Three Weeks Last Spring

by Howard, Victoria

  "Quit complaining. Let's get to work setting things up."

  Twenty minutes later, the virus program Skye was running finished checking Walker's laptop for signs of infection. The tracking program had been loaded into the mainframe.

  "We’re all set," John said. "It's just a case of sitting back and waiting to see if anyone takes the bait and tries to hack into the system. Are you sure that press release and the evidence will stand up to close scrutiny?"

  "Positive. McCabe doesn’t make mistakes," Walker replied. "Do you have any idea how they are accessing the system?"

  "There are a number of methods they could use. The simplest would be to have someone working on the inside. Someone who has access to all your files—say a secretary or a lab technician. If that's not feasible then they'd have to gain access via the back door."

  Walker shook his head. "No one gets employed here without criminal, reference and credit checks."

  "Ever heard of false IDs?" John asked.

  Walker didn't dignify his insulting question with a response. Instead he turned to Skye.

  "The back door? As in climbing up the fire escape and breaking in?"

  Skye laughed. "Most operating systems have vulnerabilities and hackers take advantage of these ‘back doors’ to gain access. Alternatively, they could have sent an e-mail, with an innocent-looking attachment containing a small self-executing file." Skye's face became animated as she warmed to her subject. Her mouth curved into an unconscious smile. "A few extra lines added to a screen saver or a picture file or even hidden in a virus, is all it takes. They’re known as a Trojan horse."

  Thoroughly bewildered by the jargon, Walker raised an eyebrow questioningly.

  "A Trojan horse?"

  Skye sighed. "A Trojan horse is simply a computer program that claims to be one thing, such as a game, but is something else entirely. When activated, it causes damage such as erasing data on your hard disk. Once downloaded, a Trojan horse can lurk undetected in your operating system's files until as something triggers it. Or it could be a small program set to search for certain key words, such as pollution or fish. When you open a document containing those words, the program sends the information through your server to the hacker. You wouldn't be aware the program had been activated. Once inside your system a hacker's second goal is to get root access—"

  "Root access? Isn't that something you have done at the dentist?"

  Skye smiled, enjoying the gentle sparring against her better judgment. "Root access is every dedicated hacker's ultimate goal. It means that the hacker has unrestricted access to the inner working of your system. Once he's gained that he has the ability to copy, delete or even change files, authorize new users, and install a back door to allow regular access, not to mention a whole host of other things."

  "Christ! And you're telling me that I wouldn't be aware that they had this power over my system?"

  "That's right. Most companies only become aware they have a problem when money goes missing from a bank account, or as in your case, documents are destroyed. Most hacking is relatively innocent and is carried out by bored teenagers, but even that can prove annoying, not to mention costly. Hackers tend to start off writing viruses, and progress on to more destructive software such as worms and Trojan horses. When that ceases to give them a satisfactory high they turn their talents to criminal activities."

  Walker held up his hands in defeat. "You obviously know your subject. Why and how do you think my system was attacked? I'm only a marine biologist."

  "You head the investigation, and therefore are of paramount interest to them. As to how they gained access, that's the ten thousand dollar question. John, what do you think? Internal access or back door?"

  "Back door, almost certainly. Didn't you say this system was protected by a firewall?"

  "Yes it was—it is," Walker replied.

  "It's not very effective," John replied. "Take a look at this, Skye. Does this string of code look as if it's part of this program? What do you think? Could it be the culprit?"

  Skye crossed the room, leaned on John's shoulder, and studied the screen. She gave all her attention to the lines of code. "I don’t think its part of the program. Well spotted."

  "Yeah, well if you hadn't been so busy talking you might have noticed it yourself."

  The tension in the room was almost palpable. Skye placed a hand on John's shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze.

  "Does it really matter which of us found it? At least we now know how they gained access. And once we find our hacker we can prevent him returning." She smiled at Walker. "Can you ask your friend in the State Department to send out the press release now? It should be more than enough to draw the snakes out of the grass."

  Walker did as Skye requested and gave up asking questions. He turned his attention instead to the piles of paperwork on his desk. He sifted papers from one stack to another, pausing now and then to glance at the odd letter. He noticed that Ridge had given up surreptitiously watching him and now sat at a secretary's desk monitoring two laptops and the secretary's computer for signs of anything untoward.

  Skye took advantage of the temporary truce between Walker and John, and stood by the window, apparently lost in thought. She leaned her head against the cool glass and gazed down on the lights of the city far below. Despite the memories it held for her, she never tired of Seattle's skyline. Odd how life had a way of turning in circles, she thought. Barely a year ago she'd run away from Seattle and the memory of Michael. And this was all over, she'd be leaving again, only this time, she realized as she glanced at Walker, it would be from the man she loved.

  One of the laptops pinged, pulling Skye out of her reverie.

  "We've got a hit," John shouted over his shoulder as he studied the screen. "Let's just hope the guy hasn't spoofed his IP address."

  Completely baffled, Walker turned to Skye for an explanation.

  "Spoofing, is when a hacker hides his Internet Protocol address. If he hasn't spoofed it then he might intentionally bounce his communications through many intermediate computers scattered around the world to throw us off the scent. If he's done that then we have to find all the bounce points before we can locate him."

  Walker pushed his chair away from his desk and crossed the room to stand beside her. "And how long will that take?" he asked.

  Skye looked thoughtful. "It depends. It's not as straightforward as it sounds. If he isn't bouncing his coms—his communications through too many other computers, not long. But, if he’s using computers in third world countries to hide his location, as many hackers do, then it might take a while."

  Walker glanced over his shoulder at Ridge, who was too intent on watching the three computer screens to take any notice of his proximity to Skye. At last he had an opportunity to talk to her without Ridge running interference.

  "The view is fantastic, isn't it?"

  "Yes, it is. Even better than the view from the Space Needle, but then I've never been up there at night. How far can you see in daylight?"

  "As far as Bainbridge Island and Bremerton, and occasionally the Olympic Mountains. It’s the reason I chose to have my offices here. I never tire of looking of the view. Sometimes, when the clouds are low with only the tops of the other buildings visible, it's like looking down on cotton candy."

  When Skye didn't respond Walker stepped closer to her. He glanced over his shoulder once more before taking her hand in his. "I really am sorry for what happened. When this is over would you have dinner with me? I’d like us to spend some time together before you return to London."

  "I don't know. I've spent so much—"

  Before Skye had chance to finish, Ridge shouted.

  "Got him! The bastard’s right here in Seattle! A few more minutes and I should have narrowed it down to the service provider and then I'll be able to give you a more precise location."

  Walker stared silently in disbelief at Skye's back as she ran across the room and hugged Ridge.

  "It works! We�
��ve done it! We've done what everyone said was impossible and written a program that will be the curse of every hacker!"

  Walker couldn't hear Ridge's response, but the sight of him returning Skye's hug and kissing her was enough to blacken his mood. Anger and jealousy tore into him. Damn it! His first opportunity to talk to Skye and Ridge had managed to butt in and ruin the moment. The man was a positive menace. Walker knew time was against him. Ridge would make sure that Skye didn't give him so much as the time of day, let alone have a conversation with him. Somehow he had to find a way to keep her in the States before Ridge took her back to London. But how?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Once the trace had been made things moved quickly. The hacker's IP address turned out to belong to the waste management company on the south side of Seattle and by ten thirty the following morning Walker and McCabe were sat in the plant manager's office. During the drive over they worked out a strategy. Walker would ask most of the questions and McCabe would lend the weight of the State Department should the manager be reluctant to co-operate.

  From the moment they had driven though the security gates they could tell that the plant was run down and shoddy, and poorly maintained. The offices were situated away from the main processing area and as they drove into the visitors' parking lot, what Walker saw was sufficient to make his skin crawl.

  Little or no attempt was made to hide leaking pipes and steaming vents, nor the oily puddles covering almost every conceivable inch of tarmac. The air was heavy with an obnoxious smell, which Walker couldn't identify, but which he was sure would be covered by a piece of State legislature preventing whatever it was from being released into the atmosphere.

  More worrying perhaps was the fact that none of employees wore protective clothing. Not even simple facemasks or specialist gloves. Walker wondered what the staff sick leave rate was and how many of their illnesses could be directly attributed to the chemicals and products they handled.

  Walker spent ten minutes outlining the investigation, after which the manager categorically denied his employees were involved.

  But then he would.

  Walker didn't believe a word the slimy toad was saying, and judging by the look on McCabe's face, neither did he. No amount of persuasion on Walker's part succeeded in obtaining the manager's agreement to making the company records available for inspection on a voluntary basis.

  McCabe had heard enough and interrupted, wasting no time in threatening to come back with the necessary paperwork to close the plant down for months, if not years, until he and the State Department were satisfied that everything was above board. But still the manager refused to co-operate.

  Walker stared out of the grubby window half listening to the conversation, his thoughts drifting back to the events of the previous night. After locating the hacker, Ridge had made sure that he had no chance to speak to Skye, whisking her off to a downtown hotel as soon as he could.

  He listened to the heavy rumble of a plane’s engine as it passed overhead and in a blind moment of panic wondered whether Ridge had carried out his threat to take Skye back to England at the first opportunity. For the first time in his life Walker wished he had the strength to walk away from an investigation.

  He pushed his personal problems aside, and turned his attention to the truck parked next to the tanker he'd seen earlier. Like the tanker, it was parked away from the main plant next to a pipeline. From his vantage point on the second floor of the administration building, he could see that it was being loaded with oil barrels. He estimated that at least twenty-five barrels where already on the back of the truck.

  He dragged his attention back to the conversation and realized that McCabe's threats weren't cutting any ice with Mr. Toad. He gave McCabe their pre-arranged signal. They concluded the meeting and promised to return later that day with a court order to enable them to examine the plant’s records.

  They left the building and hurried over to where McCabe's four-wheel drive was parked. Walker brought McCabe up to speed on what he'd seen as they crossed the parking lot. They drove out of the plant, and turned on to the highway. After half a mile McCabe pulled into a service area. They didn't have long to wait before they heard the whine of an engine as a vehicle struggled to pull away from the gates of the plant.

  A few moments later the fully laden truck passed them. "Quick," Walker said. "Follow it and see where it goes."

  McCabe lost no time. He slammed the four-wheel drive into gear and pressed down hard on the accelerator. A quarter of a mile later he pulled in behind the heavily laden truck just as it reached the slip road to the freeway. He settled in behind to follow it. From the plant just south of Seattle, the truck laboriously made its way along Interstate 5 and continued steadily north.

  An hour or so later, as it turned off the freeway on the outskirts of Anacortes, McCabe broke the silence.

  "Don't you think we ought call the cops and have this guy stopped?"

  Walker shook his head decisively. "I want to see where he's headed, and then I want to find out what's in those barrels. I don't see much point in contacting the cops just yet. Look what happened last time—it got us nowhere. Let's just wait and see. If he's going to dump that load, then he's not going to do it in the open or from the deck of a State ferry. If he's headed for the San Juan Islands, then he'll need to stop and load them onto a small vessel."

  "Then what?"

  Walker laughed. "You know, McCabe, sometimes you can be real slow on the uptake. Then we wait some more. If my hunch is correct, he'll wait for either nightfall or high tide or both. That’ll give me a chance to take a closer look at those barrels. If I'm right about what they contain, you can call in as many cops as you like."

  "I'll hold you to that. Just remember I'm purely a pen pusher not some action hero. My days of back street brawls are long over. My wife will beat me to death with the microwave if I get caught up in the middle of something that turns nasty."

  "I wouldn't worry about your wife killing you. If my suspicions about the contents is correct, it will do the job before she's even had chance to pick up her rolling pin."

  On the outskirts of Anacortes the truck followed the road signs for the port. Just as Walker had predicted, the driver ignored the queue that had formed for the late afternoon ferry to Friday Harbor and Victoria, and continued on for a short distance before taking the turning for the entrance to Curtis Wharf.

  McCabe brought his car to a halt across from the shipping office.

  "Looks like you were right." The truck was parked alongside one of the vessels moored at the far end of the wharf. "I'll contact the local gendarmes now, and they can take it from here."

  Walker placed a restraining hand on his friend’s arm. "Not yet. I want to see what's inside those barrels first."

  "And just how are you planning on doing that?"

  "Like this," Walker said, and opened his door.

  "Hey, now wait a minute. You didn't say anything about taking a look in broad daylight." But it was too late. Walker was already out of the car and walking towards the shipping office.

  Walker hadn't lied when he said he wanted to inspect the barrels, but he also wanted to check the vessel's sailing schedule. He pushed open the door to the office. It looked as if lady luck was on his side; the only person present was a blonde woman in her mid twenties. Walker walked up to the desk, turned up his smile a few notches and thought fast.

  "Hi, there… Cindy," he said, reading the name badge she wore.

  Cindy looked up from the paperwork on her desk and promptly melted. "Hello."

  "I wonder if you could help me," Walker asked, and offered her another dazzling smile.

  "Sure, sugar," Cindy drawled in a Texan accent. "I'd be more than happy to." She looked at Walker as if he was prime steak on her plate.

  Cindy's sexy looks did nothing for him. He'd met her type before—a fashion victim looking for a brain.

  "The small inter-island transport moored at the Quay, is she due to sail t
onight?”

  "You mean the Rosario Queen? I'm not sure I'm supposed to say. Why do you want to know anyway?" Cindy pouted her lips.

  "I'm expecting some crates to be delivered and I need to make sure I have a truck waiting when she docks," Walker lied. He took a long look at Cindy’s ample cleavage, and then held her gaze with a smile.

  Cindy's ego went into overdrive. For the first time since she'd taken this lousy job a halfway decent looking guy had walked into the office and noticed her. This was a welcome relief from the married union slobs who pined after her all day.

  "Well, now, sugar. How about you take me for a drink when I finish here and I'll tell you then?"

  Walker had other plans and they didn't include Cindy or any of her ilk, but he sure wasn't about to tell her that. "You tell me now, and I'll take you to dinner." He reached out and trailed a finger along the V of her tight sweater to her cleavage.