Having her Oyster card and security pass hacked and her dadâs credit card frozen were small fry compared to what was going on back at MI6 HQ. Nathan had a lot more on his plate to worry about than her temporary transport and cash-flow problems.
Two youths wearing scarves over their faces fled from the supermarket up ahead, carrying boxes stacked with bottles. More youths piled in, wearing balaclavas. The cash tills of major supermarket chains had been frozen, according to the last update sheâd received from MI6 before she left. Looting was taking place in cities across the country.
Jessica kept her head down, avoiding eye contact, and ran past. She couldnât intervene; she was a brown belt at kick-boxing, but there were too many thugs and not a police officer in sight. They were being kept busy elsewhere. It was going to be a long trek home across the capital. Hackers had targeted the radio communications for the Underground, causing near misses between trains at Westminster, Kingâs Cross and Upminster. The whole network was paralysed and every tube stopped, along with planes at Heathrow, Gatwick and Stansted as a precaution. Buses were running a restricted service, which meant the queues were massive.
She hadnât wanted to risk her dad coming to fetch her by car since roads were blocked with accidents caused by the malfunctioning traffic-light systems. She planned to walk until she came across a bus service that was, hopefully, running normally. It gave her a chance to think, anyway. She googled LibertyCrossing on her iPhone. Interesting. Liberty Crossing was the name given to the two HQs of the National Counterterrorism Center and the US Office of the Director of National Intelligence in Virginia. So the hacker had a sense of humour. He was using the name of an American spy HQ to attack a British one.
Next, she typed âphoenix rising from the ashesâ. According to Greek mythology, a phoenix was a bird that gains new life by rising from the ashes of its predecessor. What did that mean? Was LibertyCrossingâs objective to create a new world order, rising from the one The Collective planned to destroy? She crossed the road as she spotted a brawl outside a cashpoint ahead. How could MI6 take on a cyber-army of thousands? For the first time ever, she doubted whether this was an adversary the Secret Intelligence Service could beat.
Jessicaâs silver haute couture digital gown sparkled with a thousand Swarovski crystals. Suddenly, it was lit up with over thirty-five hundred small LED lights. The extraordinary sight distracted her briefly from the fact she was cold and tired; sheâd had to get up at five a.m. to cycle to the warehouse in East London for the seven-thirty a.m. shoot. She was dying for a coffee and croissant from the catering table, which was tantalizingly close.
âTesting three, two, one!â Ossa Cosway shouted from across the warehouse. âStart now!â
Jessica looked down as a text message scrolled across her floor-length evening dress: Ossa Cosway rocks!
âItâs amazing!â she exclaimed.
The fabric flashed with more words: #OssaCoswayCouture.
Ossa had certainly found a novel way to advertise his haute couture line, combining fashion with the latest digital technology. It was being launched around the world, while his ready-to-wear collection was showcased at London Fashion Week. His young assistants stood on the sidelines, busily messaging the dress, using the hashtag #OssaCosway on Twitter while he stared at the effects, mesmorized. The slightly built, fair-haired young man stroked his goatee, smiling broadly. Suddenly, he threw his arms around Christine Cooper, his chief dressmaker. The small fifty-something woman was caught off guard as she fiddled with her long gold pendant.
âWhoooaaa!â She clung on to Ossa as she lost her balance.
âYou made it work, Chrissy!â her boss gushed. âYou really
Two youths wearing scarves over their faces fled from the supermarket up ahead, carrying boxes stacked with bottles. More youths piled in, wearing balaclavas. The cash tills of major supermarket chains had been frozen, according to the last update sheâd received from MI6 before she left. Looting was taking place in cities across the country.
Jessica kept her head down, avoiding eye contact, and ran past. She couldnât intervene; she was a brown belt at kick-boxing, but there were too many thugs and not a police officer in sight. They were being kept busy elsewhere. It was going to be a long trek home across the capital. Hackers had targeted the radio communications for the Underground, causing near misses between trains at Westminster, Kingâs Cross and Upminster. The whole network was paralysed and every tube stopped, along with planes at Heathrow, Gatwick and Stansted as a precaution. Buses were running a restricted service, which meant the queues were massive.
She hadnât wanted to risk her dad coming to fetch her by car since roads were blocked with accidents caused by the malfunctioning traffic-light systems. She planned to walk until she came across a bus service that was, hopefully, running normally. It gave her a chance to think, anyway. She googled LibertyCrossing on her iPhone. Interesting. Liberty Crossing was the name given to the two HQs of the National Counterterrorism Center and the US Office of the Director of National Intelligence in Virginia. So the hacker had a sense of humour. He was using the name of an American spy HQ to attack a British one.
Next, she typed âphoenix rising from the ashesâ. According to Greek mythology, a phoenix was a bird that gains new life by rising from the ashes of its predecessor. What did that mean? Was LibertyCrossingâs objective to create a new world order, rising from the one The Collective planned to destroy? She crossed the road as she spotted a brawl outside a cashpoint ahead. How could MI6 take on a cyber-army of thousands? For the first time ever, she doubted whether this was an adversary the Secret Intelligence Service could beat.
Jessicaâs silver haute couture digital gown sparkled with a thousand Swarovski crystals. Suddenly, it was lit up with over thirty-five hundred small LED lights. The extraordinary sight distracted her briefly from the fact she was cold and tired; sheâd had to get up at five a.m. to cycle to the warehouse in East London for the seven-thirty a.m. shoot. She was dying for a coffee and croissant from the catering table, which was tantalizingly close.
âTesting three, two, one!â Ossa Cosway shouted from across the warehouse. âStart now!â
Jessica looked down as a text message scrolled across her floor-length evening dress: Ossa Cosway rocks!
âItâs amazing!â she exclaimed.
The fabric flashed with more words: #OssaCoswayCouture.
Ossa had certainly found a novel way to advertise his haute couture line, combining fashion with the latest digital technology. It was being launched around the world, while his ready-to-wear collection was showcased at London Fashion Week. His young assistants stood on the sidelines, busily messaging the dress, using the hashtag #OssaCosway on Twitter while he stared at the effects, mesmorized. The slightly built, fair-haired young man stroked his goatee, smiling broadly. Suddenly, he threw his arms around Christine Cooper, his chief dressmaker. The small fifty-something woman was caught off guard as she fiddled with her long gold pendant.
âWhoooaaa!â She clung on to Ossa as she lost her balance.
âYou made it work, Chrissy!â her boss gushed. âYou really
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