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  As a social engineer, he had become so used to lying about himself that he had never given it a second thought. Also, there was the fact that, under his online persona as Fingal, he was on the wanted list of some of some of the world’s most nefarious cyber-gangs, many of which were backed by the Russian mafia. They would exact a terrible revenge if they somehow tracked Fingal down in the real world. Not only would Brody be at risk, but so would those close to him.

  But Brody had already upset Mel enough. He didn’t want add salt to her wounds.

  Instead, he played his trump card, hoping it would be enough.

  “It is because I am a hacker that I was able to get hold of this,” he pointed to the USB stick laying on the table. “I hacked into HTL and obtained this footage. Footage you and your friends can put to good use. Partly, I did it in the vain hope that it might begin to make up for the last two months. But most of all I did it to prove how much I —”

  “— enough.” Mel held up her hand to silence him and hastily stood, her chair toppling backwards. It clattered to the floor, causing other diners to glance in their direction. With tears falling she stated with complete finality, “I don’t want to ’ear any more of your lies, Brody. Maybe. And I’m not sure about this. But maybe somewhere in there,” she indicated his body, top to toe, “is a good person trying to get out. But you are a manipulating cheat and a compulsive liar, Brody Taylor. You ’ave the morals of an alley cat. I ’ave never been so betrayed.”

  Mel turned and bolted out of the restaurant.

  Numbly, Brody watched her leave, knowing all was lost.

  Only hours later did Brody recall that he’d left the USB stick behind, lying on the restaurant table, ready for anyone to stumble across.

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Social Engineer is a prequel to Invasion of Privacy, but was actually written after its successor. My objective was to introduce the world to Brody Taylor, the elite hacker protagonist of Invasion of Privacy, in a short, accessible, standalone adventure. It’s often hard for readers invest their time and money and take a chance on an unknown debut author and so I hope that this novella has intrigued you enough to want to take that chance now, by choosing to read Invasion of Privacy. And its future sequels.

  Although, I have self-published Social Engineer, there is still a team of people around me who have made the result incredibly professional. I’d like to thank my editor, Bryony Sutherland (no relation!) for improving the manuscript immensely and Peter O’Connor of bespokebookcovers.com who designed the fantastic cover. Then there’s my wife, Cheryl, and daughters, Laura and Raquel, who fill my life completely, (and also double up fantastic proof readers). Thank you all.

  Now read the beginning of the next Deep Web Thriller by Ian Sutherland, the first full-length novel featuring Brody Taylor.

  Invasion of Privacy

  Brody is an elite computer hacker who specialises in targeting the weakest link in all computer systems: the people who use them. But when he inadvertently stumbles across a serial killer’s online hunting ground while trying to hack a highly-secure illegal website, he becomes caught up in a desperate race against time to uncover the killer’s identity.

  Jenny, a DI in the Met Police, is baffled by the brutal rape and murder of a young woman lured to a bogus music audition in a corporate office meeting room. Why her? Why here? And how did the killer discover the intimate and personal details necessary to construct such a convincing trap?

  As computer hacker and police detective embark on an uncomfortable collaboration, another unsuspecting victim is lured to her death . . .

  CHAPTER 1

  Anna Parker wished she’d paid attention to the doubts buried deep in her mind. That they’d put two fingers in each cheek and whistled. Cried foul. Screamed. Anything to have made her listen to sense. To have helped her see through the charade. For she now knew that’s all it was — an elaborate sham that had lured her to this abrupt ending.

  “What will you play?” the man named William Webber had asked ten minutes before, when the three-day old illusion was still in full swing and Anna was completely oblivious.

  “Elgar’s Concerto in E-Minor,” she replied. Her voice cracked as she spoke, her nervousness sneaking past her lips, betraying the confident image she hoped to portray. She inhaled deeply, knowing from other auditions that this would help calm her nerves.

  “Please begin when you are ready,” Webber said.

  She sat on a lonely chair in the centre of the meeting room, her cello propped on its endpin, the neck resting reassuringly on her shoulder. Anna looked around. Desks lined the edges in a large horseshoe shape. Webber sat cross-legged at the head of the room, in front of an imposing wall-to-wall whiteboard. Overhead a huge projector was suspended from the ceiling. In one corner a sprawling fake plastic plant bestowed upon the insipid space a pretence of life. Anna glanced through the window that spanned the length of one wall. In the distance, she could just see the London Eye slowly rotating, each glass pod packed full of tourists.

  Bravely, she gave voice to her concerns. “This is an odd place to hold an audition?”

  His eyes flashed briefly. Annoyance perhaps? But then he fingered his beard, offering an air of contemplation.

  “Yes, I suppose it is,” he smiled tightly. “But the acoustics are good enough for our purposes. Please begin.”

  Anna wasn’t sure she concurred. A meeting room in an office building wasn’t exactly designed for musical recitals. But the environment was only half of what had been bothering her.

  “From your email, I thought someone from the ROH would be here?”

  Webber paused, considering her question.

  The email inviting Anna to audition for a place in the Orchestra of the Royal Opera House had arrived in her inbox three days ago. It explained that she had been selected for audition on the recommendation of Jake Symmonds, one of the viola professors at Trinity Laban Conservatoire of Music and Dance, where she studied cello. Although Anna wasn’t taught by Jake she knew who he was. She briefly considered that perhaps the email was a prank by one of her four student housemates, all of whom knew it was her dream to play professionally. She dismissed this thought — surely her friends wouldn’t be so cruel. No, it was just a straightforward email with a potentially life-changing offer.

  Anna’s flattered ego soon took over, suppressing her doubts. Of course it was standard practice, she reasoned, for the Royal Opera House Orchestra to consult one of London’s leading musical conservatoires as to which of its students to audition. Of course it was normal, she convinced herself, for a viola professor she’d never met to know of her virtuosity as a cellist. Teachers discussed their students with each other all the time, didn’t they? Of course it was fair — no, more than that — it was fitting for Anna to be given the chance to fulfil her lifelong dream of playing in a professional orchestra years ahead of her peers.

  After a few minutes of consternation — or maybe it had been only a few seconds — she embraced the email for what it was: an official invitation to audition for one of the most prestigious orchestras in the country. She felt the excitement build in her and, like a dam made of matchsticks, it quickly burst. With tears cascading happily down her cheeks she jumped up and down on her mattress, screaming for joy, just as she had done one Christmas Day morning years before, when Santa had left an exquisitely laminated maple cello at the foot of her bed.

  “As I said to you in the lift on the way up, Miss Parker,” Webber responded, “I’m simply the first round. An initial screening, so to speak.”

  “But —”

  “Put it this way. Impress me today, and next Tuesday you’ll be in the ROH at Covent Garden for the final stage of the audition.”

  Anna paused for a moment and allowed his words to sink in. She imagined herself in the orchestra pit, tuned and ready for the conductor to lift his baton, the ballet dancers waiting in the wings, the audience hushing, and finally, the curtains opening. It was a delic
ious image and she desperately wanted it to happen. To happen to her: the cellist who had evolved from that little girl with the best ever Christmas present. The girl who had worked so hard, first learning the basics — bowing, rhythm, and reading notes — and, in time, attempting to recreate euphonic perfection. Countless hours of solitary practice. Daily sacrifices. A childhood spent observing her school friends through the living room window playing forty-forty, kerbie and later, kiss-chase, while she practised her scales over and over, her bow movements across the strings becoming autonomic as muscle memory took over, the melodies becoming more complex and harmonious.

  Anna forced a smile onto her face. “Okay then. I’ll do my best.”

  He nodded. “Whenever you’re ready, Anna.”

  She took two more deep breaths, drew back the bow and launched into the concerto, her favourite piece. The music, as Elgar had planned, came slowly and hauntingly at first. Within a few bars she was lost to the stately rhythm of her part. Webber disappeared from her thoughts, even though she could see him immediately opposite her. It was as if someone else was observing him through her eyes, so lost was she in the music.

  Webber began to wave his arms as if conducting her. Although his timing was slightly out, he became quite animated, his eyes closing in rapture.

  Anna, too, closed her eyes and within a few bars, had completely surrendered herself to the magnificent piece. She felt as though she was achieving a level of grace that she knew was denied her in any other aspect of her life. The bow in her right hand elegantly flew left and right over the strings. Her left hand moved up and down the fingerboard, rapidly depressing the strings, the positions fluent and clear, each note perfect.

  She reached the final crescendo with a flourish. She knew that she had never played better and that Tuesday would see her in Covent Garden. A bead of sweat trickled down her back. She opened her eyes, smiling expectantly.

  Webber was nowhere to be seen.

  She swivelled on the chair, scanning the room in panic. He was right behind her, one arm raised high, holding what looked like a large dagger, a maniacal grin spread across his face.

  Uncomprehending, she asked, “What are you . . .”

  Webber rapidly swung his arm downwards, twisting his wrist at the last second to cause the solid base of the dagger’s handle to strike Anna cruelly across the side of her face. Her head exploded in pain, whiteness obscuring her vision. She dropped to the floor. Her cello and bow fell from her hands, clattering on top of her, numbed notes emitting from the instrument’s strings as it fell to the floor beside her. Alongside the pain Anna instantly became nauseous, as if she’d downed too much tequila too quickly. Tears streamed from her eyes, mingling with the blood oozing from a gash on her cheek. She covered her head with her hands and crunched into a foetal position.

  The image of Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, her favourite movie as a child, flickered into her mind. She saw Dorothy holding back the curtain, exposing the charlatan behind the illusion, and accusing him of being a very bad man.

  Anna forced her heavy lids to open. Her own version of a very bad man was leaning down towards her, the point of his gleaming dagger held out in front of him, the illusion he had held her in for three days now completely shattered. She glimpsed past the sharp point and into Webber’s eyes — black, lustful and full of malicious intent — and saw her death in them.

  Fathoming that she had just given her final performance, yet oddly grateful to have played so perfectly, Anna felt her eyelids droop again as she allowed herself to drift towards welcome blackness.

  CHAPTER 2

  “I’m here for a 9:00 a.m. interview with Richard Wilkie. My name is Brody Taylor.”

  The pudgy receptionist pushed her glasses further up the bridge of her nose and checked her computer screen. She squinted in confusion.

  “We don’t have a Mr Wilkie based in this office.”

  “Yes, sorry. It’s a video interview. He’s calling in from Dubai.”

  “Ah, I see. Yes, here you are. The ground floor video conferencing suite is booked for you, Mr Taylor.”

  The receptionist printed off a security pass, pressed a button to open the gate, allowed him to pass through and escorted him to a meeting room labelled ‘VC1’. She pushed open the door and allowed him to enter.

  Impressive. She was efficient and security conscious. It made a pleasant change.

  “When Mr Wilkie dials in, it should answer automatically. Is there anything I can get you? Tea, coffee perhaps?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Brody gave his best sheepish smile. “Maybe you could just wish me luck?”

  She smiled obligingly. “Good luck, Mr Taylor.” She shut the door behind her.

  Brody quickly surveyed the room. An oval board table took up the length of the room, but looked like it had been cut in half lengthways, with six black leather seats on the curved side facing onto a massive elongated video screen, actually made up of three widescreen monitors placed side-by-side. Above the centre screen was a unit housing three cameras angled to capture two seats each. Brody knew from experience that when the Cisco TelePresence system activated, the screens would display a similarly furnished room located somewhere else in the world, giving both parties the optical illusion of one complete boardroom.

  Brody dropped his leather laptop case on the table and rummaged around inside. He removed his tablet computer and placed it in front of him, flipping it open to reveal its detachable keyboard. He then pulled out a roll of silver duct tape and peeled off three strips, sticking them over the cameras. Grinning to himself at the irony of employing such a low-tech solution, he pushed a panel set into the board table and revealed the touchscreen tablet that controlled the TelePresence system. Deftly he muted the microphones in the room he was in and then searched through the address book. Twenty other Atlas Brands Inc. video conferencing suites were listed by city name. Brody chose Dubai and pressed the green button.

  The screens jumped to life. Suddenly, an image of six other people sat opposite him, chit-chatting with each other. The older man in the centre noticed that someone had dialled in. His brows furrowed. “Who’s that dialling in from Birmingham? Is there something wrong with your video system? It’s just a black screen here.”

  Brody used the touchscreen control panel to send a text message to their system in Dubai. Yes, it’s Rich Wilkie here. I can see and hear you guys fine. Must be a glitch. Don’t worry, I’ll message you like this if I’ve got anything to say.

  Brody watched the older man read his message displayed on their screen three thousand miles away.

  “Okay Rich. No problem. How’s the weather in the UK?”

  Brody typed out his answer. It’s raining, Andrew. It’s April. Would you expect anything else?

  Andrew Lamont, Chief Executive Officer of Atlas Brands Inc., laughed. The woman on his left said, “Look, here’s Chu in Sydney.”

  At that moment, the image in Brody’s room shrunk to just the middle monitor, destroying the illusion of them all being in the same room. The right hand monitor suddenly displayed another room, with just one inhabitant. It was labelled Sydney. A few moments later, the remaining left-hand screen was taken up by Munich, with three people.

  Spread across the globe, the board of directors of the world’s fourth largest restaurant chain and hospitality company greeted each other amiably.

  “Okay, it looks as though we’re all here,” said Lamont. “Let’s get this meeting started. For you folks in Sydney and Munich wondering about the black screen, that’s Rich Wilkie in Birmingham. Seems to be a problem with the system there, but he can hear us all fine. Right, let’s get down to business. Ulf, can you take us through the agenda?”

  Ulf Lubber, the middle of the three people in the Munich office, walked everyone through the agenda. The item Brody was here for was fourth on the agenda, at least an hour away. He zoned out of the meeting and connected his tablet computer to the Internet via its built-in 4G SIM card. He might as well use the t
ime productively.

  Brody worked his way through his emails, spread across numerous accounts, most of which were newsletters and blog posts from the various technology and computer hacking websites he subscribed to anonymously.

  While he worked, he kept one eye and one ear on the meeting. Heather Bell, Atlas Brand’s Chief Financial Officer, presented the prior month’s financial performance of each of their major restaurant chains, all famous brands in their local regions. Walter Chan, who managed the property portfolio, took them through expansion plans by country. Heng Chu, the Chief Information Officer sitting on his own in the Sydney office, struggled his way through his plans to integrate the IT systems of four recent restaurant chain acquisitions Atlas had made in Asia, frequently interrupted when it became clear the synergy savings the board had promised the shareholders would take much longer to realise.

  “What’s next, Ulf?” asked Lamont.

  “We’ve got Marketing and the launch plans for a brand new concept.” Ulf turned to the man on his right in Munich. “Over to you Tim.”

  Brody looked up from his computer and focused on the meeting. Adrenalin began to pump through his bloodstream.

  Tim Welland, Chief Marketing Officer, began his presentation. He had connected his laptop to the TelePresence system and its screen took over the central monitor, forcing the images of the other meeting rooms to tile next to each other, now even smaller. Welland took them through a polished PowerPoint presentation, illustrated by concept artwork.

  “Welcome to Barbecue Union, a brand new mid-range dining concept for the UK, Canada and Germany. Every table in our Barbecue Union outlets will have a live barbecue grille embedded within it, which customers will use to cook their own food. The food will be presented on skewers along with a selection of marinades. It will be a mix of Mediterranean, Indian, Oriental, and American cuisine. Imagine, if you will, all the fun of having your food cooked in front of you, just like the Japanese Teppanyaki restaurants, but without the expensively trained chefs. Yes, you guessed it, our customers will be those chefs.”