The Beta Sites appeared to be locations for initial testing of the Stasi Satellites. Addresses spanned the entire metro Denver area south of Commerce City. Leonard examined a few locations. All entries said No Activity in the notes, but they each had a target start date — the earliest being one month from the current date. Leonard noticed that Sandy Little’s name and address appeared on the list.
I wonder if she volunteered to be a beta site.
He sat back, ran a hand though his hair, and took a deep breath. Next, he chose the Priority Targets link. It listed several dozen individuals, their photos, internal numbers, and other personal data. Tantalizing information graced the notes pages of the targets.
One man’s notes said, Demonstrated against Amendment Twenty-Eight. Unconfirmed operator of CR websites.
Another individual’s record reported, Subject spends considerable time in parks and other recreational areas. Seen meeting with individuals, who are on the low priority watch list, almost daily. Suspected of being a contact in an illegal emigration gang. Closely monitored by WLN. No incriminating conversations in the home. Leonard shivered and shook his shoulders.
Curiosity drove him to select another name. Smuggling and trafficking of illegal goods, including fresh fruit and toiletries. Released from prison so the WLN can monitor his activities and locate his sources. Placed in a public pharmacy where we have a fulltime Watcher. The subject appears to be suspicious about his early release.
“Excuse me, Mr. Tramer?”
Leonard spun around. “Yes?”
“I’m just taking lunch orders for tomorrow,” Amanda, the lunch server, explained. “Would you like turkey, roast beef, or salami?”
Envisioning the limp sandwich he ate earlier, Leonard cleared his throat. “I’m going to bring my lunch tomorrow.”
Amanda furrowed her brow and withdrew slightly in surprise. She cocked her head and appraised him curiously. “You’re bringing your lunch?” Her tone was doubtful, almost condescending.
“Yes. Thank you.” He turned away.
Amanda mumbled under her breath in a scolding tone as she walked away.
“Blah, blah.” Leonard grumbled, turning back to face his computer. “Make a better sandwich if you want people to eat them.”
Although surfing the Priority Targets link was intriguing, Leonard’s mind kept drifting to the heavily secured door he and McGinnis passed on their way back from lunch. He exited out of the system; then got up, overtly looked at his watch, and strolled along the cubicles glancing at the employees along the way. Men and women of all ages straightened their posture and focused on their computer screens with feigned interest. Leonard’s lips curled up on one side in amusement.
“Mr. Tramer?”
He felt a light hand tap him on the shoulder, and he pivoted abruptly. Standing just outside of her cubicle, Sandy Little beamed, her face flushed. A lock of sleek hair had managed to slip inside her blouse, distracting Leonard.
If Sandy noticed him ogling, she did not show a sign. She spoke quickly and confidently. “I finished the map and emailed you a copy.” Waiving a yellow slip of paper, she concluded, “I have to run now. However, should you find anything lacking, please shoot me back an email and I’ll get on it straightaway in the morning.”
Trying to focus on her face, Leonard replied, “I’m sure I won’t find anything lacking Sandy, but I’ll look it over.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Have a nice afternoon.”
“I’ll try, sir.”
She rushed down the hallway and across the hanger. Leonard watched her disappear into an elevator. Moving slowly, he meandered his way through the cubicles and leisurely headed for the bank of elevators. When the bell dinged, Leonard glanced over his shoulder. No one appeared to notice his retreat. He slipped in and selected the third floor, humming as the doors closed.
It was possible that his pass would not allow him access to the restricted area. Nonetheless, given the level of respect afforded him by the crew in the hanger, Leonard figured it was certainly worth a try. He wondered whether that room might hold electronics he could use to rebuild the time machine. Diagrams and new ideas floated through his mind, as he considered the possibility. The elevator opened and he stumbled into the hall. If I can build a Stasi Satellite, surely I can rig another time machine. His steps quickened as he envisioned freedom, but his breath caught in his throat when he faced the grim reality of the situation. Even if I find parts, how the hell am I going to get them out of here? He shook his head and pressed on.
When Leonard reached the intriguing door, he stood back and surveyed the maze of security measures protecting it. Card swipe, retina scan, pass code, followed by another card swipe. It seemed obvious but his hands trembled. After some hesitation, he stepped forward.
Card swipe. No buzzer.
Retina scan. Soft beep.
Pass code. Gate flew open.
Card swipe. The large double doors opened slowly, moving away from Leonard into a dark hallway.
He tiptoed cautiously down the corridor. The soft hum of computers and an irritating blue light loomed at the end of the hallway. Soon, Leonard stepped into a huge room filled with computers, each manned by a transfixed human wearing headphones. No cubicles, just rows of computers on narrow tables and at least two hundred employees on small swivel chairs. Up in the far corner, an unmanned station with a plexiglass window overlooked the scene like a watchtower.
Leonard wandered toward the enclosure. None of the computer drones seemed to notice him. A retina scan and card swipe guarded the entrance to the little room. Leonard performed the ritual and the door clicked open. Once inside, he inspected the station. Big enough for two people, three if they got cozy, the small room housed one computer on a tall desk. In order to view the screen, the computer operator needed to stand. The entire department and all the employees were clearly visible through the plexiglass, their monitors glowing like rows of lanterns.
Leonard shook the mouse and a pale purple screen came to life. He selected the System link to pinpoint his location in the network. Smiling at his own shrewdness, he clicked Back to WLN01 and returned to the purple menu. The upper right corner of the screen caught his eye. Three search options beckoned him. Last Name, First Name, Tracking Number. Leonard tapped his finger on the desk before typing McGinnis. Thomas McGinnis popped up as the only match, so Leonard selected his record. A screen, identical to those of the Priority Targets, opened.
Not a very photogenic man, Thomas McGinnis’ photo scowled at Leonard. Thomas’ notes spanned only one month and they were three years old. The daily activity was uneventful. Notes like went to the liquor store, had two friends over for the game, stayed at home all day cluttered the page. In conclusion, the report said, No unusual activity. Voted for Stehlen. Otherwise, not politically active. Set start date for December 1st.
Leonard backed out, intending to enter his own name, but a commotion startled him. He logged out hastily before assessing the consequences of such an action. Only the words Username and Password remained on the default login page for WLN01.
A chubby man entered the small room, sweating and apologizing. “I’m so sorry. I forgot to log out. It won’t happen again,” he stammered. “I’m not feeling well. I just popped out to visit the nurse.” He waved a small yellow piece of paper. “I was getting an early dismissal pass. I’m so sorry, sir, I—”
“What are you yammering about?” Leonard pointed at the screen. “You logged out. Take a breather. Obviously you do need to go home.”
The man tilted his head and examined the screen. “Huh. I could have sworn…”
Trying to sound like the oppressive high-level superior with whom his underlings were accustomed to dealing, Leonard remained aloof. “Now finish up your business and be on your way.”
The man didn’t even question Leonard’s presence at his station. Instead, he jostled his way to the computer, delicately trying not to bump into Leonard. Before he reached his destination, the flustered
man stumbled and dropped his pass. Leonard seized the opportunity and swiftly squatted, snatching the ID.
Mark Dickens, WLN.
Leonard casually returned the pass.
Dickens poised his fingers above the keyboard and began to type while Leonard watched stealthily. The nervous man clacked out dickensms and then a password that looked like linda0106, possibly linda0409. He glanced over his shoulder as the purple menu page popped up.
Leonard cleared his throat and turned to leave. “Later, Dickens.” He slipped out of the booth quickly. Marching down the steps, he glanced sideways at the rows of drones flipping menu pages, making notes, and listening intently.
Mark Dickens, WLN.
Watcher Listening Network.
Chapter Nine
Shortly after Leonard returned to his desk an irritated female voice called, “Break time.”
Immediately, the sound of dozens of chairs rolling away from desks echoed in the hanger. Leonard, not interested in a break, shook his mouse and selected the System link. He entered WLN01 with his own name and password.
You are not authorized to access WLN01.
Not to be dissuaded he tried another tactic. Location, WLN01. Username, dickensms. Password, linda0106.
This computer is not authorized to access WLN01. Please return to your station and try again.
Dammit! Leonard slammed his fist on the table
“Break time.” The woman approached Leonard’s cubicle.
“I don’t need a break right now.” Leonard kept his back to the annoying woman.
“You have to take a break.”
“I’ll take one later.”
“It’s mandatory.”
Leonard swiveled around and regarded the woman disdainfully. Frumpy dress and tangled hair, she looked like a disgruntled housecleaner. Leonard rolled his eyes. “I’m the project leader,” he said coolly.
“I don’t care who you are. Union rules. Take a break.”
“I don’t belong to the union.”
She guffawed. “Good one, sir.” Then her tone softened and she seemed bent on a new mission — to get him to comply without a fuss. “Please, just read a book or something for fifteen minutes.”
Leonard folded his arms. “Whatever.”
“Thank you.” She turned abruptly and walked away, looking at her watch.
Suddenly, dozens of employees whispered and moved away from their cubicles in twos and threes.
McGinnis stopped by Leonard’s desk. “That was entertaining,” he said, chuckling.
Leonard merely glared at him.
“I’ll get you a cup of coffee,” McGinnis mumbled as he walked away.
Leonard sighed. The glowing monitor beseeched him. What the hell am I going to do with fifteen minutes?
He put his briefcase on the counter and retrieved the science magazine, one of the few items in his sparsely stocked attaché. He flipped through the periodical with as much dramatic flair as he could muster. When his tantrum proved unsatisfying, Leonard examined the cover. January? My God, how many times have I read this thing? He settled on a theory that the magazine was a prop, a crutch Leonard leaned upon during mandated breaks. After all, they disrupted the creative process and he could think of nothing more annoying in a work environment.
Flipping the pages back and forth, Leonard’s mind drifted to the WLN room. The purpose of his satellites was to expand upon their efforts. He shivered, feeling more anxious than he had all day. But the anxiety melted into intrigue when he caught sight of a note in fine print at the bottom of one of the articles.
Alt JK.
Squinting, he inspected the note. Neat block letters in very fine print, clearly in his own handwriting. Leonard glanced around. The coffee break enforcer was nowhere to be seen. Stealthily, Leonard depressed Alt JK, but nothing happened. Not yet discouraged, he scrutinized each page, making notes on a legal tablet he found under a circuit board.
A series of keyboard commands, seven in all, appeared at the bottom of random pages. Leonard sat back and nodded appreciatively.
You son of a bitch. This is exactly the kind of thing you’d pull off.
He waited impatiently. McGinnis came and went with the coffee. Leonard took a tentative sip and grimaced. Cold and bitter. Staring at the ceiling, he inched his chair around the small space, his mind racing.
After what seemed like hours, the dowdy woman finally hollered, “End of break.”
Leonard zoomed his chair across the cubicle and grabbed his keyboard. He tried the series of commands. Nothing. Not to be deterred, he entered them in reverse order. The computer hummed and eventually brought up a white screen with a list of programs and a PDF.
Bingo.
Leonard opened the PDF first. It appeared to be a map of the base. He tabbed through the floors until he found the Stasi Satellite Project in the basement of his building. Looking closer, Leonard realized it was a map of computers. He hit zoom. Initials identified each square. LMT marked the computer in the corner. SAL, probably Sandy Little, somewhere in the middle. TPM, Thomas McGinnis. Leonard clicked on TPM and a blue page popped up, showing McGinnis’ full name, building, floor, and cubicle number. Leonard’s heart soared when he decoded the last piece of information. Some kind of internal ip address. If he could hack into the server that fed this bank of computers, he could theoretically log into whatever computer he chose. Theoretically.
Leonard glanced around, smiling with glee. No one appeared to notice his atypical state of giddiness.
Next, he examined the programs. Stifling a laugh, he covered his mouth. He recognized the programs. He wrote them when he attended college — an encryption program, a rudimentary password cracker, and a little jewel he codenamed The Mole. The Mole allowed the user to remotely access computers within a network, so long as the user knew the internal ip address. He struck gold. No need to hack into the server. The Mole already knew how. No need to worry about internal firewalls. The Mole would blow right through them.
Seconds later, Leonard’s heart sank. Remote access required the fellow employee’s absence. He could not take control of someone’s computer while they were sitting at their desk. And given the strict adherence to breaks and clock-in, clock-out times at the facility, Leonard doubted an optimal moment would occur. No laptop, no Internet. It would be impossible…unless, perhaps, he sent someone away from their computer on an errand. He pursed his lips contemplating the idea.
Or, by chance, someone went home early. Sandy Little. His heart quickened. Even better. Mark Dickens.
Leonard looked up Dickens’ ip address, activated The Mole, and hit escape.
A minute later, he was staring at Mark Dickens’ default login screen. Leonard operated like a ghost floating in the observation room of the WLN. No one in the bank of drones would notice activity on Dickens’ computer, a device safely tucked away in the corner. The only danger now would be the unexpected reappearance of Dickens himself. But Leonard felt more than confident as his fingers flew over the keyboard.
Username, dickensms. Password, linda0106.
And he was in. The familiar pale purple screen of the Watcher Listening Network glowed eerily, irritating his eyes. He blinked several times in a vain effort to alleviate the dryness.
Leonard glanced around nervously. He’d hacked into plenty of sites in his lifetime, but not with dozens of high security employees a stone’s throw away. The adrenaline rush produced a mild mania. Leonard swiftly typed his name in the search fields, his fingers quivering in anticipation.
He winced as an unflattering photo popped up. The notes were not unlike those in McGinnis’ file. All from three years ago, spanning a month, the dull comments about Leonard’s monotonous daily activities made him wish he were more of a rebel.
The conclusion on his record was near identical to McGinnis’. No unusual activity. Suspect is apolitical. Lives in pre-DHR neighborhood with wife and two kids. Set start date for December 1st.
No background checks in three and a half
years? Come on guys, you’re slacking.
Leonard backed out of his record and selected Alina Tramer. Reeling, he inspected her notes. Filling numerous pages, Alina’s notes put Leonard to shame.
Alina Marsh-Tramer. Medical doctor and spouse of high-level security project leader, Leonard Tramer, the subject line read.
Examining the dates, Leonard realized that Alina’s notes began around the same date as his background check. Daily activities included the usual. On a regular basis, Alina drove to the bus, entered the hospital, went to the grocery store, and carried out routine chores. Frequently, Alina stopped by the library. Library visits were emphasized in bold print. She went several times a week throughout January and February — just after Leonard started working for the DID. Then the comments ceased abruptly and picked up again seven months later.
Subject decoded the DOH project. Authorities quickly brought the situation under control using the daughter, Natalia. Monitor for six weeks.
Using the daughter, Natalia. The words sent a chill up Leonard’s spine. “What the hell does that mean?” he whispered.
The following six weeks of notes relayed nothing significant, and the conclusion of the mysterious using the daughter period confidently stated that the subject seems depressed but not a threat to security. Sufficiently motivated by warning.
The most recent set of notes began with volunteer informant made a report, but no concrete evidence confirmed. Another series of monotonous daily activities followed. The last remark acknowledged that the informant is a relative of the subject, so testimony is in conflict of interest. The library has a thoroughly controlled Internet facility. No evidence of hacking or foul play. In addition, high-level security project leader rarely speaks with her. It is a non-issue. Close the ticket. The notes stopped abruptly approximately five weeks prior to the current date. The file appeared to be, for the time being, put to rest.
Informant is a relative of the subject…
Oh God, is it me?
Leonard sat back and looked at the ceiling, wrestling with guilt. Then he remembered Carlyle grilling him about Alina only hours before. If I already turned her in, the commander wouldn’t approach the subject so delicately.
Nine-Tenths Page 9