The Power of One (16 page)

On the desk in front of him were three screens, the middle one running the lines of code. He switched the other to reflect the virtual machine, operating like a second computer from within his own system. Now he had two screens showing completely different pages. Slowly, he began to extract the random markers and place them on the second screen, compiling them in the order that they occurred.

‘Find anything?'

He was so focussed on the task that he did not hear his boss. Richard jumped. ‘Jeesus. Can you not creep up on a body.'

‘So? What have you found?'

Richard Grey shook his head. ‘That's just it,' he said. ‘I don't know. It's just random fragments of code that don't belong.'

‘And if you made an educated guess?'

‘Then I'd be telling you to go and hunt a kraken,' Richard said. ‘Look, I'm sorry, maybe I'm barking up the wrong tree entirely.'

His boss shrugged. ‘Any connection between this file and the other?
Payne 23
.'

‘Not that I can see. I sent that through to documents a couple of hours ago. It seems to be a list of names. I unravelled the binary to get a list of numbers and the numbers were a fairly simple alphanumeric substitution code. Clever, but not designed to be uncrackable. It took me two, three hours.'

‘And can you get to the bottom of this new problem?'

Richard didn't want to commit himself but on the other hand he didn't want one of the most challenging puzzles that had come his way in months to be handed off to someone else. ‘Oh, I'll get there,' he said. ‘You can be sure of that.'

Hale was examining footage from motorway traffic cameras. It showed the four-by-four driven by Fitch and the red car following them. Hale would have given a great deal to have known the identity of the driver and his passenger.

‘How did you lose them?' he asked quietly. His associate shuffled his feet, embarrassed.

‘We know they went to the Martin woman's house. After that … we don't know when they left or when the driver picked them up or where from. Our all-points alert identified them up at the services and we've managed to backtrack to where they came on to the M5. The red car started to follow them from the services at Avonmouth.'

‘And the plates are false, the windows tinted and the men wore baseball caps which means the cameras don't have a clear picture, even from the front. I got that already.' Hale took a deep breath. ‘You let an elderly actress and a house full of ageing actors slip the de Freitas's out from under your noses and you don't know how.'

‘At least we know where they've holed up.'

‘And that helps? How? Bridie Duggan is well used to dealing with authority. She won't fold just because we might put the pressure on and she's got that place of hers tight as Fort Knox.'

‘We get someone on the inside?'

‘Oh, that's really going to happen. There's not one man or woman on her staff hasn't been with her for at least a decade and not one that doesn't owe her.'

‘Which doesn't preclude …'

‘Which adds to our problems. We don't have time for subtlety. Ian got himself killed because we pussyfooted about waiting for people to “cooperate”. We don't have that luxury any more and,' he jabbed a finger towards the motorway footage still playing out on the overhead screen, ‘we don't know who the hell
they
are.'

‘Probably who killed Ian.'

‘Oh, you think? Talk about stating the bloody obvious.' Hale turned around to face his unfortunate operative. ‘Ian was a bloody good man. Tried, tested, loyal. Nothing I've seen so far convinces me you're worthy to lick his frigging boots. Got that?'

The associate left, wise enough at least to know when to keep his mouth shut. Hale fumed silently. Paul had promised to deliver and Hale had no reason to suppose he would renege on the deal. He had also told Hale that a record of what he'd found and the solution he'd created would be left somewhere, just in case.

‘In case of what?' Hale had asked him.

‘In case something happens to me. In case you decide I've been useful enough and I'm now surplus to requirements.'

‘And who would that information be left for?' Hale had demanded, but Paul had just grinned at him in that infuriating way he had and had walked away, turning back to wave before getting into his car.

Some men, Hale reflected, live scared for themselves. Some live frightened of what might happen to others. Some, like Paul de Freitas, are almost untouchable in their assurance, their confidence, their simple inability to understand that they should feel intimidated. Hale had known a few men like that in his life. Most had been military men, others had been psychopaths. A few had been both, one occupation not of necessity excluding the other. A rare few, like Paul de Freitas, lived what looked like normal lives until you dug a little below the surface and you realised that they didn't really have a clue. Or rather, they didn't know how to see the social cues that said ‘care now', ‘respond now', ‘kiss me now' or ‘be afraid'. They knew those rules for living existed; learned by rote how to respond. They didn't have the inherent cruelty that came with some traits of abnormal psychology; oddly, for Paul, that was another cue that passed him by.

Life fascinated Paul de Freitas, but it didn't frighten him not even on behalf of others. He trusted Lydia and Edward to be able to look after themselves and Hale was absolutely certain that any message Paul had left would have been left for them.

Tim's Uncle Charles was a career warrior – Tim never thought of him as a soldier; far too prosaic for a man who'd led such an eventful life. As a boy, Tim's father had told him that Charles slept with a Kalashnikov under his pillow and a Luger tucked into his sock. Tim, completely ignoring the logistical improbability of sleeping on a pillow with a machine gun slipped beneath it, had focussed on the random fact that ‘Uncle Charles sleeps in his socks'.

Later, he realised that the legend of Uncle Charles' unlikely bedfellows had become part of his subconscious to the extent that, in a rather drunken moment a few Christmas's ago, he had asked his Aunt Lucy if she minded.

She had replied that so long as Charles didn't mind her Beretta, she didn't see she had the right to object.

Uncle Charles, on leaving the army, had sidestepped into diplomatic protection and thence into more shadowy areas which seems to entail an awful lot of travel, so far as Tim could tell. Aunt Lucy certainly complained that he was never there. He's some kind of aide, was all Tim's father could say about the matter. He gathered that no one in the family asked, knowing they wouldn't get a satisfactory reply. So far as that was concerned, Tim wasn't about to challenge the status quo, but he did figure that if anyone he knew had access to the information he wanted, then Uncle Charles might be that man, and so he had asked.

Charles phoned just as the Martin household was about to sit down to dinner. Tim, half expecting the call, grabbed the phone as the others passed by, filing into the dining room.

Charles was typically to the point. ‘The man's a phoney,' he said. ‘Abe Jackson had a fine service record until six months ago. He was allowed to resign his commission rather than face a court martial, but there his connection with her majesty's forces and any other government body ended.'

‘What did he do?'

‘Now that's the question. I've managed to speak to his old commanding officer. Apparently, on his last operation, Abe Jackson lost four of his men to a roadside bomb. He's lost men before; we all have. Doesn't make it any easier. Seems he was annoyed, shall we say. He hunted down those that were responsible or, at least, those he believed to be responsible and he killed them. Or, at least, that's what his commanding officer understands to have happened. Nothing could be proved because none of his men would give evidence against him. All declared they were elsewhere at the time or didn't know where he was or … well, you get the picture. But his behaviour certainly became erratic and he was writing letters to the national press telling them that his men died because they lacked essential equipment. He was shipped back, hospitalised, finally persuaded it was in everyone's interest to quit with his pension intact.'

‘What happened to him after that?'

‘Well, his pension was paid into his bank account, but he's never touched a penny. Abe Jackson disappeared off the radar. The truth is, Tim, no one was bothered. He'd gone, end of problem.'

Tim absorbed that. ‘We'd better tell Mac,' he said.

‘Your policeman friend? Oh, I've already sounded the alarm bells. He should know what's going on by now. I believe there's now a warrant out for Jackson's arrest.'

‘On what grounds?'

‘Oh, impersonating whatever it was he was impersonating, I suppose. They'll no doubt work the rest out as they go along.'

This was vague even by Uncle Charles' standards.

‘Charles?'

His uncle sighed. ‘They'll hold him on some aspect of anti-terrorist legislation I believe. Tim, I can't tell you more than that, but you lot down there seem to have stumbled into something larger than a murder or two. Oh, and that Hale fellow. He's not what he seems either, apparently, but I was gently warned not to go poking into business that doesn't concern me. Oh, and I was to pass that same message on.'

Tim laughed nervously. ‘And that means?'

‘I'm guessing it means that friend Hale is freelance. Cutbacks, you know. Sometimes work is farmed out, shall we say.'

‘Right,' Tim said doubtfully. ‘Charles, this sounds a little unreal.'

‘Well it isn't,' his uncle said quietly. ‘Remember that, Tim. This isn't an illusion; you can't control any of this with sleight of hand. It's serious and dangerous and my advice to you would be to let it go.'

Superintendent Aims was not a happy man. He felt he had twice been taken for a fool and DI Kendal had somehow been a party to it all. Kendal listened to him rant for a while, stopped listening after he had established that the problem was that neither the mysterious Hale nor Abe Jackson were what they seemed and set his mind instead to analysing what Jackson might have been after, what he, Kendal, and Mac might have told him that they might regret and what to do about it next.

Next was to call Mac.

‘World's going to hell,' Kendal pronounced.

‘You've only just noticed? Well, I take it that we're not going to get the extra help we were promised. On the plus side, neither are we now constrained by military intelligence.'

‘Were we ever?'

‘Not so you'd notice. Seriously though, Dave, what the hell is going on?'

‘If you find out, best let Aims know before he has a heart attack. Mac, it's late in the day, I'm for getting home and trying to get to grips with all of this tomorrow.'

‘You'll not find me arguing.'

Mac lowered the receiver, his mind playing with the facts.

‘Penny for them?' Miriam said, setting a mug of coffee down on the table between the two sofas.

‘That was Kendal. It seems Abe Jackson is a phoney, or at least, he's not what he claims to be.'

‘Aren't those two the same things?' She settled beside him, leaning with her back against the arm of the sofa and her feet in his lap, her own mug cradled between her hands.

‘Not exactly. I mean, Abe Jackson isn't working for the government … not now. But he's an ex-soldier, he's moved in those circles, so it isn't exactly an out-and-out lie, but …'

‘He isn't now. OK. So who is he working for?'

‘That,' Mac considered, ‘is probably the main question. The other being what was Paul doing that everyone seems to want a part of? Jackson, Hale … I mean we can presume they aren't working on the same side.'

‘Can we? And Hale isn't kosher either.' She frowned. ‘It has to be something about security. National, international, local. No, bigger than local. Something anti-terrorist?'

‘Paul was a games designer.'

‘And before that, he designed high-end security systems. And, if we can believe Jackson about anything, we know he was reverse engineering something.'

‘Which may or may not have something to do with sonar or radar which maybe implies something underwater?'

The phone rang again. ‘That'll be Rina, or Tim,' Miriam predicted. ‘I can tell by the tone of the ring.' She got up and handed him the phone, bent to kiss his cheek. ‘Don't be long,' she said.

Mac watched as she disappeared into the bedroom and then answered the phone. Miriam was right, it was Rina, Tim having reported back on his Uncle Charles' message.

‘Rum deal,' Rina said. ‘Mac, I know Miriam is there tonight, so I won't keep you, but Tim wanted me to pass on Charles' warning. He's concerned, Mac. Charles thinks this is something very big and very dangerous and he thought that before Tim told him about being driven off the road. He's all for coming down to sort things out, but Tim's managed to persuade him otherwise.'

‘Should I be glad about that?'

‘Oh yes,' Rina said with feeling. ‘I've met him twice and he's a lovely man, but, well, you know how once I told you there were three types of people? Those who lead, follow or get out of the way?'

‘Yees,' Mac said cautiously.

‘Well, neither Charles nor I could ever be classed as followers, but at least I give people the opportunity to get out of the way. Charles most certainly does not.'

I
t was getting dark outside and Lydia was sick of the television. She heard Joy go past in the hall, recognising the girl's light footsteps and, desperate for someone to talk to, followed her into the kitchen.

Joy turned and smiled. ‘Hi.'

‘Is it OK if I get a cup of tea?'

‘You know it is. Anything you like. I was just about to get something anyway.'