The Fish Kisser (46 page)

“I hope so. We can't get out without her.”

“It'll be your fault if we all get killed,” Owain complained.

“So! Sue me …” started Bliss then stopped—this was no time for a fight. “Sorry …” he began, then idled in thought: Sorry for-what? Risking my life for a freak like LeClarc; for chasing a kidnapped stranger across two continents; for trying to rescue you and your ungrateful mates; for getting Yolanda shot … This is all way over my head. I'm a cop—not James Bond. “Sorry,” he said, leaving Owain, to fill in the blanks, then moved on, “Tell me about this computer virus.”

“We call it C.I.D.”

Bliss, still pre-occupied with concern for Yolanda, unthinkingly blurted out, “Criminal Investigation Department?”

“No you idiot. Computer Immune Deficiency.”

“Sorry,” he said, for a third time, determined to concentrate.

“It works by making the computer blind to viruses.”

“How?”

“We don't know. That's what they needed us for. They've got it working now they want to find a way to stop it.”

“I still don't get it.”

“Computer viruses behave the same as human viruses,” he explained. “It's like getting the flu. The computer gets sick, makes mistakes, slows down, and gradually deteriorates. Without treatment the virus
eventually kills it, and every time we find a cure, there's a slightly different strain waiting to take its place.”

“So what's different about C.I.D.?”

“It isn't really a virus. It doesn't make the computer sick, it masks the presence of other viruses. When a computer has C.I.D it rejects any attempt at a cure because it won't accept it's sick. Then it passes it to every other computer it connects with.”

Bliss was catching on. “So the Internet will spread the virus, or whatever it is, from computer to computer.”

“Not just the Internet. Defence systems, banks, communication and navigation satellites all operate on relays of computers—it's called convergence. If it gets into the system anywhere it will infest the whole lot. The Iraqis reckon ninety percent of the world's computers will be infected within six months of ‘D' day.”

“ ‘D' day?”

“Yeah. The beginning of the end—the invasion. They're calling C.I.D. the Millennium Vengeance, so we reckon it'll be soon.”

Bliss slowly repeated, “The Millennium Vengeance,” and tried to grasp its significance. “Do unto others as they have done unto you, I suppose.”

Owain nodded. “As far as they're concerned, we filthy western imperialists crushed their economy and turned them into a backward third world country. Now they're bent on revenge.”

Bliss thought for a moment, then asked, “If it isn't stopped?”

Owain sucked in a deep, noisy breath. “Chaos,” he declared simply. “Absolute, complete bloody chaos … Oh, it'll seem funny at first. You might even find an extra million or two in your bank account. But it won't be so bloody funny when planes start crashing; ships get lost and run aground; satellites
fall out of orbit; defence systems start declaring war on each other …”

“Surely the experts will realize there's something wrong and shut the computers off.”

“Experts,” he snorted, his opinion showing. “They'll be the bloody problem. They're convinced their systems are foolproof—protected with passwords, firewalls, virus scans and even 128-bit encryption.”

“What's that?”

“128-bit encryption …” he started, teacher-like, then changed his mind and offered a simplified explanation. “It's just an unbreakable code to stop unauthorized access. But C.I.D. doesn't break into the system: it's part of the system. That's the clever thing; it disguises itself so well even the guy who designed it wouldn't find it.”

Yolanda groaned as she sought a more comfortable position, but Owain's passion demanded Bliss' attention. “Do you have any idea how crucial computers are to the way we live, Dave?” he whispered. “Imagine what it will be like without faxes, phones, radios, television. Even the power stations will shut down. Commodity markets will go haywire; stock prices plummet. Then the whole trading system will collapse as the computers get C.I.D. It'll throw the western world into a tailspin. We'll be back to buying local produce at the corner store.”

“That's not such a bad idea,” suggested Bliss, completely sidestepping the potential hazards of global dysfunction.

Owain ignored him and forged ahead with his catalogue of catastrophe. “Look at the fuss they made about the Y2K—remember—when all the computer clocks had to be switched from 1999 to 2000?”

Bliss nodded. “So?”

“That bug was a gnat's bite compared to what the Iraqis have got their hands on.” He paused, shaking his head in dismay, contemplating a disintegration of modern society. “There'll be worldwide shortages of manufactured goods,” he continued, “Most factories can't operate without robots …”

Bliss interrupted, “I hadn't thought of that.”

“Everything's run by computers, Dave, and they're networked like a billion-headed hydra: Bite off one head and the whole thing dies. One infected machine will destroy them all. It would take years to rebuild the systems and you'd only need to miss one infected one to screw the whole thing up again. There'll be civil wars as communities fight over dwindling resources. It could take us back to the bloody stone age. Survival of the fittest; most ruthless; best armed.”

“Christ, that's going a bit far isn't it. You're making it sound like the third world war.”

“Well?”

Bliss' voice jumped an octave. “You're serious.”

Owain nodded gravely. “Worldwide anarchy. Control the Internet and you control the world—that's what they're after—total world domination without firing a shot. A megalomaniac's dream. We've created a bloody monster, and all monsters turn on their masters eventually—all it needs is for some crackpot in the Middle East to tweak the hydra's tail and one of the heads will take a chunk out of the Dow Jones.”

“But they aren't going to control it, they're going to destroy it,” said Bliss, punching a huge hole through the Welshman's theory.

Owain's voice rose in frustration. “That's the whole idea you bonehead; that's why they needed us. We were supposed to be finding a program to control the C.I.D. If they have the antidote, the rest of
the world will be forced to pay their price, whatever it is …”

His tirade was interrupted by a loud, “crack,” that rang through the hollow interior of the freight plane. Sleeping men woke with a start. Bliss jumped, then held his breath as his ears strained. Nothing happened. He tried to recreate the sound in his mind. What was it ? Gunshot or metal cooling from the day's heat.

“What was that?” questioned Owain, his staccato shout startling everybody again.

Bliss felt a tug on his arm. Yolanda had woken, her voice was weak. “I'm going to throw up she said, and did. As the vomiting ended the coughing began: violent spasms full of pain. “Sorry, Dave,” she said when she finally stopped.

He cradled her head in his hands. “You'll be fine. We'll be back in Turkey in no time.”

“Dave listen.” Her voice, distressed by the bout of coughing was barely a whisper, “I can't fly this.”

A tone of annoyance crept into his voice. “Why not?”

“It's not a bloody car,” she began angrily; angry at herself; angry for getting them into the situation; angry for letting him down. But then she picked on him, hoarsely shouting. “I'm not superman. I can't just turn a key and drive away.” The exertion started her coughing again.

Stroking her forehead he waited until the convulsions stopped. “Look I know it's not easy but we don't have any choice. Remember what you said to me at the border?” She shook her head slowly—he sensed the movement and felt the vibes—she didn't want to remember.

“You told me to do it for my daughter,” he reminded her. “Won't you at least try for your kid's sake.”

His words found their mark and for a few seconds there was utter silence—the world waited. Then a searchlight's beam splashed across the tarmac, breaking the spell as it struck the windshield and spilled inside.

“They're looking for us,” said Bliss as he held her tightly, feeling her frail body jerking and twitching as she sobbed. “I'm sorry,” he added, regretting he had added to her suffering with mention of her child.

“Who'll look after him, Dave?” she asked, revealing she had a son.

The searchlight persisted, sweeping back and forth, probing, seeking, pursuing.

A voice full of fear cracked the tense air. “They're going to find us.”

“They will if you don't belt up,” Bliss whispered harshly. “Who's got the guns?”

Voices murmured their acknowledgement.

“Right,” he continued. “Those with the guns get near the hatch—at least we can take some of the bastards with us.”

He started to rise but she held him back. “Do something for me.”

“What? Anything,” he said, thinking: It's her child—she's going to ask to me to take care of him if she doesn't make it. Now what?

“Shoot me,” she said.

His gasp of surprise could be heard throughout the plane. “What?”

“Don't wait 'til they find us. You might run out of bullets. Shoot me now.”

He tried to pull away—she held on. “Promise you'll shoot me before they find us.”

“But we might get away.”

“How? I can't run. I can't even walk. Please promise you'll shoot me.”

A splash of light picked out her features as her head lay on Bliss' rolled up jacket. He could almost feel the pain dragging down the corners of her mouth and furrowing her brow. The sparkle in her eyes had evaporated in sadness. “Shoot me now,” she implored earnestly, “before it's too late.”

He swallowed hard, and his right hand trembled, rattling his gun's muzzle against the metal floor. The fingers of his left hand delicately traced the lines in her brow. “I can't,” he said so softly she didn't hear.

“Please, Dave. Kill me.”

“I can't,” he insisted. “Not yet anyway.”

“You won't do it will you.” Her sad eyes looked away and stared into the future. “You know what they did to the American woman. Do you think it will be different for me?”

“But you're hurt,” he protested.

The searchlight had passed, he could no longer see her face but felt the shake of her head. The calmness in her voice belied her fear. “They won't care. They'll rape and torture me, then they'll stone me to death, won't they?”

She's right, he said to himself, but would not dignify it by an admission.

“If I'm going to die …” she carried on.

He interrupted, “You're not going to die … think of your son. He needs you.”

Tears he couldn't see dribbled down her cheeks. Hurt he couldn't feel gnawed into her mind. “He doesn't even know me,” she whimpered, then catalogued her nightmare. A teenaged girl's rebellious relationship—rejecting her father's business wasn't enough. A migrant Turkish worker—one of a million drawn to northern Europe in search of golden pavements: Darkly mysterious, dangerous, irresponsible,
and irrational, reckless even—of course, but wasn't that the point?

The pregnancy had struck like a tornado and she'd taken cover until it was too late to do anything—other than run or brazen it out. She ran—to him. Cut off from her father's largesse she lost some of her glitz, and Mr. Mysterious quickly tired of supporting a snivelling teenager and her child, so he shoved off in search of a more glittering pasture. But with him went their infant son, destined for a traditional Muslim upbringing with a distant relative in Turkey. “What did you expect?” her father had scolded when she'd slunk home distraught. And he was right. Mr. Mysterious had always made it clear that marriage was out of the question, citing all the impediments of a mixed-race relationship she'd given Bliss. “You're a foreigner,” he'd summed up, leaving her thinking: Aren't we all?

Bliss listened, his mood darkening as she recounted the horror of losing a child—not by death. “I could have got over that,” she said. “It's the not knowing that kills you inside.”

“And you never found him?” enquired Bliss, stifling a tear.

“No,” she admitted simply, “I never found him.” though the simplicity of her words discredited the years she'd devoted to her quest.

That explains her knowledge of Istanbul, thought Bliss, realizing immediately how little he knew and how wrong he'd been: Exotic luxury getaways, he'd assumed, and had imagined her being pampered and mollycoddled at the Yesil Ev—manicures, mud-baths and mountains of Bosphorus bluefish. Whereas, in truth, she'd been ferreting out clues, greasing greasy palms for snippets of information, and scouring the seedy back-streets and smelly bazaars of Istanbul for a
spotty teen with strikingly blue eyes. No wonder she jumped at the prospect of a trip to Istanbul, and no wonder she was reluctant to get involved with another foreigner. She was still dealing with the aftermath of the last.

“I could help you …” Bliss started.

She stopped him with the force of her voice. “Dave, listen. I'm just trying to be sensible. If I'm going to die I would like to remember you were the last man who made love to me, not some …”

He tried again, more forcefully, “You are not going to die.”

“We're in the middle of Iraq. No one knows we're here. We've killed a load of their guards. Half the army's probably looking for us and I can't fly this stupid plane.” She gasped several deep breaths, winding herself up to a finale, then concluded, “We are going to die, and I'm trying to tell you I love you. I love you more than I've loved any other man.”