The Hypogeum Ch. 01

"When evil men plot, good men must plan. When evil men burn and bomb, good men must build and bind. When evil men shout ugly words of hatred, good men must commit themselves to the glories of love." - Martin Luther King

The older of the two men adjusted his cuff links as he sat and waited for the other to pour him a whisky and soda. He accepted the glass and raised it to his thin, cruel lips and took a small sip, a brief moment of enjoyment and then a nod.

This was good whisky.

He waited as the younger man settled himself into the other chair in the plush office and then silently indicated with a wave of his manicured hand that his underling should report. He liked that word, 'underling'. It had a ring to it that appealed to him, employee seemed crass and minion was overstated. No, underling was the word of choice and also how he viewed everyone that he came into contact with.

Well, almost everyone.

Richard Hardacre took a sip of his own drink and looked around the managing director's office of the latest acquisition of, and new headquarters of WinCom. He could not understand why, Sir Nigel Winthrop, one of the most powerful captains of industry had decided to move his centre of operations to Salisbury from the towers of Canary Wharf in London.

There was an ornately carved and highly polished, oak desk behind which sat a high-backed, executive chair. On the desk were a leather blotter pad, two telephones and a gold Parker pen placed centrally in front of the blotter. A small assortment of lush, green potted plants sat in front of the wide window, that allowed the viewer a panoramic view of Salisbury with the Cathedral in the middle distance. To one side sat a modern meeting table surrounded by six plain chairs and one throne-like affair. At the other end of the table set into the wall, was a small aquarium, home to an assortment of rare and highly expensive tropical fish. The men were seated in two red leather chesterfield armchairs.

Richard grimaced inwardly at the artful falseness of it all. This was an office designed to look like the seat of power, a power that Sir Nigel Winthrop was born to, but did not in Richard's opinion carry off, not quite.

Richard took another sip of his drink before speaking in his rich, deep voice, "He knows there is something unusual about DataVault, but he has no real understanding of it. I know that he's mentioned it to a few of his team, but all of them have been checked out and... warned."

"Warned? I hope you were careful."

"Sir, please. I think I know how to handle this sort of situation, I've been in this business for a long time."

Sir Nigel Winthrop shifted slightly in his seat, "Nonetheless, we have worked too long and too hard on this project for it to be placed in jeopardy."

Hardacre leaned forward slightly to interrupt, "Sir Nigel-"

A warning finger cut him short, "Mr Hardacre, I believe that you have had to be reminded of your place before."

Sir Nigel waited until his subordinate fell silent before continuing, "As I was saying, we have worked too long and too hard on this project for it to be placed in jeopardy, especially now at this most crucial of times," he regarded Hardacre's puzzled expression and continued, "There is more, much more than you can imagine, coming together in our plan. We are at a crucial stage and any threat, however minimal must be dealt with."

He fixed a stern gaze upon Richard Hardacre and murmured, "Am I quite clear?"

The younger man did not return the stare, but dropped his eyes to his drink as he absently used his thumb to turn the platinum wedding band on the third finger of his left hand, "Crystal... Sir," was his only response.

Suddenly, Sir Nigel's mood seemed to lighten, "Come on Richard, no need to be so surly. After all, it's not the first time you have had to orchestrate something necessary, if somewhat distasteful."

Richard knocked back his drink in a single gulp and forced his outward appearance to hide the rage that he felt inside.

The insufferable old fool! Full of mysterious nonsense about his supposed secret society. Placing himself over the likes of hard working, confident and diligent Richard Hardacre, just because of who his great, great grandfather killed to get a title! None of his money earned. Born into it, just as he was born into a select section of society forever denied to Richard, based purely on the throw of genetic dice.

Hardacre stood up and adjusted his tie before bowing slightly to Sir Nigel, "Well, I have my orders Sir, so if you'll excuse me, I need to start attending to things. Sometimes the brushwood needs to be swept away so that the great trees can survive."

His superior nodded, "That is not an analogy that I am altogether comfortable with, but yes, you are correct," before waving Hardacre away in dismissal.

Richard left the room silently. Sir Nigel watched him exit through the carved oak door and then murmured, "Careful Mr Hardacre, you are not the only tool at my disposal, and you are far from indispensable."

Sir Nigel stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles, savouring his whisky and soda. He gazed out of the window as he thought about the plan, the plan that he was helping to set in motion. The plan that would make him even richer and more powerful than he already was.

Richard Hardacre waited at the door of the lift that was the only way in and out of Sir Nigel's penthouse office suite. He grimaced as he waited for the lift to arrive, ignoring Sir Nigel's personal assistant who was busily filing. He was fuming inwardly as once again he was being used to 'orchestrate something necessary and distasteful.'

Sir Nigel lived in a world of euphemism and wouldn't sully his palate with words like theft, blackmail or murder. But still required them to take place from time to time and as usual he, Richard Hardacre, was to be the instrument of choice.

The lift arrived and the doors slid open with a gentle electronic ding. He stepped inside and pressed the button for the fourth floor.

Once back in his own office, nowhere near as plush or comfortable as the one he had just left, Richard Hardacre

thought briefly about the terse conversations he had held with several members of one of the teams of programmers employed at the company. The veiled threats involving sacking and blacklisting if they talked about DataVault, a brand new computer security product that WinCom was working on, aimed at the higher end of the corporate scale, and especially if they discussed with anyone the separate routine that Eric Jenkins and his small group on the third floor were developing in the highest security section of the building. A routine that even he, the Head of Security had no knowledge except for the name, Hypogeum.

Richard reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a printed list of names, all of which were crossed out, except one. Jonathon Baines, the lead programmer for the team in question. He knew the name and a little about the man, but had no personal experience of him. However, that would change tomorrow when Baines came for his interview.

CHAPTER ONE

"Happiness serves hardly any other purpose than to make unhappiness possible." - Marcel Proust

Alma Baines glanced out of the window of her kitchen briefly; she could have sworn she saw movement in the shadow of the apple tree that dominated the back garden of the three-bedroom, semi-detached house she shared with her husband.

Probably next door's cat again, she thought to herself as she brushed an errant lock of her shoulder length, strawberry blonde hair from her eyes, then continued buttering the bread that would accompany the bowl of onion soup she was preparing. The microwave beeped and she transferred the steaming bowl to a small wooden tray that already held two mugs of tea. No sugar in hers, but three in Jonathon's. She shuddered once again at the thought and then piled the bread on to a small plate that also went onto the She collected the tray and navigated her way out of the cluttered kitchen, around the tall kitchen stool that Jonathon kept meaning to fix. Alma let a small grin pass over her delicate features as she thought about how long he had been 'meaning to fix' that particular item. Not in this lifetime, she thought to herself. She butted the light switch with her chin to turn the kitchen light off and then passed across the narrow hallway and into the small dining room. Or at least, originally built to be a dining room, it had been turned into a home office that both used for official work and for other IT jobs that came their way in order to supplement their not altogether satisfactory salaries.

Alma paused in the doorway and looked at where Jonathon sat at his desk, staring into a screen full of computer code. She regarded the light thinning of his hair at the crown, that was all the more noticeable due to his very dark colouring. He heard her behind him, glanced at the clock in the bottom right corner of the monitor, and turned to face his wife with a slightly embarrassed grin, "Sorry Alma, I didn't realise it was so late."

Alma smiled back, "Don't worry. I know you're cutting the deadlines close on this one." She placed the tray on the desk next to him and said, "Eat up. You'll need your strength later," and made a sound like a cat purring.

Jonathon responded to the comment by digging into the food with gusto, although Alma thought the mood was lost slightly as he howled like a wolf after he had swallowed the first mouthful. That was one of the things about him that had originally attracted her to him. Not handsome and with a bit of a paunch, but there was a certain something about his olive complexion and dark, almost black eyes, in addition to his sometimes child-like, but not childish manner.

Jonathon on the other hand, always maintained that he had no idea how he had managed to marry such a beautiful woman. The hair, the heart-shaped face with delicate, elfin features and those eyes. Those blue eyes that were seemed to range from a rich, cornflower blue when she was happy, but turned into sparkling sapphires when she was angry or aroused.

Jonathon wolfed down the food and then took a sip of his tea, before burping gently into his hand as he mumbled, "That was lovely, thanks."

Alma sipped her tea and then leaned back to stretch her spine muscles.

Jonathon reached over to gently stroke her large, baby filled tummy and asked, "Want me to give you a back rub tonight?"

She enjoyed the feeling as his warm hand slid from side to side across her abdomen, "Mmmm, please. You certainly know how to get on my right side."

Jonathon moved back towards the desk and said, "Okay, I'll just save this and then we'll get to bed."

Both mugs of tea were forgotten and left on the tray as Jonathon saved his work, switched off the computer and followed his wife upstairs to their bedroom.

Alma lay naked on her side and snuggled her head into the pillow as Jonathon applied some lotion to his hands and then began to work them up and down her spine in long, sweeping strokes. She loved it when Jonathon massaged her aching back, but could not contain a giggle when he touched the sensitive part between her shoulder blades. She revelled in the love she could feel through his fingers as they worked their magic on her aches and pains. Her eyes started to close, but opened suddenly with a start, "That's not my back, Mister!" she cried.

With artful innocence, Jonathon answered, "Oh, sorry missus, slip of the hand." And moved his fingers back to her spine.

She glanced over her shoulder and looked him in the eye, "I didn't say it was unwelcome. Get those fingers back there right now!"

Jonathon's eyes flashed and the boyish grin returned, "If you insist."

She felt him touch her intimately once again and re-closed her eyes as the gentle sensations started to build. She felt his lips plant butterfly kisses on her neck and she moaned, before lifting her free arm around her back so that she could touch her husband as he was touching her. Slowly they fell into

the tender motions that were the physical manifestation of the love they shared.

The alarm clock sang it's harsh melody in the morning. Jonathon reached out and hit it with the palm of his hand to stop the noise, before yawning deeply and rubbing his eyes. He sat up, stretched and looked over at Alma, still asleep on her side with one leg poking out from under the duvet.

He quietly climbed out of bed and moved round to her side so he could carefully push the straying limb back onto the mattress and cover it back up. Then he went to the bathroom to complete his morning ablutions before dressing and made his way downstairs for breakfast.

Jonathon was munching his way through his second slice of toast and orange marmalade when a bleary-eyed Alma appeared in the kitchen door, wrapped in a towelling bathrobe.

"Morning Lazybones," he said chirpily.

Alma ignored him and ambled over to the mug of fresh tea that waited on the side for her, "How can you be so bloody cheerful at," she glanced at the clock, "six bloody thirty in the morning?"

In truth, Alma was not a morning person and could not for the life of her understand how anyone could be in a good mood before at least nine o'clock and the second cup of tea of the day!

Her husband grinned, brushed the crumbs from the front of his shirt and gave her a peck on the cheek. Well used to the morning monster he had married, he brushed off her bad temper, "It's the best part of the day. Besides when I wake up, the first thing I see is you, so how could I be anything other than happy?"

"Sod off!"

Jonathon chuckled and kissed her on the cheek again, "You're just pissed

off because you have to stay at home for now." He patted her lightly on the tummy, "It won't be for ever and you'll soon be back at work, and probably wishing you were back at home again."

Suddenly contrite, Alma whispered, "I'm sorry, Love. I'm just not a morning person. And I am so bored stuck here at home all day, it's driving me up the wall."

Jonathon gathered her in his arms and rested his chin on the top of her head, "Two or three more weeks until Junior makes the grand entrance, six weeks maternity leave after that and then we'll both be back in the office earning his university fees."

Alma was forced to laugh, "I suppose," she gently disengaged from his embrace and planted a kiss on his lips, "Anyway, talking of work. Get a move on or you'll be late."

It was Jonathon's turn to look at the clock, "Oh Christ!" He grabbed his jacket and briefcase and half ran to the front door, with a shouted "Bye, see you later!" as the door slammed shut, he was off down the path to his car and away.

Alma finished her tea in a couple of large mouthfuls and then contemplated returning to her warm bed. She resigned herself to staying up, even though not a morning person, once Alma was up, she was up. She walked out of the kitchen and accidentally brushed the faulty stool with her hip, the loose leg shifted in the joint and it fell over... again. So she picked it up... again!

Silently, she cursed Jonathon for still not sorting it out and then once she was sure it wouldn't collapse again, made her way upstairs to brush her teeth, shower and get dressed, ready to begin another day stuck at home.

She chided her unborn baby, "You better be worth all this, kid!" As if in response to her comment, she felt a, now familiar, sensation of a kick.

She grinned to herself, "Not born yet and already arguing with your Mum."

Once cleaned and dressed, Alma made herself busy with the daily routine of house cleaning.

Jonathon arrived at work and switched on his computer. He had an email waiting and was surprised to see that it was from Richard Hardacre, "What on Earth does he want?" he wondered as he read the terse message to report to Hardacre's office at ten o'clock sharp. Somewhat nonplussed, Jonathon set his machine to remind him at ten minutes to ten, so he could be up on the fifth floor in good time. He had never met Hardacre, but knew from others that the man was a stickler for punctuality and expressed the view that lateness was an insult not only to him, but also to the company, Her Majesty the Queen and God Almighty!

He poured himself a coffee from the pot that was kept on the go at all times in the corner of the communal office that his team dwelled in, heaped three generous sugars into it and then took a sip before sitting back at his desk. It was only eight thirty, so Jonathon had plenty of time to look back over the coding he had written last night. He inserted his portable USB memory stick into the slot in order to save the program onto the team's directory on the server, but was surprised when the system would not allow him to access it. Jonathon telephoned the system support department.

"Good morning, System Support."

"Ah, hello. It's Jonathan Baines on the DataVault team. Employee ID number 67119B. My USB slot isn't working. Would you mind having a quick look at it please?"

There was a pause and then the voice answered, "Sorry Mr Baines. It looks like your external storage rights have been revoked."

"Eh? What? But I need them. I have a large amount of work on my USB stick and I need to get it into the shared directory."

"Sorry. Your access has been revoked by the Security section."

"Why? What on Earth for?"

"I'm afraid I really can't comment on that. Sorry. -click"

Jonathon was puzzled. Why would they remove his external access rights? He hadn't done anything wrong. Jonathon was aware of the sensitivity of the project he was working on, but he hadn't broken any rules that he was aware of.

He leaned around his monitor and called out to one of his colleagues, "George, have they switched off your USB slot?"

His colleague, a middle-aged man called George Finlay answered, "They did. But then I had an interview with Hardacre in security and I got it back later that day."

Jonathon frowned in perplexity, "I know this is pretty hush-hush, but they're going a bit over the top aren't they?"

George answered, "I wouldn't know what they think to be honest. All I know is, I do my work, keep my trap shut and the mortgage gets paid," and turned back to his own workstation to continue working.

Jonathon was stumped. This didn't make sense. They were nearing the closing stages of software development; in fact several sections were already in testing. The only component of the whole thing that he didn't know about was the Hypogeum routine that Jenkins was building upstairs.

As he found himself unable to do anything, Jonathon was resigned to surfing the Internet until his appointment with Richard Hardacre. Unfortunately, his Internet Gateway access had also been suspended. He sighed and reached into his desk drawer for the paperback he usually read during his lunch break.

Five minutes before ten o'clock, Jonathon found himself waiting outside

Richard Hardacre's office, he could see the head of security though the half-open door. The man glanced up, saw Jonathon and checked his watch, before continuing to type on his keyboard. After another quick glance at his watch, he pressed the save key and waved Jonathon into the office.

Richard indicated that Jonathon should close the door and motioned to a wooden chair placed in front of his desk. Jonathon sat down and waited for Richard to speak. Hardacre seemed to ignore him as he opened a file on his desk and quickly read through it.

Jonathon was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable, as the silence grew longer, until Richard cleared his throat and said, "I see you're married to another one of our employees, Mr Baines. Alma Baines, employee ID 345091B. Currently on maternity leave awaiting the birth of your first child."