Dangerous Code

by Stella Marie Alden

  Her steely gaze hits me solidly in the gut because she’s got me dead to rights. I messed up big time. “Yes ma’am.”

  That must’ve been the thing to say because she steps back and ushers me in with a wave of her arm. “So come on in. What took you so long to get here?”

  “We were upstate. Listen. She’s in real danger.” I follow her through a narrow hall and into a turn-of-the-century kitchen. One side is all white marble fireplace, the interior converted into shelves covered in pots and pans.

  Grace grabs a carafe and pours out thick dark coffee. “She’ll come back in her own time. But first, you got to find that bastard who’s after her.”

  “You mean her college professor at Los Alamos?” I swallow back a cough, the brew so strong it could double as paint remover.

  “Yes.” She waves an arm, indicating I should sit in one of her antique ladder-back chairs with small webbed seats.

  She obviously doesn’t have too many men of my size in her kitchen and I hope I don’t end up on the floor as I gently lower down. “I’ve read what happened to her at college.”

  “What happened? That’s what you callin’ it?” A most unlady-like snort sounds from her.

  “I didn’t mean-”

  Frowning, her whole body leans over the table. “Nobody ever means. There isn’t nobody wants to say the word. It’s rape. R-A-P-E. A naïve seventeen year old girl was seduced by her twenty-four year old instructor. By someone she trusted. That sick, bastard Arab played with her and you government boys did nothing.”

  I nod, completely in agreement. “I’m sorry that happened to her. Wish I could fix it.”

  “Sorry don’t cut it, mister. You’re never going find to her. She’s so smart, ain’t nobody can follow what she’s thinking. Not even back then.”

  “Yeah, I get that.” I can’t help but smile remembering how she tried to explain everything under the sun to me that one summer. I couldn’t follow a whole lot but that didn’t stop her from trying.

  “She told me about you. You were that lifeguard in her fat camp… those is her words, not mine.”

  I feel like a complete jerk for not keeping in touch with Meggie back then. Maybe if I had, things would be different now and she wouldn’t be on America’s most wanted list.

  Grace stares at me over the rim of her coffee mug. “So here’s what I can tell you. When I first met her, she hadn’t slept or showered for days. She’d hitched a ride with a trucker friend of mine. I took her home, cleaned her up, and got her to call her mother.”

  She tsk-tsks and slurps. “That didn’t go too well so we sat down and talked for a bit. Why in just a few moments, she had three or four ideas for her future all figured out.”

  “That’s when she changed her name?” I wish I could stand and pace because I’d been sitting way too long but I didn’t want to intimidate the small woman.

  “Uh huh. She hacked into all sorts of records and got herself a new identity. From there, she got admitted into a real college and her life went on with me as her legal guardian. Eventually she reconnected with her mother but it’s still not so good between them.”

  “And you?” I ask. “How’d you end up here in New York?”

  “Once Megan started makin’ real money, she set up this foundation and asked me to help her run it. Most of Jenna’s… you should always call her that. Don’t call her Megan. Pisses her off. Most of Jenna’s income goes to keeping our runaways safe. Got a heart o’ gold.”

  “Does she have post-traumatic stress syndrome?”

  Grace puts a couple muffins in front of me. “You noticed her little blackouts.”

  “Mmm. Yeah. She get help for that?” I scarf down sweet blueberry cake and grab another.

  She writes a name down on a piece of paper. “Uh huh. Been seein’ some fancy psychologist for years but she won’t tell you nothin’ neither.”

  That’s probably true. There’s no easy way to ask what I need to know next. “Has Jenna ever claimed she’s seen Mahmoud before? Acted paranoid?”

  “Claims?” She grabs my plate and mug and puts them back in the sink. “It’s no claim. Jenna is certain that the same man that did those nasty things to her years ago is the same one that’s after her now and I believe her.”

  “It can’t be. He’s dead.” I stand, ready to get back to work. I need to find her, not squabble over a dead rapist.

  “That Arab was brilliant. Worked for the US Government. You think a man like that might be able to fake his death, Detective?” She makes a good point.

  “I’ll look into it. In the meantime, can you tell me where Meg, ah, Jenna’s mother lives? Or does she have any other friends?”

  “Lemme get my address book but it won’t do you no good.” She leaves the small kitchen, muttering, and comes back in seconds. “Here y’all go. This is all I got. Not much but you can try. You’ll probably get more searching online.”

  I thumb through her book and take a few shots with my phone. “If Mahmoud really is alive, he’ll use you to get to her. You got anywhere you can go?”

  “Don’t you worry about me, I got years of staying outside the system.” She leads me out the door.

  On the drive back to my place, a renovated warehouse just under the Manhattan Bridge, I ponder Grace’s assumptions. What if Megan had really seen Mahmoud Teherizad in the parking lot? What if he was behind all this? Until I have proof, I’m going to assume she was terrified and under a lot of stress.

  After miraculously finding a parking spot near my place, I rush up the stairs and into my normally meticulous loft. The sun’s just come up but already Joe and Georgio are comfortably sitting at my kitchen table in the otherwise furniture-less space. My fine oak’s littered with fast food, monitors, and laptops.

  Georgio’s sporting his favorite Comic Con t-shirt and jeans. His spikey black hair always looks like he’s been roused in the middle of the night and he’s typing away madly. I’ve no idea how he tolerates that lip ring, but his tongue plays with it constantly, somehow aiding in his concentration.

  Joe is completely opposite in almost every way. He uses a two-fingered approach to his keyboard and is dressed in a white shirt with black dress pants.

  A hand rakes over his buzz cut when he looks up. “Hey. Good to see you. The captain’s none too happy about us being here. He’d rather have us working at headquarters.”

  I’m ready for a fight but before I say a word, my partner cuts in, “Hold on. I’m with you. The less anyone knows about Jason, the better… Did you sleep?”

  “I’m fine.” More coffee on my countertop calls my name, so I pour a cup, and savor the better brew than I just endured.

  After taking a deep gulp I glare at my partner, who’s still eyeing my every move. Like me, he’s a former marine so knows I’m trained to stay awake for days, catching a few winks when needed. He’s just busting my balls.

  Turning to his monitor, he chews for a while on an egg sandwich and then nods at the open McDonald’s bag. “Eat. What did you find out from that Kelly woman?”

  I grab a breakfast wrapped in paper. “Check your inbox. There’s a number for Jenna’s birth mother and her psychiatrist.” The egg in the sandwich goes into my mouth and the muffin into the disposal.

  Then I grab another, do the same and ask, “What did you find out about Mahmoud Teherizad?”

  Georgio’s voice raises, a bit defensive. “I told you. He’s dead. Drowned about three years ago just off the Amalfi coast. I know that Jones swears she saw him but she must be mistaken. After the kidnapping, she was pretty out if it. Probably imagined the whole thing.”

  “Well, something in my cabin spooked her. Something scarier than going out alone in the middle of the woods at night. The girl I remember wouldn’t even put her toes in the water for fear of snakes. Went hungry rather than go fishing. It would’ve taken a lot for her to leave the cabin. So what happened before she went to see that Kelly woman?”

  The kid clicks about on his keyboard. “Okay, oka
y. I’ll look some more. But check this out. I got more on that fake college in Los Alamos you asked me about.”

  I scroll through the over one hundred page document trying to catch the gist of what went down back then. “Can you summarize for me?”

  “Sure. Megan McCarthy’s life changed the day she wrote a research paper on artificial intelligence. Her high school teacher sent it to MIT, who in turn, forwarded it to a think tank in Los Alamos.”

  “That matches up pretty much with what Ms. Kelly told me.”

  Georgio leans forward. “But there’s more. Those brainiacs in New Mexico decide to create a degree program. They even get Arizona U to pre-approve the course work. But turns out, none of it’s legit.”

  I whistle through my teeth. Megan probably had no clue.

  “Things seemed to run smoothly but then suddenly she must’ve caught on. When she stopped cooperating, they came up with an alternate strategy. Enter one Mahmoud Teherizad. He’s a brilliant charismatic Arab, who at the time was the only person in the world capable of mentoring her. Los Alamos claims they had no idea the two were romantically involved.”

  Georgio’s report is pissing me off. “She wasn’t even seventeen and he was what? Twenty-four? That’s not romance, that’s statutory rape.”

  In some ways, Georgio’s a lot like Megan because he misses my tone and continues excitedly. “She was so bad-ass. She crashed their whole network and escaped in the chaos.”

  Joe raises his eyebrows and shakes his head at me. It’s not the kid’s fault that he misses the tragedy in the story so I grit my teeth and shut my mouth.

  “Whoa. Wait a God damn minute.” He stares wide-eyed at the monitor. “The name of the FBI agent in charge at the time? John Drew.”

  That slimy son-of-a-bitch must have been manipulating her the whole time.

  “Are we any closer to finding her?”

  Georgio’s chair creaks as he stretches his arms behind his head. “Every reference online disappeared yesterday. I assume her program erased everything.”

  “Didn’t you try the 911 override?”

  “It calculated the odds of her survival. Jason says it’s safer for her if we don’t know where she is. It’s probably right.” With a shrug, he brings up a chat screen showing all the arguments he’s tried since early this morning.

  I’m beginning to really hate that thing. Since when does a computer get to undermine the safety of someone in my charge?

  Georgio glances up at me, eyebrows raised. “Also, people in certain online circles are beginning to chat up some new program that the JTTF is supposedly working with.”

  “How is that possible? That information is supposed to be locked down.” This case is now in my top five worst cluster-fucks ever and I’ve only myself to blame.

  “Wait. Something’s on CNN.” Georgio clicks a few more times, frowns, and bites down on his lip ring.

  Then he turns up his computer’s speakers. “…all of the suspects swear they have spoken to Allah in their computers and have undergone lie detector tests that prove their odd allegations. Some believe the program is actually hypnotizing people. Authorities are asking for anyone with information to step forward. This is Bess Verra reporting, back to you…”

  My mind whirls. “The suspects believe that they spoke to Allah? Is it possible?”

  Georgio snorts. “That The Prophet has risen from the dead and is in their computers?”

  “No, smart-ass. That some website is hypnotizing people, claiming to be Allah.”

  “The suspects have nothing in common except being ordinary law abiding citizens who got onto their computers and then one day spoke to God. What do you think?”

  All three of our phones ring at once but I answer first. “O’Brien here. What’s up?”

  My boss, usually cool as a cucumber, barks out, “Join me on Skype. Now.”

  Georgio’s fingers speed over the keyboard while me and Joe stand behind him, watching red dots flash across a map of Manhattan.

  Mike’s never sounded so worried, at least not to me. “Each of those marks represents a walking bomb. Literally. How close are you to finding Doctor Jones?”

  If I’d done as he’d asked and gone to the safe house, she’d still be in custody.

  Another voice in my head counters, or you’d both be dead.

  “Do you want us to come into the city?” I see ten red dots. That’s ten guys with a bomb strapped to their bodies walking around the streets of Manhattan. I don’t like that I’m stuck here in Brooklyn, out of the action.

  Mike calms a bit. “Your job is to find Jones. We’re good so far. We’ve got the National Guard following that program of hers. Thank God Jason is able to find each and every one. Gives us the details we need to bring them into custody before they can set off their load. But with every one we catch, another two show up.”

  He’s right. Two more red dots just pop up on the shared screen when one disappears.

  The captain curses. “What have you got so far?”

  “Jones swears she saw Mahmoud Teherizad in the Poconos. If what I read was true, he could’ve have staged his death and be back in the US. I have Georgio checking it out.” I know it’s a long shot, but the city’s about to go up in flames and I got nothing.

  Sansone catches my bullshit. “What else?”

  Joe barges in, “Special Agent Drew’s been her primary contact since day one. We want to have a word with him.”

  “That’s it? Drew?”

  Georgio pipes up before Mike can crucify me. “We’ve got some of her staff on the way to work with Jason.” The doorbell rings. “That’s probably them now.”

  Joe jumps up from his chair to get the door and ushers in three kids barely out of high school.

  “Christ.” The dead silence on the other side of the connection tells me that my boss is thinking through the repercussions. If we turn Jason off, we’ll have no way to locate the bombers. If we keep it on, it could cause more.

  “Think, O’Brien. That’s what you do best. Find her.”

  “Yes sir. I’m on it.” I hang up talking to dead air.

  “Hello Jason.” I tap on the application I’ve come to loathe.

  “Yes Colin?” The computer’s calm voice still irritates me.

  “How many terrorists are you tracking?” I pace, nervous energy making me want to hit something.

  “Please constrain your request.” His boyish face pops up on my screen, blinking.

  “How many bombers that have spoken to Allah through the internet are you currently tracking?” I wonder how to turn the image off as Joe rounds up her programmers.

  “Twelve.” Blink. Blink.

  One of her kids, a blond girl, drops her knapsack at my feet and asks, “Jason, how are you finding them?”

  “That information is unavailable.”

  Georgio pipes in next trying to dance around the restrictions in its programming. “Jason, can you tell us if there are going to be more of these attacks?”

  “Yes.” said Jason.

  “Can you give us the names?” The girl sits and quickly fires up her computer.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you the online prophet? The one inciting people to make bombs?” That comes from a young man in socks and sandals.

  “No.” Blink.

  “Who is?” Joe gets in a question.

  “I cannot access that information.”

  “Why?” That comes from the third programmer.

  “I don’t know.”

  On the way out I tap Georgio on the shoulder. “Find out if this application is behind the attacks. And find Jenna Jones. Tick tock.”

  I’m mostly confident that I have the right team as me and Joe get ready to leave. We head over the Manhattan Bridge, sirens blaring in the rush hour traffic.

  “First stop, Special Agent Drew.”

  Suddenly Jason pops up on Joe’s dashboard, “Excuse me, Detective O’Brien, I have recalculated the odds of Jenna Jones’ survival. Please proceed to
the coordinates I have sent to your phone.”

  Chapter 19

  Megan. Upstate New York.

  Back on the road, I begin to think clearly. As soon as I find Grace, I’ll have some cash and a complete set of ID cards. With that, I can start over anywhere and find a consulting job. But I don’t have to, at least not right away. My offshore account has enough money to keep me going for a couple years if I’m frugal.

  Making a mental list keeps my thoughts from drifting to Colin. I can only imagine all the grief I caused him by running away but if Mahmoud is out there, he’ll target anyone that gets in his way.

  I should’ve warned Grace but she’ll remember what I told her about my former mentor. She’s smart and survived a lot worse. Isn’t that why I put her in charge of my girls? Nonetheless, I step my bare instep down on the gas pedal. I’ll feel a whole lot better when I see her in person.

  Hyper-vigilant. That’s what my therapist calls one of my many disorders.

  But today, you’re just being prudent. You’re in a stolen car, for God’s sake, Jones. Your facial-reco blockers aren’t going to do squat if your plates are tagged at the toll.

  Understood. As soon as I can, I’ll ditch the car.

  Luckily, the Elantra has E-Z pass Velcro-ed to the windshield and I’m able to cross the George Washington Bridge. From there I take the Harlem River Drive to the RFK and get off in Williamsburg. Then it’s just a stone’s throw to Bushwick.

  I circle the block looking for a parking spot near Gracie’s Place, my home for abused women and runaways. There’s cops everywhere, stopping people, asking questions and showing them pictures in their tablets.

  Dammit. My shivering has gotten out of control. This is so not a good plan. I should’ve told Grace to meet me someplace in the city but I’ve spent a lot of time here. The grocery store has the largest parking lot for miles and it’s never full first thing in the morning.

  I spring open the trunk hoping for… I don’t even know what. I find a thin, brown wool blanket. Quickly I grab it and tear it in two. The top piece, I wrap around my head and cover my face. The rest I tie around my waist. With Colin’s oversized boots, I’ll pass for a homeless person.