Ian Rankin - Westwind

‘Yes, why?’ Nick Christopher sounded scared: he had an inkling now that this was all very serious after all.

‘Got a thesaurus?’

‘Sure. Stay there.’ As if Hepton were going to leave! A moment later, he returned with a large paperback book.

‘Look up zephyr for me,’ Hepton ordered.

Christopher started flipping through pages. ‘Why zephyr?’ he asked.

‘Because I don’t suppose Argos will be in there, and we’ve already used coffin.’

‘Okay.’ Christopher had found zephyr in the index, and now sought the correct section. ‘Three-five-two,’ he said to himself. ‘Right, here we are.’ He held open the book, his hands tense, as though he might at any moment tear the pages in half.

‘Start at the top,’ commanded Hepton.

‘“Breeze”,’ Christopher read.

Hepton typed the word in: incorrect.

‘“Breath of air”.’

Hepton was dubious, but typed it anyway: incorrect.

‘Next,’ he said.

‘“Waft”, “whiff”, “puff”, “gust”...’

Hepton entered all four individually: incorrect.

‘Damn this thing!’ he cursed.

One of the older operatives came up to the console.

‘Hi, Martin,’ he said. ‘What happened to the holiday?’

‘Just clearing things up, Gary,’ Hepton said, his grin as tight as a rictus.

Gary took a look at the screen.

‘It’s a game,’ said Christopher grimly. Gary sensed that he wasn’t wanted.

‘That’s nice,’ he said, moving away. Hepton watched him go.

‘Next,’ he said.

Christopher had lost his place. There was a pause while he found it.

‘Next!’ Hepton hissed.

‘Jesus, Martin, I’m doing my best. Hold on, here we are. “Capful of wind”.’

Hepton stared at him, saw he was serious and shook his head. Then tapped the letters in anyway. Incorrect.

‘“Light breeze”, “fresh breeze”, “stiff breeze”,’ Christopher concluded, closing the book with a thump.

‘That’s it?’ Hepton asked.

‘That’s it.’

‘Okay.’ Hepton thought hard, seeking another way.

‘What about a dictionary?’ Christopher suggested.

Hepton nodded vigorously, then, while the large red book was being fetched, rubbed at his aching temples. Time was rushing by. Soon he would run out of his online allocation, and the satellite’s computer would warn its guardians that someone was attempting to tamper with it. They would try to shut him down right then... that was supposing security didn’t get to him first.

‘Here you go.’

Hepton took the book. There was a mark on the cover where Nick’s palm had left some sweat.

‘What are you looking for?’ Christopher asked.

‘Straws to clutch at,’ muttered Hepton. He turned to the back and found zephyr. ‘“The west wind”,’ he read aloud, ‘“gentle breeze, the god of the west wind”.’ He closed the dictionary and handed it back, then turned to his keyboard. The west wind. Well, what the hell. He started to type.

WEST WIND. Then the return key.

There was a pause, and he held his breath, then: Incorrect password. Please try again.

Nick Christopher cursed quietly, but Hepton was staring at the screen. There had been a pause, a very slight pause, before the computer had responded. As though it were checking... As though it weren’t sure. He typed again, his fingers solid on each plastic key.

WESTWIND. This time with no space. Then the return.

There was another pause, if anything longer than the first, then the screen kicked into life.

Welcome to interlock option on interphase. Do you wish to:

1. Change interlock coding?

2. Enter interlock program?

3. Check interlock co-ordinates?

4. Oversee interlock?

5. Disengage interlock?

Nick Christopher sucked in air and leaned lower towards the screen. ‘You’ve done it!’ he gasped.

Hepton almost leapt out of his chair, but gripped its arms with his hands instead. Yes, he was in! He was right there in the nerve centre of the American satellite! He wondered if someone somewhere in a tracking station in the US was watching a screen and beginning to worry. He hoped so. Because he was going to give them a show.

Christopher slapped his back. ‘You clever sod,’ he whispered, his voice trembling. ‘You’ve actually done it.’

‘Now watch this,’ said Hepton. But Nick’s attention had switched to something else. He was looking over towards the far door, his antennae twitching.

‘She’s new,’ he said. ‘Must be part of the skeleton crew. A bit tasty for a skeleton, though. No, wait a second, I’ve seen her before...’

Hepton, curious, looked up for a moment from his screen and saw Harry standing just inside the far door, holding it open as her eyes swept the room. She seemed to be carrying a plastic bag.

He froze momentarily, watching her. ‘She’s the one who’s been trying to kill me,’ he stated, his voice cool. Then he concentrated on the screen again. Any second now she would see him. And she would kill him. But he had so little time left anyway, so little time to crack the whole COFFIN thing wide open. And what a foul stench he’d release. So rotten and pungent that no one could ignore it any longer. It didn’t matter if he died right here and now, just so long as he wrecked their plans.

‘Hello, Martin.’

She was in front of him, standing on the other side of the console, her head and shoulders visible above the monitor, the rest of her body hidden from his view. He didn’t glance up from the screen. Instead, with quiet pressure from his left index finger, he pressed the number 2.

ENTER INTERLOCK PROGRAM

A message flashed onto the screen: WARNING! INTERPHASE USER TIME NOW UP. INFORMING CONTROL OF THIS TRANSACTION. PRESS RETURN TO CONTINUE. YOU ARE NOW BEING MONITORED BY CONTROL.

Monitored by control: that meant someone would now be watching his every move, ready to negate it if they could. (Harry in front of him! Don’t think about her!) He had to finish this quickly, but without allowing them to work out just what he was up to. (Harry standing right there, a rustling of plastic. The carrier bag.) It wouldn’t be easy.

‘Hello, Martin,’ she said again. ‘Bring your hands where I can see them.’ And this time he did look up. He couldn’t help himself. He gazed towards her dark glassy eyes. And found himself staring down the barrel of a gun, so close that he could swear he could see the bullet resting at the end of the long, long chamber.

Then the gun seemed to speak. ‘Goodbye, Martin.’

‘What the hell is this?’

Villiers had ushered Dreyfuss into a series of rooms, separated by glass wall dividers. The rooms were packed with electronics Dreyfuss didn’t — couldn’t — recognise. It wasn’t like in the old movies he’d seen, banks of flashing lights and huge rolls of tape rotating on their mainframe computer spools. It wasn’t even like Argos mission control. It was cool and peaceful, and the machines made a low, soothing sound, while six dot matrix printers disgorged their data and a row of six television monitors showed a mixture of satellite pictures and computer graphics. DAT machines recorded without apparent end the digital transmissions from... well, wherever. Telemetry? Satellite waves? Computer language? Dreyfuss thought all three were possible. COFFIN seemed to have limitless access and limitless funds. But then COFFIN was potentially the largest army the world had ever seen.

And in a corner of this most impressive of the rooms sat Jilly.

Surrounded by state-of-the-art hardware, her captors had chosen a good old-fashioned method of securing her: rope bands looping around her body and the chair-back, and around her wrists; an adhesive gag for her mouth. Except that on closer inspection, Dreyfuss saw that the bands were made of thin plastic strips, secured by metal clips. Unbreakable, and painful to fight and chafe against. He ran to the chair and placed his hands on her shoulders. Her eyes were wild with surprise at seeing him, and she tried to speak, mouthing her frustration against the restraining pad.