by Theo Cage
She lifted her eyebrows. "That could be arranged."
He felt his bandages. A clock was ticking so loud somewhere it made his head hurt. Then he realized there was no clock in this antiseptic little cell. It was his personal clock ticking — the one that told him he had a week to find Buzzworm or he’d be getting his room and board in a state facility again.
"Just so I can get this straight, do I start billing you from the time I entered the building or as soon as I lost consciousness?"
She looked away from him, picked a cigarette from her breast pocket. "Why did you do it? For kicks? Just to prove you could?"
He found his glass case in his jacket pocket and removed his reading glasses. "You obviously think I have something to do with that video from Hell you were watching. Did it occur to any of you to just ask me if I hacked that?" He put on the glasses, which were bent slightly out of shape. One lens was scratched. "You're going to pay for these. My lawyer will give you the rest of the details of my suit against you and your staff as soon as I get out of this asylum."
She juggled the cigarette between her fingers. "What makes you think you'll ever get out?" Roger guessed she was playing games with his head, something he would describe as a wasted effort considering the shape his brain was presently in. He also guessed that they didn't allow smoking in the computer area and this was slowly driving his captor crazy. Jobime was either playing with the cigarette to calm herself or was so stressed out she was toying with the idea of breaking the rules. If she lights up, he thought, I'm going to puke.
"You're saying it wasn't you?" Vienna asked.
"On that screen? I saw enough hardware out there to run Star Wars. And you and I both know how easy it is to manipulate a video sequence with the right software. Someone could have pulled my face off the photo ID data you have in your system.” He wasn’t sure if she knew where he was from, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to volunteer that he was fresh out of prison.
She sat down near his cot and folded her hands in her lap, the unlit cigarette still in her fist. She stared at him. "So we don’t have him then?"
"Don't have who?"
"The author of Buzzworm."
Roger shook his head then lay back against the cinder block wall. "You thought I created a virus, then got myself hired to fix it? Meanwhile, I put my face on the Freddy Krueger character that stars in this computer mini-series, flaunt it all over your net space, and hope that no one will catch on when I walk in the front door?" He rubbed his head under the bandage. It was beginning to itch like mad. "You people really do need help."
Jobime was up now, pacing in front of him, her eyes on the ceiling, her hands linked behind her back. She seemed full of nervous energy. "That’s why we brought you in, Strange. You came highly recommended. Despite your present circumstances and a ridiculous hourly rate.”
"Which just went up," Roger added. Vienna didn't smile. She was off in thought. "What we saw in there? Is that what this virus looks like?"
She turned back to him. "One of its many forms."
“Have your IT people done a complete scan of your network?”
She gave him a look, like a child gives a clueless parent. “Numerous times. For several weeks. There is nothing there to find. Unless of course you know something we don’t.”
He thought about that for a moment. He had worked with a team of star programmers specifically chosen by the American government two years before. Young hackers with reputations for getting past everything. They came from everywhere. India. China. Canada. Their job was to create an impregnable wall around the organization’s systems and data. They were sworn to secrecy and for good reason. There was a lot of fear that if it became known who had worked on the project, they would become targets. The CIA had called him back for a reason. But what about the others?
“ And where did the name come from? Buzzworm?”
“You don’t know why?” she looked shocked. Like she was talking to the wrong person.
”I checked. No one in the virus community has ever heard of Buzzworm. You say it leaves no trace. So how do you know it even has a name?”
“Every intrusion has been by video, sometimes screen images. Like the video you saw. They’re branded with a logo like you would see when you watch a cable TV show. The word Buzzworm is always there. Bottom right corner. Red letters.”
“Do you know what it means? The name?”
Jo looked offended. She moved her round face up close to Roger’s. She was so close he could smell the tobacco on her breath, heavily masked by peppermint chewing gum. “Why are you asking me that?” she growled. “They told us you were the computer virus SME. The subject matter expert. Do you know how serious this is? If you don’t find this bug and exterminate it in the next few days, it could very conceivably change the balance of power on this planet. Billions of lives could be at stake. Billions.” Roger stared into her red-rimmed eyes for several seconds. He realized she wasn’t that different from Dodge — a dog defending its bone.
They eyed each other for several long seconds. Then Jo stepped back from the side of the cot.
“I’m told it’s another name for rattlesnake,” she finally offered.
“Yeah? Well there’s another meaning. An older one. Buzzworm is another name for Satan. The devil. It’s biblical.”
Jo frowned. “I’m not much of an expert on snakes or the Bible. But both seem appropriate.”
"How did you catch it? The video?"
"One of our systems people wrote a screen capture program. Buzzworm has been very busy all over the CIA, but especially focused on our group here at Division 213. We’ve been getting dozens of these very disturbing videos for months. We were able to grab most of yours this morning. Just got lucky. We were playing it back when you came in… when Dodge accidentally knocked you into that divider."
Roger caught Jo’s eye. He wanted her to understand that he thought Dodge’s actions bordered on criminal. That the guy was out of control. But he sensed she didn’t see it that way. Another sign that these people were different. He was beginning to miss the quiet of his jail cell.
“What do you do here at Division 213?”
Jo stopped pacing and crossed her arms. “Everything you see here is part of a special project. We’re very secretive for good reason. You signed a confidentiality agreement when you agreed to take this on. In case you’re curious, we don’t sue people who breach the contract. We just ship them off to a military prison.”
“I thought Guantanamo was being decommissioned?”
Vienna smiled at the joke, but there was no joy in here expression. “Mr. Strange, that would seem like a five-star hotel compared to what we would have planned for you.”
Roger rubbed his eyes. He needed to wake up and get started. He only had a few days. “I’ve done this before, Vienna. I get the drill. I’ll need a place to work and access codes to the network.”
“Everything is ready, Mr. Strange. You wait here, and I’ll go check to make sure Dodge has left. We don’t want anymore unfortunate accidents.”
That made Strange laugh. "Does Dodge always get this upset over viruses?"
She gave the cigarette a long loving look. "Only when they kill his best friend," she answered.
CHAPTER 6
Police officers call Washington DC ‘the District’. But we still say it like we’re spitting out a mouthful of beer that’s gone punky. It’s not a feel-good word for politicians. Or for homicide detectives, of which I am the latter.
Washington used to be the murder capital of the free world. Over four hundred homicides a year. We’ve gotten better, but only marginally. I think we are now number three or four. Some consolation.
Angela, my ex, left me in 2001, the worst year for the city. And mine too. I can’t blame her though. Bullets were as common as houseflies and generous overtime easily paid the alimony payments. I think I ate dinner with her that last year maybe a dozen times. Even that may be an exaggeration. You’d have to ask my daughter
Kyla. She was the only one counting.
Something happens to cops when they can no longer cope with the workload. The pressure of facing a fresh new homicide case every single day starts to eat into you, to hollow you out. You feel like a spent shell.
The only reason I drag myself to the job everyday is the hope that a case, any case, not even necessarily my case, will be solved. I’m not talking justice here. Just a solved friggin’ case. Because once you feel overwhelmed, it’s not simply a matter of changing careers.
The victims live in your head forever. So you take the files home with you on weekends, to bed with you at night, into your nightmares. They don’t disappear if you decide to take that cushy job as Security Director for Rothmans over the line in Reston, Virginia. Too much time on your hands just makes the hollowness ring in your ears — like a stomach-churning background noise that never seems to go away.
The caseload is better now. But a lot of good detectives ended up leaving for low-stress jobs in the burbs. But I can’t go there. Angela lives out in Arlington with her new husband and I don’t know what I would do if I bumped into him at the Piggly Wiggly parking lot.
Something I’d probably regret.
But nothing new there.
So I still live in the Palisades, where I grew up as a kid in Washington. My home is on a leafy street in a nondescript bungalow that I bought from a former homicide partner — who moved out to a better life in McLean.
McLean is the county where the famous CIA Headquarters sits behind locked gates. You can feel like you live at the center of the universe in McLean, but not have to face a shooting gallery every day of your life. How is that fair?
And that’s ironic, because this morning I am reporting to a homicide called in by that very same CIA, only this one is located in a little known building inside the city limits of Washington proper. They call it Building 213. You get there through the Washington Navy Yard at the south end of the city, next to the Potomac River.
Captain Ipscott gave me orders to report to Building 213, alone. A strange request. I’ve never been asked before to leave my partner behind, although sometimes I’ve got to admit, I’ve felt that way myself. Emile always has my back, but he’s not what you would call a people-person.
Maybe the CIA knows something I don’t.
I’ve heard rumors about 213 — everyone who lives in Washington has. We all know that this used to be the head office for NPIC, the National Photographic Interpretation Center, before it was absorbed by the Department of Defense in the nineties. NPIC used to interpret spy satellite imagery for the rest of the Intelligence community. They also had hundreds of interpreters on staff who watched foreign TV broadcasts, and monitor telephone and email traffic. Serious stuff even for the town that built the White House. What they do now is anyone’s guess.
I had never been to Building 213 before. It’s hard to believe I have spent all these years in Washington and within spitting distance of Langley, but have never had a run in with the spooks or their handlers. I count myself lucky.
The FBI was another matter. They were ever-present in this town, and I had good reason to believe I would again be sparring with the dark side before the week was over.
The Navy Yard is aptly named; a gravel parking lot filled with row upon row of red brick buildings separated by narrow lanes. Finding the building was easy — it was east of building number 212 and just west of 214. There was nothing about the appearance from the outside that would give a visitor any hint as to the building’s real purpose.
Once inside the out-of-place steel and glass entrance, I entered a lobby that looked out on a feature wall of the same red brick. I was surrounded by what was likely very thick bulletproof glass. Above the inner door was a camera and speaker. I was asked to provide ID. I purposefully took my time looking for my badge and then passed it quickly under the camera lens. There was a pause, then the voice at the other end got serious and asked for a longer look.
“Maybe you should send out your Security guy. A Mr. David Dodge. He’s expecting me. This is a police matter.”
I straightened my tie simply to give me something to do with my hands. I wanted to rip the video camera off the wall. I’m a big fan of surveillance technology. I also gave big brother a flash of my revolver, which was strapped to my shoulder harness. The chrome handle always looks impressive on a color monitor.
The door clicked ominously and a short woman stepped out into the enclosed lobby. I’m about six foot four and she might have been able to reach my chin with her hands — if she stretched and stood on tiptoes. Not quite a little person, if that’s politically correct. Just a very short woman with a very serious look on a face that hadn’t seen much sun this summer.
“Hyde”, I said, “D.C. Homicide.”
I don’t shake hands so I didn’t offer.
She introduced herself as the head of the Technology Group. Vienna Jobime. She pronounced it ‘how-beam’. She wore a light blue smock, like a scientist would wear in a laboratory.
Jobime led me through the lobby, down past the brick wall. A security guard asked for my ID again and passed a wand over me. I lifted my jacket and pointed to the gun. He waved me past. We stopped at a bank of modern elevators. Since the building was one floor, I had to guess we were going down. How far I couldn’t guess. I could only imagine the labyrinth below.
"What do they do here at Building 213?” Or even a better question, where were the brass? In a case like this, management was always hovering nearby like a bunch of male lions after a kill. At this particular time they were real conspicuous by their absence. Of course here, they probably just watched you on their monitors. Kept their hands clean that way.
"Jo," she said again, “Just call me Jo.” She looked up, meeting my eyes for the first time “Our jobs on 3B are pretty ordinary by anyone’s standards. We study satellite imagery. Computer enhance photos. Monitor telecommunications. The man who died? Frank Scammel? He was part of the photo enhancement team."
We stepped off the elevator into an industrial-like hallway.. "You'll have to wear this badge," she said, handing over a security card with a chrome clip.
She walked to her right and stopped at a large blue steel door. A black plate at eye level, which meant she had to stretch up to it, held a single camera lens. She faced the lens and passed her ID card through a slot on the plate. The door unlocked loudly. As they passed through into a large open space, I turned to her.
"Is that one of those systems that scans your eyes?"
That comment amused her. "No, it's much more sophisticated. The software actually recognizes my face."
We stepped into a larger workspace. Deserted. "What if I look exactly like someone else or I have a brother that looks a lot like me, only not so good looking?"
She was warming to me. I could see it in her face. "It's very accurate. If we took ten photos of you at different distances, under different light, added a mustache or a beard, even intentionally shot it out of focus, then asked the computer to match your face right now, against a million others - it would still find all ten in about 999 out of a thousand searches." I whistled. “You still need the card as a backup though. To fool our security you'd need an employees pass card and a nearly identical face. Pretty unlikely, I'd say."
We arrived in a large computer workroom lit largely by the glow of dozens of large color computer monitors. Still no humans in sight.
"Coffee break?" I asked.
"We asked most of our personnel to leave this area for a few hours. Partly due to security," she waved at the screens, "and partly to give you some elbow room."
"I'll need to ask them some questions."
"That can be arranged privately," she said, holding a side door open. This was a smaller room, the walls covered with large color photos — some old politicians, military equipment, airplanes and weapons, a shot of Beyonce in bed with George W. Bush. When Jobime saw me eye it she explained, "George was in on the joke."
I stepped up to the la
rge framed photograph. "It's amazing how good they’ve gotten at this stuff. The shadows are perfect…"
"Scammel was one of our best. He'd been with us for over twenty years, almost back to the punch card days." She paused, then swallowed. “He is lying over there behind that desk. We haven’t touched anything or gone near the body.”
"Do you want to leave me here for awhile?" I asked her.
"It's OK. My father was a doctor. I saw lots of blood by the time I was twelve." I wasn’t convinced. I’d seen a lot of blood too, but that didn’t make it any easier.
We walked around a large desk unit, and there was Frank Scammel, the programmer/designer. There was more than a lot of blood. He was about forty-something, longish thinning hair. He wore a white Grateful Dead T-shirt, a laughing skull on the back leering up at me. He was lying on his face, blood surrounding him on all sides, one arm twisted underneath. He was a big guy, almost as big as me. Only more fat. Or at least I liked to think so. Soft and white around the middle too. I walked around the pool of congealing blood. He’d been here for a while.
“When was it reported?" I asked.
"Four this morning our shift supervisor rang in and found him. She called out one of our security people, David Dodge."
“And Dodge. What did he do?"
"He cordoned off this room, and locked down the building. Then called Washington Homicide."
"Locked down?"
"No one leaves. No one enters. Standard stuff."
"You're saying since four o'clock no one has been allowed to leave?"
She nodded.
"Why didn't we get a call until 7:25 AM?"
She hesitated. "Lock-down takes a while. You can talk to Dodge about it. Internal security matters… "
"Excuse me?"
"The project he was working on?" she pointed to the body. "We had to remove the files and documents."
I scratched my head, my eyes narrowing. "That's evidence, Jo."
"It's also national security. The work we do is highly classified,” she said flatly.
"You move evidence, Ms. Vienna, you break the law. It may be national security, but it's still breaking the law."
