“Hacking, there’s a community, you know?”
“Like stamp collectors.”
“Or trainspotters.”
“Or poets.”
“A bit,” Ho agreed, to general surprise. “Only way more cool. Hackers hack systems for one reason only. They’re there. Some people do crosswords or sudoku.” His expression made it clear what he thought of that. “We hack. And we share.”
“So someone will have hacked, what did you call it? RoadWise?”
“RoadWise. Yeah, sure, if it’s there, it’s been hacked. And anyone cool enough to hack it’ll be in the community.” He nodded at his laptop, as if it held global masses. “And they’ll be getting back to me any moment.” Perhaps he saw doubt in their expressions. “We never sleep,” he said.
Catherine said, “There’s something I don’t get.”
Ho waited.
“You’re telling us you’ve got friends?”
“The best kind,” Ho said. “The ones you never meet.”
— Slow Horses (Mick Herron), Loc. 5279–90