“What happened to the lift?”
“It was dismantled. All part of the clean-up operation following the bombing.”
David paused. He did not want to the talk about that. The regrets were shards of glass. “Me first?”
“No, me. The guard knows my face.” He cupped his hands and shouted down the hole: “Two coming down!” There was no reply.
The colonel had twenty years on David but he shinnied down the ladder without complaint. David waited until his head was out of sight and then pulled a card from his wallet. It was Ego. He tapped it once and its exterior assumed the contours of a female face.
“Send an email to my daughter,” David said quickly. “Tell her I’ve gone past the point of no return.”
“Unfortunately I cannot get a good signal,” replied the machine. It was already back in his wallet but the voice was clear. David had a microscopic earpiece.
“Alright, just stand by,” he said.
“David,” called a voice from below. “Are you alright?”
“Fine. I have a thing about ladders and heights.” Which was true. “I’ll be right with you.”
The professor stepped gingerly on to the ladder and began to climb down. There was a safety line. After some consideration, he hooked it to his belt buckle. When his head passed below the level of the floor, he looked down and saw a circle of temporary lighting. It was twenty metres below – the lowest floor of the research centre.
One minute later, his feet made contact with the ground and he unhooked the safety line. Four spotlights blazed. They made impenetrable shadows in the corners, which were full of odd-looking shapes. It seemed that nobody had cleared the area before it was sealed. There were broken cabinets, chairs, and computer monitors. There was even an old mattress. Paper was everywhere. In the centre, a space had been made for the lighting rig. Cables snaked away to nowhere, though, in the distance, David could hear the put-put of a diesel generator. Standing motionless in the cramped space, next to the ladder, was an armed man. He wore a builder’s hard-hat and outdoor clothing. He avoided David’s polite nod.
“Going up is more difficult,” said McWhirter.
“I can hardly wait.”
“Shall we?”
“After you.”
They stepped from the chamber into a corridor that was as derelict as the lift shaft. David remembered an air-conditioned expanse with beautifully decorated walls and light muzak. Now there was nothing more than a sense of space in the darkness, and he hugged himself against the cold.
McWhirter threw a relay. Lights erupted along the corridor – perhaps fifty metres – clang after clang. It was much larger than he remembered. The fire doors were gone. The walls were black as charcoal. Doors leading from the corridor were now nothing more than gaping holes, some filled with cabinets and chairs, others with wood and masonry. Like the lift shaft, there was paper everywhere.
“Take this,” said McWhirter. It was a heavy outdoor coat. “It’s a steady five degrees in here.” He also handed David a hard hat, some gloves, a first-aid kit, and a laminated map of the complex. “We’ll need to keep in contact if we get separated. Do you have a computer?”
David thought about Ego. “No,” he lied.
McWhirter nodded. He handed him a walkie-talkie. Then the old colonel paid out a length of climber’s rope and tied himself to David.
“We going potholing too?”
McWhirter tested his torch. “It’s a possibility. We’ve already lost a guard.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No,” said McWhirter. “He was checking out one of the higher levels and the floor gave way.”
There was a long pause as David gave the colonel time to admit that, aye, he was kidding.
“Bloody hell,” David said.
“OK, we’re ready. Step only where I step. Let’s go.”
They crept away. McWhirter went first, sweeping to and fro with his torch and sliding his feet, testing the floor’s integrity with each step.
Deadline
Saskia Brandt watched her secretary. Her secretary did not watch back because she was dead. Saskia was pensive. Somebody wanted to frame her. She walked back to her desk – retrieving her blouse on the way – and asked the computer for a list of her most recent cases. The computer did nothing.
“Computer?”
“Who are you?” it asked. “Your voice print is not identified.”
Saskia was intrigued. “I am Saskia Brandt. This is my office.”
“Update records?”
Saskia blinked. “Yes. Also run an internal systems check.”
“Check complete. No problems found.”
“Can you explain why my voice print was unavailable?”
“Yes, it may have been deleted accidentally, which is unlikely, or by a malicious user, which is likely.”
Was the malicious user the person trying to frame her? Why had the computer been able to recognise her voice before she opened the fridge? “Saskia,” it continued, “your refrigerator reports that it is broken.”
“Yes, I know that. My secretary is inside.”
“I do not understand. Why would your secretary be inside the refrigerator?”
“Do you know why?”
“I do not understand. Why would your secretary be inside the refrigerator?”
“Oh, switch off.”
“Yes, Saskia.”
The call came five minutes later. It was Jobanique. Saskia donned her blouse, though it was too hot to do so. Outside, the air was brown with dust and heat. The window became opaque with the image of her boss, Jobanique, sitting at his desk. He gave the impression of a middle-aged German businessman, but the whole scene was a computer-generated façade. His identity was secret. His name was certainly not Jobanique. Only one thing about the man was true: his voice. He spoke German well but crisply, without the fluency of a native speaker.
“Saskia, my dear. So nice to see you.”
“Thank you. Actually, I’m glad you called. I have a domestic problem. I won’t be able to take the case.”
Jobanique laughed. “My dear Saskia, you are already on the case.”
“This is the case?”
“Yes. I’m turning on high-strength encryption.” His image shimmered. In a more serious tone, he continued: “In the early hours of this morning your
