Grange placed his hand on the biometric scanner and the door slid open to admit him. Although the security of this facility didn’t compare to that of his laboratory below the Grange Castle Winery, it was better and more deadly than that of the nearby Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory. There was also something to be said for the advantage of hiding in plain sight, particularly when you needed to be on the grid.
When Grange stepped through the opening into the large, open room that awaited him, he saw Dr. Vicky Morris standing beside Dr. Kyle Landon, both in green scrubs but neither of them wearing surgical masks or gloves. If all went well today, they wouldn’t be needing them.
As Grange approached, the two doctors broke off their conversation and turned toward him. Grange ignored the perfunctory greetings that rolled off their lips, his attention focused instead on the large sensory deprivation tank beside which Dr. Morris and Dr. Landon were standing. His eyes took in the instrument readings on the control panel before shifting to the monitor that showed Jamal’s body suspended in the solution within the tank.
Jamal’s nude form floated peacefully, illuminated in an ultraviolet glow that Grange knew was invisible to the human eye. But on the display the UV light tinted Jamal’s body an alien blue. Jamal’s skull had been covered with what looked like a white rubber swimmer’s cap, but the bundle of wires connected to it gave Jamal the appearance of a Jamaican Rastaman.
Finally Grange turned his attention to the two doctors standing beside him. Dr. Morris, slender, blonde, and attractive, provided a stark contrast to the aging Dr. Landon’s morose demeanor. There was about her an aura of childlike expectation, as if she were about to open a very special Christmas present. Grange smiled inwardly at the thought. In a sense, that was exactly what she was about to do.
“Are we ready to begin?” Grange asked.
“We’ve run a full round of diagnostics,” Dr. Morris replied. “He’s looking good.”
Dr. Landon shook his head. “I’d like to give his brain a few more minutes to acclimate to the drug cocktail.”
“That’s what we were arguing about when you got here,” said Dr. Morris. “Look at the diagnostic results. Jamal’s brain shows no indication of negative side effects from the drugs. He’s ready.”
“I cut a full day off of his planned recovery from the brain surgery,” said Dr. Landon. “It won’t hurt to take an extra fifteen minutes to verify that there’s no delayed reaction.”
Grange frowned. “A delayed reaction to the drugs or the electrical stimulation could happen at any time. Fifteen minutes won’t make a difference.” He turned to Dr. Morris. “Tell Delores to prep the upload.”
Dr. Morris took a deep breath, walked to her workstation, and put on her wireless intercom headset. Her visible excitement was only a faint echo of the thrill that shuddered through Grange’s body as he moved to the elevated monitoring station situated behind those of the two doctors.
As Grange slid his headset over his right ear, he watched as Dr. Landon sat down at his station. The tension between these two very different brain specialists was a natural consequence of their competing specialties. Whereas Dr. Landon had spent a career building a detailed understanding of the physical brain, Dr. Morris had directed her impressive intellect at the controversial field of neural interface and digitization, also known as NIAD.
Of all the practitioners in this new field, Dr. Morris’s expertise was second only to that of Steve Grange. He knew that Dr. Landon thought Grange played favorites based upon his determination to demonstrate NIAD’s ultimate dream. Grange had no doubt that Dr. Landon was correct in that judgment. It was the obsession that had driven Grange to sacrifice so many lost souls in his quest for the breakthrough that would forever change the world.
Ironically, Steve Grange didn’t want to change the world. He just wanted to restore his world.
A sudden change in the brainwave patterns displayed on the rightmost of his three monitors drew Grange out of his own thoughts. On the center monitor, Jamal Glover’s face twitched, sending tiny ripples through the suspension fluid inside the sensory deprivation tank. Chills spread through Grange’s entire body and he held his breath. He hoped the CGI team was as ready as Delores Mendosa had assured him they would be. If the virtual reality now streaming from their workstations through the array of electrodes implanted into Jamal’s brain wasn’t real enough, its rejection might break Jamal’s mind.
The mind scraping that Dr. Morris had performed during the flight from Baltimore to Oakland had extracted the data that would enable them to create a digital replica of Jamal’s mind. That data had been stored on a holographic data drive.
The HDD was one of many unpatented inventions that Steve Grange had created in his quest to capture a digital representation of a human mind. It contained a marble-sized, semitransparent sphere, within which multicolor holographic data was stored. Magnetically suspended inside the drive, it could be spun in any direction to allow nearly instantaneous data access. And each little sphere was capable of storing more than a petabyte of data.
The only thing still missing was proof that virtual experiences could be streamed back into the human brain without overloading and killing the subject. As he watched Jamal’s facial expressions shift, Grange pushed the worry from his mind. This was going to work. For Helen’s sake, it had to.
Twenty years ago God had taken his soul mate away from him. Now, by God, Steve Grange was going to take her back.
CHAPTER 22
Jamal Glover knelt in the falling rain, his hands digging into the mud that would soon be shoveled into the open grave. Although someone tried to restrain him, he leaned forward for one last look at the casket resting at the bottom of that lonely hole as the rain and his tears tried to wash away the handful of mud he’d just dropped atop that mahogany box.
The last three days were nothing but a dim haze of raw misery and despair. Someone had killed his beautiful Jillian, had bled her out right on his kitchen floor. He’d had the son of a bitch who had killed her right in his hands, but the man had taken Jamal down as easily as if he were a helpless child. If only he’d killed Jamal instead of laying his unconscious body on the kitchen floor with his head in Jillian’s dead lap. What kind of a sick bastard could do something like that?
These last few days were a blur. For someone who didn’t like alcohol, to stay that drunk for that long was a shock to the system. Instead of giving him a headache, the experience had left him disoriented and numb, as if he was living in a hazy dreamworld without substance. But the alcohol-induced stupor had failed to alleviate his despair. If his Gram were still here, she would be ashamed of him. Hell, he was ashamed of himself.
Weak with grief, Jamal rocked slowly back and forth while a fresh bout of ragged sobs shook his body. He felt a strong hand on his shoulder and turned his head toward the offender, intending to scream his rage at a person who had no right to interrupt his grief. But before any angry words could escape his lips, Jamal saw that the hand belonged to Jill’s father, a man whose face was filled with despair as great as Jamal’s.
Suddenly Jamal understood. It was Jill’s father’s turn to toss his own handful of mud onto his daughter’s coffin, his turn to say good-bye to his only child.
Jamal staggered to his feet, uncaring about the filthy mess he’d made of his funeral suit. All he knew was that he had to get away from this place before someone spoke another sympathetic phrase or the preacher mouthed another platitude about earth and ashes and dust. He stumbled away from the graveside, avoiding Gary Charles. Right now, a caring embrace from his friend was incompatible with the darkness that filled his soul.
With each step, the Virginia downpour seemed to increase until Jamal could barely see from one gravestone to the next. But tears blurred his vision so badly that he almost missed seeing the man in the raincoat waiting beside his car. The man carried no umbrella, and his curly black hair was matted
atop his head.
When Jamal was five steps away, recognition brought him to a sudden stop. Levi Elias. Jamal didn’t know why he was surprised that the NSA’s senior analyst would make this dreary trip to his girlfriend’s funeral, but again he found himself dreading the impending expression of sympathy.
Levi stepped forward but did not extend his hand when he spoke. “Jamal, I’m so sorry about Jillian.”
Jamal studied Levi’s face as he continued. “I know you want to crawl into some cave to be alone with your grief. I know it because I have felt that same loss of love.” Levi hesitated, as if considering what he would say next. “Let me offer you a better option. Will you help us track down Jillian McPherson’s killer? Will you help us make sure that man never gets a fair trial?”
For several seconds, Jamal’s reeling brain failed to process the words that carried an offer, not of condolence, but of vengeance. Jamal wiped the tears from his eyes. He knew he must be smearing dark mud across his face. For some reason, it made him feel like a Sioux warrior, applying the paint that meant war.
When Jamal lowered that hand again, the world seemed to have acquired an unnatural clarity, despite the rain. And when he spoke, his voice held a dangerous edge.
“I’m in.”
CHAPTER 23
Jack Gregory parked the black Honda motorcycle in the Central Parking Triangle Lot, dropped the kickstand, and began a leisurely westward stroll along Jefferson Street toward his noon meeting. The early morning marine layer had cleared, leaving in its wake a cool, sunny morning. The light breeze carried with it the sounds and smells of the San Francisco Bay, something that made Jack want to sit on the end of a pier and watch the tide come and go. Unfortunately, he had business to attend to that would not wait.
The walk down to Pier 47 carried him past some docked boats, around a corner, and under the blue awning at the entrance to Scoma’s seafood restaurant. The smells wafting out through the door as Jack stepped inside made him realize just how hungry he was. Jack saw the man he’d come here to meet seated next to a window that provided a partial view of the bay. As Jack stepped up to the table, the man rose to greet him.
“Hello, Jack,” the older man said in a voice that carried a familiar British accent.
“Good to see you, David. It’s been a long time.”
“Only to your young senses. At my age, four years seems like yesterday.”
Jack seated himself across from the elegantly dressed British gentleman. At the age of sixty-eight, David Chambers had long since retired from MI6, but he looked little changed from the last time Jack had seen him in Hong Kong. A person with David’s knowledge and connections didn’t need to rely on a government pension to support his comfortable lifestyle. He’d turned information gathering and distribution into a very profitable business, one to which Jack was about to contribute a significant sum.
David leaned back in his chair and took a sip from a half-full glass of iced tea, the lemon slice still wedged in place atop the glass. When he set the drink back on the table, David’s face grew serious. “I was sorry to hear about Rita.”
The mention of Rita Chavez brought back painful memories that tightened Jack’s throat. “She was a good friend.”
“I heard you took care of her killer.”
Jack’s hesitation was brief, but he knew David noticed it. “You may want to double-check your sources.”
The arrival of their waitress put a welcome end to that particular discussion. After they placed their orders, the conversation turned to small talk that continued throughout their leisurely meal. The business discussion would wait for their post-luncheon stroll along the pier.
When Jack picked up the check, David let him. Then they stepped outside and turned left, walking slowly west along the block-long pier. Unlike some of the tourist-populated piers, this one had very little foot traffic. Reaching a spot where the privacy of their conversation was assured, the two men stopped shoulder-to-shoulder, gazing out past the end of Fisherman’s Wharf.
As the older man lit a cigarette and took a drag, Jack reached into one of the inner pockets of his leather jacket and extracted two sets of identification documents, the ones he’d taken from the dead men in Kansas City. He handed them to David Chambers.
“These IDs are fakes. I need to know who these men really are and who they work for. How long will it take you to dig up that information for me?”
David studied the pictures on the driver’s licenses. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“Information is cheap, but reliable information isn’t. Reliable and quick costs more.”
“If you can get me those answers by the end of the day, you can name your price. I just need the wiring instructions for the transfer.”
The MI6 veteran pulled a small notepad and pen from a pocket of his tweed jacket, scribbled some notes, tore off the top page, and handed it to Jack. A glance at the piece of paper brought a smile to Jack’s lips. The big quote told him that David was already familiar with at least one of the two men.
The NSA had already identified his Kansas City attackers as agents for the Chinese MSS, but as impressive as their electronic information gather was, David Chambers had spent two dozen years developing his contacts in Hong Kong and mainland China. In Jack’s experience, contacts like that were worth more than all the computers at the NSA’s disposal.
Jack folded the paper and placed it in his pocket. “I’ll make the transfer this afternoon. Where do you want to meet to deliver the information?”
“Assuming the transfer goes through, you’ll find me right here at eleven o’clock tonight.”
“Okay.”
Jack watched as David Chambers dropped the cigarette and ground it beneath the heel of his brown leather shoe. Like the smoke itself, it was a small act of defiance against California’s politically correct social engineering. Without another word, the old spy sauntered back the way they had come.
Jack turned away, looking out at the bay as a fishing boat made its way back toward its berth. To be returning this early, the fishing must have been very, very good. Tonight would tell whether Jack’s fishing expedition would be as successful.
CHAPTER 24
Jamal Glover entered the NSA War Room as if emerging from a deep haze. Having showered and changed into a clean set of clothes, he’d brought a small travel bag to the NSA headquarters, where Levi Elias had arranged for an assigned spot in the locker room for him. That was good because Jamal didn’t plan on leaving this black-glass digital fortress until he had Jillian’s killer by the balls.
Inside the War Room, the other eleven members of the elite group of cyber-warriors that Levi Elias had dubbed the Dirty Dozen were already inside their scorpion-shaped workstations. Jamal glanced up at the elevated glass-walled room that overlooked the three tiers of workstations and saw Admiral Riles standing beside Levi, observing the scene that spread out before him. On the curving far wall, high-resolution displays summarized the activity of the assembled group of cyber-warriors.
The NSA War Room was a construct Admiral Riles had created. While it was true that most of the best programmers and hackers preferred to work alone, at heart they were gamers, and the very best enjoyed being recognized as such. So Admiral Riles had come up with a way that, when the most difficult cyber-attacks had to be carried out under tight timelines, his current top crop of cyber-warriors could be thrown into an environment that drove them into a competitive frenzy.
Inside the War Room, the hacking targets were clearly defined and prioritized. Each cyber-warrior was awarded or penalized points based upon the speed and progress of his or her attacks. They were allowed to team up or to attack targets individually. At the end of every War Room battle, the ranking of each cyber-warrior was adjusted and publicized throughout the NSA’s cyber-warfare community.
Every one of the hundreds of hackers the NSA em
ployed would kill to qualify for the group of twelve that operated from the War Room. But Jamal had lost all enthusiasm for this precious competition. He just wanted to use his own brain and the electronic might the NSA had placed at his disposal to help the agency identify, target, and kill a vicious murderer.
As Jamal climbed into his Scorpion workstation and booted up the system, his thoughts turned once more to Jillian. Why had that bastard killed her but not Jamal? It made no sense. Jamal was the NSA hacker. He should have been the target. For that matter, why was the NSA devoting so much effort to finding that man?
Jamal had been too distraught to think of these questions when he’d agreed to Levi’s offer. He shook his head to clear it. After this was over he’d find those answers, but right now the whys didn’t matter. Right now it was payback time.
When he logged onto the workstation, the message displayed at the top of the center screen surprised him. The rules and organization for today’s cyber-attack had been altered. Instead of each cyber-warrior selecting tasks from the incoming task queue and being scored on the speed, difficulty, and success of his hack, all incoming tasks would initially go to a preprocessing queue that only Jamal could access. Jamal would then perform an initial hack to embed backdoors into each target before pushing it to the available cyber-warrior he felt was best qualified to handle that task.
Jamal had no doubt that the introduction of this new organization would piss off the other cyber-warriors, especially Goth Girl Brown, but he liked it. And because it effectively placed him in charge of the other members of the Dirty Dozen, it represented a promotion to a position of considerable power over them. That was good.
Jamal had always thought that allowing the cyber-warriors to grab targets from the incoming task queue in any order they chose was a methodology that introduced chaotic inefficiencies into the group attack. Even though these twelve were the best of the best, there was still a broad distribution of skills among them, with several thinking they were far better than they were. There was no better mission to prove the efficacy of this new approach than the one that would grant Jamal the vengeance that Jillian’s memory demanded.
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