While Justice Sleeps

by Stacey Abrams

  However, every report found a home somewhere. She simply had to find this one’s. Reaching for her phone, she summoned her assistant.

  “Boss?” he said, poking his head in the door. “You look like crap. Sleep here last night?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Betty grumbled. “Mike, who is the biggest nerd in DHS? The one who’d be at a Trekkie convention if there was one in town.”

  Mike laughed. “Seriously? In this place? It’s easier to name the ones who wouldn’t be.” He propped his shoulder against the doorjamb. “What are you looking for?”

  “A government-employed conspiracy theorist who actually keeps copies of the reports they send over here.”

  His grin split his face. “Oh, that’s easy. Me.”

  Betty frowned. “You?”

  “I’m a male secretary who used to work at the Defense Department. I happen to know they are watching us, and I liked having ammunition.” He sauntered inside. “What are you looking for?”

  “Any report that mentions biogenetic research in India or China. Preferably in the last three years. Got anything like that?”

  “What you’re looking for is the Dooley Commission Report on the Potential Threat of Bioweapons in Asia.”

  Betty’s mouth fell open. “Are you serious?”

  “Pat Dooley, congresswoman from Alabama, had a sub-subcommittee a couple of years ago, and she appointed a task force. My friend over in the House got assigned to do research. Found some crazy stuff, I’ll tell you.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Sure.” He left her doorway and returned several minutes later bearing a bound report. “Called in a favor from my friend. He’s emailing me his research notes too.”

  “Did you tell him who was asking?”

  Mike looked annoyed. “No.”

  “Sorry,” she apologized with a smile. “I’m on edge.”

  He walked over and set the stack on her desk. “Then this stuff will give you nightmares.”

  Two hours later, Betty agreed. The more she read, though, the more nervous she became. Hygeia, it seemed, did more than search for ways to monetize the human genome. They’d taken on the lucrative side project of military research as well. According to the report, they’d begun testing the accuracy of genetic therapies on groups based on haplogroups.

  Betty leaned her elbow on the desk, fingers worrying lips chewed free of lipstick. Her training in chemistry gave her the ability to sift through scientific data, but genetics was out of her league. What she needed was a third party. Someone who’d know about chromosomal research and could take a look at the data.

  “Okay. If I can’t get government information from the government, I’ll try the next best thing,” she mused aloud. Government databases were designed to take information in, not share it. The Internet was far superior for actual research, if you didn’t mind the crazies and whack jobs you stumbled over on your way to the truth.

  Smirking to herself, she switched windows and opened a web browser. The familiar search box appeared. The first query yielded only cursory information. Hygeia was a small genetics company in Mumbai, India, run by a wunderkind trained in America’s own intellectual laboratories. He’d returned to his native India and founded the biotech, whose venture capital–funded purpose was the exploration of how to monetize the human genome.

  The brief corporate bio, accompanied by hundreds of articles, told the same press-released story again and again. Pages listed as cached led to broken links and missing websites. After working her way through nearly a hundred deleted mentions, she hit upon a business magazine announcing Hygeia’s acquisition by Advar.

  She tracked the article, but nothing popped. Deciding to take a different tack, she typed in the words Hygeia and Advar and Haplogroups and hit enter.

  Her computer screen went black.

  “What the hell?” She wiggled her mouse, to no avail. Even the cursor had disappeared.

  Grumbling, she rebooted the machine and waited for it to whir to life. After running for nearly two days straight, she supposed, a shutdown was inevitable. When the system finally returned to functional, she scanned her desktop as she moved to open the browser. Her finger paused over the mouse.

  An unfamiliar icon had appeared on her desktop. The icon was shaped like a question mark, but it had eyes that seemed to dance.

  Betty thought about every computer seminar that senior management in DHS had been forced to sit through. Protocols about breaches, viruses, and worms had been emblazoned into her memory. But the genial question mark implored her to ignore that training and go with instinct.

  She clicked.

  * * *

  —

  In the Atlanta airport, Jared hunched over his laptop, scanning every few minutes for signs of trouble. Avery sat in the seat beside him, tense, pretending to read. Their narrow escape had bought them time, and no one had followed them to the airport. When the chirp sounded on his monitor, he glanced over to the corner of the screen. And froze.

  Someone had tripped his Internet alarm and gone hunting for their search terms. “Avery?”

  She glanced up from her book. “What’s up?”

  “Someone has gone fishing. In a famous river,” Jared said cryptically.

  Avery struggled to keep her pleasant expression in place. Someone had taken Jared’s bait, and someone had tried to kill them. The question was who—and if they were one and the same. “Did they send you the location?”

  “Yes.” He shifted his computer to give her a better view. A chat box had opened, and the cursor flashed imperiously. “Want to respond?”

  “Sure.” Avery accepted the laptop, her pulse racing. Tentatively at first, her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Finally, she began to type.

  Hello?

  Who are you?

  Avery cast about for an alias. Cassandra. You?

  In her office, Betty thought about all the nicknames from her childhood. Smiling to herself, she typed, Wilma.

  Hi Wilma. What are you looking for?

  Answers.

  What are your questions?

  Just curious about biogenetics and haplogroups.

  Then we should talk.

  Aren’t we already? No reason, Betty thought, to let on that she had no idea what the hell was going on. Nifty trick with the computer.

  Magic. I’m trying to find my friend. Can you help?

  Any connection to the FDA?

  No. Why?

  Have security clearance?

  Avery tilted the screen for Jared to see. He silently motioned for her to keep asking questions. In another corner of the screen, red lights turned green as a program traced Wilma’s IP address. A few more minutes, and they’d know who had launched his hidden key and triggered the instant messaging service he’d set up last night.

  But anyone looking for the computer Avery was writing from would find only a false address traveling through multiple virtual tunnels and pinging against users who’d accessed his security services. A handy skill taught by the Navy that he’d improved over time.

  He whispered to Avery, “Keep her online. Nearly got her.”

  She nodded, then responded, Is that necessary?

  If you want me to talk to you.

  Wait. Haplogroups and Hygeia and Advar. Interesting combination. You work for them?

  Maybe. What do you know?

  Avery decided to show one of her cards. Ani is gone. Do you know where he went?

  Betty picked up one of the bio sheets on Hygeia. Ani Ramji had been their top scientist, but none of the articles mentioned what had happened to him in the acquisition. Not unusual in itself, but it made Betty scribble a note beside his name.

  We just spoke.

  Really? Where?

  India.

  You don’t know where he i
s, do you? Avery smiled at the feint. Wilma didn’t trust her, and she didn’t trust Wilma. They were pushing pieces around the board, feeling each other out and avoiding engagement. A stalemate. She tried a new tack. Do you like science?

  It’s my passion. You?

  Not a scientist, but definitely want to learn more.

  About what?

  About biogenetic research in india. Planning to take a trip and look for a job. Hoped to meet Ani.

  Screwing with my computer is a strange way of job hunting.

  I’m very, very interested. Avery held her breath and decided to take a chance. What do you know about haplogroups?

  Why?

  Because Ani thought they were being used to hurt people. I want to know how.

  Who are you?

  A concerned citizen.

  What do you know about Haplogroups?

  I know they are genetic markers. Dangerous in the wrong minds.

  And the wrong hands.

  Weapons?

  In her office, Betty stopped typing. On the corner of her desk was one of the handful of reports she’d managed to unearth related to the chromosomal research grants. Among the recognized goals of the S&T grants was investigation into uses of Y haplogroup research. The report had been redacted down to a handful of lines. Pages she’d never be allowed to read.

  Nerves returned in force. She was breaking a dozen federal laws by using her government computer to chat with a stranger. So far, she hadn’t revealed any classified information, but her gut was starting to clench, a sure sign of trouble. One compounded by a dangerous icon that started a chat with someone who knew more than she did. Someone who knew about Y haplogroups and biogenetic research and weapons. The Science and Technology Directorate.

  Who are you? Betty typed.

  An interested party, like you. Looking for TigrisLost. Hard to find.

  I can’t help you. Must go.

  Realizing she was about to lose her only lead, Avery tapped the screen where the trace continued. Jared held up three fingers, signaling he needed only a few more seconds.

  I know about hygeia. About the research.

  The cursor flashed emptily. Avery took a wild stab in the dark. I know about Advar and the Court.

  What are you talking about?

  GenWorks and Advar and Hygeia. Justice Wynn. They are connected. I can explain.

  Avery waited, to see if Wilma would take the bait.

  Tomorrow. Lincoln Memorial Museum. Blue columns. nine a.m. Red scarf. come alone.

  The computer dinged as the chat abruptly ended. Avery looked up anxiously at Jared, who nodded. “Got her.”

  Relieved, she passed the computer back to him and sighed. She’d meet Wilma at the Lincoln Memorial. She wasn’t sure which of them should wear the scarf, but she’d take the chance that it should be her.

  While Avery watched silently, Jared called up his tracer program. The IP address had been encrypted, the encryption matrix one of the most sophisticated he’d ever encountered. But the sheer level of complexity ruled out all but a few sources, and a telltale protocol eliminated the rest of his suspects. Doing data security in DC, he’d learned to spot the fingerprints of government bodies. They were talented but predictable.

  Jared leaned over to Avery, his mouth against her ear. “She is inside a government building. Based on the geotag, it’s the Department of Homeland Security.”

  The idea of a meet suddenly held less appeal. Her swallow was nearly audible. “Major Vance?”

  “Or someone in his organization.”

  “Someone who apparently is looking where she shouldn’t be.” Avery mulled over the implications. This could be a trap, one too dangerous to walk into blind. “If I wanted to, could I reach out again?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I captured the computer’s address, and I’ve got a Trojan that will let us get to her again.”

  Ten feet away from them, a man sitting in an airport chair took note of their whispers and stood up, moving toward their positions. Jared immediately spotted him, and he casually draped his arm across Avery’s shoulders and leaned his head against hers. “We’re being watched,” he said softly.

  The agent stopped but kept furtive watch. He glanced at another agent, who sat with a newspaper twenty feet away. Satisfied, Jared murmured, “Yes, you can contact Wilma again, but if DHS is like the rest of the intelligence agencies, they clean their systems regularly. We have to reach out soon.”

  Avery leaned closer to him, turning her lips to his ear. “It would be better if we could figure out who Wilma really is before I meet with her.”

  “How?”

  “The power of the Court.” Avery reached for the computer again, and Jared handed it over. She opened her personal email account and wrote a quick message to one of the few people still talking to her inside the Court.

  “Gary, I need your help. I need a roster of employees at the Science and Technology Directorate for DHS.” Justice Wynn’s FOIA request nudged her to add, “Preferably for the finance or audit division. It’s urgent and important. Please.”

  She hit send and sighed. “What next?”

  Jared glanced over at the agents. “We wait.”

  * * *

  —

  In her office, Betty Papaleo wondered if she should pack her bags now or later. Surely one of the super-techs in DHS would be knocking on her door soon, demanding her credentials. The only question was whether she’d be in Leavenworth today or next week.

  On her desk sat the beginnings of a conspiracy theory that would make Watergate look like high school gossip. She stared at the icon on her screen, the dancing eyes that seemed to know what she was thinking.

  Even she didn’t.

  She did understand the government. Knowledge was more powerful than money, and if she controlled it, she might be safe. Which meant that she needed to know what she knew before her impromptu meeting tomorrow. She had to write down the thoughts writhing through her mind like scattered eels.

  But not in her office on a computer that had been compromised. The dancing icon warned her of how insecure her sanctuary had become. Betty stood, gathered up her notes, and headed downstairs to the dead files room and the ancient computer stored there. It had no access to the Internet. Basically, the nineties-era machine was a very large calculator with a simple word processing program.

  It was forgotten and perfect.

  Betty began typing, her simple memo growing into a treatise. Fingers flew over the keyboard, stopping only when she needed to reference reports to cross-check dates. The more she typed, the queasier her stomach grew. She’d stumbled onto more than a conspiracy.

  What she’d found was mortal sin. She’d never imagined herself to be a tattletale—or, in government-speak, a whistleblower. You didn’t reach her level of security clearance and access without learning to weigh the difference between sloppy and dangerous, between bad and evil. But the sludge-like sensation that had taken up residence in her gut had only gotten worse. Because the only thing worse than a tattletale was a person too afraid to tell the truth.

  Wearily, she reread her work. She didn’t bother trying to save the document. The floppy disk drive had grown inoperable years before. Instead, Betty typed in the commands to print. As the pages whirred through the aged printer, she trudged over to the copy machine and duplicated the hundreds of pages Mike had given her. With copies made, she added her manifesto to the stack.

  Betty searched the racks of abandoned office supplies. Her fingers closed upon a box suitable for containment. Suddenly aware of what she intended, Betty fumbled a bit as she stacked the pages inside.

  To send this information out of the building was illegal and possibly treasonous.

  The question was, who to ship it to?

  Betty had never considered herself very political. She voted, b
ut party didn’t matter. Her job was her politics, and as a career employee, she understood that having no affiliation was the best job security. Still, what sat in front of her was possible proof that this government had committed acts worse than anyone could have suspected. And if what she’d written was true, then God help America.

  Now, though, she needed an ally to ship the report and her memo to as backup. Tomorrow, she’d deliver it to her superiors, but she hadn’t lasted for more than a decade in government without learning some truths. Laws might protect a whistleblower, but the ones who escaped with their reputations intact had insurance policies. In this case, she needed a person outside Homeland Security with the resources to evade the wrath of the president. Someone who would understand what she’d discovered and present her evidence without fear of reprisal.

  With a migraine forming behind her eyes, she scrambled to figure out who might fit the bill. Someone almost as powerful and with a reason to share her findings. And she’d met the perfect candidate at the genetic frontiers conference this past fall, the last stretch of free time she’d enjoyed in many months. October in the Research Triangle of North Carolina was lovely, she’d thought then. Almost as attractive as the keynote speaker.

  She’d get the address upstairs before she metered it and added it to the outgoing post. Using a marker she filched from a desk, she wrote the name of her Galahad in all caps across the box.

  ATTENTION: NIGEL COOPER

  GENWORKS, INC.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Vance sat alone in his office, scowling as he viewed the mirror image of Betty Papaleo’s computer on his screen. He swiftly punched numbers into his phone.

  A cell phone rang inside the Atlanta airport. Castillo answered on the first ring.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you with them?”

  Castillo glanced across the gate area from behind a pillar to the line of chairs near the boarding gate. “Full detail,” he reported in a low tone. “Six o’clock flight. We board in forty-five minutes.”