Interface: A Techno Thriller Page 7

  "Nobody contacted me, but I can look him up if you like."

  Tom sighed. "He didn't give me his name. I'm pretty sure his nametag said 'Ric' if that helps."

  Samantha shook her head. "We have 25,000 staff. I'll need more than that."

  "Yeah, but we're only talking the 100 or so CERUS staff who were at the party: a male engineer whose name started 'Ric'... Can't be too many people who fit that profile."

  "I'll go and have a look for you. Anything else?"

  Tom closed his eyes. Perhaps he should just let this lie. Perhaps he shouldn't poke around for answers he might not like. He opened his eyes. "I also want to see the press photos from the party."

  Samantha looked puzzled, but shrugged. "I'll see what I can do." She turned and left.

  Tom slid open his desk drawer and picked up the mobile, noting it was fully charged and ready to go. Then he eased back in his chair and turned to the keyboard and shiny oversized monitor: ultra hi-res to display multiple pages of legal documents simultaneously. He reached out a hand to log in, but the screen winked on, flashing 'Good Morning, Tom.' He knew it was simply reading the ID card he carried, but it was still a little unnerving. He glanced over his messages; he'd only been with the company a few days, but already there were hundreds.

  "Do you have a moment?" called a voice.

  Tom looked up and saw Peter Marron smiling from the doorway. "Of course."

  "It's good to see you, Tom, but should you be back in the office so soon?"

  "I'm doing fine. I really appreciate the company covering the clinic to make sure, though."

  Marron raised a hand. "No need to thank us. And believe me, it was as much in our interests as yours."

  Samantha reappeared. "Excuse me, Mr Marron. Tom, I worked out who the engineer was: Richard Armstrong."

  Marron blinked. "Why were you asking after him?"

  Tom shrugged. "I spoke to him at the launch party." He turned to his secretary. "Is he free to meet?"

  "He seems to be out of the office today. I left a message for him to call you. As for the press photos, they're not available without authorisation from the executive team." She nodded in Marron's direction and strode away.

  "Press photos?" asked Marron. "I thought this was the legal department?"

  Tom took a deep breath. "I'm trying to reconstruct my evening. After my fall I'm having some memory lapses. I thought the photos might spark something."

  "Well, I think we can do better than the press photos. I'll arrange for you to view the CCTV footage."

  Tom smiled. "That would be great."

  TWENTY-ONE

  BERN STEPPED OUT OF THE lift on Level 64. Unlike the buzzing floors below and above, this one was quiet. Few CERUS ID cards even permitted access. In fact, as far as the system was concerned, Level 64 was not open for use. Temporary floor-to-ceiling screens divided the lobby from the rest of the level. Across the screens were notices reading RESTRICTED ACCESS: AREA AWAITING COMPLETION. And yet, in the middle of the screens, there was a high-specification security door. Bern approached it and placed his hand on the scanner. With a chime, the door swung inwards. Beyond was a self-contained research facility. Two labs, several small rooms, a tiny kitchen and a bathroom, all set up to allow its occupants to work undisturbed twenty-four hours a day. Bern walked into the largest lab, which was humming with the fans of a dozen high-powered servers and the steady suck of high-capacity air-filtration units. In one corner stood a gleaming black cylinder, twice the size of a dustbin: it was the most expensive piece of equipment in the room.

  "Hey, Boss." Holm, clad in jeans and a navy t-shirt, walked over from one the workbenches. "Come to check on the geniuses?"

  "I was told you had something to show me."

  Heidn stood up from a desk at the far side of the room, his grey hair looking more than usually dishevelled. "Is Bradley coming? We don't want to do this twice."

  "He had a call. And I'm not waiting."

  Heidn glanced at Holm. "We're making good progress, thanks to how well-resourced we are here."

  "Whatever you need." Bern shrugged. "Any questions about what's keeping you so busy?"

  "No more than usual, but I'll let you know if anyone develops a particular interest." Heidn walked over to the shiny black cylinder and patted it. "Current yield on the nano vat is fifteen per cent, but we'll improve it."

  "How long per batch?"

  "Twelve to fourteen hours. We haven't managed to get them to coalesce any quicker, but it's acceptable in any case."

  "Given how much time and money we've spent on this over the years, I'd have thought we'd do better."

  "That's a reflection on not focusing on building intravenous nanotech. A significant portion of our research has been wasted on the synthesis of nanomaterials for the Resurface Project." He ran a hand through his grey hair. "We need to get back to work of real importance. We could be refining our understanding of how to use the nanites as a delivery mechanism to boost bodily functions or block undesired processes: we could be delivering controllable, tailorable treatments for cancer and heart disease."

  "Personally, I want to get back to the truth nano," Holm said. "Chemical-free sodium pentothal: what's not to like!" He paused. "Well, other than the side effects, but--" Holm cut himself off, adjusting his glasses. "Anyway, back to our project. As intelligent nanites are inactive until they're coded that is where my magic comes in. I've parsed the helicopter operating system and I'm working on APIs with the nanites' base code. The bigger task is updating those clunky old Tantalus protocols, but I've been able to re-use a lot of code, even some of the interface systems used in this building." He turned to a desk and picked up a black box the size of a shoebox, with a small touchscreen display. "This control box effectively simulates how the interface will connect with the helicopter." He smiled. "Now, we just need to recreate it in our test subjects. We're trawling through the possible candidates, but it's hard getting quality subjects to volunteer these days."

  "What are you telling them?"

  "That we're developing a new type of brain scanner – the next generation in CAT scans – and that we need to inject a contrast dye during some of the testing for comparison purposes."

  "But won't they notice if the nanites activate?"

  "We're hoping they won't really understand what's going on. And once we demonstrate to the customer that they're viable, we just wipe the nanites by activating the fail-safes so that the node they've built becomes inactive. Then we thank the volunteers, they go on their way and everybody wins."

  "But what if they ever get ill?" asked Bern. "Wouldn't the node show up on a scan?"

  "It's not metallic so it's very unlikely. At the most a doctor would think it's a shadow or possibly a small benign tumour: ones of that size are not uncommon and, given the location, unlikely to need further investigation. If a subject did have brain surgery in that specific location, then I suppose it might be an issue but it's most unlikely anyone would realise what the node was, let alone connect it to us. No, the key thing is making sure we stay in control of the nanites. We've left some of the safety measures the government insisted on when they were involved in the previous project, like all our nanites can be deactivated by remotely sending a specific code, although it must be used with great caution because it's likely to cause temporary paralysis in the subject." He held up a remote control. "A controller like this can send out the right signal over a five metre range."

  "We also added our own safeguards," Heidn added. "Each active nanite emits a coded trace signal, at a very low frequency well outside the range of normal detection equipment. Should any of our nanites get stolen, we'll be able to track and retrieve them."

  "And where are we going to perform the process once we have the subjects?" Bern asked.

  "The key thing is that we keep them separate from this building. The name of CERUS must never be mentioned. No employee except the special lab teams must ever see them." Heidn adjusted his glasses. "Above all, it would hel
p if we could bring some other team members in. There's just too much work to be done in the time. Something has to give. Would you prefer it to be the timeframe or the team size?"

  Bern narrowed his eyes. "I'll involve Marron. I think he can make a difference."

  "We need engineers and scientists, not help hiring from HR: we can give you names."

  "Marron knows people. And security."

  "He seems to run security," said Heidn, shaking his head.

  Bern was about to answer when a soft alarm sounded. The heavy door opened and Bradley walked through. His face was grim. "Sorry to keep you waiting, but I had a call from the police. There's been an accident. Richard Armstrong was killed in a gas explosion at his home last night."

  Bern sighed. "Were we planning on using him for this project?"

  Holm turned away, scrubbing a hand over his face. "This is terrible."

  "We're all sorry this has happened, Ed," said Bern, "but we have to keep moving forward."

  "William, really," said Heidn. "Give us a moment."

  Bern shook his head. "We don't have that luxury. This project is bigger than any of us: than all of us."

  TWENTY-TWO

  GEORGE CROFT WAS WHISTLING AS he walked up to the door of the elegant Georgian House, just a couple of streets over from Regents Park. He had enjoyed a very pleasant lunch at the Ivy and was feeling convivial. He placed his palm on the panel next to the door and heard it click open. Stepping into the deeply shadowed interior, he removed his coat and nodded towards the familiar form of the guard standing to attention halfway along the hall.

  "Good afternoon, Mr Croft. How was lunch?" the guard asked.

  Croft smiled, marvelling at how the guard could look so relaxed with an automatic weapon swinging from his hip. "Any news?"

  "She's here," he said quietly. "Has been for more than an hour."

  Croft's smile vanished. "Then I'd better not keep her waiting any longer." He placed his palm on a matt black panel on the wall and a pair of double doors swung open. "Wish me luck."

  Stephanie Reems sat in Croft's chair, speaking rapidly into his phone. She glanced up as he walked in and waved him into the visitor's seat opposite her. She looked, thought Croft, considerably greyer two years after her appointment as the head of MI5. Although she was his immediate superior, he saw her in person only a few times a year, mostly on social occasions: that she had come to see him without an appointment was significant. Reems cradled the receiver and frowned across the desk at him. "Nice long lunch, George?"

  Croft glanced at his watch. It was nearly 4pm. "I was with the Chief Commissioner, maintaining interdepartmental relations."

  She shook her head. "It's the twenty-first century. I can't believe that business still revolves around flexing your expense account. And isn't he your second cousin?"

  "On my mother's side. Which is why I was given the detail in the first place. From experience I know he's usually more pliable after a decent meal."

  "Then I look forward to your report." She eased back in his chair. "I understand you called my office this morning."

  "Yes, Ma'am. Although I expected to come to you."

  "I was in the area. What was it about?"

  "Someone on a watch list has come to my attention. Richard Armstrong, an engineer at CERUS Biotech, died yesterday. A gas explosion." He reached across his desk and tapped a card folder. "It's all in here."

  Reems nodded and flicked through the pages. "Looks like an accident."

  "Isn't that what I'm supposed to check? I'll liaise with the Crime Scene Investigation Unit: visit the scene, and conduct my own analysis. And I'll dig into Mr Armstrong's recent activities, speak with CERUS: see if anything pops."

  "I suppose that sounds sensible."

  He paused. "Ma'am, is there something I should know? You'd usually just tell me to get on with it."

  "CERUS has very expensive lawyers. They won't take kindly to you poking around." She stood up. "Get things underway, but keep it low key. No one else in the department must know about this unless you consider it absolutely necessary. You report to me and me alone."

  TWENTY-THREE

  KATE PARKED HER CAR AND switched off the lights, but didn't move to get out. Instead, she just sat and stared at the police cordon ahead, staffed by a number of officers. She shouldn't be here, staring at what was left of Armstrong's house. She knew what Geraldine was going to say when she finally started answering her boss's calls: that it was an accident. That accidents happen, even in suspicious circumstances – and that this accident meant the opportunity was over. But she'd promised her boss a story. She'd promised herself a story: something jaw-dropping to get her career back on track. Armstrong might be gone, but the story wasn't. She just needed a new source. Maybe, with Armstrong dead, someone else might be running scared at CERUS and would be willing to blow the lid with sufficient monetary persuasion. She just needed to find that person.

  She unclipped her seatbelt and stepped from the car.

  "Can I help you, Madam?" asked a clipped voice from just behind her.

  Kate spun to see a uniformed policeman frowning at her. She hadn't realised any of the officers were so close. "I'm press." She reached into her pocket and produced her ID card.

  He took it from her and examined it closely, then removed a device from his pocket and seemed to swipe it.

  "What's that?" she asked.

  "Just for our records," he replied, handing the card back to her.

  "That's rather hi-tech." She glanced around and noticed that none of the other officers were close to them. "Can I go take a look?"

  He tilted his head to one side. "We finished the press conference earlier and there's no more access to the scene until the morning."

  "Look, I got stuck in traffic and my editor will kill me if I don't--"

  "Your ID says you work for a business journal. I wouldn't think you'd normally cover accidents."

  "Was it an accident?"

  His eyes narrowed. "Why do you ask?"

  "It would be a better story if there was foul play. You know, I've spoken to a lot police officers over the years and there is something not quite right about all this. About you. You behave more like a detective and it's interesting that none of the other officers seem to want anything to do with you. I wonder what would happen if I called one of them over here to talk to us both about our ID."

  His smile vanished. He pulled a phone from his pocket and listened to it, although Kate had not heard it ring. "If you'll excuse me, I have something to attend to. Good talking to you, Ms Turner, but I suggest you go home now."

  She watched him walk to the cordon and speak to the policewoman on duty. For a moment she considered marching over and asking her own questions. She was exactly who she said she was and, as a reporter, she was entitled to attend a scene like this and be curious.

  Only, of course, she wasn't just a reporter being nosy: she was a reporter who'd planned to write an exposé based on the evidence of the man whose house had just blown up with him in it. Now wasn't the time to push her luck. Kate turned, got back into her car and drove away.

  A few blocks on, she pulled up to the curb and dialled Geraldine's number. "I've just been to his house," she said the moment the call was answered. "I couldn't get into the scene, but I had a weird conversation with someone in a police uniform who wasn't like any cop I've ever met. His ID code was 633-751. Do me a favour and look him up."

  "Kate, what have you done?"

  "I need to find a new source at CERUS. When we met, Armstrong said something about speaking with the new company lawyer. It's a start. And we still have the nanites."

  "If that's what's really in the test tube. Could be green dye number five and some shavings of tinfoil. Maybe Armstrong blew his own house up because he's a nut." Geraldine hesitated. "Or maybe you're right. But if you are, this story just got someone killed. You're a scientist, why don't you look at our glittery little present and see what it really is? Though if it is something, we
need to weigh the risks... not just the risk of the story but the risks of not bringing the police in."

  Kate sighed. "You're right. Just... give me a day, OK? I'll see if I can find the lawyer – I'll tread carefully, I promise. If I can't find a new source by the end of the day, I'll reach out to a contact who still works as a researcher: get some time on an electron microscope and see what exactly Armstrong put in that test tube."

  Geraldine was quiet for a moment. "I'll hold you to that promise. Keep me updated."

  Kate disconnected the call and gripped the steering wheel, breathing slowly. It was time to get creative about chasing the story.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  IT WAS 7:30AM WHEN Tom walked through the front door of his apartment.

  Jo sat at the kitchen table eating a slice of thick, buttered toast. She raised a curious eyebrow. "Out all night? Anything you want to share?"

  "Sorry to disappoint – just an early check-up at the clinic." Tom took a seat at the table. "I got the all clear. The doctor almost looked distraught."

  "I'm sure you were a good source of income while it lasted." She looked down at a folder open on the table. "Come and help me with my Italian exam."

  "How am I supposed to do that?"

  She handed over a large sheet of paper with a list of words written in very small font. "Test me."

  Tom's eyes flickered over the page. "I can't pronounce any of this."

  "Say the English. I'll do the Italian."

  "How will I know if you got it right?"

  "We'll muddle through."

  Tom tested her for what his watch said was fifteen minutes, though it felt longer.

  "You should give this a try," said Jo. She held up her textbook and turned to the description on the back. "Learning a new language is a wonderful experience. Make new connections through the power of communication."