by Josie Brown
“How do the IC files fit in?”
“The VIP game keys went to Quorum members who will now act as middlemen between Carl and the countries, and terrorist organizations with the deepest pockets—Russia, say, or China, North Korea, the Arab Emirates. They need to know what the US has on them, as well as the intel on U.S. operatives, assets, surveillance capabilities, weaponry and missile defense plans to be used against in their countries.”
“So, what you’re saying is that he’s parceling out the intel into sellable batches?” Jack asks.
“That won’t get him nearly as much as a winner-take-all scenario,” I murmur.
Nymphette nods. “You hit it right on the head. The highest bidder walks away with, quite literally, our country’s ‘killer app.’”
Awed, Jack shakes his head. “Why did you leave the cryptic Wonderland clues?”
“Would anyone have believed me—or for that matter, you—if I’d just sent around an email that said, ‘Hey, everybody, it’s that guy, over there, who oversees your intelligence agencies’? Besides, I knew a system-wide vulnerability would make Carl look bad—particularly if the trail led back to his private office. Susan was fine with it because she knew it was the only way to take Carl down.”
I sigh. “Brave girl.”
Nymphette nods. “We helped her disappear into thin air, and prayed the clues would be solved before he found her.” She wipes away a tear. “I didn’t count on Carl finding her before Acme broke my Vigenèr cipher. But now you’re here, I can give you the proof you need.”
“Good, because we’ll certainly need it,” Jack declares. “As for Carl, do we still have time to stop him from selling the intel to the highest bidder?”
“Yes, but barely! You’ll have to move fast. In fact, I—” She pauses. Something on one of the many monitors has caught her eye.
She moves toward it, and swipes it with her hand to enlarge it.
We can all see it, even in dusk: a drone.
“It’s a switchblade drone,” she explains. “It’s got both facial recognition capability, and carries laser-guided bombs.” She stares at us. “Your son’s Shazaaaam subscription—did he access it through his iPad?”
I shake my head. “He has a new MacBook Air—”
Oh, hell.
Carl.
Nymphette crouches down. The next thing I know, she’s clawing at the floor, flinging open a three-foot-square door. “Down the ladder. You’ll be some twenty feet underground. The tunnel is about two miles long. It’ll take you back to the road, about a quarter-mile from where you left your car. Go now!”
We’ve crawled down the steps before we realize she hasn’t followed us. “What about you?” Jack asks.
“From the looks of things, I’ve got another four minutes before this place blows sky high. I’ve got to grab a few things first. Get going!” She slams down the hatch. Case closed.
The tunnel is dimly lit. As we run through it, I pray I will hear her footsteps behind us.
But no, I don’t.
We emerge from the tunnel just as the drone’s missile hits its target. The explosion propels a fireball into the starry night sky.
The Mad Hacker has been annihilated.
The lack of rain makes tinder of the tall pines. We stumble out of the forest, through the smoke and flames, and somehow find our way back to the car.
Sparks shower down upon us as we floor it back to Acme headquarters.
Nymphette was right to chide us for letting Carl slip through our fingers, based on the technicality that the world never seems to see him the way we do.
To make this point, she is now another who has paid with her life.
Our proof that he’s behind the IC database breach just went up in smoke.
“Something appears to be wrong with your GPS system,” I inform Jack just as we’re emerging from the western edge of the San Bernardino Forest.
We’re taking his Lamborghini to the office, where we’ll be meeting with Ryan and our mission team to discuss our next move. Up until this moment, the car’s GPS screen has been a ten-mile-square map of our surroundings. All of a sudden we hear a giggle: one I recognize as belonging to the Mad Hacker.
“This is it—what the Mad Hacker was speaking of before the cabin blew up!”
When the screen comes back on, it shows another Wonderland illustration of Alice, standing beside an animal that looks like a dragon.
“It looks like the Gryphon in the story—but it’s not exactly how I remember it,” I point out to Jack.
“That’s because the Mad Hacker has substituted the Gryphon for the logo belonging to Gryphon Electronics, the largest U.S. cell phone producer next to Apple.”
I take a closer look. Darned if he’s not right.
Beneath the illustration is part of a poem from Alice in Wonderland:
When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark,
And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark,
But, when the tide rises and sharks are around,
His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.
I shoot the screen with my cell phone’s camera and text it to Emma so that her cryptography team can start its analysis immediately.
“It should be interesting to see what this means,” I murmur.
Jack must feel the same way, because suddenly we’re traveling at warp speed.
“Wow! Nymphette was the Mad Hacker?” Arnie is in shock. “No wonder she gave me the cold shoulder. It would have blown her cover.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m sure that was the reason,” Emma mutters under her breath.
Hurt, Arnie storms off toward Abu, Jack, and Dominic, shaking his head.
I throw her a look that should be easy to read: Lighten up on him.
Emma blushes, ashamed. She turns to go after Arnie, but stops when Ryan bounds into the room.
“The Mad Hacker’s death is a loss. No one doubts that,” Ryan begins. “Her final act was to provide us with one last clue. By solving it, we can still salvage this mission before it’s too late.” He walks over to the conference room’s projection wall. With a press of a button, a picture appears.
We’re looking at a verdant island located in the Salish Sea, the body of water between Canada’s Vancouver Island and Seattle, Washington.
“Every year, Gryphon Technologies throws an annual by-invitation-only retreat, attended by the tech world’s movers and shakers,” Ryan explains. “Or, as the most aggressive are known, sharks.”
“This conference is known throughout the industry as the Lark,” Emma adds.
“Ah, so that’s the ‘lark’ in the Wonderland poem,” I murmur.
Emma nods. “As relayed to Alice by the Gryphon.”
“Tickets are coveted because of the business connections to be made—not to mention the setting makes it easy to relax and enjoy one’s self,” Ryan continues. “Lark Island has been tricked out as a sustainable eco-friendly resort and all that implies—a beautiful sandy beach, sumptuous huts and event lodge, an eighteen-hole wild grass golf course, green spa facilities, organic farms, gardens, and wineries used specifically for its guests—and its own airport for all the private jets and helicopters that land there specifically for the retreat.”
Dominic smiles. “Sounds like my kind of mission.”
“I have you down for reconnaissance,” Ryan informs him. “Hopefully, not all of it will take place in your lodge suite.”
“You’d be surprised what tantalizing tidbits come out during pillow talk,” Dominic insists.
Jack chokes on a snort.
I poke him hard in the ribs to shut him up.
Ryan shakes his head, then sighs.
“Our other persons of interest will also be there,” Emma explains. “One just so happens to be the host for the event: Gaylord Murphy. The other three are Ivan Surkov, the Russian IT mogul. He owns the largest software development incubator on the Eurasian continent. Then there’s Ji Wong, who owns the largest Internet provider in Hong
Kong. Our last bidder is Abdullah Ahmad. His banking firm is the largest investor in cloud computing services. He’s also suspected of being one of the largest funders of ISIS, the militant Islamic group.”
“We’re pretty sure that Ji and Surkov are bidding on behalf of their native countries. As for Gaylord, our sources tell us he’s bidding on behalf of Al Qaeda. Their pockets are pretty deep.” Ryan turns to Jack. “The island is part of the San Juan Islands chain. You grew up there, didn’t you?”
Jack nods. “Yes. I was steering boats around the islands by the age of ten.”
“Good, because your knowledge of the area may come in handy.” Ryan takes a deep breath. “By the way, you’ll be attending the meeting as Milton Otis.”
Like everyone else’s in the room, my jaw drops. “But…how can he do this?”
“It helps that there are no known pictures of him. Even if there are a few, Donna, your reconnaissance allowed us to take enough photos to build a latex mask of Milton’s face, as well as an adhesive thumb print. George will fly Jack into the resort via helicopter. We’ll make sure it has the i.Me logo and mimics its transponder markings,” Ryan says.
“Donna, Abu has you placed as Gaylord’s newest administrative assistant, under the name of Lucy Carmichael,” Ryan informs me. “As soon as you can, grab his golden key, then relay it to Abu and Arnie who will be shadowing the operation. They’ll have a speedboat anchored nearby. Once you, Jack and Dominic retrieve the other three game keys and whatever the mysterious Mr. Babbage has in his possession, you’ll rendezvous with them.”
Abu leans over and murmurs, “You’ll be making a hundo and a quarter—just for handling his personal calendar! The bennies are great too. Besides ten vacation days during the calendar year, in every sixth year you’re entitled to a month-long sabbatical—you know, to climb the Himalayas or stay in a monastery.”
“Abu, you do remember that I can’t hang in with any of these jobs for even the initial ninety days, right?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, okay, don’t remind me or I’ll cry. I was looking to build a new deck on my pad.”
“If you’ve read anything at all about Gaylord Murphy, you won’t want to stay there ninety minutes,” Dominic warns me. “His ‘people’ do everything for him, short of wiping his arse. He doesn’t even carry his own smart phone. I presume that will be your job, Donna. At least it will have you at his side at all times.”
“It’ll be an honor,” Arnie pipes up. “He’s a visionary! He thinks it up, and a year later, everyone is using it—hardware, software, apps, devices, you name it!”
I smile. “If I’m in charge of his calendar, I’m in charge of his world. Couldn’t be simpler.”
Famous last words, I know.
But only because Ryan and Jack are trying hard not to laugh.
Oh heck. What have I gotten myself into now?
Chapter 17
Trolls
You’ve just written what you feel is a brilliant essay on your blog—only to get some comment that is rude enough to make you blush.
Newsflash: you’ve been flamed by a troll.
Trolls are the purveyors of (a) snarky jibes about the poster, or another commenter; (b) naughty words or dirty names; or (c) tirades that are incomprehensible.
In other words, his detritus is the equivalent of online crotte du chien.
Should you get flamed by a troll, you can do one of three things: (a) try to reason calmly with this person; (b) throw a few flames yourself; or (c) ignore him.
The first solution is a dead end, because trolls live to be obnoxious and love altercations.
The second solution is silly, because we both know your mama didn’t raise you that way. (“If he jumped off a bridge, would you jump too?”)
Obviously, the smartest and most reasonable solution is the third one.
But as your troll has so obstreperously pointed out, you are neither smart nor reasonable.
What he doesn’t know is that tracking his true identity and whereabouts is easy enough to do. Just input the comment’s IP code into an online IP tracker, and you’ll soon have the GPS coordinates of the troll’s hovel (probably not a tree trunk, but hey, you never know).
Zapping it with a blowtorch might be an apt lesson as to just how much damage flaming can do.
“It doesn’t bother you, all the travel you’ll be doing, Lucy?” Gaylord Murphy’s first assistant, Serenity Tarpin, scrutinizes me through her Google Glass.
Unless she’s got some app that allows her to tap into Interpol, my fake resumé is solid as a rock. Here’s hoping her eyewear is not equipped with facial recognition software. Considering we are hugging the California coast at fifty thousand feet in Gryphon’s corporate jet—a Bombardier 8000—on our way to the island, I think it’s a little late for her to show me the door.
Only because she is Gaylord’s first line of defense, I go into a kiss-ass song and dance. Acolytes R Us, right? “I love travel! Every trip is an adventure—especially with someone as visionary as Gaylord.” The one rock-solid rule: it’s always Gaylord. Never Mr. Murphy. Never Gay.
She cocks her head to one side. (Is she trying to get better wireless reception?) “Good, because Gaylord is a conference whore. Frankly, it’s why he supports three ex-wives—all of whom were, at one time or another, his calendar assistant.” She raises her Google Glass to watch my reaction.
“I’m in a very healthy relationship,” I insist.
Her eyes don’t waver. (Is she trying to break me, or is she scanning Sam Biddle’s latest snark in ValleyWag for any blasphemies against Gaylord?)
I sigh. “Trust me, I’m only in it for the money.”
I must have said something she can relate to because, finally, she nods. “Great, then you’ll love our stock options! I’ve been here only seven years, and with what I’ve made so far, I can retire by the end of the year. Welcome to the most exclusive club in the Valley!”
She hands me a GryPad—Gryphon’s version of a tablet computer—and points to the back of the plane, “Gaylord is in his quiet room, prepping for the Lark with Doreen, his personal assistant,” she explains. “She is very protective of his time, but don’t let her talk him out of any of tonight’s meetings. Everyone wants his or her five minutes of fame with Gaylord. We don’t want any Lark sharks to go home unhappy, now do we?”
I smile and shake my head. “Set in stone. Got it.”
She dismisses me with a wave.
The plane tilts slightly. I turn around just as a ray of sun catches her Google Glass at the right angle for me to catch a glimpse of what she’s really focused on: A stock ticker reading for GRY, Gryphon’s stock acronym.
She certainly has her eye on the prize.
If Gaylord is part of Carl’s scheme, her nest egg may go up in smoke.
I knock tentatively.
I don’t hear anyone, but what the heck, supposedly he’s waiting for me.
The room is dark. There are three monks in white hoods chanting in the corner. The gentle tinkling of their ring cymbals drowns out the soft drone of the plane’s engine.
But it can’t hide the gurgling sound of my new boss’s bowel cleanse.
Nor can the roomful of vanilla candles hide the odor emanating from a man whose every meal is some sort of green juice concoction.
And the fact that it’s happening behind a gauzy rainbow-hued sheet doesn’t make it any less grotesque.
His upper torso is bare. I feel sorry for the woman manscaping the rug on his back, because she’s a little too close to the action, if you catch my drift.
I’m sure she’s caught his, despite her facemask.
“Hi, I’m Lucy, your new calendar assistant.” I keep my head down, fixated on the GryPad. I’m sure I sound as if I have a cold, but that’s only because I’m trying hard to breathe through my mouth as I talk. “I’m supposed to go over the agenda for the evening.”
The woman sets down the razor to glare at me. “Now? Can’t you see we’re busy?” I recogniz
e her as Doreen.
“Yes, but…well, Serenity was quite insistent.” There is an open valise under Gaylord’s massage table. It is monogrammed with the letters GM.
Gaylord’s key is probably in there.
“It’s okay,” Gaylord groans. “I need something to take my mind off the fact that these fucking monks are disemboweling me.” He motions for me to stand closer to him.
Lucky me.
I sidle in. Doreen takes this as an invitation to look over my shoulder.
“We should be on the tarmac in approximately thirty-three minutes,” I inform him. With my foot I inch the valise closer. “When we land, Serenity has allotted an hour for you to get settled in your cabin before you’ll take one-on-ones with a few of the early birds, who include—”
The names I read aren’t just the crème de la crème of Silicon Valley in the west to Silicon Alley (New York) in the east, but all the Silicon cities in between (Mountain for Denver; Hills for Austin; Slopes for Utah; Beach for Santa Monica; and, of course, Canal for Seattle).
“Afterward, there will be a meet-and-greet cocktail party with the early arrivals,” I continue. “Dinner is served promptly at eight. By then, the rest of the guests will be gathered. The chef will be carving wild boar, served with other island delicacies. The floor show is Beyoncé.”
I glance down, as if scrutinizing the memo. In truth, I’m looking in the valise.
I find what I seek—the golden key.
“Are you kidding me?” Gaylord stares back at Doreen. “Since when do I eat boar?”
“The PR staff says it’s buzz-worthy,” she explains. “Wired is sending a reporter to do a review of the food during the whole week. It’ll be in restaurants all over San Francisco by the end of the month.”
He grunts, “That’s just great! A week of crap like that, and I’ll be hooked up to this shit machine on the way back to Palo Alto.”
