I lean forward, frowning, the sudden interest—and a large measure of incredulity—pushing my other concerns to the back of my mind. I watch as she goes through the system start-up routines; still using my access codes, I see. It takes twenty minutes and my attention has wandered—I’m reliving the encounter with Sammy and feeling even more amazed that I succeeded with moves that have only ever been used in practice before, feeling better, actually, cool like Steve Segal wiping out a battalion of bad guys with his bare hands —when I hear her sharp intake of breath. Looking back at the screen, I’m astonished to see the words that Stephen Garner read on television the previous Friday.
“Good God. That’s the President’s memo.”
“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” Something about her tone makes me look up.
“Well, is it or isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. Let’s see what else we can find out.” She works the keyboard again and the display fades, to be replaced by another headed:
MESSAGE SYSTEM AUDIT TRAILS.
“This should tell us when the last attempt was made to access that message. There. Before Saturday, the most recent access was two weeks ago.”
“So?” I don’t get it.
“Well, it all looks genuine enough but it means that whoever leaked the information to Garner must have got it at least two weeks—and maybe longer—ago.” She absently scratches the side of her head. “If that was the case, why did they wait until last Friday to release it?”
“I guess they were picking the best time to embarrass the government.”
“Maybe. There’s more I can dig into yet. Most people wouldn’t know it, but this system actually has two audit trails. This official one,” she points at the screen, “and another that’s part of the system software. The second one is really a log. It isn’t really meant as an audit trail, but it contains a list of all accesses to data files, and what types of access they were. The system only uses the file if there’s some sort of a failure, so that it can recover its files to the point when the system went down. It’s a bit hard to find if you don’t know what you’re looking for. I can get hold of it, though. I’ve used it a few times to check on information in the official audit trail.” She frowns and her hands go back to the keyboard.
“There,” she says. The screen changes and columns of data appear in apparently random order.
“So what does it show?”
Kathleen peers at the columns. “Well, what it should show is an add back when the memo was first written, months ago, followed by a series of look-ups every time the message was read. The last of the look-ups should be the one two weeks ago.” She glances at me, her voice displaying a coolness that I guess she doesn’t really feel. “In fact, this file shows that the access two weeks ago was the only one of any kind on this message. And it was an add.”
My head rings as I come to terms with what she’s said. I get up and walk around the small room. Feel more like Buster Keaton than Steven Segal.
“Are you sure about this?”
She nods. “There’s no reason why this log should be wrong.”
“So there’s only one conclusion we can draw.” I look into her eyes: although she returns the look, she does not respond. “The message was created two weeks ago, not when it was supposed to have been written. So it’s a fake.”
7
Coming on top of the shock of Mac’s death and my description of the attempted mugging, I can see that the implications of what we’ve found almost overwhelm her. For a while she sits silently, as if wondering what to do.
Most of our co-workers have left the office and headed home. “Time we took a break,” I say. I clap my hands together and walk through to the boardroom to pour us drinks. I can still see her in the mirrored glass of the cocktail cabinet. She pauses, then sighs and makes to follow me. Her long pale legs uncurl as she stands. She glides upright and moves like a panther in a cage. Inside the large meeting room, she sits tiredly at one end of the long oak table. I turn and, handing her a drink, propose a toast to our dead friend: she holds up her glass and drinks solemnly.
We both know that we’ll have to discuss what we’ve found and try to work out what to do with the information we now possess. Suddenly, I guess, she feels shy, afraid that her logic will slip, and knowing that neither of us seems to want to confront the frightening issues we face. There’s an awkward silence and then she looks up at me. “You mentioned something once about an ex-wife.”
“Yeah.” I gesture hopelessly. The question’s taken me by surprise. “It was a mess. We split up a year or so back.”
“Oh.” Her expression remains neutral: I can’t really tell if she’s interested or indifferent. Maybe she’s thinking about her own failed marriage.
“But you’re divorced?” she asks.
“Yes. I guess it’s easier for people like me.”
“I guess. Your religion obviously doesn’t…”
I shrug. “I’m not exactly big on religion anyway. Left all that behind when I was in my teens. You’re still…”
“Active in the church? Yes. When you’re raised in a family like mine, being a Catholic’s not easy to shake off. Not unless you stop believing and I sometimes wonder if any Catholic ever really achieves that.”
“But you still believe?”
She nods. “Mass every Sunday, like a good girl.”
Is there a trace of bitterness? It’s hard to say. Abruptly, she looks at her watch. Straightens her back, like she’s re-imposing logic on emotion. But when she looks back at me, there’s a moment when she freezes, as though there are things she’d like to say but can’t, and she catches me too so that we’re there for a few moments, each holding the other’s gaze, and now I’m sure that there are feelings of attraction on both sides that we’d probably both prefer weren’t there.
“I’m sorry,” she says at last, “but I’ll have to be going soon and we haven’t worked out what we’re going to do about this phantom network. Do you think we should go to the police now?”
“I’m not sure that they’d know what to do about it. I was thinking that maybe we should approach someone in the government, but it would probably be futile. If they came out now and said their computer system proved Garner’s information was wrong, nobody would believe them. This is the post-Watergate generation—governments are presumed guilty until proven innocent: and that never happens.”
She watches my face again as I sip at my beer. I realize that my pulse has speeded up and start, despite myself, to wonder what it would be like to put my arms around her and pull her close to me. It’s an effort to hold back.
“I think,” I say, “the best thing would be to find a way to make the whole affair public. I was thinking that maybe I’d talk again to this friend of mine in television news. Maybe if we can demonstrate the fraud to her she’ll know what to do.” I hesitate. “If you think that’s a good idea?”
She nods. “Yes, I think it is. I can’t think of anything better to do.”
“Okay, I’ll fix it. In the meantime, I think it will be best if we keep the whole thing to ourselves.”
“My lips will be sealed.” She stands and slips the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. Time to go. Relief battles regret. “I’m sorry, but I do have to rush. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I finish my own drink and we walk together down the stairs to the front door of the building. As a precaution, I make her walk ahead while I wait in the shadows. If anyone’s watching, I tell her, I don’t want us to be seen together. She accepts the tactic calmly and leaves me without looking back.
When she’s gone, I feel lonely for the first time in a year.
***
I return home and set about trying to contact Jackie Paris, after being told by one of her colleagues that she’s away on assignment. After three-quarters of an hour on the telephone, I finally track her down to a hotel in Indianapolis and ask her to meet with me on her return. She explains that she’ll be back in the city late on W
ednesday—two days away—and will see me at the Friday night rehearsal of the Shakespeare group. Too late, I argue. I guess she recognizes the concern in my voice. She agrees to rearrange her plans and meet me at the firm’s offices on Thursday afternoon. I decline her offer to talk to another of the station’s reporters in her absence and go back to the Glenlivet bottle.
Jackie’s mention of rehearsal makes me feel guilty. I’ve missed one arranged for the previous evening. There’s another scheduled for tomorrow night and, if I’m not careful, I’ll be way behind with learning my lines. Time to make amends: I walk over to the sideboard, pick up the heavy Complete Works and open it to Antony and Cleopatra. My cues and lines are marked and I start reading from my entrance in Scene II, playing multiple roles in my head, Enobarbus and Charmian, the Soothsayer, Antony. As so often happens when I read Shakespeare, the words seem to speak to me, although my character’s sardonic humor seems darker than usual today.
Enobarbus: What’s your pleasure, sir?
Antony: I must with haste from hence.
Enobarbus: Why, then, we kill all our women. We see how mortal an unkindness it is to them; if they suffer our departure, death’s the word.
8
I wake the next morning with a heavy head and lie in my bed for once instead of getting up to go for a run. Staring up at the ceiling, I think over the circumstances of Mac’s death and the discoveries that Kathleen and I have made: in the light of day, it all seems remote and unlikely and I wonder whether we wouldn’t be better off just forgetting about the whole thing. The only problem with that is that I know it’s not an option that would find favor with Kathleen.
As happens too often of late, I find myself thinking about my colleague and the feelings that she’s inspiring in me. I have to face the fact that I’m becoming increasingly attracted towards her. She’s stirring in me emotions that I’ve never felt before, not for Michelle or any other woman. For an idle moment I wonder whether she realizes it, and whether she feels anything for me. At times I’m sure I know what she’s thinking but at others… I push myself up, sighing, and swing my legs out of the bed. I know that any relationship with Kathleen would have to be doomed before it started and tell myself to forget the whole thing and suppress my emotions.
In the living room, I turn the TV on. CNN’s carrying a report about computer-animation systems similar to the one that must have produced the movie clip that Kathleen showed me a few days ago. Ad agencies are planning to make series of commercials featuring animations of long-dead stars like Marilyn Monroe and Greta Garbo. There’s a short example. Clark Gable sips soda, proclaims its benefits to a bar-full of admirers. The clip’s black-and-white and, if I didn’t know it hadn’t been taken from one of Gable’s old films, it sure would have fooled me. When the clip’s done, a self-satisfied representative of the ad agency appears to tell us that people who regard this new breed of ad as sacrilegious belong back in the twentieth century.
I walk through into the kitchen, switch on the coffee percolator and slide two slices of bread into the toaster. While I’m waiting on the machines, I pick up the phone and call the firm’s number, asking them to put me through to Kathleen. When she answers, I make an effort to keep my voice neutral and tell her what Jackie said. By now, though, she has other things on her mind. Charles Connor’s project is still behind schedule: there are more problems with the software and Kathleen has been told that she has to help catch things up. It means that she’ll be very busy and has to work on the project site, away from the firm’s offices. We agree that further investigation of the phantom network has to wait, at least until after I’ve met with Jackie.
As I replace the receiver, I realize that the kitchen is starting to fill with smoke. Looking round, I see that the automatic pop-up release on the toaster has jammed again. The pieces of bread are stuck inside and beginning to burn. Quickly, I reach over and switch the appliance off at the socket. I gingerly pluck the burnt bread out, using a fork, and drop it into the pedal bin. The damn smoke alarm happily ignores the fumes wafting around it. Mental note to check the battery. It seems like the machines are in revolt against me.
I remember that I have to call Mac’s sister to check on the time of the funeral. I look up her name in the telephone directory and call the number.
“Mrs Abbott? It’s Andrew Ross. How are you feeling today?”
“Oh, I’m all right, thank you. Life has to go on, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does.” Why is it that death always reduces people to clichés? “I said I’d call to find out when the funeral is arranged for.”
“Oh yes. It’s tomorrow at eleven a.m., so it is.”
“Fine. I’ll see you then. Do you need any help with the arrangements?”
“No, we’ve got everything organized, thanks. It’s all been going smoothly enough.” I’m about to ring off when she continues, as if she’s just remembered something. “There is something strange, though. One of Malcolm’s friends from the bowling club told us he’d taken his car to the match and hadn’t had a drink that night because he was driving home.”
“Oh?” I know there should be some significance in what she’s saying but whatever it is seems to be just beyond the feeble grasp of my mental fingers.
“Well, the doctor who attended the accident reckoned he smelled strongly of drink—I think I may have told you that. And there’s something else. They found Malcolm’s car back in his garage, but he would have driven from the club, so he would. The accident was late at night and no shops were open. So why was he crossing the road?”
I suddenly feel very cold. Her words connect up with frightening thoughts that I’ve been trying to rationalize away. Hadn’t Mac said something to me about taking his car? It takes me a few moments to collect my thoughts.
“It does sound odd. Have you mentioned it to the police?”
“Yes, I did. There was an officer from the local precinct—he was very nice and sympathetic—and he said he’d look into it. We haven’t heard any more though. I suppose Malcolm could have come home and parked his car and then decided to go out again. Maybe he fancied a walk. I suppose it’s just one of those things, so it is.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Just one of those things.” But as I replace the receiver, the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me I’m a liar. My mind goes back to the thoughts I had when Kathleen first told me that Mac was dead. And I half-remember something that Mac himself told me when we were together a few days ago. What was it? Something to the effect that his policeman’s instincts did not allow for coincidence...
The young gay boy, Gabriel. Dead in a city street. And now there’s a second death.
And I recall Kathleen saying that she used Gabriel’s codes and passwords when she first accessed the phantom network. What if that was the cause of the young man’s murder?
And, of course, since the boy’s death, the codes she’s been using have been mine.
9
My worries continue after I arrive at work. I try to address my escalating workload but I can’t concentrate. Mid-way through the morning my erratic thought patterns are interrupted by Andrea, the receptionist, putting her head round the door of my office and calling to me in a half-whisper.
“Can you spare a couple of minutes?”
“Sure,” I say, “what’s the problem?”
“There’s a couple of cops here want to talk to you.” She sees the surprise on my face. “I guess it’s about Mr McAllister’s death. I asked them to wait in the small meeting room.”
I sit and think for a moment. Despite the fact that I’ve been tempted to talk to the police during the last few days, I realize that my feelings of curiosity are mingled with the sort of illogical guilt that innocent people invariably experience when confronted by representatives of the law. Finally, telling myself that I’ve nothing to fear, I get up and walk to the meeting room. Inside are two men in plain clothes. They produce detectives’ shields in leather wallets and, as always seems to happen whe
n I meet strangers, I miss their names while I absorb impressions. The older cop’s somewhere in his fifties, a dowdy man with a weary expression, thinning hair and heavy jowls that give him the appearance of a fretful bloodhound. The other man is taller with an athletic build and an aggressive stance. There is a grayness about both men, like they’re characters from an old black-and-white movie. It’s hard for me to gauge their intentions or attitude towards me.
It is the older man who does most of the talking. His voice seems to be carefully neutral. “We’re sorry to bother you, sir, but we understand that you knew Malcolm McAllister?”
“Yes,” I nod. “He did some work for us sometimes.”
“Well, I’m sure you know about Mr McAllister’s unfortunate death. We’re making some inquiries about his business affairs. We wonder if we could ask you a few questions?”
“Yes, sure. Why don’t you sit down?” My pulse is up again. I force myself to be calm and gesture to the low chairs arranged around the wooden coffee table. The two cops sit and I drop myself into a chair facing them. It’s only then that the detective’s words register.
“Did you say you’re investigating Mac’s business affairs?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I’m sorry.” I rub my nose perplexedly. “I assumed you were here about the hit-and-run.”
“No. The uniforms are handling that. I guess you know, since leaving the police department Mr McAllister has worked as a private security agent.” The cop sniffs and his tone makes it clear that he doesn’t much approve of private eyes. “At the time of his death, we’d been asked to investigate a complaint about Mr McAllister’s activities in relation to a particular corporation.”
The Digital Dream Page 20
