The Darkfall Switch (10 page)

He could feel the softness of her full breasts against his chest, the nipples hard and erect against his skin. ‘My!’ he said as his hand went down to them. ‘You
are
cold.’ She wriggled against him, working further into his embrace.

‘I’ll have you know,’ she said, ‘that I’m not in the habit of doing this.’

‘Glad you did, though.’ It had been a long time. There was an aching need deep within him that yearned to be satisfied. He could feel the growing hardness between them. She felt it too, and pushed her crotch
firmly against him.

He kissed her lightly. At first her response was gentle, then the kiss was returned with passion. She opened her full lips and his tongue slipped between them and explored hers. He could feel her rising excitement; her breathing was becoming increasingly deep and rapid. He moved his attention to her cheek and then her neck, kissing her soft skin, moving slowly down from her neck, over her collarbone, down to the softness of her breast. When his lips reached her nipple he felt her shudder in ecstasy.

Then she twisted until she was under him, reached round and grasped his buttocks to pull him hard against her.

He took a deep breath. This was the first time since….

And then the thought was driven from his mind as the passion enveloped them.

She was still asleep when he returned to the boat after his run. He went into the cabin and looked at her, lying peacefully with only her head and one bare shoulder exposed. He bent and kissed the shoulder and she stirred briefly before opening her eyes and looking at him sleepily.

‘Good morning,’ he said.

‘Oh gosh!’ She sat up abruptly and pulled the duvet up under her chin so that only her head and shoulders were exposed. It was a surprisingly coy gesture given the intimacy they had shared during the night.

‘What?’ he asked, the trace of a faint smile on his lips.

‘What’ve I done?’

‘You mean, apart from making an old man very happy?’

She smiled and sniffed. ‘Some old man!’

He sat down on the edge of the bed and held her chin between thumb and forefinger while looking into her eyes. He spoke very softly and gently. ‘You don’t know what you’ve done.’

‘What’s that?’

‘You’ve broken the spell.’

‘Spell?’

He sighed and looked out of the porthole. ‘After Fiona died I shut myself away for a bit. Didn’t go out socially. Threw myself into work. Trying to obliterate the memory – or memories.’

‘But it didn’t work?’

‘No. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t shake off the ghosts.’ He snorted bitterly. ‘You know, the night we met at the Crabtrees’ was the first time

I’d gone out socially since … since the accident.’

‘And?’

He looked at her. ‘I blew it. I lost my cool with you.’

Her response was quiet. ‘My fault.’

‘No. Not at all. But it made me think that that was the way it was going to be. Forever. It was a scary thought: that I was doomed to become a crusty old recluse, living on memories. But all the time, I really felt like I was under some sort of spell. A spell that would poison any attempt I made to form new relationships.’

She looked steadily into his eyes until he spoke again, very softly, ‘And that’s the spell you’ve broken.’

She moved her gaze down to his lips, then leant forward invitingly. He kissed her.

‘OK,’ he said, abruptly breaking off the extended contact. ‘Time to get the day rolling. I’ve just come back from a run.’

‘A run!’ she exclaimed and looked out at the remnants of the early mist still swathing the river. ‘Already? At this time of day?’

‘An old habit. I do 10K every morning, whenever I can. Keeps me trim.’

‘You can say that again!’ she exclaimed, eyeing his tightly muscled torso.

‘Anyway. I need a shower. But, do you want to go first? I can be getting breakfast ready while you shower, if you like.’

‘Sod the breakfast,’ she said, letting the duvet fall. He looked at her full breasts and grinned. ‘And sod showering in sequence,’ she added. ‘That’s the first of many things we’re going to be doing together from now on.’ She waited to gather her thoughts before looking at him seriously and continuing, ‘That is … if that’s what you want.’

He smiled and replied, ‘What do you think? Of course it’s what I want.’

They sat opposite each other for breakfast. He squeezed orange juice for them both and she selected a small pack of cereal from his
store-cupboard
. To her horror, he tucked into a huge plate of bacon and eggs. This time he added fried bread, tomatoes and mushrooms.

‘How do you do it?’ she laughed, as she watched him eat.

‘Easy!’ He gave her a devilish grin and winked. ‘But I do have to put my hands up and admit that I usually stop at bacon and egg. Today’s
trimmings are to make up for the energy I’ve burned lately.’

She smiled. ‘Burning energy! You can say that again.’

He looked at her thoughtfully over the plates. ‘Look,’ he said ‘I don’t want you to think….’

‘Think what?’

‘That I’m some sort of a Casanova. A Don Juan. A womanizer.’

‘Oh, Dan Foster.’ She smiled. Her voice was husky. ‘But I think you are.’

‘No,’ he protested. ‘No I’m not. Seriously. OK, I enjoy the company of women, and I—’

‘And you like making love to them.’

‘Some of them, yes.’ Then he thought about what he’d just said and laughed. ‘No, I don’t mean that I don’t enjoy making love to others. I just meant … if there’s someone I really like; if I get on well with her, and if she’s receptive then, yes, I’ll make a play. But then, what
red-blooded
man wouldn’t?’

She spoke very quietly. ‘It’s all right, Dan.’ She looked at him for a moment and put her hand on his arm. ‘Really, it’s OK.’ Then she looked away and asked, ‘Your Fiona … Tina said she was much younger than you.’

‘Tina would,’ he growled. ‘She made it very clear that she didn’t approve.’

‘How old was Fiona?’

He closed his eyes before replying, ‘Thirty-one. She would’ve been thirty-two next month.’

When he looked at her again he saw that she was staring pensively out of the window. ‘Very young,’ she observed quietly, shaking her head slowly as if in disbelief. ‘How horrible. She was far too young to die.’ Then she looked at him and added, ‘Compared with that, I’m getting on, Dan. I’ll be forty-two in a couple of months.’

He smiled. ‘Getting on? You’re still a chicken.’

She looked at her gold watch, with its slim, pretty strap. ‘Look, I’m meant to be at work today. Mind if I make a call?’

He shook his head and she used her mobile to ring her office and tell them she’d be late.

‘I must go,’ she said after she finished the call.

He asked, ‘Where do you have to get to?’

‘Wardour Street.’

‘Ouch! Congestion charge?’

She nodded. ‘Company pays. But I need the car all the time. I suppose it’ll take, what, the best part of an hour to get there at this time of day?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

She stood up, drained her cup, looked at him steadily and said, ‘Shall I come back this evening?’

He gave a small smile. ‘I’d like that,’ he replied quietly. ‘I’ve got some calls to make….’ Then he remembered his conversation with Forsyth earlier in the week. ‘I’ve got to go to the States soon. It may be as early as tomorrow. I don’t know when I leave, or how long I’ll be there.’

‘That’s OK. I’ll be here at sevenish.’ She stopped and looked at him before adding, ‘I can call in to my place and pick up some things. That is, if I’m staying the night.’

He grinned. ‘I’d be delighted,’ he said. ‘Where’s your place?’

‘Clapham. It’s more or less on my route.’

‘OK. I’ll have supper ready for you.’

‘Shall I bring some wine?’

‘No need to. There’s plenty here.’

‘Maybe, but I’d like to.’

‘OK. I think I’ll do a stir-fry chicken.’

‘Great. I’ll bring white then.’

After she had left, he switched on his computer. He cleared up the dishes while it booted, then poured himself a black coffee before sitting down to read his emails. They were mostly trivia, but there was one from Grant’s secretary, telling him that she was holding on a British Airways flight to Denver. It was scheduled to leave Heathrow shortly before 1 p.m. on the following Monday, and to arrive in Denver at just after 4 in the afternoon. She apologized that this would involve a change at Chicago, but the only BA direct flight was overnight, and First Class was not available on that. If this was a problem, she could book him on a direct flight in First Class with American Airlines. Would he let her know which he wanted? He grinned: Forsyth’s PA had obviously told her about his preferences. He sent a reply saying that the BA one via Chicago would be fine, and could she make it an ‘Open Return’ since he didn’t know how long his business in Denver would take.

Then he looked up Powerplant Dynamics’ website. It was impressive and, as evidence of their commanding presence around the world and
their impressive capability, it provided a complete list of all the power stations that had been fitted with their Generation 300 computer control system. Foster whistled: the list confirmed what Carol Lopez had told him the day before.

He blanched at the thought of the vulnerability of all those power stations around the world, all controlled by the PPD system with its hidden back door open to any hacker with a little knowledge and skill. All right, the original hacker was no more, but what he had done others could imitate.

The only cold comfort he could find was the realization that it would simply be too large a task for a single hacker to bring down all those power plants at the same time. But, all the same, a huge amount of damage could be caused by even a limited attack.

He found a page on the website that gave fairly detailed technical specifications for the Generation 300 system, the so-called data sheets. After studying the hardware and software sheets carefully he had gained a good understanding of how the system worked. But he had failed to find a reference to anything called Darkfall Switch.

He was still poring over the information when he heard the sound of a vehicle driving slowly along the towpath. He looked up and saw that it was a police car. It stopped at the nearest point to him and two officers emerged. He recognized one of them as the officer who had taken him to Westminster after he had left the Crabtrees. When he remembered that he realized that it had been over a week ago: a lot had happened since then.

He went to the door as the policeman reached the companionway. ‘Good morning, Officer,’ he said. ‘Come to look at the car?’

The policeman smiled and said, ‘I’ll do that later if I could, sir, but we want to talk to you about something else first, if we may.’

‘Of course. Coffee?’

The two men glanced at each other and then nodded at him. They both asked to have theirs white, with sugar.

The officer he had met before introduced himself and his companion and they both showed him their warrant cards: he was Detective Sergeant Baker and his companion was Detective Constable Johnson.

When they were sitting around the saloon table, sipping at their coffee, DS Baker took out a notebook and opened it before starting to explain the reason for their visit. ‘I understand you went to America
about a week ago, sir,’ he said and, when Foster nodded, he continued, ‘You went to Connecticut and visited a Mr and Mrs Proctor?’

Foster tensed. He suddenly remembered the meeting in Arnold Coward and Partners’ office, when Mrs Andrews had asked him whether he believed that the youngster’s death had really been suicide.
No
, he thought.
Surely not. But then why were the police here?

‘Yes, I did visit them,’ he said. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I understand that their son’ – he looked down at his notebook for confirmation – ‘Luke Proctor, he died while you were there.’

‘Yes he did.’ Foster confirmed. ‘It was suicide. Really tragic.’

‘Quite so, sir,’ DS Baker said, looking at him seriously. ‘Tragic. But some new information has come to light and our colleagues in America have asked us to check certain facts with you.’

He frowned. ‘New information?’

‘Yes sir. The post-mortem – the Americans say it was a “clinical autopsy” – has indicated that it may not have been suicide.’

Foster almost reeled with shock. ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed. It was unbelievable.

‘The Americans will now carry out a full forensic autopsy,’ the officer continued. ‘But they’re coming round to thinking that the boy was murdered.’

‘Christ!’ He wondered how the Proctors would be feeling. As if losing Luke wasn’t tragedy enough, they now had to face the fact that their only son’s body was being dissected and examined by strangers in white coats. It was appalling.

He looked back at the sergeant. ‘But how…?’

‘There’re no facts yet, sir,’ DS Baker said. ‘But we’ve been asked to find out if you can throw any light on the events around that time.’

‘Well, there’s very little,’ Foster said, frowning as he went over the events. ‘I visited the Proctors, questioned Luke—’

The second officer had said virtually nothing up to this point. Now he asked, ‘Questioned him?’

‘Yes. You see, I’ve been asked by the government to look into the blackout.’ From their slow nods he saw that there was no need to elaborate: they knew which blackout he meant. ‘It seems that Luke Proctor hacked into the computers controlling two power stations over here, and that’s what shut them down. He tripped them.’

‘I see,’ DC Johnson said, and then looked at his companion.

DS Baker took over. ‘The boy was alive and well when you left their home?’

‘Yes. I was told about his death at around lunchtime the next day.’

‘Who told you, sir?’

‘An American government official who was assigned to help me. A guy called Worzniak, Joe Worzniak.’

The two officers wrote the name in their notebooks, confirming the spelling with him as they wrote.

‘Did you go back to the Proctors’ house, sir?’ DS Baker asked.

‘Yes, the next day. After I’d heard. I went to offer my condolences to the parents.’

‘Did you remain at your hotel between the time you left the Proctors’ house after talking to the boy and the next day, when you visited his parents?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Is there any way of confirming that, sir?’ DC Baker asked. ‘Particularly between midnight and six? That’s when it happened. Somewhere between those times.’

Foster thought about it. Then he remembered the fire alarm. ‘There was a fire,’ he said. ‘Well, a false alarm actually.’

He told them about it and they carefully wrote down the details in their notebooks.

‘Well, that’s about it, sir,’ DS Baker said as he finished, closing his notebook. ‘Our American colleagues will check with the fire officers, and that should be the end of it, at least as far as you’re concerned.’

As they stood to leave, the sergeant asked if it would be convenient for him to have a look at Foster’s Morgan, and the three of them went over to the moorings’ car-park.

After finishing his researches into Powerplant Dynamics, Foster took a quick lunch in a nearby pub and returned to the boat to finish preparing for his trip. As a result of his morning’s work, he now knew that PPD’s headquarters were not actually in Denver itself, but in Broomfield, about twenty miles from the city centre, on the way to Boulder. He looked up the route map to plan his journey and had almost finished when his mobile rang. He didn’t recognize the number on the display, and when he made the connection the woman’s voice was at first unfamiliar, but when she gave her name he remembered her.