by Gina Cresse
Spencer marched into the kitchen and opened a cabinet. I listened as he proudly called out my choices. “I’ve got Cheerios, Frosted Flakes, Lucky Charms, Fruit Loops, and my favorite, Captain Crunch.”
I mulled over the choices. “Got anything that doesn’t list sugar as the first ingredient?”
There was a long silence. “Want me to cook you something?” Spencer offered.
“Cook? You cook?” I asked.
“Toast sound good?”
“Wheat?”
“Wonder. White.”
“Fruit?”
“Raisins. Old.”
“How about going out to eat. I’ll buy.”
“How are you going to do that? You don’t have any money or credit cards.”
“Right. How about we go out, and you buy?”
“Okay. McDonalds?”
“Try again.”
“Burger King? Taco Bell?” He struggled.
I strolled into the kitchen. “Have you ever been to an eating establishment where you actually sit down and people in cute little outfits come to your table and ask you what you want? Then they go tell someone, who cooks it, especially for you? Finally, when it’s ready, they bring it to your table? Ever done that?”
Spencer looked at me as if I was from Mars. “People actually do that?”
“Okay. How’s this for a plan. We go to the grocery store. I pick out the food. You pay. We bring it back here and I’ll fix breakfast.”
“None of that tofu junk. Promise?”
“Promise. No tofu.”
“Okay.”
After breakfast, I tried Clancy’s number, again. Still no answer. I checked my watch. “That’s weird. He should be in by now.”
I called information and got his home number. No answer there, either.
“Maybe they’re on vacation. People have been known to do that,” Spencer offered.
“Maybe. I’m going to check the news again.”
I turned on the set and watched as the camera panned the scene. The reporter stuck a microphone in the face of a tall mustached man. I did a double take as the familiar man answered her questions.
“That’s him. That’s Morgan Johnson,” I blurted.
“Who’s Morgan Johnson?”
“He’s an insurance investigator. He was with me when we found the Gigabyte.”
Our eyes were glued to the TV as Morgan answered the reporter’s questions. “Yes. I’ve made a couple preliminary dives. There’s a split in a section of the hull—likely a defect in the structural material. A massive storm, similar to the El Niños we’ve seen around here this year, probably stressed it beyond its capacity,” Morgan explained.
“I don’t remember seeing anything like that. But, he is the expert. I’m sure he knows what he’s talking about,” I said, trying to convince myself.
“What insurance agency does he work for?” Spencer asked.
“West Coast Insurance. They must be the carrier for the Gigabyte. That’ll be some huge claim. Bet they’ll be crying the blues.”
Spencer chuckled. “You kidding? That’s a drop in the bucket for them. Hey, while you were doing the dishes, I logged into the DOJ Network and ran a check on Carissa West. Her father is Harlan West—big shot with the NSA. Whatever’s going on, I bet those two are in it together. I still think we ought to rattle her cage a little.”
“Not yet. We don’t know enough about her,” I warned.
“I called the office. Told them I’d be working from home today. Let’s go see what else we can dig up on Carissa.”
I pulled a chair up next to Spencer as he sat in front of his computer and cracked his fingers like a pianist preparing to play Mozart.
“Always said you can find out a lot about a person by reading their mail. Let’s see what kind of e-mail little Miss Carissa gets,” Spencer said.
I watched the clock in the bottom corner of the screen. In less than five minutes, Spencer had hacked into the e-mail server for the U.S. Justice Department and was scrolling down a list of user ID’s.
“There she is. ‘Cwest.’ Now, let’s find her mail box,” Spencer announced. Another few keystrokes and he was in. “Bingo. Where should we start?”
My eyes scrolled down the list of documents. “Let’s sort it by sender.”
“Done. Look. There’s something from dear old Dad.”
“Good. Let’s open it,” I directed.
The correspondence began with Harlan’s request to Carissa:
Tuesday-8:00am-sender:hwest—Carissa: I need your help on something. Devonie Lace, from San Diego, is on the road right now. I need her picked up ASAP and her vehicle searched by our team. Be creative. I don’t know where she is, except that she’s not at home.
Tuesday-8:10am-sender:cwest—Okay. Do we hold her indefinitely?
Tuesday-8:15am-sender:hwest—No. Just search the vehicle. We’re looking for film or pictures or a camera.
Tuesday-7:00pm-sender:cwest—Picked her up. Searched the vehicle. Nothing. What now?
Tuesday-8:00pm-sender:hwest—Okay. Let’s pick her up again. This time make it stick. We’ve got to find out what she has. Don’t give her a way out.
Wednesday-5:00pm-sender:cwest—She’s on the run. We haven’t located her yet. Instructions?
Wednesday-7:00pm-sender:hwest—Meet me in San Francisco at the Bates Building—tomorrow at 3:00pm. I’ll need your help to check out Bates’ computer. We need to make sure no files can link him to us.
“Wednesday,” I said. “That was yesterday. They’ll be in San Francisco today at three. Can we get in there first?” I asked.
Spencer hit a few control keys and cleared the screen. “Hack into Bates Corporation system? I’ve heard they got a team of top network people there—dedicated to the complete eradication of the hacker species as we know it.”
“You don’t think you can do it?” I said.
“Oh, I can do it, but it’ll take some time. Just don’t know if I can get it done before three.”
“Let’s give it a try. I have confidence in you.”
Spencer frantically typed commands on his keyboard and waited for responses to display on the screen. “Jeez! These guys are good! Some firewall they’ve built. Let me try running this password database by it.”
I watched the clock. Twenty minutes passed and we hadn’t even gotten through the firewall. It was past ten and it would take three hours to drive to San Francisco.
“Okay. Plan B. Can you get us into the Bates I.T. department? Maybe use your connection with the State?” I asked.
“Maybe. Careful as they are, it’d surprise me if we get anything. Sure like to meet the man in charge down there. Really knows his stuff.”
“Good. I’ll be ready in five minutes. Let’s take my Jeep. I just want to try Clancy one more time.”
I picked up the phone and dialed. Still no answer.
Chapter Eleven
The Bates Corporation Building was one of those glass towers that looked like it belonged in the Emerald City. Bates Corporation stock prices have climbed steadily since it went public back in the early eighties. Even with Gerald Bates, the “Wizard behind the curtain” missing, the momentum of the machine just kept on going. I followed Spencer through the glass entrance into the reception area.
“Good afternoon. I’m Spencer Davis—State of California.” He handed her one of his cards. “This is my assistant.” Spencer motioned toward me. “I have an appointment with Dave, your Network Administrator.”
The receptionist, Jenny, smiled at us, then referred to a chart she had taped to the panel under the raised counter. “Dave? Do you have a last name?”
Spencer turned to me. “You made the appointment. What’s the last name?”
I didn’t hide the helplessness in my face. I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t remember. I don’t think he told me his last name.”
Spencer’s voice became surprisingly firm. “You don’t remember? Or he didn’t tell you? Which is it?”
“Uh…I don’t remember?” I squeaked, pathetically.
“Are you even sure his name was Dave?” Spencer pressed.
“Well…I think…I’m not totally—“
“That’s it! What’ve you got—Jell-O for brains? You’ve embarrassed me for the last—“
“Wait,” Jenny interrupted. “You must mean Stan Parker. He’s our Network Administrator. I don’t see you on his calendar, but I can buzz him. You’re from the State?” she said as she studied Spencer’s card.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Jenny shot me a sympathetic glance that told me she was all too familiar with ogres like Spencer. Jell-O for brains? That wasn’t part of the script. I’d have to have a talk with Spencer on the way home.
“That’s right. Spencer Davis.”
She whispered a few words into her headset, then gave us a big smile. “He’ll be right up. Go ahead and have a seat.”
Stan Parker led us past dozens of cubicles, down endless corridors, along windowed offices, and finally to his office. We each took a seat opposite his desk and smiled, pleasantly.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Davis?” Stan began.
“Call me Spencer. I’m doing some benchmarking of our network security. I’ve been informed your security measures have made your network nearly bulletproof. I was hoping you’d show us around—let us take a look at what you’ve done.”
“I see. Unfortunately, I somehow failed to schedule our appointment on my calendar. I haven’t prepared and wouldn’t want to embarrass myself by giving a less-than-perfect presentation. I have an appointment at three that I can’t get out of. Maybe I can just field some questions?”
“I guess that would work. Could you give us a brief tour of your equipment room? Nothing fancy, just a look-see?” Spencer said.
“I think I can arrange that,” Stan offered.
“Great. Well, why don’t you start by explaining how you set up the architecture for your firewall.”
“Firewall?” Stan replied.
“Yes. I understand it’s nearly unhackable. How did you go about setting it up?” Spencer asked, with a confident tone to his voice.
Stan tapped a pencil on his desk. His eyes darted around the few papers he had neatly placed in the corner of his work station. “You know, I’ve got a flow chart of that around here, somewhere. Why don’t I see if I can dig it up and send you a copy. Can you give me your business card?”
“Sure.” Spencer handed him a card. “Flow chart? That’d be great. How about your modem server? You have a flow chart for that, too?”
“Sure we do. We have flow charts for everything. I’ll make copies of all of them for you,” Stan said.
“Well, this is wonderful. How about pseudo code? Have any of that you can part with? Just the code related to your network security would be sufficient. If you have any Cobol source code, that’d be perfect,” Spencer said.
“Pseudo code? Cobol source code? Of course. I’ll include that in the package. Let me just make a list for my assistant. Anything else?”
Spencer shot me a quick glance. I checked my watch. It was nearly two thirty. “Can’t think of anything else—just that tour you promised.”
“Certainly. Follow me. It’s upstairs.”
We followed Stan into an elevator and waited for the doors to open on the second floor. We walked past another row of cubicles, then down a long hallway. “Right through here.” He pushed open a large glass door.
Two hardware technicians were busy setting up a workstation. Empty computer boxes and Styrofoam packing materials were strewn around the room, waiting for the cleaning crew to haul them away.
Stan pointed to a rack with ten computer monitors stacked on two shelves. The ten servers were packed tightly on the bottom shelf of the rack. Spencer whistled as only an impressed computer geek could. “Cool. Very cool.”
Stan smiled. “We try to keep everything neat and organized here.”
“It shows. Can I walk around the back?” Spencer’s eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store.
“Sure. Come on back.”
Spencer took a step, then tripped over a stray piece of Styrofoam. He caught himself on his knees, then pushed his glasses back up on his nose. “Jeez! What a klutz I am. Let me just toss this so no one else trips over it.” Spencer picked up the spongy object. Still on his knees, he placed it in a garbage can sitting next to the rack. He stood up, brushed himself off, and proceeded to the back of the rack.
“What you got back here, Stan? Oh, my God! Is that all fiber?”
Spencer went on for ten minutes, admiring the cabling and hardware. Finally, I peeked around the corner of the rack. “Mr. Davis? I think it’s time to get back to the office. We have a long drive, and Mr. Parker has that other appointment.”
Spencer looked at his watch. “Right, you are. I completely lost track of the time. Thanks for letting me see this work of art, Stan.”
“You bet. Glad I could be of help,” Stan replied.
We followed Stan back to the reception area. I noticed a stack of Bates Corporation Newsletters on a table in the waiting room. I picked one up on our way out.
“Feel like driving?” I asked.
“Sure. Got the keys?”
I handed the keys to Spencer and walked around to the passenger-side door.
Spencer laughed so hard he could barely buckle his seatbelt. “You pick up on it?”
I joined Spender in his laugh-fest. “The flow chart business? And the pseudo code! What was he talking about?”
“That guy is no more a network administrator than I’m the Queen of England. You like the Cobol touch I added? He wouldn’t know the front end of a server if it kicked him in the back end. I’m surprised he could find the server room.”
“Doesn’t matter. Looks like we struck out anyway. We’re no further ahead than we were this morning,” I pointed out.
Spencer grinned and reached into his pocket. “Not necessarily. Look what I found digging through the trash.” He pulled a mini data cartridge tape from his pocket and handed it to me. It was labeled, “BAD TAPE.”
“What’s this?” I asked, inspecting the tape.
“It’s a backup tape. They go bad after a while and usually just get tossed. Check out the last backup date.”
I read down the short list. The most recent date was only two weeks old. “But it’s bad. How can we use it?”
Spencer gave me his usual, “leave it to me” grin.
“You can read this?” I asked.
“Can a duck swim?”
“Maybe we’re not up a creek after all.”
“Oh, we’re up a creek all right—but at least we have a paddle.”
I handed the tape back to Spencer and began leafing through the pages of the Bates Corporation Newsletter.
The first page was dedicated to the corporate mission statement. It all sounded good. Mission statements always sound good. As I read it aloud, Spencer quietly hummed the Star Spangled Banner in the background.
I flipped through more pages. Employee birthdays and anniversaries were listed on several pages. Photos from a recent employee retirement banquet took up a couple more. Four pages were dedicated to show-off the new layout for the company’s commonly-used forms—designed to be more user friendly and efficient.
I turned to a full double-page layout featuring a photo of Gerald Bates shaking hands with an Arab businessman. The caption, printed in big bold letters, stood out against the black and white photo: “Bates Goes East: Out With the Old (Oil)—In With the New (Technology).”
“Listen to this.” I read excerpts of the article to Spencer. “Gerald Bates travels to Baghdad to participate in a series of meetings with Iraqi oil industrialist, Mohammed Aziz. The focus of the meetings are to discuss the future of computer technology in a country Bates has been known to openly criticize for its ‘mono-industry’ mentality.”
Spencer chuckled. “They may be ‘mono-industrial,’ but boy, what an industry. Two million barrels of oil a day c
an feed a lot of camels. Wasn’t there some kind of sanction on Iraq after the Gulf war? They could only trade oil for food or something?”
“Yeah. Listen to this. It says Bates contacted Aziz after he’d announced he’d lost millions in revenues due to the sanctions. Bates suggested a partnership, of sorts, where the Iraqi company would diversify its efforts and begin assembling certain computer components.”
“Did Aziz go for it?” Spencer asked.
“I don’t know. According to this, more meetings were scheduled but Bates disappeared. The talks stopped after that. Wasn’t it just a few days after Bates returned from some Middle-East country that he vanished?” I asked.
“One day—he’d only been back for a day. He landed in San Francisco on a Sunday and never showed up for work on Monday morning. No one’s seen him since,” Spencer replied.
I turned the page and continued reading the story. “Huh? This is weird.”
“What?” Spencer asked.
“It couldn’t be, could it?” I continued.
“What? What?” Spencer demanded.
“Here are some pictures from one of his trips to Baghdad. Stan Parker is with him in a couple.”
“Our Stan Parker? Mr. Flow chart?”
“One and the same. Only he’s not listed as a Network Administrator. The caption here says he’s an aide to Mr. Bates. Would a change from CEO aid to Network Administrator be considered a promotion or a demotion, I wonder?”
“Depends on if he got a pay cut or a pay raise, I guess,” Spencer said.
“This whole thing is too weird. What do you think we’ll find when we get to the bottom of it?”
“If we get to the bottom of it.”
“If? Come on, Spence. If we don’t solve this, I can’t ever go home and I’ll have to mooch off you forever.”
“Right. When we get to the bottom of it.”
