The Need for Fear (2 page)

Chapter 3: Anarchy in the UK

It wouldn't normally have taken an hour to get from Green Park to Hackney, but Chi took the most deceptive route he could conceive while still moving in the right direction. If he'd been cautious before, he was positively paranoid now, seeing suspicious figures everywhere he looked. When he finally reached the rundown tower block, he was reasonably sure he hadn't been followed. But then with all the resources at the disposal of the security services, including London's all-pervasive street cameras and possibly even surveillance satellites, it was impossible to be certain. Also, there was the risk of more
unearthly
eyes to worry about.

The elevator still wasn't working, so he climbed to the twelfth floor of the fourteen-story building, his calves and thighs burning, his lungs depleted of air. He swore, not for the first time, that he would get himself into better shape. He took a minute to compose himself at the top of the stairs before walking along the corridor and stopping at a door that was almost indistinguishable from all the other scuffed, battered entrances along the hall. The number was missing, but in its place was a sticker printed in bold white on black, with the words: “Capitalism is Theft.”

Nothing like putting your philosophy on the door when you're trying to keep a low profile
, Chi mused as he rapped on the old painted wood. There came the sound of furtive movements from inside, as if the occupants were hiding something before answering, which was entirely possible. Then a woman's voice spoke warily from behind the door:

“Who's there?”

“It's Chi; open up.”

“You alone?”

“No, I've brought
the SAS
to nobble you. Of course I'm alone—open the bloody door!”

The door clicked and pulled back slightly and half of a face peered through. Satisfied that Chi had not, in fact, brought the SAS, the woman ushered him in and quickly closed the door behind him. Her name was Rosanne. She was tall with an angular, energetic body and dressed in dark, practical clothes. She had short, spiked purple hair and numerous piercings. Her face was a waxy white, her childlike but cynical features prematurely lined by anger and other, more brittle emotions.

“Wha's goin' on?” she demanded as she followed him down the narrow hallway to the living room, a space of about sixteen square feet that smelled of smoke and had the appearance of having been abandoned, furniture and all, before being claimed by anarchist squatters—which it had.

Chi ignored the question, paying little attention to the woman or her two male companions, one of whom sat on the sofa, the other leaning by the wide window. Everything here was dated and battered: the boxy, peach-colored sofa and armchair; the rickety coffee table whose varnish had been damaged by years of alcohol spills; the carpet whose surface alternated between flattened and threadbare; and the four other mismatched chairs that looked like they were only pulled out to be used during meetings, which they were. The room opened out to the right from the hallway and around the corner was a kitchenette big enough for a couple of people to stand in, though Chi wouldn't have taken the chance of cooking in there. Every time he looked at that grimy stove, he recalled stories of flats like this being blown off the sides of tower buildings by gas explosions.

The one thing that looked like it belonged to Chi's generation, rather than that of his grandparents, was a fridge that loomed outside the doorway to the kitchen, impossibly large for the cramped space. It wasn't quite one of the awesome double-door American refrigerators that were becoming increasingly popular, but it was still big, with a sleek, minimalist design whose lack of features could only be achieved with substantial quantities of money. It was deep metallic blue with a fine chrome trim. A small screen with a keypad below it was near face height on the upper door.

The fridge didn't belong here, and not just because it didn't fit in with its surroundings. It was stolen. Chi knew this because he had inadvertently helped to steal it.

Now, he pressed one of the buttons, but the screen failed to come to life. He pressed another button to be sure, but he already knew something was up.

“What have you done to it?” he asked.

“I took the hard drive out,” Rosanne replied. “Don' wannit recordin' what we're sayin' d' we? Y'know, in case the cops come and take it back.”

“Well, can I have it?” Chi turned to her. “I think there's something on it to do with a story I'm working on.”

“Wot story? When you called, you sounded like there was trouble, Chi. Wha's it all about, eh?”

Chi chewed his lip, mulling this over. He'd hoped to do this without too much explanation, but Rosanne and her mates had shown more savvy than he'd expected. The fridge was a new model that came with a computer that could scan barcodes, record its contents, keep track of expiration dates, and help keep an up-to-date shopping list. It also had voice recognition so you could just speak basic commands to it. It was that function that Chi needed access to, and he couldn't get it if the thing was missing its hard drive.

Now he was going to have to convince this instinctively suspicious bunch to hand it over. And they were tougher than him. He looked at the two men. The one on the sofa, named Joycey, was about Chi's age, early twenties, with a shaved head, earrings, and goatee. He was small and lean, but had lumpy knuckles on strong hands and a hard, tense, ruddy face. He looked like the kind of guy with a short fuse. The other one, Harlin, was bigger, with tight-cut black hair, a broad, flat face of dark skin, deep-set eyes, and a sprinter's build. Both were dressed in well-worn blacks and grays, semi-military–style gear. The type with lots of pockets and loops: not quite uniforms, but practical when it came to climbing around and spraying graffiti—or taking part in riots.

Chi knew that most anarchists weren't violent. These three, unfortunately, were a more dangerous breed. And they
hated
anything to do with the security services. If they found out whom he'd been talking to, things could get hairy.

“When I was here before,” he said carefully, “the fridge was picking up a free Wi-Fi signal. It transmitted a burst of data. It's made to do that; it connects to the manufacturer via the web. They claim the web connection is to keep the software updated, but actually it's to feed information about the owner's buying habits back to the company, in the same way loyalty cards work. It's all about
gathering information
. One of the things
this
fridge does is sends back any new words spoken to it that it doesn't understand. Like you guessed, it records what people are saying while they're standing near it.

“The new words go back into a database the fridge's computer can learn from. But they also get recorded and analyzed by the company, Fiedler. The company uses the same encryption on all its products—I cracked that encryption for something else a few months back. When I was here last time, I happened to catch one of those data packages the fridge was transmitting and was able to read all the new words it had recorded.”

“Interestin'”—Rosanne smirked—“given who used to own this thing.”

“Yeah,” Chi nodded. “Well, I picked up some key words that might have given me a lead to a story about … look, it's about government involvement in a brainwashing operation. I just need the hard drive to see if there's anything else on there I can use. Seems the guy was having some interesting conversations while he was standing by his fridge. Probably never realized it was taking notes.”

“Is that all it is?” Rosanne persisted, eyeing him with a curious amusement. “Sounded like you was in trouble when you was on the phone, Chi. You was
hyped
, man. Breathin' funny an' everyfing. I thought you was going to wet yourself.”

“No, I'm fine. … It's fine!” Chi blurted out, but immediately realized he had answered too quickly.

There was too much urgency in his tone, brought on, no doubt, by his rattled nerves. Rosanne tilted her head and the expressions on the men's faces changed, becoming more guarded.

“Is that right?” Harlin asked, straightening up and glancing out the window at the road below. He had a Glasgow accent, his voice deep and sonorous. Fixing Chi with an icy stare, he asked: “You gonna give us the truth, mate, or are we gonna have ta kick it out yeh?”

Chapter 4: An Agent of the Authoritarian Powers

Chi took a step backward. He hated dealing with violent people. Despite his size, he wasn't cut out for that kind of thing. When he first heard they'd stolen that fridge, it had all seemed a bit of a laugh. A politically motivated laugh, but funny all the same. They'd seemed a pretty good-natured bunch—a bit off the wall, but then who wasn't?

It wasn't funny anymore.

“Now, Harlin,” Rosanne said, holding up a hand. “You know the charter as well as I do. We only use violence in pursuit of political ideals and against agents of totalitarian oppression.”

“And if he's an informant for the pigs, that
makes
him an agent of the authoritarian powers,” Harlin snapped back.

“Chi's all right. He's just gotta tell us what's goin' on.” Rosanne turned to glare at Chi. “And you
will
tell us, or you're gettin' nothin' from us. You can just piss off.”

“To hell with that, he's not goin' anywhere!” Harlin snarled, fists bunched. “Look at his face! He's buttoned up tighter than a duck's arse. What is it, you shit? Have you grassed us up? We can't just let this go, Rose. Evil prevails when good people do nothin'. And whatever evil he's covering up is a threat to our cause and our people.”

“I haven't done anything wrong—”

A steel-edged voice cut through the room, silencing everyone. “How about you just give him what he came here for and stop your drivel?”

All four people in the room turned to stare at the man who stepped into view in the hallway. Chi felt the breath wheeze out of his lungs. It was Robert. Jesus, was there any way of losing this old bastard?

“Who are you?” Rosanne barked at him.

“How the hell did you get
in
here?” Harlin added.

“Just give this plonker what he wants and this will all go a lot easier,” Robert told them again.

As he spoke, he was twisting the newspaper he held in his hands. He was rolling it up tight. When it was a long, stiff cylinder, he folded it in half, so the folded end formed a hardened butt of solid paper. Everyone there knew enough about improvised weapons to recognize the baton for what it was. The anarchists were not intimidated. They had faced worse weapons than this, and none of those had been wielded by a man old enough to be their grandfather. Robert took off his glasses and stuck them in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Okay, so who's the stone-age pensioner?” Rosanne asked Chi, jabbing her thumb in Robert's direction.

Chi was trying to think of some kind of story that would create the least suspicion, but the situation was tumbling out of control. With the threat of imminent violence, he stuttered into action.

“He's … he's a journalist,” he explained. “We're working on this story together.”

“They're past the point of being reasoned with, sonny,” Robert rasped. “Stand back out of the way. You, girl, go fetch that hard drive. And be quick about it.”

Harlin had drawn himself up to his full height. He strode across the room, standing less than a foot from Robert, scowling down into the old man's face.

“You want to tell us why we should do anything but toss you out on your arse, you old fart?” he hissed.

“Sonny Jim, I've no interest in you at the moment, so you can take a seat,” Robert said in a voice so calm it was chilly. “If I ever need someone to throw some bricks, you'll be the first person I call. Until then, sit your backside down on the sofa and behave or I'll have to teach you some manners.”

“Yeah, and how will you do tha—”

Harlin didn't get to finish his sentence. Robert drove his knee upward and the bigger man jerked back to protect his groin, giving Robert a clear shot at the nerve cluster on the front of his thigh instead. Robert butted him on the bridge of the nose as he bent forward on reflex. Then the old man swung his baton across the side of Harlin's head, connecting with a loud smack. Harlin staggered, stunned, and Robert struck him again on the other side with a backhand blow, then hit him under the chin with the heel of his free hand, sending the young anarchist toppling back onto the sofa.

Joycey, the second man, dodged the falling body as he launched himself from his seat, letting out a roar and leaping across the coffee table. At the same time, Rosanne pulled a knife and came at Robert from the side.

On reflex, Chi stuck his foot out as she lunged past him, catching her ankle. Robert snapped a back-fist to her cheek as she stumbled off balance. The blow knocked her sideways and she slashed wildly with the knife, cutting Chi's sleeve. He cried out, flinching back, which got him out of the way of another knife strike, but Rosanne, still dazed, piled into him. Her momentum threw him backward and he crashed to the floor, his glasses flying off to the side. As he landed, her shin jammed his crotch. She fell forward and slammed headfirst into the wall above him, then collapsed on top of him.

Joycey came at Robert fast, swinging a roundhouse kick at the old man's chest. Robert turned in along the swinging leg, catching it in close, avoiding the worst of the strike and elbowing Joycey in the ribs. He jabbed the end of his baton down into the side of Joycey's raised thigh, deadening the leg, then hit the younger man in the throat with the rolled-up paper before following up with a blow to the nose. Joycey gave a choked cry, then tried to stand on his numb leg. Robert kicked at his other knee and the joint dislocated with a horrible pop. Joycey screamed and dropped to the floor, thrashing in pain. Robert stood on the shin of his attacker's injured leg and Joycey squealed, tears streaming down his face.

“Where's that bloody hard drive?”

“Aaaaagh! Aaaaagh! The drawer in the kitchen! Jesus Christ!
The cutlery drawer
!” Joycey wailed.

He made no attempt to put on a brave face. The removal of Robert's foot from his leg had suddenly become the focus of his entire life. Robert nodded to Chi, who pushed the semiconscious woman off him, picked up his glasses, and got to his feet. Lurching into the kitchen, he pulled open the top drawer and found the hard drive. It was a box about the size of a deck of cards hidden in the open space of a drawer that held the can openers, garlic presses, and other awkwardly shaped utensils. He came back out and held it up for the old man to see.

Robert put his glasses back on and took his foot off Joycey's leg. The young anarchist turned over onto his side with a sound that was half agony, half relief.

“Come on then, Goldilocks,” the aging agent grunted to Chi. “We've work to do.”