13
There was still no alarm at fifty metres, which surprised him.
He ran a hand through his sandy blond hair and considered the possibilities. He couldn’t have heard an alarm anyway, as there was no audio feed. But he did have visual, and he’d expected to see something happen, for someone to make a call or issue a warning.
Could whoever designed the building security really have been so backward, so old-fashioned, that they didn’t think it worth scanning for objects below a certain size? The city had a pigeon problem, it was true, but when it came to security it was always safer to have false positives than negatives. And if they weren’t scanning for this kind of threat, it was all but guaranteed there was no automated defence system in place. Those were still considered bleeding edge experimental, and were extremely expensive. Welcome to London, he thought, city of budget cuts, shortcuts, and half-finished jobs.
Still, this was all better for him. Better for the plan. Alarm or not, if he could navigate the high winds well enough to get within fifty metres, he was confident he could reach the glass before a live officer had time to take action. The glass itself was strengthened, but he’d accounted for that. And once the glass was gone, the next stage would be out of his hands and the wind wouldn’t be a problem any more.
The transceiver pods had passed his own rigorous tests under controlled circumstances. But out here, in a live field, there were a hundred different things that could interfere with their operation, block a crucial part of the signal, or randomly shield a particular bandwidth.
That hadn’t happened. Even in Shoreditch, almost two miles away, signal throughput was over 85%.
At thirty metres he steered away from the towering glass edifice and smiled.
14
Bridge was still annoyed with herself for not logging on to chat with Tenebrae_Z last night, but felt better for a decent night’s sleep and morning workout. Showered and fresh, she entered Vauxhall Cross ready to face Giles and, more importantly, a big decision for her own future.
She was an analyst, a hacker, made to sit in front of a computer and use her brain. Not a doorkicker like Adrian Radović or the hundreds of OITs like him SIS sent all over the world, to skulk in the shadows ‘with gun and guile’, as a senior ops director had once put it to her. Coming to terms with that would be a challenge, she knew. It was like she was admitting some kind of defeat. But this was one loss she was pretty sure she could live with.
She took a deliberately circuitous route to the CTA office, to ensure there was no chance she’d bump into Giles if he was in early. She even passed on her usual coffee from the floor kitchen, just in case.
Ciaran was at his desk, sifting through the overnights from GCHQ. “Morning, morning,” he said, holding out his Captain Picard mug without looking away from his screen. “If you’re making a coffee, I’ll take one.”
She hung up her coat and kicked her gym bag into the corner. “Not right now. I’m seeing Giles in ten.”
Ciaran tore himself away from his monitor, peering out from behind it with a look of concern. “You make it sound like being called into the headmaster’s office. Something up?”
Bridge shrugged and smiled. “Sort of, but it’s OK. Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”
Monica flung the door open and strode into the room, snorting impatiently. “Morning.”
“Delays?” asked Ciaran, turning back to his screen as Monica threw her bag and coat under her desk.
“Didn’t you see the news? They pulled some poor bastard out of the river. Turns out he lived at the end of my road, it took me fifteen minutes to walk a hundred yards thanks to the cops. I missed my train.” Bridge winced in sympathy. Monica was a creature of punctual habit, and missing her usual morning train would sour her for the rest of the day.
She picked up the remote control and jabbed it at the office’s wall-mounted TV. The remote practically lived on her desk anyway; nobody else wanted to delve into the mess they found there, so they just left it to Bridge to operate. The screen blinked into life, eternally tuned to BBC 24 hour news.
“Now, more on the body found floating in the Thames in the early hours of the morning. Police haven’t yet released the man’s identity, but gave us this statement:”
The feed cut to the banks of the Isle of Dogs, where a police Inspector spoke to reporters while officers and paramedics circled in the background. “At oh-six-hundred this morning, we received an emergency call alerting us to the presence of a body in the water,” said the Inspector. “Upon investigation, we confirmed the body to be that of a fifty-year-old man, who was then pronounced dead at the scene.”
“Do you suspect foul play?” asked a reporter.
“At this time we’re not prepared to speculate on the cause of death, but we would ask anyone who was in the area of Docklands either last night or this morning, and may have witnessed any suspicious or abnormal activity, to come forward and speak to us in confidence.”
“Have you identified the man? Did he have a criminal record?”
“We have made a preliminary identification, but until we confirm it we’re not releasing that information at this time. We currently have no reason to believe the man was known to police.”
The feed returned to the studio, and the newsreader moved on to the next story. Bridge muted the volume and turned to Monica. “He might say that, but if the cops were on your street, they must be pretty confident about that prelim ID.”
Monica nodded. “Yeah, they had the house cordoned off and everything. No way they don’t know exactly who he is.”
“Did you?” asked Ciaran. “Know him, I mean.”
Monica
