Page 73 of A Death in Cornwall

Entering, she was relieved to find the foyer deserted. She stood stock-still for a second or two, listening, then headed toward the staircase. Her ascent to the third floor was swift and soundless. Apartment 3B was on the left side of the landing. She slid her bump key into the lock and gave it two firm taps with the grip of the screwdriver. The lock surrendered at once.

She turned the latch and slipped into the apartment. The air was stale and reeked of tobacco and curry. Closing the door behind her, she once again stood motionless and listened. The only sound she heard was Gabriel’s voice in her Bose earbuds.

“Checking in.”

“I’m still here.”

“Anyone else at home?”

“It seems not.”

“How’s the alarm?”

She checked the wall-mounted system panel. The status lights were blinking green. “It appears as though someone has disabled it.”

“I wonder who that could have been.”

The entrance hall emptied into a central corridor. Ingrid swung to the right and went into the sitting room. It was awash in the radiance of computers. They were arrayed on a long trestle table. With the exception of a threadbare couch, the room was otherwise unfurnished. As Ingrid had predicted, blackout shades covered the windows.

“Seen enough?” asked Gabriel.

“Probably. But I think I’ll have a closer look before I go.”

She walked over to the trestle table. He was no amateur, that much was obvious. There were six large monitors, three monitors for each of the high-end Lenovo desktops. All six of the monitors showed evidence of a hack in progress, perhaps more than one. His two laptops were open and illuminated with activity. From one of the devices came the sound of two men conversing in English.

Ingrid raised the volume. “Do you hear that? He’s listening to someone’s phone.”

“Time to leave, Ingrid.”

“If you insist.”

She lowered the volume on the laptop to its original setting and photographed each of the six monitors, along with the screens of the laptops. Just then one of the hacker’s phones shivered with an incoming text message. She quickly photographed that, too.

“May I ask what you’re doing?”

“Gathering intelligence.”

Next to an overflowing ashtray was an old-fashioned steno pad. The hacker, it seemed, was a native speaker of French. Ingrid leafed through the pages, snapping photographs.

“That’s quite enough,” said Gabriel.

“Let me finish.”

“There isn’t time.”

“It won’t take but a minute.”

“You don’t have one,” said Gabriel. “Thirty seconds, maybe. But certainly not a minute.”

***

But even that estimate proved optimistic. The hacker, observed Gabriel, was clearly a man in a hurry. He was once again approaching from the east but had nothing in his hands to show for his brief expedition into the real world. No shopping bags or baguettes, only a phone. If he maintained his current pace, Gabriel calculated he would arrive at the entrance of the building in twenty seconds or less. There was a good chance he would bump into Ingrid as she was leaving. If nothing else, he would spot her as she stepped from the door.

Gabriel could hear her footfalls. “Where are you?” he asked.

“On my way down.”

“It’s too late. Turn around and head up to the fourth floor. Wait on the landing until our friend is back in his apartment.”

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