The Digital Dream Page 15

  I lean forward. Sligo-McNeil I have heard of: it’s one of the country’s biggest and most diverse corporations, with trading interests all over North and South America and Europe. I rub the long-ago break in my nose again, my mind working. “You were questioning whether O’Regan actually existed. How does he sign checks?”

  “He doesn’t.” McAllister pauses and looks at both our faces. “In fact, it would be kinda hard for him to sign anything. He died on the seventeenth day of August, 1962.”

  I whistle softly and lean back. I see Kathleen look from my face to Mac’s in surprise. “I don’t understand. How can he have a passport if he’s dead?”

  “Old trick,” says Mac. “In fact, so old, it’s kind-of a cliché nowadays. Somebody gets a copy of his birth certificate. Applies for a passport on the basis of it. Once our mystery man has a passport he can use it as ID to get just about anything else. The weird thing is the computer systems in the Office of Passports are supposed to do all sorts of checks to make it impossible nowadays....”

  “What about the bank accounts?” I ask.

  “Well now,” says Mac, “I’m not telling you this, and you’re not hearing it, because banks aren’t supposed to give out this sort of info. I called in a few favors. Both accounts, O’Regan’s and Blackdawn’s, are in use but it isn’t O’Regan who uses them.”

  “So who does, then?” asks Kathleen.

  “That I can’t find out. Seems like it’s top secret and only people well above my contact’s level know anything about it.”

  I look at Kathleen. “Would there be any details in the bank’s computer systems?”

  She looks startled for a moment. Then her eyes widen as she gets my meaning. “I don’t know. Have you got any details of the account, Mac?”

  McAllister tears a page from his notebook and gives it to her. “It’s all there, honey. Branch details, account numbers, the lot.”

  She scrutinizes the piece of paper. “Well, I haven’t got much further forward with what I’ve doing since yesterday. There’s just so much of this thing to wade through.” She holds the paper up. “Do you want me to have a try at this?”

  I glance at McAllister. “Why not?”

  ***

  Back into the network. Kathleen presses keys. Navigates the electronic waterways. In time, she exclaims and then enters a string of numbers. Seconds later, we see a new display. It’s a logo showing a large, stylized OC. At the base of the screen are the words

  Offshore Credit Banking Corporation Incorporated

  “Do we go on?” Kathleen pauses and looks at me.

  I shrug. “Too late to stop now.”

  Within minutes, she works through a series of screen displays and finally finds one that offers to reveal details of an individual bank account. She types in the numbers that McAllister has given her: there is a three-second delay and then the screen flashes back. The first line reads

  CLIENT NAME: BLACKDAWN IMPORTERS INC.

  Subsequent lines give the company’s address, a postal address, and the names of the account signatories. There are three names. Besides Robert O’Regan, they are Selwyn George Higgins and Ellen McDonald Smith. I write the names down.

  Kathleen: “I can get you the addresses for these people if you like.”

  I gesture for her to continue and she presses two numbers. The screen display changes.

  SIGNATORIES NAMES AND ADDRESSES

  The same three names are listed. The address is the same for all three names. It starts “care of Sligo-McNeil Corporation.”

  For a few seconds none of us speak. Then McAllister leans back and rubs his forehead. “Sligo-McNeil again! I’m getting confused as hell with all this.”

  Kathleen gets up and walks into the corridor to stretch her legs. “Where do we go next?”

  “I guess we try to find out about these characters.” I glance back at the screen. “Selwyn George Higgins and Ellen McDonald Smith. I don’t know where we’re going with all this, but I have a feeling we’re getting close to something.”

  15

  INTERNET alt.politics.anarchy

  FROM: Symbiote

  TO: Wizard

  The seeds of destruction are being sown. Man is sowing the seeds of his own destruction. He will reap the whirlwind. Laboratories breed monsters. New strains of pestilence are being brought into existence by those who do not understand the consequences of their actions. They will lift the lid on the Devil’s cauldron, not knowing what horrors they may release. Innocent and guilty will writhe with agony as their blood boils and their skin blisters.

  See home page of the Church of Jesu’s Sweet Love and Compassion for details. Address follows.

  ***

  It’s evening time. In the quiet apartment, I watch CNN. The headlines concern the resignation and withdrawal from his vice presidential candidature of Senator George Francis, who admits no guilt but has decided to leave politics in order to avoid further deflecting attention from his leader’s campaign. An announcement is to be made on the choice of a replacement running mate...

  The clouds are lower outside, blotting out the moon, and a stiff breeze blows rain against the windowpanes.

  I pour myself a drink and replay the recordings on the answering machine. Again, there is a message from Michelle asking me to call her. I sigh and sit down, trying to work out what to do about this sudden disruption to a life that has only just start to sort itself out. I realize that I still have feelings for Michelle: but I can’t tell whether they are a re-kindling of the passion I once felt, or a sense of obligation. Before I can decide what to do, I’m jolted out of my reverie by the phone ringing.

  “Ross? It’s Kathleen. I heard the evening news and a thought struck me. I decided to come back to the office and check it out. I’m sorry to do this to you again but I think you should get here.”

  ***

  I park the Morgan in the street and let myself into the building. Outside, the rain is hard on the sidewalks and all is dark away from the gleam of the streetlights. Inside, I’m conscious once more of the blank gaze of the surveillance cameras in the foyer. There are more of these cameras around every day, in office blocks and shopping arcades, in streets and alleys around commercial premises. Lately, still more are starting to appear on public street corners that the police regard as trouble spots. They’re so common that people have stopped noticing them. But they always make me nervous. Their alien eyes seem to follow as you pass them, like the eyes in a portrait in some dusty art gallery your folks took you to when you were a kid. I half-run up the stairs, stopping once, despite myself, to listen for other footsteps. There is nothing to be heard: hardly surprising, I tell himself, as it’s past nine o’clock. Feeling foolish, I continue to climb.

  Kathleen is still in the small cubicle, deep in concentration as her eyes read lines of data displayed on the computer screen. She waves me towards a chair as she finishes a series of keystrokes. Perching on the edge of the seat, my eyes wander between the PC and Kathleen’s strong, attractive profile: again I feel an uncomfortable surge of emotion, tinged with unhappy guilt as Michelle also forces herself into my thoughts.

  I force himself to look away from her and notice that one wall of the booth is now half-covered with a schematic diagram, showing all the computer systems on the phantom network, and the links between them. Each computer is marked by a small box with an accompanying note on a yellow Post-It pad.

  Kathleen takes her hands from the keyboard and turns towards me. “Look at this.”

  My eyes grow wide. The menu on the screen is headed:

  FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

  INTERNAL RECORDS SYSTEMS

  INFORMATION CONTAINED HERE IS RATED CONFIDENTIAL

  A7 CLEARANCE IS REQUIRED FOR ANY RELEASE

  “My God.” I’m unable to keep the shock out of my voice. “What have you found now?”

  Kathleen looks at me as if surprised at my astonishment. “It’s just another connection in the network. I was following our
phantom. I want you to see what comes next.”

  She starts to work the keys again and a series of screens flash up. An explanatory text tells us that we have the option of viewing lists of reported police and FBI cases involving “FRAUD” and that a key-word will allow us to view details. Kathleen enters the word FRANCIS.

  The display takes a few seconds to reappear.

  FRANCIS, GEORGE SIMON. NO CONVICTION. TRUST, POL.

  INVESTIGATION DETAILS:

  Subsequent lines detail police investigations that have been carried out on the erstwhile candidate. To my surprise, the first of these is an arrest for alleged public indecency. The record refers to a complaint made years earlier by a member of the public after an incident in a city park, involving Francis. No details are given: it seems that when he realized that he would have to go to court and give evidence, the complainant decided that it was going to be too much trouble and the charges were withdrawn.

  The charge considered by the local police is listed.

  Propositioning for immoral purposes

  The second entry is dated several years after the first and describes the allegations of fraud leveled at Francis’s firm of lawyers. The details are much the same as those broadcast on the television news.

  Tiredness starts to crowd in on me and I have trouble concentrating. “Well, fascinating. Skeletons in the Francis closet. But apart from the fact that you should never be able to get access to this stuff, what’s the big deal?”

  She frowns. “Stay with me. There’s an audit trail facility on the system that shows when the information was last accessed.”

  She presses more keys and a new screen appears that gives details of all recent accesses to this part of the system, including, part way down, those on the Francis records. I read it with a growing feeling of apprehension. The first entry next to Francis’s name gives the date, prior to today, that someone last accessed the records.

  The date is three days ago.

  The next field gives the name and password of the person who made the access.

  The name is Robert O’Regan and the password is ROBOT.

  ***

  Damn. “I need to go away and think about this.”

  Kathleen nods. “I’m ready to call it a day, anyway.” Her fingers go back to the keyboard and she starts the system closedown routines. Partway through, she pauses.

  “That’s strange.”

  “What?”

  “Look.” She points to the computer’s processor box. A red light is steadily blinking.

  “The disk’s in use,” I say. “What’s the problem?”

  “I’ve stopped entering instructions. At this point in the process the disk should whir a couple of times and then stop.”

  I try to shrug off my fatigue. “So what’s it mean?”

  Kathleen shrugs. “Probably nothing. Let’s just shut it down.”

  She reaches forward and presses the power button and the system dies. Standing, she picks up her jacket and handbag and I open the door for her.

  The floor seems to be completely empty. Most of the office lights are out and we walk through semi-darkness towards the reception area. Just as we pass the front desk, one of the three elevators emits an electronic chime and its doors slide open.

  Kathleen looks at me in mock surprise. “Way clever. What say we skip the stairs and ride down for once? I’m just worn out.”

  I hesitate. Something that I can’t explain makes me uneasy. “I don’t know. Why would the goddamn thing open just as we go by?”

  She looks at me in surprise. “You’re getting paranoid. It’s just luck. The elevators are controlled by a small Unix processor. It parks the cages at different floors after they’ve been used.”

  Before I can stop her, she strolls into the elevator and presses the first floor button. Unable to think of any good reason not to follow, I walk in behind her. The elevator doors close but for a moment nothing happens.

  She gives me a worried look. Leans forward and presses the button again. “Maybe it’s not as clever as I thought.” The floor jerks and then the cage starts to move. “Thank god. I couldn’t stand being shut in an elevator after the day I’ve had.”

  There is the familiar surge of increased gravity. It is a moment before I realize what is happening. The feeling of uneasiness swells. “One minor point. The first floor button is lit but we’re going up!”

  “Damn!” Kathleen looks at the indicator board above the elevator door. She presses the 1 button again, stabbing at it in frustration as the elevator continues to rise. “Somebody above must have pressed another button first.”

  Seconds pass. The elevator continues to rise. Partway between the eight and ninth floors, there is a sudden bang above our heads. The machine stops. I reach past Kathleen and press the first floor button again. There is no response. I try the 9 button. Still no reaction. The open door symbol. Nothing. Great. I said I distrusted elevators, didn’t I? I look up at the indicator board.

  “What do we do now?” For the first time, I notice, Kathleen sounds seriously worried.

  “Call the cavalry.” I pull open the small door beside the elevator buttons and pull out a red telephone. “This is supposed to be connected to a day-and-night emergency system.” I lift the receiver to my ear. “It’s ringing.”

  Kathleen leans forward to place her ear next to the phone. Despite my concern, I feel a sudden shock at her nearness. Close up, I can smell the perfume on her smooth pale skin. A stray wisp of hair brushes my cheek.

  “No answer. No, wait.” We listen as the ringing stops but there is no sound of a receiver being lifted. After ten seconds, I shrug and start to replace the phone. Just as I’m about to hang up, there’s a sound. I bring the receiver back to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Yeah, who is this please?” Male. Broad New York accent. The voice sounds tinny and impersonal through the cheap speaker.

  “My name’s Ross. I work in the building here. We seem to have a problem with the elevator.”

  “Full name please?”

  “What?”

  “I need your full name.”

  Irritation displaces concern. I swallow hard. “What the hell does it matter what my full name is? I just need to get out of here.”

  “I gotta record your full name before I can place a call to one of our service operatives.”

  “Look.” I check my watch. “It’s past ten o’clock. I’m in no mood for this. I’ve had a hard day and I’ve been working late.”

  “Working late can be real bad for your health.” The words are spoken slowly, almost with insolence.

  “What?” I breathe deeply, trying to control my temper. “All right. My name is Andrew Ross.”

  “Thank you. When you were speaking before you said we gotta problem with the elevator. You got someone else there with you?”

  “Yes, I...” Some inner caution makes me pause. “I have one of the cleaners with me. She was leaving at the same time I was.” I look at Kathleen and gesture for her to keep quiet. “I don’t know her name but I can ask her if it’s that goddamn important to you.”

  “Thank you. That will not be necessary. Please be patient and we will have our service operative attend to you as soon as possible.” It’s like he’s reading from a “be nice to the public” card. The line goes dead.

  I replace the phone. “This damn elevator service company’s sure as hell going to hear from me tomorrow.”

  Kathleen is looking puzzled. “Why didn’t you tell them I was here?”

  I shrug. “Probably nothing. I just can’t see why they wanted all that information. Something doesn’t gel.”

  “And what did they mean about working late being bad for your health?”

  “Somebody with a stupid sense of humor, I suppose. Or a weirdo. Like I said, they’ll hear from me.”

  She looks at me, eyes narrowed. “You think there’s more to it, don’t you? You’re getting me scared now.”

  “I’m sorry.” I lean back against the
wall. “Look, I’m sure it will be all right. We might as well just settle down to wait.” I slide down the wall and sit on the floor. “It’ll probably take half-an-hour. Might as well be comfortable.”

  She stands next to me for a moment and then crouches and sits beside me. I can see that I’ve worried her. For the first time there’s fear in her eyes. I want to comfort her. I reach out a hand to touch her shoulder and for a moment she resists, then moves slowly towards me until my arm is around her. I feel her fear as the side of her body molds to mine, feel more, feel my own body start to respond, pause, lost in confusion. Tentatively, I turn my face towards hers, unconsciously expecting-without-thinking to kiss her, but she’s looking down, her eyes closed. Her head rests against my cheek. I feel a tingling in my skin, like a teenage boy holding hands with a girl for the first time.

  I tell himself to think of my professional duty. To think of Michelle. It doesn’t help. I look back at the opposite wall and wait. For all my confusion and concern, sitting here with my arm around her feels better than anything I’ve experienced for as long as I can remember. Unconsciously, I move the hand on her shoulder, stroking her skin. She squirms slightly under my touch, shifts the angle of her body so that she is closer to mine. Her head moves. Her red-brown hair is against my lips.

  ***

  Minutes pass. I look at my watch. Ten-thirty. Somewhere in the building there is the sound of movement. Footsteps perhaps. An echo. I consider banging on the side of the door. She lifts her head and looks into my eyes. Something makes me pause. If there is someone else in the building, I’m not sure that I want to draw attention towards us.

  Another noise. We can hear winch gear and motors. Another elevator seems to be moving. We can feel the vibration through the floor. It grows closer. The sound increases.