Spyder Web

by Tom Grace

  The interview continued for another thirty minutes, with Moy elaborating on world markets and events that defined the business climate in which the electronics giant competed. Roe thanked Moy for his time and collected the schedule and security materials from his assistant. The interview was a resounding success; Roe had achieved her primary goal of access to Moy’s employees and most of the facility.

  Roe spent the rest of the morning with the heads of the Personnel and Security departments, who ran her through a brief guest orientation. She signed the usual nondisclosure forms relating to proprietary materials she might come into contact with during her visit. Security finished processing her just before noon, allowing Roe to start her research in the employee cafeteria.

  To her surprise, the food both looked and smelled fantastic, and, looking around the dining area, she noticed very few people brought lunches from home. She selected a chef ‘s salad and a cup of clam chowder and, at the register, discovered that the meal was heavily subsidized.

  She found a seat near the window and began to browse through the new employee packet she’d been given. She knew Moy paid competitive wages, but she finally realized why their employee turnover was so low.Employees ofMoy Electronics received fully paid health benefits, a retirement plan with generous employer contributions, favorable stock options, excellent vacation and medical time, an on-site fitness center, and an on-site child-care facility—all that and an inexpensive lunch.No wonder these people worked so hard to keep this place in business; working anywhere else might be considered a punishment.

  When she was halfway through a folder on the current generation of Moy products, a small group of people approached her table.

  ‘Mind if we join you?’ an attractive, well-dressed woman with dark ebony skin asked politely. ‘It’s too beautiful a day not to enjoy the view.’

  ‘Not at all, Miss Kearney,’ Roe replied, reading the woman’s name off her picture ID. ‘I’m Alex Roe.’

  ‘Are you new?’ Kearney inquired, glancing at Roe’s orientation materials.

  ‘No, I’m a freelance writer doing an article on the people who built Moy Electronics.’

  ‘Then you’ve come to the right place, but please call me Maria. I’m an industrial designer.’

  ‘She designs the pretty boxes that hide my beautiful chips,’ a heavyset blond-haired man commented as he cut into his burrito.

  ‘That’s Tim Otto,’ Kearney said, pointing at the man who’d just spoken, ‘a chip designer who simply hates to see his electronics covered up.’

  Otto nodded at Roe and continued eating his lunch.

  ‘Next to him,’ Kearney continued, ‘is Josh Radwick, who also designs hardware, and Bill Iverson.’

  ‘Software god,’ Iverson added, offering his hand to Roe.

  If there was a model of what corporate America looked like, the gangly Bill Iverson was the antithesis. Iverson’s jeans were frayed and his athletic shoes were now stained a mottled shade of brown. He wore an unbuttoned red-checked flannel shirt over a black T-shirt promoting a heavy-metal band that had broken up over three years ago. Two days of stubble marred his otherwise smooth-featured face and a tangled eruption of frazzled brown hair crowned his head like a halo.

  ‘Bill’s a modest man who can program circles around most of the people here. The other two people on our team are coming.’ Kearney waited until a petite redhead and a tall man with a slight paunch and stringy blond hair arrived.’Natalie Geiss,Michael Cole, I’d like to introduce you to Alex Roe.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Alex,’ Geiss said with a smile. ‘Are you joining our project team?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘Too bad, I could use another hand in working out the production sequence, but I’ll get by.’

  ‘How about you, Michael?’ Roe asked. ‘How do you fit into this merry bunch?’

  Cole’s sullen disposition was in contrast to the others. ‘Actually, I work for the government.’

  ‘Rumor has it that Michael’s with the IRS,’ Iverson said with a laugh.

  Cole glowered at Iverson as he bit into his club sandwich. Less than a minute after he’d sat down, his pager went off.

  ‘Damn, I hate these things,’ Cole said, and he turned the alarm off and read the number. ‘Don’t they know Chicago is an hour behind Washington? Well, I guess I’ll see you all back in the lab.’

  Cole left with his tray, hoping to finish his lunch after he returned the call. The mood improved almost immediately after he left, though Roe found it hard to believe anyone could get this group down. It must be difficult for a wet-blanket bureaucrat like Cole to work with such enthusiastic people, she thought.

  ‘So, you’re working on some mysterious government project with Mr Cole. Perhaps,’ Roe asked in a sinister mock-Russian accent, ‘you vould like to tell me your secrets, da?’

  Everyone laughed as Roe arched an eyebrow and studied each of them suspiciously.

  ‘Seriously,’ Maria said, ‘we shouldn’t be talking about our project outside the lab. That’s one offense this company does not forgive easily.’

  ‘I understand,’ Roe replied sympathetically. ‘If I went public with your secret projects, your competitors might catch up.’

  ‘Even if you did write about what we’re doing, I doubt anyone could catch up with us,’ Iverson bragged, obviously proud of his work. ‘Only a handful of universities and specialty firms are even looking at neural-network processors.’

  ‘Bill’—Otto’s voice was low and direct—‘I think you’re speaking out of class.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Geiss replied, coming to Iverson’s defense. ‘He’s just talking in generalities.’

  Roe dismissed thier minor dispute over Iverson’s off-hand remark, focusing instead on the revelation that they had made some kind of technological advance. ‘Since you’ve whetted my appetite, could you tell me generally what you’re doing with neural-network systems? Most of the work I’ve seen is years away from any kind of marketable product. I assume, since you have industrial designers and product engineers on this team, that you are fairly close to something useful.’

  Everyone grew silent, unsure of what to say or not to say. Roe’s speculation had struck too close to the mark about how far they’d come with their project.

  The group’s apparent leader, Maria Kearney, found her voice and spoke up. ‘Alex, you are correct on several points. Our project is based upon several major advances in neural-network computing that these three gentlemen made a year and a half ago.’

  Otto, Radwick, and Iverson beamed with pride at Kearney’s praise.

  ‘Now,’ Kearney continued, ‘without being rude, that is all that I am willing to say and more than I should.’

  Roe didn’t press the issue any further. ‘I respect your candor, Maria, and don’t worry about what you’ve said. I can’t substantiate anything I’ve heard other than your names and job titles. For all I know, you may be pulling my leg and you’re really working on a new mouse. Heck, Cole might just be a cranky government-standards hack here to verify that your new mouse is OSHA compliant.’

  ‘Cole’s cranky all right, but don’t be too hard on the guy. He recently went through a nasty divorce, and his ex-wife’s lawyer wiped the floor with him.’ Iverson didn’t particularly like Cole, but he did respect him.’On another note, you raised an interesting point. What would an OSHA-approved mouse look like?’

  The remainder of the lunchtime conversation revolved around a series of napkin sketches that Kearney rapidly produced as the team designed their OSHA-compliant mouse. The humorous exercise taught Roe a lot about how Moy engineers used brainstorming as a creative tool. The final result was a hideous desk beast, covered with safety straps and carpal-tunnel guards, that bore little resemblance to the familiar computer device.

  DECEMBER 3

  ‘Hello, Ian,’ Roe said over the phone. ‘Did you get a chance to review the materials I sent you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Parnell replied, ‘I’ve got them
right here in front of me, and now I understand your dilemma.’

  ‘I don’t know if we’re ever going to find someone with the kind of access we need who’ll work with us.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be another Randall Johnson on Moy’s payroll, would there?’

  ‘Ian, I don’t have that many old boyfriends out there.’ ‘Well, what do you suggest?’

  ‘On the surface, I think Moy’s senior-level employees are a dead end. They’ve got too much invested in stocks and the pension plan to risk working with us. I think Cole is our best bet.’

  ‘The government fellow?’

  ‘Yes. He doesn’t have the financial incentives to make him loyal to Moy, and I understand that he recently went through a rough divorce.He’s precisely the kind of person we normally look for to help out with jobs like this. What do you think?’

  Parnell sighed audibly over the phone. ‘I don’t see that we have much choice. Check Cole out very thoroughly before you approach him. I’d hate to have this explode in our faces.’

  6

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  December 4

  Roe’s investigation of Michael Cole began at his current address, an apartment in a deteriorating building on the fringe of D.C.’s drug-infested war zone.

  Cole’s divorce must have really pushed him into a hole, she thought.

  The building manager glanced up briefly as Roe entered the lobby, then turned away, reminding herself that it was best not to notice unusual comings and goings in this neighborhood.

  ‘It don’t work,’ the woman’s voice called out as Roe reached the elevator. ‘It’s been broke for three days. You gotta take the stairs.’

  After climbing up to the third floor, Roe walked down the dimly lit hallway to apartment 315. After selecting the appropriate tool from a set of lock picks that she kept in her purse, Roe easily defeated the flimsy lock and entered Cole’s apartment. The furnishings were sparse and inexpensive, all of the discount-store variety. The living room contained a battered leather recliner next to a reading lamp; a coffee table covered with a few paperback books and magazines; and a small color television propped up on a pair of plastic milk crates.

  A thick layer of dust covered every horizontal surface in the apartment and an unusually repulsive odor filled the stale air. Roe found nothing in the kitchen that had been left out to decompose during Cole’s absence. A quick search quickly identified the dried-out trap of the toilet bowl, which allowed rancid sewer gasses to vent through the fixture, as the source of the stench. Cole obviously hadn’t been home in some time. Roe flushed the toilet to refill the trap and cracked a window in the bedroom to let in some fresh air. After a few minutes, the apartment seemed tolerable.

  On the dresser, she noticed a low, flat bowl filled with change. Next to the bowl was a picture ID badge. Roe picked up the badge and studied it. The photo showed a man with a head of fine blond hair that was receding, thick, smooth cheeks, and just a hint of a double chin. ‘Cole,Michael H.,’ the badge read. Its color coding probably indicated areas to which Cole was permitted access. The job title read ‘Senior Systems Analyst.’ Roe let out a gasp when she tilted the badge to study the hologram in the corner.

  ‘My God,’ she whispered to herself, recognizing the three-dimensional emblem in the hologram: the CIA logo.

  She set the badge down and calmed herself. Cole is a programmer, she thought, not a spy or an analyst. With the right motivation, this can still work.

  Focused back on her objective, Roe continued her search. In the smaller bedroom, she found Cole’s home office. A corner workstation with personal computer and assorted electronic components occupied one end of the room. Roe opened the closet doors and discovered a pair of four-drawer gray metal file cabinets. Hanging beside the file cabinets were a wet suit, an air tank, and a plunge bag containing fins, a mask, and other scuba-diving paraphernalia. Roe would have never guessed that Cole was a sport diver, but, judging from the quality of the equipment, this was obviously one of his passions. She made a mental note of the scuba gear and moved on to the file cabinets.

  The files were meticulously organized, making her search fairly simple. The credit-card statements showed him carrying a modest balance, but not wildly in debt. His bank balances told another story. The bank accounts he’d shared with his ex-wife had held respectable sums of money until a year ago, when they had dropped to zero. Their joint checking, certificates of deposit, IRAs—every shared asset had suddenly evaporated. All the old accounts had been closed, and the new ones bore only his name, and very little money.

  Cole had suddenly lost everything, which struck Roe as odd. Both he and his ex-wife were working professionals; her deposits had been just as large as his. There were no children, no risky investments, and, as near she could figure, neither had joined a religious cult and given the money away.D.C.’s divorce laws weren’t that draconian toward husbands, especially when the wife also has a solid career.No, something else must have forced Cole to accept this outrageous settlement.

  Roe skimmed further into the files and discovered one with a handwritten label: Divorce. Among the papers, she found the suit for divorce and the settlement papers. She sat down at the desk and began to study the paper trail that marked the end of Cole’s marriage.

  The settlement confirmed what she’d begun to suspect; this divorce suit had never reached the courts. Cole and his wife had come to terms privately, leaving nothing for the court to do but grant the petition for divorce. She read through the terms, noting that Cole had initialed every item listed. He’d granted his ex-wife all but a few things that were of no interest to her.

  In the final paragraph, Roe found what she was looking for. The settlement required that Barbara Cole remain silent about her reasons for the divorce; the official reason listed was ‘irreconcilable differences.’ The settlement also required that she deliver all materials, both originals and copies, of evidence related to Michael Cole’s extramarital activities to her ex-husband.

  He bought her off. She caught him with his hands in the cookie jar, and he bought her off. But why would Cole cave in over an affair, Roe thought, unless it was more than just an affair?

  Michael Cole had a secret hidden somewhere in his divorce—something he wanted buried badly enough to pay for his wife’s silence. As part of the settlement, a private investigator named Lou Gerty was to turn over all materials relating to the report he’d prepared for Cole’s ex-wife. Barbara Cole had blackmailed her exhusband, and whatever she had on him was precisely the kind of leverage Roe needed.

  7

  Roe had returned to her hotel and changed into a smart, conservative blue business suit. She pulled her hair back and applied her makeup in an austere fashion. The effect she was looking for was cool, professional, and intimidating.

  She had little trouble negotiating the major streets of the capital. She located Gerty’s address at one of the recently restored office buildings along Pennsylvania Avenue. She parked her rental car in a nearby structure and walked up the street to the building.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Roe said as she approached the portly security guard seated behind the reception desk, ‘where can I find the Gerty Agency?’

  The guard smiled and pointed to a bank of elevators. ‘Lou Gerty’s office is up on eight.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The corridor was empty as Roe walked along the eighth floor toward Gerty’s office. She found it tucked away near the end of the hallway. The matronly receptionist looked up from her computer as Roe entered.

  ‘May I help you?’ the woman asked politely.

  ‘Yes. My name is Linda Ford and I’m with the FBI.’ Roe offered her credentials for the woman’s inspection. The forged identity card was flawless and had been expensive, but worth the price. ‘I’m here to see Mr Gerty.’

  ‘I’ll see if he can be disturbed,’ the woman said with a hint of nervousness.

  Lou Gerty ran a small one-man operation and appeared to make a decent living at his w
ork. Several matted and framed photographs of D.C. monuments and historic sites graced the walls of the reception area. The lower-right-hand corner of each carried the signature L. Gerty; the man did more than take compromising pictures of adulterous spouses. If Gerty’s eye for composition was as good with the dirty pictures as it was with these, he had a good shot at a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts.

  ‘Agent Ford,’ a baritone voice called out pleasantly, ‘I’m Lou Gerty. How can I help you?’

  Gerty was middle-aged, somewhere around fifty. He was a few inches taller than Roe, but he carried almost twice her weight on a once-muscled body that had long ago declined. All that remained of his Afro was a fringe of gray that ran from ear to ear; the top of his head was bare and leathery.

  ‘I need to discuss a case of yours in private.’

  ‘By all means. Please step into my office.’

  Gerty closed the door after she’d entered, then seated himself behind his desk.

  ‘Which case are we talking about?’

  ‘It’s a divorce case from about a year ago. You were hired by Barbara Cole to investigate her husband. In the course of your work, you uncovered something about Michael Cole that was so damaging that he gave his wife everything. I need to know what you discovered about Michael Cole.’

  ‘Frankly, Agent Ford, I’d like to help you, but I’m afraid I can’t.My work for Mrs Cole was a delicate family matter. The Coles have settled their differences and the issue is behind them both.’

  ‘Under normal circumstances, I’d be inclined to agree with you. Unfortunately, the situation I am dealing with is not in the realm of normal circumstances.’ Roe feigned a touch of irritation, then composed herself. ‘Are you aware of who employs Michael Cole?’