Page 33 of Need to Know

“At the club last night, that guy, you know the one, Hugh Jorgen.” We both smirked at mention of the name.

“The dude we let have one of our suites?”

“Yeah, he was there…at SODA. I went to the bar to get us another round. He sidled up to me, got way too close for my comfort, tried to buy me a drink. I told him I was on a date,” I explained. “He told me my hotel keycard had fallen out of my back pocket. But now I wonder whether he slipped this card in while I was distracted.

Jack fished into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his Starling Bank credit card. “My hotel keycard’s missing,” he revealed. “I bet they’ve gone to search our room. What the fuck are they looking for?” Jack then eyed me curiously before saying, “Let me have a look at that bank card.” I passed the Venture Trust credit card to Jack. He eased off the bed and moved to the porthole window for better light. Jack inspected the card, moving it this way and that in the shard of sunlight, and then ran his thumbnail around the edge.

“It feels…strange,” he announced intrigued. I joined him, leaning in closer. Jack picked at a corner of the plastic, and to a shared cry of “Holy shit!” a corner of the vinyl backing peeled up.

“That…that shouldn’t happen,” I said aghast. “Credit cards are made from layers of laminated plastic with a magnetic strip and a chip all fused together by heat. There shouldn’t be anything to peel back,” I stated dumbly. However, a thin layer of vinyl matching the exact colour of the original card had been placed over the surface. Carefully, Jack peeled it up and I was dismayed to see that ten five-millimetre square recesses had been cut out from the card, and fitted into the spaces were ten tiny square chips. Jack’s eyes met mine.

“What the fuck is this? Why the hell were these chips planted on you?”

“You don’t think Hugh Jorgen’s a spy, do you?” My thought processes began whizzing around my brain. “Oh my god! Think about it,” I said excitedly. “No parent would be cruel enough to give their kid that name...it’s gotta be fake. Like, seriously, come on! And then there’s the apparent mix-up with the hotel reservation, and him accidentally bumping into me at SODA. He told me he was here for the tech conference, so computer chips must be in his wheelhouse, right?” I said gesturing to the credit card. “Jorgen had a mission to plant the chips on me. But why did he give them to me?”

“Be honest with me babe, are you secretly a spy?” Jack asked in a flat tone. I glared at him, “Are you fucking serious, of course I’m not a spy,” I retorted, affronted.

“Then what the fuck are you supposed to do with these chips? The only chips I know anything about are served with salt and vinegar!” Jack laughed, and then he groaned. “Oh God, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m starving now! What I wouldn’t give for a bag of chips!”

“Maybe someone told him I was his contact? Maybe someone thought that, because I’m a celebrity and use private jets, they could pass the chips to me and unawares, I’d courier the chips out of Germany and to London…or New York?” I figured.

“Like, a mule...they chose you to be their mule! Yeah, that’s actually quite clever. I’ve heard of stories where travellers get drugs, money or jewels planted in their luggage and unknowingly carry them into their destination country. When they get in-country, the luggage is stolen, or there’s a break in at their home and the criminals retrieve the goods,” Jack said conversationally.

I sat on the bed, my mind whirring. Could someone have targeted me to be an unwitting mule for stolen tech? “I played a white-hat hacker on FBI Cyber, just for a season,” I stated. “Micro-processing chips are like, the brain of a computer. They’re big business, especially in the AI world. But the most popular AI chips are bigger, palm sized or something. I don’t know what microchips like this do,” I said reaching for the fake credit card and peering at the two rows of five tiny chips.

“It would make sense that they’re some kind of new super tech. And as someone trying to get you to smuggle them into the UK.” Jack suggested.

“I wonder what they actually do. Can you imagine what a Silicon Valley tech company would pay for these?” My mind continued to whirr.

“Exactly. I bet these are what our kidnappers want,” Jack said. Silence fell as we both considered our predicament. Then Jack brightened,

“They mustn’t know how the chips were hidden to smuggle them. They don’t know about this card!”

“Right, and they roughed us up for information. But got nothing, so they must have sedated us, dumped us in here, and be off searching our hotel suite. Do you remember anything about last night?”

“Not after we were chloroformed and thrown into a vehicle. What I don’t understand is why anyone would think we had a clue about any of this? I mean, look at us, we’re actors, not tech nerds.”

I took a closer look at the chips; they were tiny, around five millimetres square and had miniscule numbers and characters printed on them, too small to read without magnification. As soon as I got my phone, I’d photograph, zoom in, and research the chips. Until then, I folded the vinyl back over and pressed the card between my warm hands to ensure the adhesive stuck. Then I untied my trainer and slid the card underneath the insole, and laced up again.

“Good thinking Batman!” Jack smiled. Warmth sparked in my belly. I loved it when he praised me. I wondered for a moment if I was developing a praise kink.

Jack stood in a macho stance with his hands on his hips as he stared at the door. “Now, how the hell do we get this door open?” I knew boats, and the internal door here was made from marine plywood between white polyethylene sheets. “I suppose I could try and kick through it,” Jack suggested before miming karate hand movements and kicks while saying “Hiiiii-yahhh!” like a kid who’d watched too many Jackie Chan movies.

“Oh cool, yeah, go for it stud! Break a leg, dislocate your hip. I’ll carry you as far as I can and then drag your injured body across the lake as you whimper in pain,” I said dryly.

“Well…yeah, I suppose you’re right,” he grumbled, a little deflated. I knew I was an asshole, at least Jack was trying. I hated feeling trapped in here and so I moved to the door and jiggled the door knob again, which, of course achieved exactly…nothing!

“Remember our training with Carlo Fuentes?” I said. Carlo was ex-CIA and now worked as a consultant for the movie industry.

“Yeah. He drummed in his rules!” Jack then did a pretty good impression of a rough, military American accent, “In a locked room situation the first thing you should do is assess your surroundings.” Jack said, still holding a macho stance as he looked around the tiny space comprising of a double bed with storage cubbies attached to the wall on each side of the bed, a small square coffee table with two chairs, and a side table with the tray of drugged drinks. My mind wandered to memories of how good it felt to wake up with Jack beside me, the warmth of his firm body, the bay leaf scent of his skin, the moans as I kissed the nape of his neck and used him to get-off.

“Righty-oh, surroundings assessed,” Jack announced brightly, pulling me from my thoughts. “We’re locked in a shitty bloody cabin on a ship, the porthole windows are too small to climb through. They have small in-built vents, and can’t be opened. If we call for help using a vent, we could alert the men who abducted us, so I guess we’ll stay silent.” The petulance in his tone amused me. I nodded, glad that he was coming back from the drugged languor.

“Next on Carlo’s to do list, we free ourselves from bonds, but we’re not tied up, so yay, a win for us!” Jack returned to mimicking our ex-CIA instructor, “Next, locate anything that can be used as a weapon.” We pivoted to look around the room. The sparse furniture was cheap IKEA flat pack. I moved to the small coffee table and flipped it over, then proceeded to loosen a hex nut that was holding one of the table legs in place. Thankfully, whoever assembled this table hadn’t tightened the nut securely and I released the leg from its housing quickly. Jack joined me and did the same. The table leg was surprisingly weighty, like a short baseball bat. A long metal bolt was permanently housed into one corner, poking out. I stood, took the familiar batting stance, and gave an experimental swing.

“Yeah, this could do some damage,” I said decisively. We both had a weapon. I shared a triumphant look with Jack, who was off then, opening the drawers and pulling tattered books out of a cubby bookshelf. I found a battered black folder filled with leaflets and business cards for touristy things to do in Berlin. I tossed it on the bed and we sorted through the mass of marketing materials before Jack triumphantly said “Bingo!” He held a laminated plastic card for a nightclub Feuer Hause, the name embossed in gold. Our spy-craft instructor had warned,

“Don’t use your credit card to slip a lock, the magnetic strip on a card can be damaged in the process and lead you to more trouble. You’ll need it to finance your escape, so only use it if you can’t find anything else.”