Free Cyber Terror by Malcolm Rose Page B

there. We never did chase the history of the victims we’re sure about. The fire at Victoria Truman’s hasn’t
left anything to go on. So, try a trip to Long Melford. I’ve cleared you to get into Phil Lazenby’s house. Check him out. Including his writing.”
    “Will there be anyone around?”
    “His wife died a few years ago. Two children long since moved out. Not much contact. You’ve got it to yourself.”
    “What’s the second job?”
    “Carlton Reed’s wife – Demi – is expecting you tomorrow in Woodbridge. Around lunchtime. I’ve put a briefing and cover story for you on the system. Along with Phil
Lazenby’s address.”
    On Tuesday morning, Dipak’s car limped into the parking area. Part of the bumper was held in place with duct tape. The driver’s window was an ill-fitting piece of
transparent plastic. It was attached to the door with haphazard pieces of tape, like an ineptly bandaged wound.
    Jordan intercepted the IT worker before he entered the factory. Together, they stood under the canopy by the front door while rain splashed down, doing its best to penetrate the improvised
window of Dipak’s car.
    Jordan said, “I want you to do something for me.”
    Dipak frowned. “What’s that?”
    “You’ll have heard of HiSpec MicroSystems.”
    “Of course.”
    “Well, I need a list of people who work there.”
    “Who are you?”
    “I told you. Jordan Stryker.”
    “Yes, but...”
    Jordan interrupted. “You could hack into the company and get it for me.”
    Dipak shook his head. “HiSpec’s wrapped up. Plenty have tried, but no one’s cracked it.”
    “Okay. You could hack into the bank that handles the workers’ pay.”
    “It’s possible. Some banks aren’t as secure as they like to think.”
    “Good,” said Jordan. “It’s a deal.”
    Puzzled, Dipak asked, “If it’s a deal, what do I get out of it?”
    “I’m coming to that,” Jordan told him, “but there’s something else first. A bank’s only going to pay people who work there now. It’d be good to find out
who’s worked for them in the last five years, or whatever. Can you dredge up old lists from the deep web?”
    Dipak sighed. “Maybe.”
    “Really, I’m after anything you can get on HiSpec workers.”
    “I could try, but...”
    Rain pelted Bury St. Edmunds, turning the car park into a shallow pool. Above them, water gushed along the gutter.
    “If you give me what I want, I’ll get you a British passport.”
    Dipak’s eyes shone suddenly. “Really?”
    Jordan nodded.
    “How can I be sure?”
    “You can’t, but I kept my word yesterday. I will this time as well.”
    Dipak looked into Jordan’s face for a few seconds, assessing his truthfulness.
    Jordan said, “Even if you’re not sure about me, it’s worth a gamble, isn’t it?”
    “Yes.”
    Jordan smiled. “I thought so, but I’ll do what I’ve promised – if you give me what I need.”
    “How do I get stuff to you?”
    Jordan gave Dipak an e-mail address. “And make sure you attach a passport-style photo,” he said. Then he pulled his collar up around his neck and made a dash for his car.
    One wide road ran through the Suffolk village of Long Melford. On either side, every other shop seemed to sell antiques. Guided by his inertial navigation system, Jordan drove
into a quiet lane just off the main road and parked outside Phil Lazenby’s deserted house. It was a modest bungalow with a small neat lawn and sculptured hedge that must have been tended by a
gardener during the pilot’s frequent absences. When Jordan went through the gate at the side of the property, he could see that the back garden was also immaculate. Someone had banished every
single weed from the flower beds.
    The house key was where Angel said it would be – under the large pot by the back door. Jordan used it to let himself into the kitchen. Apart from the purring of the fridge-freezer, the
place was silent. Eerie really. And immensely sad.
    Jordan took a deep