“What are you doing there, Decker?” Potella said. I kept typing.
Rowe hung up the phone. “San Francisco field office is contacting the local authorities in Gold Coast.”
“I appreciate it. Let me know the moment you’ve heard back from them.” I shut the notebook and walked outside.
I thought it couldn’t be any hotter outside than it was in the control room. I was wrong. It had to be over a hundred degrees with not the slightest whiff of a breeze, the humidity so thick you could literally feel the air. There was a walking track along the edge of the waterway, and I made my way toward it, trying to clear my head and come up with a plan.
I smelled the pipe before I heard him. “Matthew, wait up.” I stopped and waited for Tark to catch up with me.
“Potella’s raising Cain in there. Wanted to look at your computer to see what you were typing but Rowe backed him down.”
“It’s nice of Rowe to look out for me, but it’s not necessary. My machine will ask for a twelve-character password when the lid is raised. But I’ll tell you this,” I said, emphasizing each word with a stab of my finger in the air, “I have had about enough of Potella.”
“I want you to know I’m praying for you.”
“You know something, Tark? When I showed up here, I thought you were an asshole. I was wrong. I’ve really come to like you over the past few days, which is something I don’t do very often. With that said, I’ll ask you again to lay off the preaching. If you think you’re going to win me over and bring me back into the fold, you’re mistaken. I can’t stop you from wasting your time, but use it on somebody else. I have enough going on in the real world right now.”
“You need God’s help, Matthew. Right now. I feel it, really strong. The forces of evil are lining up against you and nobody, I mean nobody, but God will be able to save you.”
I rolled my eyes and regretted it when they squarely caught the sun. I had no time for this. Just as I drew a breath to lay into him, he reached over and squeezed me on the shoulder—the way my father used to do when I was having a hard time—and I lost the urge. The stress was piling up but there was no point in taking it out on someone trying to help, no matter how misguided they were. “Thanks for your concern. I just need to clear my head.”
“What do you plan to do about Potella?”
“I think he’s dirty and before long I’m going to turn the tables on him.
“What makes you think that?”
“He dresses like he makes a half-million a year, while he really makes fifty grand. He and his young wife drive two hundred thousand dollars worth of vehicles. The man reeks.”
“How’d you find all that out?”
“I tapped his Bureau file. He’s also the one who brought that gang of snot-nosed hoodlums in as supposed experts. Between all that and this arms-trading nonsense he’s trying to hold over my head, I’ve had it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I desperately want to take him down but I need to watch him a little longer and see where he might lead us. It’s like 69 knew the moment I went online.”
“You think Potella’s feeding information to him?”
“He has a laptop set up in that side office, and it only takes a minute to send an email.”
Tark thought it through. “Possible, but how can you know for sure?”
“I just installed a packet sniffer on the network. I’ll be able to analyze any traffic going in or out of here now.”
“Good idea. Keep me posted and let me know if I can help.”
“Will do.”
Rowe approached me as soon as we walked back inside. “Gold Coast P.D. confirms that one Nathaniel Decker is safe and sound in room three-twenty-one. There’s been no suspicious activity around the nursing home, but they’re keeping an eye on the place until we can get a pair of agents up there from Frisco.”
I closed my eyes. “I appreciate that more than you know.”
“Not a problem,” he said as he patted me on the back. “We’re all in this together.”
Back at my station, I forwarded the latest email to FBI headquarters in Washington and their academy at Quantico, then re-read each of the emails. 69 claimed to have provided clues. Where were they?
21
11:11 AM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME (LOCAL)
YELLOW CREEK
I coded a modification to the packet sniffer, dropped it into a hidden folder, and activated it. It would monitor network traffic and discreetly forward all emails into or out of Potella’s machine to me.
He was hunkered down in the side office, pecking at the computer, so I took advantage of his absence from the control room and went online. Although I was confident my machine was secure, I still found myself half-expecting another chastising email to come sliding in. Outside the United States, the Internet was fully functional, so I found a solid UUNET international backbone and tiptoed my way into Geneva’s registry of banks, looking for more information on my alleged clandestine Swiss bank account.
Suisse Banc Geneve was a major conglomerate, headquartered quite naturally in Geneva, with branches all over Europe. I went to their web site and searched for an account under my Social Security number. YOUR SEARCH RETURNED 0 RESULTS. SEARCH BY ACCOUNT NUMBER? I had no account number. Deeper access was needed. I cracked my knuckles and went to work.
Their security was impressive, but eighteen minutes later I was roaming the cyber-corridors of the financial giant. There were ninety-eight accountholders named Decker, three with a first initial of M. First up was Madeline, then Martin, then ... Matthew? I assured myself that the world had plenty Matthew Decker’s but my pulse ignored that assertion, racing ahead of my fingers and hammering my temples as I worked my way into the account.
The first account screen showed the current balance, $1,243,552.23, and a list of the last five transactions. Five deposits, the most recent one being three months old, the oldest about a year. I was almost certain the amounts and dates matched those on the document Potella had shown me. It still meant nothing. There was obviously another Matthew Decker making out okay financially.
One level deeper I found the option I was looking for: VIEW/EDIT PERSONAL DETAILS. I selected it and hit the ENTER key. As the screen came into view, my pulse stopped hammering the inside of my skull because my heart stopped beating. The room around me receded. Abdul’s supersonic typing was a distant clacking in an otherwise silent world. I was looking at the impossible, a picture of myself. It couldn’t be, but it was. I had no Suisse Banc Geneve account, yet there it was.
A rapidly blinking line of text at the top of my screen yanked me back into reality with a jolt. WARNING. INTRUSION DETECTED. EXIT IMMEDIATELY. Damn! How long had that been there? My machine was cloaked but the protective countermeasures in place on this system were a far cry from Hotmail. I reached for the F12 key, which was programmed to lay down a trail of electronic chaff to cover my tracks, then sever the network connection, but my finger froze. I desperately needed more information but once I left, re-entry would be far too risky. My fingers blurred as I slammed the keys, printing screens as I went.
The warning text was blinking faster, a signal that the trace was closing in. As soon as the last critical screen loaded and before I had a chance to view it, I hit the print command and immediately followed up with an F12. The warning text changed. ANALYZING RISK. After blinking for what seemed like a month, it changed again. LIKELIHOOD OF IDENTIFICATION BY REMOTE SYSTEM: 51%. I cleared the message and rubbed my eyes. I could see that room full of reporters. Mr. Decker, is it true that you have been charged with a felony violation of the International Cyber-Protection Treaty? Mr. Decker, how will you spend your days in prison? Mr. Decker, have you ever been someone’s bitch? Mr. Decker?
“Matt Decker?” I jumped as Abdul tapped me on the shoulder.
“What?” I shook my head, trying to clear the fog.
“I am not knowing what you have printed but Potella is coming this way at us.”
&nbs
p; I sprang from the chair and jogged to the laser printer at the end of the console, scooping up the sheaf of papers from its output tray a half-second before Potella ambled past. He glared at me and craned his tree trunk neck trying to see the papers but I folded the stack over on itself before his beady eyes could get a lock.
“One day, Decker. One day,” he said through a crooked expression that was half smile and half sneer.
Sooner than he thought.
3:48 PM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME (LOCAL)
I walked to the lounge for a stretch and found Tark there. After leaning out the door to verify no one was within earshot, he said, “Anything else on Potella?”
I shook my head. “I’m going to draw him out soon, though. Stay sharp.”
“You’re talking to a tack, Matthew.” He flashed a foot-wide smile and winked.
A BREAKING NEWS logo flashed across the television screen and I turned the volume up.
A fresh newscaster: “We’re about to go live to the Oval Office, where the President will make a brief statement. Stand by,” he said.
Moments later the screen cut to President Stanson. “My fellow Americans, I come to you with a heavy heart as we all mourn the grievous loss of life that our nation has suffered. I want to assure each of you that we are working around the clock to end this crisis, and we will succeed.
“Until that time, however, we must maintain order and calm. For that reason, I have regrettably decided to declare a state of martial law. The brave men and women of our military are already preparing to keep the peace, and it is likely that you will soon see them arriving in your area. I urge each American to give them your full cooperation, as they are there for the good of all, not to rule over you but to protect you.
“To the cowards responsible, let me say to you that we will chase you to the ends of the earth and deliver justice unto you. You have wounded us, but the United States of America will not be defeated.
“Finally, I want to ask those of you who are able to see or hear this message to pass it on to your nearby friends and neighbors who don’t have access to television or radio. By working together we will be stronger. May God bless each of you, and may God bless America.”
The television went back to the newscaster, who started rattling off a list of rules that were to be followed under martial law, including sunset curfews and rationing of food and medical supplies. I walked back to the control room, wondering how Norman was making out.
The printouts from the Suisse Banc Geneve account were damning, especially the screen detailing the origin of the deposits. All came from overseas shell corporations, all acting as covers for a variety of terrorist organizations that the United States government would not deem acceptable business partners. The front companies were so poorly disguised that a competent college student could have connected the dots. It was an obvious frame but on its face the evidence was enough to make me look like a traitor and even if I was exonerated in court, my days as a government contractor—or as a contractor for any major entity—would be finished. The situation needed to be debunked and defused in the worst way.
Within the space of two hours the Potella email sniffer triggered five hits, all correspondence between him and Tiffany, aka his “Snuggle Queen.” He loved her, missed her, worshiped her, would die for her, would kill for her, would walk ten miles barefoot in a snowstorm for her, and couldn’t wait to get home and ravish her in all her buxom beauty. That was the first message. Numbers two, three, and four were more of the same. Snuggle Queen managed one brief reply to his four messages, in which she opined that the Internet was broken and somebody should damn well fix it. She also asked if he knew when the next payment would arrive because she needed a new iPad.
22
4:15 PM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME (LOCAL)
HART COMPLEX
Hart watched Stanson’s hollow threat with amusement, then switched the television off and turned back to his computer. Three clicks later, clandestinely collected audio from the control room at Great Central Electric again streamed from a pair of Harman/Kardon speakers. The eavesdropping device had been a pleasant surprise, a nice and thoughtful gift from Dane Christian. So had Jana Fulton, who sat on the nearby sofa. Dressed in a simple white gown with black trim, she took the definition of beauty to a new and unexplored height. Her eyes were so blue as to appear electric, not unlike his own. Silken blond hair that approached her shoulders before turning up at the ends in a teasing flip. Medium breasts rising and falling in slow waves against the satin fabric of the gown.
She was consumed with raw desire for him; she said nothing but he could see the blue-hot flames of passion burning in her eyes. Such was to be expected, but she would simply have to wait until the time was right for him to grace her with his stunning man-talents.
“I still want to hear about this pattern you thought you found.” Hart recognized the voice as that of the FBI agent, Robert Rowe.
“Checking on it now if this site will ever load. Geez, this reminds me of the fifty-six-k days, for crying out loud.”
Hart’s lips tightened into a thin line and his nostrils flared. This Decker was entirely too stubborn. After ample warning to stay off the Internet, he dared to defy Abraham Hart. Was he insane? Perhaps so, but that did not mitigate the risk of Decker stumbling onto information that could jeopardize the operation.
He typed and sent another warning to Decker, one that should keep him busy for a while, then leaned back in his chair and rested his chin on steepled fingers. Fewer than four days remained, and for the first time, Hart began to think that continuing the game with Decker might be a bad idea. Taunting him was great fun, but too much was at risk. Decker was already ruined, and for now, that was enough. Time for him to make an exit.
He picked up a secure satphone that was linked to an up-top antenna and dialed a number.
4:21 PM CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME (LOCAL)
YELLOW CREEK
Potella had been off the grounds for several hours with Sheriff Litman, so I set the trap and waited for his return. He had been back for about five minutes when Rowe walked up and said, “I still want to hear about this pattern you thought you found.”
“Checking on it now if this site will ever load. Geez, this reminds me of the fifty-six-k days, for crying out loud.” I had throttled back my bandwidth in order to slow down the surfing. I wanted to be online, but I didn’t want Potella to see me do any genuine fact-finding and a molasses mission was the best way to accomplish that.
He watched over one shoulder and Rowe over the other. Within two minutes Potella said to Rowe, “I have things to do. Let me know if this asshole finds anything.”
“Give it a rest, Walt. We’re on the same team,” Rowe said as Potella was walking away.
“Yeah, right,” he said as he walked into the side office and shut the door. Bingo.
I busied myself plunking around on the FNC site, all the while complaining about the snailesque speed for the sake of authenticity, and waited. Rowe pulled up a nearby chair. Less than five minutes after Potella’s exit, I heard: “You have new mail.”
Return-Path:
Delivered-To: x7ijljAweRRv -deckerdigital:[email protected]
X-Envelope-To: [email protected]
X-Originating-IP: [66.156.171.40]
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Thy Clock Doth Run
Mr. Decker:
You have apparently chosen to willfully defy my instructions by going online again. You are beginning to anger me. I am quite certain your little Persian lapdog has been trying to break the encryption of the DECREE OF DARKNESS code within CEPOCS, so inform him that we are now playing a game of very high stakes, Mr. Decker.
If you have not produced the password within eighteen hours, I will impose another harsh penalty upon this nation, I will make you pay a dear personal price, and I will dispose of your friend’s family in Ir
an. If you do obtain the password, you may not use it. Do so and Los Angeles will pale it comparison to the consequences I will invoke. Since you seem so fond of the Fox news web site, should you discover the password you are to place it prominently on their front page in unwritten form. The game clock is ticking, Mr. Decker.
Rowe read the message and started to say something but his cell phone rang. Make that a satphone; when did the Bureau start issuing fifteen-hundred-dollar phones to field agents? Rowe walked outside to take the call. Two minutes later, he was back, reading over my shoulder. I read it again and shook my head, drawing Julie’s attention. She walked over and read it.
“Has it occurred to you that the subject is monitoring your Internet connection? Seems to me he knows every time you go online,” she said.
Julie was leading the conversation exactly where it needed to go but I wanted them to have a handle on the tech basics before I dropped the Potella bomb in their laps. “Not possible. He could have a packet sniffer out there watching for my machine, but it would draw a blank because of the routing I’m using to log on.”
“Can you put that in English?” Rowe said. “We’re cops, not nerds.”
“Geeks,” I said.
“Whatever. Give us an abbreviated explanation of how someone might monitor a certain computer, and why it can’t be happening to you.”
“Data sent and received on the Internet is handled in little chunks called packets. Each packet also has an electronic ID tag attached to it, providing information about the origin and destination machines, which each have a unique identifying number for Internet purposes, called an IP address. Devices called routers interpret these ID tags and direct the packets to their destination, sort of like a traffic cop. So when I request information from the Fox site, for example, the request packet is labeled as coming from my machine with an intended destination of whatever Fox machine has the information I need. The routers direct it to that Fox machine, it assembles the data I requested, and sends out a stream of packets containing that data, this time flagged with a destination of my machine. Am I making sense so far?”
Seven Unholy Days Page 12