Hidden Man (21 page)

‘Mine just crashed as well,’ Kathy said, coming in behind him.

Mark stood up with perhaps an exaggerated non-chalance and walked across to his desk. Hitting a key at random, his stomach a swell of nerves, he prayed for total system failure.

Granted.

The small, frowning face of an Apple icon appeared onscreen and nothing Mark could do would remove it. Turning to face Macklin and Kathy he said simply, ‘Shit.’

At the reception desk, thirty feet away, Rebecca, a temp who had replaced Sam as office manager, answered a telephone call just as her own computer froze irreparably. She had been in the middle of writing a frankand erotic email to a one-night stand and was worried that it would now be discovered on the system.

‘Well, that’s fucking great, isn’t it?’ Macklin was saying. ‘I had twenty fucking messages downloading and now they’re all shot to fuck. Some cunt in the Philippines, probably, a prepubescent anorak who thinks it’s a fucking laugh infecting every computer in the civilized world with Macintosh Clap. Doesn’t he have something better to do? You know, watch football, play Virtual Cop or something?’

Mark caught Kathy’s eye and grinned. ‘It may not be that bad,’ he said. Momentarily forgetting the
temp’s name, he called out to her, ‘Is yours down too?’

‘Yes,’ Rebecca replied from across the room, covering the telephone with her hand. The conspiratorial way she then soundlessly mouthed the word ‘Frozen’ made Mark wonder if she fancied him. ‘Well then, I’ll get someone to fix it,’ he said.

‘Who does Sam normally call?’ Macklin asked. ‘Of all the fucking days to be on holiday…’

‘The number’s in her magic book,’ Kathy told him. At this, Mark stepped in.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll call them,’ he announced, and then panicked that he might have sounded too enthusiastic. Why would
he
do it, after all, when Kathy was around and knew where to find the book?
Rescue this. Say something
. ‘Mack, you go next door. Kathy, make him a cup of tea. Virus or no virus, it’ll be fixed by lunch.’

‘What makes you so sure?’ Macklin asked.

‘Vibes, man,’ Mark said. ‘Just vibes.’

He was impressed by how precisely the men from A Branch looked exactly like computer technicians. For some reason he had been expecting lab engineers wearing white coats and protective helmets, but the three men who came to the Libra offices within half an hour of Mark’s call were spotty, unwashed, socially inept youths. None of them looked at Mark. They had already performed a complete dry-run of the operation the preceding weekend and knew exactly which rooms to target and where to locate the safe.

‘Is there a unit in there?’ one of them had asked Kathy, nodding towards Roth’s locked office.

‘Yeah,’ she had said.

‘Any chance of getting a lookat it?’

‘Sure.’

And total access was thus provided. Over the course of the next four hours, every computer in the building was disassembled and a copy made of its hard drive. Mean while, having been shown to the basement by Mark, a security specialist plugged phoney wires into the mainframe - purely for the purposes of cover - and then calmly broke into the Libra safe, making a thorough photographic record of its contents. Mark, who had told an increasingly agitated Macklin that he would ‘keep an eye on things downstairs’, watched all this unfold from the basement doorway and felt the thrill of his participation in it.
This’ll make our case
, Randall had told him, and he was surely right.

Yet there was a single flaw, a problem that nobody could have foreseen. Just after two o’clock, as Macklin was leaving the office to buy himself a sandwich for lunch, he turned to Rebecca in reception and, laying the ground work for a future date, said, ‘Sorry about all the computer geeks, sweetheart. Can’t be helped, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s all right,’ she replied. ‘But it’s a bit weird, Mr Macklin. They got here so quickly.’

Macklin, who was wondering what chance he had of getting her into bed before the end of the week,
only half-absorbed this observation and said simply: ‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah. Sam left me a note before she went away, basic stuff saying where everything was. I had the number for the computer technicians and called them after what happened. Only, thing is, they said they were busy, couldn’t get here till three or something. Then they go and show up twenty minutes later.’

‘Is that right?’ Macklin said. ‘Is that right?’ She now had his full attention. ‘After twenty minutes?’

‘Yeah.’

He frowned.

‘Maybe they had a cancellation. Did you ask?’

Rebecca shookher head.

Macklin eyeballed the only visible technician in the room, a twenty-four-year-old A-Branch recruit named Frankwho was pretending to rewire a circuit board outside Mark’s office.

‘Hey, mate,’ he called out.

‘Yeah?’

‘How come you got here so quickly?’

Trained never to open his mouth until he knew the score, Frank continued facing the wall and replied, ‘What’s that?’

‘I said, how come you got here so quickly?’

Half-turning now, Frankfrowned at Macklin and muttered, ‘Not following you, mate.’

‘Well, it’s just that the lovely Rebecca here phoned your offices this morning and you said you was busy till three.’

‘Beats me. I just go where I’m told,’ Frank said. Thinking on his feet, he added, ‘I know there was talk of a big job last night. Maybe it got called off.’

‘Right.’

Macklin seemed satisfied and looked back at Rebecca, raising a fat eyebrow in a manner he intended as flirtatious.

‘Well, there you are, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Mystery solved. So what are you doing for dinner tonight? Fancy some sushi or something?’

Afterwards they had Frankto thank for reacting as quickly as he did.

No sooner had Macklin left the building than he put his tools to one side, smiled at Rebecca, and walked calmly down to the basement. Mark, who was startled when the door opened at the top of the staircase, signalled frantically to the locksmith and leaped to his feet.

‘Problem,’ Frank said, matter-of-factly.

‘How so?’ the lock smith replied.

‘Girl upstairs, temp. She’s not as lazy as she looks. Turns out that as soon as the system went down she called the regular technical support team. As luck would have it, they were too busy to get here till three. But it’s already gone two. Unless someone gets on the phone smartish and cancels the appointment, this place is gonna be crawling with Mac technicians wondering who the fuckwe are.’

‘Jesus,’ Mark said.

Frank’s voice was a low, logical statement of the facts.

‘You got the number?’ he asked.

‘I can find it.’

‘Then do it now. Our friend just popped out for a sandwich. He’s due backin less than five minutes.’

‘Rebecca. Give me Sam’s magic book, will you? I need to find something out.’

Mark prayed that she would retrieve it without asking any awkward questions. Without stopping to make conversation. Without wondering why he had a film of sweat on his forehead in the middle of winter.

‘Of course, Mr Keen, of course.’

‘Call me Mark,’ he said. ‘I think she keeps it in the drawer…’

‘Yeah, here it is. Everything all right?’

Frank passed them at the reception desk, sucking on a carton of Ribena.

‘Everything’s fine, yeah. It’s just so hot down there.’ Lowering his voice, Mark whispered, ‘These guys are taking for ever.’

And Rebecca smiled, enjoying the shared confidence. She handed him the bookand followed Mark with her eyes as he walked away.

‘Mr Keen?’

‘Yes?’

Mark turned round. Rebecca was touching her neck, swinging this way and that in her revolving chair.

‘It’s just that I was wondering if you could show me how the fax machine works. I’m having trouble receiving.’

Wondering if this was a pass, Mark said, ‘Sure. Just let me do this one thing and I’ll be right backwith you.’

‘Great.’

He closed the door of his office, heat spread across his body. Flicking through the book -
where?
- Mark searched for the number.
What’s the name of the company? What the fuck are the computer men called?

But Sam was efficient. Sam laid things out. In the section marked ‘Computers’ he found a list of companies, topped by a firm of Apple specialists whose name he instantly recognized. Dialling the number with dervish speed, Mark found himself in an automated queue.

For General Enquiries press 1.

For Information about our range of Software Products, press 2.

For Customers experiencing problems with the latest version of Windows, press 3.

For Corporate Accounts, press 4.

Mark hit ‘4’ hard with a rigid index finger and swore as music drifted through on the line. A boy band. Guitars and harmonies. He could feel his backbe coming soaked in sweat. And then, through the window of his office, Mark saw Macklin coming back with a sandwich, his thin hair pushed to one side by the wind.
Stop and talk to the girl
, he prayed.
Try and get your fat arse laid.

‘Hello, can I help you?’

A woman, young, with a voice not unlike Rebecca’s was on the line.

‘Yes. Hello. Listen, hi, I’m calling from Libra.’

‘Yes?’

‘We’ve solved our problem.’

Nothing.

‘Remember we called you?’

Silence.

‘About a virus.’

‘A virus?’

The woman sounded bored. Not taking things in. So many calls to field in a day and nothing interesting about this one.

‘Yes. A virus at the Libra offices.’ Macklin was eating his sandwich and seemed to be laughing at something Rebecca had said.
Stay there, you prick. Keep talking
. ‘One of our office managers called you. You said you had a team coming out here at three.’

‘At three?’

More silence, deep as a cave. Was she stupid? Did she even know how to
spell
‘virus’?

‘I’m just going through the booknow, sir.’

‘Is it there?’

Impatiently the woman said, ‘Just a minute, I’m still looking.’ Then, ‘Here it is. Yes, three o’clock.’

‘And?’

‘And what, sir?’

‘Well I’d like to cancel it. If it’s not too late.’

‘I see.’

Mark experienced a weakening sensation in his arms.

‘Are they already on their way?’

‘Just a minute, please.’

And he was forced to wait as the woman abandoned the line to ‘Careless Whisper’. One minute passed. Two. He looked out into the office and could not see Macklin. Then there was a knock on his door.

‘Just a minute.’

Macklin came in anyway.

‘Keeno, can I just…’

Mark looked up and signalled sternly with his hand. Eyes set like stone and the words ‘Gimme five minutes’ mouthed with absolute intent. Macklin said, ‘Sorry, mate, I’ll wait then,’ and closed the door.

‘Hello?’

‘Yes.’ Mark pressed the phone tighter to his ear.

‘That’s fine, sir.’

‘It’s cancelled?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘They’re not already on their way?’

‘What?’

‘I said the team, they’re not already on their way?’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s great news.’

Anxiety fell from his body, like a storm cloud shedding rain. He actually grinned.

‘Was there anything else?’ the woman asked.

‘No, nothing else,’ Mark said, sitting backin his chair.

‘Well, that’s fine, then,’ she said, and abruptly hung up the phone.

31

Tracy Frakes had been waiting for the letter for three long days. On Tuesday morning, Mark had left the house at 8.45 a.m., forty minutes before the fat postman ambled up Torriano Avenue and dropped a single postcard into his letter box. There was no second post that day, so Tracy had gone home and spent the rest of the afternoon with her kids, taking them to the movies and then on for a meal at McDonald’s. The following morning she had woken at five, driven west to Kentish Town and had difficulty finding a parking space with a decent view of Mark’s property. He had left earlier than the day before - at 7.25 a.m. - and Tracy had thought he looked attractively dishevelled, his hair still wet from the bath and lost sleep staining his eyes. Then she had to wait another two hours for the postman, the same overweight blob as the day before, passing the time reading
Glamour
magazine and a brand-new bookby John Grisham. Once the postman was safely out of sight, Tracy had entered the property, only to find that Mark had been sent two bills (gas and water), an invitation franked by
Q
magazine, another postcard (this time from Argentina) and a piece of junkmail from a home-tailoring service in Epping. Nothing, in other
words, from America. She would have to wait for second post and most probably come back tomorrow.

By Thursday, Tracy was bored of the assignment. Another 5 a.m. rise, another headlight drive to Kentish Town. She didn’t get called by Taylor all that often, and had been hoping for a decent black bag, a job that entailed something more than just fiddling about with someone’s post. Taylor had recruited her straight out of prison six years earlier, hoping, he said, to take advantage of her ‘unique gifts for theft and petty larceny’. He was a right twat, Taylor. Ten stone of Yorkshire ponce who treated her like a street urchin. Still, the money was good, and it was nice to get out of the house. Tracy wondered what she’d buy for her boys when the cheque came through. Come to think of it, she wondered what she’d buy for herself.

At eight on the dot, Mark came out. A bit nervous this morning, looking a bit stressed and concerned. He was wearing a classy suit cut in navy blue corduroy with trousers that flared just above the shoe. Tracy thought he looked handsome; she wondered what he did for a living, whether he had a girlfriend or family. That was an element of the workshe really enjoyed, the mystery of a target’s identity. Once, she had broken into an office blockin Bracknell and seen the company chairman that very same night on the news. To get so close to someone, to see their furniture, their clothes, to riffle through drawers and cupboards and leave no trace of her passing. There was real skill to it, a gift for ghosting through. It annoyed Tracy
when intelligence people made a mess of things, when there were stories in the papers about break-ins going wrong. She couldn’t see any excuse for it, for leaving a room disturbed. They’d all been trained properly; people just got sloppy, stopped taking pride in their work.