He reaches across the table, places a hand on mine. “If they discover what you did, you’re going away for a really long time as it is.”
I hear Ella in the other room. “That’s not fair!” she’s yelling. You’re right, I think, staring at the flash drive. It’s not fair. None of this is fair.
“Daddy!” she screeches. “Luke cheated!”
“I did not!” Luke shouts.
I’m still staring at the flash drive. I can feel Matt’s eyes on me. Neither of us is getting up to go in there, to referee. The kids continue arguing, but quieter now. When their conversation returns to normal, I pull my hand out from under Matt’s and clasp them together. “What’s on it, for real? Something that’s going to let the Russians into our systems?”
He shakes his head. “No. Absolutely not. I swear to you, it’s just a program that will reset the servers to their state two days ago.”
“How do you know?”
“I checked. I ran diagnostics on it. That’s all it is.”
And why should I believe you? I don’t say the words, but I don’t have to. I’m sure he can read it all over my face.
“If you don’t do this, you’re going to jail.” His expression looks completely open, honest. And scared, too. “This is a way out.”
I look back down at the flash drive, willing it to disappear, wishing this all could just disappear. I have a sense that I’m spiraling down deeper and deeper, and I’m powerless to stop it. Is this really something I could do?
I raise my head, give him a long look. His words are echoing in my head. I ran diagnostics on it. “Let me see.”
Confusion clouds his features. “What?”
“You said you ran diagnostics on it. Let me see.”
He recoils, like he’s been slapped. “You don’t believe me.”
“I want to see it for myself.”
We stare at each other, unblinking, until he finally speaks. “Fine.” He stands, leaves the room, and I get up to follow. He goes to the storage area behind the stairs. Turns on the light, reaches for the screwdriver, the same one I used. I watch as he pries open the floorboard, removes the laptop. He turns around, gives me a long look, one I can’t read, then brushes past me, back to the table.
He opens the laptop and sits down in front of it; I stand behind him, watching the screen. The white bar appears, the cursor flashes. I look down at the keyboard, follow his fingers as they strike the keys, slowly and deliberately. A pattern I recognize, one of his usual passwords, the kids’ birthdays. He taps a few extra keys at the end, and it takes a moment for realization to dawn. It’s our anniversary date. He was thinking about us, after all.
“You’re not going to understand any of this, are you?” he asks, without turning around.
And I’m grateful his back’s to me, because he’s right. I’m not a tech person; the details won’t be clear. But it’s not about that. It’s about how he acts right now, what he shows me. I’ll understand enough to know whether he really ran diagnostics on it, or whether that was a lie. And maybe that’s enough. “I know more than you think I do.”
He opens a program, types a command, and text starts to roll down the screen. “A log of user activity,” he murmurs. He points to a line: today’s date. Then another, a time stamp from a few hours earlier.
He scrolls down the screen, gestures to a section of text. “The contents of the drive,” he says. I scan the text, much of it indecipherable, but bits and pieces make sense, align with what Matt said. Nothing suggests it’s anything more.
And most important, the date and time stamp. The fact that he had something to show me. He ran diagnostics on the drive, just like he said.
He wasn’t lying.
He turns in his chair and looks up at me. There’s hurt on his face, and it sends guilt washing over me. “Do you believe me now?”
I walk around to the other side of the table, sit in the chair across from him. I hesitate before speaking. “They’re good, you know. Agency people. What if they trace this back to me?”
“They won’t,” he says quietly.
“How can you be sure?”
“Think of the things I told you. The things the Russians know.” He reaches over the table, puts his hands over mine. “They’re good, too.”
—
I DON’T SLEEP THAT NIGHT, AGAIN. Instead I wander the house, my heart aching. I watch the kids sleep, the rise and fall of their chests, the faces that look even younger in slumber. I pad through the halls, looking at each photo on the walls, all those fleeting moments, the happy smiles. The artwork hanging on the fridge with magnets. The toys, lying idle in the darkness, waiting. I just want this all to continue. Normal life.
But the fact of the matter is, I could go to jail. It’s pretty much a certainty now, if they find out what I did. Disclosing compartmented information, jeopardizing Agency operations. And oh how much I’ll miss if that happens. Emotion wells up inside me just thinking about it. Caleb’s first steps, his first words. Ella losing her first tooth, the excitement of the Tooth Fairy. Dance recitals, T-ball, learning to ride bikes. Most of all, all those little moments. Cuddling them when they’ve had a nightmare, or when they’re sick. Hearing I love you, Mommy, and what they learned at school, what they’re excited about, scared about.
Sure, this will mean the Bureau won’t catch sleepers it otherwise might have. But in the scheme of things, how much does it matter? There were literally dozens of sleepers at my wedding. This problem is so much bigger than we realized. Five is a drop in the bucket.
I’m sitting on the couch in the predawn darkness when Matt comes downstairs. He turns on the kitchen light, blinks as his eyes adjust. He walks to the coffee maker, presses the button. I watch him in silence. Finally he notices me, stops and stares. I hold his gaze. Then, slowly, I lift up my hand, flash drive between thumb and forefinger. “Tell me what I need to know.”
—
I’M GOING TO DO THIS. The enormity of it is almost overpowering. I watch in a daze as he wipes down the flash drive with a little cleaning cloth, the kind he uses to clear smudges from his sunglasses. For the fingerprints, he says. He places it into the false bottom of a double-walled travel coffee mug. Shiny, metallic, something I’ve never seen before. Where was this? Where does he keep these things?
How have I been so blind?
“All you do is plug it in,” he says, handing me the mug. I take it from him. I can see my reflection in it, distorted. It’s me, but it looks like someone else. “There’s a USB port in the front of the computer terminal.”
“Okay.” I continue to stare at the reflection in the tumbler, this image of me that isn’t really me.
“Plug it in, wait at least five minutes, no more than ten, then remove it. In ten, the servers start resetting. If the drive’s still connected when the reset’s complete, they’ll be able to trace it back to the computer.”
Five minutes? I have to sit there for five minutes, with the drive attached? What if someone sees? “I’ll wait till after hours, then.”
He shakes his head. “Can’t. The computer has to be logged on.”
“Logged on?” His words fill me with fear. That means business hours. Peter’s the one with the credentials; he usually logs on to that computer in the morning, locks it for the day, then logs off again before he leaves. This seems like such a risk, what he’s asking me to do. “What if someone sees me do it?”
“That can’t happen,” he says, and I can see the fear on his face, the first little tremor of uncertainty I’ve seen since he showed me the flash drive. “Don’t let that happen.”
—
THE TUMBLER SITS IN THE CUP holder beside me as I drive to the office. I grip it tightly on the trek in from the parking lot, even tighter as I enter the lobby and see the American flag hanging from the rafters. Every ounce of my concentration is dedicated to looking calm, impassive.
I pass three signs on the way in—I never noticed there were so many—with the list of prohib
ited items. A long list, anything and everything electronic. Even if the flash drive were blank, bringing it in would still be prohibited. And it’s not like I can say I didn’t know.
I wait in line for the turnstiles. Off to the right there’s a woman about my age pulled aside for a spot check; Ron’s going through her bag. On the left, an older man’s being wanded, another spot check. I avert my gaze. I can feel beads of sweat pricking my forehead, my upper lip. When it’s my turn, I hold my badge over the reader, enter my code on the touch pad. The turnstiles unlock, allow me to pass.
The sensors sound, a low-pitched beep, and two officers I don’t recognize look in my direction. My heart is galloping away, so loud I’m sure the people around me must be able to hear it. I paste on a confused look, just for a split second, then smile, hold up the mug in their direction. Here, it’s just this. Don’t worry, it’s not electronics. These sensors, the ones that can detect electronic devices, are notoriously fickle.
One of the officers walks over. He takes a wand, runs it up and down me, over my bag. It beeps only at the tumbler. With a bored look, he waves me in.
I give him a smile, a nod. I continue down the hall, even pace, even gait. When I’m out of his sight, I wipe the dampness from my brow with the back of a trembling hand.
I badge into the vault, enter my code. The heavy door unlatches, and I push it open. I see Patricia right away. I offer her a smile as I pass. A “Good morning,” just like any other day. Then I walk back to my cubicle and log on. Normal routine, normal greetings, everything’s normal.
I sit at my desk and stare at the door. RESTRICTED ACCESS, large red letters. The readers beside it: one that scans badges; the other, fingerprints. There’s a program open on my screen, but I’m not looking at it. Not running my searches, not opening my emails. Just staring at the door.
A few minutes after nine, Peter walks over. I watch as he holds his badge to one of the readers, enters a code, then touches his finger to the other, holds it there. He enters, shuts the heavy door behind him. Minutes later, the door opens again, and he leaves.
I turn my gaze to the tumbler, sitting in front of me on the desk. The computer’s logged on; I could do it anytime. I need to do it. I reach for the tumbler, close my fingers around it. It’s almost hard to stand up from my chair, make my legs walk toward the door.
I badge in, hold my finger to the reader. The lock disengages, and I pull open the heavy door. Inside it’s dark; I flip on the light switch. It’s a small space, smaller even than Peter’s office. Two computers, side by side on a table, screens angled away from each other. A third, set against the opposite wall. It’s this one that draws my attention. I see the USB drive on the front.
I sit down at one of the other two computers, set the tumbler down in front of me. Log on; if anyone else comes in, I need to look like I’m working. I pull up the most compartmented piece of information I have access to, one that only a handful of people in the whole Agency can see. Something so sensitive that I’d have no choice but to ask any newcomer to leave, to come back when I’m finished. Then I take a soft breath, unscrew the bottom of the tumbler. Once open, I see the flash drive. I pull my sleeve over my hand, shake the drive out into it, screw the bottom back on.
I’m still for a moment, listening, but all is quiet.
And then I’m out of the chair, over to the third computer. With my sleeve covering my fingertips, I insert the drive, quickly and easily. The end of it flickers orange almost immediately. I’m back in my chair mere seconds later.
Shaking. I’ve never been so terrified in all my life.
Everything’s still quiet. I look at the clock at the bottom of my screen. Five minutes. That’s all I need. I just need to be alone in here for five minutes, remove the drive, stick it back into the tumbler, and this is all over and done with. Like it never happened.
I glance back at the drive, the end of it glowing orange. What’s it doing right now? Worming its way into the servers, I guess. Getting ready to erase everything from the past two days. That’s it, though, right? God, I hope that’s it.
A minute passes, and it feels like an eternity. I’m doing the fractions in my head. One-fifth of the way there. Twenty percent.
And then there’s a beep outside the door, a badge being held to the reader. I go still, then turn toward the door. Be calm. I must be calm. Four minutes. I just need four more minutes.
The door opens, and it’s Peter again. Oh God, it’s Peter. Fear is clutching my insides. He’s read into everything I am. I have no excuse for keeping him out, do I? He’s going to sit down at that computer next to me, and how can I possibly get to the other computer, remove that drive?
“Hi, Vivian,” he says. Pleasant, normal. I hope he can’t see how panicked I am. How utterly terrified.
“Hey.” I fight to keep my voice calm.
He walks in, sits at the terminal beside me, starts typing his passwords. I’m so incredibly conscious of the flash drive in the computer behind us. There’s no reason he’d use that computer, right? But what if he notices it?
I look at the clock. It’s been three minutes now. Sixty percent. Two more, and—
“Vivian?” Peter says.
“Yeah?” I turn to him.
“Could you excuse me for a few minutes? I need to check a new piece of intel. Eagle Justice.”
A compartment I don’t have. He’s doing exactly what I was planning to do, kick out anyone without the right clearances. I look back at the clock. Still three minutes. I swear time isn’t moving the way it should. “Could you just give me a few more minutes to finish up? I’m almost done.”
“Wish I could, but I need to take a look at this before the morning management meeting. Nick’s orders.”
No. No, this can’t be happening. What am I supposed to do? What in the world am I supposed to do right now?
“Vivian?”
“Right. Sure. Let me just log off.”
“If you could just lock it for now…I really need to look at this quickly.”
I hesitate. My brain’s failing me right now, not coming up with a single thing to do, besides just acquiesce. “Okay.” I lock my screen, Control-Alt-Delete. I stand, and as I’m opening the door to leave, my eyes drift to the flash drive, still attached, the end of it still glowing orange.
I walk back to my desk, sit down in a daze. My eyes find the clock—five minutes—and then settle on the door. My mind seems paralyzed, unable to come up with anything to do. I think back to Matt’s words this morning. Five minutes…no more than ten…the servers start resetting.
Six minutes now, and still the door is closed. What if Peter sees it?
Seven minutes. I sit, terrified, fear coursing through me.
Eight minutes now. Could I lure him away? I have no idea how. Just wait? He has to finish up soon, doesn’t he?
Nine minutes. I’m frozen, unable to move. I force myself to push back from my chair, stand. I’ll say I forgot something. The tumbler. Then I’ll knock it over, toward the computer, pull out the drive when I’m down on the floor to pick it up—
A flash in front of me draws my attention. A change in color, in contrast. My screen goes black, just for an instant. I spin around, look down the row of cubicles, see other screens go black, too. In succession, one after another. A swift flicker, running through the vault like an electrical current. Normal screens return. People are looking around, murmuring. What’s going on?
Oh God.
I bolt for the Restricted Access door. Hold up my badge, press my finger to the reader. Matt’s instructions are running through my head. If the drive’s still connected when the reset’s complete, they’ll be able to trace it back to the computer….
The door opens just as the lock disengages, just as I start to push, and I almost lose my balance, practically fall into Peter.
“Vivian,” he says, startled. He pushes up his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
“Cup. I forgot my cup,” I say quickly. Too quickly. He s
hoots me a quizzical look, one that’s tinged with suspicion. But it doesn’t matter right now, nothing matters but getting to that flash drive, pulling it out. I move out of his way, wait for him to pass, every fraction of a second that he doesn’t feeling like torture.
Finally he steps out of the room and I enter, shut the door behind me. I’m on the floor an instant later, yanking out the flash drive, then finding my way to the tumbler, unscrewing the bottom, placing the drive back in, screwing the bottom back on.
And then I collapse in the chair, utterly and completely spent. My whole body is shaking. I can’t catch my breath.
The terror stays, even after the shaking stops. And I don’t know why. It should go away. I have the flash drive. I’m safe, right? There’s no way the reset was complete.
And yet I’m filled with a strange sensation that I’m not safe, even if this works exactly the way it should.
—
IT DOESN’T TAKE LONG for the room full of analysts to determine that all work from the past two days has been erased. Everyone’s commiserating over lost documents, PowerPoint slides. Word quickly spreads that the outage is system-wide. Conspiracy theories abound, everything from foreign intelligence services to hackers to disgruntled IT employees.
Peter’s walking from cubicle to cubicle, checking to see if all his analysts’ accounts were similarly affected; I hear the quiet conversations, hear him approaching. When he gets to my cubicle, he stands for a long moment, just watching me, silent. His face is expressionless, but somehow it still sends fear flowing through me.
“Same, Vivian?” he asks. “Two days of work?”
“Looks that way.”
He nods, still expressionless, and moves on.
I watch his back, and the fear morphs into a powerful wave of nausea. Suddenly I’m certain I’m going to be sick. I need to leave, need to get out of here.
I push back from my desk, hurry down the aisle, through the rows of cubicles, out the vault door. Hand on the wall for balance, I make my way to the ladies’ room. I push inside, hurry past the double bank of sinks, the double row of mirrors, down to the row of stalls. Close myself in the farthest one. Lock the door, then spin around to vomit in the toilet.
Need to Know Page 11
