by Greg Elswood
But his answer surprised her and she pulled her head back and looked at him questioningly when he said, ‘I came to ask a favour.’
‘What sort of favour?’ she asked, with a hint of indignation in her voice.
Michael retold the story he had given James about his business colleague being let down last minute, and again emphasised that the money would be good. However, Jenny wasn’t interested in the money or the motivation of helping out commuters with a free snack, and Michael couldn’t resist a smile when he heard her self-serving objection.
‘But that’s our time. What you mean to say is, I won’t be able to come over tomorrow morning because you’ll be giving out snacks to complete strangers.’
‘Come on, I can’t help it. He’s an old friend of mine and I can’t let him down. It’s only one morning. I’ll make it up to you, I promise, and as soon as I’ve told Orla about us, we will have every morning together, and every night too. Will you do this for me?’
Jenny pouted. She was going to extract as much out of this as she could.
‘Please Jenny.’ Michael hoped he didn’t sound too desperate. If only she knew what was riding on this.
Jenny strung it out for a few seconds longer, before finally surrendering. ‘I’ll do it, but it’s going to cost you. Two things.’
‘What?’ asked Michael, suddenly suspicious.
‘First, you’re going to tell Orla about us by Friday, or I will do it myself.’
‘Easy, I’ve already said I’ll do that. And the second?’
Jenny reached for Michael’s belt and pulled the leather tongue through the buckle.
‘You’re going to give me now what you won’t be able to tomorrow morning. Let’s call it payment in advance.’
Michael smirked as she unbuttoned him. He contemplated what lay ahead and submitted himself to Jenny’s desires. She had no idea what price she was paying for this final pleasure, and he was determined to make it worth it. Once more for old times’ sake.
***
Always the perfectionist, Brandon was leaving nothing to chance. Meeting Orla had invigorated him and, with renewed enthusiasm for his project, he returned to Liverpool Street to check everything one final time. Satisfied that he hadn’t missed anything, he bought the last few items that he needed to execute his plan, silently thanking Orla for giving him the courage he needed.
Brandon left the station by the long passageway that ran behind the offices on Bishopsgate and glanced into the lobbies of the banks along the tranquil walkway. But it wouldn’t be calm for long. This time tomorrow, these same banks would be in a state of sheer panic, unable to stem the onslaught of Brandon’s attack, and these now quiet lobbies would be teeming with despairing and frightened people.
He emerged into Exchange Square and drifted home, playing over and again in his head the sequence of events that would be set in motion when he let Proximity loose. All of the inputs had been separately tested, but only when he pushed the button tomorrow would he know for sure that they all worked together. He felt as though he was creating a living organism from scratch, where he had tested all of the parts in the laboratory and then stitched them together. Like Doctor Frankenstein, Brandon needed a catalyst to jolt his monster into action. Not a lightning bolt in Brandon’s case, but Proximity. Brandon smiled at the thought. A surge of electricity brought both creatures to life, but he was confident that his creation would behave more predictably than his fabled predecessor’s.
He let himself into the loft and dropped his shopping and hoodie onto one of his sofas. He then did something that he hadn’t done for years, not since he’d had them installed as part of the renovation of the loft: he activated the blinds in his huge windows. The blinds were of the type often used in offices, where the narrow slats occupied the space between the glass panes, and they glided slowly down with the faintest whirr of their electric motors. Brandon had thought them a good idea at first, as they were easy to operate and matched the modern, minimalist design of his living space. But after the novelty had worn off, he found that he preferred to keep the windows clear, even at night, so the blinds hadn’t been used for months. Until today.
He grabbed a couple of marker pens from his den and a cloth from his kitchen, and by the time he returned the blinds had completed their descent. The windows had been transformed into oversized whiteboards, illuminated by the light of his room. Picture windows, why didn’t I think of this before?
Brandon took the black marker pen and stood back from the windows for a few seconds, deciding where to start. ‘Right, let’s take this logically, from the beginning,’ he said aloud.
He often talked to himself whilst watching the markets and constructing charts in his den. He sometimes wondered if he talked to himself more than he did with anyone else, and wasn’t sure if he did it to keep himself company or as a way of working things out, but either way it was part of his ritual. Tonight it was particularly important, as he needed to verify every step and every detail of his plan and check that nothing had been missed, and this was no time to change habits that had served him so well.
He stepped forward and drew his first box on the glass, which he labelled Proximity. To its right, he drew an arrow, above which he wrote Replicant. The arrow ended at a new box that he labelled Gadget. ‘OK, that’s the first level, the attack from my laptop. Now for the secondary wave.’
Brandon added three further arrows to the right of the last box, at angles as if they were radiating away from it, and the marker pen squeaked as it moved faster across the glass. He wrote the abbreviation Rep above them and ended with three new boxes, also each labelled Gadget.
‘And then another level, mobile-to-mobile, tablet-to-tablet.’ Faster than before, he added more arrows and boxes to the diagram, and his drawing became more feverish and his writing almost illegible. But Brandon didn’t care. His excitement reflected his vision of the utter mayhem and chaos that would trail in Replicant’s wake as the infection multiplied.
He stood back and surveyed his work. He had constructed a simple hierarchy, with the Gadget boxes multiplying at each level, like the diagrams he recalled from school of a nuclear chain reaction.
‘I wonder how far Replicant will get. It may keep multiplying forever.’ He stepped forward and printed INFINITE? on the window.
‘Maybe it will stop when it reaches the coast. Even if it doesn’t go that far, it should still reach millions of devices.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘And they will all be under my control for as long as it takes to complete the Bitcoin swap.’
Around the Gadget boxes, Brandon drew a large circle, beneath which he scribbled Botnet. He didn’t like the word, but he hadn’t thought of another one that described the illicit hijacking of numerous internet-connected devices to use in a concerted attack. Underneath, he drew a series of downward arrows, each ending at a box he labelled Bank. ‘You’ll have no idea what’s hit you,’ he whispered, remembering his earlier walk from Liverpool Street. Over the top of these arrows he wrote DOS in large letters, before adding a dramatic flourished exclamation mark after this acronym for Denial of Service. He laughed and stepped back from the window.
‘OK, let’s check everything. Once a gadget is infected, Replicant will first disable all manual commands, then activate any mobile banking apps and connect to those banks. If the phone doesn’t have one, it will access the browser and connect to one of the default banks.’
He switched to the red marker pen, and wrote Default Bank Apps beneath the Bank boxes, to remind himself to check this part of the program again later. After deliberating for a few seconds, he also added On/off disabled? as a further reminder.
‘The banks won’t understand what’s happening when their systems flood with this much internet traffic, especially as most of it will be from devices they have previously authenticated. If Replicant really does go as far as the coast, this would be the biggest DOS attack ever, literally millions of hits all at once.’ He smiled. ‘It will be carnage. Banking Armagedd
on.’
He traced another large circle around the Bank boxes, and stooped down to draw two further circles, side by side, beneath the first. Brandon drew a double-headed arrow between each circle, resulting in a triangle of arrows with a circle at each point.
‘The final act, the Bank of England, the Old Lady herself, will be at my mercy.’ He wrote BOE inside the first of the lower circles.
‘All the banks will be floundering. While they sort out their mess, contingency plans invoked and their guard down, I’ll be in the centre of the mayhem.’ Brandon printed ME in capital letters in the middle of the triangle.
‘And finally, the Old Lady’s gold will be turned into Bitcoin.’ His eyes were wide and he spoke in an excited whisper. He stepped forward once more and wrote a capital B in the final circle, and scored it with two vertical lines; the symbol for Bitcoin. Suddenly, he recalled a line from his childhood and he laughed aloud. ‘It doesn’t have quite the same ring to it. Dick Whittington, the streets of London are paved with Bitcoin!’
He stepped back a couple of paces and reviewed his work. After a few seconds of muttering under his breath, he nodded, then retrieved his laptop from the den.
Over the next couple of hours, Brandon tested and retested his systems and programs. At each stage he crossed out various boxes with his red marker, added further boxes and comments, or rubbed out others, chuntering to himself. He loved it, the thrill of solving problems, and his master plan bloomed before his eyes. He had set himself the greatest challenge imaginable, and his whiteboard was proof that it could be done.
***
When Maria told Jacob of her plan for him to rest in the lock-up, a dry space safe from thugs roaming the streets, he decided it was worth a try. He knew he would soon outstay his welcome at the Refuge, and he didn’t want to be a burden anymore to people who had already helped him so much, to say nothing of his desire to get away from itchy sheets and a fussing nurse.
‘You’re not ready to go yet. Can’t you stay another night?’ Corinne said when Jacob told her he was leaving. ‘You’re still under observation.’
‘Thanks Corinne, but I feel in the way, and I don’t need to stay. I’m fine, honestly.’
She was reluctant for Jacob to leave, but she knew she couldn’t force him to stay and he had made good progress. ‘Take these painkillers with you. At least do that. I can’t give you anything stronger without the doctor’s say so, but they will ease the pain in your ribs a little. But if your headache gets any worse, make sure you come back, OK?’
Jacob nodded, although they both knew that he wouldn’t return unless his head felt ready to explode, and maybe not even then. She placed his clothes on the bed and left the room. If he was well enough to go, he could dress himself.
During their walk to the lock-up, Maria reminded Jacob that he would need to be careful he wasn’t discovered sheltering there. Martin and Peter had sworn Maria to secrecy and they didn’t want anyone else to know about it.
‘OK, that’s fine, I’m sure I can stay hidden, although I’ve no idea why their new food is such a big secret. I won’t drop you in it.’
‘I’m sure you’ll be OK, as long as we can get you in. That’s probably going to be the tricky bit, especially if they’re both there, but I think I know how to do it.’ Maria paused, as if thinking through her plan. ‘You’ll be fine getting out in the morning, once we’ve all left for Liverpool Street, as long as you leave before we get back. Is that OK?’
When Jacob didn’t answer, Maria realised that he was no longer by her side, but had stopped a few steps earlier. He was looking into the shop they had just passed.
‘Jacob? Are you alright?’
She walked back and, when he didn’t react to her presence, she followed his gaze. Jacob was staring into the convenience store, where at the back the shopkeeper stood at the counter, in front of the shop’s alcohol and cigarettes.
‘Come on, Jacob, we’ve got to get to the lock-up.’
‘Do you have any money with you, Maria? For a bottle of something? I really need a drink.’ He put his hand to his chest. ‘For the pain.’
Jacob reached into his pocket and then looked down at his hand, now holding the box of painkillers he’d been given by Corinne. ‘These won’t be any good tonight.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re not supposed to mix them with alcohol.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of mixing them, but replacing them. Please Maria, just this once. I’ll get the money to repay you.’
‘It’s not the money, you know that. It’s just not right. Come on, we’ve got to go.’
Maria looked at Jacob, who was now imploring her with his big, brown, sorrowful eyes. If she wasn’t mistaken, he’d even stuck his lower lip out in a questionable pout. She knew he was doing it on purpose, but in spite of herself she laughed at him. He grinned back.
‘Jacob, you’re impossible,’ she said, but then walked into the shop. Two minutes later, she emerged clasping a small bottle of whisky and thrust it at Jacob. ‘I hope you bloody well choke on it.’
Maria turned and strode away. Jacob looked at her ramrod straight back and bobbing hair and chuckled. ‘Thanks Selma,’ he said, then slipped the bottle into his coat pocket and followed in her wake.
When they arrived at Rivington Street, Maria told Jacob to wait round the back of the lock-up, by the disused entrance to the former vehicle workshop. She continued alone under the bridge and then sidled along the arches. One door of the lock-up was a few inches ajar, as it had been earlier that afternoon, and slivers of light spilt through the gaps to illuminate the path outside.
Maria poked her head cautiously round the opening and saw Peter in his chair, head tipped back and snoring. Everything was as she’d left it hours before, and it didn’t look like the delivery had arrived yet. Maria took several deep breaths to calm herself, then eased the door open just enough to squeeze through the gap. Her heart fluttered at the faint creak of the hinges, but Peter slept on and Maria slipped through the opening. A few tiptoed steps later and she was past the slumbering Irishman, and she headed for the back entrance where Jacob would be waiting. The further she crept, the darker it became, and Maria took her time to navigate the final stretch. She was wary of tripping over ancient tools and machinery scattered over the workshop floor, although she was relieved they had swept away most of the rubbish the day before.
Maria reached the back doors, nothing more than thick metal panels with vertical lever-operated steel bars that slid into housings in the floor and upper door frame. A heavy-duty steel chain was coiled around the levers, secured with a padlock, but Maria wasn’t concerned. She ran her fingers along the shelves to the left side of the door, remembering that she had seen a small bunch of keys there when sweeping the floor of the lock-up the day before. After a few seconds of probing, Maria started to doubt her memory, but then her fingers curled around the welcome, cold metal ring and she exhaled with relief.
The third key she tried operated the lock, and Maria grinned when it turned easily. She pulled the padlock out of the chain and set it on the shelf, then unwound the chain. At every small clink, she looked over her shoulder at Peter and slowed her breathing, and little by little she unshackled the mechanism. Everything was going smoothly. Finally, she pushed the levers to release the bars and leaned against the door.
Nothing. The obstinate door remained where it was. Maria examined the frame and could see no reason why it wouldn’t open. She looked around again to check that Peter was still asleep, closed her eyes in silent prayer, and pushed hard against the door. She felt it move, just a fraction. Encouraged, Maria pressed the lever, put all of her weight against the door, gritted her teeth and forced down through her legs as if trying to bury her feet in the concrete. The door budged less than an inch, stopped, then burst open.
The rusted hinges shrieked in anguish. Maria tumbled through the doorway and her palms smacked against the concrete outside, leaving her feet and ankles still inside th
e workshop. Jacob sprang forward to help, but undeterred by the sudden burning in her palms and knees, Maria brought her finger to her lips in warning.
‘Shush. Peter must have heard. He is in there now.’ The rattling and screeching of another train passing overhead drowned out her words, but Jacob understood the message from her actions.
Maria peered into the lock-up. She was dumbfounded by what she saw. After all the commotion, Peter was still in his chair, not rushing towards her as she had expected. All he had done was change his position in his seat, perhaps disturbed by the noise of the hinges or the passing train, and was now motionless again and snoring even more loudly.
‘Unbelievable,’ she whispered to Jacob. ‘He must be damned tired to have slept through that, thank God. But that’s good news for us.’
They edged into the workshop and Maria pointed to the opening that led to the upper floor. ‘There, that’s where you’ll be. They won’t see you up there and it isn’t too dusty. Martin made me sweep it out a bit, although I don’t know why as I don’t think they’re planning to use it.’
Jacob nodded, then looked around the rest of the lock-up, checking for exits, hidden dangers and potential weapons, a habit that had saved his life more than once.
‘I’ll be fine, thanks Maria. I’ll stay out of their way and they won’t know I’m here.’
Maria pointed to the chain and padlock. ‘You’ll have to put those back around the bars when I’ve gone, otherwise they may realise something’s up.’
‘Thanks, will do.’
‘Well, that’s it, I guess. Time for me to go, before Sleeping Beauty over there wakes up.’ Maria glanced at Peter and then stepped up to Jacob and hugged him. He winced from the pain in his ribs, but didn’t push her back.
‘Thanks Maria, I appreciate it. See you again soon.’
Maria turned and stepped out of the workshop. ‘I’ll push from this side as we close it, but I guess we should wait for the next train, just in case it’s noisy again.’
