Edge (11 page)

    Joining the SAS had been a huge challenge of physicality and mental toughness; joining Ghost Force, the Service-inside-the-Regiment, had stretched his intellect in unexpected ways; and their missions lay within MI6 as much as Army territory. Josh, along with Haresh and the rest, had worked espionage/sabotage ops, looking like civilians, sometimes just sitting in a coffee shop or railway station, running infiltration code from a covert phone.

    The Americans had travelled a different route, and Epsilon Force owed as much to the Marine Corps as to their parent Delta Force, their troops armed with as much implanted tech as they could operate. Storming military installations guarded with smart weapons was their forte, and they could take down enemy AI-drones in the field; but subtle they were not. This Matt Klugmann might be able to crash the systems at Heathrow, but to walk through the airport scanners like an ordinary person would be impossible.

    "So what, is this a job in the States?"

    "No." Haresh nodded back toward the lounge. "Our friend has a cousin, lived here for ages. She asked Matt about a missing person job, and he put her onto Geordie Biggs."

    "Geordie's got guys who can do that."

    "Sure, and he'd like you to be one of them. Freelance basis, like your training gig with Tony." Haresh raised his glass. "You know Geordie. Always looking out for new opportunities."

    "I wouldn't know where to start."

    "Missing kid in London? It's a systems problem."

    "The police might have official access to surveillance, but I don't. And won't they be looking for the kid?"

    "Like they say in movies, you can work the case fulltime, the cops can't. Also, you're better. Plus, you remember Andy's sister? Petra Osbourne?"

    "Er, yeah."

    He hadn't seen Petra since Andy's memorial service. There'd been no funeral, on the basis that Andy's body had been vaporised during a hostage rescue on the Ivory Coast, with nothing left to bury. Not unless you shipped a few tonnes of soil and rubble home, for whatever organic traces remained mixed up inside.

    "She's still with the Met. Always seemed to have a thing for you."

    "As I recall, she's a lesbian."

    "So what does that say about your girlish charms, mate? Anyway, she's bound to help, provided you ask nicely."

    "Fuck."

    "Uh-huh." Haresh held up his phone. "Is that 'fuck' as in 'loadsa-fuckin-thanks-to-all-my-mates-for-doingme-a-good-turn'? The kind of thanks I can pass on to Geordie?"

    Josh rolled his shoulder muscles as if loosening up for a fight. Then he blew out a breath.

    "Yeah. That kind. Thank you."

    "Any time."

 

From the time he parked in front of the gate and waved to the camera, to sitting down in a leather armchair in what the maid – yes, a maid – called the drawing room, he felt out of his depth. But taking in the cream and pale-yellow walls, polished wooden floor and expensive fittings, it felt more and more impersonal, like a hotel, not a home. And for all that Philip Broomhall might be rich, he commanded fewer resources than senior military officers, the best of whom were always approachable.

    He waited, something he was good at, comparing this to the cramped, messy flat in Brixton where Mum and Dad had raised him: overflowing with cushions and tattered books, housework readily put aside in favour of a chat or reading. The military had drilled neatness into him; otherwise Josh was his parents' son, and they had raised him in a warmer place than this.

    "Mr Cumberland? Josh? I'm Philip."

    "Sir." Josh controlled his grip as they shook. "Good to meet you."

    "What I want is simple. My son is missing and I need him back."

    "Understood. Clearly the police haven't got anywhere, or I wouldn't be here."

    "I'm told you're an expert."

    "I can construct specific searches, use profiling, and talk to people who might avoid the police." ELINT and HUMINT, electronic intelligence and human intelligence, were grist to the mill; and he had access to algorithms and bots undreamt of by Scotland Yard's Serious Systems Crimes Unit. "Is there any specific person who'd want to do you harm?"

    "No, and there's not been any kind of ransom demand. Richard slipped out of the car by himself, you know."

    "I'd like to speak to the driver."

    "Lexa's here. You'll be able to talk to her."

    "Thank you. I don't suppose there were cameras in the car?"

    "Absolutely not. I'm often on the phone discussing confidential matters, or riding with business partners I'm negotiating with. No recordings permitted, ever."

    Broomhall headed for a cabinet, picked up a whisky glass, and raised an eyebrow.

    "Not for me, thanks," said Josh. "I'll read the file, but are there any friends of Richard's that spring to mind?"

    "He was in the chess club at school." Broomhall poured dark rum. "Dropped the science club because he preferred just to read by himself, he said."

    Clubs, not individuals.

    "It would help if I can go through his room. Have the police done that?"

    "No, they bloody well have not."

    "You're worried about him. About Richard."

    "He's soft." Broomhall's left hand rested on his own heavy abdomen. "Not tough like… I work to keep my family. Since his mother… I'm a widower, you see." Swirling rum in his glass, he stared into the liquid. "He's important to me. Understand that. I'm not sure Richard does."

    "I get it. Was there anything troubling Richard particularly?"

    If there had been, Broomhall probably hadn't noticed.

    "He was normal, except for going to see that bloody shrink, and then he didn't even make it home. What do you make of that? Bitch is still practicing, still screwing other patients' minds."

    "I'll need details of that as well."

    "So I hope you're a damn sight better than she turned out to be."

    "Why do you say that?"

    "Obviously because–Well, because the same person recommended you both, but in your case he checked more carefully. So he's assured me."

    "Who's that, if you don't mind me asking?"

    "More of a second opinion. I came up with the idea originally, got the name of Biggs' company from someone. But I passed your name to a friend who works in the DTI, and he tells me you're good."

    "Me personally?"

    "That's what I mean."

    There were civil servants who could check special forces records, but not in the Department of Trade and Industry. Broomhall knew less about his friend than he realised.

    "Is there anyone I should be talking to besides the driver, Lexa?"

    "The rest of the staff, I guess. Lexa can show you round." Broomhall took his phone from his pocket, and said into it: "Mr Cumberland is ready."

    "Thank you. What about Richard's school? I don't know for sure yet, but a visit might help."

    "I'll let the headmaster know. He should be helpful, the amount we pay each year. I pay."

    Then a broad-shouldered woman walked through an archway, and nodded to Josh.

    "Where would you like to start?" She had a Birmingham accent.

    "Richard's room, I guess."

    "I'll see you later." Broomhall gestured with his phone, and intricate tables and graphs of data lit up on the wallscreens. "Let me know if there's a problem."

    But his attention was already lost in the world of corporate finance.

In the hallway, Josh shook hands with Lexa. Her grip was stronger than Broomhall's. Then she led the way upstairs, along a corridor with panelled walls and ugly expensive paintings, to a door that opened onto a massive tidy bedroom.

    "Like a big hotel suite, ain't it?" She pointed at the neat shelves. "That's not the maids. Richard keeps everything organised himself."

    "Maids."

    "Yeah. It's a far cry from Selly Oak, where I started."

    "I was thinking the same kind of thing. Brixton, in my case."

    "Your old man a drunk, or anything like that?"

    "No. Good family."

    "Then you probably had it better than young Richard, for all the old man's money."

    A Navajo rug lay on the floor. No posters on the walls. Nothing left scattered around.

    "I'm just going to poke about for a bit." He slid open a drawer. "Christ, that's neat."

    Folded underwear, squared off. Everything was right angles.

    "He's a bright kid." Lexa looked at him. "You want me to leave you alone?"

    "No, you're all right there. Is this why he was seeing the shrink? Obsessive-compulsive?"

    "That wasn't it." Lexa raised her eyebrows. "Hoplophobia, allegedly."

    "Why allegedly?"

    "How many people do you know that aren't afraid of a blade?"

    "Good point."

    "You saw the weapon on Broomhall's belt?"

    "Yeah. Nice hilt."

    "Any idea how many times he's duelled with it?"

    Josh did, but said: "Tell me."

    "Exactly none. But he has issued challenge, twice. Both times, to guys even less likely than him to fight. They have enough money, they can afford the fines."

    "So you think Richard's not really a weapon hater?"

    "Oh, he hates them all right," said Lexa. "I'm just not sure it's a problem. You know Birmingham? Selly Oak and King's Heath?"

    "Sure." Josh smiled. "Ansells Mild and pork scratchings."

    "And burglary and drugs, when I was young. Before the Blade Acts. In some ways it's better now."

    "Huh." Josh was checking the wardrobe and cupboards. "No sports kit."

    "Not Richard."

    Intellectual, physically soft, alone on the streets of London. Poor combination.

    "So, are you done?"

    In his pocket, he thumbed his phone. Wallscreen and processor stacks winked blue then shut down.

    "All done," he said.

    "So that's why the old man called you in."

    "What do you mean?"

    "I served in Tibet. 3 Mercian." Lexa nodded toward the wallscreen. "Came across quiet guys with eyes like yours, could do things like that."

    "Like what?"

    "Uh-huh. You just downloaded the entire system logs. And they got firewalls, firebreaks, shields. Crypto up the wazoo."

    "Is that going to be a problem?"

    "Christ, no." She grinned. "Means you stand a chance of finding the poor little bugger."

He parked in a multi-storey in Guildford. The hourly rate was ridiculous, double if you recharged your vehicle, but the batteries were running low. Sitting in the car, he called Petra Osbourne, directing her image to the windscreen heads-up display.

    "Hey, lover." Her image was ghostly. "Haven't seen you for a long time."

    "Too long. Sorry."

    "For what? Hang on." She looked away. "Will you guys slow down? Control, with your partner. Save your power for the bags."

    There were muffled sounds.

    "Sorry," she went on. "It's hard for them to understand the difference, when to be a partner and when to be an opponent. So, what favour are you ringing up to ask?"

    "Who are you teaching? Cops or kids?"

    "Kids. I'm not on duty till twenty hundred. Here, take a look." A translucent image washed across the windscreen: children, aged from maybe eight to fifteen, with sparring gloves and headgear. "Doing some good."

    "Yes, you are."

    Some of the kids needed self-esteem, properly earned. Others needed to physically defend themselves. Petra and her friends taught for free.

    "Huh. Mark, take over, willya?" The image shifted, her face filling the windscreen. "So you're after a favour. If it's a blowjob you want, the answer's no."

    "Jesus, Petra."

    "But I know some nice guys who wouldn't mind–"

    "It's a missing kid."

    "Official police case?"

    "Uh-huh. Along with all the thousands of others on file."

    "And you're taking a special interest?"

    "Yeah. I'm putting together a ghost search, gait analysis, the whole thing."

    Anyone who watched crime dramas knew how to use wigs, cap-veils, and changes of clothing to slip through surveilled crowds. Fewer would change the way they walked.

    "And you want me to slip your little querybot into the London Transport net."

    "You have authority to do that, Sergeant Osbourne?"

    "Let's say it's not impossible. When's the code going to be ready?"

    "A first cut tonight, if you let me have two attempts. Otherwise, I'm still gathering info. I'll have version two ready in the morning."

    "Send that to me tomorrow, then."

    A rough search tonight might save Richard a night on the streets. But this was her deal.

    "Done."

    "All right. Daniel! I said control, not miss by a mile–"

    Her image flickered out, leaving only the sight of concrete and shadow, an anonymous urban car park that could have been anywhere, impersonal as Richard Broomhall's bedroom.

    Hey, kid. Where the hell are you?

    Yet in his mind's eye was not a teenage youth on London's streets, but a ten year-old girl with rice-paper skin, body intubated, surrounded by relentless machines that kept her organs working, however much they yearned to stop.

    Where was the sense in any of it?

Silver sheets of rain were washing from the sky as he pulled in to the lay-by. Other cars hissed past on the dual carriageway, and good luck to them. He was going to stay parked until the worst was past. This was yet another flash storm in a year of storms and whirlwinds, the worst of driving conditions. No problem for Josh: with a few commands, he turned his windscreen into a full-on display, cranking up a programming environment with debugging and simulation panes, the lot. Unfurling a keyboard and coding glove, he set up his querybot as nested shells, and began with the inference engine. Soon he was in programming Zen, absorbed in the code, sketching in prototypes and test harnesses, working fast because he knew these frameworks and face it, he was good.