Page 58 of Savage Reckoning

“But someone did? Right?”

Frankie nods, slowly. “I’m on a retainer for that job.”

“A retainer? How does that work, exactly?”

“The client pays me ten thousand a month to keep a constant tap on the phone and report any interesting information.”

“How long has that been going on?”

“A few months…”

“Shit,” Tony explodes. “A fucking spy.”

Frankie shrinks back on the bench. “I never… I mean, it was just…”

“Just business. I know.”

Gabe is managing to keep his tone moderate, but I know the implications will be ricocheting around in his head just as they are mine. All that sensitive intelligence being passed to Christ only knows who. It’s fodder for blackmailers, would-be assassins. The police.

“We need to know who you sold it to,” Gabe repeats. “We need to know exactly what, exactly when.”

“I…I can’t remember all the details.”

“I suggest you try. Very hard. Will it help to jog your memory if I break your other ankle?”

He’s cowering now, huddling in a ball. “I’m telling the truth. I can’t remember. But it’s all there, in my files. I could retrieve the data if I was at home. If you let me go, I’ll—”

“Nice try.” Tony pulls out his phone and hits a key on his speed dial. “Casey? You still on the island?” He pauses, then. “Great. Could do with your help. And access to your kit.” He briefly explains what we’ve discovered. “So, we need to get into those files…” He hangs up. “Right, let’s get this little shit upstairs.”

“What’s upstairs?” Gabe wonders aloud as the pair of them hoist Frankie onto his feet. Correction, foot.

“Casey’s workshop,” I reply, wondering why I never thought of this. “She’s probably part of this network as well. Or if she isn’t, she’ll know how to access it.”

“No one can access it without the right permissions,” Frankie protests as he is half carried along the dark corridor.

Luckily for him, no one is listening right now.

“He’s talking about MIDAS,” Casey announces, once she’s heard Frankie’s tale. “Or possibly The Vault. They’re both much the same thing, highly encrypted dark web platforms linking people or agencies who want to purchase intelligence or goods with potential suppliers. The Vault is more for goods. Arms, counterfeit currency, some drugs, though mostly those are traded through more traditional methods, as you know. MIDAS specialises in data.”

“How do you know about those?” Frankie gasps, clearly wonderstruck at her knowledge.

We decided to meet with Casey in the kitchen, where our reluctant guest has been plied with Mrs McRae’s butter cookies.

He swipes the crumbs from his mouth and eyes a plate of cooling apple tarts. “Are those going spare?”

“You can bring one with you,” Casey decides, “but don’t go getting pastry in my equipment.”

She leads the way up another flight of stairs to the landing where the offices are. “I moved a lot of my gear over to Dublin after I got married,” she tosses over her shoulder as we troop along behind her, “but I expect there’s enough still here to be able to get in.”

“You’ll need to download special software,” Frankie insists. Clearly, his faith in Casey is not as keen as ours. His protests cease as soon as she opens the door to her domain, and we step inside.

“Fuck,” Frankie breathes. “You’ve got more stuff than me here.” He gazes about him in undisguised awe at the banks of computer equipment. “Is that your mainframe?” He reaches out to stroke a pale-beige box to his right. “What sort of power supply does it run on? How much RAM does it have? What about cache memory?”

Casey settles herself into a huge leather chair on wheels and fires up the machinery around her. She absently gestures for Frankie to sit on a stool beside her. “We can talk dirty later. First, we have work to do. Which system are you on?”

“MIDAS,” he replies.

Casey keys in a few commands. A plain access screen pops up. “What’s your login code?”

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