triggered the second. In less than a minute, the program logged Roe off the system, returned Pangen’s network to its original configuration, and erased itself from memory.
Confident that she’d left no evidence of her intrusion, Roe disconnected the two machines and prepared to transfer the stolen information. Unlike the old days of le Carre-style espionage, there was no need for her to skulk around town in a trench coat to leave her stolen secrets in a hollowed-out tree trunk. No, in the modern world of espionage, a spy need only encrypt her data well and transmit it electronically.
Roe’s transfer program incorporated a series of datacompression and encryption algorithms that left the stolen files looking more like random noise than any kind of coherent information. Once retrieved, an inverse series of the same algorithms returned the files to their original state. For images and digitized photographs, this process would cause a minor loss of clarity; for text and purely alphanumeric data, the retrieved files were identical to the originals.
Roe dialed into a local Internet server to keep Johnson’s phone bill clear of a suspicious long-distance call. From there, she meandered through several other computer networks, carefully covering her electronic trail, before accessing a computer in the London office of business consultant Ian Parnell.
Once the data transfer was in process, Roe flipped on her cellular phone and dialed Parnell’s office.
‘Parnell Associates. How may I direct your call?’Parnell’s assistant answered with cool British formality.
‘Hi, Paulette. It’s Alex. Is Ian in?’
‘No. He’s taking advantage of this lovely day on his boat. Hold on for a moment and I’ll see if I can reach him.’
Roe waited, listening to the antiseptic Muzak that filled the receiver beside her ear. Parnell certainly enjoyed his toys, the most prized of which was a deep metallic blue, offshore racing boat christened Merlin. She’d accompanied Parnell on several outings on the Thames and knew that he took his boat out on any fair day that London offered. Her brief visit to musical purgatory ended with Parnell’s voice shouting over the roar of Merlin ’s engines.
‘What’s the good word, Alex?’
‘The information is en route as we speak. It’s everything your clients asked for.’
‘Absolutely smashing. I’ll post your final payment by the end of business today.’ Parnell’s voice returned to normal as the sound of the engines faded. ‘How’s your schedule looking for the next couple of weeks?’
‘Other than a long ski weekend in Vermont with an old friend, nothing special.’A smiling picture of Johnson gazed back at her from the desktop.
‘I’ve got another research project, one that I think you would be perfect for, if you’re interested. It’s worth fifty percent of a six-figure fee.’
‘You’ve got my attention, Ian.’
‘Good. An old client of mine, an electronics manufacturer in Hong Kong, has requested a little research into his main competitor’s new product line. I’ll E-mail you the background materials-usual encryption. Give me a call after you’ve had a chance to look them over, and we’ll discuss specifics.’
The file transfer ended and Roe logged off the various systems she had used to cover her tracks. It still amazed her how much easier, and safer, computers made espionage. Even though circumstances occasionally required that she physically break into the places that she was ‘researching,’ Roe found that she could complete most of her assignments by posing as a journalist or by using a computer and modem. The free flow of information in open, high-tech countries allowed them to outpace the more restrictive nations in nearly every measure of progress. This openness also made her job as an industrial spy much easier.
She felt a small twinge of guilt at the thought of stealing the information from her old flame’s fledgling company, but she suppressed that reaction. She had harmed no one, and in a few years’ time, most of Pangen’s secrets would be well documented in scientific journals. Her consulting relationship with Ian Parnell simply allowed her to cash in on the impatience of Pangen’s wealthiest rival.
4
The surf rolled in against the beach, four-foot waves cresting and crashing with a dull roar and the hiss of briny foam. The sky was partly overcast as the remnants of a late-season tropical storm drifted over the Caribbean island.
The long stretch of beach along Puerto Rico’s eastern coastline was deserted, not because of the weather but because this area was off-limits. Traditional naval operations controlled a majority of the base real estate. The untamed jungle, just north of the docks and support facilities, was home to Navy Special Warfare Unit Three. It was here that Nolan Kilkenny’s squad of SEALs had been sent to prepare for their mission.
It was late in the afternoon, with dusk only an hour away, when the first black shape emerged from the surf. A head peered out from beneath the waves, scanning the beach. As quickly as it appeared, it vanished. A moment later, seven black-suited figures emerged from the sea, riding an ebbing wave onto the sand. Black neoprene wet suits covered each of the men from head to toe, protecting them from the strength-sapping chill resulting from their long exposures to cool salt water. Their swim fins had been removed in the water and hooked to their dive belts in preparation for the transition from sea to land. All were armed and each focused his attention on a specific section of the beach. They thought and acted as one.
‘Master Chief,’ Nolan Kilkenny called out, ‘did everybody make it home?’
‘Hoo-yah, sir!’ Master Chief Max Gates replied. ‘Just a walk in the park.’
‘Very well, then. This beach is secure and the exercise is over!’ Kilkenny announced. ‘Stow your gear and clean your weapons.’
Kilkenny slipped his mask down around his neck and stood to survey the beach. ‘Rodriguez.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied a short fireplug of a man who had been born in a small town near the base.
‘Nice job on point.’
‘No sweat, sir. I just followed the smell of my mama’s cooking.’
A pang of regret hit Kilkenny-that was a smell he would never follow home again.
Kilkenny’s squad walked the short distance from the beach to the huts that served as their base of operation. Loose gear was removed first, dive belts, masks, and fins, and dunked in a large barrel of freshwater to rinse off the brine. Next off came the closed-circuit rebreathing units the SEALs used in place of the more common open-circuit scuba tanks. The rebreathing units, which recycled the diver’s exhaled air for reuse, allowed the SEALs to approach a target from beneath the water without leaving a telltale stream of bubbles along the surface.
The men stripped their weapons down and carefully inspected and cleaned each component. This work was done quietly and with the utmost seriousness. Each member of the squad relied on the others, and none wanted a mission to fail or a buddy to be hurt because of something as preventable as a dirty weapon.
After reassembling and stowing his Heckler-Koch submachine gun and his 9-mm pistol, Kilkenny checked the in-basket in his hut. Inside, he found a manila envelope containing the latest satellite photos of the Haitian jungles. After a week of hard preparation, his team was beginning to gel. He had them eat, sleep, and breathe the mission twenty-four hours a day. Each piece of the equipment that they would use was becoming like a part of their bodies, each inch of Haitian rain forest as familiar as their own backyards.
This wasn’t how Kilkenny had expected to spend his Thanksgiving, training in isolation with the six other men who made up his squad, but it was this kind of preparation that made the SEALs successful. Each mission was treated like a moon launch, with no detail so unimportant that it could be overlooked.
Gates approached and knocked on the door frame.
‘Yo, Chief, come on in. I got the latest pictures.’
Master Chief Max Gates entered the small hut and sat in the folding chair next to Kilkenny. Though junior in rank, Gates was Kilkenny’s superior in age and combat experience. Like most SEALs, Gates was shorter than Kilkenny by half a head, but he made up for it with a barrel chest and a pair of forearms that would make Popeye proud. He was nearly bald, ruddy-faced, with a pair of dark brown eyes that peered out from beneath a pair of bushy brown eyebrows.
