The Buck Stops Here

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “Gotcha. All right, let me take a look.”

  I could hear him typing into the computer, whispering softly to himself as he did.

  “Okay,” he said finally. “Here you go. I got a fellow in Arlington who might be able to help. He’s—”

  “I’m not at home,” I said. “In fact, I’m down in Georgia.”

  “Georgia? I don’t know anybody in Georgia. Can’t you mail it?”

  “I’d rather hand deliver, if I can.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “I don’t mind driving a ways,” I said, acknowledging in my mind for the first time the inevitable trip that was before me. “In fact, I’m on my way to Louisiana. How about Alabama, Mississippi…”

  “Let me think. Hold on.”

  I heard more typing and then he spoke.

  “I don’t know if this will do you any good or not. There is a guy in Louisiana that I work for sometimes. He’s not a chemist by any means, but sometimes somebody knows somebody who knows somebody, if you know what I mean. I can call him for you, see if he can meet up with you somewhere in the area.”

  “That would be great, Paul,” I replied. “Can you get back to me on it?”

  “Give me a day or two. Sometimes he’s hard to reach. What else can I do for you?”

  “Just answer some questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure. Fire away.”

  “It’s about encryption, cryptography, that sort of thing.”

  “Then you’re talking to the right guy.”

  I reached for the paper I had scribbled my notes on this afternoon after my visit at the prison with Sparks. Reading from that list, and then adding more from memory, I told Paul all of the names Sparks had thrown out at me today.

  “Can you tell me who these people are?” I asked.

  Paul helped to straighten the jumble in my mind, giving me a sort of nutshell history of computer encryption. He said that each of those people was well known in the computer world. Some were mathematicians, some programmers, but all of them had made a great contribution to the field of encryption in one way or another. Paul said that Diffie was “the world’s first cypherpunk,” a man who actually predicted the information superhighway and the digital revolution long before the internet even existed. After him came Ronald Rivest and his pioneering work with “asymmetric ciphers,” and later someone named Zimmerman introduced “the world’s first secure computer encryption program.” Though I didn’t understand most of what he was saying, I finally at least got what Sparks had been trying to tell me earlier: A lot of mathematical geniuses had worked hard to pave the way for complete computer security.

  My ears perked up as soon as Paul started talking about another one of those geniuses, a brilliant cryptologic mathematician named Tom Bennett. According to Paul, Tom was an expert in “number theory, abstract algebra, and logic and set theory.” Apparently, back in the ’90s, thinking he might have solved several significant encryption holdbacks such as “key generation,” Bennett had rounded up a team of four other people and hired them to implement his solutions.

  “The group called themselves the ‘Cipher Five,’” Paul said. “And by the time they were finished they had created a masterpiece. Even now, all these years later, it’s still the program of choice for secure computer encryption. Amazingly, it almost didn’t see the light of day.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Paul went on to tell me how the Cipher Five created their unbreakable encryption program, but that once it was finished, Tom decided not to release it to the general public after all. Instead, Paul said, Tom destroyed the program and disbanded the company.

  “But why?”

  “Something to do with ethics. It never has quite made sense to me.”

  He went on to say that one of the members of the group, James Sparks, had apparently kept a secret copy of the program for himself, because about a year after the company was disbanded, Sparks was arrested for selling it to a restricted country. There was a big FBI investigation, and he ended up getting convicted and going to prison. Eventually, the program leaked out over the internet anyway, and nowadays computer geeks passed it around all the time.

  “Can you tell me,” I said, “other than Tom Bennett, what were the functions of the different members of the team? I mean, how did they contribute to the program overall?”

  “Well, let me see. From what I recall, James Sparks and Armand Velette were software designers, both of them experts in optimizing code for speed—which was a real plus back then, because in the early nineties, CPUs were kind of slow, and encryption is a numerically intensive activity.”

  “Okay.”

  “Phillip Wilson, I don’t know. He probably either dealt with networking issues or database stuff. Oh, yeah, the user-interface specialist was Sparks’ wife, Beth. She did a bang-up job.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The user-interface specialist is the person who takes a program and makes it user-friendly, writing the part of the program that everyone sees. That person doesn’t have to know a lot about cryptology, but they have to be an expert in human interfaces. She was good.”

  “I see,” I said, understanding that computer skills definitely ran in that family. “So what happened with everyone once the group broke up?”

  “Well, Sparks went to prison, of course. Tom Bennett formed a new company and got rich off the internet. I don’t know about the rest. They all sort of faded into the woodwork.”

  My pulse quickened as a police cruiser drove by, but it didn’t slow down and the cop inside did not look my way. Feeling nervous, and certain I had gleaned all of the information I could get from Paul Tyson, I concluded our call. Before hanging up he promised to get back to me with a resource for analyzing the substance that was in my possession.

  I sat there for a few minutes and thought about the things I knew that Paul didn’t. First of all, I knew that after the encryption company folded, not only had Tom formed a new company and grown rich from the internet, he had also passed the management of that company over to someone else and now spent most of his time in the employ of the NSA, breaking codes for the U.S. government.

  Also, I knew that even though James Sparks was the only member of the team convicted of the crime of selling the program to a T-Seven country, he hadn’t been the only one involved in the sale—at least not according to what he told me today. Now he was claiming that someone else was involved—and that whoever that other person was, for some reason Sparks had decided to protect them. I wasn’t sure what his motivations in that might have been, but that was one of the things I needed to go to New Orleans to find out.

  Still, my departure would leave some unfinished business in Georgia. I made a call to my friend and colleague Gordo Koski, a private investigator in Akron, Ohio. Gordo and I traded work from time to time, though the last job I had thrown his way had ended up very nearly getting him killed. This time, as I dialed his number, I hoped I wouldn’t be putting him in similar danger. I got his answering machine, so I left a quick message.

  “Gordo, it’s Callie Webber,” I said, giving him my cell phone number. “Call me back. I’ve got a job for you, if you’re interested. It would involve a little trip, down to the deep South.”

  After I hung up, I made one last call directly to Tom’s voice mail. I wasn’t sure if he had heard from the PI I caught tailing me today, but whether he had or not, I needed to add my two cents. When the phone beeped so that I could leave a message, I spoke quickly.

  “It’s me,” I said. “I just wanted to let you know that I sent your Richmond PI home today with his tail between his legs. When you have someone track me, Tom, I suggest you don’t just pick him out of a phone book. Next time, don’t send a boy to do a man’s job.”

  Twenty-Three

  By my calculations, the drive to New Orleans was going to take about nine or ten hours. I was exhausted, but I decided to start immediately, even though it would
soon be dark. I thought I might drive as far as I could and then go the rest of the way in the morning.

  I made it as far as Mobile, Alabama, before I finally had to admit I was nearly asleep at the wheel. I found a motel along the interstate, spent the night, and headed out the next morning around nine.

  As I drove, I had a sudden flash of confusion, and I realized that I wasn’t even sure what day it was. I thought back, counting off, and finally decided it was Saturday. It had been a busy week, and yet in a way I felt as though I had accomplished nothing.

  Gordo finally called me back as I was crossing into Mississippi, and I explained to him as simply as I could that I wanted to hire him to go to Americus, Georgia, and make friends with a man there, a prison guard named Les Watts. I also wanted him to start immediately, like yesterday.

  “I think Watts is working for someone on the side,” I said, “and I want to know who. I need you to get close to him, to see what you can find out about his ‘second’ job. Look especially for any sort of connections with anyone in Louisiana.”

  Gordo was between jobs and eager to get the work, but he also seemed a bit skeptical that he could accomplish what I wanted.

  “I know the South, Callie,” he said. “Especially small-town South. How am I supposed to fit in there and make a friend right away? In some places in the South, you can live there for twenty years and still be considered a newcomer.”

  “You know how it’s done, Gordo. Watch him a bit first. Find some common ground. Maybe he belongs to a lodge and you could be a lodge brother in from out of town on business. Maybe he’s in a weekly poker game and you can finagle your way in through someone else. I just need to know what he’s up to. If you have…other ways…of finding out what he’s doing without making friends with him, then have at it. I just need my information.”

  Gordo always teased me about my odd marriage between godly principles and the job of private investigating. Though a PI should have a code of ethics, he always said, the best ones are not always truthful—or legal. Thankfully, he didn’t tease me now, though he did fall silent for a moment.

  “For you to even suggest something illegal,” he told me, “must mean that you need this information really bad.”

  I didn’t even think about all the moral lines I had crossed in the last 24 hours. I only knew that this information was crucial to my investigation, even if he had to do bugging or wiretapping to get it.

  “Really bad, Gordo,” I said finally. “Do what you have to, just don’t tell me about it.”

  I gave him all of the information he would need to get started, and when we had concluded our call, I dialed Tom in California. Though I was reluctant to talk with him, I had some questions about the people in Louisiana that only he could answer.

  I was feeling bitter as I dialed his number, but once I heard his voice on the phone, something inside of me seemed to shift just a little. He sounded tired and burdened. A part of me wanted to reach across the miles and just hold on to him. We needed comfort from each other.

  “I’m headed to New Orleans,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “So I need to ask you some questions.”

  “Of course,” he replied. “Before you do, though, let me apologize about the tracking device and the private investigator. I was worried about you, Callie. I know that doesn’t excuse my actions, but I couldn’t think of any other way to keep an eye on things.”

  “What about Kimball?” I asked. “Does he know I’m investigating?”

  “No, just the opposite. He thinks I wanted the device on there to make sure you didn’t do anything rash, like head off to Georgia to find Sparks.”

  “Well, now that I’ve found Sparks,” I said, “can you tell me the real sentence he’s serving? Obviously, the sixteen-year sentence wasn’t really for drunk driving.”

  Tom was silent for a moment.

  “I’m sorry, Callie. I can’t tell you.”

  I cleared my throat, watching the road ahead as we talked.

  “Let’s try another one then. What does your family know about the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation? I don’t want to tell them anything I shouldn’t.”

  “They know the foundation exists,” he said, “though they probably don’t realize the scope of our donations. In fact, if it’s okay with you, I’ll call and let them know you’re on your way and that you’re coming to investigate Family HEARTS for a grant.”

  “Yes, please do.”

  “I’ll call as soon as we hang up. What else do you need to know?”

  “How about James Sparks?” I asked, swallowing hard. “I mean, I understand the connection there, that he was married to your sister, that he’s—” I choked up a bit as I spoke, “the father of your nieces. But what do they know about him as far as Bryan’s death goes?”

  “To be honest, they don’t know a thing about that. Beth thinks James finished up his original prison sentence years ago. She has no idea he’s in prison now—or, if she does, she’s never said a word about it to me.”

  “Do they not talk at all?”

  “No. James and Beth have nothing to do with each other anymore.”

  “Is he in contact with the kids?”

  “No. He wasn’t much of a father when they were married, and after the divorce he pretty much washed his hands of Beth and the children.”

  “That’s so sad,” I said, thinking of James’ mother, Tilly, and her desire to reconnect with her grandchildren.

  “Beth knows he went to prison for violating export restrictions, of course,” he continued. “But I never told her or my mother about what happened in Virginia. It didn’t seem to make the news in Louisiana, so I left it alone. I figured it was up to James to contact Beth and tell her, if he so chose. As far as I know, he never did.”

  “So they don’t know where or why he’s in prison?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “I assume, then, that they don’t know who I am, or what my connection is?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “How about us?” I asked, wondering why I had never thought to ask that particular question before. “What have you told your mother and your sister about you and me?”

  “Nothing. I’ve never told them anything.”

  If Tom wasn’t close to his family, his admission might not have hurt my feelings. As it was, however, it felt as though he had stuck a knife through my heart.

  “You have to understand,” he said, obviously sensing my hurt, “the situation between you and me has always been complicated. I thought it was best not to mention it until we knew…until we understood where we were headed.”

  “I used to think I understood,” I whispered, remembering just a short while ago that Tom implied he had every intention of putting a ring on my finger. He had even given me a necklace, a gold chain, to wear around my neck—a place to hold my other wedding ring, the one I had received when I married Bryan.

  “I know this hurts you, Callie,” he said softly. “And I’m sorry. But you have to put yourself in my shoes. I knew things you didn’t. Wanting something to happen and seeing it happen are two different things.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That just because I want to marry you doesn’t mean I will be able to. As you have found already, there are a lot of things that remain between us. Nothing is certain until you understand the whole truth of the matter.”

  “I’m trying,” I said, surprised by the tears that suddenly filled my eyes. The angry resolve I had felt when I learned that Tom was Sparks’ ex-brother-in-law seemed at the moment to have lost its significance.

  “Put it this way,” he said finally. “I would love nothing more than to call my mother right now and tell her that my future wife is coming to town. But you know and I know that we’re not there yet. Depending on what you decide, Callie, we may never be.”

  Twenty-Four

  The road was a comfort, in a way, endless miles of nothing but gray asphalt lined with wide expanses of green grass and tall, thick
trees. For many miles I let my mind simply go blank, pushing the hurt and the confusion to some place inside myself, someplace hidden and tucked away. I was good at that. My past had taught me that I could postpone heartache simply by aiming my focus elsewhere. Of course, what I really needed to do was pray, but God felt very far away. And while consciously I knew that the space between me and God was my doing, a bigger part of me felt that He had let me down just when I needed Him the most. If I had to take matters in my own hands to get this case solved, I would, I decided, even if my tactics fell outside the bounds of my own usual rules and practices.

  I eventually heard back from Tom. He had spoken to the people at Family HEARTS and made all of the arrangements for my charity investigation. He had also talked to his mother, and she had invited me to join the family for lunch the next day, after church. According to Tom, they all thought I was merely a valued employee and nothing else. I would be given full access to the charity, and the goal was to present them with a small grant for facility improvements when I was finished, if they checked out. Tom was confident that they would. He also felt confident that this investigation would give me access to several of the people I would need to meet for the purposes of my main investigation.

  “What about Veronica Wilson?” I asked him, thinking of the director of the agency. “Is she your former fiancée?”

  “Yes, she’s the same Veronica I was engaged to for a while. But we’re just old friends now. She married a buddy of mine, Phillip Wilson.”

  “Phillip Wilson,” I said, nodding to myself. “One of the Cipher Five.”

  Tom seemed a little taken aback.

  “You really have made progress in your investigation,” he said. “I didn’t realize you knew about that.”

  He moved the conversation toward hotel arrangements. Though his mother was currently living across the lake from New Orleans in an area known as the North Shore, the charity itself was in New Orleans proper, so he thought it would be best if I stayed there.