What will your virus do, if it works?
Fuck things up quite a bit, I hope . . . It’ll take down any of Inscape’s global systems that are networked to OmniCent, which means most of the world’s fintech and its online payment networks. That should pop a few bubbles, and wipe out a shitload of hoarded offshore wealth. After that, things could get interesting.
You’re a terrorist, Towse. You’ll destabilise the planet. People will die.
People are already dying. The planet is dying. The money is poisoning it.
Why should I do this for you?
You’re not doing it for me, Michael. You’re doing it for your parents. And you’re doing it for Alice.
Michael watched the beer can, bobbing in the ripples. That sticker on her laptop: This Machine Kills Fascists. He remembered the last time he saw her, in silent tears. He hadn’t ever tried to understand her, really. They had ended up living together in different worlds. He might as well have pushed her off that bridge himself. Now, little more than two months later, he was already sleeping with someone else, with Alice unburied, lost in the water, his debt to her unpaid.
He thought of his parents, their lives lived in fear. They had loved him so quietly.
I have a number for Aoife, he said.
Give it to me and I’ll call her.
I’ll call her. Give me a phone.
I don’t have one, right now . . . Come to my office.
Towse led Michael back to the Cross Guns Bridge. They stopped outside the Brian Boru, a two-storey pub. There was a phone box on the pavement, its windows dulled by scratches and grime.
Michael held his breath, and the door, until the air inside had cleared a little. People had used the phone box as a toilet. There were stains on its dial pad. A sticker for a sex worker promised a good time. The sticker looked new. Who, in this age of instant connection, of online reviews and hook-up apps and cybersex and searchable preferences and infinite porn, still picks their secret shame from a sticker in a phone box? Or was that part of the experience, for a niche clientele? Concealment. Resistance. No sex bot yet invented could enter a phone booth and put up an ad.
The number of the phone was printed on a laminated sign, along with instructions for international dialling codes, reversing charges, operator assistance – things Michael had read about, or seen in movies, but would never have thought still existed in life. He recognised the number: 01 8300338. He’d called it that morning, from the payphone in the ferry port. This phone box was all that Towse had in the world.
Michael realised he’d no change for the phone call. The door opened behind him. Towse handed in a fifty-cent coin.
Last one I’ve got. It’s like in the movies – you only get one call.
Michael waited until the door shut again, then took out Aoife’s parents’ number. He dialled it, waited. The phone rang three times, then somebody answered. His coin dropped into the box.
Irene let the phone ring three times, then she picked up the receiver. Aoife watched her, helpless. The Scotsman, moving up behind her, had put a hand on Aoife’s shoulder, his fingers resting gently on a point above her clavicle, where he could, she sensed, inflict crippling pain with minimum pressure. He put his other hand lightly over her mouth, gave a little squeeze in warning.
Yes? said Irene.
A noise from the phone, like a fly trapped in another room.
No, said Irene. This is Mrs McCoy. I’m her mother.
Aoife had to hand it to her. She made a decent fist of a southside Dublin accent.
A moment’s silence, then the fly buzzed again.
No. Aoife’s not here. May I take a message?
A short burst of buzzes.
I’m not sure when she’ll be back . . . Shall I tell her where she can find you?
A longer pause, followed by a longer buzz. Irene turned her head, looked at Aoife. She took a pen and notebook from her blazer, scribbled something down.
So, you have to leave soon, but you’ll be back there later? You’ll meet her there?
Buzz.
All right . . . I’ll pass it on to her when she gets back.
Irene put the phone down, turned to Aoife.
Where in Dublin is the Cross Guns Bridge?
Michael came out of the phone box to find Towse leaning against the wall, smoking a dog-end. A police car slowed as it passed, the cops eyeing Towse, with his filthy suit and bruises. Towse pushed himself away from the wall, staggered over to the curb, waving and smiling at the cops in the squad car. The brake lights went off and the car sped away. Towse came back to Michael. He was no longer staggering.
Works every time, he said.
She’s gone out. I had to leave a message. I said she could meet me here.
Towse dropped his dog-end, morosely ground it out with his heel.
Ah . . . Well, there’s no time to wait for her. You’ll have to do it alone.
Do what, exactly?
Inscape’s Dublin office has its own built-in server room. It’s totally the wrong kind of place for a server room, but they put it there anyway, to get a big cash grant from the Irish development body. No one ever uses it, but it’s still online, like a redundant component. That’s where you go to inject the virus.
Why don’t you do it?
Looking like this?
Towse had a point.
How do I get in?
Towse fished about in his jacket, found something that snagged, jerked it out. He handed it to Michael.
My old Inscape ID . . . I guess Aoife stole that too.
Of course she did. Tell them you’re an engineer from Palo Alto. You’ve come to check the server room. They’re bound to let you in.
They’ll swipe the card in the computer. The alarms will go off straight away.
I’ve wiped that card with a big fucking magnet. If they swipe it, it’ll show as a dud.
So then they won’t let me in.
That ID has your picture on it. They’ll just figure the chip is defective and let you in anyway. It’s only a front company, a couple of flunkies to open the mail. They’re Irish. These drunken spud-munchers don’t give a shit.
You know Aoife is Irish, right?
Case in point . . . Come on, it’s worth a shot.
Towse took out an envelope.
It’s all here, he said. The address, the flash key with the virus, the master password, step by step instructions. It’s idiot proof, like that job back in Jersey. When you’re done, find your way back here. I’ll be waiting. Now let’s get you a cab.
Irene spoke as she rummaged in her handbag.
Andrew will go with you. Don’t try anything silly. And besides . . .
She showed Aoife a little chrome-plated pistol. It glinted in the half-light of the hall.
I’ll be staying here, with your parents. So, you know, if I don’t hear back from you and Andrew . . .
I get it . . . Can I use the toilet?
Andrew exchanged glances with Irene.
Check it first, she told him.
He brushed past Aoife, pushed open the bathroom door. He looked at the large window, half open, and the thick branches of a tree.
Not that one, he said, and closed the door.
The next door was the spare room, the one where she slept when she stayed with her parents. It had an en-suite bathroom with a tiny window, high in the wall. There was a sheer drop down to the parking lot below.
The Scotsman went in, looked around the bedroom, checked the bathroom.
This one, he said.
He stood outside until she was finished, then stepped back, letting her go first into the hall. She stopped in front of Irene.
I’m not going anywhere, said Aoife, unless you let me say goodbye to my parents.
Again, the exchange of glances. The Scotsman stepped awa
y from the living-room door.
If you try anything funny, he said, you’ll be putting a bullet in their heads.
Aoife opened the door, flooding the hall with light from the living room, the sound of the TV. Her parents sat in their usual places. They might as well have been alone in the flat.
Aoife leaned in through the door, as if she were just popping out to the shops, asking if anyone wanted something fetched for them. She knew there was an excellent chance that she would never see them again. But she still dreaded the thought of a real conversation.
Mum, Dad, I’m going out for a walk, with . . . Andrew? Irene will stay with you. OK?
Her father picked up the remote control, paused the television. Her mother glared at him.
Ronan! I was watching that! Now we won’t know who the killer was!
It’s on pause, Fiona. We can resume it when Aoife is gone.
Her father turned to her.
What did you say, dear?
Aoife looked from one to the other.
I said goodbye.
Goodbye, dear.
Her father picked up the remote control, was about to press play. Aoife spoke again:
These people aren’t who they say they are.
What, dear?
They’ve been hunting me. They tricked you into setting a trap for me, and when they’ve got what they want, they’ll probably kill me.
She heard muffled words behind her, someone working the
slide on a pistol. She ignored the sounds, watched her parents’ reaction.
Her mother closed her eyes and sighed. Her father put down the remote control, picked it up again, finally looked at her.
Aoife, please. No more lies. You promised to cooperate.
Aoife turned away from them. The Scotsman and Irene had guns aimed at her face. Aoife rolled her eyes.
Let’s go, she said.
Michael had lost sight of the canal in the taxi ride through inner Dublin. But when he reached his destination, the address written on Towse’s envelope, here it was again, another wide basin, closed at either end by antique lift bridges, grey steel and greasy gears, and another set of locks by the river, a smell of the tide.
He had travelled only two miles, but more than two centuries. No dead industries here, no disused grain elevators or converted warehouses. No ghosts of bargemen, tow horses and navvies. Glass and steel, glass and brick, apartments and banks, built by overseas trusts, silicate shells of the pelagic wealth that had lately washed into this silted-up estuary, where it would feed for a while until the currents changed, at which point it would resume its larval form, drift to some other stagnant lagoon, where it would build itself new skeletons of glass and brick and steel.
A streamlined tram glided across the basin on a curved concrete bridge. Young adults strolled on the pavements. Michael recognised the way they dressed, the way they walked, eyes on screens, headphones on, the logos on the coffee cups they sipped from as they went. A few of them wore medical face masks, which made no sense to Michael: the spring air in Dublin was fresh. The masks seemed to him an affectation of distance, a withholding of self from the now. We don’t need to be here, the masks told him, or anywhere else in particular. He’d seen this before, though without so many face masks. Vancouver. Palo Alto. Dublin.
He checked the address. It was on the other side of the tram bridge, overlooking the basin. Outside, a tall stone slab, like a stele, showed the names of a hundred front companies that had spectral lives in this building. Inside was a high glass-walled foyer, waxy green plants, a security desk. A uniformed guard, sitting behind it, was the only other person in this glassy vault. He ignored Michael’s ID when he tried to present it.
Over there, in that corner. Swipe your card at the door.
Michael recognised the intercom on the inner door. It was off-white plastic, made in China, the cable disappearing through a hole drilled in the frame. It was the same type of intercom he’d seen on a thousand buildings in Vancouver. Just press the button. We’ll beep you in.
He pressed the button. There was a pause, and then a woman answered.
If it’s a delivery, just leave it with security.
I’m from Inscape’s head office. In Palo Alto.
A longer pause.
Are we expecting you?
He thought of Aoife. What would she say?
You should be.
Oh . . . OK, then . . . Can you please swipe your card?
It’s not working . . . The X-ray machine at the airport must have killed it.
Oh . . . Just a minute.
He waited so long that he began to wonder how big this office was. Then the door beeped and swung open.
The guard was African, middle aged and very small, so that his blue polyester uniform, marked with the logo of a global security firm, looked at least one size too big. He took Michael’s ID card, frowned at the picture, glared at Michael.
Why do you say your ID card doesn’t work?
He seemed personally aggrieved by its failure.
Because I just tried to swipe it. And it didn’t work.
A voice called from the interior.
Hi . . . Gracedieu, is it? . . . Please send in our guest.
Reluctantly, the security guard handed him his ID card and led him inside. As he followed, Michael saw a grey streak down the guard’s shoulder and back. Milky sick. Burping baby. Lack of sleep. Foreign country. Shitty job. That explained his temper.
Inside was a large, airy room with panelled walls of blond wood. There were two desks, a coffee table, and an L-shaped couch which took up one corner, by a picture window with a view of the dock. Two women stood beside the desks. They were both smiling brightly, clasping their hands. The older woman stepped forward.
I’m Pauline Brady, executive president, Inscape Ireland? And this is Theresa, our receptionist? It’s so nice to see you? We don’t get many visitors from Palo Alto?
She wore a business suit with a skirt, heeled shoes, plain blouse: the uniform of a serf. Her fake enthusiasm and smile were familiar to Michael. Her broad Dublin accent was not.
Hi, he said, then stopped, uncertain, facing them across the sweep of carpet.
The security guard sat in a chair in the corner, where his phone, charging from a socket, lay on the floor. He picked it up, tuned out of the office. Pauline bobbed her head, anxious.
Would you like to sit down, have some tea, or some coffee? Our espresso machine does a pretty good job? . . . Or, if you want, Theresa could go out for something? There are lots of little coffee shops around here? They do all the flavours?
It’s true, said Theresa, nodding furiously. It’s just like California, now. Everyone says it. All the programmers, and that.
Her accent was even stronger than Pauline’s. She was younger, dressed identically, with a broad, worried face.
So would you like a tea or a coffee, Mr . . . Um . . . I’m so sorry? I forgot to ask your name?
Michael.
He flashed his ID, put it away again.
No thanks. I’ve had coffee already . . . I’ll just get on with what I came for . . . I have to fly out tonight.
Oh dear, said Pauline. Oh no. Please, can we sit down first?
I’m sorry?
She pointed at the couch by the window.
Could we do this sitting down?
Do what?
Pauline brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, straightened, squared her shoulders. Theresa looked miserable.
The talk.
What talk?
Pauline and Theresa stole a look at each other.
You’re not here to give us the talk?
I’m an engineer. I’ve come to check the server room.
The server room? Pauline’s eyes widened. What’s that?
Michael looked aro
und the office. There was a metal door in the back wall, with a fire-alarm box beside it.
I’m guessing it’s in there, he said.
Pauline turned and looked at the door, as if noticing it for the first time.
That’s a server room, is it? What does it do?
It’s like a giant computer.
Really? In there?
They’ve sent me to service it. Do you have a key for that door?
So, you’re an engineer? . . . Is that senior management?
Do I look like senior management?
He was much younger than either of them, tired and dirty, dressed like a deserter from an underfunded war.
To be honest, said Pauline, I don’t know what management looks like. I hear it’s very informal, over there in California. But they never come here.
She went to her desk, opened a drawer, started raking through the contents. Theresa, relaxing, perched on the edge of her desk.
Between you and me, she said, Pauline and me was hired through a local agency. We started the same day. We take it in turns to be president.
Pauline found a key in the drawer. It had a large plastic tag, which she held up to see better.
Server room, it says. Technical staff only . . .
She looked at Michael.
It says here I have to check with Palo Alto before I let anyone in there.
In the past few weeks, Michael had been expertly conned by both Aoife and Towse, several times over. I must have learned something, he thought.
You were right, he said. I am senior management.
He watched the fear return to their eyes. He tried not to feel guilty.
I’ve come to look at the server, he said, and to check on this office. To see what you do for us, and if we can cut costs. This is a half-trillion-dollar corporation, you know. We can’t afford to carry dead weight.
Theresa looked as if she might be sick. All the air had left Pauline. Her hands sank to her sides, the key hanging loose from her fingers.
Now give me that key, please . . . And while I’m inside there, I don’t want to be disturbed. Under any circumstances. Do you understand?
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