CHAPTER 62
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Kurt Schroeder’s loft was located in Columbia Heights, just north of the U.S. Capitol Building. It had rough-hewn beams, exposed brick and looked every bit the single, twenty-something, bachelor pad. There was a huge flat-screen television, multiple gaming systems, and a retro stand-up arcade unit, but no dining table.
The couch and other few pieces of furniture were straight out of an IKEA catalog, as were the unchanged sheets in his bedroom and the towels in the grungy master bath. The one thing Harvath didn’t see, though, was any computer equipment; not until Schroeder unlocked a small second bedroom.
The door and its frame were of heavy, reinforced steel designed to look like a regular interior door. Beyond was a room that stood in sharp contrast to the rest of the pigsty. It was perfectly clean—there wasn’t an empty cereal bowl, a half-eaten bag of Doritos, a stray article of clothing, or an empty beer bottle to be found. The room was pristine.
A wall of flat computer monitors hung from a series of polished nickel poles and gave the impression that they were floating above Schroeder’s sleek glass desk. All around were racks and racks of equipment with lights blinking in a myriad of colors. It looked like a mini Mission Control.
“Sometimes I work from home,” stated Schroeder as he pulled over an extra desk chair and offered it to Harvath.
As he sat, Rhodes entered with a plastic bread bag filled with ice. “This was all I could find,” she said, tossing it to him.
Harvath caught the bag and handed it to Schroeder, who placed it upon his swollen right hand. Using his left, Schroeder navigated to the log-in page for ATS and went through the hoops required to access their servers remotely. As he did, Casey brought in bar stools from the kitchen for her and Rhodes.
Once he was logged on, a string of icons appeared. He clicked on the one second from the left, and the picture of a gaunt man, made up to look like an evil clown with sharpened teeth, appeared.
“What’s that?” said Casey, turning up her nose.
“It’s my avatar for Middleton. Fits him perfectly. Chuckles, the laughing boss.”
Harvath rolled his index finger, signaling for Schroeder to get on with it.
“I’m going, I’m going,” replied Schroeder as he typed in a few more passwords.
“How’d you ever get access to his computer anyway?” asked Rhodes. “I thought he was paranoid about security.”
“He is, but the guy practically shits e-mails. I get hundreds from him a day. So, one time, I just included a little Trojan I had created in my response. I set it up so that he wouldn’t find it and neither would any of the tech people who are constantly sweeping our systems for viruses and things like that. This rest is what I told you while we were in the car.”
And what he had told them was that Middleton was a fetishist when it came to data, even his own. The man recorded and analyzed everything. If Harvath wanted to know where Middleton was going to be, when he’d be there, and whom he might be with, the best way was to look at his planner. It would tell him everything he wanted to know, everything.
“That’s funny,” Schroeder said suddenly.
Harvath leaned in closer to see what he was looking at. “What is it?”
“A couple of hours ago, Middleton wiped his planner.”
“Wiped it?”
“Yeah. He totally nuked any future appointments. All of them.”
“Why would he do that?”
Schroeder shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Could it be a mistake?”
“Mistakes aren’t exactly Middleton’s style. He’s the kind of guy who makes backups of the backups of the backups.”
“Then he had to have a reason. What was he doing before that?” asked Harvath.
Schroeder pecked away at the keys with his left hand, followed by three mouse clicks, and a log window opened up. He scrolled through its contents for several moments. “Hmmm…,” he remarked.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. It looks like he was over on the dark side of things, areas that even I don’t have access to, but what’s weird is that he did it via Caroline Romero’s workstation.”
“Really?”
Schroeder nodded. “And he backdated all of it to make it look like she did it before she was killed.”
“He must be setting her up for something.”
“Why else would you do something like that?”
Harvath nodded. “The question, though, is if he’s setting her up, what for?”
The young man scrolled further down and then clicked on something. “That flash drive Caroline smuggled out of ATS. You said there was a code name on it for the digital Pearl Harbor that was being planned?”
“Blue Sand,” replied Harvath. “Why?”
“Because he also buried that term in Caroline’s internal search history.”
“By
“Right. It wasn’t a search out on the Web, it was strictly limited to inside.”
“But she’s dead,” said Rhodes. “What difference would it make what she looked at?”
Harvath had the same question. But more to the point, Middleton was planting evidence to make it look like Caroline Romero not only knew about the attack, but that ATS did too. Why?
That was the hardest piece for Harvath to figure out. You plant evidence to implicate someone for a crime. What crime was Middleton trying to frame Caroline for? Of simply
Was he trying to frame her for causing it? No, that couldn’t be it. That was the Carlton Group’s role. They were the ones who had been set up to publically take the fall. Besides, ATS wouldn’t want to be associated in any way, shape, or form with the attack. Whatever Caroline Romero was being made to look like or to have done, it wasn’t for outside purposes, it was for something inside.
So what would that be? Why would Middleton need an internal scapegoat for an attack he and the powers that be at ATS all wanted to see take place? What would you need to blame someone for, and why would someone who was dead and couldn’t defend herself be the perfect patsy?
The simplest reason he could think of was if the attack failed. Was that it? Had Middleton had a change of heart, and was he now trying to sabotage the plan and blame it on Caroline? He doubted it. There had to be something else.
Harvath kept running possible scenarios through his mind, filtering all of them through what he knew about Caroline Romero from Nicholas. None of them explained why Middleton would want to set her up. Finally, he gave up and asked Schroeder, “Was that it, or is there more?”
The young man looked at the log and replied, “He was inactive for a while. Maybe he got a phone call or something, because then he was back, and he sent three e-mails and logged off.”
“Can you pull them up?”
Schroeder nodded and pulled them up one at a time. “The first one has the subject line ‘Walworth.’ That’s the name of the company’s corporate retreat out in Virginia. It went to the security scheduler and told him to get a full contingent out to the estate ASAP. The second e-mail also had the ‘Walworth’ subject line and went to the estate manager. It says that an emergency board meeting has been called and that members would begin showing up shortly and they’d be bringing family members.”
“And the third e-mail?”
Schroeder pulled it up. “The last one is for me. Subject line, ‘Hey Shithead.’ He’s such an asshole. He says he’s tried to call me, but my ‘fucking’ phone has been turned off. When I get this e-mail, I’m supposed to pack a bag and get my ass out to the estate as soon as possible. Then he adds, ‘P.S. Keep it quiet. Don’t tell anybody where
