The young man's fingers moved furiously over the keyboard, hammering away at it before pausing briefly every few minutes only to return with new determination. His face was impassive, his eyes scanning everything on the screen, searching for anything that would alert him to his target. There; 'Lazarey, A', sub-folder: 'Lazerey, J.'
Too easy. For an international terrorist organization they were pretty ignorant when it came to high-level security.
His fingers tapped the mouse, opening the folder. The screen filled with numbers and letters, evidently jumbled and making no logical sense.
Well, kudos to them. They actually coded their files. Shame its not too helpful when the enemy already has it; codes can be broken.
Copying the file to a disk the figure stole a look over his shoulder, through a doorway that revealed a beautiful woman sprawled asleep on a leather couch, a blanket draped over her only covering half her person and long dark hair that cascaded over the arm of the sofa. The man didn't let his eyes linger, or appreciate the sight but returned his eyes immediately to the screen.
It seems we have a little time on our hands.
This time the fingers type the word 'S', this time lazily, with no concern for time or a predetermined agenda and no sooner had they pressed enter a whole page of files appeared, the names of which all contained a capital 's'. One of the man's eyebrows raised in an expression of curiosity. He clicked on the file, his face falling momentarily when he realized that it too was coded.
Maybe I've not given them enough credit. Separate folders for J. Lazeray and Mr Sark. Clever people.
With a click of the mouse he had closed the folder and saved it to the same disk as before. He was about to close the screen down when the man's alert eyes caught something else. 'Bristow, S,' sub-folder: 'Thorne, J'. At that moment a small moan came from the room behind him. In a series of uncannily quick moves the man saved that folder to his disk, wiped the keyboard memory he just knew would be installed and re-connected the computer to the network, disabling the dummy system he had activated. He turned off the screen and removed the disk. Flipping open his phone he spoke into it, "Understood ... yes ... three days ... I'll be in contact soon." The click of the closing phone resounded through the room and he made his way back to the woman sprawled on the couch. Her lilting French accent sounded heavy with sleep,
"Sark? What are you doing?" He strolled confidently towards her, "Just had to take a call, love."
"Well come back to bed." The man obliged, slipping the disk into his jacket pocked as he settled beside her. He was glad that she hadn't noticed that his phone was off.
Whoever said fucking the boss' daughter was a mistake, was so very, very wrong.