by Hammond, Ray
‘So, Amnesty has finally decided to visit us,’ the governor said slowly, twisting a gilt letter-opener between the fat, finely manicured fingers of his right hand. He spoke as if oblivious of the fact that the human rights organization had been applying to visit this prison for nearly thirty-five years. Because of repeated refusals, Amnesty had publicly declared Chikirubi to be in breach of the UN’s Universal Declaration of Human Rights.
Philip-Niël Shütte nodded. ‘It is very kind of you to allow me to visit,’ he said slowly and graciously. Via an intermediary, it had taken $40,000 to the Minister of the Interior and $10,000 direct to the prison governor himself before this visit had been scheduled.
‘You realize that we have not received our full budget entitlement for eight years?’ queried the commander. ‘We have to try to feed and house four hundred and sixty men and, well . . .’ He gestured expansively. ‘We don’t know month to month if we will receive sufficient funds. The war.’
Shütte nodded. The civil war. The rebels had been fighting back and forth across the borders with Zambia and Botswana for a decade.
‘Without enough money . . .’
How bad can it be here? thought Shütte. He had prepared himself for the worst and the South African intelligence services had provided plenty of smuggled-out eye-witness accounts that described appalling conditions.
‘I do my best . . .’
Shütte nodded again. He had had to agree that no criticism of either the governor or the Ministry would be made public after his visit. Normally, Amnesty International would never have agreed to such restrictions. But this wasn’t a ‘normal’ visit and the young South African lawyer wasn’t a regular Amnesty observer.
‘Let’s start with the juvenile section,’ he suggested.
‘We don’t maintain separate juvenile accommodation here,’ smiled the governor as he rose.
The cell was about nine metres by three and it contained between thirty and forty men and boys; a black hole full of jet-black faces. Philip-Niël Shütte stood inside the doorway with the sergeant and governor as an armed warder waited in the corridor behind them. The stench was overpowering.
Involuntarily, Shütte cupped his hand to his nose. The temperature had to be over thirty-five degrees and the drone of flies was incessant. The faces turned towards the visitors were silent, impassive.
Shütte pulled a sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket. ‘Reon Albertyn, Joseph Abednego, Marcus Mynery?’ he called.
There was a movement behind him. ‘Abednego and Mynery have passed away,’ the governor breathed in Shütte’s ear, emitting a wash of talc and a sweet-sour cologne from his body. ‘That’s Albertyn over there.’ He pointed at a small form in the corner of the room.
The lawyer pushed his way through the men and looked down at the old white man crouched on the bench.
‘Reon Albertyn?’
The aged man nodded, the skin on his swollen bald head like flaking white parchment.
‘How old are you, Mr Albertyn?’
The man didn’t answer. Shütte squatted so that he could look him in the eyes.
‘You’re not Reon Albertyn, are you?’ he said quietly, indicating the sheet of paper. ‘Reon Albertyn’s only fourteen – and he’s a native Bantu African.’
The room remained silent, and Shütte was aware that every eye was on him. He stood up and turned to the governor.
‘Where’s Reon Albertyn? I was assured–’
‘That is Albertyn,’ insisted the governor, pointing again. ‘He’s an albino, and he’s got some disease that makes him seem very old. But the doctor says it’s not contagious.’
Shütte turned back to the old man. ‘You’re only fourteen?’ he asked.
The figure nodded, not lifting his head.
*
The hastily arranged meeting between the chiefs of Tye Networks and their counterparts of the Russian-based FreePlanet Networks had started testily and was now becoming distinctly bad-tempered. Nobody was ready to shoulder the blame.
‘Say again, what damage reports did you get on your bird?’ asked Raymond Liu. As group technical director of Tye Networks it was his responsibility to ensure that the company’s satellite hubs always exchanged data transparently, both with each other and with the satellites of other networks.
Two days earlier there had been a malfunction in the low-earth-orbit satellite networks above New Zealand and Antarctica. The problem had taken a day to solve and the word was that TT had personally demanded an explanation. Certainly Liu had found no obstacle in requisitioning a jet to get to today’s meeting. It had been his first ride in one of the Tye-Lear supersonics and he had ridden in the cockpit for the eighty-minute flight from Hope Island to New York.
Chomoi Ltupicho, technical director of the FreePlanet network, was the man who had insisted on a personal meeting rather than a holo-video conference – and had therefore suffered the expense of ‘cleaning’ and electronically shielding the hotel meeting room. He shook his head.
‘I’ve already shown you,’ said the Russian engineer in his excellent English, waving at the printouts covering the desk in the conference room. ‘There isn’t any damage. Once we regained control and put her back in alignment, we ran full diagnostics. Everything reports A-One, with no history of malfunction.’
‘No panel or casing damage?’
‘None that shows up on the sensors. We’d need a visual to be sure, of course.’ Ltupicho paused. ‘I know what you’re driving at.’
The three other men in this small room of the Marriott Hotel on the perimeter of Newark Airport, New Jersey, stiffened as the engineer reached into his briefcase.
‘Our satellite was not struck.’ The Russian unfolded a piece of paper. ‘The motion sensors show no impact on the casing before the roll started. Not even a microgram.’ He sat back.
The room was silent. There had been no meteor shower, which they had initially presumed. But, although he did not mention it, Raymond Liu had already guessed that FreePlanet’s Soyuz satellite had been undamaged. ‘So what did happen?’ he asked, with all the authority of the world’s richest corporation behind him.
His counterpart hesitated and then spread his hands on the tabletop. ‘Can we go off the record?’
Liu nodded and their assistants simultaneously reached for the two VideoMates that lay open on the table. Both removed their viewpers and confirmed that data capture had now ceased.
‘All we know is that two of the orbit-maintenance plasma thrusters made unauthorized burns,’ Ltupicho sighed. ‘We sent no command, but the log we’ve downloaded shows that the thrusters fired for 4.768 seconds at 2.30.07 GMT on Monday. Normally those thrusters are only fired to prevent unanticipated orbit decay.’
Raymond Liu nodded in sympathy. So, it wasn’t just their network that was suffering unexplained faults. This was why the Russians had wanted a personal meeting. The admission that FreePlanet’s communications satellites might be open to outside interference could seriously damage their company’s stock price, just as it could Tye Networks’s own valuation. Liu suffered a few moments of inner debate before his engineer’s frankness won out. His promotion to vice-president had been recent and he was still struggling to acquire the political evasiveness necessary to survive in board-level management.
He shuffled through a pile of papers at his elbow and pushed forward a printout. ‘The same thing happened to our birds,’ he admitted quietly. ‘I presume you too have done the probability math?’
Ltupicho nodded.
‘Our tests show that an unauthorized, spontaneous thruster burn will indeed occur once in ninety-six thousand hours – that’s eleven years, give or take a few weeks,’ continued Liu. ‘The odds that two would fire spontaneously at precisely the same moment are thousands of times greater. I presume a Soyuz 8Z01 satellite isn’t that different?’
The Russian nodded again. Soyuz aerospace technology had again become the equal of any in the world.
‘And the odds on all
four thrusters on two separate satellites firing spontaneously within a few seconds of each other are . . .?’
‘Incalculable,’ agreed Ltupicho.
Raymond Liu nodded and sat forward, forearms folded on top of his papers. ‘Let alone the odds that it would happen to our two birds and then to one of yours.’
There was a quietness in the room. The assistants to the two technical directors avoided looking at each other.
Then Liu spoke again. ‘You said that your Network Control Center never sent a message.’
‘Nothing,’ confirmed Ltupicho. He too sat forward.
‘Any maintenance messages? Any other sort of messages?’
‘We sent nothing,’ said Ltupicho quietly.
Liu looked down at his bare forearms, as if inspecting his pale cream Asian skin for freckles. Despite his senior management position, the small Chinese-American was dressed in the engineer’s traditional uniform of short-sleeved white shirt with a stainless-steel pocket protector displaying a parade of pens.
It was almost a whisper when he spoke again. ‘But did your bird receive any message?’
The Russian sat back and interlaced his fat fingers over his prominent gut. He looked at Liu over his reading glasses. ‘Did yours?’
The silence hung long enough for the sound of the air-conditioning to grow to a roar.
‘They may have done,’ said Liu at last. ‘We simply don’t know. We have to assume that might be the case.’
The Russian leaned forward again and took off his glasses. He closed his eyes and pinched the top of his nose, massaging gently. ‘That’s our position also,’ he admitted before opening his eyes again.
Liu looked around the table. ‘So, we may have an unauthorized visitor in the networks.’
He allowed a short silence for the implications to sink in. Then he looked up at the Russian.
‘I don’t think we want to alert the network authorities yet. Let’s work together on this one.’
*
Jack Hendriksen woke with a start, disorientated. Then he smiled. He was in his own bedroom, back in Gramercy Park, back in Manhattan, back in the real world. And this was the start of his vacation!
Jack’s loft apartment had seen better days and he had been meaning to fix it up for years. But this had been his marital home and, despite his loss, he treasured its memories. ‘Rent it,’ his younger brother, the businessman of the family, continually urged, reminding him that rental demand in the city was still soaring. But Jack didn’t need the money and he loved getting back here two or three times a year.
He yawned and looked at his LifeWatch, but there was no display. He shook his wrist. Still nothing. He undid the security buckle and eased the watch gently up from his wrist, careful not to damage the almost invisible carbon microdermic nanotubes as they detached from his skin. He shook the device again. Strange, he thought. He had never heard of one failing before.
He laid the LifeWatch on his bedside table, face down, to protect the bioconnectors, and rubbed the stark white strap mark on his tanned forearm. His skin itched where the monitor had interfaced with his body. Well, it must be late. He rose, pulled on a white T-shirt and shorts and padded into the kitchen. The old analogue clock on the wall told him it had already gone nine. Hell, that’s what vacations are for. He smiled to himself He switched the kettle on and snapped open his VideoMate to scan the mail. It too was dead: he couldn’t see a dial tone.
He picked the communicator up with a frown and closed it, then opened it again. It seemed to have power still, but there was no display. He reached into his jacket pocket. He had brought both his Ray Ban Electros and his Phillipe Patek clear-glass viewpers with him. On both the tiny LEDs were blinking a warning but there was no signal from the VideoMate.
The kettle snapped off as it came to the boil and Jack laid the useless communications technology on the kitchen table. He had never known a VideoMate to fail either.
He made a black coffee and then realized that all his network addresses and numbers were stored in his VideoMate or on his server. He had been planning to scour the Manhattan networks to see which of his friends were in town. A dozen times previously he had planned to organize his vacation in advance, but each time something had happened to distract him. He thought of Calypso and smiled. Then he frowned; he had also been planning to ask his friends for advice on finding a trustworthy attorney – if that wasn’t an absolute contradiction in terms.
There was an urgent, sharp knock at his door. He crossed the living room and looked up at his security screen. Its red LED was blinking, which indicated there was no signal from the cameras at the street entrance or in the hall outside. This had to be a neighbour – no one could get inside the building without passing through the security system at street level.
‘Yes?’ Jack called through the door.
‘Jack, it’s Ron. Ron Deakin.’
Jesus. After three years!
‘Ron?’
‘Come on, Jack, open up!’
Jack grinned and undid the bolts. The wide old door swung open, and there stood Jack’s first navy intelligence instructor, the man who had realized that Jack had more, much more, to offer the US government than pure SEAL machismo.
They hugged each other, the older man almost engulfed by Jack’s enthusiasm. When Jack looked up over Deakin’s shoulder he saw a bulky young black man in a dark business suit standing some distance down the hall.
Deakin stepped back and studied his protégé. ‘You’re still in shape.’
‘Unlike you,’ grinned Jack, prodding his friend in the stomach.
The older man turned to his companion. ‘Come inside,’ he said without waiting for an invitation.
Jack closed the door and re-bolted it.
‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Jack, aloud this time. ‘Ron Deakin!’
Deakin smiled, waiting for Hendriksen to get over his surprise. It took only a couple of seconds.
‘How did you . . . how did you know I was here? I’m hardly ever here. The entry system is out for some reason.’
Deakin held up a palm. ‘Yeah, we know. Listen, Jack, we’re only going to stay a few minutes. It’s our system that’s doing this: we’re jamming all radio transmissions and screen displays around this building. We’re scrubbing the immediate area.’
‘Who’s “we” these days, Ron?’ Jack shot back quickly, looking from one to the other.
Both men reached into their jackets. ‘I don’t expect this to mean much to you,’ said Deakin. ‘That’s why I came personally. You know, because of us – you and me. This is Mike Chevannes. He works with me.’
Jack took the wallet Deakin held out. He saw a plastic card with a photo ID and a digital identity chip laminated into the corner. The emblem showed the blue oak leaves and the globe of the United Nations. The text announced the bearer to be an Executive Officer of the United Nations International Security Agency.
Jack looked at the other man’s ID. It was almost identical. ‘The UN?’
Deakin nodded. ‘The National Security Agency, our NSA, helped the UN set the agency up about ten years ago. It isn’t widely known and it isn’t meant to be.’
Jack studied the IDs again and then looked back at Deakin.
‘I realize you can’t verify or copy these idents with your system down,’ said Deakin. ‘But it’s me, Jack. You know me.’
And it was him. Always there for Jack, even years after initial training. Every time there was an intelligence problem, whether in Iraq, Kosovo or North Korea, Ron had always been there. He had also been there just after Helen was killed.
Jack handed the badges back with a smile. ‘What’s going on?’
‘We need your help, Jack. Can you come with us right away? We’re going to a UN facility.’
Jack nodded. ‘I’ll get dressed. Give me time to shower and shave.’
‘Pack an overnight bag, please, sir,’ added Chevannes in a light Jamaican accent.
*
Joe Tinkler’s morning
had started spectacularly. The Tye Corporation had reported annual earnings of five dollars a share! That was over ten per cent higher than even Joe had forecast and every one of the bets he had made for his clients and for himself had paid off handsomely. The stocks had started roaring in Tokyo and the sound had spread westwards around the world’s markets for the last eighteen hours. On the back of Tye Corp’s results the whole of EUUSA was up thirteen points!
Then, around 11.30 a.m., Joe had started to worry. One of his software agents had sent back an alarm. He had configured this agent six years before and, after he had dispatched it into the global networks, it had sent him daily updates on which he based many of his decisions. But the software agent, which Joe had christened TinklerOne, had never before sent him an alarm.
Its alert had flashed on his wall screen and sounded an audio signal as Joe had originally planned. He opened the message and scanned the text and the charts.
It seemed that Thomas Tye was selling stock, and selling it in a very big way! The fund manager had customized this software agent from an off-the-shelf package especially to monitor Tye’s personal shareholdings and other investments. Joe had spent over four months programming the agent with details of every stock he knew Tye held. He started with Tye Corp’s core stock on EUUSA and then included every company quoted on any of the world’s major securities markets in which the Tye Corporation or Thomas Tye himself had any shareholding. He subsequently included the speciality companies quoted on the smaller electronic exchanges that were dedicated to nanotechnology development or biotechnology start-ups. He had also given the research agent the names of Tye’s investment vehicles, his brokers, his attorneys and his dealing codes on the individual markets. And he updated the same agent’s reference list every time he came across a new corporate or legal identity for Tye or any of his companies. Its reach could never be exhaustive, but it was about as good as it was possible to be. Altogether, he had found 2,891 companies in which Tye held stock either personally, through one of his investment vehicles, or indirectly through a third party. The man’s investments were scattered throughout forty-one countries and appeared on eighteen different stock market indices.
