Palm Sunday (9 page)

“Frank was targeting him as a precaution. Slocum picked up the laser designator and went ballistic. At that point all bets were off. You know how it is in the field.”

“Do you have any idea how this makes us look?” said Pampas.

“Boss, it was one of those things. Slocum is better than we expected, and Whipple was a wildcard. We had no idea whether he would make a play.”

“Idiots. You think with his son in the room this man was going to start shooting?”

The senior agent shrugged. “Who is Whipple?”

Pampas softened somewhat. Even he had to admit there were still unknowns here. “Could be one of Slocum’s contacts. According to computer ops at least one of the downloads was initiated from that general area.”

“I thought the downloads were disabled.”

Pampas shook his head. “We broadcast that as a ruse. The truth is we weren’t able to establish a stable link. The unit may be damaged, which under certain conditions could open security leaks. We don’t know for sure.”

“So what’s our next move?” asked the agent.

“We’re keeping an eye on the Whipple residence, but we don’t want to spook him,” said Pampas. “You two will work on finding Slocum.”

“That won’t be easy. He doesn’t leave much of a trail.”

Pampas looked at them in frustration. “If it was easy you wouldn’t be paid so much. But if you want some advice, I’d suggest that you just wait. He’ll be seeking us out soon enough.”

“How do you figure?”

“He’s been using his palmtop to access the routine communication files, so he almost certainly knows by now that he’s been relegated.”

The agent wasn’t convinced. “Why would that make him seek us out? If it was me, I’d be looking for a rock to hide under.”

“He’ll seek us out,” said Pampas. “Don’t ask me how I know–call it a hunch. But do as I said, and let him come to us.”

“Okay, boss. We’ll wait for his call.”

Pampas dismissed them with a nod of his head, and returned to his reading, the full dossier on Robert Slocum. Mason seemed to believe that Slocum had switched allegiances, but based on what he had read, and what he knew of the man himself, Pampas had doubts as to his guilt.

Slocum would be in touch. He would have to know why he had been relegated, because he was innocent.

The FBI computer infrastructure protection group was emerging from a period of transition. Initially understaffed, under funded, and only marginally effective, all three trends had been reversed in recent years. They weren’t quite where they needed to be yet, but great strides were being made almost daily. Long a leader in the use of technology to solve crimes, the Bureau now faced the perpetual challenge of keeping ahead of those who would use computers to commit crimes. The new frontier, the Internet, was perhaps the most challenging zone of contention, and the daunting task of keeping the Internet infrastructure safe fell to a series of small regional data centers, manned by a new breed of cyber-warriors.

On this day, Justin Yankovich, a computer tech at an FBI data center west of Philadelphia, had just seen something that puzzled him. For a frozen instant in time the flow of data in the section of Internet backbone that he was monitoring appeared to stop, briefly pulsate, and then continue normally. The event passed so quickly that at first he wasn’t certain anything out of the ordinary had really happened. He ran a diagnostic test on his equipment, which came back clean, all systems operating within normal parameters. Looking up he saw his supervisor across the room, and waved for him to come over.

Jim Sharon’s graying hair contrasted sharply with his piercing blue eyes. During his twenty years at the Bureau there had been many scientific advances, but he had kept up with the technology. While some had scoffed at the notion of criminals using computers as a primary tool, he had understood their potential, especially in the hands of an enemy who was quickly becoming well versed in their use. The new battlefield, the information technology arena, could not be surrendered under any circumstances. For Sharon, this was a personal mantra.

“What’s up, Justin?” Hired right out of college, Justin had only been with the FBI for a year and a half, and under Sharon’s supervision for only three months. He still seemed somewhat unsure of himself, and was prone to call his supervisor over minor provocations. Even so, Sharon felt that with time Justin would develop into an excellent cyber-criminologist.

“Something I’ve never seen before. The Philadelphia northern tier bundle seemed to, I don’t know–twitch.”

“Fiber backbones don’t twitch. Not unless someone digs them up,” said Sharon.

“It wasn’t anything that severe. There was no signal interruption, no degradation.”

“Then what?”

Justin seemed at a loss. “I don’t know. It was like a surge, only…”

“Yes?” Sharon had moved closer, seemed to be expecting something.

“It was like the signal across the entire bundle stopped, weakened, then continued at full strength, but the delay was barely measurable. I know it sounds flaky,” said Justin. His voice trailed off.

“Did you plot it?” Sharon referred to the graphical bandwidth analyzer, used for creating pictorial representations of data flow across a given section of fiber optic cable. The Bureau had a number of these set up along important sections of the Internet infrastructure. They didn’t monitor specific transmissions, just the overall flow along certain fiber optic lines.

Justin nodded in the affirmative. “That was the first thing I did.”

“Show me.”

The younger man typed in a command, and a series of jagged parallel lines played across the screen. He traced across the display with his finger. “Prior to the event the fluctuations are fairly uniform. The total bandwidth used on each line varies, but the overall range is narrow. Until this point–see where the graph flat lines?”

“Yeah.”

“It doesn’t last long,” said Justin. “Maybe a couple seconds. Less. But I don’t know what ‘it’ is.”

Sharon turned away from the display, deep in thought. “This isn’t the first time we’ve seen this.”

“What is it?” asked Justin.

“I don’t know. Yet. But somebody’s messing with the Net. And that I will not tolerate.” 

Although Stanley was pleased that Slocum had put his gun away, he was concerned about the direction of the conversation, and said so. “Mr. Slocum, I’d be happy to show you what I’ve learned about the palmtop, but as I told you before, we have lives to get on with.” He gestured towards Bobby as he said this.

Slocum tapped on the desk, ignoring Stanley’s statement. “Is there any way you can make the palmtop work in the opposite direction? So we can get into my agency’s database?”

“It may be possible, but not with what I have here. Whoever works in your computer department knows their stuff, and must have access to some pretty sophisticated equipment.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Slocum. “But what makes you say so?”

“The way the palmtop is accessing data. Typically, when you send a file across the Internet you leave a signature. It’s nearly unavoidable.”

“The signature–this is what impresses you?”

“No,” said Stanley. “It’s the fact that there is no signature.”

“What does it mean?”

Stanley had been leaning forward, but now he sat back. “I’m not sure. Transmissions across the Internet require a very specific addressing scheme, and every device on the Net is supposed to have a unique address.”

“That’s what they call the IP address, right?” said Slocum.

“Yes, the Internet Protocol address. But the downloads from the palm unit didn’t have any, and if that’s the case, how did they get there?”

“Can’t you trace it somehow?”

“There’s no signature, no historical indication of how it was routed, and no identifiers regarding the point of origin.”

Slocum shrugged his shoulders. “I still don’t get it.”

“The people who sent the few files we’ve seen aren’t using the normal Internet protocol. They seem to have some kind of direct link to the palmtop.”

“That clears it up,” said Slocum.

“Look,” Stanley explained. “When you email someone, how do you think it gets to them?”

“On the Internet.”

“And what is the Internet?”

“I don’t know, Professor. You tell me.”

Stanley leaned forward again. “Basically, it’s servers, routers, and cable; mostly fiber optic cable. Thousands of computer networks connected to dozens of high-speed fiber optic backbones. When you send an email or download a file on the Net, the data is broken into small pieces called packets. Each packet contains the Internet address of the sending as well as the destination computer.”

“How does it find the destination?” asked Slocum.

“That’s the routers’ work. They figure out which path to send the data along.”

“What does this have to do with the files you downloaded?”

“There was no routing information.” Stanley noted the blank look on Slocum’s face. “Think of it this way. What would happen if you wrote a letter to a friend, put it in an envelope, and mailed it without writing an address on it?”

“It wouldn’t be delivered, of course,” said Slocum.

“That’s right, because you have to have an address to deliver a letter. It’s the same thing with the Internet. Wouldn’t it be rather remarkable if your friend received your letter even though you hadn’t addressed it?”

“I see your point. Then how did the files get to the palm unit?”

Stanley smiled. “Now you do see my point.”

Slocum moved towards the window as he considered his next move. He was used to working on his own, but he needed Stanley’s expertise to access the agency’s data files. “You can’t stay here. If I found you the agency will too.”

“Back at the house you said they didn’t want us,” said Stanley.

“No. I said they didn’t want you dead. But trust me, you don’t want them to have you alive, either.”

“So what are you suggesting we should do?” asked Stanley.

“My apartment is near the city. The agency doesn’t know about it. We could stay there while we figure this thing out. It would be safe, and it would give us time.”

“What about my work, and Bobby’s school?”

“Take a few days vacation. The kid can be out with the flu.”

“Oh, I don’t think…”

“Listen,” said Slocum. “I could force you to come with me, hold you at gunpoint and all that. But I won’t. I need your help to figure this thing out, to find out why they want me dead. So I’m asking.”

Stanley was torn. Part of him wanted nothing to do with whatever was behind the palmtop, yet he was curious about the technology that drove the device. For some indefinable reason he also felt drawn to the mysterious Mr. Slocum. “Let’s say we do it your way. What happens after we access your agency’s system?”

“It depends on what we find,” said Slocum.

“How long do you think this will take?”

Slocum shrugged. “A week, maybe. I don’t really know. How good are you with computers?”

“He can figure out anything, right Dad?” Bobby looked proudly at his father.

Stanley smiled at his son, and turned to Slocum. “One week. Then we’re going back home. But no vacation or staying out of school.”

“Fair enough,” said Slocum. “Let’s get you checked out.” 

Norbert stood in the doorway of Charles Mason’s office. He waited a minute, and then cleared his throat. Mason looked up, surprised to see him standing there.

“Sorry to barge in like this, sir, but your secretary wasn’t at her desk…”

“That’s okay, come in Norbert. What can I do for you?”

Norbert held a sheaf of papers under his arm. “There’s something I think you should see.” He dug out a sheet of paper from his bundle as he approached Mason’s desk. “I was running a series of diagnostics following the profile, and I came across some peculiar readings.”

“What is it?”

“If I’m not mistaken, we lost containment on one of the fiber interfaces. Somewhere in the Philadelphia area.”

“Lost it for good, or what?” asked Mason.

“No, nothing like that. One of the optical reflectors acted up. I think that’s what caused the glitch with the buffers during the profile.”

“But the profile was a success, and the problem has been corrected, right?”

“Yes, sir.” Norbert was hesitant.

Mason could tell there was more. “Spill it, Norbert.”

“Someone might have detected it. I can’t say for sure, but in the same event threshold I picked up a spike in packet transmissions, a downward spike, as if a sniffer had been activated.”

“Are you certain?” asked Mason.

“That it was a sniffer? No. But something was there.”

“Okay, good work. Keep an eye out for any further occurrences.”

Norbert nodded and left the office. Afterwards, Mason sat silently pondering Norbert’s visit. Always alert for the unusual, he had to balance such reports against Norbert’s propensity for drama. On the other hand, Norbert never made things up. He would have to keep an eye on this. 

Stanley and Bobby took their new settings in stride. Slocum was an adequate host, and his apartment had sufficient room to comfortably accommodate all three. On that first day, little more than settling in was accomplished, and the next morning–a workday–the Whipples followed their usual routine.

After dropping Bobby off at school, Stanley drove to his office, located in an industrial park eleven miles away. He parked in his company’s lot and made his way to the lobby, nodding to the security guard as he went in. He pointed to his shirt pocket in a routine that had been established over the past several years. The guard waved him in and smiled, knowing that Stanley never remembered to bring his ID card. Typical Stanley.

“Morning, Ralph. How was your weekend?”

“Pretty good. You?”

“The same,” said Stanley. “Am I the first one here?”

“That’s a laugh. You never beat Katherine. I swear she must sleep in the parking lot. I’ve never seen her get here after anyone.” He referred to Katherine Ritaglio, Stanley’s coworker.

“She’s a go-getter all right. Talk to you later.”