by Jack Bowie
“I seem to remember that.” Her smile sent a rush of pleasure through his body.
“I really need to get back tonight,” he said with more conviction than he felt. “I’ve got a lot of work to catch up on.”
“Okay, but you’ve got until ten. Can I talk you into dinner?”
“Only if you let me cook.” He opened the refrigerator. It was surprisingly well stocked. “How about sesame beef and steamed vegetables?”
“You cook too?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve had a lot of practice lately.”
“How could I resist?” She stretched out on the sofa and put her feet up. “Call me when it’s ready.”
* * *
The tall figure, dressed completely in black, stalked through the rear garden of the house. The last car had left hours ago. He was sure there would be no interruptions.
The sky was a dark gray, storm clouds sweeping across a thin crescent moon. The air felt damp and sticky. He needed to complete the search and be gone before the rain hit. Disregarding the hours of tender labor spent over the Siberian iris and yellow jonquils, he crushed the flora in the beds, crept to the back door, and pulled out a small plastic card. The SafeTAlarm security system he had identified earlier was a cinch to crack.
That bastard Lexington had lied to him. Now Nicholson was going to find the truth about Susan Lynch.
Chapter 42
Cambridge, Massachusetts
Wednesday, 11:00 a.m.
IT HAD BEEN midnight by the time he had gotten back to the apartment, and Braxton had simply thrown his dirty clothes in a pile in the corner of his bedroom and immediately fell asleep.
Eight hours later he was awake and refreshed, ready to attack the new day. He ran a three mile circuit, showered, and fixed a light breakfast of cereal and orange juice. The juice was a little tart, he hadn’t been to the store in over a week, but he drank it anyway. A little acid never hurt anyone.
He browsed through the morning paper during his breakfast, paying closest attention to the business pages and the Celtic’s scores. The mutual funds in his IRA were up but the Celtics had lost to the Pistons. Paul would have been happy, he thought sadly. He remembered to check his voicemails and found five hang-ups from the same number. It was eleven o’clock by the time he made it to the stack of mail he had picked up after his run.
There was nothing in the pile except bills, grocery store ads, and sweepstakes letters, so he headed into the study to check any new email. Two unread messages sat in his mail box. The first had been forwarded from his account at CERT/CC. It was from Flanagan, and she sounded irritated. Apparently she had been expecting another status report, and had been trying to reach him since Monday. He assumed the voicemails were from her. He composed a brief apology, added a promise of a detailed report by the end of the week, and sent it off. He didn’t feel up to an explanation of the past five days just yet.
He brought up the second message and saw it had come from Warren Chamberlain. But not from his account at Century, from a personal one. The EVP had gotten back to him, and with a response that posed more questions than it answered.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Inquiry into Century gateways
Adam,
I need to speak with you about the gateways. There is something terribly wrong. I have discovered some new information.
We can’t talk about this at the office. Please come by my home Wednesday night at seven o’clock. I need your help.
Regards,
Warren
Had Chamberlain discovered that the diagnostic library was still on the gateways? If so, he probably wanted Braxton to help him approach CERT/CC about the problem; he would still be concerned about the effect a disclosure could have on Century.
If he could persuade Chamberlain to help him find who was behind Ramal’s and Terrel’s deaths, he might be willing to try to keep Century’s name out of it.
There was no use in worrying about all this now. He would find out soon enough. He typed a short acknowledgement and sent it off.
If he was going out again, he had to tell Goddard. Before he had left D.C., he had told her he would talk to her tonight. He tried her cell but she didn’t pick up—she was probably in class—so he just hung up and reminded himself to try again before he left for the meeting. She would want to know everything that was going on.
The day was already half gone and he needed some prep time for the meeting with Chamberlain. He would go back over his notes and prepare a summary of everything he had found on the mole. He wanted to have all the evidence ready when he confronted Chamberlain.
* * *
Potterfield handed a copy of the message to his Chief of Staff. The Senator had been in a meeting with his press team when the email had arrived. He had abruptly cleared them out and called for Nicholson.
“They’ve implicated you now, Nick. I don’t like this going on so long. I thought you said you could take care of it.” Potterfield’s left eye began an irregular winking. His tic was acting up again.
Nicholson reviewed the latest message:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Senator Lynch
Senator Potterfield,
You are in no position to threaten. You and your assistant, Mr. Nicholson, were responsible for the Coopersmith documents. We will release our information if you do not resign by this weekend. We will not wait any longer.
Citizens for Responsible Government
“There’s nothing new here, David. This is all public information and everybody knows I’m your Chief of Staff. They’re guessing. I’ve already narrowed the possibilities significantly. As long as we keep them talking to us, they’re not going to go to the media. I’ll send another reply in a day or two. By then I’ll have something solid to go on.”
Potterfield scowled at his Chief of Staff. “I don’t want something, Nick,” he growled. “I want it closed. Have you located his family yet?”
Nicholson had hoped Potterfield would have forgotten that promise. He only needed a few more days. “I contacted Lynch’s lawyer yesterday but he stonewalled me.” Potterfield’s jaw dropped. “Don’t look at me like that, David. I didn’t use my real name. I knew he was hiding something so I searched his files last night. There was nothing there. Not even old files on Lynch. Someone had cleaned them out.
“I did find out the mother is dead. That just leaves the daughter. I’m running another computer search for everyone in the surrounding states with her demographics. It’ll take a while but we’ll find her. I’m convinced she’s our blackmailer.” He decided against telling Potterfield that he had missed the daughter by minutes. It would only raise his blood pressure to know she had been so close.
“All right. At least you’ve made some progress. But be careful. We can’t have some hick lawyer suspecting we’re looking for the kid.”
“Don’t worry. He doesn’t suspect anything.” It was time to get his boss’s mind on other matters. “When are you bringing the Bill up for a vote?”
“The Bill? Oh, this Friday. I’ll force a vote before I let them adjourn for the weekend. That usually gets their attention. By the way, Hastings’ change of heart was a bit surprising. You didn’t have anything to do with that did you?”
Nicholson hesitated, then just smiled. “Some things are better not discussed, David. Let’s just say the well-being of his family is very important to him.”
“I expected something like that. Let’s hope our luck holds for the Committee vote.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it, David. It’s just hard work.”
“Luck always has something to do with it, Nick,” Potterfield said with an uncharacteristic seriousness. “Never overestimate your ability to control people and events. Neither are rational.” He shuffled some papers on his desk and set one on the top of the mess. “Are you still buddy-buddy with that Grey
stone?”
“We seem to be getting along all right. He needs the Bill.”
“I know. I think it’s time to put on some pressure. Set up a meeting for me next week. We’ll see how much he needs us.”
“I’ll get it scheduled, David.”
“Good. Now go find that bitch.” He brusquely waved for his aide to leave.
Chapter 43
Carnegie Mellon University, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Wednesday, 3:00 p.m.
WHAT THE HELL does he mean, he’s “been busy”? Flanagan was reviewing the email from Braxton and it didn’t help her mood. She’d been busy too, trying to keep those bastards off her back so she could get some work done. What do these damn consultants think she was paying them for? He’d better get that status report to her, and soon.
She was about to compose a testy reply when Candela stuck his head into her office.
“Rachel, I wanted to thank you for supporting the new research program this morning.”
“Edward, ah, what a surprise.” She fumbled with the keyboard and managed to get the screen cleared just as he walked over to her desk.
“Anything interesting going on?”
“No. Just the same old reports.” What right does he have to come in here and spy over her shoulder? And what was she doing hiding a project from her boss? But that was all for another time. “Glad I could help with the program. Any research that helps security on the net will make our jobs a lot easier.”
“We knew you’d look at it that way. Oh, just between us, I think you handled Timothy very well Monday. He needs to be reassured that we aren’t getting into any questionable areas of investigation. It’s just as well this Saracen thing turned out to be a dead end.”
“Yes, Edward. We wouldn’t want to waste our valuable time now would we?”
“Rachel, could you look at . . . oh, I’m sorry.” A tall, ruddy-skinned man barged into the office then froze in his tracks on seeing Candela.
“You know Barry Lighthorse, don’t you, Edward?” Flanagan said quickly.
“I believe so. Mr. Lighthorse.” Candela turned to the intruder and Lighthorse nodded back.
“You will have to excuse me, Edward. Barry and I have a project review scheduled.” She looked down at her watch for the effect. “But thank you for coming by. It’s so good to see you expressing an interest in the operations side of our efforts.”
“Of course, Rachel. Have a good meeting.” Candela gave another brusque glance at Lighthorse and disappeared as quietly as he entered.
“I am sorry, Rachel, I didn’t know he was in here with you. He is kinda odd isn’t he?”
“Very. Be careful around him, Barry. His job is to find all the dirt he can and then use it to his own advantage. Sometimes I wonder who really does run this place, Timothy or Edward. Anyway, thanks for the interruption.”
“We don’t have a review scheduled do we? I just wanted to ask about the Linux schedule.”
“No, that was just my little fiction. Let’s get out of here, I need to talk to you about something as well.”
They headed out of her office and into the operations area. Ops was a large, open area covering the rear half of the CERT/CC floor. Flanagan’s office was on the left by the entrance doors. The rest of the room was a maze of five foot high partitions enclosing small working cubicles for the operations staff. The structure frustrated her; of all the members of her group, she was the one who couldn’t see what was going on over the walls.
Across the expanse of cubicles was the computer room and operations center. All of the cubes had PCs or low-end workstations, but the really powerful equipment was kept in the operations center for shared use. It wasn’t the most convenient set-up, but it avoided a haves/have-nots stratification of the Ops team.
As they walked, Flanagan heard the light tapping of keyboards. She liked to wander through the cloth tunnels a few times every day to give her staff a chance to see “the boss” and ask any questions on their active projects.
Barry Lighthorse was her one concession to structure. His formal title was Manager of Operations. He ran the day-to-day details of the Ops group. Much of Flanagan’s time was taken up with Rydell’s meetings and pet projects. Lighthorse was the point of stability for the group. He was always on site, and always available for anyone. He was also one of Flanagan’s few confidants.
“How is the Linux security evaluation going?” Flanagan asked as they walked through the area.
“That’s what I came to tell you. We received the latest update from Red Hat yesterday. They’ve really enhanced the capabilities from the initial distributions. So far it has tested out perfectly. I think we may be able to certify it by the end of the week.”
“That’s a week ahead of schedule! Congratulations, Barry. I didn’t think you’d be able to complete it that fast.”
“Everyone has worked very hard and all the vendors have been really helpful. Can I hit petty cash for a little celebration when we finish?”
“Absolutely, but I’d also like to ask a favor.”
“Sure, what is it?”
“Hold off on announcing the certification until next week. There’s something I’d like you to look into and it would be easier if you could say you were still busy on the Linux study.”
“Is it about the Saracen Incident?”
She was shocked he had guessed so quickly. She hadn’t said anything to the team since Rydell’s staff meeting on Monday. “Yes, but how did you guess?”
“Smoke signals, Rachel,” he said with a broad smile. “That and a good ear to the rumor mill around the laser printers.”
Lean and muscular, with dark swarthy skin and straight black hair, Lighthorse was a full-blooded Navajo from New Mexico. As a child, a tribal elder had chosen him to be an emissary to the white-man’s world. He had been given special tutors and soon demonstrated remarkable intelligence. He had been accepted into New Mexico State University and blazed through their Computer Science Department in three years. He had taken a Masters from CMU before coming to work at CERT/CC.
The Native American led a strange split life. He was the Center’s networking expert. He knew every network protocol that had ever been designed, and had made significant contributions to many of the newer ones. At home, however, he and his wife maintained their Navajo traditions. Their life style was austere and they made frequent trips back to their parents’ reservation. He had once told Flanagan that the apparent contradiction was not that great, his Amerind pride and beliefs could be applied in a computer room as well as on the dusty plains of New Mexico. Having worked with Lighthorse for the past year, Flanagan wished some of the other staff at CERT/CC had the same moral code.
“I need someone to poke around in the GW gateway, Barry. My consultant says he’s verified the report but he hasn’t given me any details. I’d like you to try to replicate the findings.”
“I’d be glad to, but I’ll have to tell Rick and Christie.”
Rick Spaulding and Christie Pratt were the two other team members assigned to the Linux certification. “I understand. But only them. Are they around?”
“Let’s see.” He peered over the partitions and searched the room. “Nope, neither one is in their offices. I would have sworn I saw Christie earlier.”
“It’s okay. You can talk to them. Just try to keep those smoke signals down. I don’t want Timothy or Edward poking into this just yet.”
“Understood, boss,” he said with a serious smile.
She hoped she had done the right thing. It could certainly blow up in her face, but she wasn’t going to lose the opportunity to show the bureaucrats how real computer security investigations worked.
* * *
Goddard had spent the day at Georgetown, attending her regular classes and trying to catch up on the assignments she had missed on Monday and Tuesday. Most of her friends had been glad to help, but it took all afternoon to track down her Cold War Policies professor. By the time she trudged up the stairs of
her apartment building her legs throbbed, her neck muscles were knotted, and she had a killer headache. All she wanted was a long soaking bath and a good night’s sleep.
As she reached her door at 5:50, she heard her apartment phone ringing. She was hoping to hear from Adam but she would have expected he would call her cell. She fumbled with the door locks, dropped her books and purse on the floor, and dashed toward the phone.
“Adam?”
“Eh, no. Susan? This is Wilson Lexington.”
“Wilson. I’m sorry, I was expecting someone else.” The disappointment was obvious in her tone.
“Your Mr. Braxton no doubt. I’m sorry to bother you, Susan, but there’s something I think you need to know.” His normally cool tone sounded forced and tired.
“What is it Wilson? You sound upset.”
“Things here have been rather hectic. Right after you left, a gentleman came to visit me. He said he was from the Richmond Historical Society. He was looking for information on your father.”
“On Father? What would they want?”
“That’s what I wondered. He seemed particularly interested in the whereabouts of you and your mother. That’s when I remembered our conversation. He was a black man, Susan. I think it was Barclay Nicholson.”
“Nicholson! Wilson, what did you tell him?” Her hand started to shake and she grabbed the counter top to try to stop the tremor.
“I was suspicious and didn’t tell him anything. I don’t know whether he believed me or not. After he left I called the Historical Society. They don’t have anyone researching your father. I became concerned that he might come back so I packed up all your files and took them to a friend’s house. It was a good thing I did.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been with the police all day. Someone broke into our offices last night and ransacked all of my files.”
“Oh, Wilson. I’m so sorry we got you messed up in all this. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, my dear. I am worried about you, however. Whatever you have started seems to be becoming increasingly violent. If Mr. Nicholson has traced you this far, he will certainly not stop. You must call the police and get some protection.”