by Adam Hamdy
81
Bailey staggered into the street, slightly bewildered by his freedom. He’d spent the morning being interviewed by Superintendent Cross and a man from MI5 who never gave his name. They’d listened to his story twice, an old trick designed to highlight any inconsistencies in the retelling, but Bailey’s tale had the benefit of being true, so he didn’t fall into the simple trap. Murrall had joined them for the second interview. Summoned as the lead detective on the Sylvia Greene case, he’d sat in astonished silence as Bailey had recounted his ordeal. Every so often, the interview had been interrupted by one of a number of other detectives who were now working the investigation into the Foundation. They’d pass Superintendent Cross a note, and he’d ask a question, clarifying some aspect of Bailey’s story or checking a new lead. Bailey had got the impression that things were moving fast, that the London Record story had become the only news that day, and was being chased down by every other media outlet in the capital. He could only imagine the frenzy of the situation room, as the full scale of the task started to become apparent to the investigative team. He was glad not to be involved. His battered, exhausted body told him that he’d done more than his fair share.
The MI5 man, a tall, gaunt guy in his mid-thirties, had said little, but his face had betrayed his dismay, and by the time Bailey had finished his story for the second time, his expression was that of someone who’d realized life would never be the same.
Bailey had been left alone while the others stepped outside to confer. Moments later, Superintendent Cross had returned full of congratulations and smiles. He’d told Bailey that he was being placed on two weeks’ compassionate leave to rest and recover. He’d instructed Bailey to stay in London as he’d almost certainly be required for further interviews, which could be conducted at his home. Cross had offered Bailey a personal apology and heartfelt congratulations before telling him he was free to go.
Surprised and somewhat stunned, Bailey had staggered through the station. As word of his work quickly spread, he’d been applauded by a group of his colleagues who’d gathered in the custody suite. He’d struggled to maintain his composure in the face of their congratulations, as waves of celebratory relief swept over him. He’d listened to words of praise until he could no longer resist the prospect of sleep, and he’d made his excuses and hurried from the building, staggering into the afternoon sunshine like a man with a terrible hangover emerging from a dodgy nightclub after a particularly hard night.
Everything seemed overly bright and surreal, and, robbed of galvanizing adrenaline, Bailey suddenly felt fatigued.
“I was wrong about you,” Murrall said.
Bailey turned to see the chubby detective standing beside the entrance at the foot of the towering building.
“You did well,” Murrall added. “I thought you should know that.”
“Thanks,” Bailey replied.
The phone Salamander had given him vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw that it was Christine Ash’s office line.
“Hello?” he said, answering the call.
“Patrick,” Ash responded. “It’s me. Christine Ash.”
“Chris. How are you?”
“Fine,” she replied curtly. “I need a favor. This source the London Record has. This ‘M,’ were you involved in questioning him?”
“Yeah,” Bailey replied. “I brought him in.”
“You think you could ask him something?”
“I don’t know,” Bailey confessed, his limbs suddenly feeling even heavier at the prospect of more work. “Every cop in London is going to want to talk to him.”
“But you could try?”
Ash left the suggestion hanging until Bailey filled the silence. “I could try.”
“I appreciate it,” she said, but her tone was distinctly unappreciative. “Ask him about Archangel.”
“Archangel?” Bailey asked.
“Yeah. Give me a call if he tells you anything.”
The line went dead, and Bailey found himself at a loss to understand why Ash had been so abrupt. There had been no pleasantries, no questions about his well-being, no sharing of experiences.
“Trouble?” Murrall asked.
“Just a friend wanting me to check something out,” Bailey replied. “She’s with the FBI. She wants me to ask Mayfield about Archangel. Do you know where he is?”
“St. Mary’s. He’s under armed guard, but I could probably get you in.” Murrall smiled. “I’ll drive. I’m not sure you’d make it on foot.”
Bailey followed the lumbering detective toward the car park located at the rear of the building. He didn’t want to admit it, but Murrall was probably right. He was running on fumes.
Ash felt her bile rise as she thought about Bailey’s wavering loyalty. So what if every cop in town wanted to talk to the guy? She’d risked her life to protect the treacherous Wallace, and Bailey was the one who’d sent him her way. He owed her far more than the answer to a simple question. She couldn’t believe she’d conned herself into having feelings for Wallace. He’d betrayed her, just like everyone did if she gave them enough time.
She got to her feet and reached into the bag Reeves had brought for a pair of low-heeled slingbacks, which she popped on her tender feet before leaving the office. As she stepped into the open-plan area, Miller stood up, eyeing Romero.
“Hey, Chris,” he said a little too casually. “You need anything?”
“A walk,” Ash replied coolly.
Miller shook his head slowly. “Harrell asked us to keep you here. Where we can be sure you’re safe. That’s not a problem, is it?”
Ash smiled. “No,” she replied, backing up. She wasn’t buying the line about keeping her safe. They could sense the change in her, and they were afraid. She no longer fit their pre-packaged, cookie-cutter preconceptions, and that made them uncomfortable. “I’ll just pace my cell,” she added sourly, noting that Miller and Romero weren’t sure whether or not to smile.
Let them feel uncertain and uncomfortable. When the time came, it would give her the edge.
Murrall flashed his warrant card at the uniformed officers outside the private room and was nodded through. Bailey followed him inside to find Mayfield lying on his back, his right wrist handcuffed to the metal frame of the bed. The room was on the third floor of the building with a window that overlooked a narrow well separating the wards. It had a terrible view of stained brickwork, drains, and frosted windows, but in Bailey’s opinion it was still too good for its occupant.
“Come to gloat, Detective?” Mayfield asked sarcastically. “Because I wouldn’t want you to make a fool of yourself. I won’t serve a single day.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Murrall interjected. “The Box is hanging you out to dry. MI5 really doesn’t like double agents.”
“MI5?” Mayfield snorted. “The Foundation will make sure I never see the inside of a cell. One way or another.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to lose,” Bailey observed. “If you think they’ve already marked you for death, you might as well cooperate. Which is why I’m here. I need to know about Archangel.”
Mayfield grinned like a Cheshire Cat. “You think they’re going to kill me? The Foundation doesn’t work like that. We’re brothers in arms. No man gets left behind. They’ll come for me.”
“Sure,” Bailey countered, but he was shaken by Mayfield’s certainty. “And they won’t punish you for everything you’ve already told us. All the stuff you gave the paper.”
Mayfield hesitated, but there was no discomfort in the pause, he was relishing the moment. “What? Telling the people of the world they can’t trust their own governments? That they shouldn’t have any faith in their law enforcement agencies? You might find a few of us, but you’ll never find us all, and in the meantime you’ll have sowed the seeds of suspicion and paranoia, destroying the trust that you take for granted. It’s another crack in a system that we’re going to destroy. How do you know he’s not a member of the Foundation?” Mayf
ield indicated Murrall, who bridled at the accusation. “You want to know about Archangel? I couldn’t tell you. Like I said, no one knows the whole picture. Sounds exciting though. Archangel.”
Murrall approached the bed menacingly.
“Do whatever you want to me. I don’t know anything about Archangel. But what I do know is that today is the day everything changes. That’s what we’ve been told. All of us. Today marks the end of your world and the start of ours.”
Ash answered the phone on the first ring and breathed into the receiver, unwilling to give anything of herself away.
“Chris?” Bailey tried.
“Yeah,” she replied reluctantly.
“I spoke to ‘M.’ He doesn’t know anything about Archangel, but he did say that something big is happening today,” Bailey revealed. “Something that will change the world.”
“OK,” Ash responded.
“How’s John?” Bailey asked urgently.
“Check the news,” Ash suggested, before hanging up.
Bailey had been a bust, but if something big was happening today, there was one man who might be able to figure out what it was. She brought her PC to life, ignoring the rows of unopened emails, and checked her contact folder for Pavel Kosinsky’s number. The call rang through to his voicemail.
“Kos, it’s Chris,” she said, trying to remember how she used to sound. Friendly? Alluring? Definitely weak. “Give me a call when you get this.”
82
The sun was starting to set, but even though the light was fading, the park was alive with excitable children freed from school, and as he looked around, Wallace regretted his suggestion that they meet here. He tried to gauge whether any of the myriad dog walkers were in fact FBI agents and eyed the rush-hour traffic with suspicion, watching for the lingering gaze of any passing commuters. The lean coach who barked orders at the athletics team as they warmed up on the track had glanced in the direction of Steven’s van a couple of times, but his familiarity with the children was too natural for him to be a plant.
They were parked near the intersection of Driggs Avenue and 12th Street, opposite a grand orthodox church with a bulbous dome. They had a clear view in every direction and Wallace had suggested the location because it was one of the few public places he and Pavel were both familiar with that he didn’t have to refer to by name. When he’d finally convinced the security specialist to meet, all he’d had to say was, “the park we went to.”
Persuading Pavel had been surprisingly simple. Wallace had been on the FBI’s Most Wanted list the very first time they’d met, so it was a status Pavel was accustomed to and it didn’t deter him. His main concern had been the fact that Wallace’s face was now all over the news, making it dangerous for them to be spotted together. Wallace had assured him he’d take precautions, but had been careful not to mention that he’d be bringing Steven Byrne to the meeting.
They’d driven to Brooklyn in a GMC Savana which had been parked in a garage behind the house on Belmont Avenue. As they’d traveled across the city, Steven had explained that the old place was one of a number of safe houses he’d set up around New York after he’d got involved with the Foundation. The back of the gray van was packed with large black Peli cases, bigger versions of the ones Wallace used to transport his camera equipment.
They’d arrived half an hour early and had circled the park a couple of times, checking for any signs of surveillance. When they’d parked opposite the church, Steven had climbed into the back and produced a radio frequency scanner from one of the flight cases. The portable device automatically searched the airwaves for radio signals. So far, all they’d heard were cab drivers, police dispatchers, and local DJs—nothing that suggested anyone was staking out the location.
Wallace recognized the Chevrolet Express as it approached them from the south. The van trailed a slow line of traffic crawling toward the intersection. Sunlight glared off the windshield, making it impossible to identify the driver until the vehicle had reached the lights.
“That’s him,” Wallace said, nodding toward the idling van.
Pavel didn’t see them until he was almost level with the GMC, and his eyes widened as he registered Steven in the driver’s seat. Wallace and Steven stepped out of the van and crossed the street, picking their way through passing traffic, while Pavel found a spot and parked.
“Thanks for coming,” Wallace said as he opened the passenger door and climbed inside.
Grim-faced, Pavel stared directly ahead and failed to acknowledge the two men who slid into his van.
“Pavel Kosinsky,” Steven tried as he shut the door. “I’ve heard of you. I’m Steven—”
“I know who you are, and I’m doing my best not to have a factor five freak-out,” Pavel replied. “Like, part of me is geeking out because you’re Steven Byrne. And the other part of me is screaming ‘danger, danger,’ because you’re super-hot right now.”
“Sorry to spring this on you,” Wallace said, “but we need help.”
“We need you to identify a user,” Steven added. “The Foundation is planning something big.”
“The Foundation? I thought you were the Foundation,” Pavel responded.
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Steven countered. “I’ve made some mistakes. I’m trying to put them right.”
Pavel nodded. “What user?” He moved into the back of the van.
“Someone on SideVox . . .” Steven began.
“Does anyone still use that?” Pavel asked as he booted up one of the terminals. “Solid state,” he nodded at the machine proudly, before glancing at Wallace, slightly embarrassed.
Wallace got the impression that meeting Steven was the geek equivalent of having face time with Dave Grohl.
“They still do,” Steven replied. “Username is Gozer the Gozerian.”
“Ghostbusters,” Pavel noted.
Steven nodded. “And the post mentions the Foundation and something called Freefall. It looks like a boast.”
Pavel started the adjacent terminal, and switched on a couple of devices located under the counter. “So, you guys have got a choice. You can either face forward or you can step outside,” he told them.
Wallace’s puzzlement must have showed because Pavel added, “Yes, meeting one of my heroes is a big excitement, but when that hero owns one of the world’s largest digital security companies, it’s perhaps better if he doesn’t see my methods.”
Steven nodded and faced the road, and Wallace did likewise.
“People say digital is dangerous,” Pavel observed as he worked. “They say it can be manipulated. Sure, I can hack CNN and change an article so the news you think happened never did, but do you have any idea how difficult it is to really change things? To be invisible? To change history? Well, you probably do, Mr. Byrne, but this guy, he won’t know. It’s hard, John. Someone’s always keeping tabs. Somewhere there’s a machine tracking your IP address, logging your machine ID, storing records of everything you do, everywhere you go. To truly rid the world of all your binary, well, that takes genius, and we’re few and far between. Most people leave a trail of crumbs. You just have to know where to look.”
Pavel hesitated.
“Gozer the Gozerian is a woman. She’s been criticized on the boards before, guys saying she’s not bona fide because she’s a woman. Maybe the knuckle draggers are why she bragged,” he continued. “So if we get into the machine code . . . and take a look here . . . Interesting.”
The sound of the high-powered computer fans almost drowned out the noise of the passing traffic. Wondering how long they had to sit there, Wallace glanced at Steven, who shrugged.
“No peeking,” Pavel cautioned, before adding, “Just kidding. You can look. I’m done.”
Wallace and Steven turned around to see one screen displaying the Kosinsky Data Services logo, while the other showed the identity card and personnel file of a young woman who worked for a company called Zadkiel Consulting.
“Shit. Zadkiel,” Stev
en observed.
“What?” Wallace asked. “Who are they?”
“They develop transaction software and settlement systems. Real specialist stuff,” Steven replied. “The company takes its name from Zadkiel, one of the seven Archangels.”
Wallace felt his stomach flip.
“Her name is Whitney Potts,” Pavel revealed. “She’s a senior programmer. Been there six months, she’s been assigned as the team lead on the new Federal Reserve Settlement System.”
Wallace’s puzzlement must have showed because Pavel continued, “It’s a centralized clearing system that links every bank in America to the Federal Reserve. Thanks to the Blake-Castillo bill, after tomorrow, every financial transaction will go through this settlement system. Whether it’s you transferring ten bucks, or this guy buying a company for a billion,” Pavel nodded at Steven. “Not that mine’s for sale,” he added with a smile.
“That’s what Smokie’s going after—money,” Steven announced in frustration. “Ending anonymity, making the internet a safer place, the rest of it was just cover. This is the real reason he wanted to make sure the bill passed into law. Can you check their corporate filings?” he asked.
Pavel got to work immediately, pulling up Zadkiel’s Delaware records. After a few moments, he nodded. “Yes. Here. A majority acquisition by Donal Funds LLC, a subsidiary—”
“Of the Erimax Corporation,” Steven finished his sentence. “It’s an investment firm that was started by my grandfather. That means Smokie’s already got control of at least part of my business. That’s why he wanted me out of the way. But how? How’d he . . .” He trailed off, aghast, then collected himself. “Where’s she based?”
“She’s working on Liberty Street,” Pavel replied. “The main hub.”
“What hub?” Wallace asked.
“Twenty-three Liberty Street, opposite the Federal Reserve. It’s the main hub for the new central settlement system. It’s secure and it has great data connections to all the major banks,” Steven responded, but he was distracted, as though the principal parts of his mind were elsewhere, trying to figure out another problem.
