“Forget the intercom. Answer the question.”
“The security is biometric. You would need to be logged
into the system.”
Smith shrugged. “Then you take me inside.”
Perry didn’t move.
The moment passed with what appeared to be Smith’s
resignation. He rounded the desk with disquieting calm, flattened his palm over
Perry’s mouth and fired a round into the executive’s left knee. Perry screamed
into the lawyer’s hand.
“Bad decision. Now your only option is to tell me how
to disarm the security system myself.” Smith held his hand fast against the
sobbing moans and pressed the silencer to the CEO’s eyebrow. “I don’t suppose a
power failure would disable it. What happens to security during an emergency,
like a bomb scare? Or what if, God forbid, a fire or ambulance crew needs to
get inside?”
OUTSIDE THE ELEVATOR
on
Sublevel 2, Thackeray stooped while gripping the handprint scanner as a second
laser simultaneously scanned his retina. There followed the familiar hiss of
air as three-inch diameter bolts retracted into the heavy steel doorjamb. Waiting
for an alarm but hearing none, Thackeray pushed the door open and entered the
facility. Emily was similarly admitted. They slow-jogged beneath contingency
lighting through the vacant office catacombs and corridors. The cypher keypad
lock with its six-digit code for entering the supercomputer facility proved
equally cooperative. That the massive array of servers inside were running was
a surprise to neither of the engineers. Wordlessly, catching their breaths,
they switched on their monitors and activated their user accounts. Short of an
emergency or a malfunction, the IBM / Sun was never shut down.
What Thackeray had not expected was the level of cpu
activity indicated by the processor displays. “Perry must still be selling
timeshare. That explains why the access codes haven’t changed. They need to
have the place accessible to systems personnel.”
Emily wasn’t paying attention to Thackeray. With several
hundred employees not endeavoring to load up the system that morning, the
servers were faster than usual. She began scanning the long list in her e-mail
account that had accumulated over the past week.
Thackeray’s priority was to pull up the files they had been
in the process of testing at the moment Devinn cut the broadband service to his
house. This done, he next began hunting for the output data of code testing
already—partially—completed. He also pulled up the orbital mechanics
relationships arranged in spreadsheet files, eager to pin down the minutes
remaining to complete their tasks, certain the news wouldn’t be good...
Emily already was reaching her own dire conclusion. She
looked for something, anything suggesting Chinese origin among her downloading
e-mail. With each line that appeared on the screen, her dread only deepened. “I’m
not finding anything here.”
Thackeray stopped typing and looked at her.
“How much time do we have?” she asked.
“Exactly one hour and forty-five minutes. Unless we don’t
have the encryption, in which case it won’t really matter.”
120
DENG ACCEPTED THE
TELEPHONE
handset from the communications officer and pressed it to his
ear. “Yes?”
“It’s Peifu.”
Deng thought his son sounded short of breath; a commotion
like shouting in the background made it difficult to tell. He gazed across the
room. Rong was mired in discussion, his hands behind his back, where an
extended arm and a flick sent cigarette ashes to the floor.
“Good to hear from you.” The phone weighed like lead in
his hand. “Is everything in order?”
FOUR KILOMETERS ACROSS
TOWN,
associate professor Deng Peifu positioned the cursor on his
computer screen over the final block of files. “Having a little trouble on this
end,” he replied to his father, his eyes pasted to his computer screen as he
toggled the
execute
key. Bit remains of his father’s compact computer
disks now occupied several cafeteria trash bins. His problem was that the
computer hard drive wiping routine was taking its time. He disabled the
software’s erasure verification features, but it didn’t seem to have had much
effect. “I am afraid that I got the package off later than you wanted. A couple
of goons were following me, so I had to stage a little distraction.”
Peifu straddled the distance to the window and looked down
at the students gathering in the plaza. Police wearing riot helmets were sizing
up the unruly crowd from inside their cars—five of them now, strobe lights
flashing. The steady chant of ‘Free China! Free China!’ grew even louder when
several students unfurled a banner from the rooftop of the opposite building—Peifu
simply had to smile. Amidst the rancor he had not grasped his father’s words. “What
did you say?”
“I said, but there were no technical problems?”
Peifu whirled around at the sound of fists hammering
against his door. He looked at his computer monitor, where presently the erasure
graphic announced
37% complete.
Not enough time, he thought, his panic
rising.
“The package was sent,” said Peifu as he considered the
computer unit on the floor beside his desk. He took a step back and, summoning
his strength, drove his foot into the side of it. The thin aluminum housing
caved in with surprising ease. “What more can I tell you, I am only a music
professor. And I’ve a slate to clean now, if you know what I mean!” Next he
jumped up and down in his attempt to crush the computer’s internal components. “Hold
on, Father,” he said before setting down the phone to free his hands. Still not
certain that he had sufficiently damaged the hard drive, he reached down and
ripped the unit free of its cables. After checking so as not to hit anyone, he hurled
the damaged computer out the window. He watched it break apart on the pavement
five stories below.
Peifu grabbed the telephone. “Sorry. I think we are okay. Wish
me luck!” Snapping off his cell phone, he tossed it also out the window to the
ground.
A splintering crash sent the door sailing across the
tiny office, and the police rushed in behind it.
DENG ZHEN HEARD
the
connection break. Shaken, he returned the telephone to its cradle on the
communications officer’s desk.
Deng took a moment to confirm what he had seen take place
while on the phone with his son. The three meter Sony screen summarized the
satellite critical status—the weapon was armed, its targeting parameters
up-linked. The countdown to the expected attack had passed below the ninety
minute mark. The hologram depicted the satellite about over the Caspian Sea, hurtling
east toward Turkmenistan and China beyond. Whatever the outcome, it was out of
his hands.
Deng approached Rong in the midst of debate over some
military tactic with several of his PLA officers. The powerful vice-chairman
broke off from the discussion. “What is it, Commissioner? You look ill.”
“Actually, everything appears to be proceeding well.” Deng
dabbed the sweat from his face. “But I am afraid that I must leave at once. An
urgent family matter requires my attention.”
Rong seemed to consider this as he drew on his
cigarette—Deng saw something pass between him and Chen Ruihan. Rong said to
Deng, “The most important thing we have in this world is our family—I admit
thinking on occasion that you have been neglectful of yours. Before you leave,
I must express my displeasure. Many of us on the Committee do not have the
luxury of time.” He gestured toward the weapon countdown timer.
Deng had fully expected that particular complaint. At 11:02
P.M.
, his notoriously impatient guests were
agonizing the indignity of having to wait another hour and twenty-nine minutes
to attack time.
Deng apologized. “It was not my intent to waste anyone’s
time. I merely thought the Committee members might find it interesting to
observe the entire procedure. If you prefer, I can arrange to have you escorted
to more comfortable quarters, and then returned, here, in time to observe the
finale.”
“Never mind all that. Incidentally, a few of us note that a
layer of clouds has been reported over the target area. Will this present a
problem?”
“Ah. Well, I am not privy to the military objective.” He
explained once again that, although laser energy tends to be dispersed by
atmospheric water vapor, the orbiting computers determine the severity and
compensate by adjusting beam characteristics.
Rong studied him for several moments. “I hope you are able
to resolve your personal problems, Commissioner.”
Deng approached the exit where a white-gloved Unit 8341
security guard held open the door. Pausing, he turned to make a cursory sweep
of the room. Through the glass wall of the room where the analysts huddled to
work, he happened to glimpse the unexpected presence of a man familiar to him. Deng
turned his attention back to the count-down digits; he couldn’t just leave the
man here, could he?
Deng turned toward the guard waiting with the door. “I’ll
be only a moment.”
Dr. Zhao greeted Deng with a weary smile, the peculiar
scars on his cheeks still evident. “I was summoned to help with a few last
minute targeting changes,” Zhao explained. “So, I get to join you in your grand
moment—”
“You must leave, and leave now,” Deng said. His order drew
some curious stares from a few of Zhao’s colleagues. In the time it had taken
him to approach the physicist, Deng had prepared what he would say. He softened
his tone. “That phone call I took was for you, from the hospital. Apparently,
your wife desires you there.” He held Zhao’s gaze.
“But...at this time of morning? I will return the call. Actually,
our satellite has not yet even passed over our heads. I should be able to visit
her, and then return in time—”
Deng gripped the man’s shoulder and squeezed. “Go to your
wife. Stop wasting time, hers and yours. I believe you owe her that.”
Deng’s words struck the intended target. Worried
recognition crept into the brilliant physicist’s eyes. “She seemed fine only a
few hours ago...” Zhao nodded slowly. “I shall gather my things.”
Returning alone to the exit, Deng felt regret for having so
rattled his friend. By the time Zhao reaches the hospital and learns he was
lied to, it would no longer matter.
Thrusting his chin forward, he stepped past the guard
through the doorway and into the elevator.
The door slid closed—Deng let out a deep breath of relief. He
reached out of habit to select the subterranean level for the tunnel back to
his office, but hesitated. For what was likely to be his last decision as
technology czar, Deng selected the street level instead.
121
LINDA POTTER APPEARED
STARTLED
by a presence beside her desk. Her surprise gave way to a
smile. “Welcome home, Stu.”
“It’s good to be back.” Stuart meant it more than the woman
could possibly know.
She scrutinized his appearance. “Poor thing, you look as
though you haven’t gotten much sleep.”
“Have you seen Thack and Emily Chang around this morning?” He
already had a good idea where he would find them.
The smile faded; it seemed that Stu was also badly in need
of a shower. “As a matter of fact, Milton was in early to see Mr. Perry,” the
office manager replied with a measure of distaste. “But I haven’t seen either
one of them since.”
Stuart was joined by McBurney and the two FBI agents.
“How about Steve Reedy?” Stuart asked out of curiosity.
“Steve’s wife called in to say he wasn’t feeling well.” Mrs.
Potter eyed the three strangers. “Ralph’s been expecting you. He’s alone now
and doesn’t appear to be on the phone. Why don’t you go in?”
Stuart led McBurney and Hildebrandt through the suite past
the executive conference room. Outside Perry’s office, he knocked on the door. There
came no reply, so he swung open the heavy paneled door. “Hey, Ralph?”
Stuart nearly choked. His partner was reclining back in his
chair, eyes calmly fixed. From the hole in the center of his forehead a trickle
of blood ran beside the bridge of his nose and pooled in the corner of his eye.
Against the leather seat back atop Perry’s shoulder was a wet, lumpy mass.
The odor of spent propellant still in the air jolted the
FBI man—Hildebrandt rushed inside with his handgun drawn. “Brophy!”
Brophy bolted through the doorway and moved quickly with Hildebrandt
to secure the office, their firearms extended and sweeping all corners of the
room.
Hildebrandt reposed his weapon. “Is there any other way out
of here?”
Stuart shook his head.
Hildebrandt asked Brophy to find out who had been in and
out of the office. “We’re talking minutes ago. Call in back-up from the
Richmond office. And make sure this time they put the local PD on alert. Get a
coroner in here!” Brophy charged out of the office past the stares of Stuart
and McBurney. “Don’t either of you two touch anything,” Hildebrandt told them.
McBurney turned away from the murdered executive. “We should
have known something like this was coming,” he told Stuart with weary sadness.
Hildebrandt caught the remark. “Would you mind sharing with
me why we should have known someone would be murdered while in his own office?”
“I presume for the same reason someone was tortured inside
his own home.”
“I’ve had about enough of your spooky riddles.”
Stuart turned and walked miserably out of the office.
Hildebrandt watched him leave and turned toward McBurney. “I
thought I’ve been pretty up-front with you.”
“You have absolutely been that.”