the purchases, the most expensive objects are placed at the forefront of a home, as a testimony to their hard work and skill. If buyers are making the selections personally, they tend to position their most expensive objects in places where only they can see the purchases.’
‘Which of the two was Simon Werks?’
‘He hired his taste in,’ said Helen. ‘And he picked staff with impeccable discrimination to choose for him.’ Helen drew out her own phone and activated its camera function before walking through the flat, taking photographs from a variety of angles. Spads wasn’t sure if she was doing that so they could put things back in the same spot after the search, or recording it for the others in the office. Probably the latter, he decided. They were here with ControlWerks’ permission, and Simon Werks no longer gave much of a shit about anything.
Spads entered a dining room laid out with a full service, eight chairs, the settings with four plates piled on top of each other, every plate slightly smaller than the one underneath, three silver forks on the left, three knives on the right. Each with their own purpose, just like a programming language’s function library. How do you eat pizza with those? Maybe one of those is a pizza fork? He found the office, a relatively small desk joined to a large wooden shelving unit, infused with a light-sabre golden glow from hidden uplighters. A small Apple laptop rested on the desk and Spads felt a moment of deep disappointment in Simon Werks. That the man who had led the development of modern commercial cryptography would value style over substance, brand over brawn. He had expected a home-brew kit, something cryogenically-cooled and overclocked to the max, not this single piece of machined aluminium purchased from some designer boutique masquerading as a computer store. This wasn’t cool. Custom was cool: factory meant mean and beggarly. This was like breaking into the studio of your favourite grunge musician and finding a MP3 player filled with Barry Manilow tracks. Well, he’s dead now. I shouldn’t think badly of the deceased. He pulled around his canvas courier bag and removed his own laptop, then cracked the casing on Werks’ computer so he could connect directly to the drive. As he was mirroring the data, his phone began to vibrate. He slid the phone out to inspect the caller display. Frank Ludington from the office.
‘Yes?’
‘Got your router from the Werks building. It was still powered up. Pulled the records of where it was broadcasting the hidden feed from said device’s memory.’
‘It would have been sending to a proxy server,’ said Spads. ‘The first of many. I’ll need to trace the feed back to its source.’
‘Give you something to do,’ said Ludington, ‘other than asking Helen for her number.’
‘Has he asked you for your telephone number yet?’ recalled Spads. ‘That’s question number three.’
‘If you say so, man. You owe me one, remember.’
‘I won’t forget.’ Spads flipped the phone shut and kept working on the dead billionaire’s laptop. He was mirroring the drive at a magnetic level, security systems and all. Plenty of time to crack it later, in the comfort of the humid stone chambers under Monument.
Helen appeared with a couple of books under her arm. She set them down on the desk and walked over to the office’s shelves to check the titles on the spines. ‘He had those two on his bedroom table, bookmarked towards the back, nearly finished reading them.’
Spads inspected the titles. The Me I Will Become , and The Light Within My Perfection , both by someone called Tom Roberts. He presumed the photos on the front were of the author. They were both of the same man. He looked tall and complete and happy. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’
‘He’s a Christian evangelist. Runs a number of religious TV stations out in the states, along with a network of churches. A very profitable network.’ She started tugging
‘Which of the two was Simon Werks?’
‘He hired his taste in,’ said Helen. ‘And he picked staff with impeccable discrimination to choose for him.’ Helen drew out her own phone and activated its camera function before walking through the flat, taking photographs from a variety of angles. Spads wasn’t sure if she was doing that so they could put things back in the same spot after the search, or recording it for the others in the office. Probably the latter, he decided. They were here with ControlWerks’ permission, and Simon Werks no longer gave much of a shit about anything.
Spads entered a dining room laid out with a full service, eight chairs, the settings with four plates piled on top of each other, every plate slightly smaller than the one underneath, three silver forks on the left, three knives on the right. Each with their own purpose, just like a programming language’s function library. How do you eat pizza with those? Maybe one of those is a pizza fork? He found the office, a relatively small desk joined to a large wooden shelving unit, infused with a light-sabre golden glow from hidden uplighters. A small Apple laptop rested on the desk and Spads felt a moment of deep disappointment in Simon Werks. That the man who had led the development of modern commercial cryptography would value style over substance, brand over brawn. He had expected a home-brew kit, something cryogenically-cooled and overclocked to the max, not this single piece of machined aluminium purchased from some designer boutique masquerading as a computer store. This wasn’t cool. Custom was cool: factory meant mean and beggarly. This was like breaking into the studio of your favourite grunge musician and finding a MP3 player filled with Barry Manilow tracks. Well, he’s dead now. I shouldn’t think badly of the deceased. He pulled around his canvas courier bag and removed his own laptop, then cracked the casing on Werks’ computer so he could connect directly to the drive. As he was mirroring the data, his phone began to vibrate. He slid the phone out to inspect the caller display. Frank Ludington from the office.
‘Yes?’
‘Got your router from the Werks building. It was still powered up. Pulled the records of where it was broadcasting the hidden feed from said device’s memory.’
‘It would have been sending to a proxy server,’ said Spads. ‘The first of many. I’ll need to trace the feed back to its source.’
‘Give you something to do,’ said Ludington, ‘other than asking Helen for her number.’
‘Has he asked you for your telephone number yet?’ recalled Spads. ‘That’s question number three.’
‘If you say so, man. You owe me one, remember.’
‘I won’t forget.’ Spads flipped the phone shut and kept working on the dead billionaire’s laptop. He was mirroring the drive at a magnetic level, security systems and all. Plenty of time to crack it later, in the comfort of the humid stone chambers under Monument.
Helen appeared with a couple of books under her arm. She set them down on the desk and walked over to the office’s shelves to check the titles on the spines. ‘He had those two on his bedroom table, bookmarked towards the back, nearly finished reading them.’
Spads inspected the titles. The Me I Will Become , and The Light Within My Perfection , both by someone called Tom Roberts. He presumed the photos on the front were of the author. They were both of the same man. He looked tall and complete and happy. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’
‘He’s a Christian evangelist. Runs a number of religious TV stations out in the states, along with a network of churches. A very profitable network.’ She started tugging
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