Chapter 1

The head of security was regarding her with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, but Holly McCabe was used to that. Most people considered computer specialists to be a strange bunch under any circumstances, but a computer specialist with a name like "Holly" was certainly worth a good long stare. And that was before they saw a level of security clearance that could open some of the most heavily guarded doors in the country. On seeing her pass, the uniformed official back at the gate of ARC Defence had only just stopped himself from saluting.

Peterson, the head of security, was made of stronger stuff. He examined her papers minutely, as if willing them to reveal some discrepancy. He had a deep mistrust of the banks of humming machines in the basement that were supposedly making immensely complex calculations based on the research done within ARC. He was even more unhappy about the vast spools of punched yellow paper tape which allegedly stored all the resulting data. He had no idea how a strip of paper with little holes in could contain any information at all – unless you unrolled the thing and wrote on it. And if he didn't understand it, how could he adequately protect it?

"What exactly is it that you're here to do, Miss McCabe?" he enquired, ignoring the small inner voice that told him he would almost certainly not understand the answer.

"I'm upgrading your data storage," she replied, "transferring everything only floppy disks." Peterson manfully tried to hide his incomprehension but the blank look must have reached his face, because from her briefcase the girl produced a square envelope, about five inches to a side. She waggled it gently in front of him.

"Floppy disks, Mr Peterson. They're the future. One of these can contain as much data as thousands of feet of your paper tape." Holly was used to the sceptical look Peterson gave her. It was the same with any new technology – it took people time to adjust, to accept even if they couldn't understand. Only recently, she had asked a client to send her a copy of a disk that had been causing him problems. A few days later, she received a sheet of paper – he'd put the disk in the photocopier and sent her its picture. He did better with his second attempt, successfully transferring the data onto a new disk and posting it to her. Unfortunately, in order to fit the floppy into the envelope he'd folded it in half. And stapled it to a compliments slip.

Normally these reflections would have prompted a grin as Holly waited for Peterson to complete his checking. Today however, she was impatient to get on with the task ahead. Only when she had passed security, and a uniformed guard had escorted her through a number of locked doors to the computer room in the basement, did she allow herself a small smile of satisfaction. As she set up the equipment she needed to copy the data, the smile remained on her lips – but somehow it never reached her eyes.

Two miles away, in the damp, windowless bathroom of a semi-derelict flat, the real Holly McCabe was determined not to cry. Under the circumstances she felt it was a negligible distance from shedding a few tears to a fully-fledged meltdown, and she couldn't do that right now. Then again, as she sat with her back to the cold radiator, her right arm hugging her knees to her chest, her left handcuffed to the sturdy pipe that ran along the skirting board, she reflected that maybe a fully-fledged meltdown was exactly what the situation demanded. With the cloying, sweet smell of the chloroform still on her face, she resolved not to give them the satisfaction.

The men who had left her there a few hours or a lifetime ago could not have been more contrasting. The older of the two had politely introduced himself as Mr Jacobs: a grey-faced, grey-suited bank manager of a man, instantly forgettable unless you detected the air of quiet menace that any bank manager would be proud to cultivate. There would be no exceeding of overdrafts in his branch. His "colleague, Mr Kendal," as Jacobs referred to him, was perhaps twenty, wiry and scruffy, and looked about as stable as the economy of a small central African republic.

Jacobs had calmly requested the details of Holly's security clearance at ARC. His polite, conversational manner suggested that the wire cutters with which Kendal was lightly gripping one of her fingers were wholly irrelevant to their discussion. Taking one look at Kendal's narrow, pockmarked face, Holly answered fully and without hesitation. The younger man didn't bother to conceal his disappointment that no persuasion had been required. His eyes never leaving hers, he folded the jaws of the silver cutters back inside their handle and slid the tool lovingly into his jeans pocket, patting the resultant bulge in a wholly unnecessary reminder that they were available whenever needed.

It took little imagination to work out what they would be doing with her unrestricted access to ARC's research data. She hated to think of the value of that information in the wrong hands, but that was not her most pressing concern. In fact, even Kendal and his wire cutters didn't make the very top of the list. Right now, these men needed her in case they ran into an issue requiring further details that only she could supply. But once the data had been stolen, she was no longer of use to them. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Holly McCabe hugged her knees more tightly. She tasted salt on her lips, and realised that in spite of her efforts, the forbidden tears were rolling down her face.

At 5.30pm in another windowless room, the woman who was not Holly McCabe checked over her shoulder before removing the lining from her briefcase. She attached the floppies she had made to the inside of the lid, carefully smoothed the fabric back into position and closed the case. Transferring all the data they wanted would take another day or two, but as one of ARC's security men courteously escorted her from the premises without even bothering to search her, she saw no reason why that should pose a problem.

The look that George Cowley gave his secretary would have melted the face of a lesser woman. But after three years of working for the head of CI5, Betty merely raised a polite eyebrow and repeated her unwelcome message.

"I'm sorry, sir – she went to Swindon yesterday morning and she'll be there at least until the end of the week. Something to do with data transfer at ARC Defence."

Cowley was a great believer in computers. He considered it highly likely that in the future, even the larger regional police forces would have one. But when there was a problem with the machines at CI5, Holly McCabe was the only person he trusted to sort it out. It was damned inconvenient for her to be tied up on some other job.

"Ach, data transfer can hardly be urgent. Did you call ARC?" he snapped.

"Of course." Betty kept the reproach from her tone. "I tried to speak to Miss McCabe directly, but apparently she couldn't be disturbed."

"They wouldn't let you speak to her?"

"It was Miss McCabe's request. They sent someone to bring her to the phone but apparently she asked them to take a message."

"Get them back on the line – and put it through to me." The look on Cowley's face as he put on his heavy framed spectacles and reached for the phone did not bode well for anyone who got in his way. It was considerably more thunderous by the time he finally managed to get through to McCabe herself.

"Hello? Who is this?" Even from those few words, Cowley detected a problem. He had met McCabe a couple of times, and spoken on the phone a few more. He was self-aware enough to know that her soft Edinburgh inflections were a tiny part of why he trusted her. His instinct for trouble flared into life.

"Is that Holly McCabe?"

"Yes, that's me," said a voice with flat London vowels. "What do you want?"

"I was wondering when you might be free to come and resolve a problem for me," he replied smoothly.

"I'll be here in Swindon for the rest of this week. My office could have told you that." There was a hint of asperity in the voice.

"Of course. I'll make arrangements with them. Sorry to have troubled you." Cowley hung up, a frown creasing his already craggy features. He pressed the intercom and spoke to Betty.

"I need ARC again. Get me the managing director."