Invasion of Privacy (26 page)

The malware entered the Grants’ desktop computer like a virus entering a host’s blood. Freed from its confines inside the video clip, it spread through the machine’s silicon arteries at the speed of light. Its primary target was the operating system, where it branched out to all applications, probing each for weaknesses, vulnerabilities, flaws in the code that would allow it to gain entry.

Like any parasitic virus, the malware attacked multiple spots at once. It found the machine’s permanent memory and set about copying every keystroke ever made. In batches of 100,000, it transferred the data to Ian Prince’s computer, where it was plugged into an algorithm designed to identify usernames and passwords. Though nothing to match Titan, the computer employed next-generation microchips capable of performing a trillion operations a second. In the time it takes to blink an eye, the algorithm had ferreted out the ten most commonly used pairs of names and passwords.

Simultaneously the malware identified the most frequently visited websites requiring usernames and passwords and began plugging in the pairs. It was a simple process of trial and error. The malware was tireless and continued until it had successfully logged on to over sixty sites and gained access to the Grants’ most confidential information.

Another arm of the virus took control of the computer’s camera and microphone. The Grants’ desktop was now a hot microphone and a secret surveillance camera.

Yet another arm allowed Ian to control its keyboard remotely.

In less than ten seconds, the computer and everything on it belonged to Ian Prince.

Dinner was over. Ian had finished his speech. The assembled executives had moved from the dining hall to the salon, a smaller, cozier room, for after-dinner digestifs. Instead of a butler in tails pouring snifters of brandy and cognac, there was a buffet offering coffee, tea, and Fernet Branca. The atmosphere was one of carefully contained excitement, all buzz and chatter about the imminent, possibly dangerous, and undoubtedly groundbreaking events to come.

Nearby stood a half-dozen engineers clad in navy jumpsuits, the word
Orca
embroidered in yellow stitching on their breasts. On the wall behind them was a photograph measuring four feet by six, taken from high over an elliptical island. The island was one mile long and half as wide, and its symmetry was astounding. Orca, the island’s name, was printed in block letters at the bottom of the photograph.

“We’ve located the office campus at the southwest corner of the island,” said Ian, pointing to a grouping of more detailed photos showing sleek low-rise buildings set amid fields of grass and lush vegetation. “We dispose of five million square feet of office space, more than enough to enable us to consolidate global management functions across business sectors in a single location. I know you’ll appreciate the design. Koolhaas, Foster, Gehry are just a few of the architects we enlisted…oh, and I can’t forget Calatrava. Moreover, between solar arrays and our own on-site nuclear plant, we’re energy independent.”

Ian moved to another group of photographs. “Here on the north side of the island is the residential sector. We offer both apartments and townhouses. For those of you hoping to spend your earnings building an estate to rival Mr. Gates’s or Mr. Ellison’s, I’ve just saved you three years of headaches, countless arguments with your general contractor, and a hundred million dollars. You can thank me later. The quarters can comfortably house up to six thousand men, women, and children. And best of all, they’re free.

“Adjacent to the residences is our recreational sector.” Ian pointed
out the numerous sports fields, swimming pools, tennis courts, and the fitness center. “At the lee side of the island we’ve put in a beach that will rival anything in Thailand, Hawaii, or the Caribbean. Palm trees, hammocks, a nice clubhouse, and without any annoying natives trying to sell you a puka-shell necklace.”

Ian returned to the overhead shot of the island. “To make sure work doesn’t come home, you’ll note that a rather large hill runs across the center of the island. I’d like to call it a mountain, but even my ego isn’t that big.” He smiled to let everyone know he was just one of the boys and that rumors of his self-seriousness were overblown. “Ideally, everyone will walk to work, but for the lazy ones among us there’s a high-speed rail that will take you the entire thousand meters in about thirty seconds.

“Now here at the far southwest corner is where we’ve built our industrial sector—manufacturing facilities, warehouses, shipping, docks, the like. With a runway of just under four thousand feet, we can accommodate pretty much any aircraft except a fully loaded jumbo jet.”

From across the room, Peter Briggs watched all this with a mixture of awe, admiration, and disdain. He’d forgone wine in favor of Wild Turkey, neat. He sipped from his glass, watching Ian work the room. He was too anxious to hear back from Shanks to pay close attention. For the tenth time in ten minutes, he checked his watch. Still not a word.

Ian had traded his salesman’s spiel about the virtues of Orca for his “no boundaries” talk. “The world no longer has boundaries…old ways obsolete…our identity once defined by our tribe…”

Briggs could practically parrot the words of Ian’s impassioned argument.

“We had no choice who we were…later it was a shelter, a castle, or a fortress…after that a piece of land bordered by a river or mountain range or an ocean and guarded by soldiers living within those geographic borders. We went from clans to cities to principalities to countries. But what is a country today?”

Briggs’s phone vibrated. Thank God. It was time Shanks checked in. He slipped the phone from his pocket, only to discover that it wasn’t Shanks but the duty officer. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but we have a code black.”

“Code black” referred to an employee fatality.

“Give me a minute.” Briggs left the salon, took the stairs to the ground floor, and proceeded outdoors to the esplanade. The last employee to die had been an SVP who’d dropped dead of a heart attack in Mumbai, brought on by eating the world’s hottest chili peppers. “Who’s the poor devil?”

“It’s Bill McNair.”

“Shanks? You’re sure?”

“Yessir. We’re all pretty shaken up.”

Briggs walked to the balustrade overlooking the Meadow, wanting to be certain that he was alone. “What happened?”

“He was off-duty, so it’s all pretty sketchy, but it looks like he was shot after going to a concert out in Cedar Valley.”

Briggs ran a hand over his scalp, trying to make sense of the news. “Go on.”

“His RFID coordinates put him at a place called the Nutty Brown Cafe. He was stationary for ninety-three minutes, then thirty minutes ago he moved a short distance. Five minutes later his data cut out. No heart rate. No blood pressure readings. It was so sudden we thought for sure it was a glitch. We called him immediately. There was no response.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Briggs jogged across the Meadow, entered Brasenose, and took the stairs two at a time. A four-man skeleton crew was on duty. “Did you send a team?”

“Yessir. They located him in a field behind the venue.”

“Only McNair? There was no one with him?”

“No, sir.”

“Is the team still on-site?”

“Yessir.”

“Put them onscreen and bring up McNair’s bio data on monitor two.”

A concerned Caucasian male appeared on the screen. Briggs asked for a complete rundown.

“We arrived and found his vehicle parked in the lot. The doors were unlocked and the keys were in the ignition. We had to call HQ to get a read on his physical coordinates. We found him three hundred yards
away, lying in the middle of some scrub. There’s no indication what he was doing out here, but he had his weapon drawn.”

Briggs knew precisely what Shanks was doing out in the middle of the scrub. “Go on.”

“The cause of death was a shotgun blast to the chest and neck. He still has his phone on him, but we can’t find his wallet. Tell you the truth, I’m confused.”

“Show me the body.”

The security officer trained his camera on the prone, inert body of William “Shanks” McNair.

“All right,” said Briggs. “Any sign of law enforcement?”

“Nothing.”

“Good. Clean up the scene. Get him out of there. Bring his vehicle here. Do not contact the sheriff, understand? This is an internal matter.”

“Excuse me, sir,” said the duty officer. “But McNair was off-duty at the time. His wallet was missing. It may be a case of rob—”

“Do as I say. That is all. And get his vehicle out of there.” Briggs directed his attention to a smaller screen displaying McNair’s vital data as recorded by his bio bracelet. McNair’s heart rate appeared to have been steady at sixty beats per minute, accelerating slightly in the last minutes of his life. His blood pressure increased similarly over the same period. Both readings were consistent with an elevated level of adrenaline in the system. Excitement, not fear.

And then…nothing. All readings plummeted to zero. No last-second spike in heart rate. No surge in diastolic pressure. Shanks died instantly and without foreknowledge. Death as brought on by a shotgun blast delivered at close range. He was bushwhacked.

“Let me know when everything’s cleaned up.”

“Yessir.”

Briggs left the Ops Center. By the time he reached his car, he had a good idea what had transpired. His phone rang again as he left ONE’s campus. It was the Mole, and he sounded as perplexed as Briggs was angry.

“Mary Grant just came home.”

“Shanks encountered some difficulties.”

“He let her get away?”

“Have some respect for the dead.”

“Dead? Shanks? But how?”

“Just keep an eye on the home,” said Briggs. “Let me know if you see any movement in or out.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What I should have done a while ago. Take care of this matter once and for all.”

Mary parked in the garage as instructed, staying in her car until the door lowered behind her. She climbed out quietly, not wanting to wake the girls or to alert anyone else who might be waiting for her inside. It was a futile gesture. Anyone watching had seen her come home. If they had someone inside, they’d have passed along the word, though the thump of the garage door was warning enough.

She entered through the laundry room and crossed the foyer. The lights were dim, and all was quiet. She paused to take a look around, Joe’s gun heavy in her hand. Her heart was pounding loudly enough to drown out a police siren.

Act like nothing’s happened
, Tank had cautioned her.
No calls. No texts. Assume they’re listening to everything. Don’t give them a reason to act. They’ll find out about McNair soon enough
.

She checked that all the doors were locked and breathed easier. A light burned in the family room, which scared her all over again, but it was the television, sound muted. She turned it off, then returned to the stairs.

She paused to take off her sensible brown loafers, which were killing her more than her four-inch mules ever did. She held the pistol in front of her, one hand gripping the stock, the other supporting the barrel. If she saw anyone who was not her daughter—anyone at all—she was pulling the trigger until the gun was empty.

The door to Grace’s room stood open a crack. Her baby girl’s hair fairly shone on the pillow. Mary slid into the room and perched on the edge of the bed, listening to her daughter’s measured breathing, thinking it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

One present and accounted for, she reported to the admiral.

Mary crossed the hall to Jessie’s room. The curtains were drawn and she saw a lump beneath the covers. “Jess? You awake?” She stepped over a pile of clothes, her eyes getting used to the dark. “Jess?”

There came a ping from downstairs. A knock on the glass door. Tank Potter had arrived.

Mary left the room, picking up the dirty clothing on her way. Potter stood by the sliding door, hunched close like a teenager sneaking into his girlfriend’s house. Mary flipped the lock and slid the door open. “Come in.”

“Doing laundry
now
?”

Mary dropped the clothes onto the floor. “Never mind.”

Tank pointed at the gun. “You might want to put that away.”

“Sorry.” Mary slipped the pistol into her belt holster.

“Everything okay?”

“They’re both upstairs sleeping.”

“We should go. They’re going to discover McNair sooner rather than later.”

“Mommy.”

Mary turned to see Grace standing at the foot of the stairs, clutching Pink Pony to her chest. “Hi, mouse. Did we wake you?”

Grace’s eyes went from Mary to Tank and back again. She began to cry. Mary went to her and took her in her arms. “Are you still upset from earlier?” she whispered.

Grace shook her head violently.

“Then what is it?”

“I’m sorry,” came the muffled response.

“What for?” Mary held her daughter at arm’s length, wiping away a tear with her thumb.

Grace swallowed heavily. “I should have told you, but she said she’d be back. She promised.”

“Honey, who are you talking about?”

“Jessie.” Grace tried to speak but was overcome by another gust of tears.

“What about Jessie, dear?”

“She’s gone. She went to go look for the hackers.”

“No answer.”

Phone in hand, Mary stood next to Jessie’s bed, her stomach crawling with the thousand worries of every mother.

“Text her,” said Tank.

Mary typed: “Jess. Call me immediately. You are not in trouble. I need to know you are all right. I love you. Mom.” She added “Please,” then erased it and sent the message.

“Don’t worry,” said Tank. “She’s just with a boy. What’s his name…Gary.”

“Garrett,” said Mary, then to Grace: “Do you remember his last name?”

Grace shook her head.

Mary admired the cleverly arranged pillows, the dark Red Sox cap set atop them to simulate her daughter’s hair. “Jess doesn’t like boys,” she explained, as much to herself as to Potter. “I mean, she likes them, but they don’t like her, so she doesn’t…you know the drill. She likes computers and hacking and watching old episodes of
The X-Files
.” Mary willed the phone in her hand to buzz, indicating her daughter’s incoming text. “What if they…,” she said, looking at Tank.

“Don’t jump to conclusions. There’s no reason to think that—”

“No reason?” Mary whispered venomously. “Joe’s dead. Your friend was murdered six hours ago. And I was almost—” She bit her tongue, aware of Grace standing in the doorway behind them.

“Is it the hackers, Mommy?”

This was the second time her daughter had mentioned hackers. “Excuse me, sweetie—what do you mean by ‘the hackers’?”

“The people who erased Daddy’s message—the people Jess is looking for. Did they get her?”

The hackers
. Latest in a long line of imaginary nightmarish adversaries, following “Injuns” and “Nazis” and “alien abductors.”

“It’s not the hackers. Mr. Potter is right. Jess must be with Garrett.”

“And her TA,” added Grace. “So she’s safe.”

This was the first Grace had mentioned anything about a teaching assistant. “Pardon me? Do you mean Linus?”

“She said she was seeing her TA, too. He was going to help her figure out the clue.”

Mary turned on the reading lamp above Jessie’s desk and looked around for a notebook or a handout from school that might contain the TA’s number. There was a
PC Magazine
and a copy of
Wired
. But nothing from the university about Jess’s classes. What had happened to spiral notebooks and black speckled composition books?

She opened the drawer. Complete pandemonium. Pens and pencils and erasers and receipts. She freed a photograph. Jess and Joe at a symposium on the future of the Net that they’d attended last year. Mary replaced the photo and continued to rummage through the mess.
Her fingers touched something cool and round pushed against the back corner. “What’s this thing?”

In her hand she held a slim green metallic tube.

“An e-cigarette,” said Tank.

“A what?”

“You put some kind of oil inside and an electric spark vaporizes it. It’s the latest thing.”

“My daughter doesn’t smoke.”

“She doesn’t like boys either.”

Mary dropped the e-cigarette into the drawer. She knew she should feel shocked or disappointed, but all she could muster was a vague sense of surprise. At the moment e-cigarettes ranked low on her list of punishable offenses. She closed the drawer and made a search of the floor and closet. “No backpack,” she said. “She has her laptop.”

Tank stood in the doorway, biting his lip. “We should really go.”

“Not yet.”

Mary pushed past him and went downstairs. She took a seat at her work alcove and double-clicked on the search bar. “Don’t,” said Tank. “They see everything.”

“I don’t care,” said Mary as she logged onto the UT website. “I’ve got to find Jess. I don’t have time to play their games.”

In a few seconds she’d pulled up a course description and syllabus of Jessie’s summer school class. The professor’s name stood at the top, along with his office address and phone numbers. Below was similar information for his teaching assistant, Linus Jankowski, PhD from MIT, with a concentration in artificial intelligence and game theory.

The call to his mobile number went to voicemail. “Mr. Jankowski, this is Mary Grant. I understand that my daughter may have visited you earlier this evening. It’s almost one a.m. and she isn’t home yet. If you’ve seen her or have any idea where she might be, please call me at this number. Don’t worry about the time. I’ll be up. Please consider this an emergency.”

“Mom, where are we going?” asked Grace. “Do I need to get dressed?”

“Where are we going, Mr. Potter?” Mary asked.

“Not sure yet. First let’s get to my car.”

“Just a sec.” Mary pulled up Netflix and selected
The Conversation
, the movie starring Gene Hackman.

“What’s that for?” asked Grace, mystified by the old movie.

“It’s about someone who secretly listens to people.” Mary looked over her shoulder at Tank. “They should like it.”

“Oh? What happens?”

“The people start secretly listening to him. It drives him crazy.”