Stop Looking Read online

  A C Praat

  Stop Looking

  Sequel to The Empathy Code

  First published by WordPlay Wellington 2019

  Copyright © 2019 by A C Praat

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  A C Praat asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Cover design by Rachel Stevens

  Printed by www.yourbooks.co.nz

  All paper stocks used in the production of this book were sourced from sustainably managed forests.

  This book uses New Zealand English spelling.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-0-473-47672-4

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  For Marc, Theo and Luca

  ONE

  Flight Lieutenant Brett Nielsen studied the rigid, black briefcase resting on the desk between him and his boss, Group Captain Hebden, at the Royal Australian Air Force base in Adelaide. He could feel Hebden assessing him, prodding him through those rimless glasses, but he wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  Brett had a fair idea of what was in the briefcase. What he couldn’t get his head around was what Hebden wanted him to do with it. Was it part of his official duties or, once again, some shady, personal quest on Hebden’s behalf?

  ‘You can’t kill a dead man, Nielsen.’

  Fuck! Hebden really had lost it. Too long near the top had given him a God complex.

  ‘Thumbs on the latches, eyes on the handle,’ Hebden instructed.

  A tiny red light embedded in the plastic handle told Brett his face was being scanned. No doubt his thumbs were being scanned as well. So Hebden had already fed Brett’s identifying signatures into the security system on the case. Cocky bastard. Figured he had Brett in his pocket.

  An almost imperceptible click signaled the briefcase was unlocked. Brett pulled it closer to the edge of the desk and opened it. Eight robotic bees – black and yellow, with squared-off wings, and bodies the size of .303 bullets – were cocooned in individual plastic stations. A frisson of goose-bumps prickled over Brett’s neck and shoulders and reached into his scalp. They’d done it. All that talk about pollination in the media had been a cover up.

  Solar arrays edged two sides of the platform while the third side, closest to the handle, sported USB ports. Alongside the hinges at the top, a smartphone lay in its own plastic mould.

  It wasn’t a swarm. But perhaps just as deadly.

  ‘The beta version. First time they will be deployed outside controlled conditions,’ said Hebden.

  ‘And you want me–’

  ‘To do the honors, yes. You will take a commercial flight to Auckland and then drive on to collect the briefcase from the RNZAF base at Whenuapai.’

  ‘New Zealand?’

  Hebden raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve followed the investigation, Nielsen. That seems the most likely destination for Templeton, if he’s still alive.’

  But New Zealand was an ally. You didn’t beta-test new lethal technologies on your ally’s territory, not without them knowing. And you certainly didn’t conduct covert operations, even if the target wasn’t a local.

  ‘Do the Kiwis know what it contains?’

  Hebden glared.

  Brett took that as a no. ‘And the payload?’

  Hebden leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms above his head, revealing sweat marks in the pits of his pale-blue shirt, and continued to glare at Brett.

  Not good enough, Brett thought. Nothing about his interactions with Philip Templeton had ever been satisfactorily explained. Four months ago he had agreed to be Templeton’s flatmate – in effect a spy – at Hebden’s request. You didn’t get promotions if the bosses were against you. Hebden said Templeton was a civilian coder brought in to work on a classified project – and needed some casual observation. But that was all he’d said. Brett had worked out the rest for himself.

  Brett peered at the tiny robots in the briefcase.

  The international community was still debating the legality – no, more than that: the morality – of robots that could identify targets, independent of human controllers, and then decide to kill them. And here he was with the proof that the ADF had ploughed ahead, despite the furore caused by Templeton leaking the code for the virtual prototype. Queasy, that’s how he felt. He glanced at his boss. Hebden probably assumed Brett thought like he did – that you didn’t need a human in the loop to decide whether to take out a target.

  But Hebden was wrong. Brett was nothing like him.

  In the months that Brett had flatted with Templeton – Philip, as he thought of him privately – he’d developed a strong dislike for him: his implacable routines, his rudeness, his belief that Brett had deliberately killed his dog. But that didn’t mean he wanted him dead. Brett would never have credited Philip with the balls to leak the project, but he’d been wrong. Now the stink of it clung to Brett, shown by the furtive glances thrown his way when he walked around the base – some pitying, some triumphant, depending on whether they were mates or not. And he’d heard the rumors about how he’d stuffed things up with Philip, how the leak was his fault.

  Hebden was regarding the bees with a satisfied sneer; he’d taken a personal interest in the so-called entomology project, and the public leak had caused a shitstorm for him and for the ADF. Brett suppressed a shudder. Killing for his country was his job. Killing for his boss because of a personal vendetta – that was murder. So which was this? The risk of the proposed mission seemed disproportionate to the payoff.

  ‘This mission –’ Brett started.

  ‘It’s an order, Nielsen.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘There is more at stake here than you know, or than I can tell you. You have your orders.’

  Brett shut the briefcase. More at stake than Hebden could tell him, or more than he was prepared to? Did it matter which? He couldn’t countermand a superior officer. ‘Your press release will lead the public to believe Templeton’s dead and you’re winding down the investigation.’

  ‘Did you see him get onto that yacht?’

  Brett sighed as he silently replayed that day at the marina in Adelaide, the last time he’d seen Philip alive. Philip and his friend had been at the end of the pier, loading the yacht. A gust of wind had billowed the sail of a boat moored between Brett and his targets. In the time it had taken for the sail to be reeled in, Philip had disappeared. ‘I don’t know where else he could have got to in that time.’

  ‘He wasn’t on board at Sydney. Left all his personal effects with the girlfriend. No further contact. No activity in his bank accounts. It’s a reasonably compelling case.’

  ‘And yet here we are.’

  ‘Better to be sure, Nielsen. Roberts isn’t convinced. That could be denial of course – grief. It’s understandable. But we can’t afford to have loose ends. The project must proceed.’

  Brett’s gaze dipped again to the briefcase. The project was proceeding. What harm could Philip possibly do if he was still alive? He was a fugitive. And Roberts was Hebden’s friend. How could Hebden order the killing of his friend’s only child?

  There was a term for people like Hebden: psychopath.

  ‘Follow the girl. That’s what Roberts is planni
ng.’

  That made sense. If Philip was going to try and contact anyone, it would be his girlfriend, Mishra. And she was off to New Zealand for the summer term for a sabbatical. The trip had been planned well before Philip leaked the code and then disappeared. That much they’d learned from the officers investigating the leak.

  Bloody Mishra. Smart, lippy, and gorgeous in her short, curvy way. Why she’d fallen for Philip he’d never understand. Following her would be a pleasure. If only they were on the same side – they were never on the same side.

  ‘Once you’ve landed you’ll be on your own,’ Hebden said. ‘Understood?’

  Brett nodded and clasped the handle of the briefcase, but Hebden shook his head.

  ‘Leave it. You’ll have training and instructions every day before you go at the end of the week.’ His lips curled briefly, then resumed their habitual thin, grey line.

  A smile? Brett shuddered. Hebden’s smiles were rare, and they emphasised rather than softened his snake-like demeanor.

  For now, Hebden had won. ‘Sir.’ Brett stood and saluted. He’d go to New Zealand and pick up the briefcase. But after that it was all down to him. So many things could happen in the field. What he’d do if he ever found Philip he couldn’t say.

  Not yet.

  TWO

  Late Thursday afternoon Brett was attending his final training session with the robots. Not that the Professor had allowed him to handle them much. Just enough so he knew how to get them out of their moulds, and then back into the case without a) damaging them or b) killing himself. The key was to use the plastic tweezers around the abdomen if for some reason the bees alighted awkwardly.

  ‘Treat them all as having a payload.’ That was the Professor’s refrain.

  Brett wasn’t sure if the Professor was military or civilian. He sweated a lot, using a crisp white handkerchief – which he produced from the breast pocket of his business shirt – to rub his balding pate and mop around his eyes and ears. Didn’t sound like an Aussie either – something clipped and northern European that was difficult to pin down. Brett called him ‘Sir’ and left it at that. The Professor wasn’t forthcoming with any personal details, though Brett had probed a few times.

  Right now the Professor was running his finger around his shirt collar. The air-conditioning in Hebden’s office was on the blink. This had the advantage of eliminating the annoying hum that usually accompanied Brett’s visits, but the air was hot and close. Made more so by the shuttered blinds. Security was paramount.

  In the week of instruction with the Professor, Brett’s main distractions from all the technical detail about the bees were two: did this man know Philip? And which of the bees was carrying the payload?

  Philip had been part of the team developing the bees so he must have worked with the Professor. How would this guy feel if he knew that Philip was the target for the bees’ maiden run? Was he pissed that Philip had exposed the project – or was he proceeding with a clear conscience, knowing that the world had been alerted to the military potential?

  ‘The team must be pretty excited,’ Brett said.

  The Professor swept his handkerchief around his eyes, then replaced his glasses. ‘I’m not sure they’re aware …’

  Brett nodded. It was easy to believe the rest of the team wouldn’t be clued into this mission.

  ‘Do you know how they will be deployed?’ The Professor pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, clearly uncomfortable with asking. ‘I mean who …?’

  If the Professor didn’t know who the target was, then who had programmed in the relevant detail?

  ‘I have my instructions,’ Brett said.

  A curt nod signaled the Professor knew Brett wasn’t going to tell him, and the conversation was closed.

  ‘And you’re not going to tell me which one has the payload? Or what it is?’

  ‘I too have my instructions.’

  Brett studied the Professor and the Professor stared back. The eye contact held a challenge, or maybe a promise: I’ll tell if you will.

  Brett was so tempted. It would increase his personal safety to know which of the bees held the payload and it would give him scope for selectively deploying them. Already he was scheming about how he could test them without drawing on their deadly capability. There must be value in the boffins knowing that, yes, they did disperse, and yes, they did cluster around the intended target. Or, if the target wasn’t located, that yes, they did return to base to recharge.

  The Professor dropped his gaze first.

  He wasn’t going to tell.

  And neither was Brett. He was a professional, wasn’t he? And professionals didn’t blab about their missions.

  The Professor closed the briefcase. ‘So, we review, yes? We start with the capability.’

  Brett suppressed a bored sigh. There was no documentation. Everything he needed to know he’d have to remember. And the Professor was nothing if not thorough. ‘Each bee has their own unique sensing capability: visual, odor, heart-rate, or metal detection. They communicate with each other via Bluetooth and through visual detection. More than one bee must confirm the identity of the target before the killer bee is deployed. Each bee has some capability for self-defense – just like normal bees – in case of capture.’

  The Professor was nodding. ‘Good.’

  Brett had been prepared for the visual and even the odor sensor, but the metal detection and heartrate sensor had thrown him. The metal detection depended on the magnetic field generated by items worn by the target. Something the Professor had called ‘phase shift’ created a unique signature for different metals, allowing the detector to accurately identify what was being worn. Philip’s father had lent the investigation his own antique Celtic cross – a twin of the one worn by Philip – to help find Philip after he disappeared. He could never have guessed the use to which that information was now being put. The institute itself had Philip’s heartbeat signature – they’d used their staff to help them develop the algorithms that identified each heart’s unique rhythm. Brett shuddered.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘I need to get close enough to the target to be in range for the bees.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Half an hour fly time.’

  ‘Security?’

  ‘Bluetooth can be hacked. Implications: turn it off when not in use. Use it preferably when the target is isolated.’

  Of course, someone could steal the whole briefcase. Not much use unless they also had Brett’s thumbs and eyes …

  ‘This is not so likely. We use a small range –’

  ‘Understood, Professor.’ He didn’t want another lecture on bandwidths, frequencies, blah, blah, blah.

  ‘And the heartrate?’

  ‘Infrared can be disturbed by weather, light and dust.’

  The Professor nodded and stood up. It was Brett’s last chance to ask which of the bees was deadly.

  ‘Sir?’

  The Professor narrowed his eyes at Brett.

  ‘Which bee? I mean, from a personal safety point of view.’

  The Professor’s head dropped, and he sighed. ‘Treat them all as if they were deadly.’ Then he scanned right and left around the office, his gaze resting briefly on the computer, the briefcase, the pictures of old planes on the walls, and finally a photo of Hebden in his dress uniform with the Chief of Airforce who out-gilded him with his brace of metals pinned to his chest – but not by much.

  Brett had wondered if the office was bugged – a precaution against something passing between the Professor and himself. The Professor clearly thought the same.

  He stood up and offered the Professor his hand. ‘I’m sure Group Captain Hebden will keep you abreast of progress, sir.’

  A wry smile crossed the Professor’s face as he shook Brett’s hand. ‘Perhaps. Be sure to test the security settings before you leave, Flight Lieutenant.’

  Brett frowned. An odd instruction. ‘Yes, sir.’

  The Professor left the room
. Brett pressed his thumbs against the case and stared at the handle. The case clicked and Brett pried it open. A square of white paper, smaller than a ten-cent coin, lay on the screen of the handset. That hadn’t been there before. Brett pocketed it just as Hebden entered.

  Hebden eyed the open briefcase, then dropped the lid to secure it. ‘All set, Nielsen?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You’re on the 06.35 flight tomorrow morning, I believe. Good luck.’ Hebden held out his hand.

  Brett grasped it and imagined thirty pieces of silver crossing his palm. He wiped his hands on the trousers of his uniform as soon as he was shot of the door. The only good thing about the mission was that he wouldn’t have so much intimate contact with Hebden.

  Brett waited until he was inside his own car, a beat-up Ford emitting the comforting smell of bananas and sports shoes, before he picked the scrap of paper from his pocket. His gaze flitted around the carpark, which was emptying out as the working day drew to a close. No one was paying him any attention. The note contained one word: weight.

  THREE

  Mishra McKenzie placed a mug of coffee in front of Catherine Templeton, the mother of her dead boyfriend, and dropped onto the dining chair next to her. They’d been warned about the press release, had had time – a day – to grasp what it meant. Yet the tablet lay untouched on Mishra’s dining table, locked onto the ABC’s homepage, as if the single tap of a fingertip could obliterate life as they knew it. As if that hadn’t happened already.

  She searched Catherine’s face for glimpses of Philip. It was a daily ritual she’d practiced soon after meeting her at Adelaide International Airport just over a month ago. While there was still hope Catherine’s face had been animated – catching onto one false thread, only to have it cut away, then grabbing the next. Philip had rarely been so expressive, but he shared his mother’s slate-blue eyes and wavy blond hair.

  Catherine’s was grey at the roots now and her face was hollowed out. ‘I don’t understand why they’ve stopped looking.’