there, but that’s the machine talking, not an operator. It’s bugging the hell out of me. Surely at least one of the messages would initiate a human response?’
‘Like you said, Mace deals with them.’ Harry shrugged. ‘He’s the head of station; it’s the way he’s got it set up. With your record, are you surprised? They’re hardly likely to want you anywhere in the system, are they?’
‘Yeah. Fair enough.’ Rik took a deep breath, as if about to confess to something awful. ‘Only, yesterday I deliberately sent a rubbish message.’
‘What the hell for?’
‘To see what would happen. It was crap… gobbledygook. I wanted to see if anyone would ask for a re-send. That’s what you’d expect, right? Some transmissions get screwed up, the line goes down, and if the guy on the other end is awake, he’ll ask for a repeat. I mean, I would if I was on the end. It’s really annoying me.’
‘I can see that.’ Harry wondered if paranoia was getting to Rik. He’d been out here too long.
‘You don’t get it. I could have sent a copy of Das Kapital in Hindustani and they wouldn’t have noticed. Yet this morning, Mace comes in with a reply to a message he sent yesterday.’
‘So his messages are rated a higher priority.’ Harry began to move away before he also got infected by shadows and suspicions. He didn’t need it, not on top of everything else.
Rik said, ‘I think it’s a blind drop.’
Harry stopped. ‘Say again?’
‘A blind drop. It’s a server which allows files or messages to be dropped in and picked up remotely. It’s dead simple. It’s called a host, and gives out whatever automatic response they want it to — like these acknowledgement codes — and either sends on the messages automatically or holds them until the administrator or whoever wants to pick them up.’
‘Where would this administrator be sitting?’ Harry had no idea what Rik was saying but he guessed someone — a human body, at least — had to be located in an office with access to the server and incoming messages.
‘They could be anywhere in the world. All they need to do is call up the host server, input the security code and retrieve the files.’
‘And the host server isn’t in Thames House?’
‘That’s the beauty of it — it doesn’t have to be. It could be in an office in Mumbai or West Bromwich, just as long as it’s got a web connection.’
‘But someone must be reading the messages,’ insisted Harry. He was getting a headache, of the kind brought on by too much techno-speak. ‘You said yourself, Mace gets replies.’
‘That’s right. But nobody else does. I’ve never had one direct; I know Clare hasn’t — she’s bitched about it often enough. But I thought she was just being snooty about losing her place in the pecking order. All replies come through Mace. That means that whoever is monitoring our messages only responds to specifics. My rubbish message would have been dumped and wiped.’
‘So anything we send, any data, any intelligence, any files — is seen only by one person?’ Harry felt a shiver of unease. There could be only one reason for such a set up, and that was to avoid any odd-job administrative worker seeing the messages and forwarding them to the wrong person.
‘Most likely. My bet is, he calls up from a remote terminal outside the network once a day, maybe less, and responds when he feels like it.’
‘Which means?’
Rik shrugged. ‘To anyone else outside Clarion and this office, we don’t even exist.’
FORTY-SIX
Harry needed to find Mace. Whatever was going on wasn’t going to be fixed by ignoring it. First Fitzgerald missing, now the discovery that they were isolated from all contact in London other than via Mace and his secure terminal. Rik didn’t know where Mace was, so Harry looked in his office. There was nothing entered on his wall diary, but he found a menu card from the Odeon on the notice board and tried the number. There was no answer. He went back to the main office.
Rik looked up. ‘You tried the Odeon?’
‘Yes. Nothing.’
Rik raised his eyebrows. ‘Must have felt like a change of scenery. You could try near the station. There’s a workmen’s place round the back he goes to. Next to a car-hire place. Serves strong coffee.’ He grinned cynically. ‘Chacha brand.’
Harry left him to it and made his way to the station, running checks to make sure he wasn’t followed. He passed more military trucks and groups of soldiers huddled against the buildings, sharing cigarettes and bottles of coloured liquid. Chacha mixed with fruit juice, probably. The bloody country must run on the stuff.
On the way, he glanced down the street where Rudi’s stall was located. There was a flurry of activity going on right in front of it, and someone was shouting. Several pedestrians were hurrying by on the other side without looking, although they looked the type to be among Rudi’s regulars. Something in the atmosphere of the scene made Harry step into a doorway to watch.
It was a bad sign.
A man moved away from the kiosk and climbed into a big four-by-four at the kerb. He leaned out, holding the rear door open. It gave Harry a clear profile view.
It was Higgins. He was followed by three other men, one of them being dragged struggling across the pavement.
It was Rudi.
Harry left the doorway and walked away. If they merely suspected Rudi of handling a stolen phone, the most they could do was make a few threats. But if the Ericsson was theirs, and they had already traced its journey to the dealer, it wouldn’t be long before they came calling on Rik. It depended on how much resistance Rudi offered up to safeguard his business.
Either way it was time to dump the phone.
He found a deserted building site away from curious eyes and took out the Ericsson. It was now a liability. If it belonged to Higgins or his colleagues, they would be able to put a trace on its signal and it wouldn’t take long for them to follow it all the way into his pocket. He dropped it to the ground and stamped on it, reducing the plastic to a mash. Then he kicked the pieces into a muddy puddle. While he thought of it, he took out Stanbridge’s mobile and rang Rik.
‘Higgins and some of his pals have just taken Rudi for a ride,’ he told him.
‘What?’
‘I’ve dumped the phone. If they come calling, play dumb.’ He cut the connection and keyed a text message to Maloney.
New number, short life. Use w care.
He hit SEND and turned off the phone. He wouldn’t need it for long and he doubted the Clones’ handlers had the same ability to run a local trace that the Americans had. But he needed a means of contacting Maloney. Without it, he’d be left high and dry.
He reached the station and made his way round to the back. He found a cafe modelled on a Parisian bistro, jutting out aggressively from a corner plot like a sharp tooth. The wedge-shaped establishment was shiny with glass panels and copper screens, and small circular tables packed together with small, upright chairs. A few were occupied, some by men in uniform, sitting uneasily away from other men in work clothes and dusty boots.
Mace was sitting alone near a window, scanning the previous day’s copy of The Times. A small glass of clear liquid and a coffee stood in the middle of the table.
He didn’t look happy at the interruption
‘You got a bloody tracking device on me?’ he snarled, and threw the newspaper to one side. ‘Can’t get a moment’s peace in this place since you arrived.’
‘If I wasn’t here,’ Harry murmured, ‘I wouldn’t be bugging you. You could always send me back with a good review, or transfer me to somewhere civilized.’
‘Forget it. Doesn’t work like that.’
