Zero Alternative (27 page)

Walker sat down, dropping his rucksack under the table. The world was getting weirder by the second. ‘Great. Listen, I don’t know what Mosha told you, but I…’

‘Micovich didn’t need to say anything.’

‘Really? Why are you meeting me then?’

Mira glanced at her laptop and typed something, her hands flashing over the keyboard. She turned it around, showing him a large picture of Pienaar.

‘We know.’

‘What?’ Walker stared at the screen, shocked. His stomach twisted at seeing the murderer’s face, and he had to restrain himself from grabbing the computer and smashing it on the floor.

‘How?’

‘You’re just a little piece in a much bigger game, Yours.’ She paused, letting her words sink in. ‘We’ve been after Frankel for a long time, and we know about their links with this… monster.’

Walker’s throat felt dry. This was exactly what he needed. ‘Do you have proof?’

‘Some. Not enough, yet. And we need to learn your story, that’s one of the keys we’ve been missing. Do you have all of DeepShare?’

A knock on the door interrupted them, and the fat barman wobbled into the room with a tray heaped with slices of focaccia, some cold cuts and a bottle of vodka. He placed the tray next to Mira, who popped a piece of bread in her mouth and started chewing vigorously, then he handed Walker a tumbler filled with ice and a small ashtray and left with a grunt.

Mira smiled, a few crumbs still stuck to her lip. ‘See, we even know what you like.’

Walker poured himself a large drink and rummaged in his pockets for cigarettes, trying to gain a few seconds. This was a world away from what he had expected. He wondered whether they could simply be using what he had told Mosha and wasn’t sure how to go on. His brain felt addled, slow. But they must have known he’d check back with the Serb – there would be no point in pretending.

‘I’ll have all the pieces of the code soon,’ he said in the end.

Mira nodded, studying his face. ‘Good. We need them fast.’

‘Why would I hand Deep to you?’

Her stare never wavered. ‘To take Frankel Schwartz on, you’ll need us.’

‘Who the hell is
us?
All I know is Hackernym blew up a few servers, and you claim to know
stuff about a bank.’

Mira typed something on her computer without glancing at the keyboard. ‘I know it’s been terrible for you, and I’m sorry for the loss of your friends. But we are not your enemies. These guys are.’ She pressed a button and the speakers came to life, with a hint of static noise.

Voices, low music in the background. Tinkling of glass.

Walker tried to concentrate on the chatter but she signalled for him to wait. Some restaurant or pub, maybe.

An American man came on mid-sentence, louder, his words quite clear.
‘Now they want proof though, something tangible. It’s a big step for them.’

Someone responded and Walker shuddered. It was a voice he had heard before, hundreds of times. A London accent, bass tones, certainty. Arrogance.

‘
Blackspring is on the ground, but it might take a while. A few weeks, months maybe
.’

It was Beano Friedman, Dorfmann’s London CEO. The Englishman had helped him in his career too many times to count, even on his last day on the trading floor. Walker swallowed, bile rising in his throat.

After a brief pause the American’s voice came back on. ‘
That might not be a problem, as long as you can deliver the machine. You know I trust your vision, but… they’ll need to see some data, soon.’

Mira closed the laptop and waited, giving Walker time to process the information. She picked up a crumb of bread and played with it for a few seconds. In the end he just nodded, not trusting his voice, and she cleared her throat. ‘I guess you recognise the English guy.’

‘Yes,’ he managed.

‘The American is Wendall Welsh, one of the main powerbrokers on Frankel’s board. He’s working to get Friedman in the top spot at Frankel Schwartz. He couldn’t do it at your bank, so he decided months ago to look for pastures new.’

‘And DeepShare…’

‘Was to be his engagement gift. Apparently they need it bad; there’s something wrong in their back books.’

‘I know.’ Walker sank back down and took a sip of his drink, struggling to slow his breathing.

Friedman
. That was how they had traced his phone to Reims – Frankel didn’t need anyone on the inside at Dorfmann. One of the bank’s highest-level managers was already working for them.
The bastard’s ambition had first killed DM, and now Luigi. Walker wanted to scream.

He stood up and lit another cigarette, trying to make sense of what he had heard. ‘But… if you knew this, why didn’t you stop them?’ His voice rose, anger seeping in. ‘Maybe you could have saved DM…’

Mira stared back at him, her friendly smile now gone. ‘We didn’t have any details, no real idea of what DeepShare might be or who was working on it. After DM’s murder we put the pieces together, but by then you were gone and we couldn’t find you. Until…’

‘Until I met with Mosha.’

‘Yes.’

Walker sighed, exhaustion catching up with him. The world had just twisted on itself again and he needed time to reflect on what he’d just been told. ‘What happens now?’

Mira shrugged. ‘This is all I know. I’m not so high up in Hackernym yet.’

She poured herself a glass of water and bit into another piece of focaccia. ‘It’s your call, I guess.’ Her eyes glinted. ‘Will you go to the US and meet up with the Old Man?’

‘Who is he?’

‘The Boss. God, maybe. I don’t know, but he
is
Hackernym. Created it, financed it. He will have answers for you, I think.’

‘I need more than answers.’

Mira shrugged and stood up, folding her laptop into a small handbag. The meeting was over. ‘Go to Paradise Cove in Malibu and ask for him at the beach restaurant. He’s very interested in you. That’s all I can say.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Just ask for the Old Man. Someone will come.’

Running

Layla stuffed a couple of bags in the tiny trunk of the Fiat 500 and drove away from the Agriturismo, heading back into town. She rushed through the country roads, knowing that she only had a couple of hours to make the flight in Cagliari. Her mind was in turmoil, and she was worried about Walker. He had sounded weird, almost
changed
by Luigi’s murder. She hoped he didn’t do anything crazy out of rage or carelessness – things had become extremely dangerous again, and she knew how good Pienaar and his people were.

She accelerated onto the highway, checking her mirrors to make sure no one was tailing her. If they had the car plates, and access to some good data-miners, Blackspring could be catching up with her any time. She needed to get away from Sardinia as soon as possible and Walker had told her to fly to the US, where it would be a lot simpler to disappear.

Scott
.

Layla wondered whether his meeting with Mosha had gone well, but she realised that his plan was starting to sound more and more like a broken dream. A lot of the details were unclear, and she could not hope to understand how DeepShare worked or even if Walker’s ideas were feasible at all.

What’s going to happen if… when I see him again?

After he had called, though it was sad and scary, a small part of her had rejoiced – maybe they could have a second chance.

But now she understood why it was impossible, and wrong.

Layla changed lanes and honked at a truck driver as she took the exit towards the airport, still glancing behind every few seconds to make sure no cars shadowed her turns.
You’ve been through this before, bitch. You have betrayed your loved ones for most of your life. There’s something wrong in the setting of your brain and heart. Leave him alone, if you truly care for him
.

She sighed and wished for one of Walker’s cigarettes, or maybe just the smell of him and the sound of his voice. Luigi’s murder had sadly proven that she had not gone behind his back, that her link to Blackspring had been truly and definitely severed. But she still owed Walker a lot of explaining.

She skipped the airport exit and took the next one, deciding to leave the car in a semi-abandoned industrial estate – she could hitch a lift to the terminal and the vehicle might prove to be harder to find, maybe gaining them a day or two on Pienaar’s men.
What are you going to tell
him when you meet him? More half-lies, to make you look better than you really are?

Layla swore at the voice in her head and gritted her teeth. He deserved the whole truth of who she was and what she had done in the past.

The entire ugly story, to make him realise he was better off without her.

Walker needed her help, and she swore she would do anything in her power to save him. But they couldn’t be together, ever again. His plan was too fanciful, and she guessed in the end he would just have to disappear and rebuild a life somewhere else, if he survived.

A life without her, though it would break her heart again. If she couldn’t trust herself, she couldn’t allow him to put his faith in her.

It was that simple.

Colosseum

Walker turned into the wide boulevard of Via del Corso, leaving the tangle of ancient alleys behind. He had walked away from the Pantheon across the old heart of Rome in a daze, not knowing where he was going. His brain swam, looping around what Mira had shown him. Was it really possible? Friedman – how could the bastard have betrayed them, how could he be involved in murders…

All just for the sake of a bigger job, more power, fame? It was astonishing, but then the man’s ambition had always burnt too brightly. The son-of-a-bitch didn’t even need to work, had been worth hundreds of millions as a teenager, the scion of an insurance dynasty educated at the best schools in England. But as Mendes – who had known him well for years – had once told him, Friedman had always needed to be the best, the chief, the man. He craved recognition and power, headlines and business magazine covers, but Dorfmann, only a mid-tier player, could never be enough for him. Frankel Schwartz on Wall Street, though – that was the ultimate trophy, the bank that could truly put him on the map as one of the great financiers of the age. Again, Walker wondered if that was all the reason such a man could need. But Mira had been convincing, and the recording…

His head hurt, and he lit a cigarette to burn off the acrid taste at the back of his throat. Friedman and Frankel – a marriage made in hell. It just felt true, now that he knew. But his guts had failed him before. He needed more proof. And if the Old Man could help… he had to go and see him. No point hiding around Italy, not anymore.

He coughed, threw away the Marlboro and started thinking through the trip. He knew there was a direct flight to LA from Rome’s main airport, but it might be better to take a longer route. Layla would probably be going through the same terminal, and at this point it was much better not to… A car honked and he stepped away from the road, focusing back and realising he was lost. He turned into a small side street and waded through the crowds of a busy outside bar, looking for a waiter to ask for directions.

The place was heaving. People chattering, busy ladies dodging and dancing through tables, glasses and plates in a precarious equilibrium. As he waited for a white-aproned girl to finish serving he glanced to his left, and noticed two men wearing dark suits slip into the side street. One stood taller than the other but both were thick with muscles, shoulders wide, biceps straining their
sleeves. They were rushing, studying faces, checking the tables near the bar’s entrance.
Shit
. Were they looking…

The taller one swivelled and his pale eyes fixed on him.

Walker swore and jumped back, overturning a chair. He shifted his backpack and spun off just as the man shouted something, then he accelerated into the side street, turning left again after a dozen yards. The smaller road beyond was overcrowded with tables from a tourist restaurant and he dodged through them, stumbling into one. Plates crashed to the ground and he checked back, managing to cross the last few steps as the two men in suits started weaving through the customers. He jumped a wide flowerpot and rushed forward, sliding through a group of old ladies and taking a couple of sharp turns into tiny alleys, before emerging into the circular plaza fronting the Army Mausoleum.

Crowds: he needed a place filled with tourists. Heart thumping, he sprinted across the roundabout, just missing a couple of cars that honked at him angrily. He risked a look over his shoulder – the taller, faster thug was only twenty yards behind him, and closing. Trying to remember Rome’s geography, Walker pushed on harder. On his right the Roman Forum beckoned, but the last few visitors were leaving the ancient cobbles – it was too late in the day, and most monuments were closing.

Lights turned on in the distance and he grunted in relief – the Colosseum would stay open into the evening, and large queues always snaked around its entrance, even after darkness fell. The man behind him shouted something, sounding even closer.

Walker ignored the stitch in his side and tried to accelerate again, then he turned sharply and jumped into the traffic of the main road, swerving around a bus travelling in the opposite direction. A van blared and almost hit him before he was through to the other lane, dodging a motorbike and two more cars. A side-mirror glanced his shoulder and he rolled to the kerb, managing to stand up and start off again towards the bright lights, now only a couple of hundred yards away.

He checked behind him but the two thugs were still stuck on the other side of the road, wary of the vehicles whizzing by. Just a little further… He lengthened his stride and cut across the Colosseum Square, rushing past the long queue. He slid a hand in his pocket and sped to the entrance, ignoring the shouts of protests from the tourists and throwing a fifty Euro note at the gatekeeper, then rushed up the stairs towards the third Ring, the highest level of the massive arena.

How the hell have they managed to find…

He stumbled on one of the steep marble steps and almost fell, just managing to grab the handrail. Wheezing, he dived left at the second Ring, glancing at the signs that pointed upwards, then pushed harder into a couple of tunnels, flying by the ancient pillars and straining his eyes in the semi-darkness, careful not to trip on the uneven stone floor. A few moments later he emerged back on the plaza side, almost sixty feet above the tourist queue outside.