Palm Sunday (8 page)

“Lake Motel, how may I help you?” It was an older woman.

“Hi, my name is John Whipple. My brother and his son were headed up that way for a little vacation, and I’m supposed to meet them. I think he said they were staying at your place, but I lost the piece of paper with the information on it. Can you help me?”

There was a pause before the woman replied. “I really shouldn’t say. We don’t generally give out information about our guests.” The hesitation in her voice spoke volumes. If they weren’t there, she would have said so.

Slocum wanted confirmation. “You don’t have to give me their room number or anything. I just don’t want to drive all that way for nothing. It would be a tremendous help.” He tried to sound as helpless and harmless as possible. It had the desired effect.

“Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt. A man and a boy did check in late last night. They asked about buying fishing gear this morning.” She laughed. “Land sakes, the only thing they’ll catch this time of year is a bad cold.”

“Sounds like them.”

“Is there a message I can give them?”

“No thanks, but could I bother you for directions?” 

Mason’s stunning revelation that the agency would now attempt to alter the societal profile was a bombshell. Norbert took center stage in explaining the technical details behind how it would happen.

“In case some of you aren’t aware, the mechanism we employ during a profile is a one way street. Over time, we’ve installed hundreds of optical transceivers throughout the physical infrastructure of the Internet. These very small, very complex devices reflect an exact image of the optical signal back to us, while the original proceeds merrily along to its intended destination. Data arrives here, where we analyze it and create a profile. Nothing flows back out to the world. At least, not if everything works correctly.”

“What about our own email, faxes and so forth? That goes out, doesn’t it?” asked Kayoko.

“Yes, it does,” said Norbert. “But it’s on a completely different infrastructure, and uses different technology.”

“I see.”

“Of course, we do use the Net for communicating with the palm units, which is also separate from our email, and again, employs a different technology. We actually invented a non-routed protocol that only the palmtops are programmed to recognize, so we have a completely secure data stream that…”

“Let’s keep on topic.” Mason saw that the others were starting to drift.

Norbert continued. “In short, yet another system has been developed for phase two. This will be strictly outgoing.”

“Why,” asked Tom Snelling, “does the profiling stream have to be one way only? Why not utilize it for regular communications as well?”

 “Societal profiling requires astronomical amounts of data,” said Norbert. “We don’t have the time to worry about two-way communications, electronic handshaking to verify a successful connection, waiting for busy queues or overloaded servers. We just suck in tons of raw data that’s flowing across the Net. What’s good goes into the repository, what’s not is thrown out. Security is a factor as well. The less complex the operation, the easier it is to protect, although the technology behind the critters that we have planted in the Internet is quite advanced.”

Mason took over. “It’s time to reverse the flow. To alter the societal profile we’re going to have to initiate a series of actions that will require a robust, yet secure outgoing data stream. It will also require some creative thinking.”

“Mr. Mason.”

“Yes, Kayoko.” He knew she would be the first to raise an objection.

“What kind of actions are you proposing?”

He was surprised. He had expected outraged indignation. “Something serious enough to get the public’s attention. I have some ideas, but actually I wanted to get some input from you folks, some suggestions as to what might supplant Valentine’s Day as a topic of conversation among the general population.”

“It’s unlikely that they’ll talk about Valentine’s Day indefinitely,” said Kayoko.

“I only use that as an example,” said Mason. “We won’t be ready to attempt an alteration for several weeks.”

Kayoko nodded, apparently satisfied. Inwardly, her stomach was churning at this bizarre turn of events. She would have told Mason exactly what she felt, but that would only have resulted in her dismissal. Perhaps she could work from the inside to stop this madness. 

Robert Slocum observed as Stanley pulled into the motel parking lot in his Chevy, and then watched as father and son entered their room. There was only one other car besides his own parked in the lot, and that, he knew, belonged to an elderly couple. Just to be safe, Slocum watched the room for a full half hour, making certain that the agency hadn’t already found this place. Inside the motel room, Bobby had just turned on a science program about sharks, while Stanley worked his file.

“The Great White has no natural predator, except man.” On the television, dramatic music accompanied close-ups of a shark circling a man in a shark cage. Outside, Slocum had left his car, and was moving towards the motel.

“He stalks his prey, just as his ancestors have for centuries.” The shark swam back and forth, seeking a way to get at the man in the cage. Slocum was now alongside the motel, nervously looking around to see if he had been detected.

“For a moment, the shark disappears into the murky darkness. Has he gone for good?” Bobby was mesmerized. Stanley, still working with the palmtop, sat on the edge of his seat, struggling to coax more meaning from the jumbled characters on his display.

“Suddenly the shark appears from out of the inky darkness and rams into the cage.”

Slocum had been quietly fiddling with the lock, and now threw the door open, his gun drawn. Bobby, startled by the sudden intrusion, jumped reflexively. Slocum quickly closed the door behind him.

Stanley looked up from his laptop. “Mr. Slocum, we meet again.”

It took a moment for Slocum’s eyes to adjust to the room’s lighting. Then he seemed to notice something for the first time. “I’ve seen you before.”

“You broke into my home and held me and my son hostage. Does that count?”

“No, before that. Let me think.” He glanced quickly out the window at the Chevy, and remembered. “Yeah, now I’ve got it. I saw you coming out of a fast food place.”

“We do like burgers.” Stanley looked at Bobby, who nodded his agreement. “Not to change the subject, Mr. Slocum, but you have a problem.”

Slocum was instantly alert. “What’s that?” He looked outside again, suspecting a trap.

“You’ve been relegated.”

Slocum’s eyes narrowed. It was impossible. The man sitting before him couldn’t know the meaning of what he had said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Where’s the palmtop?”

“It’s right here. And we’re both in it.”

Slocum lowered his gun slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Whoever owns this thing–I’m guessing it’s not you–is certainly talking about you. About me, too, I think. I don’t know exactly what they’re saying though, because I can’t get enough information. Sometimes I can access it, and sometimes it’s like Fort Knox.”

“It should be like Fort Knox all the time,” said Slocum. “What did you do to it?”

“Nothing. From the beginning I’ve only been trying to find out who it belongs to, so I can return it.”

“Well here I am, so hand it over.” He took a step towards Stanley, his hand held out.

“Don’t you want to know what I found out?”

Slocum hesitated. That the agency had turned against him seemed clear, but for what reason he had no idea. What he needed now most, aside from the palmtop, was information.

“First some basic facts. Who are you, and why do you have my palm unit?”

“My name is Stanley Whipple. This is my son, Bobby.” He pointed to his son, sitting on the bed.

“Hi.” Bobby flashed a quick wave.

“Hi, kid.” Slocum looked back at Stanley. “How did you end up with that?” He motioned towards the palmtop.

“My son found it outside.”

Slocum nodded. It made sense in view of what Bobo had told him. “How did you manage to get anything out of it?”

“Mr. Slocum, computers are my life. Your palmtop is a very sophisticated device in some ways, very rudimentary in others. It’s a most puzzling piece of equipment. It captured my interest from our very first acquaintance.”

“You’re a programmer?”

“Software Engineer. I work for a company called ScanDat. We make Internet security devices.”

“What did you mean when you said we were both in there?” Slocum gestured towards the palm unit.

“Let me show you.” He nodded towards Slocum’s gun. “You can put that away.”

Slocum was reminded of the time in their house when he had felt foolish pointing his gun at them. He slowly lowered the weapon. “You have two minutes. Then I’m taking the palmtop and leaving.”

Stanley motioned for him to walk around the desk. With Slocum looking over his shoulder, Stanley positioned the cursor to the top of the file he was working on. “This is the file we downloaded when you were at my house. I’ve since processed it about as much as I can.”

“It’s still mostly unreadable,” said Slocum.

“I know. But as you can see, it’s a message to–I don’t know. Someone. You’re mentioned as being relegated, although it doesn’t say to what. Does that mean something to you?”

Slocum nodded. “It means that I’d better exercise caution, because somebody wants to interrogate me. I’m told it’s not a pleasant experience.”

Stanley went on. “The next part may allude to the incident at my house, although because of when we downloaded the file it omits many details.”

“I didn’t think they knew about you.”

“Who?”

“The people I work for,” said Slocum.

“You called them from my house. Did you tell them where you were?”

Slocum considered this. “I wouldn’t have to. It was a public phone.”

“Public?”

“As in not secure. They could have traced it. That must be how they found me so quickly, and why your address is in the file.”

Stanley nodded. “And who is ‘they’, Mr. Slocum?”

“What do you mean?”

“Who do you work for?”

Slocum didn’t answer right away. “Let’s just say it’s a group that tends to stay on mission.”

“I don’t understand,” said Stanley.

“Remember what happened at your house? Well, it won’t stop at that.”

Stanley had heard enough. “Look, just take this stuff and explain to your company that it was all a misunderstanding. I don’t want it–never wanted it.” Stanley gathered up the device and its cable and offered them to Slocum.

He ignored him, instead gesturing with his head towards the laptop. “Where did this file come from? Where exactly?”

Stanley placed the palmtop back on the table. “I don’t really know. The palm unit seems to have some internal mechanism for connecting to a wireless data source. If I had my computer from my house, and some other equipment, I might be able to trace it.”

“Forget your house. They’ll be watching it. Anyway, your computer is at my apartment. I took the liberty of setting it up there.”

“You took my computer?” said Stanley. “The whole thing?”

“Just the CPU. I thought I might need it to track you down.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“I’m not sure why, but the organization that I work for wants me either brought in, or killed,” said Slocum.

“Brought in? What does that mean? And who do you work for, anyway?”

“Brought in means brought in. As for who I work for, they’re the people who own the palmtop, and they want it back.”

“Is it a government agency?” asked Stanley.

“You ask too many questions. What they are isn’t important right now.”

“Then what is important?”

“They’re after us,” said Slocum. “And when they want to find someone, they usually succeed.”

“Why me? I don’t know anything about any of this.”

“You have the palm unit, and you’ve been messing with it. They must have detected one or more of the downloads, and they’re probably afraid of what you might know.”

“I don’t even know who they are. What could I know that would threaten them?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” said Slocum. “And that’s why we’re going to be hanging out together for a while.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look, I need information, and so do you. The palmtop may be the only way to find out what’s really going on.”

“You can’t just walk in here and disrupt our lives,” said Stanley. “Why don’t you just explain to your company what happened?”

Slocum glanced again at the parking lot. “My ‘company’ isn’t quite as reasonable as that. Until we know why they want to find us we’re all in danger. That includes you and your son.”

“We could go to the police,” offered Stanley.

“And tell them what? That you found a palmtop?”

“What about the shooting at my house?”

“What about that? Why didn’t you go to the police already?”

Stanley lowered his eyes. “I have my reasons.”

That Whipple had issues with the police was obvious. But Slocum didn’t care what they were–only that he could use them. “Listen to me. The only way things can go back to normal is if I find out why the owners of that,” he pointed to the palmtop, “came after me. And why they’re looking for you. The answers may be in the palm unit itself.”

“So what do you want me to do?” asked Stanley.

Slocum put his gun away. “Tell me what you know about how these things work.” 

George Pampas was a patient man, but when he gave an order, he expected results. The fiasco at the Whipple residence was the reason why two agents now stood before his desk, still smarting from the dressing down they had just received.

“You missed Slocum, you left the house without questioning this Whipple character, and you came back without the palm unit. And Frankie...” Pampas shook his head and absently shuffled some papers on his desk. “What I really want to know is why you were so eager to shoot. You were supposed to escort Slocum in, not kill him.” Pampas was still fuming at Mason’s insistence on sending the agents. He was certain that Slocum would have come in on his own.