by H G White
‘Yes Trevor.’
‘Are my ears really that noticeable?’
‘Don't be ridiculous. Your ears look completely normal.’
‘But how ...?’
‘Trevor dear boy, Neil told me all about you when we shared a room together! I've known you like 'em big for the best part of a decade.’
He turned to Phil: ‘And you needn't laugh Philip; I am equally well-acquainted with your past.’
I was glad he hadn't caught me smiling; he'd have probably pulled one of my skeletons out of the cupboard. He had a real old fashioned schoolmaster way about him. I'm sure his university lectures would have been extremely popular just for the entertainment value, let alone their scientific content.
As we drove back to Bristol, there was a jubilant atmosphere in the car. It felt like we now had a real mentor on board who would guide us through the most difficult part of the mission.
Apart from becoming the worse for wear on Vaughan's keg, we were treated to another of Peachy's outstanding culinary masterpieces. It was worth being involved in the quest – for the meals, if nothing else.
Late in the evening when we’d had our fill, my stomach started to murmur, was this the embryonic stage of one serious bout of scrumpyitis? I took evasive action and downed a large glass of water, it was time for bed. Peachy, Neil and I crashed out before midnight and I guess Phil wasn't long after that.
***
I woke up with chronic indigestion, too much cider had a habit of doing this to me. I checked my watch; 2.37 a.m. – time for a visit to the bathroom. Hopefully Phil would have some antacid tablets there. As I crept out of the bedroom, I noticed light coming from under Phil's door. Was he still up? It was then that I heard the gentle tapping of a keyboard. Obviously he was still awake and at his computer. Quietly, I pushed the door open and in a hushed voice asked him, ‘Where are the indi-tabs Simms?’
‘I've run out.’
‘You are fucking joking?’
‘No, I'm serious.’
‘I'm doubled up here. My chest is on fire.’
‘Do the words self-inflicted injury or it's your own fault strike a chord with you?’
Phil had the memory of an elephant.
‘Ah come on Phil, don't be like that, you must have some lurking about.’
‘Go and get a glass from downstairs.’
I went for the glass, making as little noise as I could, returning moments later.
‘Here have a drop of this.’ He was about to pour me a slug of Vaughan's home made Calvados. I stopped him.
‘I thought you were going to help end my discomfort.’
‘Why do you think the French call it a digestif? Now do you want some or not?’
‘Yeah OK, keep your wig on. Not too much though, I've got to drive home lunchtime.’ He tipped a large measure into my glass. ‘Anyway, what are you up to? I saw your light on, didn't know whether to come in or not. I thought you might be having a J Arthur or something.’
‘What's a “something”?’ He asked.
‘I dunno.’
‘Try to be specific and then you may have a sporting chance of convincing others that you are not actually subhuman.’
‘I'll do that in future – just to please you, although you still haven’t answered my question about what it is you’re up to?’
‘Ah well, I'm trying, as I have been for the last three nights, to have a little look around.’
‘A little look around what?’
‘Charles De Villiers’ computer.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘As I said, I'm trying. I've got his biog here.’ He showed me the same notes I'd seen in my own bundle.
‘Does it tell you how to get into his computer then?’
‘No, of course it doesn't you imbecile. I'm using the biog to find clues as to his username and password. Once I can crack those, I can log in and have a snoop, check out if there’s anything that might help us.’
‘Surely, if you've already been trying for three nights, and still haven't got it, you're not going to on the fourth.’
‘Ah you see, that's where you and I differ. I have intelligence and patience, whereas you do not.’
‘Ooh you've found me out Mr Superior-being. How long have you been at it tonight then?’
‘I've been at it since you lightweights went to bed.’
He took another swig of Vaughan's Calvados. I had no doubt that he would get into De Villiers’ computer at some point. Persistence was not something Phil lacked; he had it by the shedload. I could see lots of failed attempt messages on his screen. He'd been using anagrams of De Villiers’ name, combinations of dates and words that I didn’t understand the relevance of (unlike Phil). But then evidently, he'd been through this kind of thing before and knew what he was doing.
I was curious. ‘I've got a question.’
‘Just the one?’
‘Yes. Won't he know you're looking at his computer?’
‘No.’
‘How so?’
‘That's two questions.’
‘Yes alright Peter Pedantic. You've caught me out again. Can you just answer the question?’
‘Mmm ... first, there's a good reason for doing this in the early hours of the morning. The chances of him being at his desk are virtually zero.’
‘And second?’
‘I'm using what’s called an anonymous proxy server.’
‘Speak English please?’
‘Imagine De Villiers’ computer is a shop window. You pull up outside in your car looking through the window. Whoever's inside can get a good look at you and your number plate, right?’
I had the feeling Phil was dumbing down for me. ‘Right.’
‘Now imagine you pull up outside the shop window in a car with NATO plates and blacked out windows.’
‘OK, so they can't see you and if they ask NATO who that registration belongs to they're told to piss off and mind their own ...?’
‘Exactly! That's what the anonymous proxy server does. It guarantees the user confidentiality. Look I'll show you.’ Suddenly Phil started typing on the keyboard and took the PC into a different screen. ‘Bollocks, bollocks …’
Oh dear, this didn’t sound too good. ‘What's the matter Phil?’
‘I haven't checked the box to activate it. Well I have now, but it means for the last couple of hours I've been outside the proverbial shop window sitting in the wrong car.’
‘Does that mean he'll know you've been trying to get into his computer?’
‘Highly unlikely, as I said: Who sits at their office desk at 3 a.m.? I'm just pissed off that I could’ve got caught with my trousers down that's all. It was going downstairs to get Vaughan's brandy that did it. My usual log-on routine got fucked-up.’
‘Do you think you'll get a knock at the door from the cyber police?’
‘No, you've been watching too many films.’ It was true, I had sat in front of the goggle box far too much of late.
‘What about telling Peach?
‘No, I'm saying nothing and you say nothing right? He'll only do his nut – you know what he's like.’
‘OK.’ Phil was right. Peach probably would do his nut, if he knew about it. ‘Why don't you switch that thing off now and get some kip.’ Phil rubbed his eyes. The whites had become bloodshot.
‘Yeah, I probably should. I'm shagged out.’ Phil swigged the last mouthful of home-made Calvados and shut his computer down. My indigestion had gone. I went back to bed. Tomorrow would be another day.
Chapter 17
London 12.14 a.m.
Ian Walters’ pager had gone off for the third night in a row. After Monday, the first night of an attempted security breach of the chairman's personal terminal, the Head of IT at De Villiers-Moncourt had been given strict instructions, from Charles De Villiers himself, that by the time the chairman returned from his trip to New York the following Monday the source of the security threat had better be traced – or else.
Walter
s had written a program that alerted him via pager every time there was a subsequent attempt. Now, in the early hours of Friday morning, it had gone off again. Handsomely paid by the company, he could not afford to ignore De Villiers’ wishes. Anyone who ignored De Villiers did so at their peril.
So far the hacker had eluded him by cloaking his movements. As long as he continued to do this Walters was in an almost impossible situation. De Villiers expected Ian to deliver. If he didn't, he’d soon be replaced with someone that could. It didn't even matter if you knew where the metaphorical bodies were buried. De Villiers was a man who could count on the help of some rather scary people to ensure the silence of any disgruntled ex-employee.
Above all though, he was a man that wouldn't accept excuses in place of results. Ian had become very taken with the chic two-bedroomed apartment overlooking the Thames and brand new Porsche 911 Turbo Cabriolet that went with the job. Giving them up was not something Ian wanted to contemplate.
By 12.38 a.m. Walters was hurrying through the foyer of De Villiers-Moncourt's London office and into the lift. He pushed the button for the second floor. Ian's CPU was already powered-up and running. He moved the mouse. The screen, lying dormant since shortly after he'd left the office the previous evening, stirred into life. As the monitor slowly illuminated, Ian breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Got you, you son of a bitch.’
There in front of him, like a fingerprint unique to only one person, was a group of dots and digits. Ian had what he wanted: the hacker's IP address. He’d returned expecting another fruitless search; he couldn't believe his luck! He hadn't even had to initiate a trace. The cyberspace night-visitor had been sloppy. Ian picked up the phone and dialled.
***
Katherine Blackwell worked for Netsource, D-M's Internet service provider. Ian Walters occasionally slept with Katherine. He liked to think of her as his fuck-buddy; she liked to think there might be a band of gold sometime in the future and would try her level best to get it.
Walters had other ideas though, and would just keep her dangling. He’d made sure that she got the D-M contract. With offices in London, Capetown and New York, it was a contract worth having. Katherine had done very well from the introducer’s commission she'd earned and, providing D-M kept renewing each year, she would continue to earn from the account.
‘Hi, it's me. Did I wake you?’
‘No, not at all.’ She was lying.
‘I need a big favour. Can I come and see you tonight?’
‘You know you can.’
‘I'll be there in about twenty minutes.’ He hung up.
She lived south of the river, but the traffic wouldn't hold him up at this time of night. He made a note of the snooper’s IP address. Within the hour Ian was pleasuring Katherine Blackwell.
By 10 a.m. the following morning, a fully satisfied and sore Ms Blackwell was emailing a name and address to Ian, now seated back at the desk he'd left in the early hours. Having printed off the newly acquired information, Ian wrote a short but sycophantic note to De Villiers. He stapled it to the printout and put both into an envelope, marking it ‘Private and Confidential’.
Walters could be sure that if hand-delivered, De Villiers’ PA would not dare open it in front of him. Ian walked over to the lift. Once inside, he selected the button that would take him to the fifth floor; fat cat territory. As the lift bell dinged, so the doors opened.
Pamela Stokes was De Villiers’ PA. As with most PAs, she knew who was to have access to the chairman and who wasn't. Although no-one in DM was indispensable, especially if you crossed swords with the chairman, there were those that were party to some of the less-than-squeaky-clean deals that De Villiers conducted and those that weren't. Ian Walters was one of the former.
‘Hi Pam.’
‘Good morning Mr Walters.’ She tried to keep things formal.
‘Can you see the chairman gets this first thing Monday morning please?’
‘What is it?’
‘It's something he'll want to see immediately on his return from New York.’ Ian's it's-none-of-your-fucking-business reply left her with nowhere to take the conversation. He'd just let her know that even though she was De Villiers’ PA, there were things that he was trusted with that she wasn't. Pamela looked at him with distaste.
‘Yes, I shall put it on his desk straight away.’
As Ian turned and walked towards the lift, he knew that once he left the office for home that afternoon, she would probably try to steam the envelope open and have a peek. Did he really care? No. His job and the trappings that went with it were secure, for the time being. He’d have a good weekend.
Chapter 18
Friday 10.45 a.m. Bristol
Much to our amazement, nobody had a thick head. Obviously a testament to Vaughan's skills as a winemaker. He was far more accomplished than any of us had imagined.
As the day wore on, Peach was the first to leave Phil's. He didn't have the worry of being breathalysed because he was on the train. Although Neil didn't have that concern either, he had to wait till I felt safe because he was travelling in my car.
Peach had arranged an afternoon meet for the following Tuesday. It’d give him any extra time he needed. It looked like he was going back to the drawing board. I sensed that with Vaughan supervising proceedings, Peach felt his new masterplan would have to become that little bit more masterful than the original.
When Neil and I eventually set off, it was already past 1 p.m. I’d rung Tegan and told her I was sorry for being so absorbed with the quest. She said she forgave me. Upon my return home, a table at a good restaurant would be booked. I was determined to make amends for neglecting her.
Friday 3 p.m. South Wales
We arrived back at the house to find a note had been pushed through the front door. The note was from Martin Sedgely.
It read: ‘Will, Bryce is holding a drivers’ meeting this Sunday 7 p.m. The King’s Head – upstairs function room; no-one knows what it's all about – Mart.'
I looked at it. I could guess what it was about. Neil looked at it bewildered.
‘Will, am I supposed to be there?’
‘Are you a driver?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well there's your answer. Having said that, no-one will force you to go, but if you've never been to one before, it's worth attending – just to see what a drivers’ meeting is like. Besides if it's about an issue you've got an opinion on, you may want to have your say.’
‘Are you going to go?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK then, I'll be there.’ So that was it. Come Sunday, Neil would be properly initiated into the world of cabbies’ meetings.
Friday evening I took Tegan out. We went to the cinema followed by a fantastic Italian meal. I crawled like my life depended on it. When we got back to her house it was quite late. I nipped out to the car and grabbed a box of Belgian chocolates secreted in the boot. They were part of my soften-her-up strategy.
I told her all about Vaughan. It was clear she’d have loved to be involved in the whole thing and was missing out on an exciting adventure. We also talked about Neil and Denise. They had become an item.
Even though she was in denial of having told Denise anything, I knew the two of them were as thick as thieves. Denise had probably had every little detail, if not from her, then from Neil. He was only human after all, and if she was applying pressure, I was sure he’d cave in.
As long as the information didn't go any further I couldn't see any harm in it. The main thing was that if Peach or Phil came over to stay, they kept their mouths shut – that would be a first!
Neil and I worked our arses off over the next two days putting some serious hours in. The Saturday night was busy; by the time Sunday afternoon came around we were both pretty exhausted. It was about 6.30 p.m. when we left the house to attend the drivers’ meeting.
Sunday 7 p.m. The King’s Head (Public House)
Bob and Roy Bryce were self-made men. Bob and Roy Br
yce were the owners of the cab firm that we rented our radios from. If Bob and Roy Bryce had been French they would have been described as Les Shuffleurs des Cinq Knuckles.
But these five knuckle shufflers weren’t Frenchmen – they were Scots. Over the years, I’d met a lot of nice Scottish people while driving the cab, but the Brothers Bryce didn’t fall into this category, so their descriptions were markedly different. It could be anything from Lords of the Ker-chings to Complete and Total Arrogant Arseholes of the Century. That included of course anything and everything in between. They had a problem grasping some basic concepts, namely that
(a) Our cabs didn't belong to them, they belonged to us and
(b) That we were actually their customers, paying them an absolutely extortionate rate for our radios as opposed to their employees who worked in their office and were paid an hourly rate by Brothers Grim Inc.
The employees got paid whether the phone rang or not. Bob and Roy got paid whether the phone rang or not. We got jack shit if the phone didn't ring, but come Monday morning Bob and Roy wanted their money from us regardless.
Their lack of comprehension meant we all got treated like crap, and although it would be easy to say 'If you don't like it why don't you leave?' things weren't exactly as straightforward as that.
More through luck than judgement, the brothers Bryce had found themselves in an almost unassailable position in our little town. One viewpoint could be: Their actions were that of astute businessmen. But I’ve always believed that in business you don’t have to hold a metaphorical gun to your customers’ heads just because you can. They could’ve still made a nice profit and charged us half the amount we were paying.
Most of us had bought reasonably new cars on finance – the cabs had to be reliable. We had mortgages, credit cards, loans and were in it up to our necks. Yes we could walk away, but at what cost?
The brothers’ previous office manager was a guy called Graham Philips – a dead ringer for Rolf Harris but without the didgeridoo. Graham had made a couple of shrewd decisions during the time he was on the Bryce payroll.
