The Digital Dream Read online

  I think for a moment. “Can you tell me the times that the hacker was into the system?”

  She shrugs. “Should be able to.”

  “Get them for me and I’ll get you a phone number.” Her eyebrows raise and I go on to explain. “The hacker came in on a phone line. I do a lot of work with telephone companies. Their systems record all calls made. If I can just get hold of someone who owes me a favor...”

  ***

  The work’s still slow. I keep on sitting next to her, suggesting approaches. The theory of security breaches is where I’m strong, and she’s hot on the technology side. We’re a good team. Time passes. She’s better company that some of the scruffy techo-types the firm keeps in the back room. Subtle perfume. Spare moments, I wonder about her. Smooth skin like a model for face cream. Long legs. Academic thoughts only, these. The firm has its rules—and the law of the land has a few more—about harassment that, in my less hormonal moments, I more than agree with. Still, hormones and five million years of evolution can’t be so easily beaten down.

  We’re making some progress, though. We’ve traced the phone number used by the hacker. Time to call in the cavalry. I make a call and settle down to wait.

  Its mid evening and most of the office workers have gone before I hear the familiar heavy footsteps in the corridor. The door opens before I can get to it. The doorframe’s filled. The apparition glowers, then grins, then speaks.

  “Ross! Honest work for a change?”

  “I’ve no objection to honest work as long as I’m not the one doing it.”

  “That’s what I hear.” Malcolm McAllister, six-six, wide as he is tall. Face like a punch-drunk boxer. One time high-flier, detective-sergeant in the city PD until some remote unspecified dust-up with authority forced him from the force and into private enterprise. Nowadays he works on contract to the firm, doing legwork, tracing truant kids and errant husbands. Missing the cleaner world of Homicide and Narcotics. He and I have worked together often enough over the previous few years. It’s been an unlikely but effective working partnership, opposites united by the healing power of cynicism.

  I nod towards the screen. “Do you know Kathleen?”

  Surprise. A familiar grin. “Oh yeah. I knew her old man, back when we were both street cops and he was the terror of the criminal classes. I remember Kathleen when she was shorter than my old nightstick. So how are you, hon?”

  “It’s good to see you again, Mac.” She looks momentarily sad. “I heard about your wife. I’m sorry.”

  He shrugs. Emotions are for soap operas and Oprah. “I hear you got married, little Kathleen.”

  “Yes.” It happens that I turn back to her just as she speaks and there’s this strange thing, that there’s no expression on her face, like she’s playing a hand of poker. “Two years ago,” she says.

  “And to an Irish boy, I heard. Your Dad must have been real happy.”

  She gives him a distracted smile before turning back to the display. McAllister gives me a knowing wink and looks around, checks out the gay lib artwork. Grimaces. Shuffles his feet. Despite her concentration on the terminal, Kathleen picks it, turns slightly, gives him an innocent smile. “Dad always told me you were a great supporter of Gay Liberation, Mac.”

  “Yeah, right. If it was down to me, I’d...” He spots the wind-up, returns the grin. “The only good thing you can say about it is that it’s not as bad as Women’s Lib.”

  “Mac’s just another bleeding-heart liberal,” Kathleen tells me gravely.

  The big man sighs. “It just happens that I have my point of view. Anybody who disagrees is entitled to fair consideration of their opinion even if they’re sure to be wrong.” He turns to me. “What?”

  I call a break. Kathleen finishes another pass on the keyboard and agrees, leaning back and stretching. I pull up another chair for McAllister and give the big man a quick summary of what we’ve got so far.

  “There’s something you could do,” I tell him. “We’ve got the phone number that the hacker used. And the name and address. Coincidentally, it’s not far from here.”

  He frowns. “I thought hackers could come from anywhere in the world?”

  “Yeah, but a lot of them still strike organizations close to home. It may be that the hacker had a grudge against this company. Or he knew someone here who let slip some detail or other about the security system.”

  Cynical smile. “Or maybe he was just some kid calling local numbers so he could save on phone bills?”

  I grin back. “More than likely. Anyway, can you go and see whoever lives there?”

  “Sure.” The big man smiles again, slow. “Want me to rough ‘em up?”

  “Only if they don’t answer your questions voluntarily.” Joke. I think. Fact is, it’s hard to see why people want to cause the sort of damage you see from viruses and you sometimes think the little bastards ought to be boiled alive. “Seriously, the main thing is to find out just who was responsible for the attack on this place.”

  “I’ll find out,” says McAllister confidently. “Then what? Do we see them in court?”

  “That’s up to our client. Probably they’ll let it go,” I say wearily. “Most companies don’t like to admit publicly that they’ve been caught out.”

  “There is something more that would be useful,” Kathleen says. “The mechanism behind the virus is well hidden. We need to know what he did and how he did it. It could save me a lot of time.”

  “I thought you knew what he was doing?”

  “We know what he did to this machine. But there’s more. We think this virus managed to transfer itself to other organizations’ machines. In theory, that’s impossible.”

  “Ah,” he says with a grin. “So if we can figure out who these other companies are, we can go to them and offer to fix their problems too. For a reasonable price, of course.”

  Kathleen smiles. “Cynic. I just want to know how it was done. Call it professional curiosity.”

  “No problem.” Mac hitches up tent-like trousers. “I’ll put the fear of god into the little punk, whoever he is. Threaten court action and a life sentence if he don’t talk. Three minutes with me and he’ll be dying to tell us everything he knows. Want I should confiscate his computer too?”

  “Actually,” Kathleen says, half-seriously. “That would be very useful.”

  Mac, still grinning, promises to do his best. Says he’ll go to the hacker’s supposed address first thing in the morning. Shambles out. The office suddenly seems much roomier. Kathleen returns to her work, me looking over her shoulder and making suggestions when I can. We slip into an easy working relationship as the time passes, but make little progress. Whatever forces were at work in the system have left few tracks. I guess we’re going to have to rely on Mac to get anywhere further.

  The darkness closes in outside and the drizzle starts again. At nine-thirty, Kathleen stands and picks up her purse. “I’m beat. Can we carry on tomorrow? I don’t mind working Saturday morning.”

  I shrug. “Okay. I’ll meet you here.”

  “It’s a bit late for public transport. Do you think the firm will pay for a cab for me?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Better yet, I’ll give you a lift. The car’s in the basement.”

  I help her into her jacket and we walk along the darkened corridor and down the stairs to the deserted garage. When we reach my car, I open the door for her and she climbs into the passenger seat and leans back, closing her eyes for a moment.

  “Nice car.” She’s cool but there’s a hint of approval. “English. Morgan Plus Four, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” I’m surprised she recognizes it: it’s not exactly a common model. “Kind of ancient now, I’m afraid. Do you like it?”

  “Oh, sure. I’m a car nut. It comes from my Dad. He loves automobiles. Even when we were less well off, when I was little, we were always changing cars. He used to take me along to kick tires on the car yards. And to auctions: I loved that smell of fumes and oil in a confined space
. No, the Morgan’s lovely.”

  “That’s not the way my ex-wife used to see it. She said she used to ruin a pair of tights every time she got into it. Actually, I’ve been thinking of getting rid of it. It’s not really practical for the city. Big problem with convertibles. It keeps getting broken into.”

  “What are you going to get? Don’t tell me,” she says with a wry smile, “a Jaguar.”

  I wonder how to respond. Is she making fun of me? “Where to?”

  She gives me an address in the further-out suburbs. I start the engine and head south. Slide old Counting Crows onto the CD, sad song about perfect blue buildings. The closed intimacy of the small car recalls the closeness of the last few hours but, without work to talk about, I can’t think of a damn thing to say. Which is strange. Time was, I was slick with women. Maybe I’m out of practice since the divorce. I glance at her, notice the way her long legs are folded in front of the dashboard. “I’m afraid the Moggie isn’t exactly built for comfort.”

  She smiles. “What’s comfort when style’s the issue?”

  “My ex thought it was just a bloody nuisance. She certainly never thought of it as style.”

  “It depends on your idea of stylish, I suppose. I’ve always thought style was in the eye of the beholder.” She smiles as I search for something else to say, decides to make it easier for me. “What’s your idea of stylish behavior, then?”

  “Oh...” I negotiate a tight corner, think for a moment and grin. “Pulling your shirt cuffs down so that they’re just the right distance below your jacket sleeves. Being able to smile sardonically with just one eyebrow raised. Walking into the best hotel in town and looking as though you own it...”

  She smiles. “It sounds as though you’d like to be James Bond.”

  “More Fred Astaire, really. Bond’s style without the violence. Yeah, Fred Astaire in Top Hat. That was style.” I grin. “What about you?”

  “Oh, keeping cool while those around you are sticky, wearing a man’s shirt as if it was a ball gown, driving a perfectly-restored ‘65 Mustang. Long white dresses.” She plays with a stray strand of hair, closes her eyes, thinking. “Or, maybe, Ginger Rogers in Top Hat.”

  I laugh, speak without thinking. “Ah, we’d be the perfect couple.” Wrong move. Too familiar. She’s an employee, consultant level only, below the manager grades, well below partners. The firm’s hierarchy makes the army look anarchic. I’m rescued by a blare of noise as we pull up at lights. Tight huddles of people stand outside a nightclub on the corner. A group of teenagers run past, yelling obscenities at the top of their voices. I feel unaccountably embarrassed for her, but her eyes are closed again and there’s no sign that she’s noticed.

  The address is in one of the better streets in Oak Park, near to the preserved home and studio of Frank Lloyd Wright. Large, weatherboard houses are set back from the road amidst trees and landscaped gardens. I brake the Morgan to a halt outside an expansive dark-brick house with white facings and a massive solid-wood front door.

  She hesitates and then explains, “It’s my parents’ place.”

  For some reason I’m surprised. “I thought that...”

  “My husband’s away on business so I’m staying with Mum and Dad. I don’t like being alone.”

  I smile to cover the way that she makes me feel uneasy. “It’s late. Would you like me to walk you to the door?”

  “No. I think I’ll be able to manage it without being carried off into the night.”

  My awkwardness increases. Crazy. I’m never normally like this. “I was just trying to be a gentleman. I didn’t mean... Did I say the wrong thing?”

  She softens. “No, I didn’t mean it like that. I appreciate your caring, really. But it’s a safe neighborhood.”

  She starts to say goodnight. I reach across to open the car door for her: at the same time, she reaches up and for a moment our hands touch. I feel her start, ever so slightly, feel some sort of static myself, as though an intimacy has taken place, taking us by surprise. Confused, I draw my hand back.

  She seems embarrassed. Quickly, she gets out of the car and walks to the front gate and up the path without saying good-bye or looking back. I sit in the car and watch until she’s safely inside before I start the engine and drive home.

  4

  CHATPLANET CHAT SESSION #ACV29088. MESSAGES RECORDED AT ***.**.**.

  UNDERDOGG Hey Dudes, somethin’ weird. The dude who sent Predator the Adams codes is coming thru again.

  STRYKA Cool. What’s the word?

  UNDERDOGG Ain’t got no detail. Seems like it’s some kinda government net again. Something to do with a research establishment. Big time Dept of Defense, my man says. Very hush. He reckons he can give us the in codes.

  ANDROID That’s bullshit. No one can get into the DOD, man. It can’t be done.

  UNDERDOGG I dunno. This guy’s cool. If he says he can do it...

  STRKYA So try it.

  UNDERDOGG I dunno, man. Defense is heavy shit.

  ANDROID Yeah, I know. And this Dude. He sounds kinda spooky.

  STRYKA Fuck, U a wimp, man? If U don’t want, gimme.

  UNDERDOGG I don’t know, man. He’s kinda paranoid. Says it’s just me. He won’t talk to no one else.

  STRYKA So try. What U gotta lose? I’ll help, man. Link my system into yours.

  UNDERDOGG Maybe we’ll take a look. That’s all, though. This dude, he says we’re gonna do some serious damage this time, man. I figure we should check it out easy.

  5

  It’s too late for me to make the evening’s rehearsal but I know where the usual crowd will be by now. The Swan and Porter’s based on an English pub that supposedly traces its origins back to Elizabethan times. The effect is tempered by the fact that it’s situated on the ground floor of one of the high-rise business campuses around Rosemont, but still it’s warm from a real imitation log fire and the walls aren’t too far apart. British ale, claret and sandwiches and the inevitable argument, the less reverential members of the society taking turns to bate each other. They wave hands in mid-debate as I walk into the bar and push through their chairs so that I can join them. Someone offers to buy me a drink and I ask for a Guinness. It’s a night for Guinness.

  Amateur Shakespeareans are an eclectic bunch. Our members include a garbage collector, a financial markets analyst, an honest-to-god astrologer and, well, Jackie. Jackie Paris, famous TV reporter. She’s a sharp, raven-haired woman in her early thirties. Not conventionally beautiful. She doesn’t need to be. She has full lips and heavy eyelids that scream sensuality. As Cleopatra, she makes Liz Taylor look like Snow White. I sit beside her, savoring the hops-rich aroma of old leather and spilt beer, and she leans sideways to kiss my cheek before continuing with a barely-interrupted diatribe.

  “Cleo’s the true heroine of all the plays. No other woman in Shakespeare dominates men as effectively.”

  The Guinness arrives. I pull deep, sigh. Orgasm for the digestive system.

  “What about Portia?” someone’s saying.

  “A mere barrack-room lawyer.” Jackie played Portia earlier in the year and described her at the time as “the greatest of Shakespeare’s heroines.” “Cleo’s a queen. She rules half the goddamn known world.”

  “And makes a real mess of it.”

  “It’s not her fault. The goddamn men keep lousing her up.”

  I lean back, take another mouthful, just enjoy the rap. I feel at home with these people. Comfortable. For a moment, I get a twinge of guilt about the pile of paperwork that lurks on my desk, just waiting to pounce on me and rob me of my spare time. Ten-thirty on a Friday night is still work-time, if you work for the firm. A year or two ago, I’d have had no hesitation in staying at work for most of the night: a factor that, I guess, hastened my marriage break-up. These people—and good ol’ Will—helped pull me back from the aftermath, the shattered bloody non-relationship that left me adrift on seas of loneliness—and alcohol—for a time, until I took stock and determined to turn th
e sudden gulf in my life into an opportunity. I took up new activities with a vengeance and set myself objectives that I pursued with a single-minded determination. My goals—don’t laugh—were deliberately set to sharpen my blunted mind and improve a level of physical fitness that had nose-dived with long working hours and marital stress. Now my evenings are full, taken up with activities as diverse as Shakespeare and martial arts. And, no, I don’t need discourses on compensation activities. I don’t care, see? I’m happy.

  Tonight is a direct result of those changes in my life. I’ve resurrected a long-buried schoolboy fascination with the stage. I joined the amateur dramatics group to help out behind the scenes and soon enough found myself pressed into acting again. Yeah, well, honesty time here: the pressure’s resulted more from a lack of eligible males—the society’s dominated by older women—than any great theatrical talent. What the hell. As I’ve dipped my feet into the Shakespearean ocean, I’ve come to appreciate the chance to lose myself in the play.

  Now I’m due to appear in the upcoming Antony and Cleopatra. I offer a word in support of my character. “Enobarbus,” I say airily, “is the real hero of the play.”

  “Oh, sure!” Jackie’s favorite starting point in any argument is that her character is the nucleus around which all others revolve. “He’s important, I’ll grant you, but he’s basically a commentator.”

  “What about Antony? Doesn’t he get a look-in?” A pout from the male lead, a handsome young man with a just-too-high voice and hopeless dreams of Hollywood.

  “Just another Roman pretty-boy,” says Jackie. “A sort of first century Robert Redford.”

  “I’ll settle for that. At least he gets the girl.”