by Tom Clancy
“Before things, um, hit the fan, did you get any strange calls to your office?” he asked Winters.
The captain frowned. “Now that you mention it, I got the king of all wrong numbers a few days before Alcista died. A telemarketing call, trying to sell me a discount casket. I had a job breaking into the salesman’s spiel, telling him he’d gotten an office, not a home number — and the offices of Net Force, at that.”
“Speaking of breaking in,” Matt said, “were you on the line with this guy long enough for a program to be transmitted in the background?”
Winters gave him a sharp look. “Just like Mike did to Steve the Bull.” He thought for a second. “Maybe. And if it implanted a program, that would explain a few things. If there was a program resident in the Net Force system, that informant’s call I got could have been generated in-house. I took it for granted that it was an outside call, because it came from my informant — or seemed to.”
Now Laird nodded. “But if it came to you through the Net Force computer, there would be no trace of the call through phone company records.”
“Nor through the agency phone log,” Winters went on. “It would just be an internal record.” He grimaced. “Knowing Steele, we can probably change that to an erased internal record.”
“But would it be lost and gone forever?” Laird asked. “I could get a subpoena to have the system checked.”
Winters shook his head. “I think it would be better to present it as an internal security breach. Jay Gridley will have techs going over the system with fine-tooth combs. They’ll find anything there is to find.”
But the captain sounded doubtful, and Matt could understand why. Mike Steele’s infiltrated program would no doubt have erased itself after erasing the record of the phony phone call. And in the weeks since the deed was done, who knows how much data might have been recorded over the circuits where the Trojan Horse program had resided?
Still, it was a possibility — a chance to shake the case that seemed to be winding around the captain like a hungry python.
An incoming call came to Laird’s system. He looked surprised when he saw the caller. “That was fast work,” he commented. “You must have barely gotten the datafile.”
The lawyer’s system was a high-priced model that offered privacy of image and sound, even from people sitting in the office’s visitors’ chairs.
Laird’s newfound confidence suddenly seemed dented. “Looks like we hit a snag on the Kovacs-Steele thing. The first thing my investigator did was pull fingerprint files — Steele’s from Net Force, and Kovacs’s from the local licensing agency. Not only do they not match, there are wild dissimilarities.”
Winters wasn’t fazed in the least. “Of course not,” he said. “Steele was a specialist agent — a master hacker. If he intended to disappear, the first thing he’d go after were his fingerprints. And, regrettably, he had the access and the knowledge to change them — both there and throughout the Federal system.”
Matt nodded. “The confusion would start from the Net Force computers, which we already have to regard as compromised.”
Laird turned back to his computer’s display, which only looked like a gray storm cloud from where Matt was sitting.
“Keep digging,” the lawyer ordered.
“And tell them not to call again,” Winters said. “We still don’t know if the phone line’s secure.”
If it’s not, Kovacs-Steele will already know we’re after him, Matt realized. This could be a problem.
Stewart Laird passed the message along and cut the connection. His expression was preoccupied, as if he was already moving on to other matters mentally. The prospect of having some sort of case to present — something besides temporary insanity — seemed to fill the lawyer with energy.
“I’d like to call a press conference,” Laird said. “Like it or not, you’re being tried in the court of public opinion. It would be nice to point that out — and maybe have these so-called journalists tearing at one another instead of coming after us.”
Winters looked doubtful. “If you mention Kovacs, it will just warn him.”
“I’ll couch it in general terms,” Laird promised. “Suppose I attack the reporting on Once Around the Clock—I could say it was sloppy, that they didn’t check their facts.” He thought for a second. “How about this? They broadcast slanderous untruths, untruths which were not researched and developed by the network staff. That should get the other reporters going after HoloNews, and spark an in-house investigation by the network lawyers.”
“I think Kovacs would have to be blind not to figure out that we’re on to him.” Winters sourly tapped the pickup on Laird’s office system. “For all we know, he could have been listening in already.”
He flashed a grin at Laird’s expression. “Yeah, I know, makes me sound paranoid, but then, that’s my business.” His expression went serious again. “Okay, go for it without mentioning Kovacs. Let’s shake the tree and see what falls out. In the meantime, send a copy of the kids’ datafile to Net Force. To Jay Gridley, not to Internal Affairs. I don’t trust Steadman not to bury it. I’m pretty sure Jay’ll at least order a security check on the computers. And maybe, if we’re lucky, he’ll turn a really big magnifying glass on Marcus Kovacs.”
Laird nodded. “The more resources we can call on, the better,” he said, then quickly consulted his watch. “Okay. I think I can set things up for a press conference tomorrow morning, before the noon news.” The lawyer hesitated for a second. “I don’t think you need to be present.”
Winters looked like a man who’d just gotten a reprieve from a firing squad. “I’m sure I can trust you to say what needs to be said.”
“All right, then,” Stewart Laird said with a little nod. “The other side has been slinging mud at us for a while now. It’s about time we knocked some of it back on them.”
It had been an unusually tight day at the O’Malley household. Megan’s mom and dad were both freelance writers, which meant they generally set their own schedules. But both of them were up against deadlines, working to finish books. Since coming home from school, Megan had been tied to the computer, making up work she’d skimped on while trying to help Captain Winters.
I will not call Matt Hunter, she told herself. The words had run through her head like a mantra while she ground her way through all her reading assignments in world history.
Right now Megan had a greater interest in more current events — as in how Winters’s lawyer had reacted to the file Leif had developed. But her parents were really getting on her case about schoolwork. And, to tell the truth, Bradford Academy was a pretty demanding place, academically speaking. It wouldn’t do to fall too far behind. She’d even made the ultimate sacrifice, programming the home system to meet all incoming calls for her with a message and record them for later consumption.
Supper was late. Her brother Sean tried to do the cooking and filled the kitchen with a peculiarly acrid smoke. The O’Malleys wound up waiting for takeout while airing the house out.
So, between one thing and another, it wasn’t until the late news that Megan had a chance to catch up with the world.
“I think you’ll want to see this,” her father said, poking his head into her room.
She followed him to the living room, where a model-perfect newscaster looked very serious sitting in front of a logo that said NET FORCE MURDER?
“A surprising counterattack came today from the lawyer defending Net Force Captain James Winters. Attorney Stewart Laird not only insisted on his client’s innocence in the alleged bombing murder of organized-crime figure Stefano ‘the Bull’ Alcista; he also accused the media of in-accuracy and outright misrepresentation in their coverage of the story. Laird took special aim at HoloNews—”
The image shifted to a lean-faced, balding man standing in a heavily paneled room. “The leader in this savage attack of pack journalism has been Once Around the Clock. I don’t know how a supposedly respectable newsmagazine could air some of t
he so-called facts they’ve presented. The information was obviously unchecked, and apparently didn’t even originate with anyone on the network.”
Megan pumped a fist into the air. “All right!” she cried. Whatever else, Leif’s file had apparently pumped some life into the captain’s defense.
The lawyer’s image faded, to be replaced with another familiar face. Megan found herself looking at the chubby features of Professor Arthur Wellman.
The newscaster’s voice-over provided the bridge. “Support for Laird’s allegations came from media analyst and publisher Arthur Wellman.”
Wellman sat at his cluttered desk, handling an unlit pipe. “It’s unfortunate that media transgressions are usually only scrutinized in the light of the most sensational cases. It takes a Net Force scandal to disclose irresponsible, possibly even unethical, reportage. But The Fifth Estate will present the proof in a special issue….”
“Why, that pink-faced little weasel!” Megan burst out. “He’s using the captain’s case to get a little free advertising for his own rag of a magazine!”
“Well, he seems to back up what Captain Winters’s lawyer was saying,” Mrs. O’Malley observed. She squinted to look at the channel selector. “Judging from the roasting HoloNews is getting, I’d guess this is some other network.”
Wellman’s face disappeared, replaced by the newscaster. This time a different heading appeared behind her head — a stylized car crashing into the HoloNews logo.
“In any event, proof for these allegation will be harder to come by. In a late-breaking report HoloNews personality Tori Rush of Once Around the Clock was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver less than an hour ago. Reporting live from George Washington University Hospital is Liz Fortrell…”
Megan stared, her whole face slack with shock.
17
Groaning in disbelief, Matt squinched his eyes shut and clung to his pillow. The room was dark — he’d arranged the shades with care. It was Saturday. He had no school and no plans except to make up for recent sleepless nights and yesterday’s legal excitement with as much sack time as possible.
Before going to bed last night, he’d personally ordered the house system not to extend the phone chimes into his room. If anybody called him, the answering program would cut in and record a message for him. Nobody would be bothered — especially not Matt.
So why — how — was his father looking in the door of the dim room, telling Matt that David Gray was on the line for him?
Groaning again, Matt crawled out of bed and staggered around the room, bringing the lights up, then engaging the computer components back into the home system. The display system flashed a holographic image of David Gray, looking disgustingly clean and chipper for—
Matt checked the time. Humph. Nearly noon.
“You okay?” David asked. “You’re not sick or something?”
“Asleep,” Matt replied, trying to rub some life back into his face. “Crashed early last night. Cut myself out of the system—”
“That’s why I’ve been trying to get through to you for the last hour!” David said with some annoyance. “I finally called your dad. You must have hit the hay very early last night — before the late news.” He hesitated for a moment. “Tori Rush is dead. Hit-and-run.”
Matt’s blinking eyes shot open. “Say again?” he demanded.
“Tori Rush came down to Washington ‘for unknown reasons,’ according to HoloNews. I think we can imagine her reasons for visiting. I don’t imagine her bosses were very happy with her after that press conference yesterday. Anyway, she was leaving the local HoloNews offices via a back way — trying to avoid reporters eager to ask embarrassing questions about where she got her information. Now we’ll never know. She was cutting across E Street and got nailed by a passing car.”
“Is this from the local news nets, or have you got a closer source of information?”
David’s father was a detective in the D.C. police force, working the homicide beat.
“You can see some of it on the news, but my sources are a bit closer,” David admitted, tight-lipped. “Dad’s got the basic on-scene coroner’s comments, and a bunch of conflicting accounts from eyewitnesses. She was walking, she was running, she got hit by a car, truck, or bus. At least Dad thinks he can rule out murder by UFO.”
“Murder.” It was an ugly word that seemed to stick in Matt’s throat.
David nodded. “Under the circumstances, it seems like a highly fortuitous accident.”
“Does that push your father’s investigation closer to the red line?”
“Dad takes every case seriously,” David replied. “From what he said, he’s barely in the opening rounds of this one. But I have heard a couple of things that I thought should be passed along. Dad talked to a bunch of suits from HoloNews. They were very clear that no corporate money was used to hire ‘improper research assistance,’ was the way they put it.”
“What a big surprise,” Matt mumbled. “Would they really know?”
“Dad thinks so. Even a newsdiva can’t go throwing big amounts of money around without explaining to the network bean counters where it’s going. And a quick look at the late Ms. Rush’s finances doesn’t show any checks to I-on Investigations.”
“Blast!” Matt said with feeling.
“On the other hand, there is a pattern of cash withdrawals in recent months. Big sums of money left Ms. Rush’s accounts…and every time right before she broke new scandals on Once Around the Clock.”
Matt scowled. “So now we have some suggestive facts to back up the hearsay account that Tori Rush was paying for information. But we still don’t have hard evidence to show who was doing the dirty work, or who was getting the money.”
Matt gave David an uneasy glance. “And it looks as though people who know anything about what’s going on are beginning to suffer fatal accidents. Should we be doing something about that intern up in New York?”
“Maybe, but I’d call Leif. My dad’s a cop down here, not in the NYPD,” David pointed out. “Besides, I think our bearded detective friend is trying to save a dam with too many leaks in it. When The Fifth Estate comes out with its story, Marcus Kovacs — or whoever — will discover how it feels to have the spotlight of publicity glaring down on him. And there won’t be a thing he can do about it.”
Megan O’Malley couldn’t believe what she was seeing on the evening news. Students gathered outside a shattered building on the Columbia campus while a HoloNews reporter offered the results of instant expertise on the subject of bombs.
“There’s no evidence as yet to show if this was the work of terrorists, or some terrible personal act of violence. Shattered windows showered glass on students passing on their way to classes. A research library was destroyed, as well as the offices of Professor Emeritus Arthur Wellman….”
Megan swallowed hard. The outer wall on one of the upper floors had been completely blown out. She thought the room revealed to a light rain looked familiar. The large desk Arthur Wellman had sat behind during their holographic chats was scorched and turned on its side. The camera focused in, climbing up the wrecked building as the reporter went on about rescue efforts and the number of people killed. As the most prominent, Wellman’s name led the list.
The holocamera’s focus zeroed in on something on the floor by the desk — a briar pipe snapped cleanly in two, the broken wood slick with raindrops. Because this was HoloNews, there was no mention of The Fifth Estate or the magazine’s connection to the growing Tori Rush scandal.
Megan found herself blinking back tears of pain and anger as she gave the computer orders to find other coverage with the information she sought. It was a fight to control her voice.
The holographic display shifted to one of the other news services, who, behind their shocked comments on the bombing and its effect on the Rush case, seemed downright gleeful.
“The sole set of files for the upcoming issue of Wellman’s news review, The Fifth Estate, was contained in the late
professor’s computer system.” The thin female news reporter struggled to keep an umbrella over her perfect blond hair as she spoke into a microphone. “Only yesterday, Wellman had announced that his publication was prepared to reveal details of unprofessional conduct by HoloNews anchor Tori Rush. Rush herself perished recently in a suspicious hit-and-run incident, while avoiding reporters’ questions on the propriety of her information-gathering methods. She was rumored to be hiring covert operatives for illegal Net taps and surveillance in several high-profile exposés. But this mysterious explosion leaves reporters — and the public at large — without the hard facts to prove or disprove these allegations. And, unless the data can be recovered — a job which will require many experts and perhaps months of time — we may never find out.
“Did Tori Rush’s journalistic ambitions drag an entire network into the murky business of creating news? She seems to have taken the ultimate means of avoiding comment. Or was it forced upon her? Live from the Columbia campus, this is Rebecca Rostenkovsky. Now back to you, Arlen.”
Rumors, allegations, Megan thought in disgust. That’s sufficient for the easy standards of broadcast journalism. Enough for the viewing audience to swallow. But we may end up with nothing on hand to bring Marcus Kovacs to trial.
She noticed that none of the news reports about the Rush case had actually mentioned Kovacs by name. Sure. He’s the president of a profitable company with lots of lawyers on retainer. The newspeople are watching their step around him. While a public servant like the captain gets the same sort of treatment a fly gets from a steamroller.
Megan smeared the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. Even if there was enough evidence to bring Kovacs to court, his pet lawyers could probably keep dancing around the issues for months. Certainly long enough to outlast the short attention span of the news. Maybe long enough to let him arrange another escape.