Halting State (21 page)

“They told me we’ve been drafted,” she adds, stiffly, looking at you with an air of uncertainty, as if she’s half-expecting your head to start spinning round, or something. Maybe you ought to be getting emotional, but it’s just one weird blow on top of another today. People are trying to
kill
you, repeatedly: All you really feel is a numb sense of dread.

“I figured that much. As well?”

“It’s in the end-user license agreement to
SPOOKS
. The usual, we let them do background checks to determine credit worthiness and ‘eligibility to participate,’ it says. The anti-nutcase clause. And we signed to let them vary the T’s and C’s.”

“So?”

“The anti-nutcase clause is effectively a privacy waiver for positive vetting. And the T’s and C’s—”

“Official Secrets Act, as a click-through?”

“Something like that.” She shifts from one foot to the other restlessly, as if thinking about running away. “About your niece, Elsie is it? Are you close to her? Spooks Control says it was the other side.”

The other side.
A nice turn of phrase, but who exactly
are
the other side? And what does it
mean
? “They would say that, wouldn’t they.” You suppose you ought to feel angry, but you’re actually just filled with a monstrous sense of surprise. “I’m…not that close, really.”
It’s just my niece.
If it wasn’t
you
at the centre of it all, if it was some other poor bastard on the receiving end of this sinister post-modern joke, you’d be laughing hysterically. As it is, maybe crying
is
an appropriate response. “Let’s—”

The curtain jerks open, admitting a police officer, goggle-eyed and cammed up like a paratrooper wearing a spider-eyed mask. “Mr. Reed and Ms. Barnaby? I’m to take you across to Edinburgh. If you’d like to put your chop here…”

He hands you a clipboard and a pen, old-fashioned ink and a sticky panel for you to thumbprint at the bottom of the page of small print with the Saltire and red lion rampant, and as you sign your name to the revised EULA, you can feel the waters closing in over your head.

When the big electromagnet quenches, your first panicky thought is that it fucking
is
a bomb, and that slimy shite Michaels is lying through his pants. Then you realize that you’re still alive and, in fact, nobody is hurt—but it’s no thanks to
les Hommes de l’ONCLE
.

(Later you find an article in Wikipedia that explains it. Apparently when you warm up a superconductor to its critical temperature, and it stops superconducting, any electrons circulating in it suddenly stop circulating freely, and the energy all comes out as heat instantly. Which heats up the liquid nitrogen refrigerant the magnet is sitting in from about minus two hundred degrees to minus fifty degrees in a fraction of a second, vapourizing it—and the vapour occupies a whole lot more space than the liquid. So it’s not
far
off being a bomb.)

But when it happened, you weren’t expecting it. So one moment you were sitting there, listening to Barry Michaels out himself as some kind of spook, and the next thing you heard was a faint popping sound—more like a bump than anything, or maybe it’s a figment of your imagination—and then God’s own steam-whistle went off about two metres away from the back of your heid.

(In hospitals with body scanners, they put the magnets under a metal duct, venting through the ceiling and walls to the outside air, and they make sure the windows are all toughened glass and all the window units and doors are designed to blow open but not to pop out of their frames. And indeed, there’s a thing like a giant extractor hood hunching over the smoking thermos from hell in the warehouse from which Michaels has so signally failed to dismisseth the Leith police. And that’s probably what saves your life.)

For a few seconds the roaring whistling sound fills the room, bashing on your ear-drums and battering at your guts like the afterburning exhaust of a fighter at an air show, more like a jackhammer than an actual noise. Then it begins to die down. You take a deep breath, feeling light-headed, and the room begins to spin. It keeps spinning, and it’s really funny, you’ve got to laugh—it’s the aftermath of the explosion. Has somebody slipped you a popper? Because that’s what it feels like, it’s like you’ve gone from sober to six pints drunk in five seconds flat. And then your head begins to clear, and you feel sick with fright. “What’s happening? Liz! Tell me!”

Liz is gasping for breath, too, and there’s a rattling thunder of fans, a tangible blast sucking a draft of air in through the suddenly flapping doorway. “Be. Okay. In a minute.”

The door slams open again as the S Division boyos race in, guns drawn and twitchy. “On the ground! On the ground!” One of them shouts at Kemal, obviously getting completely the wrong end of the stick. “On the ground, motherfucker!”

“He’s ours,” calls out McMullen. “Call an ambulance crew, we, we need oxygen in here.”
No shit,
you think: Kemal is on the floor, gasping and twitching and generally not looking terribly healthy. “Evac, evacuate the building.”

Three minutes later you’re arguing with a paramedic who wants you to lie down on his wee stretcher so he can play doctors and constables. “I’m fine, dinna worry about me,” you reassure him. Which isn’t entirely true—you’ve got a splitting headache left over from when the gadget blew out its load—but the only person who’s really in need of help seems to be Kemal, and he’s on his way to the Western General in the back of an ambulance with a mask strapped to his face. “I gotta fill in the chief.”

You manage to make your way over to the mobile incident headquarters, where the uniform on duty nods you through to the back office. Liz is already there, with McMullen and Michaels, and Detective Superintendent Verity, and Kemal’s deputy Mario, none of them looking terribly happy. “Shut the door, Smith,” snaps Verity. McMullen, looking very out of place in his golfing duds, points a finger at Michaels. “You have some explaining to do.”

Michaels glances at his watch. “Not as much as you will if you don’t come up with a good cover story,” he mutters. He sounds genuinely rattled.
So it’s pass the exploding surprise whoopee cushion public enquiry parcel, is it?
you wonder. “If it wasn’t for the damned meddling flying squad, or that prize twat Wayne…”

McMullen takes a deep breath. Judging by the expression on his face, you figure he’s keeping a tight lid on. Poor bastard—this isn’t the kind of hole in one he’d been expecting to handle on his day off. “Would one or the other of you please explain the situation in words of one syllable?” he finally manages.

“I suppose so.” Michaels pats back a fly-away wisp of blond hair. “Hayek Associates are what used to be called a front company. On the one hand, they do what it says on the tin—stabilize in-game economies, maximize stakeholder fun, that kind of thing. On the other hand, they give us a good opportunity to keep an eye on certain disorderly elements who like to meet up in one game space or another to swap dragon-slaying hints, as it were.”

“Who is ‘us’?” Liz asks.

Michaels frowns. “You don’t need to know that, but Mr. McMullen”—the deputy chief nods, lugubriously—“can vouch for us. In any case, you need to understand that most of Hayek Associates’ employees are just what they appear to be. When the robbery took place, Wayne panicked—I can confirm that he’s a civilian—and called you. Which caused us to acquire an audit trail in CopSpace, which is monitored by—”

“They have no need to know,” interrupts Mario. He looks at Michaels, pleadingly. “Can this wait for Kemal?”

“Other agencies, as I was saying,” Michaels continues, as if the interruption hadn’t taken place. “An elite pan-European counter-espionage police task force. Who promptly put two and two together and got five, hence this morning’s little excursion.”

“The warehouse.” McMullen gives Michaels a hard stare. “It’s yours?”

There’s a brief pause, then Michaels inclines his head. “Yes. Nothing to do with that blacknet you’re looking for in Leith. All those machines are just there to feed data in and out of the 5-million-pound quantum processor that your
idiot friend
”—he almost snarls at Mario—“has comprehensively broken.”

You try to catch Liz’s eye, but she’s doing the Botox thing, cheek muscles virtually paralysed.
Pounds not euros
—so it’s an English thing. Under the articles of independence MI5 and MI6 and GCHQ and SOCA and the rest of the southern intelligence apparat have got the free run of Scotland; meanwhile, the Republic’s own intel capabilities are strictly local, mainly focussed on keeping an eye on the local Muj bampots down the pub and suchlike. It’s on a level with the rest of Scotland’s military and diplomatic clout—strictly toytown. (After all, who on earth would want to invade Scotland?) But more importantly, you can hear the well-nigh-deafening silence of Michaels lying by omission. If this was Saturday night down the shop, he’d be clamming up and calling for his solicitor rather than answering the next question, which is,
Why is MI6 (or whoever) running a multi-million-pound operation to bug
gamers
down in Leith?

“You could tell them the truth,” Liz volunteers slowly.

“Yes?” McMullen looks thoughtful.

“Faulty intelligence led to a major counter-terrorism raid in Leith. Which turned over a sporting goods warehouse instead of an Al Qaida cell.” She shrugs. “It’s bad PR, but we explain we were overruled by the suits from Brussels who organized it without consulting us. Blame Kemal”—she nods at Mario, who looks outraged—“and we’re off the hook, and more importantly, the spotlight is off Mr. Michaels as well.”

“Suits me,” Michaels says dismissively.

“I’ll have to run that one by the chief, but it ought to fly.” McMullen nods thoughtfully. “You”—he points at Mario—“you can keep your mouth shut. With your boss in the hospital, you’re off the hook, and with your boss in the hospital and not answering any damn fool questions, there’s nobody who can tell the press otherwise.”

“It is an outrage!” Mario vents. “We are not responsible!”

“So?” Liz glares at him, then turns to look at Michaels. “Next you’re going to tell us you want this burying so deep it’s in danger of coming up in China. Am I right?”

Michaels splutters. “Absolutely! Of course—what do you think we are?”

She regards him coolly. “I think you’ve got a leak.”

He stares right back. “That’s none of your business, and I’d appreciate it if you would desist from further speculation along those lines.”

“That’s enough.” McMullen rounds on Michaels. “You’ve done enough damage already, or have you not noticed we’ve had to shut down traffic to half the north side of the city? So I’d appreciate it if you’d cease with your high-minded requests and leave us to sort things out.” He’s building up a head of steam, is the deputy chief constable, and you’re torn between fascination at this fly-on-the-wall opportunity to see the boss in action, and the fear that he’s going to take it out on someone under his authority. “And then you and me and the super and Kavanaugh here are going to sit down, and you’re going to tell us what you can about what’s going on so we can stop blundering around in the dark and stamping on your corns.”

“What about us?” Mario demands plaintively.

McMullen finally blows his top. “Fuck off back tae Brussels, and I won’t have to prosecute you for wasting police time!”

Three hours later you’re back at the station. It’s been a busy morning, mopping up after the horrendous mess Kemal’s flying circus left behind, but eventually you get a chance to catch a late lunch. Unfortunately, before you can cut and run, Liz Kavanaugh catches your eye. “Sergeant, let’s do lunch together.”

Ah, fuck it.
You know an order when you hear one. You were planning on catching up on your paperwork—there’s that wee ned to keep track of, and the incontinent dog owner the council keeps yammering on about, not to mention last week’s B&E cases—but Liz obviously has something else in mind. So you nod dutifully and play along. “Where’d ye have in mind, skipper?”

“There’s a nice little Turkish bistro on the Shore, they do excellent meze.” She holds up a car keyfob. “I’m buying.”

Well, that’s no’ so bad.
You follow Liz out of the station, and she lets you into her car—a compact Volvo, very nice—then drives down into Leith and parks next to the Shore. “What do you want to talk about?” you ask her receding back, as she heads up the pavement.

“Patience, Sergeant.”

Okay, so it’s
serious
. (If it wasn’t, she wouldn’t mind nattering about it.) You trot along after her as she ducks round a corner and leads you to a couple of pavement tables outside a small diner, opposite a small aquatic appendix pinched off from the harbour by a low bridge that appears to have been built on.

“Have a seat, Sergeant—Sue. We’ve got plenty of time for lunch: I’ve booked this as a meeting.” She smiles, but there’s something uneasy about the expression. It doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s got her back to the glass front window of the bistro and keeps scanning the road as if she’s expecting someone. “I think you should go off-line.”

“You sure, skipper?” You raise one eyebrow at that, and when you blink, the speech-stress plug-in is showing red spikes all over Liz.

“Yes.”

You slip your glasses off and physically unplug them, slipping their battery out. Then you reach into your left upper-front torso pocket, pull the PDA, and pop the fuel cell. “Satisfied?”

A bendy-bus slinks by and blasts you with a haze of bio-diesel, power pack roaring. Liz nods wordlessly, then pulls her own PDA out and gives it the miser’s standby. “Position your chair so you’re talking away from the window,” she says. “I don’t want anyone bouncing a laser off it.”

“Whae the fuck?” But you do as she says, more surprised than anything else.

A thin smile. “You can buy laser-acoustic mikes for thirty euros in Maplins online these days, Sue. And the people I’m worried about won’t think twice about breaking the law by using them.”

“You think Michaels sold us a line of bullshit?” you burst out, finally unable to contain yourself.

“I don’t think so, I
know
so.” She rubs the side of her cheek, where the headset normally rides. “Problem is, I don’t know whether he did it to keep us distracted or to make us do some dirty work for him, or what.”

“But if he’s lyin’, he’s a—”

She waves a hand, cutting you off. “One thing you can be sure of is, he
is
what he said he is. It checks out. There’s a…a restricted access file. Hard copy only, the best kind of security: They keep it in a locked room at Fettes Road. I had a look at it while you were in debrief. Michaels is on the list. We can’t touch him.”

A waitress wanders outside, sees you both, and smiles: A moment later you’re puzzling over a menu as Liz continues to lay the situation out.

“Hayek Associates are a front for some sort of intelligence-gathering operation. Something went wrong, and the non-spook employees hit the panic button before anyone could stop them. They’ve got a quantum processor down in Leith. Those things don’t grow on trees, Sue, I’ve been doing some reading about them and it scares me. Kemal saying TETRA is compromised scares me even more. And so does that flaky set-up in Nigel MacDonald’s flat, because it’s a dead ringer for a blacknet node we took down last year.”

“What’s a quantum processor for?” That one’s been puzzling you all morning. It looked more like Dr. Frankenstein’s work-bench than any other machine you’ve ever seen.

“Not my field, I don’t know much more about IT than you do.” She frowns. “But I know what they
do
—they’re used for special types of calculation. Not doing your word processing or playing games, but things like calculating how proteins fold, or breaking codes. And you know what? This whole thing with Hayek Associates and the robbery in Avalon Four is about codes, isn’t it? The codes your programmers were going on about, that pin down where a magic sword or whatever
is
.”

“But they wouldna buy a quantum processor just so’s they could rip off their customers, is that what you’re sayin’?”

“Yup.” Her cheek twitches. Liz is clearly not a happy camper today. “Who’s to say precisely
what
bunch of codes they’ve been cracking with it? Say what you will, mobile gaming takes bandwidth, so Hayek have a great excuse for running lots of fat pipes in and out of the exchanges. And I don’t think they’re going to tell us what they’re doing with it, do you? So if we want to crack this case, we’ve got to go after it from other angles. Did you get anywhere looking for the mysterious Mr. MacDonald?”