But he was aware of it, every evening as he left the building. Although the staff complained that security at the facility was like going through an airport, it wasn’t really that bad. For one thing, staff weren’t required to remove their shoes, and the detector wands weren’t powerful enough to ‘see’ the SD card tucked under Montgomery’s foot. If someone suspected, the shoes themselves were perfectly ordinary Oxfords. No secret compartment in a pivoting heel, no hidden piano wire in the laces. An inspector would have to insist Montgomery remove not just his shoes, but his socks as well, to find the card.
Today, though, was different. For one thing, Voclaine wasn’t here. Montgomery knew Voclaine’s login password, and could access his computer easily. But he didn’t have the first idea of how then to ‘check out’ the Exphoria code, or which part of it to look at. He could hardly ask one of the staff to show him, and even if he could, what if someone noticed that a computer belonging to a man who was no longer in the building was still looking at code?
He’d considered asking Ms Short to show him, while claiming to be curious at what Voclaine was doing with that second iPhone. She’d returned to the office that morning as if nothing had happened, and he overheard her asking a couple of the project leads if they knew where Voclaine was, to build the pretence that she didn’t know. Now she was maintaining the illusion by interviewing his secretary. But would she believe Montgomery’s curiosity? Surely she knew he wasn’t a computer expert. So he sat alone in his office, frustrated and worried. He had the whole office to himself, but he couldn’t do a damn thing with it.
And yet, he had to. The Russian had made that clear, and while Montgomery had already expected to die two years ago, he had no desire to hasten the event now. As he exited his office, mini-tablet in hand, he was assaulted by a sudden memory. Hard steel, the Russian’s pistol, pressing against his body while the scent of cheap German cigarettes and vodka-soured breath flooded his nostrils. He almost retched, stumbling into the eastern corridor and steadying himself on a wall as two French junior programmers walked past, consumed by their conversation. Montgomery’s French was good, and he knew they were talking about something technical, but he didn’t have the specialised vocabulary to follow exactly what they were saying. It didn’t matter. They barely registered his presence as they turned ahead of him, down another corridor and toward the office of a project lead.
He wondered where they’d come from. Perhaps one might have left their screen on, with code still visible?
Montgomery’s lanyard gave him access to the whole facility, and he was in and out of enough staff rooms and offices on legitimate grounds that nobody would question him using it to access an office now. All he had to do was find the unattended screen of a random coder, someone like Voclaine who was casual — one might say laissez-faire — about the requirement to lock all screens when leaving a desk, click around, and take photos. He could do it. It would be fine. He was the boss, wasn’t he?
The third office he looked into, a two-desk setup, was empty. Only one desk looked in use, but the glow of the screen illuminated the empty chair in the dim lighting. Montgomery touched his lanyard to the entry lock and stepped inside. Definitely nobody here, and judging by the mess, whoever used the occupied desk had become used to working alone. But when he stood before the monitor, Montgomery’s heart sank. It was locked, fixed on a password login screen. The username, ‘Derek Angler’, meant nothing to him. Evidently one of the British staff, but not one he’d come across personally, so he had no hope of guessing the password. He wondered if Derek could be persuaded to give him access, somehow. Perhaps a simple bribe would suffice? Could it be that easy?
“Can I help you?” Derek Angler entered the room, carrying a small plastic tray of pasta salad and a plastic fork. Montgomery flinched, startled, and muttered something about mandatory computer breaks. Derek gestured at the food in his hand. “It took me ten minutes to retrieve this from the back of the fridge, it’ll be fine. Besides, I’m on a crunch at the moment. Sorry, who are you? Are you from HR?”
“I, I’m James Montgomery. The site manager.”
Derek shrugged. “Oh, right. Excuse me,” he said as he squeezed past Montgomery to sit in his desk chair. “So what’s the problem?”
“Oh, there’s, there’s no problem. Just checking up on all the Brits here, you know? Have to stick together, all strangers in a strange land. Haha.”
Derek shovelled a fork of pasta into his mouth. “I’ve been living here for three years. Not that much of a stranger, n’est-ce pas?”
“Ah, yes, well. Enjoy your lunch.” Montgomery backed toward the door, collided with the closed glass, fumbled for the door button, and finally staggered out into the corridor.
He returned to his office, and found his secretary back at her desk, while Bridget Short’s office was empty. She must have gone for a smoke break. He entered, and saw her computer was still logged in.
48
Bridge had been fifteen when she was first arrested for hacking. The police asked her why she did it, and she replied, “For the truth.”
Bridge had always thought of the truth as a mountain peak, a hard and solid thing that stood proud and unchanging. To reach it, you might have to negotiate tricky paths, shifting scree, falling boulders. But if you were persistent enough, determined enough, you could eventually reach the summit and
