Fortress

41

‘Hey, Tom! How’s it hanging?’

Skip was perched on a silver mesh swivel chair, hunched over a bank of screens, most of them filled with numbers. One was showing a war game, a Black Hawk banking and turning into a fireball. He didn’t look round but waved a hand before returning it to his keyboard. From behind he could have been fourteen.

‘He’ll be right with you,’ said Beth.

When Skip finally did look round, Tom saw the face of an aged teenager, almost grotesquely disfigured by sleep deprivation. The dark pits under his eyes resembled wounds rather than shadows. His mop of curly yellow hair clearly needed a good wash, as did the Beavis and Butt-Head T-shirt that hung off his slight frame, above a pair of baggy checked shorts. Teenager was only slightly pushing it. Tom knew he was twenty-six, had grown up in New Mexico, had dropped out of Stanford University, had never travelled out of the US and had only in the last year moved out of his parents’ house into this purpose-built compound.

He swivelled round and got to his feet. He was small, five six or so, and almost painfully skinny. The hand he offered was clammy, the fingers clawed from years of keyboard work. ‘Looks like it’s all kicking off in jolly old England.’

‘You could say that.’

‘Man, I love your British understatement.’

Skip’s eyes slid across to Beth and her cleavage. Her face registered nothing, the blissed-out gaze aimed over his head.

‘So, Tom: Delphine. Way to go, dude!’

‘What?’ Tom felt every muscle in his body tense.

‘God, I love French chicks. Zat accent. And waaay hot. Too bad she bailed on your ass.’ He swung back to his keyboard, hit a couple of keys and her image appeared on a couple of the screens: a CCTV shot of her getting off a French train, then another of her in a street, in a café, coming out of a shop. Tom leaned forward to see the date: yesterday.

Skip wheeled round, grinning.

Tom glanced at Beth, the smile on her face fighting for its life.

‘C’mon now, Skip. Be nice, remember.’

‘Superfast global facial recognition. Neat, huh? It’s still in Beta but we’re on the home straight. All you need’s a passport image or a photo off of Facebook, input that with a few coordinates, frequently visited locations, don’t even need a name, hit send and voilà. When we get it running right, it should relay in about fifteen seconds from anywhere round the globe. Cool or what?’

Skip paused for him to respond, but Tom was too stunned to speak.

‘Want me to set up an alert and patch it to your phone so you can keep check? Case you’re worried about all them smooth French dudes hitting on her? I know I would be.’

Tom swallowed, holding down the urge to deck the little prick. He couldn’t remember a time he had taken such a dislike to someone so quickly.

Beth glanced anxiously at him, then went into overdrive, laying down a big apologetic laugh, like covering fire. ‘Really, Skip, you’re just too much. What kind of a welcome is that to show our guest? I’m so sorry, Tom, he’s just real keen for you to see his ideas. Ain’t you, Skip?’

Skip giggled and raised his hands in surrender. ‘Hey, Tom, don’t take it personally, okay? I’m just a geek with a hard-on for my new kit.’ He pointed at Beth. ‘You should see what I got on her.’

He hit another key and the screens filled with images of her in every stage of dress and undress, eating, swimming, shopping, driving, right up to meeting Tom at the airport and getting into the Chevy. Creepy didn’t even begin to cover it.

He wagged a crooked finger at her. ‘See, babe? Nowhere to hide.’ He bowed as if responding to applause, his eyes hovering somewhere round her chest. Still she continued to smile, as if it was actually a clause in her contract. Maybe it was. But, almost to his relief, he thought he saw the mask slip for a millisecond.

Tom swallowed his disgust and reminded himself why he was there. Press the flesh, secure the cash, then get the hell out. ‘So, what’s your interest in Invicta?’

Skip looked over Tom’s shoulder, towards the door. ‘Ask him.’