The Insider (24 page)

“You should make a copy and then give the memory stick back to him. I don't think he'll report it to his bosses. He'll figure that there was no harm done, and if he tells, he could still lose his job.”

“You know, I wanted to help you by getting this,” Claire said, holding up the memory stick. “But we can never let them have it now. Not with what you know about their plan for the BART trains.”

“I know. We'll make sure that they never get it. In fact, I think we need to report the plan to release nerve gas on the BART trains. We could do it anonymously.”

“Right,” Claire said. “They could decide to go forward with the attack even without the encryption keys.”

Will picked up the memory stick, turning it over in his hand. Something that held the keys to the country's most sensitive information should be heavier than this, he thought. “We also need to get this out of here right now. Nikolai and Yuri could come back anytime.”

Before they left Claire's apartment, Will examined the pills spread out on the kitchen counter. He picked up a Xanax. “So these are good for anxiety?”

“They take the edge off.”

“You mind if I . . .”

“Help yourself,” Claire said. “I'm sure you could use it.”

Outside on the sidewalk, they could feel the evening chill seeping into the afternoon as they searched for a taxi to take them to the bus station, where Will intended to stash the memory stick in the locker that he had purchased. When Will looked back up the street, he saw Nikolai and Yuri walking toward them, about fifty yards away. Yuri extended his arms in a mock greeting.

Will grabbed Claire's arm and pulled her in the opposite direction. “Run,” he said.

They took off across Walton Square. When he looked back, he saw that Nikolai and Yuri were pursuing, their arms flailing awkwardly like men unused to exercise. On the other side of the square, Will and Claire ran down the sidewalk of Davis Court. Will was wearing hard-soled shoes, and he felt each stride on the concrete sidewalk in his knees.

Yuri was out ahead of the lumbering Nikolai, and he was gaining ground on them. Will saw no place for them to hide; the Russians were too close.

Claire and Will ran through a landscaped park next to the Maritime Plaza building. Looking up at the white towers ahead of them, Will realized that he had, probably through force of habit, headed for the familiar territory of Embarcadero Center. When they reached Clay Street, they were brought to a halt by a stream of cars. Will looked back and saw that the Russians were now only thirty yards behind them, so he dashed out into the thick of the traffic. They made it to the other side in a fanfare of car horns and squealing brakes.

Nikolai and Yuri crossed Clay without incident and continued to close the distance. Claire's breathing was growing labored, and so was his. They would not be able to outrun them.

They dashed through the lower level of Embarcadero Two. As they turned onto Sacramento Street, nearly overturning a sidewalk hot dog cart, Will began to formulate a plan.

“We're going up into Embarcadero Four,” Will gasped. “The firm's offices.”

“They'll trap us in there.”

Will's knees were sore, and his calf muscles burned. His hair was pasted to his forehead, and beads of sweat rolled down his face and stung his eyes. As he ran down the familiar corridor of Sacramento Street in front of the Embarcadero Center towers, he had the surreal sensation that he was a runner nearing the finish line of a race. But the crowd was not cheering him on. Instead, he saw only unfriendly, suspicious faces turned to observe the spectacle as they flailed their way through the sidewalk throng. Men and women in business suits came to a complete stop on the sidewalk to stare at them.

Will turned into Embarcadero Four, and they scrambled up the escalator past the shops to the second-floor lobby of the office building. Before stepping through the revolving door and passing the security guard, they slowed to a walk and quickly smoothed down their wild hair, mopping the sweat from their faces.

Pushing through the revolving door, they saw Nikolai and Yuri climbing the escalator behind them, their faces bright red.

Will stuck his hand into the closing door of an elevator, which opened to reveal one passenger, Betty Sanderson, a litigation paralegal at Reynolds Fincher. Will and Claire climbed inside, both unable to do anything but gasp.

Betty was a small, capable woman in her midforties who seemed to be willing herself to become even smaller as she pressed herself into the corner of the elevator and stared intently at the CNN headlines on the elevator's video screen. Betty's eyes darted ever more rapidly from the video screen to Will. Their eyes met as he looked up from his hunched posture, hands on his knees. Will gave her a nod of recognition that he hoped was reassuring. Betty quickly looked away, no doubt envisioning tomorrow's headlines about the fired attorneys who returned to their law firm's offices and the shooting rampage that ensued.

“We can't go—to—firm's offices. . . .” Claire gasped. “They won't let you in.”

“I know—that's not—where we're going,” Will said, punching the button for the sixth floor. The reception area of Reynolds Fincher was on the thirty-eighth floor.

The elevator doors opened on the central hallway of the sixth floor, which was shared by an accounting firm and an ad agency. Will got out and took Claire by the arm to pull her after him.

“Have a nice day, Betty. Say hi to everyone for me,” Will said. As the elevator doors slowly closed, Will saw Betty's facial muscles twitch, as she tried to decide whether it was more dangerous to acknowledge Will or ignore him. As the doors shut, she gave a curt, spastic nod in his direction.

“What do we do now?” Claire asked.

“There are two of them. They probably figure that we're going to try to hide in Reynolds' offices. One of them will take the elevator up to the firm on the thirty-eighth floor. One will stay in the lobby to see if we come out.”

“Yes, that sounds like a very good plan for
them
. But what do
we
do?”

“We take the elevator back down.”

“No. Like you said, we can't go back to the lobby.”

“We won't be going to the lobby. We're going to take the freight elevator down to the ground floor. The office lobby is on the second floor.”

Will went to the far end of the bank of elevators and pressed the separate set of buttons for the freight elevator. They waited for the elevator and anxiously eyed the bank of elevator doors, hoping they would not open to reveal the Russians.

Finally, the freight elevator arrived, its interior covered with green mover's padding. Will pressed
G
.

“There's just one possible problem,” Will said. “Let's hope no one at the office lobby level has punched the button for the freight elevator. If the doors open in the lobby, they'll see us.”

The floors ticked down on the elevator's digital display.
5
. . .
4
. . .
3
. . .
2
. . .
L
. Will and Claire exhaled simultaneously as the elevator continued downward to
G
.

The doors opened on the ground floor, filling the elevator with afternoon sunlight and a view of the Crabtree & Evelyn store, which was plastered with posters for a sale on scented soaps and bath powders. Will peered out of the elevator to see if the Russians were waiting for them, but he saw only a familiar mix of shoppers and office workers.

Will and Claire stepped out of the elevator and onto the sidewalk of Sacramento Street. As they crossed the street, Will glanced back to confirm that they were not being followed.

On the second floor of the Embarcadero Four tower, behind the lobby reception desk, was a floor-to-ceiling glass window. After scanning the ground floor of the building, Will's eyes drifted upward to the second-floor window—and there he saw Nikolai and Yuri standing in front of the glass, watching them walk away.

As they headed for the entrance to a BART station, Will touched Claire's arm and pointed at the Russians.

Without hesitation, Claire made a gesture that he was sure would register with them even at that distance. Feeling a swell of affection, Will put his arm around her as they climbed on an escalator that would take them down to the trains.

Will and Claire sat in silence as the BART train rattled across town toward the Civic Center, leaving Nikolai and Yuri far behind. The train car was crowded, and several people were standing in the aisle, businessmen lurching and bumping along side-by-side with the homeless.

“Where are we going?” Claire asked.

“Neither of us can go home, so we'd be better find a place to stay tonight. Someplace they'd never think to look for us.”

“And you have an idea?”

“I have an idea.”

Will knew of a dumpy motel far out on Geary Street near Golden Gate Park that would serve as a good hiding place for the night. He was afraid that if they stayed at one of the better hotels, the Russians might get lucky cold-calling front desks. Although they could have paid cash and signed in under a fake name, he thought that paying a two- or three-hundred-dollar hotel tab with twenties might attract suspicion. At a good hotel, there was also a chance that he might run into one of his former law firm colleagues or clients. Once they had found a safe place to stay for the night, they would have time to ponder their next move.

The driver of the train tapped the brakes and sent the standing passengers grabbing for the handrails. Will could hear the faint thump of bass, possibly Jay-Z, coming from the headphones of a boy in a black hoodie standing next to them.

The lights in the train flickered for a moment, then went out. It was not an uncommon occurrence, and it usually didn't last long. Nevertheless, Claire gripped his hand tightly in the darkness.

In that moment, Will was overcome by sickeningly vivid images of what would happen if Aashif Agha carried out his plan, and he knew that Claire must be thinking the same thing. It would start just like this, with the lights going out, and then the train would come to a stop.

After he had learned from the federal agents of Agha's attempts to purchase sarin gas, Will had read some online articles about the Japanese subway attack. He figured that Agha's plan might be executed in much the same fashion.

First, Agha's associates would probably bring liquid sarin solution onto the train in water bottles or other containers. In each train, one of the terrorists would puncture the bottle containing the sarin and leave it under his seat, just before getting off at a stop. As the train doors gasped shut, the sarin would already be leaking out of the punctured bottle, spreading across the floor of the train and emitting a toxic gas that was five hundred times as deadly as cyanide.

The sound of the darkened train thundering through the tunnels now seemed to grow unbearably loud. If the terrorists were able to use the encryption keys to somehow shut down the BART system, the fatalities would be multiplied many times over. There would be panic as the passengers shoved against each other to reach the doors. With the power out, it would be almost impossible for the clamoring, screaming throng to pry the doors open and reach the fresh air in the tunnels. The passengers would start choking and bleeding from the eyes and nose. Then they would begin collapsing. Even if power was restored in a matter of minutes, it would already be too late.

The car's lights sputtered and came back on as the train pulled into the Powell Street station.

“I have to get out of here,” Claire said, still clutching his hand, her breathing quick and shallow.

They hurried up the steps of the escalator to get to the open air. Once among the crowd of shoppers on Powell Street in Union Square, Will and Claire walked aimlessly for a while, both trying to shake off their shared nightmare.

“Did you ever think that one day someone would call you a terrorist?” Claire asked, leaning in close so no one else could hear.

“We're not terrorists.”

“But that's what they'll say, if this goes public.”

Will paused for a moment as they threaded their way through a wave of shoppers emerging from Macy's. “We haven't really done anything yet,” he said.

“I don't know about you, but I've stolen the encryption keys from Jupiter, which are basically a national security secret. And anything that even resembles aiding terrorists is enough to get you thrown in prison for a very long time.”

“I promise to visit you in San Quentin. You should know that the inmates call it
Q
.”

Claire narrowed her eyes at him. “Oh, go ahead and laugh, Mr. Aider-and-Abetter.”

After a bit of silence, Will said, “I have been thinking about what could happen if the encryption keys were in the hands of a terrorist like Aashif Agha. The attack on the trains is just the part of their plans that we know about.”

“I've been thinking the same thing.”

“Paragon is the most widely used encryption product. Anyone who had a back door to decrypt Paragon transmissions would probably be able to access banking records and commit identity theft on a scale that no one's ever seen before. People would lose their life savings. Lives would be ruined.”

“I don't think we have any way of knowing how much damage could be done,” Claire said. “What if they got the access codes for New York City's power grid? Or the identities of U.S. spies? Or anti-terrorism plans? We really have no concept of what we're messing with here.”

“I sort of wish you hadn't been so clever in getting the keys from your friend Riley,” Will said. “I never meant to get you involved like this.”