Connected (23 page)

It had been a fitful
night’s sleep. On the train back from London the previous evening, Doug had
resolved to tell Bullock the whole story, but this morning that resolution had
diminished. Although still certain of the connections between Markov, the
hacking and the stolen PC, he knew it was really no more than speculation. All
he could prove was that someone with access to an old server, once used by Zhirkov,
had been receiving his logged keystrokes. The rest, while seemingly a logical
extrapolation of the facts, was completely without substance. Assuming Markov
to be reasonably intelligent, the PC would now be long gone. So other than the
coincidence of the hacker showing up at his club, there was probably nothing
else linking the two men. Of course, Bullock might still find the information
useful, even without any concrete proof connecting the pieces, but another
factor had crept in, which was now clouding Doug’s judgement. He couldn’t be
certain that he and Brian had been recognised by Markov as they had crouched
outside his club the night before, but it seemed more than likely. Given this,
and based on the previous week’s altercation in the High Street, then the man
could now be looking to vent more of that scarily controlled anger. Doug
sincerely hoped that Cindy had ceased all contact with the thug, but if not, he
feared what might happen if such rage were unleashed on her. Witnessing Cindy’s
protective intervention with the handbag from hell, it must have hit Markov (in
more ways than one) that there had been something between them.

He had sent her the text before lunch, partly in
warning and partly because he so desperately wanted an excuse to see her again,
but that had been three hours ago. He lay on his bed staring at the ceiling and
bit into an overripe and somewhat powdery tasting apple. So much had happened
in the last couple of weeks, it was hard to take in. If only he could wind back
the clock, talk to Kal, and find out what the hell he had been up to. It all
seemed to revolve around Dream-Zone, but why the Russians were so interested
remained a mystery, the solution of which would require creation of the elusive
combo file. He grabbed his laptop from the floor and opened the video editing
software. Using the compiler, he began to examine the programme’s code for
hints as to how it worked. The style of programming struck Doug as rather
clumsy, lacking the explanatory comments normally included to help other
programmers decipher it. Eventually though, he managed to tease out the
underlying structure and develop a plan as to how it might be modified.
Strangely enough, there were some similarities between this task and the
previous week’s computing assignment. He remembered Becky’s account of their
tutor’s comments and then paused. If the evolving fractals had helped him to
accomplish that task, then perhaps it could help him with this one too. He
excitedly located the fractal generator and clicked, once again marvelling at
the curious feelings evoked within him. After a few moments to rest his eyes,
he switched back to the video editing project. At first, he assumed he was
looking at the wrong thing. Rather than the obscure, almost impenetrable syntax
of the programming language, Doug could now see its underlying purpose as clearly
as though it were written in plain English. He scrolled down through the code
in silent wonder. While nothing on the screen had actually changed, his own
mental projection of the content had somehow altered dramatically. It reminded
him of learning French as a foreign exchange student in his early teens.

Like most kids learning a foreign language in the
English school system, Doug had filled his head with the vocabulary and grammar
sufficient to pass exams, while lacking the ability to recall any of it fast
enough to converse. Only after six weeks of total immersion with a French
family in the Dordogne had the linguistic neural pathways become sufficiently
entrenched to allow actual thinking in French. He still remembered the moment
quite vividly. He had, one morning, been tucking into a hearty breakfast of
fresh croissants and baguette, when his host had pushed a copy of “Le Figaro”
across the rustic wooden table. Looking down, he started to read one of the
stories before realising, for the first time in his life, that what he was
seeing in the newsprint, rather than the usual string of words requiring
translation into English, was its meaning.

Similarly, as he now browsed the lines of code, it
almost felt as though he were thinking in the computer programming language in
which it was written. Quite how Dream-Zone had enabled this was beyond him, but
right now, the ‘how’ seemed less important. He quickly set about modifying the
programme to allow input from the fractal generator. Once again, his thoughts
seemed to be conveyed to his typing fingers as naturally as if brushing his
teeth. Temporarily at least, Dream-Zone appeared to be catapulting his
programming ability from a level of conscious competence to one of unconscious
competence. It seemed similar to the way people progress from learner driver,
having to concentrate hard on every aspect of the vehicle’s control, to
experienced road user, in which the mind is free to engage multiple
distractions, while unconsciously taking care of the driving. Except that
instead of the thousands of hours required to become expert at such an
activity, Dream-Zone was apparently doing it in a matter of minutes. There was
one important difference however, insofar as the Dream-Zone effect seemed
impermanent. At some point between finishing last week’s assignment and today,
the advantage had clearly worn off. Even so, with the separate Dream-Zone
components capable of such cognitive enhancement, there was no telling what
their combination might achieve. This was both exhilarating and terrifying, in
equal measure. His mobile began to ring. It was Cindy. “Doug? I got your text.
Thanks for the heads-up. Have you contacted them yet?”
“Not yet. Cindy, I’ve been worried about you.” There was a long pause. “Cindy,
are you there?”
“Are you busy right now?”
“Err…no…not particularly. What do you have in mind?”
“We need to talk. I’m on my way to pick you up. Should be about twenty minutes.
I’ll call again when I get there.”
“Look, I can handle it if you don’t want to see me again, I just need to know,”
said Doug, trying hard not to sound too desperate.
“Let’s just talk when I see you,” she said, and hung up.
Doug looked at his mobile, going over the conversation in his head, and trying
to extract clues from the intonation and choice of words, as to her intentions
and feelings. It was no use, she had given nothing away. He looked at the
computer screen, which once again displayed only a page of impenetrable code.
Composing a quick email to Peter, he attached the work in progress and went to
clean up.

“Wow!” he said, climbing into the Porsche and
stroking its soft red leather interior. “I was hoping I might get a chance to
ride in this thing while actually conscious.”
“Buckle up!” she said, putting her foot to the floor, and unleashing an
acceleration greater than any Doug had before experienced in a vehicle without
wings.
“Holy shit!” he said, instinctively raising a hand to the dashboard as they
approached the corner at a speed sufficient to send lesser vehicles into an
uncontrollable spin. Barely braking, and without so much as a squeal of tyres,
the car swung tightly around the bend and accelerated again towards Boundary Road.
She glanced across at him. “It’s my little indulgence - fun isn’t it?”
He turned towards her and once again felt himself falling head over heels.
She smiled kindly. “Doug, I’m sorry I haven’t called.”
He waited for the rest, but it didn’t come. Did she want to end it or not? The
suspense was killing him, but at the same time, he didn’t want to say anything
that might force the wrong answer. Even the current uncertainty now seemed
better than knowing it was definitely over.

“So where are we going?” he asked, finally.
“I don’t know, I thought maybe we could go to a quiet pub somewhere and have a
drink. Maybe even get a bite to eat later if you’re up for it.”
“Sounds good to me!” said Doug, feeling a bit more optimistic. He couldn’t
imagine why she would suggest dinner if her intention was only to dump him
later.
“So what makes you think Sergei has been - what did you say - hacking and
stealing things?” she asked innocently, as if commenting on the weather.
Doug carefully recounted the events of the previous day from the initial
discovery of the key-logger through to the transfer of the computer base unit
outside the club. Cindy listened quietly, her eyes focused on the road ahead,
and occasionally raising her eyebrows in apparent surprise. He was just
wondering whether to tell of the failed plan to confront Zhirkov when she
pulled up outside a small country pub bordered by trees and open grassland.
Doug got out and stretched, realising that in spite of its proximity to campus,
this was not a pub he had come across before. It was an attractive old building
with freshly painted white walls, contrasted with red windows and door. Cindy
pointed her key fob at the Porsche, and it responded with a short yelp of
acknowledgement accompanied by a flash of lights.

Apart from the landlord and one old man sitting at
the bar, clutching an empty pint jug, the establishment appeared empty. Doug
glanced at his watch. It was a little after four. The old man watched as they
made their way to the bar, his watery steel-grey eyes brimming with a
combination of nostalgic envy and pitying recognition of the inevitable naivety
of youth.
“So what’ll it be?” asked Cindy, opening her handbag and pulling out her wallet.
“I think it’ll have to be a pint of Old Speckled Hen,” Doug said eagerly, after
spotting his favourite beer on tap.
“You’re very beautiful!” said the old man, his voice carrying the gentle
detachment from social protocol so familiar in those of advancing years.
“Thank you!” said Cindy, smiling at him and placing a hand on his upper arm.
“May I offer you something as well?” she asked.
“Very intelligent too!” said the old man, ignoring the offer and nodding
knowingly at Doug.
“Why, thank you again, kind sir! Would you allow me to buy you a drink?” she
offered again, somewhat taken aback.
For a few seconds, he looked her in the eyes. “No thank you,” he said, setting
his glass on the counter, and getting slowly to his feet, “it’s time I was on
my way.” He then walked over, placed a hand on Doug’s shoulder and whispered,
“Femme fatale!”
Doug smiled politely, and as the old man made his way to the door, turned to
Cindy with a grin. To his surprise, she was staring after him, looking
unaccountably hurt.
“Don’t worry,” whispered Doug, “the old guy probably doesn’t know what he’s
saying half the time - except when he said you were beautiful and intelligent of
course - he got that part right.”
She gave a nervous little laugh and ordered a spritzer.
“So what do you think about my theory of Markov stealing Dream-Zone?” Doug
asked, as they took their seats at a table in the corner.
“He’s a night club owner and small time criminal. I can’t see what he could
want with some computer file you developed,” she replied, sceptically.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” he said, undeterred. “I can’t be certain,
because I haven’t yet been able to recreate what it was that Kal and Martin
produced, but if the individual files are anything to go by, this thing could
have some pretty amazing mind-altering properties.”
“Mind altering? You mean like a drug?” she asked, looking more serious.
“Well - yeah, kind of, I suppose. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’m really
starting to think it could be dangerous. I mean, I don’t really know, but the
only two people to have used this thing so far, have both committed suicide. If
it gets into the public domain… ”He trailed off, not really wanting to accept
it himself. “Well - people could get hurt.”
Cindy’s face had gone pale. She sat staring at her spritzer with a troubled
expression as though preparing to say something. Doug pulled out his tobacco
and rolled a cigarette. Patting his pockets, he sighed, “I don’t suppose you
have a light do you?”
“In there,” she said, distractedly, nodding towards her bag on the empty chair
beside him. Doug picked it up, grinning, as he felt the inertia of the training
weight, and peered inside. Spotting something small and red, and assuming it to
be a lighter, he pulled it out, holding the object up in front of his face and
staring at it with a frown.
“Yes, that’s a memory stick!” said Cindy sarcastically. “There’s also a
match-book in there somewhere - it’s white with some fancy restaurant logo on
it.”
“I’ve seen this before,” said Doug continuing to stare at the stick.
“You’re taking a degree in Computing, I should hope you have seen one of those
before. What’s the matter with you?”
“No, I’ve seen this memory stick before. Not one like it, but this very one,
I’m sure. And I saw it in a dream. A dream about you!”
“Okay, so you dream about me – that’s nice – and one time your mind included
something that you’d noticed in my bag at some point or other.”
“Maybe… But I don’t remember ever seeing it in your bag. In fact I’m pretty
sure I’ve never looked inside your bag before. Isn’t that weird? In the dream,
you were giving it to Markov – in a strip club.”
She looked at him hard for a few seconds, as if waiting for him to add some
hidden meaning and then gave a dismissive snort. She took the memory stick,
returning it to her bag and handed him the match-book. “Here, go and fill your
lungs with carcinogens, while I buy you another pint. Sounds like you need it.”

Doug took the matches and wandered absent-mindedly
towards the door. Cindy’s explanation made perfect sense. He couldn’t recall
seeing the device anywhere other than in that strange and vivid dream, but he
supposed it was possible. Perhaps it had registered in his subconscious.

Nadia ordered another two drinks and stood at the
bar, deep in thought. “Everything all right love?” asked the landlord. “You
look rumbled.”
“Do I really? No, I’m fine – thanks,” she said, trying to compose her face into
an expression of quiet contentment. She had been wondering how much more, if
anything she might have to tell Doug about her involvement in all of this, but
since arriving at the pub, it felt as though everybody already knew. First, the
old man had made that parting shot about her being a Femme Fatale. Now Doug
appeared to be taunting her with the memory stick, with which she had planned
to steal Dream-Zone. Even the barman seemed to be picking up on something, of
which she had no awareness. Was she losing her touch? And the day had started
so well. Sergei would undoubtedly be in a foul mood after being so easily
duped, but she had been careful not take any more from him than agreed. It had
been tempting and almost certainly possible, but it would have risked a level
of retribution from the Russian that she had no intention of inviting. The
thing that was troubling her most though, was Doug’s latest suggestion that
people could end up getting hurt. The coincidence of both Kal and Martin
committing suicide had not been lost on her of course, but somehow she had
managed to push it to the back of her mind. She had detached herself from the
possibility of any such consequences, in the same way she had overlooked the
inherent illegality of the various businesses for which she had acted as
accountant over the years. She had always been blessed with a conveniently
errant moral compass, but she drew the line at knowingly allowing harm to be
inflicted on the innocent. If Markov went ahead and sold it to Wong, as agreed,
then Wong would be embedding it into his online gaming service. Cindy didn’t
know quite how it worked, but apparently a number of these Chinese online
gaming companies had been resorting to increasingly underhand tactics, in order
to gain competitive advantage in what was reputedly a multi-billion dollar
marketplace. Until now, this skulduggery had mostly involved denial-of-service
attacks, using armies of compromised personal computers to temporarily knock
competitive services off-line. More recently though, there had been talk of
incorporating flashing lights and hypnotic sounds, in an attempt to make the
gaming experience more addictive. Markov was not especially computer literate,
but he had a sound head for business, and had been quick to embrace the
profitable new world of cybercrime, as a diversification from his cash cows of
sex and drugs. Somehow, the students’ work had come to his attention, and he
had immediately spotted the market opportunity. None of that had previously
posed any problem for Nadia’s conscience, but this was different. If Dream-Zone
really was capable of inciting suicide, then the thought of exposing tens of
thousands of young people to its effects was simply unthinkable. For once, she
feared she might have gone too far, and for the first time in a very long
while, didn’t know what to do about it.