1

Toronto, Canada

1 a.m. Calm reigns over the business district, between Front Street and Bloor Street. The tall towers proudly display the various logos of Canadian or international corporations that have made this financial capital their home. Despite federal instructions on energy conservation, most offices are still lit up and will remain so unnecessarily throughout the night.

In the wide avenues, the absence of vehicles does not diminish the determination of the traffic lights. They continue, tirelessly, their regulation job and draw chromatic arabesques in the city's darkness. The only persisting audible moan is the last tram's travel across town. Its mechanical refrain prevents its passengers from dozing off. These few night owls, mainly workers leaving the factories to the west of the metropolis, are heading back to the modest suburbs of Scarborough, further east.

While on the surface the trolley moves away from downtown, underground, the two subway lines come to a halt in agreement.

For the moment, the urban monster has fallen asleep. It will only awaken in a few hours, to the sound of the thousands of employees marching its streets.

In the ambient silence, the sucking noise of the revolving door resonates like a vacuum cleaner's roar. A man rushes out from the CIBC Tower and suddenly stops in the middle of the avenue. His light alpaca suit is wrinkled, his white shirt stained with sweat protrudes from his pants, and his tie hangs askew with a sagging knot. His anxious gaze betrays the mark of unspeakable fear. He puts his hands to his head and grabs his tousled brown hair with a grimace of suffering. Between walking and running, he staggers along the double yellow line that divides the road in two.

"But I did what you asked for, please, oh god please make it stop!" pleads Brian Wessler before collapsing face down.

At first, he lets out a hoarse groan of agony. Under the intensity of the pain, he begins to scream, fists clenched on his temples. Violent convulsions suddenly seize his body, and his arms flail like those of a mad puppet. The impression that he is swimming a disjointed breaststroke on the asphalt would surprise with realism any casual bystander, but at this hour the road is deserted, no witness sees this sordid scene. Abruptly, his torso arches, muscles strained to breaking point. His eyes roll back, his tongue stretches over a grotesque grimace, then all movement ceases. Brian Wessler collapses onto his stomach. A whitish foam escapes from his half-open mouth while a trickle of blood flows from his nostrils and left ear. A small vermilion pool begins to spread on the asphalt, contrasting with one of the canary-yellow paint stripes.

Brian's mobile phone, which slipped from his pocket during his fall, now lies a few inches from his lifeless feet. A melody as cheerful as it sounds incongruous rings out. It announces the arrival of an instant message that sharply previews on the notification screen: "U R dead!"

2

La Défense, France

"U R dead!" flashes on the phone's white screen that Jeremy Baltac has just pulled out of his jeans' pocket. He crosses the esplanade with a confident stride towards the tower of a major banking institution, and smiles as he flips back to his mobile's home page.

"Alex ... always so dramatic," he murmurs to himself.

At 7 a.m., the forecourt of La Défense is not yet teeming with people, but it is far from deserted. Among the dozens of skyscrapers, the huge shopping center, and the numerous hotels; a few zealous executives, municipal workers, and delivery men are buzzing on the vast white stone terrace.

Jeremy continues his crossing, his phone still in hand. It emits another discreet beep to signal the arrival of a new text message. Walking as serenely as before, Jeremy glances at his mobile. "Seriously, we're dead if you're not here in 2 mins."

This time, Jeremy puts the device in his pocket and pushes the entrance door of the building.

"Not even two minutes, Alex," he remarks cheerfully to a balding little man pacing the hall like a caged lion.

Alexandre gazes disapprovingly at the newcomer's attire. Jeremy is sporting black jeans, a white T-shirt, and an anthracite cotton jacket with a relaxed fit.

With a big smile, Jeremy slaps him on the back and teases him.

"Alexandre, look, I even wore leather shoes this time..."

He wiggles a foot clad in a bulky brown work boot, reinforced at the tip by a metal safety cap.

The small man in the impeccable gray suit shakes his head wearily.

"At least they're not sneakers," he grumbles. "I still hope to see you get to a client's meeting in decent attire one day."

Clearly, for him, this term does not apply to Jeremy's outfit.

"What? You don't like it? I do a dangerous job, you know. Imagine... You wouldn't want your favorite security consultant to have his toes crushed by a server or a storage unit, right?"

"Jay... There are really times when..."

"Yeah," Jeremy cuts him off, returning to a serious tone. "I'm kidding... Come on, we should actually reassure our client."

Alexandre picks up his titanium briefcase with sleek lines, the same gray as his suit, and the two companions pass through a turnstile using a badge that Jeremy pulls from the inner jacket pocket. Once in the area restricted to authorized personnel, they move towards the elevators.

The two forty-somethings differ as much in their dressing code as in their physiognomy. Jeremy, with his brown hair tied in a short ponytail, is practically two heads taller than his blond, prematurely balding sidekick.

The simple design of glasses with a virtually invisible frame barely accentuates the first bronzed eyes, while Alexandre has opted for custom lenses that perfectly match the blue contour of his irises. Jeremy sports a neatly trimmed goatee with a few white strands beginning to show, contrasting with the clean-shaven face of the businessman. They have been working together for nearly fifteen years. Their complementary personalities make them a well-oiled duo ready for any eventuality.

Despite appearances, it was Jeremy who hired Alexandre. At the time, he was looking for a collaborator to lead his newly created computer security consulting firm. Jay much preferred to handle the technical side. He wanted to delegate the administration and management of the company. Fifteen years earlier, he had therefore hacked into the Ministry of Education's networks in search of the rare gem. That's how he found Alexandre Kelber, an excellent student, never first of the class; he had the particularity of always getting grades just below the top three. Alexandre spoke three languages, he also attended history and literature courses besides his initial business training. He was not part of any sorority group, not participated in festivities or various drinking sessions, and skillfully juggled his overloaded schedules. His school photos already showed him balding and wearing thick steel-framed glasses. Jeremy concluded he had found a little genius insecure about his looks and who deliberately maintained a subpar level to avoid mockery and being a scapegoat.

Jay hired him at a staggering rate right out of his commercial engineering studies. And Alexandre had never boasted about it. When the young graduate asked what picked Jeremy's interest in him, the latter had replied frankly: "There are plenty of leaders programmed to assume power without giving it much thought, in universities and companies... Me, to support myself, I'm looking for someone who has escaped the mold, with character, and open-minded."

Since then, the two partners had never split. Alex holds the official position of COO, but fulfills the duties of a confidant as well. Jay prefers to keep his title of "consultant" rather than that of "CEO." This allows Alexandre to represent formally the company, "Blue Jay IT Security."

As the elevator doors open, a flock of suits descends on the newcomers. The cackling bursts in all directions.

"Ah! Mr. Baltac!"

"Inconceivable..."

"Unacceptable!"

"When I think of the price we..."

Armed with his briefcase, Alexandre, followed by Jeremy, has to push some hens aside to make his way out of the lift cab.

Finally, the voice of the rooster in this henhouse proclaims. "Come on, come on, let these gentlemen out!"

Immediately, the department heads, project managers, deputy directors, and various chiefs seem to blend into the walls and disappear.

Jeremy can then recognize the corridor he has walked through countless times over the last few weeks. Today, however, he does not plan to follow it all the way to the servers' room.

In front of the security office where the guards are pacing like fish in a bowl, a man in his fifties is getting impatient. Above his imposing stature, a battery of rotating lights indicates three levels of alerts in order of increasing severity. The first two—yellow and orange—are off. The last one—red—glows insistently. No sound is enforcing the gravity of the situation. The ruddy flashing alone is enough to weigh down the ambiance.

Without bothering with the usual pleasantries, he addresses the two visitors. "And you, I hope you have a good explanation to give me for justifying my presence here! I'm not used to coming down to the basement..."

"You should, Mr. Chief Executive Officer," Jeremy sarcastically remarks. "Ever heard of the saying 'IT is the backbone of warfare'?"

Alexandre glares at his boss and speaks up. "Please excuse my consultant, Mr. Delattre. You know how it is... They spend too much time in front of their computers and they lose their manners in society."

He emphasized the end of the sentence by looking at Jay. The latter takes the hit. He bows exaggeratedly to contemplate his shoes' toe caps.

Jeremy's mimed submission fares its job perfectly. The big boss softens, reassured of his strength and dominance over others.

"So," resumes the CEO more calmly... "What's going on? We've invested nearly seven hundred thousand euros in this anti-hacking system of yours."

"Exactly, Mr. Delattre," Alexandre proclaims, stepping forward. "You would never have entrusted such a sum to us without guarantees."

"You have indeed been recommended as the best, but..."

"And the best we are, Mr. Delattre, the best we are," Alexandre confirms without permitting the leader to express his doubts any further.

"So, explain to me why are we here so early this morning," fumes the fifty-something. "Three days after your intervention! A real disaster: the worst intrusion, according to my experts."

Alexandre steps back and lets Jeremy interject. "Because, Mr. Delattre," he interrupts, looking at his interlocutor with a serene gaze. "Because your crisis protocol is perfectly in place... I congratulate you."

The CEO maintains eye contact with the consultant, and perhaps in front of the compliment, finally calms down.

"If you allow me, sir," continues Jeremy, "Let me explain..."

With a confident gesture, he points to the door of a meeting room. Nobody moves until the CEO takes the indicated direction. His departure serves as a signal, and the dark suits rush to follow him inside.

Jay turns to Alex and winks knowingly at him. Their little scenario works wonderfully.

Everybody sits around a large oval table while Jay slips to the back. He walks along the glass panels overlooking the corridor and stops in front of the wide whiteboard covering an entire wall. All gazes are riveted towards him, he begins:

"Good morning everyone."

The greeting is not enough to break the tense silence in the room.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Jeremy remarks, slapping his forehead with the palm of his hand ... "let's relax the atmosphere first."

He theatrically grabs his phone. He eyes it with a dubious expression, swivels it, shakes it, then comments:

"No signal..."

He then adopts the posture of a scientist who has just found the solution to his problem, snaps his fingers, and puts the accessory back in his pocket.

"Of course, no reception... I myself installed a frequency jammer... No wireless communication can enter or exit this floor... Security, security..."

He turns to the team of engineers, all sitting together on the other side of the room.

"Would you be kind enough to shut off the equipment for a moment, protocol notwithstanding?"

Without uncrossing its arms, one of the directors nods, and a technician immediately begins tapping on his laptop.

Jeremy takes out his phone and sends a brief message. Instantly, behind the glass, the flashing light goes out. The room fills with numerous beeps and other hums.

"You have all just received confirmation that the attack is over, and that all systems are under your control," Jeremy comments.

Everyone checks their mobile, computer, or smart watch. A collective sigh of relief escapes from all mouths.

Jay seizes the opportunity to glance at his device himself. With a smile, he discreetly types on his keyboard before continuing:

"Now that you all relaxed, let me explain what just happened. At 'Blue Jay IT Security,' we don't run away with our client's money after installing 'the best there is.'"

Jeremy mimed the quotation marks with his fingers.

"Here, we submit our products to draconian tests, the last of which just took place in your presence."

Somebody raises his hand in the audience and Jeremy nods towards the person.

"Yes?"

The man stands up and speaks. "To be clear; you asked a hacker to penetrate your system?"

"Exactly," Jeremy responds laconically.

The other curls his lips in a sarcastic sneer. "But you've just proven that your wares are ineffective!"

Jeremy smiles. "You must be the deputy director of IT security, right?"

"Precisely, and I don't take seven hundred thousand euros to do my job..." provokes the manager.

"I understand your position," Jeremy tempers. "Hiring an external company to solve security issues ... it encroaches a bit on your territory, and your budget, I guess."

"Let's just say that at that price, we expect an infallible system..."

"And that's exactly the problem. Everyone thinks there's such a thing as an infallible system... But, if there was one, Mr. Deputy Director of IT Security, no doubt you would have found it, wouldn't you? You don't look any dumber than anyone else..."

Disconcerted, the employee seems to hesitate for a moment to retort, but in front of Jeremy's assurance, he gives up and sits back down on his seat.

"In IT security, no system is perfect," Jeremy proclaims with an equivocal gesture of the hand. "However, this morning's exercise demonstrated two important things."

He lets a few seconds pass to gauge the attention of the room before continuing.

"First, technically, the intrusion was detected as soon as it appeared. Then, we all—including the highest authority—received notifications, proving the protocol is effective." Jeremy, smile on the side, turns to the CEO to underscore his remark.

Whispers come from the crowd. They comment, discuss, and undoubtedly criticize a lot too.

"However!" Jeremy resumes with a louder voice to captivate his audience. "Your CEO should not be disturbed for a red alert."

"But," retorts someone in the room. "The red alert has always been..."

"The most serious?" Jeremy cuts off. "Certainly, the red alert indicates a total penetration, free access to banking and stock market information, an absolute nightmare for an institution like yours. So, why not trouble your CEO in such an extreme case?"

The audience, attentive, remains silent this time.

"Because at no point were your data in real danger," Jeremy drops, enunciating each syllable.

Murmurs resume in the room.

As his companion approaches the board, Alexandre stands up and speaks.

"Remember, when my consultant, Mr. Baltac, told you that the important thing was to admit that no IT security system is infallible? Well, at 'Blue Jay IT Security' we understood that, and we acted accordingly. The key word of a good security system is time. The time to warn, the time to intervene, and in the worst case... The time to shut down your infrastructure. That's why we implemented the 'Time Box.' A solution that will always give you a head start on hackers."

The screeching slide of a marker on the board laminated surface disrupts the audience's incredulous silence.

"Don't worry," Jeremy reassures, interrupting his draft. "We're not talking about playing with the mysteries of the space-time continuum. We're not in the middle of a science fiction novel, and 'Blue Jay IT Security' sold you a very serious technology."

Sketching a design with the tip of his pen, Jeremy comments in a childish tone: "In the land of nasty pirates, we launch a missile." In front of the red rocket he just drew, on the right side of the board, he adds a large blue wall. "So, in the land of nice bankers, we protect ourselves with an anti-missile shield." In a hurry, he outlines a second red missile, bigger than the first. "Obviously, the bad guys build a more powerful rocket, capable of piercing the bankers' shield." He pens another azure barrier, next to the first. "So, the good guys add a layer of protection." He sketches a third red missile, even bigger. "And the ingenious pirates build an even more devastating weapon." He pretends to illustrate a third blue barricade, but interrupts his gesture. "And so on. In this game, it's enough for the bankers to fall behind just once, and they're annihilated. Whereas the hackers, they can try again and again. So, time ... that's what you need, to set up the next layer of shielding."

The audience now hanging on his lips, Jeremy continues his explanation.

"What the 'Time Box' does is create an environment similar to yours, but virtual, and only containing randomly produced data. Why? Because the hacker, like electricity, follows the path of least resistance. This virtual environment is slightly less secure than the main one. A shielding from a previous generation, if you will. The hacker thus throws himself at it, breaks the barriers one by one, and wastes time defeating a phantom system. The yellow and orange alerts warn you of the penetration attempt, of its progress. When finally the red alert sounds, the hacker is ready to retrieve ... retrieve what?" He looks at the audience for a few moments, then in front of their silence answers himself. "... Completely useless data! Meanwhile, you were able to analyze the attack—disarm the missile—and thereby keep a head start with your production infrastructure. And there you have it..."

Quiet reigns in the room. Then a timid applause rises, a second, another, and soon it's an ovation—especially from the technical staff.

The artist bows to his audience, then speaks up again. He has to raise his voice to cover the acclamations as best he can.

"Three ... hum, hum! Excuse me, thank you, thank you. Three extra alert levels have therefore been established; green, blue, and purple. They will now indicate, the unlikely but always possible attack, on your production systems. As for the three old color codes—yellow, orange, red—they remain in place for the virtual protection."

The room buzz as the crowd releases all the last hours' accumulated stress.

"I would like to thank your CEO, Mr. Delattre," adds Jeremy, "who, unbeknownst to him, participated in this last test. Thank you for your time, dear president, we all appreciate how precious it is." He salutes the CEO, and steps down from the stage to blend into the masses. Jay shakes the hands extended to him, and answers the few technical questions that the curious ask him.