Steve Jackson - The Mentor

It was Mac who realised that Mole’s particular talents would be wasted in prison. MI6’s computer eggheads were good, he argued, but what they needed was someone who wasn’t afraid to venture into the uncharted territories on the edge of Cyberspace, someone who would go to that edge and beyond. Mole was that person. Strings were pulled, a deal cut, and Mole escaped prison on the condition that he went to work for MI6. It wasn’t exactly a hardship for the hacker. For his sins he had one of the most impressive computer systems in the world to play with.

Mole’s eyes locked on the laptop bag dangling from Aston’s left shoulder. His face suddenly changed, hardened, the little-boy-lost smile replaced with a hungry grin. The hacker stubbed out the roll-up and snapped the lid back on the tobacco tin. ‘So what can I do for you?’

Aston unzipped the laptop bag, pulled out the computer. Mole grabbed it and wheeled himself back to his desk. He turned it in his hands, examining it in the light given off by three huge flat screen monitors that were arranged like dressing-table mirrors. ‘What’s the story?’

‘We need to know what’s on there,’ Aston said. ‘Everything that’s on there.’

‘You haven’t tampered with it, no? Switched it on and had a go at breaking the password? Opened it up even?’

Aston shook his head. For years the spy world had been using computers to move information. E-mail was ideal for sending anonymous coded messages; the forgotten areas at the edge of the hard-drive were perfect for hiding information. As technology progressed, the security had become more extravagant. Hit a wrong key and that was it. Game over. All those secrets wiped.

Mole finished his visual inspection and shifted the mouse to make room on the desk. He put it down gently, hand resting on the lid, fingers tapping out code on an invisible keyboard. He stared at Aston through the magnifying glass lenses. ‘Okay, mind explaining what this is all about?’

‘I just need to know what’s on the computer.’

‘I heard you the first time,’ Mole said. ‘See, the thing is I remember every computer I build. They’re my babies. And before I kick them out the nest I give them a mark. Something I can recognise them by. Don’t look at me like that. I know that sort of thinking is alien to you, but I’m not a spy. I’m a hacker, and hackers have egos the size of the sun. How do you think they caught me? I was signing my work with foot high letters. Thought I was so fucking clever.’ Mole picked up the laptop. ‘Appears to be an off-the-shelf IBM Thinkpad, doesn’t it?’ He carefully turned the computer over and pointed to the first two digits of the serial number. A six and a nine. ‘Childish, I know. But there we go.’ He smiled at George. ‘This laptop belongs to the honourable Robert Macintosh. Which begs the question: Why do you want to break into Mac’s computer?’

‘Need to know,’ Aston said, enjoying the way the words sounded. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d been fed that particular line. It made a nice change to deliver it.

‘Well, if I don’t need to know,’ Mole said, ‘then we’re wasting each other’s time.’

Aston noticed Mole was in no hurry to hand over the laptop. His hand was resting protectively on the lid, fingers tapping. Mole was as curious to find out what was on the computer as he was.

‘Would it make any difference if I told you I was working for The Chief?’ Not quite the truth; not quite a lie.

Mole raised an eyebrow.

‘If this is one of yours,’ George nodded to the laptop, ‘I take it you can get in? Without it self-destructing, I mean?’

A roll of the eyes. ‘Do you really expect me to answer that? Of course I can get in.’ Mole ran his fingers underneath the laptop and there was a tiny click. ‘There we go,’ he said with a self-satisfied smirk.

The hacker linked his fingers, stretched them out like a concert pianist, and switched the computer on. ENTER PASSWORD blinked up on the screen. His fingers flew over the keyboard, hammering plastic. The screen flickered and changed, characters and symbols as mysterious as hieroglyphics flashing past in the blink of an eye. As Mole typed faster, Aston noticed the hacker frowning. The frown became more defined and he almost asked what the problem was, but he knew better than to disturb Mole when he was working. He’d done that once before and it hadn’t been pretty.

Thirty seconds passed. A minute. Two minutes. Mole suddenly stopped and reached for his Pepsi Max. He took a long slug, belched, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Naughty, naughty,’ he muttered, smiling to himself.

‘What’s wrong?’ George asked.

‘Wrong?’ Mole swivelled round in the wheelchair. A pre-rolled ciggie had magically appeared between his lips. He flicked a lighter and leant into the flame. ‘Why, nothing’s wrong. Well, nothing I can’t handle.’

‘So something’s wrong?’ George pressed.

A long drag. Smoke tumbled from Mole’s nostrils. ‘You know about backdoors?’

‘Yeah,’ George said. ‘They’re put in programs so the programmer can access a system without having to worry about passwords and stuff.’

‘Well, Mac’s had the backdoor I put in locked up nice and tight.’

‘You can’t get in, then?’ Aston said.

‘Oh ye of little faith,’ Mole said with a little shake of his head. The hacker hit a key and the desktop page appeared. He grinned at Aston. ‘What do you think? That I only put one backdoor in? A little more credit please.’

Aston smiled. ‘I’m impressed. So what have we got?’

‘Not so fast. Whoever took out the backdoor knows his stuff. Obviously he’s not in the same league as me, but he is competent. That backdoor wasn’t easy to deal with. I had to make it tricky enough so that if it did get found nobody would suspect a second one.’ Mole took a Godfather-sized tug on the roll-up and waved it at Aston. ‘If it’s okay with you I’m going to keep hold of this and give it a thorough going over. I don’t want to hurry in case there are any nasty surprises lurking in there.’ A pause before adding: ‘You sure you don’t want to tell me what this is all about?’

‘Positive.’

A drag and a long sigh. ‘I suppose I come to you if I find anything.’

‘Me or George,’ Aston agreed. ‘Or The Chief, I suppose.’

‘Nah, you’re alright there.’ Mole laughed from behind the cloud of smoke. ‘I’ll leave the brown-nosing to you.’

Like I guessed, the news was worse than Kinclave thought – bad enough for him to get the girl to tail me when I left the restaurant. And like I thought, she was talented. It took a while to lose her, but only because I was enjoying myself. I eventually gave her the slip in the myriad tunnels that snake through Piccadilly Circus tube station.

With my jacket pulled in tight to ward off the chill, I head down to the river, walking with purpose, owning the streets. I lean against a wall and block out the brown river stink. The water swirls below me, dark and mysterious and poisonous. For a while I watch, transfixed by the movement, the gentle waves rolling, rolling, concentric circles merging and separating in the murky dark. Rain runs across my face and drips from my nose.

My father was in MI6 back in World War II. I can remember him sitting on my bed telling me stories of the things he got up to. He’d sit with his back against the headboard, his long legs and stockinged-feet stretching almost all the way to the other end, the comforting smell of aftershave and pipe tobacco surrounding him. The tales he told were real Boy’s Own adventures, and I lapped up every word. There were stories about missions behind Nazi lines, ops filled with danger and excitement. And he’d finish each story with a tap on the nose and a wink and a ‘Remember, Rob … Need-To-Know’. I’d give him a tap and a wink back. ‘Need-To-Know’ I’d whisper. He’d ruffle my hair and tell me to sleep well, and then he’d turn off the light and leave me dreaming about killing Nazis and blowing up bridges.