Page 7 of The Fallen
From the other side of the door, I re-lock it, throw the security bolt, and fall towards the bedroom. A blanket of exhaustion sweeps over me, and I do the only thing I can – collapse onto the silken sheets and let my eyes close.
~
Something wakes me. A sound, maybe? But I stir from my position sleepily and open my eyes. I jump up, confused for a moment about where I am, and why I’m still dressed, and then it hits me like a kaleidoscope of images flashing behind my eyes. Daddy, the argument, the gun … The blood.
My heart constricts and the tears that I’ve held off for so long leak over my lashes. I remove my glasses, drop back onto the bed, and pull one of the satin pillows towards me, finally letting the pain out. I cry. Body wracking sobs that I stutter to breathe through. The tears dampen the pillow, and my eyes sting as I shed them, but it doesn’t solve anything. It doesn’t even make me feel better.
I don’t move until no more tears are left in me and my head pounds through my temples. I check the time and see it's late morning. The grumble from my stomach shocks me as I sit up, and I try to remember when I last ate anything, but my stomach can wait a little longer. I need to take a shower and try to get my mind to focus on what to do next.
I leave the tear-stained pillow and place my glasses safely on the bedside table from where I discarded them when I collapsed. The shutters and the rest of the windows are all closed up, so I set about shedding some light. I hook the wooden doors back and gaze out at the ocean. It’s a stunning view and one that instils some calm into me.
The apartment is simple but lavishly appointed, with traditional furnishing and modern touches – the best of both worlds, and why I paid the price tag. The en-suite mosaic tiles, brass fittings and splashes of colour are a far cry from my neutral and plain furnishings back home, but this was something I wanted to indulge in.
After unpacking my essentials and a long hot shower, I feel better. Next job, walk to the small market to get some food. The kitchen has everything I need, but the fridge is empty bar a couple of bottles of water.
The huge carved wardrobe dominates one side of the bedroom, and I open it to find a few items I’ve kept here. I add my new purchases to the collection and dress for a short trip out.
Before exiting, I place most of my items at the bottom of the wardrobe and only venture out when my essentials, mainly money, are in place. I check all the locks twice and then turn to view the courtyard. Vines and other hanging plants decorate the edges of the balcony running around three sides of the courtyard, giving it a tropical jungle feel. The small tiles glint in the sunlight, making the floor and the pool look like they’re embedded with jewels.
A few couples, obviously tourists, are lounging on the over-stuffed cabana-style beds tucked in the corners of the courtyard. It’s an idyllic place to get away and relax. Not for me, this visit.
My observations cease, and I get on with the job in hand. It’s a short walk from the complex through a few small streets to the market. I’ve learned the places to steer clear of and keep to a strict path until I reach the busier market area. It’s quieter here than the city, but there’s still a hustle that’s constant and feels more authentic. Every few meters, the urge to look over my shoulder creeps up on me, but I resist – some of the time. I don’t want to look like I’m watching out for something or looking suspicious. I’m a tourist, happily walking the streets, but the smile feels brittle on my lips.
The market area is alive with the rich smells of spice, and I set about buying some food for my stay. Prickly pears, olives, and other fruits all gleam beautiful colours in the sun as I walk down past all the various vendors. My stomach wins out, and I buy a Harcha to keep me going until I get home.
I stock up on several pastilla, salads, fruit and nuts, and breads to take back with me, as well as mint and sugar for tea. I can come back out easily enough, but I don’t want to make journeys when I don’t know who’s watching. It’s hardly a feast, but it will certainly sustain my appetite for a few days.
The trip back to the apartment is more rushed. I don’t check my route; I simply hurry, feeling the pressure grow the longer I’m out in the open. It’s ridiculous. I’m in a foreign country where nobody knows I am, under a false name, with no apparent ties, but I can’t take a chance. Besides, while I might look at sensitive information and try every method I know to crack computer systems and find their weakness each day, I’m not a spy. I’m an IT geek who’s put her smarts to good use.
The gate to the complex comes into sight, and the relief is palpable. My heartbeat has sped up as if I was running the whole way back.
I enter and ignore the pull of the lush courtyard area, racing to get back behind my door, and with the locks re-engaged, I take a breath and set about unpacking my supplies. Maybe I need to look at a disguise. Change my hair? It’s another ridiculous thought, but then twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t think I’d be here.
With the engraved Moroccan teapot filled and ready, I bring the accompanying glass and pour the traditional mint tea. As the sweet drink fills the glass, I have to think about Landon and his stuffy way of taking his coffee and wonder what he’ll be thinking about this, about what he saw.
The small table in the main living and dining area provides a sunny view through the larger window, and I push thoughts aside and fire up my computer. I unlock the encryption on my laptop and set about a secure IP connection to bounce my location. Once I’m sure I’m safe, I access the remote link to my home computer and see if anyone has tried to unlock it since I left. The digits don’t lie. There was an access point just past one in the morning, but they didn’t go any further. The guy that Landon ordered after me is the obvious suspect, and I make quick work of finding out all I can on my mysterious hunter.
I really should tell Landon about the weaknesses in Broderick Media’s IT security. Sure, it will stop the run of the mill problems, virus and trojan horse rubbish that all companies and servers should be protected from, but I’m through and searching the financial records in seconds, looking for the name for me to start my own hunt.
I’m sure Landon’s going mad, not being able to reach me. I’ve vanished, with no obvious trace, and he’ll have a million questions. None of which I’m ready to answer just yet.
With no information on Broderick Media’s systems, I switch to Landon’s own personal accounts. Bingo. Locke. Bank account number. A few keystrokes and the surname and the account details lead me on a little bit of a chase. It seems our Mr Locke has some skill at covering his own tracks, which means he’ll know how to search for me.
“There you are, Noah.” Finally, after far more work than I had anticipated, I find the full name behind the data and the money. It’s always the money in the end. It has a trail, and nobody, no matter how good you are, can hide it.
The information I already have is enough to check back to Landon’s details and filter the payments. Looks like he’s been paying Locke for some time. Even when he was over in the States.
I open a new window and run a reverse search on myself, trying to see what he might have found and pieced together. Unsurprisingly, several alerts have popped.
They say London is the most surveilled city in the world. Which means, I should be able to find this guy and what he looks like. My own logic dictated that my flat would be the first port of call for anyone looking for me. That property is registered in my own name and isn’t a secret. As I make the connections, I suddenly wish I’d bought this apartment under the fake shell company I set up, but I wasn’t thinking about having to hide from a fellow hacker back then.
I push the worry from my mind and get on with the task at hand – surveilling my own building to see what this Locke looks like. I already know someone accessed the house, so I just need to find them on camera.
The Westminster CCTV Trust system is easy to access, I just need to search for a specific geographical location and see if there is any footage that would lead me to find him.
Combing through the footage is a painstaking task, but I need every advantage I can get. Only one car enters my street and doesn’t leave until after the time stamp on my computer access. From there, I track the license plate number through the streets before he arrived and hope to get a shot with a better look. With every new angle, there’s no better view of the driver.
With the plate number, I then look at accessing details from the DVLA, although if this guy is as professional as I think, he won’t have the car registered to his real name. Just as I predicted, the car isn’t in Noah Locke’s name. And without some further information to go on, I’m looking for a needle in a haystack.
