The Unseen (5 page)

Mark looked back at her and tried to decide. They were alone here, the pavement deserted, but if he gave her a good kicking, it might draw attention from passing cars. Better to get her to the flat, stay with mission schedule. The owners were holidaying for two weeks. He could gag her, enjoy her for days before she died. He smiled, hoping to convey reassurance. “That’s what I’m on. It takes time to get there, but serious money can be made once you complete training. You start off as a watcher then end in T Branch, counter-terrorism, or maybe K Branch, serious crime and espionage.”

When she caught up he crossed the bottom of Lambeth Bridge. He loved this spot, this place so close to MI5. “There it is.” He pointed to Thames House, keeping on the opposite side of the road as they walked the tree-lined embankment. He felt certain of re-establishing communications here. He always managed communication outside MI5.

“OK, gimme,” she said, holding out her hand, following along the stonewall dividing pavement from river.

“When we get to the flat. That’s over Vauxhall Bridge in Kennington.” He passed the last of the trees and looked across the river, along the embankment on the opposite side, to MI6. He was waiting on a call from MI6, waiting for acknowledgement. He was the universal soldier, it did not matter what agency employed him.

“You think I’m going to some flat, you’re out of your box.” She came behind, her voice rattling, irritating, seriously getting him annoyed.

“OK.” He turned to her and produced the second half of the twenty-pound note. “Here. If you do the interview you get another fifty and the bonus I promised.”

“You’re having me on, ain’t ya? What’s your game?”

He hated her. He wanted no more questions. She was a hostile, he wanted her obedience, he wanted her to understand discipline, the rigors of combat, of interrogation and pain. He had suffered, she must suffer. The beatings, the humiliation. He wanted her in pain. “Come to the flat and find out, you get fifty for the test. That’s seventy quid, plus what you got already.” He tried to smile but the pressure inside his head left no strength for animation. She was before him, hand out, begging, offering her stinking body.

“You ain’t got seventy quid, have you? You’re all mouth. You were never in the SAS. MI5, my tits. You’re a dickhead.”

The void dissolved as the Colonel spoke with clear and precise orders. “Immediate action, eliminate hostile.”

He was surprised at her lightness. Clutched by the chest and crotch, she went up like a beanpole, her rattling voice turning to a scream as she sailed over the embankment wall. It took seconds. He was unable to see her fall all the way. The cessation of her shriek came when she entered the dark water of the Thames below, then silence. The dog started yapping, nipping sharp bites to his ankles until he scooped its twisting body and hurled it out over the river. Then he had total silence.

“Hostiles down,” he repeated loudly to the Colonel, watching a car which had stopped by the kerb.

“You bastard.” The passenger door began to open. A fat woman stared at him. “You threw a dog over that wall. I saw you.”

“She annoyed me. You going to do something?” He moved towards her. The woman shouted and slammed the door as the car moved off.

Mark sucked on a forefinger where the dog’s teeth had bitten. Smart-arse bitch, who cares about a couple of dogs? He ran to the wall, hoisting himself to look over. Twenty feet below, brackish water rushed in tidal current, its surface unbroken, empty of life. “Enjoy your bath, Sisshy,” he repeated aloud and dropped back to the pavement, suddenly annoyed. What right had she to leave him? Now he had no-one. No one to play with, never anyone to play with. In the end they all went against him. “Returning to base.” He spoke to the Colonel on the combat radio in his head. He wrapped a clean handkerchief around his finger while walking back towards Parliament and the West End. “Returning to base,” he reported to no-one. “Combat proficiency proven. Zoby is number one.”

Richard Caswell sat in the PKL conference room hearing the traffic from below, his elbows on the polished glass table, his fake smile encompassing the development team. For the first time in his life he made serious money and the last thing he wanted was a bunch of nerds going moralistic on him. Before him were some of the best creative minds in the business, minds that covered programming, psychology and graphics. He wanted their skills but their professional ethics he could do without, and for that he relied on their greed. They were paid double the salaries given by competitors. Richard had an unshakeable faith in greed. Wileman’s prediction had proved correct.

“Listen, guys.” He kept his arms on the table, his hands open as if he embracing them all, yet speaking to each individual. “PKL is a computer games company. We keep our edge by being first at the research frontier. That costs money, so we contract out to others. Part of that research contract is in subliminal psychotic induction for security purposes. We send that research to our clients across the pond. It belongs to them, not us.”

“It’s illegal,” Joan Hincks said. She looked at him from a pinched face, her hair in a straggly knot, her figure loose and sloppy beneath ill-fitting clothes.

Richard improved his smile for her. Hincks was important to him. Ever since her recruitment to PKL he had consistently remained the absolute gentleman in her presence. That and his city suit style all helped his impeccable image as the hardworking entrepreneur.

“I’m aware of that, Joan,” Richard said and glanced through the glass at her knees. “The use of SPI is illegal. Our client, Dr Stella is using this research to form barriers she can offer against the unscrupulous use of SPI by rogue outfits. Look at it as a vaccine. You use a virus to protect against a virus.”

Dr Klass with beard and sockless feet tapped his fingers on the table. “We are currently experimenting with an image lasting one hundredth of a second. There is no brain in the world able to consciously read that. But subconsciously, yes it does. It’s dangerous.”

“My point exactly. So we need a computer to read it also and lay a defence, and that’s what this is about.”

“But we are sending it over the Internet as a virus. Don’t you realise the implications?”

Richard smiled at the chubby bearded doctor and longed to punch him in the face.

“That virus is sent to targeted volunteers, people who are aware of what is happening. You yourself volunteered as a guinea pig, Dr Klass.” Richard turned to Snibbard, his project manager. “What was this week’s colour?”

Snibbard looked through his folder. “Green,” he said. “Next week’s colour is yellow.”

Dr Klass looked down at his green shirt and pursed his lips. Others round the table smiled.

“That’s the extent of our influence, Dr Klass. For the last days, SPI over your computer has been suggesting you wear something green. Nothing sinister in that, and you did volunteer. Jill, you were a target this week. How about you?”

Jill Faulkner gave a tight grin and crossed her long legs. “That’s a secret between me and my hosiery.”

All laughed as Richard winked and tapped his nose. “So it should be. I see other guys wearing green, some who don’t.” Richard opened his hands. “Proof that what we do is harmless. Every person at this table had been sent SPI suggesting that they wear green, but every second person also had an anti-virus sent with built-in defence. Hence half of you wear green, while half don’t.”

Klass raised a pedantic finger. “But if used by a trusted supplier, one of the global networks, it would enable them to bring subliminal induction to mainstream software. Users would have no defence.”

“Doctor, our trials and research are used by Stella in defence of any unscrupulous body doing just that. All the big anti-virus software companies are probably researching the same. You notice the increase in flash advertising on our screens. Some may believe they can just step further, then further. We need to be prepared, we need defence. Buy breakfast cereals is one thing. But what about pay your taxes, vote fascist, obey the police?

We’re talking about Western democracy here. And it’s that ideal which Stella is looking to defend. Do you honestly believe a global provider with the wealth of a third world country would do anything to tarnish reputation and hence profits?” Richard sat back looking round the table deciding it time to play avarice against principle. “Our research facility is unique. I’ve a dozen PhDs on line everyday looking to join us. We’re a fun company bringing joy to people through games like PKL and Killing Field. Loosen up, guys. In two weeks our work will be finished and there’s a five million dollar bonus riding on the outcome. That’s five million dollars shared between each person around this table. Anybody want out? The choice is yours.”

“Providing we stay within the law and the ethics of our professions,” Klass said.

“No problem.” Richard sensed his smile spread over clenched teeth. “In return, I emphasise the binding terms of confidentiality and non-disclosure written into all our contracts. Should anybody think of breaching that confidentiality, their professional and financial demise will be draconian. Mention SPI research in conjunction with PKL and you’ll be financially dead.” He leant forward again and opened his hands. “So before I confirm payment of your five million dollar bonus structure, do we have any dissenters?” He watched them squirm. “Then all are agreed. Part of a five million dollar bonus will be paid to each who stay the course. But our research must be fully operational and with a single master copy on flash drive within one week, that’s our deadline, the bonus hangs on these conditions.”

Richard watched Klass shuffle with sheepish capitulation and felt gratified that there was nothing like greed to set the right moral tone.

“OK ladies and gentlemen, back to work.”

The meeting over, Richard flexed his thumbs behind braces and looked out the window of his Shoreditch office. The sixties building was not his idea of a grand palace but it served well as a city business address. He had a three-month lease left on two floors, plus a flat, coupled with a six-month lease on PKL’s industrial unit out in Milton Keynes. For the purposes of respectability, cost and administration, both buildings were ideally sited.

Snibbard approached as the others left, his exophthalmic eyes veiled by thick spectacles.

“You watch that Klass,” Richard told him. “You’re the project manager, arseholes are your responsibility.”

“Don’t worry, Rich. He wants the money.” Snibbard spread both hands, his eyes staring from a pale face beneath a domed head, his body sagging round the waist. “They have no idea about the hotels or what I put into the end-product.”

“For both our sakes they’d better not. We’re on to a good number here, Snibbsy. Design and marketing are mine, but programming is down to you. Don’t get fucked up by some moralist prat. Certain parties would not be pleased. Oscar Wileman likes his research kept very confidential. If he even suspected what we really did, well I wouldn’t want to think about it.”

Snibbard shrugged. “Don’t worry, it’s no problem. The Stella woman’s got no clue of our venture in Brighton. All programmes can be overwritten within four hours. In three months we’ll be multi-millionaires. We won’t need Wileman, like we stopped needing Sarah Finch.”

Richard felt a brief clutch of false emotion. “She’s dead. Don’t say anything against the dead, Snibbsy. That girl was special.”

“She knew.”

“That was your fucking fault.”

“I can’t hide SPI if there’s no screen movement. You’re the artist and graphic designer. To reach level ten you need eyes that could see a speeding bullet. She saw it.”

“Is that why you did her, to shut her up? If for one second I thought you had any involvement, Snibbsy, then old friendship would be tested.” Richard pointed his finger watching the other visibly cower.

“On my life, Rich. I told you, told the police. Never. I was here when it happened. So were you. How could it have anything to do with PKL or her discovery of SPI? She met some nutter in the woods. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Richard put a hand on Snibbard’s shoulder. “Buying a thirty percent stake in PKL showed her as gullible, too gullible. Sorry for my suspicions.”

“I feel too, Rich.” Snibbard’s hooded eyes blinked. “But no player does anything they don’t want to. I only put in the suggestion. SPI, that’s all it can do, suggest.”

“The world is full of weak minds, Snibbsy. It’s also full of greed and lust. That’s why we’ll make a fortune. But sharp eyes see, so we gotta stay loose. Be ready to cut and run.”

Snibbard stretched his lips in imitation of a smile. “Well, I meant to mention that, Rich. Sharp eyes have given us another little problem. I loaded a new virus into the Garden of Serenity but because the garden currently has little action, I slowed exposure from one in every twenty-fifth of a second, to every half a second. In all the trials no-one saw it, but they had normal, human eyes. This girl isn’t human. She opened the gates of Serenity, same as Sarah. If anyone does that, next time they go online, my station is automatically flagged, like it was with Sarah.”