“You will be paid the remainder of your fee, as promised.” A pause. “We would encourage you to leave London as soon as possible, once Tell is dead. Things will be… chaotic, in the aftermath.”
Coyle knew better than to ask the obvious question. Instead, he took another swallow of coffee and grunted his assent. Zero Day ended the call abruptly.
“Good day to you as well,” he muttered. He wandered back to the window, still sipping at his coffee. He thought longingly of home, of his wife and daughter.
And he thought of Zero Day, and the threats they had made. So far, they did not seem to realise he was on their trail – or maybe they knew, but did not care.
The drone chimed, signalling that it had completed its recharge cycle. He set his coffee down and turned to rearm it.
Forty-eight hours left.
Sarah stood by the window, watching the rain fall across Whitechapel. She had a mug of tea in hand, and there was a half-eaten energy bar in her desk drawer. She felt a vague tug of excitement as she considered the day ahead. The TOAN conference was in two days, and her party as well.
No. Her revolt.
There hadn’t been a proper backbench rebellion in a few years. Murmurings, stirrings, the occasional outburst. But a proper rebellion took coordination – cunning. It took the right cause, as well. Something backbenchers from all the parties could get behind. Governmental overreach was as good a reason as any.
She took a swallow of tea, watching the rain slide across the glass. It would be risky, but what was life without a bit of risk? Besides which, a politician’s career was one of risk management. Doing nothing was as bad as doing something stupid. You had to be seen to do something noteworthy, else when election time rolled around, your constituency, not to mention your party, forgot your name.
“Knock-knock,” someone said, from behind her.
“Winston,” Sarah said, turning to greet her visitor. “You look like you’ve barely slept. Rough night?”
Winston looked… rumpled, which was not a word she normally associated with him. She hadn’t been expecting him to pop by so early. “You could say that. Have you seen today’s headlines?”
“No, I’ve been busy. Why?”
Winston showed her the screen of his Optik. It was a video of a body being pulled out of Regent’s Canal. A photograph flashed on the display – a corporate ID: George Holden. Sarah sat down abruptly. “Damn it.”
“You met with him yesterday, didn’t you?” Winston lowered his Optik. “I saw that on the evening news. GBB was quite scathing about the inappropriateness of a backbencher inserting herself into an active investigation.”
“Then I must be doing something right.”
“This is no laughing matter, Sarah. You have to calm down. Let the Met do their job – hell, let Albion do theirs, whatever that might be this week.” He sat down opposite her. “I’m getting pressure from the party to distance myself from you.”
Sarah paused. “Really?”
“Really.”
“I am definitely doing something right, then.” Sarah leaned back, a speculative expression on her face. Inside, however, she was worried.
“You’re taking this far too lightly, Sarah. I hope we don’t wake up one morning to find you mysteriously renditioned to a black site and detained for the foreseeable.”
“Well, you’ll just have to come and rescue me, won’t you?”
“I like you Sarah, but not that much.” Winston looked at her. “I think you should back off, calm it down. We should cancel this get-together of yours and keep our heads down until we see how it all shakes out.”
“By then it might well be too late,” she said, softly. She frowned. “Holden used the ‘C’ word.”
“How rude of him.”
“Not that one. Conspiracy.” She pulled out her own Optik. News reports flashed by, most of them concerned with the conference, but one caught her eye. Albion, along with the Met, were investigating a shooting near Whitechapel Station. “There was another shooting last night.”
“I know. A member of the fabled DedSec, if my sources are to be believed.”
“It would be, wouldn’t it?” She looked at him. “You see what they’re doing, of course? With DedSec?”
“What do you mean?”
“Albion is positioning DedSec as a terror threat. You were at lunch. Remember what Cass said?”
Winston nodded, somewhat reluctantly. “Do you think there’s anything to it?”
Sarah paused, considering. She and Winston had clashed as often as they’d stood side-by-side. They weren’t friends, but then again they were of similar minds on many subjects. He’d been in her corner since the start of this, whatever it was, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t go his own way if he thought it was to his own advantage.
Finally, she sat forward and said, “I do. DedSec are something, definitely, but they’re not terrorists. Not as far as I can tell. They haven’t blown anything up, after all.”
“We both know there’s more to terrorism than bombs.”
She nodded. “Yes, but so far, they’ve contented themselves to graffiti and unorthodox wealth redistribution…”
“You can call it theft, Sarah. We’re alone here.”
She smiled. “If it were my money, I might. But it’s not. The only damage they’ve done is cosmetic – a few propaganda bombs in inconvenient places. They’re hacktivists, nothing more.”
“For now,” Winston said. “But you said Holden mentioned a conspiracy. Related to DedSec?”
“Not directly, no. But it’s all tied in. He sent me a picture, of a man he claimed was involved in the shootings. And a number.”
“So… Holden was involved?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
“Have you told the police?”
“Not as such.”
Winston sat back, a stunned look on his face. “This is not good, Sarah. Joking aside, you could be arrested for this.”
“I don’t think we’ve quite reached that point yet. Here, I’m sending the photo to you.” Sarah sent the data through to Winston’s Optik.
“What? Why? I don’t want it!”
“Too late, already sent. Take a look at it – do you recognise him?”
Winston peered at the image, a scowl on his face. After a moment, he shook his head. “No. No bells here,
