‘I still can’t see why his photographs can lead to us.’ Sir Benjamin pressed the buzzer, a little device secreted under each end of the table. Seconds later the waiters arrived and whisked away the plates then wheeled in a sweet trolley. The diners made their choices and, having fulfilled their masters’ wishes, the waiters vanished like genies.
‘Kylie is a problem if the photos are found, if she is found, if the photos are used to corroborate her story, if she leads the police to the apartment, if they trace me – trace us.’
‘Even if any of that happens, how could they come back to us? The trail ends with George, surely? And he’s dead. No one’s going to investigate him now!’
Sir Jeremy wanted to shake the pompous arrogant poof by his silken lapels. ‘God, I sometimes wonder how you ever got where you are!’
‘Old boy network. Old boy!’
Christ, the man is in a dream world. ‘Listen to me. George Simm’s file was supposed to be destroyed as part of the infiltration into Candyman. Remember?’
‘This is delicious.’ Sir Benjamin continued eating his bombe, a napkin tucked into his collar. ‘Are you not going to eat anything? Go on. Of course I remember.’
‘And your file was also removed.’
‘Something I’ll forever be indebted to you for, but,’ Sir Benjamin mopped his mouth and dropped the napkin on his plate with a flourish, ‘I still fail to see the link between the girl, George, and my non-existent file – which, thanks to you and George, evaporated into the ether.’
Sir Jeremy had hoped his friend would come to the same conclusion he had reached long before, but the man’s pig-headed optimism, his total arrogance allowed not a shadow of doubt to flicker in his already dim mind.
He made two decisions right then. After today he would never speak to this man again. How could he have thought he might get some comfort, solace, advice and help from this excuse for a human being?
The second decision was to put a bomb under the man’s backside.
‘What does your company do?’
‘Which one, old boy?’ Sir Benjamin laughed and pressed the buzzer. Waiters appeared as he continued, ‘Oh, you mean my little insurance firm? You know very well what we do!’
Sir Jeremy did indeed. The little insurance firm was a multi-national giant based in London. His thick friend was Chairman.
‘And what did George do?’
‘George? Are we playing games now? Twenty questions?’ Sir Benjamin glanced at the waiter and said, ‘Yes, I’ll have coffee. You Jeremy? How about a port? I’ve got a few minutes.’ The waiters, having taken the orders were moving the trolley and dishes to the door as Sir Benjamin continued, ‘George was in computers of course.’
‘So if George, heaven forbid, wanted insurance, he’d keep it on his computer, wouldn’t he Benjamin, don’t you think?’
It took a moment for the cogs and gears to move in Sir Benjamin’s steam driven brain before they made the connection. Then he did something very few people witness in the arcane world of the Cromwellian Club, a gentlemen’s club with traditions of politeness befitting the highest in the land.
He made a complete spectacle of himself.
He shouted and swore. ‘The stupid cunt did not keep those FBI files, did he?’
Sir Jeremy finally had his old friend’s full attention as the door silently farted closed.
***
The President of the United States of America rarely needed to raise his voice, surrounded as he was by flunkies ready to complete in the blink of an eye just about any whim demanded by the most powerful man in the world.
Many influential men know they do not need to shout to make people understand they are displeased, often preferring to quieten their voices, enunciate more slowly, threaten their wrath in a more subtle and effective way.
Jack Regan, Director of the CIA, knew this to be true as it was his way too. He had never heard the Chief Executive shout either. Until today. The Oval Office walls almost rattled as he received his first bawling out in years.
‘George Simm personally invested five million dollars at the start of my campaign. He has donated over twenty million in soft money over the last ten years. Now tell me what you or the FBI have to back up this shit, Jack, or so help me...’ The President stood behind his desk, shaking, red faced, a little out of control.
‘Mr President, sir. We are making no comment to the press, but there is a file on Simm’s activities from decades back.’
‘But you just said, and I quote, we have no evidence!’
‘That’s right sir. The hard evidence is missing, believed stolen.’ The sweat dripped down the Director’s back, his shirt soggy despite the air conditioning. He stood, not at attention, but definitely not at ease.
‘Stolen? How convenient.’
‘Basically, we think Simm or someone working with him somehow managed to erase what the FBI had on him and a number of others.’
‘You think?’
The Director wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘We believe, sir. Meanwhile I’ve set a joint investigation in motion with the FBI.’
‘Meanwhile, CNN are accusing me of protecting a friend and campaign contributor who just happens to be a fucking paedophile! Do you have any idea what this is doing to my ratings? It’s an election year and I have no intention of being a one term President.’
The Director did not even try to field that one. ‘The investigation will find what evidence there is, sir. The man’s file disappeared when someone breached our security systems many years back. Even so, Simm should’ve been flagged as a threat to you. At the very least to avoid potential embarrassment during your campaign.’
The President had won a landslide on an anti-regulation ticket. Like his predecessor, he had made much of being a staunch born again Christian. Regan was convinced he must have known about the rumours surrounding George, but let it slide.
‘Jack. You hear me real good. I don’t want any cover up, but I don’t believe for one minute George Simm was some kind of pervert. I have known him since he was at MIT. It’s bullshit!’ The President’s voice had modulated to the level of threat Jack Regan recognised.
‘The Royal Thai police report – ’
Regan’s words lit the fuse again. The President skyrocketed. ‘Don’t you dare quote me what the Thai police think! I’ve read the report, Jack – it’s surmise and nothing more! A little kid was seen running from the hotel with some blood on him and the Thai police say – and remember, Jack, the poor bastard can’t defend himself because he’s been murdered and got a mouthful of his own dick – they say George Simm was a paedophile! How the hell do they make that great leap of detective work?’
The President was glaring, his fists on his hips waiting for an answer that Jack Regan did not have. So the Director did the next best thing.
‘Mr President. This whole thing has escalated so quickly, it’s caught us with our pants down. I apologise for the embarrassment it’s caused you personally, and for the difficulties this incident has created for the Agency. The buck stops here, sir. You’ll have my resignation on your desk –’
The Director started bowing formally as he came towards the end of his speech.
The President broke in, his tone relatively friendly considering what went before.
‘I don’t want your resignation Jack. I want results. No more no comment. We have a PR disaster here the size of Mount Rushmore.’
‘Mr President, I think perhaps the FBI should send a team to Thailand.’
‘This is the CIA’s mess. You sort it.’
Regan blanched. It was true.
The President continued, ‘You have responsibility for the security of our systems, and you and I both know that since the collapse of the Soviet Union the Agency and the FBI have been working together closer than ever – terrorism, drugs and computer crimes know no boundaries, so don’t give me that demarcation shit, Jack. Save it for the press.’
The Director knew where he stood. He was goi
ng to have this monkey perched on his shoulder until the President was satisfied.
‘Give me a week and I promise you results. Innocent or guilty – if I have to flood Thailand with agents to get the answer, I will sir.’
‘You’ve got until Saturday. Simm’s body is being flown in midday then. You get me some hard evidence of wrongdoing, or I will personally announce the Agency’s screw up and exonerate George Simm by greeting his coffin.’
‘Mr President, it’s Wednesday already!’
‘Don’t argue with me Jack. Until Saturday, noon – and that’s generous.’ The President sat.
Meeting over.
***
Gloria Simm reached a state of unconsciousness in the early hours of the morning, shortly after she had started coming apart during the CNN news bulletin.
Later that day her maid and chauffeur arrived to find Gloria on the sofa, surrounded by the detritus of the private wake she had been holding. They dutifully cleaned up and carried her to bed.
She awoke around noon and walked into the kitchen, and asked, ‘Veronica, where’s George?’
Her maid, shocked by the mistress of the house presenting herself looking like a discarded whore after a sailors’ party, walked Gloria back to her room.
Veronica helped her undress, bathe, and return to her bed, then fed her some more sedatives.
Despite the best efforts of the maid to explain why George was never coming back, Gloria continually insisted he would return – as he loved Gloria, loved her son, loved her daughter.
Veronica, worried about Gloria’s zombie like demeanour, and convinced the terrible lies the press were spreading had somehow affected her mistress’s mind, decided to ignore the awful things Gloria had to say about exactly how much George had loved his children.
***
Sir Jeremy was still at his club, waiting for Sir Benjamin to finish his business.
They had moved from the small private dining room to a similar sized room, which the club labelled rather grandly, ‘Virtual Private Networking Suite.’
The incongruity of the jargon in such an antediluvian environment rather amused Sir Jeremy as he sat below a portrait of King Henry the Eighth. The King, with hands on hips, glared down at Sir Benjamin who sat at a Louis the Fourteenth desk. In front of Sir Benjamin, and looking as out of place in the club as Sir Jeremy now felt, was a state of the art computer with a giant LED display.
Sir Benjamin had talked to the screen for nearly an hour. He had insisted Sir Jeremy wait for him, but said, ‘I must attend to some other important business, old boy.’ Supposedly a man of his word, he had promised Sir Jeremy he would be only ten or fifteen minutes.
Sir Jeremy looked at his watch and mimed impatience at Sir Benjamin, who waved a hand at him in dismissal, then, obviously remembering who was doing whom a favour, told his videoconference partner to wait and said, ‘Sorry Jeremy. Bit longer than I thought. I promise you, just a few minutes and I’m through.’ He turned back to the screen, not even waiting for a response.
Five minutes later Sir Jeremy was relieved to see Sir Benjamin had terminated the connection.
‘Sorry about that, the Simm saga goes on. I don’t know if you know, but I did a bit of dealing when George floated his company.’
‘Insider dealing.’ Sir Jeremy scowled. George had offered him the same opportunity but he had passed on that one.
‘It was more of a bonus really, for getting him a chunk of capital from my insurance company. My shares are offshore of course, a blind trust so no one knows, but I made a little money while my firm made tens of millions. All gone a bit pear shaped today though.’
‘Let me guess, the news about George has hit SimmpleTravel shares.’
‘Indeed. They’re down almost a half in less than two days. I’m a veritable pauper now! It’s the reason I’ve been so long. I should’ve been at their Extraordinary Board Meeting, but cancelled to extend my lunch with you. George made me non-executive Director not long after we started the Young Boy Network.’
Sir Jeremy cringed inwardly. He detested that name.
Sir Benjamin carried on, oblivious to the effect he was having. ‘The chaps at the office are like headless chickens without me. They want to sell SimmpleTravel and I’ve had to spend the last hour convincing them we should buy more.’
Sir Jeremy stared at him, total disbelief telegraphed by his open mouth.
‘Jeremy, please close up, old boy! It’s a fantastic buying opportunity. We will make a killing when the shares bounce back.’
Sir Jeremy once again wondered how this man had ever got to the top of a multi-billion-pound corporation.
‘Benjamin! Were you not listening to a word I said? There is probably evidence, a file on you and the others, photos and God knows what else. George could bring us all down, including SimmpleTravel!’
‘You’re totally wrong there. The man who took my place at the board meeting is confident there is no evidence against George. And the firm’s American attorney thinks we may be able to sue the US Government on the part of the shareholders for anything up to a billion dollars!’
The man actually has greedy pig-eyes, thought Sir Jeremy as Sir Benjamin leaned his full six-foot-three-inch frame forward, stared into Sir Jeremy’s own eyes and said, ‘From where it is now, the share price will go ballistic when the case is won! Even after the US lawyers take their slice there’s an extra, one-off exceptional profit of around half a billion pounds!’
‘But the files!’
Sir Benjamin’s ebullience was unassailable. ‘Jeremy, pray tell. How do you know he kept anything at all? He told me categorically that he’d erased my records, the history of purchases I’d made through the internet, details about me, everything they had. It’s gone!’
‘He told me.’ Actually he hinted, but even the new Sir Jeremy was not beyond stretching the truth.
‘What did he say then?’ Sir Benjamin was frowning now.
‘He said he had some insurance, in case he ever needed a favour or had a problem.’
‘It was surely a bluff. I don’t believe he kept anything.’
‘And the photos?’
‘If he has copies of you and your girls... those really are your problem. But I’ll do this for you Jeremy. I promise you, in the unlikely event the files do exist, I will find them and the photos. Presumably he gave them to you, the ones he took of you and your sluts?’
Sir Jeremy ignored the slight. ‘Of course. But now I’m worried in case he kept copies. Insurance on me. George only hinted he’d kept the files after I’d allowed him to photograph me... How could I have been so stupid?’ He swallowed before continuing, shaking his head. ‘I’m beginning to think George was power mad – a control freak who wanted to be able to make us bend to his will if he ever needed a favour again.’
‘Mmm. I don’t know. George was my friend. In fact, rather more than that. I think you’re panicking unnecessarily.’ Sir Benjamin considered things for a moment, fingertips stroking his lips. ‘I’ll see what I can do. After all I am a Director of his company. I’m sure I can access George’s computer. Don’t know how yet. I’m not much good at the blasted things except for videoconferencing. Ha!’ He nodded his head and gave Sir Jeremy a wicked grin. ‘Leave it to me, old boy. I’ll mop up all the loose ends. Make sure we’re all safe in our beds. How’s that? I’ll even sort out young Kylie for you. You don’t need to go back to the apartment. Just you relax, old boy.’ He patted Sir Jeremy on the shoulder as they left the room.
Although Sir Jeremy had finally heard the words he had so desperately wanted to hear when he arrived, as he departed he could not help feeling uneasy about the whole sordid business.
How did I get myself into this?
Sir Jeremy’s footsteps faltered as he headed for the tube station. He needed succour and, barely thinking of what he was doing, the sixty-four-year-old started walking in the direction he knew he would find it. In the arms of a teenage girl.
He went to see Kylie.
***
‘Hi Boss! Good lunch?’
‘Very nice, Gus. You’re in a good mood. Probably a good time to tell you that Kate O’Sullivan is on her way to Thailand.’
‘That’s cool,’ Gus lied.
‘And before you hear this from anyone else, I’ve sent her genius little brother with her. Between you and me, I’m hoping to convince him to do a little hacking for us! Anyway, if anyone asks, it’s because he’s dependent on her, okay? Now, how we doing for tonight’s copy?’
‘Well, I’ve managed to get an exclusive interview with none other than,’ Gus paused for effect and grinned at his boss as he said, ‘...Gary Knight, acting MD of SimmpleTravel.’
‘How did you manage that? I thought the fellah must hate us! I hear we’ve cost him personally around seven million quid already! You sure he doesn’t just want to chop you up and feed you to his fish?’ Tandy guffawed. Today was just perfect in every way.
‘It must be my natural charm, boss. Told him we wanted his side of the story. Anyway, hold the front page – I think we’ve got some library pics of him with a few bits of totty on his boat.’
‘Do your thing, Gus. You tie him up in knots, eh?’
‘I intend to, boss. I intend to.’
***
‘So, where’s your luggage?’
‘I’m wearing it!’
‘Oh Johnny, I said to pack. Get your nose off that screen and do it!’ Kate had picked up her two suitcases on the way. She checked her watch, struggling to focus. ‘We need to get moving. The cab’s waiting. I’ll help you pack.’ Kate made the mistake of touching Johnny’s heap of discarded clothes, the small movement creating a waft that almost made her chuck up.
‘Sis, leave that. I need your iPad.’
‘I said we’d buy you one. And what about your suitcase? Where is it?’ Kate sat on the edge of his bed, her head wobbly. Charles had insisted they have yet another drink after the meal. She rarely drank at lunchtime, let alone a whole bottle of champagne. Tandy had ordered two during the lunch, and two glasses of port.
‘I’m not taking anything, I’ll buy stuff. Everything’s dirt-cheap there. Kate, I reeeeally need your computer. I have to transfer some files from mine.’
The Hack Page 11
