“I haven’t seen it,” Alexis said. “Are you sure it was here?”
Haleema pointed a slender brown hand toward a narrow cubicle where volunteers filled out their paperwork. “It was on the table. I meant to come back and pick it up last night, but I got tied up by my boyfriend.”
Alexis tried not to smile, and the young woman recognized the double entendre. She might have blushed, though her skin was too dark to reveal the rush of blood to her cheeks.
“I mean…he took me to a play on campus. So I couldn’t get back here, and I figured the lab would be locked anyway.”
“I left early, and no one else should have been in here,” Alexis said. Haleema, an honors student planning to become a brain surgeon, wasn’t authorized to enter the lab without Alexis present. Alexis had very briefly wondered if Haleema was involved in yesterday’s raid, but Haleema would have had to illegally copy one of the few existing keys to the door. Besides, it wouldn’t have been hard for Haleema to steal while Alexis was consumed with her research.
Maybe she stole things that didn’t need to be carried.
“I can’t afford another laptop,” Haleema said, eyes misting in frustration.
“I’m sure it’s around here somewhere,” Alexis said. She left her chair and checked her desk drawers and cabinets, repeating the search she’d conducted earlier.
Haleema checked the cubicle again, adding, “It’s not just the computer that worries me. All my research was on it, too.”
Haleema had been correlating images for the brain-stimulation study, handling a lot of the grunt work of noting the before-and-after differences in the brain scans. Since most of the images revealed only minute changes, her job was to create the median from which the deviations could be measured.
“It’s backed up on the vector machines, isn’t it?” Alexis asked, browsing a shelf filled with binders and journals to make sure the laptop hadn’t been tucked among them.
“Most of it,” Haleema said. “I didn’t get a chance to upload yesterday’s data.”
“That’s okay,” Alexis said. “We can go to the last update and catch up from there. But that laptop probably cost a few thousand dollars. I know we don’t pay that much, and it would suck for you to take out another student loan.”
“Some of the data may be saved,” Haleema said. “I e-mailed thumbnails of the image batch to my university account so I could work on them from the library.”
“I told you to keep it off the networks, damn it! It’s hard enough to keep electronic information private on dedicated devices, but anything sent over a network is fair game for anybody to steal.”
Haleema drew back, cowering a little. Alexis realized she’d better not let her rage run wild, or Haleema might start wondering about the real nature of the work.
“Sorry,” Haleema said, lowering her gaze to the floor.
The subjects had been assigned numbers to protect their privacy, and when the results were published, no names would be revealed. But during the analysis, Alexis was running both names and assigned numbers to avoid mistaken identities. If someone had hacked the records, that would have led them to take a closer look.
Or raid the lab.
“Anything particular you were correlating?” Alexis asked, more calmly.
“I was working on the Ds,” Haleema said. “Four or five, if I remember correctly.”
Davis.
Alexis forced her voice to remain steady. “And you e-mailed them all?”
“Yes.” Haleema picked up a stack of manila folders to check behind it.
“With names and numbers assigned?”
“Yes, the way we did all of them.”
Alexis pretended to keep searching but she knew the laptop was gone. Whoever had been watching her must have hacked into Haleema’s e-mail. It wouldn’t even be that difficult, since the university had a large IT staff devoted solely to maintaining the networks, any of whom could have opened her e-mail.
Or granted password access to an interested bidder.
You’re getting as paranoid as Mark. Nobody cares about the brain chemistry of college students besides the Miller Brewing Company. I’ve been very careful.
Still, the Donnie Davis files couldn’t be a coincidence. She’d lumped Mark’s scans in with the others so they wouldn’t be identified as anomalies, and Haleema was too inexperienced to notice the tiny lesions that only a skilled eye could detect.
“I don’t think it’s here, Dr. Morgan,” Haleema said, worried and depressed.
“Maybe you left it in your dorm room, or your boyfriend’s apartment. Have you checked with Lost and Found?”
“No,” Haleema said. “Should we call the campus police?”
“Let’s not do that yet,” Alexis said. “It’s got to be around here somewhere.”
She said the words vacantly and automatically, knowing it had walked out of the room yesterday afternoon under the arm of one of the intruders.
But why didn’t they steal the vector machines or my desktop? Sure, those would be much harder to carry away without attracting notice, but then they would have had a better chance of tracking my digital footprints.
Whatever the reason, Mark’s brain scans were now in somebody else’s hands, and whether they knew what they were looking at or not, the covert thieves held the early evidence of how her husband had changed since the Monkey House exposure.
Evidence of how she had changed him.
CHAPTER NINE
National Clandestine Service Officer B.H. Gundersson had spent all his life trying to make up for being born with the name “Byron.” Back before he was old enough to know it was a dorky name, he liked it. Then in the sixth grade, some wiseass kid had called him “Lord Byron,” and one of the teachers said it was the name of a Romantic poet, and the boys rode his case until high school, when he got big enough to crack a few skulls if necessary.
And he’d found it necessary.
To make matters worse, he kind of liked poetry, although he preferred Shelley to Byron. Even worse than that, he was a little chubby and squishy, and girls often thought he was gay. Maybe the boys, too, but he was big enough to keep their mouths shut. Then one day he’d made the mistake of wearing a gold T-shirt and a black leather jacket, and some girl had called him “Bumblebee,” and that drew a few laughs and caught on for a while.
Finally, he’d settled on “Bee,” even writing it on all his homework until that’s how it appeared in the football program, which his dad thought sounded tough and his mom said she could live with, though he’d always be Byron to her.
The kind of shit you think about when you’re sitting in a tree. Should’ve just gone with my middle name in the first place.
But Horace was even worse than Byron, as evidenced by the army captain at the Citadel who’d referred to him as “Horse,” a slightly better nickname than Bee and a little higher up the food chain.
Luckily, the CIA let him go by his initials and, as a core collector for the CIA’s National Clandestine Service, he was just as happy as B.H. Gundersson, although a couple of times they’d issued him false identities for some domestic work. But all the name games had been a waste of time, because Field Director Harding referred to him as “Gundy.”
While ostensibly the NCS was charged with coordinating information across all the different intelligence agencies in the post-9/11 U.S., it hadn’t taken Gundersson long to realize the creation of a new agency had simply snicked another wedge out of the pie. Occasionally the juice from one piece leaked over to another, but some top dog always had a fork jammed hard in the center of his particular slice.
As a patriotic American, he prayed that there would never again come a time when thousands of civilian lives depended on communication between people whose mouths were full of pie.
