Staryles focused ahead. One very long aisle of servers bisected the massive room. Shorter, perpendicular aisles were off to either side, each humming with stacks of chrome-and-black servers, each of these behind a glass door, telltale lights — green, amber, traffic-signal red — blinking at different intervals.
“Kind of like a space ship, right?” Riggins blurted happily. “This facility is fifteen hundred square feet. That’s why we call it the Meet-Me-Room. When you’re a convergence point of multiple layers of local, national and global fiber-optic cables, you’ve got to keep it human. Because this is all about humans, after all. It happens right here, the place where everyone and everything meets.”
Riggins took the right side of the central aisle, and Staryles followed just behind and to the side of him. It was an old habit, not walking abreast. Riggins didn’t seem to notice as he chatted away, gesturing with flicks of his wrist as he spoke. He pointed at the ceiling, twenty feet above, where the fans spinning in the gloom would’ve looked completely anachronistic if it wasn’t for how big they were, like helicopter blades.
“There’s nothing like this in the country,” Riggins said. “I mean, One-Eleven is another super-data center, so there’s two right here in the city.” He tossed a glance back at Staryles. “By One-eleven, of course, I mean . . .”
“One-eleven Eighth Avenue. And there is One Wilshire, Los Angeles. And a data farm in Miami.”
“Correct.” Riggins resumed his attempts to dazzle Staryles with information as they walked. “But these two centers really support the whole northeast.” He pointed at the main trunk in the middle of the room. “This is where each carrier’s server resides.” Then he indicated the rows they were passing along the right. “And here we have networking equipment. On the other side of the center galley; storage. At the back; arrays of optical terminations, a few coaxial terminations, some vestigial copper terminations.”
Straight ahead, the world of glass and dark machines gave way to a bunker-style room, windowless and squat. Riggins stopped near the formidable, sealed room. “In there is where the connection panels are, allowing the carrier’s colocation units to connect with other networks.”
In the center of its concrete façade was a steel door, bolted, gilded by another beefy security guard. The guard offered a wan smile to Riggins and then glowered soberly at Staryles. Staryles noted the holstered firearm, same as the others.
Riggins turned and spread his arms like a showman at a carnival. “There you go. This is the physical hub of the Internet. Essentially a giant Ethernet switch. The whole thing is powered by a ten-thousand-amp DC power plant.”
“And where is that?”
Riggins swallowed and glanced at the guard before saying, “Right this way.”
They left the bunker and turned down a corridor. Another steel door, red with chipped paint along the edges, was locked ahead of Riggins. He pulled out a bunch of keys. No guard personnel here, Staryles observed, accumulating mental notes for his non-existent security report. Just a guy with keys. Riggins opened the door and stepped through into a pitch-black room. He fumbled for a moment before flipping on a switch. The place lit up.
“Wow,” Staryles said, adding a touch of childish wonder to his voice.
“Gets the job done,” Riggins said. He spun slowly around, marveling as if he was seeing it for the first time himself.
Staryles walked in and touched a hand lightly to one of the distribution shelves. “This a LORAIN?”
“That’s right.”
“Excellent heritage, LORAIN. A large vortex power platform. I see you’ve got the bulk output shelves, integrated distribution shelves, and that looks like it leads to an externally mounted distribution panel system.”
Riggins nodded, clearly impressed. “Backup. On the roof.”
Staryles regurgitated more of the information he’d read over that morning. “Right, right. And these here, you’ve got rectifiers; these provide, what? Sixteen-hundred watts at sixty-five degrees Celsius? This is top notch stuff.”
He’d read over the specs before sunrise, the Ecuadorian lying in bed beside him, still asleep. Staryles didn’t sleep. He was awake at four, sometimes three AM no matter what. One of those people who simply didn’t require lots of rest. Like his father. He had ample time to read. To him, the utility room with all of its metal boxes and shelves and cooling fans was as obscure as HAL, the computer in 2001: A Space Odyssey. Except with more cables. Cables bound together and rambling up the wall and disappearing into the ceiling. Feeding into the concrete bunker on the other side of the wall; he understood at least that much on his own.
“Well,” said Riggins. “This is actually NetSure 700, here; we just upgraded, so we’re talking about two thousand five hundred watt constant power rectifier providing up to a hundred and four amps at plus twenty-four vdc.”
Riggins was looking affectionately at something, which to Staryles resembled a propane heater with little post-office mailboxes tucked beneath. He felt an uncomfortable tug of nerves, a creeping of heat along his neck. He’d reached the limit of his crammed knowledge. Some incompetent analyst had given him old information; they’d upgraded their power supply at the Meet-Me-Room. Not that it would change anything. Explosives were explosives, and would take care of whatever nerd-device, regardless of the chain of letters and numbers used to describe it.
“Very nice,” Staryles said, and then squared his shoulders with the door, indicating that they leave.
Riggins scowled. “Don’t you want to see the cameras?”
“I already saw them,” Staryles replied curtly. And he pointed, still looking at Riggins, at the four different spots in the room where partially concealed cameras monitored them. He might not have been an electrician, but he knew surveillance. Which suited his cover story well.
“Very good,” said Riggins. He slapped his palms together to dispel the little bit of humiliation Staryles had intended. Another courtesy smile and then he stepped in front of Staryles and opened the door. He paused there and cocked his head. “So then you’ve already seen all of the security in the rest of the place?”
It was meant to be rhetorical, a barb. Poor Riggins, he really just oozed pride. But he was only a glorified office administrator.
“I’ve seen ten cameras,” Staryles said, “three uniformed security, one plainclothes security sitting at a conference table, and another behind her desk.” He walked out of the giant, thrumming utility room past Riggins.
Riggins closed the door behind him and they were back in the main warehouse, alongside the half-story bunker. “That’s very good. I appreciate the time and expense to do this. You can never be too car—”
Staryles stopped abruptly and turned around. “Mr. Riggins. I know what you think you know. That we’ve been asked to take a look at security here; just routine. But you seem like a smart man. You know I’m not here for a cursory checkup. This is in the interest of national security. This facility is a global destination. What Times Square is to tourists; an internet Babylon. So, now that the tour is over — which was really unnecessary anyway — let’s stop wasting time, let’s go sit down and talk. And I can tell you what we need to be prepared for. What the Known Knowns are, and the Known Unknowns. Okay?”
Riggins was nodding. Twenty years older than Staryles, and reduced to a bumbling teenager. “Y-yes. Absolutely.”
* * *
An hour later, after more tedious playacting and listening to Riggins drone on, comforting him, asserting the national-security platitudes and shaking more hands, Staryles left the massive data center.
He glanced at his watch as he crossed the street back to the construction site, and then looked at the building above the Cloudsplitter Scaffolding which caged the sidewalk on that side. There were two stories visible above the top of the long scaffold chain, two banks of windows dark and apparently empty.
He rounded the corner back onto Thompson Street to retrieve the Cutlass, reflecting on his tour of the Meet-Me-Room
. It had gone perfectly. He had to repeat the procedure for One-eleven Eighth Avenue and then the first phase would be complete.
He thought of Riggins and all his jangling keys. It made him think of guards like Randy, and corrections officers in a jail.
CHAPTER NINE / WEDNESDAY, 3:50 PM
Brendan leaned back in his seat. He had to lift both hands, chained together by the metal bracelets, in order to rub one of his eyes.
Jennifer took another sip of her water. The pain was already cycling back. She needed another dose of the meds. “Brendan, I need something from you. I know I don’t deserve it. But you’ve got to give me something on XList. Anything. Any moment everyone’s going to be back in this room.”
He lowered his shackled hands and placed them on the table between them and looked at her. She searched his eyes. She found herself momentarily distracted by how bright and engaging they were. “I’ve told you the play; I keep doing exactly as I’m doing with the HTPU. Rascher is still my supervisor, only now he’s working the parallel Nonsystem sting. The task force becomes my cover. My work dovetails with the sting because of the connection between the two.”
He was silent a moment longer, and then shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. Not for you.”
“Excuse me?”
“You should back off. Tell them you can’t do this. You’re in too much pain.”
She flinched at this, as if struck. “I’m what?”
“What have they got you taking?”
She felt a flare of recalcitrance. What business was it of his what pain meds she was on? But she quickly realized her defensiveness had more to do with vanity; she didn’t want to seem vulnerable, and here Brendan was seeing through her bravado like it was nothing. She continued to gauge the situation, deciding her answer. Best not to alienate him now. She knew he had something for her. She could sense it.
“Tramadol,” she said.
“Tramadol? That’s usually prescribed for things like phantom limb pain. Or diabetic neuropathy.” He looked deeply into her eyes. She had never felt so clearly seen. It was both unnerving and pleasant. “Immediate release or sustained release?”
“I usually take it with acetaminophen. Immediate release.”
“Four hundred milligrams?”
She nodded. “Four times a day. I hate it.”
“You’ve got central neuropathic pain. Some complex polyneuropathy. Do you see any strange things? Bright lights? Visual tics or trails? How’s your sleep — lots of dreams?”
He had affected an affectionate bedside manner, and she could see him running through some medical calculus — thinking about her wellbeing, perhaps, more than just the clinical questions that he was asking. It was charming. It was . . . attractive.
“Brendan, I appreciate what you’re trying to do . . .”
“What am I trying to do?”
She looked at him, and felt a sudden, unexpected rush she hadn’t felt for anyone in so long she couldn’t remember. You’re trying to protect me, she thought, but the sentiment traveled no further than that. Instead she said, “I’m here, and I’m in it. End of story.”
“Alright,” he said. “So, you continue your work as special prosecutor with the HTPU, and, what? I help. How?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. When he was discussing her health, he was being genuine. But he danced around XList. He knew as well as she did that there was an overlap of the players — Heilshorn, Argon, Staryles. They had just sat together and put forward XList as a black market that fed Titan’s coffers. What was he holding back? Was he waiting for a deal?
“I’m counting on you to give me something,” she said. “And maybe, maybe if you do . . .” She was careful to lower her voice until it was barely audible. “Maybe then we see where else it all leads. You get me?”
“I don’t want that,” he said.
She sat up straighter and brought her voice back within normal range. She was empowered to make a deal with him. Maybe he was already negotiating — acting uninterested. “You’re in here for murder one, Brendan. Your trial is in three days. You start out with a second degree charge, reckless homicide, which carries some jail time with a conviction but not nearly as severe as murder-in-the-first. Yet, two days after you’re in, you give the cops a very convincing confession that shows the requisite intention to kill the deceased. Yet you say you didn’t know, upon entering Heilshorn’s office, that he had had anything to do with the death of your wife and child until that moment? That’s not usually what people do, Brendan, come to a place like this and then try and add to their time. You almost want to make it look like premeditation. I can offer you a lifeboat.”
“I haven’t been sentenced yet.”
“Brendan, has anyone been here to see you? Anyone besides Kendall from NYPD, or your lawyer?”
“No.”
“How about contact from the outside in any other way? Anyone? Anything at all?”
She watched him become still. He looked at the cup of water Jennifer had set down, looked at his own. But he wasn’t paying any attention to the water. He was elsewhere. She gave him the time he needed, just a few moments, watching him weigh the options. When he looked up, she read anxiety on his face for the first time since she’d been in there with him. Maybe not for himself, but someone else.
“You need to speak to Philip Largo,” he said at last.
“Former Assemblyman Largo?”
“I’d heard about him, but didn’t recall anything right away. No one pays attention to the state legislature.” His mouth curved into a wry smile, but the fear was treading water behind his eyes. The smile dissolved. “I came across his name while looking into Argon’s death. At first I thought, you know, Argon has this list going of crooked politicians. And he did. But Largo was different. Years ago, Largo was with an escort. But he didn’t know; or, that’s his claim, and has been his claim all this time — she was an XList pro.”
“How do you know this?”
“Just talk to him. Not everyone was cowed by Alexander Heilshorn, no matter how much influence he peddled.”
She felt a tiny electric pulse through her chest. “Tell me.”
“The escort was known as Danice,” he said. “Real name, Rebecca Heilshorn. That’s your way in.”
The key hit the lock to the interview room.
Jennifer’s heart tried to squeeze into her throat. The revelation about Largo was major, and had her ears ringing. She needed to know more. This wasn’t in the case files on Rebecca Heilshorn; how did Brendan know?
But there was no more time. She needed to scrap her plans for the day and scramble a meeting with Largo as soon as she could.
The corrections officer entered first, holding a cluster of keys. Grimm followed on his heels, his eyes suspicious, flicking little looks at Jennifer but offering Brendan a cold stare. John Rascher and FBI Agent Harlan Doherty came in next. Doherty had a bandage plastered across his nose. He jabbed a finger in the air, pointed at Brendan. His eyes were shining with fury above the swath of white gauze. “You’re fucked, Healy.”
“Okay . . .” Jennifer said, rising.
Doherty turned his high-beamed hate towards her. “Tell me you got something useful out of this shit bag.”
Jennifer ignored him and turned to Brendan. She could feel the eyes of the men boring holes in her back as she leaned towards Brendan. She knew Brendan hadn’t told her everything. She knew she needed more evidence to proceed. She knew she hated the men standing behind her now, breathing down her neck.
“Thank you,” she said to Brendan.
The CO got behind him and hoisted him to his feet. His manacles clacked together and the chains rattled.
He kept eye contact with her as they stood him up, the same way he’d looked at her when he first walked into the room. There was so much there to unpack, she thought. There was pain, there was resignation, but there was also resilience. Strange for these things to coexist, but somehow not strange, either. Somehow right. She s
uddenly realized that Brendan had a plan.
He shuffled away, passing by her, his eyes turning away. She stayed standing with her back to the rest of them for a moment. She overheard Grimm speak in a low tone to Brendan. Grimm told him that they would be dealing with the head-butting incident very soon.
She turned around quickly then, too quickly, and her back muscles seized, and she gritted her teeth against the pain. She wanted to tell Grimm to stand down, that Brendan was now a potential witness for the prosecution in a federal case, but bit her tongue. There was an appropriate venue for that; it would only inflame things here.
Doherty glared at Brendan as he left the room. She watched Brendan walk out the door, a large corrections officer filing through after him. She watched his stiff movements. She noticed again the faded bruise on his cheek, the scar that ran down the other side of his face. Between her pains and his bruises, she thought, they were ready for a vacation. Once it was over, they needed a break. Maybe forever.
The door closed.
Rascher was looking at her. Not in the empathetic way Brendan had, but like she was a liability. “You alright?”
“I’m fine.” She tried to keep her posture casual, though her lower back was mutinous, threatening collapse.
“Did he give you anything?”
Now Doherty drifted over to the two of them and hovered, listening.
“I need to see Philip Largo tomorrow morning.”
Doherty grunted and scowled behind his bandage. “Largo? What for?”
“Jennifer,” Rascher pressed, “did Brendan give you something we can use?”
She made an effort to raise her eyes to look at him. “Maybe.”
“Then let’s get you moving.”
He and Doherty stepped back as she walked out of the room. She’d been in there with Brendan for only eighty minutes, but it seemed like longer. It seemed like she’d shared a part of her life with him now. She needed to get outside. Out of these walls. Into the fresh air.
DAYBREAK: a gripping thriller full of suspense (Titan Trilogy Book 3) Page 7