Caitlin slips a mouthpiece over her bottom teeth that alters the shape of her jawline. Even I don’t recognize her at this point. But then, with my new hairstyle and deep blue contact lenses over my naturally green eyes, I don’t recognize myself either.
“You have to admit, it’s kind of fun,” Caitlin says, beaming at me. “I mean, in this tech-crazy world, how often do we get to play ‘dress-up’ like real spies?”
Being out there in the field, boots on the ground, is what Caitlin lives for. She had the worst time in the US military, but that was because of the abuse she saw on both sides, not because of the work. She’s never enjoyed the endless hours pinned behind a desk that online spying entails, though she rarely complains. I shake out my shoulders and button up the suit jacket, getting a feel for it, because it needs to fit me like I wear it every day. Meanwhile, Caitlin slides on a set of aviator shades and poses in front of the mirror.
“Too much?” she asks.
“Not if you’re going for a look that screams ‘I’m a Hollywood actress pretending to be a bodyguard.’”
She sighs, removes the sunglasses, and slips them into her breast pocket.
“If you’re done admiring yourself, we should get going,” Caitlin says.
I follow her out of the locker area and into the tech cave, where Amber seems to be taking some kind of weapons inventory on her precious countertop. She pauses to come over and give us a final briefing. A very cool 3D floor plan projects out from her screens, and just hangs there in the space by her desk like a floating holograph. Caitlin is circling it, examining it for what must be the tenth time. She’s always meticulous about this stuff. I like to think I am too, but once, twice—and I’ve got it.
It’s the layout of the Cypriot Private Bank in London. Their headquarters is just two miles from here, housed in a three-hundred-year-old landmark building. Normally, a structure that age is a cinch to work with because the heating, cooling, and security systems have been added in piecemeal over time, without a proper plan—and that means there are often weaknesses that we can creatively exploit. Unfortunately, that’s not the case here. This bank is notorious for handling offshore money for a secret roster of dodgy corporations, heads of state (usually the brutal, dictator kind), and sovereign wealth funds from countries with less-than-stellar human rights records. They’re awash in cash just from the fees they charge their grateful clients to make their dirty money disappear and so, while the facade of their building remains intact and compliant with building regulations, they’ve had plenty of funds available to do a complete overhaul on the inside.
For us, that creates a headache. Firstly, Amber’s been unable to get a lock on their most secure internal network, through which she might have tried to find any unprotected data or weaknesses in their servers. On the plus side, she’s used the bank staff’s Wi-Fi to get a lock on a potential vulnerability—two server ports that are unused but not properly blocked off. But she can’t access those remotely. So, our job is to get an actual piece of equipment into the room where the bank houses its physical computer servers so that Amber can get into the important information flow—the data on their clients, which include AAB Enterprises.
“Let’s run through the server room again,” Caitlin says.
“Here it is,” says Amber, moving her finger through the floating floor plan.
“And there’s definitely no way in there through the door?” Caitlin pushes.
“You mean the three-foot-thick metal door opened with a biometric key and an encrypted passcode?” Amber asks sardonically. “No, probably not. That’s why we’ve come up with the current plan. Is there anything else you want to second-guess me on?”
Caitlin smiles at her. “Just trying to help,” she says.
“If I need assistance, I won’t hesitate to ask,” Amber replies.
“Someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning,” I comment.
Amber fixes me with an irritable glare. “Someone hasn’t seen her bed for three days,” she retorts.
“Okay, kids, let’s not bicker,” Caitlin says, deflecting Amber’s temper. “Just check this.”
Amber opens up an app on Caitlin’s phone, tests that it works okay, then gives it back. Then she bustles over to me and tucks two tiny drones, the size of flies, into small padded pockets sewn into the lapels of my jacket, along with a tiny tool kit. She sniffs at me as she works.
“You smell lemony,” Amber observes.
“Which is strange,” I reply. “Because you seem to be the sour one.”
Amber sighs. “I’m sorry to be crabby. I’m just tired,” she adds.
In return for her unusual apology, I try my best to be conversational.
“Are you sure the drones won’t get caught by the metal detector at the front door?” I ask.
“They’re fiberglass, and the tool kit is high-tensile plastic,” Amber says. “More chance of this raising an alarm.” She holds up a small digital tape measure like the kind real estate agents use to figure out room sizes. Amber slips it into my pocket, then steps back and casts a critical eye over us.
“You look authentic,” she says, clearly pleased with her handiwork in transforming us. “I completely believe you as Li’s bodyguards.”
“Really? ‘Authentic’ was the word in your mind when you chose this wig and these contacts for me to wear?” I demand. “I barely look human. I look like one of those avatars in a weird sci-fi game—”
“Go and get this done,” Amber says, interrupting my whining. “Don’t worry, you’ll be perfectly fine.”
Spoken like someone who’ll be spending the next hour right here, completely safe, sipping tea and listening to old-time music on her vinyl turntable, while we sweat through trying to break into a bank server protected like a fortress. With a brief nod goodbye, we move into the elevator and scan ourselves down to the parking garage, where we wait for Li to meet
