Interface: A Techno Thriller (12 page)

"Maybe the other person involved had a reason."

He shrugged. "We found the remains of a further mobile phone with the SIM card still in it. It was badly damaged, but the police believe it could have been a detonator."

"Or perhaps it was just a phone."

Croft shrugged. "The dog was also a point of interest. According to neighbours, Armstrong never let it sleep outside, yet the dog was found in the garden, unharmed. I took a blood sample and there were traces of tranquilliser."

"Perhaps it had been to the vet?"

"No record of that."

Reems puffed out her cheeks. "So what are you saying?"

"My task wasn't to solve the case, merely to consider whether there is one. I have a plausible and reasonable suspicion that this was foul play and that there should be a full investigation." He paused. "Which should start with CERUS."

Reems leaned back in her chair. "This is good work. Now I want you to archive the report. "

"What? Why?"

"Your conclusions are well researched and nobody could criticise you for reaching them, but they are based on incomplete data. Do you know why Armstrong was on the watch list?"

Croft swallowed. "My clearance isn't sufficient to access that information."

"And unfortunately I cannot change that." She gave a kindly smile. "But if you had the full context, as I do, you'd know that this is the appropriate outcome. I can tell you that the watch list is outdated: more than two decades old. If there were an issue, it would have been routed by me. It wasn't, which means there
is
no issue."

Croft stood up. "I understand. Thanks for your time." He turned towards the door, then paused. "I'm not the only one who thought this smelt funny, though. There were a number of reporters hovering around."

"CERUS is always newsworthy. I doubt they'll find anything you didn't."

THIRTY-ONE

MARRON PLACED THE HEADSET DOWN and glared at his computer. Winston had given him a full report about the Italian restaurant. All had seemed normal, then Faraday had suddenly walked out, only to be mugged. Or, rather, nearly mugged - this reporter had appeared to save him. Marron was half-tempted to think it was a set-up, so she could establish trust with Faraday - it was a play he might have considered - but Winston had not seen any evidence that was the case. Marron shrugged. He would still have to have her investigated, but right now he had more important matters to attend to.
 

He stepped out of the secret room, then left his office and headed towards the stairs. Emerging from the stairwell two flights up, he knocked on Bern's glass and steel door.
 

The CEO beckoned him inside, then returned to four grey folders that were arrayed before him on his stone desk. "I wanted to speak with you alone before we go downstairs. These people you've found, our four guinea pigs. Can we trust them?"

"We've done all the testing, all the profiling we can. I've done my part, but nothing's fool-proof."

Bern nodded. "What about Chatsworth?"

"He seems reliable, if prone to fits of panic. I'm watching him closely."

"And did the others welcome you to the team?"

"I'm not sure if 'welcome' is the right term, but nobody's complained."

Bern smiled. "They're probably too scared."

"You'd have to ask them. I like to think I'm pretty straightforward. Perhaps that's why I handle people-problems better than most."

"Speaking of people-problems, any fallout from Armstrong's accident?"

"There were a few questions, but everyone assumes it
was
an accident."

"Anything else that I need to know?"

Marron smiled. "No, William. Nothing that you
need
to know."

Bern nodded. "Then I guess it's time we got downstairs for our defining moment."

THIRTY-TWO

DR CHATSWORTH WATCHED AS THE last of the four vehicles parked in front of the Angstrom Clinic and began unloading. Everything was running on schedule so far. Their four new 'guests' were being managed by separate teams. The subjects wouldn't see each other's faces and his people would only see more than one of them if they absolutely had to. These were just some of the protocols that had been specified by Marron. One entire wing of the clinic had been cleared out and the operating theatre had been prepped, not that any of the subjects were aware of that.
 

The specifics weren't something the doctor liked to dwell on, but after today he would be paid and his involvement would be nearly at an end. At least that was what Marron had told him and, so far, what Marron had told him had always proved accurate.
 

Each of the candidates looked bored as, one by one, they were led into the building: the student, the science geek, the bankrupt businessman and the divorced housewife. Convenient, he thought, to reduce them to mere stereotypes. Smart, capable people who wanted to make a difference, but who needed the money. Except for the geek: if he'd known what this was really about, he would probably have done it for free.

Chatsworth returned to his office and confirmed via the secure link that all was on schedule. A glance at the monitor bank on his wall showed the subjects getting dressed in their hospital gowns, while medical staff went through a number of questionnaires and generally made everything appear normal. Chatsworth felt the sweat trickle down his neck. So many things could go wrong.
 

Signals from each of the teams indicated they were ready. He pressed a button and spoke to the rooms simultaneously. "Please proceed."

Four teams of anaesthetists got to work and within fifteen minutes the subjects were unconscious. Chatsworth, scrubbed up and ready, walked into the operating theatre, which now held the student. He looked up at one of the four cameras.

"Tower, this is Clinic. Are you receiving?"

◇
◇
◇

In the laboratory on Level 64 of CERUS Tower, Bern, Bradley, Heidn, Holm and Marron sat watching the feed from the operating theatre. The student was rolled onto his front, his face fitting through a special hole in the padded table. They watched as Chatsworth opened a heavily padded case on a table set with instruments. Inside the case was a large syringe.
 

A boiler-suited man wheeled in a trolley with a large protective container marked with biohazard symbols. He unlocked the protective container and removed one of four ampules of green liquid. Chatsworth took the ampule and inserted it into the syringe. It clicked and the contents moved into the instrument's chamber. The doctor held it upright, and the green liquid almost seemed to glow, even as viewed on the video footage. Another assistant swabbed the back of the student's neck, just below the base of his skull. They watched Chatsworth check the syringe one final time then nod to the assistant.

"Commencing implant," Chatsworth said.

The injection took several seconds. All the patient's status monitors showed unchanged readings. Finally the doctor stood back, dropping the used instrument into a padded bin. He looked up at the camera. "Part one complete for Subject One."

"We expect to see results in the region of twenty-four to forty-eight hours," Heidn told his colleagues, leaning forwards towards the screen.

"I'll report back if there are any glitches or complications with administering Part One to Subjects Two through Four," Chatsworth said.

"Very good." Bradley pressed a button to disconnect the video link. "Happy, William?"

Bern nodded. "Excellent work. And I think congratulations are due to Peter for locating the subjects so quickly."

"Nonsense." Marron raised his hands. "I've played the most minor part. I'm just relieved the clinic was available so we had a discrete, credible location entirely separate from CERUS for our testing."

"What about this Chatsworth?" asked Bradley. "Did he seem a little twitchy to you?"

"We can trust him to supervise some injections and take his money," Bern said. "So I guess now we see if our two geniuses have been able to work their magic."

Heidn and Holm looked at each other, with a mixture of fear and optimism.

"We'll be ready," Heidn said, "presuming there are no last minute surprises."

THIRTY-THREE

THE VAN WAS PAINTED BLACK and bore a decal for KPS Services: plumbing, heating and electrical contractors. Yet it was not loaded with tools, piping and cabling, but rather a selection of powerful hand-built computers and network devices.

Kate sat hunched in the back with a man she knew only as 'Keith', the contact that a friend of a friend had once referred her to should she ever need to access electronic systems that were not meant for her eyes. She'd almost baulked when he'd told her how much he would charge, especially since he didn't look like the kind of 'contractor' who would provide a receipt. The only way Geraldine would even discuss reimbursement was if she got real results, so it was just as well 'Keith' appeared to know what he was doing. For the last hour he had been adjusting a small satellite dish and staring at streams of code running down one of his screens. It was almost hypnotic, if frustratingly slow.

"How much longer?" she asked, wishing she'd thought to bring a flask of coffee.

"Believe me," he said, "I don't want to sit in the back of this van with you any longer than I have to.

"What does the KPS stand for?"

"Duh? Keith's Plumbing Services."

"You realise your company name is effectively 'Keith's Plumbing Services
Services
'?"

He frowned at her. "You realise it's not a real company."

"Isn't it supposed to
look
real?"

"Do you want my help?"

"Never mind. Just keep hacking." Kate leaned back against the wall of the van. She had been ready to give up on Tom. Since their conversation after the mugging, she had made no progress. His story about not remembering his weekend had seemed like it had to mean something, but maybe it was just memory loss. It was all so nebulous – how could she possibly determine the truth?

Then she realised there was one thing she could confirm: how and when Tom got home. London now had CCTV everywhere and a quick walk past Tom's apartment block revealed two possible sources of the footage she needed. Normally, it would have meant trying to make a public access request or involving the police, either of which would mean a significant delay. Instead, she had called Keith.

Now they were parked across the road from Tom's apartment, using a parabolic dish to attempt to piggy-back on the carrier frequency of the cameras in order to follow the encrypted data tunnel back to the storage media - at least that was how Keith had explained it. Kate was reasonably tech savvy, but this was delving further under the hood than she normally went.

"That's odd," he said suddenly. "I've located the file storage. But the period from Friday to Monday has been wiped."

Kate blinked. "You mean there's a fault?"

Keith tapped at his keyboard. "It can't be a malfunction; the data either side is perfect. It's been excised and deleted."

"Who'd have the capability to do that?"

"Someone like me," he said with a smile. He jabbed frenetically at his keyboard again. "Only they're not as good as I am. It wasn't properly wiped. Usual story, deleting a file just wipes the name and meta-tags. The actual content is still there until overwritten."

"And you can locate it?"

"Maybe..." He narrowed his eyes. "Yes. I think I have it." He switched on another screen. A camera view appeared, looking down the street, past Tom's front door. "OK, this is 8am on the Friday morning. Is that your boy, leaving in his suit?"

Kate peered at the screen. "That's him."

"When do you want to view next?"

"He was at the party until at least 9pm, so let's fast forward to around 11, and view from there."

They watched a very long time, skipping through in 2-minute chunks. Friday night turned into Saturday turned into Sunday. Still nothing.

And then finally they found it.

At 3am on Monday morning a white van pulled up outside the apartment block. Moments later a group of men carried a limp figure to the front door. Two men stood on guard as another opened the door and then they all disappeared inside.

"Let me see if I can enhance," Keith said. "See if we can make out some faces." He rewound to just before the figure was taken inside, tapped at some keys; a filter scrubbed across the screen, then again. The image sharpened. He zoomed in on the face of the unconscious figure.

"That's him," whispered Kate.
 

Keith restarted the footage. Nothing happened for ten minutes, then the door opened and the men left. They watched it all in silence, then rewound it and watched again.

"If that was when he came home, where was he all weekend?" asked Kate.
 

Keith looked pale. "What are you sticking your beak into here? These look like serious people."

"You've done your part. I'm the one with her neck on the line."

He shook his head. "If you run this story, I'll come to the attention of whoever it was - and they'll want to know how you got the footage."

She gave a snort. "That's not going to be happen. Besides, it's too late to be having second thoughts. We made a deal."

"Is your guy OK?"

"It seems that way."

"Well, that's something." He reached forward and typed something on his keyboard. Progress bars immediately flicked up.

"What are you doing?"

"Deleting the footage, obviously. And
I'm
doing it
properly
."

"No!" She stood up but he quickly jabbed another key and the computer screen locked. "Why would you do that?"

"A basic sense of self-preservation."

"I need that footage. It's
very
important."

"It's already gone."

Kate took a step forward, her eyes narrowing. "Re-download it from the system."

"I wiped the original too."

She cursed, sweeping the computer onto the floor.
 

"Hey!" Keith shouted, making to get up. A murderous look from Kate kept him in his chair. "I thought you were a reporter: isn't this just a story for you?"