Cyberspy

by Tom Clancy

  “Or maybe their security is so good, they haven’t had any leaks,” David suggested. “That would let Hardweare off the hook.”

  “I haven’t seen anything,” Winters objected. “But then, whoever is spreading these leaks is sort of.. . haphazard. Sometimes items appear in newsgroups where people might be interested. And you know newsgroups. Some are legit, some are wacko. Sometimes information is sent to the media. In that case, we might not hear any accusations. Forward has lawyers, too.”

  “And killbots, I imagine,” David said cynically.

  ’ ‘A few items have been forwarded to law enforcement tip lines,” Winters finished. “All I can say is that they haven’t heard anything, either.”

  The captain paused for a moment. “Yet.”

  David spent an uncomfortable, sleepless night, wondering if he was doing the right thing. The next day after school, though, he faced decision time. Sabotine MacPherson called.

  Her hologram image looked a little harried. “Sorry to do this to you, David. I was hoping to give you an easy project to bring you up to speed. Instead, we’ve got a bit of a crisis. The guy who was supposed to be working on this just quit.”

  She shook her head. “Young geniuses, you know.”

  The upshot was that she’d send a limo to pick him up so he could get the necessary files and a briefing. “It’s a long ride and short notice, I know,” Sabotine apologized. “But until you have the software installed on your end to make a secure link, we can’t send stuff over the Net.”

  David laughed. “Including the software that would allow us to make a secure link.”

  “Anyway, I’m sending the car now.” Sabotine glanced at her watch, and didn’t look happy. “I’m supposed to be going out at five—this is going to be tight—”

  She sighed. “Just get here as soon as possible, okay?”

  Sabotine’s request simply couldn’t be kept in D.C. rush-hour traffic. Even though—thanks to the Net, telecommuting, and onboard computer guidance systems—the snarls bore no resemblance to the legendary traffic jams of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, nobody was doing over twenty miles an hour. As the limo crawled along the Beltway, David fumed and fretted in the backseat.

  Great impression Vm making, he thought gloomily. Could Sabotine simply be setting me up to fail?

  It was well after five o’clock by the time they reached the country road that led to the MacPherson estate. David had asked the limo driver to call ahead when they’d first gotten stuck. Sabotine had said she’d try to hold on as long as possible to give him the packet personally. But if they were much later, the materials would be awaiting him at the guardhouse, and the briefing would have to wait until he’d installed the security programs on his home computer.

  David leaned forward in his seat, as if he were pushing the limo to greater speed by his own mind power. There was the fieldstone wall—

  A disgusted sigh seeped out of him. And there was a limousine, leaving the front gate.

  There were two people in the backseat—Sabotine and Nick D’Aliso. Both were dressed up.

  Were they going out somewhere? David wondered. Have I been rushing like a maniac so I wouldn’t mess up their date?

  His thoughts were interrupted when an old Dodge came whipping around the corner, aiming straight for the leaving limo. David’s driver swerved wildly as the Dodge cut in, blocking the other limo’s path.

  A big, craggy-faced man got out of the car. “Sabotine!” he shouted. “You won’t take my calls, but you’re going to speak to me anyway. I’m your father.”

  Battlin’ Bob MacPherson approached the passenger compartment of the limousine, a pleading expression on his face. But that changed when he saw who was with Sabotine.

  “You scum!” roared the big man, ramming a hamlike fist at the window. “I told you to stay away from my daughter!”

  behind the car. Considering the ex-wrestler’s size, David wasn’t at all surprised that neither bodyguard wanted to try taking him down physically.

  Sabotine MacPherson came stumbling out of the rear door on her side of the limo. Tears streaked her face. “Daddy, stop! Stop it!”

  The driver blanched as the body he was supposed to be guarding blundered into his line of fire. “Ms. MacPherson! Get back!” he called desperately.

  Sabotine looked as if she wanted to run into her father’s arms, but she stayed on her side of the car, and Battlin’ Bob stayed on his.

  The big man had no choice in the matter. A squad of armed guards came charging out of the mansion gates, followed by a scowling Luddie MacPherson. Watching the two confront each other, David could detect some points of resemblance between them. Luddie had inherited his father’s big build, and he had a softened version of the older MacPherson’s craggy features.

  Right now, however, his face looked more like a thundercloud—his eyes flashed with repressed lightning. “The court gave us an order of protection against you,” he snarled. “You aren’t supposed to come within half a mile of this estate.”

  “You and your lawyers may be able to bamboozle a judge!” Battlin’ Bob shouted back. “You sure paid generously enough to have them steal my daughter from me. But you and your high-priced legal talent are dead wrong if you think a piece of paper will keep me away from Sabotine!”

  “I didn’t expect the court order to stop you,” Luddie coolly responded. “That’s one of the reasons I hired these guys— and their guns.”

  He stared at his father as if he were examining some sort of dangerous—and very ugly—bug. “It’s a shame you didn’t actually come inside the gates. Then we could have shot you down as a trespasser.”

  Battlin’ Bob opened his mouth to respond in kind, but was cut off by a wail from Sabotine. “Both of you! Just—just stop it!”

  The girl’s beauty had never seemed more fragile as she looked back and forth between her father and her brother. Sabotine looked as if she were caught in the buffeting winds of a storm, torn one way, then the other. Tears flowed unheeded down her cheeks. “How many years has it been since the two of you could sit in the same room without sniping at one another?”

  Her accusation came out as a series of gusts. “I thought— whatever else—the court thing settled the whole mess. But now you”—she thrust an angry finger at Battlin’ Bob— “come storming up, ready for a new battle. And you”—she whirled on Luddie—“you’re ready to shoot him!”

  “Honey,” the elder MacPherson said.

  “Sabotine,” began Luddie.

  “I’m sick of it, do you hear? Sick of it!” Sabotine yelled. “The two of you treat me like the prize in some weird game of keep-away. Well, you can play without me. I’m out of here!”

  She grabbed the chauffeur’s arm. “Get in and drive,” she ordered.

  The man looked at Luddie, but got no guidance there. Sabotine’s brother was staring at the ground.

  Battlin’ Bob stood with his big hands outstretched, looking oddly helpless as Sabotine’s limo backed up and swung around his Dodge. Seconds later the big car rounded a corner and disappeared. David and the others could see that Sabotine never once looked back through the rear windshield. But Nick D’Aliso put an arm around her shoulders.

  The older MacPherson whipped round to glare at his son. “Did you see that?” he demanded. “You took her away from me, locked her in your fortress here … and she ends up with Nicky da Weasel.” He spat. “Weasel, hell! The man is a human rat!”

  Luddie himself didn’t look too happy at this turn of events. But before he could answer, the distant wail of a siren came to them across the Virginia countryside.

  “Oh, yes, we called the cops,” Luddie said, reverting to his earlier coldness. “Why don’t you just get out of here— spare your glorious cause the cost of your bail money?”

  Battlin’ Bob MacPherson turned on his heel and got behind the wheel of the old Dodge. It roared off down the road, away from the gate—and from the oncoming sirens.

  Luddie t
urned to one of the uniformed guards. “When the police get here, apologize—say we handled the problem ourselves.” His shoulders slumped. “It’s almost true.”

  Then he gestured to David’s driver. “Get that thing inside the gates before the local law takes you for the intruder we . reported and starts shooting.”

  David lost sight of the young inventor as the driver brought the limo inside the wall of the estate. The gates swung shut behind them.

  Then Luddie appeared from inside the stone guard station set beside the gate. He carried a small package in one hand, going over the contents. “Datascrips,” he said, handing it to David. “Sabotine labeled each of them. Install our commu- I nications security protocol and look over the one marked i ‘Background’ if you want. Sabotine will get in touch with you—um—”

  “When she gets back?” David suggested.

  Luddie glanced at him with a flash of his usual humor. “I was going to say ‘when she cools off.’ ” He sighed. “Well, at least now you know why I try to keep my family under wraps.”

  As abruptly as he’d left after David’s interview, Luddie i turned and began heading back to the house.

  David sat in the limo, waiting until the police were finished i at the main gate. Then the driver turned the limo around and | brought him home.

  Leif Anderson laughed at the perplexed-looking hologram im-1 age of his friend. “That’s some story, David,” he said, leaning j back in front of the holo pickup. “But, since I don’t think you’re setting up your own gossip newsgroup, I guess you must have some reason for telling me all of this.”

  “No.” David gave him an annoyed look. “I thought you’d-just like the opportunity to tell me ‘I told you so.’”

  “Ooh! Good one!” Leif responded, pretending to clutch at’ his heart. “But seriously, what can I do for you?”

  “You can help me sort it out!” David shook his head as if it hurt. “I feel as though I’ve gotten caught in some HoloNet soap opera. Business intrigue, dysfunctional families, forbidden romance—”

  “Oh, I see,” Leif interrupted him. “You’re looking for me to explain the strange ways of the rich folk.” He glanced up at the ceiling, then turned his eyes straight to David. “Most of them are just like the rest of us—only more so. Especially when they’re not happy. They’ve got the bucks to act out— or act up—when the rest of the world would just have to sit there and take it.”

  “The people I saw today were totally out of control,” David said.

  He got only a shrug in reply. “You can almost expect that from nouveau-riche types—the ones who’ve just made their money. Big bucks seem to go right to their heads. My parents are exceptions, but there aren’t many.” Leif gave David a crooked smile. “I ought to know—I’m nouveau riche myself.”

  “And what’s Battlin’ Bob’s excuse? He’s hardly swimming in dough,” David pointed out. “Or is he used to criminal activities thanks to working for the Manual Minority?”

  “Some people connected with the Manual Minority have been accused—and convicted—of terrorist activities,” Leif said tonelessly. “Spokesmen for the movement always refer to these as quote—‘the actions of extremist splinter factions’— unquote.”

  “Sounds good, but not convincing,” David said.

  Leif’s answering grin was lopsided. “On the other hand, Battlin’ Bob’s police record isn’t notable for cyber-terrorism— usually he got nailed for stopping speeches to come down and punch hecklers in the head.”

  “You should have seen the way he was punching the window on that limo.” Reliving the moment made David shudder. “Nick D’Aliso is lucky that was bulletproof glass. Old Mr. MacPherson looked ready to kill him.”

  “How would you feel if you saw a girl you liked in the backseat of a car, going out with Nicky da Weasel? Multiply that by about 130, and you’ll begin to approach how a father might react to his daughter being in that position.” Leif grimaced. “I’ve been on the receiving end of that sort of emotion from a few parents myself.”

  David grinned. “A total overreaction to your reputation.”

  Leif gestured helplessly. “In most cases, yes.”

  David’s smile dimmed. “Did any of them try to kill you?”

  After a brief silence Leif finally said, “It never got that far.”

  “Do you think—” David began, stopped, then tried again. “Do you think this whole leak problem could stem from something … personal?”

  Leif blinked at the sudden shift in the conversation. “I don’t see—”

  “Suppose someone wanted to trash Hardweare. They leak a whole load of business secrets. And who gets the blame? The computer that’s every executive’s favorite fashion accessory.”

  “And this someone would be?” Leif prompted.

  “Battlin’ Bob MacPherson.” David rushed on to make his case. “He’s got the means—he and his people are willing to use technology to advance their cause. You know that?”

  Leif winced at the reminder of the attack on his implant circuits. “Yeah, I noticed.”

  “And he’s got motive. For an antitech agitator, what could be worse than a son who turns out to be a computer genius?”

  “A son who divorces his family—and then goes to court to steal his sister away, too.” Leif shook his head, denying his own words. “You’re right. This is too much like a HoloNet soaper,” he scoffed. “I was seeing it more as a spy drama.”

  They laughed, dismissing David’s theory—at least for now. David cut the connection, and Leif was alone in his room, looking at a dead holo display.

  He was bored! His folks were still keeping him on restricted Net access after his misadventure at The Washington Post. Leif restlessly paced around his room. The movement helped, but not enough. Maybe it was time to run off some steam. He put on sweats and a pair of running shoes and went down the hall to the huge parlor where his parents entertained. His mom sat on a couch, watching a hologram dance recital. She’d chosen this room because she could see the dancers life-size.

  “May I go out for a while?” Leif asked in a pause between dance movements.

  His mom gave him a considering glance. She must have decided he couldn’t get in much trouble in the outside world, because she gave her permission.

  After taking the elevator down from his parents’ penthouse apartment, he crossed the lobby to the doorway facing Park Avenue. Taking a deep lungful of New York air, Leif waved to the doorman standing in front of his building and set off down the street. What next? He had no particular plan. He could walk to the gym. Or maybe he’d head over to Central Park and do the loop there. It didn’t matter. The run was just an excuse to get him away from the house. Leif felt as if he had just escaped from prison. He was happy simply to be out on the sidewalk.

  Then he realized someone was walking beside him, keeping pace. Leif glanced over and felt a chill run down his spine. He recognized the man matching him step for step. He’d met him before under difficult circumstances and had assumed he would never see him again.

  The man’s name was Slobodan Cetnik, and he was a spy— or at least a secret policeman—in a Balkan dictatorship called the Carpathian Alliance. The Balkan peninsula remained one of the world’s worst trouble spots—for hundreds of years the home of deadly fanatics who fought bloody wars. The losers of the last round of fighting represented just about every ugly -ism of the twentieth century. The Carpathian Alliance was a pariah state, currently existing under a punishing technology embargo.

  Cetnik had been part of a plot to circumvent those restrictions, getting at American technology by way of Hollywood. A large holo-studio producing a big science-fiction series had run a contest for teen viewers, letting the worldwide audience design racing vessels for what the series had called ‘ The Great Race.” The prize had been a treasure trove of computer gadg-etry, items which would allow the Carpathian alliance to make up a lot of technological ground.

  Cetnik had chaperoned the C.A. team, the power
behind the curtain, so to speak, determined to win even if it took lying, cheating … or killing.

  David, Leif, Andy, and Matt—all of them Net Force Explorers—had entered the race, won it, and defeated the Alliance’s ploy. Cetnik had returned to his country in disgrace. So what was he doing here now?

  Leif could see some differences in the man. The Cetnik he remembered had been sleek like a hunting cat. Today, he looked stressed, shabby—more like a junkyard dog. But still very dangerous indeed.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” Cetnik said conversationally. “I’m supposed to be in Washington, with a delegation that’s speaking to one of your more soft-headed senators. Even to get there, I had to call in every favor I ever earned. Since my failure in California, I am .. . not in a good position.”

  His dark eyes seared Leif with their hate. * ‘But I had to risk everything when I encountered a certain name in a report discussing possible American security leaks. Your friend David Gray is working for Hardweare, and we believe those wearable computers somehow allow individuals to tap corporate secrets. We wish him to find out how it’s done—and turn the information over to us.”

  “You can wish for anything you want,” Leif told the agent, “but why would David do that for you?”

  Cetnik shrugged. “He might do it for you”” he said silkily. “And you might do it for … Ludmila Plavusa.”

  attacked what they called “the government rules monopoly.” They combined an insistence on social freedom—driver’s licenses at age sixteen—with a terrifying sense of social responsibility. Drivers who got into accidents paid heavily. As the political flavor of the month, the anarcho-libertarians generated a lot of interest. But they lost Leif when it came to their cockeyed view of the past. They idolized certain history-makers, calling them “avatars” for imposing their personal wills on the march of events. Unfortunately, many of these avatars were, in Leif’s opinion, ruthless dictators and mass murderers.

  This perverse viewpoint on history led some people to see the Carpathian Alliance, a nation shunned by all decent countries, as some sort of heroic “go-it-alone” state. Well, the Alliance wasn’t stupid. They manipulated these dupes for the obvious benefit—collecting hard currency through a variety of front organizations. But C.A. intelligence agencies took advantage of the anarcho-libertarians in other ways—wringing out aid, money, and information for their spies.