按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
d found inside it a video tape； but a tape of double the ordinary width。 A label on the tape said 'Broadcast Quality Videotape'。 Underneath that was the single word BETACAM。 Under that was the legend 'Quint series。 15 x 30 sees。'
I closed the thick black case and tried another one。 Same thing。 Quint series。 15 x 30 sees。 All of the cases held the same。
These double…size tapes needed a special tape player not available in Mrs Dove's office。 To see what was on these expensive tapes meant taking one with me。
I could； of course； simply put one of them inside my tracksuit jacket and walk out with it。 I could take all the 'PASSWORD' disks。 If I did I was a） stealing； b） in danger of being found carrying the goods； and c） making it impossible for any information they held to be used in any later legal enquiry。 I would steal the information itself； if I could； but not the software。
Think。
As I'd told Charles at Aynsford； I'd had to learn a good deal about puters just to keep a grip on the accelerating world； but the future became the present so fast that I could never get ahead。
Someone tried to open the door。
There was no time to restore the room to normal。 I could only speed across the carpet and stand where I would be hidden by the door when it swung inwards。 Plan B meant simply running …and I was wearing running shoes。
The knob turned again and rattled； but nothing else happened。 Whoever was outside had presumably been either keyless or reassured： in either case it played havoc with my breathing。
Oddly； the pumping adrenalin brought me my puter answer which was； if I couldn't bring the contents of a floppy disk to the screen； I could transfer it whole to another puter； one that would give me all the time I needed to crack the password； or to get help from people who could。
Alongside the unconnected electric cable there had been a telephone cable； also unattached。 I snapped it into the telephone socket on the puter； thereby connecting Mrs Dove's modem to the world…wide internet。
It needed a false start or two while I desperately tried to remember half…learned techniques； but finally I was rewarded by the screen prompting： 'Enter telephone number'。
I tapped in my own home number in the flat in Pont Square； and pressed 'Enter'； and the screen announced nonchalantly 'dialling in progress'； then 'call accepted'； then 'transfer'； and finally 'transfer plete'。
Whatever was on the first guarded 'Quint' disk was now in my own puter in London。 I transferred the other two 'Quint' floppies in the same way； and then the disk from box…file No。 1； and for good measure another from Box 3； identified as 'Tilepit'。
There was no way that I knew of transferring the BETACAM tapes。 Regretfully I left them alone。 I looked through the paper pages in the 'Quint' box and made a photocopy of one page a list of unusual racecourses…folding it and hiding it within the zipped pocket of my belt。
Finally I disconnected the electric and telephone cables again； closed the puter partment； checked that the box…files and BETACAM tapes were as they should be； relocked the white cupboard； then unlocked and gently opened the door to the passage。
Silence。
Breathing out with relief I relocked Mrs Dove's door and walked along through the row of cubby…hole offices and came to the first setback： the fire…door leading to brown…overalls territory was not merely locked but had a red light shining above it。
Shining red lights often meant alarm systems switched on with depressingly loud sirens ready to screech。
I'd been too long in Mrs Dove's office。 I retreated towards her door again and went down the fire…stairs beside the lift； emerging into the ground…floor entrance hall with its glass doors to the parking area beyond。
One step into the lobby proved to be one step too far。 Something hit my head rather hard and one of the beefy bodyguards in blue flung a sort of strap round my body and effectively pinned my upper arms to my sides。
I plunged about a bit and got another crack on the head which left me unable to help myself and barely able to think。 I was aware of being in the lift； but wasn't quite sure how I'd got there。 I was aware of having my ankles strapped together and of being dragged ignominiously over some carpet and dropped in a chair。
Regulation Scandinavian chair with wooden arms； like all the others。
'Tie him up；' a voice said； and a third strap tightened across my chest； so that when the temporary mist cleared I woke to a state of near physical immobility and a mind full of curses。
The voice belonged to Owen Yorkshire。 He said； 'Right。 Good。 Well done。 Leave the wrench on the desk。 Go back downstairs and don't let anyone up here。'
'Yes； sir。'
'Wait；' Yorkshire manded； sounding uncertain。 'Are you sure you've got the right man？'
'Yes； sir。 He's wearing the identity badge we issued to him yesterday。 He was supposed to return it when he left； but he didn't。'
'All right。 Thanks。 Off you go。'
The door closed behind the bodyguards and Owen Yorkshire plucked the identity badge from my overalls； read the name and flung it down on his desk。
We were in his fifth…floor office。 The chair I sat in was surrounded by carpet。 Marooned on a desert island； feeling dim and stupid。
The man…to…man all…pals…together act was in abeyance。 The Owen Yorkshire confronting me was very angry； disbelieving and； I would have said； frightened。
'What are you doing here？' he demanded； bellowing。
His voice echoed and reverberated in the quiet room。 His big body loomed over me； his big head close to mine。 All his features； I thought； were slightly oversized： big nose； big eyes； wide forehead； large flat cheeks； square jaw； big mouth。 The collar…length black waving hair with its grey…touched wings seemed to vibrate with vigour。 I would have put his age at forty； maybe a year or two younger。
'Answer；' he yelled。 'What are you doing here？'
I didn't reply。 He snatched up from his desk a heavy fifteen…inch…long silvery wrench and made as if to hit my head with it。 If that was what his boys…in…blue had used on me； and I gathered it was； then connecting it again with my skull was unlikely to produce any answer at all。 The same thought seemed to occur to him； because he threw the wrench down disgustedly onto the desk again； where it bounced slightly under its own weight。
The straps round my chest and ankles were the sort of fawn close…woven webbing often used round suitcases to prevent them from bursting open。 There was no elasticity in them； no stretch。 Several more lay on the desk。
I felt a ridiculous desire to chatter； a tendency I'd noticed in the past in mild concussion after racing falls； and sometimes on waking up from anaesthetics。 I'd learned how to suppress the garrulous impulse； but it was still an effort； and in this case； essential。
Owen Yorkshire was wearing man…to…man togs； that is to say； no jacket； a man…made fibre shirt （almost white with vertical stripes made of interlocking beige…coloured horseshoes）； no tie； several buttons undone； unmissable view of manly hairy chest； gold chain and medallion。
I concentrated on the horseshoe stripes。 If