Craig Kreident #1: Virtual Destruction (3 page)

Michaelson sighed.
 
“Just watch my news conference tomorrow afternoon.
 
I don’t think the networks will broadcast it, but CNN carries everything.
 
I’ll be back from Washington the day after tomorrow—by then I want you to have a plan for installing an entire suite of sensors in the plutonium building.”

The telephone in Lesserec’s private cubicle rang, giving Michaelson a chance to depart as the young deputy went to grab it.
 
He slipped around the fabric dividers as Lesserec waved for him to wait.
 
Got to have a reason for everything
, Michaelson mumbled to himself.
 
What ever happened to the concept of group leader?

“Hal—hey, Hal?” Lesserec called, the slim black telephone pressed against his ear.
 
“Aragon’s on line two.
 
Tansy transferred him down here.”

Michaelson felt a sour feeling in his stomach.
 
“Tell him I’ve just left.”

“He says it’s urgent.”
 
Lesserec held out the phone, blinking his eyes innocently.
 
He looked like a Cheshire cat.
 
“I told him you’d be right on.”

Michaelson set his mouth.
 
Aragon thought his hangnails were urgent.
 
Not saying a word, he looked around for a phone on one of the computer tables, knocked a few manuals and Coke cans aside, and picked up the phone, punching the flashing button pad.
 
“Michaelson here.”

“Hal, how are you?
 
How is—”

“I’m in hurry, José.
 
I’ve got to catch a flight to Washington.”

“Ah, yes.
 
Important business, I suppose.
 
Well, this will just take a moment, my friend.
 
You know, I think you’re health would be much better if you slowed down a little, took the time to enjoy—”

Your own damn health is going suffer if you don't hurry the hell up.
 
But it was no use arguing with the boob.
 
“What
is
it, José?”

“Ah!
 
Your Virtual Reality chamber—I hear that you’ve met your milestone with the tactile response?”

“Been there, done that.
 
I briefed the Director last week, José.
 
That’s why I’m heading out to D.C.”

“Hmmm, I wasn’t at the Director’s staff meeting, and—”

“José, can I call you later?
 
I’ve
really
got to head out to the Oakland airport.”

 
Aragon sounded patronizing.
 
“No problem, Hal.
 
I’ll catch up on the details some other time.
 
But since you’ve obviously already met the milestones, I need a big favor.
 
Really means a lot to me.
 
I’m going to bring a high-visibility tour group through the VR lab tomorrow.
 
The Northern California Coalition for Family Values—Fred Unteling’s old group?—bringing a bunch of physically challenged kids to see the simulations.
 
Show them something exciting.
 
Great PR.
 
Newsline
will even run a story on it.
 
You’ll love it.”

“Tomorrow?” Michaelson shouted into the phone.
 
“Thanks for the warning!
 
We’re making the IVI announcement tomorrow, José. For God’s sake—”

“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t let you know ahead of time, Hal.
 
I did tell you we were planning to open up more of the site to visits from community groups, and this is our olive branch.
 
Your chamber would be the highlight of their tour.
 
Let these poor children see things and go places they could never manage on their own.
 
And remember, Livermore Lab is community sensitive now.”

Michaelson started to retort, but he decided against it.
 
Unteling’s name closed the discussion.
 
“Tell you what, I’ll turn it over to my deputy—but make sure the kids don’t touch anything.”

“I knew you’d understand, Hal.
 
Say, by the way—”

Michaelson slammed down the phone with an unsatisfyingly hollow
clack
and turned back to Lesserec.
 
He saw the technicians watching him, their own eyes wide but seeming to mask their amusement at his bluster.
 
“Did you hear what I said about getting the sensors ready?”

Two of the programmers mumbled and turned away.
 
Lesserec grinned at him, rocking back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head.
 
“So, what’s Aragon got to say?”

“Every time Aragon opens his mouth, something stupid falls out.
 
Call him and get the details yourself.”
 
Michaelson felt his heart race; he’d have to watch his temper.
 
He was on his way to an appointment with the President, and José Aragon wanted to play tour guide.
 
Fucked up priorities.
 
No wonder the Laser Implosion Fusion Facility went down the toilet once Aragon got in charge.

Michaelson whirled for the door.
 
The last thing he heard was Lesserec’s chirping voice.
 
“Hey, have a nice trip, Hal.
 
See you on TV.”

CHAPTER 2

Tuesday

NanoWare Corporation

Cupertino, California

Dressed in casual but no-nonsense uniforms—dark suit, deep-red tie—Craig Kreident and the four field agents stepped through the mirrored doors of NanoWare Corporation.
 
They wore brittle smiles on their faces.

As soon as he was out of the bright California sun, Craig snapped off his dark sunglasses and blinked to focus in the indoor lighting of the lobby.
 
He pushed the sunglasses into his suit pocket and reached in to take out the folded piece of paper inside the white envelope.
 
Unconsciously, he used a palm to slick down the sides of his short, chestnut-colored hair, straightening the premature wings of distinguished gray.
 
Always neat, always presentable.
 
A professional.

At the fake-marble front desk the security guard sat up and greeted them with a cautious smile.
 
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the guard said, moving his glance like machine-gun fire down the line of agents.
 
“What can I—“

Craig slid the folded leather badge case from inside his jacket and flipped it open.
 
His companions did the same.
 
The guard reeled back at the barrage of IDs.

“Federal Bureau of Investigation.
 
We’ll be visiting some of your facilities this afternoon,” Craig said.
 
“Thanks in advance for your cooperation.”

The security guard gaped like a stranded fish and reached for the telephone.
 
Craig intercepted him by slapping the search warrant on the gleaming marble surface in front of the guard.

“You’ll see here that we have a search warrant duly signed by a magistrate of the U.S. District Court.
 
I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t use that phone, sir.”

His smile inched up a fraction of a degree, cool, cordial, uncompromising.
 
He scanned up and down the corridors of NanoWare.
 
Apart from the neutral carpeting—charcoal gray and sterling silver tweed—everything gleamed with white and chrome, high-tech with a vengeance.
 
The curved halls had no sharp angles, like a 1960s science-fiction vision of the year 2000.

“I believe the IC processing labs are down there,” Craig pointed.
 
“Is that right?
 
We can find them ourselves.”

“But wait,” the security guard said.
 
“You can’t do that.
 
Mr. Skraling is out of town until tomorrow and I don’t have the authorization to—“

Craig tapped the paper again with his forefinger and gave a Mount Rushmore smile. “I have all the authorization the law requires, sir.
 
After we’ve secured the clean room, you’re welcome to call. . . “ Craig searched his memory trying to recall the name of the senior VP of NanoWare.
 
“Ms. Ompadhe—and by all means send her down.”

“Daniel,” Craig nodded to one of the men, “would you keep our friend company while we gain access to the clean room?
 
Then please see that he makes the right phone calls.”

“Yes, sir,” Daniel said.
 
He pulled up a chair and sat next to the security guard.
 
He nodded at the fidgeting man.
 
“So, do you watch baseball?”

Craig motioned for the other three agents to follow him down the slick hall.
 
Their shoes scuffed like muffled gunfire on the carpet.
 
When they were out of earshot, one of the other field agents, Ben Goldfarb, lowered his voice and spoke to Craig.
 
“I thought we couldn’t legally forbid them from using the telephone.
 
That’s not kosher is it?”

Craig stared in feigned surprise at Goldfarb, pointing to himself innocently as if saying
moi?
 
“I didn’t forbid him to use the telephone.
 
I just said I’d appreciate it if he didn’t, and I didn’t tell Daniel to forbid him either.
 
I just told him to stay there.”

Goldfarb grinned, making small wrinkles around his dark eyes. “Yeah, but your meaning was implicit.”

“Implicit doesn’t carry the law, Ben,”
 
He sighed, then let his demeanor soften now that he didn’t have to keep up the ‘tough agent’ facade.
 
“Look, I’ve been investigating these high-tech crimes long enough to know how little time it takes the bad guy to wipe the slate clean.
 
Five minutes worth of warning, and people can delete all sorts of incriminating files.
 
A diskette or two tossed into an incinerator will cause us months of reconstruction work, if not irreparable harm to our case.
 
A surprise inspection means just that—surprise.
 
Once we’re in position and babysitting them, they can do whatever they want.”

True, before his time several blunders had been made during overzealous investigations against supposed computer crimes.
 
Most infamous was the Secret Service raid on a gaming company in Texas, that had been botched every way imaginable, from bogus charges to incorrectly filed paperwork, which had generated a lot of bad press.
 
That sort of thing happened when technologically illiterate agents tried to investigate a high-tech case.

Craig specialized in that kind of work, though.
 
It took a smart agent to catch a smart bad guy.
 
Like in this case.
 
And NanoWare was no innocent bystander.

Operatives in Malaysia and Singapore had traced bootleg microprocessor chips that had been flooding the market.
 
The path led through several sham corporations, directly back to the Silicon Valley company NanoWare.

“Here, sir,” Jackson, ahead, pointed to a double airlock door with a flashing light mounted outside.
 
Through large, thick observation windows in the hall Craig could watch people in white garments, masks, and hair nets moving around cabinets of glittering microchip fabrication apparatus.

“Okay, let’s go inside,” Craig said, stepping up to the airlock door that led into the changing room.
 
“I want you to suit up for the clean room.
 
Everything by the book.
 
Do minimal damage.
 
Our primary objective is to secure this facility, not to damage it.”

They stepped to the door to the outer clean room, walking across a gray mat of stickum to pull away all the loose dust from the soles of their shoes. They passed into the changing area and rummaged in the cubicles for spare outfits.
 
A bin of dirty uniforms sat beside a sink. Wooden benches lined the walls near blue metal lockers.
 
Racks of folded white jumpsuits stood next to a box full of nylon hair nets and bins of thin plastic booties marked small, medium, and large.

“Let’s make it quick.
 
They may have seen us.”

Craig put on facemask, adjusting the elastic at the back of his head and snugged on a hairnet.
 
He stepped into a white Tyvek jumpsuit and grabbed flimsy booties that billowed around his black street shoes.
 
He smelled clean, new fabric and flat filtered air, cold from the increased air conditioning.

Before sealing the velcro straps on the jumpsuit, Craig took out his badge wallet and small camera and stuck them into one of the deep external pockets.
 
He pulled on rubber surgical gloves from an open box, snapping the thin membrane against his wrist.
 
Finished, the four FBI agents gave each other a cursory checkover.
 
“Good enough,” Craig said.
 
“Let’s move.”