The Delta Chain (6 page)

‘That anti-viral program is state-of-the-art,’ Betty said, mystified, ‘we bought it in from the U.S., adapted it…’

Kate cut in. ‘I know its pedigree. And I can’t understand why it appeared to have done its job – almost a full week clear – but now the virus is attacking again. At least I didn’t understand it…but now…’

‘You
know
why the virus is still crashing the systems out there?’

‘I have a theory, and it’s
just
a theory,’ Kate said. ‘I don’t think this is just some variation on a common computer virus that cyber jerks send out to cause mayhem. I think it was specially designed, so that it wouldn’t be nuked by our A-V program. Designed to have specific defences against our program because someone knew exactly what our A-V program was.’

Betty was quick to respond. ; ‘But that can’t be…’

‘Unless someone from Abcess created this virus and inserted it into the network here.’ There, Kate thought, I’ve said it.

‘But surely that could only have been Rhonda.’

‘Rhonda,’ Kate agreed.

Rhonda Lagan was the systems analyst first sent to the research centre by A.B.C.S. She was in her fifth month when she’d died unexpectedly in a car accident. A.B.C.S. didn’t have another consultant available to fill in for the last four weeks of the six-month stint, but soon after, the Institute began having system crashes. Westmeyer’s own IT guys managed to keeps things running, but they couldn’t locate the problem. This went on for two months. It was then that Kate, having completed another assignment, was sent in by James Reardon.

It didn’t take her long to establish there was a random virus in the network, scrambling data and crashing individual files, like a mischievous gremlin that kept evading capture. No sooner had Kate fixed one of the damaged sections of the network than another part went down. It was like plastering one crack in a wall only for another to appear.

The moment it was available, Abcess had sent in the newly adapted anti-viral program.

After a pause, Betty said, ‘I think you’d better explain.’

‘Who else,’ said Kate, ‘could have designed a virus that knew how to recognise and work around our A-V program? Who else was in a position to set it up so perfectly within the network?’

‘Okay. But you and I both know, kid, it’s not enough.’

‘There’s something else, Betty. I’ve been checking and re-checking the records here. Looking for anything, any small detail, that might offer a clue.’

‘And?’

‘The virus first appeared exactly 48 hours after Rhonda’s death. It was a Thursday. Rhonda would’ve normally logged on to the system twice by then.’

‘You’re suggesting the virus was programmed to raise its ugly head after two of Rhonda’s log-ons were missed?’

‘Yes.’

‘I know you have a vivid imagination, Kate, but…’ Betty paused briefly. Then: ‘You’ve been pulling my leg…?’

‘No, Betty. Not over something like this. I’m deadly serious.’

‘Whatever got you thinking this way?’

‘I’ve been trying to look beyond the obvious. Something about this virus starting just after Rhonda’s death; and the random, elusive aspect of it. Something felt…very weird.’

‘Granted. It’s weird.’

‘I decided to scan Rhonda’s personal files. I knew she’d maintained a daily diary on her PC. So I went in. The diary’s listed on her screen menu but guess what? It’s been deleted. The whole thing. So I ran a print report on all data entries on her PC for the previous four months.’

‘I’m not liking the sound of this, Kate.’

‘The command to delete the diary was made on Wednesday, the day
after
Rhonda died.’

‘There’s an awful big series of question marks over this…theory of yours,’ Betty said. ‘Why would someone have any interest in deleting Rhonda’s diary? How would they know her password? And why would Rhonda herself create a virus?’

‘Rhonda could’ve programmed this virus to start after she’d missed a couple of log-ons. For some reason she may have had reason to suspect something could happen to her. In that event, a virus like this would need Abcess to investigate it…’

‘And in doing so,’ Betty, seeing where this was headed, completed the thought, ‘would lead one of us to suspect that there was something odd about Rhonda’s accident.’

‘Yes. Look, I know there’s no motives, no reasons, no actual proof of any kind. It’s just I’ve been casting my mind about, looking for something…anything…’

‘And you found these strange little inconsistencies.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘So what’s next, Kate? You want to speak to the boss about this?’

James Reardon was the founder and CEO of A.B.C.S. Kate had always thought of Reardon as a typical young dot.com entrepreneur who’d survived as much by good luck as good management. He’d started out just ten years earlier as a software creator, saw the business opportunities for a firm like A.B.C.S. and set it up, modelling its style and structure on similar start-ups in the U.S., where he spent much of his time expanding the company.

‘I haven’t got any proof to go to James with,’ Kate said. ‘You know what he’s like, a total workaholic. Doesn’t relate to anything outside of the industry.’

‘I’m glad you said that before I had to,’ Betty said. ‘For James to take it seriously you’d need facts, details, crystal clear evidence. Of which you have none. Our baby-faced leader would’ve gone into one of his hyped up lectures about pragmatism and practicality. The last one went for days. What
do
you plan to do?’

‘Not sure. But I want to start by reading through Rhonda’s diary. See if it yields a clue. I know all her work files were sent over the ISDN for archiving at HQ. But what about personal files, like the diary? Would she send them as well?’

‘Yes. Rhonda gathered all her files, every day, and sent them as one big digital package. The same thing, my dear, I’ve been telling the rest of you to start doing more than once a week.’

‘Okay, so occasionally there’s some benefit to bureaucracy.’

‘I’ll send you an email with the diary as an attachment. In fact, I’ll download it and have a read through myself.’

‘Betty, you know I keep a private email address?’

‘You want me to send the file there?’

‘Yes. I want to keep it away from the network here. Just a precaution.’

‘Kate, you be careful out there, okay?’

‘Now that’s a little melodramatic, even for you.’

‘Hey, you’re the one who started with these nasty little conspiracy theories. I’m not convinced you’re on the right track, though, and in fact I hope you’re not.’

‘I hope not too,’ Kate said before saying her good-byes and hanging up. But like Betty, Kate had been around IT systems long enough to know her theory was a likely possibility. It explained the virus’ ability to outmanoeuvre the ant-viral software.

But why?

Kate didn’t like the way her thoughts kept snowballing, from one possibility to another. It had been happening since she’d discovered the diary had been trashed. She’d managed to switch off during the evening, while she’d been with Adam, but her mind had been back to doing its cartwheels again this morning.

Turning to her screen, Kate saw that her Meetings Menu had flashed. ‘Damn,’ she muttered to herself, leaping up from her chair. She didn’t want to be late for William Westmeyer’s boardroom presentation to potential investors.

Melanie Cail arrived at the office early, 7.30, as was her routine. Over a steaming coffee she waded through the e-mails and voicemails from the previous afternoon, the latest updates from the news services, and the morning dispatches from local police and emergency.

The only thing to pique her interest was the police dispatch about the drowning victim. It was the kind of item that might find a small spot toward the middle of the newspaper’s general news section.

But if Melanie could find a strong angle then it could be a much bigger story – maybe even front page – and after several slow weeks, Melanie Cail, reporter for the Northern Rocks Express, needed a big story.

As usual the dispatch was brief, but as she sipped the coffee Melanie’s instincts went into overdrive. Why was the young woman naked? Why hadn’t someone reported her as missing? Was she a murder victim? A suicide? Had she been part of a boating accident that left others stranded, or in peril?

She knew she was being monitored closely by the management of the Brisbane City Chronicle and that their final decision on the vacant reporting post was just weeks away. She cursed under her breath as she had every morning for the past fortnight. She’d never known a quieter, blander time, news wise, in Northern Rocks. Not that the region ever hopped with excitement from a dramatic news standpoint, but right now it had never been slower. Melanie needed something to sink her teeth into, to showcase her investigative skills.

She needed a big story…

She put down her coffee and reread the last sentence of the dispatch. The body had been discovered by a local fisherman…

Her older sister’s boyfriend was a keen after-hours fisherman. Costas often cast his line from the local beach. Was it possible…? She picked up the phone and punched in the numbers rapid fire, machine gun speed. Petite, blonde and vivacious, Melanie was the kind of person who was hyper from the moment she opened her eyes of a morning. Once her reporting instincts and the caffeine had taken hold she started firing on all six cylinders
plus.

Barbara’s number was engaged. Melanie cursed again, then swivelled her chair to face her PC. The newspaper’s vast library of information, drawn from its own and other papers’ news articles, was on hard drive. She entered her password and then typed ‘Drownings-Queensland’ and the menu listed over a dozen recent incidents. Anything over twelve months ago would need to be accessed from the archives stored on disk.

Melanie scanned the list. In the back of her mind she could remember something similar, not too long ago. At the moment she was prepared to search for anything and she did, clutching at straws, anything to uncover a potential angle to pump up the story. Something to push her onto the front page. Where she belonged.

She found the relevant listing from four months earlier. Highlighting the text, she clicked on it, and an article from sister paper The Castlemaine Courier filled the screen. Another young, naked woman had been washed ashore over three hundred kilometres north.

Melanie scrolled through that article, then into two more on the subject and smiled inwardly. What she hadn’t realised was that the identity of this previous drowner was still not known, despite exhaustive investigations.

She leaned back in her chair and grinned. She’d known the big story would not elude her for long. She had found a wonderful, sinister link. Oh yes.

The paper’s editor, Eddie Cochrane, walked by. ‘Mornin’, Mel. Anything interesting in that lot?’

‘I think I have a B-I-G story, Ed.’ Melanie told him about the two drowning cases.

‘It’s news, but what makes you think its big news? This local girl might be identified today or tomorrow.’

Melanie placed her index finger to the side of her nose. ‘I don’t think that’s going to happen, which means this has that sweet, familiar whiff of newsprint to it,’ she said and she broke into a wide, knowing grin.

Eddie smiled. ‘Well, that’s good enough for me. See what a little digging turns up, eh?’ Eddie was an old fashioned newspaperman who still loved the old lingo; terms like “nose for news” and “putting the paper to bed.” He was a small man with tired eyes, who’d seen newspapers evolve from hot metal and slugs of type to a digital push-button operation. It was less than a year until Eddie’s official retirement. He’d resisted going early and it was common knowledge the powers-that-be wanted to bring in a fresh, young editorial management team. Melanie saw no mileage going through such changes on a local paper. She needed bigger and better things.

Her phone’s auto redial bipped. She picked up the receiver as her sister answered.

‘Hi, Barb. A body was found by a fisherman last night. Would I be right in thinking that fisherman was Costas?’

Barbara was hesitant. ‘Well…’ She knew how persistent her sister was, and she didn’t want Costas being troubled further.

‘I knew it. It
was
him.’

‘Melanie, I really don’t want him being bothered at the moment.’

‘He’s there? Now?’

‘Yes, but-’

‘Can you put him on, Barb. I understand if he’s a little shaken. I won’t keep him a sec. I just want a quote, anything, one word will do and I’ll leave him alone.’

There was silence on the line.

‘Barb?’

‘No,’ Barbara said. ‘For once, I wish you would listen to what I’m saying and consider the feelings of others.’ And she hung up the phone. Twelve months earlier Melanie had written a series of articles on aspects of modern divorce. For direct quotes, she’d used a number of things Barbara had told her in confidence.

To give the articles a personal touch, Melanie had identified her sister. She hadn’t asked permission and Barbara had been mortified.

Ever since their childhood Barbara, although twelve years older than Melanie, had been overshadowed by her prettier, savvier little sister. From time to time she’d felt her resentment get the better of her. She’d never been comfortable with Melanie’s unrelenting style. That particular incident had put an added and lingering strain on their relationship.

When one approach didn’t work, Melanie Cail simply shifted to another. She would do the unexpected. Drive out to Barbara’s place and appear at the front door, unannounced. She would see Costas Yannous. And she would get exactly the quote she wanted.

At Barbara’s insistence, Costas had not gone in to his deli. He’d organised his assistant to look after the shop.

He was sitting on the back patio, enjoying the filtered sun that peeked through the bamboo pergola, when Adam arrived. ‘He claims he’s okay but he’s not,’ Barbara whispered to Adam as she led him through the house. ‘You men and your damned macho pride.’