Riptide

Latvian. A nice set of words, full-bodied and pungent, covers a lot of the hind end of a horse and what one could do with it.”

There was laughter, lots of it, and it felt so good that Becca just looked around at all the people she hadn’t even known existed until very recently. People who were friends now. People who would probably remain friends for the rest of her life. She looked over at the baby lying in his carryall, sound asleep, a light-blue blanket tucked over him. He was the image of his father.

She looked at Thomas Matlock, who was also looking at the baby and smiling. Her father, who hadn’t eaten much pizza because, she knew, he was so worried. About her.

My father.

It still felt so very strange. He was real, he was her father, and her brain recognized and accepted it, but it was still too new to accept all the way to the deepest part of her that had no memories, no knowledge of him, nothing tangible, just a couple of photos taken when he and her mother were young, some when they were even younger than she was now, and stories her mother had told her, many, many stories. The stories were secondhand memories, she realized now. Her mother had given them to her, again and again, hoping that she would remember them and, through them, love the father she’d believed was dead.

Her father, alive, always alive, and her mother hadn’t told her. Just stories, stupid stories. Her mother had memories, scores of them, and she had stories. But she kept quiet to protect me, Becca thought, but the sense of betrayal, the fury of it, roiled deep inside her. They could have told her when she was eighteen or when she was twenty-one. How about when she was twenty-five? Wasn’t that adult enough for them? She was an adult, a real live independent adult, for God’s sake, and yet they’d never said a thing, and now it was too late. Her mother was dead. Her mother had died without telling her a thing. She could have told her before she fell into that coma. She would never see them together now. She wanted to kill both of them.

She remembered many of those times when her mother had left her for maybe three, four days at a time. Three or four times a year she’d stayed with one of her mother’s very good friends and her three children. She’d enjoyed those visits so much she’d never really ever wondered where her mother went, just accepting that it was some sort of business trip or an obligation to a friend, or whatever.

She sighed. She still wanted to kill both of them. She wished they were both here so she could hug them and never let them go.

Savich said, “I’ve got the latest on Krimakov. A CIA operative told me about this computer system in Athens that’s pretty top-secret and that maybe MAX could get into. Well, MAX did invite himself to visit the computer system in Athens that keeps data on the whereabouts and business pursuits of all noncitizens residing in Greece. It is top-secret because it also has lists of all Greek agents who are acting clandestinely throughout the world.

“Now, as you can imagine, this includes a lot of rather shady characters that they try to keep tabs on. Remember, there was nothing left in Moscow because the KGB purged everything on Krimakov. But they didn’t have anything to do with the Greek records. This is what they had on Krimakov. Now, recognize that we’ve already learned most of this, that it was pretty common knowledge. However, in this context, it leads to very interesting conclusions.” Savich pulled three pages from his jacket pocket and read: “Vasili Krimakov has lived in Agios Nikolaos for eighteen years. He married a Cretan woman in 1983. She died in a swimming accident in 1996. She had two children by a former marriage. Her children are dead. The oldest boy, sixteen, was mountain-climbing when he fell off a cliff. A girl, fifteen, ran into a tree on her motorcycle. They had one child, a boy, eight years old. He was badly burned in some sort of trash fire and is currently in a special burn rehabilitation facility near Lucerne, Switzerland. He’s still not out of the woods, but at least he’s alive.” Savich looked up at all of them in turn. “We’ve had reports on some of this, but not all of it presented together. Also, they had drawn conclusions, and that’s what was really interesting. I know there was more, probably about their plans to act against Krimakov, but I couldn’t find any more. What do you think?”

“You mean you have those programs encoded so well you couldn’t get in?” Thomas asked.

“No. I mean that someone who knew what he was doing expunged the records. Only the information I just told you was left, nothing more. The wipe was done recently, just a little over six months ago.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Adam said. “I thought it would be like fingerprints. They’d be there but there was no clue when they were made.”

“Nope. I don’t know how the Greeks got ahold of it, but this system, the Sentech Y-2002, is first-rate, state-of- the-art. What it does is hard-register and bullet-code every deletion made on any data entered and tagged in preselected programs. It’s known as the ‘catcher,’ and it’s favored by high-tech industries because it pinpoints when something unexpected and unwelcome is done to relevant data, and who did it and when.”

“How does this hard register and bullet code work?” Becca said.

Savich said, “What the system does is swoop in and retrieve all data that the person is trying to delete before it can be deleted. It’s funneled through a trapdoor into a disappearing ‘secret room.’ That means, then, that the data isn’t really lost. However, the person who did this was able to do what we call a ‘spot burn’ on the information he deleted, and so, unfortunately, it’s really gone. In other words, there was no opportunity to funnel the deleted data to safety.

“Now, the person who supposedly wiped out the bulk of Krimakov’s entries was a middle-level person who would have had no reason to delete anything of this nature, much less even access it. So either someone got to him and paid him to do it or someone stole his password and made him the sacrificial goat in case someone discovered what he had done.”

“How long will it take you to find out this person’s name, Savich?” Thomas asked.

“Well, MAX already did that. The guy was a thirty-four-year-old computer programmer who was in an accident four months ago. He’s dead. Chances are very good that he was set up as the goat. Chances are also good that he knew the person who stole his password. I wouldn’t be surprised if the guy talked about what he did to someone who took it to Krimakov, who then acted.”

“And just what kind of accident befell this one?” Thomas asked.

“The guy lived in Athens, but he’d gone to Crete on vacation, which is where Krimakov lived. You know the Minoan ruins of Knossos some five miles out of Iraklion? It was reported that he somehow lost his footing and fell headfirst over a low wall into a storage chamber some twelve feet below where he was standing. He broke his neck when his head struck one of the big pots that held olive oil way back when.”

“Well, damn,” Adam said. “I don’t suppose Krimakov’s former bosses in Moscow have any information at all on this?”

“Not that MAX can discover,” Savich said. “If they have any more, and that’s quite possible, they’re holding it for a trade, since they know we want everything they’ve got on Krimakov. You know what I think? They’ve got nothing else useful. There hasn’t been a peep out of them in the way of exploratory questions.”

“You found out quite a lot, Savich,” Thomas said. “All those accidents. Doesn’t seem possible, does it? Or very likely.”

“Oh, no,” Savich said. “Not possible at all. That was the conclusion their agents drew. Krimakov murdered all of them. Hey, wait a minute, when you knew him, there weren’t any computers.”

“There wasn’t much beyond great big suckers, like the IBM mainframes,” Thomas said.

Sherlock said, “I wouldn’t even want to try to figure out the odds of all those people in one family dying in accidents. They are astronomical, though.”

“Krimakov killed all those people,” Becca said, then shook her head. “He must have, but how could he kill his own wife, his two stepchildren? Good grief, he burned his own little boy? No, that would truly make him a monster. What is going on here?”

“He didn’t kill his own child,” Adam said.

“No, he didn’t,” Sherlock said. “But the kid won’t ever lead any kind of normal life if he survives all the skin grafts and the infections. Was his getting burned an accident?”

Thomas said, “Listen, all of this makes sense, but it’s still supposition.”

Savich said, “I’ve put Krimakov’s aged photo into the Facial Recognition Algorithm program that’s in place now at the Bureau. It matches photos or even drawings to con-victed felons. It compares, for example, the length of the nose, its shape, the exact distance between facial bones, the length of the eyes. You get the drift. It’ll spit out if there’s anyone resembling him who’s committed crimes either in Europe or in the United States. The database isn’t all that complete yet, but it can’t hurt.”

“He was a spy,” Sherlock said. “Maybe he was a con-victed felon, too. It’s just possible he’s done bad stuff