Then again, Bridge knew analysts who would argue self-sufficiency was only a step away from alienation, and had a direct effect on the ease with which modern terrorism and right-wing populism had spread. Swings and roundabouts.
Thinking about terrorism brought her back to the codes. With Ten’s solitary life, Bridge couldn’t blame MI5 for suspecting he might be involved. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that, though she could believe whoever killed him might have terrorist links. In the course of her work at SIS, she’d seen much more innocuous evidence that turned out to have militant roots. Then again, could it just be old-school espionage? The use of codes and newspaper crosswords put her in mind of old stories from the few remaining Cold War veterans at SIS, or tales of the Special Operations Executive during World War II. But that wasn’t how espionage was done, these days. What kind of throwback would even consider using a cipher like that?
She swallowed the last of her burger, wiped her fingers on a paper napkin, and pulled out her personal phone.
A text from Izzy, with a short video of Hugo causing lunchtime havoc on the Eurostar that gave Bridge her first laugh of the day.
A calendar reminder for tomorrow, to visit the launderette.
An alert from her pedometer app noting she’d done over ten thousand steps today, thanks to her visit to Catford.
An email from Ten.
Her thumb hovered over the notification, ready to swipe but held back by her surprise. The email address was definitely him. It wasn’t a mailing list notification, or a chat server alert, or a bloody Facebook birthday notice (not that she was FB friends with him anyway; she only kept it around because Izzy and her mother insisted on using it to message her).
No, this was an email from [email protected]. Could she have been wrong? Was Declan O’Riordan someone else, after all? Was her friend still alive? But she remembered the photos of the u.l.g-n members, the picture of herself, how the posters were all Ten’s favourite bands, and then she saw the subject line.
FAO Brigitte - Important
Her thumb had become stone, immovable. She lowered the iPhone, knowing the untouched screen would go to sleep in a few seconds. High in the restaurant ceiling the aircon vent vibrated, pumping out recycled cool air. Her fellow patrons, not many tonight, chattered and gossiped. The metallic clink of utensils and stainless steel cookware sounded from behind the counter, as orders were prepared. She focused on the sights and sounds around her, everywhere but the table, anywhere but her phone. Then Bridge exhaled.
Ten. And breathe, and count. Nine. And breathe, and count. Eight —
She lifted the phone and swiped her thumb.
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: FAO Brigitte - Important
Hi Brigitte,
Please don’t be alarmed that I know your real name - I know most of ulgn☺s real IDs, it☺s not that hard when you have high access to routing servers and stuff. You could say it☺s part of my job…except it turns out, it☺s actually more like your job, isn☺t it?
I used your real name because I really, really need you to read this. I☺m setting this up just after you told me to be careful. I know I laughed, but in the back of my mind, I suppose I☺m thinking it can☺t hurt. And what could be more careful than a dead man☺s trigger? So if I check in sometime in the next 24 hours, this email will never send, and you☺ll never read this, and I☺ll feel well daft for writing it.
But if you☺re there now, well you know why. I’m going to take one last precaution, because if you☺re right - and I suppose you☺d know, wouldn☺t you - then it☺ll be worth it. I assume you can find out where I live easily enough. There☺s a skull candlestick in the kitchen, and I☺m going to leave my garage keys underneath. All I☺ll say here is: Brockley Gate. TR7.
The game☺s afoot, Ponty!
--
Tenebrae_Z
☺We are the inheritors, the evidence of heaven☺
She put her iPhone in her pocket, took one last swig of orange juice, and left the café.
20
How did he know?
A dozen questions cried out for attention in Bridge’s mind, but that one kept surfacing, pushing the others aside, even though the others were more immediately pressing. OK, figuring out her real name probably wasn’t that hard for someone of Ten’s abilities. Obtain her IP somehow, drag through ISP records. And he’d used that info to find her address, which is how he’d taken a photo of her coming out of her usual coffee shop in the morning, before catching the tube. So then he must have — oh, God. Followed her to work? That’s more like your job, isn’t it? Had he watched her disappear through a secure gate at Vauxhall, and guessed what she did for a living?
It was all a bit creepy. Why not just ask her?
Simple: because she’d already lied to him, and everyone else, telling their online friends she worked in finance. Somehow, Ten had figured out she was lying, and decided to find out for himself. Bridge had always got the impression Ten worked in some sensitive areas — they didn’t give any old BOFH a key to Telehouse, not any more — but he’d never been specific, and she’d never asked. Now she wondered if perhaps he’d ever consulted with SIS or GCHQ, if that was how he’d recognised that she lived in a world of lies and secrets familiar to him.
But the closer she got to London Bridge, speeding through tunnels on the Northern line, the more she doubted her actions. An email, scheduled to be sent in the event of
