Tropic of Death (11 page)

Her mobile phone lay in pieces around her, dismantled in her check for bugs. The curtains were open on the night sky, now clear and bristling with stars, the television was playing quietly in the background, tuned to MTV, and from her open balcony door came the sound of waves surging against the foot of the bluff.

She was wearing the green satin pyjamas Byron had bought her, while his face filled the laptop screen and his reassuring voice, coming from the speaker, was helping to soothe away her residual stress.

‘So what do you think of the new webcam?’ he asked.

‘It’s fine,’ she said.

‘Fine? It’s faster, with no blips and video-quality resolution.’

‘Okay, if you say so. All the better to see you with, my dear.

Though your movements are a bit jerky.’

‘It’s a webcam, not a TV camera,’ he laughed, but he seemed to notice her expression. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

‘Just tired.’

‘Is anything wrong?’

‘The day was full-on.’ Rita gave him a weak smile. ‘I miss you.’

‘Look,’ frowned Huxley, ‘I hope they’re not going to keep you up there too long.’

‘The investigation’s already complicated.’

‘I could fly up in a couple of weeks. I could even claim it as an academic junket - call it research and drop in on old Steinberg.’

Rita didn’t say anything.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve had time to make contact with him,’

Huxley went on.

She just shook her head in answer.

‘Well, if you get the chance …’ He looked at her carefully across the live link. ‘And if you happen to bump into Audrey Zillman, give her my best.’

‘Sure.’ She sighed, reaching for her drink.

‘You seem down.’

‘So cheer me up.’

‘That would be easier,’ he complained, ‘without a couple of thousand k and a web-link between us.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’d start with a kiss.’

‘Where?’

‘The sensitive part of your neck.’

‘Then what?’

‘Your ears.’

‘You know that tickles.’

‘From there I’d work my way down.’

‘All right, enough.’ She laughed.

He gave her an affectionate look. ‘I found the pasta and the note you left. I miss you too.’

‘Now that’s what I wanted to hear.’ She swallowed another mouthful of Scotch. ‘Tell me about your day.’

‘It was great,’ he told her, ‘until it was ruined by incompetence!’

Rita was mystified by both the comment and his sudden vehemence. ‘Byron, what are you talking about?’

‘The faculty football match! Bloody umpires!’

‘Oh,’ she groaned. ‘Football.’

‘I was constantly infringed without getting a free kick while my opponent couldn’t be touched!’ he exclaimed. ‘We lost by a goal. In other words, the result was decided by bad umpiring. You rely on those applying the rules to have decent judgement and consistency. But if they’re morons the result is a travesty!’

‘For God’s sake,’ said Rita. ‘It’s just a game.’

‘You don’t understand. Most women don’t. They can’t see the level of commitment men bring to football. It’s a metaphor for life: passion, courage, striving together to achieve success.’

‘Yes, yes. I can see it’s a ritual of male bonding.’

‘Just the sort of remark I’d expect from someone who’s female and a psychologist. You’re missing the point. Football is a healthy way of channelling physical and social energy.’

‘It’s tribal.’

‘Damn it, Rita,’ he said crossly. ‘Sometimes you refuse to see there are higher ideals.’

‘Maybe that’s because I’m a woman,’ she said, bemused. ‘Though it seems your ideals have trouble surviving the umpires.’

‘Of course they do! That’s what I’m saying. Like so many things in life, when you have arseholes making bad decisions a worthy endeavour is reduced to absurdity. Chaos theory reigns supreme!’

‘Well, I’ll agree with one point,’ she conceded. ‘I’ll never understand why football makes you so irrational. It’s definitely a male thing. But if we can get away from noble savages chasing a leather ball, what else have you been up to?’

‘Oh, just plodding through the tail end of the semester. Two seminars and a departmental meeting over wine, cheese and backbiting that gave me a headache for the drive home.’

‘Sounds like hell.’

‘Academic bitching! No wonder there’s a brain drain to the defence industries.’

‘You really thought about it, didn’t you? Making the jump.’

‘Yes. No more campus politics and a lot more money. Very tempting, as long as you don’t feel you’re selling out.’

‘Who are you talking about?’

‘Steinberg, of course. Maybe Audrey too. Somehow I can’t visualise her as a defence scientist. She was a brilliant performer at university. Inspiring.’

‘Was she now?’

‘I’m talking about her sense of vision.’

‘I’m sure you are.’

‘That’s why she was headhunted by NATO. I only studied a year under her at Cambridge.’

‘Sounds delightful. How old is she?’

‘That was ten years ago, so she’d be thirty-nine.’

‘That means when you were twenty-one she was twenty-nine.

No wonder she was inspiring.’ Rita watched him watching her on the screen. ‘I must definitely look her up.’

‘Why?’

‘For a start I’d like to meet one of your ex-lovers.’ She paused to let him fidget. ‘And you’re right about the quality of the webcam picture. I can see you blushing.’

Huxley wasn’t sure how to react. ‘I thought we’d agreed our past love lives were buried history.’

‘So it’s true.’ She was starting to enjoy this. ‘I’ve unearthed one of your secrets.’

‘That’s not fair,’ he protested. ‘You’re trying to psych me out.’

‘No, I’m just teasing you.’

But he did have a point. In the year they’d been living together Rita had been trying to find out what exactly made Byron tick.

At first she’d almost convinced herself he was simply a man of integrity, open and spontaneous. This seemed too good to be true. Besides, the notion that what you see is what you get was unacceptable to anyone trained in psychology. So she tried to dig a little. Occasionally what emerged, from both his words and his behaviour, was a single-minded application to the task in hand, a forcefulness that detested compromise. This brought added spice to the relationship, for Rita was hardly a shrinking violet herself. It meant that Byron, for all his affection and humanity, also possessed the elements of a driven personality.

If Byron had a dark side to his character, it surfaced in a raw enthusiasm that at times threatened to run away with him. Mostly he channelled it into science and challenging scientific convention, but there was another aspect to it. His fascination with the laws of nature extended to human dynamics, principal among them the magnetic properties of women. Currently there was his deep attraction to Rita which was heartfelt and flattering. How long it would last she had no way of knowing, nor did she know how many lovers he’d actually had. Women were always checking him out and more than once she’d spotted a flash of electricity between Byron and his female students. And now she’d discovered a passion from his past. It made her wonder whether his experiences with women were intense but transitory, and if his emotional life was another expression of his restless quest for knowledge.

‘Tell me more about Audrey Zillman,’ insisted Rita. ‘What type of person is she? When did you last see her?’

‘While I was doing my last year at Cambridge I went to see her in Brussels, but things had changed.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, how can I put it? Audrey was always an unusual person.

Very gifted. Frighteningly intellectual.’

‘Attractive?’

‘Yes, in a fierce, Teutonic sort of way. And yes, we were emotionally involved, though I often thought the emotion was one-sided - from me. Occasionally she showed the same depth of feeling but mostly I think I amused her.’

‘And in Brussels?’

‘She was preoccupied. Dealing with the NATO colonels was annoying her and the military application of AI was absorbing her thoughts.’ Huxley shook his head. ‘Why do you want to know all this?’

‘It’s not about your student exploits,’ answered Rita. ‘It’s about helping me get the research base in perspective.’

‘I thought your task was to track a serial killer.’

‘The proximity of Whitley Sands gives it a bearing on the investigation, and Audrey clearly plays a significant role there.’

‘You’re profiling her,’ he said.

‘Humour me, Byron. I’ve already come up against a strange attitude here. Finish what you were saying about how she’d changed.’

‘She’d become distant. Not just from me but from day-today life. She was living in a zone, focusing so much on the AI breakthrough that normal human activity was an irritating distraction to her. It’s as if ordinary mortals were beneath her notice, me included. Maybe I’m exaggerating.’

‘Maybe,’ Rita agreed. ‘But she obviously hurt you.’

‘As I was leaving I actually suggested her brain was becoming more cybernetic than human - too detached by half. She didn’t get cross or disagree, just gave me one of her ironic smiles. I haven’t seen her since. When I heard she’d landed a top post at Whitley Sands I nearly got in touch, but thought better of it. I’d closed the book on what happened between us.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on
- that sort of thing.’

‘Sometimes it freaks me out when you quote poetry. What exactly is her job there?’

‘System controller.’

‘So she’d know all about their technology?’

‘I suspect she’s designed the entire cyber network, from their operating system upwards.’

‘Now here’s where I need to pick your brain. The integrated system you mentioned on our night out - could it deliver
total
surveillance?’

‘Total? I’m not sure how they’d pull that off.’

‘Take an educated guess.’

‘You could just about do it with saturation hi-tech coverage across a specific sector - satellites, cameras, infra-red, radar, scanners and so on, as well as immediate, unfettered web and phone access.

Even if you coordinated all that input the huge problem it would pose is the ocean of data generated and how to sort through it.’ A sudden glow of insight shone from his face. ‘My God, I wonder if that’s what she’s done.’

‘What?’

‘Solved the problem,’ he said with excitement. ‘It’s possible Audrey’s married quantum computing to AI to create a sophisticated interactive process that sifts through the mass of data. If she has it’s another milestone for the twenty-first century.’

‘Like what you were talking about in your speech?’

‘I was describing developments from the immediate future to mid century. But if Audrey’s cracked what I think she has, some of that future’s already here.’ Huxley shrugged. ‘Bit scary too. A powerful weapon of social control in the hands of the military.’

It was a sober thought to end their conversation on, but after saying their goodnights and switching off the webcam Rita downed the rest of her drink. Then she turned off the lights and sat on the bed, propped against the pillows.

‘What have I got myself into?’ she said quietly to herself.

As she sat there, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, the laptop screen glowing at her feet, the sound of the sea persisted below the hotel balcony, waves thudding against the shore, foam hissing among the rocks. She could almost hear the voice of Steinberg whispering to her: ‘Welcome to the war on terror.’

‘The leak has been plugged,’ he said.

At the head of the table, Willis Baxter folded his hands.

‘Explain.’

‘The man behind the leak, Dr Konrad Steinberg, no longer poses a threat,’ said Maddox. ‘He was a specialist in electromagnetic technology. That made him an expert in project hardware and perfectly placed to give our enemies what they wanted. Ironically, he’s fallen victim to his own faulty wiring at his home in Leith Ferry and electrocuted himself to death. As suspected, he’d compiled a report that he was beginning to circulate to outside contacts. It’s on a disk containing highly classified material, including specifications of the technology, and a commentary in which he calls for the immediate shutdown of the Panopticon Project.’

‘He refers to it by name?’ asked Horsley.

‘Yes,’ answered Maddox.

‘What was his security rating?’

‘Level-four clearance.’

‘So he had no direct access to the Tracker technology?’

‘No, but his aim was to kill the project.’

‘Then his death is a just outcome,’ put in Molloy. ‘And you’re absolutely right. The repercussions of this Steinberg report going public or falling into the wrong hands would have left the project irreparably compromised. The man wasn’t just a whistleblower, he was an out-and-out traitor. His death has averted a disaster.’

‘We can’t relax yet,’ said Maddox. ‘If you look at the photos in the dossier you’ll see how Steinberg hid copies of his report.’

‘More than one?’

‘He made four copies, disguised as a DVD box set.’

The others around the table leafed through the folders in front of them.

‘So Dr Steinberg was a fan of Wagner,’ observed a man in a charcoal grey suit. His name was Peter Luker, and he was a senior agent from the intelligence service in Canberra; he was the only committee member without a military background.

‘Yes - The Ring Cycle. He printed the disks with a photo label for each opera,’ explained Maddox. ‘But we have a problem.’

‘Which is?’

‘Disk number one,
Das Rheingold
, is missing.’

Silence filled the room.

Then Molloy said: ‘Two questions. Where is it and who has it?’

‘We’re reasonably sure it’s still local,’ answered Maddox. ‘It’s clear from Steinberg’s email records that he passed the disk to someone linked to the protest movement in the town. We’re trying to trace him now. We don’t know his full identity yet.’

‘What
do
you know?’

‘Steinberg refers to him as Stonefish.’