Julian stood up. ‘I’d better get to it, then.’ He wanted to ask Rami why he thought he had changed his mind and taken on the job in the end, but he couldn’t face another argument with the guy. Probably just another example of his innate disinterest.
Back in his office he switched on his laptop and checked his emails. Nothing from Naomi, and nothing from the temp agency she used when she was away. He looked out at Salma sitting at Naomi’s desk and caught her staring at him before she quickly switched her attention to the screen in front of her. Maybe he was out of sorts, maybe it was something about the way she’d looked away, but he dug out the telephone number of the temp agency number and picked up the phone. He got through to someone who told him that the person who dealt with Hadfish was in a meeting and that she would get back to him as soon as she was free. He hooked up the circuit board to the laptop and got to work.
TWENTY-THREE
The back of the taxi was getting untidy, strewn with empty soft-drink cans (alcohol was a rare treat; the outcome of the worrying result of a liver biopsy), a plastic bag full of empty potato crisp bags and sandwich wrappers, a half-eaten box of chocolates (he didn’t like the dark ones) and a large bottle of water from which he now took a sip. There were also some dog-eared books with newspaper-strip bookmarks for which a cardboard box served as a makeshift library. Boris’s journal was open on his knee and he studied the page. At the top was written Three Walls, with the page sub-divided into three sections: a) Shoah, b) Israel and c) Election.
He studied these for a while, looking up whenever someone walked past the tinted windows. He was outside Hadfish again and waiting for everyone to leave the office so he could talk to Julian, who, he knew, would be the last to leave. His Lebanese partner, Rami, had already gone, probably to one of the casinos in town again, most likely the Empire in Leicester Square: it was his favourite place for poker and they had a Tuesday game that started at four p.m. with just a fifty-pound buy-in. He looked down at his journal. Keeping it was a security no-no, but Boris was reaching an age and state of mind where he no longer cared. In fact, he thought that the journal – which never left his side and was locked away if it did – was safer than keeping things on a computer, which only the most paranoid of technical wizardry could make secure. The journal was something he’d started soon after he’d moved to Israel, and it was stuffed full of clippings from newspapers or things he’d printed off, as well as his own musings. He kept a heavy elastic band twice-wound round it to keep everything safe from the prying eyes of the opportunistically curious, and some well-placed strips of paper would fall out of particular pages if it was opened by anyone who didn’t do it in a particular way. If his masters were to see what he was collecting he’d be relegated to escorting foreign officials who came to Israel to buy weapons, and the thought of being permanently stuck there gave him the fear of being in a virtual prison.
He looked at the word Election, wrote underneath it Jewish souls, then decided it would have to wait until he’d done some more reading on the matter, then under Shoah wrote: One long Shoah. ‘Never again’. Sacred. Dwarfs all else.
A year ago Boris had been part of a war-gaming exercise in Tel Aviv where a group of intelligence analysts and military personnel had spent the day role playing the various Israeli responses to learning of an imminent Iranian missile attack on Israel. Boris, admittedly true to form, wanted to question the premise of the whole thing, and the assumptions behind such an attack taking place to begin with. At first he was indulged, and some spirited discussion took place as to whether an Iranian attack was even feasible, until it was pointed out that this was a military scenario they were supposed to be modelling, not a political debating society. At the time Boris had been impressed that his dissent was even tolerated – such questioning while at the KGB would have seen worse postings than the ones he’d had to deal with. At the war games Boris had been placed on ‘team Israel’ as opposed to ‘team Iran’ or ‘team USA’, and it was then that he had come to learn of Israel’s development of a long-range drone capable of taking out bunkered targets in deepest Iran. Given his history of working to break the technology boycott of the USSR, he had managed to weasel his way on to this program, especially since a small group of Russians was already involved. He needed to prove that he was useful, not just as an analyst, which is what he’d been reduced to and found frankly boring, but as someone in the field who could be trusted. He loved being in the field.
So he’d produced a risk assessment of the Israeli drone being hijacked by Iran and turned against them. The technology was possible, and the dangers of their own drone being used on their own undeclared nuclear arsenal was worrying. It was a contingency they ought to be planning for, Boris had argued, and he was the man to do it. Boris’s strength, which maybe he had oversold, was that he knew people all over Europe and the USA. People that he had cultivated late in the Cold War who were now in positions of some responsibility and keen to ‘help’ just to see the back of him. In a way the end of the Cold War had created new opportunities for him which he was keen to exploit, and the knock at the window revealed just one such person. He bound up his diary, unlocked the door and let Julian in. It was time to get him more involved in global politics.
‘I don’t understand,’ Julian told him five minutes later. ‘Now you want me to create some way of selectively neutralizing the drone? A way of comparing the programmed target coordinates to a hidden set of GPS coordinates? All without it being obvious?’
‘Well, you could write a sub-routine called “drone neutralizer”, but it would defeat the object, wouldn’t it? It’s supposed to be a security feature. These things are not infallible.’
‘They can be blown up remotely, can’t they?’
‘Well, firstly they cost millions of dollars, so that’s to be avoided if possible. Also, it’s not an option if they get into the wrong hands first; they can block the control communication signal if there is one, and at long range even that can’t be guaranteed. I need a backup, something that is hardcoded but not detectable if they try to reverse-engineer it.’
‘When you say wrong hands, you mean like the Iranians. This is on behalf of the Israelis, then?’ Julian asked, as cool as a cucumber, although Boris had expected him to figure that out at some point.
‘At least I don’t have to explain who I’m working for – you’ve worked that out,’ Boris said, wondering whether the Lebanese partner had blabbed.
‘The comments in the code is a giveaway,’ Julian said. ‘Coders leave signatures, and these were in Hebrew.’
Boris nodded, as if he knew what Julian was talking about. It didn’t really matter.
‘So, what I also need to do is test the supplier that sub-contracted the work to you. I need to prove, for various reasons, that they are reliable. As you know, they already overstated their abilities, and if we’re to use them again we need to make sure they’re doing everything possible to maintain the integrity of the stuff they sub-contract.’
‘Quality control,’ Julian said.
‘Exactly, comrade. Quality control. I am the quality controller. I decide who gets contracts and who doesn’t. So I want to see if they pick up what you have programmed into the chip.’ He watched Julian think about this and took a can of Coke from a cool-box full of melting ice to offer him.
Julian turned it down. ‘Why not keep this in-house, within Israel? Why contract it outside?’
‘That’s easy to answer, comrade. There are certain myths Israel likes to perpetuate, and one of them is that we have unsurpassed technical expertise in Israel. We don’t. We often have to use compan-ies outside Israel. But we choose them carefully. They are usually run by people of the right religious and political persuasion.’
‘You mean Jews?’
‘Not just Jews. Zionist Jews. Pro-Israel. Not all Jews are pro-Israel. Some poor souls have become confused about what is good for them.’
‘I thought communists were supposed to be anti-Zionist?’
‘You see, Julian, just when I think you are a political ignoramus, you surprise me with these little insights.’ He took a swig of Coke which caught the back of his throat and caused him to cough. ‘It’s a little more complicated than that. The Soviets supported Israel when it was formed. It was the second country to recognize it in 1948, and because of this the Israeli Communist party was tolerated in Israel early on, despite the fact that they were the only organization to give any voice to Palestinians at that time.’
‘And your position is what, then?’
Boris was losing patience with the conversation but better to indulge Julian and have him sweet than remind him of the hold he had over him. Persuasion was always better than blackmail.
‘Israel is my home now. Russia was my home then. Allegiances are always self-serving. Ideologies do not interest me that much – they never have.’
‘So you’re a pragmatist. Looking after number one,’ Julian said, not without contempt.
‘As you should be doing,’ Boris said, allowing enough warning in his voice, just a little reminder.
‘OK, so if, and it’s a big if, I find a way to do all this, while also bamboozling the company who gave us the work, what then?’
Boris pretended to consider the question seriously. ‘There could be some other contract work, although some vetting would be needed, and although I can personally vouch for you, you have a Lebanese partner …’
‘He’s anti-Palestinian and hates Muslims. He’s just the ticket, I would have thought. Not Jewish, obviously, but I’m sure you won’t hold that against him.’ With that Julian opened the door with a view to stepping out, but Boris grabbed his arm and, with the other hand, reached out to close the door.
‘I’ve got eyes on you, Julian, so don’t fuck about. Get the work done. You have seven days.’
‘Seven days? What if I can’t?’
‘I have faith in your abilities, Julian. You can’t afford to let me down.’ Boris let go of him and watched him jump out. After a few minutes he transferred himself to the driver’s seat. He needed to go and get supplies, as well as get some air flowing inside the cab. He considered the meeting a success.
TWENTY-FOUR
Sheila never went to Hadfish if she could help it, since it seemed to embarrass Jules to have her there, where he was king in his little world. He liked to compartmentalize things, and although she’d been to the odd company gathering – excruciating affairs with the programmers – she’d never actually visited unannounced. She and Jules socialized with Rami, of course. They’d been doing that before Rami and Jules had even set up Hadfish together, when Julian was still at British Aerospace and would drink to excess to escape the pressures of the job. No, Julian would not like her turning up unannounced, that’s for sure. He hated surprises because they threw him off guard. But throwing him off guard was exactly her intention, to try to draw some reaction from him so that he might reveal what was going on. Since he was uncommunicative when coming home late at night, claiming exhaustion (and he did look exhausted), she thought she would try him during the day, offering to take him out for lunch.
After getting reception to ring up to Hadfish so she could gain access, she was alone in the lift and free to examine herself in the mirror. Whether it was the unflattering fluorescent lighting, or that she was tired, or maybe, just maybe, a little dehydrated from too much wine, she didn’t like the puffiness she saw around her eyes. She put on sunglasses and that looked better, but then she decided she would look stupid walking into the office with them on, so she removed them and put them on her head.
Since the office manager, Naomi, wasn’t at her perch next to the entrance she walked straight over to Julian’s office, eliciting no response from the screen-fixated coders, and grateful for the fact that Rami wasn’t in his office next door. Julian was talking to a slight woman, her back to Sheila, whose head of shiny black hair, despite being tied up, was a sight to behold and, Sheila imagined, a nightmare to maintain. He was leaning back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head in that male stance some men unconsciously adopt when trying to exude power. He got up when he saw her and the woman turned round, revealing herself to be young, olive-skinned and very attractive, despite being dressed in an oversized suit which did nothing but disguise her femininity. Julian had recovered enough composure to smile and wave her in, and the woman took a file and smiled at Sheila as she passed, a toothy smile that Sheila couldn’t help but respond to.
‘Is that the new programmer you’ve been nurturing?’ she asked, smiling, but with just a little snarkiness in her voice.
‘Don’t be silly, you know very well that’s a bloke, Nizar. You can see him hunched over his desk over there, the one with the oversized cans and the ponytail.’
She didn’t look round. ‘I was joking. Don’t tell me – she was hired by Rami,’ she said as she sat down opposite.
‘No, she just turned up, believe it or not, a replacement for Naomi, who’s off sick. She’s from the agency.’ She watched him write Ring agency down on a yellow sticky note.
‘I wondered if you wanted to go for lunch. My treat.’
‘Really? OK. But it’s not such a good time, sweetheart. I’m really snowed under and—’
‘That’s why I want to talk to you. I’ve been worried sick about you. To be honest, you’re behaving weirdly, like you did when you were at BA Systems just before you quit. Remember?’
He was looking over her shoulder into the open-plan office and she shifted herself to block his view. She knew he wasn’t looking at anything in particular out there, it was just that his vision had focused on the middle distance, a place his gaze was often to be found. He re-engaged eye contact.
‘I’m worried about you, Julian. I don’t know what’s going on.’
‘Nothing’s “going on”. I’m just busy, that’s all.’
‘OK, then. Busy with what?’
‘Not that you’ve ever been interested in my work, but this job here.’ He pointed to some electronics on his desk, something connected to his laptop by a cable. It meant nothing to her.
‘This is to do with the military contract?’ she asked.
‘How did you find out about that? I saw all those printouts you left on the table, about the effects of drones. Hardly subtle.’
‘That was research for my benefit,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you already know all about it.’
‘How did you find out, though?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes, it does. It’s confidential. Nobody here knows about it except Rami.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Fuck, he told Cassandra and she told you.’
‘What can I say, Jules – women talk.’
‘As does fucking Rami, apparently.’
‘The point is,’ she said, taking a breath, ‘I don’t understand why you took it on, since you were so opposed to it.’
‘Cassie knows fuck all about what I’m working on.’
Sheila composed herself by looking at the view behind Julian; she could see the arch of King’s Cross railway station. She didn’t understand why he didn’t have his desk facing the window rather than his staff; maybe he felt the need to keep a constant eye on them. He was angry, she could see that. He was pretending to be occupied by something on his screen but his jaw was working beneath his skin.
‘Does that mean you don’t want to do lunch?’
‘It’s not that I don’t want to,’ he said, as if to a child. ‘I’ve just been handed a revised spec and been given another deadline, so I can’t.’ He was flapping his hands.
‘You can’t?’ She stared at him and was minded to slam his laptop screen closed but he had slumped back in his chair, looking for all the world like he was going to cry. She wondered whether to confront him about whether he was seeing someone else but it wasn’t really the right place to do it. She had no evidence at all, just a suspicion that he was seeing someone, that someone else had his confidence, knew him better than she did. She wanted his fucking confid
ence.
‘Look, babe, why don’t we discuss it this evening?’ he said more gently.
She made a face which she hoped conveyed her doubt at this happening.
‘I mean it. I’ll come home at a reasonable time and we’ll eat together.’
‘And talk. Properly,’ she said, getting up.
‘And talk.’ He stood up and was going to come round the desk to hug her or peck her on the cheek but she left before he had a chance to. The woman sitting at Naomi’s desk looked up at her and smiled as she passed, but Sheila had already put on her sunglasses and didn’t engage. Back in the lift she realized that she remained unconvinced by what Jules had told her; he had not explained himself at all and he’d fobbed her off with the promise of further discussion. Two things crossed her mind: the last thing she wanted to become was a nag, and would it have killed him to have lunch with her?
TWENTY-FIVE
It was the second day Mojgan had been at Hadfish and she was no closer to getting access to what the technical director, Julian Fisher, was working on. She had just watched the blonde woman leave his office. She didn’t look at Mojgan, instead hiding behind her glasses after what had seemed like an intense discussion, the sort reserved for people who were intimate. As the woman passed, Mojgan idly wondered why she didn’t rejuvenate her fading hair colour. Julian had come in late that morning, looking upset and flustered. He’d gone straight into his office and hooked up the circuit board to his laptop. When she’d seen it on his desk the day before her heart had taken a leap: it was surely what she needed access to. But as he was constantly in his office, peering and tapping at the laptop that was hooked up to the circuit board, it was impossible to have a look. She was also disappointed when she realized that he didn’t have a desktop computer. It meant the key-logger was useless in this instance.
Farsheed had been so meagre with the logistics for this mission, yet at the same time so adamant that it was really important, so she had been intoxicated by the excitement, the sense of intimacy sharing a secret between two people can create, especially since they were the only two who knew of her true purpose here. Plus the fact that she had so much autonomy. Just an objective, to be achieved using her own ingenuity. That thought alone gave her a tingle at the base of her neck. A tingle like the one she’d got when she’d put the logger on Julian’s partner’s computer yesterday. The partner being a good-looking Arab with an easy smile and wandering gaze.
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