Page 137 of The Killer’s Mark

Poe looked at Estelle. ‘I didn’t understand any of it. Did you?’

‘She may as well have been talking Klingon.’

‘Which I am fluent in,’ Bradshaw said.

‘And Alastor Locke didn’t ask for this software?’ Poe asked.

‘He didn’t.’

‘Then why did you …?’

‘Because synthetic media is the next cyber battleground, Poe. It’s already being used in disinformation campaigns and to undermine democracy, and it’s getting more and more sophisticated. Alastor Locke wanted a future-proof detection tool. To do that I developed next-gen synthetic media software so I had something to test it against. My detection tool is one hundred per cent accurate in identifying everybody else’s manipulated content but still struggles to detect the synthetic media I’ve developed.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying that the detection tool that can identify the Red Chamber package as synthetic won’t exist for ten years.’

‘So to all intents and purposes this is real?’

‘Yes, Poe.’

Poe said nothing. He wondered if this was the right call. This thing, this Pandora’s box, existed in a vacuum right now, but if he brought it to the exchange, it would become known. A thing to covet. Did he have the right to introduce it to the world? Did anyone?

Bradshaw saw his tortured expression. Her mouth dropped. ‘Did I do something wrong, Poe? Only you asked me to—’

‘You’ve done nothing wrong, Tilly. Nothing at all. But Alastor Locke can never get his hands on this. You know that, right? He can have your detection tool when it’s ready, but he can’t have your program.’

‘Are you worried that if we show this to the Red Chamber, we’ll start something we can’t control?’ Estelle asked. ‘We light the match that starts the forest fire?’

Poe nodded. ‘What if they call my bluff?’

‘Then we use it.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then we let the chips fall. The Red Chamber will likely be finished. And I won’t shed a single tear, Poe. And nor should you.’

‘I wouldn’t. But that’s not what’s worrying me.’

‘What is?’

‘What happens after the Red Chamber are finished. After we’ve taken the lid off Pandora’s box?’

‘Beyond our own predicament, you mean?’

Poe nodded.

Estelle considered this. ‘I don’t care,’ she said. ‘Getting Esmerée back is what’s important.’ She paused for a second. ‘But … I’m too emotionally involved. You need to decide, Poe. If you really don’t want to use this, then we’ll find another way. Maybe give Matt carte blanche. Tell him and the rest of his special forces chums to storm the castle. We’ll think about tomorrow tomorrow.’

Poe took his time answering. He couldn’t control the future. No one could, and those who tried were insane. But right now, the swimming pool of global politics could do without another shark being thrown into the shallow end. And that was what Bradshaw’s program was – a shark. And not just any shark. It wasn’t even a great white. It was a shark that could make itself look like a lifeguard. The more Poe thought about it, the more he thought Bradshaw’s program was the most dangerous thing he’d ever seen. It needed to disappear for good. On the other hand, Esmerée was a fifteen-year-old girl. She liked sausage flats and black coffee and she made him laugh. Estelle liked her. Bradshaw liked her. Edgar liked her. And that was because despite her alien hand and her foul mouth, she was eminently likeable. She was also innocent, a pawn in Océane and Vincent du Buk’s twisted game of chess.

He had two choices: do nothing, or save the girl and damn the world to the live action remake of George Orwell’s 1984. Which wasn’t really a choice at all. He said, ‘As Esmerée might say, you bet your ass we’re going to use it, Estelle. Tilly’s program is dreadful, but at this exact moment it’s our kind of dreadful.’

He turned to Bradshaw. ‘When can we expect their next call, Tilly?’

‘Assuming it’s exactly forty-eight hours after their first call, we can expect it in twenty-one hours.’

Poe nodded in approval. From getting the initial phone call, they’d worked fast and they’d worked smart. After the honey link had been established, Bradshaw had found Océane in eight minutes. Poe and Towler hadn’t bothered with umming and aahing; they’d got in the car and driven south. Worked out what to do on the way down. They’d stopped for fuel and red lights but not much else. And as soon as they’d persuaded Océane it was in her own best interests to come back north with them, they’d set off again. And because they’d been so fast, they’d bought a little bit of time. Time for Bradshaw to build the twenty-first-century equivalent of an atomic bomb. Time for Towler and his knuckle-draggers to rehearse whatever it was they were rehearsing. The only thing Poe was unsure of was …