“YES!” he said in a loud voice, startling Kat.
“Yes what?”
“Just… a second,” he said, typing in a response to a password request. The first two attempts were rejected, but the third worked, and he turned to Kat with a triumphant look. “Walter created a new account under my name at his Internet service, and used his own name as the password.”
“How’d you figure that out?” she asked.
“Pure guesswork.”
“Pretty impressive, Watson,” Kat replied. “It says there’s a message waiting.”
“I’m pulling it up now,” he said, as it assembled itself on the laptop screen.
Robert,
Since you’ve found this, many weeks have probably elapsed and something has happened to me. I figured that when you saw the bill on your American Express for this new E-mail account, you’d go probing. I also figured anything I sent to your regular account would be monitored.
I apologize profusely for missing our appointment. I was being followed and had to go elsewhere, and didn’t want to endanger you by any other contact. I don’t know who these people are, but I can assure you I’m not seeing things, nor am I becoming delusional. Someone, or some group, is highly incensed that I wouldn’t just go back to my office at FAA and shut up. So, wherever I am, it’s time you saw what I’ve seen. Maybe you can piece the rest of this together and get it exposed.
The following message is generic, with appropriate references I hope you’ll follow quickly. First, there’s a man you need to find ASAP. Remember our discussion about your piece on Desert Storm vs. technology, and what you said about Uncle’s other tricks? Okay. This guy knows the new tricks, and why they’ve stayed invisible. You will have already received his name and locale by the time you find this, though you may not have recognized the message. Look again. It ends with the number 43. The main file you need to see is LOC’d up at my favorite hangout using the name WCCHRN.
One more thing. Remember Pogo’s admonition about the identity of the foe, and be very careful, because they are out to get us!/Walter.
Kat pulled out a steno pad and copied the message carefully. “Okay,” she said at last, looking at Robert. “What the heck does he mean?”
“The Desert Storm discussion and the reference to Uncle is probably about new military hardware, but… I don’t really remember. It’s been a long time.”
“How about his favorite hangout?”
“I suppose he means a restaurant, and probably the one at the Willard Hotel, but why would he store a disk or something there?”
“You’re assuming it’s a disk, right?”
“Yeah, knowing Walter. He thought best on a computer.”
“But why the spelling ‘LOC’?”
Robert sat scratching his chin for a few seconds, then shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m going to have to think about that. I wonder if he means his house?”
“Where is it?”
“Arlington, Virginia. A small house. He divorced a few years back. She wanted to enjoy life, he wanted to enjoy work. The house suits—suited him, poor guy. It’s furnished in Early Federal Disaster Area.”
“He’ll probably come back and haunt you for that slam. One more question, Robert. He referred to a message you should already have received, but you’ve checked every message service you have, right?”
“Aha!” Robert disconnected his computer from the phone and raised the handset to dial in an 800-number. He punched in some additional numbers and looked at Kat while waiting for it to answer. “I lost my beeper somewhere in the jungle back there in Vietnam, but the host system stores messages for weeks.” He hunkered down to listen as the distant computer replayed the messages of the previous week, then reached over to write them on the steno pad in her lap. He sat up suddenly, smiling as he wrote down another name and the words “Las Vegas,” then disconnected.
“That was it, Kat! Walter sent it through my beeper. The name of his deep-throat source is Dr. Brett Thomas of Las Vegas. The message ended in forty-three.”
“We’d better find him quickly. We won’t be the only ones looking.”
Kat had returned to the cockpit jump seat as the big DC-10 rounded the south end of Puget Sound. She watched as the copilot reached up and pulled the pillow and map off his glareshield as the aircraft made a wide right turn over Elliot Bay and settled on to the ILS approach for Runway 16 Left at Sea-Tac Airport.
“Landing gear down, before landing checklist,” Holt called as they intercepted the glide slope and began the steady final descent to the runway.
“Jerry?” he said to the copilot. “I want you to bottom your seat out and make sure you’re not looking outside, just in case.”
“All the way to touchdown?” the copilot asked.
Holt nodded, turning to the flight engineer. “You, too, Joe. Stay sideways. I know it’s against procedure to land that way, but I want you shielded, too.”
“You’re worried someone might fire at us from the buildings off the approach end of the runway, right?” Kat asked.
The captain nodded. “Any air crew is vulnerable on final approach. With what you told us, and having you on board…”
She nodded. “Understood. I appreciate the caution.”
“Five hundred feet, no flags,” the copilot called, reading the instruments as the three engine jumbo jet descended through an altitude of 500 feet above the housing areas below.
Without incident, the DC-10 transitioned smoothly over the highway bordering the north of the airport and settled gently onto the runway. Holt deployed the speed brakes and lifted the thrust reverser levers as he kept the nosewheel on the center line.
Kat’s attention shifted to the North Satellite terminal on their left. She could see the large sign designating the gate they were supposed to taxi into, and she could see a significant number of black sedans and police cars arrayed around the jetway.
A cold chill of reality reverberated up and down her spine. She had briefed Robert and the others to stay seated and arranged for the crew to close the main door after all other passengers had left, but was that enough? Judy said she would leave it closed until Kat could call and verify the names of the agents meeting them.
Even so, Jordan James’s warnings were ricocheting around her mind, mocking her decision to trust Jake’s assurances. They’re there, as Jake promised. But what if Jordan is right?
They were rolling past the North Satellite now, adjacent to the main terminal and decelerating smoothly. The tower controller directed the captain to turn off the runway at the very end, adding a postscript Kat almost missed.
“… and your company operations need you to contact them immediately.”
The copilot toggled in the company frequency and called in.
“Roger, Seven-thirty-two,” operations replied. “Change in plans. Due to… a request from U.S. Customs and the FBI, we need to park you briefly at the South Satellite, Gate S-ten. Keep everyone on board. When the powers that be are finished doing whatever it is they’re there to do, we’ll have a tug tow you to N-eight.”
Kat could feel her heart rate accelerating as the captain turned around in his seat to look at her. “Kat, it looks like your people are taking extraordinary precautions for you. We never park at the South Satellite on domestic flights.”
He guided the DC-10 through a left turn off the runway as Kat sat in stunned silence behind him, thinking as fast as she could. There were police and unmarked cars at the north gate. Suddenly they change us to the south terminal. Why?