Cyber Genius (6 page)

Tudor rubbed the bridge of his nose but nodded to show he
was processing what I was telling him.

“You can work with Graham to analyze the extent of the damages,”
I continued, “but more importantly, the two of you can start searching the
affected computers for signs of intruders.” I didn’t want to give away Graham’s
secrets, so I had to be deliberately vague. “It’s just a matter of time until
he finds your program tramping around in files, so you might as well help him.”

“Work
with
him?”
Tudor’s eyebrows soared, as did Nick’s and EG’s.

“His suggestion,” I said triumphantly. “He needs our help
anyway.”

I had them there. Their curiosity about our spy in the attic
would tilt their nosiness-meters into red alert territory. The rest of the
evening was spent answering questions and debating possibilities,
probabilities, and other futilities.

By the time we finished our meal—I’d gone for the chunky
minestrone and Nick, the lobster salad—we’d all agreed that Tudor had to give
up his secret and work with Graham. Nick insisted on walking us home. D.C.
streets after dark aren’t the safest place, but I was as adept at beating off
thugs as Nick. Still, it was good to have adult company. Not until I thought
that did I realize I was back to mothering my younger siblings again.

It had taken me years to escape my doormat role in my
mother’s life, but this time, I’d done it to myself.

Strangely, I was good with that.

On the way home, I instructed Tudor to stay off our computer
network and lay low with all his friends. He assured me he’d be discreet. But
he was sixteen. That wasn’t much better than telling EG to cut out her tongue.

I didn’t have the stamina to tackle Graham in his lair once
we got home. I sent Nick off and the kids to bed and ran down to my office
comfort zone.

I texted Graham that Tudor had info on the MacroWare breech,
but I couldn’t reveal it until Graham allowed me to tell Tudor what he knew
about Stephen Stiles and the poisoned execs. I shut down my phone before he
could respond.

Let him stew in his own juices a while longer. I didn’t
intend to forgive him for trying to trade what was rightfully ours for his own
benefit. That placed him way below an alligator’s belly in my book.

I returned my Whiz to working order. From the volume of mail
and documents that instantly downloaded, I knew he was still up there in his
attic.

The top story he dumped on me—the three surviving MacroWare
execs were being treated for botulism and the cops were parked at their
hospital doors.

***

Ana’s Saturday morning

I tried not to read newspapers if I could avoid it. I had good
friends and acquaintances in half the places that were currently being bombed.
I didn’t want to imagine the bakery where they made my favorite
kulche
reduced to rubble or envision the
sweet little cottage in Kenya burned to ashes.

National news wasn’t any happier. I hated thinking that the
American public was too stupid or ignorant to see through political greed
agendas. Loosening Wall Street and banking regulations would improve the
economy, really? Whose economy, theirs or mine? I was thinking if politicians
had to operate on
my
economy, loosening
mortgage regulations would be the last thing they’d be concerned about.

But having a landlord involved in the latest headline scandal
forced me to read the miserable front page on Saturday morning.
Stiles Murdered?
was the least of it. After
that, objectivity went all to heck.

I set my cell phone on the breakfast table as I consumed my
fresh-squeezed orange juice and eggs benedict. Tudor was still sleeping—or
hiding in his room. EG was reading her school tablet computer. She’d probably
had Tudor spend the night installing prohibited internet access. I’d check
later.

Right now, I waited to see which of our family journalists
annoyed me by calling first for the story behind the story.

On the dot of seven-thirty—sister Patra won the prize. It was
a weekend. She should be sleeping in. I let my phone buzz and indulged in a cup
of hot tea. The house phone rang. Somewhere in the bowels of the Victorian,
Mallard answered it.

He’d given up hunting us down for phone calls months ago. He
texted me now that Patra was trying to reach me. I hit “k” so he’d know I’d
seen his message.

The next call was from Sean O’Herlihy. He was a real
journalist, not a Patra newbie. But he and Patra had connected
professionally—and personally—so I wasn’t feeding him information yet either. I
let it go to voice mail.

By this time, EG was casting curious glances my way. I
really hadn’t reached anywhere close to my most maddening behavior yet. A few
weeks ago I’d smashed an entire street full of news vehicles when talking heads
had gone out of bounds. I was hoping that had taught the media to be a little
more discreet this time. That it was only Patra and Sean calling —people who
knew us—meant word on the street hadn’t touched on Graham.
Yet
. The rest of the world didn’t know Graham the way Patra and
Sean did.

But if I fed any information to Patra and Sean, the media
would be back on our doorstep in minutes. Graham was worse than me. He would
most likely stealth bomb the street. By allowing us into his hermitage, Graham
had opened himself up to invasion.

I knew what it was like to have my privacy invaded. I
wouldn’t force that violation on a man who—despite his rudeness—had helped my
family when they needed it. But this time,
he
had disturbed the hornets.

Messages would be flooding my email box by now, I
calculated. Graham could see everything in the computer he’d provided for me.
He would recognize Patra and Sean’s addresses. I debated turning on my phone’s
irritating ring and sitting it next to the candelabra in the center of the
table where his intercom would pick it up, but in sympathy for his predicament,
I figured I’d start out polite and crank the amps later.

EG finished her breakfast and sat playing with her tablet,
waiting expectantly.

Finally, the candelabra shouted, “Ana, get your ass up here
now!”

“How many million are you paying me for working on
Saturdays?” I asked innocently.

Once upon a time, he’d threatened to heave us out of the
house if I didn’t toe his line. Revenge was sweet, and turnabout, fair play.

How Ana’s Saturday develops

The candelabra’s curses shut off abruptly. Once upon a
time, I’d shoved the nosy silver into the sideboard. Now, I simply enjoyed my
morning tea.

Let it be known here and now that I may be an introvert who
prefers my own company, but I am
not
shy. I am well aware of my worth, I’m assertive, and unfortunately, I possess
my Irish terrorist father’s temper.

I do not take well to being shouted at in foul language over
the breakfast table.

I leisurely finished my tea while waiting for Graham to
digest my rebellion. He’d had the upper hand for too long. Role reversal
soothed my angry beast.

“Does this mean we can go to the Smithsonian today?” EG
asked deviously.

My little sister knew the candelabra was listening as well
as I did.

“I have other clients who need my time,” I said airily.
Although, in reality, I’d been cutting back my client list. Family and Graham’s
demands took a substantial chunk of my once carefree workaholic’s hours. “Maybe
tomorrow.”

I imagined Graham writhing in wrath at the possibility of my
taking two whole days off from addressing his concerns. The man seriously
needed an attitude adjustment.

“Does this mean you’re not taking me up on my offer?” the silver
candelabra asked in a menacing tone.

“It means I consider your offer of payment
insulting
. I expect the banking
information you’re withholding to be downloaded immediately in a gesture of
respect, at which point you may ask me politely to visit your office when it’s
convenient for me.” I kept my voice neutral. My father’s fiery oratory had got
him killed. Mine could still get us booted from paradise. I’d learned caution—but
sometimes offense is better than defense.

“Ana...” Graham said in a deep voice that could be
dangerously seductive, or just plain dangerous.

I opened my phone’s mailbox app and watched a large file
from his office hit the screen. It was too large to open on my phone, but I was
wagering Graham wasn’t playing games when his cojones were on the chopping
block. That should be his file on my grandfather’s Swiss accounts.

“Nice,” I said, sticking the phone in my pocket. “If you
have a few minutes to spare, I’ll be up in ten. Clear your cat out.”

The silver remained blessedly silent. One could hope I’d
taught the devil a lesson in respect.

No one had defied Graham quite so blatantly in these last
months of walking on eggshells. EG stared at me in awe for good reason. “I’ll
go finish my homework now. Should I wake Tudor?”

Since I was currently Ruler of the World, and Tudor was part
of my evil plot, I nodded. “Good idea. Tell him to eat quickly before the
silver turns mean.”

Graham used to have a sense of humor, but I heard no
sarcastic chuckle now. I could see where he might be a bit off his feed with a
murder rap on his horizon. So I politely ran down to my office and checked his
folder to be certain that bank receipt with all the zeroes was in it. I didn’t
have time to salivate over all the possibilities of recovering my grandfather’s
wealth. I had to beard the lion in his den.

I took my time using the main stairs since EG and Tudor were
expecting to see me. They didn’t need to know about the secret passage. Passing
by them on the second floor landing, I could see that Tudor looked unkempt and
tired. I waved and continued up to Graham’s level.

Graham probably looked worse than Tudor, but with no window
and no lights, it was hard to tell. Judging by his silhouette against the light
of a dozen monitors, his hair seemed rumpled. He impatiently shoved aside a
thick hank falling into his face. I was pretty certain those were the same
jeans and long-sleeved shirt he’d worn yesterday. The sophisticated, tuxedoed,
diamond-cufflink man who vividly haunted my memory was visible only in his supple
movement as he adjusted various monitors for my perusal.

I sneezed. He opened a drawer and handed me an
antihistamine. Rolling my eyes, I choked it down dry.

“Here is the list of the dinner’s attendees.” He scrolled
down a list of hundreds on the first screen. “Here are photographs and films
taken during the meal.” Images of linen-covered hotel tables with a variety of
nerds trying to look professional flipped silently on another screen. “We need
to verify faces against names.”

“That will only take a hundred years.” I boldly reached over
his shoulder and zoomed in on the head table with Stiles and cohorts. “Who
served the Last Supper?” I asked irreverently. The image on the screen showed
utensils untouched and napkins still folded.

He snorted and started flashing through images. “Not Judas.”

Instead of showing me the servers, as I’d requested, he
zoomed in on Stiles, then went around the table, naming the occupants.

“Henry Bates,” Graham said, identifying the other dead man.
Henry wore black-framed nerd glasses like Tudor’s, but his starched collar and
glossy tie were meticulous and probably expensive. “Stiles’ right hand man. Bates
helped Stiles develop MacroWare’s programs. He was the best candidate for
gathering a team to repair any security breaches.”

“If Bates was a programmer, he knew who had the chops to add
spyware, if that’s what we’re dealing with,” I added. “A good reason to want
him dead.”

Graham nodded reluctant agreement. He moved the screen to a
youngish man with a full head of blond hair and an ad exec’s smile. “Adam
Herkness, VP of Public Relations. He would know nothing about security, but a
breach in the new system would be a PR nightmare.”

The monitor changed to focus on a short, rotund, balding
man. “Bob Stark, VP of Finance.” The fifth and last man was a middle-aged Latino
with a mustache. “Enrique Gomez, VP of Security.”

“Any good reason they’d tell a financial guy about any
security breach?” I asked as Graham opened more video images and zoomed up on
the executive table at the front of the room.

“Bob Stark helped fund Stiles when they started out. They
were friends. And reports of a breach could be disastrous to stock prices and
the bottom line. He had to be prepared for a shit storm.”

I didn’t often respect rich people—money creates illusions
of superiority and I’d been around too many wealthy tyrants growing up—but I
could respect friendship and honesty. “So we have five people here who feared
the new software had a problem and weren’t worried enough not to feed their
faces. Doesn’t sound as if the breach was big enough to murder for.”

The last murder case I got stuck investigating had
snowballed—or fireballed—into murder and mayhem endangering my family and
friends. I was not eager to get involved in anything similar.

But Graham had helped us. In no universe could I reject his
request for aid now. The problem was obviously larger than the local police
department, who had no good reason to call in the feds, yet. The local cops
didn’t know about the hole in the State Department website firewall. They
probably didn’t even know about the beta program.

Graham opened a screen showing my bulging mailbox. “I’ve
sent you all the material I uncovered last night. As far as I’ve been able to
ascertain, even if the flaw is only in the few distributed to government
testers, it has the potential of breaching national security on every level
from the NSA to the laptops of Senate committees. If the flaw is in every
program...” He didn’t have to explain. The nightmare was universe-size.