Pol entered the bar. He was pleased to get out of the driving, cold rain. His hat was wet and felt cold on his skin, the driving rain had pierced his coat and he was wet to the skin. But he kept the cap on and the collar of his coat turned up. The CCTV cameras, in the corners – above the bar, looked down on him and saw the long peak of the baseball cap. He made his way to the bar and with his face turned down in the shadow of the cap, ordered a beer. He paid with the right change and picked up the pint glass.
“There can be no trace.”
“Yeah, I know”.
“No footprint, this is a national database”.
“Yeah, I know what the National DNA Database is”. The younger man was slightly irritated by Pol’s reiteration of what he felt was obvious.
Pol continued, “How long will it take?”
“it should be on the database in the next week or so and as it gets uploaded the program sweeps up after itself. It’s called a ghost Trojan, or some bollocks”.
“Alright, I will pass the money through as we discussed”. Pol handed over a USB flash drive to the young man.
“No thanks, Mr Winchester, I don’t want money for this after what you have done for my family”.
Pol stood up, left the booth and stepped out of the bar. He disappeared into the driving cold rain and dark. When his young friend appeared in the street, just a few seconds later, the street was empty. Pol had gone. Rain swept the street in sheets, the drops bounced off of the slick black tarmac and off of the rooves of the silent parked cars in the dull orange glow of the sodium street lights.