Three Weeks Last Spring

by Howard, Victoria

  "Quit worrying. It was probably some high school kid out for kicks. But if it will make you any happier, I'll ask around. But we're talking about cutting edge technology and I’m not even sure the FBI has the ability to do what you're asking. But then what would I know? I'm only a humble servant of the State Department. When do you want this by?"

  "Yesterday will do just fine."

  "I thought so. Give me a few hours and I'll see what I can do. But no promises mind. How do I reach you?"

  "Try my cell phone or the office, later. I’m planning on taking the seaplane over to Seattle and should be at my desk within a couple of hours."

  Walker hung up. He grabbed his overnight bag and laptop, and strode out of the cabin towards the dock and his waiting seaplane. He seriously questioned whether he was alert enough to fly. These days he functioned on a mixture of pure adrenalin and caffeine. A few hours sleep in a soft bed wouldn't go amiss, he thought wryly, as he eased his tall frame into the confined space of the cockpit.

  Less than fifty minutes later, he arrived at his office. Although modest in size, it offered commanding views of the Seattle waterfront. An hour after sitting down at his desk the IT technician knocked at his door.

  "I hope you've got good news for me, Johnson."

  "Sorry, boss, but your laptop is toast—burnt toast, if you want to get technical. In all my years as an IT engineer, I’ve never seen anything like this. I can't tell whether you downloaded a virus or whether you tried to fry the circuits. Either way, the best place for this is the trash."

  "You can't salvage anything? What about the mainframe?"

  "Nope, can't save anything on your hard drive. As for the mainframe, we certainly have problems, although to what extent I'm not sure. Depends on what you try and access. I've run every check I can, including changing the anti-virus software, access passwords and security levels. I just don't know what's causing these glitches. On the surface it looks like a virus, but it doesn't behave like any virus I’ve ever seen. We need specialist help here and I’ve absolutely no idea who to call."

  "All right, Johnson, it's not your fault. I have a few calls out myself. Let's just wait and see what develops. In the meantime, no one—and I mean no one—is to have access to the system except me, is that understood? I don't care if the secretaries have to go back to using typewriters. No one accesses the database until further notice. Is that clear? Oh, and while I think on, better get someone in to check the phone lines again. If they can hack into the computers, you can be sure they can bug the phones too."

  "I'm on it."

  The technician closed the door as the phone on Walker's desk rang.

  "It's Joe," said the caller. "My contacts inform me there are a number of people doing research into tracing computer hackers. But, the guy leading the field is based in England."

  "Great, just what I need to hear. We have no one in the States who can handle this? What about the universities, the FBI, the CIA, or even the NSA?"

  "Not that my source knows of and I can only pass on what I've been told."

  "What’s this genius's name and how do I contact him?"

  "The guy you want is called Ridge. Dr. Ridge."

  "Dr. Ridge? That’s it? No first name?"

  "Sorry, no. My source informs me that he and his partner recently finished developing some software that can trace every PC back to its owner each time they log on to the Internet, visit a web site or attempt to hack into another computer, not to mention trace every so-called anonymous e-mail sent."

  "Wonderful. A way to track all the junk e-mail I receive each day."

  "I wouldn't be so sceptical if I were you, Walker. I understand this guy's company is negotiating a contract with the British Government and their armed forces. Rumor has it the Pentagon is interested too."

  "Is this information one hundred and ten percent reliable? It seems a little farfetched to me."

  "Yeah, it is. The Pentagon offered him a job a few years back, but he declined. Now, do you want those contact details or not?"

  Walker thought hard for a moment. "Why don't I spring you lunch at Ivar’s, then you can give them to me in person?"

  "Sure. One-thirty suit you?"

  "See you then."

  Of all the countries, Walker figured that the good ole US of A would have some geek able to solve his problem. He hoped to keep things close to home. But if Joe's information was correct, and he had no reason to doubt it, then it looked very much as if he would be placing a transatlantic call to one Dr. Ridge, in the hope that he could help him discover who was making his life hell.

  Walker left his office and walked the short distance down to Alaskan Way. He entered Ivar’s, and found a seat at a corner booth. The place was buzzing as usual. Only this early in the year it was mainly office workers who filled the tables. In another month or so it would be crowded with tourists. Joe joined him at the table.

  They placed their order with the friendly waitress and after their meal and drinks had arrived Joe commented, "We haven't had lunch in a while."

  "I guess not. Either I'm out of the country or we're both too busy trying to keep the paperwork down. Mind you, with all this going on, I can't say I've got much of an appetite," Walker said, pushing the food around on his plate.

  "What's the idea of meeting here? I could have given you the details over the phone."

  "Let's just say that I don't trust e-mail, computers in general or telephones at the moment."

  Joe laughed. "Hey, if I didn't know you better, I'd think you were developing some kind of a complex about all this."

  "Paranoia I can deal with, sabotage is a different matter, especially when it involves my business. Tell me, how do I get hold of this guy Ridge?" Walker picked up his beer and took a long swallow.

  "You’ll have to do some research. The last my contact heard, Ridge had this idea for this software when undertaking postgraduate research at Oxford University, but never took it any further. It was only when he and another computer geek set up a business together, that he started to develop it."

  "Interesting, but how do I contact him?"

  "My contact can't remember the exact name of the outfit he owns—Ridge and Something or Something and Ridge, which isn't much of a lead, I know. I guess you could contact Oxford. They might have a handle on where he is. Anyway he's probably listed in the phone directory." Joe passed an envelope across the table. "This is all the information I have. It should be enough to help you locate him."

  Walker slid it into his jacket pocket. "Thanks. I really appreciate this. I guess I'll owe you big time if this pans out."

  "Nope, I want to nail those bastards as much as you do. I don't like illegal dumping, and especially if it’s on my patch. Just be careful out there. I don't want to lose the best environmental scientist I know, nor do I want to lose my best friend. So call out the tough guys if things turn really nasty, okay?"

  "Joe, I hate to tell you, but things have already turned nasty. I’ve got no idea who I'm up against. But whoever it is, I must have them seriously worried. They've obviously got ample resources to bribe folks do to their dirty work, and if they can discredit my company along the way, that's even better. But, Joe Public is going to get hurt real soon and it's my intention to prevent that happening any way I can. Once I have proof of who is dumping this stuff and targeting me, I'll sing long and hard for justice."

  Walker left his friend, but didn't return directly to his office. He set off at a brisk pace to walk the short distance to Pioneer Square. He turned the collar of his coat up against the cool April breeze coming off Puget Sound. On entering a small Internet café, he ordered a cup of strong black coffee, and paid the small fee to use one of the computers. He sat down at an empty desk. A few moments later, he'd set up an e-mail address with one of the many web-based services.

  He called up one of the main search engines and looked for any reference to a Dr. Ridge. He checked all the universities in case Ridge was affiliated with any, as well as Oxfo
rd University's web site, and drew a blank. Dr. Ridge may have done postgraduate research, but he had broken all ties with his former colleagues. In desperation, he finally e-mailed the bursar's office at the university, saying that he was an old friend of Dr. Ridge and did they have a forwarding address for him. He didn't expect an immediate response, given the time difference between the west coast USA and England, so looked in various on-line newspapers and journals to see if Ridge had written any articles on his new software. As expected, he drew a blank. His coffee cold, he finally logged out and deleted all trace of the pages he had visited from the computer. On his way back to the office he stopped and purchased a new state of art laptop.

  There were no new developments since his lunch with Joe, and although he planned to return to the island that evening, he decided to tackle some of the mounting paperwork on his desk. Then he would try to get some sleep. Over the last few days he'd had very little, spending most of the hours between night and day watching the cove. Besides, he wanted to check his new e-mail box on more time before he left for the island.

  His apartment overlooked Elliot Bay. Devoid of furniture and the items he treasured so much in the lodge and cabin, the apartment felt cold and uninviting. He hardly knew why he kept it these days. In the past, he had stayed there when in town. It was useful for entertaining, and the view over the Bay, never failed to impress the occasional date he had. But since his last failed relationship he hadn't used it. With property prices high, it would be a good time to sell. He could always use the executive suite at the office in future—that's if he had a future.

  Chapter Four

  The sound of bird song roused Skye from her dream. Glancing at the clock by the side of the bed, she was surprised to see that it had gone ten. Once again, she had slept well. After a quick shower and breakfast, she set off to explore more of the island, with the intention of walking along the shore until either rain or tiredness drove her back.

  The coastline consisted mainly of rocky inlets with small pebble beaches. It wasn't exactly easy walking—the land rose steeply from the water's edge in places, but after many a night working overtime and hours sat in a plane, she relished the prospect of a long exhilarating walk. Thirty minutes or so later, she came across a path leading inland just as the first drops of rain began to fall. She turned and followed it hoping that it would take her back to the cabin.

  The path was badly overgrown in places, and more than one thorny branch snatched at her trousers. After pushing her way through a particularly dense patch of lush undergrowth, it suddenly opened out and there, about one hundred yards away, stood the most beautiful lodge she had ever seen. Built like the cabin of pine log and pole, it was long and low, and framed with windows stretching from floor to roof. It was completely surrounded by a deck and stood in its own magnificent tree-lined grounds. The main rooms looked out over a small bay, toward the mainland and the snow-capped mountains in the distance.

  The sound of hammering drifted over the cool morning air. A truck was parked outside, which bore the name and telephone number of a contractor. Obviously, the place was being renovated, as scaffolding obscured one wall, and it didn't appear as if anyone was living there. Not wishing to trespass further, Skye retraced her steps. By the time she had made her way through the trees to the water's edge, the rain was coming down harder.

  As she hurried back to the cabin, she pulled the hood of her jacket over her damp hair and stuffed her hands deep into the pockets against the chill of the rain. The path was narrow, so she concentrated on watching where she placed her feet in order to avoid tripping over exposed tree roots. Before she realized it she walked slap bang into another human being—a very solid human being at that. A pair of boots and a pair of very muscular legs clad in damp jeans barred her way. She gasped, pushed her hood back and wiped the strands of wet hair away from her eyes.

  "You!"

  "Yes, me," replied Walker. "My, but aren't these trails becoming busier than a downtown sidewalk?" he muttered under his breath. He raised a dark eyebrow. "Expecting to meet ‘Goldilocks and the three bears,’ or did you have someone else in mind?"

  "I think you mean ‘The Big Bad Wolf?’" Skye retorted angrily. "Are all American men as sarcastic as you?"

  "I wouldn't know. Are all British women as adept as you at turning up at the wrong time?" he replied.

  Walker's penetrating gaze made her feel distinctly uneasy. She straightened her shoulders.

  "I wouldn't know either. For the record, I'm not meeting anyone. And even if I were, it is none of your business. Perhaps I should be the one asking the questions. As I've told you before, I was led to believe this is private property and yet every time I step out the door, you're there. You leave me no choice but to report this matter to the realtor and the police."

  Walker watched the anger in her face with slight amusement. "Sorry, lady, but you're the one trespassing this time, not me. So before you start playing the indignant tourist, you'd better get your facts straight."

  "Now look, here Mr.—"

  "No, lady, you listen," Walker butted in. "I have every right to be on this land, I know the owner. Calling the realtor and the sheriff will only make you look a fool. I suggest you go back to the cabin, enjoy your little vacation, and stop wandering through these woods. And one more thing; keep the hell out of my way as well. Otherwise, I’ll be the one making the calls."

  For a full twenty seconds, Skye was speechless. By the time she had gathered her thoughts sufficiently to give Walker a piece of her mind, he'd brushed past her and was rapidly making his way along the overgrown trail. Skye was so annoyed she felt like throwing something. No one, but no one spoke to her in that tone of voice. And no matter what he said she didn't believe it. She'd place that call to the realtor as soon as she returned to the cabin.

  When it began to rain in earnest, she turned and jogged back towards the cabin. The rain became almost horizontal at times, stinging her face and eyes, sending an icy chill through her body. By the time she unlocked the door she was soaked to the skin, shivering and as mad as Hell…no, hell itself couldn't possibly ever get this mad!

  The cabin felt decidedly chilly. She paused in the kitchen to turn on the coffee machine, and then stomped into the bathroom, stripping off her wet clothes along the way. She stood under the faucet for a full ten minutes, and allowed the hot water to stream over her lithe body.

  Once dressed, Skye put a match to the logs in the grate, and then placed her call to the realtor. In a deceptively calm voice, she carefully related her encounter to the disinterested woman at the other end of the phone. It turned out that the owner of the cabin was a businessman who lived on the island and worked out of Seattle. The realtor couldn't confirm that the man she described fitted the description of the owner, as all previous dealings with him had been over the phone, but she would make enquiries and get back to Skye in a day or so. In the meantime, Skye shouldn’t worry, as everyone on the island was friendly. The realtor concluded the call by saying, ‘Have a nice day’ in a sugary American accent.

  Skye felt frustrated, angry, and not particularly reassured. She was puzzled by Walker's attitude. If he knew the owner, as he implied, then he must have known the cabin was occupied, so why was he annoyed by her presence? Wasn't she doing his friend a favor by renting it out of season and at such an exorbitant fee? And why did they rub each other up the wrong way each time they met? It took a great deal to make her angry and on the whole she got on with most people. Admittedly, she had a temper, but only lost control of it on rare occasions. But where Walker was concerned, all her senses seemed to go into overdrive.

  Needing to hear a friendly voice, she called Debbie.

  "Hi, sorry, but I can’t talk for long, it's been a really God-awful afternoon. I didn't expect to hear from you until the weekend. What gives?"

  "Just another run-in with the guy I told you about. Seems I can't step out the door without bumping into him. There's something spooky about the fact that he’s alw
ays hanging around the cabin and the woods."

  "Skye, be reasonable. The San Juans are a popular tourist destination. The cabin may well have been on private land. But things change. Marketing executives are very good at embellishing the truth. You can't expect to be totally alone. I'm sure there will be other properties in the vicinity. If you'd wanted complete peace and quiet then maybe you should have found a desert island."

  "I guess you're right. I did find another house. Actually it's a lodge, about three-quarters of a mile away. It's being renovated. Maybe that guy is staying there. But it still doesn't explain why he's hanging around here. It has water frontage the same as this cabin, and there’s a boat moored to the dock. I know he fishes, although he didn't have any tackle with him today. I just wish he’d fish someplace else. He was just as insufferable as when I first met him. I thought all Americans were polite."