Borderless Deceit (14 page)

If all this was true, what spot between Andorra and the Aral Sea had housed the antenna from which the two halves of the eventual plague were launched?

It took a while to instruct the laptop to calculate the area containing all the mathematically possible sending sites that accorded with the 50-second interval between one Audile moving out of range and the next one coming in. Once this data was crunched, I mapped them as dots of light. Concentrated as they were in one place on my screen they seemed to wink at me, as if each dot was proud to be part of a patch of perverse enlightenment. I asked for a times fifty magnification of the area and found myself studying towns and villages with unknown names, and lines on a map that showed ancient winding paths. There were serpentine rivers too, plus an impressive mountain range.

Eastern Transylvania.

Was this believable? Who there could have had the competence and the desire to annihilate the Service? What could have been the motivation? Mulling this over, I switched to a map of all Romania. I looked at the capital, Bucharest, a nasty Stalinist place for many wasted years. Then a mental switch was thrown, giving me a sudden shock as Rachel jumped into my thoughts. She was living there, had been for nearly a year, ever since her appointment as ambassador. It was from Bucharest, through Vienna, that Rachel was making her periodic weekend visits to the El-Salamlek Palace in Alexandria. As I weighed what this could mean, an apprehension grew. I began wishing the map on my computer screen was of some other location, an isolated outpost in the African veld, or some remote island far away in the Pacific. Anywhere but Romania. Transylvania was part of Rachel's territory. An investigation into the virus would widen once its origin was known. Checks on embassy staff would be done. Everything imaginable
would get probed. What I knew about Rachel's private life others could find out; conspiracy theories would get spun; there would be no end to the sordid accusations she would have to face.

I stared at the map and recalled the day Rachel Dunn from Oak Lake, Manitoba, not yet thirty-five, was named ambassador to Romania. News of the appointment, along with a photo, was carried by the papers. There was no mention of her age and the picture they used made her look older. It was a bland snapshot, really, of the kind reserved for routine announcements. She appeared distant, even cold, as if she was off to take charge of something truly bloodless, a global mining conglomerate perhaps. Yet, the cheerless photo had the opposite effect on me – because it was so obviously not her. Everyone looking at the photo was seeing an unreal version of Rachel, a badly manufactured effigy. The real Rachel – cordial, convivial, genial, she of that playful, knowing look which long ago took up permanent residence in my heart – was not available to others, at least, not through the papers. I recall thinking how favoured I was, one of the few to have insight into who she truly was. Strange how that lifeless photo had made me feel on top.

Though I did wonder why her coldness. It's true that in the months leading up to the Bucharest appointment a change came over Rachel. Anne-Marie noticed it first. Anne-Marie, back at work full-time because her fourth child was off to school, had renewed our monthly sandwich sessions in the cafeteria. Mostly we talked about her children, but occasionally I would ask for news of Rachel, and so I learned that some months before arriving in Bucharest, Rachel's habit of sending regular postcards had flagged. Her last few scribbles, Anne-Marie told me, had been positively flat.

A listlessness in Rachel's countenance and a lethargy in her writing. Why was that? As far as I could tell it set in before she started travelling to Alexandria, so it seemed the Egyptian wasn't the cause. I did wonder, though, when I saw the ambassadorial announcement, whether Rachel's cold expression and the regularity of her trips to Egypt sprang from the same source.

Who could have predicted, when Rachel moved to Bucharest, or when the plague struck, or even when in my mind the two events became linked – before the struggle with Jaime began and Zadokite
Port flashed on my screen – that I would soon be monitoring Rachel's final world-weary excursion to Alexandria, that she would soon check into that sumptuous hotel for the last time? Because not long after that fateful trip, once back in Bucharest, Rachel disappeared from Romania. In fact she vanished from the face of the earth.

But that lay in the future, while in the present I was thinking through what I should do about what I had just found out. The plague, the Audiles, Transylvania, Rachel's embassy in Romania – how could I ensure she wouldn't get dragged into the mess? How could I prevent her downfall? Should I pretend I hadn't found much, push buttons to destroy that day's search path, and let the virus remain what it still was: a spontaneous creative act courtesy of God, one that took place not in a virgin's womb, but in our pipeline? If the American ambassador reported this back to Claire Desmarais, everyone, including Rachel and even Heywood, would be off the hook. But this option, I knew, would no longer work. I had uncorked a genie. Information gathered in the vault is not suppressible. What gets dug out remains that way. Someone would notice what I had found and ask why I hadn't honoured my undertaking to Hugh-S to report back. I had no choice but to continue according to the set routine. And so, despite deep anxiety about the consequences for Rachel, I assembled my morning's work into a digital file. Yet, as I was capturing the data I had viewed, labelling the package top secret and encrypting it to the highest level before despatching it to Hugh-S, I began thinking of next steps. If I dug deeper into the source of the plague to identify who orchestrated it, that knowledge could open up the possibility for developing a plausible, alternative explanation. I might be able to move the scene – all that had happened – out of Romania and away from Rachel. I could create a perfect cover-up.

Minutes later, convinced it was worth a try, I called Hugh-S to tell him only what I had found, not what I might soon ask him to hide.

“The western slopes of the Carpathian Mountains?” he said with disbelief.

“I'm convinced of it.”

“Cahsun, you sure you're not stretchin' it?”

But he didn't argue the Audiles evidence for long. “I don't know,” he sighed. “The stuff you come up with, never breaking a sweat. If I
didn't know better I'd say you're plugged into some kind of inner circle with God, or Satan, or both, all of you holding hands.”

We talked a while about that poor and backward part of Europe. Antennae set-up there shouldn't be difficult to spot. Hugh-S undertook to review satellite photographic data for Transylvania – every square metre would be checked off – whereas I proposed to concentrate on finding the mind that had programmed the virus and positioned the antennae. Satellite antennae sending up data in huge chunks leave big commercial tracks.

“Okay, suppose you get him,” Hugh-S said, “what'll we have? Some teenage sharpie, I suppose, thinkin' all this is funny. You want me to liquidate some poor kid?”

I doubted the profile would be of a type that destroys for amusement. The Transylvanian was technically good at data transmission and reception and an outstanding programmer. But above all, he was a stunning hacker, maybe the world's best. Covert entry into Hugh-S's vault? It would be impossible without an unheard of level of genius. “If I find him,” I advised Hugh-S, “you might want to soft-glove him. I doubt we're looking for a teenage sharpie. He's more likely a type that with a little reorientation could make a durable contribution to your operation.”

A pause. “What are you sayin', Cahsun?”

“Look at his tactics. He doesn't want his virus arriving in any obvious way, through one portal, or one Audile, so he picks two. To make that work his timing has to be impeccable, requiring precise information on Audiles orbits. Where is that data? In the vault. So…?”

Silence up and down the phone line.

“There's more,” I continued. “Part of his attack plan was to lie low…in the vault…for some minutes so the virus could assemble. What I'm saying is that he figured how to get in, move around, use available information, and get out. Did anybody pick that up? I see it as sort of on par with that squadron of undercover KGB file clerks which, unbeknownst to you, worked for a good while in your records section during the height of the Cold War.”

The silence on the other end of the scramble phone ended. “Not possible.” But Hugh-S's voice lacked its usual folksy confidence.

“Not impossible either. More worryingly, it may not be provable.
And he may not be detectable in the future either. The fact is, he hit the Audiles perfectly. I believe he was in the vault routinely, milked it, and used the data he needed. Spontaneous creation? No way. The way I see it, a genius like that…It's best to have him inside the tent. If I were you I'd hire him.”

Another pause. “I doan get it, Cahsun. Why did he have it in for yous Canucks? What made him bugger you? You're not supposed to have
any
enemies.”

“Maybe it's as simple as bearing a grudge.”

“I'd like to get this one behind me, Cahsun. Do what you can. Stay in touch.”

I put the phone down and did some electronic tidying up. A copy of the file I sent to Hugh-S was encrypted and transferred from the laptop hard drive onto a disk. I then put the computer through deep memory cleansing, removing all traces of where I had been and what had been done. After that I took stock.

I thought about the data sources needed to locate the Transylvanian. I was confident that once the right questions were formulated and the sources trawled, he would stick out like a sore thumb. But mostly I thought about ways to keep the embassy in Bucharest out of it. Speed was important. Hugh-S's people would get busy scanning photographic data from space. I believed I had a window of maybe two days to deliver the culprit. If I did that and then made some alterations, further investigations that could implicate Rachel might be headed off at the pass.

I recall being interrupted then by a gentle tapping on my door. It sounded hesitant, from someone respectful, someone reluctant to disturb me. All the same, because my line of thinking was broken, I was instantly exasperated and nearly shouted through the door to come back some other time. There was a second round of tapping. Sighing loudly, I got up and pushed my chair backwards. With too much force. It tripped over a temporary cable on the floor and banged into a flimsy table. A leg buckled. Some journals, my briefcase and a pile of disks clattered to the floor. The noise and the mess fuelled my anger. I swung the door open. In the hallway, with her head cocked to one side,
stood Heywood's acolyte. She looked up at me, obviously amused.

“What?” I demanded.

“Moving house?”

“What do you want?”

“Thought I'd introduce myself.”

“I know who you are.”

“All right. And I know who you are. Got five minutes?”

“No.”

“I'd like to compare notes.”

“I haven't any notes. None you'd be interested in.”

“Maybe I've got some you'd be interested in.”

“I don't think so.”

“The virus came in through the server you use a lot.”

This surprised me. My expectation was that Heywood's groggy technicians would need weeks to figure that out. “So,” I said, rattled by her steady, happy, goodwill look. “That ought to be old news by now.”

“Yeah. Never fails, right? The barn door stands open, but even so, everyone wants to know how the horse bolted. Speaking of old news, I'm retrieving files. Most of you down here are back at work.”

“Their gratitude will be boundless,” I said, still irritated at Arthur's childlike glee.

“And yours?”

“My files are my business.”

“You didn't lose any? Everybody else's got kayoed.”

“Then help everyone else.”

She persisted. Unperturbed, like a shrink, she asked me to explain if I had any special vibes when the virus arrived. Had I felt chilled? Had I had the willies?

“My computer went blank,” I sneered. “I heard a noise. I opened my door, stood where I'm standing now, watched people go berserk. It was forgettable. Do you mind? I've got stuff to do.” With this I slammed my door.

I stood awhile before righting the chair and fixing the table leg back in place. Heywood's young thing, Jaime From-up-North, what would she do now? Go to him? Say I wasn't co-operating? She hadn't come knocking to compare notes. I was sure of that. She threw a pile
of questions at me. But I had a few too. All right, so she figured out the plague's entry point. The decrypted back-up tapes had no doubt helped, but all the same, that was good work. What else had she looked at? The plague's destruction started at our end of the pipeline. Had she actually managed to get into the pipeline to see how it worked? Occasionally, inadvertently, I may not have cleansed the hard drive on my computer before leaving for the night. This meant that information on pipeline process and even some pipeline contents could have been backed up over time and ended up somewhere on a back-up tape. Had she found certain things that were mine? I pondered this.

Threats from Transylvania. Threats from my own backyard. What were the greatest vulnerabilities? I made a mental list of the lines of defence I urgently had to put up. Determining the origin of the Transylvanian bug so as to save Rachel was at the top. I would deal with Jaime after that. I plunged into the work, punching out instructions. On the laptop I saw a global list of portable satellite antenna manufacturers form…

I was right. Jaime went straight to Heywood. She found him in his office engrossed in penciling changes onto a report. He didn't hear her come and silently she observed his efforts from the doorway. Orthographically expressive swirls filled the margins; precise lines were being traced to places where text was to be altered; punctuation was going through a meticulous modification. The concentrated movements resembled those of a medieval, manuscript-copying monk.