by Jack Bowie
The third time, he climbed across the sectional to the end table, pulling his back muscle again, and grabbed the phone. Someone was going to get hell.
“What?” he barked into the receiver.
“Good evening, Sam. Knew you were there. Having a bad day?”
“Roger? Jesus, I’m sorry. But yes, it’s been a bitch of a day. What’s up?”
“I didn’t want to disturb you at home but I thought it would be safer for both of us to talk tonight. That okay?”
“Yeah. Go ahead.”
“First off, you didn’t tell me your case had been given to our friends at the FBI.”
“Must have slipped my mind. Did you find out anything?” Get to the point, Roger.
“That’s what I figured, of course. I did some checking and came up blank. I can’t find any evidence to tie your bombing to a terrorist group. I’m sure we don’t have complete data on all the cells operating in the area, but we would have heard something through their communication channels. The Fibbies haven’t found anything either but they’re too dumb to know it.”
“Always the politician, Roger. That must be why they keep you around. I’m not surprised. You just confirmed my intuition. Unfortunately, I don’t have any other alternatives.” It looked like another dead end. This wouldn’t be of any help to him or to Braxton.
“Sorry I couldn’t help more this time, Sam.”
“That’s okay. I appreciate the effort. By the way, have you heard anything about problems on the Internet? Strange messages appearing or anything like that?”
The phone went silent. When Slattery spoke again, his tone was sharp and formal. “Why do you ask, Sam?”
“The kid who blew himself up thought he found something funny in one of GW’s computers. Somebody from the CERT Coordination Center been asking about it.”
“CERT? What do you know about them?”
“Me, Roger? I’m just a dumb local cop. What do I know? That’s what the guy told me.”
“What guy, Sam? Who is he?” Slattery’s voice ratcheted even higher.
“I don’t remember his name. Why? Something going on I should know about?”
“Not at all, Sam. Just inquisitive. You know me.”
“Yeah, I do, Roger.” Well enough to know you’re not telling me everything.
“Okay, guess I’d better get back to work.”
“On Sunday night?”
“The government never sleeps, Sam.”
“That’s what I worry about. But thanks for checking on the terrorist angle. I owe you for that.”
“Any time, Sam. Just give me a call.”
Fowler hung up the phone and started worrying. He knew he had hit a raw nerve. What the hell had Braxton gotten into?
Chapter 34
Carnegie Mellon University, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Monday, 8:45 a.m.
RYDELL FINISHED REVIEWING his prior week’s Regent’s presentation and prepared to bring the CERT/CC staff meeting to a close. Flanagan had been reasonably calm so far, but as the last agenda item approached, her anxiety level moved into the red zone. She couldn’t afford another confrontation with her boss, but she had to report the news.
“All right,” Rydell announced, “are there any short topics?”
“I believe Rachel owes us an update on that Saracen Incident,” Candela volunteered.
Just like the little sycophant, she thought. Why couldn’t someone have given her a little breathing room? She opened the already worn folder in front of her. “I have spoken with our contractor, and there has been a tragic turn in the investigation. Saracen was a computer science graduate student at George Washington University. I say ‘was’ because he died the night of the transmission.”
Looks of surprise spread over the table.
“What happened?” Eisenkranz asked.
“The D.C. police believe that the student,” she referred down to the papers, “a Mohammed Ramal, was constructing a bomb and it went off prematurely.”
“An Arab? Constructing a bomb?” Candella exclaimed. “Are you telling us this incident was reported by a terrorist?”
“We don’t know that for certain,” Flanagan explained as flatly as she could. “That’s just a theory.”
“Theory or not, Rachel, that writes off the incident,” Rydell continued as if he was checking off a shopping list. “Is there anything else?”
“Excuse me, Timothy,” Flanagan interrupted, “but I think we need to look at this a little closer.” She knew she was stepping dangerously close to the end of her corporate plank. “There may be some relationship between Saracen’s death and his allegation. There were no computer documents found in his apartment despite the fact that he was working there the night he sent the message. And our consultant believes he has verified Ramal’s claim of an anomaly on GW’s systems. I think we need to keep the incident open a bit longer. At least until the authorities make a final determination.”
“Rachel,” Rydell began sternly, “we all sympathize with your desire to find some conspiracy in the Internet, but the District of Columbia’s police department is much better trained to investigate murders than you and your consultant. Is it not possible that this Saracen was a terrorist, and that part of his plan was to damage the credibility of our communications systems by his allegation? We do not have the time to follow-up unsubstantiated claims and the beliefs of self-styled network experts. I think that is the sense of the room.”
“Of course, Timothy,” Flanagan replied, closing her folder. “I understand that we can only investigate verified, substantiated incidents. You can rest assured we will follow that policy to the letter.”
“Good. I’m glad we have that resolved,” Rydell said with obvious pleasure. “Edward, what else is there?”
As Candela went back to his notes, Flanagan thought through her next steps. Braxton had said he had verified the claim. Her investigation would continue with or without Rydell’s knowledge. There was more to this than any of them knew and she was going to get to the bottom of it.
The problem was that she had lost contact with her consultant; she hadn’t heard anything from him for four days.
* * *
Greystone heard a rapping and looked up from his papers to see Julius Flitterman standing in his office doorway.
“If it’s not a bad time, Robert,” Flitterman commented, “I thought we could spend a few minutes.”
“Of course not, Julius. Please come in.” Greystone motioned to the couch in the sitting area of his office. He had tried unsuccessfully to see the banker all the past week. Clarice had said his schedule was completely full. What little communication he had had with Flitterman had been limited to requests for operational reports. What was so important for him to make a personal visit?
“I’m afraid I haven’t been as available to you as I should,” the banker began after Greystone had joined him. “Between vetting documents with Victor, reviewing Meredith’s audit results, and handling media and investor queries I have been completely occupied.”
Greystone could see the strain taking its toll on the older man. His clothes weren’t quite as crisp, his grey hair wasn’t slicked back quite as neatly, and his voice was just a bit halting. The wrinkles on his pale face seemed darker and deeper than only a week before.
“I can only imagine how painful this must be for you,” Greystone offered sympathetically. “I’m sure the worst is past.” He hesitated, then asked, “Have the police finished their investigation yet?”
“Apparently not. They continue to ask for all kinds of documents and email. Victor is absolutely beside himself going through it all. It would be comical if it weren’t for the ungodly amount of money we pay the man per hour.”
“Have they found anything that would explain why Lombard would have done such a thing?”
“There did seem to be corroboration of the documents they found at Charles’ cabin in our files. We discovered Lombard had a history of misuse of Theater property, and re
cently even copying of confidential documents. I also heard there were unusual deposits in Lombard’s bank account, but the authorities have been unable to track them to a source. Unfortunately, it appears that Clarice was unwittingly the source of the leaks.”
“I was afraid of that. I think we should not respond too harshly to her indiscretion, Julius. Clarice was devoted to Charles.”
“I agree,” Flitterman responded with an unusual sense of compassion. “She gave me her resignation, but I refused it. Clarice has been invaluable over the past week; I believe she knows more about what goes on in this company than anyone. With the exception of you, of course, Robert.”
It sounded as if his efforts at disinformation had achieved their goal. Soon the whole affair would be put to rest and they could get on with business. With him in charge.
“How is the rest of the company taking the changes, Robert? I understand you held a teleconference with all the field offices?”
“Yes. I believe it was very effective. Charles’ death was certainly a shock for everyone, but by reacting quickly we demonstrated that management was well-prepared to handle the emergency. We also prevented the spread of a number of dangerous rumors that would have impeded our recovery. I have spoken personally with all the area sales and manufacturing managers to be sure they can explain our plans to their staffs.”
“I read your report on the discussions, Robert. Very well done. In fact, my main reason for stopping in today was to thank you for your efforts in managing the day-to-day operations. I know you and Charles did not always agree, but I always felt you had the best interests of the company in mind. I am convinced that we would not be able to weather this horrible event without your significant contributions.
“I also realize these new responsibilities have detracted from our making progress on your strategic initiatives. Please prepare a revised summary of your recommendations. I’d like to discuss them with you later in the week.”
Flitterman then abruptly rose. “Thank you again, Robert. I’d prefer to stay and work through these items with you, but I must return to other duties.”
“Of course, Julius,” Greystone said taking the man’s extended hand. “Thank you for taking the time to stop. And for your support. I will return to work on the initiatives immediately.”
Well, the old man had been paying attention after all. The pieces were finally beginning to fall into place.
Chapter 35
The Mall, Washington, D.C.
Monday, 11:45 a.m.
BRAXTON HAD CAUGHT the 10:00 a.m. shuttle from Logan. Even at that late morning hour the plane had been filled, but he had managed to cajole a window seat from the gate agent. Still exhausted from lack of sleep the night before, he had wedged himself between the seat and the side of the airplane and dozed off.
Images of Terrel had filled his dreams. He had rushed to the apartment just in time to see his friend falling through the window. Reaching out, he had grabbed at his friend’s shirt but was pulled through himself and fell helplessly toward the sidewalk. He had awakened in a sweat and found his hand clenched tightly around his seat belt, the plane in a steep dive toward Reagan National. Why were the shuttle pilots always such cowboys?
Goddard was to meet him outside the USAir terminal at 11:30, but there was no sign of her as he scanned the pickup area. Suddenly a shiny, midnight-blue BMW 320i sedan screeched to a halt in front of him.
“Good morning,” said a familiar voice through the open window.
Braxton pulled open the passenger door and slid inside. As soon as he had closed the door, she accelerated down the ramp and onto the parkway.
“Nice car for a graduate student,” he commented while struggling to get the seatbelt hooked.
“It’s my only indulgence,” she replied with a smile. She was dressed in jeans and a cream-colored V-neck sweater. Her ponytailed student alter-ego had returned. “And it’s not that expensive to run.”
“Right,” he said, thinking back to his days as a student. He had hardly been able to keep his ten-year-old Volkswagen Beetle running.
It was a beautiful, clear day; the sky was a deep blue with just a few wispy clouds hovering at the horizon. Goddard had opened the windows and a warm breeze filled the car. It was almost enough to make Braxton forget about the case.
“I certainly didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” he said. “Thanks for coming with me.”
“I feel like I’m a part of what happened too. I want whoever killed Mohammed to be punished. If I can do anything to help I will.”
“And I thought you just wanted to see me again,” he said with a smile.
She responded with a devilish grin. “Why would you ever think that?”
They crossed the Potomac into D.C. at Arlington Memorial Bridge and turned up 14th Street. Circling the Mall for a few minutes, they finally spotted someone pulling out in front of the Smithsonian. Goddard raced down Jefferson Drive and deftly pulled the BMW in the space.
“Nice work. For a girl,” Braxton chided.
“Glad you liked it,” she replied, hopping out of the car. She walked over to the curb then stood impatiently, arms crossed, as he fumbled to find the door release on the unfamiliar vehicle.
“Okay, I quit,” he said, finally swinging out and closing the door behind him. “No more macho comments.”
“That’s more like it,” she said patting him on the back. “ I was about to call for a policeman.”
“Let’s hope it won’t take too long to find ours,” he replied, and offered his arm. She took it and they headed back toward the Washington Monument.
“I am so sorry about your friend. How are your neighbors taking it?”
“Everyone’s pretty shaken. Cops were around all yesterday, and a lot of families were frantically installing new locks and security systems. It’s scary. Paul’s parents flew in from Detroit last night. They came by for a few minutes and I showed them around his apartment. They’re taking care of everything from now on. I can’t help but feel somehow it was my fault he was killed.”
“You can’t think that way. It wasn’t your fault.” She drew him closer and stared up into his eyes. “And we’re going to find whoever is behind this.”
The Mall was filled with people: families in a rainbow of colors and clothing styles gawking at the monuments and museums, staring into cell phones, or even paper maps, navigating the geometric maze of paths to their next destination; business professionals and congressional staffers, in more conservative dress, lugging backpacks and briefcases, striding to their next meeting with the important work of government; and finally scantily-clad students, lying on towels spread on the grass, reading books or simply catching the first warm rays of spring.
As they approached the Monument, Braxton saw Fowler sitting on a bench along one of the pathways. His wrinkled tweed sport coat lay across the backrest and a Washington Post was spread out on the seat next to him.
“Found any good mysteries to solve, Detective?” Braxton asked as they approached the bench.
Fowler folded the newspaper and looked up at the pair. “I’ve got more than I need already, thanks. You didn’t tell me you were bringing a friend, Braxton. Nice to see you again, Ms. Goddard. You two a couple now?”
“Just acquaintances, Detective.” Goddard replied with a smile. “We have a mutual interest in your case.”
“I see.”
“Susan wants to get to the bottom of this as much as I do,” Braxton explained. “I didn’t think you’d mind.” Fowler frowned but remained silent.
“An interesting location for a meeting, Detective,” Goddard said. “Do you come here often?”
“Whenever I get fed up with the Department, Ms. Goddard. It gives me some perspective. The atmosphere on the Mall is pretty different from where I usually spend my time. So what have you two figured out?”
The pair sat on the bench, flanking Fowler, and Braxton began the explanation. “As I told you on the phone, I confirmed what Ramal sai
d in his message. There is strange activity on GW’s gateway computer. Messages are being sent from the system that shouldn’t be.”
“What kind of messages?” Fowler asked. “Who are they being sent to?”
“All good questions, Detective. Ones that I don’t have answers to yet. And it’s complicated getting them unfortunately.”
“We think it could be due to some kind of virus or worm,” Goddard volunteered.
Braxton gave her a puzzled look. When had “we” start investigating the case? “That’s one possibility,” he quickly countered. “It also may be that someone has gained access to the software inside the gateway. If they did, they could reprogram it to send the messages.”
“So how do you find out if that’s what’s happening?” Fowler asked.
“So far as I can tell, the messages are only generated from a gateway manufactured by Century Computer. I found a trapdoor, a way to break into the system. It was something that should have been removed before the computer was shipped. It could allow a program, call it a rogue, to get in.”
Braxton struggled to make the explanation as simple as possible. He didn’t know how much the old cop could follow.
“I used to work at Century so I called Warren Chamberlain, he’s head of Engineering, to discuss what I found. I met with him on Friday.”
“The day before your friend was killed, right?” Fowler asked.
“Yes.” Braxton felt his stomach churn.
“You don’t think Century could have anything to do with the break-in, do you Detective?” Goddard asked.
“No idea,” Fowler answered. “Go on with your story.”
Goddard had voiced the question Braxton had been too afraid to ask. He couldn’t think about that now.
“Warren wasn’t very helpful. He didn’t believe anything could be wrong and wouldn’t let me talk to any of the technical staff. You’d think he’d be more concerned if one of his products had been compromised. He said he’d get back to me but I don’t know whether he will or not. Basically, I didn’t find out a thing.”
“So you still don’t have any proof of this theory of yours?” Fowler pushed.
