by Jack Bowie
Akira Hajima stood at his window and gazed north across Interstate 395 to the target of his quest: the Pentagon, a massive, impenetrable fortress overflowing with the tax dollars of hard-working American citizens. Dollars that were only accessible to Takagawa by working with that bastard Greystone.
Hajima was tired; tired of the unending government regulations, tired of indolent employees and tired of this unprincipled country. He had been away from Japan for six years and felt the unrelenting weakening of his ki. He worked out nearly every day, studying aikido and judo under a sensei he had imported from Tokyo, but still the decline continued.
It was worse than old-age; at least that was something over which one had little control. This was something he could control; he had only to complete his assignment and return home. But completion had turned out to be much more difficult than his masters had imagined.
Takagawa was to be the leader of Japan’s reemergence in the military intelligence stage. Part of a national program to restore his county’s military capabilities, Takagawa had been chosen based on their proven expertise in electronic design and manufacturing. Expertise developed under Hajima’s guidance.
He had directed the transformation of Takagawa Communications: hiring more engineers, investing heavily in training, and even sponsoring research at leading US universities to seed Takagawa innovations. These were the successes that led to Takagawa’s selection.
Despite all these achievements, Hajima now sat despondent. His mission was stalled and he had a spy in his midst.
He had just finished the reprimand he had begun at the previous night’s dinner. It was to have been an award of sorts for Mashitomi and Kitari; an opportunity for them to see in person how business in America was conducted. They were both fluent in English, of course, but had been under strict orders to appear dumb; they were there to observe not contribute.
The reality had been the heated exchange at dinner and a further humiliating dressing-down this morning. They had left Hajima’s office questioning their continued employment at Takagawa.
In fact, the problem itself had been minor. Hajima’s explanation had been accurate.
The exposure of the setback by his guest was, on the other hand, a disgrace to his subordinates, to himself, and to Takagawa. Personally, he had lost significant face to Greystone. Something that would take all of Hajima’s skills to restore.
But that would have to wait. His immediate imperative was to locate the traitor.
* * *
“What have you got for me Nick?”
Potterfield stepping into his aide’s office, closed the door behind him and pulled over his favorite chair.
Though much smaller than Potterfield’s, Nicholson’s office still reflected the polish and sophistication of its occupant. The desk and chairs were immaculate Louis XIV reproductions. Original pen and ink sketches depicting Richmond and the District decorated the walls. Loose paper was non-existent. A sleek flat panel monitor was the only concession to the modern, high-tech world.
The Chief of Staff had worked all night on the threat and seeing his boss first thing in the morning hadn’t been on the top of his to-do list.
“I checked out the remailer system,” he replied with a flat, tired tone. “It’s a private remailer located outside Kiev. The site’s run by a crusading engineer who’s pretty well-known on the net. He manages it personally and so far has stayed within local laws.
“We can request to have mail to your account blocked, but we’d have to give a reason and it still wouldn’t give us the identity of the originator. He routes replies through seven different sister servers. I tried to copy his internal files and directories but they’re encrypted. Pretty well, too. I can’t decode them. I doubt that even NSA could.”
“That sounds like a big pile of nothing, Nick.” Potterfield slammed his hands on the baroque desk. “What do you suggest we do? Let this blackmailer make good on his threats and ruin us? I’m driving the most important legislation of my career and you’re letting some goddamn Internet criminal do whatever he wants to us. Have you got any plan at all?”
Potterfield’s mood hadn’t improved since Wednesday. Nicholson sat back and let the anger blow past him. He had learned a long time ago to just let his mentor vent. The most important part of his job was keeping Potterfield’s hair-trigger temper under control.
“Okay, David. Take it easy. It’s only been two days. I don’t think it’s worth trying to crack the remailer electronically, so I’m going to try a little old-fashioned detective work. This guy has to be connected to Lynch; the message is too personal.
“This remailer handles replies. I want to keep up the dialog, keep the blackmailer talking. Every time he sends you a message, he’s going to reveal a little more about himself. At the same time, I’m tracing the original Lynch paperwork. When these two tracks intersect, we’ll find our man. Trust me.”
“Of course I trust you, son,” Potterfield said in most syrupy twang. “We’re in this together, you and me.”
* * *
The day had started dismally and gone downhill. The prior evening’s forecast of sunny skies had been a typical Boston weather prediction. A slate gray sky had turned normally vivid scenery into a blur of monochrome shadings. Braxton had already turned on the headlights of his four-wheel-drive Jeep Grand Cherokee; the marginal visibility was making Boston driving even more dangerous than usual. It was not a good omen for his meeting.
Chamberlain’s secretary had returned Braxton’s call the previous afternoon and confirmed an appointment for ten o’clock the next morning. He extracted his car from the garage at nine-o’clock and headed out of town, picking up Route 2 at Mt. Auburn Hospital.
By nine-thirty, he still had ample time to get to Century’s offices. Traffic was heavy going into the city but outbound was a breeze. The reverse commute from Cambridge had been one of his best decisions when he had started at Century.
It had been right after his Army discharge. With a bachelor’s degree in computer science from Boston College and some very specialized experience in military systems, he had spread a wide net, hoping to find his dream job. From the handful of offers, one had stood out: Century Computer. Century was the recognized leader in network computing, a multi-billion dollar multi-national that almost single-handedly had driven the explosive growth of the Internet. An added bonus was its location: Boston, the original high-tech incubator.
As a graduate student, Braxton had read the history of the famous Route 128. 128 was Boston’s inner circumferential highway. It ran from Braintree in the south to Gloucester in the north, encircling most of the area’s business and population. In the nineteen-sixties it represented a kind of frontier border, separating the staid and polished Boston and its central suburbs from the wild, open territory beyond.
By the seventies, however, the action had moved from the plush legal and financial offices on Beacon Hill to hundreds of small companies forming along what was now called America’s Technology Highway. Using ideas conceived in the laboratories of MIT and Harvard, entrepreneurs set up shop and created a new computer industry, one based on small machines called mini-computers. They built companies, and fortunes, not soon matched. Names such as Wang, Olson and DiCastro were legends to be spoken of reverently whenever business moguls gathered.
Like most dreams, however, this one had an end. By the nineties, the legends were gone and their companies were decimated. Route 128 had been defeated by newer ideas and more innovative technology from a desolate valley on the opposite end of the country. It was little compensation that the dreams and enthusiasm that had formed Route 128 were exactly the same ones, albeit in a different era and different culture, that created Silicon Valley in California.
One company had fared differently, however. Century Computer had started like many others, as yet another minicomputer company. But they had recognized the tsunami that would be the PC and, rather than fighting the approaching tidal wave, steered a totally different direct
ion: to the fledgling technology called the Internet. They developed new products called routers and gateways; specialized in algorithms and local-area-networks. And as the Internet grew, so did they.
He had started as a team leader in Century’s development organization; eight years later becoming its Director of Research. He was leading the company into new areas and designing new products. It had been a dream come true.
Then, with no warning, he had been called into his boss’s office and laid off. An economic downturn, Chamberlain had said. The only downturn Braxton had seen was his own.
Over the coming weeks, his shock had turned to realization, the realization to anger, and the anger to despair. As he wandered the agencies and bureaus trying to revive his professional life, he lost contact with his personal one. He deserted his friends in fits of frustration over their inability to support his pain. When Megan, his wife of five years, left he had lapsed into serious depression, and had finally sought professional assistance.
The therapist had brought him back to life and together they had developed the possibility of a consulting career. He had reconnected with his old network, and was surprised by the positive response he received. Companies were looking for ways to fix failing projects and start up new ones. All without incurring the costs of employee recruitment, training and long-term benefits. Consultants were a perfect fit.
It had been a life-saving decision.
The Cherokee suddenly lurched and Braxton was thrown forward against his seat belt, nearly losing control of the vehicle. He clutched at the steering wheel instinctively and the half-car/half-truck stabilized. Glancing back in his rear view mirror, he saw the shadow of a large pothole left by the New England winter. A reminder from Mother Nature of the futility of man’s so-called progress.
The jolt to the car’s frame had been frightening, but everything felt in one piece and he again congratulated himself on the selection of the Jeep. The heavy four-wheel drive vehicle was hard to drive, uncomfortably stiff, and ate gas, but it could hold up to punishment. Not a minor consideration given the usual condition of Boston roads. He had purchased it four years before, principally for climbing trips to New Hampshire and emergency commuting during blizzards. Neither role had been particularly suitable for his Boxster. When his financial situation dictated reducing his expenses, he had taken the pragmatic approach and kept the Cherokee.
Paying significantly more attention to his driving, he crossed the iconic 128, now also known as Interstate 95, and moved west into the suburbs. As he sped over the Interstate, anxiety kicked in as if it were programmed into his internal GPS. The knots in his stomach always tightened the closer he came to Concord. It had been two years since he had traveled the familiar route, and he was now doubting his reasoning to see Chamberlain in person.
He felt like a prep school student called to the proctor’s office after being caught cheating on an exam. Between the weather and his nerves he’d be lucky if he didn’t end the day with an ulcer.
Braxton turned off the expressway at Sudbury Road and into the West Suburban Office Park. Century Computer owned three large brick structures in the Park. The buildings held the main corporate offices, as well as headquarters for three major business units. Century had been started out of one of the founder’s homes in Concord, and they had pledged to keep corporate headquarters in the historic New England town, much to the pleasure of Concord’s taxpayers. Sales offices were now scattered around the world, as were manufacturing plants, but the pulse of the company had always been in Concord, and always would be as long as the founders were in control.
Braxton saw the shining silver sign with the new Century logo, interlinked capital Cs, and pulled into the driveway leading to Building 2. As he had expected, there were spaces available in the visitor’s area just to the right of the main entrance. He parked, grabbed a leather folio from the passenger seat, took a deep breath and started for the doors.
Time to confront his demons.
Chapter 25
Century Computer, Concord, Massachusetts
Friday, 10:00 a.m.
BRAXTON ENTERED THE building and was stunned at the transformation. Plexiglas and chrome had replaced the soft textures of fabric and polished wood he remembered. Where previously the exhibits had proclaimed Century’s grand history in computing technology, they now hyped the company’s successes in enabling the wonders of the cloud and social media. Century’s transformation to the twenty-first century had become complete.
He approached the young receptionist sitting behind a gleaming reception desk. She too was a recent addition.
“Adam Braxton for Warren Chamberlain, please.”
She conferred with the terminal on the desk. “Yes, Mr. Braxton. We’ve been expecting you. Would you please sign in?” She handed him a red visitor’s badge and pointed to a Visitor’s Log on the end of the counter. “If you’ll take a seat in the waiting area I’ll call Florence to take you up. We have an Internet link there if you would like to check with your office.”
Braxton turned and walked to the visitor’s area next to the entrance doors. Three plush black leather sofas surrounded a large square glass and chrome table. A collection of business and computer magazines were neatly arranged along one edge. The scene fit well with the new look of the company.
A monitor and keyboard were strategically placed in the corner of the area, its screen inviting guests to log on and peruse the Internet. Braxton had no doubt that the marketing group used it to surreptitiously collect background data from Century’s visitors.
He sat down opposite a rumpled, middle-aged man reading a hardcopy spreadsheet. The boxy briefcase at his side marked him as a manufacturer’s representative, probably waiting to see one of the purchasing agents. Guessing professions was a well-practiced art Braxton had developed on numerous visits to other companies.
The unwritten rules of professional etiquette demanded that visitors completely ignore each other’s presence. He had always assumed this was based on a paranoid fear of having secret business relationships revealed through casual conversation.
Apparently some things at Century hadn’t changed, as an image of Florence Winters materialized in his head. Winters had been Warren Chamberlain’s secretary for as long as anyone could remember. Some said she had been the first employee for the new company. As far as Braxton knew, Winters was a spinster whose whole life revolved around her duties for Chamberlain. Braxton had always gotten along fairly well with her, at least as well as had any of Chamberlain’s direct reports.
The last time he had seen the executive secretary was in this same building two years ago. She had called him and asked if he could come up to meet with his boss, Warren Chamberlain, Founder and Executive Vice President of Engineering for Century Computer. It had been the beginning of a long nightmare from which he still hadn’t completely awakened.
The sound of the elevator bell brought Braxton back to the present. He turned and saw Winters walking toward him. It was as if he had never left. Her silver hair was still pulled tight into a bun and she was wearing her standard uniform, a trim gray suit with high necked white blouse. Only a slight rounding of her shoulders revealed the inevitable passage of time. She had not been immune to the tensions of the past few years after all.
He stood up and met her by the reception desk. “Florence, it’s good to see you again.”
Her face opened into a wide smile, and she seemed genuinely pleased to see him.
“Adam, I was so happy to hear from you the other day. It’s been such a long time.” He extended his hand, but she surprised him with an unaffected hug. Then she signed the visitor’s log and motioned for him to follow her. “Warren is waiting upstairs. Now tell me what you have been up to.”
He gave her a brief, slightly embellished version of his last two years as they took the elevator up to the fourth floor. The doors opened onto the executive offices of Century Computer. Braxton had always known this area as “rug row”. All of the other b
uildings were outfitted in standard, industrial strength nylon carpet and metal furnishings, but the senior executives lived in a world of plush broadloom and polished cherry.
Talking with Winters had let him momentarily forget his anxiety. Unfortunately, it came crashing back as she led him into Chamberlain’s office. Little had changed: the same black-and-white prints of Boston hung on the walls; the same cherry desk piled with papers and folders sat with its back to the panoramic window; the same bland Scandinavian leather and teak furniture filled the unused corners of the space. As impersonal an office as Braxton had ever seen.
Memories pressed on him from all sides, so disorienting he was afraid he would collapse. He grabbed the back of a chair and steadied himself until the vertigo passed.
Chamberlain rose from behind the desk. Like his office, the EVP looked exactly the same as he had that day. Dark hair slicked back, contrasting sharply with the soft features of an almost pudgy face. A starched white shirt and red tie complemented the dark wool trousers pulled a bit too tightly around his waist.
He peered at Braxton through ever-present thick, gold rimmed glasses. Braxton had always thought he looked like someone that was desperately, albeit unsuccessfully, trying to be someone else.
“Adam, hello. I’m, uh, glad you could come.” A thin smile crossed the executive’s lips. “Let’s sit down and talk about this problem of yours.” He motioned to the small sitting area in the opposite end of the room. Chamberlain sat down on an uncomfortable-looking couch. Braxton took a matching chair on the other side of a glass-topped table.
“You said you are working for the CERT Coordination Center now?” Chamberlain began. The man was as abrupt as ever. His attention was always focused on the issue at hand, never letting the humanity of his colleagues get in the way. Early in his employ Braxton had learned not to take this impoliteness personally, merely accept it as his boss’s way.