Cyberstrike by James Barrington (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

government, as usual, won’t pay for anything unless it absolutely has to. So the short snappy answer to your question is no, of course it’s not secure. Who are you, and what do you want?’

‘I’m calling from London and I’ve been told you need to return to Vauxhall Bridge as soon as possible, with clothes for a week and your passport.’

For ‘Vauxhall Bridge’ Morgan read ‘Vauxhall Cross’ and for ‘Vauxhall Cross’ he read ‘C-TAC’ and wondered why he hadn’t been called by Dame Janet or maybe Angela.

‘Why?’ Morgan asked, which seemed to stump the man who had called him.

‘I have no idea. I’m just delivering the message. You’ve got it, so it’s up to you. What’s your estimate for London?’

Although Morgan frequently travelled by train to the capital, he didn’t retain an up-to-date timetable in his head and he certainly didn’t know the time of the next train. Plus he needed to sort out his bag, secure the house if he was going to be away for a week – and in his experience it would probably turn out to be longer than that – and get a cab to the station.

‘Three hours,’ he replied. ‘Maybe four. It all depends on the trains.’

He heard the caller hold a muffled conversation with somebody else in the background, then the line cleared again.

‘You’ll need to get your skates on then. You’re booked on the 1700 British Airways flight out of Heathrow to Dulles. Your ticket will be waiting for you at Terminal Five.’

‘Why am I going to Texas?’ Morgan demanded, looking at his watch.

There was a brief pause while the caller digested his question. ‘Not Dallas,’ he replied. ‘Dulles Airport, in Washington.’ And with that he rang off.

Morgan stared at his silent mobile for a couple of seconds as if daring it to emit any kind of sound, then put it in his pocket and walked into his study, where he kept a bag ready packed for short notice journeys. Living on his own had some advantages, and he was used to not having to explain his actions to any dependants and being able to act and react as he wanted and needed to. The downsides were the evenings usually spent alone, and not much of a social life.

He picked up his landline phone, speed dialled the number of the local taxi company he normally used to book a ride and organised a cab, then opened the bag to quickly check its contents. Then he took a leather briefcase and put in it his Panasonic Toughbook – he liked travelling with a laptop that was heavy enough to use as a weapon – one of his backup hard drives that contained additional software that he found useful, the connecting leads, mains charger and a couple of travel adapters so that he could plug it in when he reached whichever hotel he would be using in the States. He added his phone charger, checked that he had his mobile in his jacket pocket along with his passport and credit cards, then walked quickly around the house, checking the security of the doors and windows before setting the alarm and stepping outside. As he locked his front door he heard a brief toot from the road and saw his taxi just pulling up. The timing had worked perfectly and he hoped that might be an omen for the rest of the journey.

Or perhaps not, he wondered less than ten minutes later as the taxi joined the end of a seemingly unmoving queue of cars at an extensive length of carriageway repairs controlled by a set of traffic lights. Traffic lights that had clearly been programmed by an idiot, because the green period in each direction lasted only long enough to allow half a dozen vehicles to drive through, providing they were already in first gear and ready to move, followed by an unnecessary long wait while the lights at both end were obviously showing red. The queues in both directions were lengthening by the minute.

‘This is nothing,’ the taxi driver commented when Morgan expressed his understandable irritation in words consisting largely of four letters and single syllables. ‘You should see it in the morning rush hour. It’s like the biggest car park outside the bloody M25.’

But eventually they were through that particular jam and a few minutes later the taxi turned into Queen’s Road and stopped outside the white painted building that was Cheltenham Spa station, a structure that Morgan always thought looked more like a provincial cinema than a railway station.

In the ticket hall he offered his credit card to exchange what seemed like an excessively large amount of money for a small piece of cardboard that would give him the right to – probably – stand all the way to London’s Paddington Station, then changed his mind and spent twice as much to buy a first-class ticket, on the grounds that he could probably reclaim the money through C-TAC. And at least then he would get a seat.

Almost the first person he saw when he stepped onto the platform was Natasha Black.

‘I assume you also had the urgent summons from above?’ she asked as Morgan walked over to her. ‘And I’m not talking about a message from the divine ruler and creator of the universe, just some irritating and anonymous little oik in London issuing orders on behalf of somebody else.’

Morgan nodded. ‘You’re going to Washington as well?’

Natasha nodded in her turn. ‘I am, and I don’t know why. I find that irritating, and when I’m irritated I tend to get quite snappy, so I apologise in advance for anything I say that you don’t like. What ticket have you got?’

‘I splashed out on first class,’ Morgan said. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’

‘So did I. I worked on the basis that if I’m going to be irritated for the next few hours at least I can be irritated in comfort, or at least in something marginally more comfortable