The parking area in the front of the building was practically deserted, and so was the VIP parking garage where his entry pass worked, as it did in the elevator. He had debated arming himself, but decided against it, because there was no way he was going to get into a shoot-out with security. If he was busted he could make the argument that his clearances were still intact, and he’d merely come back one last time out of simple nostalgia. No one would believe him, but they wouldn’t be able to prove anything different.
Unless he was caught in Whittaker’s office.
The seventh-floor corridor was deserted, all the doors closed, unlike when he had been the DCI, and McGarvey before him. Under Whittaker, morale at the Company had already dropped, and the word was that everybody was busier watching their own backs than actually doing any real or creative work.
Halfway down the corridor he stopped at the DCI’s door, swiped his pass, and entered the old four-digit code he’d used before the president had fired him. The lock clicked softly and he was in. Whittaker was a fool. And if what McGarvey had told him was true, David was also so arrogant that he’d felt no need to take ordinary precautions.
He passed through the outer office, the only illumination from the tiny green indicator on the emergency light in one corner up near the ceiling, and into the DCI’s office. The blinds were open and before Adkins turned on the desk lamp he closed them against the faint possibility that someone outside might know that Whittaker was not in the building and wonder why a light had just come on in his office.
The main computer on the desk was in standby mode, but Whittaker’s Toshiba laptop on the credenza was closed. Adkins sat down, opened the laptop, and powered it up. As he’d suspected it was password protected. Whittaker wasn’t a complete idiot.
Using his cell phone he called the number McGarvey had given him, and Otto answered after the second ring.
“Oh, wow, I know where David is right now, so this has gotta be Dick Adkins calling from the DCI’s office.”
The man was a genius, but he was spooky. “Mac told me to call if I ran into trouble getting into David’s laptop.”
“Did it boot up?”
“No. All that’s on the screen are two boxes: User ID and password.”
“It’s a Toshiba, right?”
“Yes.”
“Look on the bottom and give me all the numbers you see.”
Adkins turned the laptop over. “There’s a bunch of them.”
“Find the Toshiba pin number. It’ll be printed right under a bar code.”
“Got it,” Adkins said and he read it.
Otto laughed. “I built that machine. Okay now find any label that says service.”
“There’s only one. Two sets of numbers.”
Otto laughed even harder. “Dumb,” he said, and he read off both set of numbers.
“That’s it,” Adkins said.
“My service numbers. He hasn’t changed a thing.”
“Mac said he’s been distracted.”
“He’s going to get even more distracted any minute now,” Otto said. “User ID, whittakercia. Password: tk %//7834ps.”
Adkins entered both, and the computer booted up. “Okay, it worked.”
“Of course,” Otto said. “If Mac gave you this number he must have given you my e-mail address. Get online, type in my address, and hit send, and then get out of there. But leave the machine turned on.”
“First thing in the morning somebody — his secretary at least — will come in here and find out someone hacked his computer.”
“It’ll be all over by then, Mr. Director, and you’ll have a bunch of work to do, ’cause the president is going to reinstate you. Honest injun.”
“Jesus,” Adkins muttered, but he did as Otto had asked.
“Good work. I’m in. Now beat feet.”
By the time Adkins shut off the desk lamp and opened the curtains every file on Whittaker’s laptop was being downloaded at lightning speed.
He let himself out into the still-deserted corridor, and hesitated for just a second before he headed down the hall to the Watch, which was housed in a long room, one end of it glassed in for added security. Manned 24/7 by a watch commander and five people, including a National Geospatial Analyst, anything that was happening anywhere in the world that had any effect or even the possibility of an effect on U.S. interests was monitored here. With direct links to the National Security Agency, the National Reconnaissance Office, and just about every other surveillance system, the people who worked here considered themselves to be information junkies. They had an almost compulsive need to know what was happening on a real-time basis everywhere.
And like air traffic controllers who never saw the light of day during their long shifts, and who had the indoor palor and thousand-yard stare of people who’d worked too long and too hard at something that was nearly impossible to comprehend, analysts in the Watch always looked as if they were on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and loving it.
Adkins swiped his pass on the reader, entered his code, and the lock clicked softly. Everyone looked up from what they were doing, and all the wide-screen monitors on the walls above each position went blank, and a red light on the ceiling began flashing.
Ron Loring, the watch commander had been leaning against his desk, his jacket off, his tie loose, and he immediately came over before Adkins could take more than two steps into the room. “What are you doing here, Mr. Director,” he said softly, but urgently. “You have to leave, immediately.”
“McGarvey sent me to talk to you. It’s important.”
Loring shook his head and stepped back. “I’ve got to call security. You know the drill, sir.”
“Something big is about to go down. Maybe even tonight. And it has something to do with the Chinese.”
A flicker of interest crossed Loring’s eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know for sure, but Mac has made a connection between what happened last year in Mexico City, and a few months ago in Pyongyang, with China. And with the Friday Club here in Washington.”
Loring turned away for a second. All his analysts were looking at him and Adkins. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Director. But I’ll give you a head start before I call security.”
“You know damned well what I’m talking about. Goddamnit, I can see it all over your face. What is it? What’s happening over there?”
Again Loring shook his head, trying to come to a decision. “You never heard this from me. But we’re getting set to send a courier over to the White House.”
“Why?”
“China has been warming up its short-range missiles since about sixteen hundred zulu.” Loring looked up at one of the wall clocks. “Almost two hours ago. Then, at about seventeen thirty, Taiwan started doing the same thing with their missiles, and placed their armed forces at Defcon two.”
“They’re seriously expecting that China is going to attack them?”
“It’s a possibility. We’re starting to get inputs from the Pentagon and State and we’re putting the package together for the president.”
“What’s Dave Whittaker’s input?”
“We haven’t reached him yet. Apparently he’s not at home, and his cell doesn’t pick up.”
“Christ.”
“Now get the hell out of here, please,” Loring said. “We need to get back to work.”
“Right,” Adkins said, and he felt a little sick to his stomach.
“Tell Mac good luck,” Loring said.
“Security wants to know what’s going on up here,” one of the analysts called out across the room.
“Use the VIP elevator, I’ll stall them for as long as I can,” Loring told Adkins.
