“Sounds like a man who knows how to use psychological cues,” Joe laughed. “I guess he didn’t count on having to negotiate with a female.”
“No, he definitely did not. And I don’t think he enjoyed it much, either.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Joe, mmm, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
“Sure, anything.”
“There are two files related to a client that I’ve got on disk that I can’t access because they’re password-protected. There has been some mix-up, and I haven’t been given the password. Do you happen to know if there is any way I can get them open?”
“What do you see on the screen when you try to open them?”
“It asks for a Private Password.”
“Well, it’s possible the files are encrypted using some sort of asymmetric encryption protocol.”
“What’s that? Consider me technology-challenged.”
“Sorry. The prompt may be asking for part of a pair. Okay, let me explain … A file can be encrypted using a public key, or password, which is made public so many people can use it to encrypt multiple files. Only people with the private key can decrypt the files.”
“So files could be created by different people, encrypted with the same public key that is generally available, and be accessible only by a select few who have the private key.”
“That’s right. You said there were two files, right? My people sometimes send me confidential files in pairs. The use of one password opens the first file which contains the password to access the second file.”
“Oh. Hmmm.”
“It allows that second file’s password to be randomly changed and provided only to people who have access to the first file. You can’t contact the client and get that Private Key?”
“Well, because of exigent circumstances, I can’t wait for an exchange with the client.”
“And you checked your email for any other messages that might include a password?”
“Hmmm. Okay. I’ll do that. But, if I don’t have it and I can’t get it in time, is there any software program that I could use to discover the password? I’ve heard of these programs that hackers use that try every possible combination and break the code?”
“There are any number of what they call brute-force algorithms out there that claim to be able to try billions of passwords per minute, but their speed depends on the number of key bits, which is the number of digits in the key. I could probably come up with a program for you, but they do require a substantial amount of RAM—memory—to run.”
“Oh. I guess just getting the password from the client would be faster.”
“Well, let me know if I can help further.”
“Thanks, Joe. Hey, were you in New York this week while I was gone?”
“Yes. Turned out my business concluded quickly this time, so I took Bradley, my nephew, to the Big Apple Circus. A Connecticut preview performance.”
“Now that sounds like fun. Much more fun than living out of a suitcase,” she said sighing.
“Tired of traveling so much?”
“I had this friend who was living off her trust fund, and she traveled constantly—and to more exotic places than I usually go. Anyway, I asked her why she traveled so much and she said she was trying to find herself,” she paused. “I always thought that was so odd because the more time I spend traveling, the more I feel like I’m losing myself.”
“Hmmm.”
“But, maybe that’s because my travel is always a business necessity and rarely offers any opportunity to just absorb a place.”
“How would you feel about spending a few days in California with me?”
“Well, I don’t know. I’m not sure that it’s such a good time for me to be taking off.”
“I doubt you ever give yourself enough time off,” he said.
“Well, you’re taking me to a charity ball next weekend, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but I’m talking about sunshine and relaxation. After the ball, I might just kidnap you and take you back to California on Sunday.”
“And I might let you, but let me think about it.”
“Okay. Get some sleep.”
“Take care, Joe.”
They hung up.
A separate email that might contain the private password. That’s what she needed to look for. Alan was the only person she felt certain was privy to the deal and its files. How could she manage to get into Alan’s electronic mailbox? Did she really want to take that drastic of a step?
She looked at the clock, 8:30 p.m. She hadn’t even unpacked her luggage yet. She was exhausted after sleeping only sporadically while in Florida. A trip to the office tonight had definitely not been the plan. She shrugged, Friday night after eight o’clock p.m. is probably the best time for a surreptitious visit to Alan’s office. After washing her face, she changed clothes and grabbed a light jacket. She carried her leather briefcase full of the files she’d brought back from Florida. If anyone thwarted her intended agenda she would simply pretend to have returned to the office to finish up some work. She knew it was unlikely that she could successfully infiltrate Alan’s email, but she had to try.
The night was balmy and the streets were filled with weekend revelers mostly moving to or from Times Square. Ironically, partly due to the reduced crime rate that New York had enjoyed over the past years, Evie felt very safe weaving her way through the noisy crowds of people on the streets of midtown Manhattan. And Times Square’s omnipotent neon billboards and marquee lights transformed the dark evening into a visual landscape. The great anonymous bodyguard.
When she reached her office building, she looked around. She didn’t know why she did that—just an instinct. Maybe since she was herself engaged in a clandestine operation, she was a bit jumpy. She smiled to herself. After nodding to the night security guard, she reached the fourteenth floor and walked to the wooden door bearing the large brass letters spelling out Howard, Rolland & Stewart. She punched the entrance code into the door’s keypad and entered. She didn’t hear the hum of the elevator as it was summoned back down to the lobby.
The floor was quiet except for two illuminated offices in the litigation department on the west side of the building. The only audible noise was the distant street sounds floating up from the concrete valleys between the buildings. Alan’s office was on the southeast corner of the building with a view of the Winter Garden Theatre. She approached cautiously from the west side and noted that his office door was closed and darkness was perceptible beneath the door. Most partner offices had locking doors, but most rarely employed them, relying on the secured entrances to provide protection. Alan’s door opened quietly and she slid inside.
Instead of illuminating the entire room with the ceiling light, she limited herself to the light provided by a small desk lamp. She sat in his chair and faced his computer. Fortunately, it was a desktop instead of a mobile laptop so it was available for inspection. Partners rarely found it necessary to carry a computer home the way associates did.
From inside his office, she could hear no sound except her own breathing and the airy whir of the computer boot-up procedure. The air around his desk still held the aroma of his cigar smoke. She wondered why the partnership let him get away with smoking illegally in the building. The building management was not the best, but it was curious that there’d been no complaints. A cigar butt lay in the gold embossed ashtray on his desk and she waved the palm of her hand over it, within an inch of its surface. She could feel heat still rising from its blackened end. He must have just left. I hope he’s not planning to come back. Her palms began to sweat as she impatiently waited for the desktop icons to appear on the large flat-screen monitor.
Finally, she clicked on the email icon and waited, hoping she would not be prompted for a password before viewing his email inbox. Suddenly, a password prompt did appear but to her relief it had a series of XXXs already present in the response field
, indicating that Alan had relied on his computer to “remember” his password. She hit “Enter” and Alan’s inbox appeared, filling the screen with a list of thirty-three emails, most of which were received during the day on Friday. Only five or so were still unread so they must have been received in the period of time after he had left the office. She hurriedly studied the list, looking for any email announcement that might be related to Project Neon or Gerais Chevas. Nothing. She scrolled down through emails dated in arrears, but nothing looked relevant. Did she dare take the time to open some of these and read?
Suddenly, she heard a noise outside his office door. She froze for a moment and then on impulse reached over and turned off the desk lamp. She sat motionless in his leather office chair in the dark office and listened. She took slow measured breaths. The only light now came from the computer screen—she reminded herself that partners often left their computers on when they left the office so the blue-grayish glow shouldn’t invite suspicion. She waited for several minutes until she was sure that all was quiet. She continued her search aided only by the incandescent light of the computer screen. The desk lamp’s illumination would be too risky.
As she continued to read through the list of message titles, it suddenly occurred to her that the password may have originated with Alan. So if it had been communicated through email, it would be contained in a message from Alan not to him. She clicked on the icon for Sent messages and a different list of message titles appeared. She scrolled down a full screen before she saw it. A message drafted by Alan dated August 10th and entitled “Inner Circle.”
She clicked on the message and a text window appeared on the screen. There was only one string of characters in the file: “Z7Yb49BN.” It looked like it might be a password. It reminded her of the type of password that was assigned by a system administrator at the initiation of a login. She copied the characters on a piece of paper from her bag. She didn’t want to risk trying to access the file from Alan’s computer so she slipped the paper in her pocket and scanned the message titles again in Alan’s outgoing mailbox. Another message sent by Alan in August caught her eye.
It was entitled “Fruition.” She clicked on it, and it contained what looked like a message drafted by Alan sent in response to a message received by him that was attached at the bottom.
Alan’s message read:
Will do. Adinaldo—present specifics during Monday TC.
The original message read:
Prepare the Docs. Arrange TC. Closing 9/20.
“TC” must mean “Telephone Conference,” Evie guessed. The exchange seemed to confirm arrangements for a telephone conference to occur that next Monday with the probable closing for the deal on September 20th. Not very informative. Adinaldo …
She had received a message from an Adinaldo herself. What she originally thought had been an errant email to her, now clearly linked to this exchange of Alan’s. She looked at the email address from which the original message had been sent: [email protected]. The same address from which she’d received that earlier email. Presumably “ARafael” referred to Adinaldo’s username, so his full name must be Adinaldo Rafael. “GC” must be Gerais Chevas so he was an insider—an employee of the firm’s client of some rank.
The press release Evie had read indicated that Gerais Chevas was a Brazilian company, but she didn’t know how many satellite offices were in existence. Whoever this Adinaldo Rafael was, it was likely that he was located in the Brazilian office to have a “br” domain address. The big mystery was the reference to “specifics.” Evie retrieved the piece of paper from her pocket and made notes. Did she dare try to print these messages? It would be immensely valuable to have a hard copy with Alan’s user name …
And then the unmistakable sound of footsteps caused her to drop her pencil. Luckily, it landed not on the hard desk, but noiselessly on the rug beneath the chair. She leaned down to retrieve it and stayed crouched behind the desk. The footsteps abruptly stopped. She looked up at the computer screen from her crouched position. The “Adinaldo” email message still showed prominently on the screen. She held her breath as the door opened.
She could feel the presence of another person standing at the doorway. The person seemed to be scanning the room deciding whether there was any reason to enter. Evie could smell some sort of aftershave that floated toward her. She knew the desk blocked her from view as long as the person stayed in the doorway. She held her breath again and remained motionless. A few unending moments passed. She couldn’t see the doorway from her hiding position and so she waited.
The sound of footsteps again—this time they seemed to be turning in place and in the next second she welcomed the sound of the door closing. She waited until the footsteps proceeded down the hallway and faded into the distance before she moved, collecting her pencil and paper and depositing them in her bag. She clicked closed the open message on the screen and exited out of Alan’s email. She shut down his computer and while she was waiting for a blank screen, she took a tissue from Alan’s desk and lightly brushed over the keys on his keyboard and everything else in the vicinity that she suspected she had touched.
When she was satisfied that the office was returned to the state in which she’d found it, she stood behind the closed door listening for silence in the hallway. It was completely still now so she quickly opened the door and stepped through. She crept around the west side of the building to her office and noticed to her relief that she had not turned on her office light and that there were no obvious signs that she had been there recently. She grabbed her leather briefcase that she had left behind her door and walked quickly out of the reception area, feeling fairly certain that she had not been seen on the floor by the small number of people in the litigation department who still seemed to be working.
Once outside on the street, she felt enormous relief and almost succumbed to an urge to slip into a bar for a drink. Club Turquoise was not far to walk and her friend, David, had invited her to his performance, but a wave of exhaustion and post-adrenaline emptiness washed over her. She started for home.
As she made her way through the thickening pedestrian traffic, someone bumped into her hard and she fell to the sidewalk. She picked herself up, grabbed her bag and looked around, but couldn’t identify the person with whom she’d clashed. She continued moving, but she had the haunting feeling that someone was following her. You’re being paranoid. There are hundreds of people around and they’re all oblivious. She walked on but couldn’t shake the feeling of being stalked. She ducked into a Starbucks, turned around and watched out the front window. A man in a dark suit walked by and stopped. He looked toward the Starbucks door, but instead walked in an erratic manner over to one of the transparent front walls of the store and peered in.
Evie had backed away from the entrance and was standing behind a display of coffee accessories. She watched as the man seemed to search the interior of the coffee shop with a determined scowl on his face. This was definitely not the man she’d seen the night she went for Chinese food. He stood with his face to the glass for several minutes, studying the patrons of the coffee shop. She hid behind the display and continued to watch. Even though there were thirty or forty people in line, at the counter and seated at the tables, she suddenly felt very alone. Who is this man? Is he following me? Could this … no … it couldn’t have anything to do with Project Neon, could it? No! Of course not. Now I’ve really become paranoid.
She stayed hidden until the man proceeded down Seventh Avenue. The coffee aromas were seductive and her mouth was dry, so, since she was already there, she decided to have a cup. Or perhaps it was fear, not thirst that kept her ensconced in the coffee-consumer crowd. She reached around in her bag, but couldn’t locate her wallet. Concluding it was buried in the bottom, she found a twenty dollar bill tucked into an outside pocket and bought a small cappuccino. After a half hour of watching people come and go, she drained the last few drops from her Starbucks cup and grabbed her bag and briefcase. She cautiously
walked out onto the street.
She waited for a large group of tourists that were approaching and fell in behind them. She followed them several blocks and then jumped in a taxi and headed for home. When her taxi pulled up in front of her building, she was relieved to see one of the nighttime doormen she recognized; after paying the fare, she rushed inside.
Once inside her apartment, she left the room dark and peered out the living room window facing Central Park West. Nothing but the usual street activity. She moved to the window in her bedroom that captured a partial view of 65th Street. A man in gray pants and a leather jacket seemed to be looking up at her building. She recoiled from the window, but then returned, confident that with the lights off, she could not be seen. The man seemed upset and was talking to himself. Or was he talking into some sort of electronic device? He seemed to adjust something on his ear. It could be just another strange street person, but he was dressed too well. His mouth seemed to form deliberate speech and his movements were controlled and sharp.
Evie’s stomach dropped when she saw another man in a dark suit approach the man she was watching—it was the man who had followed her to Starbucks! He was easy to recognize because of his jerky bodily movements that were in sharp contrast to the other man’s. She wondered if she should call the police or the building concierge or maybe even Joe. No, that’s ridiculous … What could Joe possibly do for me from California? He was probably not home now anyway. She couldn’t be absolutely sure that these two men were targeting her, but it seemed extremely coincidental that a man she had noticed acting suspiciously outside of Starbucks while she was inside, would just happen to appear in front of her building less than thirty minutes later looking up toward the residents’ windows.
Wearing the Spider (A Suspense Novel) (Legal Thriller) (Thriller) Page 13
