Another pause. Coyle wondered how many people were actually on the other end of this conversation. Were they using the royal we, or was it a consortium? He had been hired by groups before, though he preferred working for individuals. The more people who were involved, the more risk there was for him.
“Not if they are followed correctly.”
Coyle sighed. “I could not account for a pickpocket. By the time a target lock had been acquired, this man Dempsey was already in possession of the Optik. One cannot recall a bullet, once the trigger has been pulled.”
“Dempsey is irrelevant. Marcus Tell is not. He must be eliminated.” Tell was the primary target. The one he’d been trying to kill that afternoon. He didn’t know why a pensioner living in East London needed to die, but neither did he plan on asking. The whys and wherefores were extraneous to his operational paradigm.
“He will be,” he said.
“And how will you find him?”
“That is my concern,” Coyle said, bristling slightly. “Yours should be the Optik. Until Tell is dead, that device may well reveal whatever it is you don’t want people to know. If I were you, I might be inclined to retrieve it from the police.” He paused. “Unless… you wish me to do it?”
Silence. Then, a soft, static-edged laugh. “And how much will it cost?”
Coyle said a number. No laugh this time. Zero Day did not find the subject of money amusing – another odd fact to add to the pile. “You ask a lot,” they said, finally. “Given that it was your error that allowed the Optik to fall into police hands in the first place.”
“Again, not an error. An unforeseen eventuality, easily rectified.”
“Tell me your plan.”
“For the device, or for Tell?”
“Both.”
Coyle considered refusing. The conversation had already gone on far too long for his liking. But he was annoyed. Whoever was under that digital mask was, as his daughter might say, a right twat. “The device will eventually be reactivated. Once the signal returns, my little friend will track it down as before and – pop goes the weasel. The device and whoever is holding it will no longer be an issue.”
“What if it is reactivated inside the police station?”
“Then I will use other methods. But I have no doubt they will bring it out – they’ll want to find the owner, after all, and that will require activating the external unit and using a reverse GPS search. The moment that happens… well. No more problem.”
“And Tell?”
“Locating Tell will be a matter of extrapolation. The metadata you’ve provided will enable me to pinpoint him the old fashioned way – the only tools I require for that will be a map and a pencil. If Tell acquires a new external unit, we’ll go for a redo. If he doesn’t, I’ll find out where he resides and make a special delivery.” He patted the spiderbot fondly. “Again, it will be no problem.”
Zero Day made a sound that might have been a sigh, or a laugh. “Very well. But the schedule stands. You have just over seventy-two hours remaining, Mr Coyle.”
He froze. “What did you say?”
“We’re sorry. Isn’t that your current identity? Arthur Edward Coyle, Art to his friends. Husband of Amelia Coyle, father of Frances Emily Coyle. Resident of–”
“Enough,” Coyle said, sharply.
“You tried your best, Art – may we call you Art?” Without waiting for a reply, Zero Day went on, “But you’re like a Neanderthal compared to us. Your little tricks were an amusing diversion, nothing more. But now you know, we can get to you – or those you care about –any time we choose.”
Coyle was silent for a moment, mind racing. Rolling with the punch. “If your reach is so great, why even involve me?”
“That is our concern. Yours is to complete your assignment. Seventy-two hours, Art. You don’t want to know what happens after that.”
One by one, his slaved Optiks started to smoulder and smoke. Fat sparks danced along their screens, and he flinched as the connected displays winked out one after the next. He stood, knocking his chair over, went to open an air vent to clear the smoke.
Seventy-two hours? He thought about calling his wife and daughter again. Decided against it. He looked back the Optik externals. Some of them were salvageable. And there were other apps he possessed. Ones that could be used to trace signals of all sorts, including encrypted ones.
“Seventy-two hours.” He glanced at the drone and smiled at last. “Plenty of time.”
Day Three
Tuesday
Bagley-bytes 13667-0: Lots of chatter around Bethnal Green Police Station today. By the way, that’s probably the first time anyone has used those words in that order in this century. The station will be playing host to all sorts this AM, including our favourite MP, Sarah Lincoln, and our least favourite jackbooted stormtrooper, Sergeant Richard Faulkner, Albion’s man in East London. Needless to say, everyone should be on alert – or our beloved Redqueen will have your guts for garters.
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We’re monitoring more than 250,000 CCTV public surveillance cameras in London and spotting a fair few familiar faces, to which I say – shame on you. Especially you, Terry. Every camera in the city feeds through a cTOS facial scan platform, giving the authorities, the corporations and certain others the ability to trach your every move. So remember your masks, please.
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Speaking of cTOS, preparations for the TOAN Conference are underway near Blackfriars Bridge. DedSec needs eyes on the ground. If you’re in the area, talk to Wendell.
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RE: vlogs and written manifestos. Sabine requests that you please stop posting your fanfiction on operational chat-apps. Except yours, Linda la Potter. We’re all dying to know what happens next.
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Finally, Albion operatives have been spotted sniffing around the Leake Street field base, creeping out
