Wired (5 page)

5

Desh
was thirty minutes from his apartment when his cell phone vibrated inside his
shirt pocket. He lifted it out and stole a quick glance at the screen.
Wade
Fleming
appeared on the display.

He
flipped open the phone. “Hi Wade.”

“Hi
David,” came the reply. His boss wasted no time on small talk. “Do you happen
to know a girl named Patricia Swanson?”

Desh’s
brow furrowed as he searched his memory. “I don’t think so,” he said. He
shrugged. “Of course it’s always possible that I met her but just forgot.”

“Then
you haven’t met her. Believe me, you’d remember,” he said with absolute
conviction “She’s a total knockout. I mean like centerfold material,” he added
for emphasis.

“Okay,”
replied Desh. “I’ll take your word for it. So what about her?”

“She
visited the office about an hour ago. Asked for you by name.”

“Did
she claim she knows me?”

“No.
She says she’s vacationing at a few choice resort locations around the country
for the next month, thinks she might have a stalker, and wants protection. Said
she saw your picture and bio on our website and wants you assigned to her. I
told her you had a busy month lined up, and offered up Dean Padgett.” A note of
disapproval entered Fleming’s voice. “She wouldn’t have it. She wanted
you
, and she was prepared to pay extra
to make sure she got you.” He paused. “Frankly, David, I think you might be the
one who has a stalker, not her. She's probably a bored, spoiled rich girl out
for a thrill. What greater thrill than seducing your bodyguard? Must watch too
many movies. Bottom line is that I got the feeling she sees you as more of a
hired boy-toy than a bodyguard.” He paused. “I was tempted to tell her you were
gay and offer to take the job myself,” he said wryly.

Desh
shook his head and a small smile crept across his face. Jim Connelly had
promised to clear his calendar, and he must have had quite a laugh when he had
hatched this scheme. He sure hadn't wasted any time setting it in motion.

 
“So when do I start?”

“Tomorrow
morning, if you take the job.”

“
If
I take the job.”

“I
told her I needed your okay.”

“
Really
? That's a first.”

“Look,
David, as hot as she is, I’m not running an escort service here. I want to make
sure you know what you’re getting into. I’ve
seen
her, and it’s hard to
imagine how any man could resist her for long if that’s her game plan.” He
paused. “On the other hand, she
is
paying top dollar, and this could be
legitimate. It may be that your Delta Force credentials are what impressed her
and not your friendly smile. But given my doubts, I won’t insist you take
this.”

“Thanks,
Wade. But if I have to risk the attention of a beautiful woman,” he said with
mock bravado, “that’s just what I’ll have to do. For the agency’s sake, of
course.”

“Of
course,” repeated Fleming wryly. “Your loyalty to the agency is legendary,
David. I’ll e-mail you the assignment details and where to find her so you can
get started.” There was a long pause on the line. “And I want you to know,
while the rest of us are dodging bullets and laser-guided missiles protecting
hairy fat guys, we’ll be thinking of you lying on the beach with a centerfold
model—dodging those dangerous UV rays.”

“Don’t
mention it, Wade. That’s just the kind of team player I am.”

“Well,
I don’t want to have to worry about you, David,” said Fleming sardonically, “so
be sure to use a good sunblock. SPF 30 at least.”

“Good
tip,” said Desh in amusement.

“You
know what’s really annoying about this one?”

“That
she didn’t ask for you?”

There
was a chuckle at the other end of the line. “Aside from that,” said Fleming
good-naturedly. “What’s really annoying is that you’ll probably be bringing in
more money to the agency than anyone else this month. Maybe I
should
open up an escort service.” Fleming paused. “Take care, David,” he said signing
off, but couldn’t help adding, “you lucky bastard,” before hanging up the
phone.

6

Desh
rapped on the stained wooden door, just below its peephole and above the cheap
brass “14D” affixed to it. He had removed his laptop that morning from its
docking station in his apartment and it was carefully tucked under his left
arm. He was wearing Dockers, a blue polo shirt, and a tan windbreaker that
concealed his H&K .45 semiautomatic. A much smaller SIG-Sauer 9-millimeter
was shoved in his pants at the small of his back, and identical, sheathed
combat knives were strapped to each of his lower legs.

Kira
Miller was working with terrorist groups who would stop at nothing to protect
her. Groups who celebrated death rather than life, and who would welcome the
chance to remove Desh’s head with a hacksaw—while he was still using it—if it
would further their cause. The closer he got to her, the more dangerous it
would be for him. Perhaps these precautions were premature, but why take
chances?

Desh
heard movement from inside the apartment.

“David
Desh?” called a voice questioningly from behind the particleboard door, loudly
enough for Desh to hear.

“That’s
right,” confirmed Desh.

“Adam
Campbell's friend?”

“In
the flesh.”

Desh's
friend Adam, an ex-soldier who was now a private investigator, had set up this
meeting for him the night before, right after he had returned home from his
meeting with Connelly.

“Do
you have my retainer?”

In
answer, Desh removed 60 hundred-dollar bills from an envelope and fanned them
out in front of the peephole. There was a rustle behind the door as a chain was
unhooked and a loud click as a dead-bolt lock was turned, followed by the door
creaking open.

Desh
entered the small, cluttered apartment. It bore the heavy musk of prolonged
human habitation that Desh knew could be helped by an open window and the
inflow of crisp, autumn air. Four high-end computers straddled a heavy
glass-topped desk, all connected to each other through a spaghetti of makeshift
wiring. On top of the desk sat a wireless keyboard and three high-definition,
plasma monitors. Hanging on the wall above was a framed placard that read:

HACKER-CRATIC
OATH

I
swear to use my awesome powers for good, not evil.

Other
than this and a large black-and-white poster of Albert Einstein sticking out
his tongue, the entire living area consisted of the desk, a single couch, a
plasma television, and a small kitchen.
           

Desh
appraised the man in front of him. His name was Matt Griffin, and he was a bear
of a man. He was at least 6-foot-5 and three hundred pounds, with a bushy brown
beard and long, wavy hair—almost a cross between a man and a Wookie. Despite
his enormous size he had a harmless air about him that made him completely
non-threatening. While his bulk and appearance could quickly lead one to the
conclusion he was a dim caveman, his words were spoken with the intellectual
affect of an ivy-league professor. Desh handed him the money and waited
patiently as he counted to sixty.

Griffin
smiled affably. “Okay, Mr. Desh, I'm at your service for a period of one week. What
can I do for you?”

 
Fleming Executive Protection had its share of
computer experts, but Desh couldn't use them for this assignment, and he was
supposed to be in playboy fantasyland anyway. Matt Griffin was said to be the
best in the business. He usually worked for corporate clients doing fairly
mundane tasks, but from time to time he helped private investigators if their
cause was right, fully prepared to engage in illegal hacking, a victimless
crime, if it could result in finding a missing person or stopping a violent
criminal. Desh's friend Adam had worked with Griffin several times and had been
effusive in his praise for the man, who apparently took his hacker-cratic oath
quite seriously, and would only work with someone if he had assurances their
intentions were honorable. Adam had vouched for Desh and told Griffin he could
trust him implicitly.

Desh
set his laptop on the only unoccupied space on the corner of Griffin’s desk. The
giant eyed it with interest but said nothing. Desh handed him a typed page with
Kira Miller’s name and last known home and work addresses, e-mail addresses,
and telephone numbers.

Griffin
scanned the information quickly. “NeuroCure,” he said with interest, lowering
himself into a black-leather swivel chair in front of his computer monitors
while Desh remained standing. “Aren’t they developing a treatment for
Alzheimer’s?”

“Very
good,” said Desh approvingly. “You’re certainly up to speed on your biotech.”

Griffin
shook his head. “I’m afraid I know next to nothing about biotech,” he admitted.
“My aunt suffers from the disease so I tend to keep abreast of possible cures.”

Tend
to keep abreast
. The dichotomy between Griffin’s Viking appearance and
soft-spoken, lofty speech patterns was amusing to him. “I’m sorry about your
aunt,” offered Desh.

Griffin
nodded solemnly. “Why don't you fill me in on what you're after as completely
as you can. Nothing you say will leave this room.”

“Good.
Absolute confidentiality in this case could not be more vital. For your health
as well as mine.” Desh locked his eyes on Griffin’s in an unblinking,
intimidating stare, and held it for several long seconds. “You're known to be a
man of integrity,” he continued, “but betraying my trust would be a very, very
bad idea . . .”

“Save
your threats,” said the giant firmly. “Veiled or otherwise. You have nothing to
worry about. I take my responsibilities in this regard very seriously. As I've
told you, your information is safe with me.”

Desh
knew he had little choice but to trust the oversized hacker. He stared at him a
while longer, and then finally began to fill him in on Kira Miller’s tenure at
NeuroCure, and the events that had transpired a year earlier. Griffin scribbled
notes on a large pad of paper. Desh didn’t mention anything having to do with
terrorists or Swiss banks, ending his account when the trail of the elusive Kira
Miller had ended at the Cincinnati airport.

Griffin
whistled when Desh was finished. “Fascinating,” he said. “And very troubling.”

Desh
noted approvingly that Griffin didn’t attempt to explore why Desh had taken it
upon himself to look for a psychopath who was wanted by the authorities for the
brutal murder of several innocents.

“So
here's where I'd like to start,” said Desh, “I’d like to know which scientific
journals this Kira Miller subscribed to as of a year ago. I’m not interested in
any that were sent to her work. I want to know the journals she got at home.”

“Do
you have a list of probables?”

“I'm
afraid not. And, unfortunately, I went online and discovered there are hundreds
of scientific journals in her areas of interest.”

The
giant frowned. “Then this could take a long time. If you tell me the name of a
journal I can tell you if she was a subscriber. But there’s no way to start
with her address and work backwards to the journals.” He raised his eyebrows. “Not
unless you're prepared to engage in a little social engineering.”

Desh
was familiar with this euphemism used by hackers. “You mean get information
from humans rather than the computer.”

“Exactly.
Man cannot hack using computers alone. The best hackers are also the most
proficient at milking information from humans—the system’s weakest links.”

Desh
eyed Griffin with interest. “Okay,” he said. “I’m game.”

“Great,”
said Griffin, beaming happily. He swiveled his chair to face the monitors and
his fingers flew over the keyboard, calling up one web page after another as
Desh looked over his shoulder. The quartet of pricey computers, linked
together, operated at blazing speeds, and Griffin’s Internet connection was the
best that money could buy, and included custom enhancements. The end result of
this was that web pages crammed with data and pictures and graphics each
flashed up on the oversized monitor, complete, faster than the eye could
follow.

Griffin
scrolled through nested menus and clicked on specific options before Desh could
even begin to read them. Moments later he was several layers deep in the
internal computer files of the D.C. police.

“I’m
surprised you can breach a police system so easily,” muttered Desh.

Griffin
shook his head. “You can’t. Their firewalls and security systems are state-of-the-art,”
he explained. “But I found a way in last year and created a backdoor entrance
so I could return anytime I wanted. And I can use the D.C system to query the
San Diego Police Department’s computers for their file on the Larry Lusetti
murder investigation.” Griffin continued pulling up pages on the computer as he
spoke, and moments later he had the file he was after. He skimmed through it
rapidly, pausing to scribble a few names, a telephone number, and a date on his
note pad.

Griffin
took a deep breath. “I believe I’m ready,” he said. He picked up the phone and
dialed the number he had written down. A woman named Jill answered, but within
a minute he had Roger Tripp on the phone, the postal carrier who had long
covered the mail route that included Kira Miller’s condo.

“Hello,
Mr. Tripp,” said Griffin. “Do you have a minute?”

“Well
. . . I was just about to head out on my route,” he said. “What is this about? Jill
said you were a detective.”

“That’s
right, sir. Detective Bob Garcia.” Griffin consulted his notepad. “I work with
Detective Marty Fershtman. You may remember that Detective Fershtman
interviewed you about a Kira Miller on September 28
^th
of last year
in regard to a homicide investigation we were conducting.”

“I
remember,” said Tripp warily.

“Great.
This won’t take but a minute. We’ve continued our investigation, and we had one
additional question we were hoping you could help us with.”

“I’ll
try,” said postal worker Tripp.

“Great.
Do you happen to remember the titles of any periodicals that you delivered to
Dr. Miller? Scientific oriented periodicals,” he clarified. “Do you know the
type I mean?”

“I
think so,” said Tripp, showing absolutely no curiosity as to why the police had
interest in this information. “They kind of stood out, if you know what I mean.
Not exactly light bedtime reading. Let me see.” He paused for several long
moments to visualize these journals in his head. “
Human Brain Mapping
. That
one comes to my memory the clearest. And then, um . . . the
Journal of
Cognitive Neuroscience.
Either
that or something really close.
And then, ah
, . . .
the
Journal
of Applied Gerontology
. I wouldn't bet my life these are the exact titles,
but I'm pretty sure.”

Griffin
scribbled these names on the pad beside his other notes. He winked at Desh
before thanking Tripp for his help and ending the call.

“Remarkable,”
said Desh, his voice filled with respect. He had wanted to begin his search for
Kira Miller by identifying the scientific journals he knew would be indispensible
to her, but he had been far from certain this would be possible. But Griffin
had done so almost
instantly
, and
without even breaking a sweat.

“Quite
effective, wouldn’t you say? If you have the computer skills to get information
that establishes instant credibility, like dropping the name of the officer who
interviewed Tripp, the world is your oyster. Once you've laid out your bona
fides, people will tell you just about anything.”

“So
it appears,” noted Desh with amusement. “Thanks for the demonstration.”

“You're
quite welcome,” said Griffin with a wide grin. “So now what?”

 
“Can you hack into each journal’s database of
subscribers?”

“I'll
try not to be insulted that you phrased that as a question,” said Griffin. “That's
like asking
Mozart
if he can play
chopsticks
. This is why you’re paying me
the big bucks,” he added, and then immediately began racing through icons and
menus at an Olympic pace.

“Once
you're in, ah . . . Amadeus,” said Desh, “I’d like to focus in on people who bought
online subscriptions to all three journals, or even two of the three, about nine
months to a year ago. Chances are, this will be Kira Miller.”

“This
might take a while,” warned Griffin. He got up and walked the few paces to his
tiny kitchen, effortlessly lifting one of two large wicker chairs from around
the small dinette and dropping it beside his own chair. Desh sat down
appreciatively and continued to watch Griffin as he juggled multiple screens
and programs with seemingly superhuman agility.

After
about an hour he was finally able to hack into the journals’ systems, but his
subsequent analysis of subscriber databases was fruitless. Over the past year,
in fact, not a single person had begun subscribing to more than one of the
three journals, either online or by snail-mail.

“She
must have decided she could live without them while she was in hiding,”
suggested Griffin.

Desh
pursed his lips in concentration. His best chance to find her was to count on
her
not
making mistakes. “All right, Matt,” said Desh, “let’s try a
thought experiment. Let’s imagine she has your level of skill with computers,”
he began.

Griffin
looked amused at this thought. “
My
level of skill? My imagination may be
prodigious, but that’s a lot to ask of it,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Prodigious
.
Desh was amused once again at the giant’s choice of words. “I wouldn’t want to
strain your imagination, Matt,” he said, rolling his eyes. “So let’s make this
easy for you. Suppose
you
were on the lam. And you knew that other
computer experts were plugged in and trying like crazy to find you. Would you
anticipate they’d try to track you through your online journal subscriptions
like we just did?”