by Robert Sims
Now, using the defence department’s own equipment, he should have the edge. This time he should crash the gate.
He was floating - very close now - to the outstretched tip of a spiral arm. This was where he’d inject himself. Here, at a point remote from the core, his odds of getting in - and out again -
were better. For a moment he hovered, gazing at the intricate, crystalline surface, its phosphoric gleam dazzling his eyes. Then he took the plunge.
He locked on. Quickly he punched up the poached set of codes. They clicked in. He was posing as a research scientist with level-six clearance. Now came the tricky bit: getting inside. A set of coded commands had to be fired off. But if the code-breaker failed to crack the ciphers - game over. He hit it. There was a pause. Then with a whoosh he was through, the code-breaker gunning through the encrypted protocols, the firewall lifting, a rush of exhilaration surging through Freddy from his skull to his toes. The gate crashed open and he was inside - interfaced with the defence system.
Ahead of him stretched a city of infinite rectangles - rainbow-coloured. Pinnacles, plateaux and canyons receded to a precise horizon. Where to look? How to start? So much information.
Time to back his instincts. He keyed in two words: panopticon project. It was a gamble that worked. But it worked too well.
He accelerated across the cityscape at a dizzying velocity, colours blurring into a psychedelic spray. Shapes flickered across his eyeballs - ranges of tower blocks, mazes, chequered plains - a delirious stream of patterns that left him unable to see his control panel. He knew what was happening - a headlong rush towards the core at the Sands - and he could do nothing to stop it, his senses reeling, all balance gone. If a hunter-killer program was tracking him, he didn’t stand a chance. Something was shrilling in his ears. It might have been his own blood pressure rising out of control. Or was it his own voice screaming? And that’s when it hit him. The white-out.
How long he was unconscious he couldn’t tell. As Freddy emerged from the blankness his first sensation was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. His sight was blurred, stars fizzing around him.
As his vision cleared he saw that he was sitting in a white room.
It was quiet and sterile. A computer lab. In the distance he could see a woman. She was wearing a white lab coat. Her attention was absorbed by the screen in front of her. As he focused his gaze Freddy saw what was on the screen. It was his own face. He gasped and wanted to call out, but felt too numb. He tried to get up but was pinned to his seat by nausea.
As he sat there, dazed and horrified by his predicament, the woman slowly stood, turned and walked towards him. There was something menacing about her. She was grey-eyed with a strong, handsome face and dark brown hair pinned back severely from her forehead. She stopped right in front of him. His head felt heavy as he looked up at her. He was still having trouble focusing, but her anger was clear. When she spoke her voice seemed to cut into his brain.
‘I suppose I should congratulate you,’ she said with more than a little contempt. ‘You’ve managed to hack your way in where nobody else has.’
He took a slow, constricted breath and got out the words, ‘Where am I?’ But they sounded weak and muffled to his own ears.
‘Where you were aiming for.’
His head swayed around clumsily. ‘But this isn’t the core.’
‘All is not what it seems.’ She almost smiled. ‘And of course I caught you and tranquillised you before you could do any damage.’
He struggled to get up out of the chair.
‘Don’t do that,’ she snapped, and he sagged back immediately.
‘You’ll only hurt yourself.’
‘Who the hell are you?’ asked Freddy suspiciously.
‘You came looking for what controls the Panopticon Project
- well, that would be me. But you can call me Audrey.’ She gave him a dangerous smile. ‘I’m the system controller at Whitley Sands. You’ve got here courtesy of a new VR helmet, gloves and code-breaker I designed myself. Unfortunately I don’t control the manufacture, distribution or storage. But the man who supplied you was arrested five minutes ago. He’s on his way to military cells, a court martial and imprisonment.’
‘Stonefish?’
‘No, I’m not interested in cheap crooks - others will deal with him,’ said Audrey. ‘I’m talking about the ADF technical officer who stole the equipment and sold it on the black market. He’s finished.’
She let him think about it. The words gave him a sinking feeling.
‘What about me?’ he asked, looking around uneasily. ‘I suppose you’ve got a few goons waiting around for some head-kicking.’
‘Is that what you think?’ Audrey seemed pleased. ‘No. Your punishment will be limited and immediate.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean you’re a cunning sod who’s done me a service by exposing security flaws. I may call on you again at a later date.’
‘Forget it.’
‘Tut-tut-tut,’ she said, moving closer, wagging a finger at him.
‘Get away from me, you bitch!’
‘Consider yourself lucky. I’m going to let you off lightly.’
At first he thought he was imagining it. But then he saw it was real - even though it couldn’t be real. Little blue veins of electricity were flickering from her fingertips.
‘What’s that?’ he blurted out.
‘Use your brain, Freddy. And you’d better get back from your computer decks.’
She raised her electric fingers to his face.
‘Shit!’ he shouted, then realised what was happening - he was still in virtual reality.
Freddy jumped up, throwing off his gloves and helmet, and stood unsteadily in his warehouse loft, looking around frantically as Audrey’s face stared back at him from the stack of computer screens.
‘I told you, Freddy. Stand back from your decks.’
He could see the blue wisps of smoke rising from a spread of keyboards, and smell the sharp tang of electrical burning as circuits began to ignite.
He scrambled backwards, shouting, ‘You crazy bitch!’ and watched as smoke and flames flickered around the equipment lining his loft.
The first terminal exploded with a loud bang and Audrey’s face vanished from it in a shower of glass, plastic and silicon. Her face still mooned out at him from the remaining screens as he grabbed for an extinguisher. The tubes were exploding one after another in a cannonade, bombarding him with splintered components, as he pointed the nozzle and sprayed wildly at the flames.
Within a few minutes he’d doused them. He stood there, trembling, gazing at the blackened, burnt-out wreckage. He tossed down the empty fire extinguisher. It hit the floor with a hollow clank. In that moment he was speechless. Such a display of electronic power was mind-blowing, though the thought that Audrey had spared him for future use made him shudder. But the smouldering, ebombed debris around him also left him with another feeling - a grudging admiration.
20
‘So how’d your first day go?’ asked Jarrett. ‘It just went,’ answered Rita.
She wasn’t in a good mood. It was nine a.m., her sleep had been fitful and she’d skipped breakfast. Jarrett had intercepted her in the police car park.
‘Let me take you for a coffee,’ he said, an earnest look on his face. ‘You don’t need to cross paths with Bryce this morning.’
‘Right,’ she said slowly. ‘What’s he saying?’
‘He’s harping on one of his favourite themes. The more he tries to avoid Whitley Sands, the more he gets involved.’
‘And what’s he saying about me?’
‘Well, if I can put it diplomatically, he thinks you’ve got an attitude problem - just like me. Want to tell me about it?’
‘First, coffee.’
Jarrett ushered her towards his car and they drove to a cafe overlooking the marina. They sat at a table in the shade of a beach umbrella and ordered lattes. The morning sun glared beyond a line of palm trees
that marked the border of the marina village with its blocks of high-rise holiday apartments. Lines of yachts rode gently at their berths.
‘So what happened?’ asked Jarrett.
‘I’ve had my own introduction to Captain Roy Maddox,’ said Rita. ‘And his team of paramilitary apes.’
‘You paid a visit to the base?’
‘Yes. And they did a background check with Bryce.’
‘No wonder he’s cranky. Did you come up with anything?’
‘Nothing solid,’ said Rita. ‘But I’m convinced that base security has a direct bearing on the investigation.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. And it’s been made brutally clear to me that we’re supposed to rule it out as a line of inquiry. National security and all that.’
‘Ah.’ Jarrett sat back, rubbing his chin. ‘Play ball or else.’
‘That’s about it. I’ve been ordered to accept the bigger picture -
that we’re all on the same side of law and order - and back off.’
A waitress delivered the coffees.
‘So where’s that leave our investigation?’ asked Jarrett, perplexed.
‘And what does it mean for your profiling?’
‘Both good questions,’ answered Rita. ‘Whatever the political or military implications, there’s still a killer out there.’
‘So we focus on the evidence we’ve got.’ Jarrett nodded. ‘And each new bit that floats our way.’
‘We’ve got no other choice. Have any more body parts turned up?’
‘A human tibia was found among rocks south of the estuary yesterday evening. Picked clean by the crabs. I’ve sent it to the lab, but assuming it’s from victim number one, I doubt it’ll add anything to what we’ve got.’
‘Probably not.’
Jarrett watched Rita shaking her head.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
‘It’s going to be hard to play it straight as a profiler.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Our killer isn’t playing straight with us.’
‘You’ve lost me,’ he admitted.
‘Okay, hiccup number one: crime signature,’ she said. ‘On the basis that the dismembered sections were washed up because of the killer’s miscalculation, we’ve got a big inconsistency.’
‘Which is?’
‘The first victim wasn’t meant to be found, while the second most certainly was.’ She took a sip of coffee. ‘Another obvious thing is the difference in sex of the two victims. Somehow it doesn’t fit.
And something else. A head on a pole in a public place - what does that say to you?’
Jarrett shrugged. ‘A very sick bastard on the loose.’
‘Yes, but another idea came to me yesterday when I was checking out the displays in the exhibit room. They made me think execution.’
He thought about it. ‘Like the heads of traitors on London Bridge. Shit, why didn’t I think of that?’
‘Well, I’m in the habit of seeing pathological imagery where other cops see dead bodies. Next big question mark - where are the hands?’
‘You think the killer might have kept them?’ asked Jarrett.
‘From both victims?’
‘Maybe. And if so, why? For what purpose? Souvenirs? It bothers me.’
‘Anything else?’
‘The nail gun.’
‘It’s an odd choice of weapon,’ he agreed. ‘Like you said: up close and personal. Or even opportunistic.’
Rita looked out to sea as she drank her coffee. ‘Or neither of those.’
‘You’ve lost me again.’
‘There’s another possibility,’ she said quietly. ‘And this is just speculation. What if the killings were professional?’
Jarrett gave her a hard look. ‘Professional?’ He put down his cup. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘I’m saying we can’t afford to make false assumptions.’
‘We are still talking about a serial killer, aren’t we?’
‘Let’s not get hung up on terminology.’
‘Okay. And, if I get your drift, you don’t want us to rule out a connection with Whitley Sands. So, correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re saying two people might have been taken out because of a link to the base?’
‘Yes.’
‘By some sort of vigilante?’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘Or this terrorist cell we’re being warned about?’
‘I was thinking more along the lines of sanctioned hits.’
‘A criminal connection?’
‘No.’
Jarrett paused to take in what she was implying.
‘If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting,’ he said,
‘you’d better keep it between the two of us.’
‘Absolutely,’ she agreed. ‘ Entre nous. It’s just a thought.’
They finished their coffees in silence.
‘So where do we go from here?’ asked Jarrett at last. ‘Or am I stuffed no matter which way I turn?’
‘You’re doing fine,’ she told him. ‘I’ve gone through your files and case notes. Everything you’ve put together is excellent work, very thorough. What I’m going to do is retrace some of it. I want to talk to those closest to Rachel Macarthur.’
‘Work up the victimology?’
‘Yes. I’ll need to talk to her campaign deputy.’
‘Eve Jaggamarra, bit of a babe,’ said Jarrett before he could stop himself. ‘Sorry. You’ll find her at the campaign headquarters.’
‘And Rachel’s boyfriend, the hacker.’
‘Edge Freddy. Your best bet is the Diamond, but I’ll try to track him down for you.’
‘The Diamond?’ said Rita. ‘The nightclub at the crime scene?’
‘Yeah, the Rough Diamond Club - rough being the operative word.’
‘I’ll need to check that out too.’
‘Well, don’t turn your back on anyone. Apart from attracting e-freaks, it’s a watering hole for seafront hookers and muggers.
Make sure nobody spikes your drink.’
21
The protest campaign office was located in a concrete shopping centre that served the southern residential spread on the edge of the industrial area. Rita found a parking space and walked along a pedestrian precinct between rows of concrete pillars, cheap supermarkets and discount outlets. It was one of those functional developments from the late 1960s that showed its age badly. Overhead metal walkways were the colour of rust. The civic garden beds were overgrown. There was a lot of graffiti about.
The place she was looking for was next to a cyber cafe and upstairs from a grocery selling environmentally friendly items. She climbed the stairs to find a nest of rooms cluttered with posters, placards, stacks of papers and intense women in unfashionable clothing.
‘I’m looking for Eve Jaggamarra,’ she said.
‘Out the back,’ she was told. ‘Doing her mug shots.’
Baffled by the answer, Rita went back down the stairs and through the rear of the shop to a back garden. It was obviously used as a receptacle for the overflow of clutter from the office. A pebbled path was hemmed in by paint tins, brushes, more posters and piles of magazines under plastic covers among ferns and cactus tubs. The woman she’d arranged to meet was posing against the back wall, brandishing a placard with the words: radiation kills.
Squatting a couple of metres in front of her was a photographer, camera flashing.
‘Eve?’ asked Rita.
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I’ll be with you in a tick.’
The photographer glanced over his shoulder, looked Rita up and down, then resumed, telling his subject to turn sideways a little, breathe in and raise her chin. His accent was European, maybe French.
Rita folded her arms and waited. It gave her the opportunity to observe the woman. Straightaway she could see the attraction for Jarrett - and the photographer too, by the look of it. He was making the most of
her shapely figure by getting her to pose against a whitewashed background in a red, partly unbuttoned shirt and jeans, shooting her from the waist up. She was a natural beauty: dark-skinned with a smooth, flawless complexion, black hair and deep brown eyes. The pose, complete with protest slogan, conveyed a powerful image: sex and death combined. The photographer knew what he was doing.
When the photo shoot ended, Eve buttoned her shirt, came over and shook Rita’s hand.
‘You’re the profiler,’ she said.
‘Yes. And you’re the next centrefold by the look of it.’
Eve laughed. ‘Anything for the cause. The more publicity the better.’
‘And I’m her biggest fan,’ put in the photographer, packing his camera into its case. ‘She could have a career as a model.’
‘My new admirer,’ explained Eve as he walked over.
‘Julien Ronsard,’ he said with a slight bow, shaking Rita’s hand.
‘Rita Van Hassel,’ she replied. ‘Is your accent French?’
‘Yes, from Paris.’
‘You’re a long way from home.’
‘I usually am,’ said Ronsard with a doleful smile. ‘The fate of a photo-journalist. I go wherever important issues take me.’
‘Such as?’
‘Christmas in Algiers. March in Islamabad. April in Bali. I’ve been here for the past month covering the anti-war protests.’
‘Why?’
‘They are waging a battle against another excess of the war on terror. It has global importance. It deserves international attention.’
This man intrigued Rita. Something of a pin-up himself, he was slim with olive skin and dark almond-shaped eyes, and he possessed the polished charm of someone schooled in the tradition of Continental courtesy. But there was another facet too; Rita could sense a resoluteness beneath the composure. Ronsard looked like a man with the intelligence and inner strength to act on principle, cope with danger and speak his mind. It was an appealing package.
She wanted to know more.
‘Who do you work for?’ Rita asked.
‘I’m freelance. My shots appear mostly in European magazines.’
‘How many languages do you speak?’
‘Several,’ he answered with a smile. ‘But if you’re referring to my English it’s because I studied at the London School of Economics.
