The Last Hack

by Christopher Brookmyre

  THE

  LAST

  HACK

  Also by Christopher Brookmyre

  Quite Ugly One Morning

  Country of the Blind

  Not the End of the World

  One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night

  Boiling a Frog

  A Big Boy Did It and Ran Away

  The Sacred Art of Stealing

  Be My Enemy

  All Fun and Games Until Somebody Loses an Eye

  A Tale Etched in Blood and Hard Black Pencil

  Attack of the Unsinkable Rubber Ducks

  A Snowball in Hell

  Pandaemonium

  Where the Bodies are Buried

  When the Devil Drives

  Bedlam

  Bred in the Bone (published in the UK as Flesh Wounds)

  Dead Girl Walking

  Black Widow

  CHRISTOPHER

  BROOKMYRE

  THE

  LAST

  HACK

  A JACK PARLABANE THRILLER …

  Copyright © Christopher Brookmyre 2017

  Cover design by Pete Garceau

  Cover photograph © AND-ONE/iStock

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or permissions@groveatlantic.com.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Little, Brown as Want You Gone

  First Grove Atlantic edition: July 2017

  Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication data available for this title.

  ISBN 978-0-8021-2694-8

  eISBN 978-0-8021-8907-3

  Atlantic Monthly Press

  an imprint of Grove Atlantic

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  groveatlantic.com

  17 18 19 20 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Nick Witcher, Steve Finn and Kerry Fraser-Robinson.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Also by Christopher Brookmyre

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Bitter End

  Part One

  Cell Binding (I)

  The Reader

  Villains

  Telephone Banking

  The Tomorrow People

  The Usual Reasons

  A Good Walk Spoiled

  Life in Captivity

  The Last to Know

  High Jinks and Exploits

  The Makeover

  Secret Selves

  Summoning the Devil

  One Man’s Trash

  Online Predator

  The Walk of Shame

  When Worlds Collide

  The Call

  Dangerous Circles

  Unnamed Source

  The Reckoning

  War Fair

  Part Two

  Monitors

  Remote Access Trojan

  No Picnic

  Adversaries

  Data Cache

  Challenge Accepted

  Make-Believe

  Dressed for Success

  Buried Treasure

  Responsible Behaviour

  Collateral Damage

  Hands-on Policy

  Covert Surveillance

  File Transfer Protocol

  Sins of the Past

  Hidden Powers

  Hostage Situation

  Keyboard Player

  Railroaded

  Aspect of the Demon

  Twixt Cup and Lip

  Pressing Engagement

  Outside Influence

  Camera Shy

  Unwanted Guest

  Mixed Messages

  Prize Possession

  Part Three

  Windows Update

  Murder in the Dark

  Revelations

  Cold Logic

  Containment

  Multitasking

  Escape Key

  File not Found

  Stolen Goods

  Missing Party

  Breakfast Television

  Cancelled Flight

  Thrown to the Wolves

  Bound

  Airport Parking and Other Modern Robberies

  The Penitent

  Target in Sight

  Deadly Tension

  Reckless Youth (I)

  Reckless Youth (II)

  Loyalties

  Facial Recognition

  Fidelity and Betrayal

  Breaking Story

  Game-Changer

  Extreme Methods

  Phantoms

  Market Forces

  Parked Outside

  By Appointment Only

  Trading Futures

  Dead to Rights

  Life Hack

  Playing to the Gallery

  Cell Binding (II)

  Decoded

  Conditional Offers

  Rekt

  Final Showdown

  THE BITTER END

  He’s never known such cold, such merciless, pervasive cold. It is enveloping him completely, like the embrace of a wraith, and he is being crushed in its grip.

  His limbs are useless, still twitching in spasms, tiny echoes of the convulsions that rendered him helpless, and he can see his stilted, strangled breaths escaping from his mouth as tiny wisps. Pain is still pulsing through him, a pain he can feel from his internal organs to his every extremity. There is a buzzing in his ears, tiny explosions dancing in his eyes like a miniature firework display.

  The temperature is so low that it feels as though the air itself is biting him, but worst of all is what lies beneath. The floor is like a giant radiator in reverse, draining warmth from every point of contact, and given he is lying flat on his back, that means close to half the surface of his body.

  His assailant is standing over him, staring down from the blank smiling face of a Guy Fawkes mask.

  He thinks he sees a fleeting gleam in a black-gloved hand, there for a twinkling, then it’s gone. It’s hard to tell among the flashes he’s seeing, the after-effects of the electroshock device.

  ‘I want you to know why this is happening to you, and I want you to understand why it’s happening now.’

  There is such anger in the voice, an anger that speaks of years of hatred; years of waiting.

  Why didn’t he see this betrayal coming? How could he have walked so blind into the jaws of a trap?

  ‘You thought you had reinvented yourself, didn’t you: turned your reputation around. I wanted you to touch that better future. I wanted you to believe you could once again be what you used to … before I took it all away.’

  High on the wall he sees the dark glass of a CCTV camera lens, and with it comes a realisation colder even than the floor. Too late, he understands the significance of the mask, and that it is practical rather than symbolic.

  It is the mask that confirms what he thought he glimpsed is indeed a blade.

  It is the mask that tells him he is about to die.

  PART ONE

  CELL BIN
DING (I)

  I was always afraid that this story would end with me in prison. Turns out I was right.

  Not exactly a major spoiler though, is it? I mean, we both already know that part, so it’s how I got here that really matters.

  I’m going to tell you everything, and I’m not going to hold back to spare anyone’s feelings. I have to be totally honest if I’m looking for honesty in return. I’ll warn you up front, though. Much of what I’m about to say is going to be difficult for you to hear, but there are things about me that I need you to understand. You’re not going to like me for some of what I did and said, and the way you personally come across isn’t always going to be flattering either, but it’s important that you get a handle on how everything looked from my point of view.

  It doesn’t mean I feel that way now, or that I was right to think what I did back then. It’s just how it was, you know?

  There are a lot of places I could start, but I have to be careful about that. Certain choices might imply I’m pointing the finger, and I’m not. I know who’s to blame for everything that happened. No need for any more deceptions on that score. So I’m not going right back to childhood, or to when my dad died, or even to when the police raided the flat and found a shitload of drugs and a gun. Because this isn’t about any of that stuff, not really. To me, this all starts a few weeks ago, with me sitting in a waiting room, looking at a human time-bomb.

  THE READER

  I know the man is going to explode several minutes before the incident takes place. It is only a matter of time.

  He is sitting opposite me in the waiting area, shifting restlessly on the plastic bench, his limbs in a state of constant motion: sudden jerks and twitches beating out a code I can read only too clearly. His head is an unkempt ball of hair, his matted locks merging with enough beard to kit out a whole bus full of hipsters. He looks across at me every few seconds, which makes me scared and uncomfortable, though I know he’s not picking me out specifically. His eyes are darting about the room the whole time, not alighting on a single sight for more than a second, like a fly that won’t land long enough to be swatted.

  I am afraid of catching his eye, so I keep my gaze above him, where a row of posters glare back at me from the wall. They all seem intended to threaten, apart from the ones encouraging people to grass on their neighbours. ‘We’re closing in,’ says one. ‘Benefit thieves: our technology is tracking you,’ warns another. ‘Do you know who’s following you?’ asks a third. They feature images of people photographed from above at a steep angle, making them look tiny and cornered as they stand on concentric circles. To drive the point home, another poster shows an arrow thwocking into a bullseye: ‘Targeting benefit fraudsters’.

  I have done nothing wrong but I feel guilty and intimidated. I feel like a criminal simply for being here. I have rehearsed what I am going to say, gone over it and over it in front of the bedroom mirror. I know my arguments, and have tried to anticipate how the officials might respond. I was feeling ready when I left the house, coaching myself all the way here, but now I think I’ve got no chance. I’m wasting my time. I want to leave, want to run, but I can’t. I need the money. I desperately need the money.

  I glance towards the counter. Above the woman on reception there is a poster stating ‘In the UK illegally? Go home or face arrest.’ Bold text proudly announces there were ‘86 arrests last week in this area’. There are no people on this poster, but if there were, I know what they would look like. They would look like me.

  One nation, I think. The Big Society.

  I know the poster they’d really like to print. It would say: ‘Are you white enough to live here? If not, fuck off back to Bongo Bongo Land.’

  A woman emerges from the interview rooms and shuffles towards the exit without looking up. I can tell things didn’t go well for her. She is followed shortly by one of the staff: a grey-haired white bloke.

  There is also a Chinese woman doing interviews. It’s already half an hour after my appointment, and both she and Grey Hair have each come out a couple of times since I arrived. I’ve been watching them very carefully.

  I hope I get the Chinese lady. She seems relaxed, if a little tired. The grey-haired guy is like a coiled spring.

  He calls out a name and the twitchy bloke opposite stands up. He walks towards the interview rooms, following Grey Hair, who has barely looked at him. Part of me is pleased that Grey Hair is now occupied, as I must surely be due in next, but the part of me that reads people knows something bad is about to happen.

  The Chinese lady comes out again and I sit up straighter in my chair, willing my name to be called. It isn’t.

  More people drift in and take up the empty spaces on the benches. There has to be a dozen people in here, and the only one talking is a woman in the corner trying to stop her toddler from kicking off. But, to me, there is a growing cacophony in the room, ratcheting up my anxiety. They ain’t saying anything, but I can sense all of their tension, anger, fear and hurt.

  I have always been able to gauge people’s true states of mind, regardless of what their faces or their words are trying to say. I can read their expressions, their micro-gestures, their body language, the tone of their voices. It comes so naturally that it took me a long time to realise other people didn’t see all these things too.

  Sometimes it’s a blessing, but right now they might as well be shouting at me. I am in a room full of desperation, all of it telling me that my efforts here are doomed.

  I hear a growing sound of male voices dampened only slightly by thin walls. One is getting increasingly angry, the other low but insistent, authoritative. One rising up, the other not backing down. Unstoppable force, immovable object. I hear a clattering, what sounds like a chair skidding across the floor. An alarm sounds and suddenly members of staff I have never seen appear from side offices and rush towards the interview room. One of them is a security guard. I hear several thumps, the sound of feet on furniture, voices raised in rage, in command, in panic. Someone shouts, demanding that the twitchy man calm down. This is like trying to put out a fire with lighter fluid.

  I am terrified. I feel the tears running down my cheeks. I want to leave but I know that if my name gets called and I’m not there, I’ve blown it.

  The shouting grows louder, the twitchy man’s angry words degenerating into nothing but roaring, which itself gives way to a low moan as his rage exhausts itself. He is led out shortly afterwards. He looks numb and dazed, like he barely knows where he is. He is crying.

  Grey Hair stands watching him retreat for a few moments, letting out a long sigh and supporting himself with a firm hand against a doorframe. Someone asks him if he wants a break. He shakes his head. He definitely does need a break, but I can tell that what he wants is to unload his frustrations, to exercise his power. He disappears into the interview room then comes out again a few seconds later.

  ‘Samantha Morpeth,’ he barks out.

  VILLAINS

  It takes only a few minutes; less time than they spent subduing the twitchy man.

  I sit down, separated from Grey Hair by a desk that now has several rubber scuff marks down one side. I am close enough to read his badge. Close enough to smell his sweat.

  His name is Maurice Clark. His face is like a recently slammed door. There are papers strewn around the floor of his office, the place still reeling from the twitchy man’s rage. I’m guessing the same could be said for the inside of Maurice Clark’s head. If I asked him to repeat my name, which he called out moments ago, he would probably have forgotten it.

  ‘The change to your mother’s circumstances means that she is no longer eligible for the Carer’s Allowance. That is why the payments have stopped. It’s very simple.’

  He puts it delicately, but I feel a hint of contempt. The delicateness was actually a way of rubbing it in.

  ‘Yes, but it’s me who should be receiving the allowance now, and it hasn’t been transferred.’

  All my planning and rehearsing is
for nothing. When I speak, my voice feels like it is coming from down a well: timid and faint, lacking any conviction. I always get this way when I am dealing with people like him: people in authority, angry people, aggressive people. I can’t deal with confrontation. It makes me shrink and fade.

  Maurice Clark, by contrast, seems to get louder and bigger and firmer.

  ‘It hasn’t been transferred because you are not eligible to receive it either.’

  ‘But I’m the one who—’

  ‘Miss Morpeth, the rules are very clear. You cannot claim this allowance if you are in full-time work or in full-time education.’

  ‘Full— But I’m only at a sixth-form college.’

  As the words come out, tiny and hoarse, I know they are worthless.

  Clark stares back at me with this look that says I just underlined his point. He doesn’t care. He’s hurting. He’s frustrated. The only thing this guy wants right now is to say no. If there was a way for him to help me, he wouldn’t.

  All the things I was supposed to say become like illegible scribbles in my mind, the paper they’re written on burning. I feel the tears roll again. I am hopeless. I am pathetic. A fucking victim.

  I leave the benefits office with the same defeated walk as the woman I watched earlier, like I’m carrying Maurice Clark on my bloody shoulders. However, when I get out on to the high street, a glance at my phone tells me that, little as I feel like it, I’ll need to pick up the pace. I ended up waiting about three quarters of an hour for a two-minute interview, and now I’m running late. It’s a good half an hour to the Loxford School, and it’s already twenty-five to four.

  Instinctively I wonder when the next bus is due, then remember that it’s a luxury I can’t afford.

  The implications are starting to sink in. I feel weighted down but I don’t have the option to slow my pace. Grey Hair spelled it out. If I want the Carer’s Allowance, I have to drop out of school. I won’t be able to sit my exams, but then that won’t matter, as uni isn’t going to be a possibility now anyway.

  I might have read it wrong, but I got the sense there was something else the guy could have told me. On a different day he might have done. Or maybe he is always a prick.