Interface: A Techno Thriller (11 page)

His mobile vibrated: it was a text message from an anonymous forwarding service. It contained a string of eight digits. The digits themselves were irrelevant, but it meant something had come up. He slid his chair over to a different computer, pulled on a headset, and logged himself into a separate comms program. Then he dialled the sender of the message. It was answered immediately.

"This is Winston," came the reply, soft and metallic.

"What's happened?"

"Faraday had coffee with a woman. A recruiter."

A half smile crossed Marron's face. "Is that right?"

"Her name is Kate Thompson. She works for some small agency, not well known."

"Then she's probably not very good."

"At recruiting, probably not, since it's a cover identity. She's actually a reporter, real name Kate Turner."

"Does he know?"

"Not as far as I could tell. But they're meeting for dinner tonight at an Italian restaurant in Baker Street."

"You'll monitor them, of course."

"Sure. But it's hard to get sound remotely if they're in a crowded restaurant. And I've had no opportunity to go in and prep the place."

"Are you telling me I should hire somebody better?"

"I'll sort something out."

"I'm sure you will."

TWENTY-SEVEN

THE APARTMENT BLOCK WAS TWO storeys high and painted a functional mid-brown. In her ground floor unit, Daniella Lawrence forced the suitcase shut. She'd packed light, but still there were so many things she couldn't bear to part with. And she did not expect to return. Not after she'd read the paper that morning. It was time to activate her exit strategy. Or perhaps she should think of it as her 'return' strategy.

She'd managed to book a flight to Paris that left in six hours, but it was at least a five-hour drive to the airport. Four if you didn't value your vehicle's suspension. Three if you didn't value your life at intersections.

There was a knock at the door. She tensed and moved quietly to it. The knocking repeated, only louder.

"Who is it?" she called.

"Director Kimoto." His clipped tones were unmistakeable.

Lawrence moved closer. "Are you alone?"

"Yes." He sounded puzzled. "Why?"

She wrenched the door open and saw him standing on his own in the corridor. With a quick glance left and right, she pulled him inside and closed the door.

"What is going on, Dr Lawrence? A couple of the staff said you left in a great hurry. I thought something might be wrong." He pointed at the suitcase on the bed. "
Is
something wrong?"

"I have to go."

"Where? For how long?" Kimoto frowned. "I hope you're not leaving because of what I said the other day."

Lawrence shook her head. "There were always two reasons I might have to leave. Either
they
became aware of me. Or I became aware of
them
." She placed a hand on his shoulder. "Nobody is coming looking for me."

He gazed at her for several long moments, before bowing his head. "Then I wish you God speed. And I thank you for everything you've done for us. You have made a difference. You have saved lives; we will not forget that." He left, closing the door behind him.

Lawrence shook her head. Where she was going she would be trying to save more than a few lives. With Richard Armstrong dead, she had no choice: she could hide away no longer. It was time she risked the world discovering that Dominique Lentz was not dead after all.
 

TWENTY-EIGHT

TOM ARRIVED AT BROCCA AT exactly 8pm and found it packed. The manager smiled when he gave Kate's name, then guided him through the crowd. She sat in a booth near the back.

"Nice place," he said, as they shook hands.

"It's a favourite of mine. Very authentic."

The waiter handed them both menus and vanished. Tom studied the options. "It does look good."

She laughed. "Speak Italian, do you?"

"No, why?"

"They've given us the wrong menus."

He looked at the intricately printed sheets of paper inside their folder. Nothing seemed wrong.
 

"I prefer not to have to reach for the dictionary when I order," Kate said. She waved at the waiter. "English menus, please."
 

"Of course." He whisked the menus from them, and moments later Tom was staring at the contents of a new faux-leather folder. It looked exactly the same. Kate ordered for them both: pesto calamari, then broiled salmon, along with a bottle of Dolcetto.

"So why did you choose law?" she asked, holding up her wine glass. "I mean, aside from the money."

"Don't knock the money. We all have bills and student loans."

"Yes, but there are plenty of other jobs that pay well."

"Working with the law is one way to grasp how business works. It's one of the sets of rules that everybody has to operate within." He shrugged. "And I just didn't like adding up enough to be an accountant."

"And CERUS?"

"They made me an offer I couldn't refuse."

"But how do you feel about them keeping the company's financial difficulties from you when you were hired?" She paused. "Unless they didn't. Which would be even more interesting."

"I'm aware of the rumours, but, as far as I'm concerned, that's all they are."

"Maybe." She paused. "Talking of the news, did you know Richard Armstrong?"

Tom shrugged. "He was an engineer. It's a huge company and I've only been there a few days. Why would you think I would know him?" Tom felt his headache returning, stabbing at the base of his skull. Behind him, two mobile phones went off loudly. There were mutterings from diners and embarrassed rummagings as their owners protested that the phones had been on mute. Tom rubbed his temples.

Kate frowned. "Are you OK?"

"Just had a long day. So what did you think of the launch party?"

"Very impressive. The champagne bottle was unfortunate, but Bern knows how to step up to the moment."

"Did you happen to see me there with a woman in a black dress?"

"It was a Friday evening, there were a lot of women in black dresses. Why?" She folded her arms. "Someone skip out without leaving you their number?"

"I'm worried I may have done something that I can't remember."

She leaned forward. "Something embarrassing?"

He flinched back. "No, of course not. Look it's just..." He felt the pain in his head shift into something else.
 

It seemed like there was a fog around him, then suddenly he felt as if he were back at the party. He had the glass of cognac in his hand: he could taste it in his mouth. The woman in black was before him and he could see her face. She was smiling slowly, and he felt cold... A hand gripped his forearm and the scene slipped away. Kate's voice cut through the fog. "Are you all right?"

He jerked. "I'm fine." He realised his arm was tingling where her hand was on his skin. He stood up, almost hitting his head on a low beam. "I haven't been feeling well. The doctors said... I really shouldn't have come out for dinner. It's probably best if I go home. Sorry for wasting your time." He stumbled through the restaurant and out onto the street without giving her a chance to reply.

TWENTY-NINE

TOM STEPPED OUT OF THE restaurant into the cool night air. He shook his head, trying to clear it. The stabbing headache seemed to have gone, although he still had a faint tingling at the base of his head. Perhaps he should not have drunk anything. What a waste of time. Kate had nothing to tell him about the party and he'd probably embarrassed her by walking out during the meal. He glanced over his shoulder and could make her out behind the glass frontage of the restaurant, talking to the manager.
 

The Tube station was just across the road, but the air felt good so he decided to walk and turned down a side street, making his way south. There was a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, but when he turned he just saw crowds of people walking in different directions. He continued down the alley. His phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket. Had he accidentally called someone? It was his new company phone too: just what he needed after everything else – inadvertently dialling a colleague.

"Give me your wallet, your watch and your phone," a low voice growled from behind him.

Tom started to turn, but a solid grip fixed on his shoulder and a sharp point jabbed into his lower back.

"Don't be stupid. And don't even think about calling out."

Tom felt ice rush through him. He nodded. He didn't fancy his chances of a passing Londoner being ready to come to his aid. The man grunted and pushed him against a wall.

"OK, turn around. Hand over the stuff."

Tom reached for his wallet, then slid his phone from its belt case.
 

"The watch too."

Tom hesitated. The watch had been a present from his mother. "It's just cheap junk: you don't want it."

The man looked irritated. "Just give it--"

There was a sudden flurry of black and a foot struck the man's wrist with a crack. He gave a scream and staggered back. The newcomer struck Tom's assailant again, kicking him in the stomach. The man doubled over, vomiting.

Confused, Tom looked at his rescuer.

It was Kate.

She stood over the groaning figure, breathing hard. "You OK?"

Tom gulped. "What the hell was that?"

"I thought you could use a hand."

"He had a knife. Did he drop it?"

She peered around on the floor and tapped something with her foot. "It was just a fountain pen."

The man groaned and hauled himself to his feet. Kate tensed as if about to lunge at him. He ran off.

Tom stared at the pen. "It felt sharp."

Kate grabbed Tom's arm. "Let's get out of here."

"What about that man? Shouldn't we report this to the police?"

"Not unless you want to spend all night giving a statement." She kicked the pen away. "He was just some opportunistic drunk."

Tom shook his head and let himself be led away.

◇
◇
◇

They found a McDonald's and sat upstairs with burgers, fries and milkshakes. Tom was surprised to find he was intensely hungry.

"This wasn't quite what I had in mind when I invited you to dinner," Kate said, waving a French fry with a resigned expression.

"Getting mugged wasn't quite what I had in mind when I left," replied Tom.
 

"Are you OK? I mean, not just the mugging but... People don't normally walk out on me at dinner. At least not when I'm paying." She paused. "That was why I was following you: I'm not a stalker."

Tom shrugged. "It's been a tricky few days."

"With work?"

"Not exactly. Thank you for rescuing me, by the way. You certainly seem to know how to take care of yourself."

"I do a bit of Karate." She paused. "And when I say 'do', I mean 'teach'. But what do you mean 'tricky few days'?"

He sighed. "I was in hospital earlier this week after collapsing at the office. I think something happened to me at the party, but I can't remember. Nothing between Bern's speech on Friday night and Monday morning. I don't even remember how I got home."

Kate sat upright in her chair. "Are you serious?"
 

"I've had all sorts of tests. CERUS paid for me to go to some top private clinic. They've been amazing, given I've only just joined and hadn't technically even signed up to the health cover yet."

"Still, they made you go back to work already?"

"That was my decision. They didn't push me at all."

"And the doctors have no idea what happened to you?"

Tom hesitated. "They found traces of a toxin, said I might have taken meth."

"Oh," she said.

"I've
never
done drugs," Tom said angrily. "I've never wanted to. It makes no sense."

"But it could explain the memory loss. We ran a..." She paused. "I mean, I
read
a story about the side effects of legal narcotics: everyone reacts differently even to those. Who knows when it comes to an illegal one mixed with God knows what?"
 

"But I would never have agreed to take it." Tom sighed. "That was why I agreed to meet you for dinner. I was hoping you might have seen who I was talking to. If I could identify them, I might be able to find out more about that night."

"I'm sorry. I wish I could help more."

"And I'm sorry I wasted your time."

Kate smiled. "I try to take the view that few things are actually a waste of time. When you look back, unexpected opportunities often come from them."

THIRTY

CROFT SAT IN THE UTILITARIAN annex to Stephanie Reems' office, flicking through his report on a tablet computer. He had been waiting several hours, so by now he could largely quote it from memory. Reems was always busy, but today it almost seemed as if she was avoiding him.

Finally the receptionist cleared his throat and nodded that Croft should go through.

Stephanie Reems maintained several offices, but this was her primary centre of operations. Two floors below ground, there were no windows - just stone walls and heavy electronic shielding. Reems sat behind her steel desk, reading. She only half looked up. "Sorry to keep you waiting, George. Hell of a day." She indicated a seat in front of her.

"You've read my report?"

She shook her head. "I presumed you'd summarise it for me."

He forced a smiled. "Of course. As agreed, I looked into the circumstances surrounding Richard Armstrong's death. I inserted myself into the police team and analysed the scene first-hand, including conducting a number of interviews. I also undertook my own analysis of his recent comms usage."

"And what was your conclusion?"

"That this was not an accident." He paused to see if she would react. She did not. "We found three old phone SIM cards cut up in his rubbish. Pay as you go accounts. It suggests he was taking precautions to avoid having his calls monitored. As for who he called, there was only one unusual number: another pay as you go. We're looking into it."

"Perhaps he was having an affair."

Croft shook his head. "He wasn't married. Lived on his own with his dog. No reason to keep it a secret."