Mortal Fear (36 page)

After a giddy few moments staring at the screen, I called Miles back into the office. He snatched up the printouts of the conversation and read them with stunning speed.

Youve hooked him, he announced, setting down the pages. You know, Brahma sounds a long way from crazy to me. I feel exactly like he does sometimes.

I took off the headset and pushed back from the computer. Our conversations dont have quite the same feel as his conversations with the other victims. I cant put my finger on why.

I know. I dont think hes looking at you as a potential victim. A donor or whatever. Hes interested in some other way. Just keep stringing him along. By tomorrow I should be finished with the Trojan Horse, and well be ready for Phase Two.

You sound like a bad movie.

He grinned. I like bad movies.

That exchange happened four hours ago.

Since then Miles has been coding more or less steadily. He seems to have scented the finish line, and only stops for fresh Mountain Dew. Now and then hell shout something like FMH!which he explained was a polite form of Fuck me harder!a hacker curse usually directed at some particularly annoying piece of software that refuses to behave as it should, in this case his Trojan Horse.

Ive read half a paperback novel, cleaned up the
kitchen, and driven to Yazoo City and back, all in an attempt to keep my nerves steady. Knowing that the man we call Brahma is looking forward to his next conversation with me is more than a little unsettling. This connection is what I set out to establish, but now that I have, all I want is for Miles to finish his Trojan Horse so we can get the whole thing over with.

Around five-thirty it strikes me that Drewe might like it if I whipped up some dinner before she gets home. She might like it a lot. I have a vision of fresh tomatoes from our garden, then remember the heat-shriveled specimens I saw this morning. Without intravenous therapy theyll never be fit for a dinner table. As usual, its too late to thaw anything out. I am nearly reconciled to tuna on toast when Miles walks into the kitchen with his laptop and says, Why dont you fire up the search engine?

I start to remind him that Brahma said he wouldnt be back on-line until late tonight, but arguing with Miles is useless. I expel the air from my lungs with a disgusted plosive, walk back into the office, and sit down at the EROS computer.

The search program begins its monotonous task with an efficient clicking of the hard drive. Searching for Brahmas prose patterns takes much longer than a search for an account name. After a few distracted minutes of playing guitar on my bed, I look over at the computer. The monitor shows the screen format of a private room. The prompt at the top of the page reads:
MAXWELL>
. The answering prompt reads:
LILITH>
.

First I yell for Miles. Then I rehang my guitar on the wall and sit down before the EROS computer.

He lied to me, I say when Miles comes in. Hes back on. Hes talking to Lenz again.

I thought he might. Same old shit from Lenz? Freud dispensed at the level of Sally Jessy Raphael?

Looks like it. Want me to turn up the sound?

Nah. He sits on the bed and opens his laptop.

As I skim the usual purple prose, a wave of heat suffuses my face. My eyes have locked onto one passage like a laser sight.

I reread the text above this line, but everything looks normal. Then this appears:

I try to yell Miles! but my voice comes out a whisper.

You say something? he asks.

Typos! Look at this!

In seconds hes reading the screen over my shoulder.

He keeps making them, I murmur.

Hes not using his voice recognition unit. Miles grips my shoulder. Hes on the move!

My chest feels hollow. Lenz knows that, right?

Got to. The FBI agents at EROS probably saw the typos before you did. Scroll back up. Ill bet hes been making errors during the whole exchange.

I scroll through the previous lines and verify that Miles is correct. Okay, I say, trying to calm down. Okay, they must have seen that. Too many to miss.

Damn,
Miles says softly. Lenz pulled it off. Ill bet an FBI SWAT team is greasing its guns right now.

Brahma goes mobile two or three days before a kill, I remind him. Based on his error rate and the old murder dates, anyway.

Reconnaissance, says Miles. Hes out there right now using a laptop and a cellular. I wonder how close he is to that safe house.

Im calling Lenz, I decide aloud.

Why? The FBIs gearing up to slam this guy down right now. Miles runs one hand over his still ridiculous crewcut. You know, nows the time to trace him.

Why?

Because hes on a cellular, and we know where hes headed.

Im calling the safe house, Miles.

Go ahead, but theyre just going to blow you off.

Fine. Scrounging in my wallet for the number Lenz gave me, I find it and drop it by the phone. My call is answered on the second ring.

Yes? says a female voice.

This is Harper Cole. I need to talk to Dr. Lenz.

You shouldnt have called here.

I need to make sure he knows something important.

He knows. Harper, this is Margie Ressler.

Margie. The decoy. Is everything okay?

Yes, but we cant tie up this line right now.

Ive got to tell Lenz about something.

About the errors?

You know about that?

Everythings under control. Really. Take it easy.

Relief washes over me. Okay. I just wanted to make sure you guys werent going to be surprised.

Were the FBI, Harper. Were not going to be surprised. Her voice goes quiet. Youd better keep
your
eyes open, though. Did you or Miles Turner send e-mail to Mr. Baxter warning him to check tissue donor networks?

Margie I stop, unwilling to implicate myself on a phone that might be tapped.

As if reading my mind, she says, All Im going to tell you is that the shit hit the fan after they started checking. Youd better watch your butt.

Thanks. And youd better take your own advice.

He wont come tonight. Not if the records any indication.

Suddenly I hear a babble of male voices.

Sir! Margie answers like a boot camp recruit.

The phone goes dead in my hand.

Well? asks Miles, back on the bed now.

They know.

He gives me his dour I-told-you-so look.

She also said they got your note about transplant networks.

Now hes paying attention.

She said the shit hit the fan when they started checking.

Miles ponders this for a few seconds. Then Drewe must be right. There must be another missing woman.

Jesus. What are we going to do?

He takes a deep breath, looks at the floor for a few seconds, then says, Im going to code until seven, which is when TBS is showing
I Walk the Line,
with Gregory Peck and Tuesday Weld.

Youre kidding.

Nope. I
love
Tuesday Weld. Did you see
Wholl Stop the Rain
? From Robert Stones book? Even Nolte was great in that.

Miles

Tuesday Weld should have played Holly Golightly in
Breakfast at Tiffanys,
not Audrey Hepburn. Even Capote said that. Of course, he said a
young
Tuesday Weld. With her we wouldnt have gotten that bullshit Hollywood ending. Holly would have

Miles!

He looks up irritably. What?

Dont you care what happens at the safe house?

Of course. But its not in my power to affect the outcome.

Isnt there some way to at least monitor the action? Hack into a Bureau computer or something?

Harper, a stakeout is just some guys on the radio. Theyre probably not even talking a whole lot.

So?

Theres no computer angle to it. Baxter will want to be there for the collar, so hes probably at the safe house already, or else on his way. Nothing will have to be relayed to him,
ergo
we cant intercept anything digital.

What about radio, then?

Miles laughs. We cant monitor police radio from a thousand miles away.

Why not?

Because its
analog,
man. Radio waves that die after a few miles.

Smugness is one of my pet peeves. At times like this I want to smack Miles on the side of the head. And somewhere between staring at his arrogant expression and clenching my right fist, a solution arcs through my brain like a Roman candle. As Miles stares, I sit down at my Gateway 2000 and switch on my modem.

What are you doing? he asks.

Logging onto CompuServe.

Why?

To eavesdrop on the stakeout.

How?

I click the mouse rapidly. By talking somebody local into doing it for us.

Whos going to do that?

Ever hear of ham radio?

It takes less than five seconds for Miles to see where Im going. But ham radio is a totally different frequency spectrum than law enforcement stuff, he says.

I dont even respond. I know hes kicking himself for not thinking of this first.

Ham operators hang out on CompuServe? he asks, getting up and looking over my shoulder.

Either here or AOL. One of my neighbors is a ham nut. Hes mentioned a forum before, and I think its on CompuServe. Im doing a
Find
for the word radio.

Suddenly a neat column of words appears on my screen:

Ha! You see that?

HamNet, Miles says. Thats it?

Lets see.

Seconds later were staring at the multicolored logo of a computer forum dedicated exclusively to the arcane joys of ham radio. I click the mouse, and topic headings like Amateur Satellites, Swap Shop, Utility DXing, and Hardware/Homebrew appear.

Miles, I guarantee you some of these guys are into a lot more than ham radio. That
Tom Swift
crap with cigar boxes full of vacuum tubes is history. These guys are high tech now.

A couple of old hackers at MIT were into ham, he says, and I sense how badly he wants to move me out of the chair and take over this job.

The only question, I muse, is will somebody with the right equipment be close enough to McLean, Virginia, to do it?

Definitely, Miles says excitedly. McLeans the D.C. metro area, not far from Langley. Bound to be somebody there. Ill bet some of these guys have wet dreams about intercepting CIA and FBI communications.

I dont know, I say, reading the screen more closely. Look at some of these topics. FCC Compliance and Proper Certification. Maybe theyre not into that kind of stuff.

Why dont you let me talk to them? Miles suggests, standing so close that I feel uncomfortable.

Its all yours, I tell him, rising from the chair.

He sits and immediately begins composing a forum message. We just have to approach it right. Im not a federal fugitive, Im... a reporter. For the
Times Picayune
. So are you. He pauses, thinking. We just got a tip about a rogue FBI operation in D.C. It might even involve the ATF. How does that sound?

Like another bad movie.

He laughs. This is great, man. Within two hours well have real-time coverage of Lenzs little trap, right through your telephone. Just like two tin cans on a thousand-mile string.

What if my phones really tapped?

Oh, yeah, he says, his brow furrowing. Well... Ill just have to figure something out.

The bang of the front door catapults Miles out of his seat and to the nearest window. Go check! he commands.

Harper, its me.

Drewe, I reassure him. Its just Drewe.

He steps away from the window and leans against the wall, one hand over his heart. This is major stress, man. What did I do to deserve this?

I wont answer that. I start toward the door. Id better fix us some supper.

The office door opens before I reach it.

Drewe stands in the hall holding a large brown paper bag. She is smiling, and her radiance gives me an unexpected lift. Yet it is plain that she does not intend to cross the threshold. Instead, she reaches into the bag and pulls out a paper box printed with red curlicues and an alarmingly orange fluid dribbling down its side.