other users on the system at that time could be accounted for, yet the mainframe’s internal register of processing time did not agree with the system administrator’s logs for both nights. The internal register reset itself each day and was in agreement with the system administrator’s logs until Cole accessed the system. After he logged off, the two records of processing time used no longer matched.
Admittedly, the evidence was circumstantial, but it pointed to some unusual activity by the CIA’s liaison on their computer system. Unfortunately, Cole’s death prevented them from talking with the one person who knew what he was doing on those nights.
Moy thanked the director of Security for her efforts and waited until she had left before conferring with the director of the CIA. He dialed the direct line to Barnett’s office, bypassing Langley’s main switchboard, and his call was received by Sally Kirsch.
As the call came through, a computer read the incoming caller’s phone number and cross-referenced it against Kirsch’s phone database. By the second ring, she knew that the caller was Phillip Moy.
‘Good evening, Phillip,’ Kirsch answered, ‘working a little late, aren’t we?’
‘I could say the same for you,’ he replied.
‘I’m just tidying up a few things before I leave. Jackson’s still in his office, I’ll buzz him for you.’
The line clicked as Moy’s call went on hold for the transfer. A few seconds later, the deep, rich southern voice of Jackson Barnett filled the receiver. ‘Phillip, what can I do for you tonight?’
‘I just received the results of our in-house investigation, and we’ve turned up some interesting, and disturbing, information. The only questionable activity we’ve been able to locate has been attributed to an employee of yours who was working with us, Michael Cole.’
Barnett glanced over at the Cole file on the corner of his desk. ‘What do you have on Cole?’
‘Not much really, nothing that conclusively points to him as the leak.’ Moy skimmed the report summary for highlights. ‘All we actually have is some strange computer activity on his part, coupled with some possible computerlog tampering. It’s coincidental, Jackson; there’s no smoking gun. I just thought that I would pass our suspicions on to you.’
Barnett made some notes about Cole for discussion with Cal Mosley. ‘I appreciate that. Could you send a copy of that report to me?’
‘It’s already on the way. Have you found out anything more regarding Cole’s death?’
‘Nothing solid. Cole was obviously involved with something that resulted in his death, but we haven’t been able to determine just what that something was. If Cole was selling your secrets, he may have gotten greedy and paid a higher price than he bargained for. Your report may shed some light on the situation. Thank you for your help.’
Like Barnett, Moy wanted to know how his secrets had been stolen and who was responsible. ‘My pleasure, though I prefer working with you on more pleasant tasks.’
‘I completely agree. Say hello to Cynthia for me.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Moy replied.
The line went dead and Barnett cradled the receiver. This new information gave him three possible scenarios for Michael Cole’s death. A high-level source working for British Intelligence had verified that the Yakushev files were genuine; was Cole blackmailing one of the moles named inside those files? Phillip Moy believed that Michael Cole was doing something unusual on his computer system; was Cole committing industrial espionage? Cole had spent a year working on the Spyder; could that have something to do with his death? The circumstances of Cole’s murder still posed more questions than answers.
As the director of Central Intelligence, Barnett knew that industrial espionage was a national problem that far exceeded the damage caused by spying against the U.S. government. Industrial espionage was part of the global economic war, where industries clashed instead of armies and victory was measured in terms of market share. If Cole was the leak at Moy, the next logical step would be to find the connection between him and the recipient of the information in Hong Kong.
25
March 18
Grin was in early, as always, caring for the computers that he referred to as ‘the toys.’ MARC might materially own the hardware that toiled under Grin’s care, but no one ever questioned his dominion over the machines.
After an early-morning workout, Kilkenny arrived at MARC looking a little more tired than usual. He dropped his backpack and coat in the chair beside the Cray console and walked over to the computer lab’s refrigerator, where he stored a large container of orange juice.
‘Getting your vitamin C for the day, I see,’ Grin commented without even looking up from his monitor.
Kilkenny hoisted his glass in a toast before taking another drink. ‘Everyone has their vices, and mine could be a lot worse. How are we doing today?’
Grin scanned his systems monitors. ‘Everything this side of your processor is working just fine. The Cray is happy as a clam and ready to go to work.’
‘Let’s do it.’
The program was to simulate nuclear fusion in a new reactor design. An accurate, real-time model of the problem required the Cray to process thousands of variables simultaneously in order to mimic the theoretical, manmade sun. Physicists from around the world had collaborated on the development of this model, hoping to one day solve the riddle of a sustainable, energyefficient fusion reaction.
The graphic display on Grin’s console showed two new signal lines, each representing a distinct electronic link between the MARC network and the outside world.
‘Nolan,’ Grin called out from his console, ‘are you hooked into the university’s mains?’
‘Yeah, I’m downloading from the Engineering Library.’
Grin studied the report from the network closely. ‘I can account for that. Are you doing anything else, like a network query or E-mail?’
‘No, just a lengthy download off an old mainframe.’ The fusion problem’s program and data set occupied several terrabytes of memory. ‘If it wasn’t for the new optical cabling that campus recently installed, this would take all day.’
‘That Light Speed Network Backbone has lived up to its name, for which I am truly thankful. I save many hours every week because of it.’ Grin turned his attention back to the strange signal. ‘I wonder what that is.’
Kilkenny walked over to Grin’s station and looked over his partner’s shoulder. From this console, Grin could survey the performance of the mainframe computers and information network within MARC. He zoomed in on the window that monitored all of the Cray’s network connections; only two lines were in use.
‘That’s odd,’ Kilkenny said, ‘I should be the only user connected to the Cray.’
‘Got that right. Your physicists aren’t scheduled to log on until this afternoon.’ Grin tried to bring up a listing for the second signal, but each time the program told him it didn’t exist. ‘I wonder what that is.’
The signal they were tracking was strong and steady, but neither of them could identify it. Kilkenny was just as puzzled as Grin. ‘Well, wherever that signal is coming from, it doesn’t appear to be affecting the Cray. Do you think it’s a hacker cruising in over the network?’
Grin considered Kilkenny’s suggestion for a moment. ‘It could be, but it would have to be a damn good one to bury his tracks like this. I’m lucky to have found this signal at all. It’s times like this I wish we’d picked up a Gatekeeper for our net when we got that one for your project.’
‘A Gatekeeper?’ Kilkenny asked.
‘Yeah, a Gatekeeper,’ Grin repeated. ‘It’s a tricked-out neural-net chip that was specifically designed to manage high-speed signal traffic and to secure computer networks. The government began installing ‘em on their computer networks a couple months ago. We managed to snag one of these babies because of the high priority the government places on Kelsey’s project. It’s line-management capabilities were the important thing for us, but the
