Chapter Thirteen

Savage checked his watch as he approached the executive elevator on the forty-sixth floor.

11.59am.

Then a chunky hand on his chest stopped him getting any closer. The owner of the hand had no neck, and an ill-fitting suit.

'Where are you going, sir?'

'Executive floor.'

'Name?' he said. Savage just knew no-neck would make a great after dinner speaker.

'Paul Roberts,' he said.

The man scowled at the list on his podium. If he leant his great weight on it he would have snapped it in two. 'You're not here,' he said, stubby finger still on the list.

'I am expected,' Savage showed the man a fake card in Robert's name and then placed Sutherland's card on top.

The man's tight lips and frown told Savage how little he thought of him. No-neck dialled a number and gave Robert's details. Listened to the voice at the other end, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the open elevator.

Gentle speedy seconds later, Savage stepped out onto the executive floor.

He wore a shirt, cuffs folded back and carried one of those fat leather cases techies like, filled with goodies from his shopping trip.

Paris Hilton on the front desk looked up at him with big girly eyes. She was pretty in a fashion-of-the-day type of way, but still a girl, not a woman. Fashion, she hadn't figured out yet, was not style.

He handed her his card. 'I believe you're expecting me?'

She hovered, one finger in the air. Trying to remember where she'd put something. She opened up the computer instead, and clicked a couple of buttons.

'There's nothing in the diary.'

'Really? My boss called this morning. I've got to tweak your nodes.'

She narrowed her eyes at the fake ID badge around his neck. He kept a straight face.

'Who was that?' she said flatly.

'Blonqvuist.'

'I haven't spoken to him.'

'Her.'

'I haven't spoken to any Blonqvuist this morning. I would have remembered.'

'Really?' Savage placed the CEO's card on the flat surface between them. 'He was adamant it was fixed. They won't have secure comms until I'm done.'

She wasn't impressed by Sutherland’s card. Okay. Not as brainless as she looked.

He wanted her to check messages, but wanted her to think of it.

'She was pretty pissed about it too,' he said, sliding over Natasja's card.

Paris's eyes widened. A little panic.

He poured it on. 'She said they were at some function and that it had to be secured by the time they got back.'

'Maybe there’s something in messages,' Paris said.

'No stress. If there isn't I'll take the morning off and bill it anyway.'

He didn't know if her fear of the PA rather than the CEO was relevant. She could simply be doe-eyed for the big boy. Sex skewed everything.

The reception area was exactly as Echo described it. And no internet points. He took out his phone and pressed connect on the wifi control.

The connection icon told him it was a WEP protected log-in for the area. Sercure-ish. Enough for Joe Public.

'It says here, I'm supposed to call a number,' Paris said. 'Should I call Thomson, Head of Security instead?'

'Your call. I think he's at this shindig as well. You might have trouble reaching him.'

'I'll call your boss,' she said, and dialled the extension.

'Great.'

He turned away and set his phone to work, a packet sniffer and brute force dictionary attack on the log-in. While one programme listened to streams of data being sent back and forth in the hope of catching snippets of the key to the lock, the other tried to kick the door in using combinations of keywords and numbers.

'Oh hi, can I speak with Ms Blonqvuist please?'

The call went through to White's extension.

'One moment please,' he would say before transferring Paris to Echo. Savage hoped she didn't mess with the script again.

He stopped listening and walked over to the seating area. Turned around, checked out the signs, wondered what bad things he'd have to do to afford his own butler.

The magazines on the desk were the usual corporate artifice, Newsweek, the FT, the Economist. He pictured execs slipping the funny pages inside while they pawed over Paris in their heads.

'Mr Roberts?' She beckoned him over.

'Everything seems to be in order.'

'Excellent. What time are they due back from their thing?'

'Oh two-ish. But it's with the stockholders and investors,' she shrugged, 'if the bubbles and conversation really flow,' she smiled, 'tomorrow morning.'

'Well, you're doing a grand job holding down the fort here. I'll be as quick as I can. Tell me. Do I need an access card for this level? They didn't give me anything downstairs.'

'No card needed,' she gushed. 'It's access all areas. The security checks make sure anyone working up here is cleared.'

'Uh-huh,' Savage said. 'Makes sense.' Although it didn't. Not really.

The biggest weakness of most large firms was that once you got through their secure outer layer everyone let their guard down. No one inside could be up to no good they reasoned.

They always got that wrong. Professional hackers, social engineers, penetration testers and Savage always used it to their advantage.

A professional burner of bridges over the years, Savage had learned how little companies liked finding him waiting in their executive offices after he'd let himself in. It was his favourite way to deliver a security audit.

He turned back to Paris, 'Say, can you give me your log-in details for the machines on this floor, please? I need to cross check it with the permissions database.'

She hesitated.

'Look, it'll make things quicker. Otherwise I gotta run through all the dead accounts and live accounts just to find a working one,' he smiled and patted the desktop. 'But hey, no problem, I understand if you feel uncomfortable about it.'

The phone started to ring and made the decision for her. She scribbled on a post it. 'My log-in, if it helps.'

She turned, pressed a key and talked into her headset. 'Executive, how can I direct your call?'

'Thank you,' he grabbed it from her extended hand and walked towards the offices and meeting rooms. They were all of a type. Nice views, big central tables.

He plugged his laptop into an old access point to see if it was hot and in use.

It was cold and dead.

He opened his bag and pulled out a small cabled black box, about the size of a matchbox, plugged it into the dead access point and stuck it to the wall. He pasted a label to its face just beneath the small innocuous hole that looked like a screw-fitting.

It read: Property of Security Department. Do Not Remove. The hole a camera lens.

It was also a wireless access point with a 300 metre range, just enough for him to monitor what was going on from a café outside or the office downstairs.

He moved quickly through the other offices and repeated the procedure.

The CEO’s office was open and airy with what must have been one of the most expensive views in London and a sheer woodwork design that meant you groped the walls to find the concealed doors in or out.

He fired up the high-spec desktop computer and tried the usual security test, nothing doing. Then plugged in his USB stick. A window popped up:

The auto-start feature is disabled on this device, contact the administrator for support.

Savage strummed the desktop. Okay think. He tried Paris's log-in on the CEO’s machine. A long shot, and it didn't pay off.

Keep it simple, he told himself. Good enough is perfect.

He took out a hardware key-logger and attached it to the wireless antenna for the keyboard and mouse. Then he took out another wireless access point and removed the cable.

Behind him were bookshelves and art. He pushed a book to the side and stuck the device to the back of the shelves behind a small abstract sculpture. Man rides dog perhaps.

He logged into the device on his mobile – he'd set them all up on American networks to confuse any genuine techs who happened by – and set the camera's sensor settings to motion detect.

He stood off-camera, then walked into frame. The camera started recording. He sat at the desk and could still see the screen and keyboard.

Executive level shoulder surfing. He gave a small smile. Another long shot.

He strolled back up the corridor. No office for the PA. She must hot-desk or sit on Sutherland’s lap.

He flashed a we're-all-in-this-together smile at Paris and headed for the dark mahogany of the banqueting room.

Art from the fox hunting era lined the walls and the surprisingly intimate room smelled vaguely of Beef Wellington. He added the last box in his bag next to a concealed screen.

The kitchen was like any commercial kitchen, slightly smaller but with more expensive fittings. He wondered how the chefs and butlers got in without clogging up the main reception area.

He opened doors. Always a fool-proof tactic. What looked like a closet door opened on to a corner of the main foyer where wall and glass met a private stair well.

It said: Alarmed, Restricted Access.

He gave it a shove. No alarm. The stairs led down to the next level. He took the steps two at a time and pushed on that door, still no alarms. But on the other side a standard RFID card reader like you find on the underground. He let the door close, ran back upstairs, cleared his way back through the kitchen and dining room until he reached the receptionist.

'Well, I'm done,' he said.

She lifted her pretty head, 'That was quick.'

'Executive level floors always are, it's when you've got access for eight hundred telesales staff it gets complicated. Know what I mean?'

'Yeah, sure.' Translation: you're a geek, get out of my face.

'Listen if I need to run diagnostics at a later date, you're a good point of contact. What's your name?'

'Tilly.'

'Tilly?' He didn't know what to say to that. 'Very pretty name.'

Neither of them believed that.

'So how come they aren't holding this function in the banqueting room?'

'Too small. They're using the function room on the top floor.'

'Thanks Tilly. Be seeing you.'

Nostalgia swept over him. In the old days he broke into his bosses' offices every other month for the best part of two years.

He'd forgotten how much it thrilled him.