‘Is there a unit in there?’ one of them had asked Kathy, nodding towards Roth’s locked office.
‘Yeah,’ she had said.
‘Any chance of getting a lookat it?’
‘Sure.’
And total access was thus provided. Over the course of the next four hours, every computer in the building was disassembled and a copy made of its hard drive. Mean while, having been shown to the basement by Mark, a security specialist plugged phoney wires into the mainframe - purely for the purposes of cover - and then calmly broke into the Libra safe, making a thorough photographic record of its contents. Mark, who had told an increasingly agitated Macklin that he would ‘keep an eye on things downstairs’, watched all this unfold from the basement doorway and felt the thrill of his participation in it. This’ll make our case, Randall had told him, and he was surely right.
Yet there was a single flaw, a problem that nobody could have foreseen. Just after two o’clock, as Macklin was leaving the office to buy himself a sandwich for lunch, he turned to Rebecca in reception and, laying the ground work for a future date, said, ‘Sorry about all the computer geeks, sweetheart. Can’t be helped, I’m afraid.’
‘That’s all right,’ she replied. ‘But it’s a bit weird, Mr Macklin. They got here so quickly.’
Macklin, who was wondering what chance he had of getting her into bed before the end of the week, only half-absorbed this observation and said simply: ‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah. Sam left me a note before she went away, basic stuff saying where everything was. I had the number for the computer technicians and called them after what happened. Only, thing is, they said they were busy, couldn’t get here till three or something. Then they go and show up twenty minutes later.’
‘Is that right?’ Macklin said. ‘Is that right?’ She now had his full attention. ‘After twenty minutes?’
‘Yeah.’
He frowned.
‘Maybe they had a cancellation. Did you ask?’
Rebecca shookher head.
Macklin eyeballed the only visible technician in the room, a twenty-four-year-old A-Branch recruit named Frankwho was pretending to rewire a circuit board outside Mark’s office.
‘Hey, mate,’ he called out.
‘Yeah?’
‘How come you got here so quickly?’
Trained never to open his mouth until he knew the score, Frank continued facing the wall and replied, ‘What’s that?’
‘I said, how come you got here so quickly?’
Half-turning now, Frankfrowned at Macklin and muttered, ‘Not following you, mate.’
‘Well, it’s just that the lovely Rebecca here phoned your offices this morning and you said you was busy till three.’
‘Beats me. I just go where I’m told,’ Frank said. Thinking on his feet, he added, ‘I know there was talk of a big job last night. Maybe it got called off.’
‘Right.’
Macklin seemed satisfied and looked back at Rebecca, raising a fat eyebrow in a manner he intended as flirtatious.
‘Well, there you are, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Mystery solved. So what are you doing for dinner tonight? Fancy some sushi or something?’
Afterwards they had Frankto thank for reacting as quickly as he did.
No sooner had Macklin left the building than he put his tools to one side, smiled at Rebecca, and walked calmly down to the basement. Mark, who was startled when the door opened at the top of the staircase, signalled frantically to the locksmith and leaped to his feet.
‘Problem,’ Frank said, matter-of-factly.
‘How so?’ the lock smith replied.
‘Girl upstairs, temp. She’s not as lazy as she looks. Turns out that as soon as the system went down she called the regular technical support team. As luck would have it, they were too busy to get here till three. But it’s already gone two. Unless someone gets on the phone smartish and cancels the appointment, this place is gonna be crawling with Mac technicians wondering who the fuckwe are.’
‘Jesus,’ Mark said.
Frank’s voice was a low, logical statement of the facts.
‘You got the number?’ he asked.
‘I can find it.’
‘Then do it now. Our friend just popped out for a sandwich. He’s due backin less than five minutes.’
‘Rebecca. Give me Sam’s magic book, will you? I need to find something out.’
Mark prayed that she would retrieve it without asking any awkward questions. Without stopping to make conversation. Without wondering why he had a film of sweat on his forehead in the middle of winter.
‘Of course, Mr Keen, of course.’
‘Call me Mark,’ he said. ‘I think she keeps it in the drawer…’
‘Yeah, here it is. Everything all right?’
Frank passed them at the reception desk, sucking on a carton of Ribena.
‘Everything’s fine, yeah. It’s just so hot down there.’ Lowering his voice, Mark whispered, ‘These guys are taking for ever.’
And Rebecca smiled, enjoying the shared confidence. She handed him the bookand followed Mark with her eyes as he walked away.
‘Mr Keen?’
‘Yes?’
Mark turned round. Rebecca was touching her neck, swinging this way and that in her revolving chair.
‘It’s just that I was wondering if you could show me how the fax machine works. I’m having trouble receiving.’
Wondering if this was a pass, Mark said, ‘Sure. Just let me do this one thing and I’ll be right backwith you.’
‘Great.’
He closed the door of his office, heat spread across his body. Flicking through the book - where? - Mark searched for the number. What’s the name of the company? What the fuck are the computer men called?
But Sam was efficient. Sam laid things out. In the section marked ‘Computers’ he found a list of companies, topped by a firm of Apple specialists whose name he instantly recognized. Dialling the number with dervish speed, Mark found himself in an automated queue.
For General Enquiries press 1.
For Information about our range of Software Products, press 2.
For Customers experiencing problems with the latest version of Windows, press 3.
For Corporate Accounts, press 4.
Mark hit ‘4’ hard with a rigid index finger and swore as music drifted through on the line. A boy band. Guitars and harmonies. He could feel his backbe coming soaked in sweat. And then, through the window of his office, Mark saw Macklin coming back with a sandwich, his thin hair pushed to one side by the wind. Stop and talk to the girl, he prayed. Try and get your fat arse laid.
‘Hello, can I help you?’
A woman, young, with a voice not unlike Rebecca’s was on the line.
‘Yes. Hello. Listen, hi, I’m calling from Libra.’
‘Yes?’
‘We’ve solved our problem.’
Nothing.
‘Remember we called you?’
Silence.
‘About a virus.’
‘A virus?’
The woman sounded bored. Not taking things in. So many calls to field in a day and nothing interesting about this one.
‘Yes. A virus at the Libra offices.’ Macklin was eating his sandwich and seemed to be laughing at something Rebecca had said. Stay there, you prick. Keep talking. ‘One of our office managers called you. You said you had a team coming out here at three.’
‘At three?’
More silence, deep as a cave. Was she stupid? Did she even know how to spell‘virus’?
‘I’m just going through the booknow, sir.’
‘Is it there?’
Impatiently the woman said, ‘Just a minute, I’m still looking.’ Then, ‘Here it is. Yes, three o’clock.’
‘And?’
‘And what, sir?’
‘Well I’d like to cancel it. If it’s not too late.’
‘I see.’
Mark experienced a weakening sensation in his arms.
/>
‘Are they already on their way?’
‘Just a minute, please.’
And he was forced to wait as the woman abandoned the line to ‘Careless Whisper’. One minute passed. Two. He looked out into the office and could not see Macklin. Then there was a knock on his door.
‘Just a minute.’
Macklin came in anyway.
‘Keeno, can I just…’
Mark looked up and signalled sternly with his hand. Eyes set like stone and the words ‘Gimme five minutes’ mouthed with absolute intent. Macklin said, ‘Sorry, mate, I’ll wait then,’ and closed the door.
‘Hello?’
‘Yes.’ Mark pressed the phone tighter to his ear.
‘That’s fine, sir.’
‘It’s cancelled?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘They’re not already on their way?’
‘What?’
‘I said the team, they’re not already on their way?’
‘No.’
‘Well, that’s great news.’
Anxiety fell from his body, like a storm cloud shedding rain. He actually grinned.
‘Was there anything else?’ the woman asked.
‘No, nothing else,’ Mark said, sitting backin his chair.
‘Well, that’s fine, then,’ she said, and abruptly hung up the phone.
31
Tracy Frakes had been waiting for the letter for three long days. On Tuesday morning, Mark had left the house at 8.45 a.m., forty minutes before the fat postman ambled up Torriano Avenue and dropped a single postcard into his letter box. There was no second post that day, so Tracy had gone home and spent the rest of the afternoon with her kids, taking them to the movies and then on for a meal at McDonald’s. The following morning she had woken at five, driven west to Kentish Town and had difficulty finding a parking space with a decent view of Mark’s property. He had left earlier than the day before - at 7.25 a.m. - and Tracy had thought he looked attractively dishevelled, his hair still wet from the bath and lost sleep staining his eyes. Then she had to wait another two hours for the postman, the same overweight blob as the day before, passing the time reading Glamour magazine and a brand-new bookby John Grisham. Once the postman was safely out of sight, Tracy had entered the property, only to find that Mark had been sent two bills (gas and water), an invitation franked by Q magazine, another postcard (this time from Argentina) and a piece of junkmail from a home-tailoring service in Epping. Nothing, in other words, from America. She would have to wait for second post and most probably come back tomorrow.
By Thursday, Tracy was bored of the assignment. Another 5 a.m. rise, another headlight drive to Kentish Town. She didn’t get called by Taylor all that often, and had been hoping for a decent black bag, a job that entailed something more than just fiddling about with someone’s post. Taylor had recruited her straight out of prison six years earlier, hoping, he said, to take advantage of her ‘unique gifts for theft and petty larceny’. He was a right twat, Taylor. Ten stone of Yorkshire ponce who treated her like a street urchin. Still, the money was good, and it was nice to get out of the house. Tracy wondered what she’d buy for her boys when the cheque came through. Come to think of it, she wondered what she’d buy for herself.
At eight on the dot, Mark came out. A bit nervous this morning, looking a bit stressed and concerned. He was wearing a classy suit cut in navy blue corduroy with trousers that flared just above the shoe. Tracy thought he looked handsome; she wondered what he did for a living, whether he had a girlfriend or family. That was an element of the workshe really enjoyed, the mystery of a target’s identity. Once, she had broken into an office blockin Bracknell and seen the company chairman that very same night on the news. To get so close to someone, to see their furniture, their clothes, to riffle through drawers and cupboards and leave no trace of her passing. There was real skill to it, a gift for ghosting through. It annoyed Tracy when intelligence people made a mess of things, when there were stories in the papers about break-ins going wrong. She couldn’t see any excuse for it, for leaving a room disturbed. They’d all been trained properly; people just got sloppy, stopped taking pride in their work.
Mark came towards her now and, for the first time in three days, walked right past Tracy’s vehicle. She had to pretend to apply make-up in the rear-view mirror as he headed south for the tube. Then it was another two-hour wait for the postman, finishing the Grisham as the minutes crawled by. At 10.05, a woman wearing a darkblue Post Office uniform with a red canvas bag turned into the avenue and began distributing letters, working more quickly than the overweight blob, who must have been off sick. Four minutes later she left her trolley at the gate of Mark’s house and took three letters up to the door, pushing them through the letter box and then turning backto the road. When she was out of sight, Tracy moved quickly. Reaching into the backseat for her clipboard and charity ID, she stepped out of the car, made a brief check of the surrounding doors and windows and walked across the street. She was inside Mark’s house within four seconds - her quickest time so far - and closed the door behind her with a soft bump. An airmail envelope had floated out about four feet into the room. Flipping it over, she read the return address on the reverse side:
Robert Bone
US Post Office/Box 650
Rt 120
Cornish
New Hampshire 03745
United States of America
Bingo. She would get it to Taylor by noon. A quick glance through the front door’s fish-eye lens and Tracy was out on the street. Job done. With any luck, she’d be home by three.
32
It wasn’t there.
Ben rummaged through the contents of the shoebox where he had hidden the original copy of Bone’s letter, but there was no sign of it. Tapes, random playing cards, paper clips, packets of gum, but no trace of an airmail envelope bearing Bone’s handwriting. Just two days before, Ben had come home, made a photocopy of the letter at a local news agent and placed the original for safe keeping in his studio. Alice could not have taken it because she would not have known where to look. And yet somebody had been through the box.
He shouted down stairs:
‘Have you seen the letter?’
Alice tooka long time to reply. It was Saturday morning and she was reading the papers in bed.
‘What’s that?’
‘The original copy. The letter from Robert Bone. Not the one in the car.’
Again, a long delay. Then, tiredly, ‘No.’
He walked down stairs and went into their bedroom.
‘You sure? You didn’t send it to your friend in Customs and Excise, the one who was going to check on Kostov?’
‘I’m sure.’
Alice looked puffy and tired, trying to lock herself into the privacy of a weekend and not wanting to be disturbed. Ben had brought her a cup of coffee at ten and barely received a word of thanks. He was trying to make an effort with her but she seemed distant and cold. In the past, Saturday mornings had been almost consciously set aside for sex, but even that was a chore now.
‘I’m going out,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘Thought I might go for a walkround Regent’s Park, maybe take a look at the roof on the British Museum, go to an exhibition or something.’
‘All day?’ Alice asked.
‘Probably, yeah.’
She had told him that she was having lunch with a friend and afterwards going into the Standard. Another Saturday apart. Another weekend when they did separate things.
‘Did Mark ever call you back?’ she asked.
‘No. I’ve left twenty messages, sent a dozen emails. He must be ignoring me.’
Peeling a satsuma in bed, Alice said, ‘Now why would he do that?’
The tone of the question suggested that she could well imagine why.
‘I have no idea,’ Ben replied. ‘I’m trying to make it up to him.’
Didn’t she realize that? Hadn’t she seen that he was trying to move on? Or
was it simply that she didn’t care?
‘I mean, maybe he’s busy,’ Alice suggested. ‘Maybe his phone’s not working. Maybe he just wants to be left alone.’
‘Well that’s great, isn’t it? I have a lot of stuff I need to talkto him about and he won’t fucking get in touch.’
‘Relax,’ she said, an instruction that had the effect of making Ben feel even more on edge. ‘Where do they say he is when you call Libra?’
‘They say he’s around. That’s all they seem to know. That he’s around or in a meeting and can they take a message? And his mobile just rings and rings. I don’t even get to say anything.’
Alice smiled as juice from the satsuma dropped on to the sheets.
‘So, as I was saying, I’m going out,’ Ben told her. ‘Thought I might take the car.’
He picked up a bottle of mineral water from the floor, tooka slug and scratched at his neck. Alice said, ‘OK,’ then, out of nowhere: ‘By the way, I had lunch with Sebastian yesterday.’
The water caught in Ben’s throat. He had been walking out of the room.
‘Sebastian?’
He knew exactly who she was talking about.
‘That’s right. Sebastian Roth.’
Why was she telling him this now? To start a fight? To assuage her guilt? To bury the news in everyday chit-chat in the hope that it would just go away? Alice never did anything without first exactly calculating its impact.
‘How did that happen?’
‘He invited me.’
‘He invited you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Just you? Nobody else?’
‘Just me.’ She was pretending to read the paper.
‘And how was he?’
‘Great.’
Ben moved across to the window and stared out at Elgin Crescent. He was aware of Alice chewing elaborately.
‘So did you get a story out of him? I mean, that was the point of the meeting, right? For the paper?’
‘Sure.’
‘Well, go on then.’
‘Go on what?’
The Hidden Man (2003) Page 17
