Free The Cloud Collector by Brian Freemantle Page B

computation and at the end still likely achieve nothing. Sally’s mind was blocked. The slips had been subjected to the highest degree of computer analysis on the state-of-the-art specialized equipment at GCHQ. The switchboard ban was against incoming, not outgoing, calls, she decided.
    It took a full thirty minutes to satisfy Cheltenham security of her identity and that she was talking on a guaranteed secure line before she was connected to the man she knew only as John.
    Before Sally was able to query the faint reception echo, he said, ‘We’ve obviously been told about Sellafield. We’re on top alert, so this call’s being recorded and simultaneously listened to.’
    Who’d raised the Cheltenham alert, Monkton or Dodson? ‘Tell me what checks you carried out on the betting slips.’
    â€˜Trigger-word comparisons,’ replied the man at once. ‘We made three programs, one ASCII for Roman-letter transliteration, one Arabizi Arabic, and one classic Arabic, of familiar greetings and farewells, a range of Arab religious reference, words like Al Qaeda, Roger, and Bennett —both separately and together— Sellafield, and atomic and nuclear terminologies.’
    â€˜What’s ASCII?’
    â€˜Computers can read numbers, not letters,’ responded the GCHQ official, eager to display his expertise. ‘ASCII is the numeric code for Roman script. The original was IPv4, which divides into thirty-two bits that include separating decimal dots. When everyone up to and including their herders for their yaks began buying computers, capacity had to be increased to satisfy demand. IPv6 was developed in 1995 with 128 bits.’
    â€˜Arabizi’s colloquial Arabic, right?’ queried Sally, wanting to make some contribution.
    â€˜We call it chat-room Arabic. Classic Arabic is obviously the written version. All three were run through high-velocity supercomputers, scanning at a thousandth of a second, seeking a match or combinations of the words on the slips for an alternative translation from what they appeared to be. There was nothing.’
    â€˜What else?’
    â€˜We’re locked onto Bennett’s computer address, although we know you have it, to intercept any further messages from Germany from anyone who might not know Bennett’s dead. And we’re monitoring the Cologne Internet café.’
    â€˜And?’
    There was a pause from Cheltenham. ‘What else did you expect?’
    â€˜Could you build another programme from the betting slip names to find the locations and dates of the horse- and dog-racing meetings?’
    â€˜That’s not how we work,’ mildly protested John.
    â€˜But could you do it, with the facilities you have there?’ pressed Sally, curbing the impatience.
    â€˜It’s technically possible, yes.’
    â€˜And having done that—and getting the complete race cards—could you get the first-, second-, third- and fourth-place winners if the events have already taken place?’
    â€˜What significance, what connection, are you looking for?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ confessed Sally emptily. ‘But there’s something . There has to be: everything on that computer has or had a purpose.’
    â€˜Stay on the line,’ ordered the man.
    Sally did, straining to pick up any of the discussion obviously taking place, but heard nothing.
    â€˜Your instincts have been good so far,’ said John, coming back on the line.
    â€˜You’ll do it?’
    â€˜I’ll come back to you if there’s anything.’
    â€˜Today?’
    There was another hesitation. ‘I hope so.’
    Sally welcomed the reference to instinct, not luck, although for the first time ever she accepted that luck wouldn’t have gone amiss.
    *   *   *
    Luck was very much on Charles Johnston’s mind, three thousand miles away in his Langley office. Outside his door glowed the red