Cyber Genius

by Patricia Rice

  “No way,” I warned, to both his suggestion and innuendo. “Hiding is a form of retreat, and I’m no longer there. Hiding is what you do. I did it all day for you and Tudor. I won’t anymore.”

  There had been a time when I had hid, and he knew it. But I was learning how unhealthy that was.

  Graham growled and dropped me like a hot potato. “You don’t know the danger you’re in.”

  I missed the strength of his arms and mentally called myself a dozen names. I could have laid down my ultimatum after we’d done a horizontal tango. Why did I have to develop scruples now?

  “Living is dangerous,” I said scornfully, hurting from his abrupt rejection. I didn’t like being left cold after he’d got me hot. But I didn’t kick him like he deserved. I was unfortunately starting to understand the depths of his paranoia. “We all have to decide what risks to take for the rewards we want to achieve. You make your call, I make mine.”

  I stalked away, leaving him to pout or whatever men did when women wouldn’t listen to them.

  Thirteen

  How Ana spends Sunday night

  “What kept you?” Tudor asked in irritation once I slipped into the coal cellar.

  My little brother had been worried about me. That was kind of sweet. Little did he know . . . . Sighing, I slapped his back and pushed him onward. “I was reconnoitering. I don’t see any spies, but you’d better lay real low for a while. Go upstairs, let EG in when she arrives, and send her to bed. It’s a school night. Then get some sleep and let that gray matter process a brilliant solution to all our problems.”

  He gave a teenage snarl at the babysitting duty and ran up the stairs. That was okay. He was old enough to shoulder a few family responsibilities.

  I entered my office and opened my computer to check on new files. Graham had been haunting the carriage house for more reasons than me. I expected to find answers in his latest documents.

  He’d thoughtfully gone in and tagged my incoming mail in levels of importance. Really, I needed to strangle the control freak, but I admired his efficiency—and his intelligence—too much.

  Graham had highlighted three attachments in red for important. The first was a police file on the contents of Kita’s laptop and phone. In the stolen document—assuming he was hacking police files and a mole wasn’t handing them to him—Graham had bolded Kita’s correspondence and calls to Tray Fontaine at MacroWare’s HQ. They looked legit to me. The guy would have been thrilled with his mentor for finding him this new job.

  A welcome-to-your-new-job email from hotel management asked Kita to stop by the office and had been highlighted in a bright magenta. Funny, ha ha, Graham. Rainbow colors denoted what? But I noted the name of the manager—one Brian Livingston—and figured on running a little research on the boss. Someone had invested in immigration papers to obtain Kita’s position as fish chef.

  Livingston’s phone number showed up on Kita’s contact list after the date of the meeting. How often did luxury hotel managers call their chefs? Or vice versa?

  Kita’s laptop records also turned up the place where he’d purchased the puffer fish and the research he’d done to remind himself of the intricate steps necessary to remove the poisonous organs.

  I needed to investigate how to put the poison back in. If Haitian voodoo priests could create zombies with dry puffer fish guts, I assumed some other knucklehead would have figured out a drying process or worse.

  My imagination conjured an image of billionaire CEOs in Italian suits rising up like zombies from the podium and shoving botulism-laced salsa down each other’s throats... But puffer fish actually paralyzed the nerves, and I had no proof that the salsa was bad.

  The next highlighted file was a police dossier on Thomas Alexander, the alias Graham had used to book a hotel room. Apparently MacroWare had been paying a computer security firm owned by one Thomas Alexander.

  According to the dossier, the real Thomas Alexander, the original owner of the security firm, had died in the Pentagon fire in 9/11.

  So had Graham’s wife, but that wasn’t in this report. If the police had the ability to put two and two together, however, they might see the connection, flimsy as it was.

  If Graham had actually bought the company and hadn’t changed the name, that was hardly a big deal. People bought established businesses and continued under the original name all the time. Of course, they didn’t usually assume that owner’s identity as Graham apparently had.

  Right now, the police report was pretty thin and didn’t include Graham’s name or who had bought the firm after Alexander died. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. They just noted that the credit card used to book Alexander’s hotel room was in the name of a dead man’s company.

  The third highlighted document was the real eye-opener. An email from “Thomas Alexander” had been sent to the police today with the possible motivation for murder: He’d told the cops about the operating system defect.

  I stared at that email in awe. Graham had guts, I’d give him that. He did what had to be done, provided the cops with motive for murder—even if it got his ass fired by MacroWare for exposing their cover-up. Because by golly gee, MacroWare certainly hadn’t announced any flaw in the system yet. My guess was that they were discreetly updating the beta programs—destroying all evidence of the breach.

  Except neither Tudor nor Graham had found any evidence of the operating system being patched, despite the warnings Stiles had received and passed on to his now incapacitated staff.

  Graham was taking a huge risk by passing the information to the police. If the media learned about a spyhole in MacroWare’s operating system—the scandal could affect national security and cause a global economic melt-down.

  Graham had just e-mailed the information equivalent of an atomic bomb.

  Seeing the need for speed, I dug back into Graham’s files. Using Thomas Alexander’s email, he had sent the cops the name of three computer firms that could be trusted to verify the operating system defect and recommended that Kita’s laptop be checked for the flaw.

  Wow, just wow. Graham had actually exposed himself to the world—albeit under an alibi. He’d had some pretty bad crap dumped on his head nearly a decade ago when he’d tried to disclose political irregularities and got publicly kicked out of his influential office. The potential to blame him again instead of the real culprits was huge. No wonder he was feeling a little wound up.

  How long would it take the cops to track down the “Thomas Alexander” who was handing them this loaded bomb? Those computer firms Graham had recommended could probably trace his email—eventually.

  I had a thousand questions, like: if Kita’s computer was affected, had Kita possibly sent an email or document that might have scared the real bad guys into fearing he was a danger to them? There were so many “ifs” attached to that my head threatened to explode, so I didn’t try to come up with more.

  Despite the explosive potential, I didn’t see anything in these files that I could work on now. Sundays were useless for getting anything done. I sent my queries to Graham and shut down.

  I toddled upstairs, and after checking that both Tudor and EG were in their beds, I went to mine. Not to sleep, mind you—Graham had done a real number on my libido. Sleep was out of the question.

  ***

  Monday morning, I was interrogating EG over breakfast about her Sunday visit when Tudor tore into the dining room looking paler than his usual ghost-white. Even the freckles across his nose looked pale pink instead of brown.

  “He’s gone!” he cried. “Vanished! He’s left us all to hang!”

  Well, yeah, that’s what spies did. “Graham?” I inquired, just to verify before I gave in to frantic heart palpitations.

  Tudor nodded and looked as if he’d knock the cup from my hand if I didn’t get up and run. “Everything is gone.”

  Oh, filthy bad word. That couldn’t be good. I practiced a meditative technique I’d learned in India. It didn’t work. I would go ballistic if I didn’t act
on my explosive energies. That was the reason I so admired Graham’s gym. When I needed to kick something, I could. This wasn’t the time, I accepted, as I dragged out of my chair.

  The spider in the attic—gone? Did I change the locks and take possession of my grandfather’s house? Or worry that he’d left us to take the blame for whatever he’d done now? Most likely both, plus all the other scenarios I could conjure.

  “Can I see?” EG asked eagerly. She’d never been inside the lair.

  “Let me first,” I said with relative calm. I’d learned at an early age to hide panic and my fear of dead bodies lurking in dark corners. “Tudor, sit, eat, keep EG company.”

  Mallard was normally in the kitchen at this hour. I didn’t want to run down there first without seeing the evidence with my own eyes.

  I took the stairs two at a time—not easy given my short legs but fear gave me wings. Graham had given the cops leads that could potentially lead to proving his existence—and his proximity to the murder victims. Had he decided to move on and start over?

  I refused to think—leaving us in the lurch—but it was there, buried in my psyche. I should have realized it the instant I’d read those files. Or figured something suspicious was happening when Graham had grabbed me in the garage. None of this was normal Graham behavior.

  Upstairs, all the doors were open. The third floor had been a mysterious place of closed doors that we’d been ordered to stay out of. I, being the nosy and impertinent one, had poked around, but once reassured nothing lethal had been concealed up here, I’d obliged and mostly left Graham alone.

  Putting off the scary emptiness of computer central that Tudor had reported, I glanced in the bedrooms, looking for evidence of hasty retreat. I opened doors on old narrow beds, stripped to the ancient mattresses, probably once used by children or servants. I knew about the gym and passed it by with only a cursory glance inside. Near the far corner room overlooking the back yard and carriage house I started sneezing, evidence that Graham’s cat had been here recently. Would he have taken it with him? This room had a king-sized bed with no linen. The closet was empty as if no one had ever lived here.

  My heart had reached my throat by the time I entered the largest room on this floor. The one at the center, at the top of the stairs, had been Graham’s computer lair. Had last night been Graham’s warped way of saying farewell? Had he been waiting for a ride when I’d strolled through?

  With leaden feet, I entered the windowless cave where Graham normally resided. The lights were on for the first time since I’d moved in. As Tudor had said, the room was essentially empty, with none of the blaring screens, beeping alarms, and staticky voice connections to make it the heartbeat of the house.

  My heart did a nose dive, and I couldn’t stop sneezing. So far, I hadn’t found the cat.

  Where once there had been an entire bank of monitors there was now a beige wall with vividly colored, impressionistic sports paintings. Even I recognized the artist from the sixties—my grandfather’s time. They were probably worth a fortune or two.

  A row of circular glass lamps vaguely resembling flying saucers hung over a long, curved console. The console had a higher counter on the painting side and a lower one on this side, like some kind of Star Trek prop except made of polished teak. It was empty of keyboards or anything that indicated it had been used any time this century—although not a speck of dust marred it. That was a good indicator that Mallard had been in on the move.

  I yanked open a drawer and found the antihistamine box. Oddly reassured, I popped one and continued studying the bizarre situation. Just yesterday this room had been the beating heart and brains of the mansion. It was as if all the life had been sucked out overnight.

  The cheap computer desk Tudor had been using sat in one corner, out of place in this expensively masculine—den?

  Den. All it needed was a round poker table. I narrowed my eyes and tried to picture the dark lair that I remembered. Graham had had monitors pretty much along the width of the space now covered by art. The low counter was about the right height for his keyboards and accessories. He usually sat on this side of the desk, facing the wall of artwork. His desk chair was now abandoned in the corner with Tudor’s computer, but I suspected it would fit neatly under the low counter.

  I tried to recall the windows from outside of the house—they’d all been shuttered—probably to hide the fact that they’d been walled over.

  I crossed the room and examined the art work, then the console.

  It took me a while. The latch was part of the wood, not visible, and hidden in a reasonably inaccessible underpart of the console. I pushed, and the entire panel opened up to reveal his network of wiring, keyboards, and computers.

  He hadn’t intended to have his secrets easily discovered. A cursory police search would reveal nothing. The FBI—well, that would depend on how badly they wanted him. By the time I closed the console, EG and Tudor were in the doorway, watching.

  Figuring it was probably better not to give Tudor unfettered access to the satellite feeds probably wired behind the wall, concealed by art, I didn’t hunt for the switch that would lift the art work. I gauged there was just enough room around each painting for a sliding panel. Revealing how the console opened to expose Graham’s equipment was dangerous enough.

  “Don’t touch his stuff,” I warned. “He may have gone on walk about, but he’ll have access and will know if you’ve tampered with anything.”

  They both eyed the artwork with interest. But we knew what had been in here. Others wouldn’t. Anyone unfamiliar with the layout would just see my grandfather’s archaic man cave. Now that I looked at it, I could see the high side of the console would pass for a bar. It just needed liquor. The shelves were empty—because everything was hidden behind them.

  I frowned at Tudor’s desk. “I don’t like you working up here alone.”

  He sat down and opened his browsers. “My stuff is all here. The connections he lets me use are still operating. I’m still inside MacroWare. I’m getting closer to the engineer who could have designed that hole, and I’ve almost got a patch worked out.”

  “OK, granted, that’s big,” I admitted. “If the cops or feds arrive with a search warrant, how quickly can you disappear?”

  “The hidden stairs are right over there.” He nodded at an empty wall of glass-cased bookshelves beside his desk. “I can hear anyone at the door through the intercom. All the important information is on the external drive, so I can just shut down, unplug the external, and hide inside the wall. The main drive is just games.” He opened his screen to reveal the contents of his C drive—everything a kid could love.

  “Pink Pony?” I asked dubiously, scanning the list.

  “He stole that from me,” EG said, her eyes wide with awe as she contemplated the bookshelf. She hadn’t known about the hidden stairs. I’d have to buy a lock to keep her out.

  “Right. Let’s get some of your toys and books up here, make this look like a play room—just in case,” I advised.

  Fireworks were going off in my head, but now wasn’t the time to reveal the level of my confusion. The kids needed me to be confident and assured.

  How many times had Magda been in a state of total panic but still ushered us calmly out of a country on the brink of explosion? I didn’t want to count the number. Mostly, I didn’t want to sympathize with my mother.

  “You think he’s coming back?” Tudor asked uncertainly.

  His own father hadn’t. Damn, but my siblings made my hard heart bleed.

  “Graham will be back, and we’ll live to regret it,” I assured him. “He’s protecting us right now.”

  I liked that idea. I’d practice believing it, right up to the time I killed him for leaving me to cover his ass.

  Fourteen

  Since Tudor and I were supposed to be visiting MIT, I needed to lie low. If we had feds in the bushes, I didn’t want to leave EG open for questioning. That meant I needed to find backup for her trips to and from
school. I hunted down Mallard in his kitchen.

  Speakers under the cabinets were blaring opera, and our hefty butler smiled with the serenity of a monk as he obliterated a chicken breast with a mallet. I did not underestimate Mallard’s killer instincts.

  “I don’t suppose our lord and master has left any instructions with you, has he?” I asked.

  “Only that I recommend that you and your family take a long vacation until he has matters in hand,” he replied respectfully.

  “And you know that we have no intention of obeying orders, right?” I knew Mallard’s loyalties were with Graham, but he’d worked for my grandfather first and worshipped my mother. We tested his allegiances regularly.

  “I would not consider questioning your choices,” he said with dignity, producing another raw piece of meat and smashing it.

  “Right.” I eyed the flattened bird with respect. “Would it be too much to ask if you’d walk EG to the Metro? Or I could hire a taxi.”

  “Miss Elizabeth Georgiana ought to have a car and driver. The Metro is too dangerous in the current situation. I have made arrangements.”

  I opened my mouth, but for a change, no words spilled out. I’d seen the ancient Phaeton. I prayed that wasn’t what he intended. I still managed a grateful “thank you” and beat a strategic retreat.

  I could be vociferous, bold, and outright deranged in the face of danger, but kindness knocked me for a loop—shows what my experience has been.

  I shivered at realizing that even Mallard thought we had a problem. I had a notion that Graham wasn’t feeding me all I needed to know.

  I watched at the door with EG until the sedate black sedan that had carried me downtown arrived. I recognized the driver. EG was suspicious, but I promised she was safe.

  This was Monday. We had less than a week now to get Tudor back to his London school. The timing on when the cops came after Graham was unpredictable. I just knew I had better get cracking.