At which point things fall into place in your head. Except for one thing. “Why did you get Jack fired from his job?” you ask.
“Because we wanted to recruit him,” Michaels explains. “ARGs like SPOOKS don’t grow on trees, they take years to develop. SPOOKS was our first toe in the water. It taught us a lot about what we need to do to run a virtual HUMINT operation, and it fed into the design process for SPOOKS 2.0, which will roll out next year. Most of the developers don’t need to know what they’re doing—we pointed them at a similar development project, used it to break the back of the coding, then cancelled it and disbanded the team once it was nearly done. But we need some of them—the smart ones, who can take the ninety-five per cent complete code for STEAMING and turn it into SPOOKS 2.0 then keep it running. And we needed Elaine for two reasons—to flush Hackman from cover, and because we wanted to recruit her, too.”
And things are falling into place. Because it all comes back to Hackman, and the inadequate job Michaels did of positively vetting his tame sociopathic CEO and the chancer of a marketing manager. All CEOs are a bit sociopathic—it takes a really obsessive personality type to take a business public, especially in the fevered climate of a bubble, not just any bubble but the third one in a row—and Michaels had no way of getting into Hackman’s skull and realize that underneath the confident reptilian exterior there lurked a huge ball of neuroses and a psychotic rage at the world for having taken his toys away from him twice already. Hackman wanted to have his cake and eat it, and didn’t think Michaels and his old-school buddies (who kept dropping in for no obvious reason that Hackman could see) were capable of holding up their end. And Wayne Richardson was Hackman’s cat’s-paw. They hedged their bets, taking out derivatives geared against the company’s success. Get in, get the VC set-up, float on the market, get out as much of your own shares as you can, then clean up when the bottom falls out, even though you’re holding most of your visible assets in options that haven’t vested yet. Only it didn’t work, because Hayek Associates were doomed to succeed: Michaels’s friends in the shadowy machinery of state simply kept pouring liquidity into their Potemkin dot-com. The bottom persistently refused to fall out—and Hackman was getting desperate.
But Hackman had an ace up his sleeve: He was already hooked into the local blacknet. Probably it started with his cocaine habit, or something like that; but he ended up scratching backs and hosting a node, and before long he found a way in and a seat at the table: And he found people there who wanted to pay him for information about a company he knew an awful lot about. Which is how blacknets work—people put stuff up for sale, or issue tenders, and other folks see the goods and buy them. It’s a market, just like any other, except the things that are bought and sold are illegal—drugs, confidential information, murderous favours. It was the obvious way for those spooks Liz was so uptight about to get into Hayek Associates, and they used it. Hackman sold them the company’s copy of the authentication pad for the backbone routers and the private authentication keys to Zonespace, told them how everything worked, played the part of a disgruntled employee—all to raise money to bet against his company’s inevitable success. He even solicited a final raid on their most public asset in an attempt to blow the foundations out from under them.
Only he miscalculated.
Reputations were at stake. Phone calls were made: Investigators were sent in—auditors, not spooks for the most part. Michaels wasn’t going to let his surveillance operation go down the toilet. He needed to know who was leaking secrets, and why. But as he rolled back the carpet, what he found underneath was much worse than he’d anticipated. The leaker hadn’t simply sold the family silver to a gang of thieves, they’d managed to attract the attention of the opposition. Events began to snowball—you can’t really guess just how far it went, but the arrival of Kemal’s Keystone Kops is suggestive—until it all ended up in the kind of counter-intelligence clusterfuck that is the stuff of legend thirty years later when it is declassified.
“So Hackman and Richardson were just in it for the money?” you ask. “You expect us to believe that he’d kill three folks—trying for five—just to cover it up?”
Michaels slumps very slightly: For a moment he looks his age. “Twenty-six million euros, Sergeant. That’s what Hackman was in it for, after all. The two things that motivate CEOs: money and winning.”
And you get the message. Because in the final analysis, that’s a load of dosh, dosh beyond the wildest imagining of the wee neds you get to deal with—like Jimmy Hastie—and you know damn well what they’d get up to for a tinny of Carlsberg, never mind a tax-free twenty-six million. “Are we looking to recover it?” you ask.
“That’s for the proceeds of crime unit.” McMullen sniffs dismissively. “I’m sure they’ll find wherever he put it sooner or later. But first, there’s the small matter of the prosecution. Everything happened while CopSpace was compromised, so there’s a slight lack of visuals—and the lifelog transcripts for yourself and the inspector are going to be misplaced. On the other hand, we’ve got the hotel camera footage from the business in the Malmaison, so we’re going to have to run with that. If we can’t nail him for attempted murder and firearms possession in front of a jury on the basis of video evidence and witnesses, one of whom has holes, we’re idiots. The heavy stuff—Chen and Richardson and the blacknet and the penetration at Hayek Associates—we don’t need to bring it up to put him away, and if we keep it out of the picture, there’s no reason why anyone would start digging. So.” He glances at Jones: “I’m told the Procurator Fiscal will be laying charges against Mr. Hackman, and he’s going to be offered a discreet plea bargain.”
Which is very much not how things are done in Scotland, where plea-bargaining is seen as some kind of perverted transatlantic phenomenon, but ye ken why the security services might not want to advertise that their pilot project in the virtual world was penetrated by a bunch of Chinese script kiddies because the guy running the cover operation didn’t believe his own story.
“Well, if that’s the course of action you’ve decided on, I’ll co-operate,” says Liz. “Although”—she glances between Jones and Michaels—“I’d be happier hanging the bastard out to dry.”
Jones just sits there with a pained look on his face, but Michaels nods. “So would I, Inspector. And maybe we’ll be able to let you reopen the case in a couple of years, when our critical infrastructure is nailed down tight. But I hope you understand the need for discretion here?” He looks at you suddenly, and there’s nowt of the public-school boy in his eyes. “We’re not playing games anymore.”
EPILOGUE: Banker Martin Mase
Mail-Allegedly-From: Martin.Mase@NNPB.co.ng
Subject: URGENT FINANCIAL INFORMATION SOLICITED REGARDING OVERDUE SUSPENSE ACCOUNT