It didn't appear that anything had been taken. Her portfolio, clothes hung in the closet, personal items in the bathroom—everything seemed just as she'd left it that morning. Except forthat drawer and the clothes inside. She pulled out the night-shirt then closed the drawer.
It had been a long day. She was tired. There was probably nothing to it. But before heading for the shower she double-checked the lock on the door and made certain the safety bar was in place.
The digital readout on the clock glowed through the darkness of the one-room flat.
James Morgan leaned against the window frame and slowly blew out a stream of cigarette smoke, the narcotic of choice at just after 4:00 a.m., when sleep had disappeared several hours earlier, scattered with the usual dreams that seemed to take a perverse pleasure in waking him.
He'd quit smoking, several times, then decided that nicotine was better than the pain killers the doctors prescribed. He'd weaned himself off of them when he realized they were becoming a habit, taking over, and taking him to places he didn't want to go. It was too easy to numb the physical pain, and the other pain that sliced through his brain when he let himself remember.
That was when he'd rented the small flat in the city from one of Anne's clients, month-to-month, during convalescence and the rounds of appointments in London that held his fate in their hands. Four surgeries, hundreds of hours of therapy, physical evaluations, then the psychic evaluations.
Was he depressed? Did he have recurring nightmares? Any sleeplessness? Did he experience feelings of being out of control?
How about 'E'—all of the above, James thought, as he stubbed out the cigarette. And in that perverse way of turning things back around, had wondered if the psychiatrist behind the glasses with the computer analysis in his hands ever had a friend cut down beside him, unrecognizable for the bloody mass that was all that was left after the smoke cleared, or watched a mother escort her young child into a marketplace with bombs strapped to his body, both of them blown to pieces along with a few dozen others, or was forced to knee-cap a boy in front of his father in order to get information that meant the difference between life or death for his team.
How about that, he thought, shoving the images back into the box, forcing himself past the memories, slamming the lid shut as the ring tone sliced through the darkness and the memories.
“Are you there, man?”
Innis.
“I was at it most of the night!” He spoke low, but the excitement was there, along with something else.
“I've found something. This is crazy shit! You've got to get over here! Hello?”
“I heard you.” James rubbed the ache in his shoulder. “What is it?”
“Not over the phone. Get over here as soon as you can.” The call went dead.
“Fucking lunatic,” he cursed as he headed for the shower.
His mood hadn't improved when he parked at the back of the café a little after six. He was running on four cups of coffee, black and strong, and in no mood for emotional hysterics with blue eye shadow.
The café was empty, the crowd having thinned out after the usual late-night tech wars and invasion of some imaginary foreign country. The local 'mercenaries' had all gone home for a few hours’ sleep before their day jobs at the local bank,investment firm, or hospital, and they'd all mess themselves if they were ever actually in combat.
The back door was locked. He knocked, aware that he was scoped out through a peep-hole, then a bolt was thrown back. Innis motioned him inside.
“Did anyone see you come round the back?”
“The garbage collector, the meter reader for the electric, and two dogs fighting over a take-out container,” James replied.
Innis did a quick look around then stepped aside. He slammed the steel door and threw the bolt.
James followed him through the storage area into the office at the back of the café. The computer station was littered with half-smoked cigarettes stubbed out in ashtrays, along with a half-full coffee cup. Innis crossed the office, checked the front of the café, then closed and bolted the door, before returning to the computer station.
“This whole thing really pissed me off,” he was saying, fingers flying over the keyboard. “What I mean is, I have companies that come to me to set up their servers, websites, all the secure shit! Like the work I did for Cate.”
He continued entering strings of numbers, codes, then more strings of numbers, fingers flying.
“I should have seen it!”
“Seen what?” James demanded.
Innis entered several more strings of numbers, then hit the enter key. “This.”
The screen lit up with rows of numbers, logs, symbols, the usual tech language for coding and encryption.
“Translation?”
