Chaos was Bridge’s default mode for living, but the flat was getting beyond the norm. Boot socks tossed over the arm of the sofa, two pairs of tights and a bra over the back, a tangle of t-shirts and leggings on the floor, three used dinner plates in danger of growing legs and walking themselves to the washing-up bowl, a half-finished mug of coffee that could have been there a few days or a few weeks… Even her desk was messier than normal, covered in parts of a failed old tower Compaq from which she was trying to rescue the hard drive, and the various tools she’d been using to take it apart.
Something itched at the back of her brain. Taking apart. Computer parts. Tools.
Andrea’s report on the Shoreditch office. A line, innocuous: ‘A workbench appeared to be in heavy use, covered in broken-down computer parts. GCHQ liaison advises these consisted mostly of wifi chips and antennae, likely to build signal transceivers and range extenders.’
Steve Wicker wasn’t officially named in the report for security reasons, but Bridge guessed he was the ‘GCHQ liaison’ in question. And Steve knew his hardware. If he said Marsh/Bowman had been taking apart and building range extenders, that was good enough for her.
Range extenders. Wifi-controlled drones. Fissile material that you’d want to unleash in a crowded environment, an urban gathering, some kind of party…
Bridge spilled milk from her cornflakes as she scrambled for her HP, memories of Agenbeux racing through her mind. Montgomery, vain and egotistical, desperate for recognition and reward. Preening at the thought of Whitehall noticing what a good job he was doing, convinced they were throwing a party just for him, to sing For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow and pat him on the back.
She opened the laptop, established a secure connection to the office, and started typing. Three hours later she still hadn’t had any coffee, but she did have a theory.
78
GROUP: france.misc.binaries-random
FROM: zero@null
SUBJECT: new art
79
The post from Novak was unexpected, but Bowman had learned very quickly the Russian was full of surprises. That was why he’d been hired, after all.
But it could wait till after mission end. Novak had already missed the previous week’s deadline for final code leaks, and nothing he could offer now would help anyway. He probably just wanted more money. Bowman’s own deadline had been yesterday, leaving today for debugging only. Too late to incorporate any more information from Exphoria, and there didn’t seem much more to learn. His own work, combined with the leaked code he’d seen, would suffice. He did miss the Shoreditch office, and wished he could have stayed there to see out the mission, but comfort was for the weak. Only completion mattered. This place in Rotherhithe was fine, and he was glad of the foresight to take out a cash rental on it months ago, as a backup. But it was further out from the target than Shoreditch, and freezing cold.
More than anything, it was England’s cold he’d been unprepared for. Even during the summer, it was merely clement compared to the heat he was used to.
Thinking of home was a mistake. He struggled to shut down such thoughts. Memories of his parents, unbidden and unwanted, scratching at the edges of his awareness. Trying to overwhelm him. His mother, hanging in silence, her arms stiff and lifeless by her side. She opened her eyes to stare at him, asking without speaking, How could you let this happen, Daniel? He turned away, shaking. He had no answer.
All he had was now, this moment, this vengeance. Here, in London, not Hong Kong.
Get a grip, lad. His father, invisible and deafening. We didn’t raise you to be soft.
He took a deep breath, chanted a mantra, and cleared his mind. He was focused. He was in the moment. He got a grip.
The first wave, five quadcopters of varying design, rose quietly into the air at his command, fingers dancing over the keyboard of his Acer laptop, manipulating with practised ease the control program he’d spent so long perfecting. Each drone was different, but they were all fitted with identical low-slung cargo attachments. He let them hover at eye level and walked among the mismatched flock, triple-checking their cargo and flying condition. Get a grip.
The second wave consisted of four identical drones, with enclosed blades and sound bafflers that rendered them almost silent in flight. He’d removed all identifying marks from their exterior, leaving a jet-black body that would be invisible in the night sky. They sat patiently on the concrete floor, in formation and ready to rise at his command. To deliver the killing blow.
The endgame had begun, and Daniel Bowman smiled in the certain knowledge that as he spent the last weeks of his life in agony, the man from the market wouldn’t even know he was playing.
80
“Ms Sharp has a theory. You’re going to want to hear it.”
Bridge’s call had caught Giles as he left a budget meeting, irritable and short on patience. When she arrived at Vauxhall, he was waiting in the CTA office with Ciaran and Monica. She explained her thought process, and showed them what she’d found that afternoon. They spent the next two hours checking her findings, and digging further into the records, while Giles arranged an end-of-day meeting with everyone concerned.
Now they were in Broom Two, the second-largest briefing room in the building. Andrea Thomson and Sunny Patel were on
