?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, it’s ok, I guess,’ Jamie replied, with a twist of his mouth. ‘No PB, but under three hours will do, given I’m focusing on the Ironman this year.’

  Tom laughed. ‘Try harder, that’s really just not good enough.’ Tom enjoyed the banter. He managed a team of six, responsible for an eclectic range of security trading at the bank. Four of them, along
with his assistant, Anna, were sat around a high table in the Queen’s Head on Piccadilly. They were young, driven and terrifyingly bright, with an amazing grasp on the cyber threats that targeted the bank. Their abilities astonished Tom at times – and he knew his malware well. They cheered when Tom and Jamie approached. Tom brandished his medal. The little crowd offered him their congratulations and clapped him on the back before thrusting a flute of champagne into his hand.

  Tom struggled onto a bar stool and sipped the champagne. He glanced at his phone. There were a few messages from friends and family congratulating him, but it was the voicemail from an unknown number that drew his attention.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ he said and hobbled into a quieter corner of the pub where he could better hear the message.

  ‘Tom, this is Charlotte Benfield,’ said Kat’s voice. ‘I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion on your weekend, but I’ve just spoken with Steven, and he’s champing at the bit to meet you. What do you think to an informal chat tomorrow? You mentioned being keen to expedite the interviews, so I thought this could be pencilled in for Tuesday. Let me know, and I’ll get something in the diary with Steven.’

  Excellent, Tom thought. He returned to the table and said to Anna, ‘Remind me to call Charlotte Benfield first thing tomorrow.’ She nodded and handed back his topped-up glass of champagne.

  ‘To all the Syrian refugees you’ve saved from suffering,’ she toasted, and they clinked their glasses together.

  *

  Edison returned to his list. ‘Health’ glared at him, he felt reproach scowling at him with every cursive curl. Three years ago, Edison had been fit. His field work had demanded a special level of physical prowess, and he’d prided himself in his strength, agility and speed. When he wasn’t hiding out in the computer science lab, he had spent his teenage years on the rugby pitch at Harrow. That childhood passion for sport had matured with him, and he’d won his blue at Oxford. He’d also taken up the university’s ubiquitous sport of rowing for his college. He’d left education a lithe, muscular twenty-two-year-old and sustained that physique until Eloise’s diagnosis.

  Edison dug around in a chest of drawers and pulled on a pair of jogging bottoms and a T-shirt. He rummaged in the cloakroom and dragged out a dog-eared pair of trainers. He laced them up, grabbed his keys and hurried down to the street before he could question his own resolve.

  He made it to Lambeth Bridge at a run, his lungs burning and heart racing. He gave up on his ambitious pace and jogged on to Westminster Bridge. His legs were aching, and he felt like he might cough up a lung. He turned around and shuffled home, consumed with embarrassment at the state of his fitness. What would happen to him in the field in this state, Edison mused as he unlocked the door.

  Stepping over the threshold, he was immediately alert. He felt its presence even before he saw the figure at the window. A sixth sense, nearly two decades in the development, was a little sluggish but tingling. His eyes darted to the top draw in the hallway cabinet. The short entrance corridor led into the living area. His line of sight from the front door was unbroken to where a woman stood with her back to him. Edison’s hackles relaxed and heartbeat began to slow as he recognised Tanya Willis, his former boss.

  ‘So that’s where you keep it?’ the figure said and turned to face Edison, looking stern.

  ‘It’s fully registered,’ Edison protested.

  ‘The Remington hunting rifle is, but I don’t think you’re keeping that in the telephone table. The Glock 26 that’s been missing from the armoury for the last year and a bit, on the other hand, would fit neatly into that draw.’

  ‘If you knew I had it, why didn’t you come and get it?’ Edison challenged, approaching cautiously.

  Tanya shrugged. ‘It was legitimately written off in the Folkestone sting – you orchestrated that well. You were always the cleverest officer I ever worked with.’ Dismissing the discussion around Edison’s ill-gotten firearms, she turned her attention back to the view from the window. There was a prolonged silence as Tanya’s focus seemed to be consumed with the surveillance of the boats nosing about below. Tanya was the first black woman to be promoted to her rank in MI5. She was in her mid-forties, tall and slim, meticulously dressed in a trouser suit with her wild black hair scraped back from her forehead. Standing, looking out over London, she cut a majestic figure. She looked as fierce as her reputation of being a no-nonsense head of section, unflappable and seemingly unstoppable in her rise through the ranks at Five. Although these traits often made working for her uncomfortable, as she demanded such a high level of dedication from her team, unmatched elsewhere in the Service, they were amongst the many reasons why Edison had enjoyed reporting to her. She inspired fierce loyalty in her team and returned it in equal, if not greater, measure.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Edison ventured. ‘And how did you get in?’ It was protocol that active officers kept a house key at Thames House in the event of an emergency, but on leaving the Service, one of the first things that Edison had done had been to change his access codes and locks.

  Tanya gave him a look that suggested he should know better than to ask such questions. ‘I haven’t always been a paper pusher, Edison. Before I spent my days managing the higher-ups such that they don’t meddle too much with you lot getting on with your day jobs, I wasn’t a bad field officer myself. I can occasionally dig a little tradecraft out of my memory when I need it.’

  Edison knew better than to press the issue but made a mental note to examine the flat’s access points critically before remembering that he would be moving out the following day.

  As if reading his thoughts, she said, ‘I understand you’re moving.’ Turning away from the window and crossing toward the kitchen, she added, ‘Aren’t you going to offer me a cup of tea?’

  ‘Just dropping in for a cuppa, are you?’ Edison filled up the kettle.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Tanya said but didn’t elaborate. ‘I’m sure Tony’s excited that you’re moving in.’

  ‘Excited to share the bills with someone.’

  Tanya laughed and slid onto one of the breakfast bar stools. ‘Inspired by today’s race?’ she continued to make conversation, with a nod toward Edison’s attire.

  ‘Something like that,’ said Edison, throwing teabags into the two cups that he’d got out of the cupboard. He reached for the sugar, remembering how Tanya took her tea. She waved a hand at him.

  ‘I’m cutting back,’ she told him. ‘You don’t look very packed?’ Tanya went on, looking around at the kitchenware that still littered the surfaces.

  ‘I won’t need it. I’m sure Ellie’s mother will find a suitable home for it all.’ Edison did his best to sustain his interest in the small talk whilst he ran over in his mind the possible reasons why Tanya, his former boss who he hadn’t seen for over a year, had secured access to his flat while he was out and was waiting, some might say menacingly, on his return. She wasn’t vetting Tony’s new flatmate. For analysts, although some checking of their background was required, vetting certainly wouldn’t be undertaken in person and definitely not by someone of Tanya’s rank. He fished about for other reasons. The gun was a possibility, but she had passed over that subject with surprising casualness. He was flummoxed.

  ‘As delightful as it is to see you, Tanya, I suspect this isn’t a social visit.’

  Tanya adopted a pose of businesslike formality, pulling a khaki-coloured folder toward her. Edison hadn’t spotted it, although it had been lying on the breakfast bar since before he’d got back from his run. Tanya noticed Edison’s almost imperceptible shake of his head as he berated himself for poor observation. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked him.

  ‘I can’t believe I didn’t see that there.’

  ‘You’re out of practice. It’ll soon come back to you.’ Edison digested what she’d said, passing her a cup of tea, pulling a stool in beside her and looking at the folder. She’s bringing me back, he realised.

  ‘I have a job. And I think you’re the only
person who can pull off the level of deep cover required.’ Tanya opened the folder to reveal a sheaf of papers, cuttings and photographs. She checked herself and looked hard at her former star officer. ‘Edison, are you ready for this?’

  ‘To go undercover? Absolutely.’ Edison wasn’t convinced he believed his own words, but he wasn’t going to give anything away to Tanya. He turned his attention to the contents of the khaki folder. ‘What’s the op?’ He reached for the paperwork, and Tanya pulled it away from him defensively.

  ‘I’m bringing you onto this op unofficially.’

  ‘What do you mean, unofficially?’

  Tanya chose her words carefully, ‘There are people at Thames House who would rather you didn’t get involved in matters of national security—’

  ‘For fear of what else I might work out about the rotten core of the machine and its bent operators?’ Edison felt slighted. It had been a huge personal sacrifice to expose Sir Donald Hughes.

  ‘No,’ Tanya spat back immediately. ‘The management takes the death of an informant very seriously, and very few are willing to offer second chances. They are especially unforgiving of an agent runner who is getting blind drunk whilst his operator is reaching out for help.’

  Edison couldn’t argue with her on that point. His personal and professional failings haunted him. Tanya fixed him with a stern gaze. ‘This is all off the record,’ she said, paused then went on. ‘Your involvement is off the record. You are off the record.’

  ‘I will go on record and assert that my involvement is off the record,’ Edison attempted a joke, trying to lighten the mood.

  ‘Don’t. I’m deadly serious.’ Her choice of adverb was deliberate. If things went south, she was asking Edison to put his life on the line without any of the protections enjoyed by fully on-boarded agents.

  A kernel of a feeling began to germinate inside Edison. It was the thrill of being back inside the covert world of espionage. His heartbeat quickened. He took a deep breath and said, ‘What do I need to know?’