The Hack Read online

  She gazed up at him, then spoke, her voice even. ‘I need the internet. Your wi-fi?’

  ‘I’m online.’ Charles nodded to his desktop computer and followed Kate back to his seat, then propped an elbow on the chair back as she sat. Within seconds Tandy was staring at the documents Johnny had posted on a dedicated website that had been private just a few minutes earlier.

  ‘This is now in the public domain, Mr Tandy.’

  ‘Mark, take a look. Can we go with this?’

  All lawyers hate to give a straight answer, but Tandy had appointed Mark specifically on the condition he would never fudge a decision. But Mark’s legal training made him naturally sceptical. His job was a key one. He did not answer his boss immediately, instead aiming his remark at Kate.

  ‘This could be a hoax.’

  ‘It’s not!’ Kate’s eyes, full of defiance, drilled into Mark’s then Tandy’s, her head flicking back to the lawyer as he spoke again.

  ‘A simple cut and paste job. Anyone could post something like this on the web.’

  ‘I can vouch for it, but will not divulge my sources.’

  ‘And in that case, I cannot – will not – let the story run.’ Mark glanced at Tandy. ‘Sorry boss.’

  Charles watched Kate, biting her lip, a little flap of her hands betraying indecision. He needed to be confident the stuff was genuine and he really wanted this story, but when it came to libel laws he was happy to leave the decisions to his lawyer.

  ‘Give it to us Kate – your secret’s safe with us. We’re not interested in telling anyone, we just need to know we aren’t letting the floodgates open for lawsuits.’ Charles cut her off as she opened her mouth to speak. ‘I know dead men can’t sue, but his travel company just might.’ Charles laid a hand on her shoulder, attempting reassurance.

  Kate fiddled with the keyboard, and Tandy could feel her reluctance. Then she nodded to herself. ‘This goes no further. Okay?’ She hesitated, clearly unhappy. ‘It’s from my brother. He got it.’

  ‘How Kate? From where? How can we be sure this is genuine, not some prank or set up?’ Mark tapped the top of Tandy’s screen. ‘With the internet I can get photos of anything, including Prince Charles shagging the royal corgis! But they certainly aren’t for real.’

  ‘Well these documents are the real deal. My brother...’ Tandy heard the slight catch in her voice as she said it, recognised the betrayal there, ‘he hacked into the CIA network and found them.’

  ‘No way.’ Mark’s head was shaking and he went to leave.

  Tandy’s face must have betrayed his scepticism too as Kate went on, insisting, ‘He’s done it before. When we were living in the States. He got caught then, but he was really careful with this. Believe me, there is no system my brother cannot get into with a pc.’

  ‘You’re serious?’ Tandy could barely contain his excitement, and nodded to Mark to continue pushing Kate for details.

  ‘And what? Your brother posted these documents on the internet, to this site, for us to read right now?’ Mark’s finger was tapping the screen.

  ‘Yes. And it will soon appear on dozens of other sites too. Anonymously. And that’s how we want it kept. Okay?’

  ‘You guarantee that these are genuine documents directly from the source? Unaltered? Not embellished? You will be in a world of trouble if we discover you are conning us Kate.’

  ‘Guaranteed.’ She desperately wanted the lawyer to believe her, knew he was the gatekeeper, the one to convince.

  Tandy pushed for an answer. ‘Well Mark. It’s impressive as hell but can we use it?’

  He hesitated for just a moment. ‘If we were in any way responsible for the illegal hack then we would be in deep shit, but, given this is in the public domain, I can’t see a problem. It’s the same as the leaks we’ve used from Anonymous... Yup, we can run with it. But let me see the final copy. Or are you planning to print Kate’s article?’

  ‘You must be joking. Our readers couldn’t cope with Miss O’Sullivan’s intellectual essay. We’re gonna do the rewrite, right now.’ Tandy hustled Kate from his seat and plopped himself down, totally in his element, headlines forming in his mind.

  Kate, clearly delighted, obviously had questions of her own. ‘But...’

  ‘Don’t worry kid. Your name will be next to mine on the byline. Mark, draw up a contract. Fifty now. Fifty retainer, usual bonuses and clauses.’ He pushed a button on his speakerphone as he shouted loud enough to be heard outside his office without it. ‘Joey, clear pages one, two and three. You and Gus have got the rest. Drop the roasted hooker thing. Oh, and find me some photos of that businessman that died – George Simm. See if you can dig out one with the wife, or better still, with the kids. In fact, get me every fuckin thing we’ve got in the archives.’ Another button. Jab. ‘Coffee and doughnuts now please, Tina.’ To Kate, quieter now but brimming with energy, ‘You want some? Here, sit with me kid,’ waving to his side. ‘We’ve got work to do!’

  ***

  While Chief Lee interviewed the concierge for the second time, the backpacker was just a half-mile away. His hostel was on a back street, tucked well away from the bright lights of the tourist strip.

  He had had many passports, many names, but Douglas Brown was the person he had been for the last few years. Doug. The traveller. In search of himself.

  He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, a strange hybrid computer in front of him, screens blank, unseen. His eyes were shut, and he breathed in a slow rhythmic beat, meditating to calm his troubled mind.

  He had not killed a man since he had ‘retired’ from the service some years before. He had shed that persona, that other being, the government assassin they had labelled the Hunter.

  Until now. And he had killed twice in less than twenty-four hours. Premeditated, savage murders.

  After the killing rage had left him, he had returned to his room and vomited, a long dry retching spasm, his body trying to expel the twisted tension in his belly, the pain and horror of what he had done.

  He was not concerned about the police. And despite what he had told the concierge, he had plenty of money. Goddammit, he could buy a hotel here if he wanted.

  He forced his mind to quieten, the calming effect of meditation a well-practised routine.

  Events had been so unexpected. His travels, always alone, had brought him here. Generally Brown avoided tourist hotspots and crowded beaches, but after spending months alone seeking peace of mind, he had craved some company, felt ready to be around people again.

  Fate had placed him at that table, soaking up some sun, chilling with a beer, watching the beach full of happy tourists, all of them determined to make the best of their hard earned week or two in paradise.

  He believed in destiny, believed he had been meant to overhear the men. He knew he would have to act, was infuriated by the deal they struck. Fan and Simm. The world a better place without them.

  At first he had barely noticed the fat American, at least not until the oriental had arrived with the little boy.

  Poor kid.

  Fan had clouted him, a hard stinging slap just as they arrived, for no apparent reason as far as Brown could tell, and that was when he had started to pay attention to the strange threesome nearby.

  His hearing was exceptional, a hunter’s sense sharpened and honed by a level of concentration achieved through meditation. Their conversation had drifted to him, hushed at first, but growing in volume as the tension escalated. The things he heard were enough to convince him Simm was more than just a paedophile holidaying where he thought he could molest a young child without fear of the consequences.

  Oh no, much worse than that. He had promised Fan a regular, steady flow of perverts. Wealthy western gentlemen with ‘special needs’ he had called them, like some warped tour operator.

  Then Fan had whacked the boy again. Unprompted, not a noise or a movement from the lad, yet he had backhanded him. Brown’s anger, which had been escalating as he listened to their surreal conversation, ha
d turned to fury.

  Then they had left, Fan moving off first, and later the odd couple, the young child being led away to God knows what.

  His fury had boiled to rage. A misty red film had engulfed his vision, his surging blood pressure swelling the arteries in his eyes. He was literally seeing red as he followed Simm to the hotel. He had no plan, no thoughts.

  His instincts took over.

  He arrived at the desk just as Simm got his key. Suite 418 on the fourth floor.

  The concierge had been brusque, offhand when he realised this potential ‘customer,’ Brown’s hippy persona, had no money, and imperiously dismissed him. A non-person. Unnoticed as he ducked up the stairs to the floors above.

  Doug had stood outside Simm’s room, instinctively knowing the American would never open up to a stranger, especially with the boy inside. The door was solid wood and he had no chance of smashing through it. There were faint sounds of sobbing from within, and he became desperate to save the lad.

  He searched the corridor, looking for something – a porter with a master key, a maid, whatever – the hunter in him driving him on.

  But the hotel was quiet, the corridor empty. At the far end was a window. He pushed it open, leaning out to see if there was a way to Simm’s terrace.

  He tucked sunglasses into his pocket and swung out to the ledge.

  The hotel was built of sandstone blocks, and there were gaps at the joints where years of tropical rains had washed out soft mortar. Using just these crevices for handholds he scaled the walls, skirting round to the American’s room. It was precarious, his backpack threatening to tug him to the street below. He barely noticed, his mind set only on his quarry.

  Finally, he clambered over the railings on to a wide balcony and crept to the sliding glass doors. He had a clear view of the lounge, but could not see either the boy or Simm.

  Further along were more doors, and this time he could see the top of Simm’s head as the obese American reclined on the bedroom sofa, his back to the window. There was no sign of the boy as Doug eased open the sliding door and slipped through.

  His knife, a beautiful heavy blade kept in a tailored pouch on the underside of his rucksack, easily accessible in case of emergency, slid into his right hand as he crouched, covering the few yards to the sofa. Like a panther, he sprang, unheard and unseen, grasping Simm’s forehead with his left hand and simultaneously slipping his knife under the man’s chin.

  Brown knew from experience that at times of great stress or anger the human body is capable of phenomenal feats of strength. Chemicals surge into the blood, and the brain shuts off the doubts that stop people attempting the irrational, the impossible.

  His exceptional knife thrust was driven by rage, a deep seated fury that spanned thirty years to memories of childhood abuse that had been repressed, but not forgotten.

  The blood had sprayed, pumping over the little boy whose head was bobbing up and down in the man’s lap. As Simm died, a gurgle of terror bubbled and splashed from his throat, and the child looked up at the terrifying sight that would haunt his dreams forever.

  Doug had let go of the man’s head and reached for the boy, wanting to reassure him. But the lad must have seen the madness in his eyes, the knife, and the blood. Oh, so much blood.

  He ran, screaming for his life.

  That sound had brought Doug back from the brink of insanity, the sight of the naked lad sprinting away from him wrenched his heart. He turned to finish the job, the final cut for Simm. He knew he would only have a few moments to find something that would help him discover more about Simm and his operation before hotel security was alerted.

  The boy’s screams faded as he hammered down the stairs.

  Doug switched back into his professional persona, the one he had come to Thailand to forget. He was out of there in two minutes, carrying a black leather folder.

  He was confident he had managed to leave the hotel without any witnesses spotting him. He had jumped on to a fire escape at the side of the building, a rickety old cast iron stairway, badly rusted and unused. The five star hotel had plush rooms inside but anything out of sight of the guests was left to rot, untended. The last flight of steps was raised and secured to prevent burglars gaining access, and jammed solid from years of neglect. He was forced to lower himself and drop to the floor, rolling to break the fall.

  He had made it to this hostel room, and fallen into a troubled sleep. Half forgotten images, vile things lurking in his childhood, tumbled from his subconscious. His anger had built again, and when he got up he knew what he had to do.

  Simm was dead but Fan was still out there. Doug had hoped the oriental was unaware of the death of the American, and thought that if he went to the café at 9am there was a good chance he would find him there.

  Things had gone to plan, although when he had cracked the Thai’s skull with the handle of his knife, and the man had gone down like a sack of shit, Doug had thought he had killed him.

  Instead, he now had an address. He also had the strange computer that had been inside the black folder, just waiting for attention.

  And he was calm.

  The calm before the storm.

  ***

  Chapter Two

  Police Major General Lee, smart in his crisp uniform, the mud-brown garments hugging his trim form, was feeling much better for his few hours sleep and shower. He held an artist’s impression of a man’s face and studied the details. Was this his phantom killer? The concierge had helped as best he could, and now Lee’s men had leads to go on.

  First was Fan. The man was a known pimp, a low-life drug abuser who flitted from place to place. No doubt, his paranoia would make him difficult to track down. Lee had feelers out, informants were being quizzed, but so far there was no trace of the man.

  Well, we’ll find him soon enough, thought Lee.

  His second lead was the boy. Finding him would be a problem. Locating Fan in the teeming city was difficult enough, but to track down a street urchin was an almost impossible task. Lee did not even have a decent description of the lad. Neither the concierge nor the taxi drivers who had witnessed the boy haring away could tell his men much more that could help. They needed Fan. Fan would lead them to the boy, the eyewitness.

  He fingered the sketch, wondering who this man was. His third lead. Caucasian, eyes hidden behind dark lenses, unshaven with fair hair falling in waves to his shoulders. Rather like Jesus in sunglasses.

  Lee, a Buddhist, laughed aloud at the thought, the clear mental image jumping into his mind. Maybe it was divine retribution for Simm, the son of his god descending to earth and slicing his neck!

  The drawing was being circulated throughout the city, his men had copies with the description of the backpacker and they were currently working the hostels and hotels, fleapits and doss houses to find the man.

  A backpacker.

  Lee knew this was not an easy one to track either. Thousands of them came through his resort every year, from who knows where, going... who cares where? It was a long shot, but Lee wanted this stranger apprehended. He had a feeling about the man, stronger now as he looked at the image.

  Yes, his gut told him this man was his perpetrator. And Lee knew not to ignore his gut feelings.

  The concierge had been pretty certain the man was American, although he acknowledged possibly English or Australian. The concierge was a well-educated man, he had a good job in their tourist mecca, often doubling his income with the tips the rich hotel clientele gave him. The man had dealt with people from all over the world; spoke English, German and French semi-fluently. Lee was convinced the man had recognised the twang of an American accent.

  The suspect was big but no giant, no superman. Around six foot tall, slightly larger than average build with a fine nose and square jaw. No distinguishing features were apparent. No visible tattoos. Nothing.

  Lee did not hold out much hope of finding him.

  Well, maybe the embassy man can help. Due to see him for an update, the
liaison officer had finally arrived. Lee could hear him arguing with his sergeant outside his office. He jumped up and opened the door.

  Okay, he thought, let’s see what the great Americans can do.

  ***

  Doug inspected the changes he had made to his hair. His wavy locks shorn and flushed away, the remainder dyed. The man looking back at him in the bathroom mirror was a man from his past. Clean shaven, with cropped brown hair. The man he hated.

  His former self.

  He was certain the police would be looking for him, they would follow all leads and the concierge was bound to remember him. Rather than running, Doug just wanted to gain himself some time. He had another visit to make before he disappeared completely.

  His room was paid in advance by his hippy alter ego for one more week. He was travelling, he had said, and wanted the room as a base.

  Then he had hit the shops – two new linen suits, some shirts, shoes, a valise. Plus hair dye and clippers. Everything bought from large outlets, teeming with tourists, plenty of Caucasians like him. Even an efficient well-manned police force would have trouble finding him now.

  Doug stuffed most of his possessions into his case, and left the hostel by the rear entrance, unnoticed. He sneaked through the back streets, the smell of spices and rotting garbage accentuated by the heat. His confidence was high as he approached the luxury hotel.

  Ready for the test.

  ‘Yes sir. May I help you?’ The man on the reception desk breathed a sour gust of stale alcohol at Doug as he spoke.

  ‘I need a room, preferably a suite, for a week. Possibly two. What d’ya have?’ Doug slightly thickened his accent.

  ‘Of course, sir. I have a suite on the sixth floor. We have a lot of cancellations so we’re offering all our suites for the standard room rate of two hundred dollars per night. How will you pay?’

  ‘Cash, one week in advance if that’s acceptable.’