Coffin Dodgers

by Gary Marshall

  "Is the bug we've got good enough?"

  "Should be. The website said it was military grade. Might be a bit quiet if they're not too close to it, but we can fix that on the computer easily enough. The hard bit's going to be getting it onto the boat in the first place."

  "Why's that?"

  Dave points at the gates that separate the car park from the marina. "Those security gates are electronic," he says.

  There are three exits from the marina to the car park, and each one of them has a very solid-looking gate on it. We watch for ten minutes or so and everyone who comes in or out holds a plastic card next to the lock, waits for a few seconds and then goes through.

  "Think there's a way round it?"

  "I doubt it," Dave says. "There's a lot of money sitting on the water there, and people pay a lot to keep their boats here. They're not going to accept something cheap and nasty. Places like this are all about the details. I bet if you looked at their website they'll bang on about the state of the art security stuff they've got."

  "Shit."

  "Yeah."

  We stand in silence for a minute before Dave has an idea.

  "The lost property office at work might have a swipe card. Someone could have dropped theirs on one of the gambling floors."

  "I don't see it. Surely it'd be in their wallet with all their other cards, ID and stuff? They might not miss a swipe card, but they'd miss their credit cards soon enough. It's worth a try, I guess, but I don't think we're going to find one that way."

  "You're probably right," Dave says.

  Then I have an idea. "Could we get in from the other side?"

  "The water, you mean?"

  "Yeah."

  "What, swim?"

  "No, I mean in a boat."

  "We'd be spotted." Dave waves towards a small building next to the marina's restaurant. "There's a guy in there who keeps an eye on every boat in and out. Don't want the riff-raff coming in. And anyway, we don't have a boat. Or know what to do with a boat, come to think of it. We'd end up in the middle of the ocean, or underneath a ferry, or something."

  After a few more well-intentioned but unworkable ideas, Dave and I give up on reality and see who can come up with the stupidest plan instead. Dave nearly wins with his suggestion of abseiling from a hot air balloon, but I snatch a late victory with my suggestion: Amy tries to get into the marina in a pedalo, claiming to be a tourist who pedalled a little bit too far and got swept out to sea. Dave and I are disguised as giant fish, or possibly dolphins, and while Amy's got everyone distracted we swim up to Everett's boat and plant the bug. Best of all, Amy would have to wear a bikini.

  We're both killing ourselves laughing when a sensible idea finally pops into my head.

  "Dave, I've got it. Seriously, this time. I know how we can get in."

  "How?"

  "Beer."

  "Beer?"

  "I'll explain later. Right now we need to get to a shop."

  Dave clearly thinks I've lost my mind, but he shrugs and follows me to the bike.

  "Do me a favour," I say as I hit the ignition switch. "Give Amy a call on the way and ask her to meet us at the supermarket. Tell her to bring the Dentmobile."

  Amy is parked right outside the front door of the supermarket when we pull up. "You shouldn't park so close to the doors," I tell her. "That's why your car's always getting bashed."

  "At least I've got a car. Yours is in pieces, remember?"

  It's a fair point.

  "So are you going to tell me why it's so urgent that we go shopping?"

  I tell Amy about Sleazy Bob's phone call and Everett's boat. "They're meeting on Tuesday night, so we've got all of tomorrow and a bit of Tuesday to get the bug in place. What shifts are you on tomorrow?"

  "Day," Amy says.

  "Me too. Dave?"

  "Early."

  "Okay, that works. Dave, think you can get the bug back from Sleazy Bob's office during your shift?"

  "No problem."

  "Do you have a plan?"

  "Don't need one. I'll just do the same thing I did before. Walk in with some paperwork, grab the bug, go away again."

  "Okay. Don't forget the receiver either. We'll need that too."

  Dave makes a "duh" face.

  "Amy, can you drive us tomorrow after work?"

  "Sure. So are you going to tell me where the beer comes into it?"

  "Social engineering."

  "Social what?"

  "Social engineering. I saw a programme about it once. They were interviewing these big-shot computer hackers who'd got into banks, and government computers, and things like that. This guy asked the hackers how they'd got into the systems when they were supposed to be hacker-proof. Someone had worked out the numbers, and they reckoned that it would take a supercomputer tens, maybe hundreds of years to crack the security and get into the systems. But these guys got in and out without any trouble at all, with normal computers."

  "So how did they do it?" Amy asks.

  "One of the hackers called it social engineering. He'd phone up somebody in the payroll department, or in the admin office, whatever, and he'd sound bored and say he was from the IT department. The system says somebody's been trying to hack into your account, he'd say, and we're just making sure they haven't damaged any of your data. Can you just confirm your user name and password? Ninety nine times out of a hundred, the person he called would give him the login details over the phone, and that was all he needed. Didn't matter whether he called office juniors or senior executives. Almost everybody fell for it."

  "Okay," Amy says. "I can see how that works. What I can't see is where the hacker mentions going to the supermarket and buying a great big pile of beer."

  "Beer will get us through the gates and onto Everett's boat. Trust me," I say. "And I haven't told you the best bit of my plan yet."

  "What's that?"

  I grin. "We get to drink the beer afterwards."

  "Are you actually going to tell me any details?"

  "It's on a need to know basis, Amy. You don't need to know."

  Amy gives me one of her looks. "Okay. Then you need to know that you're paying for it. What do you think, Dave?"

  "Sounds fair to me," he says.

  "Traitor." I give Dave my best evil look. "Okay, okay, okay. Let's get this over with."

  Ten minutes and a lot of cash later, we've loaded four cases of premium lager into the boot of the Dentmobile. The shock absorbers groan, but the Dentmobile once again defies all the laws of physics and remains in one piece. "You should sell that car to the army," I tell Amy. "They can find out what special force keeps it together and use it on their tanks."

  "Matt?"

  "Uh-huh?"

  "What's six feet tall and goes ow?"

  "I don't -- ow!"

  Amy smiles like an angel as Dave howls with laughter.

  I rise above it and suggest that we grab a bite to eat or go for a drink, but Amy's tired and Dave needs an early night so he doesn't sleep in for his shift. It's probably just as well, because paying for the beer has wiped out most of my money. Amy offers Dave a lift home, so I say goodbye and head back to my bike. I ride home, microwave some pasta and play videogames until my eyes start to blur. I go to bed and dream of bugs, and boats, and bad guys.

  I hate working day shift. The mornings drag, and it's not unusual to go for two hours without serving a single customer. Today isn't quite that bad. I'm hardly rushed off my feet, but while the customers appear to have been here since late last night and aren't exactly sober, so far they've been either quiet or quite funny. Better that than loud and annoying.

  Dave wanders past just after eleven a.m. and gives me a thumbs-up: mission accomplished. All I need to do now is get through the next six hours without dying of boredom. Watching Amy helps. I know I've said the uniforms are on the wrong side of decent, and they are, but her legs in those heels are a hypnotic sight. I could watch them all day, and probably would if Amy hadn't caught me looking and shot me a look.
I don't get the chance to speak to her until after the lunchtime rush.

  "I'm not allowed to punch the customers, but I'm pretty sure I'm allowed to punch you," she says. "Don't you have glasses to polish, or something?"

  "If I polish them any more they'll disappear."

  "If you keep staring at me, bits of you will disappear," Amy says. "Important bits. Bits you've grown fond of. Painful bits."

  "Message received and understood."

  "Good. Still on for tonight?"

  "Yep."

  Amy speaks more softly. "Did Dave get it?"

  I nod.

  "Okay. I finish at five. If I get you at six, does that give you enough time?"

  "Yeah, that's good."

  "Okay. I'll pick up Dave on the way and see you at six."

  I pick up a beer glass and start polishing it with exaggerated care.

  Amy grins, shakes her head and goes back to work.

  By mid-afternoon I'm busy enough to keep boredom at bay. The casino starts coming to life after lunch: the morning's drunks eventually stagger home, and they're replaced by the soon-to-be-drunk. They're a mixed bag: dedicated drinkers, returning to the scene of the crime after a few hours' rest; giggling couples, social drinkers taking a walk on the wild side with daiquiris in the daytime before blowing their spending money in a single afternoon; grim-faced gentlemen loosening up before trying -- and failing -- to prove that the house doesn't always win; and worst of all, the Ladies Who Lunch. That's not a sexist thing, it's a terror thing: while every other kind of drinker tends to drink slowly and steadily -- apart from the giggling couples, but I find them funny, so they don't count -- the ladies who lunch nibble on a single lettuce leaf and a sliver of Melba toast while downing buckets of Burgundy. That means they talk, usually about things you don't want to hear, always at full volume. And today, they're talking to me. They don't reach the bar until four, so I only have to put up with them for an hour, but it seems like an eternity.

  Five o'clock takes forever to arrive, but eventually Steve, who's on the evening shift, comes to relieve me. I say goodbye to the Ladies Who Lunch and wish Steve good luck, pretending I don't hear his muttered expletives. I make it to the locker room, change into my normal clothes and I'm on my bike by three minutes past, home by twenty past. I go to check the audio files but remember that Dave's taken the bug out, so I shut the computer down, make a sandwich and wait for Amy and Dave. I'm still munching when a pile of rust and dents screeches to a halt in the street outside my apartment.

  I squeeze myself into the seat behind Dave, my knees at my chest, and try not to pay attention to Amy's driving.

  "Amy, are you okay to wait for us? I don't think it'll take very long."

  "Sure, no problem. What's the plan anyway?"

  "It's pretty much the same plan as when Dave bugged Sleazy Bob's office. We walk in, place the bug and walk out again. Shouldn't take more than ten minutes."

  "Then what?"

  "Then nothing, at least tonight. Unless there's been a change of plan since Dave got the bug back, they're meeting there at ten o'clock tomorrow night. If we can get it recorded, I'm hoping we'll get something we can use. Or that Burke can use."

  "How did it go with him the other day? You never said."

  "Oh, you know. Full of enthusiasm, threatened to shoot me."

  "Really?"

  "No, not really. I told him what we knew, but he says he still can't do anything."

  "No evidence?"

  "Exactly."

  "Hopefully that'll change tomorrow," Dave says. "I know anything we get won't stand up in court, but if we can at least prove to Burke that there's a conspiracy he can do something about it, find a legal way to do it."

  "I hope you're right," I say. "Otherwise it's a lot of effort for nothing."

  We talk about nothing in particular until we arrive at Mariners' Cove. Dave and I get out of the Dentmobile and wait while Amy hits the boot release button again and again. Eventually it works and we hear the lock pop.

  Dave grabs a small rectangular box from the boot and wanders over to the main reception building. Instead of going in, though, he walks round the back of it and disappears. Less than a minute later, he walks back towards us, nodding his head.

  "Where did you plant it?"

  "There's a bunch of electrical boxes behind the main office. Nobody's going to notice an extra one."

  That's the receiver in place. All we need to do now is plant the bug.

  I look around the car park and spot a white-haired couple in brightly coloured waterproof jackets getting out of their car.

  "Okay," I say. "Two cases each. Just follow my lead."

  We carry the beer towards the gate and I keep an eye on the couple's progress. "Slow down a bit, Dave," I say. "We're walking too fast."

  We walk slightly more slowly until the couple has nearly caught up with us, arriving at the security gate just a few steps ahead of them. As the couple approach, I stand directly in front of the sensor and balance the beer on my knee, one arm steadying the cases as I try to reach my pockets with the other. I pretend I've just noticed the couple and grab the cases with both arms, standing back from the gate and grinning sheepishly. "Sorry," I say. "You go."

  The man pulls a swipe card from his pocket and holds it to the sensor. After a second, there's a beep and a little green LED glows on the sensor panel. He opens the gate, his wife walks through and he holds it open for us to follow.

  "Oh, thanks," I say.

  The man grins. "That's a lot of beer. I hope neither of you is the captain!" He sounds like a department store Santa Claus, full of good cheer, and his wife is just as jolly. She guffaws as if he's just told the world's funniest joke. Dave and I smile back at them. "Maybe one day," I say.

  The man beams. "Have a good one!"

  "Thanks. You too."

  The couple head down the nearest pontoon while Dave and I turn left and head for Everett's boat. When we're out of earshot I turn and give Dave a grin. "Behold the power of social engineering. And beer!"

  "I'm impressed."

  "You should be. The trick is to let people see what they want to see. If you act like you belong, people think you belong."

  A few yards later, Dave has a thought. "What would have happened if that guy had gone through the gate and closed it behind him?"

  "He didn't."

  "Yeah, but what if he had?"

  "We'd be in trouble."

  "Didn't you have a plan B?"

  "Did we need one?"

  "You're unbelievable."

  I know it isn't intended as a compliment, but I pretend that it is anyway.

  Everett's yacht looks big enough from a distance, but close up it's immense and quite intimidating. It's easily forty or fifty metres long, and the sharp angles make it look as if it's going quickly even when it's sitting completely still.

  I said it looked like a killer whale, but from here it's more like a giant swordfish, all points and sharp creases and aggressive angles. If you told me that it's really a spaceship, that it can travel at the speed of light and that there's a big bank of laser guns at the front, I wouldn't be surprised. Certainly anybody who can afford a boat like this lives on a different planet to Dave and I.

  Dave whistles. "Some dinghy."

  We put the beer down on the pontoon and look up at the Zen Arcade. The back has three levels. At the bottom there's a plain deck, which I assume is for diving from and climbing back in again. Polished wooden stairs rise from it on both sides to the next level, which looks more like a designer bar than part of a boat. I can see dark wooden tables and light leather armchairs, with full-height black glass doors immediately behind them. From the brochure I know that's the "exquisite dining area." The stairs continue to a third level, where the cockpit is.The second level is the bit we're interested in.

  "I think you're right," I say to Dave, pointing towards the middle level. "If they're going to chat, they're going to do it out there, or just inside those doors if the we
ather's bad. Did you check the forecast for tomorrow?"

  Dave shakes his head. "Don't worry," I say. "I didn't either. So where do you think we should plant the bug?"

  "I don't know. I figured the best thing would be to get up there and let inspiration strike. Hopefully it won't take too long. We'll be pretty visible if anybody's watching us."

  "I wouldn't worry about that. If we take the beer with us people will think we own the thing."

  "Own it? We couldn't afford a photo of it."

  "You know what I mean. If we look as if we're supposed to be there, people will think we're supposed to be there."

  "Think that'll work?"

  "It got us in, didn't it?"

  "True," Dave says. "Right, let's deliver some beer."

  The water is as smooth as glass, but that doesn't mean climbing from the pontoon to the boat is easy. Two cases of beer do terrible things to your centre of balance, and while everything seems calm from a distance the boat and pontoon are both bobbing gently -- and we're so nervous the two of us are vibrating too.

  By some miracle, we both make it to the boat without falling in the water or dropping our precious cargo. We have a quick look round to see if anybody in the marina is watching us. So far so good. We climb the stairs to the middle level.

  I notice the smell before I notice anything else, the combination of expensive leather and oiled wood overpowering the less fragrant aromas of the marina. It smells like money.

  Dave's staring towards the marina buildings. "What are you looking for?" I ask.

  "Obstructions. There aren't any."

  "Is that good?"

  "It's very good. The receiver's over there --" he points at the marina office "-- and if you squint, you can see the electrical boxes. Which means there's nothing to block the signal."

  "Excellent. Where's the bug going to go?"

  "I haven't worked that bit out yet. Give me a second."

  I sit in one of the armchairs. It's as comfortable as it looks.

  Dave looks for suitable hiding places while I keep an eye on the marina for signs of trouble. Nothing. I sink back into the soft leather. I could get used to this.