by Diane Duane
“Uh, he has access to one, yes.”
She went to the escritoire again, did something briefly at the computer’s keyboard, then left it to its own devices. “That’ll be ready shortly. Now what I need you to do is let me know where the phone that your famous wife was having trouble with is. Naughty of you to slip me this one without telling me. If it hadn’t been for your wife, I would have called the FBI.”
Peter gulped.
“But then I found out about this other connection,” Doris said, glancing at the copy of Webs, “and after all, Stevie Drew said you were all right to work with.”
“Stevie”? Never mind…. “Uh,” Peter said, “thank you, Doris. I should have told you, really, but—”
“You were being circumspect for reasons of your own,” said Doris. “I’m not going to pry. Let’s let it pass. But bring me your wife’s phone, all right? If your problem is solvable, I want to see if I can solve it. For one thing, if her phone has the covert chip in place, we’ll be able to see some other data—time and location information, other things—which the phone company’s own records won’t necessarily reflect. There may even be recordings of some voice material.”
Peter’s eyes opened wide at that. “Recordings? How?”
Doris smiled at him. “Our snoopy government. Peter, there are more intelligence-gathering bureaus running around in this country doing their gathering than most of the government would ever like you to know. They’d quote you ‘national security’ as a reason for it—and to some extent they might be right. But the truth is that governments are just naturally nosy, and big ones are much nosier than others, and we have one of the biggest. A lot of calls are monitored, though everyone denies it. There’s no use in them denying it, really. The technology makes it easy now, especially since our cell phone systems are still almost all analog, which any kid with a scanner can listen in on. And one of the most basic human vices is the desire to look through the keyhole and see what the neighbors are really doing. When things go digital, the monitoring may lessen a little. The signal is harder to break, and consumers are getting more sensitive to the issue. Which is as it should be. But governments will still fight back, doing their best to fight tight voice-encryption methods. By their own lights, they’re right to do so, they feel they’re protecting their own interests.” Doris sighed a little. “The NSA in particular monitors a lot of calls all over the country. Computers do it for them, taking random samplings of band width and searching for certain keywords in conversations—guns, bombs, drugs, that kind of thing. If something dangerous-sounding turns up, a little bell goes off somewhere, and a live monitor quietly comes into the circuit to determine whether the threat is real. Other countries do much the same. In fact, the NSA learned the technique from the British, a while after the troubles started in Northern Ireland. As far as I know, every call from Britain to Ireland and vice versa is still routinely computer-sampled for suspect content. And I think they do the same, just for general interest—and again, with an eye to Ireland, and their own drug-smuggling problems, and so forth—with everything that comes in from the U.S. and Canada via the transatlantic cable and satellite downlink stations on the south coast of the U.K. GCHQ passes on anything interesting that they ‘hear’ to the NSA, and the NSA returns the favor at its end.”
Peter shook his head in astonishment. “Is that legal?”
Doris gave him an excessively wry smile. “It must be, dear. They’re the government, aren’t they?”
“But what about freedom of speech?”
“The Constitution guarantees you that, all right. But it doesn’t guarantee that no one will be on the other side of the wall with their ear pressed to it, does it?”
Peter opened his mouth and closed it again.
“As I said, when the U.S.’s cell phones go digital, it’ll be harder for the eavesdroppers, ‘legal’ or otherwise,” Doris said. “But I don’t expect to see that before well into the next century. Assuming I am still around to see it. All the phone companies are arguing about what standard to use, and I think they will be for years. But for the meantime, when you’re on a cell phone, exactly as with a portable phone in your house, you need to assume that what you’re saying is being overheard and recorded by someone who means to do you dirt.
“In any case, all this may work to your benefit. It’s just possible that in the NSA tape archives there is some evidence pertaining to calls made on your wife’s phones. I have access to those archives on a need-to-know basis, and, well,” and Doris smiled that sunny smile again, “as regards this, I just need to know, that’s all.”
The glint of the gossip lover showed briefly in Doris’s eyes, and Peter laughed. “Okay, I’ll call her later and ask her to drop it off for you. You two can have a chat then, and you can cross-examine her about Secret Hospital.”
Doris nodded. “More to the point, though,” she said, “if I can link that phone to police work presently ongoing, that will get you off the hook with CellTech.” She smiled, a slightly feral look. “They listen to me. But then, they have to, considering what they pay me on retainer. So have your wife give me a call.”
Peter thanked Doris and headed out. As he walked down the street, at one point he paused and looked back at the top of her apartment building, all discreetly crowned with antennas, and he found himself thinking, Did I ever say anything on that phone, anything, to MJ, that might suggest to a casual listener that I was someone else besides just Peter Parker? And forget casual listeners—that might suggest it to a little old lady who could probably make toast just by sticking a slice of bread out her window?
He sighed. There was no point in worrying about it just now. Meanwhile, he had places to be. He headed for them.
* * *
OTHER people, also, much later that day, were going about the town on their business.
The offices of Bothwell Industries, housed in a refurbished office building downtown, had closed for the day a couple of hours ago. It was a small new company, still in the process of moving into its premises: furniture was still shoved up against the bare walls in its three rooms, and boxes were stacked everywhere in the near-darkness.
Among the boxes, a lithe dark shape moved quietly, reading labels with a tiny flashlight, and making sure that the light was always shielded by his body. A handy pseudopod cupped around it, to make doubly sure.
Venom had been there for about an hour, mentally sorting out the boxes into “check it now” and “don’t bother” categories. The chaos in the place at the moment actually worked to his benefit somewhat—it meant, among other things, that there had been no time to lock files away securely. That suited him very well indeed.
He paused for a moment, glancing around him. The symbiote sent out a few questing streamers in the direction of boxes it obscurely knew he was interested in. “No, no,” he said softly, “patience. We’ll do this systematically. We may not get another chance, and we cannot afford to lose this one.”
Venom went to the first of about twenty cardboard file boxes in which he was interested, opened it, and started going through the files inside. Most of them were innocuous, as he suspected they would be, but he was in no hurry at the moment. Security in this building was on the lax side; he had been watching it for the better part of the day to make sure, and not half an hour ago he had seen the lone security guard for the place lock the back door and head down the street to a local bar. The laxity amused Venom, and rather pleased him; he had no desire to slice up some poor hired lackey while doing what he had to do tonight. And by far the best thing that could happen, as far as he was concerned, was that one of the company directors might use his own building key, and come in alone. Then he and Venom would have a nice little chat.
Niner, he thought, going through the files, seeing correspondence about some shipment of oranges from Spain, passing it by. Bothwell appeared to be an innocent enough import-export firm, but the research he had done at the Bureau of Records, cross-indexed with the SEC information, made
it plain that vast amounts of cash had been through Bothwell’s accounts in the past couple of weeks. Now, there were legitimate firms for which this might have been true, but also many illegitimate ones. He had looked over a number of them today, in a cursory fashion—either from the street, in “civvies,” or from the rooftops. Heaven only knew what some of those other firms were up to—where their money came from, what they were doing with it. But this firm had distinguished itself, in midaftemoon, when Venom had seen the man called Niner, the man who had gotten away the other day, walk out its front door, dressed like a businessman, with a briefcase full of what was doubtless fascinating material.
Venom wanted to talk to that man. The symbiote’s tendrils writhed a little with anticipation at the thought. “Patience,” Venom said again. “We’ll have a chance to ask him our questions eventually. But first I want to have a better idea of what questions to ask.”
The next hour or two were weary ones. Eddie Brock had been more than capable, as a reporter, of the long slog through reams of boring information; this was very much the same. Invoices, impenetrable bank statements, letters in several different alphabets (many of them Cyrillic)—none of them told him any of the specific things he wanted to know about Bothwell. The symbiote began to make little movements that Venom had long since learned to translate as the alien version of, “I’m bored, can we go now?”
He ignored it. For the time being, he had to. He opened another box, and another, and carefully and patiently went through them all. The frustration of the whole business was that vital evidence might be right under his nose but in coded form, and he might not recognize it. Many firms, even now, used various commercial or industrial code books and software to hide their immediate intentions. There was no way to tell whether “Your inquiry about the condition of the last shipment is being investigated” actually meant “Tell the chief operative we want him back in the main office, fast” or “That last deposit for twelve million has gone through as promised.” All you could do was look.
He shut that box, opened another one, went through it. Nothing. Shut that box, opened another one. Went through it—
—and suddenly found himself looking at a letter regarding more oranges from Spain—with a sticky-pad note attached to it saying, in a neat precise hand, Cross-ref with tacticals/delivery systems schedule for DO.
Venom looked at it thoughtfully. Whatever oranges might need for their safe shipment, there would be nothing “tactical” about it—and the word “tactical” linked with “delivery system” made his hair try to stand up on end under the symbiote, and its tentacles wreathe and flutter. He put the letter aside, noted the date, and started digging through that box with ever-increasing interest.
Two files farther in, behind some more back statements with entirely too many zeroes, he found a piece of cream-colored letterhead that he lifted out of its file and held up to the light to check the watermark. Original. At the top of it appeared the letters ccrc/internal.
Transfer instructions, the heading of the letter said. Sensitive materials—see file 886, 887—
He laughed out loud. In the hurry of their move, someone had put this file in the wrong box. The box labeled 800 was across the room. He went for it.
“Aha,” Venom said softly, as he opened the 800 box. There were several locked metal security-deposit-type boxes in it, of a size to take files.
The symbiote put out several willing tentacles and levered the steel box open. The lock gave with a tiny screech of metal and a loud snap. Other pseudopodia came down, lifted the files out, opened them.
Delivery system disposition—Missile launchers have been positioned near: Boca Raton, Winter Park, Miami; Atlanta, Peachtree, Mobile; Solid emplacements: Chicago: Tower, El 1, El 2, O’Hare.
Venom began to growl softly under his breath. The symbiote shuddered with his reflected, growing rage. Fissionables transport. Miami reprocessing plant has been shut down, but Tuscaloosa remains operational and will finish present inventory. Shipments otherwise proceeding according to schedule.
“Shut down,” Venom said to the symbiote. “We should say it was. You had fun that night, didn’t you? Well, it looks like more fun is coming.”
“Light bombs.” ERWs are now 60% emplaced for Day Hundred. Previous difficulties with the timers have been worked out. Tests on the satellite detonation system have been abandoned as too uncertain with so little time remaining in the program.
“So little time,” Venom thought. What are they planning?
And then the last note, a sticky-pad note on the cover letter of another report on “deliveries of inventory.” I am not entirely pleased with the quality control on shipment 18: rad count is below optimum. Have it recalled and replaced—we have more than enough fissiles to do so within schedule. Please remind all staff that there is no room for error: the usual sanctions will apply.—OO
Venom stopped growling—a sound more frightening than the growl had been.
OO.
Otto Octavius.
One of the world’s leading experts on radiation and its various and sundry applications.
He remembered the earlier reference to “DO,” which, Venom now realized, likely referred to the name under which Octavius tended to operate since his metal tentacles were bonded to him and he embarked on a villainous career:
Doctor Octopus.
Indeed. Now it all begins to fall into place.
Eddie Brock was a methodical man. He went through all the other boxes he had deemed pertinent before he left. But his silence then, some two hours later, was more profound and terrible than all the silences before it. He stood up, stretched—even a man with a symbiote to massage his tired muscles gets stiff after a long time hunkered down among files—and headed for the stairway to the roof, working hard to contain his fury. He was going to have to be especially careful to keep the symbiote in check. There was someone he needed very much to kill but wanted more to see.
* * *
MJ went back to Sundog that evening in a very cheerful mood. She had still been worried about Peter when she got up, but when he came in carrying about a ream of paper, whistling, and told her why he was feeling so cheerful, she felt much better too.
It was pleasant not to have to get up too early, and she took her time about getting ready for the day, while Peter pored over the stacks of paper he had brought home. She then went out with both her cell phone and Peter’s, and dropped hers off with Doris Smyth. She was glad she had taken Peter’s phone with her; she and Doris got into one of those like-at-first-sight conversations that people sometimes have, a conversation that ranged over everything from personal philosophies to sordid gossip from the Secret Hospital set, and they both drank enough tea to float themselves away. She and Doris were still talking when MJ realized that it was five-thirty, and she had to go to work.
MJ promised to come back another time and continue the conversation, then she hurried downstairs and caught a cab over to Sundog. She had just enough time to call Peter and let her know what had happened to her. “It’s okay,” he’d said. “I thought you might have done something like that. Listen, I’ve got to get out and do some night work.”
“Okay, Tiger. When do you think you’ll be back?”
“Not too late. Probably about one.”
“Okay, see you then.”
She bounced out of the cab in good spirits, and headed in and up the studio stairs. When she got down to Studio Six, the same crew from last night were mostly in their places, laughing and chatting among themselves. They welcomed her like an old friend. These are such nice people. I hope this job lasts!
Jymn Magon came in and started trying to get everyone organized. As MJ was beginning to suspect was usual, it took a while. Finally they settled down to start the recording of the next Giga-Group script. “This one has a little more stuff for Glaive in it,” Jymn told MJ, “and her part is somewhat bigger than the last time—she’s more important to the plot. So get in there and swagger a little. Don’t b
e afraid to go too far over the top.”
“Why should she be?” said Doug Booth. “Who would notice?”
Much laughter ensued, and they started. MJ swaggered it as best she knew how, thinking of the occasional super villains she’d run across in her career, and less heroic but generally decent folk like the Black Cat. The others cheered her on, seemingly impressed, and MJ started just unashamedly enjoying the part and the way she was playing it, bold and flamboyantly heroic. It seemed to work, at least for Jymn, and even to MJ’s untutored ear, the more hackneyed lines in the script seemed somewhat improved when you delivered them as if they were the truth that would save the world. The night flew by, punctuated by one bout of laughter so severe that she could scarcely breathe, when Rory (playing a character who had for some obscure reason been temporarily regressed into a Neanderthal) suddenly started refusing to come out of character when taking direction from Jymn. “I need a little more weight on the ‘Me afraid—me not know what to do,’” Jymn had said, casually enough. But Rory’s reply was, in character, “Oh, okay, me screw that up the last time, me do it again,” and he remained stubbornly Neanderthal for the better part of an hour.
Later, in a cab on the way home, MJ wondered whether it had really been all that funny. It seemed so then. But it didn’t matter. She felt wonderful. She had come striding out of Sundog, after a whole night of rampant heroism, feeling nine feet tall, covered in adamantium, invincible and invulnerable, and feeling pretty good about herself—especially at five hundred bucks an hour for six hours.
She looked up at their apartment window as she got out of the cab and paid the man. The light in the third window over was on, which was Peter’s code meaning that he was still out web-swinging. Well, he said he wouldn’t be late. I’ll fix something light for him to eat when he gets in. And boy, I could murder a sandwich, myself.
MJ headed upstairs, strode on down to their door, unlocked it, stepped in, and locked up behind her. There, for a moment, she paused. She felt a draft. A window was open somewhere—not the bedroom one, not the one Peter usually came in by after a night of spidering around…