by Tom Clancy
Matt had moved on to doing homework when the computer beeped again. The job wasn’t done. Instead, it was Andy Moore sending an electronic file. Not surprisingly, Andy’s report was a lot more casual than David’s.
Yo, Matt!
D. G. was right. Ambassadors do not like to admit they don’t know English. But there were two exceptions in the diplo-brat department — kids who might reasonably expect to be using Idiom Savant. Back when smash-dancing was hot, Cat went out with a German guy named Gunter Mohler. Good choice for a partner if you’re doing something that’s half dance, half karate. He’s built like a mix between a football linebacker and an autotruck. Seems he was brought up by his widowed mom to be a “true German”—so he only speaks the tongue of his forefathers. That must be an annoyance for his stepfather, who’s a trade attaché at the embassy.
Then there’s Serge Woronov, whose father is the ambassador from Slobodan Narodny, the new Balkan Free State. You know how fiercely nationalistic they are in that part of the world. Foreign languages are strictly zabranjeno — forbidden — especially for anyone with political ambitions.
These are the only two I’ve been able to find out about.
Hope it helps.
Matt was chuckling, shaking his head, when the computer beeped yet again.
A quick glance at the holo display showed that his search had been completed.
“Okay,” Matt muttered. “Let’s check out all these lists.”
It was like those Venn diagrams in school. While each suspect might have a wide circle of friends, Matt was only checking where those circles overlapped. There were still a lot of people, but there were a lot less.
Matt scowled. Andy’s list wasn’t too helpful after all. Both Gunter Mohler and Serge Woronov appeared on the Savage and Corrigan pal rosters.
Another name on both lists caught Matt’s attention. It seemed strangely familiar. “Computer,” he ordered. “Subject Lucien Valery. Recent media references.”
The computer holo flickered, then showed a story about a prank involving a local fencing instructor. The teacher had penalized a French fencer — Lucien Valery — while refereeing competition. When he went to drive home, the official had been caught by a dye bomb that marked his skin red, white, and blue — the colors of the French flag.
Valery had been suspected of setting the joke bomb, since he had a long history of pulling pranks. But nothing had been proven — perhaps because he was the son of a French diplomat. Anyway, the prank had backfired. Lucien Valery had lost a chance to try out for his country’s Olympic fencing team.
A Frenchman, Matt thought. If people wanted to use an insulting nickname, they’d call him a “Frog.”
Immediately, he thought of the six-foot frog who’d confronted him when he’d met the virtual vandals.
It couldn’t be — could it?
But then, Lucien Valery had shown himself to possess a weird sense of humor. When the frog had wanted to threaten him, it had changed into an old-time swordsman…and Lucien Valery knew how to use a sword.
Matt tried to remember what the swordsman had said. Had he spoken with a French accent? The fact was, Matt couldn’t remember. He’d been too distracted by the blade at his throat and the cartoon six-gun aimed at his head.
At least now he had a few new suspects to go after.
He also had a new idea. Jumping up, Matt headed for the phone. Maybe he could catch Captain Winters before he left his office for the day.
“Winters,” the captain’s voice said over the phone after Matt punched in the number.
“Sir, it’s Matt Hunter again. I was wondering about that trapdoor program you found. I’m sure you’ve had people taking it apart to see exactly how it ticked. Was there anything about it that might seem — well, foreign?”
“Still working on the theory these pranksters are diplomatic dependents, eh, Hunter?” Captain Winters sounded in a much better mood than the last time they’d talked. “Well, you may be a little disappointed at what the techs told me. The trapdoor we found in the press-conference program was developed on a cheap, bargain-store computer, by someone using obsolete programming tools. Doesn’t exactly sound like a rich and privileged diplo-brat, does it?”
“Um — I guess not,” Matt admitted.
“No.” The captain’s voice sounded a bit less smug as he went on. “That programming was as American — and as cheap — as mock apple pie.”
Chapter 10
After saying good-bye to Captain Winters, Matt headed back to his computer. He felt as if the ground had just been cut out from under his feet.
Even if the captain hadn’t gone for his theory about the virtual vandals being bored rich kids, Matt knew he was right.
After all, he’d tracked down Cat Corrigan and proven she was involved. He was pretty sure that Gerald Savage was another of the proxied-up troublemakers. And he had a few suspects from the huge number of diplomatic kids who lived in D.C.
So why would a bunch of kids who pretty much have the world by the tail work their crimes with a bunch of el cheapo programming?
It didn’t make sense.
Shutting his eyes, Matt called up memories of the weird wonderland that Caitlin Corrigan used for a veeyar. Everything about it screamed money. He didn’t know about the white room where he and Caitlin had gone to see the rest of the group. But the proxies they had used to mask their identities had definitely been expensive — professionally de signed, top-dollar simulations. The nerdy school reporters that Matt had come up with were simple and crude compared to what these guys used. But then, his creations didn’t have to morph into super-cool swordsmen.
It just didn’t make sense.
Could the dirt-cheap programming be another sort of disguise? An attempt to keep any investigators from looking among the rich, bored kids? It looked as if that had worked with Captain Winters. Winters was looking for someone American working on an antique computer system.
In that case, whoever was coming up with the software for the virtual vandals had to be an incredible genius. He or she had to be able to step away from cutting-edge machinery and create programs that could boggle the latest technology — while using equipment and tools that most people would consider junk.
And there was still a problem with his hypothetical genius pretending poverty. The members of the group were still in their mega-buck proxies when they went out to trash veeyars. No way were the sims they’d worn at Camden Yards quick and dirty disguises.
Matt sighed. There went another good theory down the toilet.
Could there be a practical reason for using what anybody in this country would consider antique equipment? Some Europeans were very thrifty when it came to machinery. In his Introduction to Computers class, Matt remembered reading how certain operating systems were still used in European computers years after they’d become extinct in the U.S. Maybe Gunter Mohler had learned his computing on an ancient system. Or Serge Woronov. Matt knew that there was a tremendous amount of ancient equipment in the Balkans. Plenty of military computers had been left behind by the various peacekeeping forces serving there over the decades.
However, that would have to mean that Gunter or Serge were crypto-geeks. Could David Gray have missed them in his data search?
There was only one way to find out. Matt got on his computer, sending a message to David:
Have two possible non-English-speaking types. Need to know just how much they know about computers.
He attached the file that Andy had sent, and waited to see what David would say.
Shortly afterwards, his computer beeped. David’s message was short.
The folks at Slobodan Narodny are a bit paranoid in their computer security. As for the German computers, well, don’t ask any questions about how the following file got into your hands.
Matt blinked in surprise as he began paging through the attached file. It seemed to be a form of some kind. One line had “Gunter Mohler” written in above it. There were also two addresses
— one of them with a Southwest D.C. zip code.
As he went on, less and less of the file made sense. It was in a foreign language — German? — and would have to be translated.
“Computer — auto-translate,” Matt ordered. As the words began to make sense, he gave a low whistle. Somehow, David had gotten into the German embassy’s computer system and retrieved the personal file on Gunter Mohler!
The file was nothing if not thorough. It listed his school grades since kindergarten. Matt sighed when he saw a barely passing mark in Computer Basics — the bonehead programming course. Mohler began to look less and less like the shadowy genius Matt was trying to track down.
Of course, a computer genius would have no problem changing computer records, Matt told himself. But why would Gunter suspect that anyone might be checking this file?
Matt scanned on through the file, moving ahead of the translation. He had to smile at some of the odd-looking German words. There was one—Krankenhaus. What the heck did that mean?
He watched while the translation program chewed through this section, turning the German words into English. It turned out to deal with Gunter’s health. Krankenhaus meant hospital. Gunter had been rushed to an emergency room to have his appendix removed.
Matt’s eyes narrowed as he noticed the date. Gunter had been undergoing surgery at just about the same time as the virtual vandals had turned Camden Yards Stadium into chaos.
“So,” Matt muttered, “it looks like Gunter can’t be the Genius…or one of the vandals.”
Frowning, he sat back in his computer-link chair, closed his eyes, let his implants take over. An instant later, he sat drifting in the air before the floating slab that was his virtual workplace. Good thing he’d finished his classwork. He had a lot of brain-strain ahead if he wanted to turn the vague ideas in his head into real plans.
Matt worked through the evening with only a quick break for dinner and the dishes. It was almost ten o’clock before he decided he was ready. His stomach was tight as he floated in his veeyar, looking at the little line of program icons on the marble slab. On one side was the fiery pawn of Leif’s proxy program and the lightning bolt that would take Matt into the Net. Then there were the programs he’d been working on. A copy of Cat Corrigan’s earring lay on the workspace, twisted and tarnished where Matt had been tampering with it. There was also a small white key that Matt had spent a long time programming, and an icon that looked like a tiny set of binoculars.
Last was a small book — an information file filled with everything Matt had discovered or guessed about the virtual vandals. He not only put this into his computer’s memory, but also loaded it onto a datascrip. Maybe it was asking for bad luck to act as if he’d never come back from this venture. But he knew his half-baked plan was dangerous, and he wanted a record to remain if the virtual vandals decided to silence him.
Matt took another moment to write up a short virtual message that he’d carry along. He’d been thinking about it all night.
Cat,
Okay, I won’t ask where you got the magic label I saw you use. But don’t you think I should get a chance to see your friends again? After all, I did everything you guys asked. I think you ought to keep your promises. I’ll be back at midnight to talk to you. If I find out I can’t trust you, don’t expect me to keep quiet about it.
Mr. Sticks
He turned the message into a little scroll-icon and left it in line with the others. Then, taking a deep breath, he scooped them all up and moved out into the Net.
The virtual constructs seemed much clearer and brighter than they’d ever been before — or was that just the condemned man noticing things he’d never paid much attention to before?
Matt darted back and forth across the glowing landscape, whizzing around through several major nodes to keep anyone from backtracking him.
Okay, he thought, no more putting it off. He held up Caitlin’s communications protocol — with his modifications — and activated it.
His course to Caitlin’s virtual mansion was becoming almost familiar now. Here’s where he’d skim the edge of the government’s virtual domain….
Matt came to a dead stop. This was one of the changes he’d put into Caitlin’s program. It had been a nasty enough shock when he’d found himself locked out of her system. Cat had done that on the spur of the moment, scared by his questions. He didn’t think she could hack into the government’s systems and come up with nastier surprises, but she did have a friend who was a computer genius. It wouldn’t hurt to be cautious.
Sorting through his icons, Matt chose the tiny binoculars. From here on in, he was going to scout out his route. His program scanned the constructs ahead, trying to find anything that looked like a disguised security coding.
Matt smiled. Nothing.
He slowly continued on the route that Caitlin had given him, still checking for computerized watchdogs or virtual guards. At last he reached the edge of the grounds that surrounded the glowing copy of Mount Vernon.
Everything still looked clean.
Matt dashed for the wall that held the secret trapdoor to Caitlin’s veeyar. But instead of crashing into it again, he braked sharply. Then, holding Cat’s earring and his message in his right hand, he began slowly pushing it into the wall.
His tinkering with the communications protocol worked! Instead of crashing the program, the virtual wall in front of him seemed to give way. His tampering wasn’t perfect. Matt felt as if he were shoving his hand through clay or soggy sand. But he was able to get through and leave his message in Caitlin’s veeyar.
At first, Matt had planned to head back home and get some rest during the two hours he’d have to wait. But he changed his mind, deciding instead to keep an eye on the glowing Mount Vernon. After all, Caitlin and her friends might get together to give him a fatally warm reception. If he kept the virtual mansion under observation, he should be able to spot their preparations.
Long minutes crept by, but nothing happened around the Corrigan mansion.
At last, a muted bleep! sounded. Matt had preprogrammed the warning that midnight had arrived.
Just as he started forward, a figure came through the wall — Matt saw an angry Cat Corrigan. Her hands were balled up in the pockets of the loose jeans she wore, and her bright blue eyes sparkled with fury.
“You threatened me!” she accused. “Who do you think—”
Matt interrupted her. “What do you think your pal the cowboy was doing with his six-shooter? Or the frog with the sword? Or your large sparkly friend with the great big fists? This isn’t a one-way street, Caitlin. You guys asked me for something, and I delivered. Don’t think you can blow me off now.”
Cat’s defiant act disappeared. Now all that confronted him was a scared kid. “We’ll go see the others,” she said. “But don’t threaten them! They’re half over the edge as it is. One push, and they’ll do something really stupid.”
“Why are they half over the edge?” Matt demanded.
But Caitlin only turned big, fear-filled eyes toward him.
He shrugged. “Okay, no questions — at least till I’m all the way in.”
Caitlin held out the black skull that would take them to the other virtual vandals. Matt took her hand, hoping the lightless icon wasn’t a symbol of things to come.
They hurtled wildly across the Net. Matt wasn’t sure, but he thought they bounced along a different route from the one they’d taken the last time.
But their destination seemed the same — the small, featureless white room where the other three members of the group stood waiting for them.
At least they didn’t have their weapons out.
The cartoon cowboy tilted back his ten-gallon hat. “Feller that pushes as hard as you do ought to have something to back it up,” he said ominously.
“Right,” Matt said. “I wouldn’t want to get you srdit.”
“Durn tootin’,” the cowboy said. “I rile up real easy.”
Matt allowed himself a
small smile. His studying had paid off. Srdit was the word many Balkan nationalities used for “angry.” The cowboy’s instant recognition showed that he spoke one of those languages.
Gerald Savage shook his big jeweled fist in Matt’s face. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t squash you like a bloody bug,” he demanded.
“How about honor?” Matt asked. “You people who are rolling in dough always talk as though you’re better than other people, because you have honor. That means you’re supposed to pay your debts—and make good on your promises.”
“I made no promises—” the big frog began.
“Your loud friend there did,” Matt said. “‘If you want to run with us, you have to show what you can do’—that’s pretty much what he said. So I showed you — I got CeeCee into Sean McArdle’s veeyar — someplace where your rich-kid connections couldn’t get you. And what do I get in the way of thanks? The door slammed in my face.”
He glanced over at the scowling cowboy. “Not very pravedan, is it, Tex?”
The cartoon cowboy began to nod, agreeing that it wasn’t fair, then stopped. “’Fraid I don’t comprende what you’re sayin’ there, amigo.”
Matt decided to go for broke. “Come off it, Serge. You gave yourself away when I spoke Serbo-Croatian before. I don’t think your Idiom Savant program automatically translates all languages.”
He rounded on the other proxied-up kids. “Then we have the frog swordsman — it must take a pretty warped sense of humor to see yourself that way, Lucien.” Matt twisted the knife a little, thanks to the research he’d done. “But you prefer to be called Luc, don’t you?”
His chest was tight as he confronted the looming, jeweled proxy. “And you, with your British slang and the loud way you hate the Irish. Who else could you be but Gerry the Savage?”
The room was quiet, except for the sound of sharp, sucked-in breath.
Matt had never seen Cat Corrigan’s eyes bigger, bluer — or more scared.
He plunged on, before they pulled themselves together and killed him. “You asked me what I’ve got to back myself up. I think I just showed you. When I came in, I wasn’t sure I’d gotten you all. But it looks like I managed to hit the nail — on each head.”
