“Spike on trunk three!” One of the technicians started a trace route.
“No, no, no!” said Walthrop. “That’s all wrong! You want to find out where the signal is originating, right? A trace is the last thing you should be doing.” It was as though he hadn’t spoken.
“We’ve got it, come on now…” The lead technician smiled as the trace started to return data. “You see, Professor, we do have some idea of what we’re doing. All we need now is to isolate the subnet, and…”
The other technician interrupted him. “Lost the signal. It was a dead packet. In fact, it was a bunch of dead packets.”
Justin could no longer contain himself. “Why don’t you hear the Professor out? If you don’t like his ideas, don’t use them, but at least listen to him.”
The lead technician glared at Justin. “You listen to this. I don’t have to…”
“No, you listen.” It was Sharon. “I’ve had enough of your attitude. Nothing you’ve done has gotten us any further. Now the Professor will have his say.” He turned to Walthrop. “Professor?”
Walthrop cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well, I do have some advice, if you’d like to hear it.” He looked at the two technicians, who glanced at Sharon, then grudgingly nodded. “Excellent.” He walked nearer to the computer console. “First I want to make sure that I completely understand the problem.” He smiled kindly at Justin. “You have no digital signature, no traceable packets–no data of any kind for that matter–just this indication that something is periodically impacting the normal flow of the data stream on a known fiber bundle. Is this correct?”
“More or less,” said the lead technician. “The flow isn’t interrupted. It continues, but it’s as if something is disturbing it, causing it to fluctuate.”
“And these fluctuations, this is what you detect as a spike in the data flow?”
“We refer to it as the event, and yes, it’s a very identifiable phenomenon, and we’re certain it’s artificially induced. We’ve dedicated substantial processing power to try to isolate it, but we haven’t been able to nail it down.”
“The problem is your approach,” said Walthrop. “The solution doesn’t lie in more powerful computers. In fact, that may obscure the very thing you’re seeking.”
“What do you mean?”
“This event, or anomaly–call it what you will–doesn’t respond to standard methods of data interrogation. The failure of your trace route is one indication of that.”
“It could be they were masking their IP address.”
Walthrop nodded. “Of course they could, and if that was the issue, I’d say use a sniffer or some comparable technology and look directly at the packets. You know how to do that; I suspect you’ve tried.”
The technicians exchanged glances. Of course they had tried. In fact, it had been one of the first things.
Walthrop continued. “But I think we all know that we’re dealing with something else.”
“Which is?”
“I don’t know.” Walthrop smiled.
“That’s very helpful,” said the junior technician.
“But I do know how we might find the point of origin, which is why I’m here.” Walthrop turned to his former student. “Justin, do you have a tablet, or a notebook?”
“Sure.” He handed him a pad and pencil.
“Look.” He drew a series of squares, one next to the other, bi-directional arrows between each set. “You need to set up a series of point to point communication stations along the event pathway.”
“But we don’t know where it is.” The junior technician was getting whiny.
“You know the beginning and ending points of the primary fiber route, don’t you?”
The lead technician nodded. “For the sector in question, sure. But that’s a lot of miles.”
“You’ll need a station every couple miles, to start with. Generate a signal to and from each station, and carefully monitor for fluctuations in attenuation–signal loss across the fiber. The event, as you call it, should cause a brief, but measurable delay. And that delay is your marker.”
“Marker for what?” The junior technician looked at the Professor in disdain.
The lead technician understood. “It marks the point in time when the optical signal is being momentarily diverted, which will allow us to calculate the corresponding geographical location.” He looked at the Professor with newfound respect. The concept was simple, yet inspired.
“Any signal loss caused by the event is going to be quite small,” said the Professor. “So there are likely to be errors in determining precisely where it’s occurring, but this can be minimized by increasing the sampling frequency.”
Justin had been largely silent, but now broke in. “Won’t that be determined by the frequency of the event itself?”
“Yes, and it also presumes that you detect every occurrence. So it would follow that the longer you run the process, the more accurate your results will be.”
The room grew silent as the information was absorbed.
Sharon was the first to speak. “These communication stations–how extensive of a project are we talking?”
“The equipment should be spaced as evenly as possible over whatever size area you decide to cover. The closer the stations, the more accurate your results will be.”
“What kind of equipment?” asked Sharon.
“Standard packet generators. You don’t want anything too complex, but you want to be able to measure each packet’s time on the line accurately. You’d also need a PC to act as the master clock, so everything is in sync. The key is the timing, so the stations all need a common clock reference.”
Sharon had heard enough. “Okay, Walthrop. Put it together. My team is at your disposal. If you need anything else, or if the cooperation level is unsatisfactory,” he looked meaningfully at the technicians, “let me know right away.”
“Very well, Agent Sharon. I’ll try not to disappoint.”
“Just find the leak.”
***
Robert Slocum was in bad shape. The overdose administered by Bobo was nothing in comparison to the chemical onslaught induced by the agency’s doctors. He slipped in and out of consciousness, unable to discern the difference between reality and the nightmares that haunted him when he finally nodded off. The doctors had him so confused that even his attempts to give them what they wanted came out as nonsense. His interrogators interpreted this as resistance, but had they been willing to abandon their preconceived notions, they might have learned the truth that Slocum was offering.
“He’s a tough one,” said one of the doctors.
The pair of physicians stood with their arms crossed, watching the now immobile form of Slocum. The other doctor nodded, and walked around the table where Slocum was strapped down. He lifted one of his eyelids, examining the pupil.
“He’s out cold.” He put his penlight back in his pocket. “Whoever had him before us did an excellent job of counter-programming. I don’t think we got anywhere near his core persona.”
“I agree. All that babbling about ‘Bozo’ was clearly planted.”
“Nicely done, too.”
The other nodded. “I guess we’d better wake him and start over.”
They took positions on either side of Slocum, and one administered a strong stimulant. Slocum’s eyelids started to twitch, and his head rolled from side to side. Finally, his eyes opened and he tried to sit up. He seemed surprised and disoriented by the restraints.
“Settle down, now. You’re at the agency, remember?”
Slocum looked around, and slowly started to remember. He relaxed somewhat, and settled back. “What do you want?” His breathing was labored, his body exhausted from the ordeal he had been through.
“We only want some answers. If you cooperate and tell us what we want to know, we won’t have to use the drugs again.”
It was a lie, and Slocum knew it. The only reason the doctors were here was because the agency wanted them
to use the drugs. They thought it was the most reliable method, and they were right.
“I’ve already answered your questions,” said Slocum. His head was swimming.
“We just need to clarify some details regarding the palmtop, which you claim was lost.”
“Not lost. Stolen. I told you, at the bar, just before I was supposed to meet a client, I got mugged. They took my money and the palm unit.”
“That was by…” the doctor looked at his notes. “Bozo?”
Slocum shook his head. “Not Bozo. Bobo. He’s a gang leader.”
“So Bobo has the palmtop?”
“No. He threw it out.”
The doctors exchanged glances.
“Mr. Slocum, surely you can see why we have a problem with your story.” He nodded to the other doctor, who prepared a syringe. “If this Bobo went to the trouble of mugging you and stealing your palmtop, why would he simply throw it away? And how would you even know that’s what happened?” The doctor smiled patronizingly, pleased that he had so easily proven the incongruity in Slocum’s account.
“You don’t understand. I met him later. I mean–I found him. After I shot his partner he told me where he had thrown the palmtop.” The doctor with the syringe approached. “No, not again,” said Slocum, struggling.
The doctor found a spot on Slocum’s arm and gave him the shot. Moments later, Slocum’s eyes became droopy, and his speech slurred. He then started laughing hysterically.
“Bozo, Bozo, Bozo…Ha!”
The doctors looked at each other, concerned. This was not what they expected.
“Mr. Slocum? Can you hear me?”
Slocum stopped his ranting. “Yes.” He became perfectly calm.
“Who are you working for?”
Slocum looked puzzled. “I used to work for the agency.”
“What agency?”
“This agency–National Communications.”
“But now you work for someone else, right?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you saw your palmtop?”
Slocum hesitated, trying to remember. “Before Bobo took me.”
“Took you where?”
Slocum seemed to be concentrating. “I don’t remember. The projects.”
“Is that where the palmtop is?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“But Bobo has it?”
Slocum started laughing again. “Bozo, Bozo, Bozo.” He was losing touch with reality.
“Slocum, listen to me, this is very important. Who were you working with before you were arrested?”
“Ah, Stanley and…Bobby was there, too.”
“What’s Stanley’s last name?”
“Uh…Whip…pal. Whipple.”
“Where are they, Slocum?”
“At my…Bozo, Bozo, Bozo. Ha, ha, ha.” Slocum lapsed into unconsciousness.
The doctors stepped away from the table. One said, “If we want more we’ll have to kill him.”
“I wouldn’t recommend that approach.”
“We better tell Mason what we’ve learned.”
***
Five people were present at the meeting to discuss Slocum, which took place in the agency conference room. Mason was there, as well as George Pampas and the two doctors who had questioned Slocum. In addition, Kayoko was invited, though she did not know the reason for the meeting.
“I don’t know if you all know each other,” said Mason. “But these two gentlemen are doctors from our clinical staff. Doctors, this is George Pampas, and Kayoko Watanabe. Kayoko works in our Societal Profiling unit, and as a psychologist she’ll be doing a workup on Slocum.”
Kayoko nodded towards the doctors, but was obviously confused.
Pampas said, “Mr. Mason, maybe we should bring Kayoko up to speed concerning our guest.”
Mason nodded. “Yes, of course. She’ll need to know what she’s dealing with.”
“I don’t understand,” said Kayoko.
“Do you recall the meeting we had–you, me, and Tom Snelling?” asked Mason.
“Yes, you said there were technical issues regarding security that had to be resolved. That’s why the computer center couldn’t help us.”
“That’s exactly right, and now we’ve identified the source of our problems. It turns out that one of our implementers is a traitor. He’s been feeding information about the agency to someone on the outside, but we aren’t certain how much has been compromised, or to whom.” He turned to Pampas. “George, give us a brief summary, if you would.”
Pampas leaned forward and looked directly at Kayoko. “Some time ago one of our implementers, Robert Slocum, reported that his handheld computer had been stolen during a robbery. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but the palmtops that we issue to implementers are highly specialized, very complex devices. They aren’t meant to be lost.”
“Surely there are accidents,” said Kayoko. “This can’t have been the first time something like this has happened.”
“As a matter of fact, it was,” said Pampas. “Units have malfunctioned, of course. But those were brought back in and replaced or repaired. This one was supposedly lost.”
“Supposedly?”
“Slocum said he was close to recovering it, yet at the same time our computer people detected efforts to use it to monitor agency traffic. Only one person would have been able to do that, and he was claiming that he hadn’t found the device yet.”
“Isn’t it possible that someone else found it and was accessing it?” asked Kayoko.
Pampas was getting irritated at her refusal to accept the facts. “Not in this case. There are safeguards built in.”
“So you’re certain that Slocum is a traitor?”
Pampas nodded. “Absolutely.”
“Then what do you want me to do?”
Mason took over. “Get to know him, see if you can gain his confidence. Right now he finds himself in a place with no allies, among people he has betrayed. A compassionate figure may elicit more information than the doctors could.”
She looked at the two doctors at the far end of the table. “Why did you need doctors? Was he hurt?”
Mason shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Slocum was unwilling to tell us anything, so I’m afraid we had to go the pharmacology route.”
Her mouth opened in surprise. “As a first recourse?”
One of the doctors answered. “We questioned him. He was clearly not going to cooperate, and the longer we let him prepare himself, the harder it would be to get anything out of him at all.”
“What do you mean ‘prepare himself’? Was he going to pop down to the corner drug store and buy a counter-agent for whatever you gave him?”
The doctor clarified. “Mentally prepare himself. He’s an implementer–his capabilities would surprise you.”
Kayoko scoffed. “You defend him and persecute him at the same time.”
“Okay, okay,” said Mason. “We’re all on the same team, right?” He looked from one side of the table to the other, like a referee in a tennis match. “The important thing is, we have to work together to find out a few things. Like who is Slocum is working with, and where is his palm unit right now.”
“We did get some information.” One of the doctors leafed through a folder. “He mentioned some names. Bobo, or Bozo, Stanley Whipple, and Bobby. How much of this is made up we aren’t sure. The Bozo part, though, we’re almost certain is programmed.” The other doctor nodded his assent.
For a moment it didn’t sink in, then Pampas realized what the doctor had said. “Did you say Stanley Whipple?”
“Yes, that’s right. Whipple.”
Pampas looked at Mason. “There’s probably not too many Stanley Whipples.”
“Get right on that,” said Mason. He turned to Kayoko. “I’d like you to spend some time with Slocum. Learn whatever you can about him, but don’t push too hard in the beginning. Just gain his trust. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Kayoko was n
ot entirely pleased with the assignment, or with the increasingly peculiar direction the agency was taking. She wondered what else was going on that she didn’t know about. She was curious, though, about Robert Slocum, and looked forward to talking with him.
Chapter Ten
It was part of the building that Kayoko had never seen; in fact most people who worked at the agency didn’t even know this floor existed. The long, narrow corridor that led to the security cells was cold and uninviting, a solitary wooden desk sitting sentry-like at one end. As George Pampas escorted Kayoko down the hall, neither of them said a word. The only sound was that of their footsteps echoing off the tiled floor. They stopped at the end of the hallway.
The cell before them was protected by two sets of steel bars. The outer gate had an electronic keypad, while the inner gate required only a key. A small table with a single chair was set up in the hallway outside. Pampas nodded towards the prisoner within, indicating that Kayoko could begin her interview at any time. She looked at the middle-aged man sitting motionless against the wall.
“I’ll need to go inside.”
“Sorry,” said Pampas. “You’ll have to ask your questions from this side of the gate. Security regulations.”
“He’s shackled to the wall. What harm could he possibly do?”
“Probably none,” said Pampas. “But rules are rules, especially where security is concerned. Besides, the first gate won’t open unless I put in the code. Even that won’t work unless the computer center programs the system to expect it. Norbert wouldn’t have done that without being told.”
“I see,” said Kayoko. “Then I guess I’ll have to talk to him from out here. I will need to be alone with him, though.”
“Certainly. If you need anything, I’ll be at the desk at the end of the hall.” He turned and walked away.
After he left, Kayoko moved closer to the cell. Slocum sat with his head hung low, one wrist handcuffed to a metal ring that protruded from the wall.
“Mr. Slocum?” His head bobbed, and his eyes lifted to meet hers, then lowered. “Mr. Slocum, I need to ask you a few questions. It won’t take long, and if you cooperate I might be able to help you.”
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