Three days of staring at the internet hadn’t improved his mood. Capgras looked up from his computer. Ruby sat at the table, poring over her laptop. Like him, she was researching DarkReach. Like him, she was getting nowhere.
All Tom knew for sure was that the company was registered in the UK but owned abroad, through trusts and partnerships, stockholding instruments and passive investors spread across the islands of the Caribbean and Indian Ocean. It specialised in vague government contracts and quasi-military ’security’ operations in the world’s hotspots, mostly for energy and oil companies. That explained why Albright had been on the board of directors. As a former defence minister, his contacts and credibility would have opened doors and won deals.
“DarkReach is the right name for them,” Tom said. “They’re everywhere, but no one knows who they are or what they do. They don’t have a website. Don’t publish accounts. How do they get away with that?”
“Because they work for GCHQ, maybe,” Ruby said. “Would that give them an exemption?”
“It might. Are you sure?”
“Big contract,” she said. “Hundred million."
“A year?”
“Looks like it."
“Doing what?”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t say."
Over the years Ruby had become Tom’s informal and unpaid apprentice. A friend of Emma’s, in her early twenties, she lived hand to mouth in squats during the winter and out on the road at festivals and traveller camps during the all-too-short British summer. Ruby understood the dark net and relay chat and where to find a hacker who wasn’t mentally unstable or a coder who could be relied on to keep his mouth shut. She knew people, not by their real names, not their faces or where they lived, but as virtual identities, anonymised and free to speak the truth and push boundaries of what can, or could or should be done. She was invaluable. Tom treasured her, though not enough to pay her in cash, or the compliments which would have meant so much more.
He shut the lid of his notebook. “We should go for a walk. Get some fresh air."
“And lunch."
They slung on coats and Capgras locked the front door of his home, a converted eighty foot long metal shipping container. He slipped his arm through Ruby’s and they walked together, looking almost like lovers, through the mud of the self-build site in an unfashionable, rundown corner of east London.
“I need your help with something."
“Name it."
He paused. “You once told me that you met someone who’s good with code and encryption. Algorithms. High end stuff."
“There’s a few of those around."
“But there was one guy, you said, not online. Here in London."
“Sure, Aaron, from Hackney."
“How good is he?”
“Worked for Google, IBM, some IT agencies. High level."
“Must be rich.”
“Would he live in Hackney? I think he got a drugs bust, kicked out of the US. No idea what he does now. Gets by, I suppose."
“Is he political?”
“Just nerdy. What’s this about?”
“Introduce me. I need his help."
“What kind?”
“It’s hard to say."
“You don’t want to tell me?”
“Better not to."
“You don’t trust me?” She sounded hurt. Wounded. It was fair enough. He trusted her with everything.
“The less you know the better. Please."
“He doesn’t think too highly of the press.”
“That’s an occupational hazard."
“I have to tell him something."
“I'm after an opinion on a piece of code."
“How did you come by it?”
“By accident.” That was a lie. She wasn’t fooled. Her face told him that, plain enough.
They crossed the road together, still arm-in-arm, but she was frowning now, as if they’d had a lovers’ tiff. They headed for their favourite cafe and hunkered at a window table where they could watch the world pass by.
“So what do I tell him?” she asked.
“I’ll send him a package but he has to take precautions. Clean computer, offline, all of that."
“He knows what he’s doing. This to do with Albright?”
“No. Perhaps. I can’t say. You’ll ask?”
“I have to warn him. It isn’t fair otherwise."
“Of course. But you’ll ask?”
She waggled her eyebrows in that way that concedes defeat, reluctantly.
“What do you want? I’m buying."
“Too right you are. I have no money.” She gave him one of her stares. “Whatever they’ve got. Most expensive thing on the menu. Provided it’s vegan.”
Chapter 9
Temptress
Tom slung his feet off the desk and picked up his phone, pressed the green button. A familiar voice on the other end made his skin tingle. Was it fear? Excitement? The anticipation of a nasty rash? Tom glanced around the newsroom. No was watching him. They didn’t know. How could they?
“So, Tom,” the voice purred, “I guess you’ve heard?”
He hadn’t, but Angie Gossage calling him on his mobile could mean only one thing: bad news.
“It’s my own fault. You did warn me, but…”
Tom decided to interrupt her now before she reached full flow. “I’m not up with events. What are we talking about?”
“I’ve been fired,” Angie said. “Police have charged me over that Albright thing. I had the man’s diary in my bag but didn’t even get chance to read it."
That genuinely was a shame. “They can’t fire you for that. See your union rep."
“Oh, Tom, you are funny. I’m not in the union. They don’t recognise it in any case.”
“Better off out of there.”
“I didn’t call to discuss politics."
“So, what can I do for you?”
“Well, the charges won’t stick, but I doubt I’ll be getting my job back any time soon."
“But you’re the star."
“They’ve found someone else. A friend of a friend of the editor or something like that. You know how it works."
She’d been there a long time, writing that column. It was doubtless going stale. “Help you with what?”
“Advice. Contacts. I might need to go freelance for a while, was hoping you’d help out, show me the ropes."
“You must have a thousand contacts better placed than me."
“But I was looking for a change of direction. Move into serious news."
Was she kidding him? Did she realise how insane that sounded?
“I was thinking... get away from the tabloids. I don’t suppose… you’d mention my name…”
She wanted him to open doors at The Monitor. She must be recording this, to play back at the office party. “Don’t think you’d be suited. The style of writing, all of that…”
“I can do serious, if only they’d give me a chance. Can we meet? It would mean a lot to me."
“Can’t talk now,” Tom said.
“That’s all right. Go for a drink? Get acquainted?”
She was coming on to him. Was she? She wouldn’t. They were chalk and cheese. And yet…
“Please, Tom. I could come over your way…”
She didn’t mean it. The east end of London remained terra incognita for women like Angie Gossage. Not a fashion boutique in sight.
“Maybe the next time I’m up west."
“I need to get something moving. I don’t suppose you’re free tonight?”
“I promised to babysit."
“Oh?”
“My nephew."
Angie moaned coquettishly, as if she’d already planned the seduction scene and had the bedroom ready, was wearing the lingerie especially for him. Was he imagining all this? No. She was using him, nothing more. This was her way of getting men to co-operate with whatever scheme she had running.
“Soon, I trust,” Angie murmured down
the phone, as though auditioning for the part of femme fatale in a forties’ noir.
“Okay, I’ll call you back. Gotta go, Ang. Sorry to hear about it. I’ll do what I can."
“You’ll put a word in?”
“Don’t hold out too much hope."
“I’m sure you’ll come through, Tom,” she whispered.
She was laying it on thick. He mumbled pleasantries and hung up. He entered her number into his contacts app, so that next time she called he would know to hang up, or let it go to voicemail. Because he wasn’t getting involved with Angie. Or helping her getting a job on his paper. He wasn’t.
He just wasn’t.
Chapter 10
Fair Warning
Mark Rockford parked his rusting van outside Emma’s house. Before going inside he checked his phone for messages. Nothing of consequence. He shouldered his bag, took the plastic carrier containing eight cans of extra strong German lager off the passenger seat and slammed the door hard so it would catch and click. He’d been meaning to repair it, worried it might fly open one day while driving but he never seemed to find the time.
Emma’s front door opened before he’d begun looking for his key. She came out, her coat on, hair hidden under an ethnic woollen hat. “You’re late. The meeting will have started."
“Let me put these down.”
“Leave them in the hall."
“I’m not sure we should go in any case."
“We said we’d be there."
“I’ve been thinking about that.” He brushed past her, into the house. “It could get nasty. The police won’t be taking prisoners. It’s no place…”
Her scowl could have curdled yoghurt. “What’s that? No place for a lady?”
“No, for a young mother with a kid to look after. It’ll be rough."
“I don’t care. I’ll be all right."
He dropped the cans in the hall and turned to take hold of her shoulders. “I’m worried. That’s all.”
“It’s not every week the G8 meet in London."
“I think it’s the G7 now, but anyway. The security’s so tight we won’t get near the place. As soon as we show up, they’ll be on us. They’ll make an example, start something, then wade it.” He softened his voice, held her close. “I don’t want you hurt. Promise me you’ll keep away. Just this once."
“No way. I always go on the demos. And this is the big one.”
“That’s the problem."
“What’s got into you?”
“I… heard stuff. Made me worry."
“Who from?”
“Stay here, look after Ben."
“What about the others?”
“I’ll warn them."
“They’ll still go.”
“That’s up to them."
“Are you going?”
“Maybe…”
“So I’m the one left at home? I'm gonna be there."
“Emma, listen."
She pulled away from him. “You coming to this meeting or not?”
He should, he needed the plans, the routes they would take. But he was tired of playing the game and longed to fall into a chair and drink beer, switch off for the day and let life wash over him. He wanted Emma there, warm and calm and beautiful. And young. “Let’s chill. I can’t do meetings. Not now.” Not another meeting. Not today.
“Shit, I’ll go myself.” She pushed past him, heading for the kitchen, and hauled out her bike.
He had to do something. He could try the truth. Or another lie. “There’s talk,” he said, “that’s all I can say. The police are making a move. Put a stop to any demos, fast and hard. Brutal."
She pushed the bike ahead of her down the hallway. “Who’s saying this? There’s always talk like that."
“You need to stay out of this. Keep your head down."
“Why me? We’re all in it."
“But you’re different."
“How?”
“Because of your brother."
“What’s he got to do with anything?”
“He’s a journo."
“Police don’t care about that. They don’t know who I am. I’m only a face in the crowd."
But every face, in every crowd, was logged and photographed and identified and filed away. She was wrong. The police knew who she was. They knew who everyone was, where they went, what they did, how they slept and who with and what they searched for when they plugged into Google. “Do this for me. Trust me.”
“Who’ve you been talking to? And leave Tom out of it. He’s not involved."
“He writes that stuff."
“No one reads it. Not the police at any rate. And it’s a newspaper. He’s not a terrorist. Only a reporter."
She had the bike outside. “Ben’s staying with Tom. I’ll be back whenever. You’ll be drunk I expect."
He shrugged. She slammed the door.
She was right though. He would be drunk. He’d make damn sure of that.
Chapter 11
Avatars
Emma’s kitchen served as the main room in the house, complete with a neglected, ancient and tiny television in one corner, a hi-fi system with unfeasibly large speakers on a shelf near the door and a dining table which served for preparing and eating food, rolling spliffs, examining maps of half-completed power stations and the occasional game of backgammon. That morning it functioned as a card table. A hand of whist was under way, boys against girls. Tom and his eleven-year-old nephew Ben were winning easily, consistently, comprehensively and with poker faces set firm - no flicker of a smile.
Tom and Ben were cheating.
The room was spartan with bare boards, faded paint on the walls stained by nicotine, and an ethnic screen print serving as a curtain. The rotten wooden window-frame rattled every time a truck or bus rumbled past and the single pane of glass acted as a refrigeration system, sucking heat out of the room and exchanging it for the cold night air outdoors. In a corner stood a pair of bikes, a bag of compost, some garden tools and the parts of a rotavator that, to Tom’s certain knowledge, had been there for two years at least without once being touched.
Tom’s sister Emma and her friend Ruby were killing time, waiting for a life into town so they could take part in the demo against a meeting of world leaders, who had gathered in London to discuss money, power, and how to keep them.
The game of cards had been Emma’s idea. Taking on the boys had been Ruby’s suggestion. Winning had always been top of Ben’s agenda, and Tom was content to go along with the boy’s nefarious plan.
Tom feigned indecision while touching his ear with his right thumb a gesture which appeared merely odd to the casual observer but which, to Ben, was a clear invitation to lay down a diamond, as low as possible. Ben put down the three. Emma hesitated, her finger hovering before she planted the king on Ben’s card with a defiant flourish. Tom smiled to himself. His queen protected, he placed the ace of diamonds and looked expectantly at Ruby.
Ben had learnt sign language from a deaf girl in a traveller encampment deep in the New Forest. Ben had taught Tom during long hours of babysitting. Cut off from the mainstream signing community, their diction had evolved, developing idiosyncrasies and subtleties of its own. They had refined it so that micro-movements and tiny gestures could convey a world of nuance and vital information, such as how many hearts Tom had in his hand and who was holding the king of clubs.
Ruby glanced from face to face, a deep frown wrinkling her forehead. Did she suspect their subterfuge? She must know something was wrong, but couldn’t work out how it was done. Tom smiled to himself as she forlornly laid the jack.
Outside, a diesel engine approached the house, rumbled as a vehicle manoeuvred into a parking space and then died away. Tom glanced at Ben, who nodded, and then at Emma. “Is this Mark?” Would he get to meet the semi-mythical boyfriend, at long last?
Emma and Ruby were already on their feet, the game of cards abandoned. They and grabbed coats and bags. “We won’t be late.” Emma kissed Ben on the
cheek. “Be good."
Tom followed them as far as the door. A key turned in the lock and it swung open. A hippie stood there, with long hair in a pony tail and tattoos on his arms. The man was broad across the shoulder and thick-set. He had either worked out or worked hard for a living at some point in this life. He was not what Tom had expected. The man caught his eye, looked away, nervously. Emma did the introductions, then raced off to the van to load her stuff.
“You should have a word with her,” Mark said.
“About what?”
“This demo might turn nasty. She should stay away."
“But you’re going?”
“That’s different."
“She won’t see it like that,” Tom said.
“Tell her anyway."
“Tell her yourself."
“She won’t listen to me."
“She doesn’t listen to anyone,” Tom said.
“Guess that’s true. Listen, we should talk sometime.” Mark shuffled, uncomfortably.
“What about?”
“I don’t know, stuff. Meet up, down the pub, since we’re almost family."
Tom tried not to react, or show his surprise. The man had been avoiding him all this time, and now he wanted to be mates.
“You can tell me about your work,” Mark said. “Sounds interesting. What are you investigating at the moment?”
“Nothing much to be honest."
“No more state secrets?”
“Too much trouble. I look at other things these days."
“It’s what you’re known for."
“I left that behind."
“Too risky? “I can understand it,… if you don’t want to stick your neck out."
“I’ve got no sources for that kind of news any more."
“People must come to you…”
“No, they don’t."
Emma tooted on the horn of the Transit and waved at Mark to get a move on. The man held out a hand to shake. Tom took it, reluctantly. Mark didn’t look him in the eye as they shook. He pulled away with a mumble and shuffled across the road towards his van.
Ben had been right. There was something wrong about the man, but what? Even if could find out, how would he tell Emma, without making matters worse? Or breaking her heart? Tom sauntered back inside and closed the door. He found Ben on the sofa in the living room, playing a first-person shooter computer game. His avatar was a half-cyborg maniac, armed with machine guns and machetes, pistols, rifles, shotguns and a futuristic laser, all lugged over his ample shoulders. Bang, bang, he shot the bad guys dead. Or were they the good guys? It was hard to tell.
Cold Monsters_No Secrets To Conceal Page 4
