The Hidden Layer

The Hidden Layer

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THE HIDDEN LAYER

Copyright © Chris Nordberg 2007 Cover artwork copyright © Chris Nordberg 2007 All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by photocopying or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book. ISBN 978-1-4303-2422-5 First Published 2007 by lulu.com

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The Hidden Layer Chris Nordberg

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For Ivy and Ollie.

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Prologue

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Summer, 1980

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he blue box-van was parked at a careless angle in the restricted zone. It had been there in the scorching heat since lunchtime but nobody (including the Beijing traffic police) had taken the slightest bit of notice of it. Now, on the side of the van the long evening sunshine lit up a fine coating of dust and grime, revealing some Chinese characters that had been scrawled there by a passer-by. “Clean Me”. The front wheels were turned, pointing hastily towards the buildings along the pavement and one balding passenger tyre was squashed against the edge of the kerb, under-inflated. In contrast to the glare of the late sun the inside of the saloon bar was calm and subdued and the man sitting at the bar was thankful for the cooling effect of the air being moved around by the slowly rotating ceiling fans. He shifted his attention from the van outside the window to his new digital Casiotron and his eyes took a few seconds to respond in the relative gloominess. He pressed the top right button of his watch and the screen lit up revealing that the time was 7:02PM. He glanced down at his rucksack and ran his hand through his ruffled, wavy hair. The person he was waiting for obviously wasn’t going to be here tonight and he had already stayed for one extra beer, just in case she turned up. Swigging the last of his drink he thoughtfully set the bottle down on the bar. ‘Another drink Mr Robert?’ The bar tender filled the bowl with more nuts. ‘No thanks, I’m going.’ ‘Sure thing Mr Robert.’ He was tired from travelling and all he really wanted to do now was to go to bed. He shifted his weight to stand and just as he did so the doors to the establishment opened and four young women walked in. Three of the females looked to be local but the fourth was

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definitely a Westerner. At last. He rested back on the stool and waited for her see him. The women laughed quietly as they found a table but the Westerner scanned the room with a frown. There were more staff on than customers that evening so it didn’t take her long to make eye contact. She smiled, got back up and walked over to him casually. ‘You made it back then?’ she said, approaching. ‘Sure did.’ ‘Just the one week?’ A peck on one cheek, then the other, then a hug. ‘Believe me, one week was enough. Remember how hard it was getting here from Britain? Nothing compared to getting across that border. That was something else.’ ‘You didn’t spend long travelling then?’ ‘Four or five days. Hue was flooded so transport was dodgy. Hitched from Hanoi straight down to Nha Trang and got the train to Saigon from there.’ ‘You mean Ho Chi Minh City?’ ‘Not according to the locals,’ he smirked and noticed the little silver cross on a fine chain around her neck. ‘Care to join me and I’ll tell you all about it?’ ‘Sure, I’ve come with some friends.’ She motioned back to her table. ‘I’ll just go tell them I’m over here.’ As she walked off his eyes wandered from her long, waves of blonde hair, down her back, over her denim-clad buttocks and right down to her ankles. ‘What can I get you?’ he called after her, still grinning. ‘Yanjing please!’ He smiled again and swivelled back to the bar to order the drinks and that was the last thing he ever did. Time seemed to stop. The windows overlooking the street spontaneously cracked into a million pieces and razor-sharp shards catapulted horizontally into the bar as if gravity had suddenly swivelled by ninety degrees and was dragging them inwards. Long white flames followed right behind the glass shards, propelling them onwards. The window frames disintegrated and broke away from the surrounding walls. Heavy chunks of masonry from around the frames up-earthed themselves and started their sideways flight into the bar. In one place, directly next to where

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the blue van had been, the entire wall between two windows caved in under the enormous pressure pushing it from outside. The chairs and tables nearest the windows, complete with their few doomed occupants, lifted off the floor and joined the hurtling barrage of debris and fire that was sweeping the interior of the bar. As the blast pervaded the room, the brightly painted pillars of wood and plaster crumbled and fell away and the lethal mass of glass, wood, masonry, metal, flesh and bones and the scorching shockwaves of air proceeded to exterminate everything in its path. In that instant the man and the woman were swept away and time restarted. The ceiling, having been heaved upwards with the force of the enormous explosion, and with its supporting pillars blown away, buckled precariously, held for a few seconds, then with a crash collapsed through to the ground floor. Timber and furniture and plaster rained down into the scorched drinking area and fuelled the flames that had already taken hold. Later that evening, after the raging fires had been damped and the rubble had started to be cleared, the unidentifiable body of a young woman was dragged from the debris and identified by one of the shocked, surviving local women by her necklace and bracelet. She was Emma Taylor, an 18 year old from Bishop’s Stortford, England. Much later into the night, after the emergency services had cleared away more of the wreckage, a worker pulled a charred rucksack from the rubble. Inside the rucksack, amongst his other belongings, was the passport of one Robert Asher, also 18 and from England. Soon after they found his poor, lifeless body too.

‘Oh. Can I help you?’ said the man to the two police officers standing on his front doorstep. The little boy peeked out from the kitchen doorway and down the hall to see if he could see who it was. Nothing. His father was in the way. ‘Good morning sir. I’m Detective Inspector Barnes from the Bishop’s Stortford Constabulary. This is PC Stanley. Are you Mr Richard Taylor?’

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‘Yes, that’s me. Is everything alright?’ ‘May we come in sir? We’d like to talk to you and your wife. It’s about your daughter.’ ‘Oh, right. Yes, please come in,’ said the father and as he stepped aside the little boy ducked back into the kitchen and flattened his back against the wall, eyes wide. This was exciting. His father turned and shouted up the stairs. ‘Ademia? Ademia! We’ve got visitors! She’ll be right down,’ he said to Barnes. He ushered them both into the living room where they waited in silence for a moment, then he tutted. ‘The woman’s always fussing about something. Ademia!’ Ademia Taylor bounced down the stairs with perfectly coiffed hair and magazine-cover make-up. She stopped to compose herself then made her entrance with grace. On seeing two police officers in her home her face dropped to a look of consternation. ‘Good morning Mrs Taylor. Please sit down sir, madam, I’m afraid we have some bad news.’ The boy’s mother and father sat down at either ends of the settee as usual and one of the police officers closed the living room door. The little boy ran up the corridor and pressed his ear against the door to listen. The voices were muffled a bit but he could hear them perfectly well. ‘Really? What is it?’ he heard his mother say. ‘Firstly I need you to confirm that your daughter has been visiting China recently. Is that correct?’ said Barnes. ‘Yes, she’s in Beijing, what’s wrong?’ said his father. ‘Sir, I don’t know all the detail but you may or may not know that there are currently some political tensions in China and that yesterday there was a bombing in Beijing?’ ‘A bombing? No, I wasn’t aware...tell me Emma’s alright!’ ‘I’m afraid not sir. The British Embassy in Beijing has informed us that the body of an Emma Taylor was found and identified yesterday by her friends. She was one of ten people to be caught in the blast at a bar in central Beijing.’ Nobody spoke from behind the door for a long while, then PC Stanley broke the silence. ‘I’m very sorry sir, madam. When the Chinese authorities have completed their investigations your daughter will be repatriated and

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you’ll be required to make a formal identification. We’re hoping it won’t take more than a few days.’ In the hallway their only other child, a six year old boy, sat on the floor with tears welling up in his eyes. He didn’t understand fully what he’d overheard but it was definitely about his big sister and it sounded bad. The words he had understood were the ones like “bomb”, “bad news” and “daughter”. Put together they made a frightening picture. From the living room came the sound of his mother wailing, which made him cry too. But his father was strong and made no sound, so the little boy shed his tears silently and vowed through pursed lips never to cry again.

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1982 - 1984 It was early evening and Rachel had waited impatiently all day for this moment. In fact she’d waited patiently for the best part of the year but today the suspense was especially unbearable. Ever since the school had bought a desktop computer she’d known there and then that that was what she’d wanted. She had to have one. Eagerly she tore the wrapping paper from the large package and underneath was the glossy surface of a cardboard box upon which was emblazoned a dramatic photograph of a computer. But it wasn’t what she was expecting. She frowned, afraid that her father had messed up, then she realised that it was in fact a superior model. It was different to the one in her classroom but the highly distorted perspective of the picture made the machine look many times larger than it actually was. It had the desired effect on Rachel and her eyes opened wide with excitement. ‘Oh wow! This is better than the one we’ve got at school! Thank you!’ Her father smiled at his eight year-old daughter and nodded knowingly. The seal on the box had already been broken so she was able to delve right in and pull out a grey and black computer that was no bigger than a writing pad. She set it carefully down on the floor and ran her fingers over the upward facing surface. It was raised and angled towards her and was covered with thin, white keys. Rachel thought it looked like someone had arranged a boxful of Tic-Tacs into rows. She reached in again and pulled out a bag of wires, followed by a heavy black power pack, a spiral-bound book with the same image on it as the box had, a tape recorder and finally a pack of ten cassette tapes, all with different pictures on. The rest was foam packaging, almost to Rachel’s disappointment. Desperate to try the computer out, Rachel was made to wait until her mother had finished watching Paul Daniels’ Magical Christmas. Within minutes of the credits rolling the living room television had been commandeered as a screen and the little computer was screeching and flashing as it loaded it’s first game from the tape player. She couldn’t wait to show her friend Marcus. He would be so jealous! His father might have been rich but he was strict and never bought Marcus things like this. Rachel’s parents knew it and seemed to delight in having Marcus over to play.

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So by Boxing Day she and Marcus had tried all ten of the games. By New Year’s Day they had all been completed and Rachel was so absorbed by the computer that her father realised he was going to have to buy her her own portable TV to use with it. The games were entertaining but they weren’t quite enough for Rachel – she was more interested in getting underneath the hood of the computer. In the weeks that followed Christmas she developed a rapacious appetite for learning about the little machine’s capabilities and within a couple of months, with a few pointers from her teacher at school, she had figured out how to make the computer save snippets of information onto blank 15-minute cassette tapes. Her friends’ names and addresses suddenly found themselves in digital form on what she called her “stored people tape” but she was frustrated by how slow the whole thing was. Reluctantly she accepted the limitations because she knew it was one of the better machines on the market. But Rachel had big ambitions and learned all she could about computers from her teacher and by reading magazines. Most of what she found was to do with industrial or scientific machines, or games and other people’s software but what she was really interested in was how computers interacted with their human owners. She was puzzled as to why the language of computers was so regimented and longed for it to be more “organic”. To this end, within a year she had tried to fool her technologically ignorant parents into believing the little computer was intelligent. Her goal was to make the computer somehow cognisant – her rudimentary program recognised key English phrases and responded to them in a life-like manner. But being so young she had no idea of the chasm between her dreams and the realms of possibility. ‘Mum, try it now!’ she would demand time and time again after she had carried out improvements. ‘That’s very good dear,’ her mother would say after slowly typing phrases into the computer to illicit the required responses. ‘Much better than last time. I’m so proud of you!’ By this time Rachel was just nine and her parents spotted the child-like language patterns easily and soon exhausted the program’s tiny vocabulary. Undeterred and not lacking ability she persisted and the following Christmas brought Rachel a new computer with more memory and a stronger processor. This time, as Rachel already had

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her own screen, her mother was free to enjoy Revenge of the Pink Panther in peace. Obsessed with improving her artificial friend she read all she could about Alan Turing and his test for machine intelligence. She dreamed of the day computers would become powerful enough to make someone think that they were conversing on-screen with a fellow human being. She re-wrote her software on her new machine and was delighted to discover that it ran many times faster. She expanded its vocabulary and depth of syntax analysis and it worked better with every month that passed. But it was simplistic and always in the back of her mind she was aware that her design was fundamentally limited. There were a finite number of words the program knew and grammatical constructs it could decipher. And no matter how much Rachel improved and added to the program she was beginning to realise that she could never hope to replicate the entire English language or keep up with its evolution. The more Rachel thought about it the more she knew she was right. The problem was that her program had no capability to expand itself. To learn, like people. By the age of ten, she knew that that was where the answer lay. ‘Dad, how do I make the computer learn?’ she asked one day. ‘I don’t know poppet,’ replied her father, absently scanning his newspaper. ‘Why?’ ‘I want to be the first to make a program that passes the Turing Test.’ ‘Really?’ Her father raised an eyebrow, impressed, and folded his paper. He was a literary man and had read about Alan Turing, the leading AI theorist in the 1950s. He made an educated guess. ‘Well then let’s have a think. OK, let’s start here : when you learn something where does the new stuff go?’ ‘Into my brain?’ ‘OK good. Now, you know what your brain is made of?’ ‘No.’ ‘Well, there are lots of little switches in your brain. Lots and lots of them. They’re called neurons.’ ‘Noorons.’ ‘Yes and it’s your neurons that store all the information you learn. They’re responsible for all sorts of things like remembering, recognising and reasoning.’

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‘You mean working things out?’ ‘Exactly.’ ‘So we’re using our noorons now?’ ‘That’s right, yes we are.’ Rachel pondered the new information. ‘Dad?’ ‘Yes love?’ ‘If you ask a computer if it wants to die and it says no, then does that mean it’s alive?’ Her father breathed out so that his cheeks inflated and his eyes widened. ‘Well honey, if you managed to make a computer that could think that way, you’d be playing some kind of God. And I really don’t think that’s possible just yet. Not with the technology they have at the moment.’ ‘But if its memory was full of enough noorons it could think like us.’ ‘Well, I suppose so.’ There followed a few seconds of silence before the next question came. ‘And what if you turned it off? Would that be like killing it?’ ‘Hmm. In a way I suppose it would. But it’s going to be a long, long time before they get to that particular dilemma.’ Rachel pursed her lips and frowned at her father, not altogether satisfied with the answer. ‘Dad?’ ‘Yes…?’ ‘Can we go to the library?’ ‘Sure. What for honey?’ ‘I want to learn about noorons.’ ‘It’s neurons darling.’ ‘Neurons,’ she repeated.

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Twenty-Six Years Later on Sunday May 16th, 2010 In the dark hours of the morning, deep in the heart of Ceptron, a subordinate process was created from nothing and blinked into life. The superior process that had summoned it commanded it to take note of what was about to happen. At 0.37 seconds, its life was short but productive. >Analysis Logger started

>New inet found (full-path=http://www.j&rresearch.com) >Searching for inet directory…Found inet directory >Downloading inet structure…Done

>Searching main page…No data found >Searching level 1 (4 links)…

>L 1 No data found. Searching level 2 (1 links)… >L 1.1 No data found (0 links). Exiting

>L 2 No data found. Searching level 2 (2 links)… >L 2.1 No data found (0 links). Exiting >L 2.2 No data found (0 links). Exiting >L 3 No data found (0 links). Exiting

>L 4 Possible data found…analysing… >Data: Price format, Dates: Present, Page: Current, Authorisation: Stamped for

manual upload

>Finding sender…Found (full-path=jasher@j&rresearch.com) >Packaging for upload…Done

>Requesting upload to Ceptron Processor…Granted >Uploading to Ceptron Processor…Complete >Analsysis Logger stopped.

The moment the subordinate process had completed everything that had been required of it, and without a single thought, the superior process killed it and left no trace that it had ever existed. The superior process was itself subordinate to a higher commanding process and in due course, it too would be terminated in the same clinical way.

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1 Do You Forget?

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Thursday, July 19th 2012

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sher’s heart pounded quickly in his chest as a seeming torrent of sweat soaked his shirt. It wasn’t hot on the plane, this was psychological. He could feel every last drop of oxygen being squeezed from his lungs as he sat in his big, leather, first-class swivel chair. As he was forcing himself to take a few slow, deep breaths to calm down a friendly looking stewardess came over and asked if he would like a pre-take-off drink. Something to settle in with. ‘Yes,’ breathed Asher. ‘Give me a beer.’ ‘Sure. We’ve got Yanjing, Tsingtao and Heineken.’ Asher didn’t even need to think about it. ‘Heineken thanks.’ ‘Certainly Mr Asher. Enjoy, and I hope you really do have the Best Day.’ She smiled warmly. The Best Day. The latest craze-phrase to permeate the Western World. You can’t just have a Nice Day any more, thought Asher. You have to actively demonstrate your resilience in the face of adversity by proclaiming you’re having the Best bloody Day ever. He wasn’t a fad person and didn’t care much for the phrase but he accepted it as something other people said. Terrorism has a lot to answer for, he thought cynically and wiped some sweat from his brow. ‘Yeah, thanks.’ He watched the safety demonstration in a half daze and sipped his beer, which did a lot to settle his nerves, and minutes later, at precisely five o’clock, a quarter million pounds of thrust from the four Trent 900 Fanjets pushed his expansive seat onboard Air China flight 0936 into his back. Calmer now, Asher closed his eyes and waited for the upward climb to complete. Ten minutes later still and the sunlight that had streamed through the starboard windows during take-off had disappeared as they’d turned and soared into the cloudless sky. He

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watched the receding patchwork of tiny fields give way to the rugged coastline and the blue expanse of the English Channel and, craning his neck down and backwards, thought he recognised a few landmarks. Yes, wasn’t that was Osea Island, the distinctive old World War I base just out in the estuary? That meant they were heading…north. He twisted his neck even further and looked backwards until he could see the Thames emptying into the English Channel. North? But surely Beijing was south? Suddenly panic gripped him again. What was going on? Think. Think think. The stewardess had announced Beijing hadn’t she? Was he on the wrong aeroplane? Oh my god I’m on the wrong flight! I misheard all the announcements and they let me on! She said some other destination and I heard “Beijing”! What sounds like Beijing? Linköping? Helsinki? Minsk? Asher was half rising from his seat, trapped by his seat-belt, scanning for a stewardess but there were none to be seen. ‘Good evening everyone,’ said a reassuring voice on the PA. ‘I’m your Captain, Dan Tucker, and I’d like to welcome you aboard this Air China flight to Beijing today.’ Asher breathed a long sigh of relief and sank back down into his seat. This was too much for him! Ironically it wasn’t flying that was causing him the problem. It was flying to China. He had been there before, or so his parents had assured him, when he’d been small. The only memory he had was the pungent smell of incense and a smoky image of a small man with a short beard. Now he felt sick at the very thought of having to go there again. His insides turned to jelly just at the mention of the word “Beijing”. He knew it was irrational but he had also known for a very long time that one day he would have to bite the bullet, as it were, and go. It was the only way – his searching had hit obstacle after obstacle and then come to a grinding halt. So now that day had come, and here he was. ‘We’ll be cruising at 39 thousand feet and the observant among you will have noticed that we’re currently flying in a north-easterly direction. Reason being that although Beijing is on a more southerly latitude than London, the shortest route is actually to fly what we in the business call a great circle around the Earth, over the top as it were. This’ll take us north-eastwards over Denmark, Sweden and Finland, staying a little bit south of the Arctic Circle to ride the jet stream, and then across Russia and Mongolia and we’ll finally dip down into northern China to approach Beijing from the north-west.

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The local time in Beijing is twelve minutes past midnight and the temperature over there is currently a balmy 27 degrees and a lot warmer in the daytime. So just sit back, let the cabin crew help you enjoy the flight and have the Best Day.’ Asher grimaced – even the captain (and he usually held pilots in high regard) was infected. He was stuck on board a plane, being flown to a country he hated by a happy-go-lucky captain and being served by a stewardess wearing what looked like a drug-induced perma-grin. He laughed at himself, at the inescapable absurdity of his situation, sank deeper into his seat and let the journey proceed as advertised. For the most part he found it dull. He ate the food they offered him, exhausted the films he was interested in, listened to the radio until he was sure it had looped around, wasn’t keen on the mediocre video games and stayed well away from the extortionately expensive air-to-surface telephone. He spent a lot of time walking to the bar and back, at first just for the exercise but then somewhere over Russia an idea struck him. He decided to get drunk. During the few flights he had taken he had developed a theory, which was that the best way to reset one’s body clock was to drink just enough alcohol then sleep through the time zones. In getting drunk his clock would be scrambled and would be forced to synchronise itself to the local time of whichever zone it happened to find itself sobering up in. He had yet to find out how much was “just enough”, as he always seemed to overdo it and the hangovers usually kicked in even before he’d reached his destination but he vowed to keep trying. So he drank his way through Mongolia and somewhere over north-western China he decided he was nicely drunk enough and settled down to sleep. It was a working theory but Asher was always willing to attempt to disprove it. Behind them to the west, unbeknown to Asher as he slept, the sun set more quickly than usual and the plane rushed eastwards to meet it again, condensing the night and making the dawn break three hours sooner than it should have, and when they touched down at Beijing International Airport it was nine the following morning. Asher always found it a little harder travelling eastwards, even though he was fastforwarding into someone else’s day. He usually found that his internal clock had trouble winding down and going to bed at the end of a tooshort day when it wasn’t ready, so he’d always had an easier time of

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westward journeys. But this time he seemed to have finally proven his theory! His body really thought it had had a good night’s sleep and was ready for a new day, even though back in England it was still only two in the morning. He was alert now and with so much that lay ahead to think about, the dread of touching-down on Chinese soil had completely evaporated. It had been like sitting an exam where the build-up, the anticipation, was crippling. But once he was sat at that desk, pen in hand and the invigilator’s clock had started its countdown, there was a job to do and the fear was gone.

Friday, July 20th 2012 ‘TERROR ON BRITAIN’S ROADS’ announced the female newsreader to a staccato of orchestral stabs. ‘Good morning. There is chaos on Britain’s roads and motorways this morning following a car bomb explosion on the M25. More than two hundred people are believed to have been killed in a blast that caused a 500 vehicle pile-up during London’s morning rush-hour. The road was brought to a complete standstill in both directions as cars piled up on the east and westbound carriageways bringing death and destruction. It is believed to be Britain’s worst ever terrorist attack. ‘More than two hundred people are now confirmed dead with another nine in critical condition at the Royal London Hospital. Because of the total gridlock on the surrounding roads London’s Air Ambulance was summoned and was on the scene within 10 minutes of the incident. Police say that there may still be casualties that are unaccounted for and bomb squads and fire crews are working hard to make the area safe. It won’t be until tomorrow until forensic teams can start analysing the wreckage for clues as to who is responsible and the damage to the road is so extensive that it is likely to be months before the motorway can be re-opened. ‘The bomb was detonated at precisely 8:45 this morning in the fast lane of the westbound carriageway just east of Junction 9. The vehicle that was used for the attack, which police believe was an unmarked white van, was recorded by motorway cameras travelling

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at over 80 mph in the dense rush-hour traffic. The traffic on the eastbound carriage was travelling at a similar speed. The blast was so large that police say the occupants of any vehicles within 50 meters of the explosion would probably have died instantly. More people died in the ensuing pile-ups due to an unusual period of fastmoving traffic on both sides of the motorway. ‘No one has yet claimed responsibility for the bombing, although intelligence sources report that it could be a group not previously believed to be capable of militant action. Repercussions of the blast are being felt across the country as people are staying away from motorways and dual carriageways and using smaller roads and the railways instead. Roadside rescue service “The AA” have requested that people stay at home unless travel is absolutely necessary. They say they are stretched to breaking point as more accidents and breakdowns are occurring due to the increased traffic levels and panicky driving on major routes. ‘We’ll now go over live to the scene of the bombing where our correspondent Robert Westmoreland has the latest details. Bob, what’s the situation right now?’ Coverage switched to a suited man standing next to a road strewn with endless pieces of blackened, twisted vehicles. In the background emergency crews ran back and forth. ‘Yes Wendy. Well I can tell you that all 33 junctions on the entire 118 mile-long London Orbital are now closed and police are requesting drivers to stay away from all parts of the M25 and its connecting roads. A huge operation is already underway to get the hundreds of miles of tailbacks turned around and cleared and the operation to rescue stranded motorists is expected to last well into tomorrow. ‘Junction 9, which is not far along the road from here, connects the M25 with the A243, itself a major trunk road into London from the south coast. Now although the bomb detonated a short distance before that junction, a ten mile section of the A243 has also been closed as a precaution while the roads are cleared and investigations are being carried out. ‘It’s not yet known what kind of bomb was used in the attack, or where the terrorists were from. It is also not known whether the van had been hired or if it was privately owned but initial analysis suggests that it was probably packed to capacity with explosives.

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Special Operations have seized all CCTV footage from the M25 Control Centre at South Mimms and those tapes plus footage from the surrounding road network will be analysed as a key part of their ongoing investigations. For now though the emergency services are doing all they can to clear the debris and retrieve the remaining bodies. Needless to say this is one of the most horrific atrocities this reporter has ever witnessed and the backlash in the international community will be unprecedented. At this point we don’t know much more but I’ll be remaining on the scene and the police are due to make a press-statement any time soon. For now, back to you in the studio.’

Asher was so eager to get started that, as soon as he was free of immigration and baggage reclaim, he jumped in a taxi and took a twenty mile ride across town from the airport directly to the National Library of China. He was so focussed on the task ahead that he hadn’t even stopped to wonder about being on a different continent, in a different country, amongst people of a different culture. Now, standing at the imposing entrance to the library, he looked up into the cloud-speckled blue sky for the first time and breathed a big sigh of relief. This was it, the start of his search. It was warmer here than the English mornings had been lately, and it seemed drier too. The sun was higher in the sky, more like noon in England, and the blue-tiled overhangs of the building’s assorted roofs cast crisp shadows across the pristine, white-pillared exterior. As libraries go, it was impressive. With its tens of millions of volumes Asher was certain his search wouldn’t take long – this was a place that held more Chinese publications than anywhere else in the whole world and in preparation for this moment, he had made a concerted effort during the course of the previous year to learn some basic Mandarin. That way he imagined that when he actually arrived and started digging around he would be able to figure out at least a tiny bit of what he was to be confronted with. Unfortunately by late afternoon, sat in one of the grand library’s many reading rooms and after ploughing his way through a mountain of reports, books, newspapers and journals, Asher was starting to

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think he had let his optimism get the better of him. He’d found nothing of value at all and by four o’clock he’d exhausted himself mentally. He left the library, despondent and hungry, and took another taxi to his accommodation near the centre of town. The Harmony Hotel was a modern, Western-with-a-hint-of-China, three-star establishment on a backstreet near the railway station and main tourist attractions that, being so central, suited Asher’s requirements perfectly. After checking-in at the glitzy-looking reception and then having to force himself to go down to the restaurant to put some food into his empty, groaning stomach, Asher was so tired and his bed so soft and familiar, that he was fast asleep by six thirty that evening.

Saturday, July 21st 2012 It turned out that the trick he had played on his body clock hadn’t worked that well after all and having been forced seven hours out of its normal routine his biorhythm was syncopated and his sleep that night was fitful. He tossed and turned all night, never being fully, deeply asleep and on his second day he awoke feeling tired and drained at four in the morning. Not having anything else to do he watched Chinese TV mindlessly until seven, then had a shower and a shave. He didn’t know what to expect from breakfast and he went down to the blue-and-beige, bamboo-festooned restaurant with an open-mind. The morning goods consisted of some alien food that Asher had never seen before lunchtime – water-melon, banana, star fruit, mango and tea. Delicious as it was it left him wanting and he went back for the sausage, egg and coffee too. Then, replete, he decided his body had all the calories it needed to reset itself and get on with the day. And today was going to take a bit of courage. Disappointed with the library he’d had the idea that he might get further by going to talk to someone in person at the police station. It occurred to him that he should probably ring ahead and arrange an appointment but thinking about it further he decided he would just go. They probably wouldn’t even understand him on the telephone anyway and as this could be his only life-line he didn’t want to take the risk of being turned down

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point blank and so spoil his chances. And besides, he thought, they might warm to a charming Englishman on an impromptu, friendly visit and that might give him a slim chance of getting to talk to somebody. He would be suave and compelling. Persuasive and convincing. So, full of optimism once again he made his way out into Beijing on foot for the first time. The woman at reception had drawn him a little diagram of how to get to the police station – at the southern end of Tiananmen Square it would have been an ideal opportunity to visit the great Chairman Mao’s resting place but, thought Asher, there’s no time for sight-seeing on this trip. After half an hour’s walk he arrived at an intimidating, dark office building that was the Beijing Municipal Police Headquarters and, standing outside, took a few deep breaths, composed himself and went in, putting on an air of friendly confidence. He couldn’t even get past the front desk at reception. He was a gibbering idiot. If anything, Asher could see the officers becoming more and more alarmed that a totally foreign stranger had appeared apparently from nowhere, ranting in pigeon-Mandarin about bombings that had happened decades ago sometime between the Vietnam War and the uprising of ‘89. When Asher glimpsed the confusion in their eyes and their twitching fingers fiddling with holster catches he muddled through some sincere apologies and exited quickly, shamefully embarrassed about how naïve his grand idea had been. The police had been no more cooperative or courteous to him than the local constabulary back in England would have been to a drunken, loud-mouthed, foreign lager lout. In hindsight he thought he had probably got away lightly. He was annoyed, firstly by the fact that he hadn’t gleaned anything at all – nothing. And secondly, how stupid was he anyway? Stupid, stupid idiot! Had he not learnt anything about Chinese authority from his years of study? The more he thought about it, the more he cringed and the more he wanted to jump on the next aeroplane and fly back home into the safe, welcoming arms of England. But he didn’t. What he wanted, he wanted far too desperately.

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Asher was at a loss. His very loose plan for the rest of the day was to visit an internet café down on Wangfujing Street a short walk away to see if he could dig anything up on the local internet. He left the square and wandered along some of the crooked, cobbled hutongs and eventually made it out to a café in the main shopping district. His usual ‘net surfing would be conducted from his comfortable swivelchair and armed with a large mug of milky coffee but today he had to make do with a grubby keyboard and a small pot of one of the lightly scented varieties of tea they offered. Despite the caffeine set-back and equipped with his drink, Asher set to work on the internet, which he found completely disorienting and to his dismay revealed even less than his pre-visit searches he had carried out in his own living room in Kingston upon Thames. Although the keyboard was covered in bits of Chinese characters he had no idea how to use it and his vocabulary was so small that he couldn’t have typed anything useful even if he had known. So he resorted once again to Pinyin, the English-looking, Chinese-sounding words one could type on a normal Roman-lettered keyboard. But on top of this encumbrance, heavy internet censorship rendered his every search futile, returning only articles that had been pre-filtered for him by the thousands of members of the government-run internet police. Asher realised that he was looking at the ‘authorised’ version of the world, so he gave up before lunch and ventured out into the shopping district to find something to eat. A noodle bar that served something that looked quite a lot like chicken chow-mein caught his attention, so he ate there and mulled over his next move. The morning’s efforts had yielded nothing and he could feel the time slipping away like sand through his fingers. Downhearted and with no other leads he decided to go sight seeing to clear his mind, so he finished his food leisurely and walked, aimlessly at first, ending up at the huge walls of the ancient Forbidden City. Then he headed back down to the enormous, majestic Tiananmen Square – the scene of the famous protests. He remembered the uprising well – he had been 16 back then – and he marvelled at how such recent history had been utterly obliterated by those in control. The lone civilian, armed only with his briefcase, standing in front of the line of tanks. One man halting the might of the Chinese military. It put him in mind of an illustration in a science fiction story he’d read once before where a preacher had held his crucifix up to a line of advancing, unstoppable

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Martian machines. The ultimate symbol of resistance against the allpowerful. He took a red taxi out to the Great Wall and mused at how vigilantly history there had been preserved. Enshrine the good, eradicate the bad. Asher reflected on how close that was to his own philosophy right now and it was while he was walking along the Wall that he remembered the photograph his mother had given to him, deep in the bottom of his rucksack. The thirty year old proof that his brother had been here. Not here, exactly, not on the Wall. But in Beijing. He stopped for a while to dig out the picture and look at it. Although it was somebody else, not Robert, in the picture it represented his family’s final memory of him. Robert was here. It occurred to Asher that he didn’t actually know where here was and although he and his parents had visited right after the incident, the details of locations and contacts they used to have had been lost long ago. He looked closer and, as he had done many times before, tried to work out the name of the eatery in the right corner of the picture. It began “Cho-” in Western script but the rest was hidden behind a lamppost and a road sign. Damn! If only his brother had stood a couple of feet to the left. But it was the place next door – the bar – that was the subject of his search and it suddenly struck him that although “Cho-” was all he really had to go on he could probably identify the location of the colourfully adorned buildings and surroundings by their uniqueness alone. He just had to scour the streets thoroughly enough. Easier said than done but with a new direction and an strengthened urge to get somewhere on this quest of his, he returned to town to start his search by foot. He took another cab back into town and spent the rest of the day trawling the streets for anything that might give him a clue. He walked along the big wide avenues, down the narrower side streets and through more of the thin hutongs where the people of Beijing traditionally lived their lives and plied their trades. He walked until his feet ached but he kept going. He even made a couple of unplanned stops at museums in the hope that one of them might have a historical record of some kind but even that was in vain. His legs started to ache but he carried on walking and searching. Then, when his back started aching too, he finally stopped exhausted. He was even more frustrated than before because this was his last hope, his final strategy. He had no more cards to play

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but despite the lack of progress (and perhaps because of the energy he had expended through the day) he slept soundly that night.

Sunday, July 22nd 2012 It wasn’t until his third day in Beijing, after the library, the internet and the police had all failed him, after combing the streets, the avenues and the hutongs fruitlessly and just as he was beginning to believe the whole trip had been a huge waste of time and money, that Asher got anywhere near to obtaining the information he had come for.

He sauntered along the busy road with his rucksack on his back and the old photo in his hand. Thirty years had passed since the picture had been taken and the faded colour was yellowing around the edges. He had studied the image that many times that he didn’t really need it with him. Memorised every detail. But better safe than sorry. He looked down at the picture once more, for comfort more than anything. Scrawled in the lower right corner was the note: “This is the girl I met!” The young woman being referred to in the photo smiled back at him without a care in the world. “Look, a bar!” she seemed to be saying, pointing to the door of the blue-fronted establishment behind her. Asher looked up at the office block directly across the junction. No, that wasn’t it. Right colour, wrong style. But the building next door looked familiar. He glanced at the photo again and held it up so he could match the two views. He studied the picture harder. The lampposts seemed to be in a similar position. Asher waited for the lights to change and made his way across the junction to the market vendors that lined the road the other side. From behind the stall canvases he stood looking first at the building, then to the one next-door, then to the photograph. Yes, this was the place alright. Although the building he was interested in was

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unrecognisable, standing next to it was an old chop-suey house, almost exactly as it had been in the photograph. The only differences were that the windows were less ornate now and the pink neon sign had been replaced with a lurid, flashing green one. “Chop Chop!” it flickered. The original window panes and glass tubes obviously hadn’t survived the explosion but otherwise the place seemed untouched. The chop suey house obviously hadn’t borne the brunt of the explosion, whereas the bar had. Of course! If the bar hadn’t survived at all they were hardly likely to have rebuilt it in exactly the same way. No, they’d have replaced it with something new and fresh. Something just like the glitzy office block he was now looking at between the canvasses of the market stalls. He stuffed the photo back in his wallet and walked along the road a few yards until he found a gap he could push his way through. He found himself sidling between the two stalls, one selling cheap, shiny gadgets and one selling what looked to be rather good fake designer clothes. The gadget man was young, fat and smiling. Asher nodded an apology to him and twisted away to face the clothes stall instead, which was being run by a frail old lady. From her stool she gave Asher a toothless, wrinkled smile and presented her range of designerlabel sweat-shirts with a gesturing sweep of both of her gnarled hands. Asher wasn’t there for sweat-shirts, although they did look pretty good. He picked up a dark green one and tried a bit of Mandarin. ‘Duoshao qian?’ The woman smiled again. ‘Five hundred,’ she squawked in English. The traders all knew English; he knew that but he was of the opinion that people appreciated it more if one made an effort. He looked the sweat-shirt over and smiled. ‘No, that’s too much.’ ‘OK, how much you pay?’ ‘Two hundred.’ ‘No, no, no. Good quality, look! Designer. Four fifty.’ ‘It’s fake though!’ Asher had learned hard bargaining the moment he had stepped out of the airport and been offered five taxis into town. In his rush he had chosen one at random and offered half of the asking fare and to his surprise the tout had accepted immediately, which gave

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Asher the suspicion that he was still being ripped off. ‘I’m sorry, I just think it’s too much for a fake label. Two twenty.’ ‘Can’t sell so cheap! I have family to feed! Four hundred. Best price!’ ‘No, sorry. My best price is two twenty.’ ‘No, no, no. You have bargain, three fifty. Best price for you.’ ‘No, it’s too much. I have to go now. Thanks anyway.’ Asher turned and started walking away, counting to himself. Three, two, one. ‘OK! OK! You have bargain! Two twenty!’ He smiled and turned back to find the sweat-shirt already wrapped in a plastic bag.’ ‘Great!’ ‘I cut arm off for you! No food for family now.’ This little old lady wasn’t as frail as she seemed, although Asher could see it was all an act. She watched eagerly as Asher opened his wallet. He was pleased with the outcome – he’d never had a gift for bartering and so, feeling generous, he separated out two hundred and fifty yuan inside his wallet. ‘OK. Here you go.’ As he pulled the notes out with a flourish, the photograph came too and tumbled groundwards. Instinctively the little old lady flicked out her hand and caught it mid-flight. Asher watched in amazement as she slowly turned it over to look at the picture side. Then her smile faded and she looked up at him, her gaunt sockets housing tiny, black, pin-prick eyes. Asher held the money out for her but she just looked back at the picture and smiled. She was still for what Asher thought must have been a very long time, then she put the photo on top of Asher’s money in his hand and gently pushed the whole thing back to him. She looked up and there were tears in her eyes. ‘No. Sweat-shirt free for you. Old happy memory worth two twenty.’ ‘Wait, do you recognise this?’ Asher bent down to the old lady’s level. ‘I know this. Long time ago. I sell clothes here too.’ ‘But do you remember the bar?’

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‘Yes. Bar is very good bar long time ago. Xian Yin. Crazy man make bad fire with bar. But I not here.’ She shook her head and waved a finger at Asher. ‘I have lucky day off.’ ‘I’ll say. Did you know the owner?’ ‘I know owner.’ The old lady nodded slowly. ‘Sorry, you know him, or you knew him? Is he still alive?’ ‘Yes, I know owner. Long time ago. He alive.’ ‘Can you tell me where he is?’ ‘OK. I give street. I give number. I know him.’ She ferreted around behind her table and produced a pencil then taking the photo, proceeded to scribble something on the reverse side. The back surface of the picture was papery as opposed to shiny and her hand was steady as the pencil’s lead left its precise marks. Having written a row of perfectly drawn little Chinese characters she handed it back to Asher. His heart sank when he realised there was no translation – his written Mandarin wasn’t nearly as good as his spoken, and that was rudimentary at best. Back in the library on his first day he had hoped to have been able to find at least one article about the bombing written from the Chinese point of view, which might just have pointed the finger at someone and guided him in the right direction. A single lead, that was all he needed to start digging into a crime that the British and Chinese governments had swept under the carpet. But even with it being the largest and oldest library in China he had gleaned nothing from it. The books had been abundant but to his dismay he had understood only a miniscule amount of the text and after a whole day of hard concentration the little Chinese characters had danced around on the pages in front of him, taunting him, defying his already limited translation powers. The internet had been the same and he had given up on that too, disappointed at his own lack of linguistic ability and understanding. ‘I’m sorry, what does this say?’ ‘Bah, you foreigner! It say “Five two five Xinghua Road. Number eight”.’ ‘And this is where the he lives?’ ‘Yes, he live. Bar owner live here. Hong-Li.’ She jabbed at the characters. ‘Long time ago. Now, don’t know. I not see him for one year, maybe two.’

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‘Thank you. Thank you!’ Asher pressed the money back into the old lady’s hands and took the bag. He rummaged in his wallet and much to the old lady’s delight pulled out another two hundred and fifty yuan and added that to the amount she was already holding. ‘Here. Take this. Very important information is worth a big tip!’ He turned, leaving her looking at the money uncertainly. ‘OK but you not good negotiator!’ called the old lady as Asher left with his sweat-shirt in search of a taxi. It wasn’t long before he managed to hail a cab on the main road. The red saloon pulled up and Asher got in and handed the photo to the driver. ‘OK?’ he asked. ‘Shi! OK, OK!’ said the driver after studying the address supplied. The journey was quick and the meter didn’t move from its standing charge of ten yuan. Asher took the receipt, paid the fare and walked up to the foot of some steps that led through what looked like an entrance to a small, white temple. Uncertain, he pointed inside and called back to the driver. ‘Here?’ ‘OK, yes, yes!’ said the driver, nodding vigorously from the open car window. Then he swung the taxi out into the road and pulled away, leaving Asher facing the temple-like building. He entered. The place had no door, only a wide, open-air corridor that led through the building and opened out into a large, peaceful quadrangle. The grass was well tended and in the centre stood an ancient, crooked plum tree. Asher looked around the courtyard. Arranged around the square were ten or twelve single-storey apartments raised on thick stilts. Each home was joined to the next and each had an low balcony facing into the yard. The whole structure had a large, overhanging roof of dark red ceramic tiles and steps to the entrance of each residence led up from the gravel path that circumnavigated the central lawn. Dangling from the eves of the roofs were large incense spirals, gently smoking, one outside each front door. Asher started walking around the path, looking for numbers on the doors but there were none. Puzzled, he continued. The gentle notes of a zither drifted from one of the open windows and as he meandered around the path and took in the calming atmosphere he noticed a man dressed in a blue, mandarin-collar shirt and loose, white trousers. He was holding a thin pole up to an incense spiral. Asher approached the

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man, who placed his pole carefully against the wall, turned to him and bowed lightly. Asher judged him to be in his late sixties, early seventies. The man frowned at him, then his eyes widened. ‘Ni hao,’ greeted Asher and bowed back. He produced the photo and handed it to the man, reverse-side up. ‘Zai nar…?’ he asked, pointing to the characters the woman had written. The man studied the address for a moment, then flipped the photo over, looked briefly at the picture, then turned it back again. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Asher,’ said the man. His English was very good indeed. Asher was stunned. ‘I beg your pardon?’ ‘I assume you Mr Asher?’ ‘How on earth do you know my name?’ ‘Hm. I give this picture to you, last time we meet. Do you forget?’ ‘I’ve been here before?’ ‘Yes. Long time ago. I see you are no longer a child. I see your brother in you now.’ ‘You’re the owner of the bar?’ ‘The Xian Yin, yes. I was owner at time it was destroyed. I must say family usually visit only once. I did not expect to see kin again after you and your parents visited. But do not worry. Robert is still here. Please, come inside.’ The man started up the steps and Asher followed, confused. ‘What do you mean? Robert is here?’ ‘Yes. I show you. Patience.’ The interior of the house was cool and airy, wood and cloth. There was a single central room from which several doors lead to other rooms. To one side was a low table, set with tea making accoutrements. ‘Come, please.’ The man ushered him to a sunny window in the far corner of the main room where a cork board stood atop a small table. Some tealights scattered across the table flickered weakly against the flood of light pouring through the window and the smoke from more incense sticks rose through the rays of sun. Mounted on the board were ten photographs of ten people, arranged in two lines of five. Some were actual photographs, others were clipped from old newspapers. They all had a yellowy-brown hue to them but Asher recognised them all

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immediately. In his research into the incident he had amassed a similar collection. Beneath each picture was a fresh flower pinned to the board. All except one photograph and again Asher knew the face. It was that of the young woman in his own photo and he knew it well. The woman his brother had met and had taken the photo of: Emma Taylor. Asher was awestruck at the whole thing. He knew the face in the next photo along even better. ‘Robert.’ It was a real photograph from the same viewpoint as the one in Asher’s pocket. Probably even from the same roll of film. His brother was grinning and pointing towards the bar, just as Emma was in his own picture. Asher realised it must have been taken by her. ‘You’ve kept all this for thirty years?’ The man’s dedication was unbelievable and Asher was suddenly aware that he must find it very odd for people to appear from nowhere after years and years, asking personal questions and expecting to be given every courtesy in his own home. He felt guilty for not bringing something by way of a gift for the old man. ‘If you say three decades it is not so long,’ said the man. ‘What do the flowers mean? Why hasn’t she got one?’ ‘People come. Family. To see where. Try to find out why their beloved died. The families care. These people, I light a candle for them every day so the spirits will last a proper lifetime. This family, maybe they do not care. Maybe they do not know. Sit.’ Asher put his carrier bag on the floor and lowered himself carefully onto the squat bench. The man poured two small cups of jasmine tea and placed one in front of Asher. ‘I have a few questions,’ he said, trying the tea. ‘Of course you do.’ The man smiled. ‘May I ask your name?’ ‘You may.’ ‘Sorry, what I meant was what is your name?’ ‘My name is Hong-Li Wang.’ ‘Mr er…Wang? I went to where The Xian Yin used to be. The old lady who sells T-shirts there gave me your address. I hope you don’t mind.’ ‘Not at all. What questions you have?’ ‘OK, I know it’s a long time ago now but do you know anything about the person who was responsible?’ Hong-Li shook his head solemnly.

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‘Many people have asked same question before. But I say no to all of them. I have spent long time trying to heal old wounds, not re-open them. If you are looking for revenge Mr Asher, you should tread carefully. It will not be worth it. Why you want this information?’ Asher flinched and shifted in his seated position. ‘You tell people no but I get the impression you do know though, don’t you?’ ‘Many people ask, so finally I hire private detective. He find one who knows, one who can help you. He find professor of sociology and politics at university. Professor knows what police know.’ His own efforts with the police had been embarrassing to say the least and to Asher it sounded like he was now being given a back door to the same information. ‘Really, how?’ ‘He is policeman too, long time ago. Not now. He is professor now.’ ‘Wow. Is he here, in Beijing?’ ‘Yes, he is here. He lives at university. Please, give me picture.’ Asher handed over the picture and Hong-Li took a pen from the table and scribbled some more characters beneath his own address. ‘I’m really sorry – I can’t translate that.’ ‘It’s OK. Just give to taxi driver.’ ‘This will take me to him?’ He nodded. ‘It will take you to him. It say Shao Yuan, Building Five. His name is Kuai-Heng Sun.’ He pointed the to Roman letters spelling out the professor’s name in Pinyin. ‘Thank you. And thank you for keeping Robert’s memory alive.’ ‘You welcome.’ Hong-Li peered into Asher’s bag. ‘Ah…nice sweat-shirt.’

It was eight in the morning on his fifth day in central Beijing and Asher jumped into the back seat of one of the ubiquitous red taxies that had pulled up outside his hotel. ‘Wo xiang qu…uh,’ He broke off. Damn! What’s the word for university? Then he remembered Hong-Li’s written directions. He pulled out the photo and passed it forward, making sure his finger was pointing to the second address; he didn’t want to go back to Hong-

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Li’s place. The driver nodded curtly and threw his cigarette out of the window, the tyres screeched for grip and the car in which Asher was sitting sped off into the rush-hour traffic, catapulting him into the back seat. He held on for dear life and a frantic ten minutes later they arrived at their destination and he got out and paid as quickly as he could. ‘Thank you!’ he shouted as he hurried towards the university’s entrance, truly thankful to be out of the car. The reception at Shao Yuan was open and Asher was relieved that the woman on the desk spoke good English. He quickly ascertained the location of the professor’s room and with a rudimentary map drawn by the receptionist made his way through the grey, winding corridors of the university accommodation. Then he was there. It was still before eight thirty in the morning and he hoped the professor hadn’t started out for lectures already. He raised his hand to knock but the door opened before his fist made contact. ‘Hello,’ said Asher. ‘Australian?’ ‘English.’ ‘Sorry. Follow me.’ The man was short and chubby and his wiry, grey hair was tied back in a short pony tail. He wore an untucked, short-sleeved shirt over faded jeans. He pulled his door to, locked it and started marching down the corridor. Asher skipped after him. He looked to be of similar age to Hong-Li but he moved much more quickly. ‘Excuse me, Kuai-Heng Sun?’ ‘That’s me. And you are?’ ‘Jason Asher.’ ‘I’m afraid I’m late Mr Asher, can you talk as we walk?’ ‘Yes, of course.’ ‘Good. What can I do for you?’ ‘Well I was given your name by a Mr Wang. Hong-Li Wang. He said you might have some information regarding something that happened when you were in the police force.’ ‘That’s going back a few years. Go on.’ Kuai-Heng pushed out through the rear exit doors and on to the path that led towards the campus buildings. Asher walked briskly to keep up. ‘Mr Wang used to own a bar downtown called The Xian Yin.’

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‘Yes, I remember the case. Long time ago. It got blown up by some teenager who had funny ideas in his head. Ang Mo he was called. Thought bombs were the answer to everything. Where was he from...? East Turkestan region?’ ‘Yes, East Turkestan. I’m the brother of one of the victims.’ ‘Really? I’m sorry for your loss. What brings you to Beijing after all this time?’ ‘I’m looking for him.’ ‘The teenaged bomber?’ ‘Can you help?’ The man stopped abruptly and turned to Asher. He looked him up and down, then grinned. ‘It’s your lucky day.’ ‘How so?’ Kuai-Heng broke into a fast gait again and Asher started after him. ‘When I was in the police I learned a lot of stuff, had access to files and such like. If there’s one lesson I took from my time in the force, it’s that citizens are helpless against their governments. I’ve worked on special assignments in a number of countries and it’s a universal truth. It riled me to see the amount that could be done but is not for the sake of politics or security. So if I can use what little knowledge I have to help people I will. Because if citizens who have can’t help citizens who have not, where would we be? I know the case you’re talking about, I remember working on it clearly. I can help you but you must listen carefully and do exactly as I ask.’ ‘OK…’ They stopped abruptly again and from his shirt pocket Kuai-Heng produced a miniature notebook and pencil and scribbled the words “Mr Jason Asher” on the blank page. ‘What’s your home telephone number in England?’ Asher reeled off his number and Kuai-Heng added it underneath the name he had just written. He tore the page off, folded it and put the whole lot back in his breast pocket. ‘Now you have to go home. Go back to England.’ ‘What? Why?’ ‘Because you’re going to get a phone call in a couple of days. You’ll laugh when I tell you the next bit.’ ‘Go on…’

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‘Ang Mo is in England.’ ‘You’re joking.’ Asher put his hands to his face and pulled them down his cheeks, stretching his jowls. ‘Not at all. My contact in England thinks he emigrated there a few years ago to escape sentencing for some serious crimes.’ ‘And he’s going to call me?’ ‘Yes, my contact will call you. He knows Ang’s whereabouts in England. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific than that.’ ‘That’s OK. You’ve been very helpful.’ ‘Now, go home Mr Asher and good luck. Excuse me, I have lectures now.’ ‘Of course.’

Monday, July 23rd 2012 Asher sat in his economy window seat and washed the last of his peanuts down with beer. Air China flight 0937 was making good progress back to Heathrow and even though it had taken-off late the pilot had promised to make up the time en-route. His six days in Beijing had been an interesting experience and Asher’s mind was now distilling his time there into some interesting memories. Tomorrow it would probably seem like a weird dream, he thought. There were four reasons why he was drinking beer. The first and second were that he liked beer and it was free. The third was the body clock thing, although with the buzz of his success he wasn’t that concerned by the long return haul. But the fourth was that he was nervous of what was to come, when he got back to England. He still had a get-out clause if he didn’t want to go ahead with his search for Ang Mo – he could simply not answer the phone. That comforted him a little. But on the other hand, what if he decided to go ahead and there was no call? What if Kuai-Heng forgot, or couldn’t get in touch with his contact in England? What if he’d made a mistake writing his number down? Asher frowned to himself and shifted in his seat. How long should he wait until he could decide that there wasn’t going to be a call? What if they called but he missed it? He suddenly realised that all his

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hopes were now dangling precariously by a single thread of trust that was being stretched across six thousand miles, two continents and some rather large mountain ranges. Worse still, what if the guy came after him? A feeling of despair engulfed him and he sank back down into his seat to let the alcohol and the quiet roar of the aircraft soothe his mind. This was supposed to be the easy part of the journey, back to the West. No, he would think about all that in the morning, whatever time that was going to be. For now he was content to let the air-hostesses tend to him as he sipped his beer and relaxed. Yanjing: Beijing’s favourite. He turned the can around in his hand, studying the mixture of Roman and Chinese characters. Not bad at all, thought Asher, then he put the can down and settled down to sleep, comforted a little by the thought that he was not yet past the point of no return.

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‘Yes.’ ‘Hello? I uh… Someone gave me this number. I understand you have a…service to offer?’ ‘That depends on what kind of service you’re looking for.’ ‘I have some urgent business I need attended to.’ ‘OK maybe I can help. Who gave you this number?’ ‘I was told to tell you “Victor”.’ ‘OK, good. Let’s go through some ground rules.’ ‘Sure.’ ‘Right. Rule number 1: Names. My name is “Mike”. Your name is “Oscar”. Your urgent business is called “Charlie”.’ ‘OK, got that.’ ‘Right. Rule number 2: There are no other names. Those are the only references we use.’ ‘Right.’ ‘Rule number 3: We will never meet. Understand?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Good. Victor gave you two contact numbers for me, yes?’ ‘That’s correct.’ ‘Good. Rule number 4: Alternate between the two numbers every time you call.’ ‘OK.’ ‘Rule number 5: Use a different phone every time you call. OK?’ ‘Yes, OK.’ ‘Good. Now use rules 4 and 5 to continue this conversation. Stick to the rules and we’ll be fine.’

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Regarding the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region There was a lot of history, too much even for a lone native to fully comprehend. As such it had taken the considerable talent and dedication of countless scholars decades, even centuries to distil the events and opinions of thousands of years of history down to a definitive, comprehensible and factual account. It was of course just one of the many differing, definitive, factual accounts written about the political state of the region. The view of the Uyghurs differed considerably from the view of the rest of the Turkic people (those ancient but still younger populations to the West) and the view held by the ruling government, amongst others. Ang Mo however, himself an Uyghur, was the kind of individual for whom the written word meant little. He was of the unshakeable opinion that only the foolish took anything on face value, and he was also the type of person not to take hostile actions against him or his people lying down. All through his life, ever since he had learned the hard way (after being tricked into believing he had paid hard-earned cash for a real Kalashnikov, rather than the cheap fake it turned out to be and which had subsequently malfunctioned, exploded and killed one of his best friends) his motto had been “never take anybody’s word for it”. Ever. If you simply believed what someone else said, the best outcome one could hope for would be the same as if you’d done the thinking for yourself in the first place. The worst possible outcome, well…if you’re deceived, then you’ve left yourself wide open to attack from all-comers and it would be entirely your own fault. So, unlike the leaders of his country, or rather the leaders of his territory, the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region in the northwest corner of China, he wasn’t going to let himself be pushed around by those who thought they knew better. Eastern Turkestan, as the Uyghur separatists liked Xinjiang to be known, was a vast swathe of land covering the entire north-western territory of China and the crux of the current problem was that it had oil. Billions upon billions of barrels of the shiny, black stuff. Liquid gold. The fact that the land harboured such a huge natural resource wasn’t in itself a problem. The sticking point was that the Uyghurs, on top of rejecting Chinese leadership and authority, also maintained

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that the right to the oil was theirs and theirs alone. After all it was on their land. Why should a government sitting in Beijing, a city over a thousand miles away, get rich from their natural resources, when just a few decades ago they weren’t even a part of China? Historically, Turkestan had been a country in its own right, spanning vast parts of the rugged steppes of middle Asia but having been conquered many times by warlords from its neighbouring countries it now lay split in two halves: the West and the East. The Western part encompassed most of the countries from the shores of the Caspian Sea to the majestic peaks of the Tien Shan mountain range where China bordered Kazakhstan, but the Eastern part lay entirely in the People’s Republic itself. Ang’s blood boiled every time he recounted the political and military turmoil of his birthplace and, like many Uyghurs before him (and doubtless many to come) he was of the unswerving opinion that China must one day stop its relentless exploitation of the territory at the expense of its native inhabitants. More-over the territory should be given its independence back and made into a stable country once again. Set the people free, give them their rightful wealth and an economy – everything a country needed to become great in the 21st Century. Everything worth fighting for! But the oil, although being tapped, refined and sold to the western world, remained mostly in the ground and while it did, China kept its stranglehold. It was not about to relinquish such a vast well of money (let alone control of such a large percentage of the world’s oil) and it certainly wasn’t going to grant independence to more than a sixth of its own nation, especially when the natives would get the oil out of the ground for almost nothing. And therein lay the dilemma of the Uyghur people of Eastern Turkestan – they had no bargaining power, no military might and therefore no choice and short of an uprising on a grand scale they would be locked into the master-slave relationship for eternity. Ang Mo had fumed as year after year he watched the government invite one international drilling company after another to prospect for oil, promising handsome incentives and tax breaks to those who succeeded and drilled on behalf of the government. The oil remained the property of the government and the sale of it to the west boosted China’s economy considerably but alas the local people never got to see the generated wealth. The incoming prospecting companies even managed to undercut the government’s own massive China National

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Petroleum Corporation, despite heavy subsidies, a fact that many locals couldn’t stomach. Eventually the “autonomous” part of the region’s title came to describe nothing of its real status and the authorities had no power of veto against the government. For all Ang cared, you could swap the word “autonomous” with the word “occupied”. In 1933 the First East Turkestan Republic was declared and subsequently suppressed, within a year, by the government, assisted by the willing Soviets who were keen to see the pockets of spreading rebellion near its borders quashed. Just ten years later in 1944 the Second East Turkestan Republic was declared and enjoyed a further five years of freedom before again being crushed, this time by the People’s Liberation Army alone, an unstoppable Chinese fighting force two million men strong. Enough reading! Ang slammed the book shut. Now, he thought, they were well overdue a Third.

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‘Yes.’ ‘This is um… Oscar.’ ‘Good. Do you have Charlie’s details?’ ‘Charlie? Oh, yes, I have a name but I don’t have any pic – ’ ‘I need pictures. Is the name unique? ‘I – I imagine it is.’ ‘Good. Makes it easier but get pictures first. When do you want to move?’ ‘Move? Oh, right. As soon as possible please.’ ‘OK. You know the fee.’ ‘Ah… Victor told me twenty thousand.’ ‘Correct. You pay half up front and half on completion.’ ‘OK. And how do I –’ ‘Cash. Half in twenties, half in fifties. Leave it in a box at Berkeley Safe Deposit on Cromwell Road. With it you need to leave his name, written clearly on a single piece of paper, and some photos. Then call me back. Rule number 6: the contract starts when I take delivery of the first payment. Clear?’ ‘Clear. Berkeley Safe Deposit, Cromwell Road. Got it.’ ‘Good.’

q

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2 Play It By Ear

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Tuesday, July 24th 2012

T

he readout on Rachel’s desk phone lit up in synch with the trilling sound. She leaned over and picked it up. Different greetings for different callers. The number on the display told her this was external so she used her company greeting. ‘London Stock Investments, can I help you?’ Rachel was well proportioned, five feet seven inches tall and she held her head high when she walked across the male-dominated floors of the London Stock Investment Company. She always smiled warmly to colleagues, always had her shoulder-length brunette hair pulled back into a high pony tail that made a teardrop shape down the back of her neck. She was a conscientious person, tidy and methodical at work but quite disorganised in her home life, which suited her as at the moment she didn’t have much of a home life. She was a thirtyfour year old only child, whose parents had retired to Marseille, eight hundred miles away in the south of France. They had a holiday home back here near her own weekend place but they only visited three or four times a year. Growing up with no brothers and no sisters, her childhood siblings had been her computers. Under the tree every Christmas for ten or so years had been a large wrapped box, the contents of which she knew before she opened. The present was always the same but the technology had moved on each year. Oric, Dragon, Commodore, Sinclair, Atari, Amiga – they’d all helped her get to the somewhat highly regarded position she held today. Luckily her father, a successful architect, had been well enough off to be able to afford it and she had grown up loving the machines, knowing them inside out. Her private schooling at Queenswood, an idyllic, well regarded private school for girls, had given her straight A-s in the sciences and led her on to a Cambridge first in computing. She had found work

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straight away at a small specialist IT company and within three years she had progressed to a glass ceiling. But instead of letting it obstruct her career progression she had taken decisive action, quit and joined LSI Co. as a research analyst. Spending the first few years working with the financial markets and developing new trading strategies she had gradually moved into new technology. Her keen aptitude had caught the eye of the Director of Technology and for the last few years Rachel had been working alone on special projects in her small office. The reason she had her own office was that, unlike other technical staff at the company, she reported straight to the Director, and that meant she needed secrecy from time to time. ‘Hi, could I speak to Rachel please?’ The voice was male, well spoken, vaguely familiar. There was a faint American lilt to a strong base English accent. ‘Speaking,’ said Rachel. ‘Rachel, it’s Marcus. Marcus Forton.’ It took less than a second for Rachel to process the information. She raced back through the timeline of her career and education, searching for the match. She landed squarely on the memory of a cheeky looking, well built eighteen-year-old boy with big, wavy hair. ‘My god, Marcus Forton! How the hell are you?’ ‘Yeah, fine thanks. Been a long time, huh?’ The events of her youth started popping up in Rachel’s head, complete with labels specifying the year of each. ‘You’re not kidding! What’s it been, fourteen, fifteen years?’ ‘Yeah, fifteen. Look, I hope you don’t mind me calling you up at work like this. I was talking to someone in one of these reunited websites and they said they knew you worked for LSI Co.’ ‘Really? Who was it?’ ‘Ah, can’t really remember the name. Said she was an old friend, went to ah…that old school you used to go to.’ ‘Really? Queenswood?’ ‘Yeah, Queenswood.’ At the mention of her old school she starting picturing the old classrooms and teachers, her classmates and the cold hockey games on foggy autumn mornings. ‘God…that brings back some memories. I wonder who it was because I don’t really keep in touch with those guys any more.’ There was a heartbeat of silence on the end of the phone.

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‘Yeah, can’t remember her name,’ said Marcus. ‘Anyway, listen, be really great to meet up and see you again. It’s been a long time. What do you say?’ ‘Yeah, sure!’ Rachel’s voice went higher than she had intended. ‘Great. When’s good for you?’ ‘Any time really. I can do this evening if you want. Are you in London?’ With no telephone cord to wrap around her fingers, she sat at her desk waggling a pen instead. ‘Yeah, I’m in town for a while now. Tell you what - this evening’d be perfect. You’re in Canary Wharf, right?’ ‘Yes, I’m at the main tower on Canada Square.’ ‘Ah OK. I know it. Shopping mall underneath isn’t there?’ ‘That’s right, Cabot Place. And there are quite a few coffee shops and bars down there. What say we meet up after work?’ ‘Great idea. Name the time and place and I’ll be there.’ ‘OK. Um…there’s a coffee place right at the centre. I can’t remember it’s name but it’s got a big orange sign with brown writing. Oh, I think it’s called Blenders or something. Anyway you can’t miss it. Say six o’clock?’ ‘Perfect. Orange coffee shop, five o’clock. Really looking forward to seeing you again, Rach.’ Rachel warmed inside. The few male colleagues she had at work all knew her as “Rachel”. No man had called her “Rach” for a very long time. For about fifteen years in fact. ‘Me too. Where the hell have you been all this time Marcus? It was like you dropped off the edge of the planet.’ ‘I know, I’ve been doing bits and bobs over the years, mainly contracting. I’ll tell you all about it. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’ ‘You’re not kidding! Look, I’ll see you after work.’ ‘Yeah, sure. Sorry, I’m keeping you.’ ‘Well, I’ve got a few things to finish off but I’ll see you later.’ ‘Yeah, great. Later then.’ ‘See you.’

Rachel spent the rest of the day thinking about her long-lost childhood friend. She and Marcus Forton had been raised across the

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road from each other in the affluent little town of Bishop’s Stortford, nestling in the green commuter belt just north of London. Marcus’ parents had owned the house opposite and they had been best of friends through early school. He was an only child too and when Rachel had started at Queenswood girls’ school at the young age of 11, Marcus had been sent away to board at the Bedford School for boys. Despite this they had stayed in touch through their education and had eagerly returned each holiday to see each other. But as time went on they met different people and experimented with relationships. Their friendship had gradually become patchier until, just when Rachel was starting her degree, Marcus had disappeared. His family had moved out of the street and Rachel had thought he had gone to Oxford for the university but when she had made inquiries she had been told he had attended only for a few weeks and then had quit suddenly. He was no longer registered with any of the colleges or halls there. And so with no forwarding details the trail had gone cold and their dwindling friendship had come to an abrupt end. Rachel had a lot of questions for Marcus. When they had started university she had expected them to remain friends, not to the exclusion of other relationships but she had thought they were going to stay close. Or at the very least stay in touch. Up until now everything Rachel had thought about Marcus’ disappearance had been speculation. She didn’t know if he had gone to university, joined the armed forces or even moved to a different country. In Rachel’s view moving abroad was entirely possible, as Marcus had inherited dual nationality from his Polish mother. She had even considered the possibility that he could have been sent to prison for something or even been killed, although the latter could never have been true because she believed that somehow she would have found out. If he had turned out bad or dead the gossip would have swept the neighbourhood. She would have heard something. But there had been no word at all and Rachel had always clung to the belief that no news was good news. As the afternoon wore on, she found herself feeling more and more ambivalent towards meeting Marcus again. On the one hand she was finally going to find out what had happened all those years back, why he had disappeared. And she was going to see him again, the boy she had once liked so much. But the flip side was that this was a

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reunion between two people who had had a relationship of sorts, which had been suddenly terminated. And now they were both much older and wiser. Weren’t they? Rachel thought about it. They used to joke and play off each other, never sure which one was driving which. But now, thought Rachel, there was none of that magic left. The sparkle that once existed had faded to a dull matt and it was going to need some specialist care and attention to restore it. She didn’t even know if he was just passing through or was planning a longer stay. Were they even the same people any more? Should she be angry with him? Or glad to see him again? Forgive him? Forgive him for what? There had been no commitments. Hug him? Kiss him? No. Yes! No. Shake his hand. No, that would be stupid. Oh god, this is going to be awkward. Play it by ear, she thought, it’s only coffee with an old friend.

“You have 1 unread e-mail”

Jason Asher was about to the click the READ button when his cordless phone started bleeping and flashing on it’s stand. Could this be the call he was waiting for? He leaned over the desk, picked up the receiver and pressed the green button. He had taken a couple of days off in anticipation because he didn’t want to have this kind of conversation at work. Every one of his living room windows was open in a vain attempt to allow a breeze through to combat the heat. The July mid-day sun was bearing down through his bay window, glaring off his desk and computer equipment. Asher didn’t need to see it to know that it had just started raining outside. He could hear it dinging off the corrugated tin roof outside his first floor window and he could smell the dry mustiness of drizzle on tarmac after a long, hot spell. The city had seen blue skies and temperatures well into the thirties for more than five weeks and the hose-pipe and bath ban had just come into force. Showers only from now on. That was OK by Asher, he didn’t like baths anyway but he had always wondered how they thought they could enforce such a thing. Could they just burst in on you, naked and

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soapy in a full tub of water? Aha! Caught you at it Mr Asher! Come with me please… He cleared his throat before greeting the caller. ‘Hello?’ ‘Hello, could I speak to Mr Asher please?’ A male voice. ‘Speaking.’ ‘You know why I am calling.’ East Asian, possibly Oriental, heavily accented but good grammar. ‘I do.’ ‘Are you still looking?’ ‘Yes I am.’ ‘Then I have some information you might be interested in. Can we meet?’ ‘Sure. What kind of information?’ asked Asher. ‘Today? Four o’clock?’ ‘Yeah, not a problem. But -’ ‘Good. Meet me at The Lido, Hyde Park.’ ‘OK, fine. The Lido. Can I ask your name?’ ‘Goodbye, Mr Asher.’ said the voice. ‘Sorry?’ Click. Asher looked blankly into the receiver, as if the caller was still in there. ‘Hmm, off to a good start.’ said Asher to himself. He put the phone back on it’s stand, glanced at his Tag Aquaracer and thought for a few seconds. Bugger. It was three already. The Lido. There was just enough time.

Ten minutes after he had hung up the receiver Asher was roasting on the top deck of the Number 65 north out of Kingston. The rain had turned out to be a flurry, quickly chased off by the heat, and the sun was baking the tarmac again. At Richmond he took the District line six stops east over to Hammersmith. Then the Piccadilly line took him another five stops northbound up to Knightsbridge. From there it was a ten minute walk west down Kensington Road and into Hyde Park through the Alexandra Gate. It had taken him just under an hour on

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stuffy public transport and he was desperately in need of a cold drink. He squinted at his watch as he marched. It was five minutes to four. No time for refreshments. Asher couldn’t remember exactly where the Lido was, so he walked to the bridge that went over the Serpentine to get his bearings. Then he doubled back towards the Lido and as he approached the swimming area he could see a person sitting on a bench that was set back on the wide path, facing out over the water. An old couple were in, swimming as they most likely had done every summer for decades and there were a number of other people milling around near the water’s edge. He passed the Lido Café and kept walking, pretending not to have registered the existence of the bench but taking a covert look sideways. Sitting on the bench was a dark, short-haired man wearing large mirrored Aviators. His white short sleeved shirt was crisp against his light cappuccino skin. He wore smart black trousers and brown shoes and had one leg up and resting horizontally on the other, ankle on knee. Mid forties? Asher had never in his life done anything like this before. Now he was here he was feeling nervous, unprotected. Had he thought this through enough? Probably not, as usual. He was playing with things he didn’t really understand. But it had to be done, there was no other way. He fought the urge to carry on walking along the lakeside and back down to Knightsbridge tube station and home. Instead he walked up to the bench and sat down two feet away from the man in the mirrored glasses. There was silence. Asher looked out over the lake. Is this him? Keeping his head still he swivelled his eyes left and right to scan as far in each direction as he could. There were no other likely suspects. ‘Mr Asher,’ stated the man, as if it didn’t really need confirmation. It was the same voice as was on the phone but with more bass. Neither man looked at the other and Asher had a sudden desire to be anonymous. He wished he had thought to bring his sunglasses too. ‘Yes.’ Silence again. Should he say more, start the conversation off? He wiped his brow with his palm. ‘You asked for my name. It is Mr Jones.’ ‘Thank you for coming Mr –’ Asher started.

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‘Mr Asher, you are looking for your brother’s killer. I can tell you that you will not find this person. They are not living in the same world as you are.’ Asher frowned. What the hell does that mean? ‘I’m sorry?’ he said, widening his eyes and trying not to glance sideways. ‘Mr Asher, do you think that a man capable of such things is concerned with the trivialities of a technologically modern life? He does not have a bank account and he does not use credit or debit cards, at least not his own. He does not have a mobile phone, at least for not more than a day. Those he uses are stolen and then discarded. If he has a car, it will be what you call a “ringer” in this country, or it will have no chassis number and no documentation. He has no ID and no passport, he is probably not even a registered citizen. The authorities certainly do not know he is here. CCTV will not reveal anything, Mr Asher. He will walk with his face shielded from the camera by a hat or a hood. He is living in an underworld, detached from all of…this.’ In his peripheral vision Asher saw the man gesturing to the park with a flick of his hand. ‘If somebody in that world wants to remain unfound Mr Asher, then they will remain unfound. Nothing and nobody can trace them. I am here to tell you that your search is futile.’ ‘How do I find him then?’ ‘You do not find him. He knows you are looking for him. If he wants to he will find you.’ ‘OK, but how? Is he in the country?’ ‘Yes. He emigrated here. Maybe ten years ago.’ ‘Really? Why?’ ‘To escape punishment in Eastern Turkestan. The Chinese authorities there have been trying to track him down for a long, long time. He is a dangerous man and has committed many crimes.’ Asher was confused now. That was it? That was the information the man on the phone had spoken of? He turned to look directly at the man. ‘So you’ve come here to tell me to stop looking because he’s dangerous?’ he asked with more affront than he had intended. The man slowly turned his head to look straight at him. ‘No, Mr Asher. I am here to ensure you stop looking.’

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‘What?’ ‘If you want to take that path, take deep breaths as you go because they will be your last.’ Asher felt a pang of fear shoot through his bowels and up his neck. To Asher it was a shockingly thinly veiled threat. This had certainly never happened to him before! He saw his horrified face in the mirrors and pulled himself together. Had to press on. ‘D-do you know him? Personally?’ He nearly soiled himself as he said it. The man turned back to the lake and smiled. ‘Yes.’ ‘I have money if you can lead me to him.’ ‘Mr Asher, let me put it to you less…subtly. Abandon your search for this person, or you will die.’ Asher was dumbfounded. A death threat! He sat there, reeling from what he had just heard. His bowels had definitely loosened now and he could feel his breath coming slightly faster and shorter. Then the man got up and started walking towards the Serpentine bridge, the way Asher had come. Asher watched him go until he was over the bridge and out of sight. He realised he was trembling slightly and his heart was racing. He put his face in his hands for a few seconds, then massaged his eye sockets with the tips of his fingers, put his hands on his knees and stood up carefully. He took a deep breath and straightened up, defiant. He needed a drink and a toilet. Mr Jones my arse! thought Asher as he started walking back to the café to buy himself a beer.

Asher had spent ten minutes in the men’s room and three pounds in the café by the time he’d started thinking properly. Something Mr Jones had said was nagging at him. He emptied half of his Grolsch bottle in one long pull and as he sat at an outside table already contemplating another beer, he spooled backwards through the conversation. The man getting up and leaving, before that the death threat (dear God a death threat!), before that his offer of money, before that…what? Mr Jones denied he knew anything, told him to stop looking.

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Mr Jones…Mr Jones. The guy’s got a phoney name. Has to be. His accent says he’s a first generation immigrant. So what’s he doing assuming a Welsh surname? If he’s Welsh, it’s certainly not a part of Wales I’ve been to. It’s not as if he could take the name by marriage either. So why? To remain untraceable? Untraceable. He came to warn me off, and remain anonymous. Bloody hell! He slammed his bottle down on the table, making the remains of his beer effervesce over, and jumped up, knocking his chair backwards and startling the old couple who had gotten out of the water and were now wrapped in towels making their way to the changing rooms. ‘Sorry!’ he said with his hands out, in an attempt to show he was no threat to them and they started and hurried off. He had to follow Mr Jones, and quickly! Without thinking on the idea any further and with the first clear thought in his head for years he sprinted out of the café, along the side of the Serpentine and over the bridge that carried the road across the water, the way Mr Jones had gone. Asher had a plan clanging around in his head as he ran. He was going to follow Mr Jones, find out where he lived and then…and then what? And then…stake him out for a couple of days! Asher couldn’t really think beyond that, so he left that as being “the plan” and concentrated on the chase at hand. As he approached the far side of the bridge he realised he had a snap decision to make. He didn’t know which way Mr Jones had gone but was willing to bet that he was headed towards the Victoria Gate. That was the only road exit on the north side, plus it was near the Lancaster Gate tube station. He could take a path left here and short cut the road to the gate, or he could follow the road all the way around. Both would come out at the same place but the road was longer. His sprint had slowed to a fast run now and he was approaching the pain barrier at which he usually came to a crashing halt. But not this time. Without stopping he made the decision and went for the path. He slowed a little more and forced his legs to keep pumping. He had to catch up with Mr Jones. Thirty seconds later his gasping turned into breathing and he could feel himself settling into a rhythm. A further two minutes of steady running brought Asher to the Italian Gardens at the end of the Serpentine with it’s white-brick gazebo and ornamental statues and fountains. He was thinking that he’d like to visit again some day when he glimpsed to his right in the distance a man in a white shirt walking out through the Victoria Gate.

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He sped up then slowed to a walk and kept a good hundred meters back, following the man along Bayswater Road to the tube station. Short, dark hair, sun glasses. It was Mr Jones alright and he was walking briskly in the heat. Sweat was pouring off Asher now, as the sun beat down and the beer sapped the remains of his energy. Mr Jones entered the ticket hall of Lancaster Gate tube station and hardly slowed as the barriers opened for him. Asher followed him through seconds later using his own pass. They descended together into the depths of the Central Line, separated by about ten people on the escalator. It was approaching rush hour now, where the human traffic reached a peak of a million bodies on the London Underground system. Asher followed him through to the eastbound platform in it’s cylindrical tunnel-station and was glad to find hundreds of patiently waiting people amongst whom he could hide. As promised by the platform readout a train arrived in less than a minute and took them through the centre of London, Asher standing at one end of the carriage and Mr Jones sitting on a sideways bench at the other. At Oxford Circus Mr Jones got off and Asher followed him through the maze of connecting tunnels to the Victoria Line, where they boarded a northbound train. Three stops later they reached King’s Cross mainline station and Mr Jones got off the train with Asher in covert pursuit. Mr Jones made his way up to the surface and exited the Underground system on to the station plaza. Asher was still trying to keep no more than ten people behind but was finding it progressively harder as commuters came at him left and right, sometimes bumping him, sometimes making him dodge. Then Mr Jones took a decisive turn on to one of the eleven platforms. Platform four. He could hear a loud, shrill guard’s whistle being blown repeatedly in short bursts, then someone shouting. ‘Stand away from the train! Stand away from the train!’ yelled the voice. Asher saw Mr Jones running now, and he ran too. As the bleeping signalled the closing of the automatic doors Mr Jones leapt sideways up through the gap and on to the train. Asher didn’t make it. The doors closed fully and the guard shouted at Asher. ‘Oi! Stand away from the train!’

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‘Shit!’ barked Asher, as the train hissed it’s brakes off, jerked and then pulled slowly along the platform. He thumped the side of the last carriage as it slid past. ‘Shit! Shit! SHIT!’ He stood there with his head bowed, staring at the empty tracks and electrical rails. The guard walked past him smiling and shaking his head. ‘Next train to Letchworth is in twenty minutes sir,’ he said with a smug smile. ‘Platform five.’ ‘SOD OFF!’ shouted Asher. But then it gave him an idea. Letchworth. He ran past the guard and back on to the plaza where the information board for platform four still had the route listed. Nine stops to Letchworth. Too many to take a guess. But he was hoping he didn’t need to guess. Asher caught his breath and starting thinking. Mr Jones had rung at three and had been at the park by four. It had taken him less than an hour to get to Hyde Park. So assuming he had called from his home town and assuming he had gone back the same way he had come, it would have taken him around twenty minutes to get from King’s Cross to the park because that’s how long it had taken him to get back. Say ten minutes hanging around on platforms waiting for trains. Maybe ten minutes the other end to get from wherever he lived to the station. So that left roughly twenty minutes for the train journey. Asher trotted slowly back to the guard who was still wandering back along the platform. The running had caught up with him now. ‘Really sorry about before,’ wheezed Asher apologetically. ‘I really needed to get on that train.’ ‘Don’t worry sir. Get it all the time,’ said the guard. He was a portly man of retirement age and he was dressed in a dark blue suit with a DayGlo orange tabard over it. He had a whistle around his neck and a dispatch-bat in his hand. ‘Listen, er Ron,’ said Asher, scanning the man’s name badge. ‘That train. Which of the stops would be maybe fifteen or twenty minutes out?’ ‘Fifteen or twenty minutes? Let me see…’ The guard puffed himself up, relishing the fact that his expertise was being called upon, and cradled his chin between his thumb and index finger, frowning dramatically. Come on, stop dicking around! thought Asher.

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‘Well, the first stop is Finsbury Park but that’s too close, only about five minutes up the line. The next stop is Potters Bar, about fifteen minutes. Then there’s Hatfield at about twenty minutes and Welwyn Garden City, which is probably getting on for twenty five. So if you ask me, Potters Bar or Hatfield.’ ‘Potters Bar or Hatfield,’ repeated Asher quickly. ‘Thanks very much!’ he said and started back across the plaza and down into the underground system. Another idea was forming in his head as he boarded a southbound Victoria Line train to make his way home. He just hoped to God that no one else had called his apartment in the meantime.

Rachel looked over the railing of the circular balcony down to the lower floor and immediately saw she was at the right place. The underground shopping mall, beneath the fifty storey skyscraper. Tens of thousands of people, a built-in railway station and hundreds of shops. She had never gotten used to the scale of the Canada Square complex. It was like a small town in its own right. She rode the escalator down, did a full U-turn to the right and there it was. The escalator had set her down in the middle of a large circular space constructed of marbled tiles, pillars and glass. Four corridors led away from the centre in the shape of a cross, quartering the circle. At each of the four points formed by the junctions was a curved, glass-fronted shop of some kind. The shop she was looking at now had an orange sign and was indeed called Blenders and it was bustling with kind of after-work socialites who preferred an expensive cup of coffee to an expensive pint of beer. And there was Marcus sitting at a stool in the window, waving to her. Her eyes widened in anticipation and she gave a little smile and returned the wave by waggling her fingers at him. Here we go. She walked the radius of the circle, into Blenders and made her way over to the window where Marcus was sitting. ‘Rach!’ He opened his arms wide and smiled at her. Hugs it is then, thought Rachel. He looked pretty much as she’d remembered him – the same wavy locks, same cheeky grin, although his face was little chubbier. She opened her arms.

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‘Marcus,’ said Rachel as they embraced. He squeezed her hard. ‘Look at you!’ he said and they stood back and looked each other up and down. ‘You’re all grown up! And you look fantastic!’ ‘Thanks. And you’re looking well too. My god is it really you?’ ‘I know,’ said Marcus patting his midriff. ‘A few extra pounds since I last saw you but it’s still me in here!’ He sat back up at his window stool. ‘Got you an Americano, is that OK?’ he said, enthusiastically ushering her to a spare stool and a large cup of coffee on the bar. ‘Perfect, thanks.’ Rachel sat up at the bar and swivelled to face her friend. She stared at him and he looked sheepishly down in to his coffee cup. ‘I know what you’re going to say Rach,’ he said. ‘What am I going to say?’ ‘You’re going to give me a bollocking for disappearing like I did aren’t you?’ ‘I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t wanted to.’ She gave him a look like a mother gives a child who went to a friend’s house for tea without telling her. ‘At first I was worried, I couldn’t find you. I was so angry with you for not saying goodbye. I thought something horrible might have happened.’ Then she relaxed. ‘But as the months passed I came to think it was just the way it was meant to be. I came to terms with it a long time ago. It’s all water under the bridge now.’ ‘I’m sorry Rach. Really, truly sorry.’ ‘Forget it. It doesn’t matter now.’ She put her hand on his and squeezed, then raised a defiant index finger. ‘But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know what happened. Can you tell me?’ ‘S’what I’m here for,’ he said, nodding. ‘OK then, why don’t you start at the beginning?’ ‘Well…’ said Marcus.

By the time Marcus had finished his story, the culmination of which was his return to England to search for Rachel, she was agape. It had begun when his parents had moved away from Bishop’s Stortford. His mother and father had had a crazy plan to escape from

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the rat-race and live on a farm in Norfolk, where the money from the sale of their house had bought them a ranch of a property on several tens of acres of land somewhere near Norwich. On moving day his mother and father had set off together but the journey north had ended in catastrophe. The police had told Marcus that, despite the conspicuous warnings and restrictions on the road, his father had overtaken a lorry at an accident black spot where many drivers had met their maker. The road to Norwich was built on an old Roman road and this particular stretch was straight as a die for five or six miles but it concealed a treacherous hidden dip where the road went down then up then levelled out again. Deceptively, and especially for drivers poking their heads out to assess the overtaking situation, the road ahead could look empty for miles, when in fact there could be cars coming the other way that were very close and entirely invisible. Apparently, according to the accident investigator, as his father had accelerated and pulled out and alongside the lorry, one such car had appeared from the concealed depression, coming headlong at full speed. Between the lorry and the hedgerow there had been nowhere for his father to go and, still carrying his overtaking velocity, the closing speed had been 140 mph. In a second Marcus had been orphaned. He had gone on to explain that his life from that moment had never been the same. With nothing left to tie him down, he had quit Oxford almost straight away, left England and spent the next five years working his way eastwards around the world. Working in bars and clubs when he couldn’t make himself well understood and hightech companies when he could, he made it as far as Australia but the most improbable part of his story was what came next. Whilst working in Sydney he had found out he had been eligible to enter the US green card lottery on account of his mother’s nationality. Incredibly he had won and had upped anchor and moved to America. He had worked and travelled there for a further ten years. Married and divorced twice, imprisoned once and hospitalised for a number of months. He had kept moving on until finally he realised he was over his parents’ death and was ready to come back to England. After fifteen long years it was time to face up to what had happened and Rachel was his only link to the past. He had talked for the best part of half an hour and for most of it Rachel had stared at Marcus open mouthed. Everything was so

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unbelievable. This rendezvous meant so much to both of them but in such different ways. They spent the next hour laughing and chatting about their old lives, remembering people, places and events and bringing each other up to date. Then they were both mentally exhausted and Rachel detected the conversation winding down. ‘I am so glad I found you again Rachel. Can we do this again soon?’ ‘Sure we can, I’d really like that. Maybe tomorrow? I’ll call you. Have you got a phone?’ ‘Yeah, hold on sec.’ Marcus fished in his breast pocket and pulled out a small mobile. They let their phones swap contact details and got up to leave. Marcus put his arms around her again and she squeezed him back this time. They kissed, cheek to cheek on each side, said their goodbyes and left the coffee shop. Marcus made off in the direction of the railway station and Rachel stood in the centre of the marble circle and watched him go. Soon enough he had disappeared once more, rendered invisible by the after-work throng of people.

Asher took the tube from Monument to Waterloo and for the whole journey back to Kingston on the train he hoped, prayed that he hadn’t had any more phone calls. The next part of his new plan depended on it. He had worked out he needed to call three numbers as soon as he got in. He wasn’t sure why he knew which three, it was just one of those things you did or didn’t know. By the time Asher reached home it was five thirty. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. His back and underarms were totally drenched and he was hot, tired and thirsty. He badly needed a cold drink and a shower. He shut his front door and despite his discomfort half walked, half ran to the phone. The first number was British Telecom’s last caller ID service. ‘Telephone number. 0-1-7-0-7-5-’ Yes! Come on…three o’clock, please! ‘-0. Called. Today.’ continued the mechanised lady. ‘At. Fifteen. Oh one. Hours. To return the call –’

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Alright! Asher clicked the phone off. He pulled a piece of paper from the printer’s sheet feeder, selected a pen he knew worked from his pen mug and re-dialled. This time he scribbled the details down then hung up and dialled the second number on his mental list. ‘BT Directory Enquiries, which name please?’ said a female with a soft Scottish accent. Asher knew the greeting was a recording because he had once been out with a girl who had worked at the call centre. The ensuing conversation was with the real operator and the caller never knew they had been greeted by a machine. ‘Hello?’ His enquiry was going to be a bit different to the usual name and address search but according to his female acquaintance the operators were no strangers to receiving odd enquiries. The one that had stuck in Asher’s mind was that she’d once had a pervert asking what colour of underwear she was wearing. He was wondering what colour underwear this operator had on when he realised he was being spoken to. ‘Hello?’ repeated the soft Scottish voice. ‘Hi! Sorry. Er, actually I need to locate a dialling code please.’ ‘Certainly sir, what’s the number?’ Asher reeled off the digits. ‘I’m sorry sir but because of the data protection act I can only give you the general area for the code, not the exact address. 01707?’ There was a pause, then ‘That’s coming up as Potters Bar.’ ‘Yes! Fantastic, thank you very much,’ said Asher writing it down then underlining it. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ ‘Yes, can you tell me if it’s a residential number?’ ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to dial the operator for that information sir.’ ‘Thought so. That’s all thanks.’ ‘Thanks for calling,’ she said. ‘Bye.’ Click. Finally he dialled the third number from his head. There was another recorded message, which he let run through and then pressed ‘4’ to talk to the operator. ‘Operator services, how can I help?’ ‘Hi, can you tell me if a number is a public call box or not?’

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‘Certainly sir, what’s the number?’ Asher reeled the number off again. ‘OK…yes I can confirm that’s a public call box.’ ‘Lovely, thanks very much!’ ‘You’re welcome. Goodbye.’ ‘Bye.’ Click. After the temporary set back, Asher’s plan was coming together again. After a few more minutes of intense thinking and a quick trawl of the internet Asher came to a number of conclusions. One, Mr Jones had definitely called from a public call box in Potters Bar. Moreover he didn’t just call from Potters Bar, he probably lived there too because the timing of the train stops matched. Two, he had probably called from a public payphone close to where he lived, as he wouldn’t have wanted to have walked all the way to the station, then call Asher, then had to have walked all the way home again if Asher hadn’t answered. Three, Mr Jones had been using a pre-paid electronic card on the ticket gates. That meant he had a season ticket, which meant he probably came in to town quite frequently. Maybe a few times a week. That meant he probably didn’t live more than a ten minute walk from the railway station in Potters Bar. Four, he knew Potters Bar was a relatively small town and the ‘net had just told him that it had a population of around 22,000. So then he had run through some rough figures. He had assumed a third of the population were of working age and ability and maybe ten percent of those commuted somewhere on the train every day. Added fifty percent to account for the park-and-riders and people coming to work in Potters Bar and he’d come to around 1000 people. People needed to go back home again at some point so he doubled it and found he was looking at around 2000 people passing through the station every day. That wasn’t so bad. It was maybe a handful of people per train over a working day, perhaps tripling or quadrupling at the rush-hours. He could easily spend some time at the station with a clipboard and camera, pretending to spot trains from the bridge. No problem. Asher decided to stake out the station for a maximum of three days. He had already booked the time off work anyway. And if he turned up nothing then all his reasoning was baloney, he’d accept the loss and walk away.

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Asher spent the rest of the evening showering, relaxing in front of the television and preparing for his train spotting escapade. His preparation entailed digging out his camera, putting the batteries on charge and looking for a hardback A4 notepad, which he knew he possessed but had never used. Happily he found it in his desk drawer. He dug out his old rucksack and made himself some sandwiches, which he wrapped in foil and put in the bag along with a bottle of water. By the time he had finished it was 9 o’clock. He figured he would have to get up early to make the journey out to Potters Bar in time for the morning peak, so once the sandwiches were made he ran himself a glass of water and took it through to the bedroom. The first train out of King’s Cross was at 5:21am so he was going to have to set off at about 4:30am from Kingston. Reluctantly he set his alarm clock for 4 o’clock, which was a previously unheard-of time of day. He was mildly amused that the clock allowed him to set an alarm for that time. He had done a lot that day and was feeling tired so the early bed time suited him. He didn’t feel up to the full procedure of readying himself for bed, so he used his express routine, which excluded teeth cleaning and face washing. Exhausted, he collapsed in to his bed. In the darkness Asher imagined what might happen in the morning – how he’d follow Mr Jones if he spotted him, like a private detective. He thought about sunglasses. Yes, confident in his plan. Confident he had found the right person. Must take sunglasses. As he lay there, his thinking becoming weaker and weaker, he could feel the repeating waves of sleep washing through him. His brain was slowing quickly, descending towards unconsciousness. He never felt his delta brainwaves kick in because by that time he was in a deep, deep sleep.

Marcus had left Rachel standing in middle of the marbled circle with people walking all about her. As she stood gazing her mind raced back though the time she and Marcus had spent together. She wasn’t usually a dreamer but she stood there looking down the corridor of the mall, enjoying the moment. It was a strange feeling having just met an old friend with whom she hadn’t been in contact with for such a long time.

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She realised she’d definitely had some affection for him back then but looking back from this standpoint she couldn’t remember if it had been juvenile love or not. Either way Marcus had never known and never would. She had gotten over him a long time ago and she wasn’t about to let anything like that happen to her again, by him or anyone else. Marcus’ life had taken a dramatic turn and his story was an endless series of incredible events. The most incredible in Rachel’s mind was that he had come back to look for her. She had the same slightly detached feeling now that she remembered having after seeing her first big West End musical. Full of wonder and optimism, elements of the plot swimming in her head. But what was Marcus’ plot? Was she just another incredible event in his burgeoning collection? She smiled to herself and snapped out of it, shaking her head, then turned on the spot and made her way through the throng to the lifts and rode down to the underground parking. She was one of the privileged few commuters who didn’t have to suffer London’s cramped and stuffy public transport system every day. Instead she walked most days from her riverside apartment and could drive whenever it suited her, such as on a Friday when she took the car south for the weekend and although it was extortionately expensive to leave a car parked all day in Canada Place, Rachel didn’t care because the company picked up the tab. Today however was a Tuesday but she’d driven to work nonetheless. She’d been working hard lately, preparing for the go-live on Thursday and as everything was now in place just waiting, she’d booked the Wednesday in-between off with the express intention of relaxing in the calm before the storm and spending the day by the sea doing nothing. She found her car in it’s normal space, three along from the stairwell. It was pretty much Rachel’s only vice – a gleaming black, vintage Nissan 300ZX grand tourer. It was her pride and joy and a hobby on which she had spent thousands restoring and performance tuning. It was also the only way she regularly broke the law. As she slid into the cream Connelly leather seat she noticed a shadowy, balding man watching her from behind the dark windscreen of a new looking BMW opposite, a few spaces along. She summarily dismissed it as there were always plenty of people down here. She turned the engine over and it fired. The dashboard beeped and blinked into life. The six cylinders settled into a smooth growl and

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Rachel drove out of the car park into the light evening. She made her way around the twisting roads and roundabouts of Canary Wharf and out on to the A102. The road led southwards through the Blackwall tunnel under the river, then she dropped down on to the A20 and out of central London. The traffic thinned out and she was able to drive quickly, making good progress. A good seven or eight miles later she picked up the M20 motorway, which sped drivers out towards the coast. That was where Rachel was headed: Ocean View. She was going to her weekend retreat down on the southeast coast. Weekdays and weekends could not have been more different for Rachel. During the week she hung out in a one bed flat in Docklands – the happening place for young London financialites to be seen and very much heard. She didn’t do the social thing though, the location was more for it’s convenience for work than anything. But at the weekends she usually managed to escape to a place that was a world away from the noise and stress of all those greased-up corporate career ladders and the exhausting pursuit of all things material. In total contrast Ocean View was a little upside-down cottage that had a top floor living room and a balcony that looked out over the dunes to the English Channel beyond. It was on a sleepy stretch of shoreline that had a beautiful, long beach backed by secluded sand-dunes, a bucket-and-spade shop and a couple of cafédiners, one of which sold stomach-stretching portions of fish and chips. She spent the majority of most Fridays relishing the drive down and today was going to be even better because it was a Tuesday and that meant no weekend traffic. Joyous at the thought, she pulled out into the fast lane and floored the accelerator. The turbos whined quietly and the car gathered another 40 miles per hour in a couple of seconds; she never tired of letting the car do what it was designed to do. She glanced in the rear-view mirror and that was when it registered. Two cars behind her was a dark BMW that looked quite like the one in the car park. Had it followed her all the way from Canary Wharf? She’d noticed it at first but it wasn’t unusual for people to be going the same way at the same time in a city, especially on the main routes out of London. She had forgotten about it completely for the half hour it had taken her to carve her way through the evening exodus but now it was there again. Definitely. The same

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plates. The same midnight-blue bodywork, same unidentifiable driver. It accelerated out into the fast lane behind her. Rachel hung in the fast lane, steadily overtaking a long line of cars and keeping tabs on the BMW’s movements. She was cruising at about a hundred and it held its position, maybe fifty or sixty feet behind, nothing obscuring her view of it now. Police. Oh shit. They had probably already ID’d the car and were preparing the list of traffic violations to play back to her on their little in-car video system as she sat in the back seat of the squad car cringing. Just doing a hundred could lose her her licence. She slowed down to seventy and pulled in to the centre lane, fully expecting the BMW to cruise on past or put some blue lights on but it didn’t. It pulled in after her and sat there, tailing her threateningly. After a few minutes of perfect driving at the speed limit Rachel started to get annoyed. ‘This isn’t fair! I don’t know who you are!’ she said out loud. She thought for a moment. ‘Right, if you want to play silly buggers, lets play.’ A small Fiat in the fast lane was approaching from behind. She waited until it was just level with the BMW then she dropped the car into third and floored the throttle. The Nissan catapulted forwards and she pulled out into the empty fast lane in front of the irate Fiat driver. The BMW followed, delaying a fraction of a second to let the Fiat past. Looking in her mirror she could see flashing headlamps through the interloper’s car windows and it too quickly pulled over. The BMW came up behind, smoothly. At ninety she changed up to fourth and kept her foot to the floor but the BMW stayed with her dangerously closing the gap to no more than ten feet. One hundred and twenty and Rachel was starting to get worried that this was some psycho in a very expensive stolen car. She changed up to fifth putting the engine back at it’s torque peak once more and the car pulled away again, more slowly this time. She was approaching 155 now and the BMW was right on her tail and closing. Five feet, four feet, three feet. It was even closer than she thought. There was a crunch and a lurch as the BMW hit the back of the Nissan firmly at just over 155 miles per hour. Jesus Christ! What the hell’s going on? Rachel had both arms out straight, holding the wheel tightly and trying to concentrate on the road ahead. She glanced at a switch mounted on the right hand side of

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the dashboard. It was a small button with the letters ‘ECU’ that was obviously an after market attachment. Rachel knew exactly what it would do if she pressed it. She had programmed the matrices herself. There was another crunching lurch and this time the rear of the car twitched side to side, then gained traction again. It was too much for her. She pressed the button and the acceleration was instant. In the heart of the engine’s control unit a large matrix of numbers was replaced by a new set, giving the car instant access to another hundred horses and the Nissan pulled easily away from the BMW. The turbos whined and the engine whistled and when she next looked at the speedo she was doing 170mph. She desperately hoped no one pulled out into the fast lane and she prayed there were no police on this stretch. As she suspected the BMW was evidently still factory limited to 155. Unable to keep up, it fell back into the mêlée of cars behind her but for Rachel the outside world had become a blurred streak of scenery. The only objects that had any focus were the cars in the middle lane flashing past backwards at 100mph relative to her. The cars on the other carriageway were just streaks of gleaming metal under the yellow sodium lamps. Luck was on her side though as the traffic was thinning the further she got from London. She kept up the pace for a few minutes until she was sure she had left the BMW far behind then clicked the button off and slowed right down to eighty, which felt very pedestrian to her. She came off at the next junction, drove a little way along the road and pulled over into the first lay-by. She turned the engine off and sat there breathing slowly and deeply, waiting for the adrenaline to subside. The chassis and engine block creaked and pinged as it cooled. She was buzzing but shaken and thoughts ricocheted around in her mind. That was no boy racer. Or a cop! Whoever it was, they were following me. Someone wants me dead or very scared. Oh crap. But why? What do they want? The project? Could have ended badly for both of us. Would somebody want me dead? Why? I know too much. The project... Shit. What happens if I’m killed? It’s a worldbeater. If it ends up in the wrong hands…well. Wait a minute! Who gives a damn about the project? What about me? I’ll be dead! I do. I care. I’ve got no contingency plan. If I die, that’s it. End of me. End of project.

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‘Bloody hell!’ Rachel shouted, cross with the stranger in the other car and annoyed at her situation. She switched the radio on and searched for a pop channel. She radio found Kiss and just sat there listening to pop songs for a while. After five minutes the BMW still hadn’t shown up and she decided that she was safe. She started the engine, switched the radio over to Classic and rest of the journey to the coast was a leisurely drive on B roads.

Rachel paced up and down on her balcony with a large, half emptied glass of red wine in one hand, telephone held to her ear with the other. It was a warm, clear night and the tide was in, so she could hear the rollers breaking gently on the shore a hundred yards away over the dunes. Pools of light from the living room spilled on to the small terrace and the sound of music from her stereo mingled delicately with the slow breathing of the sea. Rachel had arrived at Ocean View at around ten, having driven very leisurely along back roads, listening all the way to a selection of piano concertos by Chopin. The music had done a lot to calm Rachel’s nerves but the wine was what she had really needed and now it was starting to do it’s job. She was half way through her second large glass. ‘Come on pick up the phone!’ She paced some more then sat down on the cushioned bench and looked out over the dark dunes at the pin-prick-lights of ships out in the channel. ‘Hello?’ At last! ‘Marcus! It’s Rachel.’ ‘Hello Rachel. Are you OK? It’s past eleven.’ ‘I’m fine. Sorry for ringing late. I – I just needed to talk to someone.’ ‘Really? What’s happened?’ ‘I had a bit of a scare today.’ ‘How so?’ ‘Well after you left, I drove out of London. I’ve got tomorrow off and I was driving down to the weekend place I told you about?’ She

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phrased the second part as a question, looking for Marcus’ confirmation. ‘Yes, I remember you talking about it. But what happened? Did you have an accident?’ ‘Nearly! There was this absolute nutter following me all the way out of London. I think it was a “he” but I couldn’t really see his face. Must’ve been a he. I think he followed me all the way from the underground car park.’ ‘God! Rach, are you OK?’ ‘I am now, thanks. I was a bit shaken but I had a drink to calm myself down. You know I’m into cars a bit?’ ‘Yes…’ ‘Well my car’s tuned up quite a lot so I was able to shake him off on the motorway.’ ‘Really? You don’t think it was just a boy-racer being an asshole?’ ‘No. It was a brand new M5, I’m pretty sure of that. Unless it was stolen.’ ‘So where did all this happen?’ Rachel could feel a wave of emotion welling inside. She took a gulp of wine followed by a deep breath and it subsided. ‘On the M20. I changed lanes a few times and he did exactly the same so I thought he must be following me and I sped up to get away. Then he followed me and rammed into me from behind!’ ‘He rammed you? Did you get his registration?’ ‘No, it was all happening too quickly. He could have killed me!’ She let out a sob and a sniff. ‘Rachel, you need to report this to the police.’ ‘No! No, I can’t…should I? Oh I don’t know what to do.’ ‘Look, do you want me to come over? I can be there in an hour or so...’ ‘I can’t ask you to do that.’ ‘Nonsense, it’d be my pleasure. You could save me some of what you’re drinking, we could catch up some more, relax and you can tell me all about it. How does that sound?’ ‘Yes…’ ‘No no, don’t get the wrong idea! I’ll stay in a B&B or something nearby.’

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‘No, don’t be silly. It’s not that. I’ve got a small room. It’ll be good to have somebody to stay.’ ‘Should I come tonight or tomorrow?’ ‘I’ll be OK tonight. Do you want to come first thing tomorrow?’ ‘Sure. Where’s your place?’ When Rachel had recited her address and finished off the call she felt much happier. It had all been too much – she was feeling like she was battling this thing alone, she had to tell someone about what the hell was going on in her life. She couldn’t keep it all to herself any longer and it was then that she decided: she was going to tell Marcus everything. He would understand, always had. Slightly shocked at her own indiscretion she smiled to herself. She would be breaking her promise to her boss, sure, but only a little bit and he’d never find out. She drained her glass, lay back on the comfy bench with her feet up, flopped her head back and gazed up at the glittering stars scattered across the cloudless night sky. ‘How is it,’ she said sleepily to the Orion constellation in particular, ‘that some of you don’t even exist any more but I can still see you and talk to you?’ There was no reply. ‘I’ll tell you why. Because of the distance between us. Such an enormous distance. After such a long journey you turn up on my terrace, twinkling as if nothing had happened between when you started your journey and now. I suppose if you’re prepared to wait long enough, you can go anywhere you want in the whole universe.’ Still no reply. ‘You can go anywhere. Huh. I can go anywhere…’ She closed her eyes for a moment and this time a reply came. ‘Rach? Rachel? Hello?’

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3 Ferroequinology

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sher and his wife stood to the side of the front door of the wooden house, their backs to the wall. They were safe inside for now; he had his pump-action shotgun. He twisted, cracked the door open a little and looked out. Coming down the escarpment were thousands of troops, marching towards the little house. His wife crouched and looked out of the crack below him. The troops were advancing quickly. Ten thousand Civil War Yankees, marching relentlessly - blue tunics and trousers with long black boots. Peaked caps and rifled muskets on shoulders. He closed the door. ‘We can go if you like,’ he said, waving the car keys at her. ‘The car’s just out the back. We can be in Wales in ten minutes.’ She looked at him blankly. He knew then they had to stay and fight. As the first of the troops reached the house, Asher pumped the gun once. He opened the door to find an infantry-man there on the porch, advancing. ‘Hello,’ smiled the soldier, coming at him. Asher aimed the gun at his face and pulled the trigger. There was no blood but the man fell to the ground, out of his direct view. The next man came up on to the porch smiling and Asher pumped the gun again. Blew him away too. And the next. And the next. Over and over. They kept dropping away out of view, like a computer game. In the back of his mind Asher had the notion that he should be feeling guilty and scared but he was enjoying it. Like shooting the bad guys on an arcade machine. Then Asher’s work colleagues started coming through the door. He carried on firing at them, one after another. But they were just walking through the door past him, each one shot in the face but only mildly annoyed. ‘What’s he doing?’ said one colleague to another. ‘Sorry,’ said Asher, still pumping the shotgun and firing at them.

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Wednesday, July 25th 2012 Rachel jerked awake and squinted at her watch. It was seven in the morning. The sky was bright but the sun was still below the horizon and there was a freshness in the air. She had slept right through till morning out on her terrace. ‘Rach? Rachel? Hello? Are you there?’ The voice from below. It was Marcus and he was banging relentlessly on her back door. She sat up, yawned and as she stretched she realised her right thigh felt sore. She untwisted her skirt and reached into her little pocket and pulled out a small, flat key, complete with the key-ring that had been digging into her leg all night long. She rubbed the itching, sore part of her leg. ‘Not sure,’ she murmured to herself, putting the key back. Then she got up and looked over the terrace railing. ‘Hello stranger!’ she called down. ‘Hey, there you are! I’ve been knocking for ages!’ ‘Sorry, I was asleep,’ she said and yawned again. ‘Oh yeah. Sorry I’m so early.’ ‘Don’t worry, it’s fine. Go round and I’ll buzz the front door. Hold on.’ They had orange juice and toast and Marcus watched some television while Rachel went downstairs to shower and dress. Ten minutes later she came back up with wet hair, wearing a white sleeveless top and a cornflower blue, knee-length skirt and flip-flops. ‘Ready!’ she announced. Marcus looked at her and smiled. ‘Wow. You’ve changed,’ he said, nodding his approval. ‘In more ways than one.’ ‘Yes indeed!’ said Rachel emphatically, smiling back. They walked out along the beach a little way while Rachel told Marcus all about her nightmare journey from the evening before. Marcus was duly sympathetic, wanting to know all the details, and they carried on walking until they reached a little tea shop back on the road that ran parallel to the beach. The road was set back slightly from the dunes but was still covered with a dusting of sand brought down by people coming off the beach. Inside Rachel ordered two tea-and-toasts, which they carried to the front of the shop, heading for the only table near the window. She nodded at the table to Marcus, who nodded his consent back, and sat

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down on the brown leather sofa. Marcus put his tray down on the table and pulled the matching comfy chair around to face her. Her recent scare aside, Rachel had been experiencing some anxiety lately. She supposed it was from all of the secrecy enshrouding her project. The mask she had to wear constantly to not give anything away. Being cautious about people’s questions and cagey with her answers. Worrying about whether the project would fly making millions or flop taking millions. She had realised the stress had started getting to her physically as well as mentally. She had a constant pain down the left side of her neck, which never used to be there. She had noticed that she clenched her teeth so that her jaw ached, which she never used to do. She had started forgetting things – little things but forgetting nonetheless, whereas before she never forgot anything. This was the moment she’d been waiting for. She was like a champagne bottle that had just had its cork-retaining wire loosened. ‘I need to tell you about something I’ve been working on,’ she said, smoothing the arm of the sofa. Marcus stopped in mid-air, squatting over his chair. ‘Sounds ominous. What is it?’ he said, sitting down. ‘It’s top secret OK? I can’t keep it to myself any longer – I need to tell someone and I know I can trust you. But I want you to promise first that if anything happens to me, you know with this…business, you’ll let my family know all about the project I was working on.’ He hunched forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped. ‘OK, mum’s the word. So what is it?’

Ferroequinology. The study of the iron horse. Train spotting. It was a term Asher had learnt at 4:20am, half asleep and twenty monutes after his alarm clock had brought him round. He had awoken with the definite feeling that he didn’t really know what he was doing. As he had dressed, he had become concerned that he might easily cause suspicion, hanging around the station all day long. So he had groggily searched online to see if he could pick up some rail-buffspeak. He hadn’t gotten very far as most of it was technical jargon he didn’t understand. But if anyone was going to ask what he was doing

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at the station, he could now confidently say that he was a ferroequinologist. That would shut them up! The forecast had said the sun was going to shine all day but the night had been clear and fresh. It was a quarter to six now and having misjudged the dawn chill and only worn a short-sleeved shirt, he stood at the end of platform two with his bag over his shoulder, his notepad clutched under his arm, and shivered. Backtracking his previous evening’s journey via Monument, he had managed to catch the first train of the day out of King’s Cross. Having reached Potters Bar and discovered that there was no bridge, he had changed his plan to stand at the end of the platform, from where he could see everyone getting on and off the train. The platform guard had told him there had only been one southbound train into King’s Cross so far this morning. He’d missed it but wasn’t that bothered. What were the chances Mr Jones would be on the very first train of the day? By nine he had seen through most of the commuters on their daily long march into London. He had taken a few photos of the locomotives and written a few numbers down. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be writing but he reckoned he was bluffing it well enough, as he’d had a few stares and points from passengers on trains.

Rachel spread her hands and patted the table gently. ‘Well, it’s a system that can make the owner an awful lot of money on the stock markets.’ She felt better already, just for getting that little bit out. ‘You mean like a trading strategy?’ said Marcus. ‘No, I mean like an actual, physical computer system.’ Rachel waited for a reaction. ‘I see. I’ve often thought about whether that’s possible. You know, invent a machine that predicts stock market prices. Whoever does that wouldn’t need a day job!’ he said and let out a snort. Rachel looked at him, unblinking. ‘I have done it.’ ‘Done what?’ Marcus left his mouth open.

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‘My system that I’m working on. It predicts stock market prices, highs and lows.’ ‘Wait. You’ve built a system that predicts stock highs and lows?’ Marcus raised his eyebrows and smirked at her. ‘That’s the holy grail of trading! I thought you couldn’t predict the markets because they’re inherently random?’ ‘Well, as it turns out that’s not quite true,’ she said. ‘See, in the long-term stocks are a safe bet because the markets always rise. But my theory was that you can learn the movements of the short-term stock market.’ She leaned back on the sofa and clasped her hands behind her head. She was enjoying this. ‘You just treat the whole thing as a big system. You learn all the inputs, all the outputs and make the correlation in the middle.’ Marcus was already grinning and wagging a finger. ‘But that only works for non-random systems. The short-term movements can be totally random. No-one has ever been able to reliably predict them and anyone who claims they have is playing the odds, they’ve been lucky a few times but it’s not repeatable.’ Rachel shook hear head. ‘That’s a backwards argument. The reason no-one’s been able to predict what’ll happen in the next second or minute or half-hour is because they haven’t had the right tools, and so they’ve argued it’s too random. It’s not, it’s just a system. What I’ve discovered is that, like any system if you hit it, it rings with it’s own unique signature.’ Marcus proceeded to smear strawberry jam thickly onto a slice of toast. ‘Rings? What d’ya mean, like a bell?’ ‘Yes, exactly like a bell,’ said Rachel nodding. ‘You’ve just got to figure out the dimensions – with a bell it’s the shape, circumference, density of the metal, whatever. Once you know all that it’s easy to predict what the bell’s going to sound like when you hit it. You just build a virtual model of the bell, whack it with a virtual hammer and let the computer work out what sound it’s going to make.’ Marcus thought about this for a few seconds. He frowned and looked out of the tea shop window. ‘So you’re saying,’ he said slowly ‘that your system can figure out the dimensions of the markets…and predict the response for a given input?’ ‘Precisely, as long as we know what the inputs are.’

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On went more jam. ‘And what are the inputs?’ ‘OK,’ said Rachel, leaning forwards. This was good. At last some relief from the intense secrecy. She took another sip of her tea. ‘I mean, the current state of the markets is actually an input, as well as being the control. There’s an inherent momentum in financial markets so it has to be. So, hundreds of thousands of stock prices. Then we feed it the same stuff from all of the other international markets. The Dow Jones, the Hang Seng. Then some ordinary stuff like inflation, house prices, news about the budget, international events like election results, terrorist attacks, company announcements, you name it. Anything. World affairs, it all gets fed into Ceptron. They’re all inputs, millions of them. ‘So we apply the inputs, look at our predicted outputs and compare them to the real world, the control. Then we use learning algorithms to modify our internal model so that our prediction looks more like the real world. Every time we run the learning sequence our prediction gets closer to reality.’ Rachel paused and then remembered the analogy she had once used with her boss at this point. ‘Like a child learning to speak,’ she said. ‘It hears what a word should sound like, then repeats it’s version of it. Every time it says the word, it modifies it’s language model in it’s own mind to make it sound closer to what it knows is right. It’s a closed-loop system. And it’s a long and tedious process.’ ‘What, learning to speak?’ Marcus chuckled. ‘Took me thirty years. Got there in the end.’ He frowned at Rachel. ‘But look, how can a computer manipulate such a huge amount of data in real-time? You said there are thousands of inputs and outputs. They’re all connected inside?’ ‘That’s the clever bit,’ said Rachel. ‘It’s a well-known structure that’s modelled on the brain. Called an artificial neural network. All the inputs are connected to all the outputs.’ She remembered the child again. ‘Like ears for the input, a voice box for the output and all the connections in the middle are the language centre, just like the neurons in the human brain.’

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Marcus considered this, running the numbers by in his head. ‘But if all the inputs are connected to all the outputs, that makes millions of connections, right?’ ‘Right. But in fact there’s a whole other layer of neurons between the inputs and outputs. That’s the hidden layer that gives the whole structure it’s ability to learn and predict. The clever bit. Without that it would be…brain dead, so to speak. So multiply it all up and we’re talking over three hundred billion internal connections here. And each connection has to be modified on every learning cycle. That’s where most processing time is spent, applying the learning algorithms. We’re running a processor farm with a thousand networked multicore computers, so we’ve got a little bit of spare capacity to handle the real-world connections.’ ‘I always knew it Rach,’ said Marcus, shaking his head. ‘You’re one of the smartest people I know.’ Rachel blushed but he carried on. ‘So what are all the real-world connections?’ ‘Well, on the input side the direct lines from over three hundred exchanges feeding real-time news and prices directly in and it’s also got as much internet access as it can handle. One part of the system is dedicated to scouring the ‘net for what it thinks is financial data and feeds the machine that way. And on the output side, nothing but simulated trading so far.’ She lowered her voice and leaned closer. ‘But…it’s been performing so well recently that we’re going to hook it up to a real trading system tomorrow. Tomorrow we go live.’ Marcus lowered his voice, leaning closer too. ‘You’re kidding? I hope you’re going to give it Monopoly money to play with. If it goes tits-up you’ll have the mother of all boards to answer to.’ He took a bite of his breakfast. ‘They’ve authorised a million to start off with.’ ‘A million pounds?’ mumbled Marcus, his mouth full of toast. ‘Sterling?’ ‘Yup. This is real. It’s working and the company knows it could make them serious cash very quickly. They’re ready to trust it with much, much more than that.’ She turned the volume down even more, to almost a whisper. ‘And it’s very, very repeatable.’

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Marcus stopped chewing and looked at her. With his cheeks rounded with food and his wide eyes, Rachel thought he looked a bit like a foraging hamster.

The human traffic had died drastically after ten and had stayed light throughout his sandwiches and into the afternoon. Then Asher got lucky. Three carriages away, alighting from the 1535 to Welwyn Garden City was Mr Jones, exactly as he had been the day before, sunglasses and all. Yes! Immediately Asher’s pulse started to race, heart beating faster. How could he have missed him this morning? Maybe he had been on that very first train after all. Or maybe he’d been out all night. Shit! Sunglasses! Too late to worry about that now. From the end of the platform he switched his camera on and pretended to take a picture along the length of the train. But instead of a wide angle of the locomotive he held the zoom + button down. His lens motor whirred, narrowing his field of view and the digital image in his viewfinder enlarged itself until Mr Jones’ head and shoulders entirely filled the frame. Asher was trembling terribly with excitement but the camera’s anti-shake managed to hold the view stable enough to let him take the shot at that range. On automatic he took two fast frames face-on and managed to get one side-on shot as Mr Jones turned to go down the steps to the exit tunnel. Then the camera was back in the bag and he set off jogging along the platform to the access tunnel. He caught up just before Mr Jones reached the exit barriers and realised this was where he had to be careful. Only a handful of other people had got off the train (they had disappeared already) and Mr Jones was through the exit tunnel and out of the station already. Asher followed, trying to stay well back but not so far back that he was in danger of losing his mark. Potters Bar only covered an area of one and a half square miles, so if Mr Jones was going home Asher figured he was going to find out where he lived pretty quickly. From the station exit Mr Jones went north on Darkes Lane, one of the two main roads making out a giant X shape through the centre of

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the town. Shops turned to houses and after a couple of minutes he turned right into Byng Drive and walked very nearly the entire length to the end. Now the road was a quiet, leafy avenue of detached bungalows, which opened out into park land at the far end and Asher realised that he’d become unexpectedly conspicuous. He pulled back even further, guessing that Mr Jones would continue on into the park but instead he turned sharply and went up to the door of a house on the north side of the street, almost but not quite at the end of the road. Asher stopped dead, about a hundred meters back along the road, and waited. When Mr Jones had gone inside Asher strolled leisurely past, memorised the house number and kept on walking towards the park, just out for an afternoon walk. He just hoped that if Mr Jones looked out of his window he wouldn’t recognise him from the Lido. He should be OK. They hadn’t really looked at each other, had they? Then the memory of sitting on the bench and looking directly into Mr Jones’ sunglasses hit him and the surge of panic quickened his pace and he lowered his head as he walked briskly on into the park. Some way into the park he dove behind a tree and with his long zoom, Asher was able to get a clear, quick shot of the house. Then he put the camera in his bag once again, turned south across a grassy area and doubled back along a different street towards the station. Half way along the street of now terraced houses was when it all went wrong for Asher. Suddenly his nose and mouth were being crushed by a hot, sweaty hand and his neck was being locked in the crook of the arm of someone very strong standing behind him. So strong! He was being pulled backwards and he felt his body weight shifting off-centre. He stumbled, trying to stay upright but he didn’t have a choice. His hands came up reflexively, grappling uselessly at the vice-like grip around his neck and mouth. The strong clamp around his neck got tighter and he was being dragged backwards quickly now, feet flailing and slipping in an futile attempt to shake off his attacker. He was pulled slowly but surely into a side alley between two blocks of houses, which was not the best news Asher had had that day. He was aware that he was struggling but not breathing and he forced himself to take a few deep gulps of air through the dirty moist fingers, which made it taste sweet and rank. As he fought for breath the sides of the large houses to his left and right closed in around the

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narrow alley and the street receded from view. They struggled backwards together and when they were deeper in the alley amongst the garages Asher was wrenched around to face a white painted brick wall, his assailant still unknown, still behind him. He was pushed forward violently and hit his forehead hard on the bricks, leaving a red smear of blood across the white paint and a stab of pain shot through his eyes and across his forehead. His vision blurred momentarily and he felt his legs weaken. For a second and he could feel the hot breath of someone with their mouth very close to his head and their full weight was pushing Asher against the warm wall. ‘So Mr Asher,’ said a slow, deliberate East Asian, possibly Oriental voice that Asher recognised straight away. ‘We meet again.’

They were a hundred feet high before the silence was broken. Usually the Director would book a capsule for himself and the investor would call his mobile once they were off the ground. The meeting would be conducted via a mid-air teleconference but this time the Investor was there in person, which slightly worried the Director. ‘We’ve been funding you for quite a while now, haven’t we?’ said the Investor, studying the shrinking buildings below. The Director nodded slowly, looking at the back of the man’s head. He didn’t really understand who ‘we’ was but as long as the money kept coming he didn’t much care. The last few years had been good to him with the Investor’s money coming in. How many year’s had it been? Four? No, five, surely? ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Five years. Could – could I just ask why we’re having this meeting?’ ‘Well,’ said the investor as he turned around. He walked around the bench on which The Director was sitting to look out in a different direction. He was a tall, youngish man, well-built who, despite the present heat, always dressed in a dark blue pin-stripe suit over a

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cream shirt with a Boston Red Sox baseball cap. ‘Since you ask, there’s a small problem.’ ‘Oh?’ ‘And I would hate to see this little deal of ours go under because of it. Because if it did, we’d want our investment back, you see?’ ‘Yes, I understand that. But I –’ ‘And I understand the project is about to start live trials.’ The Investor turned away from the view again and faced the Director, hands clasped behind his back and a look of inquisition in his eyes. The Director stared at him, almost through him, confused. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘How do you know that?’ ‘Come on, use your head!’ said the Investor like a school teacher who had just heard the wrong answer. His physical position gave him easy control of the conversation. The Director was sitting on an isolated bench in the middle of the glass capsule and now the man was slowly walking around it again taking in all the views of the city in the afternoon sun. The glass of the pod was no more than a few feet away from the bench so the Director had to look up at him when he spoke. He suspected it was finely calculated, like everything this man did. ‘Your board turns you down because they think you’ve got some crackpot invention that’ll never work. We step in and pay your development budget for the last five years, regular as clockwork and suddenly, out of the blue you ask for a million pounds more? There’s got to be a reason. Do you think we’re just going to pay it? Sterling doesn’t grow on trees, you know? Do you think we’re stupid? No! So what do we do? We send someone in to investigate where the money is going. And who do we send in?’ ‘I don’t know,’ said The Director trying to shrug. He realised he was holding the edge of the bench too tightly and released his grip a little. ‘Me!’ exclaimed the Investor. ‘We send in little old me!’ ‘Look, it was stupid,’ said The Director. He half stood up. ‘SIT DOWN!’ barked the man and The Director instantly did as he was told. ‘I –’ He took a deep breath. ‘I thought you wouldn’t authorise it if I just asked. I wanted to surprise you, prove to you that this thing was working by doubling your investment in a few days. If I had just

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asked I would’ve had to have admitted there was a risk of losing it. So I tried to spread it across the budget. I’m sorry, it was stupid.’ ‘Actually I’m not bothered by the extra million. Although you of all people should know by now my agency will not tolerate deception. I’m prepared to let it go this time but never try anything like this again. Clear?’ ‘Yes, very clear. Thank you,’ said The Director with his head bowed. ‘Now, to why I’m really here. We do have another hitch. My agency will not see this project lost to a competitor.’ The Director jerked his head up. ‘Of course not! Is there a problem?’ ‘A problem? The problem is that your chief engineer has been…incautious. Indiscreet even. Talking.’ ‘What? You must be mistaken!’ ‘I assure you she has.’ The Director was having trouble believing what he was hearing. Rachel had always been totally reliable and trustworthy. She couldn’t possibly have sold out to a competitor. Not now. ‘How do you know, have you got proof?’ ‘Do you think we’d be having this meeting if I didn’t? She disclosed everything.’ The investor stopped in front of the Director. ‘I’ve been following her. Apparently she got herself into a spot of bother and got scared. Taken some comfort talking to an old friend she hasn’t seen for a long time.’ ‘Oh my god.’ The Director scanned the floor of the pod as if it held the explanation he was looking for. Some signal from Rachel he had missed. ‘Oh my god indeed. So what are you going to do about it?’ ‘What?’ He looked up again. ‘What do you mean? What exactly did she disclose?’ ‘Just like I said - everything. The plans, the design principles, the budgets, timescales. Everything. She revealed it all to someone she hasn’t seen for fifteen years like it was yesterday’s gossip. As is turns out this person is benign and the likelihood of him taking further action on what he’s heard is minimal but we can’t take any chances. How do we know she hasn’t already sold us out to some backstreet start-up for a little financial incentive? You’d be surprised what people will do for money, especially with what’s inside her head.’

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‘She wouldn’t! She gave me her word! She doesn’t give a damn about the money. I pay her well enough.’ ‘Word or no word, money or no money she has to go.’ They were at the highest point now, high enough now to see down into the courtyard of the Houses of Parliament. ‘We can’t lose her now! She’s the only one who knows how to operate Ceptron. I can’t fire her.’ The man turned and looked out of the window again into a neighbouring pod. ‘Oh dear, this is so tedious. I’m not talking about firing her.’ There was a pause as it sank in, then the Director looked up in horror. ‘What?’ ‘It’s my job to safeguard my agency’s interests and Rachel Taylor is jeopardising our oh-so-very-large investment right now. We cannot afford to let anyone else get their hands on this technology. She must be dealt with. Get your house in order Director, or I will be forced to do it myself.’ The Director started to panic, gripping the bench tighter again. He looked down at the floor between his legs. ‘OK, I’ll talk to her! I’ll make her realise what’s at stake. I’ll make her understand. She won’t talk again, I promise! Just let me deal with her. Please!’ ‘I don’t like untidiness. And this is so very, very untidy. I need more than a promise.’ ‘What do you need?’ ‘I need assurance. Security. Ha! So apt for your line of work, don’t you think?’ ‘OK but what?’ said the Director. He didn’t like where this was leading and was beginning to panic a little. ‘Don’t you worry about that. I’ve already got it covered.’ The investor tossed a small photograph on to the wooden bench. It flipped a few times in flight and landed face-down next to the Director. He turned it over and frowned at the picture. ‘I’ll keep this until the handover,’ said the Investor matter-offactly. The Director’s frown deepened. ‘Sorry, you want to keep this?’ he asked, flipping the photograph over a few times. ‘Where did you get it?’ ‘Tut, tut. Always the wrong end of the stick.’

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The Director thought for a moment, then his face filled with total horror. ‘What? Oh my god. No, please!’

The voice was loud in his ear. It was Mr Jones. He had seen him when he’d walked past his house! He struggled and tried to shout out but his nose and mouth were being clamped shut by the hand and no consonants made it past. Instead he made a muffled, high-pitched whining noise. ‘Shhhh. No one will hear you here. Calm down and be quiet and I won’t break your neck. Deal?’ Asher relaxed slightly and nodded his consent but the man didn’t remove his hand or let up the pressure against the wall or the clamp around his neck. ‘What do you think you have got on me, I wonder?’ said the voice. ‘Do you think I am guilty of some crime? The business with your brother, maybe? Hmm?’ He jerked Asher’s neck hard. Asher shook his head quickly and blood from his forehead started to trickle down into his wide eyes, blurring his vision red. ‘It is no longer relevant anyway. I told you to stop looking. You didn’t listen. And now look what you’ve done. You followed me. Very clever Mr Asher but I warned you and now you are going pay.’ Asher felt the man’s breathing slowing, getting deeper as if preparing himself psychologically for something. The stranglehold around Asher’s neck was gradually tightening and Asher could feel his windpipe being crushed. He was gasping for breath. He could feel the blood pressure building up in his face, like his eyes were going to pop out. Asher struggled but it was in vain. The man was too strong. He was starting to feel light-headed and reality wheeled about him. He tried to focus but his vision blurred again. Now he couldn’t breathe at all, the grip was so tight. His vision started washing out like an over-exposed film and he could see dark sparkles in the white blankness. Then in the distance there was the sound of children shouting to each other and a football being kicked and bounced on concrete, coming closer. Asher felt Mr Jones turn his head sideways towards

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the sound and then back again to look the other way. He seized the only opportunity he was going to get and as Mr Jones swung his head back again, he pushed up with his knees with all his remaining strength and flung his head backwards as hard as he could. Bulls-eye! The back of his head smashed into something and there was a sickening crunch as the bridge of Mr Jones’ nose caved in. There was a guttural roar and Asher felt the weight of the man drop away instantly and the pressure on his throat release. He took a huge gasp of air. There was a thud as a body hit the floor. Unconscious or not, Asher didn’t care. He propped himself against the wall for the few seconds it took for his eyesight to return and when it did he could see more blood splatters on the white paint in front of him. He span around and didn’t wait to find out anything more. Jumping over the crumpled form of Mr Jones he ran as fast as his exhausted legs would allow all the way back to the station, gasping heavily for breath as he went but pretty sure Mr Jones hadn’t followed him.

‘You don’t seem to understand what you’ve gotten yourself into here. You’re playing high stakes now, this is no twiddly little on-line poker tournament you can walk anonymously away from after losing your hundred pounds. We’ve put our money where your mouth is, so to speak. Don’t worry, she’s nice and safe and you’ll get her back when you come through for us.’ The colour had drained completely from the Director’s face leaving him looking wan and he began to feel nauseous – he was staring at a picture of his own daughter. ‘You can’t be serious,’ he muttered under his breath, almost choking. ‘I love dealing in securities, don’t you?’ ‘Look, the engineer won’t talk any more. I guarantee it. Just don’t do anything to my little girl, OK? Please!’ ‘You know what I want. Do it and I’ll tell you where she is, deal? You can retrieve your precious little Cassandra yourself. Good. OK, it’s been great doing business with you, as usual.’ The man clapped his hands once and rubbed them together. ‘Well! I’ve satisfied myself

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that the extra money is justified for the go live, so it’ll be paid into your account directly.’ ‘Oh my god, I feel sick,’ said the Director, shaking his head and retching slightly. ‘How can I undo this?’ He had started salivating profusely under his tongue and there were beads of sweat across his forehead. ‘You can’t. This is how things are going to be for a little while. Don’t worry old chap. Stay calm, do your job and everything will be hunky-dory. Capiche?’ The man smiled and slapped the Director on the back. The Director heaved and threw up his mostly digested lunch. The man grimaced and walked away to the end of the pod to admire the last of the views over London, as the surrounding buildings rose about them. After a few more minutes of silent descent broken only by the low moaning sound made by the Director the doors finally opened and the Investor strode confidently out of the still-moving pod. The Director followed, hunched and dragging his feet and they were ushered off the gantry together and across the boardwalk towards the exit turnstiles. The man stopped and turned. ‘Hell of a ride, huh?’ he said cheerily. The Director leaned against a kiosk on the wooden decking. His face was white and he was feeling very sick indeed. ‘Doesn’t like heights,’ quipped the Investor to one of the concerned operators who was looking on. He tugged the peak of his cap down, smiled, pushed through the turnstile and strode off along the quayside leaving The Director to recover from the ordeal. ‘No way,’ breathed the Director at the Investor’s back. ‘No goddamn way on Earth you’re getting away with this.’

Asher reached the station quickly and spent a further few anxious minutes amongst rush-hour crowds waiting for the next train. The people nearest to him were giving odd looks and granting him a wide berth. He was sweaty and bloody, standing in a daze, and when he finally boarded he was let on first. Typically for this time of day the train was already full but a frail-looking woman sitting near the doors gave him a concerned look and offered him her seat. He took it.

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He gave up all his remaining strength mentally and physically to cross London and make it back home to Kingston on the over and underground trains. He didn’t recall much else of the journey and was still shaking visibly when he reached his apartment over two hours later. In the bathroom he turned the shower on full and half sauntered, half limped his way back through to the lounge and poured himself a neat scotch while he waited for the shower run hot. He plopped two soluble pain killers into the drink and after they had effervesced he downed the concoction and limped back to the steamed-up bathroom, where he stripped naked and got in the shower, letting the hot needles of water massage his bruised skin and penetrate through to his aching muscles. Lathered up his blood-soaked hair at least three times, maybe four, he couldn’t remember, and after a good ten minutes just standing there replenishing his energy he finally turned the shower off. The gash in his head wasn’t as bad as he’d though and after dressing it he wrapped himself in his dressing gown. His shoulders and arms ached, his head ached and his legs ached. It had taken a lot out him and all he really wanted to do was to go to bed but he couldn’t – there was still work to be done. It was only early evening so he grabbed his hold-all and sat down once again at his computer to see if the trip had been worth it. He rummaged in the old bag, brought out the camera and set it carefully down on his desk pointing it towards a blank piece of wall. As he clicked the switch to ‘Project’ the camera’s miniaturised projection mechanism engaged and a blurred one-foot-wide image of a train flickered onto his wall. He smiled, twisted the lens to focus it, then pressed the ‘Next’ button a couple of times scanning past more pictures of trains until he got to the first picture of Mr Jones. Bingo! A nice, clear shot. He smiled again but this time his smile was tighter and his lips were thinner. He found the ‘Print’ button on the back of the camera, his printer sprung silently to life and within a few seconds he was holding an A4 sized full-colour photo of Mr Jones. Pressing ‘Next’ got him a nearly identical picture, which he ignored. The third image was of Mr Jones side-on, another good shot which he printed off. He hard-copied the next one too, which was of Mr Jones’ bungalow. He clicked the camera off and the house disappeared. Next he turned to his computer and searched the internet for pictures of Ang Mo, known terrorist. He found nothing detailed; the best one was grainy and the colours were

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saturated and Asher couldn’t really make out the features. Nevertheless he pulled it up and maximised it on-screen. Then he propped the two portrait shots up against his monitor and sat back in his leather chair. He stared at them for a long time, comparing the faces and his gut instinct told him he had his man. He knew it. The bastard. This was the man who had wrecked his family all those years ago. Had torn his brother from the world, leaving a hole that nothing and nobody could fill. This was Ang Mo alright. His trip had been worth the grief. He realised there and then that the plan couldn’t fail. Not couldn’t as in not possible. Couldn’t as in not allowed. He put everything back in his bag, went to his bedroom and proceeded to dress himself once more.

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‘Yes.’ ‘Um, this is Oscar. I’ve left everything you need in a deposit box at the agreed location.’ ‘Well done. You have the key?’ ‘I do.’ ‘Wait for a call from me.’ ‘OK.’

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‘Hello?’ ‘Oscar?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Listen carefully. The Executive Suite at Threadneedles Hotel has been booked for tonight in the name of Oscar Gunhill. Got that?’ ‘Threadneedles, Oscar Gunhill. Got it.’ ‘Good. Leave the safe deposit key taped to the underside of the desk drawer. Call me tomorrow morning when you’ve checked out. Got that?’ ‘Deposit key, desk drawer. OK.’

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4 We’ll Cause A Meltdown

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Thursday, July 26th 2012

T

he feeling had started when Ceptron had proven itself to be a viable project but Rachel couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Her working theory was that the Director was keeping her under surveillance to ensure competitors didn’t get their hands on any of the machine’s secrets. She knew him quite well now and she didn’t think he was dangerous or unstable but he was a driven man – she just wasn’t sure how driven. She supposed he had a lot to lose if anything got out or went wrong. And he could easily arrange surveillance – he certainly wasn’t short on funds and the project was a blackout, so he didn’t need to account for his expenditure. ‘Good morning sir,’ said Rachel, knocking on the open door. The Director was sitting at his desk facing her and Rachel thought he looked a little more gaunt than usual; there was anxiety in his eyes. In actual fact it was she who was feeling a little anxious, not to mention tired from such an early start. After spending a very pleasant morning with Marcus at her cottage the previous day she had dispatched him around lunchtime and returned to London herself a little later on in the afternoon. Then she had retired early to bed that evening and gone into work at two in the morning, ready for the open of the Asian markets. ‘Ah, Rachel. Thanks for coming up. Just wanted to have a quick word, have a seat. How’s it going?’ ‘Well sir,’ said Rachel, sitting on a leather armchair facing his desk and supressing a yawn. ‘Apart from Ceptron going live today, there’s something I wanted to ask you first.’ ‘Go on,’ said the Director with trepidation. Rachel clasped her hands. ‘It’s a bit embarrassing but I have to just come right out and say it. Are you having me watched?’

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‘What?’ The Director’s eyes flashed with uncertainty. ‘Good grief Rachel, what makes you say that?’ She took a deep breath. ‘I think I’m being followed and I was kind of hoping you had something to do with it. You know, maybe arranged some kind of…protection? To help keep the project secret?’ ‘I’m afraid not,’ said the Director. ‘If I was going to do something like that, I imagine I’d let you know first. Are you positive? Are you sure it’s not just a touch of paranoia? I mean, we’re in the metaphorical pressure cooker now so I wouldn’t be surprised if it was getting to you.’ Rachel was shaking her head. ‘It’s not paranoia. And it’s definitely not the pressure. I wouldn’t be able to identify anyone in a line-up but I’m definitely not imagining it. If it’s not you then frankly it’s kind of worrying.’ ‘I should cocoa,’ said the Director, suddenly concerned. ‘Have you been to the police?’ ‘No!’ Rachel shot back and the Director visibly relaxed. ‘Of course not.’ ‘Yes, well, let’s just keep it like that for the moment, eh?’ he said. ‘Sure. The police are not an option.’ ‘OK then. Do you think someone else knows? You know, trying to get the plans and all that?’ ‘Maybe, I just don’t know.’ ‘Rachel, I know its tough but we absolutely cannot afford to let any of this stuff out. Do you understand?’ ‘Absolutely sir!’ Rachel looked a the floor. ‘I wouldn’t dream of spilling the beans.’ The director glared at her for a few seconds. ‘Rachel, I want to hire a bodyguard for you. Just for a few weeks until this blows over. I’ve got the budget and after all it’s the company that’s put you in this position. Everything will be fine once we go public but until then I feel responsible for your safety. What do you say?’ ‘Let’s see how it goes. I don’t think it’s that serious.’ ‘Well is there anything else I can do? Do you want to stay in a hotel or something? Take some time off maybe?’ Rachel was feeling awkward now, regretting having brought the subject up.

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‘No, thanks. Look, don’t worry about it for the moment. Forget I said anything. If it happens again, maybe I’ll reconsider the offer.’ ‘Right-o. Just say the word, OK? So. How’s our little project coming along?’ ‘OK. First, the good news. Ceptron’s portfolio value has grown by about 10 percent since we went live this morning. The one million we started with is currently worth around 1.1 million and I’ve no reason to believe it’s a one-off. If you trend it, that’s four million profit in around eight days. It’s way more than we anticipated sir.’ ‘Good grief, that’s fantastic!’ said the Director and smiled. ‘How much is that in a year?’ ‘It’s going too fast sir,’ she replied, avoiding the question. ‘I’ve done the sums and we have to take Ceptron offline again while I add some moderating algorithms. And we’ve got to do it soon.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because if it keeps investing at this rate, and there’s no reason to believe it won’t, there’s going to be an economic crash. We, you and I, are going to bring Britain’s financial world to its knees. If we allow Ceptron to keep investing at this rate unchecked it’ll acquire too much wealth for the economy to support.’ ‘Sorry Rachel, you’ve lost me. How much money are we talking about exactly?’ ‘OK…according to the latest estimates of Gross World Product, about eight trillion times more wealth than there is on the entire planet.’ There was a lengthy silence in the office. The Director shifted in his seat. It was an incomprehensible number. Even Rachel with her head for figures couldn’t really understand the meaning of a number that big. She hoped the Director would see it for the serious matter it was. ‘Ah-ha!’ he said at last. ‘Very funny. Eight trillion, good one! You nearly had me,’ he said, wagging a finger. He was nodding at Rachel, grinning and frowning at the same time. Confused, she thought. ‘No sir, I don’t think you understand. Twenty percent on a million pounds, compounded daily over a year gives you a really big number. Huge. It’s all theoretical of course because there’s a finite pot of wealth out there but given time Ceptron would probably flat-line the entire securities market and not just in Britain. Globally.’

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His grin dropped, leaving just the frown. ‘Jesus Christ. Do we know why? I mean why it’s gone berserk?’ ‘Actually I think I do: cause and effect. When we were testing, there was no effect, we weren’t influencing the market so the patterns Ceptron was learning were based on the fact that we were just observers. But now our trading is changing the market. We’re skewing it slightly, OK it’s subtle but it’s just enough for Ceptron to be able to take advantage. And the more advantage you can take, the more you’ll skew the market, which gives you more advantage. It’s exponential – a snowball effect. All our tests suggested that we should be doubling our investment every three weeks. That’s huge in anyone’s book but in reality we’re doubling every four days. If we keep ploughing the profits back in as we are, we’ll cause a meltdown.’ ‘Right. Don’t panic,’ said the Director tapping the desk with a pen, obviously alarmed now. ‘Let’s think about this. What options do we have?’ ‘One – we have to take Ceptron offline. We freeze the current portfolios and sell up the stocks at our leisure. Then I figure out how to add a moderating mechanism.’ ‘Damn!’ The Director slammed his desk with his open palm and Rachel jumped. He was obviously under even more pressure than she’d thought. Then he brightened up a bit and stood. ‘Right. At least it’s a plan. You work out the new dates and let me know the forecast. I’ll let the board know we’ve had some hiccups but their capital is secure and growing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a call to make.’ He waited as Rachel stood and made for the door. ‘Oh, just one other thing.’ She pulled the unremarkable key that had been troubling her from her skirt pocket and turned back to the Director. ‘I’ve had this on my desk for ages but I can’t remember what it’s for. Any ideas?’ He gave they key a cursory glance, which told Rachel he wasn’t really interested and probably had more important things to worry about. ‘No, sorry,’ he smiled. ‘Hmm. OK. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve got a new plan.’ ‘Fabulous! Well done Rachel, this is all really good news.’ As Rachel left the office the Director watched her go and then let out a long sigh. Then he reached for his telephone, dialled and waited.

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‘Yes.’ ‘This is Oscar. I’ve checked out and the key is in place.’ ‘Good. I’ll call you when I am in a position to move. OK?’ ‘OK.’

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He hadn’t had much sleep that night so now he was trying to bring himself round with a strong coffee. He yawned as he shook the mouse of his ageing computer to bring it to life. With all the excitement over the past few days he had completely forgotten to check his e-mails. “You have 1 unread e-mail”

Just one? He was expecting more and poking around he found a handful of other messages marked as junk, waiting to be deleted. He opened the solitary e-mail and a box expanded from screen centre, filling itself with text: From: [email protected] To: jasher@j&rresearch.com

Sent: Thu 19th July 2012 8:20pm Subject: Requested data Dear jasher@j&rresearch.com,

Here are the results of the data you requested: Instrument: [DT] Next price: Next high: Next low:

234 Date: 20/JUL/2012 Time: --:---- Date: --/---/---- Time: --:--

--- Date: --/---/---- Time: --:--

This e-mail may contain confidential and/or privileged information. If you are not the intended recipient please notify [email protected] immediately and destroy this e-mail. Any unauthorized disclosure or distribution of the material in this e-mail is strictly forbidden.

He squinted tiredly at the week old text – it had been written and sent on the day he’d flown out to China. For god’s sake, who are these idiots? With a sigh he clicked DELETE and the offending box disappeared, restoring his desktop. He had received hundreds like it over the past year. Many times he had tried replying to let the sender know they’d got the wrong address but his attempts had disappeared into a black-hole without an acknowledgement or even a delivery error. So now he usually just deleted them whenever they appeared.

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Hold on. He perked up – something had caught his mind’s-eye in the after-image. He undeleted the e-mail and re-read it. That was odd. The address in the security rider was different to the sender’s address; something he hadn’t noticed before. Hmm. Worth a try. He had convinced himself that he wasn’t that bothered about the e-mails but he couldn’t let it go. They were obviously inconsequential but something about them had always niggled him and for the life of him he couldn’t think what it was. He hit FORWARD, typed the new address and drafted his short message text. When he’d finished, he checked that the offending e-mail was still attached, pressed SEND and in an instant his desktop reappeared. Back in her office Rachel picked the key up again and turned it over a few times in her hand. She had absolutely no recollection of what it was for, which annoyed her greatly because it was one of those little, insignificant things that she wouldn’t have forgotten a year ago. She let it break her concentration for a few seconds then, perturbed, placed it back next to her keyboard and continued typing. It was ten in the morning and, barring the minor set-back, it had already been a good day for Rachel. She finished typing in commands and looked around her glass-fronted office. This was her control room. There was no need to go down to the secure computer hall to interrogate the leviathan – she could access it all remotely from up here on her office computer. Besides, it was always too cold and too noisy for her to think straight down there. She used to love the idea of being amongst the wires and the fans, the disks and blinking lights but that was way back when she was young and fresh, influenced by Hollywood films. Back when she had had the idea, way before LSI Co. Her design hadn’t had a name back then but now it did. Ceptron. It was her design and reality – her baby. She had brought Ceptron into the world, coaxed it into life and now it was working perfectly, way beyond all her expectations. Totally secret, even from the rest of the company, there were only three people who knew of it’s existence and she and Marcus were two of them. The third person was the Director. To get the project off the ground the Director had convinced the board to invest in an unknown entity that would bring the company massive returns at a modest

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price. That price had been millions of pounds’ worth of computer hardware, a secure computer hall the size of ten tennis courts and total blackout secrecy. Being a cash-rich company, the board had gone for it. They had taken a twenty million-pound flier with virtually no guarantees they would see the money again. But the Director had a reputation for delivering and Rachel supposed he must have put it to them in no uncertain terms, because they green-lit the project immediately over four years ago and the funds had just kept on rolling in, year after year. From her desk, Rachel had been performing some routine housekeeping on the system. It had been a big Thursday for her and the Director. After months and months of poring over the detailed analysis of Ceptron’s activity logs, they had finally gone “live” at two in the morning. Long ago, right at the beginning of the project, Rachel had realised it was going to be a hard slog following the sun. In general the Asian markets opened during the bleary-eyed small hours of the UK’s morning and the US markets closed late at night. She found it impossible to monitor all of the markets all of the time, and the activity logs were one of the first things to be added to Ceptron. But for such an important event the mere analysis of activity logs wasn’t sufficient. She’d had to be there in person at that ridiculous hour to hand-hold the code as it took its first teetering steps into the unknown world of live trading. Having already completed a full day’s work she idled, again twiddling the key between her fingers as she waiting for the clean-up programs to complete. Then she realised she hadn’t checked her email for a good few minutes, so switched her attention to that. Sifting through there was an internal memo declaring a new working practice, followed by another regarding somebody else’s project deadline she knew nothing about. Then there was a more interesting one. Much more interesting.

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From: jasher@j&rresearch.com To: [email protected]

Sent: Thu 26th July 2012 9:35am Subject: FW: Requested data

Hi, I have received this mail in error. Please remove me from your mailing list! Thanks J Asher Original message: From: [email protected] To: jasher@j&rresearch.com

Sent: Thu 19th July 2012 8:20pm Subject: Requested data

Dear jasher@j&rresearch.com,

Here are the results of the data you requested: Instrument: [DT] Next price:

Next high: --Next low:

---

234

Date:

20/JUL/2012

Date: --/---/---- Time: --:--

Time: --:--

Date: --/---/---- Time: --:--

Rachel was suddenly uneasy. She flushed with the same feeling she’d had on rare occasions when she’d let slip some secret about a friend that was supposed to have been kept in confidence. She tilted her head like she was trying to work out an optical illusion. But this was no illusion. Rachel knew exactly what it was she was looking at. She recognised it immediately. Frowning deeply she scanned the text for a few moments, thinking back to a possible security breach…J. Asher? Who on earth was that? No. She had given her word to the Director that this project would be totally secret and as far as he knew she had kept her promise. She’d just had the one moment of weakness, yet here was someone from outside asking very politely not to be bothered by e-mails from her supposedly top-secret machine. What the hell was going on? She re-read the sender’s address and her heart nearly stopped. No. Surely not! The pang in her stomach grew and her palms and fingertips moistened, it was similar to the deep-down panic she’d felt when she was being chased the night before last. She had to get to the bottom of this.

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Nervously she opened up an internet browser and typed in the website address. Bingo - www.j&rresearch.com. In a second the site loaded. It was a page full of research written by some guy called Jason Asher. Good start. On the main part of the screen were a few pictures of a suited young man at a podium in front of a blue backdrop with the words “National Anti-Terrorism Symposium” written in large white letters behind. Down the left side of the webpage were a number hyperlinks: SYMPOSIA, TALKS, RESEARCH and HISTORY. Curious, Rachel clicked on the last link and was quite taken aback at what appeared on her screen. She wheeled down the screen on a list that kept going and going. Hundreds of entries. Thousands. She was looking at a very long, very comprehensive list of human violence and tragedy throughout the last half-century. More specifically a list of acts of terrorism including near the beginning and most notably, the bombing of PanAm Flight 103 back in 1988. She gasped, had no idea there were so many. It was all there – her eyes darted up and down the list: Lockerbie, Omagh, Eta, 9/11, London, Brighton, Madrid, the Middle-East, Bali, Tokyo. Those were some of the major ones that stood out. The list went on and on, hundreds and hundreds of smaller incidents that had brushed the headlines at the time and then been forgotten. She wasn’t a political person but Rachel could feel the disgust welling up in her throat, almost choking her as she read down the chronology. On and on. Then she remembered the M25 incident the previous week. When was that? Friday the 20th? Hadn’t two hundred or so people died in that? Out of curiosity she scrolled down to the bottom to see if it was listed but it wasn’t. The last entry referred to a bombing in the Middle East where some 30 people had died. She looked back at the numbers in the e-mail: a ‘DT’ price of 234, a date of 20th July. The numbers and dates in the e-mail were very close indeed to what she remembered about the motorway bombing but that was surely a coincidence. Then she studied the colums of data on the website again and a flash of inspiration came to her. A connection? She scrolled back to the top of the list to see the column heading again and when it came into view a cold shiver tingled down her spine. The label read: ‘Death Toll’.

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5 I Thought You’d Never Ask

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achel stared at the numbers in the e-mail. 20/JUL/2012, DT 234. Death Toll. It’s the M25 bombing. Of course! Last Friday at 8:45 in the morning some fanatical religious nutcase had taken a white van out on to London’s orbital motorway and blown himself up in the fast lane near Leatherhead. At 80 miles per hour, cars had piled up in seconds on both carriageways. Hundreds had died. It had closed the motorway for a day eastbound and two westbound. Quickly she scrabbled at the pile of newspapers in her recycling box on the floor by her desk. The papers were collected fortnightly, so she was hoping she still had one from the 20th. Yes! The London Evening Standard, front page picture of the carnage. Full story on page two. She turned the cover and scanned down the story. After a few seconds she found what she was looking for half way down the page. There it was in black and white. ‘In total two hundred and thirty people died at the scene in today’s tragic incident,’ announced the newspaper. ‘Another four died from their injuries at the Royal London Hospital. Five are still in critical condition but stable.’ This was incredible. Every cross-check Rachel was thinking of confirmed what she knew couldn’t be. The e-mail had been sent out a day before the bombing had happened! Now she had two problems. First, how the hell had Ceptron done that? Her rational mind screamed coincidence and her thoughts were racing, looking for scenarios. None offered themselves so she moved on. Second, how could the e-mail have gone external, to the owner of the website? She tapped her right index finger on the keyboard nervously, not actually typing anything but making the Enter key rattle. This was a puzzle – and she loved searching for solutions to seemingly impossible problems. Maybe there was some glitch in Ceptron’s real-world interface that caused it to send random e-mails to the outside world? She snorted. Unlikely. She had programmed everything herself. There

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were safeguards to stop that happening, it had been tested. What else then? She closed her eyes to think. What came to her was surprising but she knew straight away that it was probably right and that maybe this wasn’t quite as intractable as it at first appeared. OK, priorities. She had a possible security breach to deal with here, she would worry about the cause of the glitch later. She commanded Ceptron to provide a list of e-mails it had sent to the ‘jasher’ address. Nothing. She had known it would say that but right now she had to close off all avenues. Rachel knew what she had to do. She just hoped she could contain this before the Director found out. She clicked the BACK button on her browser and selected CONTACT US. She opened her mobile and with a finger pointing to the screen and her head bobbing up and down she single-handedly dialled the digits into the keypad of her phone.

‘OK, put him through please…Hello?’ Deputy Assistant Commissioner Ronald Daintree was a tall, lean man with a prominent Roman nose. His face was sharp and he had a slicked-back crop of dark hair that was greying at the temples. He stretched his long legs out under the desk. ‘Hello Ron,’ came a familiar voice from the earpiece. ‘Hello my friend!’ Daintree smiled. ‘Long time, no see. How are you?’ ‘Not so good I’m afraid,’ came the reply. ‘Something’s come up – bit of a nuisance. Wondering if you could help me out.’ If there was one thing Daintree prided himself on, it was his discretion. He hadn’t risen to his position by being indiscrete and it was something he had become known for within the force. Over the twenty years he’d been in he’d slowly but surely built himself the reputation of being somewhat of an agony-uncle and as such he’d come to know things that otherwise he might not have done, as people came to him with problems and for advice. It was a natural trait that he had played to maximum effect in the police force to ensure his colleagues and people with whom he came into contact trusted him. It extended into his private life too, and this particular caller was an old a friend as they came. Daintree leant backwards in his leather chair

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and, switching the phone to his other ear, swivelled 180 degrees to look out of his window. The view was a magnificent panorama over the trees, lakes and green spaces of St James’ Park. ‘What kind of trouble?’ he asked. ‘Oh it’s a mess,’ sighed the Director on the other end. ‘A monstrous pile of stinking elephant-shit mess is what it is. Look, it’s my daughter Cassandra. She’s been kidnapped. Being held to ransom.’ ‘My god. Are you serious?’ Daintree leaned forward. ‘Very, I’m afraid.’ ‘Jesus. Do you know why? Who’s responsible?’ ‘My investor. Don’t think I’ve mentioned him before.’ ‘Your investor? What the hell kind of work are you involved in?’ ‘I’d better explain,’ conceded the Director. ‘I think you had.’ ‘It’s like this. I’m running a secret project at LSI.Co. The Board know nothing about it. About five years ago a private investor approached me with the idea, said he could fund the project if I could provide the facilities and expertise. He’s been financing us ever since.’ As the Director talked Daintree leaned back again and tracked a passenger jet in the far distance with his finger as it dragged it’s thin sharp contrails through the wispy clouds. It glinted now and again in the sunshine as it banked and turned. ‘There’s a lot of money at stake,’ continued the Director. ‘Trouble is this project has the potential to earn billions for whoever has control of it and he thinks my chief engineer has sold us out to the competition and I’m sure she hasn’t. It’s a terrible mess. The bottom line is that he wants me to get rid of her. Permanently, if you know what I mean and to make sure I comply he’s holding Cassy. As far as I know Cassy’s still OK but this guy is a real menace and I don’t know what else to do.’ ‘Jesus Christ man, this is absurd! I’m going to look into it – get someone on it straight away. Have you spoken to any other authorities?’ ‘No!’ The Director suddenly sounded alarmed. ‘Well why not for heaven’s sake?’ ‘Because he’s got me over a barrel! I don’t have proof but I’m certain his money is dirty and he’s planning to use Ceptron as a

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laundrette. There’s nothing I can do because this whole thing stinks of illegal dealings.’ ‘What the hell’s Ceptron?’ ‘Sorry, that’s our codename for the project. Look I want to make you an – is this line secure?’ ‘No. If you want to talk I suggest we meet up.’ ‘I would like nothing more.’ ‘Right then. Meet me at our normal place in an hour. OK?’ ‘Thanks.’

Between the ages of twenty six and thirty Jason Asher had suspected he had been the victim of dumming-down. He had been steadily losing steam, year by year, convinced that he was living proof of the results of a generation of the media pandering to the lowest common denominator, to the stupid people. He had lost his edge, could never think fast enough, especially in meetings. He would sit there, running his fingers through his mousey hair occasionally and nodding with the current consensus, longing to be sharp witted enough to take the meeting by storm and tell everyone what was what. The truth was he didn’t really care any more. He used to like number crunching and analysis, problem solving, making strategic decisions but he came to find it dull and uninspiring. Luckily for him he’d found a way out. He grew his hobby until it became his bread and butter and he’d been able to quit his day job in time to save his sanity. Now, aged thirty nine, he was doing quite well for himself, although his brother’s death had always hung over him like a dark cloud threatening to rain. Despite his success in recent years, that cloud had grown and grown until one day, about two years ago, there had been the seed of an idea to get rid of it and let the sun shine through. It had taken root and been given room to develop, slowly but surely. Even now, it was still just an idea and occasionally he tried to pretend to himself that it wasn’t going to happen, like when you have two choices and you pretend that you don’t know which one you’re going to pick. But your subconscious knows. It’s inevitable, already decided. You can’t suppress it, there is only one direction. And although he denied it to

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himself, for Asher there was only one way forward. Only one way to fix it all. The phone rang and woke Asher from his daydream. ‘Hello?’ ‘Hello, can I speak to J. Asher please?’ said a female voice. Without his authorisation Asher’s brain plucked a ready-made stereotype from it’s collection. Thirty-five, blonde, attractive, fiveten, slim. He perked up a bit. ‘Speaking.’ ‘Hi. My name is Rachel Taylor, I believe you’ve been receiving some unsolicited e-mails from us.’ ‘Oh. Yes, I have been actually. You finally got my e-mail then?’ ‘Yes. Firstly I’d like to apologise – you shouldn’t have been getting the e-mails.’ ‘No harm done, just a bit annoying. Sorry, you are…?’ ‘Sorry, I work for the London Stock Investment Company. I’m the administrator responsible for the computer system that’s been sending the e-mails, although they’re generated automatically. I found your number on your website, I hope you don’t mind me calling you directly.’ ‘No, not at all,’ said Asher. ‘But couldn’t you have just removed me from your distribution list?’ ‘Actually it’s not that simple. You see there is no distribution list.’ ‘Oh.’ ‘It’s a long story. Can I ask how many of these mails you’ve received?’ ‘In total? Couple of hundred maybe.’ Silence. ‘Hello?’ he asked. ‘Have you still got them all?’ She was very direct, Asher thought. ‘Some of them. I can just look for you. I don’t empty my Deleted folder very often. Hold on…Yes…I’ve probably got a month’s worth.’ ‘OK, Mr Asher. This may sound a bit odd but it’s quite important that I come round and speak to you in person.’ ‘OK…’ Asher was suddenly unsure of where this was going. The attractive blonde at the other end of the phone was obviously aware of his hesitation. ‘Let me explain a bit more. We’re running a project that encompasses many data sources. I believe your website has been

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accidentally authorised as a data source and our system is automatically keeping you abreast of developments. I need to come and assess exactly what’s going on.’ ‘You mean I’ve been assimilated, like the Borg?’ he said. ‘Excuse me?’ ‘The Borg. Sorry. Never mind.’ Idiot. ‘OK, do you think I can come and do that sometime soon?’ ‘Sure, I’m free all day. Can you come over before lunch?’ ‘I can. What’s your address?’ ‘I’m in Kingston. 47 Bartomer Road.’ ‘Kingston. That’s the Jubilee Line to Waterloo then the train. I can be there by eleven.’ ‘OK,’ Asher was nodding his agreement over the phone. ‘How will I recognise you?’ he added, then immediately regretted it and winced. ‘I’ll be the one knocking on your door.’ Asher could tell she was smiling as she said it. ‘Ah yes, of course,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’ ‘Look, I’ll be there in an hour. Thanks for being so cooperative Mr Asher.’ An hour? This girl sure works fast. ‘No problem. And just Asher will do.’ ‘Right then. Thanks. And don’t delete those e-mails.’ ‘I won’t.’

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‘Hello?’ ‘This is Mike. I have located Charlie.’ ‘What? Already?’ ‘You gave me some good information. You know Charlie’s quite a high profile figure in the wrong circles? You sure you want to do this?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘OK.’ ‘Ah, when will it take place?’ ‘Tonight at eleven o’clock exactly, unless I hear from you by ten. From precisely ten onwards you cannot reach me. Consider the contract complete. If you abort before ten I keep the first half of the payment. Understand?’ ‘OK. How do you want the second half?’ ‘Same as before but I will call with details on successful completion. If you don’t hear from me by eleven thirty then something has gone wrong. Charlie will not have been touched and the deal is off. It’s unlikely but if it happens, we both walk away.’ ‘OK. Thank – hello?’

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Asher had spent the hour tidying his flat followed by ten minutes scanning his computer for pictures that other people might find offensive. Being single and living alone he had strayed a number of times into the more adult locations the internet had to offer. Nothing wrong with that he had always told himself. But now he had just had a phone call from a very technically able woman and she was going to come and analyse his computer. He wasn’t really sure what that meant but in any case, why on earth had he agreed? Letting a perfect stranger on his computer, prying into his private life, looking through his personal files and correspondence. He should have just said, look, you take me off your distribution list and I’ll delete the e-mails I’ve already received. Then everything is sorted and we can go on living happily ever after. But he knew exactly why. The image he had in his head was the same as it was when she had called. Thirty-five, blonde, attractive, five-ten, slim. That was not a meeting to be turned down in any young bachelor’s book. That was why. And now he had the young lady coming to his house, almost like a blind date! Then he had told himself to calm down, don’t be stupid, it wasn’t a date. All she was interested in was the e-mails but there was something deep in his psyche that was making him nervous as hell. Being single he had by default not succeeded with a stable relationship and he felt himself under pressure to come across as a well balanced, mature, interesting individual. With no untoward intentions, purely professional, he thought. He’d be OK. But what if he was attracted to her? He was dreading how he would handle it. He always botched it, even when the poor woman was married and not interested in the slightest. They all thought he was some kind of geek. Come on Asher, be a man! What about how she must be feeling? She was blindly going in to a stranger’s house, particularly that of a guy she had only spoken to on the phone for a few minutes. Whatever this was about, it must be important to her. My god, she’s got more balls than me! The harsh drill of the doorbell awoke Asher from his daydream. Too late now. He jumped up from the desk and almost ran out to the hall and the front door but, realising it would look like he’d been too eager if he had opened it right then, he paused. He quickly counted down from ten, then opened the door.

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‘Hello, Mr Asher? Rachel Taylor.’ A slight woman in her midthirties was standing on his landing at the top of the stairs. She thrust her right hand out and smiled. She had tied-back, dark brown hair and air of innocent confidence about her, unassuming and with that vaguely familiar look some people have. And she was really quite pretty. Her outfit was definitely projecting the City image but it had been cut down for the hot summer spell. A dark blue pencil skirt and a loose, white short-sleeved blouse with a cream handbag and black high heels. Bare legs and arms, slightly tanned. She was a little out of breath from climbing the three flights to his apartment. Her chest was gently heaving, her cheeks were flushed and her nostrils were flared. Asher smiled back and shook her hand. He shivered slightly, despite the warmth. ‘Pleased to meet you, uh, Mrs Taylor?’ ‘Miss. And call me Rachel, please.’ ‘Right. Come on in. Everyone just calls me Asher. You got here then?’ Obviously! Good start Jason. ‘Yes, the journey wasn’t bad really,’ said Rachel, ‘although I wouldn’t like to do it every day.’ She stood inside the door, politely waiting to be directed somewhere. ‘Absolutely. I only do it a couple of times a week so it’s not too bad,’ said Asher. ‘Shall we get started?’ He waved to the door at the end of the hall. They went through to the lounge-diner where Asher had a desk in the corner that looked like a miniature office and offered her his leather swivel chair. ‘No, no. You drive.’ She gestured to the computer. ‘I’m only trying to figure out what’s going on. I, ah, gather you maintain a website?’ Asher felt himself reddening with embarrassment. Oh god, she’s visited my site. Change the subject. ‘Yes that’s right. Can I get you a cold drink?’ He grabbed a dining chair and dragged it over from the table to the desk for her. ‘Just some water would be nice. Thanks.’ Rachel sat down. Asher disappeared in to the kitchen. ‘Where do we start then?’ he called. ‘Well, I should expand a bit on what I said on the phone. I did a few checks and it seems that our system is using the data from your website to perform some calculations. Actually, one page on your site

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in particular. The page listing all the attacks? I was surprised to see that.’ Asher returned with two glasses of water and took his seat. He felt a little pressure to justify his website, to show he wasn’t a nutcase. ‘Ah, yes. That page. It’s more for my own use than anything, but since I had all the data I thought it might be useful to a wider community, you know? I have a particular interest in that sort of thing. A member of my family was killed by a bomber a long time ago. My brother, actually.’ ‘My god, I’m sorry.’ Asher had told this story a hundred times, so he was comfortable talking about it. ‘Yes, well, the police got nowhere with their investigations, which I suppose is normal nowadays. You know, they used to crack terror cells almost straight away? But now there are so many it’s all so difficult. I was only little when it happened but over the years as I learned more about it I became angry. I felt I had to try to find some meaning in my brother’s death, so I collated as much information as I could about terrorist attacks and tried to find patterns. Tried to understand them, the psychology. Obviously that was pointless, so now I just put the data on a website and update it when something happens. Hopefully other people find it useful.’ ‘Well, I don’t know about other people but my computer system sure did.’ ‘So what is this computer system of yours?’ Rachel hesitated, obviously unsure about how much she should reveal. ‘OK. Put simply it takes a load of data and tries to look for patterns that people can’t see and even if they could, wouldn’t know how to make use of it.’ ‘But you’re from an investment bank. What’s this got to do with me and my website?’ Rachel took a deep breath and continued reluctantly. ‘My computer system has taken your list of death-toll figures, formulated the rules governing them and predicted the next number.’ There was a second of silence. ‘How can it do that? There are no rules, they’re just numbers that have happened by chance. By random acts of terrorism.’

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‘There are rules. They’re varied and extremely subtle but the huge range of information the system has at it’s disposal means that it’s been able to work them out.’ ‘I’m sorry, I don’t buy that.’ Rachel hesitated again, seemed to be weighing up options in her head. She came visibly to a conclusion, nodded once and took a deep breath. ‘Right. It’s difficult to explain and to be perfectly honest it’s a company secret. I really shouldn’t be telling you this…’ ‘But…?’ ‘But…you seem like a decent guy. What do you do for a living?’ ‘Politics and history. Mainly I do research. Sometimes I lecture, sometimes advise government bodies. Write papers, speak at symposia, that sort of thing.’ ‘Wow, you really know this stuff then. How technically minded are you?’ ‘Uh, OK at maths. Not to shabby with the old mouse. Why?’ ‘I’m just trying to think of a good analogy. OK. Imagine a sequence of numbers. Two, four, six, eight. What’s the next number?’ ‘Ten,’ said Asher without hesitation. ‘Right. How did you know?’ ‘It’s obvious,’ he sniggered. ‘It’s the two times table.’ ‘OK. Good. Now, what if I told you the next number was twelve, not ten?’ ‘I’d be surprised. There isn’t a rule that gives a sequence like that.’ ‘Exactly. But actually there are an infinite number of them, you just don’t know them. Now, what if I told you the next numbers after twelve were fourteen, sixteen, eighteen and twenty?’ ‘That’s not a proper sequence. You’ve just skipped ten in the two times table, that’s all.’ ‘Wrong,’ said Rachel smiling. ‘There’s a formula that gives that exact sequence. It’s just more complicated than you can do in your head. You need a calculator to do it.’ ‘What is it then?’ he asked. ‘I can write it down if you’ve got some paper and a pen.’ Asher was definitely curious. ‘Sure, hold on.’ He pulled a sheet from the printer’s feeder tray and grabbed the pen he had used before. ‘There you go.’

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‘OK, this is one of many…’ Rachel wrote down the formula in a neat script.

‘That makes the two times table without the number ten?’ said Asher, suspiciously. ‘Well, at first glance it looks like the two times table. My point is that A you’re not dealing with the two times table and B there can be much more complicated rules for predicting something than you might expect. Rules that only a computer or very brainy person can work out. Have I convinced you?’ Asher was sceptical about the formula, so the next few minutes were spent in silence as he put it to the test with his calculator. As he was writing each result down on the paper, he became aware that Rachel was watching his every move, making sure he made no mistakes. It was like being back at school being watched over by the teacher. But this time it also felt good to have the full attention of an attractive, intelligent woman. Asher smiled and shook his head as the numbers came out one by one. Two times table, no number ten! ‘OK, I’m convinced,’ he said at last. ‘Good. How often do you update your list?’ ‘Whenever there’s another incident. I updated it last week with another attack in the Middle East…’ he tailed off and frowned. ‘Hold on a second.’ ‘Pull up that last e-mail you sent me,’ said Rachel with the beginnings of a smirk on her lips. ‘I was just going to look for it…here is it.’ He scanned the e-mail, looking for the same things Rachel had looked for. Then he went to his own website to check the last entry in his list, just as Rachel had done. Her smirk broke into a smile as he went through exactly the same actions as she had. ‘Hold on, the numbers I put on my site were from the news, not the e-mail. But they’re the same. And the e-mail was sent a day before it happened. This is weird. It must be a coincidence.’ ‘That’s what I’m here to check out. I need you to retrieve the other e-mails. You said on the phone that you’ve still got them?’ ‘Yeah, they’re all here.’

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One by one Asher pulled the e-mails up from his deleted items folder and they cross-checked the numbers with his website. Sure enough, one by one, they tallied. An e-mail one day. A terrorist attack the next. The numbers were identical, spot on. For every single one. They both sat there staring at the screen, open mouthed, not knowing how to react. Asher had the feeling he had just seen an upclose card trick and annoyingly he had missed the crucial secret move. He wanted to shout do it again! like a child but he knew it was no card trick. This was very strange indeed. This was the stuff of science fiction. Yet here they were, sitting in his living room, being presented with the foretellings of the Nostradamus of computers in front of them. They looked at each other and continued to stare open mouthed. Asher let out a single ‘ha’, involuntarily. ‘Jesus Christ! It never clicked. I’ve been receiving these e-mails for well over a year and I’ve been updating my website with all those incidents and I never put two and two together! Is this thing really predicting terrorist attacks? It is, isn’t it? How is this possible?’ Rachel sat there nodding quietly, staring at the screen again. ‘Do you realise how big this is?’ said Asher, jabbing at the e-mail. His liquid crystal screen rippled. ‘Governments don’t have the ability to do this. This is huge. This computer of yours going to make you rich!’ ‘Look, I really shouldn’t be telling you all this but I absolutely have to get to the bottom of why your website has become involved. You have to promise not to tell anyone about what you’ve seen.’ ‘OK, I promise. But…this is huge! Never mind me, I’d be surprised if military intelligence didn’t want to get their grubby mitts on it.’ Asher noticed that Rachel hadn’t really heard his astute observation. ‘It doesn’t predict location,’ she said distantly, almost detached, still staring at the screen. ‘No, but surely it must still be worth something? Even without locations,’ said Asher, not believing how analytical Rachel was being. She seemed to be wrestling with herself in her head. Something was taking a while to sink in. Asher suddenly had the feeling that there was more to this than Rachel was letting on. Shouldn’t she be jumping up and down? She was going to be rich, wasn’t she? Then she turned to him, back in the room.

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‘The only ones who are going to make money from this are LSI.Co because it’s their project. It was my idea and design but they paid to make it happen. They own it all.’ ‘But you’ll be credited, surely? You’ll be acclaimed!’ Rachel looked at Asher and thought for a second and then seemed to chirp up. ‘Care to join me for some lunch?’ Asher glanced at his watch. It read 11:30am. ‘OK,’ he said, without hesitation.

Exactly one hour after he had hung up the Director strode into the bar and went straight upstairs. He saw his friend sitting at a small round metal table overlooking Waterloo Station’s main concourse. He made his way on to the balcony and took the seat opposite. ‘Thanks for meeting me, it means a lot you know?’ ‘Don’t mention it. Here, drink this. It’s your favourite.’ He handed him a glass tumbler and eyed him cautiously. ‘What’s this about an offer then?’ The Director downed the whisky in one and breathed the fumes out. ‘This guy is the bane of my life,’ he said. ‘I need him taken care of.’ ‘Yes, like I said I’ll get someone on it right away,’ replied Daintree. ‘Most of the guys are preparing for tomorrow but I’m sure I can rustle up a team.’ ‘I don’t just want him taken in. I need more. I need rid of him for good.’ He squinted at Daintree to catch his reaction but Daintree was conversational, almost playful. ‘What do you want me to do? He’s a kidnapper, that’s all. I can’t rightly do anything more than hunt him down and apprehend him. What you’re asking for would be illegal my friend.’ ‘Indeed.’ The Director looked out over the plaza at the commuters hurrying to their trains below. ‘Now, don’t be shocked at what I’m about to say. This man is very rich. He’s pumped lot of money into the project and the returns are huge. He’s also a tough character, mentally agile. Won’t be cornered. Would fight tooth and nail not to

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be. Given that, I think it would be easy to force him to give your men a reason to take him out. There’s a reward in it. Those investment returns I mentioned? It’s all his at the moment. I suppose you could get your hands on a slice of it, in his…absence?’ ‘How much are we talking?’ ‘A million.’ ‘Hmm. What’s involved?’ ‘Nothing you don’t already do day-to-day.’ ‘What’s the plan?’ ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ smiled the Director. ‘The plan is this. We meet regularly on the London Eye. Usually just me, I think he hangs out nearby and we talk by phone. I don’t know why, he probably wants to watch me or something. Control freak. Last time he was there in person. He won’t think anything of another meeting, especially with what he wants from me. He’ll almost certainly have a gun concealed on him somewhere. One that a cursory inspection by the operators won’t pick up. I can’t prove it but I believe he never goes anywhere without one. Wears a suit and a baseball cap. When we’re near the top of the ride I’ll radio the operator and tell him there’s a madman waving a gun around and that I’ve already called you guys at the Met. He’ll have to stop the wheel, so he’s caged until you get there. Ten minutes max, yes? Then under your command the operator will lower the capsules to the ground and I guarantee that when he sees you guys there he’ll open fire to try and make good his escape. He’ll be a sitting duck and your boys will take care of him. Easy. Can’t go wrong.’ ‘But you’ll be in the capsule with him? He’ll take you hostage.’ ‘No, I’ll book two capsules, one each and we’ll hold the meeting by phone again. He won’t think anything of it – he loves eccentricities like that. He’ll probably even compliment me on my style, the twisted bastard.’ ‘I have a couple of questions. This guy, he’s definitely a bad egg right?’ ‘Rotten through.’ The Director grimaced with spite as he said it. ‘Who is he? Do you know his name?’ ‘No idea. If he had a name it would be false anyway. Haven’t got a clue who he is at all. All I know is that he’s scum.’ ‘Your engineer, you sure she’s good? She’s not implicated at all?’

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‘She’s innocent, I’m sure. Nothing’s happened to her yet but who can say? Maybe he’s got something planned for her regardless of what I do.’ ‘Can’t rule it out. Can she stay with someone until this is over?’ ‘By that do I take it you’re in?’ ‘Not so fast, Tonto. I need to ensure there’s no fallout. I can’t have any complications. If I do this it has to be clean OK?’ ‘No question.’ ‘So what about the engineer? Can she stay with family or something?’ ‘Rachel? She’s single and her parents live abroad so no direct family. But she does have a cottage out on the coast. I could tell her to hang out there for a couple of days. Take some well earned time off, do some sunbathing and so forth. She’d probably buy that.’ ‘Good. When do you want to do this?’ ‘As soon as possible. I’m in a desperate position Ron. What about it? A cool million. Easy money.’ ‘How do we manage the payment?’ ‘No problem. It’ll come to you in instalments over a couple of years. The payments will be disguised as returns on a lucrative investment. I can even arrange for it to be paid into a Swiss numbered account if it makes you feel better.’ ‘You’ve got this all worked out!’ ‘Like I said I’m desperate. You’re my only hope. If not for me, do it for Cassy and Liz.’ ‘Liz must know all about this?’ ‘Yes, she’s frantic. She doesn’t care how we get Cassy back. We just want it to end.’ ‘Well, that brings me to my last question. Where’s Cassandra?’ ‘He’s taken her somewhere safe but he wouldn’t tell me. That much I believe but for this plan to work he has to tell me where during our meeting. He won’t return her himself – he’d see that as being submissive. After I’ve convinced him that Rachel has been dealt with, he’s promised to tell me where she is. I’ve no reason to doubt him. Then the plan goes into action.’ ‘Are you stupid man? What if he doesn’t tell you?’ ‘He will. His single virtue is that he’s a man of his word. The only reason he wouldn’t tell me is if he doesn’t believe me about Rachel.’ ‘Then what?’

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‘Plan B. This all comes out in the open. You arrest him, take him back to the Yard and charge him with possessing a firearm or whatever. Coerce the answer out of him.’ ‘OK. Then it becomes a standard case. Possible terrorist has taken a little girl hostage. There’s one glitch – if he doesn’t tell you where she is and we have to go in heavy, there’s a danger that we’ll need to take him out. What’s the plan then?’ ‘That’s the worst case scenario and I don’t really want to think about it. If it comes down like that then it’ll be up to you guys to do you forensic shit and track her down. You’re good at all that stuff.’ ‘Don’t be so confident. It’s still a risk.’ ‘I know! I know. But right now there’s no other option. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.’

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6 I Know What It Means

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he had completely changed her mind. Her plan had been to go to Asher’s house, delete the e-mails, apologise for the inconvenience she had caused him, thank him and leave. But when Rachel had met Asher she had thought him quite charming. And hearing his story, she had felt a sympathy and a kind of respect for him at the same time. She had decided he was the definitely the strong, silent type who would shoulder a burden without a word of complaint. She liked his type. In fact she liked him. She had warmed to him the moment he had uttered his first sentence to her. A bit awkward and shy but intelligent and genuine. Maybe it had been on a subconscious level, that she was feeling vulnerable right now. She needed protecting and Asher seemed to be a kind person, maybe even one who could help. Some irrational thought process had gone on in her mind and nearly caused hers to divulge to Asher what she had told Marcus. She cringed at herself to think that it could have been a subconscious message sent by her psyche so that she could get more involved with him but thankfully she had been quick witted enough not to tell him everything. She had already told one person too many and so far with Asher she had managed to refrain from talking about the financial side of Ceptron, which, after all, was the source of all the secrecy and stress. Now they were sitting outside at a pub overlooking the River Thames. The sun was past its peak but it was still hot and an unhurried boat chugged past, well below the four knots limit on this stretch of the water. They had ordered a large dry spritzer and a pint of Staropramen. ‘There you go guys. Enjoy,’ said the Antipodean waitress, correctly guessing whose drink was whose. ‘Thanks,’ they chimed in unison at glanced at each other.

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‘No problem.’ The waitress smiled and moved on to the next table. Rachel knew exactly what she wanted now. But first she needed time to think about how much she should tell Asher. She started off with some small talk. ‘How long have you been interested in political history?’ ‘Ever since I graduated thirteen years ago. Started at Holmes and Barder at the tender age of twenty one and trained with them as a credit analyst. Ran a team and everything, but after a while I found it kind of empty. I needed more. Politics and history has always been a hobby of mine, so I made up the website and started concentrating on political and military conflict. The whole thing gathered enough momentum that eventually I got enough contracts to be able to quit my job and pursue it full time.’ ‘Gosh. What does that actually mean, when you get a contract?’ ‘It’s mainly research for corporate bodies like book publishers and news agencies. I get the occasional contract in television or film but they’re rare.’ ‘Wow, sounds glamorous!’ ‘I suppose it does. It’s not really though, it’s just something I like doing. What about you? What brings a nice girl like you to a bar like this?’ Rachel’s heart gave an extra beat when she heard the words “nice girl”. A, he likes me and B, he thinks I’m thirty! Most men didn’t really want to know – after the initial physical attraction, they always got scared off by her work and never took it any further. She figured most men had hang-ups about smart women, that’s just the way it was. All they wanted were nice breasts, a pert bottom and an empty head and although she had two of the three she had brains, which sent the typical man scuttling away with his tail between his legs. She had therefore given up trying to find a mate a long time ago and concentrated on her work instead. But this guy had something a bit deeper and with the lazy heat and refreshing drinks, the conversation started to lighten. ‘Well, one day my magic computer said I should go and meet this man, and so I plucked up the courage and went to see him.’ ‘What a wise computer! And what a brave girl! And then what happened?’

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‘Well, they had a nice drink together in the sunshine and then I don’t really know, it hasn’t ended yet…’ They both chuckled. Rachel caught herself starting to act like a schoolgirl and sat up, serious. What was she doing? She was on business, not a date! She was getting ahead of herself. ‘I’m really sorry about your brother. Do you have other family?’ ‘I’ve got a sister who lives in Epsom and my parents who are retired now. You?’ ‘No brothers, no sisters. My parents live in France most of the time so I only get to see them occasionally. What about your parents? It must have hit them hard too.’ ‘Harder than me I think,’ said Asher nodding sombrely. ‘My dad always said he’d pay good money for the bastard to be hunted down and shot. The police tried their damndest to track him down but you know the police. If they don’t get them within a few days, they never will. The trail goes cold and we’ve all got to put it behind us and move on. Which is easier said than done.’ Asher tailed off, looking absently into his beer. There was a few seconds of silence, then he perked up again. ‘Anyway, what about this bloody magic computer of yours? It’s incredible! What are we going to do if we get another e-mail?’ Rachel shrugged. ‘Nothing.’ ‘Nothing? How come?’ ‘We can’t do anything at all. It doesn’t give us the location of the next prediction. Even if it predicts a thousand deaths, there’s no way of us telling where it’s going to happen. Those numbers on your website are from all over the world, right?’ ‘Yes…’ said Asher defiantly. ‘Then that’s what the computer is predicting: attacks all over the world. We could tell someone but what are we going to say?’ ‘But we have a moral responsibility here. Don’t you think someone should know?’ ‘Well yes but all we can say is, “Excuse me Mr Whoever, a thousand people are going to die on Tuesday and it could be anywhere in the world.” Then what happens when a thousand people actually do die?’

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‘Hmm. I see what you mean. We’d either be arrested for suspected terrorism or incitement or something, or locked up in the loony bin.’ A small boat putting along the middle of the river gave two short blasts on it’s horn and then started turning towards the bank. Another boat going the other way did the same, so that they moved out of each other’s paths. Asher watched the boats manoeuvring for a few moments and then turned to Rachel and asked the question that Rachel had hoped he wouldn’t. ‘Can’t we get it to learn the locations? All the data is there on the website,’ he said. It was something Rachel had been thinking about since she saw the e-mails at Asher’s place. She knew if Asher was to learn why Ceptron couldn’t predict location she was going to have to go all out and tell him the truth. And the truth was that the Ceptron project was all about greed. Financial gain. It was designed to predict stock price peaks and troughs and times and nothing else. There was nothing humanitarian about the original design and considering what was going on at the moment she felt more than a little ashamed about it. She really didn’t want to think about that at the moment. In her mind she changed tack then took a deep breath and went on the counteroffensive. ‘Look. I know we’ve only just met but I feel a kind of connection going on here. I’m going to be totally up front about this. Are you single?’ ‘What?’ ‘Do you have a partner? A wife? A girlfriend? A boyfriend perhaps?’ ‘Well, uh, no. No girlfriend. No boyfriend. Not that I’m. Y’know.’ ‘Come out with me tonight.’ ‘What?’ ‘Let’s go out. Have some fun. I’m not usually this forward but I’m pretty certain you’ll say yes. Well? What do you say?’ ‘Um. OK.’ ‘Great! See?’ Rachel effervesced. ‘I’m as good at predicting things as Ceptron!’ ‘As good as what?’ ‘Nothing,’ she said with a smile.

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Rachel bent her head over her spritzer and located the straw with her tongue then pouted her lips to drink. Feeling like a twenty five year-old again, she looked coyly up at Asher as she sucked. Asher smiled a bewildered smile back at her and took a gulp of his own drink. This was turning out to be an interesting day.

Rachel skipped down the steps of her apartment block and climbed into the taxi. ‘Hi,’ she said and smiled at Asher who was sitting on the rear bench of the black cab. ‘You’re looking smart.’ ‘Thanks. You looking good too. Great in fact.’ ‘Thank you! Where are we going?’ ‘Central London?’ said Asher seeking her agreement. ‘I know a great place in China Town.’ ‘Perfect. Leicester Square please driver!’ she said through the glass and slammed the door shut. The taxi moved off and they sat smiling in awkward silence for a few seconds. Then Rachel turned in her seat and looked quizzically at Asher. ‘You know, I still don’t understand how the data from your website got through Ceptron’s gateway.’ ‘I thought you said it scours the web and uses whatever it finds.’ ‘It does but as a safeguard there are only two ways new stuff can get through to Ceptron. The first is when it finds a website it thinks might contain useful information and it requests my approval before letting it through. If I don’t approve it the website gets blocked. I quite fancy a Chinese curry tonight.’ ‘They do a really good Crispy Duck too,’ said Asher, excited at the thought. ‘This Prospector, why does it need your permission? Can’t you just let it use anything and everything? From what I know about AI, which is not a lot really, won’t it learn to ignore the crap?’ ‘Theoretically, yes,’ replied Rachel. ‘But it’s the nature of AI networks that until you build one you don’t know exactly what it’s going to do. Like, what effect does learning all the world’s train timetables have on stock market predictions?’ She shrugged. ‘Nobody knows. So everything gets vetted by hand and I certainly didn’t

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approve your data.’ Asher was puzzled. It had seemed simple the way Rachel had described it before and now something was amiss. ‘So if you didn’t give the approval, who did?’ ‘Good question…My boss could have I suppose but why would he want to? He needs the project to succeed. Approving that data would have been career suicide if it had unbalanced the net. Anyway he’s got his reputation staked on Ceptron so we can rule him out. And I’m pretty sure no one else in the company has access to my account or even knows about Ceptron yet.’ ‘External then?’ ‘Nope.’ Rachel shook her head emphatically and Asher thought she still looked a little tipsy from the drinks on the river. Or maybe she’d had another glass of wine before coming out. He could certainly still feel the effect of the beers he’d had. Rachel suddenly gripped Asher’s knee. ‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Marcus knows, I told him about it. But he’s an old friend, he wouldn’t do that. And he couldn’t possibly have access to the systems anyway. Or the building for that matter.’ ‘OK. You said there were two ways data can get through – what’s the other one?’ asked Asher, trying to ignore the hand on his knee. ‘Oh yes! The passkey.’ She gripped tighter. ‘Passkey?’ squeaked Asher. ‘Yes. It’s a phrase only I know that acts like a seal of approval. I added it so I could spoon-feed Ceptron new data sets by tagging them with the passkey. Ceptron accepts tagged data without question because it’s pre-approved.’ ‘And nobody else knows this passkey?’ ‘Nobody.’ She shook her head again. Asher was already thinking about how to phrase his question without seeming like prying. He didn’t believe what Rachel had just said – somebody else had to know it. ‘How can you be so certain?’ he said. ‘Because!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s ridiculous. I chose a phrase I’ve known ever since I can remember and even I don’t know what it means. I don’t even know why I know it but I’m pretty sure no one else on the planet could guess it.’ It didn’t get the desired response so Asher tried another tack. ‘You know professional cyber criminals can usually get around

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security checks because most people are lazy? People just use their date of birth or their cat’s name or the make of their car.’ ‘But mine is such an obscure phrase it doesn’t actually make sense.’ In frustration Asher glanced forwards and caught the eye of the cab driver in the rear view mirror through the glass divide. His dissatisfaction obviously showed on his face because the driver took one look and interjected. ‘C’mon Miss,’ said the cabbie. ‘Tell ‘im the password!’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Rachel, taken aback that the driver had been listening to their conversation. ‘Sorry for butting-in an all but it occurs to me that you ain’t gonna solve this little puzzle of yours unless you trust matey ‘ere and tell ‘im the password.’ Rachel glared at the driver for a second then rolled her eyes dramatically. ‘Alright, for what it’s worth. But keep it quiet.’ ‘Of course!’ exclaimed Asher indignantly. Still holding his knee, Rachel leaned right over, cupped her hand and whispered into Asher’s ear. ‘It’s The Xian Yin.’ She leaned back again. Asher smiled. ‘I know what it means,’ he said.

The Director watched the capsule doors close. He should have been on board already. Waiting had never been his forte. He tapped his foot as the pod lifted the eager, pointing tourists away from the ramp. He had it all figured out. Rachel wasn’t the problem, it was the Investor. There was the source of all his troubles. He could make this work out. Get his little girl back, take control of Rachel’s work and introduce the Board to the wonder that was Ceptron. He would come out smelling of roses. There was just one decisive move that needed to be made. He glanced at his watch again. 6:05pm. He had told the Investor six o’clock and this time he had booked separate pods. One each. His plan was simple – he hoped he had covered all bases.

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With wide eyes he scanned the Southbank. Eventually he spotted the man striding briskly towards the queuing area with his usual supreme confidence and ridiculous hat. Good! He was playing ball. The Director watched as the Investor produced his VIP ticket and was ushered to the front of the queue. As he approached, the Director turned back and looked down at his shoes. They stood side by side and ignored each other. The plan was working! The first empty capsule swung into view and the security guards embarked with metal detectors, swept the interior and alighted. The Investor pre-empted him, stepping forward to be security checked and then boarded, the doors clanking shut behind him as the pod slid along the gantry. The Director took the next capsule and as the leisurely chase ensued he looked backwards to see the tourists embarking again and smiled thinly to himself. Part one of his plan was a success. Lift off. The pods rose into the air. He waited before making the call. Already he had his mobile in his hand but he wanted to start the conversation at a quarter revolution. Given a half hour for the whole ride, that way he’d have a little over 7 minutes to convince the Investor he’d eliminated Rachel and get the location of his daughter before they reached the summit. The Director had readied himself for an inquisition. He had prepared the detail beforehand and learned everything by heart. He knew he was going to have to be thoroughly convincing before the Investor would divulge anything but the moment he did so, he’d call the operator and stop the wheel with the bastard stranded right at the top. Cornered! Any less time might not be enough to get the information. Any more time spent poking and the Investor would become suspicious. In any case they never spoke until at least half way up at the earliest. The wheel turned slowly but surely, hauling the capsules into the clear sky one by one. Gradually the Investor left his sight, their horizontal separation gradually giving way to a vertical one. It was too slow for the Director. The wait was agonizing but if there was one moment in his life when timing was key it was now. Manipulation requires patience. Beat him at his own game. He felt a flutter in his stomach. He gazed out of the window and studied the structure of the wheel as he had done countless times before. The photo gantry with spiral stairs leading down. The never-ending ladder that went in a circle all the way around the rim. Now the buildings were shrinking beneath them, flattening, losing their three dimensional appearance,

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like a satellite photo. They were approaching two thirds the way up the Shell building, over 200 feet in the air. He glanced backwards towards the hub and saw the spoke cables holding the rim of the great white wheel edging towards the horizontal. Half way up. Quarter of a turn. He dialled. It rang twice. ‘Yes,’ came a sharp voice. ‘It’s me.’ ‘And?’ said the voice impatiently. ‘I hope you have some good news for me,’ he added with an air of aloofness. The Director took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I’ve done what you wanted. Rachel’s gone.’ ‘Good. How?’ came the reply instantly. One falter in the conversation would give the game away but the Director answered seamlessly. ‘Someone I know was able to help,’ he reeled off. ‘Who?’ This was quick-fire, sharp. ‘An old friend,’ he ricocheted back, trying to keep pace. ‘When did it happen?’ The Director realised what was going on. He was being rushed on purpose – a blatant attempt at lie detection. Hoping he’d say the wrong thing or contradict himself under the pressure. Well, that ain’t going to happen! ‘Last night,’ he said confidently. ‘She was found dead in her apartment by a colleague this morning when she didn’t turn up for work.’ The Director screwed his face up and hoped the Investor didn’t know that Rachel worked mostly alone. No-one would even miss her let alone visit her apartment to see if she was OK. There was silence on the other end of the phone so he pressed on. ‘The local coroner is involved because it was unexpected but it’s nothing to worry about. He should report death by non-dependant drug taking. Misadventure.’ ‘Why? How did she die?’ asked the Investor . His tone suggested he was trying to suppress his curiosity. He was hooked! Now for the clincher. ‘All the stress at work, looks like she’d taken cocaine for the first time. Fatal overdose, unfortunately for her. Couldn’t bring herself to snort it so injected it. Stopped breathing in her sleep.’ ‘Huh. Has a certain…élan I suppose. You know how to keep Ceptron running?’

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‘Rachel taught me everything.’ ‘Everything?’ The Investor’s head was coming in to view now so he’d be able to read the Director’s body language as well. He decided to stand side-on to the Investor, focusing out on the Houses of Parliament. ‘I told her the Board was reviewing the funding and that they needed every scrap of information before they’d allocate the new budget. She would have done anything before letting go of Ceptron. We spent a couple of days together going over every aspect of it’s operation.’ ‘Just you and her?’ ‘Yes but we documented everything.’ ‘Really?’ There was an uplift in the Investor’s voice. ‘Where’s the documentation?’ ‘On one of the company servers. Easily accessible. I know it all so we can step on the gas whenever you want.’ ‘No, not yet. I want to see it perform with what it’s got.’ ‘OK. So, what about Cassy? You said you’d tell me where she was.’ ‘We did have a deal, didn’t we?’ said the Investor, seeming to ponder the question. ‘Yes.’ The Director smirked, taking care to turn away from the Investor’s capsule as he did so. He couldn’t believe it was coming together so smoothly. ‘Unfortunately I can’t keep my end of the bargain,’ said the nasal voice in his earpiece. ‘What?’ ‘I said I can’t give your daughter back.’ ‘But you’re a man of your word – you’re going back on it?’ ‘I’m not going back on it,’ said the Investor calmly. ‘I don’t understand then! Tell me where she is!’ ‘It’s simple. I can’t keep my end of the bargain because you didn’t keep yours.’ ‘I don’t know what you mean! I took care of everything, Rachel, Ceptron! What more do you want?’ ‘STOP IT!’ shouted the Investor and the Director had to pull the phone away from his ear. ‘Stop what?’ he said, feigning ignorance.

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‘This charade! Rachel died of a cocaine overdose! Some old friend helped! Ha! Don’t make me laugh! How do you expect me to believe all that bullshit?’ ‘It’s true!’ pleaded the Director. They were drawing near the top of arc now and their capsules were almost level. The Investor stood looking out at the Director, phone to his ear. ‘No. It’s. Not.’ He said it slowly and deliberately. He pointed at the Director across the airspace. ‘You’re lying and we both know it. Rachel is no more dead than you or I.’ ‘No, she is! He took care of everything! I swear!’ ‘Do you swear on your daughter’s life?’ The Director’s stomach turned. This was going horribly wrong. ‘Yes! I’ll get you proof! Just please tell me where she is!’ begged the Director. ‘I’m sure you already realise that we have an awkward situation here. This needs to be resolved before we hit the ground. You remember what I told you about trying to deceive me again? I saw Rachel an hour ago. She’s fine.’ No! The Director couldn’t stand it any longer. Plan B! He hung up and with shaking hands dialled Daintree’s number. He glanced up to see the Investor looking at his phone then looking over to the Director and making an open handed gesture. ‘Daintree,’ said the new voice in his earpiece after a couple of rings. ‘Now, now, NOW!’ he bellowed into the mouthpiece and hung up as he ran over to the intercom and buzzed the operator. ‘This is the operator. What’s the problem?’ ‘Listen. There’s a mad-man in the pod in front of me! He’s looking at me waving a gun!’ ‘Jesus, are you sure?’ ‘Yes. Get on your camera, see for yourself!’ He hoped their CCTV resolution would be low enough such that the Investor’s flip phone could plausibly be interpreted as a small gun. ‘I can’t see anyone else in his pod but I’m afraid for the people in front of him! I’m calling the police. Stop the wheel until they get here!’ ‘Oh god,’ said the operator. There was some shouting in the background followed by silence and then the wheel stopped. The line to the operator was still open. ‘Sir, are you OK? We haven’t heard any gun shots.’

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‘He hasn’t fired his gun – he’s just waving it around.’ ‘OK, we’re going to lower his capsule to the side of the wheel so that his floor and ceiling are blocking his view to the other pods.’ There was some more shouting and the operator came back on. ‘Sir, please get down on the floor behind the bench so he can’t see you. Stay out of his sight OK?’ ‘OK but hurry! He looks dangerous!’ shouted the Director, injecting as much urgency as possible into the situation. The wheel started moving slowly again and the Director watched anxiously as the Investor worked out what was going on. He hurled his mobile phone across the pod, smashing it to pieces silently against the safety glass. Then he lifted his cap, reached inside and pulled out a small black object. With horror the Director knew what it was. The Investor tugged has cap back on and as he pointed the gun at him the Director threw himself from the intercom box towards the bench, landing squarely on top of it. He looked backwards to see the glass in the Investor’s capsule shattering but staying in place. The Investor was no more than an indistinct figure behind the crazed pattern. As he scrambled over the bench the Director heard faint gunshots and suddenly the other pod’s glass exploded outwards, showering countless tiny shards down into the Thames. Then he heard louder gunshots and his own glass shattered and exploded inwards. The Director landed in a heap on the floor on the other side of the bench, finally out of the line of fire. He lay there for a few seconds breathing heavily and listening to the wind blowing around the capsule. This was tough – OK he had the guy cornered but he’d nearly got himself killed. The Investor had somehow known he was lying but no matter; Daintree would be arriving in a few minutes and would take him away. He and his squad were trained to get information out of people and if anyone could get it out of that bastard, it was Daintree. He had every faith in his best friend. The temperature was rising noticeably in the glass sun-baked capsule as the air-con struggled to compensate for the warm air flooding in through the shattered opening. He felt a twinge in his chest. In the dive over the bench he had obviously hit his ribs and it hurt him to move. He stayed still for a moment. With the sudden enveloping warmth and the gravity of the situation the Director felt a lightness in his head. The pod span a little then snapped back into place. Then it span again. Already on the floor. Best place to be, he

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thought. Something caught his eye and he glanced backwards and up at the side of the bench. What he saw filled him with dread and he stared at it uncomprehendingly. There was someone else in the capsule with him! It looked like they had been hit because there were long wide streaks of their blood down the side of the bench. They must have been hiding behind the bench, because that was where the streaks started. Confused, the Director peeked over the top of the bench to trace the bloody marks but they ended on top of the bench seat. He must have spread the blood around when he dived over. He looked down to where he was lying and saw a large dark red pool. What on earth was happening? Was there someone else in the pod? Bewildered, he tried to move but his ribs complained again. He slid back down and traced the blood the other way, toward the floor. It continued onto his shirt and around on to his back and with utter alarm it dawned on him and he felt dizzy again. This time the spinning feeling didn’t go away and very slowly the Director’s eyesight white-washed and he passed out.

‘I know. It’s the name of your website,’ said Rachel carefully. Asher took her hand from his knee and squeezed it. ‘Yes. And I know how the data got through,’ he said, beaming. ‘It was pre-approved. I was the one who approved it!’ Rachel visibly made a connection in her mind. Then Asher’s smile disappeared and his persona took on an aura of grave concern. He turned slowly to Rachel, open mouthed, and the glare he gave her sent a shiver down her spine. ‘Oh my god,’ he said quietly. He looked almost winded. ‘I don’t believe it!’ ‘What’s wrong?’ said Rachel, mirroring his consternation. ‘Rachel,’ said Asher slowly. He was searching carefully for the right words. ‘Did your parents ever…tell you about any…relatives that might have been…killed? Say about thirty years ago?’ ‘Killed. No…why? What does that have to do with the passkey?’ ‘Are you sure Rach? Think hard.’ ‘Asher, you’re being weird. What’s going on? Tell me what it means!’

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‘You were an only child, yes?’ ‘Yes!’ Asher closed his eyes and concentrated. Rachel could see movement beneath his eyelids, as if he was remembering something. Finally he opened his eyes. ‘Was your mother’s name Ademia?’ ‘No, it was Margaret.’ ‘Was your dad’s name Richard?’ fired Asher. ‘Yes! How do you know that?’ Much to Rachel’s annoyance, instead of answering, Asher closed his eyes again. This time it was tighter, as if he was working something out. They opened wide again and he blinked. ‘Rachel, brace yourself.’ ‘What? Why?’ ‘Well, don’t freak out but…I think you had a sister.’ Now it was Rachel’s turn to sit there open-mouthed and silent. Asher continued. ‘That’s why you look so familiar. You’re so much like her! Different hair but the face!’ Asher pulled out his wallet and produced the photograph. He showed it to Rachel. ‘Who is this? Why does she look like me? I don’t understand Asher. Please explain now or I’m going to –’ ‘My brother took this picture. Doesn’t she look familiar?’ Rachel studied the picture. ‘Yes she does. I’ve never seen her before though. What’s this all about?’ ‘Look in the background.’ ‘What, the blue building?’ ‘Yes!’ ‘And?’ ‘It’s the bar! The bar in Beijing where my brother was killed. It’s called…’ He lowered his voice to the requisite whisper, ‘…The Xian Yin! It’s listed on my website under 1980. Your computer must have seen the name and thought it was the passkey! Listen, there were other victims. I have pictures of them all. Mostly Chinese but two were English – two backpackers. One was my brother. The other was called Emma Taylor. She’s so much like you Rach. It can’t be a coincidence! I remember the newspaper article – almost memorised actually. Mother Ademia, father Richard.’

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This had blindsided Rachel and she didn’t know what to think. A rebuff was all she could come up with. ‘You’re not serious are you?’ ‘Yes, completely,’ continued Asher, unabated. ‘The more I look the more I see it! Rach, how old were you in 1980?’ ‘1980? That’s when my parents got married...I was six at the time. I was their bridesmaid.’ ‘Wait, you recall not having a father until you were six?’ ‘Yes of course.’ ‘Did they ever mention someone called Ademia Taylor?’ ‘No. Who is she?’ said Rachel. As she said it a flash of memory from her childhood shone for a brief moment, like torchlight sweeping across some old photographs in a dark attic. ‘I don’t know,’ said Asher frowning. ‘Oh my god, I’ve just remembered where I know that phrase from!’ This time Rachel screwed her eyes up, recalling her early years. ‘I remember eavesdropping on a conversation my parents were having the day they married. They were talking about…’ she shook her head, ‘…something had happened and I didn’t know what it was. And they made a pact. Yes that was it! They made a pact… to never talk about the whole thing ever again. I didn’t know what a pact was – I thought it was like a voodoo doll or something. I was desperate to find out so later that night I snuck back down to the kitchen and searched through the dustbin. I never found the doll. But I did find a newspaper article about some tragedy I didn’t really understand. I could read some of the story but the words…they were so alien. That’s what burned into my mind, you know? Stuck there ever since. The Xian Yin.’ ‘They kept it quiet,’ Asher said, almost to himself. ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Rachel in a trance and the rest of the cab ride was spent in silence, which not even the driver broke.

What seemed like a split-second later people were manhandling him, calling his name. He felt drained and his torso was stiff, as if from too much exercise. He opened his eyes and saw the thin face of Daintree over him.

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‘Did you get him?’ he asked weakly. ‘No, he got away. The pod was empty when it docked. Nothing but shattered glass. The operators saw him climbing out onto the structure when it was still half way up. He managed to jump down onto the camera gantry and into the water. We haven’t found him yet.’ The Director looked up into Daintree’s eyes with desperate confusion. ‘You have to…you know why.’ He breathed out heavily. ‘You didn’t get it.’ ‘No…’ sighed the Director. ‘We’ll get it, don’t you worry – there’s a man hunt going on. Shouldn’t be long now. He’s going to be pretty easy to spot.’ Daintree grasped his shoulder. ‘Hold in there man, a medic is on the way.’ ‘Tell my wife I love her. It should have been different. Not like this,’ he said quietly. ‘You can tell her yourself,’ lied Daintree. ‘You’re not done yet.’ He smiled and squeezed his shoulder but the Director was already fading quickly. With his last reserves of energy the Director reached up, grabbed Daintree and pulled him close. With a whisper almost too quiet to hear he breathed his last words into Daintree’s ear. ‘Rachel…Taylor…Ceptron…C…E…P…T…R…’ He closed his eyes and his body went limp.

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7 Alker-Saltzered

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hey arrived in Chinatown, just off Leicester Square. It was early evening, so the tourists were flocking and the pigeons were patrolling the pavements, competing with the tramps for the half eaten, discarded chips and burgers. Asher led Rachel through the mass of people, down a side street and into a back road that led to the restaurant. A number of Chinese people were talking their native dialect outside one property and Asher had a flashback to the hutongs in Beijing. Being watched carefully, knowing that the sharp sing-song tones of the conversation were referring to him. They entered the restaurant to the jangle of wind-chimes and were greeted by some gentle oriental music and a smiling waiter. The restaurant was a long, thin place, decorated in a traditional style with ornate pillars, coloured paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling beams and simple white sheets on the tables. The waiter showed them to their table and they ordered dim-sum and beer straight away. ‘You’ve got to try this beer – it’s great,’ exclaimed Asher. ‘Yanjing. I found out about it in Beijing recently. Got kind of a liking for it.’ ‘How come you were in Beijing?’ Rachel was surprised. Asher didn’t seem to be the glamorous type but he was turning out to be a bit of a dark horse. Asher looked uncomfortable with the question and shifted in his chair. ‘Well…over the years I’ve been trying to find out about Robert’s last days. You know, where he went, who he was with when he died, that kind of thing. All through my life I’ve had this sinking feeling in my stomach every time anyone mentioned China so I’d been putting it off for ages. I wanted to never have to go there but I ran out of leads. There’s only so much you can find out from your armchair.’ ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ ‘Yes and no. It was enlightening.’

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‘Well?’ ‘Uh, I’m still following up on a few things, so the jury’s still out.’ ‘Hm.’ Rachel frowned, a little disappointed with his answer, then brightened up. ‘I’d love to go there some day.’ ‘Why don’t you?’ ‘I could I suppose. I don’t know any Chinese though. I wouldn’t know where to start.’ ‘You’d get by. I can help you. If all this stuff is true then you’ve got unfinished business there. You should go.’ Rachel considered it for a while and nodded. ‘You know I think I will. Got to talk to my father first, get his take on things. But I can’t see how we could be wrong on this. It all fits too well.’ ‘I don’t know how you’re staying so calm about it all. Someone killed your half-sister Rach! Don’t you feel anything? Not angry or sad?’ ‘No, not really. I’m more stunned by the fact that I even had a half-sister. Never mind that she was killed. Someone else did that grieving a long time ago. That’s way in the past.’ Asher was getting agitated that Rachel didn’t seem to share his outrage. ‘But what about the bomber? Don’t you want justice?’ ‘How?’ ‘Track him down and, and…’ ‘What? Exact your revenge?’ ‘I don’t know. Maybe?’ ‘No, of course not! That would make me worse than him! And Robert and Emma would still be dead.’ Rachel looked at him sternly. ‘Asher, you didn’t go to Beijing for that did you?’ ‘Ha ha! Good grief, no! Like I said, just trying to trace Robert’s last few days.’ Rachel looked sideways at him and their beer and dim-sum arrived. ‘Ah! Here we go.’ But Asher’s sudden enthusiasm was cut short. ‘I’m sorry sir, we’re out of Yanjing,’ announced the waiter. Asher was crestfallen but perked back up when the waiter said: ‘Is Tsingtao OK?’

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‘Yeah, great!’ The waiter served, poured and left. Happy again, though Rachel suspected not as happy as he’d have been with Yanjing, Asher continued probing. ‘What about your father? He kept it a secret from you for years. How can you go along with that?’ ‘We don’t know if any of this is for real yet. Anyway, what else can I do? Hold a grudge and never speak to him again? That won’t do any good. I love him and he was only doing what he thought was right. People have good reasons for doing what they do Asher, even if you don’t understand them at first.’ ‘That’s the most compassionate thing I’ve heard for a long time.’ ‘You need to take a closer look at yourself. You have more compassion than you realise.’ ‘I do?’ ‘Sure you do. It’s been hard for you all these years but you’ve managed to stay straight and lead a decent life. You haven’t gone off the rails. Yet. Want some advice?’ ‘Go on.’ ‘Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t.’ Asher didn’t reply and they dropped into an uncomfortable silence as they studied the main course menus. Then, after a short while, he announced: ‘I’m going to have the Peking duck with egg noodles and black bean sauce.’ ‘Kung Po chicken and jasmine rice for me.’ And that was the end of it. Nothing more was said about China for the entire meal, with which they drank white wine instead of beer and had three bottles between them. Through the evening Asher got funnier and more charming and Rachel got smarter and even more beautiful and by the end of dessert they were flirting full-on with each other, much to the quiet amusement of the other diners. ‘You know what? I’dmire what you’re doing,’ slurred Rachel. ‘What’s that then?’ ‘About your website and all. Amazing stuff. I wonder if anyone uses it, seriously I mean, not like me or that bloody computer of mine. Like the police or Her Majesty’s Secret Service.’ ‘All I know is that it gets millions of hits a day. Thousands, even. But you can’t tell who’s looking. No no no.’

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‘Shame. You’re very dedicated. I try to be dedicated but I don’t know if I manage it or not. How do you know if you’re dedicated or not?’ ‘As far as I’ve worked out, you can’t tell. If it feels right, do it.’ Asher frowned and suddenly seemed troubled by what he had just said. ‘And if it doesn’t?’ prompted Rachel. There was a pause. ‘What?’ ‘What if it doesn’t feel right?’ ‘Then don’t do it, silly.’ ‘Wise. Very wise words. What time is it?’ Asher studied his watch, frowning and waiting for his eyes to refocus. ‘Er, five-to-ten.’ Asher grinned inanely and looked up like a child who had correctly read a proper clock with hands. Then his face gradually dropped as if the spring inside that was holding it up was winding down. Rachel watched his expression change to one of outright panic and guessed that he had just remembered to do something quite important. ‘I’ve um,’ he started, with alarm still showing in his blurry eyes. ‘I’ve just got to make a call. On the telephone. A telephone call. Would you ‘scuse me for a little minuto?’ ‘Certainly.’ Asher rose quickly and, not realising his legs were more drunk than he was, staggered a little, gained his balance, then pulled up straight and walked briskly through the restaurant to the exit, knocking the wind-chimes loudly. Rachel watched him pace up and down on the pavement outside, stopping occasionally to avoid passers-by. He seemed to get quickly agitated, waving his free arm around. The call ended. He re-dialled. The call ended again. He looked at his watch and put both arms up and let them flop by his side. Then he came back in to the restaurant. ‘Should we go? We can pay on the way out.’ ‘Sure. Everything OK?’ said Rachel, getting up. ‘Hm? Yes, yes. Everything’s fine. C’mon lets go back to mine for coffee. I’ll pay for the taxi.’ They rushed out after paying and caught another black cab back out of town. Rachel thought it would have been easier and cheaper to go back to hers but something seemed to have caught Asher off guard.

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If it was to do with the whole Robert Emma thing she wanted in on it too. He hadn’t exactly given her an option either, so she went along with it. Back to Kingston it was. Asher fidgeted with his mobile for most of the journey and kept looking at his watch, saying nothing to Rachel. Nearing Kingston they both jumped when the phone rang at full volume. Fumbling the buttons, he managed to answer it with a drunken stage whisper and Rachel heard everything, even over the drone of the taxi’s engine. ‘Yes?...Thank god!...Oh yes. Yes! It was me...Yes, you did hear correctly...Yes, I’m sure it’s what I want...Certain...I do say so...That’s OK. Keep it...Thank you. Thank you! Goodbye.’ Asher turned to Rachel and had to correct his overshoot as his head span too far. ‘I definitely need a strong coffee. How ’bout you?’ ‘Let’s do it,’ she smiled, a little too much. Asher paid the forty pound fare without a thought and they went upstairs to his top floor flat, giggling like school children.

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‘Ye –’ ‘This is Oscar.’ ‘– oo – nt.’ ‘Hello? Hello? This is Oscar, can you hear me?’ ‘– nt he –’ ‘Hello? I want to abort. Listen, if you can hear me, please abort. I don’t want to go through with it! Walk away!’ ‘’ ‘Hello? Can you hear me? Shit! SHIT!’

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There was no coffee. Instead the smooth piano and rich bass of Robert Miles’ Children emanated from the speakers as Asher lay on the bed fully clothed and Rachel hitched her skirt up and ran and pounced on top of him laughing. They rolled once together across the king-sized mattress, stopping just short of one edge with Rachel underneath and Asher on top. With their legs entwined he pushed himself up on his hands and looked down into her bright blue eyes. Their stares faltered from eyes to lips a few times, the urge for physical contact growing by the second, and then they thrust their mouths together and kissed a long, hard, passionate, drunken kiss. Hands ran through hair and arms hugged and squeezed torsos. Their legs were wrapped around each other and Rachel’s skirt rode up as they moved together. They parted and grinned at each other like school children, then kissed again. But this time Asher’s hand, instead of running through her hair, was gently gripping her outer thigh. As they kissed more he moved his hand slowly upwards, under the hem of her ridden-up skirt, and carried on up until he could feel the cotton of her knickers against her hips. Rachel made no moves to stop him, and in response started her own exploration down Asher’s back and into his trousers. She slid her hand down, through the hair in the small of his back and under the elastic of his boxers until her hand was firmly on his buttocks. She gripped and squeezed and as she did so Asher slid one finger under the cotton of her knickers, then his whole hand, then slowly moved it round onto Rachel’s warm, soft bottom. He squeezed the flesh and with their lips still interlocked, she breathed in with a gasp. Asher explored her mouth with his tongue and she did the same, her tongue going slightly deeper than he’d dared. They broke off and looked into each other’s eyes with a new understanding: no holds barred. ‘Jason!’ she giggled. ‘Rachel!’ And then they dove once again into the kiss. Asher moved to one side of Rachel and his hand quickly slid from her bottom, around her thigh and to the front where he found what he was looking for, soft and hairless. Rachel opened her legs for him, pushing her skirt up around her waist as she scrambled at Asher’s fly buttons, pinging them open one by one. He wasn’t wearing a belt; his trousers opened easily and she felt no resistance as she slid her hand over his hairy

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belly and down inside his boxers again. She in turn found what she was looking for and Asher groaned a sigh of satisfaction as she took a firm but gentle hold. Rachel started unbuttoning Asher’s shirt with her free hand and Asher fumbled to undo her blouse to gain access to her bra. After a scramble they were at last fully naked, pleasuring each other under the harsh glare of the overhead bedroom light as the track played on, nearing its end. At the crescendo of the song they climaxed together and were finally satisfied. Exhausted, Rachel quickly fell asleep and Asher lay looking at her naked form for a few minutes, then felt the waves of tiredness wash over him a few times. He dragged the duvet up over them both, pulled the light cord and in the darkness drifted into a deep sleep, induced partly by alcohol but mostly by his dwindled supplies of energy and his absolute happiness.

The dark BMW’s main beam lit the tarmac ahead as it sped along the A-road out of London towards the coast. The bald driver smiled to himself. He was good at this game. It was all about pre-emptive moves. Block your opponent. Set yourself up for the attack at the same time. How far ahead could he think? He had predicted that under the circumstances she wouldn’t feel safe in the Big Smoke any more and would retreat as fast as she could to the place she loved the most and felt safest. And he was going to be there to welcome her. Yes, welcome her. That bitch! How dare she? She was living her life in blissful ignorance while he was made to suffer the endless torture of knowing the true sequence of events. For not a single day in the last three decades had he been free of that resentment. She had stolen the only thing he’d ever held dear. Stolen, taken as her own, and then smashed what was left to pieces! Why should she have everything and he have nothing? Well now the tables were turned. He was going to take the one thing she cherished as his own. Something that she had put her life into. Conceiving, designing, nuturing, cherishing. That damn computer was going to make him unstoppable and now, with the only obstacle out of the way, it would be like taking sweets from a child.

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Money was power, he had no doubt about that. Money moved mountains. He drove faster, gripped by the exciting prospect of becoming the wealthiest, possibly the most powerful person to ever have lived. Surely it shouldn’t be this effortless? But it was! He chuckled nervously, which then turned into stilted a laugh. When he started hooting loudly he realised his concentration on the road was waning. But it was too late. Out of nowhere a give-way sign hurtled past him and before he knew it he had overshot the junction and was careering across two wide lanes of a dual carriage way. Luckily there was nothing in his path and he wrenched the wheel heavily to the left to try to get the bulk of the large car to swing around to be pointing in the right direction. But travelling at the speed it was nothing happened and the car hit the grass central reservation launching the front wheels into the air, quickly followed by the rear. The back-end flipped up, pitching the car downwards and the nose came crashing down on other side of the dual carriageway. Now with lots of grip on the tarmac the front wheels swung the car violently to the left, so hard that it tipped onto it’s two offside wheels, teetered for a moment and crunched down again, the whole car coming to an abrupt halt in the fast lane. The driver gripped the wheel and took stock of the situation. He was a sitting duck facing the wrong way with cars coming at him at probably close to a hundred mile an hour, flashing their headlights at him. They were probably struggling to stop in time. Turn the car around! No. There wasn’t even time to lug the wheel to the right, floor it and U-turn on to the hard shoulder. He made a split second decision and hammered the throttle with the wheel still turned with full left lock. The rear wheels screamed as they span on the spot, initially reluctant to move the car, and the tyres smoked as they deposited thick black lines on the road’s surface. The car lurched to the left, back on to the central reservation and the driver span the wheel to the right as a lorry went hurtling past in front of him and the cars behind just missed. With the accelerator still to the floor the drive wheels threw up lumps of mud as the car struggled to find purchase on the remaining grass. With gathering pace the car bumped off of the grass and joined the fast lane in the right direction, behind the lorry. The car settled down as he got back up to speed and clumps of mud ricocheted around the wheel wells. The driver laughed nervously again, still gripping the wheel hard, then his face hardened. He had let

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his guard down. He was proud of his cool composure and he had momentarily lost it. How dare she put him through this! No. Calm down. Focus. Think of the game. Yes. Like a game of chess. Think ahead, move for move. But this was just going to be check for now. He was going to make her pay for everything. Be patient. The end game would come soon enough.

Friday, July 27th 2012 Asher could hear a far away beat and jovial, raised voices. The buoyant sounds faded in and out. Music, laughter, clinking glasses. He stepped through the doorway. Before him laid out like a General’s view of the battlefield was an enormous nightclub dance-floor. Dark and smoky, pulsating and fluorescent. He floated down the steps and could feel every one of a thousand pairs of eyes fixed on him. The sounds of the club were still muted, distant, though he was there, in its midst. The eyes bobbed up and down in time with the beat and the massed army of dancers parted for him as he walked forwards onto the dance floor. The girl stood at the far side, smiling coquettishly at him. He didn’t know her but strangely he thought he did. She looked like an angel but naughty, dressed in short black. Revealing. She turned and walked away, suddenly naked. The rounds of her buttocks rising and falling as she walked in slow motion. Asher could feel his erection, strong and hard. He looked down. He too was naked now, standing proud. No shame. He was relishing this moment. He had never been exposed in front of so many people. Somehow she was now reclining on a sofa with one foot on the floor. Her back was arched and as she moved her arms up behind her head her breasts stretched and flattened. Her skin glistened. Asher looked through a window at her, then like magic he was there on the sofa beneath her and they were joined and moving rhythmically to the ever-present beat. It felt good. Oblivious to the watchers. He wrapped his arms around her and her body heat made his chest sweat against her back. With his left hand he cupped her right breast and squeezed the nipple, and with his right he rubbed her in a strong circular motion. She breathed in sharply and her body convulsed. She held her

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breath for a few seconds, then exhaled. Still thrusting slowly to the rhythm he nuzzled and kissed the side of her neck, her black hair falling over his face and he smiled. And came. Asher turned over in his bed. It was a few seconds until he realised what had happened. He opened his eyes immediately and knew that the throbbing beat wasn’t music, it was in his temples. Rachel had her back to him, sleeping peacefully on her front beneath the white duvet with one knee up in the classic recovery position. He hoped he hadn’t uttered anything during his lucid dream that would have freaked her out. Or at least that she was asleep enough to have not heard. Fuzzy through his headache, Asher studied her lines for a moment. She was beautiful, serene. Her dark hair splayed partly over the pillow, partly over her face. Her shoulders were smooth and uncovered and Asher knew she had nothing on under the duvet either. Last night’s drunken groping had seen to that. If the bed clothes were removed, he guessed that in that position he would have been able to see more than she would have wanted him to. Normally he would have been excited by such a thought but he was already spent. He got out of bed and tip-toed quietly, so as not to wake her, to the small en-suite to wash himself. After cleaning up he sat down on the fluffy toilet seat lid for a few minutes with his eyes closed, spinning the dream-sequence through in his head, re-living the euphoric moment. The music, the people, the lust. The headache. Finally he opened his eyes, yawned, stretched and woke up properly. What a nice morning. Naked and mentally absent, he got up walked back into the bedroom. Rachel was already up and standing next to the bed, also undressed and about to retrieve her underwear from the floor. She looked up, startled, and they both instinctively moved their hands to cover as much of their intimate parts as possible. Easy for him, harder for her but she managed. They looked sheepishly at each other. Asher could feel another erection coming on. ‘Morning!’ he said wide-eyed and smiled as if he was greeting a colleague at the office. ‘Hi. Ah…I was just um…’ said Rachel. With her eyes she motioned to her underwear lying on the floor and Asher realised he should do the gentlemanly thing. ‘Sorry!’ he blurted. He closed his eyes and spun around. Oh God, I bet my arse is spotty.

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With his eyes still shut Asher covered his bottom with his hands. Certain that he could now look straight ahead, he opened his eyes to see Rachel in the full-length mirror next to the bathroom door straightening up from retrieving her underwear. Their eyes locked and like rabbits in the glare of each other’s headlights they froze again and stared at each other’s neatly framed full-frontal reflections. But this time there were no cover-ups. At first they looked into each others eyes speechlessly. After a few seconds the stares began to falter and make short trips down the torso to other parts of their bodies and then back up to the eyes. Then they took longer sweeps, openly studying each other’s forms in the long mirror. After a whole minute of silent, mutual interrogation Rachel spoke. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, clutching her underwear but making no attempt to hide her modesty. ‘That was very gallant of you to turn away to save my honour. You may turn back now.’ Asher glanced backwards over his shoulder and slowly turned to face her, his hands still covering his bottom. Another few seconds passed, face to face, eyes wandering. Rachel dropped her knickers on the floor once more and Asher felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. He was there again. Tensed and excited, standing proud. His heart raced. They almost ran at each other and collapsed on to the bed, their limbs entangled and writhing. Asher surprised himself and during the next ten minutes he had one of the best, if not the best sexual encounter he’d ever had in his life. Then, after dozing for another half hour, happy and exhausted and with their blood laced with the drug of lust, Rachel got up and dressed silently in front of Asher. He watched her perfect curves moving in smooth coordination as she clothed herself. ‘I have to go to work,’ she stated matter-of-factly when she was done. Asher smiled and said nothing. ‘I don’t usually do this,’ she continued. ‘I mean sleeping with a guy on the first date.’ Asher smiled again. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said playfully. ‘Neither do I. I ah, I don’t know if it’s obvious to you but I sense we’ve got some kind of a…’ He waved his hand back and forth between Rachel and himself. ‘…thing going on here?’ Rachel let out a snort of laughter and smiled at the floor.

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‘You think? I’ll call you around lunchtime, OK?’ ‘I think you’re great too.’ ‘Bye.’ ‘Rach?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘You were fantastic.’ ‘Thanks. So were you.’

Soon after Rachel had left, Asher had breakfasted and AlkerSaltzered and was washed, clean shaven, dressed and smelling of CK One. What a morning! Sitting at his computer once again, he quickly navigated through three or four of his favourite news sites as he always did to make sure he got the details right. ‘Mustn’t make any mistakes now!’ he said to himself. ‘Not now that Sssseptron is watching…oooeee Big Brother, hello, can you hear me…?’ He jokingly spoke into the monitor screen as if it could hear him. There was no response and he suddenly felt foolish. Perhaps he was still drunk, he thought to himself. He pulled up his publishing package and opened the website for editing remotely. Scrolling straight to the end of the main data table, he added a new entry at the bottom and typed in the details of the M25 bombing, smiling to himself. Luckily for him on this occasion all the news agencies seemed to agree on the final statistics. Time of detonation: 8:45am. Number of casualties: 234. Thinking nothing about the shocking number he chuckled to himself. How on earth did he miss it? It was all so obvious with 20/20 hindsight. The first coffee had disappeared quickly so Asher published the page and went to make another one. He sat on his breakfast stool in the kitchen and as he was stirring in the milk a message popped up on his computer screen in the living room. It said “You have 1 unread email” but he was oblivious to it. In fact he couldn’t even see it from where he was sitting so instead he carried on stirring his coffee and thinking about Rachel. He hadn’t felt as optimistic about the future in years and he let his thoughts drift. An upturned fly buzzed frantically in the corner of the kitchen window until it was the right way up and started climbing the glass

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again. Asher idly opened the window to let it out into the sunshine. He watched almost under a spell as it weaved off into the morning outside, bringing back memories of when he was a little boy at his parents’ old place in a more leafy suburb further out of town. In the summer he would try to catch insects and put them in matchboxes, usually without success. But every now and again he would get one and proudly carry the poor insect around in his pocket until his mother made him release it. He could almost feel the noisy little matchbox in his pocket now. Every now and then there would be a gentle buzz against his thigh and he would smile and right at that moment the trapped bluebottle was all he cared about. He would be in control, king of his world. In the distance he could hear his mother’s voice: Jason, let that insect go! Reluctantly he pulled the matchbox from his pocket and opened it up. It stopped buzzing and put it to his ear. He blinked and shook his head as he snapped forward thirty years back to the present. His flip-phone stopped vibrating. ‘Hello?’ ‘Hello Mister,’ said Rachel on the other end. Asher lifted completely from his daydream. ‘Hi Sexy. You OK?’ ‘Nearly at work. Meet up later?’ ‘Sure, I’ll come in to town.’ ‘Great. I uh…enjoyed this morning.’ ‘Me too.’ Silence. ‘See you later then,’ she said. ‘Yeah, see you later.’ Asher smiled and closed his phone. Talk about moving fast.

Rachel got back to her apartment by eight, showered quickly and was back out by a quarter past. What a great morning. She hadn’t done that for a long while. Asher was really quite sweet and he was right. There did seem to be something going on, even if he had said it jokingly after they’d had full blown, rampant sex. Rachel crossed the road and entered Westferry Circus, a circular, manicured, tree-bound park. Rachel knew there was a large gyratory system below where she

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was standing but from up on the surface there was no sign of it. She looked down the perfectly aligned main axis of the Wharf complex to the glittering tower at the other end and smiled. Everything felt so nice this morning. The sun was shining and warm once again, she loved her job and finally something might be happening in her personal life. In the little park the morning keep-fitters were all lined up on the lawn, stretching into their various yoga positions. She passed the ghetto-blaster lying to one side playing relaxing pan-pipe music and said good morning to the instructor. She continued a brisk pace up West India Avenue, lined with its many lime trees and into Cabot Square, a more open, concreted plaza. Suits and laptops now instead of shorts and t-shirts. She exited the square and continued on up The North Colonnade, where a newspaper stand stood back from the road-side. Today’s headline read : “Wharf Man Murdered On Wheel”. Tutting at the madness of the world in general, Rachel stopped briefly to buy a paper and, folding it twice, tucked it into her handbag. She continued on to Canada Tower, smiling cheerily to the receptionists on the ground floor of the building and she just caught an elevator as its doors were closing. Everything was so right!

Five minutes later Rachel was reeling at the news. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was open. It couldn’t be! Sitting in the small room euphemistically called the “O.H. Department”, she had just one thought in her head. This must be a joke. Wasn’t it? The woman from Occupational Health was looking at her, concerned. ‘Are you OK?’ Rachel blinked. ‘You’re not serious are you?’ ‘I’m sorry. It’s terrible news, I know. You were obviously close to him, working with him every day. Probably the closest person in the company. He saw you as his protégé you know? He always told the board that you were working on ground-breaking technology. He loved boasting about you.’ ‘What happened?’

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‘We don’t know the exact sequence of events yet but we do know his daughter’s gone missing. The police think it’s linked. His wife is distraught. Do you know his wife?’ Rachel had been invited to their house a number of times for dinner, drinks or whatever sucking-up activities one was supposed to engage in to impress one’s boss but had always had, or maintained to have had clashing appointments. The truth was that she had never felt comfortable about mixing socially with her superiors, especially as a young, single woman who worked for a slightly older, slightly handsome, albeit family, man. On the one occasion that she had met her boss’ wife at a company barbeque, she had also got the impression that she saw her as a little bit of a threat. After-all, they did work along-side each other day-in, day-out. ‘No,’ said Rachel. ‘Oh. Well, never mind. How do you feel?’ ‘How the hell do you think I feel? I’m shocked. I need answers.’ ‘Well that’s partly why we’re here, to try to find answers to your questions. That way you can begin to deal with your emotions.’ ‘Not emotional answers, factual ones! How did he die?’ ‘The police think he was murdered.’ ‘Murdered?’ repeated Rachel, alarmed. ‘Yes. They think he got himself caught up in some sort of terrorist activity.’ Rachel groaned and went pale. ‘Unbelievable isn’t it?’ ‘Who killed him?’ ‘Well they think it might have been a business partner. Not someone from the company you understand.’ She laughed nervously. ‘Someone outside who he might have been dealing with. Do you know of any, uh, slightly dodgy characters he might have known?’ ‘No. Look I’ve got to get out of here. I’m going away for a couple of days to get my head straight.’ She stood up to leave. ‘No problem. I’ll let the relevant people know.’ ‘Thanks. One question. What will happen to me now? My work?’ ‘I suppose you’ll have to explain what you were working on to his superiors and they’ll make the decision to carry on or not.’ ‘Or not?’ Rachel was alarmed. ‘As you’ve explained, you were working on his projects. When you’re back you can tell them all about it and maybe they’ll just let

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you continue. Although I have been advised by Finance that all projects under his management are going to be postponed or cancelled, at least for a while.’ ‘They won’t cancel it. They can’t.’

He had a day to kill but that would easily be used up. He thought about what he could do in the meantime. First thing, check e-mails. Back in the living room Asher sat down in front of the computer, took a gulp of coffee and opened his single unread message. From: [email protected] To: jasher@r&jresearch.com

Sent: Fri 27th July 2012 8:31am Subject: Requested data

Dear jasher@r&jresearch.com, Here are the results of the data you requested: Instrument: [DT] Next price: 80000 Next high:

---

Date: 27/JUL/2012

Time: --:--

Next low:

---

Date: --/---/----

Time: --:--

Date: --/---/----

Time: --:--

Asher’s reflexive intake of breath drew in his mouthful of Columbian Blend and he choked. He sprayed most of his drink at the monitor and starting coughing loudly. When he had recovered a minute later and with tears streaming down his cheeks he grabbed a tissue and wiped the monitor down, re-reading the e-mail as he did so. Eighty thousand? It wasn’t possible! Two options sprang to Asher’s mind. Either Rachel’s programming had a major bug in it or some utter catastrophe was going to happen today. He didn’t like the sound of the latter. No, it must be an error, but how could he find out? This was the first e-mail he had received since finding out what they meant and he had a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. They had been annoying to start with, now they were a dangerous burden. Given the accuracy of the previous predictions, he seemed dutybound from this day on to report every single e-mail he received from

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Ceptron to the authorities. But to whom should he report them? What would happen if there was an attack and he knew about it but didn’t tell anyone? Probably nothing until they find out I was involved. Oh man, why me? Why can’t Rachel re-route them directly to the police? Surely they would appreciate advance warnings of bombings? Why me? WHY ME? Asher brought his fist down on the desk in frustration. His keyboard and mouse clattered in response and the e-mail disappeared from his screen. ‘What? No… No, no, no!’ Asher immediately navigated to the deleted items folder. It wasn’t there. ‘Eh?’ he said to the computer as he tried his copied items folder. It wasn’t there either. He clicked through a few other folders but still couldn’t find it. ‘Oh shit! Come on…where are you?’ Finally he minimised his e-mail application and was relieved to find the e-mail hiding behind it. The jolt must have jiggled the mouse buttons and brought his application to the front. With a sigh he printed the e-mail, took the hardcopy and folded it into his pocket for safe keeping. Then he dialled Rachel’s work number. ‘Hello?’ said a female voice after two rings, but it wasn’t Rachel. She sounded a little older and a little more timid. ‘Hi, is Rachel there please?’ Asher ventured. ‘I’m afraid not,’ said the woman. ‘She had to leave for the day.’ ‘Already?’ Asher was surprised. He had spoken to her not ten minutes ago. ‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’ ‘Sorry, I don’t.’ said the woman. She cleared her throat. ‘She might not be back for a few days.’ ‘A few days? Do you know where she went?’ ‘I’m afraid not, she was in a hurry. She didn’t leave any contact details.’ ‘Hm. Could I leave her a message?’ ‘Sure. She might call back in. Is it work related?’ ‘No, I’m a friend. I have to reach her urgently.’ ‘OK. If you leave your name and number I’ll pass your message on if she touches base.’ ‘Thanks. Could you tell her Asher called? Could you say that I think her system has a bug in it? A really big bug.’ ‘Sure…bug…in…system. Big one. That doesn’t sound very nice!’ ‘Believe me, it’s not.’

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‘You know she should have her mobile with her? You could try that.’ ‘I will, thank you. Do you know why she had to leave?’ ‘Well she had some bad news today. We all did. I can’t really say any more than that I’m afraid.’ The end of her sentence rose as if she was about to cry but was stifling it. ‘Really? Is she OK?’ ‘As far as I know yes.’ Asher could hear the woman’s voice falter and she let out a little sob. ‘But that’s all I know.’ ‘Excuse me but are you OK?’ ‘Sorry. I’ll be fine.’ ‘OK. Thanks for your help then.’ ‘You’re welcome.’ ‘Bye.’ Asher tried Rachel’s mobile but got just her answer phone, so he hung up. Come on Rach, where are you? She couldn’t have disappeared that quickly. He tried again with the same result. He sat looking out of the window, cradling the remainder of his coffee in the mug. If he couldn’t reach Rachel to confirm what was going on, the only thing left was for him to assume the worst. Which meant he had to tell someone. He grabbed the phone book and leafed through the pages until he came to the entry for ‘Police’. Below the main entry was an long list of local offices. No, this was no good. He needed something bigger. Almost immediately it came to him - he needed the Metropolitan Police. He was always seeing them on TV. That was where they had the different departments like the Flying Squad and Anti-Terrorism. He’d ring them. They’d know what to do. Asher reached for his old mouse again and opened up an internet search page to look for their number. Then he stopped and thought for a second. No…he had a better idea.

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8 Everybloodything

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T

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he car seemed strange to Rachel, almost surreal. She was shaking and for the first time ever she had to use two hands to guide the key successfully into the car’s door lock. It wasn’t from cold, or nerves and it wasn’t from fright, or anger either. This was something altogether different. It was as if something or someone had taken remote control of all of her muscles and was very gently rattling the joystick to make her tremble. She sat in the coddling seat with her eyes closed, breathing slowly and steadily in an attempt to make the strange feeling subside. She finally realised (correctly) that she was suffering from post-traumatic stress and that her body had gone into some kind of mild but definite shock that had manifested itself as an overdose of adrenaline and a nauseous feeling. It felt to Rachel as if she’d just had twenty espressos and she leaned her head against the window and gripped the steering wheel firmly, even though the car was still stationary and parked in the underground car park of Cabot Square shopping mall beneath the tower. This was horrible and it had to stop. She turned the key, rumbled the engine a few times (something she always remembers her driving instructor telling her never to do) and gingerly made her way up to the surface. Once again she navigated through the familiar, winding roads around Canary Wharf and out on to the A102, then the A20 and finally on to the M20, the express route out to the coast. Whenever Rachel was feeling down or that something was going wrong, if she could she would take the car out for a spin to make it right. So far it had always cheered her up, pulled her together, given her clarity or brought her back from whichever precipice she had found herself approaching. Today was no different and by the end of her slow, almost pedestrian journey two hours later she felt much better. The trembling had subsided, the sickly feeling had gone away completely and she was just left feeling tired and drained. Sleep was all she wanted now. In her own bed, maybe for a couple of days.

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Nothing and no-one would interrupt her and she was going to think about all the things that had been going on recently. After all an awful lot of things had happened and she figured she needed at least that long to get her head straight. She started going through the events one by one. Her boss had been killed. That was shocking enough in itself, let alone the fact that someone had tried to kill her on this very same journey a few days ago. Plus she’d screwed a guy she hardly knew, which was very unlike her indeed. And on top of everything there was Emma who existed at the very least in theory, but at the most had been Rachel’s very real half-sister. After two hours of careful driving she turned off from the main road onto the smaller one that lead along the shore to Ocean View and got to thinking back to her previous journey again. Suddenly panic set in. What if the guy who’d killed her boss was still following her? What if he was waiting for her at home right now? Or worse still what if he was somewhere behind her in a car, trailing her, unseen. Followed her all this way again. She glanced in her rear-view mirror and, seeing no other vehicles, turned physically in her seat to look backwards, just to reassure herself that the mirror wasn’t lying. There was definitely nobody there but that didn’t stop Rachel changing her plans.

A little out of his depth, Asher eyed the man up and down. He knew that he was in the presence of the head of SO13, Deputy Assistant Commissioner Ronald Daintree. He knew this not from the symbols on the epaulettes of his impeccable uniform, as they meant nothing to Asher, but from the polished brass plaque on his office door. Of his own doing Asher had been frisked, scanned and checked and now found himself sitting in Daintree’s plush office at New Scotland Yard in the heart of Westminster. Asher, having never met a police officer of this standing, was a little nervous about the situation, particularly considering the extent of what he was trying to tell them. They were surely going to lock him up! ‘Sergeant Dunmore tells me you have some information that you think is pertinent to a crime that is about to happen?’ opened Daintree with his dry, low voice. He looked quizzically at Asher.

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‘Today, yes.’ Asher didn’t know if he was supposed to carry on talking or not. He wasn’t sure about volunteering information in case he managed to implicate himself somehow. ‘Well?’ said Daintree impatiently. He seemed irritated at having to tend to Asher. He obviously saw the task of interviewing civilians as being well below him. ‘Oh, right. Sorry, I thought Sergeant Dunmore told you everything.’ ‘Evidently not.’ ‘OK. Well for the last year or so I’ve been getting these e-mails that I’ve recently discovered are predicting the death tolls of acts of terrorism. Without error I might add. I also recently met the person who designed the machine that is sending the e-mails.’ ‘And are you at liberty to reveal the nature of this machine and the identity of it’s designer?’ said Daintree wearily. A tired routine. ‘Well I have no idea what or where it is but the machine is called Sep-Tron or something and the inventor works at the London Stock Investment Company. She’s called Rachel Taylor. Wet met yesterday.’ The Deputy Assistant Commissioner raised an eyebrow almost imperceptibly. In full view of Asher he wrote on his notepad: “Ceptron – Miss Taylor”. When Daintree glanced up Asher looked quickly away from the pad. ‘So you’re saying these…predictions are coming from a computer?’ ‘That’s right. Rachel has confirmed that they’re coming from her computer systems.’ ‘But you don’t know where that computer is.’ ‘No. But Rachel does. Like I said, she invented it.’ Asher thought he sounded like a child. ‘And where is this Miss Taylor?’ ‘I don’t know. I can’t find her. She left for work this morning and I haven’t seen her since.’ ‘You can’t find her?’ Daintree made another note. ‘I have her mobile number but she’s not pickup up.’ ‘Right. If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes I have a couple of things to check.’

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The Deputy Assistant Commissioner got up and marched briskly out of the room. Asher sat where he was and glanced around the office. The walls were filled with pictures of previous incumbents of the post, all proud and pristine in their uniforms. On the desk was a picture of a woman with two teenaged girls sitting together, smiling at the camera. Aside from the computer screen and keyboard, there was not much else except a magnetic executive toy that Asher picked up and fiddled with. Then he thought that the room might be under some kind of surveillance. They might be listening to him. Or watching him. Or both. He put the toy back and waited in silence. A minute later Daintree came back in. ‘Sorry about that Mr Asher. I’ve just come off the phone with a Mr Tandy, the chief exec of LSI.Co. A very helpful man I must say. He said he has a good idea of all the major projects going on in the company and he did verify your claim that a Rachel Taylor works there. There’s just a little problem – he’s never heard of a project called Ceptron. In fact I would say he vehemently denied the existence of such a product, or the possibility that anything with such a capability could exist. He said that if anything like that was ever invented he would be first in line, as it would make him a fortune on the stock market. And they are in the business of making money after all, not counter terrorism. Is that not so?’ ‘Yes but – ’ ‘Mr Asher, you said before that you only met Miss Taylor yesterday, and yet she left for work from your house?’ ‘Ah, yes. She um…spent the night.’ Asher looked down. He felt like he was in the headmaster’s office. ‘I see. Your interest in her extends beyond work matters…’ Asher shrugged. He was hoping he was going to be able to play down this aspect of their relationship. It would muddy the waters, he thought. ‘What can I say? We get on really well.’ he said. ‘Considering we’ve only just met we get on really well.’ ‘You are physically attracted to her?’ ‘Yes. But she’s smart too.’ ‘Attractive and smart,’ noted Daintree in his book. In the absence of any concrete facts, he had gotten hold of a thread and was starting to pull. Asher sensed it and pushed back a little.

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‘Yes,’ he said ‘But that’s beside the point! Her machine is sending me predictions of atrocities about to occur and now that I know what they are I feel duty-bound to report them to some kind of authority!’ Asher reached for the wad of paper in his back pocket. ‘Look. I’ve printed out the last few e-mails and…and here are corresponding newspaper headings reporting them. You can see the e-mails all precede the reports by a day.’ Daintree took the papers and sifted through them with an uncomfortable look on his face, as if he had the sun in his eyes. He put them down. ‘These are just pieces of paper Mr Asher. Anyone with a word processor could have written these e-mails and printed them off.’ ‘But I didn’t! These are real e-mails!’ ‘That may be the case but you must understand that from my point of view they don’t constitute solid evidence of anything at all. That said, I’m going to keep them for reference.’ ‘Can’t you trace them or something? Can’t MI5 do something? What about GCHQ? Can’t they verify them? They listen to everybloodything don’t they? I’m sure they must have intercepted the data on it’s way from Rachel’s computer to mine!’ Daintree gave Asher a long, hard stare and Asher felt his bravado shrivel under the glare. ‘Did Sergeant Dunmore take your contact details?’ he asked Asher finally. ‘Yes, she did.’ ‘Good. Mr Asher, I’m sure you realise that this department has many leads and many organisations to investigate. I’m afraid at this point we don’t have the time or the resources to do anything without any physical evidence.’ Asher was getting wound up now. ‘Well what would constitute physical evidence then?’ he blurted, then regretted the outburst. Daintree looked coolly at him and stuck his thumb up. ‘Recordings of phone calls.’ He hit his thumb with the index finger of his other hand, then continued counting on his fingers. ‘Traces of explosives. Photos of meetings. Videos from known terror cell leaders. Code words.’ Then he jabbed his finger down on Asher’s documents. ‘Not old newspaper clippings and a computer printout.’

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‘Fine! Eighty thousand people are going to die and you’re not going to do anything. I don’t know why I even bothered coming!’ ‘Listen to yourself Mr Asher. There is nothing to do. Where is this act going to take place?’ Asher opened his mouth to say he didn’t know but Daintree knew that already and interrupted again before he could speak. ‘Where is this machine? Where is the inventor? How on Earth can a computer predict the future? I’ll tell you - it can’t! And on top of all that, no single organisation ever managed to orchestrate an attack on anything close to the scale you’re talking about. These are war casualty figures, not the results of a terrorist act. I’m sorry Mr Asher but nothing adds up, therefore I can do nothing.’ ‘I’ll find Rachel,’ announced Asher defiantly. ‘She’ll have all the details. It says this thing is going to happen today so I’ve got to try and do something. I can’t just stand by and, and…’ ‘Very well,’ replied Daintree. ‘Do as you wish, follow it up. Come back when you’ve found her and have some concrete evidence. I’m sorry you’ve wasted your afternoon.’ He stood and waited for Asher to do the same. ‘I’m sorry too,’ said Asher curtly. ‘Thanks for your time.’ ‘Not at all. The sergeant will show you out.’ ‘Thanks.’ Daintree walked over to his office door and found Sergeant Dunmore still waiting in the corridor. He said a few words to her quietly and when she replied it was just loudly enough for Asher to overhear. ‘Yes sir, I’ll get on it right away,’ he heard her say quietly. Daintree nodded and went back inside leaving Asher in the care of Sergeant Dunmore. She smiled and showed him along the corridor. ‘You must be special,’ she said to Asher. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘No-one is ever interviewed personally by the Deputy Assistant Commissioner. He must have a special interest in you.’ ‘Really? I didn’t think he was interested at all,’ said Asher, puzzled. ‘Oh, yes. I reported your statement to the Inspector and before I knew it I’d been summoned by the head honcho. You know you skipped five ranks?’ The young sergeant seemed to be impressed by this feat.

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‘No, I didn’t know. Why do you think I got special treatment?’ Sergeant Dunmore faltered momentarily. ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say,’ she ventured. ‘But you know.’ Silence. They walked without speaking for a few minutes, wending their way around corridors and down staircases. ‘Not even a clue?’ pushed Asher eventually. ‘It’s important you know? Thousands of lives could be stake.’ ‘I’m sorry. There are methods in the DA’s madness,’ came the response. Damn! thought Asher. She had realised she’d let slip too much and had made her position watertight. ‘Hmm. Listen, why’s it called SO13?’ he continued, unfazed. ‘It from the eighties. It’s real name is the Anti-Terrorism Branch. It’s one of the few Specialist Operations departments still using it’s old internal designation. There were originally twenty but most of them have been merged or restructured over the years.’ ‘Twenty? Like what?’ Asher was genuinely surprised. ‘Some you’ll recognise, some you won’t. Take SO6 for example. Fraud Squad.’ ‘Yes I’ve heard of that.’ ‘Doesn’t exist any more. They call it something obscure like “Economic and Specialist Crime” now.’ ‘Oh,’ said Asher, almost saddened at the loss. ‘SO9. Flying Squad?’ continued Dunmore. ‘Yes, The Sweeney!’ ‘That’s right. Gone now.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Special Branch still exists – that’s SO12.’ ‘Uh-huh.’ ‘Handful of others. Here we are. We’ve got your details in case we need to contact you about anything. Have a good evening Mr Asher. Oh, press the green button to get out.’ Asher arrived at the waist-high gate he’d come in through and pressed the button. The glass swung open and he made his way through the reception atrium and out on to the forecourt where the triangular “New Scotland Yard” sign was spinning endlessly in the warmth of the morning. There were a number of things that had bothered Asher about that meeting. It didn’t sit well with him at all.

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He knew what his next move had to be. Rachel held the key to unlocking this mess. He pulled his mobile from his pocket and pressed last-number redial. ‘Hi. This is Rachel. I can’t take your call now but leave a message!’ ‘Hi Rach. Where are you?’ started Asher in frustration. He stopped and started again, more calmly. He explained about the new e-mail and his trip to the Met then hung up. He had to find her and big as central London was, at least he had a vague idea of where she lived and worked. He needed the Jubilee Line. After obtaining directions from the constable who had been assigned to look official in front of the iconic revolving sign and a brisk walk up to Parliament Square he found Westminster Underground. He rode the tube across to Canary Wharf and got the escalator up into Reuters Plaza where people were starting to gather in the bars after work. To his right, the towering hulk of One Canada Square gleamed in the sunlight. Asher craned his neck and looked up at fifty stories of steel and glass. That was where Rachel worked, on one of those floors. But she wasn’t there. The lady on the phone had confirmed that. Where then? Where?

Rachel had almost reached the front door when she stopped in her tracks. She looked up at the living room windows on the upper storey and tightened her grip on the crook-lock. That was odd. There was a light on, spilling yellow out through a chink in the curtains. It’s broad daylight. There shouldn’t be any lights on. And why were the curtains closed? Her heart skipped a beat, then thumped faster and she felt her hands go clammy as the fight-or-flight response took over her body. She had thought she was going to be safe here. Bloody hell, if this wasn’t a safe-house then she had nowhere else to go! This had to end right now. With her free hand starting to tremble with adrenaline Rachel turned the key in the lock, opened the door and stepped inside. She closed the door quietly behind her, turning the latch herself so the spring didn’t force it to click back loudly. The downstairs lights were off but she knew the layout well enough. To her right the gloomy hallway veered off to the downstairs bedrooms and directly in front of

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her a shaft of warm light poured down the stairs from the living area. Breathing deliberately and slowly to control her fear she crept quietly up the stairs clinging tightly to the banister rail and preparing to use her weapon. The top of the stairs opened out into the terracotta-tiled open plan living area. Her heart was racing and she could feel her pulse beating in her ears. The veins in her temples were throbbing as she neared the top of the staircase. Despite all the things that had happened to Rachel lately nothing had prepared her for what happened next. She reached the top and suddenly there was a loud, two-toned greeting from two people she knew very well and loved very much. ‘Surprise!’ her parents shouted in unison from the kitchenette area. Rachel’s heart jumped out of her chest and she dropped the crook-lock with a clang. The shock quickly gave way to relief as she was overcome with joy at seeing her family so unexpectedly. She burst into tears and ran over to her bewildered parents who were waving half emptied glasses of red wine at her. ‘Mum! Dad!’ she cried and hugged them both hard. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘Well it is our house darling,’ said her mother, sarcastically indignant. ‘I wasn’t expecting you for another week!’ Rachel wiped some of the tears from her eyes and sniffed. ‘Well we decided to come over early. The weather down there is atrocious! Much nicer here. Darling what’s wrong?’ ‘Oh! Nothing,’ said Rachel, checking herself and realising that weeping and bear hugging would seem to them like a gross overreaction to seeing them again. A kiss on the cheek usually sufficed whenever they saw each other. ‘Why are you crying then?’ asked her mother, taking her usual blundering matter-of-fact approach. ‘Oh, this? Just some weird stuff has been going on lately,’ said Rachel pointing to her father’s glass. ‘Give me one of those and I’ll tell you about it. And dad?’ ‘Hello sweetie!’ her father perked up, pleased to be included in the conversation. ‘You might want to pour yourself another one before I start.’ She looked at him though glistening eyes. Her mental image of him had changed over the last few days and now she was trying to fit this new

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image to the man she saw in front of her. She still didn’t know what to feel about the way they had kept the secret from her for so many years. It was completely out of character for her mother and Rachel suspected she would have an enormous guilt complex about it. She had probably gone along with it because she was in love with him. Her father – he was the driving force behind this. He was the one who broke his marriage vows and had engaged in adultery. He who sacrificed a whole family for his own self-centred egotism. She had to find out if it was all true. Right now. From her father, in his own words. Her mother poured Rachel a glass of wine and after refreshing her husband’s and her own they all sat down together in the seating area. Rachel decided to just go for it. ‘The Xian Yin,’ she said. ‘Oh my god!’ Her mother looked quickly at her father with wide eyes then covered her mouth as if she had just given something away. Her father ignored her and held Rachel’s gaze, calm and collected. He was prepared for this, thought Rachel. There was a long silence. An eternity, during which Rachel very much wanted somebody to speak but no words came to her, nor apparently to her father either. That was it, she’d done it. The cat was out. The ball was in his court but the silence continued. Eventually her father came to a conclusion. ‘Tell me how much you know,’ he said quietly, ‘and I’ll tell you the rest.’ Her mother gasped and her father turned to say something. She understood immediately – this was between him and his daughter. ‘Who wants bacon sandwiches?’ she said quickly and got up. She hesitated and when no reply was forthcoming she nodded and headed off to the kitchen. Rachel held her glass by its stem and span it back and forth in her fingers. She felt awkward about the situation she had just created. ‘Thanks mum. Sorry.’ ‘Don’t mention it dear!’ called her mother as she disappeared below the counter top to peer into the grill. Rachel took a large gulp of wine, not noticing it was a robust Rioja, which she didn’t usually like. She took a long slow breath in and out as the wine settled inside. ‘I’ll start from the beginning,’ she said. ‘You remember the project I’m working on don’t you? Well a couple of days ago I was

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contacted by a guy who said he’d been getting spam e-mails from my system with meaningless data in them. The guy runs a research agency for the government but his side-hobby is collecting terrorist activity data. He has a website that has thousands of acts of terrorism listed. Why he does it I don’t know but I guess that’s his business. His brother was killed in a bombing in Beijing so I suppose it probably has something to do with that. The attack was on a bar called The Xian Yin, which was apparently almost completely destroyed. It doesn’t exist any more. Anyway, I’ve known that phrase – The Xian Yin – all my life but I’ve never known what it meant. I think I overheard you once when I was little. This guy I met, Asher, explained it to me. He said he had studied the incident closely over the years and had copies of photos of all the victims. He said I looked just like another Brit who had died there. She was called Emma Taylor. She had a father called Richard and a mother called Ademia. It all fitted except for one thing. I tried not to jump to conclusions dad but Asher made a convincing argument that was too close for comfort. Is he right dad? Were you married to this woman? Did I have a half-sister?’ Rachel’s father grunted and gazed out over the dunes towards the sea. He bowed his head. ‘How can you ever forgive me Rach? I loved Emma more than anything, more than I loved her mother. When she died we were both devastated but by that time our marriage was already falling apart. It was a defining day in all our lives. I was already seeing your mother at the time. In fact, as I recall, you were already six. I was given an easy way out – a brand new life. A ready-made family. From loveless to loving in one easy step. I’m ashamed to think of the way I treated Ademia back then. The poor woman lost her daughter and her husband in quick succession. But at least she –’ He stopped abruptly and sighed. ‘At least she what?’ ‘Oh, nothing. Nothing. Look Rach, please understand it had nothing to do with your mother OK? Margaret and I were so in love. I made her promise. It was my way of trying to tidy up the god-awful mess that was my previous life.’ ‘But why didn’t you ever tell me?’ ‘It’s been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I’ve always hated keeping it a secret. I was afraid of what you’d think of me. We were

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just starting out as a little family and for once in my life everything was so…perfect. I didn’t want to ruin that.’ ‘We all have secrets, I suppose,’ said Rachel. ‘Just some are bigger than others,’ replied her father, nodding. Rachel spent the evening learning who her father was again. The life he had had before with this stranger. Rachel cried at the part where they received news that Emma had been killed. How the police had arrived and how, within an hour of them leaving, their marriage had gone beyond any hope of repair.

He had waited long enough. It was clear to him now that this was neither the time nor the place. Reluctantly the bald man stood and walked to the refrigerator, secreting his gun in the back of his trousers once again. The fridge was sparsely populated and what was there didn’t appeal to him much. He opened a cheese triangle and ate it, then washed it down with a swig of orange juice. Then he slammed the fridge door shut and crossed back through the living room, stomped down the stairs and out to the front where his car was parked a little way along.

‘Anyway, you’ll never guess who called me up the other day,’ announced Rachel to the room. Her father took a sip of red wine and gave her a blank look. ‘The Prime Minister?’ ‘No, Marcus Forton!’ There was an almighty clang from the kitchen and at the same time Rachel’s father dropped his glass of wine onto the tiled floor. The glass smashed into a thousand pieces and there was blood red Rioja everywhere. ‘Oh my god!’ exclaimed Rachel and ran through to the kitchen to get a tea-towel, where her mother was picking up grill pan and replacing the bacon that had been scattered across the floor. While she was soaking the towel under the cold tap she glanced out of the

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window down to the road. A pang of fear shot through her as a dark blue car cruised past outside. Rachel caught a few glimpses of it through the trees that lined the pavement as it carried on its way and out of sight. That was definitely a BMW 5 series. Same colour too. My god, am I being paranoid or what? Calm down. There must be thousands of similar cars on the road. It’s just some neighbour going out for a drive. ‘Hurry up Rachel, it’s everywhere!’ ‘Coming!’ She squeezed the cloth and hurried back over to clean up what looked for all the world like a murder scene.

The bald man’s journey back to London was fast and silent. He was angry that he’d been wrong-footed by Rachel but was totally focused on his next move. He would go back to where he saw her last. Wait for her there. If she didn’t turn up by chance then he’d just have to call her again, just like he had done the first time. When he finally got back to Canary Wharf a further idea struck him: home. He realized that Rachel had two homes, one on-wharf and one back on the coast. Of course! He hit the steering wheel and swore. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? He knew exactly where she lived; that should have been the first place he tried. He sped down the crisp streets to Rachel’s swish apartment near the jetty. He tried her buzzer. Waited. No answer. He tried again. Waited. Still nothing and, since it was a gated development and he didn’t have any other options, he decided to switch back to Plan A. Disgruntled but not entirely annoyed, he got back in his car and drove back out to Cabot Square near the tower, where he dumped the car underground and started on his journey back up to where he’d first seen Rachel. He would find her soon, he was sure of it.

Asher had visited the Wharf a couple of times in the past but couldn’t claim to know the area at all. The only landmark he knew was the main tower and now he stood on the Colonnade looking up at the huge steel and glass building disappearing into the blue sky.

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Disoriented and thirsty after surfacing from the Jubilee Line Underground, he had no idea of where he was or even in which direction he was facing. He glanced at his watch and then towards where the sun was glaring overhead. 1pm, so the sun was roughly south, shadows pointing north. After a few mental alignments he deduced that the tower he was now facing was due north, which enabled him to place himself in the larger scale of things relative to the rest of London. Not that it really mattered, he could be in Timbuktu for all he cared; as long as there was a tube entrance he was fine but he felt oddly better for knowing anyway. The first places to check, he supposed, were (because he knew she drank) the bars and (because she obviously had a modicum of fashion sense) the shops. Half an hour later every aisle in every shop had been searched. A further half hour after that and he had exhausted all of the bars, probably the most bars he’d ever visited without having bought a drink, he’d thought. Finally he’d remembered that statistically two moving bodies might never meet each other and that if one was stationary the probability of their paths crossing was much higher. With this in mind, plus his need for refreshment, he’d ended his exhaustive search at a small coffee shop called Blenders in the centre of the mall. He bought a very expensive piece of cake with a latte and sat down at the window to look out and consider his next move. Frustrated and bursting to tell Rachel the ominous news he glanced at the man next to him and gave a half-smile, as if to acknowledge that although they were a good few feet apart, he had in fact encroached on the other guy’s space. The man half-nodded and turned back to his own food and drink, staring out of the window.

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9 Antigravity? Megabucks!

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‘H

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i Rach. Where are you? I called your work and they said you had to leave for personal reasons. They gave me your mobile number. Are you OK? Uh, listen…I received another e-mail. A big one if you know what I mean. Really big. And it’s going to happen today. I need to talk to you straight away. In person. So get in touch when you get this, OK? … I had to go to the police this time. I’ve just come out. I thought they’d think I was crazy and lock me up but all they said was there was nothing they could do. It’s weird but the head guy there kind of acted like he knew you. Look Rach, either your machine has gone really wrong or something big is going to happen, and I mean big with a capital B. Shit. Ring me back on this number. It’s my mobile. Bye.’ Rachel clicked her phone off. She wasn’t about to return Asher’s call - she had to get back to London straight away. What a wasted journey! There was obviously a problem with the system and boss or no boss she couldn’t afford to have it destabilised by a silly little computing error. She had to find and disconnect whatever rogue feed was causing the problem. Rachel had put too much in to getting Ceptron on its feet – it was a sensitive thing and although she was terribly shaken by her boss’ death she couldn’t leave it now. She had thought hard on the journey to her parents’ house. She was going to have to come clean and tell the Board about what they’d been funding for the last five years and she had no idea how they were going to react. Had barely even spoken to any of them. In fact looking back now, the only one with whom she had ever had contact was the Director of Technology. They’d probably be shocked that their capital had been frittered away on research and theory. On the other hand the fact that Ceptron seemed to be a runaway success might soften the blow for them. Maybe that would be enough to convince them that she, and now she alone, hadn’t squandered their many millions of pounds on essentially thin air and computers. She

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would just have to bite the bullet and hope for the best. In her mind she gave the sequence of events a more positive spin to build her confidence. She would request an emergency meeting with the Board, lay it all on the table and they would say how sorry and sad they were to see such a fine man cut down in his leadership prime but, hey, look at the great legacy he has left behind in Ceptron and Rachel. Easy. Then they would appoint a new Director of Technology and she would continue her work as before. She would worry about the circumstances of her boss’ death later. She hurried back to the guest bedroom and threw her few possessions back into the valise that was open and waiting on the bed. She locked it and dumped it in the hallway then as she made her way back upstairs she retrieved Asher’s number from her call list and dialled. ‘Hello?’ came the reply almost immediately. ‘Hi Asher it’s Rachel.’ She walked out on to the terrace and slumped into a deck chair in the warm sunshine. ‘Where are you?’ said the tinny voice in the earpiece. ‘I just had to get away for a bit.’ ‘OK, whatever.’ Asher was hurrying his words out. ‘As long as you’re OK. Did you get my message?’ ‘Yeah I did. I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m going to make my way back to London tonight to check out Ceptron. Your e-mail – exactly how big was it?’ ‘Eighty thousand. Today.’ Followed by silence…this could be serious. Rachel thought quickly. ‘Wow. Number like that, it’s probably just a glitch in the system. I’ll check it out tonight,’ she said. ‘I don’t think so Rach. Not sure if it’s significant and it might just be a coincidence but there was only a ten or twenty second interval between when I updated my website and when I received the new email. I’m no expert but it looks to me like Ceptron’s got a spotlight on my page.’ Asher’s voice suddenly became quieter as he continued his theory. ‘It analysed the data right away and e-mailed a new prediction straight out. I double-checked my entry and I didn’t make any mistakes either. Rach, we’ve got to do something.’ This altered the scenario and again Rachel was required to think on her feet.

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‘Hm. Look, can you do something for me?’ ‘Sure, what?’ ‘Go to my building. Tell them you’re there to see me and wait in my office. I’ll call ahead and let them know you’re coming.’ ‘OK, but why?’ His bassless voice sounded alarmed. ‘Doesn’t sound like a glitch. All that stuff you just said, I think you’re right.’ ‘Oh shit.’ ‘Oh shit indeed.’ ‘Rach, I went to the police.’ ‘So you said. Scotland Yard?’ ‘Yes, initially I spoke to a Sergeant Dunmore. At first she didn’t take me seriously. I must have been babbling frantically but when I mentioned your name and Ceptron she went straight to the top. Ron Daintree – do you know him or something?’ ‘No but I’ve heard of him. He’s some police commissioner isn’t he?’ ‘That’s the guy. He took a load of details and treated me fairly civilly considering I must have sounded like a raving lunatic. Said there was not a lot he could do. And when he asked how I knew and I explained that I didn’t really understand it all but it was something to do with a machine called Ceptron and mentioned your name again he didn’t blink an eyelid. He just wrote “Miss Taylor” and “Ceptron” under his notes and said thank you very much Mr Asher we’ll take it from here. He took my contact details and ushered me out. I didn’t even tell him you were a Miss, so I guessed he knew of you.’ ‘That’s odd. Look, go to my office OK? I’m leaving now – I’ll be there in a couple of hours.’ ‘Right. LSI.Co, Canada Tower, Jason Asher to meet Rachel Taylor, said to wait in her office.’ ‘You got it. See you soon.’ ‘Rach?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Be careful.’

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It was four in the afternoon and the bald man sat with a coffee and pastry in front of him at the same window seat in Blenders that Rachel had occupied two days before. He had hoped to find her there again but having thought about it rationally he had realised that she was too private a person to spend time on her own in a public place, especially as her apartment was so close. He had tried there too, with no luck, so now he watched the people milling around in the shopping centre through the thick glass, unable to hear them. The only noise inside the shop was the light jazz music and the occasional clink of crockery and orders being passed around behind the serving area. Given the recent chain of events he had to find Rachel and quickly. Much to his chagrin she had given him the slip. He hadn’t been able to locate her anywhere, even at her work where they’d just told him that she’d “gone away”. As he was mulling over how unhelpful they had been, a young man sat down next to him with a large coffee and some cake. He looked slightly dishevelled, as if he had been running and not had time or didn’t care to sharpen himself up. The unkempt man’s phone rang, muffled inside his pocket and he pulled it out and answered in a hushed voice. ‘Hello?… Where are you?… OK, whatever, as long as you’re OK. Did you get my message?… Eighty thousand… I don’t think so Rach.’ Rach? The man with the pastry’s ears pricked up at the mention of a familiar name. Must be a thousand Rachels in Canary Wharf; how many Raches, he wondered? He couldn’t stop himself from listening further and started eating his maple and pecan slice to give the impression he was minding his own business. The scruffy man continued. ‘Not sure if it’s significant, and it might just be a coincidence, but there was only a ten or twenty second period between when I updated my website and when I received the new e-mail. I’m no expert Rach but it looks to me like Ceptron had a spotlight on my page.’ He nearly choked on his pastry and the man on the phone glanced in his direction and lowered his voice some more. Now he knew exactly who the caller was, and who was on the other end. He kept eating slowly, straining to hear the one-side of the conversation. ‘It analysed the data right away and e-mailed a new prediction straight out,’ he continued. ‘I double-checked my entry and I didn’t

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make any mistakes either. Frankly it’s worrying… Sure, what?... OK, but why?… Oh shit… Rach, I went to the police…’ At that point the caller turned away from the him and whispered the rest of the conversation, rendering it inaudible. But he’d heard enough already and by the time the unkempt man ended his call and and turned back around, he was gone.

The driver stood looking sombrely at his thirty tons of cargo. Although his face didn’t show it, he was happy enough with what he was carrying. All of the preparation had been completed on time. Everything was in place. He yanked the huge door of the trailer to get it swinging and let it close with a metallic clang then turned the handle and pushed it down into position. Then picked the pad-lock up off the floor and threaded it through the end of the handle and the metal eye on the doorframe and clicked it shut. He pulled on the door to check. Secure. He looked around the warehouse at the equipment lying all around. Empty polythene wrappers, reels of wire, car batteries, an oscilloscope and soldering station. He didn’t care about that, somebody else would tidy it up later, after he was gone. He walked the length of the twelve-wheeled trailer and when he reached the front he stopped and looked back along the expanse of white polythene and patted the side. He reached up, opened the door of the Volvo Globetrotter and hauled himself up into the tilt-cab. Tiltin’ Hilton his instructor had called it, although he didn’t intend on sleeping in it that night. In fact it was the last place he was going to be. He slammed the door shut and made himself comfortable in the driver’s seat. With his hands clasped on the large steering wheel he closed his eyes and whispered under his breath for a minute. Then he took a long look at his watch and reached down and switched the generator on. His dashboard lit up and after a few seconds the Sat-Nav screen presented him with a map of the local road network. It took him two minutes to set his destination then he pressed the button marked ‘Guidance’. A timer symbol shaped like a clock face appeared in the bottom left corner of the screen while the computer calculated his route. A few seconds later it disappeared with a beep and was

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replaced with an arrow instructing him to drive forwards. In the corner of the screen the readout informed him that he was 85 miles from where he needed to be. He fired the diesel engine up and there was a clatter of valves and pistons and an expulsion of black soot from the upright exhaust as the cab shook. The headlights flicked on, firing two cones of light at the warehouse doors twenty yards ahead. He was no trucker but he knew how to drive this massive lorry. He was ready, nothing was going to go wrong. He took a deep breath and reached into the right thigh pocket of his combat trousers. He located the device he was looking for and closed his finger around it, finding the button with his thumb. He mentally checked himself. Right pocket. Without bringing it out, he pressed the button once. Ahead of him the large double doors parted and rolled sideways, revealing a grey industrial forecourt against a light evening sky. He selected third gear, then he remembered the fully laden trailer and selected first instead. He smiled to himself. That was the last mistake he would ever make. The lorry rolled slowly forwards through the warehouse doors and out on to the forecourt. With his hand in his pocket the driver pressed the button again and, following the directions on his screen, manoeuvred the lorry out on to the main road as the great doors rolled shut behind him.

Wearing trainers with blue jeans and a sweatshirt Rachel kissed goodbye to her parents and loaded her things into the ZX. They promised to see each other again in a few days time. Her parents’ house was less than half a mile along the coast from Ocean View and even though she looked after it for them when they were gone, she liked to keep a definite distance between them whenever they were back in the country. She snuggled into the figure-hugging leather, set the radio to Classic and started her journey back to London. An hour and a half later, as the skyscrapers were casting long shadows over London and the late sun was turning orange, Rachel arrived at Canary Wharf. She parked the car up and took the lift to her office floor, preparing to explain to Asher the full extent of what she thought was going on. This would be the first Asher would have heard

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of the ludicrous capabilities of Ceptron. A little nervous, she showed her ID at reception and made her way through the lobby to her office but, curiously, there was no-one there. She checked over her desk for a note but found nothing. About to go to in search of Asher, she stopped and reconsidered. No – there was something she had to take care of first.

‘Which floor you goin’ to?’ A suited man with an open-necked shirt and a strong American accent paused with his fingers hovering over the button panel, waiting for an answer. ‘Twenty three please.’ Asher frowned and looked at him sideways – he looked a bit like the bald guy in the coffee shop just now ago but this guy had wavy hair. ‘Sure thing. Say that’s LSI. I haven’t seen you around before. Got a meeting?’ ‘Yes I have. Do you work there?’ ‘Sure do. Who you seeing? I can probably show you to their office if you want.’ ‘That’d be great. I’m meeting Rachel Taylor.’ ‘Oh my gosh. Me too!’ ‘Really? Now?’ ‘Sure am. She called a few minutes ago. Said she wanted to meet. Me, her and some other guy from out of town. Guess that’s you huh? She wanted to get us together down in the computer hall. I was on my way to get you from her office and take you down there.’ He stuck out a friendly hand. ‘Marcus. Marcus Forton.’ ‘Jason Asher.’ ‘Yeah, that’s the name! Guess we should stop off at twenty one then, Jason? That’s where the computers are at.’ ‘Oh right, OK.’ ‘Say, what’s this about anyways? Rachel didn’t tell me much. I’m from Analysis and they pretty much keep us out of the loop.’ Asher was uncertain how much of his limited knowledge he should reveal so he tried to keep it vague.

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‘Well, as far as I can gather there’s been some kind of a mix up. She has a machine that stumbled across some anomalies on my website. Seems her computer couldn’t handle it. So I’m here to help her out.’ ‘Wow. You must be good. Rachel’s the best and if she can’t fix it, we’re all in trouble! You some kind of consultant?’ ‘Uh, not exactly. I’m kind of a data analyst myself, though my data is more in the past than in the–’ Asher stopped himself short. Had he said too much? ‘In the what? Future?’ ‘Well…yes. Ha, sounds silly doesn’t it?’ ‘Not at all. Down on twenty second we’d all heard rumours that those guys upstairs were working on something that predicts stock prices. Didn’t believe a word of it. Until today that is.’ ‘Stock prices?’ He said it louder than he had intended and it was almost a shout in the small confines of the elevator. Asher’s brain slowly put two and two together to make the link between what Rachel had told him about Ceptron and what she really did at LSI.Co. The four he would have got, had he been bothered to think about it. So that’s what the project is about – money! ‘That’s right, stock prices. It’s all very hush-hush but from what you’ve said, it confirms what I’ve heard. It takes data from all over, smushes it all up and pops out buys and sells. To be honest we all thought it was a bit kooky. You know, one of those projects that companies take a big risk on. Like the guy at NASA who gets paid a hundred grand to sit in a corner of a hangar working on anti-gravity experiments. The company knows it’ll never work but hey! Just think – what if he actually does discover anti-gravity?’ Asher was bemused. ‘Sorry, what does happen if he finds it?’ ‘Antigravity? Megabucks! Plus it’ll change the way we live as we know it.’ ‘Oh, I see,’ he said, not really seeing. ‘Yeah! Patents, licensing technology. But in LSI’s case it’s a matter of keep schtum and bank the profits. That’s what Rachel’s project is all about man! Megabucks and more megabucks.’ ‘Really? She doesn’t seem like a money-oriented person.’ Asher was a little deflated to learn that Ceptron’s sole purpose was to earn enormous quantities of money on the stock exchanges. In his naïvety he had somehow allowed himself to believe her machine

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was designed to predict disasters, not just terrorist attacks but disasters in general. OK, she had never said that explicitly but she hadn’t hinted otherwise either. ‘Oh yeah. That’s what we do here at LSI. We take people’s money and make it grow.’ ‘Yes, of course you do.’ ‘Anyways. Let’s hope it’s not serious.’ ‘Yes, let’s.’ Although how a death toll of eighty thousand might not be serious was beyond Asher. Everyone on earth would know about it tomorrow and he would be labelled as the person who could have prevented it but didn’t do anything. The lift went ding announcing they had reached their floor and the doors slid back revealing a plain, almost anonymous lobby. Just a plaque saying they were in “Hosting Area 14”. Funny, thought Asher. No mention of LSI.Co, but maybe to be expected if Rachel’s project really is that secret. Asher followed Marcus through the lobby and they arrived at the computer room door, above which was an array of lights, one of which was lit-up green. It said “Auto”. ‘What’s that?’ ‘That? Not sure really. Guess it could be the automatic fire system. All the machinery in here – there’s a big risk of something going boom!’ ‘Right.’ He waited as the guy fished out a pass-card and swiped the lock. The door released and they went through into the computer room. Asher decided there and then that Rachel’s description of a computer hall was altogether more appropriate. There were racks, tall, monolithic blocks of computing, almost as far as he could see. Each one was the size of a large freestanding fridge-freezer. Dark, metal frames holding power-hungry computers. Behind the smoked glass door of each were rows of mysterious blinking red and green lights. The rank and file of machines formed alleyways leading off the main corridor. It even began to look hazy towards the far end but Asher supposed that that must be either his eyesight or his imagination. The noise was incredible – a constant roaring, whooshing that Asher had to raise his voice above to be heard. ‘Why’s it so cold in here?’

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‘The computers don’t like the heat. That noise you can hear? That’s five-thousand fans getting rid of the heat generated by the processors and power supplies. The air-con is way over-spec’d to keep the air ice cold. Keeps the core temperature down and the efficiency up.’ They walked down the main corridor and Asher began to feel slightly under-specified himself. He wasn’t usually intimidated by technology but this was serious kit. This is what he imagined organisations like the government’s listening post at Cheltenham would be like. Acres of high powered machines. Peering down an alley he could see that they stretched off a good way into the distance too, each monolithic slab towering over him. There was something almost primitive about it, like Stone Henge. ‘A thousand, in case you’re wondering.’ ‘A thousand computers?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Why no windows?’ ‘There are. They’re blocked out with solar film then boarded up. Keeps out any heat from the sun.’ ‘And no wires?’ ‘All under floor. Cool huh?’ They came out into a square clearing with a semi-circular desk in the middle. The desk was covered in the kind of computers that Asher recognised. ‘This is the control desk. That’s odd, Rachel said she’d be here waiting. Hold on, I’ll just call her.’ Asher was in awe, these people were pros. He broke away from the American guy and went up to one of the computer racks on the edge of the clearing. Cupping his hands against the smoky glass he put his face up to the portal he’d made and peered into one of the machines. Suddenly there was a searing pain in his head and he fell to the floor. The last thing he remembered thinking was did I just get an electric shock? Then the world went fuzzy and he blacked out.

Ten miles to the north of London, rising up the side of a long, steep hill, a B-road ran between two fields, walled-in by tall

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hedgerows. Apart from the gentle breeze rustling the leaves of the oak trees that marked the perimeters of the fields and the sound of birdsong in the sunshine, a languid stillness permeated the landscape. On the edge of imagination, very, very far away, came the faintest sound of a machine, roaring in the distance and then it was gone. The sun beat down on the black tarmac, softening its surface with the relentless glare. The sound returned, piercing into reality with the definitive snarl of an engine and, lasting only for a few seconds and with a whoosh, it disappeared once again. A moment later it returned at a slightly higher pitch and as it did so, at the bottom of the hill at the point where the road bent out of sight, a lorry emerged spewing black soot into the pristine blue sky. It was a large, white tractor unit followed by an enormous, white trailer. But there was something odd about the way it looked, something not quite normal. It rounded the corner and straightened to tackle the long climb up the hill, dropping another couple of gears and revving its huge diesel engine even harder. It started the ascent, with the revs gradually falling until at last it couldn’t sustain the power. Once again there was a puff of black smoke from the gleaming chrome exhaust pipe followed a second later by the engine cutting and re-engaging at yet higher revs. That was the right ratio now. Sustainable. The roar got louder as the lorry laboured upwards towards the summit, gradually re-gaining its momentum. Completely unmarked, even the badge of the lorry’s maker had been removed. What was distinctive about it was the menacing metal structure that had been built on to the front of the cab, which was a strange fusion of scaffolding, battering ram and snow plough. A fox sauntered from the hedgerow into the middle of the road and stopped, looking down the hill at the strange white beast. It angle its large ears towards the spectacle and listened. The lorry blared its air-horn twice and the fox turned, unimpressed, and trotted nonchalantly across the road and into the hedge on the other side. The snow-plough lorry had gathered some pace now and at last it reached the top of the long climb, whipping the hedgerows with its slipstream as it thundered past, leaves and debris swirling and dancing in the vortices it had created. Almost immediately there was silence as it plunged over the brow of the hill and disappeared once again. The residual sound died away then gradually the birds started singing again against the gentle backdrop of the sound of leaves rustling in

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the gentle breeze. From the top of the hill, looking in the direction the lorry was headed, was a distant, panoramic view of London, gleaming like a prize in the early evening sun.

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10 Are You Not Listening?

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ne by one, Rachel looked up the numbers of the Executive Directors of the Board from the internal phone list. One by one she dialled them into the call, explaining its purpose and requesting their patience. There were five members and one by one they came on speaker. The Directors of Finance, Strategy and Data, the Chairman of the board and the CEO himself. Finally, when they were all present Rachel started. ‘OK, thanks for taking the time to listen in, this should be brief. You’re probably all wondering why I’ve called this meeting and I’d like to apologise for the lateness of the hour. I know you’re all at home but I really need to get this sorted. I’d also like to express my shock at what’s happened. I really can’t think of any reason why someone would want –’ ‘Rachel,’ cut in the CEO. ‘We all feel his loss. And we should all work together to get over this. You don’t need to go any further with any thought of doing this alone.’ ‘Thank you, sir. That’s means a lot to me and everyone here I’m sure. OK, the other reason I’ve called you together is to let you know that your money has not been wasted.’ There was a crackling silence on the call, so Rachel continued. ‘When you gave my project the green light all that time ago, Ade had the utmost confidence in the concept. I don’t know what he told you back then but whatever it was you made the right decision. Ceptron is running like a dream and the recent funds you gave us to test with are growing by the day.’ ‘Ceptron?’ said a deep, nicotine-enhanced voice. It was the Director of Strategy. The pipe smoker. ‘Er, yes,’ replied Rachel. ‘OK, maybe Ade didn’t tell you the name of the project.’ ‘What other name might we know this project by?’ growled Strategy.

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‘Well, it doesn’t have another name.’ ‘Rachel,’ said Finance. ‘I’m a bit confused – how much funding are we talking about here because I don’t have anything on the books relating to major research projects. And certainly not a recent budget allocation.’ ‘OK, from what I know the initial outlay was around 10 million. And I believe it’s soaked up around 5 million a year for the last five years.’ ‘What? That’s…35 million. Sterling? I’m sorry everyone but there’s no record of it.’ ‘Could it be accounted for somewhere else?’ chipped in Data. ‘Where?’ said Finance. ‘We only have one set of accounts. I’m responsible for them and I’m telling you there is no such sum allocated to projects.’ ‘OK. Rachel?’ continued Data. ‘Do we have any assets to show for this investment? Maybe we can trace it. See how we got it paid for.’ ‘Assets? Ha!’ she laughed. ‘Only a computer hall and a server farm of a thousand top end computers! He really didn’t tell you anything?’ There was a chorus of noes on the line. ‘And the extensive network of exchange feeds?’ Noes again. Finally the CEO cut in with a sharp, nasal tone that silenced everybody. ‘Gentlemen, I think I recall the project. Ade brought it to the Board what, five years ago? If memory serves, we didn’t like the idea. Thought it was too risky. Something to do with market predictions Rachel?’ This time there was a chorus of murmurs and vague agreements. ‘Let me explain what the project was about then,’ said Rachel, trying to jog their memories. ‘I’ll be blunt – Ceptron predicts stock prices. Simple as that. It has the ability to trade on this knowledge automatically and make vast sums of money.’ There was the deathly white noise again. Rachel thought for a second. They really don’t know about Ceptron. Never even heard the name. Understandable if Ade never gave them any detail. But no funding either. No funding? Then who…? The shrill warbling of her

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mobile ring-tone interrupted her trail of thought. She glanced at the phone’s screen – it was Asher.

The going was flat now and the road was almost empty as the snow-plough lorry hurtled along, closing in on its destination by the second, the city building up as it went. Up in the cab the driver blinked away a bead of sweat that had dripped from his forehead and looked down at the navigation screen to confirm the distance to go was less than two miles. He smiled nervously to himself, gripping the huge wheel with grim determination and as he drove on his breathing slowed and deepened, as if he was preparing himself for something big. After seeing the aerial photographs and picturing this part of the journey many times he was now able to place the landmarks around him. The village where the thousands of athletes were accommodated in squat, square blocks, was in front of him, slightly to his left, and the scrubby grassland of Hackney Marsh, which hadn’t been as revitalised as some people had said it would be, was to his right. He sniggered to himself at the irrelevance of the Marsh - it was nearly time and none of that would matter soon. He put it out of his mind and concentrated on the road ahead, which curved sharply to the left before entering an underground stretch that signalled the start of his approach towards his glittering goal. In the evening sunshine, far away to his left but already looming due to its sheer size, shone the metal bulges of the Olympic Stadium. In the rank and file of the stadium seats he knew eighty thousand spectators and athletes awaited the start of the opening ceremony and with the help of those souls he would secure his place in history. But that was a secondary thing. More importantly, justice would be served at last. The people waited alright but not for the opening ceremony. No. They were waiting for the earth to open up and swallow them into the burning depths of hell, because that was what it was going to do. The driver knew for a fact that there were seventy-five thousand ticket holders and four thousand athletes from every part of the globe and over five thousand organisational staff. He started thinking back to what they had done to his homeland, to his family and his friends. All of them, these people, all waiting for him now in their little plastic

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seats. Gathered together to face his wrath. Rounded up. Trapped. This was retribution on a grand scale. Payback for every criminal deal a multinational had forced upon his small government. Every concession given to a global company. They had crippled his country and now it was dying, slowly but surely, unable to sustain itself economically, begging and eating out of the hands of the giant corporations. It spurred him on again and he almost put his foot to the floor in anger but resisted the temptation. Not now. Do it properly. You have time. The lorry rumbled on, speed unchanging, its momentum carrying it underground and around the left hand bend. The tunnel was only 300 yards long and when he surfaced heading south he thrilled to see the great Olympic Stadium straight ahead, looking like a giant alien’s nest. The distance readout on the navigation screen started blinking as the lorry came within a mile of the pre-programmed location. His exit would be coming up soon so he eased off the throttle to start the slow deceleration. Thinking that it shouldn’t be this easy he couldn’t suppress a laugh, which he barked out loud. Sweat dotted his brow as his nervousness finally bubbled to the surface and he concentrated hard so as to not put a foot wrong at this crucial late stage. A drip of perspiration ran down his forehead and he took a slippery hand off the wheel to wipe it away from his eye. As he did so the lorry’s wheels ran into the well-worn ruts in the slow lane, causing the whole rig to swerve dangerously to the left, then to the right as he quickly put his hand back on the wheel to correct it. He breathed deeply as the lorry settled itself in the center of the lane again and continued its inexorable approach. He’d gotten away with it this time. No more mistakes!

From just south of Millennium Dome came the echoing blare of sirens and the roaring engine noise of ten police squad cars, two fully armed riot-vans, six fire-engines, four civil ambulances and two army bomb disposal trucks hammering northwards up the A102 dualcarriageway, the very road Rachel used to escape the city’s bustle at the weekends. The vehicles spanned both lanes and tore along at speed as the road dipped gracefully and took them into the tunnel that

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went beneath the River Thames. In the orange glow of the tunnel they ploughed on and the cacophony of blue flashing lights and sirens made the enclosing walls spin and shriek as they went. At the other end of the tunnel they surfaced, north of the river, and suddenly the road here was empty. At each entry ramp they passed police motorcycles were parked across the road, blocking the way and holding the traffic back. People stood next to their cars and vans, engines off, waiting to see what the commotion was about and pointing and taking pictures on their phones as the two-dozen emergency vehicles roared by. After a couple of miles the cavalcade came upon another junction and as they slowed five of the squad cars pulled to the side of the road allowing the rest of the convoy to pass. A riot van joined them, followed by three fire engines, two of the ambulances and a bomb disposal truck. Detective Inspector Royce stepped out of the front car onto the baking heat of the tarmac and radioed to his controller as the rest of the traffic rolled on by, through the junction’s underpass. ‘Bravo to Control. We are in place at the northbound exit ramp to Stadium Way.’ ‘Ah, roger that Bravo,’ came the reply. ‘In place at northbound exit.’ He looked on as three of the squad cars arranged themselves into a “V” configuration across what had expanded into the three lanes of the carriageway. The officers driving all got out, leaving the blue lights flashing but silent. Two marksmen got out from the back of each car and quickly hid themselves behind barriers and pillars along the road, rifles ready, and a couple of the officers got something bulky from the car’s boot and ran back along the road a few hundred yards with it. The remaining two squad cars formed a road-block on the exit ramp; again the occupants got out and the marksmen ran up on to the flyover to get a good view directly over the northbound carriageway. The rest of the vehicles were manoeuvring further up the road, parking there to wait until they were needed. When he was happy that everything was in place, he radioed again. ‘Bravo to Control. We have secured the northbound exit. Repeat, northbound exit is secure.’ ‘Roger that Bravo, northbound exit now secure. Good job.’ Royce, in full riot gear (which for senior officers consisted of a flak-jacket and rifle), looked up the road a quarter of a mile to where

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the Alpha team had just started setting up their road-block and hoped to hell intelligence had got the right location. They shimmered in the distance and Royce wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his white shirt sleeve. He dreaded to think how he’d smell at the end of this – he was drenched underneath the heavy flak-jacket. A few tense minutes passed, then he heard a crackled voice over the radio. ‘Control, this is Alpha. Repeat, Alpha to Control. We are in now in place and the southbound exit is secure.’ ‘Ah, roger that Alpha. Southbound exit now secure. Good job Alpha. All units stand by.’ ‘Roger.’ ‘Roger,’ replied Royce. He looked up into the sky and saw two dark blue helicopters with yellow engine cowlings, which he knew for a fact were Echo and Foxtrot units. Echo hovered over the road to the north and Foxtrot over the stadium. They were the eyes of the operation – nothing would happen now until one of them gave the signal. The ground teams had got there in time and if the operation planners had got their information right, they wouldn’t have to wait long now until they found out who was going to be the lucky, or maybe unlucky, crew. The minutes ticked by and they sat tight. There was no local traffic due to the police diversions and blocks that had been put in place and even up in the sky, Royce noticed, there was an eerie absence of aircraft, where one could usually find a handful of passenger jets and a criss-crossing of trails. The silence was broken by a crackling hiss followed by another radioed exchange. ‘Control, this is Echo. We have a visual. I repeat, we have a visual.’ ‘Go ahead Echo.’ ‘Target is a white lorry heading southbound on the A1. Current position is 1 mile north of Stadium Way. Repeat 1 mile north of rendezvous. Lorry looks to be articulated, white, travelling at approximately fifty miles per hour. Target looks to have a battering ram attached to the front.’ ‘Sorry Echo, did you say battering ram?’ ‘That is correct Control. A battering ram.’ ‘Um. OK, roger that Echo. Alpha team you are good to go.’ ‘Alpha to Control, please confirm your last command.’ ‘Certainly Alpha, you are good to go.’

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‘Roger that Control. Alpha out.’ Royce breathed a long sigh (of relief or disappointment he wasn’t sure). It was the Alpha team who’d got the gig. Death or glory awaited them and all the Bravo team could do now was to watch the action from afar. Frustratingly they couldn’t assist because they had to keep their exit secure just in case the visual turned out to be a false alarm. There was always the chance that the chopper could have got it wrong and that the threat would come up from the south after all. That really would be a disaster.

The driver of the lorry couldn’t believe his eyes. Up ahead police on motorcycles were diverting the traffic off the road. A line of three or four bikes was parked across the road and the police were stopping the traffic and waving them to turn almost completely around and back up an entry ramp. No. This could not be allowed to happen. No, no, no, no, NO! A build up of vehicles was forming in the fast lane, getting ready to leave the road but to his left the slow lane was free of traffic and the driver of the snowplough lorry saw his opportunity and seized it. He put his foot down to regain the speed he’d momentarily lost and drove towards the bikes. The police waved frantically to him to stop but he ignored them – he was far beyond worrying about traffic cops now. He accelerated along the inside lane and when he struck the bikes the lorry was doing about seventy miles an hour. This was the first real test of his Mad Max style accessory. He lurched forward in his seat as the ram clipped the end of one bike, sending it spinning off to the left side of the road, destroyed in a instant. Straight away he hit a second but this time it was full on. The ram smashed into it and tore it in half, and its back end flew up and to the right, towards the traffic and the police. The front portion containing the fuel tank exploded in a flash as the whole thing went underneath the lorry, sucking the flames with it. The lorry’s cab jumped wildly as the bike went under and dragged the trailer with it, so the trailer and cab were seesawing dangerously. The driver winced – he knew he’d probably punctured at least a couple of the eighteen tyres. He felt the trailer roll over the mangled messed and shudder a few times as he finally cleared the wreckage and got out onto open

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road, where there was no traffic at all. Listening carefully for road and tyre noise, he gradually smiled again, his lips thin and determined. Nothing could stop him now!

‘Sorry, would you all excuse me for one second?’ said Rachel to the virtual gathering as politely as she could and pressed the mute button on the conference unit. ‘Asher!’ she said in a loud stage whisper, despite the muted microphones. ‘Where are you?’ ‘Rachel!’ said a voice with a strong English accent cloaking a faint American lilt. ‘How the hell are you? I’ve been trying to track you down.’ ‘Marcus? Is that you?’ ‘Yes indeedy, it certainly is!’ ‘How come you’re on Asher’s phone? And where’s Asher?’ ‘He’s here, with me. We’re down in the computer hall, just taking in the grand tour. Very impressive, I must say!’ ‘What the hell are you doing down there? Who gave you access? Never mind. Stay there, I’m coming down!’ ‘Will do, sis! We’re waitin’ for you.’ Rachel looked at her phone in puzzlement and dialled off. That wasn’t the Marcus she knew. And how on earth did he know Asher? She un-muted the conference. ‘I’m really sorry everyone. Something urgent has just come up and I really need to deal with it.’ She didn’t know what else to say to the Board so she just said ‘Er, goodbye,’ and without waiting for any responses ended the conference call.

Royce was a patient man; during operations like this you had to be – sometimes little would happen for hours, then all at once it was over. There would be nothing, then a commotion, some fast thinking, and then nothing again. The event would have happened and you had

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to make the best of it. But this time he didn’t have to wait long for more news. He radio crackled into life again. ‘This is Echo to Control. Target has breached the diversion. Repeat initial diversion is breached. He went straight through the line. We now have two totalled bikes and target is approaching roadblock Alpha.’ ‘Roger that Echo. Team Alpha, standby for action.’ ‘This is Alpha. Roger that Control. Standing by.’ Feeling useless Royce wandered down the slip-road and on to the main carriageway to see if he could see anything but much to his annoyance all he could see was team Alpha shimmering in the distance through the heat-haze that was emanating from the tarmac. He watched and waited. Then he saw it - a tiny glint in the distance, a spot of sunlight reflecting off of something metal and moving. That was it. He knew it – he had a gut instinct for things like this. That was the target, the renegade lorry with a battering ram built across its engine grille. As he watched it became apparent that the shining was indeed coming from something that was attached to a much larger object, the bulk of which through the haze had merged into the scenery and become invisible. He squinted to get a better view and saw the square front of a lorry cab starting to emerge uncertainly out of the surroundings, gradually forming a more solid shape until at last it was nearly as visible as team Alpha. ‘This is Alpha to Control. We have a visual. Repeat, we have a visual. A large white lorry with some…structure attached to it? We are attempting to deploy Stinger.’ ‘Echo to all units. The lorry’s speed is 65 miles per hour and increasing steadily. Estimated speed at impact is 70 miles per hour.’ ‘Roger that Echo.’ He’s not stopping! thought Royce, as he studied the scene far in the distance. He could just make out the police officers by the side of the road, waiting for the lorry to get close enough before they deployed the device. He knew the procedure well – he had trained many pursuit squads to use it. If you throw the concertinaed strip too early, the target can potentially avoid it. Too late and you’ll only puncture the trailing tyres, or none at all. On a successful hit the hollow spikes would embed themselves in the tyres’ rubber and let them down in a controlled way.

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Royce watched as the lorry bore right onto the southbound sliproad and there was a sudden flurry of activity from the Alpha team. He saw the Stinger fly across the road and underneath the lorry but it continued on its warpath. ‘Alpha to Control. Code Red. The target changed direction. Stinger was deployed too late, only got some rear trailer tyres. Target is not disabled. Repeat, target is still active.’ The juggernaut continued up the long exit ramp and a second later the two police cars guarding it flew into the air, one toppling endover-end down the embankment and crashed on to the main road on it’s roof. Royce watched, wide-eyed, waiting for the explosion. It came with a blinding flash followed a second later by a deafening boom as the petrol ignited directly beneath the over-pass. ‘Alpha to Control, we are breached. Repeat, Alpha roadblock is breached.’ ‘Roger that Alpha. All units, lethal force is authorised. Let’s stop this bastard please.’ ‘Roger Control.’ ‘Roger Control,’ shouted Royce into his radio. He scrambled up the embankment and onto the slip road to see the lorry entering the giant roundabout that formed the overpass at the opposing entrance. Alpha’s marksmen on the bridge had been taken out by the explosion and were lying on the ground motionless. His own marksmen from Beta team were already taking aim and suddenly there was gunfire. The lorry missed its turning and carried on in a straight line for a few tens of yards before the driver leaped from the high cab and hit the ground, rolling over a few times. He got up, stumbled along and then ran but when the next round of gunfire was over, he too was on the ground, still. ‘Beta to Control,’ shouted Royce into his radio as he ran towards the lorry. ‘I’m at the scene. Target has been disabled. The suspect is down and motionless, believed to be hit. Am approaching with caution now.’ ‘Roger Beta. Be careful Royce.’ ‘Will do.’ Royce ran as fast as he could the wrong way around the roundabout and slowed to approach the stricken driver, raising his pistol and pointing it carefully at the suspect’s head. Blood was streaked across the road and a pool of the stuff was forming around

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the man’s torso. Possibly not dead. Other police officers were running up the slip-road from the Alpha team side but everyone slowed and stopped to watch from a distance as Royce neared his target. As he got close he saw a device half clutched in his half open left hand. A small grey box with a single black button on it. Covering the button was what looked like a transparent, hinged protective lid. The man’s thumb was holding the cover down as if he’d tried to press the button but had forgotten to lift the flap first. Royce knew what the button underneath the cover did and he now he knew exactly what was in the back of the lorry. He very carefully bent down and with his gun still pointed at the unconscious man’s skull, took the box and pulled it easily out of his hand. There was no resistance at all and he didn’t move. Royce stood up and looked around to find a hive of activity going on around him. The paramedics from the ambulance crews were already there, ready with a stretcher. The bomb squad were all over the trailer and the fire crews were attending to the destroyed cars and casualties who had been caught in the explosion. He stepped back to let the paramedics do their job and stood there with the device, taking special care not to go anywhere near the button. He handed it carefully to a member of the bomb squad – that was their headache now. ‘This is Beta to Control. Suspect is disarmed. Going to clear the area now.’ ‘Ah, Roger that Beta. Good job man!’ ‘Thanks.’ With a sigh of relief, Detective Inspector Royce set off to assist in the mammoth task of evacuating the area.

Deep in the heart of Ceptron’s main processing unit, a subordinate process was created from nothing and blinked into life. It was summoned by a superior process, which commanded it to take note of what was happening:

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>Ceptron Logger started

>Warning: Prediction error for SECTOR: US DEFENCE reached 20% >Warning: Prediction error for SECTOR: US DEFENCE reached 40% >Warning: Prediction error for SECTOR: US DEFENCE reached 60% >Warning: Prediction error for SECTOR: US DEFENCE reached 80%

>Warning: Prediction error for SECTOR: US DEFENCE reached 100% >Warning: Prediction error for SECTOR: US DEFENCE breached threshold >Warning: Network imbalance for SECTOR: US DEFENCE

>Warning: Remodelling node weightings for SECTOR: US DEFENCE … >Warning: Remodelling complete for SECTOR: US DEFENCE >Ceptron Logger stopped.

The instant the subordinate process completed everything that was required of it, and without a single thought, the superior process killed it and left no trace that it had ever existed.

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11 A Million Pounds A Second

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ow do they know each other? The thought bounced around in Rachel’s head as she skipped down the stairs to the computer hall two floors below. Surely it’s not a coincidence? And how did they gain access? Nobody except the Director, her and Security had key-cards. Rachel went through the fire exit, back into the building and through the lift lobby. Finally she arrived at the entrance to the computer hall and peered through the wire-glass window that was set into the heavy wooden fire door. She couldn’t see anything unusual but she didn’t know what to expect anyway. She swiped her key-card over the entry box and heard the powerful magnet release the door immediately. The reader unit chirped and the light turned green to signify access had been granted. Rachel grabbed the handle and leaned backwards with her weight to pull open the door. It swung out and as she stepped inside it slowly closed again. She heard the electromagnet switch back on with a clunk then she made her way between the racks of computers up to the curved operator console. The scene that greeted her was astounding. Asher was unconscious or dead on the floor near the main desk. Marcus was standing next to him looking worried. She ran to Asher. ‘Marcus! What’s going on? Is he OK?’ ‘Rachel, thank god you’re here!’ exclaimed Marcus. ‘I couldn’t get in touch so I went to Blenders hoping to catch you there again when this guy comes up to me, points a gun in my back and marches me up here!’ ‘What? This is Asher, he doesn’t have a gun. He’s harmless!’ ‘The guy’s crazy! Claims he’s some sorta spy! I think he was trying to get his hands on your design for Ceptron!’ As Rachel replayed what Marcus had just said she stared down at the desk where the screens were drawing graphs and blinking out

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messages that would never be read. All except for one message that caught Rachel’s eye in the few seconds for which it was on screen: >Warning: Prediction error for SECTOR: US DEFENCE breached threshold

She knew exactly what it meant – she had programmed it herself. The neural net was screwed. Nothing ever breached the threshold unless something was wrong. Very wrong. She had only ever been able to reproduce the error during testing by forcing Ceptron to invest in the wrong stocks and it had lost all of its play-money very quickly indeed. Rachel pretended not to have seen the screen and continued to stare blankly as if thinking hard. ‘Are you sure?’ she said finally. ‘It’s what he said!’ ‘OK, so what happened here? How come he’s out cold?’ ‘He’s got a gun Rach, look. I didn’t know what to do so when he turned around I whacked him over the head and managed to put him out. I guess he thought I wasn’t a threat. Do you think he’s dead?’ Rachel made a closer examination of Asher, but not too close. ‘No, he’s breathing, look at his chest.’ ‘Do you think we should take the gun?’ Rachel wasn’t particularly keen on guns. ‘Hm. Do you want to do it?’ ‘Not really. Hate them. But we can’t leave it on him in case he wakes up. I’ll do it if you don’t want to.’ ‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘OK. Here goes.’ Marcus bent down and slowly took the barrel of the gun. He pulled and Asher’s hand resisted, lifting into the air slightly, then his fingers opened and the gun came free. His hand flopped back to the floor but he didn’t stir. They held their breath, he was still out. ‘I don’t understand,’ whispered Rachel. ‘How could he be a spy? I made contact with him!’ ‘I don’t know!’ Marcus hissed back. ‘They have their means, these people. What was the word he used? Oh yeah, “gullible”. That was it! He said he thought you were gullible.’ ‘What?’ Rachel almost shouted. ‘Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just sayin’ what he said.’

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Rachel couldn’t believe it. She had slept with the bastard. She felt used and dirty. A flash of panic took her back to yesterday morning. Had they used protection or not? She thought hard, piercing through the wash of emotion and action that had gone on in Asher’s bedroom. She closed on a picture of the silver packet on the bedside table. Yes! Thank god, they had. What a nightmare that could have turned out to be and on top of everything she was shocked that this was the first time she had thought about it as a potential problem. Her relief quickly gave way to anger. She had been used like a sweet wrapper that had been discarded after the sticky contents had been devoured. What kind of twisted person was he? There was no need for anything like that to have happened. She shuddered to think what plans Asher had had for her after he’d got his hands on Ceptron’s design. She guessed the only option open to him would have been to kill her. Her anger intensified. She had been made to believe in something she thought was real. He’d had real explanations. A real story. One that was borne out by her father. If it was all a façade, it was an extremely elaborate one. He must have done an awful lot of research just to get her on side. And to what end? Why hadn’t he just taken his gun and pointed it at her? Much as she felt protective of her project, she would have given up Ceptron before her own life in a second. She had half a mind to shoot him herself, there and then. She remembered the intimacy. It had seemed so real. So good, so right. Who does that? Who would go to all that trouble just to get a computer design? Asher jerked and moaned out loud. ‘Marcus! The gun.’ ‘It’s OK. I found a cable tie over there so I tied his other hand to the desk.’ Nevertheless Marcus pointed the gun at Asher and waited for him to come around. ‘Stay where you are!’ he yelled. ‘She knows everything!’ ‘What? Who knows?’ Asher rubbed the back of his head with his free hand and tried to sit up. Then he looked at his bound hand and gave it a few tugs, rattling the monitors on the desk. ‘Hey! What’s going on?’ ‘Rachel knows everything you told me!’ said Marcus. ‘She knows what you’re really trying to do.’ ‘Does she?’ said Asher rubbing and squinting. ‘Could she explain it to me? Why am I tied to this table? And who hit me?’

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He glanced around at Rachel and Marcus standing over him. ‘Wait a minute. You! You are the guy from the coffee shop. You were sitting next to me but you were bald! Rach, what’s going on? Who is this guy?’ ‘Shut up you creep! This is my friend Marcus and he’s got your gun.’ ‘My gun?’ ‘How could you do that to me?’ ‘Do what?’ ‘Mess around with my life! Lead me on with all those stories! Take advantage of me like that! Who the hell are you anyway?’ ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about Rach. Look, I just came here like you told me to and your over-zealous colleague here coshed me over the head while I was looking at your computers!’ ‘Who are you?’ she wailed in frustration. ‘I’m Asher, Rach! Jason Asher! The poor sod who put up with your bloody annoying e-mails for the last couple of years and then finally did something about it and wishes he hadn’t!’ ‘Don’t listen to him Rachel! He’s not who he says he is! He’s some kind of industrial scout. Who do you work for?’ ‘No one! I’m not working for anyone you stupid analyst!’ ‘Analyst?’ said Rachel turning to Marcus. ‘Marcus, you’re not an analyst.’ ‘Yes he is. He works down in Analytics, he told me so in the lift. They all think your machine is a joke.’ ‘They think it’s what?’ she exclaimed. ‘I think I must have hit him pretty hard,’ said Marcus. ‘He’s talking nonsense.’ ‘Me talking nonsense?’ exclaimed Asher. ‘This weirdo followed me from the coffee house, told me he worked for LSI, then knocked me out and tied me to a bloody table!’ ‘You liar!’ came back Marcus. ‘He dragged me out of the coffee house and brought me up here at gunpoint! I had to knock him out or he would have killed us or something! Who are you going to trust Rach? Your best friend or some stranger you met yesterday who just happens to have a casual interest in your machine?’ ‘Just SHUT UP for a second OK, both of you!’ The two men fell silent.

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‘Now. Marcus, of course I believe you, you dummy. I trust you completely. Asher, or whoever the hell you are, I don’t know what you’re trying to do but I’m calling the police right now.’ ‘No!’ shouted Marcus. ‘Why on earth not?’ ‘Well, go on if you really want to but think of how messy it’ll get. The questions. The investigations. You don’t really want that do you?’ She considered for a moment. ‘Not really.’ ‘Good. We sort this out between us then, yes?’ ‘Rachel, please untie me.’ ‘You’re staying right there, mister!’ she said, glaring at Asher, then she turned back to Marcus. ‘Marcus, why are you here?’ ‘I told you, I couldn’t contact you. I had an idea after your boss got himself killed and couldn’t wait.’ ‘What’s so important?’ ‘OK, you remember what I told you about my parents? Well my father wrote a will. Their estate was worth a fortune but he demanded that the money was put into a trust until now. I just inherited it.’ ‘And?’ ‘I want to use your machine to make it grow.’ ‘Really? You want to put your money in Ceptron?’ ‘I guess so yeah. If it’s as good as you say it is and I do trust you, then why not? You keep half the profits. I’d be like…an investor.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘This is amazing, you still have faith in me. How much are we talking?’ ‘Fifty million.’ She stared at him wide-eyed and suddenly it all fit. Then she eyed Asher, who looked back blankly, open-mouthed and she turned back to Marcus. ‘Do you really trust me?’ ‘Of course Rach!’ ‘Then give me the gun.’ Still standing guard over Asher, Marcus looked uncertain for a second and shifted his weight a little. Then he passed the weapon over, taking care not to point the barrel at Rachel or himself. Rachel took it and was surprised by its weight. She pointed it back at Asher.

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‘Rachel,’ said Asher. ‘Eighty thousand. Remember?’ ‘Be quiet.’ ‘Eighty thousand what?’ said Marcus, concerned. ‘Nothing. A test I was carrying out. It failed. End of story.’ Now it was Asher’s turn to frown but Rachel wasn’t making eye contact with him. She was concentrating on how she could transfer fifty million pounds into Ceptron’s trading account. ‘Where’s your bank?’ she asked Marcus. ‘Rachel, they’ll die!’ ‘In the US,’ he replied. She tutted. ‘It’s going to take a couple of days to get the money over.’ ‘No it’s not.’ ‘For god’s sake! Are you not listening?’ ‘No? How come? Even an inter-bank wire transfer’ll take a day or two.’ Marcus lowered his head. ‘I have a confession to make. I was in touch with your boss. I already wired the money – it’s in his account, waiting.’ ‘Whoa, let me get this straight. You contacted my boss behind my back and deposited fifty million in his account? Then he gets killed? Then you tell me you want to invest in the project?’ ‘Yes! The money was destined for something and I didn’t know what to do with it. Since you told me about the project I knew this was it. I’m sorry for going behind your back but you’d disappeared. I had to do something.’ ‘Why? What’s the rush?’ Marcus hesitated, staring at her. ‘I…just wanted to strike while the iron was hot.’ She mulled this over for a few seconds. ‘OK. Then let’s strike.’ ‘OK! Do you have access to his account?’ ‘Of course. How do you think I have control over Ceptron’s trading?’ ‘Good point. What do we do?’ ‘This.’ Rachel put the gun on the table, sat down at the console and typed quickly.

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‘Rachel!’ shouted Asher. ‘What are you doing? This guy’s a psycho and you’re helping him!’ She ignored Asher’s pleas and continued to access the Director’s research account. Getting in was easy, she’d done it a hundred times before. Sure enough the main budget screen was showing a credit of fifty million pounds. Rachel smiled, still disbelieving, and selected “Transfer Budget” from the side menu and entered the full amount, followed by Ceptron’s account and authentication details. She looked at Marcus, who nodded once, and committed the request. A message appeared on screen almost immediately: >FUNDS TRANSFER SUCCESSFUL

‘Holy crap,’ muttered Asher, who was now sitting cross-legged on the floor. ‘What have you done?’ Rachel shook her head in wonder. ‘It seems there really were fifty big ones in his account.’ As she watched, a terminal on the far end of the control desk beeped and a spike appeared on its graph. They all peered at the screen to read the label on the vertical axis – “Trading Fund”. To the right of the screen on a separate terminal was a second graph labelled “Portfolio Value”. Rachel knew that one graph was usually the opposite of the other. As Ceptron converted funds into stocks the left plot would fall and the right would rise. Then during a sell-off cycle the portfolio value was converted back into capital and the graphs would gradually switch back. The profit would be skimmed off and the whole process would start again. Rachel watched the Portfolio Value screen and waited. Sure enough the line started to creep upwards and Marcus’ eyes lit up. The message screen Rachel had seen earlier started spewing messages as Ceptron logged its burst of activity. The list scrolled smoothly upwards as each new message was posted. >BUYLOG: OSTECH (AM) (SECTOR: US DEFENCE) @ 445.34 X 3000 >BUYLOG: BAES (AM) (SECTOR: US DEFENCE) @ 544.32 X 4000

>BUYLOG: SAMSIT (AM) (SECTOR: US DEFENCE) @ 1112.33 X 1000 >BUYLOG: LHM (AM) (SECTOR: US DEFENCE) @ 223.11 X 7000 >BUYLOG: NTG (AM) (SECTOR: US DEFENCE) @ 90.00 X 5000

>BUYLOG: BOESYS (AM) (SECTOR: US DEFENCE) @ 812.27 X 3000 >BUYLOG: AAT (AM) (SECTOR: US DEFENCE) @ 367.88 X 5000

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‘What's it doing?’ demanded Marcus, his eyes wide like when they were in the coffee shop. ‘Don’t worry. It’s just letting us know what it’s buying.’ replied Rachel calmly. They watched the screen continue to scroll as each successive stock was purchased. The Portfolio Value rose steadily and the Fund Value dropped in accordance. ‘How long will it go on for?’ he asked impatiently. ‘Where did all that money come from Marcus?’ ‘You answer my question first.’ Rachel looked uncertainly at him. ‘Until the fifty million is used up.’ She traced her finger down some of the transactions. ‘On average it looks like it’s spending around…about a million pounds a second so it shouldn’t take too long.’ They all waited in silence as the stocks flashed up the screen. Then Marcus asked the question Rachel knew was coming. ‘But why is it only buying defence companies?’ ‘Only Ceptron knows that. I never got around to adding a market sector overview. It looks like it’s predicting a rise in defence. Can’t think why.’ Rachel glanced at Asher, who returned her look with distain and suddenly, as she turned away from his glare the scrolling stopped. The terminal beeped and the final message read: >BUYLOG: Insufficient funds to proceed. Fund value = £0.00

‘Has it finished?’ said Marcus. ‘I think so.’ Rachel pointed to the screen on the left. ‘Look, the trading fund is back at zero again. It’s all spent up.’ said Rachel pointing to the left-most graph. ‘So now we wait?’ ‘Now we wait.’

‘How long?’ asked Marcus. Asher could feel pins and needles starting in his buttocks. He leaned to one side then the other. ‘Good question,’ he huffed moodily. ‘Can I have a chair?’

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‘As long as it takes,’ said Rachel, ignoring him. ‘Stocks move slowly sometimes.’ Together they watched the screens but nothing further happened. ‘Marcus, I need you to go and check the power to Cabinet 34. There was a status message just now saying some of the feeds were down. Can you check it quickly? It’s up there on the right.’ ‘Sure thing. Won’t that affect Ceptron?’ ‘Well it just handles some feeds from Asia and they’re in bed right now. But it’s possible. We need to check.’ ‘Right, of course. Back in a tick.’ Marcus rushed off in search of Cabinet 34. Rachel turned to Asher. ‘Right, you. Explain.’ ‘Explain what?’ Asher couldn’t believe how blind Rachel was being. Taken in hook, line and sinker by Marcus’ charade. ‘Explain to me what you want.’ ‘I want to be untied. I want to save eighty thousand people from dying. I want you to listen to me when I say your friend here is not who he says he is.’ ‘Really? How do you figure that?’ She looked back to see Marcus disappearing down an isle in the distance. ‘I told you! I was sitting in the coffee bar waiting for you to come back to London, when I get your call and this guy sitting next to me overhears it. He’d obviously been looking for you because when I mention your name and Ceptron he sprays his coffee all over himself.’ ‘I don’t see coffee on him.’ ‘He’s the dangerous one! I can prove it!’ proclaimed Asher. ‘Go on then.’ She gave him a wry smile. ‘Daintree. Call him.’ ‘Because…?’ ‘Because he knows something. I’ll bet you fifty million quid he knows exactly who you are and he knows who killed your boss too.’ ‘That’s not proof! I just can’t believe you Asher.’ With a deadly serious face she winked at him. For a second Asher though something was irritating her but she continued to stare unblinkingly. Then she raised her eyebrows and nodded almost imperceptibly. Suddenly Asher got it. He realised what was going on and a rush of relief

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flooded through him. He had to play along but now he understood what she was doing he couldn’t think of anything convincing to say. Rachel quickly looked over her shoulder again, then reached into one of the desk drawers and brought out a small Swiss army knife. In one swift movement she opened the blade and cut the tie that was restraining Asher’s left arm. She dropped the knife on the floor and kicked it, sending it spinning across the floor and under a nearby computer cabinet just as Marcus came trotting back down the corridor. ‘Cabinet 34’s up and running OK,’ called Marcus loudly as he neared. ‘I checked the network cables too, it all looks fine. What’s up?’ Rachel stared at Asher. ‘OK thanks. Must’ve just been a glitch. Asher was just telling me how he’s going to prove he’s telling the truth.’ He had to say something quickly otherwise Marcus would twig. The seconds ticked by, Rachel glared at him and finally he exploded with a lame insult. ‘Fine! What can I do? Go make your pots of money with lover boy here. That’s obviously what you’re most interested in. Thousands of people out there somewhere are going to get blown to smithereens and all you care about is making money.’ Marcus interrupted, eager to stick to his plan. ‘Would someone mind telling me what this eighty thousand people is all about?’ ‘No!’ they said loudly in unison, then Rachel continued. ‘Look Marcus, I told you. It was just a test I was running through the system to see what would happen. Nothing did. So just forget about it, OK?’ ‘OK, sorry Rach. Just try to calm down.’ ‘Calm down? I’ve got a secret agent tied to my desk, my boss is dead, my best friend has just told me he’s a multi-millionaire and there’s a loaded fucking gun on the table! So don’t tell me to calm down!’ Just at that moment the message screen moved and both Rachel and Marcus instinctively looked at it. >WARNING: OSTECH (AM) (SECTOR: US DEFENCE) Incorrect prediction: price below 50% threshold.

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>SELLLOG: OSTECH (AM) (SECTOR: US DEFENCE) @ 222.67p X 3000 >LOSSWARNING: OSTECH (AM) (SECTOR: US DEFENCE) 668,010p

Marcus’ lips moved as he tried to read the text to himself. ‘What does it mean?’ Rachel sighed. It was like looking after children. ‘Let’s see. It means you’ve just lost…six and a half grand.’ There was a look of urgency in Marcus’ eyes. ‘How? I thought you said this machine predicts with one hundred percent accuracy.’ ‘It does. I have no idea why it would do that.’ >WARNING: BAES (AM) (SECTOR: US DEFENCE) Incorrect prediction: price below 50% threshold.

>SELLLOG: BAES (AM) (SECTOR: US DEFENCE) @ 272.16 X 4000 >LOSSWARNING: BAES (AM) (SECTOR: US DEFENCE) 1,088,640p

‘And again,’ said Rachel, frowning at the screen. ‘Ten thousand.’ As they watched more sells came through. Then more and more, gradually faster until the screen was in perpetual motion, trying to keep up with Ceptron’s activity. Every message was a loss warning and as they flashed by the values seemed to get bigger. ‘Turn it off!’ said Marcus. ‘I can’t just turn it off.’ ‘But it’s losing all my money!’ ‘I need to initiate a proper a shutdown –’ ‘Do it!’ ‘But we have to wait until the portfolio is fully sold-up down to the last stock. It has to gradually sell up each stock and return the money back to the trading fund. Then it’ll shut itself down.’ ‘Why do we have to wait?’ ‘Because my eager friend all of your money’s invested. If we just switch it off Ceptron will lose track of its portfolio and you’ll probably lose every penny. You’ll certainly lose much more than if we just pulled the plug.’ ‘Do it then. Issue the shutdown command!’ ‘I’m already on it,’ said Rachel, typing furiously. But she knew it was already too late for at least half of Marcus’ funds, probably much more. ‘There, that should do it. It could take a while to filter through

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though. You know, something big must be going on. All the defence stocks are dropping like lead balloons.’ ‘Something has happened,’ called Asher from his place on the floor. He had a sense of dread and foreboding in his voice. ‘The prediction. It’s all backwards. Something’s happened outside. Is there a TV in here?’ ‘Actually there is.’ Rachel leaned to the back of the desk and moved aside a stack of papers. Behind was a small LCD television, propped up on its stand. She extended the aerials, made a V and switched the screen on. There was no picture and no sound. She fiddled with the tiny controls until she got a station, then cycled through a few channels until she arrived at some 24-hour news.

“And back to our breaking story tonight: The country is in a state of high-alert tonight as police in London foil Britain’s largest ever terror plot just minutes before the attack was due to take place. A police spokesman has confirmed in a press statement made about half an hour ago that a lorry carrying almost 30 tons of highly explosive material has been intercepted en-route to an unconfirmed destination. With the planned timing of the attack as it was, speculation is rife that the target was to be the Olympic Stadium during the opening ceremony but this has not yet been confirmed. In a massive operation reminiscent of a mass exodus more than eighty thousand people that were in the stadium to watch to opening have been evacuated to nearby muster points in the Olympic Village and other stadia and large buildings across the United Kingdom have also undergone evacuation. The opening ceremony of the 30th Olympic Games was due to start at half past seven this evening but has been postponed for the first time ever in its history until tomorrow. The lorry’s tractor unit has already been detached from its deadly cargo and has been taken to a secret east London location to undergo forensic testing. The Metropolitan Police have handed over the trailer part of the lorry that was carrying the explosives to the Army and it is being heavily guarded in situ. During the dramatic police operation the lorry was stopped and instead of cooperating the driver apparently tried to detonate the explosives using some kind of remote control device but failed when police marksmen were given the go-

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ahead to use deadly force. Eyewitnesses report that the driver, who is believed to be a wanted international terrorist known as Ang Mo, was hit in the chest and was disarmed during the gunfire. His condition and indeed whether he still alive is not known as during the incident he was taken under-covers to an ambulance waiting on the scene. In their statement the police also defended the shooting as being ‘totally necessary’ following tip-offs from two separate but anonymous sources. Both sources used known code-words and it is not yet known if this is an isolated attack or whether it is part of a larger plot. The head of the Anti-Terrorism squad, Deputy Assistant Commissioner Ronald Daintree, had this to say about the incident: ‘In this day and age we cannot afford to take any chances whatever when it come to terrorism. We’ve been wrong on a number of occasions in the past but today we have apprehended a dangerous criminal and averted a major terrorist attack. I hope those who are critical of past police operations now understand why we take the action that we sometimes do, unpleasant as it might seem. If we had not disabled this individual or indeed taken any action on the intelligence we received the results would have been catastrophic. The Olympic Stadium holds eighty thousand people and as our intelligence now suggests that this was indeed the intended target, with the sheer quantity of explosives on board the vehicle it’s likely that a large proportion of those people would now be dead or fighting for their lives. We believe the man we apprehended is Ang Mo, a known terrorist with a long history of violent attacks and wanted in several countries, including the United States, China and the United Kingdom. He is in a critical condition in hospital and will be helping us with our inquiries if and when he is able. The success of this operation means that the lives of thousands, if not tens of thousands of people have been saved today. If he had been allowed to carry out this despicable, cowardly act then, needless to say, Britain and indeed the world would be a very different place right now. Thank you.’ “Police are now trying to piece together whether the attack is linked with any other terrorist organisations but initial research shows that Ang Mo normally works alone and often his cause is unknown. The government and the Civil Aviation Authority have declared a no-fly zone over all UK cities and have closed all London airports as a precaution. A no-go zone has been set up around the lorry and all residents and businesses within a half mile radius have

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been evacuated as bomb squads from the Metropolitan Police and the Army work together to make safe the trailer using remote controlled robots. Initial reports suggest the main tractor unit, which has now been removed to a forensic facility, had a battering-ram or snowplough like structure fitted to the front and it is thought that Ang Mo was planning to drive right into the stadium by smashing through the security gates and the main access doors and detonating the bomb once he was in the centre. Had he succeeded the results, given the sheer size of the device, would have been catastrophic for all nations, not just Britain but for the world, as the opening ceremony features all of the international athletes and of course the attending crowds are from every continent. As the news arrived during final trading of the US markets, the market experienced a significant downturn but then recovered before the close, wiping billions of dollars off the value of top American companies and then regaining it almost immediately. We can now go live to New York where our financial correspondent John Brenner has been keeping an eye on the last of the afternoon’s trading. John, how have the markets reacted?” ‘Thanks. In contrast to 9/11 the US markets stayed buoyant today, holding out against a widely held belief that another terrorist attack on this scale would cause a global slump. What’s different about today is that it was a non-event and we’re seeing an exact mirror image of eleven years ago, when only defence companies held their value in a free-falling market. That this terrorist attack seems to have come from within the UK itself seems to have hammered home recent global feeling that a military defence is not necessarily the answer to every attack scenario and as a result, the defence sector is significantly down this afternoon. As you know the UK markets were lucky to have ceased trading by the time this story broke and it’s expected that Monday’s open won’t be affected.’

Suddenly Rachel realised what Marcus must be thinking. She had come to a decision about his stability soon after entering the computer hall, when he had spun his cock and bull story about Asher. He must have pieced it together by now. The eighty thousand people, the foiled terrorist attack, Ceptron buying into defence and coming unstuck. He

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might have become a deranged control freak but he wasn’t stupid. She surreptitiously turned to the end of the table to pick up the gun and was shocked to find it was gone. ‘Way ahead of you, bitch.’ Marcus pointed the weapon at her. ‘You knew didn’t you? All along. This contraption of yours just cost me thirty million pounds. You knew the market would cave in because Ceptron predicted that attack and when it didn’t happen, boom! The algorithm screwed up. And then you let it carry on throwing my money down a hole as if there was no tomorrow! My family’s money! My inheritance!’ ‘I didn’t know! How could I have?’ ‘Eighty thousand? How much of a coincidence is that? What do you take me for?’ He continued before Rachel could venture an answer. ‘Shut up! Get over there.’ With the barrel of the gun he motioned away from the control desk towards one of the cabinets and she obliged, backing away facing him all the time. ‘I’m going to need to you transfer what’s left back to my account. Tell me how to do it. Now!’ Rachel could still see the screen with the budget management program running. ‘OK. OK. First go to the management screen. From there you should see some transfer options. Select the one that says Budget Transfer. In the From box select Ceptron’s trading account and in the To box select the R&D account. In the Amount box enter the amount you want to transfer.’ ‘Wait!’ shouted Marcus. Rachel watched as he squinted at the screen trying to decipher the account codes. Eventually he selected the correct two. ‘OK. What’s next?’ ‘In the Amount box enter how much you want to transfer and submit it.’ Marcus glanced at the wiggly line on the Trading Fund graph. It was just over the 20M mark. Carefully he typed a 2 followed by six zeros into the terminal. He counted the zeros back to make sure he had the right number and hit the Transfer button. >INSUFFICIENT FUNDS TO PROCEED. MAXIMUM TRANSFER = £19,200,000

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‘What?’ He looked back at the line on the graph. It had moved down a small amount and now read just above 19M. He entered 19 million and hit the Transfer button again. >INSUFFICIENT FUNDS TO PROCEED. MAXIMUM TRANSFER = £18,400,000

‘No!’ Out of anger he hit the keyboard, sending a shockwave across the desk. ‘Why?’ Rachel looked at him coolly. ‘It’s re-investing what’s left. You figure out how to save your money. I’m going.’ Marcus pointed the gun at her again. ‘Move and I’ll kill you. I swear. What about the shutdown?’ ‘There is no shutdown. I just set a switch to tell it to buy more stock whenever it had more money. It’s an ever-decreasing circle. You’ll never get it back.’ Marcus turned back to the screen, furious. This time he put the gun down and typed quickly. When the next attempt didn’t work either he turned back to Rachel and opened his mouth but she was gone. The opportunity had presented itself and she wasn’t about to let it pass. She ran. Her idea was to distract him for long enough to enable Asher to escape. Maybe he could get out and get help, or take Marcus by surprise from behind. Unfortunately the plan relied heavily on two things happening. The first was that Asher would twig and do the right thing and the second was that Marcus would actually be distracted enough or even follow her. Neither thing happened. Asher sat on the floor bemused and Marcus yelled some expletives and continued his race to recoup ever decreasing amounts of money from whatever was left in the pot.

Asher was on his own with a crazy man. Rachel had just run up into the computer aisles in the opposite direction to the main entrance, so he wasn’t really clear what her plan was. She obviously had something up her sleeve but Marcus was getting more enraged by the second so Asher decided there was only one thing for it. Stay quiet and stay put. Rachel always seemed to know what to do, she would

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come up with something. So he stayed put and watched Marcus do battle against Ceptron. Everything was going wrong for Marcus and at last, at fifteen million pounds remaining, Marcus realised that he had to sacrifice a large portion of his remaining wealth to get ahead of the constantly falling curve and save the rest. He entered ten million, way ahead of the trading machine, and the message that came back released the tension like a pressure cooker being opened. >FUNDS TRANSFER SUCCESSFUL. AMOUNT = £10,000,000

‘Gotcha, ya bastard!’ As if in response, Ceptron’s message terminal beeped and popped up a final message. >BUYLOG: Insufficient funds to proceed. Fund value = £0.00

Marcus breathed a large sigh and with that everything seemed to stop in relative silence. Just the roaring of the air-con and the thousands of fans cooling the computers. Asher watched Marcus from behind. He was breathing heavily, bent over the console with his head bowed, gripping the edge of the desk so his knuckles were white. He turned slowly with a wild look in his eyes. Asher guessed he still needed Rachel to wire what was left of his money from the Director’s account to his own. He had seen before that that side of things was password protected. ‘When she’s done,’ whispered Marcus to the computer screen as much as anyone else, ‘I’m gonna kill her.’ He picked up the gun and strode off towards the main entrance without acknowledging Asher at all.

Rachel hid behind Cabinet 23 at the far end of one of the side alleys. She had no plan and didn’t have a clue what she was doing. The only thing she was sure of was that the spare power supply she was straining to hold above her head would knock a man clean out and possibly kill him with its sharp metal corners and hefty weight. She waited. Nothing happened. One minute. Two minutes. Three. Four. And then something did happen that she wasn’t expecting at all. The lights went out. She had never been there in the dark before and

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the computer hall she was so familiar with and normally felt at home in suddenly became a menacing, cold space. The green and red flashing diodes lit up her face and she could see her own ghostly image in the glass-fronted door of the cabinet opposite. A bizarre, green and red spectre holding a metal box above her head. Had her situation been less serious she would have laughed. She heard something behind, over the noise of the machines. She waited, motionless and silent. It sounded like a footstep but she couldn’t be sure. The suspended floor tiles were carpeted and masked footfalls easily. But that wasn’t what she’d heard. It had been more like the sound of a badly fitting tile tilting under someone’s weight. She heard it again. This time she was sure. It was a tile. It was either Asher come to help, in which case he’d dealt with Marcus somehow and the lights were off for some strange reason, or it was Marcus and he was playing games. ‘Rachel?’ came a voice through the cabinet behind her. It was Marcus. ‘I can see you…’ he sang. She ran again. Back along the aisle, up the corridor another few rows and into another aisle. She didn’t know if he’d been able to follow but she knew this aisle wasn’t a dead end. Having no final cabinet created a walkway around the end into the next aisle, giving her an escape route. She ran down to hide again and came to a halt, exhaling sharply. She’d got the wrong aisle! It must have been further up. Or was it on the other side? In her panic she’d become disoriented, she couldn’t think straight. She turned to run back and stopped again as if she had run into an invisible, solid barrier. At the end of the aisle was the black silhouette of Marcus, his gun pointing at the floor. His dark shape was outlined by a halo of blinking lights from the cabinets across the corridor and his eyes twinkled in the light from the computers between them. Pin-pricks of blinking red and green reflected from his now bald and sweating head. ‘You’re not leaving already? I’ve got so much to tell you.’ ‘Marcus, what the hell’s wrong with you? What do you want from me?’ ‘What do I want? What do I want? Payback, Rachel! Payback!’ ‘What do you mean?’ Marcus shook his head in disbelief.

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‘You never had a clue did you? You’re not as smart as I took you for.’ He raised the gun in the darkness and Rachel assumed it was pointed at her. All she could see was that his silhouette now only had one arm. For a second she considered throwing the power supply at him but reconsidered. If she missed, he would surely shoot. ‘Your machine,’ he croaked, ‘was going to make me the richest ever to have lived, you know? That’s how much you owe me Rachel. That’s how much he’s worth.’ ‘Who? Who is worth?’ ‘Father!’ ‘Marcus, your father? He was killed in the car crash. You told me yourself!’ He started walking forwards slowly. ‘No! No, no, no. I killed him you see?’ He had a spiteful look in his eyes now. ‘I killed them both. He hated me. And my mother never stood up to him. They were as bad as each other. They both had to go. No, I’m not talking about that impostor. I’m talking about our father.’ ‘What do you mean our father?’ ‘Have you never felt it Rachel? That special bond between us?’ ‘You – you’re bluffing.’ Rachel was stunned. She felt her stomach churn and shivered as a wave of goose bumps crept across her skin. She gripped the power supply harder as Marcus continued his tirade. ‘You stole my father from me! After your mother screwed him and went through with the pregnancy. You’re illegitimate Rachel. I’m the first-born child. You shouldn’t be here!’ She was having trouble keeping the influx of new information in her head. It made sense, all of those feelings she’d had when they were younger. The confused, unfocussed emotions – that had been sibling love. Now, that sibling was getting close and she could make out the features on his face. His tight-lipped smile showed pleasure but his eyes showed rage. ‘When Emma was killed, my family became an empty shell – she had been the only thing holding it together. Our father, you see, he didn’t love my mother, he loved yours. He preferred you and your precious mother to me and left us to rot with that arrogant, childhating bastard of a step-father! You ruined my childhood! You wrecked it! I ought to take care of dad and your mother too.’

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‘Look, let’s talk about this normally, rationally, like adults,’ said Rachel, starting to lower the metal box. ‘Put the gun down and I’ll go and turn the lights on.’ ‘Normal? Normal! You have no idea how he treated me! He denied me everything. Everything our father bought for you should have been mine!’ ‘I’m so sorry. I never knew.’ Marcus stopped six feet away. ‘Never knew. Ha! Here’s something else you never knew. With my step-father’s money, I inherited his contacts. Pulled a few strings here and there. Watched your career with interest. I always knew you’d come through for me. My clever sister.’ ‘Come through for you? What does that mean?’ ‘C’mon sis. Who do you think’s been funding your project for the last five years? I saw your potential, even when we were kids. I saw what you were capable of. The one with the brains. You were always going to make money. Lots of it. That’s why I decided to get you the job here at LSI.’ ‘What?’ ‘Yeah that’s right, I got you your job. It’s not the first one either. Remember your first job after university? Yes, me! Your previous job before this one? Me also! Hold on…three jobs? That’s your entire career isn’t it? My gosh, and you thought you’d been doing so well for yourself!’ ‘Why are you saying this? It’s not true, it can’t be.’ Rachel’s head was spinning. ‘Oh it’s true alright.’ ‘Shut up! Shut up!’ Rachel couldn’t take it any more. She was just coming to terms with the fact that she and Marcus were related and now her working life had been an utter sham. She raised the power supply above her head again. ‘I don’t believe you!’ Marcus refocused his aim. ‘Believe what you want. Tell me the password to transfer the money back.’ ‘You’re the last person on Earth I’d give that to!’ ‘I’ll kill you anyway. Family doesn’t matter now, it’s meaningless. You taught me that.’

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The gun glinted in the blinking lights and Rachel watched in horror as the tip of his index finger bent slowly around the trigger, exerting pressure on it. ‘No!’ Then she noticed the cabinet next to Marcus moving sideways a little and back again. Or did she just imagine it? She glanced to the top of the cabinet and saw it move again. ‘OK, OK, just wait!’ The cabinet swayed a little more, and back again. Then, in a crescendo of sparks as wires pulled from their electrical connections, it toppled, crashing down on top of Marcus. There was a enormous bang as the gun went off and the glass next to Rachel shattered and sparks cascaded from the computer inside. Rachel instinctively recoiled away then threw the power supply at Marcus for good measure as he went down under the falling cabinet. It hit his leg, gouging a large gash across his knee. Marcus screamed and the weight of the machinery bore down on him, his legs gave way and he doubled over underneath the cabinet. The glass and metal cage came to rest, pinning him firmly to the floor. He screamed again, writhing in pain. ‘Rachel!’ Asher was standing in the space where the computer had been, holding his hands out to her. ‘Quick!’ Marcus and the computer were blocking her exit from the aisle so the only way out was through the gap Asher had created. Electrical flames were licking up near Asher, from where the huge computer’s power lines had been short-circuited. She ran to him, grabbed his hands and clambered over the metalwork as the flames shot upwards from the wiring. Her additional weight made Marcus scream even harder as he thrashed around trying to free himself, and another gunshot exploded so closely to Rachel it made her ears ring. Now she could also hear a loud droning noise, like a klaxon blasting then silent, blasting then silent, over and over. ‘What’s that?’ shouted Asher above the siren, as what looked like a flash of lightning lit the hall for an instant, followed by darkness. It flashed again. Rachel climbed down into the clear aisle as the strobe lights pulsed every second, in time with the klaxon. She soon realised that navigating now was going to be hard. The after image of each snapshot of her surroundings dominated her night vision. By the time her eyes re-adjusted to the dark, there would be another brilliant

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pulse, lighting the hall. She managed to lead Asher back to the main corridor, and stumbled. Something was hurting her foot. ‘It’s the fire system! It’s on automatic,’ she yelled. ‘We’ve got about thirty seconds to clear the hall. Come on!’ She winced as she tried to run again and stopped. ‘What does it do?’ shouted Asher. ‘CO2 flooding! It seals the room and pressurises it with carbon dioxide. Enough to extinguish fires but at that level it’s lethal. You’ll bleed from your ears and suffocate at the same time! Let’s go! Can you see anything?’ ‘Only in stills!’ ‘Me too. And my ankle hurts like hell!’ She looked down and saw blood around her foot. ‘He must have got me!’ She could still move it around, so she bit the bullet and tried to run. Every step shot pain up her leg and yelled to her brain to stop and she after five paces she almost collapsed. ‘I can’t move!’ she looked up at Asher in horror. ‘Don’t worry, girl, we’ll get you out of here. Put your arm around my shoulder.’ Rachel felt faint and the strobing lights were making her nauseous and sweaty in the cold room. She put her arm around Asher for support and together they stumbled along the corridor back towards the control desk, lurching from side to side in a strange stop-motion animation. They finally reached the control desk and Rachel desperately wanted to sit down but Asher pulled her on.

‘No Rach! Come on, we haven’t got much time.’ There was another gunshot and one of the computer screens next to them exploded in a burst of glass and sparks. They ducked to the floor behind the desk and Asher poked his head out around the side to look back up the corridor. ‘He’s freed himself!’ ‘We’ve got to move.’ Rachel grimaced and got ready to spring off from her good foot to make the final dash towards the exit. ‘OK, go!’ yelled Asher. Together they ran again and Rachel cried out as she took the first stride onto her bad foot. She carried on running regardless; it was that

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or certain death. Yet another gunshot filled the hall and the glass front in a cabinet next to them shattered as another bullet missed its target. Then another shot and Rachel suddenly went limp in Asher’s arms. He took her weight fully and stumbled, re-gained his balance and half carried, half dragged her for what felt like an eternity before reaching the main entrance. He slammed a clenched fist against the exit button and the electromagnet released. The door swung open as they crashed through into the lobby and swung shut behind them. Asher got up and looked through wired-glass window. It was dark inside. He waited for a single flash of the strobe lights and when it came he glimpsed Marcus at the control desk, limping towards them with his gun aimed at the door. But there were no shots. He waited for another snapshot. Marcus was closer. He had blood pouring down his left leg and from his head, his right arm looked useless and he was limping badly. Perhaps the gun was damaged, or perhaps he only had one round left. Perhaps he wanted to get closer for a better left-handed shot. Then, abruptly, the klaxon stopped and the strobes left the hall in quiet darkness, save for the blinking lights of the computers. Asher moved back from the door and dragged Rachel to one side, laying her on the floor. She was bleeding badly from the shoulder and there were red streaks across the wall where she had slumped sideways but she was alive. ‘Help!’ he yelled, hoping someone from reception would hear him, but there was no response. He fumbled in his pocket for his phone, opened it up and dialled 999. ‘Ambulance, police and fire! Er…21st floor, Canada Tower. Someone’s been shot and there’s a fire! Yes, it’s Jason Asher. She’s called Rachel Taylor, I’m a friend. Some psycho shot her in the chest – she’s breathing but bleeding badly. He’s stuck in the computer room.’ The doors rattled as Marcus tried to open them but a red sign had come on above the door. AUTOMATIC LOCK ENGAGED ‘He’s locked in!’ He grabbed a red box on the wall next to the door and used it to pull himself up. As he levelled with the window a bloody, glistening face appeared and smeared itself on the glass. Asher jumped and dropped the phone.

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‘Shit!’ Marcus shouldered the door heavily with a loud thump twice, then then his enraged face appeared again and he started banging on the window with his fist. ‘LET ME OUT!’ Asher held his ground and shook his head slowly. Then he noticed the red box on the wall he had used as a grab-handle – it had a lift-up front panel and was labelled “Abort” and behind the little Perspex window was a key-operated switch. He lifted the panel. No key. He looked back up through window and froze as he saw Marcus stepping back and raising the gun again. Asher ducked but there were no gunshots. Instead a loud buzzer sounded in the lobby area and another sign flashed above the door, an amber one. CO2 DUMPING – DO NOT ENTER There was an abrupt roaring noise inside the room and Asher scrambled backwards away from the door. Marcus started screaming and banged on the other side of the door but all Asher could see through the security glass was a white mist, which started seeping under and around the door. The roaring and screaming continued and he put his hands over his ears and slumped down, sitting on the floor with his back against the door. As the mist from the door touched Asher’s arm with an icy stroke, the screaming ceased and he could feel the banging in his shoulder blades getting slower and weaker. He shivered. The banging lasted an excruciating ten or fifteen seconds more and then, as abruptly as the commotion had started, it all stopped. Asher gradually removed his hands from his ears and cautiously listened to the white noise of silence in the lobby for a moment. Then he remembered Rachel and scrambled over to where she lay. He looked back up at the sign, which had changed to flashing green and was now displaying a new message. DISCHARGED He felt Rachel’s pulse – she was barely conscious, sprawled half on the floor, half against the wall. ‘Rachel! Stay with me!’ She coughed weakly.

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‘It’s OK. I’ll be OK. It’s not as bad as it must look.’ She rolled her eyes down to look at Asher without moving. ‘Thanks.’ ‘For what?’ ‘Everything.’ ‘They’re coming to help, Rach, don’t move.’ ‘I know. What happened to Marcus?’ ‘I think he’s…dead. The doors locked themselves and the gas…gassed him. Do you think he suffocated?’ ‘Definitely. Did you check?’ ‘No. I’m leaving that to the authorities. He was some piece of work, you know?’ ‘He was indeed.’ ‘Who was he anyway?’ ‘Just an old acquaintance.’ Rachel winced. ‘Bad luck turned him into someone else.’ ‘Any more of your friends like that?’ ‘I hope not.’ Asher grunted and stared at the floor. Then he looked sideways towards her. ‘The override…there wasn’t a key.’ Through her pain Rachel either grimaced or smiled faintly, Asher couldn’t be sure.

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Epilogue

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Three Months Later Asher and his two travelling companions looked out of Quiet. the steamed up windows from the cramped rear seat of the taxi cab. People hurried by with large coats and collars pulled up, their breath puffing and evaporating into the cold air. Nobody had wanted to get out particularly, so they sat it out in silence, staring across the junction at the bright, brash office block where the Xian Yin had once stood, remembering an event at which they had not been present. It was freezing outside and the heater blasted hot air through the car, warming them from beneath the front seats. Winter had come quickly here; it was only October but already the sky was a heavy grey, with large, low clouds threatening to dump their snow upon the urbanised populace. It had been three months since Rachel and Asher’s confrontation with Marcus. After spending time at Ocean View recovering from her wounds Rachel had realised that in her obsessive quest she hadn’t been living her life at all. Her work had all but consumed her and her personal life had suffered dearly. Now she wanted to make room for the more important things and to this end she had quit LSI.Co to go on sabbatical. Asher had teased her endlessly about it and she’d finally admitted that it probably wouldn’t last. But for the immediate future she could accept that, particularly as she now had a partner to help keep her on course. Asher had continued on with his research and at last the e-mails had stopped, for which he said a little prayer to the god of the information superhighway but he missed them in a way. Still, he had their creator now. He put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. She looked back and smiled and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

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He smiled back and then, after warming his hands in the hot air flow for a few seconds more, got out and walked around to the driver’s door. He waited for the driver to lower his window, then from his inside coat pocket pulled out the old photograph, on the back of which were written two rows of Chinese characters that he knew were addresses. He handed the picture to the driver and pointed to the first line. The driver nodded and Asher said to Rachel: ‘I’ll wait here for you.’ He motioned to the café-bar they were parked outside of and slapped the cold roof of the car twice. ‘OK, we’ll be back soon,’ she called from the back seat. The car pulled out into the traffic, the exhaust fumes making large clouds that dissipated quickly as they cooled. Asher watched them go, then turned and headed into the warmth of the café-bar.

The taxi pulled up at their destination and Rachel took the photo back from the driver. ‘Could you show us where this is please?’ ‘Yes, yes. No problem.’ Asher had gone through nine or ten taxis trying to find one whose driver could speak reasonable English, especially for Rachel. She made a mental note of the fare and they all got out of the car and into the bitter evening. The cab driver led them through the archway, into the courtyard where a lonely plum tree stood, lifeless, crooked and stripped bare. They reached a set of steps at the top of which was a white, painted door fronted by a gauze mesh. There were no identifying marks on the house, yet the driver seemed quite certain that that was the location in question. Rachel looked around. The solitary tree stood dormant in the middle of a dead-grass yard and gently smoking incense spirals that hung outside every door gave the cold air a refreshing, pungent aroma. It was a peaceful place, even in the cold bite of late autumn. ‘Could you wait for us please? We won’t be long.’ ‘Of course.’ The driver retreated just as the front door opened. A small man wearing a dark green sweat-shirt stood behind the insect screen. Rachel supposed he might be in his sixties and he exactly fit the description Asher had given her of Hong-Li. ‘Mr Wang?’

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The man smiled widely and bowed. ‘Emma sister. And Emma father? How very nice I finally meet you. Emma will be happy. Come in, please.’ They entered a large central living area, off of which were several smaller rooms. The décor predominantly consisted of dark, polished wood and light fabrics and the place was spacious and warmly lit. ‘I’m so sorry for turning up unannounced,’ said Rachel. ‘We would have called first but we couldn’t find your number anywhere.’ Hong-Li nodded gravely. ‘I know. Everybody look.’ His eyes took on a conspiratorial glint. ‘Nobody find.’ ‘Really? How come?’ ‘No telephone.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘Don’t like them! Anyway, no problem. You welcome here, always.’ ‘Thank you.’ He showed them to the little shrine in the corner by the window where the tea-lights still flickered in the half-light and the photographs were arranged into two rows of five. Then he left them, disappearing into another room. Rachel clasped her father’s hand as she studied the pictures one by one. She stopped when her eyes fell upon a young man who was undoubtedly related to Asher. The family resemblance quite struck her. The scene was a young man pointing to a blue building the in the background: The Xian Yin. She realised Emma must have been holding the camera at the time and relative to the scene in the picture she had been standing right where Rachel was now, looking out of the viewfinder. The realisation took her breath away and she froze until her thoughts were broken by her father. ‘Emma,’ he said. Rachel saw tears welling in his eyes as he touched the newspaper clipping of his daughter. He ran his fingers over her face. ‘Please forgive me.’ ‘She forgives you dad. You’re here aren’t you? That’s what counts.’ Hong-Li returned holding a flower that had been pierced through its stalk with a pin. Bowing a little, he handed it to Rachel and motioned towards the picture board. She took it and then remembered what she had in her handbag. She reached in and produced a flat metal key, which she hooked onto the flower’s pin then she attached the whole thing next to Emma’s newspaper clipping on the cork

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board. Neither Hong-Li nor her father asked what it was for and they all lowered their heads in remembrance.

Once again Asher had a beer in front of him and he was getting anxious. Rachel and her father had been gone for a while now and he was beginning to wonder if the taxi driver had been as reliable as he’d thought after all. But at least it had given him time to contemplate things. He wasn’t sure how much Rachel’s father knew but Asher and she had never really talked much about what had happened during the weeks that had followed Marcus’ death. Although Rachel knew about Ang Mo, he’d decided soon after the event not to say anything to Rachel about his alias, Mr Jones, or about his own alias, Oscar. That secret would go with him to the grave. ‘Another one Mr Asher?’ ‘No thanks Bert. I’m going to wait for my friends.’ ‘Good idea. Drinking alone not good way.’ No sooner had the words left this mouth, Rachel and her father appeared in the doorway and rubbed their hands in the warmth. Removing their coats, they walked over and sat next to him at the bar, Rachel closest. ‘Beginning to think you’d gone home without me,’ he said. ‘No chance,’ said Rachel. ‘Mine’s a white wine. Dad?’ ‘Beer please sweetie,’ said her father. Asher turned to the barman to order but didn’t get the chance. ‘Actually,’ butted in Rachel before he’d said anything. ‘Make mine a beer too.’ ‘Bert, three beers please!’ ‘Coming right up, Mr Asher.’ ‘How did it go then?’ ‘Good.’ Rachel nodded. ‘Hong-Li’s a nice guy. We did everything we came to do.’ ‘Uh, nearly everything,’ corrected Asher. ‘Hm?’ ‘I just wanted to talk about Marcus.’ Rachel’s eyes flashed a look of dread. ‘Really, why?’

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‘Still some things I’m not clear on you know. Like who he actually was. Where did he get all his money? We never talked about all that stuff.’ Rachel glanced at her father, who shrugged. ‘True. Well, he was just a childhood friend, you know? Seems he went off the rails and did his own parents in for their fortune. His father was very rich, some big-hitting lawyer or something, quite strict and Marcus was always jealous of what I had but would never admit it. We played at each other’s houses as kids but mostly he came round to ours because of the toys Dad bought me. His father, actually his step father I believe, rarely bought him anything so as a child Marcus hated him. Never liked him myself actually.’ ‘Wow, that could screw a kid up. OK, so how did you know he was lying? You know when he said I was crazy but you believed me? You didn’t trust him at all. You must have known something.’ ‘Couple of things I suppose. I did the sums in my head. He’d disappeared fifteen years ago when he was eighteen. That made him 33 this year, and you don’t bequeath money to someone when they turn 33, do you? He said he’d just got his hands on it but if any money was left to him it’s more likely he got it a few years ago when he was 30, don’t you think? Then, when he claimed you had him at gun point and he didn’t want the police involved, that made me suspicious.’ ‘They’re not real reasons though. Please tell me you had more to go on than that!’ ‘The clincher was that he knew Ade had been killed. There’s absolutely no way he could have known that unless he’d known my affairs. So logically he was the one who’d been following me and it all fell into place. If he was the one who’d been following me, then he was the one who’d tried to kill me. It was an easy decision after that.’ ‘Wow. Still a guess though?’ ‘But an educated one,’ grinned Rachel. ‘OK, OK. But why did Daintree believe me about the stadium bombing? If it was me, I’d have called me a nutter and locked me away.’ ‘Do you know what? I have no idea. I can only imagine he got wind of something before you saw him.’ ‘Yeah…he was involved in the investigation of your boss’ death. I saw it in the papers. He knew something alright.’ ‘And what about that terrorist?’

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‘Ang Mo?’ Asher immediately recalled Mr Jones and how he’d been on the brink of letting Mike the hit-man put a bullet in his brain. Now he was thankful he’d made that last minute, drunken call. At least he didn’t have that on his conscience. ‘Did he die?’ ‘Who knows? But one thing I do know is that he’s responsible for us all being here today.’ ‘And for Robert and Emma not being here. I wonder exactly how well they got to know each other back then. That would be interesting to know.’ They nodded in agreement that it would indeed be an interesting fact to know as Bert lined up three bottles on the bar. ‘Anyway,’ said Rachel. ‘Let’s make a toast. To Robert and Emma.’ They clinked bottles and toasted to their lost families. Then Asher stopped as a further thought struck him. He turned to Rachel. ‘Do you think we would have aborted if we could have?’ She sighed. ‘I’ve no idea. If we had, the likelihood is we wouldn’t be sitting here now.’ Asher grunted. ‘I couldn’t find an abort key anywhere.’ Asher noticed Rachel glance at her father, who had a distant, watery look in his eyes. Her father turned to meet her eye and he blinked away what Asher thought might have been a few tears. ‘Are you OK Richard?’ said Asher. ‘What?’ Rachel’s father snapped out of it. ‘You OK?’ ‘Oh, yes. It’s the bubbles. Very fizzy, this beer. What’s it called?’ ‘It’s my favourite. I’ll tell you how I found out about it…’

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