If Voclaine wasn’t the mole, who was?
She tried to maintain a semblance of normality when she arrived at the facility that morning, but couldn’t shake the feeling everyone was staring at her, watching her. Surely Montgomery hadn’t told them. That would be outrageous. She tested the waters by chatting to some project leads over first coffee, pretending she wanted to speak with Voclaine this morning, and did they happen to know where he was? They were amazed she hadn’t heard that Voclaine hadn’t been seen since he was marched into a room during security checks the previous evening. Nobody knew why, or where he was now. Bridge faked amazement while sighing with relief inside, and returned to her office to conduct her scheduled morning interview with Montgomery’s secretary.
But she remained distracted throughout, unable to really focus on the secretary’s answers. At one point she asked if Bridge was OK, as she looked unwell. She said she was fine, but she couldn’t stop replaying the Voclaine interview in her mind, looking for something she’d missed. Some piece of truth she’d been unable to see the first time around, because she was overwhelmed by excitement and confusion that Voclaine could be the mole, as she’d suspected.
Voclaine fitted the profile. The mole had to be smart. Cunning, quiet, secretive — and the Frenchman was all those things. But the mole would also know how to deflect suspicion. How not to draw attention to himself by, say, destroying his private phone the moment someone discovered it. Was it possible Voclaine threw himself on his sword because he was guilty…but not of being a mole? Maybe he was embezzling. Maybe that ‘family phone’ was actually full of porn. Or maybe he was just paranoid.
The golden rule of tracing leaks was simple and eternal. Cui bono? Whose life was now made easier, if Bridge thought she had her man?
There was only one candidate.
But it was absurd, wasn’t it? Montgomery was the most senior British civil servant at the facility, literally trusted with overseeing the entire software operation. If he was dodgy, wouldn’t the MoD know? Wouldn’t SIS, and Giles, know? Besides, he had no expertise. Montgomery’s file credited him with experience at managing teams and projects, but there was no indication he knew the first thing about computer programming. Voclaine would know what to look for, where to find it, and understand what he was looking at. Whereas Montgomery, unless he was leading a double life as a hardcore coder, didn’t know one end of a Unix linefeed from the other. Then again, would that matter? If Bridge’s hunch was right, the mole wouldn’t need to know what he was looking at. All he had to do was take photos of the screen.
A horrible thought crashed into her mind. Were there two moles?
Exphoria was an important project; something any number of hostile states would love to get their hands on if they knew it existed. The notion that it could have been infiltrated by more than one foreign actor was plausible, if unlikely. But the two most senior managers at the entire facility? That would be incredible.
And yet, and yet. She remembered watching through the glass, as Montgomery lost his composure while questioning Voclaine. As if he had something to prove. He’d said something, something that bothered her at the time but she’d put it out of her mind…
“Don’t look at her, look at me.” Of all the things he could have said to call Voclaine’s attention away from the mirror, all the ways he could have phrased it, he said that. Don’t look at her. Had he been trying to give Bridge away? Trying to signal to Voclaine that it was she who watched from behind the mirror, she who was behind the whole thing? He hadn’t named Bridge, but it wouldn’t take a spy to figure out that the new arrival from London asking lots of questions was the her in question. Had he hoped to blow her cover, so she’d be forced to return to England?
It was the final straw that broke the back of her focus. She wouldn’t get any more work done today. The secretary had nothing to hide, and her only remaining scheduled interviews were with Voclaine and Montgomery. Pointless. What could she do instead?
The answer came as simply as the question. She stepped out for a smoke break, almost expecting to see Voclaine loitering in his usual corner of the compound, puffing away on a cigarette. Despite everything, she found herself missing his sarcastic, cynical asides. When she returned inside, as she approached her office, something wasn’t right. The door was open. But she was sure, absolutely sure, that she’d closed it behind her when she left for the compound. Hadn’t she?
Montgomery stood at her desk, tapping on her laptop keyboard. He looked up as she entered, flustered.
“Can I help you, James?” Bridge asked.
“Ah, there you are. I was just, just wondering what your schedule was for today. If you still needed to talk to me. With Voclaine gone, you know.” He moved to click something with the trackpad, but from this angle she couldn’t see the screen.
“Please don’t do that.”
“Oh, I was closing your calendar. Sorry, sorry. I’ll leave you to it.”
Bridge stood aside to let him through the door. After he passed, she said, “James?”
He stopped, looked back. “Yes?”
“There’s a copy of my
