The FBI man smiled without parting his lips. The expression fell short of his dull metallic eyes. “This man has confessed. Your sergeant's a witness."
Canal nodded. “I think he said he started the Chicago fire too. There was something about the earthquake in Frisco, but I didn't catch it."
Zagreb said, “We get a lot of confessions in this room. After half a dozen or so you pick up a sense for when they're talking because when they're talking they're not getting slugged. Taylor! Who burned down the Reichstag?"
"I did.” The man on the bed spoke into his chest.
"That was pointless,” said Holinshead. “He's not so far gone he wouldn't recognize a way out when you gave him one. I told you these spies were clever."
"Tell your men to scram."
"This is a federal operation, Lieutenant. You don't give orders. The commissioner—"
"Molly Wenk."
Holinshead's mouth closed with a snap.
"Chief?” Dial looked to his superior. Junkers's eyes were on him too.
"Step outside,” muttered Holinshead. “I'll call if I need you."
Canal opened the door. “You heard him, boys. Heel."
Junkers took a step the big man's way. Canal let go of the knob and squared off in front of him. Dial's hand wandered to the butt of the revolver in a holster snapped to his belt. McReary drew his own in one smooth motion and flicked the barrel at the stocky man's temple. Dial stumbled, caught himself on a bedpost, and clapped a hand to the side of his head. Blood oozed between his fingers.
Burke said, “Told you he wasn't your errand boy."
The cowboys left, Dial still holding his head and glaring hatred at Burke, who kicked the door shut behind them.
"We were coming to Molly Wenk next,” said Holinshead. “If you've spoken with her, you've compromised our case. Your behavior is treasonous."
"Molly?” Taylor raised his head, blinking his one visible eye.
"She's okay, Fred. Worried about you.” Zagreb didn't look away from the FBI man. “Investigating her for what, running out on your shack-up?"
"I'm not surprised she'd stoop to a personal attack to divert suspicion. We've had her under surveillance for nine years as a premature anti-fascist."
McReary laughed. “A premature what?"
"Anti-fascist. She came out against Hitler less than a month after he came to power, years before he posed a threat to America."
"So what?” Zagreb said. “We're all anti-fascists now."
"It's a matter of timing. Taking such a stand that early put her under suspicion as a Communist sympathizer."
Canal shoved his hat to the back of his head, exposing his unruly black curls. “You miss Winchell one day, you fall behind. Last I heard, the Communists in Russia were our allies."
"You're confused. That's understandable. In Washington, we're engaged at present in fighting more than one war: this one and also the next. The Bolsheviks represent just as great a threat to our national interest as Hitler, Mussolini, and Tojo combined. If we don't identify and isolate the enemy now, we'll be at a serious disadvantage after the cessation of the current hostilities."
Burke scratched his chin. “And here I thought all we had to worry about was the Germans and Japanese."
"You could burn Molly as a witch,” Zagreb said. “It wouldn't be any less trumped up, and it wouldn't change the fact that you lived with her for three years in Washington and when she got fed up and dumped you, you tailed her to Detroit, wrangled yourself an assignment here, and arrested the first man she took up with to use as leverage to get her back. You're lucky he didn't croak on you. Next time try hiring less enthusiastic help."
Taylor seemed to be paying attention now. His chin was off his chest.
Holinshead stood immobile. “You'd take the word of a subversive over that of an agent of the United States government?"
"No, but I'd take Molly Wenk's word and the word of her old landlord in Washington and her former neighbors. We ran up a whale of a telephone bill on your account. Not enough? We can talk about scars and moles. I don't guess you can claim Molly saw you out swimming in the Potomac."
"Taylor's file—"
"You've probably got a drawer full of files on Fred Taylors and Alfred Schneiders, the names are that common. If one of them didn't show up in the ledgers at the North American Aryan Alliance, it wouldn't be hard to plant it through your snitch.” Zagreb shook his head. “You disappointed me, Holinshead. I had you down as a flag-waving fanatic. Turns out you're just another jealous boyfriend."
"All right, we were involved. I can still link her to organizations threatening to overthrow the government."
"That includes the Republican Party. How's it look, a high-ranking official with the Bureau twiddling toes with a Red? You're washed up. After this you'll be lucky to land a job sweeping up after Patton's horse in the Fourth of July parade."
"The enemy musn't win because our two agencies fell out over a treasonous tramp. Can't we—"
An animal roar filled the room. Taylor sprang from the bed arms outstretched, reaching for the Special Agent in Charge. Holinshead threw himself back against the window, shattering a pane and groping under his jacket. But the German was too weak to follow through; he stumbled and fell. The FBI man pointed a revolver down at the man at his feet. Just as his finger tightened on the trigger, Burke and Canal barreled into him, shoulders first. As Holinshead went down under their weight, the bullet plowed into the mattress on the bed.
Junkers and Dial burst in from the hall, guns first. Zagreb and McReary had theirs out as well. The cowboys froze.
"Hi-yo, Silver,” said McReary.
"Another Detroit invention,” Canal said, getting up. “Just like Johnny Weissmuller."
* * * *
"Fred and Molly.” The big sergeant folded the Free Press to the society section and handed it to Zagreb. “Sounds like somebody you'd have over for bridge."
As always happened in those photos, the bride looked radiant, the groom as if he'd turned out for a funeral. Taylor's face had healed, but he appeared wan. It had only been five weeks. U.S. warships were pounding Guadalcanal and Rommel was in trouble in Africa. “Poor sap thought he had it tough with the Feds.” Zagreb handed it back and returned to his arrest reports.
"How you getting on with the new Special Agent in Charge, by the way?"
"Swell. He's been here a month and I haven't met him yet."
"Maybe he's scared of you."
The lieutenant checked his Wittnauer. “We should've heard from McReary and Burke by now."
"They're still softening up that guy that gave us the bum tip on the warehouse on Riopelle. He'll come around soon, if Burke's fists hold up. He's got delicate knuckles."
"It means more stakeouts when he does."
"Our work's never done.” Canal turned to the crosswords.
Copyright © 2009 Loren D. Estleman
[Back to Table of Contents]
Department: THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose
Each letter consistently represents another. The quotation is from a short mystery story. Arranging the answer letters in alphabetical order gives a clue to the title of the story.
AT EIYCTC TQTLVIDT SRNA DYMNV FRNNFT NARDEM NAYN AT WDTS, IL NAIPEAN AT WDTS, YZIPN NATG. R SIPFCD'N ZFYGT YDVIDT ATLT HIL SYDNRDE, YN FTYMN NATILTNRBYFFV, NI WRFF ARG.
—FTMFRT BAYLNTLRM
Cipher Answer: A B C D E F G H I J K M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: SILICON VALLEY TANGO by Diana Deverell
* * * *
Tim Foley
* * * *
Three minutes after joining her sister's workout, FBI Special Agent Dawna Shepherd brought up the stalker. From her treadmill, she shouted to Bettijean, who was working hard on the adjacent elliptical. “Mom's upset. Says you told her somebody's tracking your every move."
"Figured it was Mom, made you rush up here.” Bettijean brushed damp hair off her forehead. “
She overreacted. Nobody's peeping in my windows."
Dawna eyed her panting sister. “She said, ‘Bettcha sounds like she needs help.'” Mom had used the family nickname for her youngest, softening Dawna up for the command that came next. “Told me to give you a hand, since I had time off in your neighborhood."
Bettijean snorted. “Somebody's hacking into my computer system. Not your specialty. We finish here, I'll explain."
Sunday, the instant Mom ended her call, Dawna'd phoned her sister, asking for face-time. Bettijean insisted her only free nano-seconds for a private chat in the next five days were during her morning fitness routine.
Dawna caught the predawn flight on Monday from Orange County airport to San Jose, rented a car, and before eight a.m., she was at the three-story mansion in Los Altos owned by her sister's fiancé, Edward Ulrich Gustafson. A sweating Bettijean answered the door, managed a sisterly hug, and hustled Dawna to the basement gym because she had to put in ten more minutes.
Dawna upped her treadmill's speed and studied her sister. A head shorter, Bettijean had darkened the Shepherd curly blonde hair to a less-glam light brown and relaxed the kinks. Her smooth bob looked professional. The rest of her did not. Bettijean was working the machine's pedals as though she were speed-walking backwards.
Dawna didn't bother telling her she'd appear less silly going forward. Baby sister refused to learn the fundamentals of athletic endeavors.
Naturally talented at sports, Dawna had turned her back on a career in professional basketball to follow their police chief father into law enforcement. Always the maverick, Bettijean turned her back on the family, fled to California, and reinvented herself as a software engineer. She kept the rest of the Shepherds at arms length. Though she and Ed had been engaged for three years, she hadn't yet brought him to Texas to meet the family.
Their mother phoned Bettijean every Sunday, maintaining the bond with her youngest, hoping that a big family wedding at home would bring them all together again. Bettijean's recent evasiveness about her plans wasn't encouraging.
More alarming to both Mom and big sister was her remark about being stalked. Before Dawna left L.A., she Googled both Bettijean Shepherd and Edward Ulrich Gustafson, searching the Internet for unsavory interest in either. In addition to the usual bio data, she turned up a newspaper article featuring hot young princes of Silicon Valley. Ed had sold his first Internet startup eight years earlier for $2.1 billion and was striving to top that with twinkl, a Web-based social networking service.
Now, Dawna put her facts together with Bettijean's reference to hacking. Was Ed the target of corporate espionage?
Bettijean's machine clicked to cool down mode and Dawna seized the moment to ask about him. “Your fiancé gone to work?"
"Hours ago,” Bettijean replied. “Most days, he's at twinkl before the sun rises. When he's here, he's running in and out of his home office, trying to answer questions from the rest of his crew."
Dawna frowned. “Why is he busting his ass? He spend his first billion already?"
"No time for that. We've been living in this place five months and you probably noticed he hasn't furnished it."
Dawna recalled the bare rooms she'd passed through on the ground floor. “You do seem a little short of chairs."
"Man would rather sit on the floor than miss a minute at twinkl." Bettijean's machine stopped and she hopped off. “And I'm due at my current project in forty-five minutes.” She worked for Garvin-McCarty Ventures, a leading seed capital investment firm, as on-site consultant to new startups her company funded.
Dawna padded after her into the oversize bathroom off the gym, perching on the toilet lid while Bettijean showered. Water splattered against tiles, warm mist boiling into the room. Dawna smiled at the array of trendy hygiene products piled on the countertop, conveniently shrink wrapped for bargain sale in bulk.
When Bettijean emerged from the shower, Dawna asked the question that had been nagging her cop's mind-set. “Some of the startups your investment company funds must be competing with Ed's new venture. Isn't that a conflict of interest between you?"
"First issue we dealt with when he decided to start a new company.” Bettijean pulled on her office clothes—flat-front slacks topped by a silky tee in complementary shades of brown and beige. “Iron-clad rule: The only work-related topics we discuss are those in the public domain. Either of us brings sensitive information home, we immediately lock it up.” She combed her hair and herded Dawna into the center hallway, where she pushed a wall button beside elevator doors. As they whispered open, she pointed to the far end of the hall. “Ed's workspace takes up the other half of the basement. Mine is in the attic. We've got motion detectors every foot for the last ten yards before each office and mine are programmed to sound an audible alarm. Office doors have state-of-the-art keypad locks and we randomly change our codes.” Once in the elevator, Bettijean inserted a key into the control panel, putting the car in motion.
The mechanical hum echoed Dawna's pondering noise. “Tight lips, good security, and physical separation are a start,” she finally said. “Any other safeguards?"
"I have the only key that allows this car to rise above the middle floor. Ed and I don't have permanent house staff, so that prevents third-party spying. We take turns supervising the cleaning service that comes in twice a week. And they don't enter our offices."
The elevator doors opened to a spacious top floor. On sturdy bleached oak office furniture at its center sat a high-powered desktop computer and all the accessory equipment. Yet another bathroom filled the end-space to Dawna's left, and a compact kitchen fronted by a breakfast bar stood to her right. In the far wall opposite the elevator, Bettijean pointed out a locked door that topped the staircase leading down.
Sunshine poured through six skylights, turning the hardwood floor buttery yellow. Dawna smelled butter, too, an oddity explained when her sister headed straight for the built-in microwave and inserted a popcorn bag.
Bettijean turned and patted the pager clipped to her trouser waistband. “Ed and I use these to contact each other. No cell phone or e-mail communication between us. I don't carry a laptop because they're so easy to steal. We have separate Internet connections. We've eliminated any risk that one of us might reveal sensitive information accidentally."
"You mean that Ed might reveal anything to you,” Dawna corrected. “He's the star. These precautions protect his intellectual property from somebody trying to go through you to snoop him."
"My clients also have patentable innovations,” Bettijean insisted. “They want assurance that Ed won't hear about their activities from me."
Dawna frowned. “The safeguards you describe work only if you and Ed follow your own rules. Your clients are satisfied having no outside enforcer to stop you leaking info to Ed?"
"Absolutely.” Bettijean moved to her desk and booted up her computer. She turned to face Dawna. “My rep is golden and key to my success. People have always been able to count on me to keep their secrets.” Her expression darkened. “Until now."
She patted the monitor. “When this baby is up here all alone, it turns itself on and forwards everything in my sent file to another address."
Dawna peered at the screen. “But you'd realize that the first time you checked your outgoing messages."
"Nothing there. Like an Indian scout, it sweeps away any tracks while it shuts down. I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't kept an elegant little program I once tested for a former client. Pattern-recognition software that tracks habitual behavior and discreetly logs out-of-synch activity. I've had the program for half a year and it flashed as soon as I logged on after this happened the first time, twenty-seven days ago. And the half dozen times since."
"So, during the first five months you had this software installed,” Dawna clarified, “it reported no similar activity?"
Bettijean shook her head. “What's worse, the hacking coincides with my assignment to our newest startup, WiZer. Somebody's accessed every report I
've sent to Garvin-McCarty detailing their progress."
"You're never in the room when the data transfer occurs?"
"No.” Bettijean hugged herself. “And the last three were done at night, while I was asleep downstairs. Must be code on my hard drive sophisticated enough to make this happen and get the timing right, only I can't isolate it."
Dawna tuned out the racket of popping corn as she considered the problem. “But you have the recipient's address?"
"Initial addressee passes it on, using proxies and cut-outs. I follow the track a little farther each time, but I haven't reached the end."
"You could disconnect your system from the Internet when you're not using it,” Dawna suggested.
"I don't want to reveal I know what's happening.” The microwave beeped and Bettijean twitched, as though fighting to control a shiver. “If the hacking stops, I'll never discover who's behind it. I'm protecting WiZer's data, of course. I sanitize my reports without making it obvious. Last week, I hand-delivered the critical elements. WiZer's doing something totally original and I hate taking that risk, driving down the freeway with hot proprietary info in my car."
She removed the puffy microwaved bag, tore it open, and dumped popcorn into a plastic bowl. The movie theater aroma wafted through the room. “It's vital that I learn who's stealing the data. And how they broke into my system. If I can't guarantee privacy for my clients, I have no future in this business."
Dawna opened her arms as if embracing Ed's mansion. “Not like you need to work."
Bettijean's expression hardened. “I take care of myself."
Dawna scooped up a handful of popcorn. “How can a third party put code into your computer?"
"Not physically—I'm the only one who comes in my office. Had to be the Internet, but my online security is the best available. RATs or zombies or Botnets shouldn't be able to breach my firewall. Yet, someone did. A few people I correspond with have the smarts to be brilliant hackers. None from the Bay Area, they're scattered from Santiago to New Delhi. Got to be one of them.” She picked up the bowl. Set it down. Took a kernel and stared at it, not eating.
AHMM, July-August 2009 Page 3
