Death of Secrets

by Bowen Greenwood

A retractable panel sealed him off from the driving compartment of the limo, and for the hundredth time Tilman berated himself for driving himself last night instead of calling for the limo.

  When the car pulled up at the curb he could see his building out the side window. The architecture lacked soul, he knew. It was a four-sided glass box in the tradition of modern, utilitarian construction throughout the Washington D.C. metro area. But in a way that pleased him. It was efficient and functional. Tilman liked function. He didn't entirely approve of wasting hard-earned money on frivolous things.

  He let the driver hold his door open. Tilman didn't carry a briefcase, so he walked unencumbered toward the front door of the Electron Guidewire building. His hand-tailored navy blue suit succeeded in hiding his growing paunch. The electric door slid open to welcome him, and it was the only welcome he wanted. He nodded away the security guard's wave of greeting, and strode directly to the express elevator, which he boarded and rode to the fifth floor.

  The entire fifth floor was dedicated to the executive offices – mostly his. He didn't want a lot of people working in the same area as him. The only other people who worked on this floor were his executive assistant and his chief of security.

  Tilman knew from the moment he thought of going into business, that he would work largely on federal contracts. He knew how to get those – knew the right hands to shake and the right backs to scratch. But when you did work for the intelligence community, they expected you to be able to keep secrets. So he'd hired a security chief as his first employment decision, and kept him around ever since. He was a former federal agent, and he'd done very well at shepherding Tilman’s company through the industrial espionage so common these days.

  His assistant smiled and greeted him by name as the security guard downstairs had. This one Tilman took the time to return with a smile of his own. He was much closer to his secretary than he ever would be to his security guards.

  She was new on the job – had only been with him for a month, in fact. But then, few women lasted longer than a year in this job, and most, less than that. By successful application of large quantities of cash, he managed to avoid any lawsuits about it.

  His office stretched the entire length of the building. Every morning Tilman debated the merits of this huge space. It was a pain to enter the room and still have a long walk before he reached his desk. But on the other hand, the effect on visitors was always the same: awe, intimidation, and respect for the man behind the desk at the far end.

  He couldn’t help but smirk. In his political days, he’d worked out of a cramped office with two telephones going at the same time all day while three people tried to talk to him in person. He’d worked from sunup until long after sundown, and been sweating through the whole experience. In every way his current life was an improvement. In every way but one: politics had the feel of destiny to it. Working on a campaign made people feel like they were going to change the world. Tilman frowned about that for a moment, missing the old days. With the regret came the usual anger – anger at the people who'd robbed him of his role in politics. But shortly he reminded himself that he could change the world from here, too. A thin smile crept over his lips.

  The walls of his office were paneled in walnut, and a long conference table of the same wood occupied the front half of the floor. But the room was dominated by the giant video screen that filled one entire wall. It, like the lights, was hooked to motion sensors that detected his presence in the room. The lighting slowly came up to a comfortable level as the screen showed a soothing pastoral scene.

  He made it to the desk and sat down. In the time he'd been gone, employees had e-mailed him three different status reports, all on different projects. One of them covered the GigaStar project, the one he’d been discussing with Vincent last night.

  GigaStar was a network surveillance device for the National Security Agency. It monitored traffic on any network to which it was connected. It transmitted data about all that traffic back to the NSA. It was faster, harder to detect, and harder to interfere with than any current technology. It could connect to a wireless network from a much greater distance than anything else on the market, which would make it harder for the people being monitored to spot.

  In short, the GigaStar was a technical work of genius. There was only one problem: in the current political climate, making the government more effective at surveillance was politically unpopular.

  Hugely so, in fact. The NSA had risen to compete with the IRS as America’s most unpopular government agency. Revelations that they monitored the private phone calls of American citizens, as well as their e-mails, were still making waves in the media and Congress. That made what should have been an easy sell into something that required expert lobbying.

  Tilman smiled at that. He never hired a lobbying firm. With his contacts, he could do it himself. Now, in the crucial days before the Intelligence Committee vote on GigaStar, all the members received the full effect of his charm. Allies got fun evenings out on the town, like the one with Mike Vincent last night. Opponents got power lunches with him and his top staff, where they could be bombarded from all sides with rosy information about the GigaStar. Next Monday, members of the committee were invited over here for a last minute breakfast presentation before the vote. Tilman considered himself a master of arm twisting, and not without reason. Whatever had been taken from him when he'd been driven out of the campaign world, his skills and contacts were still there.

  He closed that report, and moved on to the next. His schedule didn't call for any interruptions until much later, so he could finish reading the e-mail and still have time for his assistant before real work began.

  Unfortunately, the security chief disappointed his plans, walking in without knocking. Tilman sighed. Of all the people who worked for him, only the security man would do that. But the man wasn't a total dunce – he never walked in unannounced if the secretary wasn't at her desk.

  He straightened in his chair and prepared to hear whatever the worry of the week was. The security chief looked grim, but then he always did.

  ***

  Nathan Jacobs eased his chair back until he could sling his feet up onto his desk. He felt like crap. Sitting up straight was too much effort. For the tenth time that morning, he swore off alcohol forever.

  He’d been out drinking with his friends Mike Vincent and D.W. Tilman last night. By the time they left the night club, he’d already been feeling rough. Then came the near-accident. He’d been laying down in the back seat when it happened. He’d slid off the bench seat and been jostled so bad he threw up.

  I’m never drinking again.

  Jacobs tried to make his mind focus on work. He was employed in the government office that protected key portions of the nation’s electronic infrastructure from electronic attack.

  In the years since September 11th his office’s name had changed so many times he’d lost count. They performed an intricate bureaucratic ballet, shuffling back and forth between the FBI, the Department of Homeland Security, and now the National Security Agency. It seemed to vary with the political outlook of whoever sat in the White House.

  Whatever one called the office, they had oversight duties over many government and private entities involved in information assurance. That was a fancy way of saying they helped stop computer crime.

  Nathan Jacobs was one of the government’s top hackers and he loved his job.

  There were times when he wondered if it was too much. There were times when he wondered if the things said about his agency in the press and in politics might have a point.

  But right in the middle of a massive hangover was not one of those times. He tried to force his eyes into a shape that could see the text on his computer screen.

  A report from a major corporation about a possible attack was on his screen when one of Jacobs' people walked in. "Got a hot one here. One of our decoys got hacked late last night. He was there for ten minutes."

  One of the initiatives Jacobs
had spearheaded upon taking office was to drastically increase the number of decoy computer systems the government employed. They were computer systems designed to look like naive, innocent home users to lure hackers in. Once the criminal broke into the decoy machine, though, the NSA could track his every action.

  Jacobs clapped his hands together and grinned. "Great! I knew that idea would pay off. What did we catch him at?"

  His subordinate shrugged. "Nothing really. Just surfing and chatting."

  Jacobs nodded. "OK, that's a start. I want him watched, obviously."

  ***

  At eleven forty-five, Kathy showered and got ready to go to class. As she washed her hair, Colleen stood outside the shower door and yelled something about taking the flash drive the computer lab to check it out.

  That flash drive spoiled Kathy’s entire day. In acting class she missed a cue, forgot three lines, and actually tripped walking across the stage.

  It wasn’t just her acting class. Kathy’s work was all off in her courses. Since the incident with the police, her mind stuck to the dead man, and the mystery drive he’d pressed into her hand. She endured criticism and raised eyebrows from her professors. She slumped against the wall of the elevator as it carried her up, then trudged down the hall to her room.

  The door hung wide open, swinging in a light breeze. Kathy knew that she’d closed and locked it when she left.

  CHAPTER 2

  Kathy knew her roommate’s schedule by heart. Colleen would not be home from her last class until seven.

  Seconds dragged into minutes as she simply stood there and stared at the door. A long list of reasonable explanations presented itself to her mind, but after last night she wasn’t in the mood for any of them. Her internal battle showed itself in little beads of sweat on her forehead, and in the whispered prayers slipping out of her mouth. Finally curiosity triumphed over caution. She took a moment, then tiptoed through the final few steps to the door.

  No one was in the room – they wouldn’t have had space. All their possessions, their dresser and desk drawers, the mattresses of their beds, and everything they owned on earth was strewn about on the floor.

  ***

  Colleen came home at seven to find her roommate sitting on the floor, legs splayed to either side and head propped up on her arms. The streaks of dried tears spoiled Kathy’s usually perfect makeup. The reason for them was equally clear.

  "What in the heck happened here?" Colleen asked, kneeling down to bring herself to Kathy’s level.

  "Someone broke in."

  That much was obvious, but Colleen didn’t comment. Instead, she cast a belated glance at her desk.

  With a shriek, she bolted up from the ground and across the room. Pieces of her PC decorated the entire desk and the floor around it. "Son of a…" Following that, Colleen issued a stream of profanity to make a sailor blush as she stood and gaped at the remains of her pride and joy.

  Kathy had already sorted through much of the detritus on their floor. She’d gathered up her textbooks, her journal, her Bible, and put them back on the shelves. Thus far, she’d found nothing of hers missing. Colleen's loss, on the other hand, was her most prized possession. She got up from the floor to hug her roommate.

  Tears ran freely down Colleen's face. "Why on Earth would anyone do this?" She cried. "Stealing it I can understand, but why this?"

  Kathy responded only by hugging her tighter.

  "I built that thing myself! Down to the processor I built it. I’ve been upgrading it by hand for a year!"

  Colleen's mood faded from hysterical anger to lethargy. She sank down to her bed and simply sat there, staring at the wall.

  Eventually she sighed. "I suppose we should call the police."

  Kathy frowned. "I can hardly stand the thought of seeing them again, after the way they treated me last night."

  "Well, let’s call DOPS, then," Colleen replied, referring to Georgetown’s Department Of Public Safety, the campus police force. The acronym was usually pronounced "dopes" by the students.

  After Kathy agreed, her roommate got up to make the call. Waiting for DOPS to arrive, she sunk back into her stupor, contemplating the loss of her computer.

  Kathy placed a hand on each of her friend’s shoulders, and shook once, lightly. "Colleen, listen to me. I don’t know, but I don’t think you should sleep here tonight."

  Her eyelashes dropped down in first one blink, then another. Colleen nodded. "Yeah, I guess you’re right. I haven’t thought ahead at all. All I can think of is how much of my life requires that computer. I’ve got all the files backed up, of course, but that doesn’t do me any good without a computer to put them on. It’s like… Sorry. I’m rambling. Anyway, you’re right. I’ll call my so-called boyfriend and sleep over at his place tonight. Where are you going to go when you get off work?"

  "I haven’t thought of that yet. I may just spend the night at the club."

  "They let you do that?"

  "Yeah, nights can run pretty late there, and it’s not unheard of for team members to spend the night on a couch in the back room."

  Colleen shrugged. "OK. Catch you tomorrow for lunch?"

  Kathy agreed.

  It took half an hour before the public safety officers arrived, and when they did they didn’t do much more than fill out some paperwork. But the two girls felt better for at least having reported to someone in authority. Colleen called her boyfriend and headed out for his place carrying the flash drive, which she’d brought back home from class. Kathy took a while longer getting ready, but soon she was off to work.

  A long bus ride later, Kathy strode into the Neon Nightclub and made her way to the employees’ door at the back. She smiled at a few of the regulars, then disappeared into the employees lounge.

  She sank down onto one of the room’s couches and kicked off her shoes before changing into her uniform.

  "No offense, Kathy, but you look like a wreck."

  Kathy smiled at her coworker. "Thanks, I feel it."

  "Cheer up before you go out. That Congressman is here tonight, and he asked me about you."

  Kathy smiled. "You know that federal debt they’re always talking about? I think he spends it all on booze here."

  "Yeah, and tipping you. If you’re going to hook up with a customer, you could do a lot worse than that one."

  Kathy laughed again. "He’s a politician. You have to wonder about one of those so-called family values guys hanging out in a night club chasing cocktail waitresses."

  "Not waitresses Kathy. Just one waitress. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a single guy meeting a girl he likes and trying to spend more time with her. Seems like basically how people start living those ‘family’ values."

  "Yeah, but I’ve never heard him talk about anything that really matters to me."

  Her coworker gave her a look. "Maybe it's there and you just haven't looked for it yet."

  Kathy smiled. "It almost sounds like you want to date him."

  "No, I want to be your wingman. Get out there."

  Kathy put on the club's uniform, which was all black and too short, and headed out to get to work.

  A couple hours later, at her first break of the night, Kathy disappeared into the employees’ lounge and kicked off her shoes. But she’d barely even sat down when another waitress walked past and dropped a folded piece of paper in her lap. She didn’t need to read it.

  "Buy you a drink?" were the only words on the paper.

  She lifted herself off the couch, and left the employee lounge. Leaning against the back corner of the club, she looked at the Congressman for a while.

  Seems like a nice guy whenever we talk. Trying to do something he believes is right with his job. Nice looking. But who is he really? Who is he deep down?

  She walked over to Mike’s table.

  He asked, "How’s it going tonight?"

  She shrugged, sat in the chair across the table from him, and leaned back, crossing her arms. She made a noncommitt
al noise that fell short of an actual word by way of answering his question.

  "Kathy, what’s wrong?"

  She smiled at him and tried to open up her body language a bit. "Nothing, Mike. Just a bit tired."

  "Seriously, Kathy, I can tell you’ve got something on your mind. You can tell me."

  She didn’t answer Michael, staring off into the distance, sipping the vodka cranberry he’d had waiting at the table for her.

  He reached across the table to touch her hand lightly. "Kathy, you know I want to help."

  She sighed. Michael seemed nice enough. She was upset about the break-in, and taking it out on him.

  She made herself smile at him. "Thanks for being patient with my mood. I’ll come out and spend my lunch with you. We'll talk then."

  That gave her time to think it over.

  ***

  Sam Franken’s eyes kept wandering away from the shift commander. There’d been nothing new in the briefing so far, and he was expecting nothing new before it ended. But it was bad form to be too obvious about ignoring it, so he snapped his eyes back to the front again.

  "… Finally, the string of burglaries around Dupont Circle got longer by one last night, so obviously the perp is still at large. Jefferson, Berenbaum, you’re riding out there tonight, so keep your eyes open.

  "Any questions? Dismissed."

  The shift commander turned around and the assembled police officers rose to their feet. Franken walked toward the door, but stopped when the commander waved at him. "I wanna talk to you before you go, Franken."

  In the commander’s office, he took a chair and waited to hear what this was all about. The shift commander was Lieutenant Eric Washington, short and fanatical about physical fitness. His reputation as a hard nose was legendary in the precinct.

  "What’s this crap you filed last night?" Washington asked, easing his rear down into the chair behind his desk.

  "What’s wrong with the report, sir? Did I miss a section of the form?"