‹instructor› ‹name›
‹firstname›Tarquin‹/firstname›
‹surname›Maxwell‹/surname› ‹/name›
‹citizenID›100087TQ3598ML‹/citizenID›
‹address›‹a1›84a Gladwell Court‹/a1›‹a2›London‹/a2›
‹pc›W349 8AQ1‹/pc›
‹/address›
‹empType›PT‹/empType›
‹/instructor›
Josh could have accessed the relevant schema to check, but PT clearly designated part-time employees. Maxwell could be anywhere, so rather than stake out the home address or manually search the college premises, a realtime GPSID hack was called for.
On resigning from Ghost Force and the Army in one go, Josh went through a series of exit interviews, including one with Lofty Young. They had sat inside the quartermaster's office next to Pre-Deployment Stores, and shot the breeze for a few minutes. Then Lofty had reached into a drawer, and pulled out a shoulder-holstered handgun, a black phone, and three iridescent memory flakes. Leaving them on the desktop, he stood up.
"Ah, the old bladder. Must go for a slash-ex." Ex meant military exercise, and what he meant was, he needed to pee. "All part of getting old, like noticing how every little thing needs thumbprint and vocal confirmation these days. There's still shedloads of stuff floating around, mind, that's impossible to track."
"That's what quartermasters are for."
"Yeah." At the door, Lofty gave a half grin. "I'll be a few minutes. Too bad it's so hard to keep the inventory straight."
After he had gone, Josh had stared at the desktop.
Message received, boss.
The shoulder holster felt snug, the phone and memory flakes disappeared into his pockets, and the desk was clear. When Lofty returned he nodded, talked about nothing in particular for several minutes, then shook Josh's hand, and that was that.
Now he used his phone – not the same handset, but containing the same firmware and covert-ops enhancements – and accessed GPSID via the "unofficial" portal whose URI was known only to retired operatives like Josh. Deep beneath the Chilterns, the MetaWatch team kept track of the portal's use. While Richard Broomhall's father was on a persons-of-interest list, using the portal to track Richard directly would flag up warnings; but there would be no reason to notice Josh tracking down an ordinary language teacher called Maxwell, however unusual the poor bastard's first name might be.
Having made the request, he had to wait while the verify-and-authorise procedures did their thing. Meanwhile, there were two messages waiting, and he played Maria's first.
"Hey, Josh. I know you're working, but I want us to meet. Not alone. There's- Make it the Highbury Arms, would you? Leave me a message about which day, what time, and I'll confirm."
And the second, from Mr Hammond, the hospital consultant who had delivered so much bad news already: "I'm afraid there's something not so pleasant that we need to talk about. We have some notion of your intent, but in the case of a long-term patient it would be best for explicit permission from a parent, both if possible. While stem-cell regen is the opti mum choice, every week there are injured children whose organs need immediate replacement in order to-"
He wiped the message.
You fucking bastard.
So many battlefield injuries, his friends' liquefied flesh hot and sticky on his skin, and the time he pulled the trigger that blew away the, the – don't think of it – with the spraying red and God he was so young, scarcely more than Sophie's age. Not just firefights, but the desperate tragedy of men killed while hauling gear across mountains, driving or climbing far from hospitals. The reality of pain and imminent death, the necessity of triage, saving those who can survive, and there had been too many rifle salutes fired into the Herefordshire sky above Union Jack-draped coffins, the pomp and strength of military ceremony when it mattered most, keeping the survivors strong, but none of that would allow him to think of them splitting Sophie open for the organs inside her.
Something molten was roiling inside him, desperate for the blaze of violence and blood, and when the map appeared on his phone display with Maxwell's coordinates marked in red, the address in Gladwell Court, he hoped that this man had something to do with the boy's disappearance, knew information that needed to be beaten out of him, or would panic and fight so that the only option was to kill him.
No. Control.
Punch to the throat and leave him gagging as he There's a missing boy, and he's the objective.
Then his feelings were tight inside him once more, and he was on the move.
• • •
Bursting open the front door, Josh stalked straight into the living room. On the couch, a small man raised his hands, shrinking back and squeaking: "Who are you? Please don't-Don't."
"Tarquin Maxwell, three nights ago you met this boy." Josh flashed a still from the surveillance log. "What for? What were you up to, you bastard?"
"He, um, brought me. Something." Globules of sweat spread on Maxwell's forehead. He flicked his purplish tongue across his lips. "For the stress. Medicinal. It's, er…"
"Virapharm, and you know the penalty for possession, and what I want to know is where is the boy?"
"It was the first time I-Wait, no. He's from Mr Khan, but for God's sake don't use my name because they'll take my kneecaps" – tears flowed – "so don't say I told you, please."
"Tell about Khan."
"No, I-"
"Tarquin, tell me or I'll rip the information from you, so choose."
"They'll use iron bars on my kn-kneecaps. They're like that. I didn't know, before. Before I dealt with him."
"Tell me."
"Businesses, he's got businesses."
"Where? What kind?"
"Shops, a taxi service, garages. He's-"
"Where will he be?"
"I was about to… Oh, Jesus. To tell you."
"Where?"
"Corner store called, um… I can show you on a map." Fingers trembling, he tried to pull out his phone. "Sorry, I…"
"This one." Josh thumbed his own phone, and presented it face-first to Maxwell. "Tap on the places you know."
"Here's the store." Maxwell's teeth were cutting into his lower lip as he scrolled the display. "And he's got places there and… there. Don't know about the cabs."
Josh slapped the side of Maxwell's jaw, the torque producing shock. Maxwell had been starting to relax, getting the idea that he had some control in this situation.
"Describe Khan."
"He's – oh, God – dark, got a scar on his cheek here" – he pointed – "and a moustache."
"Height? Tall or short?"
"Same as you. Thin."
Asked to estimate Josh's height, Maxwell would exaggerate from the effect of fear; but then he was also scared of Khan.
"Will he have people with him?"
"Always." Maxwell's larynx worked as he nodded. "Big buggers."
"Once I've gone, don't think we won't be monitoring every word, Tarquin. You understand, right?"
"I-Right. Yes."
"Stay here, keep silent."
There was a kicked-in door that needed to be repaired, and the fear would not keep him here forever; but an hour or two was enough.
"Remember," added Josh.
A corner store, very traditional, if you didn't notice the armoured glass, the profusion of spycams. There was a possible route in through a back yard; or else through the shop like an ordinary customer. Scanning from his phone, Josh found the spycams shielded, impossible to redfang. But some part of the network would connect to the Web, and that would be his entry point, if he needed one. For now, he wanted to physically scout the shop, and see if Khan was inside.
Loading up subversion ware in case of opportunity, he crossed the street and went into the shop, accompanied by an overhead beep: a detector registering his knife. His image would be in the system; but his phone was already polling for available devices, seeking interfaces. Meanwhile, he extracted a bottle of hypercaffeinated Run! and a foil pack of Japanese chocolate. Behind the counter, a woman took his cash without comment, clearly used to doing phoneless business. Porno mags, little more than a folded poster with an embedded thirty-second movie, plus a malleable plastic attachment for that little kinaesthetic extra, were on the shelves above the cat food. Josh delayed, as though fighting an embarrassed urge to browse, until his phone vibrated silently three times. He shook his head, as if pretending disgust – a pretence of a pretence – and left the store.