The Hidden Man - Charles Cumming [63]
‘And the disks?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’
‘Just old crap?’
‘Just exactly that.’
A bottle-green Audi swung out in front of the Astra, blinding them briefly with the sweep of its headlights. Mark was concerned that the driver might see his face and he shielded it as Taploe opened the window and tapped his thumb on the steering wheel.
‘Let’s talk for a moment about the computers.’ Mark seized on this.
‘That’s what I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Surely you have a way of hacking into our network from the outside? You can read anything that comes out of there.’
‘Used to,’ Taploe replied. It was a moment of uncharacteristic candour. ‘We lost that level of surveillance three weeks ago. A manpower issue. And your firewall was changed last month.’
‘Terrific.’
He omitted to add that the entire Kukushkin operation was gradually, inevitably, being pushed to one side. Lack of concrete evidence. Death of a joe. The Wise Men had lost their faith in Taploe and were moving on to pastures new.
‘But it shouldn’t make any difference,’ he said. ‘That’s why you’re so important to us. With you on the inside we can get at everything we need.’
‘How?’ Mark asked. ‘Everything sensitive is password protected. I was trying to get into Mack’s email system…’
‘… There is an alternative,’ Taploe interrupted.
‘An alternative?’
‘Does Libra have technical back-up? A team of troubleshooters who come in if your network goes down?’
‘Sure they do. The people we bought the computers from.’
‘And where do you keep the file server?’
‘In the basement,’ Mark said.
It was as if the idea had only in that instant fused in Taploe’s mind, regardless of the fact that Quinn had conceived the plan two days earlier. He said, ‘Then let’s kill two birds with one stone.’
‘I’m not following.’
‘Next week- we’ll set a date - at a specified time, ideally when Macklin and Roth are out of the building, my people will stage-manage a computer attack at your offices in Soho. In other words, put a virus into the network from the outside. All the computers go down. Secretaries start to panic, people lose their work. Now, in the absence of Roth and Macklin, you’re the man in charge, is that correct?’
‘Correct.’
‘So it would be you who would call in the technicians?’
‘Not necessarily. Sam would do it, the office manager. But she’s just gone on maternity leave.’
It felt like Taploe’s first stroke of luck in weeks.
‘Good. Then you’re the one who makes the call. As soon as the networkgoes down, inform the staff that help is on its way. Only you’ve telephoned us. Your normal technicians never need to know. Instead, we send A-Branch plumbers who fix the system, copy every hard drive in the building and get access to the basement safe, all inside three or four hours.’
‘You can do that?’
‘We can do that,’ Taploe said. ‘Closer to the time, we’ll go through it all in more detail. For now, you should be getting back to work.’
29
Jenny telephoned to say that she would be half an hour late for her appointment with Ben. It was 9.45 in the morning. Having finished his third cup of coffee of the day, he walked downstairs and retrieved the post from the metal box bolted to his front door. The number of messages of condolence he now received in relation to his father’s death had dwindled to perhaps one or two a week. And none today, it seemed. Just an electricity bill, addressed to Alice, and something from a French mail-order clothing store she liked to use from time to time. The obligatory bank statement, a takeaway flyer, and a postcard addressed to the house next door in Elgin Crescent that had obviously been delivered by mistake. Then, second from the bottom, Ben discovered an airmail envelope made out in his name containing what felt like a substantial letter. A return address had been written on the reverse side.
Robert Bone
US Post Office/Box 650
Rt 120
Cornish
New Hampshire 03745
United States of America
Inside the envelope he found a typed, six-page letter