“Like I said, I need to see your boss.” He sat down in one the chairs in front of her desk. “She’s not in her office. Thought I’d check with you.”
“Do I look like a secretary?” Hannah asked.
“A bit.” Holden was trying for charming – and failing.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Not as such.”
“Would you like to make one?”
“I’d like to see her, is what I’d like.” He wasn’t smiling now. “Where is she?”
Hannah pulled out her Optik. “I can book you in for fifteen minutes tomorrow – say eleven? If you need longer than that, it’ll have to be later in the week.”
Holden’s eyes narrowed. “I want to speak to her about the incident yesterday. Later this week might be too late.”
“She’s already spoken to the police.”
“And I’m not the police.” Holden stood and leaned over her desk, close enough that she could smell his cheap aftershave. “Your boss is on thin ice already, dear. Nigel Cass isn’t one to let a politician stand in his way. So it might be better for her – and you – if you’d show some willingness to cooperate.”
Hannah took a shallow breath. “As far as I am aware, Albion has no investigative remit in Tower Hamlets, or anywhere, in fact. If you would like to make an appointment, or leave a message with me, I will see that she gets it.”
Holden stared at her for several moments. He no longer seemed angry. Rather he seemed worried. As if things weren’t going according to plan. “Maybe I can help you,” she began. He shoved himself away from the desk.
“No. I’ll be back.” Holden turned away and stormed out, not quite slamming the door behind him. Hannah felt a sudden spike of anxiety. The way Holden had looked at her – it was as if he’d known something. Maybe about her. Maybe about the information she’d passed on to DedSec. Either way, she didn’t like it.
She closed her eyes, and fought to control her breathing. Whatever he’d wanted, he’d gone away empty handed. That was the important thing. That was – wait. Her eyes fluttered open, as a sudden suspicion bloomed. She pulled out her Optik and scrolled through her apps. There were a handful of illicit programs installed on the device – mostly of the data gathering variety. But one or two had more practical applications, including the detection of RF signals. Activating the app, she stood and circled her desk.
Her display was filled with duelling signals. Benign frequencies were white, invasive were yellow and dangerous, red. Invasive frequencies were fairly common these days – every Optik was a passive data-harvester, transmitting information to a central network. But red frequencies were something else again – active, rather than passive.
She found the bug under the lip of the desk. It was impossibly small, barely the thickness of a thumbnail. A sliver of hardware, inserted into the grain of the wood. If she hadn’t suspected, she wouldn’t have even known it was there. She activated a frequency scrambler app, and stepped back. “Bagley,” she murmured.
Hello Hannah Shah. Long time no speak.
“I have a bug.”
Perhaps you should call your GP. Or an exterminator.
“Not that sort of bug,” Hannah said. She took a picture of the bug with her Optik. “What can you tell me about it?”
Oh my. That is a clever little thing. Very intricate.
“An Albion representative – or someone claiming to be one – planted it.”
Interesting. The signal is encrypted. Downloading to a private server.
“Meaning?”
Whoever is listening, it isn’t Albion. At least not officially.
“He was asking about the shooting yesterday.” Hannah’s mind raced. “He seemed… worried. Upset. He wanted to see Sarah.”
Curious. There’s a good deal of chatter on the subject of yesterday’s shootings.
“Shootings? As in plural?” Hannah interjected. “Who else got shot?”
An unlucky fellow in an alley behind a pub. Similar modus operandi.
Hannah shook her head. “What’s going on here?”
That is what we are trying to determine.
Hannah paused. “What do you need me to do?”
You know what they say about volunteering, Hannah.
“I was a community organizer before I was a PA, Bagley. I’ve always been a volunteer. Now what do you need?”
Access to Bethnal Green police station. Albion is planning a surprise visit this afternoon, during the shift change. We need to get in there first.
Hannah hesitated. “I think we can do that. I’ll need to talk to Sar–”
“Talk to me about what?”
Hannah stiffened, and turned. Sarah Lincoln stood in the doorway, looking at her curiously. “Is something wrong, Hannah? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Worse.” Hannah faced her boss. “Albion paid us a visit.”
“Did they? When? Just now?”
“Yes. And they left us a present.” Hannah indicated the bug.
Puzzled, Sarah stooped. “What is that?”
“A listening device.”
Sarah looked up at her. “And you know this how?”
“You pay me to know about these things,” Hannah said, simply. To her relief, Sarah seemed to accept this without question. She grunted softly and rose to her full height.
“Nigel Cass was at lunch. Winston invited him.”
Hannah frowned. “Holden didn’t mention that.”
“Holden? George Holden?”
“Yes, why?”
Sarah picked up Hannah’s letter opener and pried the bug out of her desk. She dropped it and stepped on it. Hannah winced, slightly regretting mentioning its existence. The bug might have been of use. Now it was trashed.
“Holden’s not an investigator. He’s one of the men in charge of the drone base in Limehouse.” Sarah looked at her. “Cass mentioned him. Did he say why he was here?”
“He said he was investigating the shooting.” Hannah shook his head. “I knew his story didn’t sound right. But if he’s not an investigator, why would he come?” She glanced at the crushed remnants of the bug. “And why would he bother to bug the office?”
Sarah frowned. “That is a really good question. One I intend to put to him myself.”
“You’re having a laugh, ain’t ya?” Olly said. He trailed after Liz, heading for the armoury. It sat at the back of the cellar, away from anything valuable. “Us? Walking into a police station? Pull the other one.” He was honest enough with himself to know he was about three minutes from a full-blown panic attack. Every experience he’d ever had with the plods told him this was a bad idea. Especially when you factored in the presence of Albion.
The thought made him queasy. Bagley had broken the news earlier – Albion was planning to pull a raid of their own, though they had official backing for theirs. They were taking over the investigation into Dempsey’s death for reasons no one seemed really clear on. The Met was pissed, the local politicians were up in arms, and Albion was gloating.
“I’m dead serious,” Liz said, not looking at him. “We need to get our hands on that Optik before Albion or anyone else. Don’t worry. We won’t be going in unarmed.”
“A lack of shooters is not my main concern with this plan,” Olly said, his voice rising. “In fact, I would prefer there not be any guns involved at all, yeah? All I need is in here.” He shook his messenger bag as if it were a shield, rather than stitched canvas.
“Well, that’s not an option.”
“I think it should be,” Olly insisted. “Let’s put that back on the table.”
Liz ignored him. Olly didn’t let it go. Couldn’t. “How are we even getting in there?” he continued. “What if they recognize us?”
“And how would they do that?”
“E-fits and shit.”
Liz laughed. “Worried they’ve got you in a file somewhere? We’ve got ways around that, you know. Besides, we’re not just strolling in. We’ll have cover
.”
“What sort of cover?”
“The best kind – loud and distracting.”
Olly threw up his hands. “Oh well, that’s all right then.”
“Glad you’ve come around. Maybe you’ll stop whinging now.” When they reached the entrance to the armoury, Liz placed her hand on a biometric scanner. It was an older model than the other one Olly had seen. Off the rack, probably hacked.
The door opened with a cheery ping and swung inwards at a touch from Liz’s hand. The armoury was cramped, but well-lit. 3D printers and assembly benches on one side and racks on the other. The printers were all makes and models, whatever could be bought or scavenged, and some took up a lot more space than others.
“I really don’t like guns,” Olly said, looking over the rows of weapons. No two were alike, though there were similarities between them. Guns weren’t the only things the printers were used for, of course. The pieces for custom-made drones and spiderbots sat awaiting assembly. There were even casings for explosive devices, like propaganda bombs. Olly picked one up. It was a simple thing, like a Christmas cracker, but louder and full of DedSec propaganda instead of sweets and a paper hat.
“Active resistance sometimes calls for more than chucking rocks or torching parked cars.” Liz lifted a weapon and checked the power pack. She set it back down on the rack. “Besides, most of these are non-lethal.”
“You carry a real one,” Olly said.
“Pensioner’s privilege. And if it shoots, it’s real.” Liz lightly slapped him on the cheek, and then pointed at him for emphasis. “Remember that too.”
“I’ll remember.”
“Because I don’t want you shooting me in the back by accident.”
“I’ll remember!”
“Good. You ever used a firearm?”
“Yeah, ’course.”
“A real one. I mean. Not in a game.”
Olly hesitated. Liz sighed. “Maybe we should hold off on this.”
Olly thought about arguing, but didn’t. He had an image in his head of stuffing a piece down his waistband and it getting tangled as he tried to pull it. “Yeah, maybe so.”
“How about a stun gun?” She picked up a black unit and gave it a flick. A spark of blue leapt between the prongs, and Olly grinned.
“That’s more my speed.”
“Good enough.” She tossed it and he caught it awkwardly. “Only use it when you have to. We’re not going in hot, if we can help it.” Olly tentatively activated the stun gun and then stuffed it into his messenger bag.
“So how are we breaking in anyway?”
“We’re not breaking in, we’re walking in.”
“Say again?” Olly looked at her. “They’re not going to let us do that.”
“They will if they think we’re press,” Liz said.
“Why would they think that?”
“Because someone’s going to meet us with press badges at Victoria Park. Hannah Shah. You’ve met before, I think.”
“She’s Krish’s government contact, isn’t she,” Olly said, as he recalled the meeting on Brick Lane. “She’s one of us, then. Not like Dempsey.”
Liz paused. “No,” she said, after a moment. “Not like Dempsey.” She looked at him. “Sarah Lincoln, the MP for Tower Hamlets South, is planning on crashing Albion’s arrival. There’ll be a lot of press, a lot of confusion – that’ll give us the distraction we need to get in and out, right under Albion’s nose.”
“But even with badges, they’re not going to just let us wander around…”
“They will if they can’t see us.”
“You what?”
Liz grinned. “Has Krish not explained that to you yet?”
“Explained what?” Olly demanded, getting impatient.
“You know how your implant works, yeah?” she asked, tapping the implant just in front of his ear. Everyone who had an Optik had one. The Optik’s main processor was contained in a miniscule device which was attached to the implant by way of a neodymium magnet. The implantation procedure was non-invasive – about like getting a piercing.
“Yeah, course, it sends data directly to the optical nerve or something, right?”
“Right. So, that means if we hack this–” She tapped her own implant. “–then we hack these too.” She indicated her eyes. “Following me?”
Olly frowned. “Yeah, like my camouflage app, only… bigger. You can do this?”
“We can do this. DedSec.”
“Why didn’t I know about it?”
Because you didn’t need to, Olly, Bagley broke in. Less weight to break the thin ice, so to speak. Can’t go sharing all our secrets with every Tom, Dick and Harry…
“Shut up,” Liz said. “Tell me something useful. How many Optiks in the station?”
Which is it? Shut up, or something useful?
“Bagley…” Liz began, in warning.
Fifteen.
“And how many people?”
The same.
She looked at Olly. “There we go. Everyone in there has an Optik, running on the same software. We’ll be the next best thing to invisible. Just keep your hands to yourself, don’t bump into anyone and don’t attract any undue attention and we’ll be fine.”
“So if we can do this, why do we need press badges?”
“First rule of DedSec – always have a backup plan. The passes are ours. If we get caught, we have an explanation that most plods will buy without thinking about it too hard. Just another pair of nosy journalists.” She poked him in the chest. “But we’re not going to get caught, are we?”
“Wasn’t on my schedule,” Olly said.
“Good to know.” Liz paused again. She looked at him. “You haven’t asked why yet.”
“Why what?”
“Why I volunteered you to help me.”
Olly shrugged. “I assumed it was just some arbitrary bullshit, you know?”
“A bit, but mostly I’m trying to educate you.” She poked him in the side of the head. “You have a lot of potential, Olly. I’d hate to see you waste it on being stupid.”
Olly stepped back, annoyed. “I’m not stupid. What I am, is worried. What if we get caught? What then?”
“We won’t.”
“But what if? Do we have a backup plan for our backup plan?”
Liz smiled. “Yes. That’s rule number two.”
“Which is?”
“We improvise like fuck and hope for the best.”
10: Coyle
Art Coyle sat facing the window, looking out over London. It was beautiful in the afternoon light. Jagged mountains of steel and glass, overlooking canyons of brick and rivers of pavement. The city was a country unto itself. Looking at it from this height, it almost made him proud to be British. Then, inevitably, he would remember where he was and the pride would fade, replaced by amused melancholy.
He occupied the uppermost floor of the Pinnacle, one of the tallest and most recognisable buildings in London, known popularly as the most civilised skyscraper in the capital. The structure was well known, mostly for its curious shape. Though that shape had made it a recognisable landmark, it had not saved it from the financial crash.
Once, the structure had housed numerous businesses: offices, restaurants, investment and trading firms, even a television studio. Now it housed only a few diehard tenants, including a newsagents and a high end patisserie, which was closed four days out of the week. The previous owner of the building had sold it not long after the Redundancy Riots, and the current owner was a private equity firm.
Coyle had rented the uppermost floor through one of several shell corporations in which he was the majority – and only – stakeholder, claiming the need for offices closer to the financial heart of London. The circular space was largely empty, save for a few dozen barren cubicles, a conference room, a working gender-neutral lavatory and windows that provided a stunning panoramic view.
All in all, well worth a not insignificant amount of money. Someone else’s money
, at least. For Coyle, it was perfect. He preferred to be high up, when possible. People rarely thought to look up. Especially these days, when the air was full of drones, whizzing and whirring in all directions.
His nest, as he thought of it, was adequate for his needs. It was rather like camping out, and there was enough abandoned furniture on this floor to give him some semblance of comfort. So long as no one stumbled onto his hideaway by accident, there would be no sign that he had ever been there at all.
His operational centre was situated in front of one of the windows, with three walls of a cubicle repurposed in a sort of hunter’s blind, blocking off sight of him from the stairwell entrance and the lifts. More cubical walls had been situated to form an improvised kill-box, stretching from the lifts to where he currently sat. Loose cans, plastic bags, bubble wrap and papers had been scattered across the floor, to act as an early warning system. He’d also planted motion sensors and cameras in both lift shafts and the stairwell.
Some might call such contingencies paranoid. For Coyle, it was simply business as usual. The key to success was preparation and patience. The old adage of hurry up and wait had served him well in his career to date.
Coyle had been a killer for more than thirty years. He did not care for the term assassin, finding it somewhat too political for his tastes, and detested the Hollywood parlance of “mechanic” and “operator” for similar reasons. He thought such self-aggrandizing terminology lent an undeserved glamour to what was, in the end, a mucky business, often conducted by weathered men in grimy macs and threadbare trainers.
Coyle was simply a killer, a murderer for hire, and content in the simplicity of that description. He killed for money. Ergo, a killer. He was not ashamed of this, though he claimed to be an independent claims adjuster for tax and legal purposes. Given how many of his victims – and they were victims, no bones there – died because someone wanted to claim on their insurance, he thought it appropriate, if perhaps a touch morbid.
Day Zero Page 11
