Catwalk Criminal (6 page)

Two youths wearing scarves over their faces fled from the supermarket up ahead, carrying boxes stacked with bottles. More youths piled in, wearing balaclavas. The cash tills of major supermarket chains had been frozen, according to the last update she'd received from MI6 before she left. Looting was taking place in cities across the country.

Jessica kept her head down, avoiding eye contact, and ran past. She couldn't intervene; she was a brown belt at kick-boxing, but there were too many thugs and not a police officer in sight. They were being kept busy elsewhere. It was going to be a long trek home across the capital. Hackers had targeted the radio communications for the Underground, causing near misses between trains at Westminster, King's Cross and Upminster. The whole network was paralysed and every tube stopped, along with planes at Heathrow, Gatwick and Stansted as a precaution. Buses were running a restricted service, which meant the queues were massive.

She hadn't wanted to risk her dad coming to fetch her by car since roads were blocked with accidents caused by the malfunctioning traffic-light systems. She planned to walk until she came across a bus service that was, hopefully, running normally. It gave her a chance to think, anyway. She googled LibertyCrossing on her iPhone. Interesting. Liberty Crossing was the name given to the two HQs of the National Counterterrorism Center and the US Office of the Director of National Intelligence in Virginia. So the hacker had a sense of humour. He was using the name of an American spy HQ to attack a British one.

Next, she typed “phoenix rising from the ashes”. According to Greek mythology, a phoenix was a bird that gains new life by rising from the ashes of its predecessor. What did that mean? Was LibertyCrossing's objective to create a new world order, rising from the one The Collective planned to destroy? She crossed the road as she spotted a brawl outside a cashpoint ahead. How could MI6 take on a cyber-army of thousands? For the first time ever, she doubted whether this was an adversary the Secret Intelligence Service could beat.

Jessica's silver haute couture digital gown sparkled with a thousand Swarovski crystals. Suddenly, it was lit up with over thirty-five hundred small LED lights. The extraordinary sight distracted her briefly from the fact she was cold and tired; she'd had to get up at five a.m. to cycle to the warehouse in East London for the seven-thirty a.m. shoot. She was dying for a coffee and croissant from the catering table, which was tantalizingly close.

“Testing three, two, one!” Ossa Cosway shouted from across the warehouse. “Start now!”

Jessica looked down as a text message scrolled across her floor-length evening dress:
Ossa Cosway rocks!

“It's amazing!” she exclaimed.

The fabric flashed with more words:
#OssaCoswayCouture.

Ossa had certainly found a novel way to advertise his haute couture line, combining fashion with the latest digital technology. It was being launched around the world, while his ready-to-wear collection was showcased at London Fashion Week. His young assistants stood on the sidelines, busily messaging the dress, using the hashtag #OssaCosway on Twitter while he stared at the effects, mesmorized. The slightly built, fair-haired young man stroked his goatee, smiling broadly. Suddenly, he threw his arms around Christine Cooper, his chief dressmaker. The small fifty-something woman was caught off guard as she fiddled with her long gold pendant.

“Whoooaaa!” She clung on to Ossa as she lost her balance.

“You made it work, Chrissy!” her boss gushed. “You really did.”

Christine smoothed her sleek black bob behind her ears, revealing purple nail polish that matched her lipstick.

“We make a good team,” she said, laughing. “Particularly with the lovely Jessica fronting your ad campaign. We chose well, Ossa. The dress looks sensational on her. I had a feeling it would. She knows how to show it off to perfection.”

Jessica blushed as Ossa blew a kiss at her and Christine clapped.

“Let's get started,” the photographer, Bryn, shouted over a pounding Calvin Harris track. “Work it, Jessica! I want to see what this dress can really do.”

She swished the skirts from side to side and spun around. This was the best and most high-profile modelling shoot she'd done to date: the cover and an inside spread of
Teen Vogue
to highlight her collaboration with Ossa, the hot, hot, hot designer who'd been the talk of fashion editors across the world since leaving Central Saint Martin's College in London three years ago. His rise had been astronomical and the twenty-four-year-old was now the go-to designer for Hollywood actresses as well as the uber-rich who could afford to splash out tens of thousands of pounds for couture gowns.

“Keep twirling,” Bryn shouted. “I love it. Give me more.”

Jessica pirouetted, making sure she kept her eyes on a point on the wall between Ossa and Christine, the way she'd been taught in ballet. It prevented her from losing her balance. Well, in theory. It didn't help that her mind was wandering. When she left MI6 HQ late yesterday, Andrea, the MI6 operative outed by The Collective, had made it to a safe house, but seven other agents were uncontactable and unaware of the looming threat from The Collective.

“Again, again, again!” the photographer demanded.

How much longer could she keep this up? Her head felt like it was going to explode. Another agent's name would be published later today and Sam might not be able to remove his or her details from the web so fast. Who would it be, and had they managed to get to safety already? She hoped it wasn't one of the seven who were MIA – missing in action.

“And that's it!” Bryn said. “Let's get the close-ups in the bag next.”

Jessica swayed on her feet slightly as she was surrounded by make-up artists, hair technicians and stylists, who touched up her face and fiddled with her dress. Christine knelt at her feet, pinning up the hem, which she'd accidentally caught with her spiked heel.

“The dress is stunning,” Jessica said, gazing down at the sparkling lights. Another message scrolled across:
Ossa rules the world!
His assistants, clutching mobiles, applauded, and Ossa took a bow, sporting an even bigger grin.

“How long did it take you to make this?”

Christine nodded over her shoulder at members of her dressmaking team who lingered nearby; they were far younger and sported various piercings. “We spent six weeks, working day and night, to stitch all the Swarovski crystals on to it. Then we had the LED lights to deal with, which was quite tricky and time-consuming.”

“You've done a fantastic job.”

“Thanks. Luckily, I've got top-class backup. We've been together for years, working for different designers. We came on board for Ossa's graduation collection and have stayed ever since. He was demanding even as a student back then. You wouldn't believe some of his requests, but we haven't failed him yet. No one ever wants to let him down.”

“And I'm sure you never will, Chrissy.” Ossa straightened his grey waistcoat as he approached. “She's my rock, Jessica. I couldn't have launched any of my collections without her. Anything I ask, she and her team can do it just like that.” He clicked his fingers. “Nothing is beyond her, including this digital technology, which would have thrown most dressmakers. The idea came to me in a dream – a dress that would light up the world – and Chrissy turned it into a reality.”

“I guess your fairy godmother's in line for a nice big pay rise.” Christine winked at Jessica and pushed a row of thick gold bangles up her arm. “I've been a dressmaker since I left school and have never been asked to do something as crazy as this before. But when Ossa asks, we all jump as high as we can.”

Ossa blew her a kiss. “Chrissy goes above and beyond anyone I've ever known. Not only does she bring my designs to life, she juggles my diary, helps me with model castings, calms me down when I'm close to losing it and generally keeps me sane.”

“Well, that's going a bit far.” Christine hooted with laughter. “I don't think even I can make you
completely
sane, and I'm not sure anyone can stop you from losing your temper at least three times a day.”

Ossa wagged a finger at her. “Now, now.”

Jessica smiled as the pair walked away, still ribbing each other.

Bryn clapped his hands. “OK, people. Let's get this in the bag. We've still got the water shoot to go.” He tapped his foot impatiently as stylists dispersed and the crew made last-minute adjustments to the lighting.

 

“Great. That's beautiful. Now stare directly into the camera, Jessica, and look serene.”

She cupped her face in her hands, trying to ignore the raised voices in the background. It was hard to appear composed when a screaming match had erupted on set a few minutes ago. Who was having an almighty meltdown? It was really unprofessional.

“Keep it down back there!” Bryn yelled over his shoulder.

Jessica caught a glimpse of Ossa jabbing a finger in Christine's face. The photographer didn't care that the designer was at the heart of the altercation.

“For God's sake, we've got work to do,” Bryn shouted. “Take it outside!”

An assistant cranked up the volume on the iPod before Ossa stormed off the set with a face as black as thunder. Jessica looked directly into the camera again. Why was he having a go at Christine? Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the dressmaker dab at her eyes with a tissue. After a couple of seconds, she disappeared out of sight. Jessica could still hear them arguing faintly in the background as the Ellie Goulding song faded out. Christine had admitted that the designer was demanding to work for and found it hard to keep his cool. That obviously wasn't an exaggeration.

But why was Ossa treating his “rock” so badly?

 

Half an hour later, the cover shoot had wrapped and it was apparent why Ossa and Christine were at each other's throats. The wrong gowns had been brought for the water set and Ossa was spitting blood. He'd hand-picked a deep crimson number and a midnight blue dress for Jessica to wear as she dived on to a wet Mylar sheet. Instead, Christine had picked up two very similar dresses, with slightly different hem lengths and necklines.

“It'll look virtually the same in the water shots,” Christine insisted as Jessica emerged from the changing area, wearing the midnight blue gown.

“
Virtually
isn't good enough for me,” Ossa said through gritted teeth. “
I'll
know the dresses are different. I don't know how you could be so careless. I put the correct dresses on the rails.”

“Then someone else must have come along and swapped them,” Christine shot back.

“That's impossible! Why would someone deliberately swap the dresses?”

“Enough!” Bryn said, holding up his hand. “We've gone over this a hundred times. I'm happy with the outfits. We've only got the warehouse for a few more hours, so I suggest we all get on with this. Right, Jessica?”

She nodded. To be perfectly honest, she couldn't understand why Ossa was kicking up such a fuss. He was behaving like a small child. Hadn't he noticed there were slightly more important things to worry about at the moment? MI6 had managed to keep the name of The Collective out of the news, but every bulletin carried stories about cashpoints ejecting money, planes being grounded due to technical faults and trains being derailed across the country after signal failures. Looting and even rioting were happening a few miles from here.

A man helped her up the steps on to a giant glass runway that stretched across the warehouse. Water sloshed across the mat, doused by a rubber hosepipe. Bryn was shooting from beneath, enabling him to capture interesting water patterns.

“I need you to run and dive gracefully,” the photographer shouted. “No crash landings, please.”

“OK, here goes,” she called back.

She took a deep breath, ran and dived head first. The icy cold water almost took her breath away as she whizzed along the mat. This took her mind off things. The last time she'd done anything remotely similar, she was five years old and playing with a friend on a water slide in her back garden.

WHOOOOAAA! This was way faster and cooler.

 

“I'm back!” Jessica hollered as she let herself in the front door. She threw her handbag on the floor.

“I'm in here,” her dad replied. “Good shoot?”

She pushed open the study door and walked in. Her dad sat at his desk, squinting at the computer screen.

“Yeah. The water was freezing, but I'm just about defrosted now. Is everything OK?” She looked over his shoulder.

“My account's working normally and no money's missing. You should be able to use the credit card again.”

“That's good news. The money's miraculously appeared on my Oyster card too. I tested it at an Underground station. Pity the tubes still aren't working.”

“You got a taxi back, right? I don't want you walking around London when it's so risky. There were reports of more rioting on the news.”

“Yeah, of course I got a taxi. Like any buses are running today.”

“Have you told Nathan that we've probably been hacked?”

Jessica shook her head. “I haven't had a chance. Anyway, like you said, everything's back to normal now. I doubt MI6 would have time to investigate something as minor as this, particularly since it happened before the launch of the midday hacking competition.”

Her dad frowned. “I know it seems insignificant compared to everything else that's going on, but you should definitely record it. We don't know if anyone else at MI6 has been personally affected. You could be the only one.”

“You're right. I'll let Nathan know tomorrow. There's no point trying to get hold of him now. He's got his hands full.”

“Make sure you tell him.” He stood up, using his walking stick, and limped to the door. “Are you hungry? Do you want a toasted sandwich?”

“Yes, please. Can I use your computer?” Her dad kept his main computer in a hidden underground bunker, accessed via the bookcase. But for day-to-day stuff, he logged on in his study.

“Sure.”

She slid into his chair and checked her emails. They seemed OK. She hadn't received any spam messages, which could be a sign that the hacker was attempting to take over her account. Twitter was still down, but Instagram and Facebook had started to work again a short time ago.

What about MI6? Had Sam managed to protect the firewalls? She logged in via a remote account and her protected PIN. She only had very limited access, but she might be able to see if the missing agents had made it to safe houses.

Blast.

Her inbox was empty. Nathan clearly didn't have time to give updates in the run-up to the release of the next undercover agent's name at three p.m.; plus it was probably beyond her security clearance. She shouldn't have been inside the comms centre when the hacking began; it was doubtful anyone else from Westwood had gained a glimpse of that hidden world.