One man ran his hands up and down her legs. She kicked at him, struck his shinbone. He kneed her in the back of the thigh, flung her to the ground and knelt on her, knees on her chest with a riot stick to her face. “Do that again and you’ll fucking regret it, hippie."
A third voice shouted at the men. They sprang up, outranked.
“What’s the problem here?” asked the new man.
“Trying to escape,” a copper said.
“Put her with the rest. Get ‘em processed. Nothing funny. There’s bloody cameras everywhere, don’t forget.”
They muttered their obedience. As the senior officer moved away one of them hissed in her ear. “On your fucking feet, whore."
She tried to stand but they knocked her down.
“I said up, slag."
She struggled up again and this time they didn’t stop her, just laughed instead. A thud in the shoulder-blade made her stagger forward, heading down Whitehall, away from the crowds, from her friends and safety. The men led her to a police bus and handed her over to a sergeant.
“Name?”
She shook her head.
“Give me your name.” The man stoccatoed the words at her.
“No comment."
For a moment, she thought he was about to hit her.
“Inside,” he said. “Don’t talk."
She stumbled up the steps, still handcuffed. The bus was packed with protesters, many of them wounded and bleeding. It looked like an army hospital in a war movie, except no one here was getting any medical care. She staggered along the aisle, looking at the dazed faces, the expressions of shock and fear and anger at what had been done. Why? It was a peaceful protest. But then Mark threw a brick, and that was all the police needed. She found a seat near the back next to an older woman, in her fifties Emma guessed, with blood matted in her long, brown hair. She smiled at Emma, grimly, and turned to stare out of the window.
“You think they’ll charge us?” Emma whispered.
“No. Too busy."
The sergeant yelled down the length of the bus, telling them to shut up. “Anyone who talks gets charged."
There it was: the promise. Sit quietly and at the end of the day they could walk free. She’d get home tonight, clean herself up, see Ben, hug him tight. It would all go away. She would return to her life and be with her friends and family.
Her boyfriend that was another matter. This was all his fault. He started this, gave the coppers the excuse they needed and the press the footage they wanted: unprovoked violence unleashed on the police. To some, he’d be a hero, because he was willing to fight. Plenty of people would take that view. But not her. Not any time. Mark was history. He was done.
Chapter 15
Apostle
Tom slowed his motorbike, leaned it around the cars queuing at the lights until he reached the front of the grid. As the signals turned from red to green he opened the throttle and surged ahead into open road. The traffic was insane. Saturdays were always a mixed-up mess on the roads but this was in a league of its own. The demos in the centre of town had created a no-go zone that had half the city in gridlock.
He glanced in his wing-mirror. Was he being followed? He turned left, left, left again, and rejoined the road a hundred yards back from where he started. If there was anyone on his tail, then they were good.
Tom parked the bike on a side-street off the Bayswater Road and chained it with his goggles and helmet locked to the seat post. He meandered along the paths towards the Serpentine. After a long winter and a flurry of late snow, the first leaves of spring were showing through. In the slanting sunlight drops of late afternoon dew glinted on the longer stalks of grass. He found the bench that Ruby’s contact had chosen as their meeting place. A poor choice. Better to meet in a pub, or a lower league football match, a kid’s rugby game, on a train. This was exposed. But Ruby’s friend had insisted. Tom hadn’t argued . There were limits to how much paranoia he could take.
He walked past the empty bench, doubled back, came round again, took a seat, unfurled his newspaper and pretended to read. He kept up the pretence for ten minutes before the man appeared. Capgras recognised him from Ruby’s description: a hipster beard, glasses, pony-tail. He either worked in IT or ran a health food cafe in one of the trendier parts of town. The man’s name had been given as ‘Aaron’ - no surnames. He didn’t glance at Tom but kept walking. Five minutes later he came around again, this time carrying two coffees in paper cups with lids. He sat on the bench and set the drinks down between them. “Thanks for coming. Short notice I realise, but I needed to get rid of this.” He opened his bag, took out the folder of files that Tom had sent and handed them over. “They’re all there. I’ve taken no copies. Don’t want any trace of it. Wish I’d never seen it."
“Sounds serious. You know what it is? What it means?”
“It’s trouble. You’re sure you weren’t followed?”
“Yes, but they bug everything these days. The benches might be miked up for all I can tell."
“Don’t joke about it. Whatever happens, don’t speak my name. Not now and not ever. Not in connection with this. Promise."
Tom took out a reporter’s notebook and pen. “You mind if I take notes for my own use?”
“Don’t quote anything I say. Keep me out of the papers. I won’t be your source, not even anonymous."
“Understood.” The man seemed terrified, yet that wasn’t the worst of it. He was angry at being dragged into something he hadn’t asked for, and which had taken him unawares. What could be so bad? It was computer code, not a bomb or a recipe for ricin.
“Where did you get it? Actually, don’t tell me."
“It arrived, unannounced,” Tom said. “In the mail."
“Bloody idiots. Must be someone who knows you. Or your reputation at least."
“Reputation for what?”
“For being careless with secrets."
“You going to tell me what this is?”
“I can’t be certain, you understand?” Aaron fidgeted.
“Drink the coffee,” Tom said. “Try not to appear agitated."
“You think we’re being watched?”
“I’m being cautious."
“We should walk, then."
“All right.” No chance to make notes, if they were walking. And he wouldn’t try to record this chat. The man was nervous enough already. They each held their cups of coffee and set off strolling, side by side.
“I hear you walked out on a few decent jobs in IT,” Tom said.
“Whatever you’ve heard about me, forget it. We’ve never met."
“Got it. So… this code?”
“I did a job for an insurance company,” Aaron said. “In the US, couple of years ago now. They were into the ‘big data’ thing, when everyone was throwing money at it, like it was going to solve everything. You hear about that?”
“Didn’t follow it closely."
“Promised a lot, but who knows. They might make it work, here and there. But this bunch, they wanted to push it to the limit, get commercial advantage."
“How?”
“Better predictions,” Aaron said. “Allows more accurate premiums. You can siphon off the best customers."
“The ones who won’t need the insurance they’re paying for?”
“Exactly."
“And the big data?”
“Came from the internet, search engines, shopping sites, social media, blog entries, every place they went, photos, trips abroad, their friends, lifestyle, all of it gathered in and analysed."
“That’s possible?”
“If you have a big enough database, and the algorithms to interrogate the data, yes, it can be done."
But would it be useful? Or accurate? “You were working on this?”
“For a time. Contracting, for one of the large consultancies."
“What happened?”
“We did our work, moved on. Don’t know what came of it."
“So….?”
> “It was too big. Too ambitious."
“Too expensive?”
“They didn’t have the computer power, the in-house expertise. Hadn’t thought it through. Should have focused on using the skills of their people instead of depending on algorithms. It might work for them one day, who knows."
A pair of runners headed towards them. He changed the conversation, began talking about music and bands. Aaron went along with it until the joggers had gone by.
“So how does that relate to this?”
“It’s similar but about a thousand times bigger.” Aaron dropped his voice, almost to a whisper. “It’s huge. A massive database. You can tell from the code. Immense. And the algorithm’s the most sophisticated thing I’ve seen. Beyond me. Whoever wrote this… well, not one person, that’s for sure. The work of experts, lots of them. They know what they’re doing. They have time, money, and more data… Seriously. No company could do this. Only a state."
Only a government. Shit. “So what is it? What does it do?”
“This database…” Aaron slurped the last of his coffee and threw the cup in a bin. “It has tens of millions of entries, and each of them has thousands of qualifiers. And the algorithm. You’ve never seen… well, anyway. It’s bonkers. They can use it all kinds of different ways.”
The man was doing his best to steer clear of techno-babble, and for that Capgras was thankful. But it was about time he gave him the lowdown. “What’s it for?”
Aaron stopped walking. He stood under an oak tree, staring at the Serpentine where gangs of male ducks were chasing a helpless female, holding her head under the water as they piled on top of her in their frenzy to reproduce. “They rank people,” he said at last.
“Who?”
“Everyone.” He ran his hand across his mouth. “If this is UK, then I’d say the whole population is in the database.”
“Rank them how?”
“Any way they want. They can adjust it. Use percentages. It’s a means for making decisions. That’s obvious. Of course that’s what it’s for. But they can decide how many people would be treated one way, how many another. Then they run it…”
“And get what?”
“Get the names."
“How would they use it?”
For the first time since they had met, Aaron turned to face him and look him in the eye. “You said it’s called ‘Apostle’, right? You know how these people work with their stupid codenames. Always a little bit cryptic, like no one else will get the joke, ‘cos they’re so smart."
“Like sixth form public schoolboys.” Capgras saw where this was going: secret services, MI5, GCHQ. He should have known, should have seen this coming. He had seen it coming, but he’d blundered in all the same.
“So what do you think ‘Apostle’ refers to?” Aaron asked.
“I’m not the religious type. One of the twelve apostles I guess."
“It’s used for one in particular. Peter."
Capgras had never paid much attention to the bible. He skipped out of religious education lessons at school. “Enlighten me."
“The apostle Peter keeps a book, stands outside the gates of heaven, deciding who gets in, who goes to hell.” Aaron paused, stared across the rolling grassland of Hyde Park towards the city, and its millions of homes, offices, factories, shops. And people. “This algorithm decides."
“Even GCHQ can’t control the afterlife."
“It decides who lives. Who dies. They know everything. How much you earn. What you say on your Twitter feed around election time. Who you’re likely to vote for. What skills you’ve got. The jobs you’ve done. How useful you are. How malleable.” Aaron ran his hands over his scalp as if massaging himself, trying to keep the stress levels contained.
“Sure about this?”
“There’s no proof. But that’s what it does."
“But why? When?”
“In an emergency. Say ten percent of the population can be saved, and seventy is expendable, and another twenty percent needs to be got rid of. Actively eliminated. They run this, they get the names. Where you live. How to contact you. Could be useful, don’t you think, in the event of nuclear strikes, economic collapse, environmental catastrophe, civil war. If they ever need to make the decision, they have the means to do it."
Capgras watched the late afternoon sunlight glancing on the ripples of the lake. Sirens howled across the city. Central London had descended into mayhem. The inside of Tom’s head wasn’t much different. Thoughts jostled with each other, tumbling as they fell down ravines of dread and doubt. What had he done, what box had he opened this time? What would they do, to keep it quiet? What wouldn’t they do? Had Albright spoken out? Was that why he had to die? What chance then for Tom Capgras? Or Aaron? Or Ruby? Or anyone else who got mixed up in this?
“So now you understand why I don’t want any part of it,” Aaron said. “Maybe it’s all legit, a fallback, a failsafe, a just-in-case option never to be used. Perhaps I’m wrong, and it’s about deciding who gets healthcare. Or something."
He didn’t sound like he believed that. Not a word of it.
“I won’t go public,” Aaron said. “I won’t give you information, or quotes, or anything. Promise me, no one will get my name."
Tom nodded. “Not from me. Or Ruby. I promise. You do the same. Tell no one."
“This is your exclusive, right?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not. I’m not ready to die for this story either. Or go to jail. Done that. Not doing it again."
“Then we have a deal,” Aaron said. “We walk away, and never reveal each other’s identities. Ever."
“But if I needed proof, if this had to come out?”
“Take it to someone who knows algorithms and databases. Once you work out how it’s put together, the conclusions are clear. Or you could ask the government, outright, see what they say."
Capgras knew what they’d say: go to jail, go directly to jail. Do not pass go. Do not print your exclusive, or whisper what you’ve learned to a living soul on pain of death. Tom held out his hand.
Aaron grasped it, hard. “No names. Ever. Say nothing to anyone. Agreed?”
“Agreed."
Aaron got up and walked away, heading towards the statue of Peter Pan that overlooks the lake.
Capgras waited until he was out of sight, then skimmed through the papers Aaron had given him, checked the data disk was there and slipped it all into his messenger bag. He strolled in the opposite direction, looping around to get back to his bike. Time to go home, to ditch the incriminating evidence and, if possible, to clear his head. He needed, above all else, to forget everything he had learned, bury it deep where it would never be found. Leave no map, no treasure trail to follow. And yet, he knew such a golden horde of secrets would burn a hole in his conscience and somehow find a way to seep out, to break free and drown his world.
Chapter 16
Surrounded
As Mark Rockford rounded the corner he expected to see his once white, now rusting Transit van waiting patiently for its owner to return. It was there, sure enough, but so were a dozen or more eco-protesters, all of them known to him. They loitered in the car park with the van surrounded, though they clearly weren’t waiting for a lift home.
He broke his stride, breathing fast. Should he run? No, they’d seen him. Too late. Bluff it out. No choice now. And it had to be done. He’d invested too much time to lose his contacts, to break with his targets. And besides, they were Emma’s friends.
Sally yelled at him across the road. Big Danny stood beside her. He was six foot four and eighteen stone of muscle. As a pacifist, he would have resented being referred to as a bouncer or bodyguard. Or even an enforcer. All the same, he was a tricky man to ignore, and he had a way about him when things got heated: a habit of standing too close and looking mean.
Mark crossed the road. Act nonchalant, he told himself. Or would defiant work better?
“What the frigging hell were you doing back there?” Sally ye
lled at him, her face puckered with a mix of anger and school-mam disappointment. “You know the rules. No violence. No starting anything.”
“Let me explain..."
“You were throwing effing bricks at them."
“Yeah, well…”
Danny shuffled next to Sally. He could have been a professional bodyguard. He’d have been good at it too, though he’d have needed clean clothes and regular showers. Not many paying clients would take him on looking and smelling like that. All the same, he had the moves.
“Why were you doing that?” Sally stood between him and his van, refusing to let him through. The rest of them had gathered behind her, giving him the hard stare.
Best to put doubt in their minds. Get them on the defensive. “Carrying placards won’t get it done.” He looked from face to face, refusing to be cowed. “They’re here, in our city. You going to let them get on with it? Let the police stop us? We could have broken through."
“You’re a frigging idiot,” Sally said. “You’re not coming with us again. You understand? Stay away."
He’d warned the gaffer this would happen. It wasn’t his fault, but he had to fight it. “You don’t own this group."
“We’re all agreed,” Sally said.
All of them? Where was Emma? Ruby was here. And Jane. But not Emma. “I overreacted, all right? I was angry because nothing changes. We sit in front of bulldozers and get arrested and talk crap but never do anything. It was time to act. That’s all I’m saying."
“But you didn’t get arrested,” Sally said. “Again.” She stepped closer, dropped her voice and glared into his eyes. “Are you a cop?”
“Fuck off, I’m not a cop."
“You could be."
“Why would I throw…”
“You know why. You might be a cop. Doesn’t matter now. You’re out. You turn up again…”
He needed a way through this. Buy time, if nothing else. “Look, what I did might have been stupid, but no one got hurt. You’re all here."
“No we’re not,” Ruby called out.
Where was Emma? She couldn’t…
Cold Monsters: (No Secrets To Conceal) (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 2) Page 6
