Storming Heaven (37 page)

“So, it’s encrypted. We can’t read it.”

“Encrypted? You mean in code?” Beamon fell onto a chair and set his half-empty Coke can on the table next to him. “What the hell are they up to?”

“It doesn’t really mean anything,” Ernie said. “Encryption’s not that uncommon. In fact, the program they’re using is very common—it actually comes with the e-mail software when you buy it. I use the same system.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want half the people on the Internet to be able to read my letters.”

Beamon chewed at his lower lip for a moment. “I’ve got a friend at the NSA. We go pretty far back. He might still be willing to help me. I don’t know.”

Ernie adjusted her muumuu nervously. Apples and pears today. “I don’t think that would do us any good, Mark. Even with their resources it would take them years to crack the Church’s encryption code …”

“What are you telling me, Ernie? That the National Security Agency can’t crack an encryption program that I can buy at Toys “
R
” Us? They—”

Goldman stopped pacing. “Forget it. We’re talking about an encryption code that encompasses thousands of characters. Literally trillions of possible combinations. There’s no way.”

Ernie nodded her agreement and looked hopefully at Beamon. Waiting for divine inspiration to strike, no doubt. Unfortunately, he wasn’t feeling very inspired.

“Come on, Mr. Goldman,” Beamon said. “You could record a conversation between dead people.”

Goldman started his pacing again. “You get me in there and give me some time with their computer, maybe I could do something … “

Beamon let his head loll onto the back of the chair and stared at the ceiling. “You mean I almost got myself killed climbing a goddamn ice-covered tree in a blizzard and it isn’t going to do me any good?”

“Blizzard, my ass,” Goldman said. “And we got the phones.”

“Screw the phones! I doubt they use them for anything more sensitive than ordering takeout. Whatever they have to say that’s of interest to us is going to go out over that e-mail system. Shit …”

What the hell was he going to do now? Rent a tank and drive it through the front gate of Kneiss’s compound? Shit, they’d probably have a newer, faster tank with more firepower waiting for him on the other side.

“There is something we could try,” Ernie started.

“Oh, come on, woman!” Goldman said. “Don’t waste my time!” He turned to Beamon. “Vericomm’s the answer, son. That’s where we need to concentrate our resources.”

Beamon ignored him. “Go ahead, Ernie. What’re you thinking.”

“We could send the church an encryption software update.”

“Come again?”

“I used to play a game with a friend of mine—he’s a programmer, too. We’d try to break into each other’s computers. Leave messages, move files
around, that kind of thing. Well, once I had the idea of breaking the encryption to his e-mail—the same system the church is using.”

“But you said that it would take years.”

“If you took a conventional approach, it would. What I did was went out and bought a copy of the encryption software and reprogrammed it a bit.”

“Reprogrammed it?”

She nodded. “I rewrote it so that when he sent an encrypted e-mail, he sent his encryption key along with it. Then I printed a big official-looking sticker that said there was a bug in the version he had purchased that was causing computer crashes. I re-shrink- wrapped the whole thing so it would look official and then mailed it to him.”

“And it worked?”

“Uh, no.”

Beamon sighed and crushed the Coke can in his hand. “It didn’t work.”

“Uh-uh. But I know why. Like I said, Rick—my friend—is a programmer. Even though I put on the sticker that there was an encryption problem with his version, he wanted to know the details of what was wrong. He called the software company and, you know, found out that there was no glitch.”

Beamon thought about that for a moment and then turned to Goldman. “Couldn’t you set up an eight-hundred line and run it in here? We could just put that number on the label—a special help line dedicated to this little problem.”

The old man was looking more and more irritated. “I could, if it wasn’t a complete waste of time. What did you tell us when we came in this morning? We’ve only got a week left! Even if the church bought this bullshit, it would probably take
them a couple of weeks to get around to installing the goddamn update. By then the girl’s dead, and you’re not far behind.”

“They’ve been pretty efficient at completely screwing up my life,” Beamon said. “No reason to think they don’t maintain their computers with the same diligence. Go ahead, Ernie. Nothing to lose.”

“Jesus Christ, Mark! Wake up!” Goldman shouted. “We have to concentrate on Vericomm. Get something we can use against them.”

Beamon shrugged. “I’m with you, Mr. Goldman, but I’m not hearing you give me a realistic course of action. You told me yourself that it’d take an army of people like you to figure out how they’re doing it. And I doubt they’re going to invite us over to their headquarters and show us their tapes. No, unless you can give me a concrete action plan, we’re going to go with Ernie’s suggestion. Set up the eight hundred line. Ernie, can you get that thing out in the mail tomorrow?”

“I’ve still got it. I can get it out today if you can take it to town and get it shrink-wrapped.”

Goldman grabbed a half-full drinking glass from the table next to him and threw it across the room. Beamon ducked involuntarily as it smashed against the wall. “We can’t afford to waste time like this! That little girl is going to die while you two are screwing around! We’ve got to get to Vericomm!”

“What the hell, Mr. Goldman! What do you want me to do? Blow the place up? I would, but it wouldn’t even do us any good!”

Goldman grabbed his coat and headed for the door. “Somebody’s got to get off their ass and do something,” Beamon heard him grumble as he passed by.

“Jack, wait,” Ernie said, but Goldman had already disappeared down the hall.

“Jesus,” Beamon said when he heard the front door slam. Ernie wheeled her chair to face him and looked at him sternly

“What?”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on him, Mark?”

“Don’t bust my ass, Ernie. The guy was throwing shit around the room and cussing us out for no reason.”

“He’s having a tough time, Mark. I think you could try to be a little more compassionate.”

Beamon couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was the one whose life had been completely trashed. It’d be dumb luck if he didn’t find himself in jail or lining a shallow grave somewhere by this time next month. And now, on top of all that, now he was expected to coddle Jack Goldman, one of the most difficult SOBs to ever take a breath.

“Mark, you’ve got to understand that for the first time in his life. Jack’s being beaten at his own game. The church has created a bugging system that he can’t dismantle, expose, or subvert. He’s feeling old.”

“He
is
old,” Beamon said, completely exasperated now.

“He’s doing the best he can, Mark, but he’s feeling like a dinosaur. He wants so desperately to do one more thing that really matters. And he wants to protect you. I don’t think you realize how much he admires you. How much he cares about you.”

Beamon was about to come to his own defense, but she held her hand up before he could open his mouth. “He can also save Jennifer. It’s hard to
explain. He didn’t have children and he almost feels like if he can save the two of you, that you’ll be a little piece of immortality for him.”

“Where do you get this stuff, Ernie?”

“He tells me things.”

Beamon had never heard Jack Goldman tell anybody anything other than how incompetent they were. “Look, in my own way, I love the old guy. I really do. But I don’t know what he wants from me.”

“Not that much, Mark. Your respect. Maybe a little friendship.”

V
ERICOMM’S HEADQUARTERS BUILDING LOOKED
like a ghost. Most of the lights in its glass facade had gone out over the last hour and now it just reflected the darkness and the swirling of snow though the thin mountain air.

Jack Goldman adjusted himself into a more comfortable position in the cramped car seat and let his mind wander into the past, as it seemed to want to do more and more every day. Back to the simple elegance of analog phone lines. Before digital transfer, encryption, and computer systems that were a thousand times as fast as he was and ten times as smart. Back to the time of closet-sized listening posts that reeked of coffee, tobacco, and sweat, and the reel-to-reel tapes filled with voices of glamorous hoods bragging endlessly about women, money, and death.

The building in front of him was a testament to the new age that he didn’t want to be part of. It housed a system so grand in its scale that his ancient mind could have never dreamed it up. A system that stole the art from his vocation and turned it into pure digital science.

He was buried too deep in his own thoughts to notice the security guard’s approach, but wasn’t startled when he heard a knock on the window. He
rolled it down about halfway and treated the guard to his most grandfatherly smile. “Hello, young man.”

He saw the man’s expression change from stoicism to mild concern. Goldman’s age had turned into an increasingly effective tool over the last twenty years, but it was one he detested using.

“Uh, this is reserved parking, sir. You’ll need to move your car.”

“I’m so sorry. I was driving by and started feeling a bit ill. I just pulled in to rest for a few minutes.” He reached for the key dangling from the ignition. “I didn’t realize I was illegally parked.”

“You’re not really illegally parked,” the guard said, starting to sound a little uncertain. “It’s just that it’s reserved. It’s actually not a problem if you stay for a while. The guy who’s assigned this space won’t be back till tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to cause you any problems,” Goldman said, holding his hand far enough from the keys so that the guard could see it shake.

“Not a problem. Really. Is there someone I could call? Maybe you’d like someone to pick you up? You’re welcome to leave your car overnight in one of the unassigned spaces.”

Goldman shook his head. “That’s kind of you, but I’ll be fine. At my age, you just have to rest every now and again.”

The guard straightened and tapped the top of the car. “Okay, then. If you change your mind or if you need any help, I’ll be just inside the front doors.”

Goldman watched the man walk back toward the building as a wave of pain and nausea seized him. He leaned forward onto the wheel, his breath
coming in short gasps. The attacks were getting longer and the time between them shorter as the cancer digested what was left of his stomach and continued its march through his other vital organs.

Two years ago, he’d ignored his doctor’s gloomy six-month prediction, but now he felt it coming in the brief flashes of peace and numbness that overwhelmed him after the pain had, for the moment, stopped. He couldn’t be sure, but he guessed that was death working to get a grip that he wouldn’t be able to break.

There wasn’t much time now. Just long enough to get Mark out of the quicksand he’d trapped himself in. And to save the girl.

Goldman smiled as he remembered Beamon as a first office agent. Smart. Jesus, he’d been smart. But even back then he’d had a gift for taking careful aim at his foot and shooting himself in it. Goddamned miracle he could still walk.

Goldman snapped himself back into the present and focused on a small man with a briefcase walking from the glass doors at the front of the building. He’d never laid eyes on Eugene Marino, Vericomm’s tech manager, but this could be him.

Goldman had parked next to one of the few remaining cars in Vericomm’s expansive parking area. The curb in front of it had “
MARINO
” stenciled in bright yellow letters, partially obscured by the snow.

“Mr. Marino?” Goldman said, opening his door and relying heavily on his cane as he eased himself out into the cold.

The man looked up and pulled his keys from his pocket as Goldman struggled across the icy asphalt toward him. “Yes, I’m Eugene Marino. Can I help you?”

Goldman stopped three feet from the man, ignoring the pain in his legs and another attack building in his stomach. “Yes, I think you can.” He pulled a gun from his jacket and, holding it low enough that it couldn’t be seen from a distance, aimed it at the man’s stomach.

Marino’s eyes widened, but it was clear that he didn’t know what to make of the situation. “Is this … is this a mugging?” he said in a disbelieving voice.

Goldman could barely keep himself from laughing. He hadn’t mugged anyone in over seventy years.

J
ENNIFER DAVIS LOOKED DOWN AT THE
plate of food in her lap and forced herself to take another bite. She chewed purposefully, but had to concentrate not to gag when she swallowed. It had been getting harder and harder to eat. Harder and harder to sleep. To exercise. To do anything.

Her entire body quivered now, from the time she woke up to the time she finally turned out the lights and prayed for sleep to overtake her. It seemed like her brain was slowly leaking adrenaline—just enough to keep her constantly on edge but not enough to give her any strength.

Days and nights came and went—she knew that only because of her makeshift clock in the sink. As Good Friday got closer and closer, her own internal clock—the intuition that told her when she was tired, when she was hungry—had failed her.

Only seven days left.

The hope of escape that had kept her going had slowly died in her. She had seen no one since that day Sara had come and asked her to meet with the Elders. The plate of food appeared only once every twenty-four hours now—every night when she was asleep.

She fell back onto the bed and closed her eyes, trying to quiet the butterflies that flew tirelessly in
her stomach all the time now. How could this be happening to her? She was only fifteen and she’d never done anything to hurt anyone.

In the last week, she’d spent her waking hours trying to live an entire life in the time she had left. She created elaborate fantasies about a future she would never see, infusing them with such intricate detail that sometimes they almost seemed real. She imagined her high school graduation: the sound of the principal’s voice as it echoed across the auditorium, the bright pink high-top tennis shoes peeking out from beneath her black gown. She could feel the late-summer sun on her face as she watched herself packing her car and driving to college. She saw what her dorm room would look like. The silly arguments she’d have with her roommates. What it would be like the first time she made love.