To Kill The Truth

by Sam Bourne

  Herman attempted to comfort her but succeeded only in annoying her. She brushed him away, reset herself and assessed the opening one more time. She took a breath and made the leap again.

  This time she allowed no interval between reaching the requisite height and making the pivot. She tried to combine it into a single movement: up and then folding her back so that she made herself into an L-shape as she pushed her head into the space as far as it would go. Then another surge of strength as her hands pushed along the duct to drag her torso and waist in behind her. Instinctively she knew when she had passed the fulcrum point, with more of her body in the vent than outside it. She exhaled, a half second of relaxation, before snaking her way inside on her front, commando-style.

  Ahead of her she could see what she took to be the heating unit, a big pulsing metal box generating the roasting air that was now at an unbearable temperature. She looked down at the floor, at the dust and grime, at the accumulated debris of human skin and hair, all of it tinder-dry, and now could guess how each of these great houses of learning had been torched. These vents contained the perfect kindling. All the unseen arsonists had to do was remotely turn the heating units to their maximum setting and wait for them to strain beyond their capacity. Eventually they would be the spark that would light that pyre.

  Suddenly, as Maggie inched her way closer, there was a new noise. It took her a second to identify it and then another second to absorb its meaning. A fan had just switched on, moving the stagnant, super-heated air directly into her face. Of course. This was surely how they got the fire out from the duct and into the building, fuelling the blaze with nurturing oxygen. It would catch any moment now.

  She had drawn level with the heating unit. Her skin seemed to be burning up, as if she were blasted by a scorching sun. But she had to get closer. In the quarter-light of this narrow tunnel, she knew she hadn’t found what she was searching for.

  And then, at last, she saw it, emerging from the base of the steel heating unit: a simple white cable. She tugged at it, but couldn’t get purchase on it. It seemed to be moulded into the machine. She pulled again.

  Suddenly she had an image of what would happen if she succeeded. A live, naked cable exposed to this searing heat: it would spark. It would be she who had started the fire that would destroy this building – and take her life.

  No. She would have to turn these machines off. But how? Blindly, and through touch alone, she traced the cable until she hit the side wall. The cable disappeared into it. There was no socket and no plug that could be neatly pulled out. She felt faint. She heard herself gasping for oxygen.

  And then her fingers found it. Midway up the wall was a thick, large but simple switch. Even in this gloom, she could see it was held in position by a thin filament of wire, to prevent an accidental decision to move it. With a penknife she could have cut through the wire easily, but of course she had no knife. She removed her watch and, with its metal strap side on, used it as a makeshift and painfully blunt saw. She was gasping in the heat.

  Finally the wire gave way. The switch was exposed.

  Maggie hesitated. What if it was not as it seemed? But she had no choice. There was no time. She closed her eyes and flicked the switch.

  Saturday

  Chapter Fifty

  FBI field office, Washington DC, 2.37am

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Do you want to take a moment?’

  ‘No. no. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You don’t have to do this, Maggie. Really, I can do it. And you can watch.’

  She and the Deputy Director of the FBI, Andrea Ellis, were standing just outside an FBI interview suite, by the two-way mirror which, from this side, served as a wide picture window. It allowed them to look at the prime suspect in the Bookburner case, arrested less than an hour earlier in connection with a global conspiracy to destroy the world’s great libraries, to murder leading historians, survivors and eyewitnesses and to attack the foundations of global knowledge and information. Someone whose vast wealth, connections and command of technology extended all the way across the planet, even into the heart of the world’s most powerful government, allowing her company to hack into the White House itself. She was there right now, calmly staring into space: the woman once known as Tammy French.

  ‘I want to,’ Maggie said.

  ‘The doctors will kill me if they find out. The report from that so-called examination you had says you’ve suffered serious burns, skin damage, possibly grave psychological trauma and that you should be hospitalized immediately.’

  Maggie’s foot was throbbing and she was feeling light-headed, two facts she had concealed from the FBI paramedics who, on Andrea’s orders, had checked her out. ‘Doctors. Always overanxious. They remind me of the nuns.’

  ‘Maggie. With all due respect: they had to pull you out of a ventilation duct that was about to blow. The fire department said it was a matter of seconds before it went up. If you ask me, it’s a miracle.’

  ‘I was pretty lucky.’

  ‘I don’t think luck had anything to do with it.’

  ‘So. Shall we go in?’

  ‘If you’re ready.’

  ‘I’m ready. Actually, one thing before we go in. No one’s explained to me properly: how did you know to pick her up?’

  Andrea smiled. ‘You led us right to her, Maggie.’ When she saw Maggie’s look of puzzlement, she lifted her ankle and tapped it. ‘That tag on your leg, remember. We saw you’d gone in and been chased straight out. Didn’t take long to find out who you’d been asking to see.’ She smiled again. ‘Come. It’s time.’

  Andrea led the way, opening the door and taking her place directly opposite the suspect. Maggie was at Ellis’s side, which suited her fine: it meant she could stare at this woman’s face without having her stare straight back.

  As Ellis introduced herself, explaining that Maggie Costello had been a senior investigator in the case, Maggie’s gaze remained fixed. There were traces of the Tammy French Maggie had seen in that Stanford photo, the young woman in the sunglasses. But that wasn’t who she was seeing now.

  Instead, she cast her mind back to the first time she had seen this woman in person, just a few days ago. So different then: demure, shy even. And, unexpected in a billionaire, clearly lacking in confidence.

  But the woman at this table was, no less unexpectedly, calm, even serene. Her hands were crossed on her lap; they were not trembling. There were none of the nerves Maggie had spotted in that lecture theatre.

  ‘I know you’ve already had your rights formally read to you, so I won’t do that again, and you have also waived the right to have counsel present, including an offer of legal support provided by your father. That remains your position?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For the tape, can you confirm that your name is Pamela April Bentham?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you know why you are here?’

  ‘I do indeed.’

  ‘Good. I’m going to run through the essential facts as we understand them, and then we’ll have some questions. Is that clear?’

  ‘Crystal.’

  ‘As you know, federal agents have raided the headquarters of the company you own, Austin Logica, in Austin, Texas. They have commandeered the building and a team of infosec specialists have spent the last few hours working methodically to both dismantle and analyze the apparatus inside. Initial findings suggest that the attacks on the so-called Alexandria Group of libraries, archives and databases around the world were directed electronically from your company headquarters and indeed under your personal instruction. That will be the heart of the government case against you.

  ‘We believe that your machine learning program was deployed to target a weakness in these libraries’ HVAC, or heating, ventilation and air-conditioning, systems, taking control of them remotely and that, once the programme was up and running, no human hand may even have been involved.’

  Sometimes events have
a momentum of their own.

  ‘We further believe that you, through Austin Logica or through hired agents acting for you, organized the murder of several individual figures, in this country and around the world. There is also clear evidence linking you and/or Austin Logica to the penetration and sabotage of Google and its global search function, as well as to a series of fires at book distribution centres in the US and around the world. As such, it is likely that you will face a series of charges including arson, conspiracy to commit arson, murder, conspiracy to commit murder and terrorism. I repeat my advice to you earlier: the forensic evidence my colleagues are gathering against you in Austin and elsewhere is so overwhelming, your best course of action – perhaps your only course of action – is to co-operate with us and our investigation. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there any comment you would wish to make about the facts presented so far?’

  Bentham said nothing, but her silence was not a hostile one. She was at ease, like a woman patiently waiting for a train or sitting in her box seat at the opera, preparing for the overture to begin. She did not meet either Andrea’s eye or Maggie’s, but even that did not seem to betray discomfort, let alone guilt. Rather she seemed content merely to contemplate her own thoughts.

  ‘Could I ask a question about timing?’ Maggie said, doing her best to seem calm, doing her best to repress the thought of all those precious documents destroyed forever, the thought of Russell Aikman and Judith Beaton and, most painful to Maggie, Martin Kelly.

  Bentham turned towards her, her face polite if incurious, as Maggie said, ‘Why was it important that these libraries be destroyed by Friday? Why couldn’t it take as long as it took? Why the hurry?’

  Bentham said nothing, though there was a hint of a smile.

  Maggie tried again. ‘You see, I think it has something to do with William Keane.’

  Maggie could feel Andrea next to her, gazing as intently at Bentham as she was. They could see the change in her, the way her eyes widened, the way she moved in her seat. Just at the mention of his name.

  ‘You were one of his students at Stanford, I think.’

  ‘No need to say “I think” when you know. No need for games.’

  ‘You were a student under the name Tammy French.’

  Bentham said nothing.

  ‘Is that right?’ said Andrea.

  Bentham nodded.

  ‘And Keane was quite something, wasn’t he?’

  Again, the half-smile but no words.

  ‘I know he had an enormous influence on all those who studied under him. Crawford McNamara was something of a protégé, I think.’ Maggie had chosen her words carefully.

  ‘Did he tell you that? I’m sure Crawford would like to think so.’

  ‘Is he wrong?’

  ‘Professor Keane didn’t have favourites. He cared about all of us.’

  In that moment, Maggie glimpsed the young Tammy French, shunted around by her corporate tycoon father from one boarding school to another, finally arriving, barely out of her teens, at Stanford and finding herself in the classroom of William Keane: a dazzling, whip-smart older man with the time to pay attention, even to her.

  The pain in her foot was insistent now, demanding that Maggie listen to it. She was beginning to see colours that weren’t there. But she pressed on. ‘And then suddenly Keane was back, all these years later, fighting this big legal case. And you wanted to help him, isn’t that right?’

  Bentham was silent again, holding Maggie’s gaze with a smile that was almost a smirk.

  Ellis chipped in. ‘I will remind you again, Ms Bentham, that the only hope for you is to answer our questions. This lack of co-operation might seem like a clever strategy but I warn you, any judge will see it as evidence of guilt rather than innocence. Your case would be best—’

  ‘Surely you understand why I have no interest in helping “my case”? Surely you realize why I have no need of a lawyer? Oh, come on, you’re both intelligent women. Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘Isn’t what obvious?’

  ‘That I’ve won.’

  Both Maggie and Andrea had the same instinct. Say nothing: let her talk.

  ‘I admit nothing, of course. But look what’s happened. All these libraries, vanished. All those documents, disappeared. The historical record will never be the same again. And let’s say your agents have destroyed that little algorithm you say was working in Austin. Do you really think that will be the end of it?

  ‘You talk about machine learning, Miss Ellis, but what about something much more powerful? What about human learning? What if human beings have witnessed the extraordinary events of the last few days and learned something from them? What if they decide they don’t need my computers or anyone else’s to continue this vital work, and they decide to carry it on themselves? Copycat attacks, the newspapers call them. And then there’s a copycat to copy the copycat. And on it goes, expanding exponentially.’

  She crossed her hands across her lap once more and pursed her lips with satisfaction. In her head, Maggie could hear Mac’s voice, when he’d mocked her naiveté in looking for a single villain: her opponent was a movement.

  Maggie was feeling faint, but she was determined to push on.

  ‘And yet, Keane himself never called for any such thing, did he?’ A thesis was taking shape in Maggie’s mind. ‘I mean, all those lectures, all those writings. He never once called for the destruction of the historical record.’

  The tranquil repose of before was broken, a look of thunder passing across Bentham’s face. ‘You’ve got a nerve lecturing me about the ideas of Professor Keane. I’ve read every word that man has written, every speech he’s given, every lecture he’s delivered.’

  ‘But you were going far beyond his teachings. You were contradicting them.’

  ‘In The Second American Revolution, Professor Keane set it all out.’

  ‘He didn’t call for book burnings though, did he? He’s been down there in Richmond arguing that key historical texts are bogus or misleading, but he doesn’t say you should burn them.’ Maggie was leaning forward, deliberately pressing herself into Bentham’s space. ‘Or did you think you’d give him a short cut, just in case he failed to nail it in court? Keane wouldn’t need to explain away all those inconvenient documents, because you’d have got rid of them all.’

  ‘Read Professor Keane’s book. Or read The Next American Revolution. The position is perfectly clear in both volumes. The clue is in the titles, Miss Costello. He was calling for a revolution. And if you’re serious about making a revolution, if you really do want to make the world anew, then you have to clear away what’s gone before. To create a new world, first you must destroy the old.’

  The point was so clear to her, so transparent in its truth, her eyes were shining with its brightness.

  ‘People get dragged down by the past. I’ve seen it for myself. When I was growing up, I barely spent more than a year in the same town or the same school. Each September, I’d start over. New place, new name. No friends, no history. It didn’t do me any harm.’

  Maggie clocked that too, but she was determined to keep pressing. ‘All right. That may be what you think. Burn it all down, tabula rasa. But Keane never spelled it out like that, did he? He didn’t dare make it explicit.’

  ‘Sometimes people need help. Even Jesus needed his disciples.’

  ‘And I suppose now was the right time?’

  ‘It was the first time. The first time such a project could even have been contemplated, thanks to the technology.’

  Maggie did not want to react to that admission, nor allow any glance to pass between her and Andrea Ellis. Instead she kept going. ‘But still, what you’ve done is not what Keane explicitly called for, is it? You’ve now associated his cause with violence and death and destruction. Wanton vandalism. You’ve probably ruined his chance of winning that case in Richmond.’

  ‘Why don’t we wait and see?’ Bentham replied, the smile returned
.

  ‘But you’ve discredited him. You’ve taken a scholar and reduced him to the level of a terrorist. That’s how William Keane will be remembered, thanks to you. As nothing more than a book-burning thug. And it’s your fault.’

  ‘How dare you?’ Pamela Bentham said, slamming her fist onto the table. ‘He will be proud of what I’ve done. He may not be able to say it, but I know that’s what he feels. When I see him on the television, I can see that’s what he’s thinking. I can see that’s what he’s telling me. “Well done, Pamela. Well done, my clever, clever girl.” ’

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, Bethesda, Maryland, 11.42am

  The first sensation she remembered was a smell. Or rather a combination of two smells, the second of which was strong enough to wake her.

  The first to reach her as she stirred from unconsciousness was the scent of roses, not a flower she’d ever choose for herself. But the fragrance, with its hint of a Dublin spring and her grandmother’s house, was unmistakable. And in her state of suspension between sleep and wakefulness, between the living and the dead as it seemed to her, it was so comforting as to be enticing, luring her to open her eyes.

  But what woke her was the muskier, more human aroma of Uri Guttman. She did not need to see him to know he was there, to feel his presence. Even before she had worked out that she was in a hospital bed, her arms punctured with drips and needles, she understood that Uri was near.

  When she saw him, fussing with a window blind, in jeans and a dark T-shirt, she couldn’t help but smile. It was involuntary. She felt it come upon her, twitching the edges of her lips and giving her no say in the matter.

  He must have sensed it, because he wheeled around to face her.

  ‘Hello, there, Miss Costello. It’s good to have you back.’