CHAPTER 23 MAY                                                       ‘He's got a terrible kiss.’          The woman ahead of Allan was talking to her female companion. He had seen her before in the cafeteria queue. She had brown hair cropped close to her skull and small silver earings. He slid his tray on to the glide-rails behind hers and contemplated a salad.          ‘How come?’          Her friends face was familiar too - an Afro girl with dreadlocks. The choice of salads was almost identical to what was usually on offer at Gairnock. Such standardization had the advantage of eliminating nasty shocks but it did make for boring lunch breaks unless you were lucky enought to eavesdrop on an interesting conversation.          ‘It's all over the place.’          They were moving to a table. Jasper was there. He followed them and sat at the end of the table with a nod to Jasper.          ‘Where does he penetrate?’ said the other girl. She motioned to Allan to pass the salt.          ‘He comes in everywhere. Sometimes it's Geneva, sometimes Stockholm, sometime Amsterdam. He must be flitting about on the telephone network before he actually penetrates.’          Allan was becoming wallpaper to the Cavalry - a harmless eccentric. If he hadn't known that a `kiss' was a keystroke signature the conversations he heard might have been embarrassing. He ate slowly because otherwise, not taking part in the conversation, he would be finished ahead of the others.          ‘What's the matter with his kiss?’          ‘I think he is doing it slowly and deliberately with one finger and probably with his left hand.’          ‘And how does he get in?’          ‘God knows. But he does it very quickly. He seems to have a password for every machine but it leaves no accounting trace of the user name.’          ‘Is that possible?’          ‘I would have said `no' until Crazy Horse got going.’          ‘Would you pass the pepper Allan? How long's he been around?’          ‘Difficult to say. We spotted him for the first time about two months ago. Is there any water left?’          ‘Have a beer. He doesn't leave a visiting card then.’          ‘Thanks. Not usually. He creeps about in moccasins. Usually no visiting card and almost no footprints either.’          ‘So how do you know he's an Indian?’          ‘It's the places he gets into. There's no reason except that it's difficult. And he does leave a visiting card sometimes. We left some messages for him and he responded as we hoped. We said 'Welcome to our anti-hacking database' and he said 'Thanks I'll come again'.’          ‘Bastard!’          ‘We'll get him. He'll keep it up until we do. They never can resist the temptation to go one step too far.’          *      *      *      *      *          Another day          ‘This ragout is terrible. Have you seen anything of evil-eye recently?’          ‘Is that cream caramel? I didn't see that at the counter. I thought evil-eye had been traced to a device-driver bug.’          ‘No seems he around again, or maybe it's another one.’          ‘Ain't you thinking of the bog-monster?’          ‘Maybe. What're the footprints like?’          ‘Files altered. No change to the cyclic word check. Always financial files.’          ‘Suspicious.’          ‘Yea. Must be a bandit.’          *      *      *      *      *          And another day.          ‘We set a trip wire for Crazy Horse last week and the S.O.B. un-set it for us. He knows his way around that guy.’          ‘What's your next move?’          ‘Going to get a trace through the telephone network. Find out the source.’          *      *      *      *      *          A week later.          ‘Got him! Got the bastard!’          ‘Who?’          ‘Crazy Horse. We've got his location.’          ‘So it shouldn't take long to nail him now.’          ‘Just a matter of time till he tries it again. We'll be waiting. The local lads will set a snare on the telephone lines. He's as good as in the bag.’          ‘Where is he?’          ‘In England. Some place called Gairnock. Hey Allan. You came from there. Do you know any crazy guys in Gairnock who could be horsing about on the network with some kind of high level password?’          *      *      *      *      *          In his room. Lying out on the bed.` Mind racing. He went through the options and they were all risky. International telephone calls and telegrams would be monitored. He considered phoning Hamish and talking in some improvised code about the 'man who built the house' as a cipher for 'Jack' but it was too obvious and would put Hamish in danger too. He could write a letter to Hamish, using the code they had devised as they stood back to back in the ice tomb of the toilet shed on Bheinn na Cailleach. It would be slow, but it was the only safe option.          He wrote down the words.          'Please tell Jack they are on to him'          and then padded the message with other words using the pattern they had agreed. Each word occupied its ordinal numbered slot in successive sentences.          please - tell - - jack - - - they - - - - are - - - - - on - - - - - - to - - - - - - - him                   And the letter became Dear Hamish,          Please forgive me for not contacting you sooner. To tell the truth I have not really been so busy, just preoccupied with my new car and fitting it out with gear. Tyres, tools, jack and spare water can etc are all vital necessities here. Its a pity they haven't got an AA man round every corner as in Britain but that's life I suppose. I should ask how are you? I was thinking about you on Saturday last when I went for a walk in the high Andes. I think you would be amused to see my gear which makes me loom like the lone ranger. My command of Spanish however would give him a shock I'm still struggling to say hello. Anyway ...                   The rest of the letter was junk. The keyword 'anyway' was the 'end-of-message' marker. He knew the cipher would not fool a real cryptanalyst for very long but with luck they might not realise that it was a coded message at all. He sent Rosa a post card of Mount Aconcagua.          But there was one other thing he could do. It would be fast and direct but risky. He could use the magic password to get a message directly to Jack. The danger was that if Jack was not already blown the message could finger him. Pacing the room didn't help.          The ass-U sampler units were probably set up as trip wires to ring bells if the magic password was used and there was only one way round that. He would have to use the password a second time to delete the contents of the ass-U. Would that work? He experimented with his own micro knowing that he could use his stolen 'asser' to delete it if the experiment failed. First he had to decipher the password in his diary. The experiment seemed to work on the micro, so now he had to try it for real on some terminal connected to the network. He wrote the password on a tiny slip of paper and hid it inside the cap of his pen. The deed, he decided had to be done during a working day. If it was done at night he would still need access to the building and the badge reader at the door would indicate that he was in the building at the time of the attack. The thing might slip through unnoticed but perhaps not. There was safety in numbers. Better do it while everyone was there and he would be just one of a number of suspects. And better to use some terminal which was not on his own desk.          In the end he settled for the games room. The machines there were connected to the network and everyone had a go from time to time. The games room was on his way back to the lab from the canteen.          *      *      *      *      *          There was no one in the games room.          Speed!          The slip of paper was stuck inside the cap of his pen. He looked about for something long and thin and found a paper clip which he bent straight and used it as a fish-hook to angle for it. He left it crumpled up on the desk and sat down.          ‘Didn't know you were a games fanatic Allan.’          He hadn't heard Jake come into the room.          ‘Oh. I'm not really. Just passing the time.’          He hoped his voice sounded calm. His heart was pounding in his ears.          ‘Have you tried Death-Row?’          ‘No. I haven't tried anything really.’          ‘It's very good. You have to think up legal loop holes to escape the electric chair.’          ‘Sounds like a bundle of fun.’          ‘It is really. Some of the wheezes are really clever.’          ‘Ok. I'll have a look.’          Jake wandered off to the far end of the room and donned a virtual world helmet.          It had to be now. The machine went through its logging on sequence asking first for his directory name.                   Password:          He unfolded the crumpled scrap of paper and left handed with one finger typed the magic sequence, typing fast, fumbling the characters and having to retype.          He was in - through the protection checks and with total control over the machine. He connected to the central node, one of the hubs of the network and drew his breath in as that machine accepted him without even asking for a password,. And again to the European hub. Signals travelling the Atlantic as fast as thought. The door behind him opened and Jasper came in and Marylin. Marylin waved, but they didn't come over.          His hand was shaking. He scanned the list of possible connections displayed on the screen. European node to Gairnock. List the users! Scan them. Find Jack's entry. Connect to Jack's directory. Clear the screen of tell-tale indications.          Now. Edit his login file.          ‘Have you tried Indian Reserve?’ Marylin was at his elbow.          ‘No.....’ Indians! Did she mean hackers? No must be a game! Innocent voice. ‘No. Is it good?’          ‘I like it. You have to get through a sacred burial ground without getting spooked and then escape from the tribe who come after you. It's got five levels of multi-tasking combat and the most powerful spell-casting system you've ever seen.’          ‘Mmm. I'll have a look.’          ‘Shall I show you?’          Her hands hovered over the keyboard, her elbow near his face.          ‘Another time maybe Marylin. I have to get back soon.’          She wandered off. Sweat broke out on his brow as he realised that the scrap of paper with the password was still lying on the desk. He crumpled it up and stuffed it back into the cap of his pen.          Everyone has a login file which is invoked as connection is first made. It sets up a user's favourite facilities and it can display a message to remind you if things to be done. He modified Jack's login message          YOU HAVE JUST BEEN ZAPPED - THE PHANTOM          Then he inserted a command to freeze the screen making it impossible for Jack to get past the message and use the computer. By the time he had unscrambled that perhaps his message to Rosa via Hamish would reach the idiot.          Now! Break the connection, and the next and the next. He was reversing the connections he had made, retreating back across the network, back to his own machine.          He still had to delete the contents of the ass-U. He typed very fast the sequence of commands he had practiced on the micro. No time to check that they had worked. He could see Jake heading in his direction again. Log-out! He was off the machine - evidence deleted.          ‘Sorry Jake. I have to go.’          *      *      *      *      *          There was no more talk in the canteen about 'Crazy Horse'.                            *      *      *      *      *          It was a pleasant evening for driving, dry and bright. The sea across to Arran was aglitter. There was hardly anyone else on the road, but he was not enjoying himself. He felt terrible and struggled to extract a damp handkerchief from his trouser pocket to wipe a dripping nose. Jack glanced in the mirror. There was a black Ford Sierra on his tail but it was some way back.          Why tonight of all nights? All he had wanted to do was to hit the sack with a noggin of whisky and a hot water bottle. The message had been mysterious.          Must see you. Jock's Well, 9.pm tonight.          He had been half expecting Alison to get in touch. Although he missed her he expected that she had missed him even more and he had been confident she she would come back to him. But the brief note through his letter box was not what he had expected. And tonight of all nights. Perhaps she had knocked and he, buried under blankets with the CD player going loudly had not heard. Perhaps she had tried to contact him at work, but he had been off for four days.          Jock's Well was a well known lover's spot on the coast road but he was not too sure he would recognise it. He slowed down and glanced again in the mirror. The black Sierra was keeping its distance.          The clump of trees was familiar. He recognised it easily after all and slowed as he approached it. The Sierra came up behind him and passed as he swung into the lay-by under the trees. There was no sign of Alison's car but there was a white Metro already parked there. A burn passed under the road at that point It formed a small ravine. A pathway ran from the lay-by along its steep bank. He eased himself out of the car, coughed heavily, blew his nose again and then, shivering, followed the path. Jock's Well was on an old drover's track which ran parallel to the new road. Alison was not the outdoor type so this meeting place was out of character. He was annoyed and his cold did not improve his temper. And of course there was no sign of Alison, or of anyone when he got there.          At the side of the track was an old stone drinking trough and a trickle of water dripped into it from the fern covered banking above. The trickle was not enough to keep the water clear and green scum had grown over the surface. Below in the ravine a waterfall cascaded into a shallow pool.          He heard footsteps behind him and turned. No Alison. Two men - probably from the Metro. He nodded in greeting.          ‘Nice evening.’          The men did not reply. They grabbed him by the arms and threw him over the edge. Then they came down the steep banking and held his unconscious head under the water.                   *      *      *      *      *          There was a letter in the mailbox. For a second his heart leapt thinking it was from Liz McKechnie, but it was from Hamish. Allan examined it carefully for signs of its having been opened but to his unskilled eyes there were none. The letter began          Dear Allan, Too many things to do, apologies for taking so long. It's late so I'll just dash this off and hope to get a longer letter to you soon. Anyway I never was much good at letter writing ....          The message was simple          TOO LATE          Allan burned the letter in the ash tray supplied so thoughfully by the management and rolled into his bed to lie there staring at the sands of Arisaig as the light in the room dimmed, turned pink and faded to darkness. Then he rose, took pen and paper and began to write a program. His program would need a name. He called it `Vidar' - the one who avenged - the one who survived the Day of Ragnarok.                   *      *      *      *      *          One week later there was another letter in his mail box. It was from Rosa, with press cuttings about Jack's death. No suspicious circumstances - official. Tommy Harkness, Chalmers and now Jack.          I'm not going to let it go Chalmers. I've got a plan. OK?          *      *      *      *      *          Trouble was he had two plans, neither of them fully worked out. One plan was about the conspiracy. The other plan was about Liz McKechnie - not so much a plan - more a bit of wishful thinking. Since the weekend in Santiago she had been the focus of all his happiest thoughts. In the end it was his need to escape from disturbing dreams about Jack and Chalmers, rather than any expectation of success, that prompted him to write her a letter. He could at least day-dream.