It was nearly nine o'clock by the time Jane got home. She’d stayed late, determined to bring herself up to speed with her new job, and had almost succeeded. There was to be a DM’s meeting tomorrow morning, nothing particularly formal or high-powered – she’d sat in for her boss once or twice before – but it was an opportunity to show her mettle. She’d pushed on after Barry and Alistair had wished her good night, but when the screen started to blur and she was startled out of a daze by the sound of the cleaners, she finally called it quits. Perhaps an early start in the morning for that last ten percent.
She groaned. There was nothing in the freezer. At least, nothing in a packet she could tear open and pop in the microwave. There were always pasta. She looked over the tins in the pantry: Italian Tomatoes with Roast Garlic and Onion. That would do. Boil up some fusilli or farfalle, add the sauce and top with a bit of grated Parmesan ...
Oh, she couldn’t be bothered. There was half a bottle of wine in the fridge and a packet of biscuits on the breakfast bar. She’d settle for that.
She started her personal laptop and checked her email. Spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, just like the old Monty Python song. Some well-wishers had replied to her social media post, and Tom had attached a short video clip of his kids waving and chanting, ‘Well done, Auntie Jane!’ They were three, five and six, and all had Australian accents. She typed a note of thanks, emphasising it was only a temporary role, and Tom’s reply came back almost immediately: ‘For now, sis. You’ll knock ‘em dead. Let me know if you need a reference. ;-)’
Jane smiled. It was already tomorrow over there. What, nine or ten o'clock in the morning? The thought of that brought back thoughts of her impending meeting. She sighed, sipped her wine and took another biscuit.
Pri from IT Support had called back late in the afternoon, apologising, saying she hadn't had a chance to look at Ron Jonson’s laptop yet after a server crash on the third floor. ‘But I’ve plugged it in now. The forensics software will take a few hours. I’ll get it back to you first thing in the morning.’ Jane thanked her and hung up, then remembered the little USB drive. It was probably just family photos or personal stuff. Still, there was an chance it might contain something work-related, something relevant to tomorrow’s meeting. Besides, she was curious. She’d popped it in her handbag. Rather than bother Pri again she’d decided to check it on her personal PC. If it did contain anything nasty, at least should wouldn’t pollute the bank’s systems.
Her laptop was an ex-bank machine, one of dozens decommissioned and sold off to staff after the last major operating system upgrade a few years before. It looked chunkier than Ron Jonson’s latest whiz-bang machine, had an older CPU, less memory and a smaller hard drive, but it ran alright.
Jane took out the USB drive, plugged it in and did a virus check. It failed immediately. The thing hadn't even been formatted. A window popped up asking if she wanted to do so. Jane clicked No and unplugged it again. It must be brand new, she thought, putting it to one side. It was a good size. It might be useful.
This screen was going blurry now, and it definitely wasn’t the wine. She’d only had a few sips. She rubbed her eyes. The way she was going, she’d need glasses soon. “Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.” Where had that come from? Some childhood doggerel.
Boys don’t make passes, full stop.
She closed the laptop, put her half-empty glass on the sink bench and padded upstairs to brush her teeth. All she could think of now was that Monty Python tune with the words replaced: Bed, bed, bed, bed, bed ...
*
The meeting went on longer than expected and Jane’s mind starting glazing over as one of the participants droned on and on. I over-prepared again, she thought as Harold Hargreaves finished his monologue, catching her attention with his concluding words, ‘It’s just a shame that International let us down so badly. I fear we may have lost that client.’
He gave her a dismissive look and squared his papers.
Several set of eyes swivelled Jane’s way as Arthur Timms cleared his throat preparatory to closing the meeting. Before he could speak, Jane said, ‘Actually, we haven't lost that client, Mr Hargreaves. I called them this morning at seven o'clock – that’s ten o'clock Dubai time – and spoke with Ahmed Fakhoury, their CFO. I explained the mix-up occurred when someone muddled up the end of Swiss daylight saving time and accidentally delayed all transactions by an hour.
‘I apologised, said I’d take steps to see it didn’t happen again, and he thanked me for the call. He’s been very happy with our service to date and guessed it was something trivial.’
‘DST?’ Toby Barker remarked. ‘That’s Op’s area, isn’t it, Harry?’
‘I ... I wasn’t aware of that conversation,’ Hargreaves blustered. ‘I do wish you’d keep me in the loop, Ms ... er ... Child.’
‘Jane’s fine,’ Jane said. ‘And I did keep you in the loop, Mr Hargreaves. I sent you the details right after I spoke with Mr Fakhoury, but you may not have spotted my email yet.’
‘No, no ... I ... um ...’ Hargreaves’ colour deepened and he fiddled with his notes as Arthur Timms called the meeting to a close.
Toby Barker gave Jane a wink and whispered, ‘Nice work nailing the Toad. Useless bastard blames everyone else for his cock-ups.’
Jane wasn’t so sure. Strategically, she might have been better to take the sleight and simply apologise. No one would blame her. She’d only been in the job two days. Harold Hargreaves wasn’t a men to get off side with. He was one of the senior executives who would have a say in appointing Jonson’s successor – should it ever come to that.
Priyadarshini Ratna was biding her time by the photocopier when Jane returned to the ninth floor. She held the laptop to her chest like a shield and was fending off interest from a couple of young men gathered by the water-cooler. At the sight of Jane she excused herself and they met at the entrance to the cubicle. Barry and Alistair were out. More meetings. It was that sort of morning.
‘Hi, Pri. Sorry, I know I said ten-thirty—’
‘Oh, only a few minutes. Not a problem. It gave me a chance to check your toner cartridges.’
Jane glanced back at the two young men by the water-cooler. ‘And for them to check yours?’ Pri rolled her eyes by way of reply. ‘I expect you get a lot of that,’ Jane added.
The younger woman looked uncomfortable so Jane changed the subject. ‘What have you got for me?’
On firmer ground now, Pri set the laptop down on Jane’s desk, ‘Well now, this is interesting. Have you ever heard of TAILS?’
‘As in heads or tails?’
‘All in capitals. An acronym. Computer industry, of course.’
‘You love your acronyms.’
‘Don’t we just!’
‘What does this one stand for?’
‘Are you ready for this? The Amnesiac Incognito Live System.’
‘The what? Seriously?’
‘It’s bad, isn’t it? I think they made up the words to fit the name. Anyway, it’s basically, a Linux system designed for people living in totalitarian states where computers or computer access is restricted. It allows them to access the internet anonymously and leaves no trace of its presence in the memory or on the hard drive of the computer they run it from.’
‘So it’s a separate operating system?’
‘Yes, one you can carry around on a thumb drive. It means you can work from internet cafes or public terminals where you can post stories, contact fellow dissidents or whatever, and leave no evidence behind of what you did or who you contacted.’
‘That’s pretty neat, but what’s it got to do with what’s on there?’ Jane gestured at the laptop. ‘I thought you said it left no trace.’
‘Unless,’ Pri stressed the word, ‘you want it to. It can, if you let it, store data locally. In which, case it sets up an encrypted partition.’
‘Ah,’ Jane said. ‘But hang on, you said it left no trace. How do you even know it came from this TAILS thing?’
‘There was a bug in an early version that left a telltale signature. Just a handful of bytes, but the forensic software spotted it and is able to tell where it came from.’
‘And Ron Jonson was using this earlier, buggy version?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘But you still can't tell me what’s on it?’
Pri looked genuinely crestfallen. ‘No, I’m sorry. Without the encryption key, it’s pointless even trying.’
‘That’s interesting though,’ Jane said. ‘I wonder what he was using it for.’
‘Whatever it was, it’s definitely not a bank installation. I casually mentioned TAILS to some of my colleagues and they all warned about using the beta version. If one of us put it on there, it would definitely have been updated.’
‘So it’s a mystery then.’ Jane tapped her fingers on the laptop. ‘I guess we should leave it for now and I’ll ask him when he gets back to work. But thanks for all that, Pri. I really appreciate it.’
The young woman beamed. Jane added, ‘At the very least I owe you a drink.’
‘Staff bar, Friday night?’
‘Oh no, somewhere decent. And preferably away from this place. You ... do drink, do you? I mean alcohol?’
Pri laughed. ‘Try and stop me! And just so you know, I eat meat too. And bacon. Mmm!’
‘Sorry,’ Jane said. ‘I didn’t mean ... you know ... the whole culture thing ... I wasn’t sure.’
‘No, no, don’t apologise. Thank you for asking. It was very considerate of you.’
‘So, after work sometime?’
‘I’m free tonight.’
‘Me too. Perfect!’
They arranged a rendezvous and Pri left. Jane watched her go. As she neared the lift, one of the water-cooler boys peeled off to intercept her while the other looked on. It had all the elements of a schoolboy dare. Jane couldn’t hear the words exchanged, but they were brief. She saw Pri shake her head. The young man moved away. His mate grinned. The unsuccessful Romeo gave him the finger.