Suddenly he heard his computer ring the tones of the doorbell from the old Leave It to Beaver television show. Ding-dong-ding. With a chuckle, he rushed back to his chair, swiveled to face the monitor, and crowed. The password was his. It was not terribly imaginative—Betazoid, named for the extrasensory natives of the Star Trek planet called Beta. He had not had to use his more sophisticated password cracker, which included a number randomizer and avoided all real words. With the system administrator’s password file, he acquired the system’s internal IP—Internet Protocol—address as well. Now he had the blueprint to USAMRIID’s computer network, and soon he was “root,” too, which meant he had access to every file and could change and delete and trace all data. He was God.
For him, what Jon Smith had asked was not child’s play, but it was not climbing Mount Everest either. Quickly Marty scanned all the E-mail messages from the Prince Leopold Institute, but each reported failure to find a match for the new virus. Those files were not what Jon wanted. To most people’s eyes, if there was anything else from the lab, it had been completely erased. Gone forever. They would give up now.
Instead, Marty sent another search program to look in the spaces and cracks between data. As more data was inputted onto a system, the new overwrote the old, and once data was overwritten, it supposedly was not retrievable. When his program could find no evidence of any other E-mail from the Belgium lab, Marty figured that was probably what had happened in this case.
He threw back his head and stretched his arms high to the ceiling. His medication had worn off. A thrill rushed through him as his brain seemed to acquire diamondlike clarity. He looked down, and his fingers flew over the keyboard in a race to keep up with his thoughts. He instructed his program to do a different search, this time focusing on bits of the name, E-mail address, and other identifying qualities. With incredible speed, the program searched … and there it was—two tiny pieces of the laboratory’s name—opold Inst.
With a shout, he followed the E-mail’s footprints—traces of data and numbers, almost a scent to Marty—to NIH’s Federal Resource Medical Clearing House and a terminal accessed only by the password of the director, Lily Lowenstein. From there, he painstakingly tracked the prints forward to the Prince Leopold Institute itself.
His green eyes flashed as he bellowed: “There you are, you frumious beast!” It was a reference to Lewis Carroll and the Jabberwock. In a hidden backup file buried deep within the institute’s system language he had located an actual copy of the report.
The report had been E-mailed from the Prince Leopold Institute of Tropical Medicine to Level Four labs across the world. After a quick glance, it was evident Jon might find this useful. That decided, Marty tried to trace the E-mail elsewhere. He frowned as the evidence mounted: Someone had erased it not only from its origination site in the central computer of the Prince Leopold Institute but also at the addresses of the various recipients. Or that was what was supposed to have happened. And that was what the average computer nerd, the ordinary hacker, even most electronic security experts would have found.
But not Marty Zellerbach. They came to him—the other cyberspace wizards—for solutions to problems not yet seen and for insights into what had never been done. He had no titles—beyond his Ph.D.s in quantum physics and mathematics and his degree in literature—and he worked for no one but himself. Like a whale trapped on land, in the physical world he flopped and gasped and was an object of pity or derision, but deep in the electronic waters of the cyberocean, he slid sleek and powerful. There he was king—Neptune—and lesser mortals paid homage.
Laughing happily, he flourished his finger like a duelist’s sword and jumped to his feet. He punched the print command. As he spun a lopsided pirouette, the machine spat out the report. For Marty, there was nothing quite so satisfying as doing something no one else could. It was small recompense for a life lived alone, and in his quiet moments he occasionally considered that.
But in the end … the truth was he looked down upon the lead-footed, numb-headed folks who judged him while living “ordinary” lives and having “relationships.” Good grief, despite his Asperger’s syndrome, despite his need for drugs, he figured in the last fifteen years of seldom venturing beyond the walls of his bungalow, he had had more relationships than most people in a lifetime. What in heaven’s name did the idiots out there think he had been doing? Geesh. What did they think E-mail was for? Dumb!
Grabbing the report, he waved it aloft like the head of a slain enemy. “Monster virus, none can defeat the paladin. And I am The Paladin! Victory is mine!”
A half hour later, footprints from the same FRMC terminal led him straight into the antiquated electronic network of the Iraqi government and to a series of reports a year ago concerning an outbreak of ARDS. He printed out those, too, and continued to prowl through the Iraqi cybersystem searching for reports of anything like the virus as far back as Desert Storm. But there was nothing else to find.
Sophia Russell’s telephone records were a tougher challenge. He found no intruder footprints in the Frederick phone system. If there had been a record of an unaccounted-for call from Sophia Russell’s line to an outside destination, it had been erased from inside the company and every trace removed.
All attempts to find Bill Griffin through college, medical, social security, or any other private or public part of his past had turned up the same message: Address unknown. So Marty launched into the FBI system, which he had penetrated so often his computer could almost do it on its own. His time was limited before they would trace him, because their Intruder Detection System (IDS) was one of the best. He popped in long enough to see that Griffin’s official record showed termination for cause. If there were any secret arrangements, Marty found none—no clandestine reports, no pay vouchers, no code passwords, and nothing else to indicate Griffin was undercover. However, the record was flagged, and there was a notation: Griffin’s listed address was no longer valid, the Bureau had no current address, and one should be obtained.
Boy, Griffin was really something. Even the FBI wondered where he was.
Far tougher than the FBI’s firewall and IDS was the army intelligence system. Once Marty breached the firewall, he had to dash in, read the personnel file, and dash out. He found no current address. Marty scratched his head and pursed his lips. It seemed to him Griffin had not only wanted to vanish, but he had had the expertise to do it. Shocking.
That deserved some respect. Even though Marty had never personally liked Griffin, he had to hand it to him now. So he sat back, crossed his arms, and smiled, not touching his computer for a full thirty agonizing seconds. It was his way of giving the guy some respect.
Then with a flourish he opened a blank file dedicated to Bill Griffin himself. He was not accustomed to failure in the cyberworld, and it both annoyed and inspired him. Bill Griffin had blown him away. But this was not the end. It was the beginning! There was nothing quite so delicious as a new challenge from a worthy opponent, and Griffin was proving to be just that. So Marty grinned. He scratched his chin and willed his brain to leap into the stratosphere. To find a solution in his soaring imagination. That was what he could do off his meds—take flight.
But just as an idea began to form, he jumped, startled. His computer radiated a high-pitched tone and flashed a dazzling red signal:
INTRUDERS! INTRUDERS! INTRUDERS!
More excited than nervous, Marty pressed a key. This could be amusing. The screen revealed:
LOCATIONS A AND X
Eagerly he tapped a button, and two high-resolution monitors came to life on the wall above. At Location A, which was behind the bungalow, two men searched for a way to squeeze through the thick hedge. But it was too dense to be penetrated and too high to climb over. Marty watched their feeble attempts and hooted.
But Location X was another matter. He swallowed hard and stared: An unmarked gray van had stopped in his hidden driveway. Two muscled strangers stepped from it, both holding large semi-automatic pi
stols as their gazes swept his property. With a jolt of terror, Marty’s catalog brain identified one gun as an old Colt .45 1911, while the other was a 10mm Browning of the type used now by the FBI. These intruders were not going to be easily scared off.
Marty’s short, stubby body shuddered. He hated strangers and violence of any kind. His round face, so bright and excited seconds ago, was now pale and trembling. He studied the screen as the mechanical voice challenged the men in the front yard.
Just as he suspected, they decided to ignore the warning. They ran toward the front steps—an assault.
In an instant, Marty’s mood improved. At least he could have fun for a little while. He snapped his fingers and bounced up and down in his chair as his automatic security system released a cloud of eye-stinging gas. The two men grabbed their faces. They jumped back, coughing and swearing.
Marty laughed. “Next time, listen when someone gives you good advice!”
In the rear, the second pair of strangers had stacked garbage cans from the neighbor’s yard to climb up over the hedge. Marty watched intently. At just the right moment … just as they reached the top of the hedge … he tapped a key.
A barrage of heavy rubber bullets knocked them off. They fell hard, flat onto their backs in the neighbor’s yard.
Marty had time only to chuckle, because the two in front had recovered enough to stumble through the gas and reach the front door.
“Ah, the piece de resistance!” Marty promised.
He watched eagerly as a stream of Mace from the ports over the door sent the men staggering and howling back again. He clapped his hands. The short, burly one who seemed to be the leader recovered enough to lurch for the doorknob.
Marty leaned forward eagerly. The knob held a stun device. It sent a shock into the guy’s hand. He screamed and jumped.
Marty chortled and spun in his chair to check the other pair. The two in the backyard showed resourcefulness. They had rammed their car through the hedge and were on their feet and moving forward again, crawling under the sweep of lasers.
Marty grinned as he thought about what waited for them: stun devices in the other doors and windows, and cages that would trap them if they got inside.
But all the defenses, diabolical though they were, were not lethal. Marty was a nonviolent man who had never had reason to expect serious danger. His security was aimed at pranksters, trespassers, and tormenters—against outsiders invading his peaceful isolation. He had constructed, invented, bought, and built a child’s game of brilliant comic-strip mayhem and secret escape routes.
But none would, in the end, stop determined killers in a real world. Clammy fear gripped his chest. His heart pounded. But being a genius had its advantages. He had designed a plan a dozen years ago for just this sort of emergency. He grabbed the remote control and the printouts for Jon, and then he rushed into the bathroom. He pressed a button on the remote, and the bathtub reared up against the wall. Another touch of the remote opened a trapdoor hidden under the tub. His chest tight with fear, he climbed down the ladder past the house’s crawl space and into a well-lighted tunnel. With two clicks of his remote, the door closed above him and, out of his view, the tub lowered back into place.
Marty inhaled, relieved. In his rolling gait, he swayed and bumped along to another trapdoor overhead.
Seconds later he emerged in a nearly identical bungalow he also owned on the next street. This one was unmodified and empty. It was a deserted house with a perpetual FOR SALE sign and nothing in it except a telephone. Behind him, across the hedge between the bungalows, he could hear curses and yelps of pain. But he also heard the telltale noise of glass shattering, and he knew the attackers would soon be inside his house, searching for his escape route.
Afraid, he grabbed the phone and dialed.
Chapter Eighteen
11:07 A.M.
Washington, D.C.
Georgetown University was founded by Jesuits in 1789, the first Roman Catholic university in the United States. Handsome eighteenth-and nineteenth-century buildings stood among the trees and cobbled lanes, reminders of a time when science knew little of viruses, but education was beginning to be seen as a solution to the violent problems of modern society. Through the window of Georgetown’s faculty lounge, Smith thought about this as he admired the old campus under the big trees.
He said, “So you’re on the faculty here?”
“Associate professor of history.” Marjorie Griffin shrugged sadly. “I suppose Bill never told you what I did. I was at NYU when we met. Then I applied down here.”
“He never talked much about his private life,” Smith admitted. “Mostly our work and shared past. The old days.”
Absentmindedly she stirred her tea. “The few times we saw each other recently, it wasn’t even that much. Something’s happened to Bill over the last few years. He’s become silent, moody.”
“When did you last get together, Marjorie?”
“Twice in just the past few days. On Tuesday morning he appeared on my doorstep. And then again last night.” She drank tea. “He was nervous, edgy. He seemed worried about you. When he came inside, the first thing he did was go to the front windows and watch the street. I asked him what he was looking for, but he didn’t answer. Suggested a cup of tea instead. He had brought a bag of croissants from the French bakery on M Street.”
“A spur-of-the-moment visit,” Smith guessed. “Why?”
Marjorie Griffin did not answer at once. Her face seemed to sag as she studied the parade of students outside the windows on the cobbled lane. “Touching base, maybe. I hate to think he was saying good-bye. But that could’ve been it.” She looked up at Smith. “I’d hoped you’d know.”
She was, Smith realized almost with a shock, a beautiful woman. Not like Sophia, no. A calm beauty. A certain serenity in herself and in who she was. Not passive, exactly, but not restlessly seeking either. She had dark gray eyes and black hair caught in a French knot at the nape of her neck. An easy style. Good cheekbones and a strong jawline. A body between thin and heavy. Smith felt a stirring, an attraction, and then it was gone. It died before it could do more than appear in a flash, unexpected and unwanted, immediately followed by a sharp stab of sorrow. A throb of anguish that was Sophia.
“Two days ago, almost three now,” he told her, “he warned me I was in danger.” He described the meeting in Rock Creek park, the attacks on him, the virus, and the death of Sophia. “Someone has the live virus, Marjorie, and they killed Sophia, Kielburger, and his secretary with it.”
“Good God.” Her fine face redrew itself in lines of horror.
“I don’t know who or why, and they’re trying to stop me from finding out. Bill’s working with them.”
She covered her mouth with her hand. “No! That’s not possible!”
“It’s the only way he could’ve known to warn me. What I’m trying to figure out is whether he’s undercover or with them on his own.” He hesitated. “His closest friend in the FBI says he isn’t undercover.”
“Lonny Forbes. I always liked Lonny.” She pressed her lips together and shook her head sadly. “Bill’s grown harder. More cynical. The last two times I saw him, something was really bothering him. It seemed to me it was about something he’s not proud of but won’t stop doing because of the way the world is.” She picked up her teacup, found it empty, and stared into it. “I’m just guessing about him, of course. I’ll never marry again. I see a nice man now and then, but that’s all it’ll ever be. Bill was my great love. But his great love was his work, and somehow it failed him. What I do know is he feels betrayed. He’s lost his faith, you could say.”
Smith understood. “In a world with no values except money, he wants his share. It’s happened to others. Scientists who sell out for big bucks. Put a monetary value on eradicating disease, curing ills, saving lives. Unconscionable.”
“But he can’t betray you,” Marjorie said. “So he’s torn apart by the conflict.”
“He’s already
betrayed me. Sophia’s dead.”
As she opened her mouth to protest, Smith’s cell phone rang. Throughout the faculty lounge, annoyed heads turned.
Smith grabbed the phone from his pocket. “Yes?”
It was Marty, and he sounded both excited and terrified. “Jon, I always said the world was unsafe.” He paused and gasped. “Now I’ve proved it. Personally. There’s a whole group of intruders. Well, four actually. They’ve broken into my house. If they find me, they’ll kill me. This is your area of expertise. You’ve got to save me!”
Smith kept his voice low. “Where are you?”
“At my other house.” He gave the address. Suddenly his voice broke. It shook with terror. “Hurry!”
“I’m on my way.”
Smith apologized to Marjorie Griffin, scribbled his cell phone number for her, and asked her to call if Bill turned up again. He ran out of the lounge.
As Smith drove worriedly past Marty’s house, he saw a gray van parked in the driveway. No one appeared to be in the van, and the high hedge and curtains hid the house’s interior. He surveyed all around and saw nothing suspicious. There were the usual traffic noises. Smith scanned constantly for trouble as he continued on around the block and pulled into the driveway of a bungalow that was directly behind Marty’s. In the front lawn stood a white metal FOR SALE sign rusting around the edges.
From the house’s front window, a shade peeled upward, and Marty’s frightened face peeked out just above the sill.
Smith ran to the front door.
Marty opened it, clutching a sheaf of papers and a remote control to his chest. “Come in. Hurry. Hurry.” He stared fearfully past. “If you were Florence Nightingale, I’d be dead by now. What took you so long?”