The Second Ship (The Rho Agenda #1)(52)
“No—at least, not in any sophisticated sense of the word. This is just one of the standard tourist information terminals.”
“That could make it a little tough to lay our hands on.”
“More like impossible. The system was just taken off-line by Russian customs authorities. They received an anonymous tip that it was being used by foreign agents as an encrypted message server.”
“Were we able to trace the tip? Where did it originate?”
“Actually, we saw it get generated. You’re not going to like the answer to your question, though.”
“Look, I can’t dislike it any more than I’m disliking how long you’re taking to get to the point, Dr. Kurtz.”
“The e-mail tip was generated from that same airport computer.”
“And the tip was in Russian?”
“Flawless Russian, according to the boys downstairs,” said Kurtz.
“Shit! I don’t believe this.”
Kurtz grinned. “I didn’t either. No one is that good or that lucky. That’s why I started a complete analysis of the New Year’s Day Virus pattern from early-stage infection until the trace program was completed. When that analysis run finished, we spotted a very interesting anomaly in the data. Everything was consistent until about an hour before we identified the source computer in the Moscow terminal. Then it changed.”
Riles' gaze narrowed. “How so?”
“The agent programs left behind by the virus got cleaned from the net, leaving almost no traces. We barely managed to identify the trail back to Moscow. It looked like a really effective antivirus program swept the net.”
“Did you recheck the routing tables on all the Internet routers?”
“That’s how we found Moscow.”
Riles paused, rubbing his chin. “The tip was in flawless Russian you say? Maybe too good, as in textbook? I think someone is playing a little game with us.
“I want you to go back several hours before the trace completed. Figure out the key routers in the network pattern you were following and compare the most recent routing tables with those saved off on tape backup from the previous night.”
Kurtz nodded. “I’ll get right on it. We are going to need some subpoenas to get those records, unless you want Gregory's team involved again.”
“No, go through normal channels this time. Since we’ve hit a dead end, we have plenty of time to backtrack. Besides, I have other plans for Jack.”
Jonathan Riles turned and strode out of David Kurtz’s lab softly whistling the theme song to The Titanic.
Chapter 35
Heather rolled over in bed and opened her eyes, surprised to see her own arms stretching high into the air. It was Saturday, and she was still alive and not in a federal penitentiary. Considering the horrible nature of her dreams, this waking was a major improvement. Jesus. She had been so busy just trying to survive the week that she hadn’t really had a chance to notice much about the arrival of the New Year. But here it was, already six days in.
Heather rolled out of bed and slipped into her long, flannel robe and her fur-lined, moccasin-style slippers, then made her way quietly down to the kitchen. By the time the teakettle started whistling, she already had the chamomile tea bag situated in her cup, switched on the television, and begun channel surfing for any news that might indicate some other disaster was on its way to annihilate them.
The smell of the tea wafted up to her nostrils as she began pouring the hot water over the bag, and then paused to add a little Splenda.
At first she barely registered the scratching at the kitchen window, so softly did it intrude into her consciousness. When she did look up, there was nothing there, just a large section where the condensation had left a cloud on the pane. Only as she started to turn away did she see it, crude letters in the condensation where a finger had traced them on the outside of the glass.
“I know what you are.”
Heather set down her tea and walked across to the windowsill. On closer inspection, it was a thin layer of frost, not steam or condensation, that had been scratched away.
She shifted her gaze to the tree line at the back edge of their yard. There, standing in the snow beneath the pines, stood the Rag Man, his long, greasy, blond hair and the mouthful of bad teeth in his grinning face immediately recognizable. His eyes, though. Where were his eyes?
For a brief moment Heather considered calling her dad, but her fury wouldn’t let the man escape yet again. Grabbing a long butcher knife from the block on the countertop, Heather opened the sliding glass door and stepped out into the predawn darkness, the garden dimly illuminated by the light from their back porch. As she stepped out, the Rag Man slid back into the trees.
Heather lunged after him, almost slipping on the ice coating the deck’s lower step, but she managed to right herself as she plunged into the snow-covered grass beyond. She reached the tree where she had last seen him, whirling to make sure he did not jump out of the darkness behind her.
There in the snow beneath the tree, a clear set of footprints led into the woods just beyond her backyard. Heather sucked in a deep breath, then moved, head bent to keep the trail in sight as she made her way forward. In seconds the trees behind her masked her house from view, bringing down a deeper darkness that would have been absolute, except for the light of the three-quarter moon that filtered through the branches high above.