It’s quite a contrast to the retro box on the counter; this set-up is ultra-modern. There are two huge screens, a keyboard, a mouse, a drawing tablet and stylus, an impressive set of speakers and a bespoke tower under the desk, a case of brushed aluminium and glowing blue plastic.
‘Impressive,’ says Martin.
‘Built it myself,’ says Yev, and there is a touch of pride in his voice. He sits, inviting Martin and Mandy to pull up a chair. There is only one and she takes it, Martin standing. He can’t stay long, he says. Yev logs on, opens up a web browser, goes to the email site, selecting the address he has given Mandy.
‘How many accounts do you have?’ she asks.
‘Plenty.’ He finishes logging on. There is only one email in the inbox: Mandy’s. He clicks on it, retrieves the attachment, attempts to open it. But the computer baulks, bringing up a warning dialogue box. His hand hovers over the mouse, the cursor hovers over the ignore button. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘From a source,’ says Mandy.
‘A trusted source?’
‘No,’ she says, thinking of the Turtle. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Right. Can I have your phone?’
‘Why?’
‘I just need to check.’
‘For what?’
‘Viruses. Malware. It shouldn’t take too long.’
Mandy shrugs, hands over her phone. Yev forages around for a lead, attaches the phone, gets Mandy to unlock it.
‘Right. Let’s have a squiz.’ He opens a program. Mandy can see a blue line running across the screen, indicating progress. It finishes its pass, declares the phone virus-free. ‘That’s strange,’ says Yev. He checks the phone then goes online, searching a bulletin board. Mandy looks at Martin, who shrugs and raises his eyebrows. ‘Okay,’ says Yev. ‘Let’s give this a thrash.’ He goes to another site, selects some software, paying with a credit card number he selects at random from a long list.
‘I can pay,’ says Mandy.
‘No. You don’t want your credit card anywhere near this.’
‘Right,’ she says, exchanging another look with Martin.
Yev goes offline, plugs the phone back in. The interface of the new software is less sleek, more homespun, monochrome instead of colour. The text looks Cyrillic. When Yev sets it to work, instead of a coloured bar there is simply a percentage completed ticker. It’s up to seventy-four per cent when it stops. A pirate flag drops down from the top of the screen. A line of script appears, again with the foreign alphabet.
‘What does it say?’ asks Mandy.
‘Jesus,’ says Yev to himself. ‘Jesus.’ He hurriedly unplugs the phone from the computer, before addressing them. ‘It’s Russian. Cutting edge. It says: You are fucked. Code 63457. Have a nice day.’
‘What is it?’ Martin asks. ‘What has it found?’
‘Nothing good.’ Yev takes a photo of the screen with his own phone, then shuts down the computer, turning to them. ‘Your phone has a virus. Malware. Probably associated with that video. I’m just going to run a check on my computer. It shouldn’t be infected, but I want to make sure. Then I’ll disinfect your phone.’
‘She shared it with me,’ says Martin. ‘The video.’
‘On your phone? Did you open it, play it?’
‘Yes,’ says Martin, the concern evident in his face.
‘Not good,’ says Yev. ‘Power it off. You too, Mandy.’ They do as he says. He takes their devices and places them in a steel box.
It takes ten minutes for Yev to ensure his computer is clean. Then he’s back online, searching for code 63457. He ends up in a chat room on the deep web, writing and reading in Russian. He closes his browser, then turns to them, face serious, delivering the bad news.
‘It’s new and it’s sophisticated. As soon as you played the video, it essentially handed control of your phone over to a third party. They could access all your data, monitor your calls, track your location. They could turn the camera and microphone on without your knowledge. The lot.’
‘Shit,’ says Martin.
‘Shit,’ says Mandy. ‘What do we do now?’
‘I wipe your phones clean, reinstall the operating system. You’ll lose all your data. Photos, contacts, everything. I hope you’ve backed up, that there’s nothing too precious.’
‘The video?’ asks Mandy.
Yev shakes his head. ‘No. It’s irretrievable.’
‘Jesus,’ says Martin. ‘My phone backup is on my laptop. The one that got stolen.’
‘The cloud?’ asks Yev.
‘Nup,’ says Martin. Then he turns to Mandy. ‘The video. You showed it to Montifore. Did you share a copy with him?’
‘No. I told you last night, they already had it.’
‘So it’s just you and me; we’re the only ones infected?’
‘Yes. I think so.’
‘Thank God. Imagine if we’d infected the police force.’ And he laughs, expressing his nerves.
‘Okay,’ says Yev. ‘You guys want to get a coffee or something? It’ll take me a while to restore your phones.’
The moment they walk into his cafe, Aldo is effusive, smile spread almost as wide as his arms, rushing out from behind the counter, stunning Mandy with a massive embrace before releasing her just as quickly. ‘Martin! You bring her. At last, you bring her!’ And then to her: ‘Bellissima! Gorgeous!’ To Martin: ‘You are a lucky man, mate!’ Back to her: ‘What do you want? Coffee? Cake? Panini? On the house.’ She can’t help herself; despite the phone virus, despite the smoke-laden city, she finds herself smiling.
But when they sit at a table, Martin’s smile soon fades.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Martin?’
‘It’s just my phone. My contacts. I’ll never get some of them back.’
She laughs. ‘Is that all? People are dead and you’re worried about your phone?’ But as soon as she says it, she knows she’s overstepped the mark.
She can see the anger in his eyes as he retorts, ‘Your source, the video. They set you up. The cops already had it. All the source gave you was a virus. So yes. I’m upset. Twenty years of contacts wiped because you didn’t have the wit to recognise what was happening.’
She spits back at him, ‘Twenty years of
