Sockpuppet: Book One in the Martingale Cycle (17 page)

Oh, sod off, Sean. She grinned demurely and shouted out: ‘Entirely trustworthy!’ A mild ripple of laughter at that.

‘But let’s suppose there’s someone out there who doesn’t even trust the minister.’

What? Sean, for Christsakes. Bethany’s smile started to chip like old paint. Krish looked like he might leap on the stage and throttle Sean.

‘Well, Ms Lehrer, too, can pass on the mantle of trust. To you, sir?’

Pointing to – Oh, holy hell, not Colin Synge. Not the
Express.
Synge folded his arms and said something snide and inaudible.

‘This daisy chain of trust can go on a long time, but not for ever. At some point – you simply need to trust. And if you can’t find anyone you’re willing to believe in, you’ll vanish from the scene.’

It occurred to Bethany that this routine was lifted directly from her grandmother’s book,
The Electronic Radical.
God, Sean had a cheek.

‘If trust vanishes, friends, we’re all of us out of a job,’ he said.

The laughter was uneasy now: he’d reached them.

‘Our friends here today from the fourth estate may want to consider their contribution to our current climate of distrust. A climate where those in public life become uncertain whether they can act with conviction, be transparent – in case they may be taken down by a baying mob.’

Yes, all right, Sean. Wrap it up.

‘So, gentlemen, ladies. Minister,’ with a nod to Bethany that brought a light wave of uncertain laughter. ‘The question for us all today is simple.’ He leaned in to the mike to maximise bass response. ‘
Who do you trust?
’

After a long beat, warm and sustained applause. Faces turned to Bethany as she stood to take the platform. Her name and title appeared on the screen with a MinTech logo. Sean didn’t catch her eye as they passed. She wiggled the mic down to level with her mouth, creating doughy feedback.

‘Thank you, Sean, for that – ah – rousing defence.’

A few proper laughs, telling her she’d hit the correct teasing note, permitting them to laugh at Sean – who nodded back with a grin. This would be OK.

Here was a moment she’d loved and loathed since her days on the stump as a constituency wannabe. Expectant faces raised. The moment when you still believed that by speaking you would alter minds. The media might want her blood but behind at least one pair of glinting spectacles was a mind that was open. Somebody coughed. She looked down at the double-spaced 14-point lines set out by J-R: stepping stones across a raging river. What would she say if she had the courage to step off them into the current? That she was a fighter, not a quitter? That her quirky persona was a defensive sham? That if her grandmother taught her one thing, it’s that freedoms matter, and screw them all if they thought she was out to exploit or harm people? That there is no bloody conspiracy and would everyone please shut up?

As she drew breath, a wave burst across the auditorium, composed of particles of bright blue light. It appeared from nowhere, from everywhere at once. It streamed to every part of the audience as one-by-one they pulled out their phones and checked the screens – then struck Bethany’s jacket pocket, where an urgent vibration began. As Krish’s hand landed on her arm, the first cry of
‘
Minister!
’
came from the front row. Colin Synge: always first off the blocks. She looked in horror at Krish’s stern, forgiving eyes. ‘
Minister! Minister!
’
The tide was rising faster. Krish leaned in to the microphone.

‘Apologies, ladies and gentlemen. The minister has been called away on an urgent matter. If you’ll excuse us now.’

Bethany was bundled from the stage like a condemned woman from the dock.

¶sic_girl:

Yep, let’s talk about Bethany Lehrer. Yay, Bethie! And her good friend Sean Perce. You know? The man with all your data? And with the hair? The guy Bethie never even spoke to last week?

So, lovelies, you might be interested in these fa-a-ascinating communications between those two charming people.

Oh deary dear. Might I wuz right about her lyings to Parliament last week? Maybe they shouldn’a diss me in the press next time, eh what?

Just saying.

More to come, dear hearts. Keep on keeping on.

Eight

‘All right, folks. Can we please clear the room?’ Krish’s consonants cut the air of the windowless office. ‘Now is good. Yesterday better.’

He waited for four event managers to file out, then strode in and filled the room with rangy energy, appraising its prefab desks, acetate ceiling tiles and utility carpet like a Secret Service man securing a route. He turned to beckon Bethany in.

‘This should do us for the now. Press can’t get to this level – organisers and speakers only.’

Bethany nodded and moved to a chair.

‘So it’s the email?’

She’d somehow known it would come out, almost wondered if Karen had leaked it to spite her after this morning’s meeting.

‘Emails, plural,’ said Krish.

Bethany froze in the act of fishing her BlackBerry from her handbag.

‘E
mails
?’

‘Sixteen emails, posted just now on an untouchable blog site out of Somethingstan. Apparently sent between you and Mr Perce between the first of the month and last Wednesday. Mails to his work address. Mails to his home address.’

Bethany found no words. So it wasn’t her email to the Cabinet Secretary. Mails between her and Sean. Christ,
which
mails?

‘Beth, I have to say –’ but for a short time, Krish said nothing. Then: ‘These mails – did you really tell Mr Perce, just before you spoke in the House, that,’ reading now from his BlackBerry, ‘“
Doo-doo happens, Sean. You had a breach but you closed the door. We
’
ll weather that. Let
’
s dripfeed this in a managed way.
” Doo-doo, Beth? Taxpayer’s private records are hacked?
Doo-doo
?
You know it’ll be that word that kills you?’

This was insane. The doo-doo comment was nothing to do with the hack. There’d been some kind of glitch on Sean’s systems that temporarily put the data in the wrong place. But with everyone screaming about a hack, who would believe that? She’d almost think someone had hacked their data just to make those mails look incriminating. Except that was a loopy, paranoid thought.

Bethany put her head in her hands for just a moment then composed herself. Riding it. Staying fresh.

‘It’s real, then?’ said Krish. ‘Why in Christ’s name not tell me?’

She shrugged. He let out a long, hard breath. When she started to speak, she had no idea if her vocal chords were going to work.

‘It’s not what it –’ Her voice was an analogue tape recording, copied too many times. ‘I didn’t know about a hack, Krish. These mails are unrelated. Please believe me.’

His face was not ready to believe or disbelieve.

‘I’ve mailed you the link,’ he said.

He moved to the door and eyed the corridor. She turned on her BlackBerry and found the emails, read through them with her breath held.

She let the air out. This was awful but the mails were only business. She put the device away and rubbed her eyes.

‘Why are they doing this to me?’ she asked. ‘We’re trying to do good.’

‘That’s not the question. Only three questions matter: who is doing this, how are they doing it, and how do we stop them?’

His voice was unnaturally steady. He had a bullet-like directness in a crisis.

‘Hah,’ she said. ‘You know, I’m almost relieved in a way.’

She pulled her compact from her bag and scanned the heavy skin of her face.

‘This rather takes the sting out of Karen’s threats,’ she said, ‘doesn’t it? No need to hedge. Everyone knows Sean told me about a security breach, but there’s nothing here about a hack.’

‘You think anyone but you is going to make that fine distinction? Focus, Beth, for chrissake. This is not some disaffected blogger throwing mud. Someone is reading our secure mails. This is sabotage. And this will not be the end of it.’ He held up his BlackBerry. ‘Central Office are calling the polis back in.’

She snapped her compact shut.

‘You think someone’s reading
our
mail? The department’s? Not Sean’s?’

‘What does it look like to you?’ he said. ‘These mails are all sent to different addresses, different organisations. The only thing they have in common is your departmental account.’

He stalked off, prowling around the airless room. Then stopped.

‘But you know what?’ he said. ‘You’re right. We need to think strictly plausible deniability. Those mails are great Parley fodder and you’re going to get two days’ worth of shit all over you—’

‘Oh, thanks. Charming.’

‘– but there’s no smoking gun. Yet. Yet. Christ knows what else they’ve got. Christ knows.’ He bore down on her. ‘We have a window. When you stand on that platform on Friday, make DigiCitz national, there’s no going back. This is your one chance to wake up and be honest about what you and Perce –’

He stopped at that and peeled away, putting two fingers to his nose and squeezing its bridge till his glasses popped off. Bethany was pinned to her seat. Krish righted his glasses and continued more gently.

‘Look, now. I need to fix things up for us to leave. You’ll be right in here but,’ he pointed to the BlackBerry beside her on the table, ‘no mail. Not for anything confidential or – personal. It’s paper and landline from now. All right?’

Bethany looked down at the device. Since when were they under siege? She looked up and nodded but Krish was already gone, the door standing open. The air con sounded from the low suspended ceiling. What the hell do you do backstage at a conference centre without email? She looked around the utilitarian room. Nothing but bumf and stand-up displays from past exhibitions. For the first time since making minister, she wished she had a Kindle in her bag.

There was a cough in the hallway, and footsteps. A man. She waited a second, then stood and called Krish’s name.

The footsteps paused, then began to approach. Bethany stepped back from the chair. What if this was press? What were her lines? She was out in the open. They hadn’t even begun to discuss her lines. She wished J-R was here.

But it was Sean who appeared in the doorway. His eyes found her and he gave her his untidy boy’s grin.

‘Ha! Thought I knew that voice! What are you –’ He scanned the little room. ‘Just you? No minder?’ Beth shook her head, speechless. ‘Well, my God, every cloud.’

He shut the door and was right in front of her, as if through a jump-cut. His hand grabbed the back of her neck, pushing up into her hair. The other seized her arm, pulling her in.

‘No,’ she said, ‘not now.’

His scored face was inches from hers.

‘And if not now, when? Seize the day.’

He pulled her harder, his breath sweet, as though he’d been chewing liquorice. She let yield the muscles in her back, allowing him to crush her into his chest. He kissed against her mouth. Heat flowed into her gut, where for days there had been only rock and resistance. Ever since Spain. She grabbed his head with both hands and bit into his lips. Her tongue raked the back of his teeth. Insane. She felt for the table and planted her buttocks on its edge, lifting her legs around him. With both hands on the small of his back she pulled him in, his trunk compact as a bull terrier.

This is how it first exploded between them: hidden in public places, covert trysts inflaming them both.

She rubs herself against the thickness of his cock, blatant under the light wool of his suit, twists to reach a hand down as he forces up her shirt. He grunts as she clasps him and begins to work him. He makes rippling motions over her breast, through her bra. She gasps: how can such a hard man be so tender? The sick smell rises. It inflames her. She wiggles back on the table to get both hands to his crotch and work the zip, set his cock free. He pulls back, expectant. She slides down from the table to take him in her mouth. Breathes in the smell of an animal’s lair.

What a photo opportunity this would make.

Subject:
Ts and Cs

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Mark,

As mentioned.

Thanks again for agreeing to look through these. Attached are Terms and Conditions Digital Citizens sign up to. Also Mondan contract and Service Level Agreements. Trust you find them engaging bedtime reading! Suffice to say they might as well be in Sanskrit for yours truly.

Fear you witnessed unexpectedly interesting talk by Bethany just now? We are currently sixes and sevens, as you may imagine. Wouldn’t mind a chat. Also about that other matter. Tomorrow am when you’ve read these docs?

Best as always,

JRP

Nine

‘Parley is on borrowed time,’ said Sean. ‘It’s a net-loss-making hobby project which was good for grabbing attention –
Look at us! We can manufacture celebrities out of data!
– But it does nothing for my group balance sheet beyond maybe goodwill.’

For a man who’d just been pleasured by a minister of state, Sean was in a businesslike frame of mind. As he paced the room, Bethany fixed her eyes on her little mirror, touching at her lipstick with an unsteady finger.

‘I’ve always seen it as a force for good,’ she said. ‘It’s democratic.’