Gone Underground

by Phil Brett

  It was plain that Cole was happy for her to embark on a detailed explanation of the cyber class struggle, but I wasn’t, so I asked the obvious question: ‘Who were the people it was aimed at?’

  Cole tilted her head a little to show that she was keenly interested in the answer. Kemal, as much as she might have wanted to do so, did not demur at my question. ‘Everyone on the CIM committee – you, Kalder, Vic, me, Ash, Jack Foxton, Gita Devar and Glen Bale. Everyone who is investigating Harrison’s murder.’

  ‘Fuck!’

  Cole wasn’t as eloquent as I was; indeed, she didn’t say a word, but judging from her face, she felt pretty much the same.

  ‘But he has been unable to monitor any of our communications?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Cole muttered.

  For a few moments, the three of us stood standing there. Freezing. Thinking about what this mean. And freezing. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Asher Joseph, Jack Foxton and Glen Bale about to exit the hall. Bale was clutching a huge bag and sporting a fatherly look, whilst talking to young Foxton. Behind them, a clearly angry Devar followed.

  ‘You said three things?’ I asked, keen to finish this conversation before they reached us, or I froze to death.

  Roijin nodded, looking glummer by the second. ‘Yesterday, I only conducted an initial shallow sweep, basically just the destinations of calls made, not much more. I wanted to get your say-so to proceed. Today, I went deeper.’

  She blew out some warm breath into the air. Somewhere in that gesture was a neat metaphor as to the situation we were finding ourselves in, but I couldn’t think of one.

  She continued. ‘But what I also found out this morning was that he had been alerted to my hacking into his system by his own security software. This was news to me. I had conducted only a minimal, shallow hack and thought that I had bypassed any security. But this was pretty sophisticated software. At 23.45 last night, I had triggered an alarm off. I didn’t see it then. It must have been buried deep, but I noticed it today.’

  ‘Fifteen minutes later, he cleans all his records,’ Cole said, matching Kemal in glumness.

  ‘Then, five minutes later, all devices he is registered to were disabled. Nothing has been used since. Nothing.’

  Now, I made that four things which she had discovered. Memo to self: teach her numeracy skills when this was over. I glanced over the rest of the committee, expecting them to be barging into this rather sensitive chat we were having, but their progress had been halted by an irate Gita, who was now engaging in a three-way slanging match with Joseph and Bale. Foxton mournfully looked on.

  ‘Nothing?’ exclaimed Cole.

  ‘Nothing. It has been totally quiet from comrade Ali for over eleven hours. He has communicated nothing to nobody.’

  ‘From any device that we know of.’

  At least Cole didn’t think my comment completely inane.

  ‘Have any other phones or computers been used from his address or work places which could possibly be him?’

  Kemal took that seriously. ‘From his home, nothing. Zero. As from his workplace or the NWC, that would take a really in-depth check, which would be very time-consuming and would involve us snooping on a lot of comrades and plunging us into a pool of privacy and democracy shit.’

  Cole looked puzzled by her answer, if not the unsavoury allusion. ‘Nothing from his home? What about his partner, Nevin? He didn't make any calls?’

  ‘None that I can see.’

  When Cole next spoke, it was in slow, thoughtful phrases, as if she was on half-speed. Or it could be that she was just cold. She should dress better.

  ‘O-k-a-y, so . . . we . . . need . . . to . . . follow up those calls we know he made . . . and see . . . if . . . we can find more . . . about those erased files . . . then—’

  ‘No,’ I said at normal speak, being able to think and talk at the same time. ‘We can do nothing more until we talk to Jackie. This has gotten far too serious for us to do this alone. We don’t do a thing until we have spoken to her. We don’t say anything to them, either.’ I nodded to Devar et al., who appeared to be patching up their differences.

  To my shock, an incredible thing happened – both Kemal and Cole agreed. Wonders would never cease. Truly, anything is possible!

  ‘I know where she’ll be,’ Cole announced. ‘Roijin, you make our excuses to the comrades. Pete, get in.’

  Kemal nodded, but I declined, explaining that I had my scooter. An eyebrow was raised and a smirk appeared, but Cole didn’t say anything except, ‘Okay, let’s go. We’ll have to be quick. I’ll ring her on the way. She’s not far, but she won’t be there for long. Pete, follow me – if you can.’ She chortled.

  As did Kemal. Almost approaching humour.

  Not that I reacted, because I was already turning to go to my bike. There was no way that I was going to stay and explain all this to Bale. With my luck, I’d be under twenty-four hour watch at the Anchorage within minutes.

  20. Iris sibirica

  We were in luck. Jackie Payne was in the area, at a rally at an East London bus depot. I arrived only a few minutes after Cole – a fact which had less to do with any great riding skills and more that the gale had been behind me, whistling up my backside, putting a few KPH on my speed. And its coldness had made me desperate to get there. After disentangling myself from the over-clothes and cursing their limited value, I made my way over to join Cole.

  She was standing in front of the entrance of the steel and glass cathedral to public transport, chatting to a mechanic, who was munching on a rather long French roll. Behind him must have been over a dozen parked buses. In the far corner was a crowd of about two hundred people listening to Jackie. According to French-roll man, it was due to end soon. Pointing to a number 38 bus, he told us to wait in there.

  We both thanked him and climbed aboard. The child in me whispered in my ear to put it into manual and take it for a spin, but the more senior part of me declined. ‘A single to Clapton please,’ I said to no one in particular, proving that the child would not be so easily beaten.

  It received a pitying look and the reply: ‘Born in the 1930s, were we?’

  I didn’t grace the comment with a reply. Or a lengthy account of the NWC policy of re-staffing transport. After choosing a seat on the bottom deck by the window, facing out into the courtyard, she asked why I hadn’t come to the CIM that morning. It was my turn with the sarcasm stick. ‘Oh, me and Roijin were having some quality time together.’

  ‘Not likely,’ was her only response.

  Now, I felt about three centimetres tall. After a brief internal debate as to whether to sit next to, in front of or behind her, I chose the seat across the aisle. Seating etiquette was such a problem for business meetings on buses, wasn’t it? They really weren’t designed for them. I must send an email to the bus workers’ council about it.

  Deciding that my colleague here wouldn’t appreciate a discussion on the matter, I asked about the CIM. I still couldn’t shake the flippancy. ‘I heard that it was a little tense. Poor old Bale should be used to being the target of dislike, but not you, Vic – especially not from one of your protégés! I hear Asher was none too friendly towards you!’

  I wasn’t sure why I had regressed into being a teenager. Whether it was the shock of the cold, the surprise arrival of my sister or Emily Messager's distinctly odd behaviour, I couldn’t say, but, even by my standards, this was being silly.

  She ignored it and took it to be a serious enquiry on why there had been disagreements, replying that Asher was unhappy about some of the positions she was taking.

  ‘And the company you’re keeping?’

  To my surprise and, to be honest, damage to my ego, she simply said, ‘Yes.’

  Hurtling back in time, I shot through my teens and reappeared as a primary school child. Sulkily, I mumbled, ‘I don’t know why he and Kemal dislike me so much. I’ve never done any harm to either of them.’

  She
shot me an unbelieving look.

  ‘I mean,’ I continued, ‘as far as I can see, I have been respectful – well, pretty respectful – to the pair of them, and I try to treat them as comrades.’

  Cole looked out the window at the bus workers outside, pretending to ignore me. That only provoked me into more belly-aching. ‘Even Bale said they should accord me more respect, but they treat me like I’m dog crap on their shoes.’

  ‘You know why,’ she muttered.

  I suppose the reality was that I did. And the reason for their animosity was far more painful than their dislike. It was yet more baggage from the Wiltshire affair. Truth was, it was fast becoming like an airport's luggage conveyor belt of the stuff. And it sounded so innocent: the Wiltshire Affair, like some Miss Marple case. The “affair” had included me shooting someone. Not in self-defence, but an execution. I had been guilty of murder and should have been found guilty of murder by the court, no matter what the extenuating circumstances had been. I would then have been damned by the party – my party. My party of over forty years would have cast me – maybe not into the wilderness, but at least into the semi-barren. But that had not happened. That it had not was primarily down to the young woman, the former cop, the one sitting here on a bus waiting for the country’s president to join us.

  In that moment in time, which was less than a year ago, but seemed so much longer, I had morphed from art historian to assassin. What followed had seemed like a blurry film where I was an observer, not a participant. I had found myself in prison, awaiting a trial and wondering who would be appointing the judge to preside over it. A successful workers’ revolution, a reinstated and vengeful parliament or a military dictator? History spoke, and it had been the first option. Good news, but it didn’t mean I was in the clear. Vaguely, I remembered my defence barrister patiently trying to tell me through the haze I was in that a world built on liberation and need didn’t really go for executions.

  The next thing I knew, there I was – in my finest suit, on trial for murder. For reasons I had not so far dare to ask, Cole had testified in a video link from her hospital bed that the first two shots which I had fired had been in self-defence.

  And here was where our chums Kemal and Joseph came into it, and the reason for their antagonism. Both had sworn that all the forensic evidence supported what Cole was saying. With impressive professionalism, they had recreated a scene where I had been fighting for my life. They had even managed to conjure up two bullets which had been fired by a gun supposedly held by my opponent. Maybe in other times it wouldn’t have convinced a jury, but being bang in the middle of a civil war, where the state was using its forces to murder, the jurors weren’t feeling that well-disposed to the security services. With drones firing into streets and jets strafing workplaces, they weren’t really that over-concerned if one agent had been lawfully killed or not. They had accepted Cole’s account of the event and the forensics which Kemal and Joseph had offered. The jury had found me not guilty of murder.

  It was only after the trial, when we were away from the courts, that their fury at what they had been forced to do had shown. Not as shouting or physical violence, but in their eyes. Pure undiluted hatred. They despised me for making them lie to the cause that they felt passionate about – the workers’ movement. And that was what hurt me, and made me hate them, in equal measure. They were right to feel like that and yet – and yet – who were they to judge? They, members for all of five minutes. I had no need for their guilt-tripping, because I was on my very own all-expenses paid one of my own. That slaughtered agent lay in my mind next to the blood-soaked bodies of my wife and daughter. It didn’t matter that one was by a firearm and the other two were a road accident – all three were on my conscience. The irony was that the killing of the spy had been my fault and I had lied to the party, to my comrades and to the workers’ movement to get off. Yet, for Caroline and Lisa, I wanted to face the harshest punishment I could imagine for what had been, after all, a freak accident.

  So, the Anchorage it was and not a high-security prison. No matter how creative she and her colleagues could be with the truth, or how distracted the legal system might have been, there were certain things which could not be explained by self-defence. Victoria had had no choice but to concede that the several shots which had followed the first two had been excessive, but my defence council blamed them on a combination of my fear and mental state due to extreme grief. The jury, after giving their verdict, had recommended that I get some “specialised psychiatric help”.

  So, yeah, I did not know why. But they could piss off. They didn’t have the authority to feel that way towards me. On the other hand, I did. And, I did.

  My mental raging was abruptly halted by the sound of applause and cheering. Cole announced, ‘She’s coming.’

  The meeting had ended, parting like the Red Sea, but not to allow through some old bloke with beard, but a slim black woman sporting a brown flying jacket and a black skin-tight jeans. Payne was weaving her way towards us, slowed by continual shaking of hands, back slapping, kissing of cheeks and words of encouragement. Jackie was used to such a welcome being shown to her but was always embarrassed by it. Appreciating the love and solidarity but not requiring it.

  I asked myself what I thought her reaction to meeting me was going to be. Maybe I should pucker up a few kisses and utter a few words of love. That wasn't going to work. I wasn't sure what would. Certainly, she hadn’t been over the moon to have me involved. Her reason was pretty much linked to the position of Kemal and Joseph on the events of almost a year ago. Which, frankly, was a bit much, considering it was she who had dragged me into the mire in the first bloody place. Still, I didn’t feel strong enough to suffer her contempt as well as theirs.

  ‘How much does she know?’ I asked, knowing that she and Jackie were in constant contact.

  Cole replied quietly and with a hint of concern. ‘I have kept her abreast of the official investigation. She knows we have been concerned about Youssef Ali, but she has no idea that we have been acting upon it.’

  This would be fun, then.

  ‘Mind if I take the lead?’ I asked. I wasn’t looking forward to this. It could turn nasty and I was feeling a little worried about what might be her reaction. However, I wasn’t going to back down. On the plus side, the adrenalin pumping around my body was warming me up.

  Cole didn’t exactly put up a fight. ‘Be my guest.’ She almost sounded relieved.

  Payne got onto the bus, and I couldn’t help myself. ‘A single to Stoke Newington, please.’

  Cole rolled her eyes, but Payne laughed. ‘When the hell did you last go on a bus?’

  Clearly, our beloved leader also didn't know about recent transport discussions. But I didn't have time to educate her, because she strode up to me, beaming with affection, and threw her arms around me. ‘You never change, do you? You mad sod!’

  ‘Not sure you should call me that, all things considered,’ I tried to say, whilst suffocating in the mock fur of her jacket.

  ‘It good to see you, Pete. It’s been too long, far too long.’

  I bit my lip, if not the fur. I refrained from remarking that ‘Yeah, well, if you got me out of that blasted home then I could see more people, more often’. Partly because I didn’t want to suffocate, but partly also because it was nice to see her and to feel wanted. Sentimental and sickly, but so what? Ridicule me, and pass the sick bucket.

  It was true.

  It reminded me of years back. Travelling back through a time-tunnel to when I had first known her. We'd been in our early twenties. She had been a student back then, not in the party but keen to drink up as much politics as she could. I had tried to serve up as much as I could, and it was with not a little pride that she often would give me credit for her joining. Always being happy to stand in a good light, I had only half-heartedly flicked the kudos aside. But, in reality, she didn’t need much help from me to help make up her mind.

  She pulled back and I looked at her. Li
nes were showing under her eyes, and her shoulder length bobbed hair was the scene of a battleground between the forces of plum colouring, her natural black and the appearance of the odd bit of grey. At present, the latter was being held at bay, but it was just a matter of time. Tiredness and age were showing.

  ‘At your wits’ end?’ I asked, as I always did.

  ‘Well past that,’ she replied, as she always did.

  She smiled, something which I was pleased to see. It was a smile of warm affection and a deep friendship. She was genuinely pleased to see me.

  In one graceful movement, she swung herself into the seat in front of me, turning to face the pair of us. In doing, so the smile stiffened, indicating that now it was time to get down to business. ‘Well? What’s up?’

  Swallowing hard, I dived in. Firstly, I outlined in depth what we had been doing and why. I knew full well that she knew all this, but I figured that I might be able to use it to cushion myself from the explosion which was bound to happen when I broached the subject of us hacking into comrade Youssef Ali’s communications systems and, in doing so, rampaging through numerous laws, party rules and codes of decency. So, on I ploughed, recounting how, forensically, we had drawn a blank, but how the community was pulling together to collect witness statements and any scraps of video footage we could find.

  Jackie just sat there, patiently listening, one nail stroking her upper lip.

  After a couple of minutes, I stopped. She now had the chance to appreciate our genius in what manner she chose. We didn’t, however, get any applause or cheering. Instead, she simply asked, ‘And you hope to identify the killer this way?’

  ‘We hope so,’ I replied, suddenly thinking that it all sounded rather amateurish.