The Network - Jason Elliot [31]
‘This is Macavity,’ says a watery-sounding voice, as the data packets are digitised and encrypted, then reassembled again in the handset. At some point the Firm’s special microchip begins sending out its impenetrable white noise. ‘Confirm please.’
‘This is Plato,’ I say, feeling silly.
‘All well?’
‘Can I change the ring tone on this thing?’ I ask.
‘No, you can’t. Now just listen. I’m going to send you someone.’
‘That’s nice,’ I say. ‘Will she jump out of a cake?’
‘It’s a he. He’s going to help you to get up to speed on a few things. If you get along, I’ll send him with you. He’s ex-Regiment and I want you to do whatever he asks.’
‘Whose regiment?’
‘The Regiment.’
That’s different. The Regiment is what the SAS calls the SAS. I picture a black-booted figure in body armour and respirator, Heckler & Koch MP5 at the ready, swinging through the window of the house as I lie in bed reading the Sunday papers.
‘I hope it’s not Andy McNab,’ I say. ‘He’s far too intellectual for me.’
‘Don’t be facetious. It’s not Andy McNab; it’s the fellow who trained him.’
That shuts me up.
‘Roger that. When?’
‘That’s his business. Just be nice to him. He’ll introduce himself as a friend from London. By the way, he’s a Mirbat vet, so I advise you not to mess him around.’
‘A what?’
‘Mirbat. Look it up. I have to go. Good luck.’
There’s a bleep, and a recording of a severe-sounding woman’s voice repeats, ‘Please hang up, please hang up.’
I’m impressed. Both by the mobile, which seems to do its job, and by a man who seems to do his. A man so busy he has no time for small talk. I’m about to reattach the handset to its cable when looking at it gives me an idea. Hearing Seethrough’s voice has reminded me of the mobile’s other functions, and I wonder now if they really work.
There’s a way, I realise, to test the infrared. I can switch my video camera to ‘nightshot’ mode, when the camera uses its own infrared source to film in total darkness, and then see what the mobile looks like. And it’s easy to test the ultraviolet function. There are dyes that show up under ultraviolet light in all sorts of things.
As soon as it’s dark, I’m thus able to waste several hours. In pitch blackness, viewed through the camera in infrared mode, the little screen on the mobile is, as promised, as bright as a searchlight. It lights up the entire room and is even visible from under a blanket. Handy, as Seethrough has suggested, for landing a helicopter in the garden.
The ultraviolet is equally distracting. It makes my fingernails seem luminous. I wave it over objects that take my fancy, and discover the hidden watermarks and security devices in my chequebook and passport. There are hidden phosphor bands on stamps, and images and tiny flecks of specially dyed paper in banknotes, invisible to the eye in ordinary light. Shining as if white-hot in the darkened room, they seem strangely beautiful. I also look at the postcard with it, and am disappointed to find there’s no hidden message.
It’s Saturday evening. I’m alone, and feel alone. As night falls, the familiar beast of despair begins to creep up on me. I have no tobacco and am too lazy to go and buy any. Worse, there’s virtually nothing to drink but a final bottle of Château Batailley, which I’ve promised myself I’ll save for a special occasion. This calls for a difficult decision. It’s either the Batailley or the sole other source of alcohol in the house: roughly half a bottle of Armenian cognac, which a so-called friend has palmed off on me as a gift. It’s so bad I haven’t touched it for six months, having discovered what damage it can do to the untrained nervous system. I retrieve it from the back of a kitchen cupboard, mix a slug