'Why did they shoot these things at Washington?'
'Guesses are two for a quarter. I don't think anyone in government knows for a fact.'
As he ate his soup by the light of four candles, she asked, 'So what is going to happen next?'
'I don't know.'
'Have you any idea where the boat is?'
'Oh, yes.' He gestured to the east. 'Out there somewhere.'
'Isn't this the new superstealth submarine?'
'That's right.
'What if the navy can't find it? What then?'
Jake Grafton finished the last spoonful of his soup. 'I've been thinking about that. The fact is that we probably won't find the sub. Let's see if we can come up with some ideas.' He studied her face in the candlelight. 'Those guys can't stay submerged forever. True, they might be suicide commandos, but that's extremely doubtful. Russians and Germans rarely indulge in that kind of thing.'
'They have a plan,' Callie murmured.
'Yeah,' Jake Grafton said. 'And they've bet their lives that we can't figure it out.'
His CIA superiors had sent Tommy Carmellini to London because a certain key network of the Antoine Jouany firm was completely shielded from the Internet. Without outside or dial-up access even the best code breakers could not read the information contained on the databases of these machines, which were at the very heart of the Jouany operation. Carmellini's task was to find the software that prevented Internet access and disable it, then type in certain keywords that allowed CIA researchers to access the network database. Or to steal the hard drives.
Once he was on-line, the job took about five minutes, and because he was naturally curious, Tommy Carmellini lingered to examine the information that the CIA wanted to see. The menu listed dozens of files, mostly lists of names of investors, their addresses, and the amount of their account. Files setting forth how much money each fund was worth — well, they were mutual funds, weren't they — and files that accounted for the trading activity, profit and loss of every trade, in each fund. No doubt a competent researcher could quickly learn everything there was to know about Antoine Jouany and Company from studying these files.
Carmellini went to the window, looked down onto the trading floor. The dozen people had swelled to twice that number. They were laughing and drinking champagne. The silver lining of America's black cloud was being celebrated.
Carmellini returned to the computer. Numbers, names, addresses, was that everything?
He was flipping through the files, looking at names, when one leaped at him. Avery Edmond DeGarmo. The director of the CIA?
He stopped scrolling rapidly and began reading every name. Floyd Hoover Stalnaker? Wasn't he the chief of naval operations?
Jacob L. Grafton?
Now wait a minute. Tommy Carmellini stopped scrolling and stared at the screen. The problem was that he knew Jake Grafton. If his Jake Grafton was this Jacob L. Grafton. Had helped him rescue his wife in Hong Kong. Had spent almost a month running errands for him when he was named consul general in Hong Kong.
Grafton's account was worth… $3,489,922? As of the close of business yesterday?
What is going on? Rear Admiral Jake Grafton?
Carmellini dashed to the window, looked again at the crowd on the trading floor. Having a party down there.
He went back to the computer screen.
Jesus, this is pure bullshit. They sent me all the way to London to…
He rubbed his head, tried to get his thoughts in order.
Wow, had he been lucky or what? Houston and today's date.
Slowly he worked his way through the layers of dialogue boxes to get out of the program and shut the computer down. When the screen was dark and the machine off, he placed his right forefinger in the reader and booted it up again.
He paused to scratch his head, then eased over to the window for another look.
Shitty security… DeGarmo hated his guts… he hated the CIA… and here he was.
He typed 'Houston' and hit the Enter key.
No.
Typed 'Houston' and hit the Enter key again.
No.
Did it a third time and pushed Enter.
Voila! There was the menu.
Oooh boy!
He escaped out. Shut down the machine while he tried to think.
Booted it up a third time. This time he typed 'xxxxx' and hit Enter. The first and second time the computer refused to take it. The third time he was admitted to the inner sanctum. The menu appeared.
Someone had set him up, made absolutely certain that he could get in. Carmellini the computer whiz. Yeah.
He turned off the machine and checked the trading floor one last time. One of the men had apparently had too much champagne and was asleep under a computer stand.
He eased the door shut behind him, made sure it latched, and went looking for the emergency exit. The stairs. Required by the building code, the stairs were always the weak point in the security system.
The door into the stairwell was unlocked, of course, although there was a switch on the door that was undoubtedly wired up to the security desk in the lobby. And, perhaps, in the security office.
Carmellini went down the stairs two at a time.
The door to the lobby was probably unlocked — as required by the fire code — but Carmellini didn't open it. He continued down one flight to the upper level of the basement. The stairwell continued on down to loading docks and various levels of underground parking.
The door out of the stairwell was locked. Carmellini set to work with his set of picks. Again, an alarm might sound at the lobby security desk, but..
It took about thirty seconds to find the right way to open the lock,
then Carmellini pulled the door toward him and entered the hallway. Sure enough, there was the door marked 'Security.' Presumably the main security computer was in there.
No fancy high-tech lock on the door, just one for a key. Carmellini was in in two minutes flat.
The computer was on and running, with banks of monitors showing the views from various cameras. All this was apparently being recorded digitally on the computer's hard drive.
Carmellini sat down at the keyboard. He used the icon to find the list of persons who worked for the Jouany firm and scrolled to find Sarah Houston's name. He liked her, thought maybe he might take the time after he left the agency to really get to know her. What he would really like to ask her was why her computer let any Tom, Dick, or Harry in on the third attempt. Let's see. . Houston, Houston, Houston. Her name wasn't there.
Wasn't there?
But he had gotten in using her finger and eyeprints. No, no one by that name on the list.
So who was the woman he had taken to bed?
He glanced at his watch. McSweeney was outside, and he had said not to waste time.
Tommy Carmellini closed his eyes for a second, trying to sort things out.
No time for that now.
From his pocket he produced an E-grenade, one of his own manufacture. His E-grenade was constructed entirely of explosive and superfast primer cord that he had hardened so that it had the consistency of smooth plastic. All of it would be consumed, leaving only a residue for the forensic experts. He looked the computer over, found the place he wanted, pulled the pin on the grenade and twisted the cap. With the thing armed, he laid it gingerly on the table beside the computer and walked from the room. He was outside the room when he felt the jolt of energy produced by the explosion. So much for the security computer's hard drive.
On his way out of the building he flapped his hand at the lobby guard, who was working with the controls of his television monitor, trying to bring the thing back to life. McSweeney was parked seventy-five feet from the
