left. Which means we have longer than fifteen minutes to play with.’
Miller didn’t say anything.
‘I want to see those Green Flags you were telling me about. I want to see them before I go with you, or I don’t go with you at all.’
Miller looked at Hanson, then gauged Becca’s response. But Kate already knew that she’d won. He needed her just as she needed him. She didn’t know quite why yet, or what it was he hoped to achieve, but somehow, she was the key to it all.
‘Five Green Flags,’ he said finally. ‘Then we’re out of here. All of us.’
*
But they didn’t get five Green Flags. They got four instead. They popped up in rapid succession, a series of bland, two-word private messages sent between 7.02 and 7.10 p.m. The usernames of Miller’s clients comprised short random words and long numerical sequences. The process was fast and slick and wholly depersonalised, and Kate got the impression it had become simple routine for the individuals checking in, almost as if it was just another weekly chore, like taking out the rubbish or shopping for groceries.
Kate was sitting in front of the only laptop Hanson hadn’t packed away, with Hanson, Becca and Miller standing over her. It was a little over a thirty-minute drive to Bristol airport. Time enough – just – to make their flights.
Except that the fifth Green Flag stubbornly refused to come through.
They waited past 7.20 p.m. Then seven-thirty. Then a quarter to eight.
Nobody spoke and the silence between them grew more fraught with every passing second.
Then something happened. Something so unusual that, according to Miller at least, it was completely unprecedented.
The time was 7.48 p.m. and the message that blipped up onscreen consisted of just two words.
RED FLAG.
The group drew a collective breath and crowded in around Kate.
‘Where’s it from?’ Miller asked.
‘Hamburg,’ Hanson told him. ‘Client number three.’
Chapter Twenty
Clive Benson shovelled takeout currywurst into his mouth and looked through his apartment window at the plane trees and shop awnings of Schanzenstrasse, searching for a sign that he hadn’t screwed up.
Clive didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. He never did. But he wasn’t only searching for strangers hurrying towards his building or unfamiliar vehicles. He was also hunting for meaningful numbers in the scramble of graffiti on the wall of the apotheke opposite, in the telephone number listed at the end of a letting agent’s sign, among the prices of the fruit and vegetables displayed outside the late-night corner shop.
In nearly every way, Clive was entirely, even painfully, ordinary. He was in his early forties with too little hair, a too-big paunch and a too-fatty diet. But in one crucial respect, Clive was exceptional. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, numbers would speak to him. They might, for example, leap out of a newspaper advertisement to reassemble themselves into a combination that triggered pleasing childhood memories. Or perhaps he’d be strolling along the street and the digits on a series of car licence plates would rearrange themselves into the postcode of his first home, or the telephone number of an old girlfriend who’d cheated on him.
Numbers worked with Clive. They co-operated with him. He’d always been able to rely on them, even when nothing else in his life made sense.
Clive wasn’t a crackpot. Licking now at the curry powder he’d sprinkled over his wurst, he knew he didn’t possess some kind of extraordinary superpower. (And anyway, what kind of superhero would that make him? Acutely Aware Man?) It was just that he noticed things, analysed sequences and saw patterns, that would pass most people by. Probably he was on some kind of spectrum. Not that the thought bothered him a great deal. After all, there was a time when numbers had made him a lot of money.
Clive had started his own betting empire straight out of school. At first, he’d operated
Miller didn’t say anything.
‘I want to see those Green Flags you were telling me about. I want to see them before I go with you, or I don’t go with you at all.’
Miller looked at Hanson, then gauged Becca’s response. But Kate already knew that she’d won. He needed her just as she needed him. She didn’t know quite why yet, or what it was he hoped to achieve, but somehow, she was the key to it all.
‘Five Green Flags,’ he said finally. ‘Then we’re out of here. All of us.’
*
But they didn’t get five Green Flags. They got four instead. They popped up in rapid succession, a series of bland, two-word private messages sent between 7.02 and 7.10 p.m. The usernames of Miller’s clients comprised short random words and long numerical sequences. The process was fast and slick and wholly depersonalised, and Kate got the impression it had become simple routine for the individuals checking in, almost as if it was just another weekly chore, like taking out the rubbish or shopping for groceries.
Kate was sitting in front of the only laptop Hanson hadn’t packed away, with Hanson, Becca and Miller standing over her. It was a little over a thirty-minute drive to Bristol airport. Time enough – just – to make their flights.
Except that the fifth Green Flag stubbornly refused to come through.
They waited past 7.20 p.m. Then seven-thirty. Then a quarter to eight.
Nobody spoke and the silence between them grew more fraught with every passing second.
Then something happened. Something so unusual that, according to Miller at least, it was completely unprecedented.
The time was 7.48 p.m. and the message that blipped up onscreen consisted of just two words.
RED FLAG.
The group drew a collective breath and crowded in around Kate.
‘Where’s it from?’ Miller asked.
‘Hamburg,’ Hanson told him. ‘Client number three.’
Chapter Twenty
Clive Benson shovelled takeout currywurst into his mouth and looked through his apartment window at the plane trees and shop awnings of Schanzenstrasse, searching for a sign that he hadn’t screwed up.
Clive didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. He never did. But he wasn’t only searching for strangers hurrying towards his building or unfamiliar vehicles. He was also hunting for meaningful numbers in the scramble of graffiti on the wall of the apotheke opposite, in the telephone number listed at the end of a letting agent’s sign, among the prices of the fruit and vegetables displayed outside the late-night corner shop.
In nearly every way, Clive was entirely, even painfully, ordinary. He was in his early forties with too little hair, a too-big paunch and a too-fatty diet. But in one crucial respect, Clive was exceptional. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, numbers would speak to him. They might, for example, leap out of a newspaper advertisement to reassemble themselves into a combination that triggered pleasing childhood memories. Or perhaps he’d be strolling along the street and the digits on a series of car licence plates would rearrange themselves into the postcode of his first home, or the telephone number of an old girlfriend who’d cheated on him.
Numbers worked with Clive. They co-operated with him. He’d always been able to rely on them, even when nothing else in his life made sense.
Clive wasn’t a crackpot. Licking now at the curry powder he’d sprinkled over his wurst, he knew he didn’t possess some kind of extraordinary superpower. (And anyway, what kind of superhero would that make him? Acutely Aware Man?) It was just that he noticed things, analysed sequences and saw patterns, that would pass most people by. Probably he was on some kind of spectrum. Not that the thought bothered him a great deal. After all, there was a time when numbers had made him a lot of money.
Clive had started his own betting empire straight out of school. At first, he’d operated
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