The Need for Fear (4 page)

Chapter 7: Word Search

Robert left Chi at the station, reminding him to look at the USB drive as soon as possible. He'd barked Sharon Monk's address at the younger man again, telling him to get his thumb out of his arse and contact the journalist before she left for her meeting with the editor. Then the old spook jumped on the first available train out of there. Chi took another train in the opposite direction, heading back into the city. Sitting in a half-empty car, he spread his coat and bag across the seats on either side to deter anyone from joining him, then he booted up his laptop and connected it to the hard drive.

He left Robert's thumb drive wrapped in foil in his pocket. He wasn't opening that little Pandora's box without some serious security. There was no telling what kind of malware was on it. He'd prefer to wait until he got home and plug it into an air-gapped server he had there. That thing could take more punishment than Wolverine, but there wasn't time to get to his house and back before Sharon Monk left for her meeting, so he'd have to set up some new firewalls on the laptop. The fridge drive shouldn't be too dangerous though, so once he had run some basic checks on it, he opened it up on his desktop.

The fridge's computer had a thousands-strong vocabulary of terms for food, but voice recognition software often struggled with unusual pronunciations or strong accents. If it came across a sound it didn't recognize, it translated it into strings of numbers that, in turn, were translated into text that displayed on the screen. In this way, it could show its owner a word and ask if
this
was what he'd meant. If it wasn't, the owner could key in the word by hand and the fridge would recognize it from that point on.

Gordon Lidby was from Newcastle, and while Chi thought the spin doctor's Geordie accent was perfectly intelligible, the German-made fridge clearly did not. There was a very long list of queried words on the hard drive. There was no direct recording of Gordon Lidby saying anything, but there
was
an extensive list of words he'd used within range of the fridge's microphone that the fridge did not understand.

Thankfully, Lidby must not have corrected his fridge's interpretation very often, or he'd have seen all those secret terms it had picked up and had them deleted.

Scanning down through the thousands of words, Chi started copying and pasting any interesting vocabulary into a document on his desktop. In among things like:
avocado
,
quinoa
,
foie gras
, and
stottie
were more interesting ones, such as:
collateral
,
deployment
, and
weaponized
. They were in chronological order, not alphabetical, and without context, they looked hopelessly random.

He was still scanning through the list when the train arrived at Bethnal Green station. Chi snapped the laptop closed, got off, and headed toward Shoreditch. Sharon Monk lived with her girlfriend, the policewoman, in one of those narrow, four-story brick buildings that probably dated back to the early eighteenth century.

Monk lived above a bookmaker's. Chi stood looking at the place for a minute, unsure of what to do next. It was almost half past two and he still hadn't read anything that Robert had given him. He'd hoped that checking out Monk's home would give him some insight into her life. It didn't really. Robert had said Sharon would be leaving her flat at three-thirty. There was a café a little farther down the street with a window that would give him a view of Monk's building. If she left early, he wanted to be able to catch her. In the meantime, he could start putting together a profile on her.

The café was a typical London meeting point, with bare brick walls, shelves full of exotic useless things from other countries, and framed, stylized prints of cups of coffee. The furniture was made from new wood sanded and treated to look like chunky reclaimed old wood. A few minutes later, armed with a vanilla latte and a pecan Danish, Chi started downloading and installing new firewall software. Rather than watching progress bars, he did a search on Monk. He felt the slight burn of jealousy as he scrolled down through all the mainstream sites she'd been published in, the awards she'd won, and the people she'd interviewed. He reminded himself that he was an alternative journalist who kept himself outside of that sphere, but still … she had an impressive record.

She was a good-looking woman too: a face too long and a nose too big for conventional beauty, but fine-boned with lively green eyes and full lips and that look of confident intelligence Chi always found to be a turn on. She had auburn hair worn in a short, wavy style. He was between girlfriends at the moment so, as he often did when he liked the look of someone, he found himself weighing up the odds of her being interested in him. She was gay so … no chance there, but he looked forward to meeting her anyway. It would be an interesting conversation. He blew his cheeks out and flicked his gaze out the window, half wondering if he'd catch her walking down the street.

He clicked a fingernail against his teeth, and went back to the file he'd transferred over from the fridge's hard drive. Pouring through the list of questionable words, he stopped and stared at one. He copied it over to the document he'd opened. Seconds later he found another odd one and copied that over, too. Then he added two more.

He chewed his thumbnail, gazing intently at the four new words on his screen:
aliens
,
UFO
,
abductions
, and
experiments
. He exhaled a shaky breath and gripped the sides of the screen.

“No aliens, eh?” he muttered, jutting his chin toward the words. “Stick
that
in your pipe and smoke it, you old bastard.”

Chapter 8: The Copper

Chi was staring out the window of the café, lost in thought, when a woman pulled out the chair beside him, plonked herself down, and smiled at him.

“Eh, would you like to sit down?” he said irritably, jarred from his musings.

He felt immediately defensive, given everything he'd been through that day, though he was somewhat unbalanced by the smile and the confidence of her approach. He went through a couple of gear changes before settling on a new mental position: Here was a, not unattractive, woman showing interest in him—but he had to remind himself to stay focused on what was important. She was a little taller than average—it was hard to guess her height now that she was sitting down—with her hair cut in that short, practical style often favored by nurses or teachers, with feathered bangs left as a bit of flair. She had dark, resolute eyes and the kind of olive- skin Chi wished he could have had. Her strong, lean, rectangular features looked as if they normally had a rather stern set to them, but were temporarily warmed by the smile she wore now. The smile, Chi noticed, did not reach her eyes. This wasn't going to be a social chat. Of course.

“What's your name?” she inquired.

“Why? Who are you?” he retorted.

“Me?” she said lightly, flipping open a black leather wallet. “Oh … well, I'm a police officer, mate.”

Chi felt his stomach tighten up as he looked at the silver badge, resembling the royal coat of arms, with the braille strip below it. A while back, he'd learned how to spot a fake police ID. Given his perpetual paranoia, it seemed a reasonable precaution to take. After all, how many people even knew what a
real
one looked like? This was the genuine article, identifying her as an officer in the Metropolitan Police. Harriet Caul, Detective Sergeant.

This was turning into the
weirdest
day. Chi let out a quiet, hissing breath, trying to figure out what he'd done to bring him to the attention of the police. Could they have found out about the fight in the flat? Or worse, the fact that he'd helped the anarchists break into Gordon Lidby's apartment?
Shit, shit, shit.

He stayed quiet and for a few moments; so did she. She was obviously waiting for him to blurt out some objection or protest and give himself away. Give a nervous suspect an empty silence and let them fill it. He wasn't about to fall for that one.

“And what can I do for you?” he managed to say in an unconcerned voice.

“Well, a few minutes ago, I passed you as you were standing outside my building, staring up at my flat,” Caul said to him, pointing at the building through the window. “And now you're looking at pictures of my girlfriend on your screen. She's a journalist—as you clearly already know—and her stories have made her a few enemies along the way. So when strangers start hanging around outside our home, showing an interest in her, I take an interest in them. Now, want to tell me who you are and what you're doing here?”

Ah
, Chi thought.
The copper girlfriend
. The one Robert had told him to steer well clear of. So this wasn't official business … yet. Chi was starting to wonder how utterly incompetent he might actually be at this surveillance lark. Certainly, the professionals seemed able to run circles around him. Perhaps he should tap Robert for some tips in return for helping the old man out. Caul was still waiting for an answer, an expression of mild, if slightly hostile, amusement on her face. She was suspicious, but from her posture, must already have decided he wasn't a serious threat. Not for the first time, Chi was glad that his customary manner gave the impression of a slightly barbed and wary but essentially harmless oddball. He was taken less seriously, but at least people didn't find him threatening—which meant they'd be more likely to talk to him.

“My name's Sandwith. Chi Sandwith. I'm a journalist,” he said at last. “I'm writing a story and I think Sharon might be able to help me. One of my contacts heard she was working on something related to my project and suggested I touch base with her to, y'know … compare notes.”

“And who is this contact?” she pressed him.

“Come on,” he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of exasperation. “Really?”

“Okay, let's leave that aside for a minute. What's this story?”

“I'll tell her when I meet her.”

“You can tell
me
now or you'll
never
meet her.”

“What, you follow her around every minute of the day?” he asked her pointedly.

“No, but we do live together and actually talk from time to time. I've already taken a photo of you and now I have your name, Chi Sandwith,” Caul replied, holding up her phone. “Where her safety is concerned, she trusts my judgment. So unless you want to get blackballed before you get anywhere near her, you're going to have to talk to me.”

Chi pondered this for a few seconds. He'd been caught out and would have to adapt to the circumstances. But talking to a copper from the Met about a story that could possibly implicate the government in illegal operations in foreign countries, not to mention trying to establish a surveillance state, would be an excellent way to kill the story before it even got started. Anyone involved would soon catch wind and either spin their lies first, undermining Chi, or just disappear. Though they'd tie up all the loose ends before they did so. And Chi didn't want to end up on some assassin's to-do list before his story ever saw the light of day.

But then Robert said Sharon was working on this too. Would Harriet Caul be more loyal to her lover than she was to the government? Probably, Chi thought. It was worth taking the chance.

“All right,” he said at last. “I've heard Sharon is researching a story about spooks who've been experimenting with brainwashing techniques. You can tell her that they've perfected their technique … and I know what they're going to use it for. Has she told you anything about the Scalps?”

Caul sat back ever so slightly, a guarded expression on her face. He knew he'd scored a hit.

“Okay, so what kind of stuff do you work on?” she said. “You're not a crime correspondent—I know everyone with the papers and the main news sites and you're a bit young to be investigating intelligence or politics. It's normally a veterans' game. Who do you write for?” She gestured at his laptop. “Show me some of your work.”

Chi gave a tight smile, hesitating, before opening a file that contained links to a few of his best stories. He didn't have much published in print—he doubted she'd be impressed with his piece in
Paranormal Monthly
on the likelihood of genetic manipulation on developing telekinesis (it was very unlikely, but he teased the reader along for a while before admitting it). Or the subversive and potentially illegal hacking tips offered in his articles for the underground magazine
The Unspoken Truth.
Most of the pieces he thought suitable were on his blog or other like-minded online publications. She perused the open windows, scanning through articles on how world domination had been achieved through the system of central banking. There were his thoughts on the September 11th attacks and his assertion that climate change was a centuries-old ploy of the Illuminati, who were suspected of working with an alien race to help them maintain their control of, and continue experimenting on, humanity.

Caul's face gradually lost all emotion as she flicked from one written piece to the next.

“Oh,” she said at last, her voice tired and flat. “You're a conspiracy theorist.”

“That's a contemptuous term,” he objected. “I'm looking for the facts about who controls our lives. Using dismissive labels to sideline people like me is just one of the ways the mainstream media avoids having to deal with the lies they peddle every day. It's easier to belittle us, turn us into figures of ridicule, than to deal with the Truth.”

“Right,” she sighed, rubbing her face with her left hand. “The
Truth
.”

She moved her right hand as if to touch the laptop. Suspicious, he went to stop her and, in a fluid motion, she cupped her right hand over his left and curled her fingers around his, folding the ends of his fingers in painfully, squeezing the joints so they felt as if they were being crushed. He nearly yelped, looking around reflexively to see if anyone else was watching. She had
really
strong hands. He tried to pull his fingers free, but she squeezed harder, causing him to flinch and whimper until he held up his other hand to show he would stop resisting. Caul was staring at him, all civility gone from her face, her mouth a tight thin line.

With her other hand, she pulled his laptop toward her and started looking through his browser history and searching through all of his recently opened files.

“You can't bloody do that without a warrant,” he said, grimacing as he felt another squeeze on his aching fingers.

“Who sent you here?” she asked. “This has a spook's stink all over it. Who's pulling your strings? It wasn't your idea to come here, was it? And don't play the innocent; I grew up with this nonsense and I've no patience for it.”

“This is assault!” Chi squeaked. “You're going to break my fingers!”

“I'm a female police officer who started to question a much larger male member of the public about something she happened to see on his laptop screen. He went to lay his hands on me and I defended myself. It'll be your word against mine, of course, but giving testimony in court is something I do every day. My story will be better than yours, so behave yourself and answer my questions.”

“He's an intelligence officer, okay? I don't know his name—
agh!
He …
agh!
… he didn't tell me. I swear! He's burned out … he's an operations guy who works a desk now. He found out what his bosses have planned for the future, some mad police state deal, and he doesn't like it. He came across something I'd written, saw a … a chance to expose what was going on without risking his own skin, gave me information on the story and told me to … to … to talk to Sharon.
Agh!
Will you
stop
that, for God's sake!
It's the truth!
”

“And you don't know his name?”

“No. He didn't give me one, and it wouldn't have been his real one even if he had.”

She eased off on his fingers, but kept her grip, ready to put the pressure back on.

“What does he look like?” she demanded.

“He's an old guy, late fifties or early sixties, maybe. White, with gray hair. Wears, like, antique square glasses. Face made up of these deep, straight lines, like that actor, whatshisname … eh, Scott Glenn. Looks pretty fit still, and hard as nails.”

Caul released Chi's hand and leaned back in her chair, her expression still chilly, but no longer aimed at him. He flexed his aching fingers, glaring at her, but decided he wasn't going to make a big thing of it. He'd just had his balls handed to him by a woman half his size. It wasn't a story he'd be spreading around. This was his second bout of violence in one day; he definitely needed to start doing some martial arts or something.

“So how about it?” he said to her. “Will you let me talk to Sharon?”

“What?” she grunted, looking at him with faint surprise, as if she'd forgotten he was there.

“Sharon,” he repeated. “Will you let me talk to her?”

“Forget it, Goldilocks. You won't be getting anywhere near her. There's not a snowball's chance in hell.”

Chi's mouth dropped open slowly and he frowned uncertainly.

“What did you just say?” he asked.

Harriet Caul leaned in close, so that her face filled his vision, in case he might be in any doubt about her assertion.

“You will
never
get to talk to Sharon Monk. Don't call her, don't text or email, and definitely don't come anywhere near her or you're going to learn the true meaning of ‘police harassment.' And tell your bloody handler the same thing.” She eyed him for a moment, her expression softening slightly. “Listen, I'd get clear of this if you still can, kid. People like you don't last long around people like him. He'll just use you until you're ruined and then he'll dispose of you.

“Oh and tell him this is our favorite café, too. And you can piss off out of it.”