"Put in a wireless transmitter, you mean?" said Hamish. "Reroute the laptop messages through that?"
"I could do it," Cadel confessed. "We covered it at the Axis Institute. But I'd have to get at the descrambler."
"Which leaves us back where we started," Trader pointed out gently. "If we could get at the descrambler, we'd go for the work computers instead."
"What about technicians?" Judith turned to Cliff. "Couldn't we mess something up? The electricity, say, or the air-conditioning?"
"Or the plumbing!" Lexi proposed, wriggling in her seat. "What if, when Zac goes back, he blocks up the toilet and they have to call in a plumber?"
"There aren't any water pipes in Jerry's office, Lexi." Trader's dismissive tone snuffed out the spark in Lexi's eyes. "Even a computer jockey like Jerry Reinhard isn't going to fall for a plumber banging around near his hard drive."
"You know, he really is a computer jockey." Hamish looked up from his cuticles. "That guy never seems to lift his butt off his chair. I bet he wouldn't move just because some tradesman was drilling holes in the wall. He'd stick a pair of headphones on, or something."
"You're right," Devin agreed, gloomily. "Think of what it's been like, eavesdropping on that guy. Jerry didn't take a single phone call this morning. He never left his office. He never even went out for lunch. He was at his keyboard the whole time—tap-tappety-tap."
Tap-tappety-tap.
This piece of information hit Cadel like a bullet.
He caught his breath.
"What do you mean?" he said. "You mean you can hear him typing?"
There was no immediate reply. However, even as Zac and Cliff and Judith peered at Cadel in astonishment, a lightbulb seemed to go off inside Hamish's head.
"Christ," he gasped. "Of course!"
"Amy was the first to arrive this morning." Cadel had already leaped up. "She switched on her computer before Jerry did."
"And we've b-been recording ever since," Hamish concluded, jumping up to join Cadel. "So it's gotta be on there!"
"What's got to be on where?" Trader called after the two boys, who were heading for the lift together. "Cadel? Just a minute!"
Cadel whipped around.
"The password!" he cried. "Jerry's password! He would have typed it in! Don't you see? We'll have a recording!" Trader blinked. "You mean—"
"We can decode it by analyzing the sound of the keystrokes," said Cadel, punching at the lift button, which was disguised as one of the little blue wall-tiles in the pantry. He and Hamish were on their way down to the War Room before anyone else had even reached this button; the lift floor began to drop beneath their feet just as Hamish said to Cadel, with the merest trace of disappointment, "You really are good. I should have thought of that."
"You would have." Cadel entertained no doubts whatsoever on that score. His respect for Hamish's technical abilities was increasing by the day.
It was a pity, Cadel thought, that Hamish's personality quirks were still so challenging. When someone spent his free time substituting Gravox powder for cocoa, and maliciously reprogramming other people's cell phones, it was hard to relate to him as a friend.
Cadel could only assume that Hamish had been the butt of so many practical jokes, in his time, that the worm had turned with a vengeance.
"This isn't going to be easy," Cadel added. "We'll need some kind of program for measuring really minute differences in noise levels. We'd never be able to do it by ear."
"Leave that to Trader," said Hamish. "If there's one thing he does know, it's how to interpret recordings." When the lift bounced to a standstill, and its doors slid open, he rubbed his hands together. "Quick," he urged. "Let's get started, b-before those Wienekes try to muscle in!"
"But aren't we supposed to be working as a team?" Cadel objected.
Hamish, however, wasn't listening. He had stopped in his tracks and was staring at Dot—who sat with her back to him, a pair of padded headphones clamped over her ears. She hadn't even turned her head at the sound of the lift's arrival.
Clearly, she was deaf to everything but the noise from Amy's computer bug.
"Jeez," Hamish spluttered, transfixed by the images displayed on Dot's laptop screen. Even from where he was standing, Cadel could see pearl-colored satin and filmy lace. He realized that Dot was scrolling through a very fancy underwear catalog, full of languorous, shiny-haired, full-lipped women who didn't look at all like Dot.
As Hamish pulled a comical face, Dot became aware of his presence. To Cadel's surprise, however, she didn't expunge the flashy garments with one click of her mouse. Instead she slowly turned her head and regarded the two boys without a trace of expression while she removed her headphones. If she was embarrassed, she didn't show it. In fact, it was Hamish who blushed. He seemed lost for words.
Cadel was the one who finally spoke.
"We need to listen to the first hour of that recording," he told Dot, trying not to look as startled as he felt. Why on earth should someone like Dot be interested in exotic lingerie? Surely she must be shopping for a gift? Surely she couldn't be buying it for herself ?
Or was she simply mooning over items that she didn't have the courage to wear, like a kid with her nose pressed against the window of a toy shop?
Whatever the explanation, it suggested that there was more to Dot than met the eye. In fact, if she had been anyone else, Cadel might even have felt a bit sorry for her. But her stolid, inscrutable demeanor was off-putting. It repelled sympathy. And it was so profoundly at odds with the pictures on the screen that Cadel couldn't help being slightly rattled.
"We're—um—going to listen for keystrokes," he continued, wishing that Hamish would say something. Dot gave a nod. Wordlessly she offered up her headphones, before calmly exiting the lingerie site.
Only when the array of distracting, skimpy products had disappeared did Hamish find the courage to blurt out, "Special occasion?"
Dot fixed her impassive gaze on him.
"What would you know about special occasions?" she replied, with a lack of emphasis that was somehow more insulting than a sneer.
Then the lift doors opened again, and the rest of Genius Squad spilled out.
TWENTY-TWO
By the end of the working day, Genius Squad had captured Jerry Reinhard's password.
They had been lucky. Amy's computer had picked up the sound of Jerry's initial keystrokes when he'd first arrived that morning. These soft little clicks had then been microanalyzed. By half past four, Dot's infiltration team had isolated the eight-letter key to GenoME's high-security network and had used it, in combination with his IP address, to break into Jerry's computer.
The next step would be to mount an attack on GenoME's heavily fortified American system. But it wouldn't be easy. No one knew exactly what kind of access the password would provide, or exactly how much time would elapse before it was changed.
No one wanted to trigger any alarms.
Cadel was eager to participate in the initial assault on GenoME's inner defenses. He felt that his skills would be needed. Throughout the day, everyone in Genius Squad had played his or her special part in the infiltration process; while Trader had analyzed keystrokes, and Devin had plundered the potentializers' machines, and Sonja had helped Lexi with the decoding, Cadel had worked side by side with Hamish on various tasks, including a privilege-escalation plan. It seemed to Cadel that he was an indispensable cog in the Genius Squad machine.
But apparently he was mistaken. Because to his immense chagrin, he was required to eat dinner with Saul Greeniaus—who had phoned after lunch to ask if Cadel would join him for an evening meal.
"I have to update you on a few things," Saul had said, "and Ms. Currey isn't free until seven. So I figured we could eat while we talked."
"Couldn't we just talk now?" Cadel had protested. "Over the phone?" But Saul had been adamant.
"Face-to-face would be best," he'd replied. "Ms. Currey needs to be present, remember?"
Cadel hadn
't dared raise any further objections, in case the detective became suspicious. But he wasn't happy. For one thing, he wanted to help his fellow squad members. And for another, he was worried about Sonja's well-being.
Though she'd assured him repeatedly that she was fine without him, Cadel wasn't entirely convinced. Tony was efficient but inexperienced; he hadn't yet learned to anticipate her needs. Zac was kind but distracted. Only Judith inspired Cadel with any confidence.
He didn't mind leaving Sonja with her.
But the evening promised to be a busy one, and Cadel feared that Judith would find herself too preoccupied to keep a close eye on Sonja. In the end, Trader had to put his foot down. "If you don't go," Trader said, "then Greeniaus is going to stay. And we don't want him here—not tonight. There's too much at stake." Flinging a casual arm around Cadel's shoulders, Trader attempted to lighten the mood. "Think of this as a diversionary tactic," he suggested whimsically. "Your job is to keep that copper off our backs, okay? And if you succeed, we'll give you first dibs on Jerry's files."
Still Cadel hesitated. He would have preferred almost any other job, but he didn't really have much choice. He grudgingly complied after Hamish had looked up from his computer and said, "Let's face it, Cadel—once the staff at GenoME go home, there won't be much we can do, anyway. Not with all their systems switched off. They even disconnect their bloody routers, for god's sake!"
It was true. Unless the systems were live, nothing of great importance could be gleaned from them. So at seven o'clock, when everyone else was beavering away in the War Room, Cadel found himself standing on the front veranda of Clearview House, shielding his eyes from the blaze of Saul's headlights.
He climbed into Saul's car quickly, before the detective could even think about getting out.
"Hello." Saul sounded surprised. "What's the rush?"
"I'm starving." When Cadel slammed the front passenger door, Saul raised an eyebrow. But he didn't comment. Only when they were cruising down Parramatta Road, heading east, did he ask if Cadel liked Italian food.
"Yes," said Cadel.
"We're meeting Ms. Currey at the restaurant," Saul explained, with a sidelong glance that was unreadable in the dimness of the car's interior. "Until then, I should probably keep my mouth shut."
"Who's paying?" Cadel said rudely. Whereupon a corner of the detective's mouth twitched.
"Don't let that worry you," he replied. "I'm thrashing it out with Ms. Currey. We'll settle it one way or another."
Something in his tone sparked Cadel's interest. It sounded as if Saul and Fiona were at loggerheads.
"Is there a problem?" Mentally reviewing the events of the past two days, Cadel drew the obvious conclusion. "Did you get in trouble for talking to me?"
Saul flicked another look at him but didn't answer. In fact, they both remained silent until they reached their destination.
Marco's Restaurant and Pizzeria was situated on Parramatta Road, in a row of small shops that had a dark, forlorn appearance at that hour of the night. Only Marco's was lit up; when Saul parked outside it, Cadel spotted Fiona through the restaurant's big front window. She was sitting at a table, examining a plastic-covered menu. Hers was the only occupied table in the whole establishment. Apparently, the midweek dinner hour wasn't a busy time at Marco's.
Fiona smiled as Cadel approached her. "I'm sorry I haven't dropped by," was the first thing she said. "I've been frantic, you've no idea. How's it going, Cadel? Are you settling in okay?"
"Yes," he replied, dropping into the seat next to her and burying his face in a menu. "I think I'll have pizza."
"Good choice. This place does excellent pizzas." Saul unbuttoned his jacket before sitting down, his attention fixed on Fiona. "I know it's an imposition, dragging you out here," he said, "but at least it's a tasty imposition."
"It's not an imposition, Mr. Greeniaus; it's my job," Fiona retorted. She was so curt that Cadel felt almost sorry for the detective, who reached quietly for a menu, absorbing her rebuke without a trace of resentment.
"You shouldn't get mad at him," said Cadel. "It wasn't his fault about Gazo. It was my fault, really."
Fiona blushed. "I'm not mad," she mumbled. "I'm just—I've had a hard day" Laying a hand on Cadel's arm, she added, "There's still nothing from Mel Hofmeier, I'm afraid. The department's dragging its feet."
Cadel shrugged. He hadn't been expecting good news. They all three studied their menus, made their choices, and placed their orders; it wasn't until the waiter had departed that Saul fixed his dark eyes on Cadel and announced, in a low voice, "I've got some disturbing information about Prosper English."
Cadel stiffened. His stomach seemed to do a backflip.
"There's been an incident at the prison where he's being held," Saul continued softly. "One of the guards was found dead this morning, with an empty envelope in his possession. The envelope had Prosper's name typed on it." Saul hesitated for a moment, then muttered, "We think the guard may have been poisoned, but we're not sure how yet. There's a fragment of skin adhering to the glue on the lap, so we'll get that analyzed. If it doesn't belong to the guard..."
He stopped and scanned Cadel's face intently. Cadel licked his dry lips. He could feel a nerve jumping in his jaw.
Fiona pressed his hand.
"Don't worry, sweetie," she said, without much conviction. "You'll be all right."
"Did—did—" Cadel couldn't spit out the question that he wanted to ask. Fortunately, he didn't have to. Saul knew what he was thinking.
"We're not sure if Prosper's responsible," the detective admitted. "It's hard to see how he could have done it, because of various circumstances that I won't go into." All at once he dropped his gaze and rearranged his cutlery. "The thing is, Cadel ... I know I shouldn't be asking, and this is entirely off the record, but did you see anything like this when you were at the Axis Institute?"
Fiona's mouth tightened. So did her grip on Cadel's hand.
"Mr. Greeniaus—," she began, but Saul cut in, harshly.
"This is off the record, I swear to you! On my life. "All at once he stopped, as if regretting such an uncontrolled burst of emotion. After a moment, he proceeded more calmly. "You should know by now that the last thing I want is to harm Cadel in any way. I just need to know if there's something I've missed." He leaned forward. "Please."
Cadel tried to think. Fear never sharpened his wits, but always blurred and smothered them like fog; he had to push that fog aside before he could reason clearly. As the waiter placed a bowl of garlic bread in front of him, Cadel concentrated on what he had just heard. Poison. The Axis Institute.
He was determined not to dwell on the dead guard.
"They taught poisoning at the institute," he said at last, "but I never did that course." He cleared his throat before continuing. "I knew some girls who put poison under their fingernails and scratched people."
Conscious that Fiona was grimacing with disgust (as she always did when the Axis Institute was mentioned), Cadel shifted uncomfortably, retrieving his hand from her grasp. He reached for a piece of garlic bread.
Saul was frowning at the tablecloth.
"You see, if Prosper did this—well, that's one thing," he observed. "The trouble is, I can't understand how he managed it. And if he didn't manage it, then it's possible that someone might be trying to kill him." He raised his eyes. "I don't suppose you've any idea who that someone might be?"
Cadel tore off a hunk of garlic bread and popped it into his mouth. Slowly, he shook his head.
"It could be anyone," he mumbled.
"It could be," Saul agreed. "In fact, it could be anyone who's afraid that Prosper might break down and testify. Including Earl Toffany."
Cadel stopped chewing.
"Who's Earl Toffany?" asked Fiona. And Saul replied, "The head of GenoME," before turning back to Cadel.
"We thought it was a strange coincidence, the way GenoME opened a branch here right after Prosper was arrested," the detective went on. "We were
wondering if there were plans for a jailbreak. Now we're wondering if the plan is to kill Prosper because he knows too much." He pinned Cadel down with a speculative stare. "You must have been wondering that yourself, surely?"
Cadel couldn't swallow his bread. If he'd tried, he would have choked. His heart was hammering against his rib cage.
He found it impossible to speak.
"This isn't right," Fiona said, breaking into the conversation. She didn't seem angry—just tired. Tired and disappointed. "Cadel shouldn't have to deal with this. He's been through enough. I mean, I know you're doing your job, but does it have to be at Cadel's expense?" She leaned across the table so that she wouldn't be overheard by any restaurant staff. "Don't you realize how hard he finds it to cope with the whole issue of Prosper English?" she implored. "I've been trying to get him counseling for that very reason."
Cadel gasped, then began to cough. He'd inhaled a bread crumb. As Fiona patted his back, he spluttered, "I'm not scared of Prosper! I'm not!"
"Of course you're not," Fiona replied soothingly. "I just don't think you should be made to feel responsible for interpreting his actions, or assessing his state of mind. It isn't fair." She turned to Saul. "Cadel's already conflicted—he doesn't need the extra pressure."
"All right." Saul raised a hand. "Point taken. I'm sorry."
"This isn't the department talking," Fiona insisted. "I'm just concerned about a child who's been pushed around from pillar to post—"
"But I'm fine!" Cadel exclaimed. "God! Will you please stop worrying about me?" The more they both fretted, the more guilty Cadel felt. And the more guilty he felt, the crosser he became. "I don't care about Prosper! Why should I? He doesn't matter to me one bit, so you can ask all the questions you like! Just stop making such a fuss!"
As soon as the words had been spoken, he realized how infantile they made him sound. Saul's expression confirmed it. The detective bit his lip.
"I'm sorry, Cadel," he said at last, quietly. "You're so smart, I keep forgetting how young you are. We won't talk about Prosper. Not unless we have to."