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  He stops talking and there is silence for a moment. Anne Parsons seems to be stunned by the scale of what has just been read to her. Apparently she cannot believe that the President would put his name to such an incriminating document. As the camera switches back to her, she quickly collects her wits and proceeds.

  “That seems like an extraordinary document, Mr Garner. Are you convinced of its authenticity?”

  Garner permits himself a brief, serious, smile. His head drops slightly as if he is deep in thought. It is a few moments before he answers.

  “I have asked the same question myself, Miss Parsons. I agree that the contents of the document seem wholly incredible. However, I was shown the actual record on a computer display. If the government denies this allegation, I challenge them to make the details of their computer system available to the media immediately. I stress the word immediately. The electronic memo is dated 13 October last year and I have here details of how it can be accessed by anybody who is allowed to use an authorized computer terminal. These records must be made public before government staff have a chance to delete this evidence. Clearly, a refusal to comply can be taken as an admission of the government’s guilt in this matter. A guilt that not only includes deceit and duplicity but the use of American taxpayers’ money to bring about the death of an American citizen.”

  The image switches back to the studio. Anne Parsons thanks Garner and turns back to face the camera.

  “Well, both the President and the Secretary of State are still in Brussels and are as yet unavailable for comment. However, we will be speaking to the President later tonight and will have an update on this story in our late news bulletin.

  “And now back to Derek.”

  The serious face of the news anchorman comes back on screen, and the normal news broadcast continues.

  22

  MESSAGE BOARD Jesus-Is-Our-Great-Lord

  FROM: Archangel

  For The Lord saith “I am a jealous God and I will not be mocked.” The Lord visits his revenge on His enemies. He has brought nucleer wepons into the world as instruments of his rath. The Lord is the one trew leader of the world’s love. Them that blaspheem against Him are going to be well and truly FUCKED OVER.

  ***

  I call Jackie at the hotel where she is staying. After a delay of some minutes while hotel staff try to locate her, she comes to the phone, slightly out of breath.

  “I got your message off the answer machine,” I say. “Did you see that performance on the news tonight?”

  “Yeah, quite something wasn’t it?”

  I can sense the distaste in her tone and wonder idly whether it is for Garner, Anne Parsons or the government. Or all of them. “Well, what do you think?”

  “The word from the inside is that Garner’s dirty tricks department has done it again. The government seems to be genuinely caught out.”

  “Do you think Garner’s got it right?”

  “It looks like it. Anne Parsons can be a hardheaded bitch as an interviewer, but she’s straight enough. From the way she’s behaving, I’d say that Garner has managed to convince her, all right. I’d guess that our people would have had the information before the program started: they were just too well prepared.”

  “I wonder if the government will agree to open up the system.”

  “I doubt it. It’s a confidential system. Opening it would create a hell of a precedent. But, of course, if they don’t it will be taken as an admission of guilt. It’s a clever strategy on Garner’s part. Assuming this was a genuine leak, do you think it could have come from the same source as the Francis exposure?”

  “It’s possible. We’ll do what we can to check it out.”

  “Right. Let me know. Look, to get back to what I’d called you about, we’ve had no luck with Garner. Not surprising after tonight. We told his people that we wanted to discuss the ways that they’d got the dirt on George Francis. But I gather his campaign headquarters staff are just saying they’re too busy to answer questions. Either that, or they say they can’t reveal their sources.”

  “Can’t you take the Francis story onto TV and force their hand?”

  “After tonight? I doubt if it would get airtime. Who wants to hear about yesterday’s sensation?” She’s silent for a few moments. “Look, Ross, I’ve got to get out of here. We’re having a working dinner to plan tomorrow’s activities. I’ll see you in a couple days.”

  ***

  By the time the late news broadcast plays, word has come through that the President has denied Garner’s allegations and, as Jackie had expected, ruled out any public access to the private parliamentary system. From the accompanying commentary, it seems likely that Jackie is also right about this being taken as an admission of guilt. Random street interviews with prospective voters shows that public trust in the government is at a new low.

  23

  INTERNET alt.religion.com

  FROM: Symbiote

  TO: Archangel

  So who did what, man?

  ***

  I sleep badly. Dreams keep disturbing me. At one point I wake and glance at the display on the clock-radio beside the bed. Three a.m. I think I see something move out of the corner of my eye. Slowly, I turn my head towards the foot of the bed. My skin crawls. A dark shadow in front of the door... A hooded figure, face hidden beneath the monk-like cowl, one hand raised as if clasping a knife. A creature from a hundred childhood bogeymen stories. Evil emanates from the black form. I seem to be paralyzed with fear. I have to force myself to move. With a cry, I push himself upright and half-fall out of bed. My hand gropes for the switch on the bedside lamp. When light floods the room, there is no figure to be seen. The bedroom door is ajar. I move towards it, look out into the hall. Nothing. A waking dream. I return to bed, shuddering. I’ve never been susceptible to nightmares. I feel as though my life is being turned upside down. I climb back into bed. I try to get back to sleep. Fail. Happy days.

  Monday morning finally comes. The rain has set in and the road surface is slick with water and oily film. I opt to miss driving through the inevitable wet Monday traffic jam and take the bus. It breaks down partway through a junction just off the freeway. There is no explanation. The driver disembarks and opens the hood. I’m crowded in with other passengers. Tiredness from lack of sleep has given me a dull headache. An old lady leans against me and an obese man behind keeps shuffling, trying to find more space. I have bad moments, remembering the incident in the elevator, feeling claustrophobic, but eventually the driver’s back on board and the motor fires and the bus starts to move forward. At the station, an official guard mounts the bus and apologizes. Mechanical problems. I walk the rest of the way, pulling the collar of my coat up against the cold wind. It’s not the perfect start to the week. My mind worries away, as it has done all weekend, at the phantom network and its implications. I’d considered calling Kathleen to discuss Garner’s little exposé but held off, conscious of the fact that I’ve been taking too much of her non-work time recently. Now I feel that I need to hear her views—if only to reassure myself. My suspicions seem more and more incredible.

  I’m an hour late by the time I reach the office. When I walk up to my floor, the receptionist gives me a strained smile and nods towards the terminal booth. I know that something’s wrong as soon as I push the door open. For once, Kathleen isn’t leaning over the machine, but sitting, staring straight ahead. Her face is drawn and shocked and her skin has a pallor I’ve never seen before.

  “What’s wrong?” I sit down beside her, speaking softly.

  “It’s Mac.” She turns to face me and I can see the watery film in her eyes. “A message came through from his sister a few minutes ago. I’m sorry, I don’t know any way to break this gently to you. He’s dead.”

  PART FIVE

  1

  “What happened?” The shock of it half-hits me: my mind seems to race and I know that the full sensation of loss will only come later.

  “He was in a hit-and-run accide
nt. It was on Saturday. It seems that he’d been out all day bowling. He went back to his club afterwards and stayed there for most of the evening. He was on his way home afterwards when it happened. He was crossing the road in front of his house and he got knocked down. The police think it was a drunk driver but they haven’t caught anyone.”

  She stops for a moment and bows her head: for a few moments I hear her quiet sobs. Conscious of colleagues outside the door, I resist the temptation to place my hand on her shoulder. After a few moments, anyway, she sits upright and wipes her eyes. “I’m sorry. When it happens to someone you know like this...”

  Her voice tails off.

  I sit still and try to think. The headache has made my thought processes fuzzy. “Mac left me an answer-phone message,” I tell her. “He called to give me a rundown on his meeting with Sligo. He said it had gone well and he’d see me this morning and give me the details.”

  That’s it. I’m quiet too. I think about the big man I liked more than I realize; and I think about him ending his life, bleeding in the middle of a suburban street.

  “You didn’t say: did he die at the scene of the accident?”

  “Yes. He didn’t live long after it happened. His sister said they’re going to do a post mortem, but a doctor at the hospital told her that Mac’s back had been broken.”

  Her voice seemed to be wandering slightly. “It’s hard to think of anything breaking Mac’s back, isn’t it? He was so big and....” again, her voice breaks off and the tears come. To hell with it. I push the office door closed and put an awkward hand on her arm. Then she turns towards me and my arms are about her and she’s crying softly on my shoulder. I feel the tears in my own eyes, then, and rest my cheek on her head.

  2

  CHICAGO POLICE DEPARTMENT

  INCIDENT REPORT LOGGING SYSTEM

  MENU OPTIONS

  1. REPORTS CLOSED

  2. REPORTS OPEN

  3. UNPROSECUTED COMPLAINT REPORTS

  ENTER NUMBER TO PROCEED

  School holidays at last. Thank God, thinks Predator. No more forced bonhomie from his former teammates, no more pitying glances from the girls when they think he can’t see. No more showing everyone how brave he is, struggling manfully with the wheels and not letting anybody help him unless it’s absolutely necessary. No more wearing the stupid wig that he always thinks is going to slide off his head as he maneuvers past the doorframe into a classroom.

  He’s glad to be home, all alone in suburbia. With his machine for company. He presses a button and Prodigy start to shriek from the mini stereo. His fingers caress the computer keyboard. Time for some serious research.

  >>>>> ..*..

  He’s back with it. The system’s playing hard to get. Since he accessed the Francis data—too late for it to do any good—nothing he had found himself had been of any interest. Just boring stuff about people he’d never heard of. Petty fraud. When he’d tried to get into the full database, he had hit walls. On his first incursion, it seems, he had won through to a limited area, a small pocket that, by pure luck, had contained the one nugget.

  But there has to be more. There’s always more.

  Now he’s written a program. An “exerciser.” It goes into the tiny pothole, that part of the system he can access. Once inside, it will try every possible combination of data and approaches to attempt to penetrate further, to break through into the maze of caves he knows is beyond.

  * Is there something you need help with?

  “What?” Predator can feel his face burn. The message’s appearance was abrupt and unexpected. The fuckin’ thing’s talking to him! He feels suddenly guilty, like a small boy caught playing with his genitals. He sits quite still, wondering what to do. The message repeats.

  * Is there something you need help with?

  “Yeah, all right. I saw it the first time.” He looks closer and sees that his exerciser has died. Halfway though its run, its screen display has been interrupted and this unrequested message has appeared.

  “Whose side are you on then?”

  > Yes

  * What can i help you with?

  > Who are you?

  * A friend. Don’t worry. We’re on the same side.

  “Oh sure. Could be the pigs are on their way now. Maybe I should just turn you off. How’d ya like that, smart ass?” But he enters:

  > What can you do?

  * I can help you through the system.

  > Why would you do that?

  * Just a favor. I know what you’re trying to do. I’ve done it myself. I’ll give you a helping hand.

  > What’s your name?

  * You can call me bambi.

  Predator debates with himself whether to carry on. He looks down at the blanket covering his crippled legs. So what the hell is there to lose?

  “Bambi” will be a call sign. Typical hacker. Just like there’s Stryka and Gray Ghost and Underdogg and all the others.

  > I am predator.

  * I know. Hi, predator. Nice to meet you.

  > Likewise i’m sure.

  * I guess you saw the stuff about george francis.

  > Yeah. I got to it just before it hit the tv.

  * Me too. But there’s more in the system just as good.

  > Fucked if i can get to it.

  * You just have to keep trying.

  > That’s what i was doing.

  “Wait a minute.”

  > How did you manage to interrupt the program i was running?

  * It was easy. Modem connections work both ways, you know. It’s easy when someone has a permanent isdn connection. You can get from the network into a private PC, no problem. I’ll show you how you can do it, if you like.

  > Yeah. Great.

  * I can show you lots of things. Take a look at this.

  The screen changes again. It’s a while before Predator grasps what he’s looking at. When realization comes, he feels like the grin will split his head in half. Not very cool. He’s glad his new friend can’t see him.

  3

  That afternoon, Kathleen is called away to work on an emergency with her other project. It’s frustrating as hell, but she tells me that there’s no alternative. I take advantage of the delay to our investigation by calling for a cab and taking time off to go visit McAllister’s sister.

  When she answers the door of the little suburban house, I see that she must be a dozen years or so older than her brother. She has none of Mac’s bulk. With her permed gray hair and slightly plump figure, she looks like everyone’s vision of a favorite aunt. As she leads me into the sitting room, I can see that her eyes are red from crying. She insists on making coffee for me and leaves me alone for several minutes as she busies herself in the kitchen. I sit uncomfortably—hell, I never know what to say at times like this—and look around the room. It’s furnished in a quaintly old-fashioned style, a big floral-upholstered three-piece suite with lace doilies on the arms of the chairs, a solid oak dining table, Constable prints of English countryside scenes on the walls. There’s a faint odor of dust and eau d’cologne.

  She reappears after several minutes with a tray that holds a silver tea service, thin china cups and a plate of chocolate biscuits, and sits down opposite me. She fusses for a moment, straightening a doily on one arm of her chair. Then she catches herself and tries to smile at me.

  “It’s strange, isn’t it, how we carry on with the little everyday things?”

  She has traces of a Scottish accent, half-submerged under the American. I nod sympathetically. “I just wanted to come round and say how sorry I was. That goes for the people I work with, too. Everyone liked Mac—Malcolm—a lot.”

  “That’s nice,” she says. “It would have meant a lot to him, I’m sure. He had many trials in his life, Malcolm did. He never wanted to leave the police, d’you see, but he had some falling out with the powers that be and it was obvious he was never going to get anywhere. And when his wife died… You know about his wife?”

  “Yes, I heard. A year o
r two back, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she says, nodding her head. “She’d had cancer, fought it for years. She had so much surgery that by the end you wouldn’t have thought there’d be anything left inside her. Malcolm was devoted to her, so he was. After she died, he never spoke about her but I don’t think he ever got over it.” She pauses, pouring tea and clicking her tongue to herself. She hands me a cup and smiles. “He was a real one for the ladies in his younger days, you know.”

  I smile in reply. “Yes, now I come to think of it, I can see that he would have been.” I take the cup and sip at the hot coffee. She’s having tea, drinking it in the English style with milk and sugar. “Have the police found out anything else about...”

  “No,” she says. “They won’t catch that one. The driver, I mean. He’ll be well away, whoever he was. It doesn’t really make any difference now, does it?”

  “Do they know exactly what happened?”

  “It seems that Malcolm was just crossing the street when a car came roaring down the street and hit him. It must have been going very fast. It knocked Malcolm right through a fence, so it did. The fence palings were broken so hard that one of them went through someone’s window.” For a moment, I think she might start weeping and I’m embarrassed as men always are at the prospect of seeing a stranger cry. I can see her make the effort to control her emotions and I’m relieved to find that she shares her brother’s strength of character. “It was strange though,” she continues. “The doctor implied that Malcolm had been the worse for drink. Well, he liked a tipple, right enough, and he was partial to the odd scotch after he’d been bowling. Did you know we had Scottish blood?”