Cyber Knights 1.1

1

It took far longer for Karen Spencer, a twenty something U.S. Air Force brat living and working for a private cyber security firm in the UK, to answer the phone than it normally did. In addition to having become hopelessly lost in her efforts to unravel the secrets of a new encryption program that was not yet available to the general public that Andy had been hired to test, neither he nor Tommy were there to tell her to pick the bloody thing up.

Why she was the one Andy expected to take all incoming calls on the official company line, even when he and Tommy were there, had to do with the arcane and very chauvinistic attitude both clung to with the tenacity of a hound that had latched on to the scent of a fox. “Most people expect a well-established and prosperous firm to have a receptionist,” Andy explained one day when she pressed him on the matter. “And since most receptionists are females and you’re the only one in this office who falls within that category, the responsibility is yours. Besides,” he added as he lowered his voice, “the last thing I want is for Tommy to be the first person a prospective client talks to. That would be akin to a French restaurant hiring Genghis Khan as its maître d’.” Though she knew he had a point, from time to time it annoyed her no end when she had to set aside something she was involved in to answer the phone while one of the other members of Century Consultants sat at their desks, either playing online poker on his personal tablet as Tommy did when he had nothing better to do, or reading one of the countless drier-than-dust historical magazines Andy kept on his desk.

When she finally did become aware the phone was ringing, Spence had to scramble to answer it before the answering machine engaged. After snatching the receiver off the phone’s base, but before speaking, she took a moment to catch her breath and settle into what Tommy called her Sexy Suzy Secretary voice.

“Century Consultants. How may I direct your call?”

The voice that responded was little different than the tone she was using: cool, professional, detached, and, contrary to Tommy’s supposition, anything but sexy. “Ms. Ireland of TI Models wishes to speak to a Mr. Webb.” The woman’s tone alone alerted Spence that the person she was speaking to was no more than a mere flunky, most probably a secretary or personal assistant who was making an inquiry on behalf of her boss. Such people often came across as being tentative, almost timid, sounding as if they were afraid they’d called the wrong number and were about to be chewed out.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Webb is unavailable at the moment,” Spence replied in a voice that was just as dispassionate as the caller’s.

“May I ask when he will be back?”

Unable to help herself, Spence grinned as two possible responses popped in to her head, neither of which she could use. The first was the most obvious: “Yes, you may ask,” followed by dead silence. Given that Andy was currently off playing with the ancient Roman army reenactors he spent time with when he felt the need to take a break from the twenty-first century, the other response that came to mind was probably a tad more appropriate, but just as cheeky, “In approximately two thousand years.”

In the end, she didn’t use either. Instead, she suppressed an irreverent impishness that now came to her naturally as a result of her association with Andy and Tommy and asked if there was something she could help Ms. Ireland with.

After a moment’s hesitation, the woman calling asked Spence if she could hold. Again, she had to check her desire to ask what the woman wished her to hold.

The next voice on the phone was entirely different. Though it was female, Spence recognized it was the sort many women in positions of authority often use when they wish to make it known they were not the sort of female you messed about. “To whom am I speaking?” Tracy Ireland asked with a distinct haughtiness that was just as natural to her as Spence’s oft ill-timed playfulness.

Having learned the best way to deal with such women, Spence replied in kind. “Karen Spencer, one of Mr. Webb’s partners. How may I help you today, Ms. Ireland?”

There was a slight pause, leaving Spence to wonder if Ms. Ireland was weighing whether she wished to waste her time talking to an underling or ask to have Andy call back when he was in. “An important official with HMG told me Mr. Webb was the one person I could count on to help me with a problem I am having.”

In double quick time the smirk on Spence’s face disappeared. In its place was an expression that, had she been present, would have warned Ms. Ireland she had just stepped on some very sensitive, if somewhat diminutive, toes. Drawing herself up, Spence drew in a deep breath as she took a second to compose herself before continuing. Playtime was over. “In Mr. Webb’s absence I am authorized to act on his behalf in all matters,” she replied in a tone meant to inform the ditz she was speaking with she was no second-echelon flunky.

This was, of course, something of a half-truth. Andy was very selective about whom he took on as a client since he needed to ensure the people he and his team dealt with were aboveboard and the projects they became involved in were legitimate. To ensure he didn’t run afoul of the law or become part of something that violated national security or was best handled by a government agency, Andy made it a point to meet with all prospective clients and negotiate the terms of his dealings with them himself after conducting a thorough background check on the new client, especially one whom he had not dealt with in the past or who came to the firm without a reference from a trusted source.

What caused Spence to press on was Andy’s own philosophy, which was not all that different from that of Gavin J. Spencer, USAF Ret., her father and a man she often referred to as “The Colonel.” He had never missed an opportunity to impress his philosophy of “when in doubt, seize the initiative” upon the pilots in his squadron or his daughter. In his world, the one she was raised in, being proactive was imperative. “You have to get inside your opponent’s decision cycle, make him dance to your tune, and when the moment’s right, take the shot.” With that in mind, Spencer informed Ms. Ireland she would be more than happy to meet her and discuss the matter.

Again there was a moment of hesitation as Spence waited for the woman on the other end of the line to decide if she wished to pursue the matter with her. As she was doing so, Spence could not help but wonder how a woman she assumed held a position of authority could still find it difficult to deal with another female simply because she was female. That thought had no sooner popped into her head than Spence had to chastise herself, for she all too often looked down on women she considered to be flighty and frivolous things unwilling to muscle their way into important and meaningful professions dominated by men as she had.

“Fine,” Ms. Ireland finally replied in a tone clearly meant to inform Spence she was not at all pleased she had to settle for dealing with the second string. “My personal assistant will set up an appointment for you.” Then, without so much as a fare thee well, she hung up.

Free from the need to conduct herself in the manner Andy expected her to when dealing with a client, Spence returned the phone to its base and made a face as she stared at it for a long moment before finally sticking her tongue out.

Arriving at the offices of TI Modeling well ahead of time, Spence made straight for the fashionably dressed receptionist who, in her opinion, was wearing way too much makeup. Of course, since she never felt the need to wear any herself, that was an opinion she held of most women.

Looking up, the receptionist made no effort to hide her look of dismay as she regarded the young woman before her with a discerning eye. Neither the girl’s pixie-like features and height nor the color of her hair were what Tracy Ireland preferred. Even worse, the girl’s figure, which the receptionist judged to be edging toward a size eight, was “morbidly obese” compared to the models who were on the books of the agency. Determined to keep from wasting her time with someone who would be rejected by Tracy Ireland the second she saw her, the receptionist didn’t even bother greeting Spence with the plastic smile she wore when dealing with most visitors to an agency that served the needs of first-tier fashion designers worldwide. “If you give me your résumé and portfolio I shall see to it Ms. Ireland sees them while you are waiting to go in.”

Being asked to provide some sort of identification before being received by a client was not at all unusual. If anything, when no one did, Spence became more than a little suspicious, for it hinted at a laxness in security that most likely spilled over into how they protected their computer systems. And while handing over a full résumé was a bit odd, in her mind it was not completely unreasonable, particularly in light of the conversation she had had with Ms. Ireland earlier in the day. As to what kind of portfolio the receptionist was looking for, well, Spence was completely stumped.

When she saw the girl’s quizzical expression, the receptionist sighed. This interview, she concluded, would be quick but very painful. In all likelihood, Ms. Ireland would take one look at the hopelessly plain girl wearing jeans and a loose-fitting white cotton blouse and send her back to whatever hovel she had crawled out of. Still, the receptionist knew it was not her place to tell the girl to save herself the time and trouble it would take to be rejected by Tracy Ireland and simply go away. Crushing the dreams of a young girl who wanted to be a model but did not have what it took was Tracy Ireland’s sole purview, one she excelled at and, if the rumors were to be believed, enjoyed. With that thought in mind, the receptionist told Spence to take a seat as something of a knowing grin tugged at the corner of her carefully painted lips.

Because Spence had seen The Devil Wears Prada more times than she cared to admit, even to herself, the office she was shown to and the woman she found there were pretty much what she had expected. She was greeted by Tracy Ireland, the founder and owner of the TI Modeling Agency, with the same cool, discriminating gaze the receptionist had offered. Unlike that woman, Ireland did not dismiss Spence out of hand. Neither did she make any effort to greet her with anything resembling a welcome. Instead, the woman merely indicated a chair next to her desk with a wave of her hand as she invited Spence to take a seat.

“I appreciate you taking the time to see me at such short notice,” Ireland declared in a tone that was as sincere as her affected smile. “Edward Telford, a very dear friend of mine, told me when it comes to dealing with computer security issues, Century Consultants is among the best.”

Without batting an eye, Spence found herself unable to keep from smirking as she returned the woman’s steady, unflinching stare. “I am afraid Mr. Telford has misled you, Ms. Ireland.” She allowed this comment to hang in the air between them long enough for Ireland to pull back as furrows ruffled her otherwise smooth brow before continuing. “We are the best.”

Having been raised by a widowed father who had clung to the ethos of a fighter pilot despite a lateral transfer to the U.S. Air Force’s cyberwarfare wing, Spence had never been good at dealing with a woman such as this, or any other for that matter. So she made no effort to engage in the sort of banalities some people often wasted their time engaging in as she moved on before the woman had an opportunity to regain her footing. “What seems to be your problem, Ms. Ireland?”

Realizing the girl before her possessed the same moxie that had helped her rise above a field choked with competition that would have been daunting to a lesser being, Ireland allowed a knowing smile to momentarily cross her lips before turning to the matter at hand. “During the just concluded fashion week here in London, a number of the girls my agency represents were no-shows. Naturally, this not only put the designers they had been hired by in something of a bind, it reflected poorly on my agency.”

Unable to help herself, Spence gave her ponytail a toss as she tilted her head to one side and regarded Tracy Ireland out of the corner of her eye. “Naturally.”

Though she was able to recognize sass when she saw it, Ireland chose to ignore it. Her need to prevent another round of last-second sickouts by her girls during the upcoming fashion week in Milan was too great to allow the antics of the self-assured, if somewhat painfully ordinary, young woman before her from getting in the way of business. “In the days leading up to fashion week here in London, my top models began receiving threatening e-mails and postings on their social media accounts.”

“What sort of threats were they?” Spence asked.

“From what I have been told, it varied. It started with little more than innocent, unsolicited sexting from anonymous admirers sent to the girls,” Ireland explained in a casual manner that struck Spence as being completely inappropriate given the subject.

Responding to Spence’s hardening expression, Ireland paused to point out the reality that fashion models must live with. “I like to think the models I represent are the cream of the crop. As such, they are not only in great demand by some of the world’s premier fashion designers, they often find themselves the object of unwanted attention. To make it to the top in this profession a model cannot hold anything back. Those young women who do not possess the maturity, stamina, and determination to deal effectively with the seductive allure and pitfalls of the fashion world, or who flaunt the avant-garde styles designers send down the runaways in a manner that is as bold and provocative as the fashions they are modeling, are ignored by the very people they wish to work for. Only a very few models, not more than two or three in every generation, are able to pick and choose who they work for on terms they set.”

“Women such as yourself,” Spence interjected.

Once more Ireland found she could not help but look upon the young woman casually sprawled in the seat across from her as if she were lounging in the living room of her own flat. Eddie was right about the people who worked at Century Consultants. If everyone there was as confident as Karen Spencer, the problems she had experienced during London’s fashion week would be solved. If they weren’t, if she was the victim of another spate of last minute no-shows, Tracy Ireland knew her reputation, along with her ability to stay in business, would be in jeopardy. And that was something she had every intention of avoiding, even if it meant putting her trust in the hands of a woman she would never have given a second thought to had the two crossed paths on the street.

After spending several minutes explaining the nature of the problem and how she had become aware of it, Tracy Ireland asked what could be done to prevent a recurrence. “Prevention is only the start point,” Spence pointed out. “Were each of the incidents you described isolated, which does not seem to be the case given that so many of your models received similar threats at almost exactly the same time, measures they could use to protect themselves from future attacks like this probably wouldn’t work. To be sure this does not happen again, you have to find out who is doing this, catch them in the act, and, if they are in a country that cooperates with British law enforcement, apprehend them.”

Disappointed there was not a simple solution, Ireland sighed. “How do we go about this and what will this cost?”

The answer to the first part of Tracy Ireland’s question was one Spence was able to answer easily. She had already formed a fair idea that the woman in front of her would not be satisfied with purely defensive measures. Tracy Ireland would be eager to mete out some suitable retribution, Spence concluded. And as long as it was within the law and did not violate her own ethical precepts, she was ready to do all she could to help her achieve that goal.

It was the question of expense that caused Spence to hesitate ever so slightly. While the idea of simply quoting the standard rates Andy set for their services crossed her mind, Spence realized she had an opportunity to not only impress him with her chutzpah, a quality he admired in the people he dealt with, she would be able to score some well earned points in the unofficial competition she and Tommy were engaged in.

Suspecting Spence’s hesitation was due to her reluctance to quote a price she might balk at and with a busy schedule she had no intention of disrupting, Tracy Ireland cut to the chase. “Rest assured, Ms. Spencer, this agency is more than able to pay for your firm’s services, provided they are successful.”

With success never in question, Spence saw Ireland’s statement as an opportunity too good to pass up, causing her to toss caution to the wind and, instead of quoting the usual rate as she had been about to, decided to once more roll the dice. “Our normal fee is sixteen hundred a day.”

“Does that include expenses?”

“Normally it does, unless of course there is extensive travel involved or the need to purchase special hardware or any unique programs required along the way.”

“Seeing how you will be accompanying us to Milan, I assume I will have to pick up the full tab plus per diem for the duration of your employment?”

For the first time since entering Ireland’s office, Spence found herself unable to keep from reacting. Lurching forward ever so slightly, she frowned. “Milan?”

“Yes, Milan. That is where the next major show will be,” Ireland explained. “I would be a fool not to take you along if you’ve not sorted this out before we need to leave. Is there a problem with such an arrangement, Ms. Spencer?”

“No,” Spence replied as calmly as she could while madly scrambling to regain her footing. “None at all.”

Despite suspecting she knew why the girl across from her had been thrown by this, given Spence impressed her as the poster child for the world of computer security, Tracy Ireland did not take advantage of the first advantage she’d gained in the back-and-forth the two had been engaged in. While she had no qualms when it came to undercutting her competition whenever the opportunity to do so came her way, Ireland suspected it might not be a bad idea if she checked her predatory nature when dealing with Karen Spencer. Not only did the young woman impress her as being the sort who was more than ready to go toe to toe with her, it would be foolish to piss off someone who Ireland suspected she was about to allow to root about in every computer she had. And if there was one thing Tracy Ireland wasn’t when it came to business, it was foolish.

2

Spence spent the rest of the day mulling over how the meeting with Tracy Ireland had played out and what her options were now that she had committed not only herself, but Century Consultants as well. Even after she’d shut down her computer, locked the office door, and headed back to her flat, she found herself wondering how to go about skinning this cat.

Unfortunately, the more she thought about it, the more she realized that her initial impulse to show Andy and Tommy exactly what she could do was just bravado. This was not a computer-driven program that could be switched off and set aside if she ran into a problem. A client — a very competent and accomplished business owner that was under attack — was putting her reputation and the future of her business into Century Consulting’s hands, or, more correctly, her hands. This more than anything else weighed on Spence as she puttered around her tiny kitchen, absentmindedly throwing together a Caesar salad as she ticked off her options one by one.

The idea of calling Andy was dismissed out of hand. It had only been late yesterday that he had set off to the wilds of Northumberland where he and his reenactment buddies would lose themselves by shedding all trappings of their twenty-first-century lives and taking up their posts along Hadrian’s Wall as Roman soldiers and the sons they’d left behind had done centuries before. In addition to Andy being annoyed by a summons to turn around and head back to London to deal with a client he hadn’t vetted for a case she’d already accepted, she realized she would be conceding defeat before she had even given this case a shot. Even now, Spence could hear her father’s voice ringing in her ear: “You’ll never know what you can do or how far you can go on your own until you’ve tried.”

She sure as hell wasn’t going to go to Tommy, she decided as she plunked down on the sofa, plate and fork in hand, and turned on the TV. Not after the way he used every opportunity to remind her of how he’d singlehandedly saved her bacon when she’d been given a chance to handle the Kirkland Hospital case on her own and had come up wanting. The very thought of handing him another excuse to lord over her as if she were a wet-behind-the-ears rookie was intolerable.

Hannah Marbury, on the other hand, could always be counted on, not only for the sound advice she had to offer but for the discretion she showed in downplaying her role whenever she helped Spence. Of course, with Spence being Spence, when Andy finally did get around to asking her how she came up with her solution, she’d have to mention Hannah’s contributions. Taking credit for someone else’s ideas or efforts simply wasn’t something she was able to do.

That left The Colonel. For the longest time, Spence toyed with the idea of calling him. She was certain that at some point in his career in the air force or during his time at the corporation he now worked for he had come across a lowlife perv like the one harassing Tracy Ireland’s girls. Finding out how he’d safeguarded his client and their interests wasn’t exactly the same as asking him to help her.

That thought was still swirling about in her head as she watched the end of University Challenge on BBC 2 when she sat up straight, set aside her salad, and shook her head. “No!” she muttered to herself. Win, lose or draw she was going to tackle this head-on by herself. The time had come for her to see if she was as good as she thought she was. Besides, she reminded herself as she stood, took her unfinished salad to the kitchen where she put it in the fridge before heading over to the small desk where her laptop was. If things were on the verge of going tango uniform, she could always pop a red-star cluster and call in the marines, not that she intended to as she prepared to pull together a plan of action. “Well, as Andy likes to say, forward the Light Brigade.”

Wearing the one suit she had in her wardrobe and with her hair pinned back by an ornate Oriental clasp her father had given her one Christmas when they’d been stationed at Misawa Air Base in Japan, Spence returned to the offices of TI Modeling the next morning with her head held high, prepared to do battle.

Spence ignored the receptionist’s pasted-on smile and the way the woman inspected her outfit. “Ms. Ireland is expecting me,” Spence announced in a calm, no-nonsense manner.

“You must be the technical specialist,” the woman replied as her eyes looked up after checking Spence’s shoes. “She asked that you be shown to her office. She’ll join you in a few minutes. If you take a seat, I’ll show you the way as soon as I am done here.”

Spence thanked the haughty receptionist with a smile that was as brief and insincere as the one that had greeted her. “There’s no need to trouble yourself,” she declared crisply. “I know my way.” With that, she turned and headed to Tracy Ireland’s office.

After being shown in by Ms. Ireland’s personal assistant, Spence had a few minutes to set up her laptop at the conference table before Ireland glided in. “Ms. Spencer,” she declared by way of announcing her presence before settling across the table while regarding the young woman with a calculating gaze. “So tell me, how do you propose to go about protecting my models and saving my reputation?”

The suddenness of Ms. Ireland’s no-nonsense approach and the way she had cut to the chase both pleased and slightly unnerved Spence. She was used to military wives, women she had spent time with growing up. They had an annoying habit of taking their time getting to a point, a trait, it seemed, Tracy Ireland didn’t hold with.

Taking a moment to rearrange her thoughts, Spence discarded all the pleasantries she had carefully rehearsed in her head on the way to the agency and instead went right into her presentation. “You understand your business and this world far better than I, and know what would and wouldn’t work as far as the agency is concerned. So rather than put before you a solution that may not be at all suitable, I shall provide you with a number of options which you, based on your needs, can choose from.”

Spence managed to check the urge to grin when she saw the smile on Tracy Ireland’s lips, one that told her the woman was pleased with her approach. “Would it be safe to assume that whilst the first priority is to ensure that there is not a repetition of what happened here in London, and that your models are protected from future occurrences, you are keen on identifying and neutralizing the person who has been doing this?”

“It would be,” Ireland replied, betraying an edginess in her voice that told Spence her assumptions about the woman had been spot on. “I not only wish to identify them, I want to deal with them in a way that they will not soon forget.” Tracy’s smile, one that now did not betray a hint of warmth or mirth, grew, causing Spence to realize that the woman before her hadn’t become the owner of an international agency by being nice. Someone had gone after her, and Tracy Ireland definitely had the look of a woman who was going to pay it back in full measure. With that thought in mind, Spence’s own grin grew to match her client’s as she decided that this operation might be more fun than she had initially anticipated.

“In that case this is what I would recommend. To begin with, we need to run a number of classes in self-defense.”

Furrowing her brow, Ireland regarded Spence askew. “I thought we were talking about the Internet and keeping my models from being harassed and threatened whenever they use it?”

“Online self-defense, Ms. Ireland,” Spence explained. “If you hope to prevent a recurrence of the sort of thing that caused you so much trouble during fashion week here in London, your girls need to understand how to deal with trolls and cyberstalkers. They need to know how to use the Internet without giving away too much information about themselves, their habits, or their very thoughts online, information that can leave them vulnerable to identity theft or worse.” Spence pulled a bulky folder from her laptop case as she spoke. “One of your girls, a Susie McLennan, is a prime example of what can happen when they leave themselves open to be exploited by malcontents and pervs.”

“Models, not girls.” Tracy sharply reminded as she took the folder Spence handed her and began leafing through it.

“Yes, of course. Models,” Spence replied in a manner that hinted at being submissive but wasn’t. “I did some investigating last night and within half an hour came up with this,” she explained. “She has accounts on Facebook, Bebo, MySpace, and Twitter. For the life of me, I don’t know when she finds the time for sleep given the way she’s always online, posting where she is, who she’s with, and what she’s doing to everyone and their brother. It’s not just the people who are attacking your agency who can use this information. I expect there are plenty of other undesirables out there who’d like to get inside the head of a young woman like Ms. McLennan.”

“I see your point,” Ireland muttered without hiding her ire over the way one of her models had been carrying on. “I can arrange whatever time you will need for these classes.” After taking a moment to calm down, she closed the file before her and looked back up at Spence. “Proceed.”

“In addition to the training, I would recommend buying an e-mail and Web filtering service for the agency. It could be set up to cover your models, which will offer them a degree of extra protection, provided they follow the advice from the training.”

“That’s all well and good, Ms. Spencer. What I am interested in, what I want you to tell me, is how Century Consultants intends to go about identifying and neutralizing the bastard who is intent on putting me out of business.”

Spence bit back a grin as Tracy Ireland unconsciously adopted the military language she had become so used to hearing Andy and Tommy use.

“This is where you have some options. We could turn this matter over to the police and allow the courts to bring the miscreants to justice, provided of course the police were able to find out who they are and put together a case the courts were willing to take up. That, of course, would take time, probably two to three years.”

Upon hearing this, Ireland frowned. “I’d be out of business by then. The alternative?”

“The alternative, Ms. Ireland, would be to handle this on our own. In doing so, there is a very real possibility the evidence we, Century Consultants, come up with wouldn’t be admissible in court if you decide to take this up with the authorities at a later date. It would, however, be an awful lot faster.” Spence paused to allow Ireland time to mull over the options she had placed before her.

“How much faster?”

“One way of going about this is a honeypot operation, an approach that could take a couple of months to get results. Or, if our foe is truly intent on putting you out of business, as little as a few weeks. The third idea is derived from what I have seen of the messages used to intimidate your girls — I mean models — during the run-up to London fashion week. They are all pretty long winded, which is good.”

When Spence saw the hint of a frown appear on Tracy’s brow, she hurried on. “As in the world of fashion, everyone has a unique style. Even when they attempt to do otherwise, people write using the same style. Century Consultants will employ an analytical program that will enable me to match this style to a person in much the same way the police use fingerprints. With the samples of writing you and your models have on file, I will be able to check everyone you suspect might be behind these attacks on your models. If our target is on the list, I can pretty much identify them with eighty percent accuracy.”

“So, we would have a one in five chance of getting it wrong?”

Unable to help herself, Spence allowed her own smile to grow. “That’s where we come to part two of the plan. We set up a juicy decoy our target won’t be able to resist. That will allow us to collect everything else I would need to give you ninety-nine percent confidence. Now, among your models, do you feel there’s one who would be up for playing this game?”

3

It took but two days to pull together a course she had dubbed Cyber self-defense for Tracy Ireland’s models. Despite being pleased with it and supremely confident it was exactly what was needed, on the day she returned to TI Modeling, Spence was more than a little nervous. Show-and-tell had never been one of her favorite activities at school. Pausing by the door of the training room, she took a moment to push an errant lock of hair out of her eyes and draw in a deep breath before entering the room. The words of Lord Tennyson’s poem once more rang out in her ears as clearly as if Andy and her father were standing behind her, whispering “forward the Light Brigade” to her.

To her surprise the room was a lot fuller than she had expected. Not one to miss out on an opportunity, especially when she was footing the bill, Tracy Ireland had arranged for members of her staff and all her models to attend, not just those who had been on the receiving end of the recent spate of attacks. It was more than the size and nature of the audience she would be presenting to that ratcheted up Spence’s already considerable apprehension, for she found herself subjected to the appraising stares of forty tall, skinny girls, any one of whom could easily have graced the cover of a high-end fashion magazine. They were the kind of girls who had always put Spence’s teeth on edge whilst lording around high school in their little cheerleading cliques and looking down their noses at girls like her or anyone else who thought a brain was actually useful for something other than coming up with new and clever ways of attracting the attention of the school jocks.

Ignoring the way the gathered covey of young women took to whispering amongst themselves or snickering after casting a quick, appraising glance over her, Spence made her way to the front of the room where she fired up her laptop and connected it to the projector. Even when a plain black background appeared on the room’s front wall, the models continued to chatter.

Well, Spence told herself as she paused a moment to survey her audience, it may not be the same girls she’d had to put up with throughout high school, but the revenge could still be sweet. With that, she made a show of loudly slapping a crisp new fifty-pound note on the desk in full view. “I bet fifty quid that I can guess the passwords and bankcard PINs of at least a third of you here.”

The whispering and snickering came to an abrupt stop as Spence took stock of her audience, realizing, rather cattily, she had in all likelihood been lowballing that estimate. “To prove my point, I’ve already listed them on this slide,” she continued once she was satisfied she had their full attention. “Any takers on that bet?”

Her eyes once more swept the room. “No? Then let’s do the PINs first, shall we?” Spence smiled as she advanced her presentation, a new PIN appearing every couple of seconds whilst at the same time she kept her eyes glued on the audience. Within ten seconds she was struggling to keep a triumphant grin off her face.

“Let’s move on to passwords,” she announced with a confidence that was growing with each passing minute. Again, as she flashed a succession of common words, numbers, and combinations people tended to use as passwords, she watched her audience with a degree of satisfaction as half the models were now sporting expressions that betrayed the acute discomfort they felt about what they were seeing. “I’ll even bet that a number of you have life passwords,” Spence ventured as she paused at the end of this unconventional, but highly effective introduction to her class on cybersecurity as she waited for the inevitable question she knew was coming.

She did not have long to wait until a hand rose ever so tentatively from near the back of the room. “What’s a life password?” a raven-haired girl with almond-shaped eyes asked.

“A life password is one a person uses for every site and every account they have. It’s called a life password because if it gets lost or compromised, your life is stuffed.” By now Spence had their undivided attention.

The next hand that appeared caused Spence to feel a little sorry, for the girl couldn’t have been more than fifteen. “What can we do about it?” she asked plaintively.

“That’s why we are here,” Spence stated in a voice that was noticeably less strident than the one she’d been using up to this point as she smiled reassuringly at the girl. “Let’s start with passwords.” With that, Spence settled down into a no-nonsense tone that would have brought a smile to Andy’s face.

“Treat your passwords like your lingerie,” she advised, pausing a moment to allow the titters to die down. “Never share them, choose a different one for every occasion, make them memorable and unusual, and keep them hidden, though I expect that doesn’t work if you’re actually modeling lingerie,” she added before allowing a moment for the laughter to die down. “Other than that one exception, I expect you know what I mean. And,” she pointed out, raising her pitch a tad for effect, “just as important, change them regularly.”

Another hand went up. This time it belonged to an older girl near the front with a sulky mouth and a bored expression. “Isn’t this all a bit paranoid? I mean, like, who’s got time to do all this?”

Spence kept her smile in place as she answered. “It’s only paranoid if you haven’t any enemies in the world, or people who are eager to make your acquaintance that are not the sort you fancy, people like this.” With that, she returned to her presentation, running a video of recent news clips that involved cases of identity theft, cyberstalking, trolls, and cyberbullying ending with the recounting of a tragic case in which a teenage girl, probably only a year or two younger than most of her audience, committed suicide as a result of the abuse she had received online.

When it ended, Spence didn’t wait for any more questions, going straight on to the attack. “How many of you get hit on by creeps out there in the real world?” she snapped. In response, most of the older models nodded as their hands shot up. “How many of you have either done, or thought about doing, a women’s self-defense class?” Again, a fair number showed their hands. “If there are creeps sliming around you in real life, you can rest assured they’re going to do the same online! This course is no different than the ones I imagine a fair number of you have taken to protect yourself out there on the street,” Spence declared crisply, pausing until she was sure she had their undivided attention. “It is a course on cyber self-defense.”

For the rest of the day Spence talked herself hoarse, responding to a barrage of questions along the way, put forth by an audience that was notably more eager and engaged than it had been when she had first walked in. She showed them how to secure their accounts on Facebook, MySpace, Bebo, Ask.fm, or any of a host of other social networking sites. By the time this initial session was nearing an end, most of the girls were sporting worried expressions that told Spence she’d made her point.

The only exception to this generalization was a rather striking blonde who was sitting at the front. Throughout the session Spence had noticed she’d simply nodded encouragingly or smiled quietly to herself when one of the other girls asked a foolish question. This was especially true when Spence was talking about phishing, spam, and how to go about not exposing sensitive information to the world. It quickly became clear to her that the blonde, unlike her peers, was ahead of the game, for she never once flinched or averted her eyes in embarrassment whenever Spence mentioned something that struck close to home.

The questions were still coming when Tracy Ireland slipped into the back of the room and gestured to Spence that it was time to start wrapping up.

Doing her best to hide a sigh of relief, Spence raised a hand. “I imagine I’ve given you all a great deal to think about,” she concluded when the room had settled. “For those of you who still have questions, I ask that you write them down and save them. I’ll be here every day until you leave for Milan. If you have any questions that simply cannot wait, or need some one-on-one help with anything I’ve covered, you have my e-mail or can reach me through Ms. Ireland’s receptionist.”

Having finished, Spence remained at the front of the room as she watched the models depart, pleased with herself over the way things had played out. At least some of them had taken her message to heart she decided as she powered down her laptop and packed everything away. She was still doing so when Ms. Ireland, followed by the tall girl she had noticed earlier with the striking cornflower-blue eyes and flaxen blond hair, came up to the lectern.

“That seemed to go rather well,” Ireland declared. Judging by the reaction of the tall blonde standing next to her, Spence guessed that comment was, for Tracy Ireland, high praise indeed.

“This is Pamela Dutton,” Ireland announced as she indicated the blond with a casual wave of her hand. “She has agreed to work with you on the other part of the operation we discussed.”

Spence found herself shaking hands with a young woman whose firm grip matched her own and whose eyes now danced with a hint of mischief. “Hi, Pam. I’m Spence. I noticed you found some of the questions from the other, erm…” Spence paused, wondering how far she should go.

The blonde smiled as she finished Spence’s comment for her. “Less ‘technically oriented’ girls?”

“Yeah!” Spence admitted gratefully. “I take it you know your way around computers.”

“I did A-level Math and Computer Science in my last year at school,” she replied with a very proper British accent that was neither haughty nor put on. “It’s something of a hobby for now, one I might take further when I finish modeling.”

Eager to get back to her office, Tracy Ireland quickly cut in. “As I was saying, Pamela has agreed to work with you on this. Aside from being chosen as the face for Emmanuel Zspartov’s new collection, which in itself makes her a prime target if we have another spate of problems, she’s rather more mature than most models her age as a result of her background.” Without explaining what she meant by this last comment, Ireland got ready to leave. “There are things I need to tend to, so I’ll leave you two to get started.” Then, with a quick smile, she turned and headed out the door.

The two young women looked at each other for a moment, unsure as to what “getting started” actually meant, before Spence slung her laptop case over her shoulder. “Well, I’ve talked myself hoarse for the last four hours. What do you say to grabbing a coffee at the place around the corner?”

Within ten minutes Spence and Pamela had escaped the agency and had settled in the corner of the busy coffee shop where Pamela sipped a skinny latte whilst Spence nursed an oversized Americano. “I don’t mean to pry,” Spence ventured after they’d both had an opportunity to savor their drinks, “but Ms. Ireland mentioned your background. May I ask why she did so?”

Pamela laughed. “I expect it’s because I’m an army brat. I’ve lived in seven different homes and four countries in twelve years.”

Spence to burst out laughing. “Snap! Air force brat. Ten sets of quarters, nine schools, and five countries in eighteen years.”

“Is your dad still in?”

“No. He bailed a few years back. He’s now a director with Symantec in California. Yours?”

“Oh, he’s still soldiering on. He’s just got back from Afghanistan, which makes both Mum and I very happy. Well, until the next posting order hits the mat. At least now I’ve got my own place here in London, which means I won’t have to cram my whole life into bloody cardboard boxes when that happens.”

Spence smiled, remembering how happy she had been to finally have a place of her own that didn’t have an air force asset number attached. After taking another long slurp of her coffee, she regretfully turned her full attention back to business. There’d be time for chitchat later she expected as she looked quizzically over her mug at the English girl. “Do you understand what you’re letting yourself in for?”

“You mean setting myself as bait for some troll to have a go at, by acting like a poor fragile blossom with a tenuous grasp on my self-esteem and no idea how to protect myself whilst you hunt the scumbag down and deliver them up to Tracy, who I expect will cut their balls off and feed them to her precious little shih tzu?”

Spence winced at the description. “Yeah, though I wouldn’t have put it quite like that.”

“Dad always said to never be afraid of calling a spade an f’ing shovel.”

Spence goggled for a moment, trying to put together what she’d just heard in a posh English accent with the image of the extremely elegant and apparently demure English rose before her. Then she guffawed, nearly spraying coffee everywhere and drawing the attention of pretty much everyone in the coffee shop. When she finally pulled herself back together, she wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. “I see we’re going to have an interesting ride, Pam. Do you think Ms. Ireland knew what she was letting herself in for when she put us together?”

“Not a clue,” Pamela replied as an impish grin lit up her face.

4

The next three days passed in something of a blur for Spence, who couldn’t remember the last time she had worked so hard, or under so much pressure. At least half of each day was spent at the agency, either fielding technical queries from the models who had attended her course or chasing down their unknown assailant’s latest and increasingly nasty attacks, many of which were now targeting Pamela. Spence didn’t mind working with Pamela while dealing with the attacks. If anything, she was beginning to find she enjoyed the rather quirky humor of the British girl as they worked together to come up with new and inventive ways of teasing her abuser. The only hitch in this was the way she was being treated. Having always worked with either Andy or Tommy on a case, she was finding being a one-girl geek squad a challenge, one that was about to become even more so.

Earlier in the week Spence had managed to squeeze a few hours into Tracy Ireland’s demanding schedule, when the two of them worked to identify all the possible people who harbored a grudge against the businesswoman. As Spence had feared, the list was long and, given who was on it, quite impressive. What she hadn’t been prepared for was just how vicious and brutal the modeling industry really was.

When Ireland noticed the look on Spence’s face as she scanned the final list, she couldn’t help but smile cynically. “Every model you met the other day is already at the top of her career. Even so, they are still in competition with every other model out there, as well as countless other young girls fighting tooth and nail to break into the field. All are terrified by the prospect that someone younger, prettier, or more striking will suddenly emerge on the scene and knock them off their perch. This is coupled with the knowledge that their clock is ticking. The average career of a fashion model is three to five years. It should therefore not come as a surprise that everyone involved in this business takes these attacks to heart, for a model is more than a mannequin on which the latest fashions are draped. The second they walk out onto the runway, they represent the designer and his or her company’s reputation just as much as the clothes they are wearing.”

With the target list in hand, Spence returned to the office of Century Consultants, where she dealt with the post, e-mails, and messages left on the answering machine as quickly as possible. Fortunately, there was nothing from either Andy or Tommy, both of whom were enjoying extended holidays. The last thing Spence wanted to do was tell them what she was up to until she’d brought this case to a successful conclusion.

With all her office chores tended to, Spence spent the balance of the day online, hunting for examples of the writing of everyone on Tracy Ireland’s grudge list and comparing them to the database of online attacks that had been steadily growing more vicious as Milan fashion week approached.

This task took far longer than she’d anticipated, for she was working on her own. It wasn’t until the day before they were due to fly out that Spence was satisfied she’d been able to pare the original list of more than sixty names down to half a dozen who either didn’t appear to put anything online or were, in her view, little more than possibles. Only when she was satisfied with her efforts did she print out her considerably shorter list and schedule another meeting with Tracy Ireland.

Spence had not been the only one who’d been working her hoofies to the quick as Milan’s fashion week drew near. The agency had taken on the appearance of a disturbed beehive as anxious models and technical staff all rushed about in an effort to achieve the perfection they all knew Tracy Ireland expected, whilst the lady herself came across as calm and unflustered as the eye of a category-five hurricane.

“Ah, Karen, I was wondering when you would show up,” Ireland called out as she led a covey of harried assistants desperately trying to keep up with the woman. “If you could come through to my office in ten minutes, please?” It was one of the politest direct orders Spence had ever received, one that caused a few of Ireland’s minions to give Spence a quick glance, wondering as they did so why the painfully ordinary young woman rated treatment that was so out of character for Ireland.

Spence ignored the daggers directed at her by people she had no need or wish to deal with. “Of course, Ms. Ireland. In fact, I have already—” But Tracy was already distracted by other concerns as she pointed out an improperly packed wardrobe to one of her fawning entourage.

Punctual to the minute, Spence was informed Ireland was ready for her. “Come in, Karen,” came the invitation through the open doorway that separated the inner sanctum of TI Modeling from the rest of the world. As she entered, Spence was surprised to see Pamela had somehow slipped past her and was already there.

“Ms. Ireland, I know that this probably isn’t the best time,” Spence stated as she made her way across the room, “but I’ve managed to narrow down our list of ‘possibles’ to six. I am hoping you might have some insights that will help me narrow that list down even further.”

The look of surprise on Ireland’s face as she studied the sheet Spence had slid across her desk quickly morphed into a predatory smile as she touched her lips with the tip of a pen. “Ignore him … and him,” she muttered as she lined through several of the names. “Might I suggest you focus your attention on these?” she finally concluded after she’d boldly underlined three names.

Spence looked down at the names. The first one belonged to a former model who had left Ireland’s agency under less than happy circumstances and was now a journalist. The other two were heads of rival agencies. Satisfied, Spence tucked the sheet back into her folder. “Certainly, Ms. Ireland. I can see how busy you are, so I’ll just—”

“That wasn’t the reason I wanted to see you today, dear,” Ireland said, cutting her off.

Something in Ireland’s voice caused Spence to stop and frown as her gaze darted from Ireland, then over at Pamela, and finally back to Ireland.

“As you’ve no doubt come to appreciate over the past few days, in fashion image is everything. It is the cornerstone of an agency’s reputation. And since you are coming to Milan as part of the TI team, I hope you’ll understand that your image will reflect upon mine.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Spence replied warily as she began to suspect something was about to be dropped on her, something for which she was not at all prepared.

“Though you’re not a model, we will need to make you presentable. While slacks and a ponytail may pass muster with other clients you deal with, you will need to do better while you are in Milan as part of my troupe.” Without waiting for an answer from the thoroughly bemused young woman standing before her, Ireland turned to Pamela. “Take Karen down to Marilyn and Pierre with my compliments. Inform them they are to see what they can do with Ms. Spencer.”

After returning Ireland’s wicked little smile with an impish grin of her own, Pamela turned to Spence. “Thank you, Karen,” Ireland announced by way of informing both women they were being dismissed. “I shall look forward to seeing you in Milan.”

As soon as the pair was safely out of the office, Spence rounded on Pamela. “Was this your idea?”

“Mine?” Pamela’s tone was one of surprised innocence that did not fool Spence at all, for she had already come to appreciate the tall blonde’s “butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth” look was a well-honed act.

“Yes, yours! I’ve no need to dress up and primp and preen in order to do my job.”

The English girl’s lips twitched in amusement. “If you wish to keep from having your eyes scratched out, I wouldn’t say that too loudly, not around here. Do you have any idea how much of a pain in the bum it is to get ready in the morning for most of us?” Then she paused and bit her lip. “Do you recall how you were greeted when you started your cyber self-defense course?”

“Yes?”

“Did you ever stop and wonder why they were all whispering and snickering when you walked into the room, or while you were preaching the gospel of Saint Cyber?”

“Not really. I wasn’t saying anything that was funny, at least I don’t think I was.”

Pamela winced. “It wasn’t what you were saying. I think even Lindsey took your message to heart. Well, maybe not her,” she continued after pausing to give her last statement some thought. “But the rest of us did.”

“If it wasn’t what I was saying, what did cause them to go off like that?”

“You really don’t know, do you?”

“I guess not,” Spence shot back crisply, making no effort to rein in her frustration with the way Pamela was taking her time to come to the point.

“It was what you are, I mean were, wearing, and how you were made up.”

Stepping back, Spence took a look down at her attire. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing? And, just in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t bother with makeup.”

“Exactly! And your hair! Honestly, a girl with hair like yours should glory in it, not hide it by pulling it back and trussing it up in a ponytail.” With that, Pamela grabbed Spence by the arm and gently tugged her toward the technical studios of the agency. “You’ve nothing to worry about,” Pamela chirped brightly. “You’ll love it. When we’re done with you, the guys at work will have their eyes on stalks, guaranteed.” Then she grinned impishly as she adopted a lousy German accent. “Besides, you have no choice, fräulein. You vere only obeying orders.”

“So tell me again. Which bit of this am I supposed to enjoy?” Spence whined as she squirmed in the salon chair.

“Stop being such a grouch, girl. You’ll look lovely. Marilyn is only tidying up the split ends.”

“Don’t worry, dear,” the stylist added. “I’m not going to do anything radical, although I think some highlights would really set your hair off. What do you think?” she asked as she turned to Pamela. “A touch of honey? Or perhaps something more assertive and eye-catching?”

The comment brought the image of a bobbing red ponytail unbidden to Spence’s mind. “Red,” she declared suddenly. “I’d like red highlights.”

Both Pamela and Marilyn grinned at her sudden change of heart. “There,” Pamela replied with a satisfied grin. “I knew you’d start to enjoy yourself.”

Three hours later a rather different Spence was released from the grips of the technical department having been tweezed, threaded, exfoliated, and made over. The only failure had been their foray into the wardrobe department, where its wiry guardian had muttered apologetically that he had nothing large enough to fit mademoiselle before beating a hasty retreat as an indignant Spence took to pelting him with some of Tommy’s choicer epithets.

“Don’t worry,” offered Pamela calmly in an effort to placate a very angry young woman. “We’ve got a couple of hours before the shops close.”

Spence was in no mood to go shopping. And even if she had been, she could see Andy Webb’s face when the time came for her to submit the expenses. Anyway, the idea of wasting her time prowling high street shops had never been something she enjoyed. “I don’t need more clothes,” she snipped. “I’ll have you know I have a few things even Tracy Ireland might find suitable.”

“Not for Milan, girl,” Pamela informed Spence as she maneuvered her toward the front door.

“I can’t afford it,” Spence declared as she made a last-ditch attempt to avoid what was appearing inevitable.

“Time to learn the first dirty little secret of the fashion industry, my friend. Chic and stylish does not equal expensive. Not if you have the eye.” With that, Pamela broke out in a broad grin as she gave Spence a wink. “And if there is one thing I do have after traveling around the globe as part of the household troop belonging to an officer of the queen, it’s an eye for style on the cheap.”

Having learned how to make do on a serving officer’s sometimes tight budget herself, and having no wish to disappoint her newfound friend, Spence signaled her capitulation by quoting Shakespeare. “Lay on, Macduff. And damn’d be him that first cries, ’Hold, enough!’”

With that, and to a chorus of laughter, the two women set out to turn a fledgling duckling into a swan.

5

Despite her misgivings and expectations, Spence quickly found fashion week in Milan to be more relaxing than the run-up to it had been. Even her need to keep in touch with her other responsibilities back in London, which she was able to discharge by forwarding the office phone to her mobile and being almost permanently plugged in to the hotel Wi-Fi, was proving to be far easier than she’d anticipated. Pamela, with whom she was sharing a room, on the other hand, never seemed to have more than a few moments’ peace. The only time she and Spence had time to chat was first thing in the morning and later in the evening when the designer she was modeling for was finished with her for the day.

Upon returning from a late-afternoon meeting where Tracy Ireland had announced the final decision as to whom each model would be working for and when they would need to report for the upcoming show, Pamela was not at all surprised to find Spence sitting on her bed hunched over her laptop. What did strike her as odd was the look of concern on Spence’s face. “Is there a problem?” she asked.

Without taking her eyes off the screen, Spence sighed. “I’m stumped.”

“Can’t get a handle on the low-life git?” Pamela asked as she made her way over to a side table where she kept several bottles of water.

“No, it’s not that. Dealing with your secret admirer is easy.”

When Spence didn’t explain what was bothering her, after taking a sip of water, Pamela made her way over to where she could see what she was doing. “So, what does have you all out of sorts?”

“This blog I’m supposed to write, the one that is serving as a cover story for why I am here with your lot. It’s got me stumped. I don’t even have a name for it, let alone what I should write about.”

“Why not write about your experience?” Pamela suggested. “This is, after all, your first fashion week.”

“And my last,” Spence muttered without looking away from the screen of her laptop.

“Well, all the more reason to record your thoughts, feelings, and observations. If not for the rag you’re writing for, then as a journal of your adventure.”

After giving her roommate’s suggestion some thought, Spence nodded. “Okay, that should work.” Then, after a long pause, Spence sighed. “You wouldn’t have any BFOs as to what to name it, would you?”

“Why not go with what the other girls have taken to calling us?”

“Which is?” Spence asked warily as she glanced over her shoulder at Pamela for the first time since she’d entered the room.

“Beauty and the Geek.”

Despite being brought up an army brat, Pamela did not have the benefit of Tommy Tyler’s advanced course in snappy comebacks. As a result, she wasn’t ready for the way Spence responded. “Yeah, that’s good,” Spence declared brightly as she nodded her head in agreement. Then, looking back up at Pamela, she frowned. “The only problem is, I for one would never have pegged you as being someone who was technically oriented.”

Seconds later a pillow winged its way across the room, catching Spence on the back before both women broke into fits of laughter.

Despite the camaraderie with which Spence was now welcomed into the working world of the models, she didn’t lose sight of her primary task, particularly as the attacks on Pamela and some of the other models became more frequent and more vicious. Every day she found herself advising them on how to handle the more obscene and unpleasant messages, some of which Spence was able to determine were not from their main target who was, in her opinion, one of two people from the trio Ireland had narrowed the list she’d been show to. Those names belonged to the former model turned journalist and the head of a competing model agency, both of whom were present in Milan.

On one of the rare occasions that Spence was able to grab a few minutes of Tracy Ireland’s time, she outlined her plan to flush the miscreant they were after out of hiding. “I believe tomorrow afternoon there is the private showing for Emmanuel Zspartov’s spring collection,” Spence stated crisply when she was sure she had Ireland’s full attention. “As we discussed, Pamela and I have been building up the “poor little me” image to a point that it is attracting lots of attention, most of which is the wrong sort.”

“I’ve noticed,” Ireland replied coolly. “I’ve been privy to a number of those comments. I must confess, I am pleased most of them have been very supportive. I even believed some of them are sincere. Well done. But,” she quickly continued lest Spence become lost in the afterglow of her compliment, “how does this help us close our net?”

“Might I suggest that Pamela doesn’t attend this evening’s party or show up for breakfast tomorrow morning, or for that matter, be seen in public until the lunchtime reception Emmanuel Zspartov is throwing, one I imagine both our potential targets will be attending.”

Tracy laughed. “Those two wouldn’t miss one of Emmanuel’s parties even if the hotel was on fire.”

“I propose we keep Pamela out of sight, at least at first while I’ll lurk in the background, feeding some juicy crumbs on her account and watching who reaches for their tablet or mobile.”

“And what do I do while you’re baiting the trap and the star of the show is cowering in the corner?” Ireland asked with a hungry gleam in her eye.

“As my boss often likes to say, preparing to close with and destroy the enemy!”

For the balance of that day Pamela and Spence hid in their room. Whilst Pamela curled up on her bed with a dog-eared Georgette Heyer romance, Spence initiated an online flame war from Pamela’s Twitter account. She alternated between bitterly attacking everyone who responded and pleading pitifully to be left alone. Eventually, when Spence felt the time was right, she took to threatening to walk out on Emmanuel Zspartov, promising never to model again if the person who’d set their sights on her didn’t stop their attacks.

“Well, if that doesn’t draw a cheer from our secret admirer, I’ve no idea what will,” Spence stated with satisfaction after sending off her latest salvo. “With your no-show at the start of the reception tomorrow, our friend should be ripe for the kill.”

Pamela carefully marked her page and looked up. “Are you sure this will work?”

Spence shrugged, doing her best to hide her own doubts as she answered. “Sure? No, but it’s the best we can do in the time available. What I do know is that from what I’ve been able to deduce from the way our little friend has been beavering away at this, I’d be very surprised if they didn’t take the bait. Whoever it is comes across as being far too eager to embarrass Tracy.” Having done all she could for the moment, Spence closed down her laptop and settled down to watch an old Western with Italian subtitles with her friend.

The next day found Spence on tenterhooks as she arrived early for the reception after having done her best to make her appearance presentable, but inconspicuous. Once there, she settled into a quiet corner of the room where she could see everything before pulling out her iPad and Pamela’s mobile. As she did so a sudden grin lit up her face as she wondered if Andy had felt the way she did at the moment when he had been doing his sneaky beaky stuff in Ireland.

Ever so slowly the room started filling up as the in-crowd started to arrive, their excited chatter mingling with the chink of glasses, over-the-top compliments, and pretentious air kisses. Among the first to arrive had been Tracy Ireland, who busily circulated among the fashion world’s glitterati, pretending she didn’t have a care in the world.

Like a hound alerting to the scent of its quarry, Spence sat up as the first of her marks made her way into the room carrying nothing more than a notepad. This didn’t necessarily count her out, Spence told herself as she took to scanning the room, stopping only when she caught sight of her other target with an oversized handbag swinging from one elbow.

After taking a deep breath, Spence hit the send button on her iPad, dispatching a prepared tweet even as she was casting her gaze about the room, from left to right, then back again, trying to keep her prey in sight.

For long moments nothing happened.

“Keep calm,” Spence muttered to herself. “It takes time for the message to be posted, sent out, and noticed. Give it time to…”

Before she could finish her thought, Spence watched as Madelyn Christie, the head of Christie’s Agency, reached into her bag and pulled out an iPad mini, smiling broadly at what she was reading. With shaking fingers, Spence pulled out her own mobile and sent a one-word text to Tracy and Pamela: Christie.

Tracy Ireland felt her phone vibrate as she was in the midst of chatting with one of the few people in the room she considered to be a friend. Without interrupting their conversation, she pulled out her mobile and glanced casually at the screen before dropping it back into her bag. Then, after a few more pleasantries and a promise to get in touch later, she slipped quickly through the room to where Madelyn Christie was standing with her head still bowed over her iPad. She didn’t notice Ireland’s approach, not until the flash of a camera just behind her shoulder caught her attention. When she looked up, she found herself facing Tracy Ireland, who was sporting a barracuda smile. “You’re mine, you bitch!”

As she spoke, a round of applause erupted at the other end of the room, counterpointed by the firefly flickering of camera flashes.

“Darling, as always you English love to be so fashionably late!” Emmanuel Zspartov exclaimed as he rushed toward the star of his show, a striking blonde who was wearing one of his latest creations. Before he reached her, Pamela spotted Spence and flashed her a quick Mona Lisa smile. Then, with a poise that came naturally to Pamela, she struck a pose that would be splashed across the fashion pages of newspapers all over the world.

Spence didn’t tarry long bidding good-bye at the airport. It just wasn’t her style. Most of the young women belonging to Tracy Ireland’s troupe of tall, long-legged beauties were little more than passing acquaintances to her, names who had been part of a list in a file on her laptop that she still had difficulties matching to a face. Only Pamela slowed her pace as she drew near.

Stopping when they were but an arm’s distance away, the bright-eyed young woman Spence had come to see as something more than part of a case file dropped her chin a smidge. “I do hope you find the time to call,” she ventured hesitantly. “I mean the blog is still going strong and I hear a couple of online magazines might be interested.”

Spence grinned. “Oh, you can put money on that, although I still think it’s unfair they called you a geek!”

Fresh from the wilds of Northumberland, with his morning cup of coffee in hand, Andy found his mind already racing ahead of itself as he mulled over a revision of his own in-office policy and procedures guide, one Tommy never read. It took him far too long to realize something wasn’t quite right as he entered the office. Pausing, he took a quick look about as a faint, unfamiliar scent caused his nose to twitch. Lavender, he belatedly concluded as he scanned the room in search of its source. When they lit upon the girl with chestnut-color hair seated behind Spence’s desk, all thought of the policy and procedure guide went puff.

Slowing his pace as he made his way to his desk, he fought the urge to say something. He knew she was waiting for him to. Though he had never before attributed the silly little games women play on men to wind them up to Spence, perhaps for the first time he realized she just might be more female than he had given her credit for. Concluding it would not do to spoil her fun, he did his best to kept an eye on a young woman who struck him as being so very different from the one he’d left in charge of the office without letting on he was doing so.

Everything about her was so un-Spence. It was more than the color of her hair, a tasteful hint of makeup, and the fashionable pale yellow silk blouse with an open collar she was wearing. It was her entire demeanor, for rather than the harried, almost frantic manner with which she usually attacked the keyboard of her computer while sporting an expression people who didn’t know her mistook for either anxiety or some sort of gastrointestinal discomfort, the Spence he was looking at exuded a casual serenity that spoke of an inner confidence as she merrily tapped away at her keyboard as if she didn’t have a care in the world.

Having reached a point in the Milan case report she was writing where she could pause without derailing her train of thought, Spence peeked up at Andy sporting a shy, innocent little half smile. At the moment he was standing behind his desk, holding his cup of coffee, staring at her as if he didn’t know who she was. This, and not the cheerful mood she was in caused a smile to light up her face. “Well, welcome back to the twenty-first century. Meet any interesting Celts and Picts? Or are you still chasing that rebellious red-haired queen who doesn’t know her place?” she added as she allowed her voice to take on a playful tone.

It took a blinking of Andy’s eyes and a quick shake of his head to rein in the troubling thoughts running through his head before he was able to answer Spence’s question in a manner that did not betray his curiosity and, more unsettling for him, his response to Spence’s new look. “Nothing exciting to speak of,” he muttered distractedly as he averted his gaze and turned to easing himself into his chair. “Just the usual. Marching, drill, and swapping stories about the campfire at night while sipping wine and gnawing off the last morsels of meat from the bone. And you?” he quickly asked as he grasped at the opportunity her question had afforded him to look back up at her and find out what had brought about her sudden transformation without making it seem as if he was overly curious.

Spence was about to answer when the door of the office swung open and Tommy trooped in, strutting about like a rooster who’d just spent the afternoon in the henhouse. “You’ll never guess what I did?” He beamed as he glanced back and forth between Andy, who was still wearing the bemused expression Spence’s appearance had brought on, and a young woman who knew not only that she was where she belonged, but that she was in her own very unique way as important as either of the men she’d come to think of as more than coworkers. Even as Tommy took to crowing about the coup he’d managed to pull off in Vegas, for the first time in a long time, Karen Spencer realized she was home.

BEAUTY AND THE GEEK: THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY

Like everything else, Web-based social media networks can be used and abused for all kinds of nefarious reasons, ranging from cyberbullying to blackmail. This story was inspired by a 2013 case of “sextortion” involving Cassidy Wolf, Miss Teen USA 2013. According to the FBI report concerning this case, the webcam that was part of a computer in her bedroom was hacked and used to take photos of her while she was in a serious state of undress. The hacker is then alleged to have engaged in extortion, threatening to make public the photos he’d taken of Miss Wolf if she did not meet his demands.

The effect on the victims of such acts can be devastating. An eighteen-year-old high school student named Jessie Logan hanged herself in her bedroom when her former boyfriend posted nude photos of her to hundreds of their fellow students, resulting in cyberbullying and social ostracizing that became intolerable for Jessie.

At first this story was going to involve a case of a mother whose daughter was a contestant in a beauty pageant blackmailing the competition by posting doctored images of those girls on various social media websites. In discussing the story, my Anglo-Irish coconspirator and I decided to shift the setting to the cutthroat world of high fashion, which, in our opinion, was ripe with all sorts of possibilities. This includes making this story something of a cautionary tale, one centered on the vulnerabilities people open themselves up to when they live their life on social media.

HAROLD COYLE

BEAUTY AND THE GEEK: THE TECHNOLOGY BEHIND THE STORY

You would be amazed at just how many people use passwords that are shockingly common. Research from multiple sources shows that about one third of all Internet users’ passwords or PINs can be guessed from a list of twenty to twenty-five, a list that hasn’t changed much in the last three years. For those of you who are now worried that your “life password” is not as secure as you thought it might be, I suggest you search online for “most common passwords” or read the annual report that Splashdata produces of their research.

The techniques available to Spence to legally track and identify Tracy Ireland’s adversary are numerous. The one used here, that of stylometry, was originally developed to enable academics to ascribe unknown literary works to known historical authors. It is the use of specialist algorithms to analyze text in order to identify the writing “fingerprints” for a particular writer. As you can imagine, the works of William Shakespeare have been repeatedly analyzed. From those early beginnings many recognized the potential of stylometry in other areas, identifying plagiarism or tracking down anonymous blog posters being two of the more common, and the tools available have become more sophisticated and more accurate.

If you are interested, there are a number of online stylometry tools to try out (such as the one that will try to guess your gender), or you can download an open-source program such as the very capable JGAAP or Signature toolsets.

JENNIFER ELLIS