No suggestion of trouble so far. I’m unsure whether to be relieved or concerned. I have dark misgivings that whoever is behind the phantom network might know all about me and is just biding time until the right opportunity presents itself. I pray that our unseen enemy has not also detected Kathleen’s presence.
I disembark at my stop and walk the few hundred yards to the office. The workmen are back, digging up the sidewalk. I step around them, noticing what seem to be exposed power cables in the muddy hole. Entering the building and crossing the lobby, I start to walk up the stairs. I’ve just passed the second floor and have my foot in mid-step when the lights suddenly go out.
I stand still for a moment, waiting for the emergency lighting to throw its dim glow onto the stairwell. For some reason, it isn’t happening. I strain my ears for sounds of movement anywhere and realize that it has become unusually quiet. Even the background hum of the building’s air conditioning systems is gone.
I wait another minute. Pitch blackness all around me. Still no glimmer of light or sounds of any other people. Gingerly, I climb up to the next step, clutching the handrail. Another step, my free hand waving in front of my face.
Continuing to climb, I make the next landing and grope my way around. Third floor. One more to go. I start up. My mind works over the lack of emergency lighting. Strange. It must mean that the generator in the basement has failed to start for some reason. As my hand continues to grope in front of me, the fears of recent days come back to me. Instant paranoia. I suddenly have the feeling that there’s someone ahead of me, silent, not even breathing. An unseen figure. Hooded, perhaps. I stop, listen, heart thumping. I can see and hear nothing. I should never have given up smoking. If I still smoked, at least I’d have a lighter with me. Maybe the Surgeon General should issue a health warning about giving up. I force myself to take another step, half-convinced that my waving hand will encounter something, the flesh of a face, perhaps, or the steel of a blade...
Another step. I try to tell myself that my fear is irrational. But if someone wanted to scare me, this would be a real effective way.
Another step. I try to remember how many steps I have taken since the third floor landing. How many are there until I reach the fourth floor? The stairs seem to go on forever.
Another step. No one there. Another, then another. Suddenly my feet reach the landing. The door must be there, to my right. Throwing caution aside, I lunge towards the spot where I expect to find the door handle, feel its cold steel, twist it, try to push. Nothing. Illogical. The doors open into the stairwell. I think I hear an echo behind me. Footsteps? I drag the door towards me and I’m rewarded by the low gleam of daylight through the office windows.
Forcing myself to hold my ground, I turn and, in the scant illumination, make myself look back into the stairwell. It’s pitch black. I listen carefully. There’s no sound.
Feeling foolish, I walk past the receptionist. She shrugs and grimaces. “Power cut. Everything’s down. It must be those stupid workmen outside.”
“What about the backup generator?”
Another shrug. “They probably forgot to put gas in it.”
I walk towards the kitchen, feeling foolish now at having allowed myself to be spooked. Damn! No power, no coffee. I curse under my breath and enter my office, sitting and putting my feet on the desk to think.
The power cut must be coincidental. Bad luck that I was on the stairs at the time. Worse for anyone in an elevator. I’m glad that Kathleen’s working off-site, with her other client. I wonder whether I should go and check whether anyone was in the elevators but there’s no need: the electricity comes back on. The brighter lights shine on the paperwork sitting in my in-tray. Normal business life has to go on if I’m going to keep my job... With a sigh, I lean forward and pick up the first of the documents that scream for my attention.
***
Mid-way through the morning, I leave to attend Mac’s funeral. Kathleen, wearing a simple black dress, arrives at the service soon after me and we sit side-by-side in the marble-lined chapel as the service proceeds. The coffin stands on runners at the front of the chapel: as the service ends, it disappears through a set of curtains to the cremation chamber. I feel Kathleen move and look round to see tears on her face. The sight makes me want to cry myself: instead, without thinking, I take her hand and she grips it tightly until people around us start to stand and edge towards the exit. Malcolm’s sister meets us briefly as we leave and thanks us for attending. It all seems to be over so quickly. A few hymns, a couple of prayers, kind words and that’s it for you, Mac. On with your own lives, everyone else.
We share a cab after the ceremony, Kathleen getting out first so that she can go back to work in the tower block that houses the project team she is working with. I return to my office and try to concentrate on my work backlog for the rest of the afternoon.
Around five o’clock, I receive a phone call from Jackie to say that she’s back in town. I close my office door and tell her what we’ve discovered about the Able-Air affair. For the most part, Jackie listens without comment but I can tell that her reporter’s instincts are aroused. Several times she interrupts me to clarify points and by the time I’ve finished, she’s no longer prepared to wait until the next day before seeing evidence of the apparent fraud.
“No way, Ross. What kind of a man are you, getting a girl all aroused and then putting her off? It’s got to be tonight, buster!”
I agree to phone Kathleen and ask her to call into the firm after she’s finished work. Tonight it will be.
***
We arrange to meet at seven o’clock. As it is, Jackie arrives ten minutes earlier—another sign that her professional interest is running hot. I let her into the locked foyer of the building with a surge of genuine affection and a brotherly kiss on the cheek.
We stand together in the shadows at the rear of the foyer and talk about how rehearsals for the play are going, Jackie admitting to guilt that her job is causing her to miss so many sessions. With the election coming up, she says, she has just about decided that she is going to have to withdraw from the production now and give them time to get someone else. I react with dismay but I understand the problem only too well. I’m starting to wonder whether I won’t have to do the same thing.
Finally, I see Kathleen’s car arrive. Again, I hold back until she lets herself in, aware of Jackie’s curious glances. When Kathleen joins us, away from the blank stare of the lobby camera, I make introductions before we hurry up the stairs.
Kathleen starts the system and begins to go through the routines that will connect us to the network. As she goes through each step, she explains what she is doing simply but without condescension. I can see that Jackie appreciates her style.
“You tell a good story, Kathleen,” she says. “You ought to be in my business.”
“Actually, I took journalism for a while in school,” Kathleen says. “I was planning to make a career of it at one point.”
“What happened?” asks Jackie.
Kathleen smiles ruefully. “I discovered that I was more interested in taking the word processing software apart than using it to write stories.”
Jackie returns the smile and draws her knees up in front of her on the chair. “While you’re going on with what you’re doing, let me see if I’ve got this straight so far. You’re saying that someone has been lifting confidential information out of computer files using this...” she waves a well-manicured hand at the personal computer, “this phantom network. And not content with that, they’ve been manufacturing material designed to embarrass the government and planting it in a whole bunch of different computers?”
I sigh. “I know it sounds incredible when you put it like that.”
“It’s been hard for us to believe too,” says Kathleen. “There have been times when I’ve felt that we must have just made some stupid mistake. But the technology is there to do these things. In some ways, I’m surprised this hasn’t happened before.”
“Anyway,” I continue, “we’ll be able to show you now.”
Kathleen has won through to the computers which hold the records of both the South American dumping and the Able-Air scandals. Jackie watches the screens of information flicker by and sits back, visibly impressed.
“Okay, this is interesting but I only have your word for it that the information here is inconsistent with the other stuff you’ve found. How do you prove that this itself,” she points to the screen, “is all lies?”
Kathleen explains about the contradictory audit trails.
“Okay, show me.”
“It’s not too easy to understand if you’re not fairly expert with computer systems,” warns Kathleen.
“I’ve done all right so far. And you explain things well.”
I can see that, despite the ironic edge to Jackie’s words, she means the last comment as a compliment. Kathleen takes her through the ordinary audit trails, pointing out the records that apparently support the authenticity of the planted reports. Then she moves down into the lower level records.
“The information I’m going to bring up next is a machine record only. That is, it’s not really part of the application system, it’s just something that the computer does to help it keep control over what’s going on inside it.” She presses keys. “This is the first of the trails now.” A new display appears and she leans forward, puzzled. “That’s strange.” She uses the keyboard again: the display fades and a replacement appears. Then she turns to me, concern creasing her forehead.
“They’re gone.”
“What?” For a moment I don’t understand.
“All the trails relating to the suspect records. Someone has taken them off the system.” For a few minutes, she tries different approaches before sighing with frustration. She pushes her chair away from the terminal and looks at Jackie. “I’m sorry. Somebody must have realized that they were there and decided not to take any chances.”
“Or else,” I whisper, “someone detected the fact that we have been looking at them.”
“Whatever,” Kathleen says worriedly. “There goes our proof.”
Jackie curses under her breath. “Too bad. There also goes a terrific story.”
“Does that mean you don’t believe us?” I ask her.
“Well,” she says slowly, “I believe you’ve found something. I don’t know what. It’s weird and wonderful and I have to say that if you’d told me yourself I’d have suspected you’d been spending too much time smelling printer ribbons. But having your buddy here” she waves a hand at Kathleen, “back up your story makes it rather convincing. At least she looks as though she’s in her right mind.”
“So, where do we go from here?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Look, there’s a story here just about this phantom network. It’s amazing that you can get into all these computer systems. The implications of that alone are mind-boggling.”
“Wait on,” I say. “I’d much rather you held off on that one. If we go public now, we let the people behind the whole thing know how much we know, without being able to expose them or their lies and cheating. It will just send them further underground. As far as I’m concerned, it’s got to be all or nothing.”
“That goes for me, too,” says Kathleen.
“All right,” says Jackie regretfully. “Look, I’ll talk to some of our people about going with the whole story. But I don’t think they’ll be keen without something more substantial than anecdotes and suspicions. I’m sorry,” she goes on, seeing our faces drop, “but you must see that if my station goes charging around accusing people of rigging evidence, all that will happen is that we’ll find ourselves with a multi-million dollar law suit on our hands. And our friend Stephen Garner will probably accuse the government of bribing us!”
I rub my eyes: I’m starting to feel very tired of the whole thing. “What do you think we should do, then? Just forget the whole thing?”
“No, anything but. Look, you’d be surprised how many great stories we get wind of, especially the corruption and conspiracy ones, but that never see the light of day because we can’t get proof that will stand up in court. As far as this story is concerned, I’m just saying that you’ve got to give me something I can use without committing professional suicide.”
“So we need more evidence?” asks Kathleen.
“Yeah, I’m afraid so. Look, you’re obviously a whiz on this thing,” she rests a hand on the terminal. “Keep going. If they’ve slipped up once, there’s a chance that they’ll do it again.” She turns to me. “And have a dig around. See what else you can find out. I’ll start a few inquiries off through the network. Maybe we’ll be able to turn something up.”
I look at Kathleen. Again, she gives a little shrug. “Well, I’ve been thinking about other things that I can check on. I might try a few ideas out—if I can find time.”
“Do you want me to try to get you released to work on it tomorrow?”
“It would help. Otherwise it’ll just have to be after hours.”
“Okay, I’ll try.” I turn back to Jackie. “We might as well let you get away. I’m sorry that we couldn’t come through with enough evidence for you.”
“You’re sure that you don’t want to run with the phantom network story?”
“No, let’s at least hold it until we’ve exhausted all the other avenues.”
“Okay. The story was well worth hearing anyway. Just don’t give up on it.”
We walk back down to ground level, going through the careful routine of checking the street, this time Kathleen leaving first while we hold back. After Kathleen has driven away, I stand for a moment in the dark foyer looking after her, hardly aware of Jackie still there, by my side.
“Well, no point in asking if you want to come back to my place for the night,” she says sardonically.
“What do you mean?” I say, surprised at her tone.
Jackie smiles. “It is not hard to see how you feel about your little work-mate.”
I feel my face burning. “I didn’t... Is it that obvious?”
She shrugs. “I guess not, but I am a reporter, you know. I’m supposed to be able to spot little things like that. There’s obviously some chemistry going on between you.”
I hang my head, feeling almost guilty. “I admit that I find her attractive. But that’s as far as it goes. We have a professional relationship after all...”
“And you don’t believe in mixing business with pleasure, I know. Nor does anyone else, but it still happens, all the time.”
“I feel like a stupid old man. She’s quite a few years younger than me and, apart from work, I doubt if she’d even notice I exist.”
“Don’t you believe it, buddy. That chemistry works both ways. A woman knows these things. It’s just that she has her emotions screwed down. Well screwed down. It’s there all right, though.” Her old cynicism resurfaces for a moment. “Still, ‘the course of true love never did run smooth.’”
I smile despite myself. “Romeo and Juliet.”
“Ha! No! Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“Damn. How about ‘Down on your knees And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love.’”
“Chauvinist pig. Anyway, it’s As You Like It. We did it two years ago, before you joined the group. Game, set and match,” she crows.
As she starts to walk towards the door to the street, her face becomes serious again and she turns back to me. “All this love business only ever leads to trouble. We’d all be a lot better off without it, if you want my opinion. You’re probably best off if nothing comes of it, my darling. Try not to get yourself hurt.”
15
He ain’t so stupid. No, not so stupid, Predator tells himself. He figures he’s starting to put it together.
It rattled him, he had to admit, when his name appeared on the screen. He hadn’t realized that Bambi was that smart. But when he calmed down, he began to think it through and could see that it was maybe logical. This guy knows
a lot about networking, that’s for sure. He has somehow managed to interrupt Predator’s computer from some remote site. Why shouldn’t he find out who the line is leased to? Why shouldn’t he figure out who was using the keyboard? How hard could it be? No need for paranoia.
Maybe there’s more going on. Predator keeps the computer turned off and thinks deeply, alone in his room, about the strange “voice” he knows only through a series of displays on his screen. Why is it, he wonders, that this guy is happy to give information out but has no interest in taking anything—either money or credit—in return? Is it just the act of spreading information that Bambi’s really into? It’s possible. There are plenty of dweebs on the Internet who are only interested in communicating with like-minded souls.
And has Predator been a random pick or is there something about him that makes him attractive? Like, maybe, having a cousin who’s a reporter?
And maybe he knows about his illness, this disease-whose-name-he-can’t-even-pronounce. Maybe Bambi knows he’s confined to a wheelchair, sentenced to endure the hospital visits and the injections, the pain while they wash the blood through his system, the million-and-one drugs each with a different side effect. Maybe Bambi figures it makes him vulnerable, more easily used.
“Fuck that,” he grunts. He ain’t as vulnerable as he seems. And he has no intention of being used. Oh, no. He can do some using of his own, if it comes to that.
PART SIX
1
At work the next morning, I plead and argue and finally convince Robin Langan to continue Kathleen’s assignment to the investigation until the end of the week.
The Digital Dream Page 23
