The Sixth Day (A Brit in the FBI 5)

North Berwick, Scotland

Raphael Marquez’s hands were sweating. He knew the time of reckoning was close. There, out the window of his office, he saw his boss’s plane drop from the overcast sky and land smoothly on the tarmac with a whispered squeal, the sound only a customized Gulfstream G650ER could make. He was on his feet in an instant, heart pounding with dread and fear, running to the large auditorium in the center of their massive, pentagonal structure to meet Mr. Ardelean. Raphael knew the boss hated the pomp and circumstance of the “arrival” ceremonies so many other CEOs craved, and he admired him for it, but not now, not this time.

The boss was, in Raphael’s opinion, one of the best coders in the world. Along with his coding genius was his ability to lead, to draw others to whatever he suggested. He had, single-handedly, made Radulov Industries the most respected cybersecurity firm in the whole bloody world. They were renowned not only for their extensive security protocols but also for their software programs, the guts of every computer mainframe, laptop, phone, and tablet in the world. Both Apple and Microsoft had done deals with Radulov. His security settings were the new industry standard.

Raphael kept walking, his brain squirreling around with the various scenarios awaiting him. He’d screwed up badly enough that the Head of the World, as he thought of Roman, had come in person to what? Fire him? Kill him? But it wasn’t entirely his fault—it was the other’s. He hated to say his name, even think it, for fear it would mushroom in the air itself and choke him. A hated name, the betrayer’s name. Temora.

What was the worst that could happen? He’ll fire your ass, and you’ll be publicly humiliated. You’ll be out the door with nothing to show for your past fifteen years of innovative work at Radulov but finger calluses and a permanent computer-screen squint. Your reputation, accolades, salary, all gone. Please, God, please, God, don’t let him fire me, let me stay, let me try to fix it.

Raphael hurried faster. It wouldn’t do for the Head of the World to beat him to the auditorium, where all the employees were gathered. It would mean the boot for sure, maybe worse.

He wanted more than anything to remain in charge of this spectacular installation, Radulov’s lead server farm in the world. It resembled the American Pentagon, only not as large, with one external and four internal layers of offices. It was a buzzing honeycomb of digital activity. But unlike the Pentagon, the server installation was underground, for protection against a possible electromagnetic pulse—an EMP—strike, or worse. In short, if their servers went down, the computer systems all over the world would, too. Every Radulov server farm had redundancies, and they resided in similar but much smaller facilities in more than thirty countries, the only way to keep up with the load. But the heart of Radulov was right here in Scotland. Put a dagger through the heart, and everything would be lost. And that was what Raphael had allowed the hated other to do. He’d known Temora was a genius, known he was capable of anything, and they’d taken every precaution, but still, somehow, he’d found a way in.

The auditorium was inside the final layer, deep down, with filtered air and ventilation systems, kitchens, food stores, and massive vertical support beams like metal ribs. It had been designed to convert into a dormitory for all the employees of Radulov Industries housed in the facility, two hundred at any given time. Roman was always prepared for the worst.

Faces looked up when Raphael burst through the door. He called down from the catwalk high above, “He’s here. Shape up, everyone.”

The room synchronized, everyone finding their place, ready for this impromptu meeting called by the head of the company. The Head of their World.

Everyone knew why Ardelean was there. Everyone knew Raphael had failed. And as such, it meant they had all failed. What would happen? The air was thick with anxiety.

Raphael waited on the catwalk, tapping his forefinger against the railing, trying his best to look calm, relaxed, in control. He was the manager of this amazing facility, the leader of all those workers below. He wondered if anyone could see him sweating. He certainly knew every one of them expected him to take the fall. All knew Roman Ardelean did not suffer mistakes, and this was a doozy.

Raphael felt ill, b

ut pushed it down. He refused to humiliate himself when Roman was here to do it for him. Maybe a public flogging before his imminent dismissal, something to frighten the rest into performing better? After all, Raphael knew someone had to fall on his sword after the magnitude of the malware attack had been discovered.

The buck had to stop with him. Thankfully he had good news that would lessen the boss’s anger.

He looked up to see the floor-to-ceiling screen at the front of the auditorium spinning the twelve-foot-high Radulov logo, a highly stylized falcon made of black and gray triangles on a deep bloodred background, wings outstretched to form the V of the Radulov name. The effect made the falcon look as if it were flying across the space, lazily swooping back and forth. It was a clever bit of coding, not sophisticated, but effective.

Raphael could pretend all he wanted, do the stiff upper lip, but he knew he was about to be the goat. If he had a brain, he’d do a runner, quit, leave, because he didn’t think what was coming was going to be pretty. He knew he wasn’t kidding anyone. He gave up pretending nonchalance and started chewing on his thumbnail.

The doors to the catwalk flew open, and Roman stepped through. Raphael found himself staring at him. He was beautifully dressed in a soft gray Savile Row suit perfectly tailored to his tall, lean body. His long black hair was swept back from his face, tied with a black cord at the base of his neck. His nose was too hawkish to allow for handsome, but it didn’t matter. He was imposing, his mere presence impressive, even without his opening his mouth. Business reporters loved him—his candor, his genius, his humility, feigned, naturally. He could charm the feathers off a lark if he was in the right mood.

He could also intimidate, scare a man to his bones if he wasn’t happy.

Roman spied Raphael standing next to the railing, his face as white as the snow that occasionally fell in North Berwick. Contrary to expectation, he smiled when he grabbed Raphael’s hand and pumped it, hard.

“Raphael, my old friend, how are you?”

“F-fine, sir. Ah, how was your flight?”

“I came up from London, so it was short. Walk with me.” They started down the catwalk, toward the main stairs and into the auditorium, where there was a stage and microphone. Raphael ignored the hundreds of workers below, even though he felt their stares, heard their murmurs.

Roman clapped Raphael on the shoulder. “I suppose you know why I’m here, don’t you?”

Here it comes. “Yes, sir, I do, and, sir, if I could just explain, tell you what’s happened—”

They were still on the catwalk, high above the auditorium, Roman’s hand square on Raphael’s back. He leaned down, whispered, “It would be so simple, Raphael, to push you over the edge. It’s a long way down. You’d have time to think about your massive failure on the way. But death would be too easy a punishment, wouldn’t it? No, you’re going to fix this mess internally, and remember my benevolence toward your egregious mistake. Aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. A moment. I have good news.”

Roman stared down at his manager, an eyebrow up. “You have found some good news in this mess?”

“Someone put a hack into the hack, and now the malware itself is infected. It stopped the attack in its tracks. No one will have to pay ransomware. It happened only an hour ago. Sir, the threat has been eliminated.”

This was a surprise. “Someone was better than Temora? You’re telling me this person made Temora pull out completely?”