Hayes nodded. “This Wilbur claims he’s responsible for that. Claims he was trying out a couple of pages from the scanned book.”
Morrison guffawed. “Typical nutcase. Next he’ll be claiming credit for last week’s earthquake in Denver.”
“As a matter of fact…,” Hayes began.
“Five minutes are up.” The Chief Agent shuffled the neat pile of papers in front of him, preparatory to changing the subject.
At that point it was doubtful he would have listened to anyone—except Spitzer. “A seven point one. Lots of property damage, forty-six killed, hundreds injured.”
“I know the stats,” Morrison growled, but let the big man continue.
Spitzer scratched at his impregnable five o’clock shadow. “Denver doesn’t have earthquakes. It’s situated in a tectonically stable region. The geologists said it was a freak occurrence. They still can’t find the fault responsible for the geological shift.”
“So?” Morrison groused. Time was fleeting.
“What,” Spitzer continued softly, “if there is no fault?”
“Are you actually suggesting that it was somehow this Wilbur person’s fault?” Tiffin was gaping at the big man. “Sorry.”
Spitzer was looking at Hayes. “All I’m saying is that while gaining admittance to the restricted section of the Special Collections Department of the Harvard Library may not be a federal crime, and therefore not fall under our purview, making threats against and attempting to extort money from the government is another matter entirely. Bob, I presume you’ve tried to trace this Wilbur person and without success, or you wouldn’t be here discussing the matter with us.”
Hayes nodded, more grateful than he could say for Spitzer’s support. “Wilbur says that if we don’t comply with his demands, he’ll post to the Net everything he’s scanned from this book. According to him, that will let anyone from third-world dictators to role-playing teens have an equal shot at destroying the world.”
Van Wert pursued his lips. “Wouldn’t that kind of render his ten million worthless?”
“I had the impression he’s pretty desperate. Or pretty crazy. You know how hard it is to deduce personality types from e-mail.” He went silent, watching Morrison.
The Chief Agent sipped from his glass, then set it back down in precisely the same place where it had been resting. “This is ridiculous, and I can’t believe I’m wasting the Bureau’s time on it.” His gaze narrowed suspiciously as he stared across the table at Spitzer. “If I find out that you two have conspired on this, to try to put one over on me and get a couple of days off, I’ll see you both spending the rest of your respective careers tracking retirees’ bank transfers in South Florida.”
Spitzer folded his hands over his imposing belly. “I swear to God I never heard anything of it until Hayes started talking ten minutes ago.”
Morrison grunted, mumbling something under his breath. “This ‘Wilbur’ isn’t the only crazy person around. I ought to be committed myself for even listening to this. If any word of this leaks beyond this room, I won’t be able to buy a burger in this town without people pointing at me and cracking up.” His glare at that moment could have melted manhole covers.
“All right—do a quick follow-up. A harmless ranting nut can turn into a dangerous nut. See if you can find him. We’ll stop him from making threats, anyway. Hollow or otherwise.” He picked up his papers. “Now then, about this new militia site on the Web. We know it’s being routed through a server in Madison, Wisconsin, but after that…”
An hour later, puffing slightly, Spitzer caught up to Hayes in the hallway. “He doesn’t buy it, does he?”
“Morrison? No.” Hayes didn’t know whether to feel half justified or half disappointed. “What about you? And thanks for sticking up for me back there.”
“You’re welcome. Let’s say I have an open mind on the subject. What do you intend to do now?”
“We don’t have much time. In between talking to Harvard and trying to calm them down, I asked them what I should do. One of their people suggested I contact a Herman Rumford in New York. Gave me his number.”
“By the brevity of your response I take it you have already done so.”
Hayes nodded as they strolled together down the corridor. “If anything, he sounds even weirder than this Wilbur character. But he said to come on up, bring what information I had with me, and he would see what he could do.” For the first time that morning, he smiled. “Morrison as much as said you could come along on this with me. Be nice to spend a day in the city.”
Spitzer nodded indifferently. “You think this guy can do anything?”
“Well, I put the usual technical people on the trace, and they haven’t been able to run any surreptitious Wilburs to ground. So we might as well take a few of the citizenry’s tax dollars and head on up to the Big Worm-home. Either that or find a way to winkle ten million bucks out of the discretionary terrorism fund.”
Spitzer looked thoughtful. “I think we’d better try talking to this Rumford first.” They walked a little farther. “That was very strange, the Denver earthquake. And before that, the cruise ship going down. Of course, it was caught in a typhoon. A very sudden typhoon, but not unusual for that time of year in the Pacific. Or so I’ve read.”
“The ship was less than two years old. They’re not supposed to sink,” Hayes pointed out.
“No, they’re not.” Spitzer suddenly smiled. He had a charming, disarming smile. “We can take the eight PM express to Grand Central. Better not wait until morning.”
“That’s what I was thinking” were Hayes’s last words to his fellow agent.
Somewhat to the surprise of both men, Herman Rumford lived in a fine old brownstone in a notable Upper East Side neighborhood, among which were sprinkled elegant shops, overpriced restaurants the size of shoe closets, and a smattering of celebrities. Rumford admitted them not to a slovenly garret, but to a pleasant living room decorated with contemporary furniture and thick Chinese woolen rugs. The art on the walls, however, instantly notified both agents they were not in the presence of one of New York’s ubiquitous brokers, bankers, or political mavens.
Some of the subject matter was unapologetically horrific. Some was in appallingly bad taste. Some reflected views of the world and of existence that would have seriously distressed even the most tolerant priest. Some was authentically old. And somehow it was all of a piece, as one seemingly unrelated composition flowed unexpectedly into another.
“My collection.” Rumford was a short, thickset, fortyish fellow with shoulder-length hair tied back in a ponytail, dull blue eyes, and biceps that were more than blips beneath his shirt. He looked like a human grenade and reminded Hayes of a renegade cherub. “Not to everyone’s taste, I’m afraid. It’s part of my hobby. And my hobby is my life. I spend most of my time studying its ramifications and variations.”
“What is it that you study?” Spitzer loomed over their host like a sumo grand champion alongside a new student.
“Evil. I’ve made quite a study of it, with a view toward battling it wherever and whenever possible. You might say that we’re sort of in the same business, although for me it’s not a job.” He gestured for them to follow. “Of course, I don’t have access to the breadth of resources that you gentlemen do, but it’s astonishing what you can find on the Net these days. But then, that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Leaving the pleasant living room and its disturbing art collection behind, the two agents followed their host into a small, book-filled study. Potted plants, some of them reaching to the ceiling, brought a touch of tropical rain forest into the city. They had been well looked after. Two tall, narrow windows looked out onto the street. Queer sculptures and eccentric whatnots lay scattered about the dark mahogany shelves as if consulting the books neatly cataloged there. It was a reassuring contrast with the painted threats of the room they had just left.
“Not your usual hobby,” Hayes told Rumford, making conversation.
br /> “It does demand a certain devotion.” Settling himself into a comfortable office chair, their host confronted an enormous LCD monitor. Not one, but several computers were arrayed against the wall beside the Spartan desk. It was more of a workbench, actually, Hayes thought. There were two other monitors, both presently displaying wallpaper that could only be described as eclectic, a tangle of cables, and a host of winking, humming ancillary electronics.
“As I said, it’s a hobby, not my business. I don’t have a business, really. My grandfather left me a trust, you see. I live comfortably, but not to excess. I would rather do good deeds with my money than live to excess.”
“Righteous of you.” Spitzer lumbered forward until he was standing behind the seated Rumford’s left shoulder. Hayes took the right side. “Have you been able to find anything on our insistent and avaricious friend Wilbur, with the information we provided to you last night?”
“Oh, I caught up with him this morning. About an hour ago. We’ve been chatting.” He indicated the miniature video camera sitting atop one of the nearby server boxes. “Not face-to-face. He’s adamant, not stupid.” Rumford chuckled as he did things to the ergonomic keyboard in front of him. Screens flashed and on went the huge monitor, the images large enough for both agents to scrutinize without straining. “He has no objection to talking. He just wants his ten million dollars.”
“We can’t give it to him. No government agency would approve it.” Spitzer wanted to ask what several enigmatic metal boxes connected to the main server were for, but decided he could inquire later. All of them were black instead of the usual bland ivory-white. One appeared badly scarred and scorched, as if by fire.
“I suspected as much, but I hardly have the authority to tell him that. After all,” Rumford added modestly, “I’m only helping you gentlemen out. I have no real clout here at all.” Though naturally soft, his voice could take on a certain firmness when he wished it to. “I might mention that he’s already threatened me.”
Hayes looked alarmed. “Threatened you? But he doesn’t know where you live—does he?” Glancing back through the front room, he eyed the front door uneasily.
“I seriously doubt it. I know how to cover my ass online. And I don’t know where he is, either. Not physically. We only know where the other person is on the Net. Still,” he added as he tapped a fistful of keys, “there are a few things we can try. Ah!” He indicated the screen. “Say hello, gentlemen.”
The image on the monitor was a mass of writhing tentacles, bulging cephalopodan eyeballs, and slavering ichorous maws. Well-done for an applet, Hayes decided, but not especially well-animated. Words began to appear beneath the image.
When do I get my money…?
Rumford glanced expectantly at his visitors. “What do you want me to tell him?”
Spitzer and Hayes exchanged a glance. Coming up on the train the previous night, they had already rehearsed a number of possible scenarios. Two-way audio would have made things easier, Hayes knew, just as he knew that unless he was dumber than he seemed, their quarry would not risk committing even a disguised voice to storage that could be studied later. Speech patterns were too easily divined and applied to future suspects.
“Tell him it’s in the works. He’ll have his money before ten tonight, well ahead of his deadline. Provided we can assure ourselves of his sincerity and that his threat is real.”
Rumford typed in the response. Moments later a reply was forthcoming.
Actually, I’m surprised. The government usually isn’t this sensible. Of course, this may be a stall on your part, but I don’t care. You can’t find me, certainly not by tonight, if at all. As for further proof of the seriousness of my intentions, turn on CNN and keep watching.
Spitzer shrugged. A somber-faced Rumford directed them back to the living room and to the TV sequestered there. The big agent switched it on, found the requisite cable channel, and returned to the study. Two hours slipped by before the National Aquarium in Baltimore, an exceptionally sturdy and well-designed building, collapsed into the harbor amid much screaming and panic and death by drowning. Collapsed—or was pulled.
An ashen-faced Hayes relayed a response via their host.
“Enough! We get your point.”
Back came the reply.
I thought you would. There are quite a few passages in the Necronomicon dealing with a certain Cthulhu, his minions, and other really unpleasant ocean dwellers. Next time, I thought I might try to call up the servants of Ithaqua. The East Coast hasn’t had a really serious blow in five years.
“You’ve done enough,” Spitzer had Rumford type back. “Give us till ten.”
You’d better come through. This stuff is almost too easy. Those Columbine guys could’ve blown away their whole state with it. Imagine al-Qaeda’s people scrolling through the file, or some of those murderous tribal types in Central Africa.
At the end of the message, the onscreen cursor winked patiently back at the three men, awaiting commands.
Spitzer and Hayes caucused. “There’s no way the Bureau is going to cough up ten million for this weirdo on our say-so alone. No way.” Despite the fact that it was very comfortable in the study, sweat was beading on Hayes’s forehead. “We’ve got to find a way to get to him before he starts posting.”
“We don’t even know if he’s in this country,” Spitzer reminded his partner somberly. “He could have come in just to pay his visit to the library.”
“I know, I know!”
“I said there were one or two things I could try.” In the room, with the sun beginning to set outside, only their host remained relatively composed. “I can’t go ahead—I won’t go ahead—without your authorization, though.”
Turning, Hayes frowned down at their host. “Why not?”
Rumford’s expression did not change. “There could be ancillary consequences that I can’t predict.”
“What, online? Go ahead. If there’s something you can try, try it.”
Rumford was very precise. “Then I have your authorization?”
“Sure, go ahead,” Spitzer told him. “If a router goes down somewhere or you crash an ISP, we’ll take responsibility. We have to try something. Maybe you can find out where this guy is. If you can do that, and if it’s on this continent, we can have people there within the hour. Overseas, within a day.”
Their host nodded. “That’s not really what I intend to try, but I’ll keep it in mind.” Swiveling in his seat, he turned back to his monitor.
It took less than thirty minutes. There was no shout of triumph from their host. He clearly wasn’t the type. But there was quiet satisfaction in his voice. “Got him.”
Both agents were more than a little impressed. “That’s impossible,” Hayes insisted tersely. “Our technical people at the Bureau have been working on this since yesterday, and all through the night, and we haven’t been beeped. Which means they couldn’t locate squat.” He eyed their stocky, intense host closely. “How come you could do it?”
Beady blue eyes flicked in the agent’s direction. “I’ve been dealing with individuals of this type for some time. Let’s just say I have access to a search engine or two even your people don’t know about.” He smiled thinly. “The Net’s a big place, you know.”
Spitzer loomed over both of them. “It doesn’t matter. Where is he? Physically, I mean.” He already had his phone in his hand, ready to transmit the vital information back to Virginia.
“Let me try something first.” Without waiting for a response, Rumford returned to his typing. “If he thinks you’re on to him, he can still post a lot of dangerous material before your people can restrain him physically.” Both agents read over their host’s shoulder.
Wilbur: Do not post the Necronomicon or any part of it online. By doing so you’re making it available to children and to people unaware of what they are dealing with. The Necronomicon is not a video game.
The response was immediate.
Don’t lecture me, Rumford. I kn
ow all about the Necronomicon and I know what I’m doing. I want my ten million! Tell the Bureau people that.
“He doesn’t know you’re here,” their host murmured. “Probably thinks I have and am on a phone connection to you.” He typed.
If you persist in going ahead with this, steps will have to be taken.
The reply was prompt.
I’m not afraid of the government. I know how fast they don’t move. By the time they find out where I buy my groceries, I can post the entire contents of The Book. They’d better not try anything. Tell them that.
Rumford didn’t have to. Hayes could see it for himself.
Their host looked up at the agent. His expression was set. “Hand me that box of flash drives, will you?” He pointed. “The one in the open cabinet, over there.”
Hayes fetched the indicated container. For a box full of flash drives, it seemed excessive. Solid steel, with a tiny combination lock. Returning, he tripped on a roll in the throw rug and nearly fell. Their host’s reaction was instructive.
“For God’s sake, don’t drop that!” Rumford’s round pink face had turned white.
Hayes frowned at the metal box, infinitely sturdier than the usual plastic container. “Flash drives can handle shock. What’s the problem?”
“Just don’t drop it.” Carefully taking the container from the bemused agent, their host opened it slowly. Spitzer was surprised to see that it contained only one silvery KeyDrive. Mumbling something under his breath, Rumford slipped this into the appropriate socket on his main machine. The drive did not, Hayes observed, automatically identify itself.
A couple of clicks and a macro or two later, and the monitor filled with a jumble of symbols and words that were unintelligible to the two agents. Working with grim-faced determination, their host began to use his mouse to methodically highlight specific sections. These were then cut and copied to another page, where he proceeded to carefully position them over an intricate template of symbols. After some twenty minutes of this, he sat back and double-clicked. Immediately the monitor began to pulse with a rich red glow.