His slow progress continued in the heat and humidity of the afternoon sun. Each fresh handhold a direct challenge to death.
***
At last, the picture on Johnny’s new computer was just how he wanted it. He sucked on a Singha while tickling the computer into doing his bidding with his other hand.
He put the beer bottle down as his machine hooked up with the hotel’s wi-fi. Moments later, in his UK bedsit, his desktop computer winked in acknowledgement of its master’s presence.
Streams of coding scrolled his screen as Johnny used his tablet to interrogate his home computer. He remained like this, his concentration unbroken, fixated on the screen, hunting for the enemy.
After almost an hour of steady data streaming, he started the process again. Another file, another part of the puzzle he was working on.
By mid-afternoon he completed his checks. He jumped up, ran into his bedroom and started trampolining on one of the two king-sized double beds. He then somersaulted from one to the other, landing spread-eagled on his back, screaming, ‘Kiss my ass, you Skunkworks morons!’
He flipped himself off the bed thinking his bouncing may disturb his neighbours and celebrated instead by raiding the mini-bar. A bottle of champagne seemed very reasonably priced at only eighty-eight dollars, especially as Charles Tandy was paying.
Johnny, drinking the remaining half from the bottle, having sprayed the rest while on his own Formula One style victory podium – the bed – sat back down by the tablet.
He tapped three keys on the touch screen, and lit up Langley.
***
The pneumatic Barbie blonde let herself into Gary Knight’s London apartment at around 9.30am. She had read the article that had caused her boyfriend to regress twenty years, and then had a blazing row followed by a catfight with her friend, the girl who had told all to The Crusader.
The previous evening Susie had spent over two hundred pounds on a hairdo, ensuring perfection for her dyed blonde mane in anticipation of a photo-shoot this morning. Her former friend had ripped out about five-pounds worth of Susie’s new hairstyle along with a small piece of scalp, put teeth marks in Susie’s left bicep and raked her face, leaving two sets of red tram lines and one plastic nail embedded in her cheek.
Her friend did not escape so lightly. She was in Casualty awaiting an X-ray to confirm whether Susie’s right uppercut had actually broken her jaw.
Susie thought she had acquitted herself rather well and, having cancelled her modelling session, went directly to Gary’s office. The staff of SimmpleTravel were in a state of panic. Gary had failed to turn up, his mobile and home phones unresponsive.
The office phone had been ringing non-stop – journalists, investors, directors, everyone it seemed wanted to talk to Susie’s boyfriend this morning.
She was worried and turned up at his apartment, not looking her best, but concerned for his well-being.
She let herself in and found Gary face down at his kitchen table, unconscious, with the tabloid newspaper open at the article starring them both, a rolled up ten pound note in one hand and his nose buried in a mound of cocaine.
Susie tried to bring him round but gave up, made a quick call on her mobile, snorted two lines of coke and waited for the ambulance.
***
‘I must advise against this course of action most strongly, Sir Benjamin.’ The stockbroker’s voice oozed concern for one of his most valued clients. Sir Benjamin had steadily built up an inheritance of less than half a million pounds in 1960 to over eighty million today. Some of his capital was tied up in property, gilts and pensions, even a few Krugerrands, but the bulk of the money was safely offshore, away from the greedy clutches of the UK taxman. In fact any taxman. The stockbroker was responsible for the share portfolio held in Sir Benjamin’s offshore trusts.
He had always been a canny investor. He used his Eton connections to get the low-down on companies long before normal investors, buying and selling on inside knowledge.
Although insider dealing was illegal, Sir Benjamin’s offshore trusts were ‘blind,’ and as such he was, in theory, not involved in any investment decisions. Legally he did not control the trusts, the trustees did. So any inside knowledge he obtained could safely be used without a paper trail leading back to him. Like many of the extremely wealthy in Britain, especially those with family money, he paid very little in the way of tax. He was an aristocrat, and hence believed this to be his birthright.
Today Sir Benjamin was in a risk-taking mood. SimmpleTravel shares had plummeted to just under two pounds, roughly a quarter of their opening price on Monday morning before the news of George Simm’s death started the downward slide. Far from being angry with Gary Knight, as his fellow non-executive directors were, Sir Benjamin was delighted. He had instructed his broker to sell most of his other investments and use the proceeds to snap up as many shares as he could in SimmpleTravel.
He was firm. ‘Listen man. It’s my money. I’ll even courier my written instructions to confirm the trade. I stand by my decision.’
Sir Benjamin was clearly angry but the stockbroker was a consummate professional and answered, ‘If you take this decision, I will of course, fulfil your order. But I will resign from your trust with immediate effect. You will need a new stockbroker and new trustees, Sir Benjamin.’
‘Just do it.’ Sir Benjamin slammed the phone down. He had now committed around fifty million pounds to SimmpleTravel in total.
He rubbed his hands together and then gulped his coffee. He was totally confident that the President would exonerate George Simm. Very soon his team would be in place in Thailand, enabling him to obtain the crucial asset that would ensure the President’s speech was a foregone conclusion.
Sir Benjamin was absolutely certain that George had deleted any incriminating files held by the UK police, the FBI and the CIA. He was convinced they had nothing but he wanted to confirm it, and if there was anything incriminating in George’s database, he would find it. Meanwhile, he was well on the way to ensuring there were no loose ends in London.
He was feeling very pleased with himself as he made another phone call.
‘Manny. Have you sorted out a location suitable for our needs?’
‘Yeah. It’s perfect and I’ve already set up the internet link, everything’s ready to go. And so am I – it’s too bleedin hot here.’
Sir Benjamin’s good humour started to dissipate. The runt ought to show him more respect. ‘I want you to stay in Thailand for a few more days.’
The voice on the other end of the line was confused. ‘Without George here, and with the police all over the place, there’s not much more I can do. I might as well get back to Russia.’
He detested the whining toad on the end of the line. George had recruited Manny and, until now, Sir Benjamin had been more of a sleeping partner in the twilight businesses George had created and had not needed to deal with the staff.
‘There is little for you to do in Russia right now is there, Manny? The website pretty well maintains itself and until we get another source of material for our members then I think it best you do as I say.’ Sir Benjamin’s voice grated. He would recruit a new web master for the Russian operation.
‘Well, it’s not that simple.’ The voice whinged in his ear.
‘Oh but it is. If you were half as good as you say you are I wouldn’t need to find another expert to assist in opening up George’s files, would I? But I do want someone there to supervise what he’s doing for me. And that someone is you, Manny.’
Sir Benjamin had spoken to Manny the day before about accessing George’s database through the internet, opening up any hidden files in George’s office computer. Manny said it was impossible but Sir Benjamin knew otherwise, and although he was convinced George would never leave anything incriminating on his SimmpleTravel computers, he wanted to be certain. George Simm was a very careful man. But Sir Benjamin wanted to be sure.
‘Well, I suppose I can keep an eye on him for ya.’ The
sulkiness in the voice signed the man’s death warrant.
‘That’s what I want. You assist Jock and Sam. They’re already at George’s hotel.’ Sir Benjamin broke the connection, slammed his fist on the table. He was not used to having his decisions and directives questioned.
He calmed himself for his next call. He had spent much of the morning taking flak from the fund managers at his insurance company for his decision to back SimmpleTravel. The Chief Executive was due back later in the day, and rumour had it he was unhappy with his Chairman’s decisions too. So be it, thought Sir Benjamin. After the weekend, and the President’s announcement, all would be well.
Sir Benjamin had yet to speak to Gary Knight today. He had been busy this morning so made the call to the SimmpleTravel office now.
‘I’m sorry, Sir Benjamin. Gary’s not available at the moment.’ The girl sounded as if she had recited the line a hundred times this morning. ‘Can I get him to call you back?’
‘Of course. No urgency. Just tell him my thoughts are with him. I may come by later to sort out George’s things. I spoke to Gary yesterday. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to let him know.’
‘I will, Sir Benjamin.’
He sat back in his office, his feet on his desk. Not a care in the world. By Monday he expected to have made a cool one hundred and fifty million pounds from the recovery of SimmpleTravel shares.
***
‘Cody!’
‘Yo!’
‘I think you need to see this. Now, man.’ The speaker was wearing non-standard CIA staff uniform of jeans and a black tee shirt bearing the Anarchist logo. He had long greasy hair, a scraggy beard and a severe dandruff problem. His shoulders were peppered with the detritus of his scalp, the front of his shirt with the scales of dead skin that eventually loosened themselves from the grip of his bushy chin.
He was a genius.
Around him was a mixture of similar types, Johnny look-alikes and several female nerds. All computer boffins.
This team made up the brains behind GUSSSET. This was the heart of the CIA’s secret defence against computer incursion, the last bastion for the US Government defending itself against schoolboys attempting to launch its nuclear missiles.
Cody’s team had worked almost continuously since the communiqué from Thailand had been hacked, and like Johnny, all of them were devoted to the computers that winked and whirred alongside them like contented pets.
Kate would have recognised the odour immediately, it was similar to the one that had almost prompted her to throw up the previous day when she dislodged Johnny’s wash pile. The Skunkworks element of the disparaging nickname for the department came about from this distinctive aroma. Kindergarten referred, not to the average age of the residents, but their behaviour. A paper dart whistled past Cody’s ear as he made his way to his colleague’s terminal.
He bent forward, keeping his head sufficiently clear of the other man’s so as not to be endangered by a snowstorm. For fully thirty seconds neither man said a word as they stared at the images that flashed on the monitor.
‘Oh shit!’ Cody sprinted from the room to his boss’s office. As the door closed behind him some of the thirty-strong team gathered around their colleague’s terminal, curious to see what had put a fire on Cody’s tail. After a brief stunned silence a collective cheer erupted and high fives and laughter ensued.
After all, they were professionals and recognised the mark of a fellow computer genius when they saw it.
Seconds later the same images appeared on all the monitors in the room, including the forty-foot by fifty-foot flat screen panel mounted high on the front wall in plain view of all the staff.
A giant caricature of a computer geek slouched on to the screen, turned away from the audience, dropped his pants and mooned a bare ass at the admiring crowd. One hand was jabbing a pointed finger at the cartoon butt, and words scrolled below: ‘Kiss my ass, Cody! You think you can TROJAN me! Agent Johnson says it’s one of you guys! Some pissed off hacker trying to show how cool he is! He says you can’t be trusted, you’re all crazy and they should lock you fuckers up! I AGREE ASSHOLE!!! P.S. Agent Johnson says his mission’s bullshit. I say – aren’t they all!’
The CIA headquarters was experiencing its first Level Five hack attack in over five years.
In Cody’s analogy – Johnny had broken into the mansion, cracked open the safe and was currently raping the Director’s wife.
***
The two-man mercenary team sat by the hotel pool, supping cocktails and eyeing the talent, loafing, bronzing in the sun.
Both men were tired after the long flight, having completed another mission in Russia just two days prior.
‘I think we’re ahead of schedule, Jock. What d’you think mate?’
‘Aye.’ Jock was a man of few words, having been shot in the voice box during a skirmish with Taliban fighters some years before. A hardy Highlander, he had confounded the odds and survived to fight another day. When he spoke he had to hiccup air into his throat to get sufficient resonance to make himself heard. He had perfected the technique, but the issue of clarity was still a problem – his thick Scottish accent was barely decipherable prior to his injury.
‘We’ve got until morning to deliver the packages. I think we’ve got time to relax a bit today, eh?’ Sam was an old comrade in arms, he and Jock had worked together for over ten years.
‘Aye.’ Jock wiped sweat from his chest, the tight grey curls spraying moisture, his blue and red tinted skin scarred beneath a mass of tattoos. He and Sam were hard men who had led hard lives.
Sam’s eyes were unmoving, fixed on the naked breast of the beautiful brunette a few seats away. ‘Shame we haven’t got time for some proper R’n’R.’
‘Aye.’
‘Maybe when the job’s done, eh? Anyway mate, the site’s sorted, Manny’s got everything done for us. It’s just a question of when we grab the assets. Reckon four or five in the morning. Gives us a chance to keep an eye on them tonight and then make our move.
‘Aye.’ Jock sipped his orange juice. Neither man would drink alcohol until they had completed their task. They too were professionals.
***
‘How long d’ya think the gook’ll keep us waiting?’ Agent Mackenzie was picking his teeth with a matchstick as they sat in a sweltering interview room at Police Headquarters.
‘Who knows, Mac. He’s so pissed at us he’ll probably keep us here all day. Can’t blame him. We’d do the same if it was on our territory.’
‘Do you believe he’s really gone off to a murder scene? That skirt he was with sure is some babe. American too. Y’think he’s doing the dirty knee tremblers with her?’ Mackenzie flicked the match at the bin, missed.
‘If he is I wouldn’t expect him back anytime soon!’ They both grunted, almost laughing.
Agent Johnson’s phone rang and he spoke into it.
‘Yeah?’
He shot to his feet and moved the phone from his ear.
Mackenzie was startled to hear the Director’s voice booming from his colleague’s tiny handset.
‘You get your team back to Langley. I don’t know what you think you’re up to boy. But you’ve got a shitload of explaining to do. It’s 2.30am here. I want you in my office by lunchtime tomorrow even if you have to hitch a ride on a ballistic missile. Do you understand me, Agent Johnson?’
‘Yessir. I – ’ The phone went dead. Johnson’s face looked dead. His cheeks had lost all colour. He sat just as Agent Mackenzie’s phone went off.
They looked at each other and before he hit the respond button, Mac said, ‘He sure seems pissed.’
He answered, tucking the cellphone to his ear. Then said, ‘Oh, hi honey.’ He listened, his mouth slightly open, lips working but only one person speaking. She kept on for about thirty seconds.
‘Honey. I’m on my way home. Don’t worry, we’ll sort it all out. It’s probably a big mistake.’
Agent Mackenzie cut the connection, his expression dumb
founded. He looked at Johnson and said, ‘They’ve been to my house in the middle of the night. Taken my PC, my laptop, the kids’ PCs, iPods, games consoles, our cellphones and all our CDs and DVDs. What the hell is going on?’
***
The old Land Rover jolted along the potholed road, winding through the trees, snaking ever higher. Beverley Hills, the local millionaires’ paradise, was about an hour by road from the centre of town. Kate’s hair was stuck to her shoulders, her back wet and uncomfortable against the hot vinyl seat, and the open window was an oven door, shoving hot air at her face.
Chief Lee drove with a confidence that Kate did not feel as he swerved round another hairpin bend, gravel spraying over the sheer drop to the side.
‘Some of our roads need a little attention, Kate. The millionaires who live out here refuse to pay for the improvements, yet the highways authority believes the residents should pay. Always, the people with money, they are the ones who want to pay least, contribute least.’
Kate looked across at the Chief, his oriental features wrinkled from stress and time. Kate knew Asians often looked younger than their years, but this man seemed to her to be ageing prematurely.
Her recorder was in her bag in the footwell behind her, tucked safely with her iPad. Sod you Charles, she thought. I’ll do this my way.
She had listened as the Chief talked about the city as they drove from his office, the man nostalgic as he described the sad state of his country. By now she had the impression he hated his job and told him so.
‘No Kate. To say I hate my job would be wrong. I love police work. I am a good detective.’
Kate nodded at the understatement. Her research confirmed the man was something of a legend.
‘But sometimes I find the politics of the job difficult, even impossible.’
She could see he was thinking, trying to articulate exactly what he felt.
‘We have much corruption too, Kate. Yes.’
Lee’s face, the seriousness of his tone affected her. He gave her the impression he felt as if something foul had corrupted a precious thing, a young virgin.
The Hack Page 18
