'Bot War

By Ian J Miller

Walid Hasan has one aim in life: to make as many Americans as possible pay for the bombing of his home, and the killing of his family. James Grey, of Grey Capital, knows how to make money, but he wants more. One way is to make a massive short on a stock that will sustain a severe price drop. One way to make the price drop is to blow up major assets of the company. Grey plus Hasan is a marriage made in hell. Each need the other; Hasan to get things done, Grey to provide the means. The means involve the acquisition of an enormous number of robotic war machines, designed for the US Army.

John Maxwell wants a quieter life than that of providing security for the wealthy at a time when even law and order is being privatized. However, the experience of his company is needed to help counter the war machines, and soon he and a small team are all that stand between order and the total collapse of society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian J Miller
• Release date: Dec 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370485017

Ian J Miller

Ian J Miller was born 7th August 1942 to the son of a policeman sent to Hokitika (New Zealand) to fill vacancies due to the mass murderer Stanley Graham. Secondary education was at Ashburton High School, thence to University of Canterbury (BSc Hons1, PhD), followed by post-docs at Calgary, Southampton and Armidale. I returned to New Zealand to Chemistry Division, DSIR, to work first on lignin chemistry, then recycling, seaweed research, then hydrothermal wood liquefaction. In 1986 I left DSIR to set up Carina Chemical Laboratories Ltd, to carry out research to support the private half of a joint venture to make pyromellitates, the basis of high temperature resistant plastics. (When called to a TV program to discuss the danger of foam plastics in fires, I aimed a gas torch at the palm of my hand, protected only by a piece of foam plastic I had made shortly before. Fortunately, it worked, it glowed yellow hot, but held the heat for about half a minute.) This venture, and an associated seaweed processing venture collapsed during the late 1980s financial crisis, mostly for financial reasons. Current projects include the development of Nemidon gels (www.nemidon.co.nz/) and fuels and chemicals through the hydrothermal treatment of microalgae (www.aquaflowgroup.com/). I have written about 100 peer-reviewed scientific papers, about 35 other articles, and I was on the Editorial Board of Botanica Marina between about 1998-2008.In my first year University, following an argument with some Arts students, I was challenged to write a fictional book. I did in spare time: Gemina. I subsequently self-published a revised version, only to find publicity was forbidden as a condition of getting my finance for the pyromellitates project. Since then, I have written a few more science in fiction thriller-type novels that don't fit nicely in any category. These form a "future history", and Puppeteer is the first of one entry point.

Book preview

Foreword

Innovative accounting, clever financial manipulation, and decisive means of dealing with what you thought would be the only witness; unfortunately, the police do not see things your way. I can solve your problems, make you rich, but you will have to earn the solution. Alternatively, I could assist the police. If you are interested, go to . . .

He stared at the note. How did whoever wrote this note know about the witness? The only possibility would seem to be there had been a second witness, perhaps to his dealing with the first witness. He had two options: run or tidy up. To even consider the second option, he needed to find out who the second witness was. The only way to find out in time would seem to be to go to this meeting, and hope whoever invited him would give a clue. The odds favoured running, except he was currently not where he was supposed to be, so how had this note found him? Someone knew too much about him, and that threat, "I could assist the police," was only too clear. The question was, how big of a threat was it? How much did whoever this was know as opposed to guess? And how did he or she know it?

Perhaps that was irrelevant. As he was only too well aware, the persistent government cuts in expenditure had half-privatised the police. The money offered to the police would only lead to realistic pay for about a third of the officers needed. Many of the senior police had assisted by resigning and going private. Many of the others had taken pay cuts and moonlighted, as often as not catching up on sleep while supposedly working. As they said, they pretended to work and the force pretended to pay them. Maybe one of those had put illegal surveillance somewhere?

It did not matter. He had decided. He should see whoever wrote that note.

He arrived at the right time, in front of what appeared to be a closed down warehouse. There was nothing particularly surprising about that, for there were many closed down warehouses in this declining economy, and the invitation was unlikely to be to a church hall. He stood in front of a large roller door that was in need of repainting, and to the right there was a door that was slightly open. He pushed it further open and walked in.

Two men directly in front of him had pistols pointing towards him, and two further men were standing in the background with assault rifles. All four that he could see had brown swarthy skin and black hair, typical of those from the Middle East. They were of average height, but they were all trim, and he suspected overeating had never been an option for them. They were all dressed in loose-fitting casual clothes and training shoes.

You have an invitation?

The question surprised him, but he had brought the letter, mainly so he could recall the address, and he handed it over. The man glanced at it, holstered his gun then requested that he stand perfectly still while he was searched for weapons. The man relieved him of the pistol he had in a shoulder holster, his mobile phone, and of the knife attached to the inside of his left leg.

Pick them up when you leave, came the gruff instruction. In the meantime, you see that box-like structure over there? Go in the left door. Try for the right door and you die.

There was no point in arguing. A quick look around showed it to be essentially an empty warehouse with a heavily stained concrete floor, with heavy steel supports alongside the dust-grained walls and across the ceiling. There were benches in one corner, but there was no sign they were in current use for anything. The centre of the warehouse had been swept clean, but all sorts of rubbish littered the sidewalls. The box in the centre of the warehouse was similar to one of those small offices often seen on construction sites; offices that can be picked up and taken to the next site. It was new-looking with clean paint, and was seemingly put there simply for such interviews. He strode towards the left hand door and entered a small room with what was obviously a one-way window connecting a similar sized room that would be entered through the right hand door. There was a small table that ran up against the wall, and underneath the mirror he saw a small opening covered with a latch.

Take a seat, came a voice, clearly broadcast from the other room, but slightly muffled so as not to be immediately recognizable.

The man sat down.

Thank you for coming, said the voice. I have a proposal for you. You may accept or decline, and if you decline you will leave here unharmed. If you accept but then do not keep to your side of the bargain, I shall hand you over to my Syrians outside. Do you understand so far?

That's clear.

Good. Now, I know you have been handling the finances of an organization that is definitely operating outside the law, and the police have enough evidence against you to put you away for some serious jail time. Further, I know how you dealt with the odd person who tried to cheat you, and that would definitely be enough to put you away for a lot more jail time, and maybe get you the death sentence. Now, as it happens I approve of such methods of dealing with those who try to cheat me, and since I couldn’t care less about others, you may rest assured I hold nothing against you for that. Try to cheat me and I shall . . . But let's not go there. So, I have a proposal for you. If you decline, I shall ignore what I know, but I shall take no further steps to protect you. If you accept, I shall make the evidence that the police already have against you disappear. Do you understand so far?

How you will honour your side of the bargain if I accept?

There's a lot of corruption in the police force, and I have my means, the voice said. I accept your point but I am afraid that on this you will have to trust me. However, let me say right now that how I came to find you was through the local Police Department, so that might be comforting evidence that I have my means. Any further questions so far?

The man was clearly uncomfortable, but there seemed to be no other option. Please continue.

Good. Now, as you might guess, if you were to speak of anything in this room to anyone, I shall have you killed. Understand?

I guess what you want me to do is far from legal so no, I shall not go talking about it.

Excellent! Now, what you are going to do is to manipulate funds and launder money, and transfer money to where you are directed. You will be paid very well for this service, and you will pay with your life if you attempt to steal from me. Do you understand that?

No skimming.

Exactly! Where the money comes from is none of your business. You will probably guess, but keep your guesses to yourself. Where it goes after you hand it over is none of your concern, and you are probably better off not trying to guess. Understand?

Yes.

Good. Now if you accept my invitation, you will be contacted from time to time and instructions will be handed to you. They will come in envelopes and written on special paper such as what you will soon receive. You will follow the instructions. Most of your tasks will involve the handling of large amounts of money, but there will be times when you may have to kill someone, particularly if there is urgency, such as if you are exposed. If the matter is not urgent, you will do nothing, and leave it to my Syrians. Do you understand?

Yes.

Good. Now the time has come for you to decide. Accept my offer, or leave. You leave free from obligation, other than to keep your mouth shut. Choose.

The man thought for a moment, then said, I accept.

Excellent choice. Now, when you leave, don't bother to ask for your pistol or your phone. They are traceable, and the police have a bullet that they believe has the markings from your gun.

I still need a gun. It's –

Of course you need a gun. When you leave you will receive a brand new Glock and a box of ammunition. Now, take out your wallet, and remove anything that identifies you. Driver's licence, whatever, and pass it through the small opening in the wall.

The man was rather reluctant to do this, but he realized that with the armed men outside the box, he had little choice. The objects went through the latch, and he was careful not to try to see what was on the other side. He sat back, then the latch opened again, and a parcel came through.

Your new identity, the voice said. From now on, you will be known throughout our group, and in public, as Mr Ray Smith. The driver's licence is genuine.

The new Mr Smith opened the envelope, took out the driver's licence, and noticed it was not new, but it had a photograph of him that seemed genuine. How had whomever he was dealing with managed that?

Also there is a 'history' of you, the voice continued. A certain amount of it is true, so as to make it easier to recall. There is also a qualification certificate there, and that can be shown, but you should not let it out of your sight because that alone will not stand up to total scrutiny. It will stand up to moderate examination, because we have entered the college files and made the necessary changes, but you must realize that if somebody really starts probing, none of your class will genuinely recall you because you weren't there. I have included a small notebook where you wrote down some of the oddest things that happened. If someone starts probing, mention them, and that may get you out of it, but do not start accepting someone else's recall. Just say you'd forgotten that. But most of all –

Don't get into that sort of discussion, Smith said with a shrug.

Exactly! The voice almost beamed with pleasure, even though it was through a microphone and speaker from the other side of a wall and was muffled. I like someone who catches on quickly. Now, two envelopes will come through. One contains your instructions for your next month or so. The other contains some sustenance for that period.

The latch opened again, and a fat and a thin envelope came through. Smith took the fat one first, expecting that it would be the instructions, but instead he found it stuffed with moderately used hundred dollar bills.

Read everything at your leisure, the voice said. You may leave now. Don't forget to pick up your new weapon, and be ready also to be contacted by others at your level within the organization. These may well be Mr Brown, Mr Green, Miss Blue, or any other colour. There will also be a Mr Jones, who is also a moneyman. There will also be one Syrian who may contact you or whom you may contact, a Mr Walid Hasan. He will organize any enforcement you may need. Contact details are in the envelope. If anybody else tries to instruct you, or tries to ask for money, feel free to either kill them, or hand them over to my Syrians. I assume you understand all this.

Yes, it is clear.

Excellent. Me, you can refer to me as Mr Grey. Now, go and have a good day.

The speaker went dead, and the new Mr Smith knew only too well that sitting around would be seen as bad form. He took the envelopes, placed the one with the money inside the other, then left the box and walked confidently towards the men guarding the outer door.

Mr Smith, I am Walid, said the man who was obviously in charge. Here is a briefcase to carry your envelopes. You don't want paper falling out wherever you go.

Indeed not, Smith said, and opened the briefcase. He slipped in the envelopes, and was about to close it when Hasan's hand stopped him.

A box of nine millimetre ammunition, Hasan said and handed it to him. You might as well put it in the briefcase. And here is the promised Glock. You know how to work it?

I do.

Good. Go somewhere else, and private, before you load. If you need my services, get in touch.

I shall.

Then we shall meet again.

Insha'Allah, Smith said, and nodded.

Insha'Allah, Hasan replied, his face quite surprised at Smith's response.

* * *

Ten minutes after Mr Smith left the front door, a man emerged from the other door of the box. He was dressed immaculately in an expensive grey suit with shiny black shoes, a grey shirt, and in a concession to colour, a glistening light blue tie. He was about five foot nine tall, slightly overweight, and as a second concession to colour he had ginger hair. The absence of grey in his hair suggested this man would be about forty years old but no older, and his stance exuded confidence. As he walked away from the door, two others emerged, each carrying assault rifles. Their expressions indicated that they were bored. The grey-suited man signalled to Walid, then walked to the front door, where he exited to find a car waiting for him. He got in, and the driver took him away. The other two men sauntered to the door, looked around, then exited, to be met by another vehicle.

Meanwhile the large doors at the rear of the warehouse lifted and a large truck deck appeared and reversed into the warehouse. It stopped and three men carrying heavy chains ran towards the box. They paused, then fitted chains to ringbolts near the top of the box, then two of them climbed onto the top, after which the remaining man began passing up the chain ends, which the men on top began passing through rings fixed to a large steel plate. There was a noise, and a motor began driving a hoist along one of the horizontal beams on the ceiling. It stopped over the box and began unwinding a chain with a large hook. The hook was linked through the biggest central ring, then the hoist began lifting the box. The truck then reversed so that the office was over the truck deck, then it was lowered onto the deck and the hook removed. The other ends of the chains were now fixed to the side of the deck. With the office now securely held to the deck, the two men climbed down from the top of the office as the truck began to slowly drive out.

Thirty minutes later there was no sign this warehouse had been in use, except possibly for the cleaner area in the centre, and a slight stain of fresh oil where the truck had dripped on the ground outside the warehouse.

Chapter 1

Jocelyn Taylor stared in dismay as this clod she was supposed to protect finally got into his car. He had a meeting at 1000 hours, the shortest drive would take thirty minutes, and it was now 0925 hours. She had pleaded with him to leave at least half an hour earlier and take a somewhat longer route that she would choose. He did not want to be put out.

Time is valuable, he had insisted.

She had countered, Isn't your life?

There'll be no problem, he had said.

She had wanted to ask him why he had hired her services, but she bit her tongue. The client is always right, so they said. If he kept this up he would be dead right. She watched the car go out the main gate as she got into her car, and as soon as the client's car was on the road, she set off. She would drive about fifty meters behind. Since he was travelling on roads still used by many vehicles, he would probably be safe from bombs embedded in the road, and the vehicle's armour would save him from anything other than an artillery piece, a missile, or possibly a rocket propelled grenade.

It was a pleasant sunny day, and it had been two weeks since the last storm. They had said a long time ago that global warming would give them more and worse storms, and they had been right. However, in those two weeks, those who wanted free firewood would have cleared away the blown-down trees. Not too many things were free these days, and if anything was, it did not last.

As expected, and against her advice, the client's car was heading towards the toll-way, but then, it appeared the driver had changed his mind, and he made a sharp left turn, apparently because there were road works ahead that had closed the entry to the toll-way.

Jocelyn swore. The congenital idiot of a client had wound down the left window. What was the point of armoured glass if you wound it down!

She was about to reach for her radio when a motorcycle tore past her. As a reflex, she photographed it. The leather-clad rider with a helmet and darkened visor would never be identified, but it cost nothing.

As she turned the corner, she saw the motorcycle pull up alongside the client's car, then he threw something through the window, and accelerated away. She thought about pursuit, but thought better of it and braked. The inside of her client's car became almost incandescent, and the flaming wreck skidded into a parked truck and bounced back, ending by lying sideways across the road. She braked hard and skidded to a stop, took some thick gloves from the boot of her car and approached the burning car. She yanked on the driver's door, and fortunately it opened. She dragged the driver out and pulled him away from the vehicle. At that point the fuel from the car ignited, and any further attempts at rescue would be impossible. By now, she knew the motorcycle would be far out of sight.

The driver was alive, but was in poor condition. Two spectators arrived, and she asked them to bring as much cold water as possible and any ice they could find. She might as well try to reduce the damage from the burns as much as possible. Fortunately, the seat had absorbed the grenade fragments, and as far as she could tell, if he could survive the burns he would live. She phoned for an ambulance.

The ambulance seemed to take ages to arrive, but some helpful person had found a hose, and she was able to pour a continual stream of water over the driver, so that when the ambulance arrived, a very sodden person was loaded on.

That evening, she went to the hospital. There was nobody at reception at the time, but she checked the computer and found the room where the driver was. When she arrived, a young registrar had finished doing something and was about to leave. He told her that the good news was that while he had severe burns, he would most likely make a full recovery, thanks to her prompt water treatment. He would have some scars, but, as he remarked, scars were better than a coffin.

She sat beside the driver for several hours, then she decided to go home and get some sleep.

The following morning, she was awoken by a loud knocking on the door. She grabbed a dressing gown and looked out the window to see three policemen there, one of who looked as if he were about to knock down her door.

Hey, stop that! she yelled. If you give me a minute to get dressed, I'll be right down.

She dressed as quickly as she could, then ran down to the door and opened it to stare into the face of an overweight policeman with an uncompromising look on his face.

You're Jocelyn Taylor? he asked.

I am.

We would like you to accompany us to the station.

Any reason why? It would obviously be about the grenade event, but she could see little friendliness or sympathy, so she knew that she had to find out as much as possible as quickly as possible.

We wish to ask you some questions.

You could ask them here, if you wish.

We wish to ask them at the station.

They would. She could see from the uncompromising expression on his face, overweight policeman had made up his mind about something, and he was not trying to be friendly. Obviously, there would be difficulties ahead. It was interesting that he had not even hinted at a financial donation; either he knew she did not give them, or he was already on someone else's payroll, or both. There was little else for it. She locked up the house, and they insisted on taking her in their car. No problem in guessing why. They would not offer to drive her back when the questioning was over. This was another example of why some people should not be given any power at all, because whatever they had, they used it to make someone else miserable. Fortunately, her self-drive car was parked outside the garage.

As they were driving, she took out a phone.

Who are you phoning?

I am requesting a lawyer to be present at this interview, she replied.

The overweight police officer was anything but enthused to hear this, but he was just sufficiently bright to know that any objection from him would be trouble.

She was sat down behind a desk, her lawyer arrived, and she too was sat down. Apparently the police were determined to waste the time of both of them. The lawyer was not interested in having time wasted, though. After asking Jocelyn why she thought she was there, and being told by Jocelyn that she had no idea, she promptly got up, opened a door and called out, If someone is not here in two minutes, we are leaving.

Someone came.

You can tell your boss, the lawyer said to the junior officer who arrived, that one of three things will promptly happen. You can arrest my client, in which case be prepared for a wrongful arrest suit, and believe me, jury's tend to be generous against you lot. You can start the interview, and acknowledge that my client is here solely to be helpful and not to admire your décor, or alternatively, we can walk out of here. Your choice.

That promptly brought in the overweight officer, who was now slightly puffing.

Yes, the lawyer said in a scathing tone. Coming thirty yards in a hurry is tough on the breathing. Maybe I should recommend a fitness test be applied to you.

The officer scowled, but he did not counter. He was only too well aware that he would fail, and that would mean he could be fired.

Well, what do you want to ask my client, and why? the lawyer asked.

It is about that assassin that killed your client yesterday, he said, directing his enquiry at Jocelyn.

Yes?

He was murdered last night.

Jocelyn bit her tongue. Her natural reaction would be to say, So what? but she had a feeling that this would be more of a problem than she cared to admit. Go on, she finally said.

There was something there that indicated you were there.

Where's there? she said with a frown.

That's none of your business.

It is if you are asking my client to account for how whatever it is got there, the lawyer said. If you cannot state clearly what this evidence is, who collected it, and where it is, the court may well assume you planted it. I shall certainly point out that you have been deliberately vague that it even exists right now.

The officer ignored this, and turned towards Jocelyn and asked, Where were you last night?

Are you accusing me?

You've got the best motive, the officer sneered. Revenge.

When was this murder supposed to take place? the lawyer asked.

About ten-thirty last night, give or take a few minutes, the officer admitted.

In which case I have an alibi, Jocelyn said. I was at the hospital, watching over my driver.

I think that should be sufficient for us to leave, the lawyer said. You must check out the alibi and from the general tone of this interview, and since my client was nowhere near the scene of the crime and has no idea where the scene is, she is unlikely to be of any further assistance.

With that, she got up, and indicated that Jocelyn should follow. The officer looked a bit stunned, and simply sat there and made no attempt to stop them.

Chapter 2

Jocelyn Taylor viewed the invitation with distaste; the invitation said she had no choice if she wished to avoid the personal disaster that was descending on her. Her first thought was that it appeared that bad news travelled fast, but after a momentary pause she started to wonder whether there was more to this than met the eye.

He problem was simple. She, with a few ex-soldiers, provided protection for wealthy clients, while she personally carried out surveillance on sites chosen by wealthy clients. She was good at what she did and she knew it, however she knew only too well that sometimes she sailed rather close to the legal wind. She believed in the law, but she was also prepared to push as close as possible to the boundary without going over it. The problem was, the boundary between legal and illegal was sometimes fuzzy, and while she had never been charged with anything, she also knew the police, in their full ineptitude, intensely disliked her.

That police interview was beginning to disturb her. That policeman should be just plain lazy, yet he had pursued her vigorously, despite the fact he had no evidence that he was prepared to share. One obvious reason for the absence of convincing evidence was that she did not do it. She knew that, and she was starting to believe he knew it too. So what was going on? The most obvious answer to that was, she was being set up. The next question was, by whom? It was not as if she were short of enemies. She was only too well aware that some of her clients were despicable. Some were most likely to be very successful white-collar criminals who were strangely unsuccessful at looking after themselves. However, the fact was that in this crumbling debt-ridden economy where there was record inequality, the only way to stay afloat financially was to do something for the very rich. Do something they could not easily do and you prospered. The trouble was they ended up asking her to do things that crossed the boundaries of legality.

What to do about the invitation? Half of her said to ignore it. Just because it said, Ignore this at your peril, was not sufficient to make her comply. What was compelling was the statement that the writer could make her problems with the police go away, or become very much worse. That was what decided her. She would go, but first she would examine the location from her laptop. The ability to see in detail what was in any street was so useful to someone like her.

The target area was a warehouse in a rundown area of town, where there would be a number of such warehouses. Across the road was another, and there was no sign of activity there, although that did not mean much more than there was no activity when the image was taken. She looked at her watch; there was not a lot of time, but enough if she were quick.

She parked in the alleyway and walked to the back of the warehouse opposite to the one where she was supposed to meet whoever. As she came to the point where she could see it, she quickly scanned for surveillance cameras. There was one old model, but it appeared to be jammed in a position looking towards the adjacent property. Probably it no longer worked, and, she conceded, if the warehouse was not in use, there was little point in leaving it operational. She approached a small door on the left hand side of the building and put down the backpack she was carrying. As she suspected, the door was locked and it appeared nobody was there. The lock took little effort to open, and she slipped in, closing the door behind her. There were no signs of occupants, either now or recently, and from the general levels of dust, this warehouse had not been used for some time. She ran towards some stairs and bounded up them. There before her was a window, overlooking the front door to the other warehouse. She set up a camera to record what would be going on down there. She expected that after she left, so would those over there, and she would have their images.

After locking the side door behind her, she walked back to her car, then she drove a long route to arrive twenty meters before reaching a corner on the same side of the street as the meeting place. She did a U-turn and parked on the side of the street facing away from the corner, locked the car, reached the corner, then walked about five hundred meters towards the address given on the invitation. There was a doorway, guarded by two men with swarthy skins and dark hair. Almost certainly from the Mid-east, she thought.

You have an invitation to speak to Mr Grey, one of them said. It was hard to tell whether this was a question or a statement.

I do.

Have you any guns?

I am unarmed.

Then go in. You will see a portable office. Walk through that metal detector and go to the left hand door. Do not try to go to the right door.

Understood, she said. She entered the open doorway and noted a small house situated in the centre of the warehouse, which she mentally dubbed 'the Playhouse'. To the right were three more men who were probably also of Mid-eastern origin, and who were leaning against either the wall or a bench. One of them pointed to the door to her left. She nodded and after walking through the scanner she walked towards it. She committed as many faces as she saw to memory. Once inside, she saw a chair, a desk against the wall, and what seemed to be a one-way mirror above the desk. There was a slot between the mirror and desk, covered by a flap.

Take a seat, came the muffled voice.

Good afternoon, she said politely, just to remind whoever was speaking that there were rules of civility. Thank you, I shall.

Thank you for coming, said the voice. No good afternoon from him.

Your invitation left little choice, she said and deliberately shrugged her shoulders so the person on the other side of the one-way window would see she was unconcerned. You presumably want something?

I have a proposal for you. You may accept or decline –

Then let's hear the proposal, she interrupted. My time is money for me.

Yes it is, so you should stop interrupting. She had apparently touched a raw nerve. He did not like being ordered. Something to remember. First, there are rules. I want you to promise that what is said in this room remains private.

That is acceptable and I promise. I always maintain confidentiality and I keep my promises. What she did not say was that the promise did not apply to whatever happened outside the room.

Good. I shall hold you to that.

So, what happens if I decline your proposal?

I think you will accept. While you did not actually murder that assassin, the evidence against you is very strong, and it could well get stronger.

I have an alibi, she countered.

You had an alibi. The registrar who could provide it may well not remember you. I can make it worth his while to have a memory lapse.

In which case it is as yet unclear what happens if I accept. If I still face that threat, what's the point? She was now struggling not to show signs of concern. Only the police and her lawyer knew she had claimed an alibi, and it was not public knowledge that she was of interest, or for that matter that the assassin was even dead.

The evidence against you will disappear. After all, it is far from being true, the alibi can be reinforced, and the actual evidence can be looked at again and reinterpreted, more correctly this time.

And when will this happen?

Excellent question. As soon as you commit.

The you had better explain what you want?

I want to hire you to do what you usually do. Check security vulnerabilities at certain sites, and check the honesty or otherwise of certain individuals.

Jocelyn frowned. But that is what I usually do, she said. You could have come to my office and hired me without all these theatrics and threats.

Of course I could, came the response, "but you would not necessarily agree. This way has two advantages to me. First, I am showing you that I