3 Lies (25 page)

Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the McKim Building of the Boston Public Library. By the time they found a parking place the library had opened. They hoofed it up the stairs to Bates Hall on the second floor. Clint’s phone rang when they hit the hallway. He ducked into an alcove. “Yeah.”

“Did you get the briefing package for the cases?”

“Todd.” A boy wheelied past him. “I did. Thanks.”

“Are you making any progress?”

“Not yet. I’m at the library researching the other cases.”

“Other cases? Did we miss something?”

“I don’t know what I’m looking for, so I’m going to look at everything.”

“How long are you going to ride this tiger?”

The question chiseled his appreciation. Beth wasn’t a pastime. He let it hang like a bubble.

Todd accurately read the heat. “Hey, I’m sorry.”

Clint heard the call-waiting beep. “I’ve got to go.”

Lorna at the medical supply store gave him some news. “You were right. Your cousin’s boyfriend came here. At least I think it was him. He looked like an Arab and had an accent from somewhere in the Middle East. He tried to rent a machine, but he didn’t have any paperwork, so I couldn’t let him.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

“Did he give a name? Leave a card?”

“No.”

“Do you have a video camera?”

“Not in the front of the store. We should have, but we don’t. We only have one in the stockroom. The owner is more worried about one of us stealing than an outsider.”

Disappointment threatened his focus. He hit the wall with the bottom of his fist. “What was he wearing?”

“Black slacks, a plaid shirt, and blue-mirrored sunglasses. He never took them off.”

“Is there anything else, anything at all you can tell me about him?”

“After he left an older gentleman came to the door and had a little trouble opening it, so I went over to help him. I saw the Arab guy driving off in a white mini van.”

Clint’s mouth twisted. The bastard had Beth and no machine. At least one of those problems was Clint’s fault.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get the license plate number.”

“I appreciate your help. If you hear anything more from him, would you please call me?”

“Sure. Hey, if you want to have a drink sometime, give me a call.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He resisted the urge to hit the wall with his fist. A broken hand would only slow him down. He needed all his strength and anything left of his wits.

~

The librarian in the Government Documents Department dressed in monochrome corduroy slacks and a sweater, his thoughtful beard adding credibility to his claim of playing in a local jazz-combo. Clint listened politely for a little while and then explained that he needed to get copies of the cases presently before the Supreme Court. The librarian-bass-player steered Clint to the computer databases that carried the appropriate brand of legal information then drifted off to help another patron.

“I need a print card.” Clint said. “Be right back.”

Merlin sat at the computer. “I’ll get started.”

Clint bought a hundred dollars worth of printing, including the card charge, and hurried back to Merlin.

Merlin scrolled down a list. “There are 129 cases under consideration by the august court.” He clicked on the name of a case titled
Silinidad v. Born
.

One hundred and twenty nine. Clint assessed the project. Even with the eleven already summarized by Todd, that left 118 cases, maybe 500 pages per case, conservatively. That amounted to 59,000 REM-inducing pages of parched legalese. At thirty pages per minute to copy, if the library had a fast laser, the printing alone would take over thirty hours. Even if he could sleep nights after such an assault on the forests, it would take him nearly a thousand hours to read them all. Clint’s race through the Boolean gates dead-ended.

“It can’t be done.”

“Quite right. There’s too much here.”

“The justices sure as hell don’t read all those pages.”

“I suspect not. Let’s copy these lists of names.” Merlin tapped the screen. “It lists litigants, legal firms, and people who have written opinions. Between that and the summaries, you’ve got a good bit to chew on until you connect at least two of the dots.”

Clint rallied. The idea made sense, and, as a bonus, it was something he could actually accomplish. “Let’s do it.” He sat down at the computer next to Merlin.

Merlin and he worked opposite ends of the list and planned to meet in the middle. It surprised him how natural a computer or cell phone felt in his hands again. His deprivation experiment was over, for now. Like the butcher going vegetarian to see if he can. It was a show of principle. Or pride. But it didn’t matter anymore. Beth’s life was Clint’s only concern.

Doug studied the Kryptos sculpture that sat outside his cafeteria window. The copper scroll bore several encrypted messages that—in spite of the combined energy of cryptographers, amateurs, and mystics trolling for a solution—remained partially obscured. He’d toyed with his own attempts during his time at the Company. For nearly twenty years the cipher frustrated keener minds than his. A fact he ceded grudgingly.

He ate the remainder of his turkey and avocado on wheat without enthusiasm. Food served the sole vocation of fuel, never elevating into the realm of entertainment. As he saw Albert Moore veer his direction, the meal sunk lower on the enjoyment scale.

A smile coiled on Albert’s fleshy lips. “How’s the investigation coming?” He pulled out a chair across from Doug and sat as if he were unsure it would hold him.

Maybe it was the hemorrhoids.

Since landing his new assignment, Doug had priority level access to information on Albert Moore that he only wished he could forget. The two failed marriages. The reprimand early in his career for sexual harassment. The time off for hemorrhoids. Another detail too many. Some folders improved with a layer of dust.

Doug’s chain of command became somewhat webbed. With the general investigation, he could share information with Albert. Then there was the investigation of Albert. Or Natalie. That information he shared only with Chester Spivey.

He took a sip of his fat-free milk. “We’ve identified some personnel that may be linked.”

Albert appeared not to be listening, his brain engaged in forming his own next sentence.

“Excellent work. What have you found on the worm code? Anything?”

Compliments from Albert were rare enough to make Doug nervous.

Albert didn’t wait for an answer. “My, uh, tenure here has been a rich and varied experience. I’d like to end on a positive note.” He clasped Doug’s shoulder. “Chester Spivey and I go way back, but in this case, that isn’t necessarily a good thing. We’ve butted horns on occasion. Anyway, I know I can count on you to keep me posted if Chester tries to flush the wrong bird.”

Doug’s questions circled like buzzards, but he caught a glimpse of Posey waving at him from across the lunchroom. Posey strode over to the table with a grace rarely found in the muscle-bound. Albert perched in the chair, hands in lap, as if waiting for mama bird to arrive with his worm.

Posey stood where only Doug could see him. “Is this a good time?”

They all knew Albert no longer owned the table, but any cards for Posey were already laid face up. “Go ahead.”

“I got a fax from our man in Panama.” Posey took the chair farthest from Albert and slid a folder across to Doug. “He checked the logs at the Panama Canal Authority. Thirteen days ago, a seventy-foot Hatteras crossed through the canal to the Atlantic. The hull numbers don’t match, but two days before that a twenty-five foot Grady White also came through. Same direction. Both at night.”

Doug opened the file and scanned the fax.

“Those numbers don’t match either,” said Posey

“How many ships cross per year?”

“About fourteen thousand. That’s about thirty-eight a day.”

“Thirty-eight a day doesn’t sound like so many.” Doug’s leg pumped the floor. “Makes sense. If I stole some boats on the West Coast, I wouldn’t stay there unless I had to. Get a fax out to all the marinas with gas pumps on the Atlantic side of Mexico, the U.S., and in the Caribbean Islands. Send the information we have on the two ships and ask for any sightings. They probably changed the hull numbers again once they cleared the canal. Hell they’ve had enough time to repaint. But these guys had to gas up somewhere. Maybe someone will remember who was on board.”

“By now.” Albert cleared his throat of ex-smoker phlegm. “By now, these ships could be anywhere from Greenland to damn near Cape Town.”

Albert—love him or loathe him—was right. Doug filed the comment in his queue without comment. “How did the ships pay for their transit?”

“Cash. U.S. dollars at the local Citibank in Balboa. Standard procedure. But both ships used the same local canal agent to coordinate their transit. Margarita O'Bannion Yacht Services.”

“Sounds like a Mexican restaurant.” Albert’s protruding belly indicated he understood the topic.

Posey read from one of the pages. “They took care of the required ship measurements, scheduling, paperwork, and the fee payments, all of it.”

“Was Margarita any help?”

“The Grady White had only one man aboard. From the Hatteras crew, she met only one. In both cases they apparently paid well for her amnesia.” Posey’s biceps flexed. “Our Panama contact is still digging. I’ll keep you looped.”

He scooted back his chair and rose. “Oh yeah. Simon Ferrell came by to see you.”

“Any message?”

“No. I’m off, man.” He dipped his head. “Albert.”

Albert stood after Posey’s departure. “Thanks, Doug.” He clapped Doug on the shoulder again as if they had these little get-togethers all the time. “I’m glad we have this understanding.” He lumbered off in the same direction as Posey.

Doug, alone again at the table, felt like he’d walked into the middle of a movie. He recognized the characters, even heard the dialogue, but he had no freaking idea what Albert was talking about. After months of treating Doug with the regard given a shopping mall pollster, suddenly Albert was all glad-handy. Doug’s vague nervousness ticked into vague suspicion.

Duty called him from his musing. He decided his time was better spent with Simon, and he took the stairs down the two flights to the computer expert’s office. Doug leaned his full weight against the jamb of the open door.

Simon Ferrell adorned his small office with underwater photos of sea life. Behind his bent head, framed photos of manta rays, baby hammerheads, and a school of what looked like snapper graced the wall. The fluorescent light above lit up Simon’s smooth pate like a wet floor.

Doug gave up waiting. “You dive?”

Simon jumped at the sound, his hand knocking an empty coffee cup across the desk. It clattered to a stop. “Sorry. I was deep. Yeah. You?”

“Oxygen is best enjoyed from a fresh breeze not a canister.”

“It’s amazing underwater. Beyond the spectacular creatures, the quiet is palpable.”

“Another good reason I’m a terra firma chauvinist.”

He tilted his head with an it’s-your-loss expression, waving Doug in to take the side seat near his desk. “C’mon. You have to see this. And close that door.” Blue-barred paper occupied center stage of his desk.

Doug read the first page of the fan-folded stack. He recognized the programming language used as C++. “Did you find the worm code?”

“Damn straight I did.” Simon earned the beaming grin.

Doug slid into the chair. “Out with it.”

“Actually one of my team found it. He worked from the revision dates of the code sections. He assumed that the worm code if still available, would be in the sections with the least modifications, so as to flaunt the least risk of detection.”

“Go on.”

“What I have was never supposed to be found.” Simon continued, “The original worm code only left a back door. It wasn’t intended to replicate like most are. Its job was to wait for activation, execute the payload, then erase all evidence of the code. Like wiping down for fingerprints.”

“What happened?”

“Bad luck. The job, whatever it was, apparently executed. But we think—”

“Who’s we?”

“Chester Spivey just left. I gave him an informal briefing,” Simon pushed back his chair.

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

“Anyway, we think the worm instructions somehow triggered the code leftover from the old system, leaving the residual output on your reports. If the old remnant code hadn’t been there, we may never have uncovered this whole operation.”

Doug’s head whoozied. He’d felt this way during a marathon when hit by a glucose bonk. Shadows cropped his field of vision. Scouring dull logs, searching for an errant espionage, the stress of his altered authority ganged up on his nerves.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. A little low on sleep these days.”

“Sleep—what’s that?”

“So—” He tested the word, to see if it would hold. “So, what is the operation? And who the hell is running it? Any clues?”

“I have several pages of the code.” Simon picked up his pen and began to spin it on his thumb. “The entire instruction set would have run significantly longer, I think. What I have emulates the new system requirements for agent reporting. It produces the necessary flags to show that an agent is still active, still checking in and, ostensibly, available for assignment.”

“Meaning an agent could go rogue and not set off any system alarms?”

“Exactly. The rest of what I have is the self-erasing section. It must have been repeated throughout the execution because clearly portions of the original worm code are no longer available.”

“So who? Any ideas?” Doug half hoped he didn’t.

“I have nothing concrete.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Simon’s pen spun faster. “What are you asking?”

“You know what I’m asking. People leave tracks even in their code. Did you find any?”

“It’s flimsy. I don’t want to cast suspicions with flimsy.”

“How flimsy?”

“Double spaces between data elements.”

“So who double spaces?”