Times were posted outside for tours of the cathedral. The last tour had just ended and it was quiet inside, in that way of old stone castles and churches, the nave steeped in shadows that reached up toward the barrel vaults, then glowed in a sudden burst of color as sunlight poured in through stained-glass windows that had replaced those destroyed during the war.
The architecture was a combination of Gothic and Italian Renaissance from those later expansions, while the original choir was two levels of large arcades from the earlier Norman period, with arches that reached up into a clerestory. Centuries of faith, wars, and conquest in stone walls.
One hour, two. The peaceful stillness of the church wrapped around them as they walked through the nave, and she thought of the countless people who had knelt on those stone floors, believing in the truth of an all-powerful God, needing to believe in their darkest moments, and possibly looking up through those Gothic stained-glass spires and finding something they could believe in.
They passed through the nave and into the main chapel, rows of chairs empty that time of day, candles lit by the faithful, glowing beside the altar. They paused in front of a marble grave slab—William of Normandy, whose conquest of England had changed the course of history, some believed, for all of Europe and the known world. A man of faith and war had built the first part of the church and was then buried there. At least part of him, the rest lost over time.
“We need to go,” James whispered, indicating his phone.
“Innis?” she asked as they left the church.
He nodded as they returned to the car. He put the call on speaker so they could both hear what he had to say.
“What have you got?”
“You know how it is when you're looking for something, you go through all the usual steps, and you can't find it. You finally say fuck it, and there it is right in front of you.”
“What did you find?” James repeated, with an eye onto the street.
“Well here's the thing, I was looking for the usual tricks—codes, strings of information hackers use for access. There's always something that pops up—a gap in a chain sequence, or it might be some meaningless string of information, but it's there if you know what to look for.
“It's like trying to find a ghost. You keep hunting and eventually something pops up. Even the best in the business leave fingerprints. It's sort of like unwanted relatives dropping in at the holidays.”
“The short version,” James told him.
“It's there, and it's sophisticated. Whoever hacked into Cate's cell phone was good, very good. Not as good as me, of course, but good nonetheless. My guess is that they operate rogue.”
Kris looked over at James, and mouthed the word. Rogue?
“Under the radar,” he explained. “They sell their services to anyone who has the right amount of money, drugs, or something else of value. Security companies, foreign governments, terrorists.” He didn't go into details about what they'd seen in the Middle East among some of the more radical hackers and jihadis, the scores of children sold into trafficking.
“They're usually techies who did some time with the big companies, but didn't like the structure. They're talented and don't care about what is legal or illegal. The best kept secret is that your government and mine use their services.”
“They're like pirates,” Innis went onto explain. “They hide out, operating underground. They all have a certain style, a way of getting in and getting the information, then corrupting a file or server. They love chaos. These guys are really wanked out.The thing is, once I knew what to look for, sort of like a call sign, I also tapped into Kris’s cell account.”
She exchanged a look with James.
“What did you find?”
“At least a half dozen breaches, all with the same signature. The same person hacked into both accounts.”
That's what James was afraid of. “When was the most recent?”
Innis hesitated. “Around three this morning.”
She caught the look James gave her. Just a few hours after they met with Diana Jodion.
“What can they track?” she asked.
“Everything—calls and text messages you made, and everything you received, as well as anything that's stored.”
Every call, including the call to Diana before that, the text message from Cate, and every call or message she'd made and received—every move she made, every place they'd gone.
It was like being stalked, except whoever was doing the stalking was invisible, sitting in some apartment or techie enclave, watching everything she was doing.
She slammed out of the car, fighting the anger and the fear that someone—the same person who had stalked Cate—was following them. Her hands shook. She jammed them into the pockets of her jacket.
“I've got the information you wanted,” Innis continued, as James watched her through the windscreen—the anger, the frustration, the way she drove a hand back through her hair.
