by Tom Grace
Roe laughed as Johnson butchered the Beach Boys classic and rode an imaginary curl of water across the den. Suddenly, she tackled him, and they both fell onto the couch.
‘What the hell was that?’ Johnson shouted as Roe smothered him with a pair of soft throw pillows.
‘Wipeout.’ She laughed in her best Valley girl imitation. ‘If you’re gonna surf, dude, you gotta, like, learn how to scope the waves and watch the curl or you’ll end up fish food.’
They held each other for several minutes, nibbling and kissing as the early-morning light streamed through the windows. Eventually, he gave her one last kiss and got up to ready himself for the day.
At the door, he turned and pointed toward her computer, whose colorful screen saver was randomly painting the active-matrix display. ‘Back to work, Hemingway. There’s an editor just waiting for your wonderful story, and I’ll be lucky to make the office by eight.’
‘Slave driver,’ Roe mumbled under her breath as she got up. ‘All right, I’ll be good and finish my story, but I’d rather blow it off and have fun with you today. At least we have this weekend.’ Roe planted a quick kiss on his cheek and swatted his behind. ‘Now off to work with you. All those lawyers and stockbrokers are waiting to pour tons of new money into Pangen, and you don’t want to disappoint them, do you?’
Johnson’s quiet demeanor barely covered the enthusiasm he felt. ‘That will be exciting. Do you think you can make it? I’d love to have you there.’
Alex tapped the keyboard, looked at the unfinished story, and shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t think I’ll be done with this in time, but I promise to watch your debut on CNN and write the appropriate closer for my piece. Editors just love it when my stories are timely.’
Johnson departed by cab, leaving Roe to refine her prose. At the appointed hour, the CNN commentator switched to live coverage on the trading floor, where a member of the exchange’s board formally welcomed Pangen Research to the roster of publicly traded companies.
In a brief announcement, Johnson confirmed rumors that the FDA had approved Pangen’s latest generation of retroviruses for clinical trials in human-gene-therapy research. Pangen Research gained seven points in the first thirty minutes of trading.
Roe completed her article with a brief description of the company’s frenzied debut on the New York Stock Exchange. She left a space for the final share price to be filled in later by the fact checkers. She then clicked on the appropriate icons to save the file and brought up the window for communications.
After a few keystrokes, she connected with the magazine’s editorial computer and delivered her story. The combined effect of the stock’s strong activity and the government’s regulatory blessing gave her Pangen story an excellent shot at the cover. She imagined Johnson’s surprise at receiving the ‘Biotech Special Issue’ with his handsome face smiling back at him.
With her article completed, Roe set to work on her next task. She hadn’t been completely truthful with Johnson about her reason for visiting Pangen, and this lack of honesty with an old friend bothered her. However, the piece for NetWorth provided an excellent cover for a more detailed search into Pangen’s corporate secrets.
Using a SCSI cable, she wired her laptop directly to Johnson’s home computer and activated a linkup program. Immediately, her machine began to sift through the data encoded on his hard drive, searching for the keys to the Pangen mainframe. Twenty minutes later, she cracked through the system security, posing as Pangen’s CFO.
The researchers at Pangen had provided her with as much access as she desired, access that allowed her to develop an excellent understanding of their operational strengths and weaknesses.After several months of working overtime, Pangen’s computer group had taken a welldeserved holiday to watch the day’s excitement.
The stock offering also coincided with a major medical conference on human genetics in Washington, a meeting that had drawn most of the company’s research staff away from their lab-office complex, leaving only a skeleton crew behind to keep things running.Roe knew that there would never be a better opportunity to steal Pangen’s secrets than today.
She located the scientific-research libraries and issued a backup command to the host computer. The dedicated data line from Johnson’s home into Pangen’s computer network allowed Roe to take information as fast as her computer could handle it.
In seconds, the magneto-optic disk drive attached to her laptop began to spin, absorbing megabytes of information. In less than an hour, the sum of Pangen’s intellectual wealth lay on three blue-green disks.
Since Roe’s connection to Pangen’s computer flowed over a dedicated data line, one that logged total time usage rather than individual calls, there was no need for her to access the phone company’s billing computer to erase any record of the call. The host computer, on the other hand, did record the time she logged in and how long she remained connected. That record held the only evidence that Pangen’s computer system had been accessed.
Roe released two programs into Pangen’s network. The first modified the network’s system security, giving her access to the internal record-keeping files. After editing those files to remove all traces of her presence, she triggered the second. In less than a minute, the program logged Roe off the system, returned Pangen’s network to its original configuration, and erased itself from memory.
Confident that she’d left no evidence of her intrusion, Roe disconnected the two machines and prepared to transfer the stolen information. Unlike the old days of le Carré-style espionage, there was no need for her to skulk around town in a trench coat to leave her stolen secrets in a hollowed-out tree trunk. No, in the modern world of espionage, a spy need only encrypt her data well and transmit it electronically.
Roe’s transfer program incorporated a series of datacompression and encryption algorithms that left the stolen files looking more like random noise than any kind of coherent information. Once retrieved, an inverse series of the same algorithms returned the files to their original state. For images and digitized photographs, this process would cause a minor loss of clarity; for text and purely alphanumeric data, the retrieved files were identical to the originals.
Roe dialed into a local Internet server to keep Johnson’s phone bill clear of a suspicious long-distance call. From there, she meandered through several other computer networks, carefully covering her electronic trail, before accessing a computer in the London office of business consultant Ian Parnell.
Once the data transfer was in process, Roe flipped on her cellular phone and dialed Parnell’s office.
‘Parnell Associates.How may I direct your call?’Parnell’s assistant answered with cool British formality.
‘Hi, Paulette. It’s Alex. Is Ian in?’
‘No. He’s taking advantage of this lovely day on his boat. Hold on for a moment and I’ll see if I can reach him.’
Roe waited, listening to the antiseptic Muzak that filled the receiver beside her ear. Parnell certainly enjoyed his toys, the most prized of which was a deep metallic blue, offshore racing boat christened Merlin. She’d accompanied Parnell on several outings on the Thames and knew that he took his boat out on any fair day that London offered. Her brief visit to musical purgatory ended with Parnell’s voice shouting over the roar of Merlin’s engines.
‘What’s the good word, Alex?’
‘The information is en route as we speak. It’s everything your clients asked for.’
‘Absolutely smashing. I’ll post your final payment by the end of business today.’ Parnell’s voice returned to normal as the sound of the engines faded. ‘How’s your schedule looking for the next couple of weeks?’
‘Other than a long ski weekend in Vermont with an old friend, nothing special.’A smiling picture of Johnson gazed back at her from the desktop.
‘I’ve got another research project, one that I think you would be perfect for, if you’re interested. It’s worth fifty percent of a six-figure fee.’
‘Yo
u’ve got my attention, Ian.’
‘Good. An old client of mine, an electronics manufacturer in Hong Kong, has requested a little research into his main competitor’s new product line. I’ll E-mail you the background materials—usual encryption. Give me a call after you’ve had a chance to look them over, and we’ll discuss specifics.’
The file transfer ended and Roe logged off the various systems she had used to cover her tracks. It still amazed her how much easier, and safer, computers made espionage. Even though circumstances occasionally required that she physically break into the places that she was ‘researching,’ Roe found that she could complete most of her assignments by posing as a journalist or by using a computer and modem. The free flow of information in open, high-tech countries allowed them to outpace the more restrictive nations in nearly every measure of progress. This openness also made her job as an industrial spy much easier.
She felt a small twinge of guilt at the thought of stealing the information from her old flame’s fledgling company, but she suppressed that reaction. She had harmed no one, and in a few years’ time, most of Pangen’s secrets would be well documented in scientific journals. Her consulting relationship with Ian Parnell simply allowed her to cash in on the impatience of Pangen’s wealthiest rival.
4
ROOSEVELT ROADS NAVAL STATION, PUERTO RICO
The surf rolled in against the beach, four-foot waves cresting and crashing with a dull roar and the hiss of briny foam. The sky was partly overcast as the remnants of a late-season tropical storm drifted over the Caribbean island.
The long stretch of beach along Puerto Rico’s eastern coastline was deserted, not because of the weather but because this area was off-limits. Traditional naval operations controlled a majority of the base real estate. The untamed jungle, just north of the docks and support facilities, was home to Navy Special Warfare Unit Three. It was here that Nolan Kilkenny’s squad of SEALs had been sent to prepare for their mission.
It was late in the afternoon, with dusk only an hour away, when the first black shape emerged from the surf. A head peered out from beneath the waves, scanning the beach. As quickly as it appeared, it vanished. A moment later, seven black-suited figures emerged from the sea, riding an ebbing wave onto the sand. Black neoprene wet suits covered each of the men from head to toe, protecting them from the strength-sapping chill resulting from their long exposures to cool salt water. Their swim fins had been removed in the water and hooked to their dive belts in preparation for the transition from sea to land. All were armed and each focused his attention on a specific section of the beach. They thought and acted as one.
‘Master Chief,’ Nolan Kilkenny called out, ‘did everybody make it home?’
‘Hoo-yah, sir!’ Master Chief Max Gates replied. ‘Just a walk in the park.’
‘Very well, then. This beach is secure and the exercise is over!’ Kilkenny announced. ‘Stow your gear and clean your weapons.’
Kilkenny slipped his mask down around his neck and stood to survey the beach. ‘Rodriguez.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied a short fireplug of a man who had been born in a small town near the base.
‘Nice job on point.’
‘No sweat, sir. I just followed the smell of my mama’s cooking.’
A pang of regret hit Kilkenny—that was a smell he would never follow home again.
Kilkenny’s squad walked the short distance from the beach to the huts that served as their base of operation. Loose gear was removed first, dive belts, masks, and fins, and dunked in a large barrel of freshwater to rinse off the brine. Next off came the closed-circuit rebreathing units the SEALs used in place of the more common open-circuit scuba tanks. The rebreathing units, which recycled the diver’s exhaled air for reuse, allowed the SEALs to approach a target from beneath the water without leaving a telltale stream of bubbles along the surface.
The men stripped their weapons down and carefully inspected and cleaned each component. This work was done quietly and with the utmost seriousness. Each member of the squad relied on the others, and none wanted a mission to fail or a buddy to be hurt because of something as preventable as a dirty weapon.
After reassembling and stowing his Heckler-Koch submachine gun and his 9-mm pistol, Kilkenny checked the in-basket in his hut. Inside, he found a manila envelope containing the latest satellite photos of the Haitian jungles. After a week of hard preparation, his team was beginning to gel. He had them eat, sleep, and breathe the mission twenty-four hours a day. Each piece of the equipment that they would use was becoming like a part of their bodies, each inch of Haitian rain forest as familiar as their own backyards.
This wasn’t how Kilkenny had expected to spend his Thanksgiving, training in isolation with the six other men who made up his squad, but it was this kind of preparation that made the SEALs successful. Each mission was treated like a moon launch, with no detail so unimportant that it could be overlooked.
Gates approached and knocked on the door frame.
‘Yo, Chief, come on in. I got the latest pictures.’
Master Chief Max Gates entered the small hut and sat in the folding chair next to Kilkenny. Though junior in rank, Gates was Kilkenny’s superior in age and combat experience. Like most SEALs, Gates was shorter than Kilkenny by half a head, but he made up for it with a barrel chest and a pair of forearms that would make Popeye proud. He was nearly bald, ruddy-faced, with a pair of dark brown eyes that peered out from beneath a pair of bushy brown eyebrows.
‘The boys are looking good, Nolan.’ Twenty years in the navy hadn’t softened Gates’s Oklahoma drawl a bit. ‘They want this one.’
‘As they should,’ Kilkenny replied. ‘Hopwood was a SEAL legend, and the cocksucker who cut him down deserves to die.’
‘Actually, Nolan, they want this one for you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’ve led these guys to hell and back and you never let them down. They just want you to go out the right way.’
Before he could respond, a truck pulled up to their base. Kilkenny and Gates left the hut and walked over to the truck’s tailgate.
‘Listen up!’ Kilkenny shouted. ‘D day is in ten days, which means ten more days of fun in the sun. Ten more glorious days of sweating, and marching and running launch drills off the submarine.Ten more days’—Kilkenny paused, looking over his men—‘starting tomorrow. Today, we quit early.’
Cheers and excited profanities filled the air around him.
‘I knew you’d like that. Since it’s Thanksgiving, I cut a deal with the base commander to supplement our meager rations. Tonight, we dine on swordfish, steak, and beer.’
5
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
November 30
Alex Roe arrived for her interview with Phillip Moy at five minutes to ten. The silk suit she had chosen for this interview was stylish, sophisticated, and sexy. A few moments later, Moy’s executive assistant ushered her into his office.
Roe had interviewed the legendary computer genius five years ago, in a cramped, windowless office filled with used furniture. Today, his office was a little larger, the furniture was all new, and he finally had a window. Phillip Moy stood at his desk and waved to Roe as he finished a phone call.
‘I apologize for the delay, Ms Roe, but I had a minor problem to clear up. It’s a pleasure to see you again.’Moy’s smile and handshake were genuine. ‘I greatly enjoyed the last article you wrote about my company.’
‘Please call me Alex, and the pleasure is all mine. For the record,we are starting the interview one minute early. I like what you’ve done with your new office. Quite an improvement over the old one.’
‘A few more creature comforts, but functional nonetheless. In the old building, there weren’t enough spaces with windows, so I decided long ago that I wouldn’t have windows until my staff did. I made good on that promise in this building.’
As they took their seats, Moy’s assistant entered and placed a silver tea service on the table and po
ured a cup for each before leaving.With the initial flattery over, the real interview began.
‘I run my company by simple common sense,’ Moy announced proudly, setting the tone. ‘If you treat your people well, they will be loyal and work well for you. To illustrate that point, our employees control the largest block of shares in this company and, unlike the stock held by outside investors, these shares almost never trade. My people believe in their work and invest their own money into this company. It doesn’t take a genius to understand that someone will work harder, and smarter, for something they care about.’
‘Well, that’s what I’m here to look at,’ Roe explained. Moy’s remarks were part of his corporate gospel and Roe’s strategy was to make him feel that her article would be another public-relations coup. ‘At a time when other high-technology manufactures’ earnings are flat or even down, your company’s soaring performance is nothing short of astonishing. Moy Electronics is one of only a few American firms that seems to have made the transition to true global competitiveness.’
Moy smiled. Alex Roe had written a very positive piece about his company five years ago, one that, combined with their annual report, had caused Moy Electronics stock to rise several points. The publication of another glowing article about his company, followed by the announcement of the new product line, might work similar magic on Wall Street.
‘Your praise is appreciated, but if you really want to find out about the reason for our success, you’ll have to talk to the people who make it happen. I may carry the vision for where I think we should go, but it is all the other owners of this company who get us there.’ Moy picked up an itinerary from his desk and handed it to Roe. ‘You asked for permission to interview some of our employees. I have arranged for you to observe a few project teams in action during the next two weeks.My assistant will furnish you with the necessary information and security passes for your visit. In this way, I think you’ll discover the real secret behind our success.’