Nine-Tenths (12 page)

“I don’t care who you are. Union rules. Take a break.”

“I don’t belong to the union.”

She guffawed. “Good one, sir.” Then her tone softened and she seemed bent on a new mission — to get him to comply without a fuss. “Please, just read a book or something for fifteen minutes.”

Leonard folded his arms. “Whatever.”

“Thank you.” She turned abruptly and walked away, looking at her watch.

Suddenly, dozens of employees whispered and moved away from their cubicles in twos and threes.

McGinnis stopped by Leonard’s desk. “That was entertaining,” he said, chuckling.

Leonard merely glared at him.

“I’ll get you a cup of coffee,” McGinnis mumbled as he walked away.

Leonard sighed. The glowing monitor beseeched him.
What the hell am I going to do with fifteen minutes?

He put his briefcase on the counter and retrieved the science magazine, one of the few items in his sparsely stocked attaché. He flipped through the periodical with as much dramatic flair as he could muster. When his tantrum proved unsatisfying, Leonard examined the cover.
January? My God, how many times have I read this thing?
He settled on a theory that the magazine was a prop, a crutch Leonard leaned upon during mandated breaks. After all, they disrupted the creative process and he could think of nothing more annoying in a work environment.

Flipping the pages back and forth, Leonard’s mind drifted to the WLN room. The purpose of his satellites was to expand upon their efforts. He shivered, feeling more anxious than he had all day. But the anxiety melted into intrigue when he caught sight of a note in fine print at the bottom of one of the articles.

Alt JK.

Squinting, he inspected the note. Neat block letters in very fine print, clearly in his own handwriting. Leonard glanced around. The coffee break enforcer was nowhere to be seen. Stealthily, Leonard depressed Alt JK, but nothing happened. Not yet discouraged, he scrutinized each page, making notes on a legal tablet he found under a circuit board.

A series of keyboard commands, seven in all, appeared at the bottom of random pages. Leonard sat back and nodded appreciatively.

You son of a bitch. This is exactly the kind of thing you’d pull off.

He waited impatiently. McGinnis came and went with the coffee. Leonard took a tentative sip and grimaced. Cold and bitter. Staring at the ceiling, he inched his chair around the small space, his mind racing.

After what seemed like hours, the dowdy woman finally hollered, “End of break.”

Leonard zoomed his chair across the cubicle and grabbed his keyboard. He tried the series of commands. Nothing. Not to be deterred, he entered them in reverse order. The computer hummed and eventually brought up a white screen with a list of programs and a PDF.

Bingo.

Leonard opened the PDF first. It appeared to be a map of the base. He tabbed through the floors until he found the Stasi Satellite Project in the basement of his building. Looking closer, Leonard realized it was a map of computers. He hit zoom. Initials identified each square. LMT marked the computer in the corner. SAL, probably Sandy Little, somewhere in the middle. TPM, Thomas McGinnis. Leonard clicked on TPM and a blue page popped up, showing McGinnis’ full name, building, floor, and cubicle number. Leonard’s heart soared when he decoded the last piece of information. Some kind of internal ip address. If he could hack into the server that fed this bank of computers, he could theoretically log into whatever computer he chose. Theoretically.

Leonard glanced around, smiling with glee. No one appeared to notice his atypical state of giddiness.

Next, he examined the programs. Stifling a laugh, he covered his mouth. He recognized the programs. He wrote them when he attended college — an encryption program, a rudimentary password cracker, and a little jewel he codenamed
The Mole.
The Mole
allowed the user to remotely access computers within a network, so long as the user knew the internal ip address. He struck gold. No need to hack into the server.
The Mole
already knew how. No need to worry about internal firewalls.
The Mole
would blow right through them.

Seconds later, Leonard’s heart sank. Remote access required the fellow employee’s absence. He could not take control of someone’s computer while they were sitting at their desk. And given the strict adherence to breaks and clock-in, clock-out times at the facility, Leonard doubted an optimal moment would occur. No laptop, no Internet. It would be impossible…unless, perhaps, he sent someone away from their computer on an errand. He pursed his lips contemplating the idea.

Or, by chance, someone went home early. Sandy Little.
His heart quickened.
Even better. Mark Dickens.

Leonard looked up Dickens’ ip address, activated
The Mole,
and hit escape.

A minute later, he was staring at Mark Dickens’ default login screen. Leonard operated like a ghost floating in the observation room of the WLN. No one in the bank of drones would notice activity on Dickens’ computer, a device safely tucked away in the corner. The only danger now would be the unexpected reappearance of Dickens himself. But Leonard felt more than confident as his fingers flew over the keyboard.

Username, dickensms. Password, linda0106.

And he was in. The familiar pale purple screen of the Watcher Listening Network glowed eerily, irritating his eyes. He blinked several times in a vain effort to alleviate the dryness.

Leonard glanced around nervously. He’d hacked into plenty of sites in his lifetime, but not with dozens of high security employees a stone’s throw away. The adrenaline rush produced a mild mania. Leonard swiftly typed his name in the search fields, his fingers quivering in anticipation.

He winced as an unflattering photo popped up. The notes were not unlike those in McGinnis’ file. All from three years ago, spanning a month, the dull comments about Leonard’s monotonous daily activities made him wish he were more of a rebel.

The conclusion on his record was near identical to McGinnis’.
No unusual activity. Suspect is apolitical. Lives in pre-DHR neighborhood with wife and two kids. Set start date for December 1st.

No background checks in three and a half years? Come on guys, you’re slacking.

Leonard backed out of his record and selected Alina Tramer. Reeling, he inspected her notes. Filling numerous pages, Alina’s notes put Leonard to shame.

Alina Marsh-Tramer. Medical doctor and spouse of high-level security project leader, Leonard Tramer,
the subject line read.

Examining the dates, Leonard realized that Alina’s notes began around the same date as his background check. Daily activities included the usual. On a regular basis, Alina drove to the bus, entered the hospital, went to the grocery store, and carried out routine chores. Frequently, Alina stopped by the library. Library visits were emphasized in bold print. She went several times a week throughout January and February — just after Leonard started working for the DID. Then the comments ceased abruptly and picked up again seven months later.

Subject decoded the DOH project. Authorities quickly brought the situation under control using the daughter, Natalia. Monitor for six weeks.

Using the daughter, Natalia.
The words sent a chill up Leonard’s spine. “What the hell does that mean?” he whispered.

The following six weeks of notes relayed nothing significant, and the conclusion of the mysterious
using the daughter
period confidently stated that
the subject seems depressed but not a threat to security. Sufficiently motivated by warning.

The most recent set of notes began with
volunteer informant made a report, but no concrete evidence confirmed.
Another series of monotonous daily activities followed. The last remark acknowledged that
the informant is a relative of the subject, so testimony is in conflict of interest. The library has a thoroughly controlled Internet facility. No evidence of hacking or foul play. In addition, high-level security project leader rarely speaks with her. It is a non-issue. Close the ticket.
The notes stopped abruptly approximately five weeks prior to the current date. The file appeared to be, for the time being, put to rest.

Informant is a relative of the subject…

Oh God, is it me?

Leonard sat back and looked at the ceiling, wrestling with guilt. Then he remembered Carlyle grilling him about Alina only hours before.
If I already turned her in, the commander wouldn’t approach the subject so delicately.

High-level security project leader rarely speaks with her.

That’s definitely me.
He shuddered and the guilt consumed him once again.

Leaning back in his chair, Leonard realized that something else bothered him. The WLN had their thumb on Alina ever since he started working for the DID.
They’re watching her instead of me.
Had he flown so successfully below the radar that no one considered him a security risk? Carlyle treated him like a buddy. Was it possible that he wasn’t a freedom fighter after all?

The clatter of DID employees shuffling papers and opening and closing their briefcases yanked Leonard out of his unpleasant thoughts and into the present. He checked his watch. 4:50 p.m. Presuming they would be dismissed promptly at 5:00 p.m., he groaned in frustration. More time. All he wanted, more than anything else at that moment, was more time. He backed out of Alina’s record and moved his mouse to the logout button. The mouse passed over the
System
link and froze. Leonard glanced around furtively before selecting the link.

Location.

WLN02,
he typed, although he realized that if the WLN system was set up like the SSP system, the zero-two section ought to have less information than the zero-one section. Nonetheless, it was worth a peek and he did not wish to waste his last ten minutes.

A charcoal gray screen popped up. Less information? Far less information. A chill crawled up Leonard’s spine and slithered across his scalp. What little information appeared on the charcoal gray, WLN02 screen terrified him. In the center, three fields awaited a new request -
Last Name, First Name, Tracking Number.
But it was an ominous button that sent chills up Leonard’s spine — a large, red button marked
TRACK.

For a moment, Leonard’s breath caught in his throat. He looked at his watch. 4:55 p.m. His fingers clanked out
Tramer, Leonard
with no hesitation, but his hand trembled as the cursor hovered over the red button. He held his breath and selected
TRACK.

A satellite map, superimposed with street labels, showed a sparse area to the east of Denver. A little red dot blinked in the center of the screen. Leonard zoomed, trying to distinguish the satellite images surrounding the dot. As he zoomed closer, his heart raced and a jolt of panic-driven adrenaline filled his body. He recognized the outline of the objects on the screen. The red dot pulsated in the southeastern building of the DID complex.

“Pack up, man. What’re you doing?” a familiar voice asked. “You’re going to hold up the shuttle.”

Leonard backed out of the tracking program as quickly as possible. “I’m just looking at Sandy’s maps.” He forced his preoccupied brain to focus on McGinnis. “She does good work,” he added feigning a relaxed, end-of-day mood.

“I’ll bet she does good work,” McGinnis said with a sly grin. A second later, he resumed his customary needling, impatient tone. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”

Leonard reached for his briefcase and withdrew his hand quickly. He glared at the attaché.
Where is the transmitter?
Suddenly, his watch felt oppressive, squeezing the life out of his wrist. He imagined himself ripping it off and throwing it across the room. He patted down his clothing anxiously as if an army of ants were crawling on his skin.

“What’s wrong with you? Come on.”

Leonard packed up hastily and rushed from the cubicle. Glancing back over his shoulder, he wondered what he would see if the WLN02 screen was still running. Would it follow the departure of a pulsating red dot as it moved away from the southeastern building of the DID complex and west toward the city, eventually coming to a rest in Leonard’s living room?

The elevator lurched upward, causing Leonard to lose his balance. He crashed against the back wall. Buckling over, not so much from the pain but from an acute wave of nausea, Leonard tried to slow his breathing. His keen insight answered what had already become a frivolous question.

It would.

Chapter Ten

Still reeling, Leonard nearly missed his bus at the transfer station. When he met up with Alina at the park and ride, he found her particularly quiet and despondent.

“We’ll talk later,” she said, and she remained silent for the duration of the drive. Something had distressed her and Leonard figured he would hear nothing of it until she arranged a few couch cushions and a blaring television later that evening. Taking her cue, he resolved to share his unsettling news during the TV hour as well.

When they arrived home, Leonard was far too disturbed to relax. He removed his watch the moment they stepped inside and threw it on the table by the door. Then he shoved his briefcase into the back of the closet and rushed to put distance between himself and the entryway.

Alina immediately occupied herself clattering dishes in the kitchen. Although Leonard presumed she would appreciate some help, he could not rein in his apprehension long enough to dawdle in domestic chores.

Natalia set the table methodically and with little pleasure. When she finished, she asked her mother, “May I take a quick walk before dinner?”

Alina did not respond.

“Mom?”

As if in a drug-induced fog, Alina laboriously pulled herself away from the stove and focused on her daughter. “What?”