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Overview
Published in the UK as Want You Gone
There are no women on the Internet. It is one of the cardinal rules of hacking, and not since Lisbeth Salander famously violated it in Stieg Larsson's Millenium series has the maxim been so compellingly broken as in The Last Hack, the new Jack Parlabane thriller from one of the smartest minds in crime fiction, Christopher Brookmyre.
Sam Morpeth has had to grow up way too fast. Left to fend for a younger sister with learning difficulties when their mother goes to prison, she is forced to watch her dreams of university evaporate. But Sam learns what it is to be truly powerless when a stranger begins to blackmail her online. Meanwhile, reporter Jack Parlabane seems to have finally gotten his career back on track with a job at a flashy online news start-up, but his success has left him indebted to a volatile source on the wrong side of the law. Now that debt is being called in, and it could cost him everything. Thrown together by a common enemy, Sam and Jack are about to discover they have more in common than they realize—and might be each other's only hope.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780802126948 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Grove/Atlantic, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 07/04/2017 |
| Series: | Jack Palabane Thrillers , #8 |
| Pages: | 432 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.60(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
CELL BINDING (I)
I was always afraid that this story would end with me in prison. Turns out I was right.
Not exactly a major spoiler though, is it? I mean, we both already know that part, so it's how I got here that really matters.
I'm going to tell you everything, and I'm not going to hold back to spare anyone's feelings. I have to be totally honest if I'm looking for honesty in return. I'll warn you up front, though. Much of what I'm about to say is going to be difficult for you to hear, but there are things about me that I need you to understand. You're not going to like me for some of what I did and said, and the way you personally come across isn't always going to be flattering either, but it's important that you get a handle on how everything looked from my point of view.
It doesn't mean I feel that way now, or that I was right to think what I did back then. It's just how it was, you know?
There are a lot of places I could start, but I have to be careful about that. Certain choices might imply I'm pointing the finger, and I'm not. I know who's to blame for everything that happened. No need for any more deceptions on that score. So I'm not going right back to childhood, or to when my dad died, or even to when the police raided the flat and found a shitload of drugs and a gun. Because this isn't about any of that stuff, not really. To me, this all starts a few weeks ago, with me sitting in a waiting room, looking at a human time-bomb.
CHAPTER 2THE READER
I know the man is going to explode several minutes before the incident takes place. It is only a matter of time.
He is sitting opposite me in the waiting area, shifting restlessly on the plastic bench, his limbs in a state of constant motion: sudden jerks and twitches beating out a code I can read only too clearly. His head is an unkempt ball of hair, his matted locks merging with enough beard to kit out a whole bus full of hipsters. He looks across at me every few seconds, which makes me scared and uncomfortable, though I know he's not picking me out specifically. His eyes are darting about the room the whole time, not alighting on a single sight for more than a second, like a fly that won't land long enough to be swatted.
I am afraid of catching his eye, so I keep my gaze above him, where a row of posters glare back at me from the wall. They all seem intended to threaten, apart from the ones encouraging people to grass on their neighbours. 'We're closing in,' says one. 'Benefit thieves: our technology is tracking you,' warns another. 'Do you know who's following you?' asks a third. They feature images of people photographed from above at a steep angle, making them look tiny and cornered as they stand on concentric circles. To drive the point home, another poster shows an arrow thwocking into a bullseye: 'Targeting benefit fraudsters'.
I have done nothing wrong but I feel guilty and intimidated. I feel like a criminal simply for being here. I have rehearsed what I am going to say, gone over it and over it in front of the bedroom mirror. I know my arguments, and have tried to anticipate how the officials might respond. I was feeling ready when I left the house, coaching myself all the way here, but now I think I've got no chance. I'm wasting my time. I want to leave, want to run, but I can't. I need the money. I desperately need the money.
I glance towards the counter. Above the woman on reception there is a poster stating 'In the UK illegally? Go home or face arrest.' Bold text proudly announces there were '86 arrests last week in this area'. There are no people on this poster, but if there were, I know what they would look like. They would look like me.
One nation, I think. The Big Society.
I know the poster they'd really like to print. It would say: 'Are you white enough to live here? If not, fuck off back to Bongo Bongo Land.'
A woman emerges from the interview rooms and shuffles towards the exit without looking up. I can tell things didn't go well for her. She is followed shortly by one of the staff: a grey-haired white bloke.
There is also a Chinese woman doing interviews. It's already half an hour after my appointment, and both she and Grey Hair have each come out a couple of times since I arrived. I've been watching them very carefully.
I hope I get the Chinese lady. She seems relaxed, if a little tired. The grey-haired guy is like a coiled spring.
He calls out a name and the twitchy bloke opposite stands up. He walks towards the interview rooms, following Grey Hair, who has barely looked at him. Part of me is pleased that Grey Hair is now occupied, as I must surely be due in next, but the part of me that reads people knows something bad is about to happen.
The Chinese lady comes out again and I sit up straighter in my chair, willing my name to be called. It isn't.
More people drift in and take up the empty spaces on the benches. There has to be a dozen people in here, and the only one talking is a woman in the corner trying to stop her toddler from kicking off. But, to me, there is a growing cacophony in the room, ratcheting up my anxiety. They ain't saying anything, but I can sense all of their tension, anger, fear and hurt.
I have always been able to gauge people's true states of mind, regardless of what their faces or their words are trying to say. I can read their expressions, their micro-gestures, their body language, the tone of their voices. It comes so naturally that it took me a long time to realise other people didn't see all these things too.
Sometimes it's a blessing, but right now they might as well be shouting at me. I am in a room full of desperation, all of it telling me that my efforts here are doomed.
I hear a growing sound of male voices dampened only slightly by thin walls. One is getting increasingly angry, the other low but insistent, authoritative. One rising up, the other not backing down. Unstoppable force, immovable object. I hear a clattering, what sounds like a chair skidding across the floor. An alarm sounds and suddenly members of staff I have never seen appear from side offices and rush towards the interview room. One of them is a security guard. I hear several thumps, the sound of feet on furniture, voices raised in rage, in command, in panic. Someone shouts, demanding that the twitchy man calm down. This is like trying to put out a fire with lighter fluid.
I am terrified. I feel the tears running down my cheeks. I want to leave but I know that if my name gets called and I'm not there, I've blown it.
The shouting grows louder, the twitchy man's angry words degenerating into nothing but roaring, which itself gives way to a low moan as his rage exhausts itself. He is led out shortly afterwards. He looks numb and dazed, like he barely knows where he is. He is crying.
Grey Hair stands watching him retreat for a few moments, letting out a long sigh and supporting himself with a firm hand against a doorframe. Someone asks him if he wants a break. He shakes his head. He definitely does need a break, but I can tell that what he wants is to unload his frustrations, to exercise his power. He disappears into the interview room then comes out again a few seconds later.
'Samantha Morpeth,' he barks out.
CHAPTER 3VILLAINS
It takes only a few minutes; less time than they spent subduing the twitchy man.
I sit down, separated from Grey Hair by a desk that now has several rubber scuff marks down one side. I am close enough to read his badge. Close enough to smell his sweat.
His name is Maurice Clark. His face is like a recently slammed door. There are papers strewn around the floor of his office, the place still reeling from the twitchy man's rage. I'm guessing the same could be said for the inside of Maurice Clark's head. If I asked him to repeat my name, which he called out moments ago, he would probably have forgotten it.
'The change to your mother's circumstances means that she is no longer eligible for the Carer's Allowance. That is why the payments have stopped. It's very simple.'
He puts it delicately, but I feel a hint of contempt. The delicateness was actually a way of rubbing it in.
'Yes, but it's me who should be receiving the allowance now, and it hasn't been transferred.'
All my planning and rehearsing is for nothing. When I speak, my voice feels like it is coming from down a well: timid and faint, lacking any conviction. I always get this way when I am dealing with people like him: people in authority, angry people, aggressive people. I can't deal with confrontation. It makes me shrink and fade.
Maurice Clark, by contrast, seems to get louder and bigger and firmer.
'It hasn't been transferred because you are not eligible to receive it either.'
'But I'm the one who —'
'Miss Morpeth, the rules are very clear. You cannot claim this allowance if you are in full-time work or in full-time education.'
'Full — But I'm only at a sixth-form college.'
As the words come out, tiny and hoarse, I know they are worthless.
Clark stares back at me with this look that says I just underlined his point. He doesn't care. He's hurting. He's frustrated. The only thing this guy wants right now is to say no. If there was a way for him to help me, he wouldn't.
All the things I was supposed to say become like illegible scribbles in my mind, the paper they're written on burning. I feel the tears roll again. I am hopeless. I am pathetic. A fucking victim.
I leave the benefits office with the same defeated walk as the woman I watched earlier, like I'm carrying Maurice Clark on my bloody shoulders. However, when I get out on to the high street, a glance at my phone tells me that, little as I feel like it, I'll need to pick up the pace. I ended up waiting about three quarters of an hour for a two-minute interview, and now I'm running late. It's a good half an hour to the Loxford School, and it's already twenty-five to four.
Instinctively I wonder when the next bus is due, then remember that it's a luxury I can't afford.
The implications are starting to sink in. I feel weighted down but I don't have the option to slow my pace. Grey Hair spelled it out. If I want the Carer's Allowance, I have to drop out of school. I won't be able to sit my exams, but then that won't matter, as uni isn't going to be a possibility now anyway.
I might have read it wrong, but I got the sense there was something else the guy could have told me. On a different day he might have done. Or maybe he is always a prick.
I get the head down, earphones in. I am blotting out the world as I hurry along the pavement, slaloming shoppers and pushchairs and gaggles of office staff on smoke-breaks. I barely glance up before I hit the junction. That is where I see them: Keisha, Gabrielle and all that lot. But worse than that, they've seen me. I can't cross the road to avoid them. I know they'll cross too, and it will be worse if they know I tried to get away. It's like if you run, they have to chase. It's the rules.
I wish I was with Lilly. They wouldn't bother me then. God, that sounds so pathetic, hiding behind her. Wouldn't be the first time, though.
I can see the malicious delight on Keisha's face, even from twenty yards. I can't take this today, not on top of everything else, and I can't be held up. I can't be late.
But then the gods smile. A bus slows to a crawl as it approaches a red light at the junction, and I step on without hesitation. As it pulls away again, I see Keisha and Gabrielle staring at me through the window, a nasty look of satisfaction on both their faces. They all know what just happened.
The bus gets me to Lilly's school with time to spare, but as I peer through the railings I can't help calculating what it has cost me: what I could have bought for the fare that has been taken from my Oyster card. It's all going to be the finest of margins from now on. But what really stings is that it isn't the bus journey that has truly cost me: it was not facing down Keisha and her harpies. That was an avoidable expense. A coward tax.
I watch the first of the kids appear, their wheelchairs coming out of the big double doors on to a gently sloping ramp. The rest will start streaming out of a different entrance separated from the car park by a fence. I am always amazed at everyone's patience as several of the pupils are loaded on to minibuses, the hydraulic platforms slowly lifting one wheelchair at a time. I couldn't handle that: being powerless, waiting ages every day while your time bleeds from you.
One of the buses is heading to an after-school facility at the Nisha Leyton Centre, a day-care complex that provides services for adults with learning disabilities.
I realise that's another item on the big list of things I urgently need to look into. I'm going to have to find a job, and there aren't many of those that will let me knock off around half past three every day so I can be standing here dutifully at the Loxford School's gates to collect my younger sister.
Being There For Lilly could be the title of my brief and boring autobiography. It certainly feels like the story of my life.
We moved around so much growing up, and it was difficult enough to fit in and make friends at each new place without Lilly always following me around. The other kids never saw me as an individual: they saw the little Down syndrome girl first and her big sister was merely part of the package.
'She's my half-sister,' I sometimes told them, out of a need to distance myself. I always felt ashamed later, and it hurts now to remember saying it. Bloody stupid anyway. Half the kids I went to school with had brothers and sisters from different mums and dads.
Lilly emerges carrying an art folder – it catches the wind and she needs a second's attention to get a better grip. I see Lilly before Lilly sees me. I always love that, because it means I can savour the moment when Lilly reacts. Her face lights up like she hasn't seen me in days, and it makes me feel, just for an instant, like I'm the most special person in someone's life.
These days that moment lasts only until I remember that it's true. Right now I'm all Lilly's got.
'I've painted Batgirl. She's fighting Harley Quinn.'
Lilly loves comics, especially girl superheroes.
She makes to open the folder but I head her off, leading her towards the pelican crossing.
'Show me when we get home. It's a bit breezy right now.'
'It's not finished. I'm going to finish it at home. I need some new colouring pens. Can we buy some new colouring pens?'
I wish the answer could be yes.
'Was Cassie back in school today after her tummy bug?'
A change of subject often does the trick. Lilly will forget about the pens until she gets home, where she can make do with what she's already got or more likely start drawing something new.
'Yes. She's feeling better.'
Lilly is quiet for about a hundred yards, seemingly lost in her thoughts. It's long enough for me to think the question is not coming. But then it does.
'Is Mum home yet?'
I stifle a sigh, trying not to vent my frustration. Every night we go through this. Is she pretending she doesn't understand? Is it a kind of protest? Then I remember how long it took Lilly to understand about her dad.
'No, she's not home yet. She won't be home for a long time. She told you that, remember? When we went to see her.'
'But why is she there? Why won't she come home?'
'Because they won't let her out.'
'Why won't they let her out?'
I give vent to a sigh. It's that or a scream.
'Because she's in jail, Lilly.'
CHAPTER 4TELEPHONE BANKING
'Good morning, HR, Don Corrigan speaking.'
His tone is breezy, someone whose day hasn't gone wrong yet.
'Oh, hi, Don,' comes the reply, matching his friendliness. 'This is Morgan Bell over at Corporate Security in Holborn.'
'Oh. How can I help?'
Don sounds suddenly guarded but trying to disguise it. Like talking to a cop: he's sure he's got nothing to answer for, but slightly edgy all the same.
'It's nothing heavy, don't worry. How are things over in Canary Wharf? I haven't been in the building for a while. They ever fix that big digital thermometer above the lobby?'
'No, it's still twenty-eight degrees every day, including January.'
He's relaxed again, friendly. He sounds like he wants to help. Maybe not help get the ball rolling on a massively high-profile hack of his employer, the RSGN Bank, but cooperative even so.
'Look, apologies if this isn't your remit, but I'm chasing up a list Human Resources was supposed to have sent us more than a week ago. I'm organising a security awareness seminar for new employees. They were meant to send me the names of anyone who has started in the last three months.'
'At Holborn as well, or just Canary Wharf?'
'Just Canary Wharf. I already got the list from our end, but only because I was able to go down to HR in person. I'm not having a lot of luck and I'm right up against a deadline now.'
'Do you know who was compiling it for you?'
'I've been back and forth between so many people that I've forgotten the name. Can you do a quick search? For all I know it might turn out there's nobody eligible and that's why I never got a list.'
'Okay, give me a second to get into the right system.'
There is a clack-clack of keys, a pause, an impatient sigh.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Last Hack"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Christopher Brookmyre.
Excerpted by permission of Grove Atlantic, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Cover,
Also by Christopher Brookmyre,
Title Page,
Copyright,
Dedication,
The Bitter End,
Part One,
Cell Binding (I),
The Reader,
Villains,
Telephone Banking,
The Tomorrow People,
The Usual Reasons,
A Good Walk Spoiled,
Life in Captivity,
The Last to Know,
High Jinks and Exploits,
The Makeover,
Secret Selves,
Summoning the Devil,
One Man's Trash,
Online Predator,
The Walk of Shame,
When Worlds Collide,
The Call,
Dangerous Circles,
Unnamed Source,
The Reckoning,
War Fair,
Part Two,
Monitors,
Remote Access Trojan,
No Picnic,
Adversaries,
Data Cache,
Challenge Accepted,
Make-Believe,
Dressed for Success,
Buried Treasure,
Responsible Behaviour,
Collateral Damage,
Hands-on Policy,
Covert Surveillance,
File Transfer Protocol,
Sins of the Past,
Hidden Powers,
Hostage Situation,
Keyboard Player,
Railroaded,
Aspect of the Demon,
Twixt Cup and Lip,
Pressing Engagement,
Outside Influence,
Camera Shy,
Unwanted Guest,
Mixed Messages,
Prize Possession,
Part Three,
Windows Update,
Murder in the Dark,
Revelations,
Cold Logic,
Containment,
Multitasking,
Escape Key,
File not Found,
Stolen Goods,
Missing Party,
Breakfast Television,
Cancelled Flight,
Thrown to the Wolves,
Bound,
Airport Parking and Other Modern Robberies,
The Penitent,
Target in Sight,
Deadly Tension,
Reckless Youth (I),
Reckless Youth (II),
Loyalties,
Facial Recognition,
Fidelity and Betrayal,
Breaking Story,
Game-Changer,
Extreme Methods,
Phantoms,
Market Forces,
Parked Outside,
By Appointment Only,
Trading Futures,
Dead to Rights,
Life Hack,
Playing to the Gallery,
Cell Binding (II),
Decoded,
Conditional Offers,
Rekt,
Final Showdown,