The Bond reached across the counter and grabbed the technician’s tie. “Give. It. Back,” he grated.
The technician’s eyes went wide and he began to gabble: “Sir, here at HiveMart Digital we have a strict zero-tolerance policy for employee abuse I am going to have to call security and kindly ask you to leave the store also your actions are being recorded by surveillance cameras and we always prosecute—”
“Disk. Now.” The Bond snapped the fingers of his free hand, and let go of the technician. “Give me back my disk.” He didn’t bother to finish the sentence with if you want to live: the technician seemed to understand instinctively.
“Right you are sir!” He shoved the piece of delicate machinery at the Bond, letting go of it without warning. The Bond caught it effortlessly, and glared at the technician as he gabbled his way through the rest of his script in a cold-sweat panic: “Thank you for shopping at HiveMart Digital we hope you are happy with your purchase and or technical support please call again soon.”
The Bond turned and strode towards the exit, ignoring the store security guards who dawdled towards him at the most leisurely pace they could manage without obviously shirking.
Standards had dropped since HiveMart took over Radio Shack, he reflected grimly. He needed a real IT specialist. But his usual go-to geek was doing time in a Federal penitentiary—he’d been running some kind of Bitcoin extortion ring targeting Darknet users—and he didn’t want to use up Rupert’s people. The boss would not be happy to find bloodstains on his office parquet when he got home. Meanwhile, the high street chains that advertised the expertise of while-you-wait data migration experts turned out to be unable to migrate any data older than a time-expired carton of yoghurt. They mostly seemed to want to up-sell him a gaming laptop with a seven-year parts and labor warranty and a “free” color inkjet printer with a monthly subscription for print cartridges.
The Bond was not technologically illiterate, but he knew his limits. Trying to excavate the contents of a hard disk that was older than he was lay outside them. Walking across the car park, he blipped the button on the keyfob until the DB9 flashed its lights at him.1 Technical support, he mused. I need technical support. And suddenly he knew exactly where to go.
He was almost at the North Circular, following the satnav directions to the computer museum at Bletchley Park, when his phone rang. “Mike—Mister Bond speaking.” The caller failed to catch the slip. Damn it, the Bond thought. There were serious drawbacks to working for a narcissistic fantasist, unlimited budget be damned. Must remember I answer to James this week. “What can I do for you today, sir?”
“Did you take care of business?” Rupert barked.
“Yes sir. The dealer is closed but I got the hard drive with the data on it.”
“Yes, about that.” Rupert’s voice sharpened. “Miss Starkey reports that someone got to Bernard before she did. And his computer was gutted.”
“Yes sir. It was absolutely necessary to ensure there were no loose ends, so I’m in physical custody of the drive right now. Everything is under control and I will notify Miss Starkey where to find the target in due course, through regular channels.”
“I see. So I suppose you have a read out?”
The Bond drew a deep breath, then regretted it as he stared at the rear end of a dump truck. They were stationary at traffic lights and the climate control was struggling. “It’s in progress, sir.” Admittedly it was very stop-go progress right now, but progress of a kind. “It’s in a rather unusual format. I’m taking it to a specialist facility.”
“See that they don’t retain any copies. Eyes only.”
“Yes sir.”
“Is there any chance—any chance at all—that Bernard disclosed anything to a rival bidder before you terminated the auction?”
The Bond chose his next words carefully. “Nothing is certain in war, sir. What I can say is that I acquired the drive with his email folders. He won’t be talking to anyone who comes calling—” never again—“and without the email folders the target can’t be acquired. I will anonymously provide Miss Starkey with the data she requires, minimizing the risk of a leak, and deal with whoever she assigns to the immediate pick-up.”
The Bond carefully didn’t mention that he’d found Bernard dead when he broke into the apartment and stole the hard disk. Nor did he speculate about who might have killed him and why—a rival bidder seemed most likely—or what he might have told them before he died, or why they didn’t bother taking the PC. It was, in the Bond’s experience, usually a bad idea to keep his employers overinformed about his activities—especially an employer with a tendency to micromanage, and a mission that had gone off the rails before the starting gun was fired.
There were clearly one or more adversaries in the loop. But with the email records on the hard disk, he could probably work out who they were and how they’d been alerted by Bernard’s enquiries. Then he could take them out, clearing the path for Miss Starkey who, unaware of his involvement, would collect the item. Once he knew what had Rupert so engaged, he could decide what to do about it: whether to let Miss Starkey hand it over, or to take possession for himself.
That was the trouble with “big picture” types like Rupert, after all. They relied on little people to handle the details for them, and it never seemed to occur to them that the little people might have agendas of their own.
OVERDRAWN AT THE PENNINE BANK
The very next day, Wendy wrote up her preliminary notes on the Hamleys cash
