Wired. Part 3

As much as he had come to hate the endless violence with which he had long been a.s.sociated, puzzling out the location of a dangerous adversary intent on eluding capture was a task he found completely absorbing. It was the ultimate challenge. His task was to locate a single human being among the more than six billion inhabitants of the planet, one who could be hiding almost anywhere on the incomprehensibly large surface of the Earth. So how to narrow this down?

He shot by an eighteen-wheeler as if it were standing still, completely lost in thought. His foot was heavy on the gas pedal by nature, and when he didn't actively control himself, his default speed was usually twenty miles per hour over the posted limit. Despite conscious efforts to contain this impulse, he was beginning to feel he was beyond hope and desperately in need of a twelve-step speedaholics program.

Where are you Kira Miller? he said to himself as he changed lanes once again, blowing past two cars and returning to the left lane where he rapidly began pulling away from everyone behind him.

Was she living in a cave somewhere? Maybe. But not likely. He would start by a.s.suming she was still in the States, hiding in plain sight. She was attempting a breathtakingly complex feat of genetic engineering. The report he had read was clear that, at minimum, she would require specialized equipment, cloned genes, ultra-fast DNA sequencers, biological reagents, and genetically identical experimental animals. A terrorist camp in Iran or Afghanistan, or even the best equipped labs in these countries, for that matter, wouldn't be able to readily fulfill her evolving needs in this regard.

Desh decided that regardless of where she was hiding, he would begin by focusing on her computer. No matter how much she may have given up of her past life to elude pursuit, he couldn't believe she'd swear off the Internet, especially given her need to tap into an ocean of biotechnology literature as her research progressed. But there were ways to use computers and the Internet without leaving a trail, and she had already shown an alarming degree of facility with computers when she had modified NeuroCure's security software. Finding a single laptop among untold millions, and then having it happen to be in the lap of Kira Miller when it was found, was like finding a needle in a haystack the size of Texas.

Desh frowned as he realized this a.n.a.logy fell short. The reality was that the particular needle he was after was not only lost in an enormous haystack, but was also mobile, and would be sure to dive even deeper into the haystack if it sensed someone coming.

5.

David Desh was thirty minutes from his apartment when his cell phone vibrated inside his s.h.i.+rt pocket. He lifted it out and stole a quick glance at the screen. Wade Fleming appeared on the display.

He flipped open the phone. "Hi Wade."

"Hi David," came the reply. His boss wasted no time on small talk. "Do you happen to know a girl named Patricia Swanson?"

Desh's brow furrowed as he searched his memory. "I don't think so," he said. He shrugged. "Of course it's always possible that I met her but just forgot."

"Then you haven't met her. Believe me, you'd remember," he said with absolute conviction "She's a total knockout. I mean like centerfold material," he added for emphasis.

"Okay," replied Desh. "I'll take your word for it. So what about her?"

"She visited the office about an hour ago. Asked for you by name."

"Did she claim she knows me?"

"No. She says she's vacationing at a few choice resort locations around the country for the next month, thinks she might have a stalker, and wants protection. Said she saw your picture and bio on our website and wants you a.s.signed to her. I told her you had a busy month lined up, and offered up Dean Padgett." A note of disapproval entered Fleming's voice. "She wouldn't have it. She wanted you, and she was prepared to pay extra to make sure she got you." He paused. "Frankly, David, I think you might be the one who has a stalker, not her. She's probably a bored, spoiled rich girl out for a thrill. What greater thrill than seducing your bodyguard? Must watch too many movies. Bottom line is that I got the feeling she sees you as more of a hired boytoy than a bodyguard." He paused. "I was tempted to tell her you were gay and offer to take the job myself," he said wryly.

Desh shook his head and a small smile crept across his face. Jim Connelly had promised to clear his calendar, and he must have had quite a laugh when he had hatched this scheme. He sure hadn't wasted any time setting it in motion.

"So when do I start?"

"Tomorrow morning, if you take the job."

"If I take the job."

"I told her I needed your okay."

"Really? That's a first."

"Look, David, as hot as she is, I'm not running an escort service here. I want to make sure you know what you're getting into. I've seen her, and it's hard to imagine how any man could resist her for long if that's her game plan." He paused. "On the other hand, she is paying top dollar, and this could be legitimate. It may be that your Delta Force credentials are what impressed her and not your friendly smile. But given my doubts, I won't insist you take this."

"Thanks, Wade. But if I have to risk the attention of a beautiful woman," he said with mock bravado, "that's just what I'll have to do. For the agency's sake, of course."

"Of course," repeated Fleming wryly. "You're loyalty to the agency is legendary, David. I'll e-mail you the a.s.signment details and where to find her so you can get started." There was a long pause on the line. "And I want you to know, while the rest of us are dodging bullets and laser-guided missiles protecting hairy fat guys, we'll be thinking of you lying on the beach with a centerfold modela"dodging those dangerous UV rays."

"Don't mention it, Wade. That's just the kind of team player I am."

"Well, I don't want to have to worry about you, David," said Fleming sardonically, "so be sure to use a good sunblock. SPF 30 at least."

"Good tip," said Desh in amus.e.m.e.nt.

"You know what's really annoying about this one?"

"That she didn't ask for you?"

There was a chuckle at the other end of the line. "Aside from that," said Fleming good-naturedly. "What's really annoying is that you'll probably be bringing in more money to the agency than anyone else this month. Maybe I should open up an escort service." Fleming paused. "Take care, David," he said signing off, but couldn't help adding, "you lucky b.a.s.t.a.r.d," before hanging up the phone.

6.

David Desh rapped on the stained wooden door, just below its peephole and above the cheap bra.s.s "14D" affixed to it. He had removed his laptop that morning from its docking station in his apartment and it was carefully tucked under his left arm. He was wearing Dockers, a blue polo s.h.i.+rt, and a tan windbreaker that concealed his H&K .45 semiautomatic. A much smaller SIG-Sauer 9-millimeter was shoved in his pants at the small of his back, and identical, sheathed combat knives were strapped to each of his lower legs.

Kira Miller was working with terrorist groups who would stop at nothing to protect her. Groups who celebrated death rather than life, and who would welcome the chance to remove Desh's head with a hacksawa"while he was still using ita"if it would further their cause. The closer he got to her, the more dangerous it would be for him. Perhaps these precautions were premature, but why take chances?

Desh heard movement from inside the apartment.

"David Desh?" called a voice questioningly from behind the particleboard door, loudly enough for Desh to hear.

"That's right," confirmed Desh.

"Adam Campbell's friend?"

"In the flesh."

Desh's friend Adam, an ex-soldier who was now a private investigator, had set up this meeting for him the night before, right after he had returned home from his meeting with Connelly.

"Do you have my retainer?"

In answer, Desh removed 60 hundred-dollar bills from an envelope and fanned them out in front of the peephole. There was a rustle behind the door as a chain was unhooked and a loud click as a dead-bolt lock was turned, followed by the door creaking open.

Desh entered the small, cluttered apartment. It bore the heavy musk of prolonged human habitation that Desh knew could be helped by an open window and the inflow of crisp, autumn air. Four high-end computers straddled a heavy gla.s.s-topped desk, all connected to each other through a spaghetti of makes.h.i.+ft wiring. On top of the desk sat a wireless keyboard and three high-definition, plasma monitors. Hanging on the wall above was a framed placard that read: HACKER-CRATIC OATH.

I swear to use my awesome powers for good, not evil.

Other than this and a large black-and-white poster of Albert Einstein sticking out his tongue, the entire living area consisted of the desk, a single couch, a plasma television, and a small kitchen.

Desh appraised the man in front of him. His name was Matt Griffin, and he was a bear of a man. He was at least 6 foot 5 and 300 pounds, with a bushy brown beard and long, wavy haira"almost a cross between a man and a Wookie. Despite his enormous size he had a harmless air about him that made him completely non-threatening. While his bulk and appearance could quickly lead one to the conclusion he was a dim caveman, his words were spoken with the intellectual affect of an ivy-league professor. Desh handed him the money and waited patiently as he counted to sixty.

Griffin smiled affably. "Okay, Mr. Desh, I'm at your service for a period of one week. What can I do for you?"

Fleming Executive Protection had its share of computer experts, but Desh couldn't use them for this a.s.signment, and he was supposed to be in playboy fantasyland anyway. Matt Griffin was said to be the best in the business. He usually worked for corporate clients doing fairly mundane tasks, but from time to time he helped private investigators if their cause was right, fully prepared to engage in illegal hacking, a victimless crime, if it could result in finding a missing person or stopping a violent criminal. Desh's friend Adam had worked with Griffin several times and had been effusive in his praise for the man, who apparently took his hacker-cratic oath quite seriously, and would only work with someone if he had a.s.surances their intentions were honorable. Adam had vouched for Desh and told Griffin he could trust him implicitly.

Desh set his laptop on the only unoccupied s.p.a.ce on the corner of Griffin's desk. The giant eyed it with interest but said nothing. Desh handed him a typed page with Kira Miller's name and last known home and work addresses, e-mail addresses, and telephone numbers.

Griffin scanned the information quickly. "NeuroCure," he said with interest, lowering himself into a black-leather swivel chair in front of his computer monitors while Desh remained standing. "Aren't they developing a treatment for Alzheimer's?"

"Very good," said Desh approvingly. "You're certainly up to speed on your biotech."

Griffin shook his head. "I'm afraid I know next to nothing about biotech," he admitted. "My aunt suffers from the disease so I tend to keep abreast of possible cures."

Tend to keep abreast. The dichotomy between Griffin's Viking appearance and soft-spoken, lofty speech patterns was amusing to him. "I'm sorry about your aunt," offered Desh.

Griffin nodded solemnly. "Why don't you fill me in on what you're after as completely as you can. Nothing you say will leave this room."

"Good. Absolute confidentiality in this case could not be more vital. For your health as well as mine." Desh locked his eyes on Griffin's in an unblinking, intimidating stare, and held it for several long seconds. "You're known to be a man of integrity," he continued, "but betraying my trust would be a very, very bad idea a"

"Save your threats," said the giant firmly. "Veiled or otherwise. You have nothing to worry about. I take my responsibilities in this regard very seriously. As I've told you, your information is safe with me."

Desh knew he had little choice but to trust the oversized hacker. He stared at him a while longer, and then finally began to fill him in on Kira Miller's tenure at NeuroCure, and the events that had transpired a year earlier. Griffin scribbled notes on a large pad of paper. Desh didn't mention anything having to do with terrorists or Swiss banks, ending his account when the trail of the elusive Kira Miller had ended at the Cincinnati airport.

Griffin whistled when Desh was finished. "Fascinating," he said. "And very troubling."

Desh noted approvingly that Griffin didn't attempt to explore why Desh had taken it upon himself to look for a psychopath who was wanted by the authorities for the brutal murder of several innocents.

"So here's where I'd like to start," said Desh, "I'd like to know which scientific journals this Kira Miller subscribed to as of a year ago. I'm not interested in any that were sent to her work. I want to know the journals she got at home."

"Do you have a list of probables?"

"I'm afraid not. And, unfortunately, I went online and discovered there are hundreds of scientific journals in her areas of interest."

The giant frowned. "Then this could take a long time. If you tell me the name of a journal I can tell you if she was a subscriber. But there's no way to start with her address and work backwards to the journals." He raised his eyebrows. "Not unless you're prepared to engage in a little social engineering."

Desh was familiar with this euphemism used by hackers. "You mean get information from humans rather than the computer."

"Exactly. Man cannot hack using computers alone. The best hackers are also the most proficient at milking information from humansa"the system's weakest links."

Desh eyed Griffin with interest. "Okay," he said. "I'm game."

"Great," said Griffin, beaming happily. He swiveled his chair to face the monitors and his fingers flew over the keyboard, calling up one web page after another as Desh looked over his shoulder. The quartet of pricey computers, linked together, operated at blazing speeds, and Griffin's Internet connection was the best that money could buy, and included custom enhancements. The end result of this was that web pages crammed with data and pictures and graphics each flashed up on the oversized monitor, complete, faster than the eye could follow.

Griffin scrolled through nested menus and clicked on specific options before Desh could even begin to read them. Moments later he was several layers deep in the internal computer files of the D.C. police.

"I'm surprised you can breach a police system so easily," muttered Desh.

Griffin shook his head. "You can't. Their firewalls and security systems are state-of-theart," he explained. "But I found a way in last year and created a backdoor entrance so I could return anytime I wanted. And I can use the D.C system to query the San Diego Police Department's computers for their file on the Larry Lusetti murder investigation." Griffin continued pulling up pages on the computer as he spoke, and moments later he had the file he was after. He skimmed through it rapidly, pausing to scribble a few names, a telephone number, and a date on his note pad.

Griffin took a deep breath. "I believe I'm ready," he said. He picked up the phone and dialed the number he had written down. A woman named Jill answered, but within a minute he had Roger Tripp on the phone, the postal carrier who had long covered the mail route that included Kira Miller's condo.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Tripp," said Griffin. "Do you have a minute?"

"Well a I was just about to head out on my route," he said. "What is this about? Jill said you were a detective."

"That's right, sir. Detective Bob Garcia." Griffin consulted his notepad. "I work with Detective Marty Fershtman. You may remember that Detective Fershtman interviewed you about a Kira Miller on September 28th of last year in regard to a homicide investigation we were conducting."

"I remember," said Tripp warily.

"Great. This won't take but a minute. We've continued our investigation, and we had one additional question we were hoping you could help us with."

"I'll try," said postal worker Tripp.

"Great. Do you happen to remember the t.i.tles of any periodicals that you delivered to Dr. Miller? Scientific oriented periodicals," he clarified. "Do you know the type I mean?"

"I think so," said Tripp, showing absolutely no curiosity as to why the police had interest in this information. "They kind of stood out, if you know what I mean. Not exactly light bedtime reading. Let me see." He paused for several long moments to visualize these journals in his head. "Human Brain Mapping. That one comes to my memory the clearest. And then, um a the Journal of Cognitive Neuroscience. Either that or something really close. And then, ah, a the Journal of Applied Gerontology. I wouldn't bet my life these are the exact t.i.tles, but I'm pretty sure."

Griffin scribbled these names on the pad beside his other notes. He winked at Desh before thanking Tripp for his help and ending the call.

"Remarkable," said Desh, his voice filled with respect. He had wanted to begin his search for Kira Miller by identifying the scientific journals he knew would be indispensible to her, but he had been far from certain this would be possible. But Griffin had done so almost instantly, and without even breaking a sweat.

"Quite effective, wouldn't you say? If you have the computer skills to get information that establishes instant credibility, like dropping the name of the officer who interviewed Tripp, the world is your oyster. Once you've laid out your bone fides, people will tell you just about anything."

"So it appears," noted Desh with amus.e.m.e.nt. "Thanks for the demonstration."

"You're quite welcome," said Griffin with a wide grin. "So now what?"

"Can you hack into each journal's database of subscribers?"

"I'll try not to be insulted that you phrased that as a question," said Griffin. "That's like asking Mozart if he can play chopsticks. This is why you're paying me the big bucks," he added, and then immediately began racing through icons and menus at an Olympic pace.

"Once you're in, ah a Amadeus," said Desh, "I'd like to focus in on people who bought online subscriptions to all three journals, or even two of the three, about nine months to a year ago. Chances are, this will be Kira Miller."

"This might take a while," warned Griffin. He got up and walked the few paces to his tiny kitchen, effortlessly lifting one of two large wicker chairs from around the small dinette and dropping it beside his own chair. Desh sat down appreciatively and continued to watch Griffin as he juggled multiple screens and programs with seemingly superhuman agility.

After about an hour he was finally able to hack into the journals' systems, but his subsequent a.n.a.lysis of subscriber databases was fruitless. Over the past year, in fact, not a single person had begun subscribing to more than one of the three journals, either online or by snail-mail.

"She must have decided she could live without them while she was in hiding," suggested Griffin.

Desh pursed his lips in concentration. His best chance to find her was to count on her not making mistakes. "All right, Matt," said Desh, "let's try a thought experiment. Let's imagine she has your level of skill with computers," he began.

Griffin looked amused at this thought. "My level of skill? My imagination may be prodigious, but that's a lot to ask of it," he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Prodigious. Desh was amused once again at the giant's choice of words. "I wouldn't want to strain your imagination, Matt," he said, rolling his eyes. "So let's make this easy for you. Suppose you were on the lamb. And you knew that other computer experts were plugged in and trying like crazy to find you. Would you antic.i.p.ate they'd try to track you through your online journal subscriptions like we just did?"

"Absolutely," came the immediate reply.