Interface: A Techno Thriller Read online

  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."

  "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?