“About as often as it occurs to you to cut your hair,” he said, going back to flicking through a dozen screens at once. “Samson complex?”
My hair is black, but thicker and straighter than my Irish father’s curls. I usually wear it in a long unfashionable braid down my back.
“If I cut it, then how would you recognize me?” I retorted. Not giving him time to answer, I stalked back down the stairs to my office.
I’d never indulged in girlfriend games, but my reaction to this relatively—emphasis on relative—intimate conversation came dangerously close.
I was running the show now, I chanted as I dove into my work. Graham needed me, instead of the other way around.
Four
Ana ponders
With my fear for Tudor’s fate, I was having a lot of difficulty concentrating on the information Graham sent me on Stephen Stiles, the founder and CEO of MacroWare.
Tudor had the potential to be another Stiles if properly channeled.
Unfortunately, our family does not channel well. We’re too independent-minded to play well with others, and profit is seldom our primary motive.
I still wanted Tudor to have choices. I wanted him at MIT. I didn’t want his future destroyed by accidental wormholes in faulty operating systems.
My focus was shot. Besides fretting over Tudor, I had to worry about Graham... Crap.
I should just bash my head against the desk. That would be about as productive as worrying over Graham.
I ran searches on tetrodotoxin, the puffer fish poison, learning how it worked. The bunny trails were fascinating—powdered, the poison was said to create zombies in Haitian voodoo. The tales had been discredited, but my imagination raced picturing Zombie MacroWare execs attacking Wall Street.
EG ran down the basement stairs as soon as she arrived home from school, interrupting my fantasies.
She dropped her books on a chair and practically bounced. “What did Tudor say? Is he staying? Can I wake him now, please? I want him to install that war game he told me about.”
Six short months ago, she’d been a cynical, pessimistic nine-year-old version of me. Now that she’d finally found a school of similar minds and had a home that didn’t involve trains, planes, and buses, she was almost normal. Again—normal being relative. She’d at least lightened up on making dangerously accurate predictions of doom.
Giving my siblings the normal life I never had was the reason I put up with Graham and hoarded cash like a dragon sitting on gold.
“We’re meeting Nick for dinner,” I told her. “Let Tudor sleep until it’s time to dress. And no, you’re not installing war games. Do your homework now so you have all weekend to torment Tudor.”
I wasn’t in a hurry to wake the kid. I didn’t know how I’d break the news that his hero was dead. Leave a newspaper at his door?
“He’s going to visit MIT, isn’t he?” EG crowed. “He said he applied. Can we go with him to see the campus?”
Nice excuse for the kid’s presence here, should anyone learn about it. I liked that. I wasn’t ready to tell her how much trouble he was in. “We’ll see. He may not want us tagging along. And he got accepted by Stanford too. That’s across the country and too expensive for all of us to visit.”
She pouted but grabbed her backpack and dashed upstairs.
Restlessly, I looked up the visa website Tudor had mentioned, but I didn’t see any screaming news about massive cyber-attacks. Websites crashed for all sorts of reasons, and no official would admit to the media that their site had been hacked—especially if they traced it to a sixteen-year-old.
I sorted through Graham’s folder of notes from Stiles on offices testing the beta software and chose an innocuous one. I followed his pathway through the breach and unimaginatively drilled down through layers of computers on a government financial committee working on banking laws. I yawned. Who would spy on red tape like this?
Oh, yeah, right, crooked mortgage lenders and megabanks who were being hauled over the coals might want to know what regulations committees were pondering. Charming. But people into selling and trading didn’t know how operating systems were made, they just expected their computers to work.
The committee’s website looked fine to me, and when I used Graham’s information to access their files, they looked complete. Maybe the kid had panicked over nothing.
Not likely unless he was doing drugs. Tudor had not inherited any drama queen tendencies from our mother. Had I been the one to wreck a government website, I’d be envisioning collapsing dominoes, one country accusing another of cyber-war, and nuclear warheads. But that’s just my experience talking.
My expertise is in detailed research. By the time I heard excited chatter upstairs, I had the names of people who used the banking committee’s website, locations of their computers, and utterly no idea what to do with the information.
Living in a constant state of danger while growing up, I overdosed on caution. Fearing police would carry Graham off while we were out to dinner, I backed up all my drives on an external disk that fit into my overlarge purse and sent a duplicate into our cloud server. As an extra precaution, I unscrewed the cases and detached the hard drives. Those, I stored above the trap door in the secret closet. That would puzzle anyone who dared impound my precious Whiz.
Tudor had showered and changed while I was dismantling the equipment. EG had evidently told him of our dinner plans. I waved at them in the parlor on my way upstairs, and he glanced up at me warily before returning to trouncing EG at video games—on a tablet computer.
Criminey, Tudor had access to the internet. EG was only allowed to use the internet on my computer, under my supervision, but she possessed the family genius for knowing too much for her own good. She would know where to find our network password and pass it on if asked.
If I knew my brother—and I did, we had similar stealthy habits—he’d already been rummaging around online. I no longer had to wonder how to tell Tudor about Stiles. How would a parent comfort their kid after such a devastating blow?
I halted in the doorway. “You saw the news?”
Tudor glared. His eyes were suspiciously red. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said.
Despite his lack of words, I knew what he meant. Why would anyone murder a CEO? Once someone was elevated to that status, their productive days were over, in my opinion. While alive, Stiles had been little more than a salesman in these last years. He had minions to build code these days.
I couldn’t tell from Tudor’s reaction if he’d put two and two together, but once his head cleared, he would.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Give me a minute to change, and we’ll talk about it over dinner.”
For our family, that was a meaningful exchange. I knew Tudor was upset about the death of his hero, but unlike some of us, he wouldn’t display it by an emotional outburst. Tudor was a mean gamer with an adolescent ability to make illogical connections with reality. My fear was that he’d go rogue on the internet, and rip it apart in search of any real or imagined villains if we didn’t give him some meaningful work to do.
Wondering how I could keep both Tudor’s and Graham’s secrets without cutting out my tongue, I dressed in leggings, knee-high boots, and a black sweater that hung almost as long as my black wool skirt. I’d learned the wonders of consignment store shopping and had stocked up on warm. To keep Nick from harping at me, I wore a boring black wool coat instead of my army jacket.
Tudor and EG griped when I made them dress warmly and head down the basement stairs instead of using the front door.
“I know we have money now,” Tudor insisted belligerently. “A taxi won’t break us.”
“That money is tied up in mutual funds. Besides, survival is for the fittest. The restaurant is only half a mile away.” Ignoring his snit, I tugged his scarf tighter.
I’d grown up living with both wealth and desperate food-stealing poverty. I didn’t want my siblings to know hunger, but I didn’t want them to turn in
to privileged snots with no ambition either.
“You want to be like the rest of the rich and weak?” I asked. “Besides, if you go to MIT, you’ll need money. How much of a scholarship can you expect? One that covers room and board?”
That shut him up. I’m betting he hadn’t told his father about his grandiose expectations.
“How much school are you missing?” I asked on the way down the stairs.
Tudor shrugged grumpily. “It’s our quarter break next week. Everyone skips these last few days.”
“Yeah, right, and you have no finals?” But I knew he could ace the tests once the teachers were persuaded this was a family emergency. Solving his problem in time to get him back into class so he could keep his MIT future was the real trick.
“Why this way?” EG asked suspiciously as we traipsed across the backyard.
“Because officially, we have no idea where Tudor is,” I admitted with a sigh. “Let’s not reveal his presence until we know what happens next.”
Tudor sent me a grateful glance and quit complaining about the walk.
EG took the news that Tudor was hiding completely in stride, checking out the back gate to be certain we weren’t watched, tugging Tudor’s knit hat down so no trace of his copper hair could be seen.
Sneakiness is apparently genetic.
The restaurant Nick had chosen was dimly lit, crowded, and noisy. With Tudor and EG to consider, he’d gone for an all-American beef-and-potatoes kind of place, except it was well known for its fabulous soups and salads. Nick and I had been spoiled by Mallard’s gourmet meals.
I insisted on a booth in a dark corner behind a large post. The hostess looked us over, decided we weren’t important enough to put on display, and hid us as requested, much to Nick’s disappointment.
As usual, our glamorous brother was decked out in an elegantly tailored suit with just the right suave open collar and loosened tie to set off his carefully styled golden hair. Nick was the fashionista Magda should have had for a daughter.
“What’s wrong now?” Nick demanded as soon as a server took our drink orders.
I glared at Tudor. “We work together. Tell Nick.”
“And EG?” he asked warily.
“EG, either plug your ears or learn to keep quiet,” I told her.
She stuck her tongue out at me. Since we both knew she would sneak until she found out what was going on, I didn’t argue with that.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and forced myself to admit my dilemma. “I hate to tell you this, folks, but I think this one has to go to Graham, too, if he doesn’t already know. I’m not sure how long we can sit on Tudor’s little difficulty.”
The kid slid down in his chair. “I’m going to jail.”
“You create illegal software. You hack websites,” Nick pointed out. “Sooner or later, jail’s a given.”
“Not if Graham gets involved,” I asserted. With luck, if I could persuade Tudor to give up his secret, I could trade it for revealing Graham’s. I was still angry about our landlord knowing where Max’s money was all these months, so I wasn’t giving away anything for free.
The missing millions were not a topic for tonight or nothing would get done. I wanted more certainty that the money existed before mentioning it to my family.
Tudor looked wary about my suggestion but didn’t throw a tantrum. He gave a general explanation of what he’d done, then concluded, “If Stiles died before a patch was ordered, my worm could be anywhere, doing anything. My e-mail could be sitting in a dead person’s box. For all I know, I’ve unleashed a real monster.”
“Or it could have died on impact. I’ve spent the day looking and have seen no evidence of serious destruction from your worm,” I told him. “If MacroWare has a security breach, it’s a bigger potential problem than your baby cookie monster. China and Russia could be sucking data out of classified databases right now. We could have a world war on our hands, international bankruptcy, economic chaos.”
Tudor rubbed the bridge of his nose but nodded to show he was processing what I was telling him.
“You can work with Graham to analyze the extent of the damages,” I continued, “but more importantly, the two of you can start searching the affected computers for signs of intruders.” I didn’t want to give away Graham’s secrets, so I had to be deliberately vague. “It’s just a matter of time until he finds your program tramping around in files, so you might as well help him.”
“Work with him?” Tudor’s eyebrows soared, as did Nick’s and EG’s.
“His suggestion,” I said triumphantly. “He needs our help anyway.”
I had them there. Their curiosity about our spy in the attic would tilt their nosiness-meters into red alert territory. The rest of the evening was spent answering questions and debating possibilities, probabilities, and other futilities.
By the time we finished our meal—I’d gone for the chunky minestrone and Nick, the lobster salad—we’d all agreed that Tudor had to give up his secret and work with Graham. Nick insisted on walking us home. D.C. streets after dark aren’t the safest place, but I was as adept at beating off thugs as Nick. Still, it was good to have adult company. Not until I thought that did I realize I was back to mothering my younger siblings again.
It had taken me years to escape my doormat role in my mother’s life, but this time, I’d done it to myself.
Strangely, I was good with that.
On the way home, I instructed Tudor to stay off our computer network and lay low with all his friends. He assured me he’d be discreet. But he was sixteen. That wasn’t much better than telling EG to cut out her tongue.
I didn’t have the stamina to tackle Graham in his lair once we got home. I sent Nick off and the kids to bed and ran down to my office comfort zone.
I texted Graham that Tudor had info on the MacroWare breech, but I couldn’t reveal it until Graham allowed me to tell Tudor what he knew about Stephen Stiles and the poisoned execs. I shut down my phone before he could respond.
Let him stew in his own juices a while longer. I didn’t intend to forgive him for trying to trade what was rightfully ours for his own benefit. That placed him way below an alligator’s belly in my book.
I returned my Whiz to working order. From the volume of mail and documents that instantly downloaded, I knew he was still up there in his attic.
The top story he dumped on me—the three surviving MacroWare execs were being treated for botulism and the cops were parked at their hospital doors.
***
Ana’s Saturday morning
I tried not to read newspapers if I could avoid it. I had good friends and acquaintances in half the places that were currently being bombed. I didn’t want to imagine the bakery where they made my favorite kulche reduced to rubble or envision the sweet little cottage in Kenya burned to ashes.
National news wasn’t any happier. I hated thinking that the American public was too stupid or ignorant to see through political greed agendas. Loosening Wall Street and banking regulations would improve the economy, really? Whose economy, theirs or mine? I was thinking if politicians had to operate on my economy, loosening mortgage regulations would be the last thing they’d be concerned about.
But having a landlord involved in the latest headline scandal forced me to read the miserable front page on Saturday morning. Stiles Murdered? was the least of it. After that, objectivity went all to heck.
I set my cell phone on the breakfast table as I consumed my fresh-squeezed orange juice and eggs benedict. Tudor was still sleeping—or hiding in his room. EG was reading her school tablet computer. She’d probably had Tudor spend the night installing prohibited internet access. I’d check later.
Right now, I waited to see which of our family journalists annoyed me by calling first for the story behind the story.
On the dot of seven-thirty—sister Patra won the prize. It was a weekend. She should be sleeping in. I let my phone buzz and indulged in a cup of hot tea. The house phone rang. Somewhe
re in the bowels of the Victorian, Mallard answered it.
He’d given up hunting us down for phone calls months ago. He texted me now that Patra was trying to reach me. I hit “k” so he’d know I’d seen his message.
The next call was from Sean O’Herlihy. He was a real journalist, not a Patra newbie. But he and Patra had connected professionally—and personally—so I wasn’t feeding him information yet either. I let it go to voice mail.
By this time, EG was casting curious glances my way. I really hadn’t reached anywhere close to my most maddening behavior yet. A few weeks ago I’d smashed an entire street full of news vehicles when talking heads had gone out of bounds. I was hoping that had taught the media to be a little more discreet this time. That it was only Patra and Sean calling —people who knew us—meant word on the street hadn’t touched on Graham. Yet. The rest of the world didn’t know Graham the way Patra and Sean did.
But if I fed any information to Patra and Sean, the media would be back on our doorstep in minutes. Graham was worse than me. He would most likely stealth bomb the street. By allowing us into his hermitage, Graham had opened himself up to invasion.
I knew what it was like to have my privacy invaded. I wouldn’t force that violation on a man who—despite his rudeness—had helped my family when they needed it. But this time, he had disturbed the hornets.
Messages would be flooding my email box by now, I calculated. Graham could see everything in the computer he’d provided for me. He would recognize Patra and Sean’s addresses. I debated turning on my phone’s irritating ring and sitting it next to the candelabra in the center of the table where his intercom would pick it up, but in sympathy for his predicament, I figured I’d start out polite and crank the amps later.
EG finished her breakfast and sat playing with her tablet, waiting expectantly.
Finally, the candelabra shouted, “Ana, get your ass up here now!”
Cyber Genius Page 4
