Carver had to stop that. A critical mistake didn’t have to be a fatal mistake, he told himself. He closed his eyes and thought for a long moment. It brought his confidence back. Some of it. He knew he was prepared for all eventualities. The beginning tendrils of a plan were reaching to him and the first order of business was to delete the message on the screen in front of him, and then go back into Angela Cook’s account and delete it from her mailbox as well. Prendergast and Cook would never see it and, with any luck, they’d never know what Jack McEvoy knew.
Carver deleted the message but before signing off uploaded a spy-ware program that would allow him to track all of Prendergast’s Internet activities in real time. He would know who Prendergast e-mailed, who contacted him and what websites he viewed. Carver then returned to Cook’s account and quickly took the same actions.
McEvoy was next but Carver decided that could come later-after Jack got to Vegas and was operating out there alone. First things first. He got up and put his hand on the reader next to the glass door to the server room. Once the scan was completed and approved, the door unlocked and he slid it open. It was cold in the server room, always kept at a brisk sixty-two degrees. His steps echoed on the raised metal flooring as he walked down the third row to the sixth tower. He unlocked the front of the refrigerator-size server with a key, bent down and pulled two of the data blades out a quarter inch. He then closed and relocked the door and headed back to his workstation.
Within a few seconds a screen alarm buzzed from the workstations. He typed in commands that would bring up the response protocol. He then waited a few more seconds and reached over to the phone. He pushed the intercom button and typed in McGinnis’s extension.
“Hey, boss, you still there?”
“What is it, Wesley? I’m about to head out.”
“We’ve got a code three problem. You better come look.”
Code 3 meant drop everything and move.
“I’ll be right there.”
Carver tried to suppress a smile. He wouldn’t want McGinnis to see it. Three minutes later McGinnis came through the door, his key card snapping back to his belt. He was out of breath from taking the stairs down.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“Dewey and Bach in L.A. just got data-bombed. The whole route collapsed.”
“Jesus, how?”
“You got me.”
“Who did it?”
Carver shrugged.
“Can’t tell from this end. It might’ve been internal.”
“You call them yet?”
“No, I was waiting to tell you first.”
McGinnis stood behind Carver, shifting his weight from foot to foot and looking through the glass at the servers, as if the answer was in there.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“The problem’s not here-I’ve checked everything. It’s on their end. I think I need to send somebody out there to fix it and reopen the traffic. I think Stone is up. I’ll send him. Then we see where it came from and make sure it won’t happen again. If it’s a hack, then we burn the fuckers in their beds.”
“How long will it take?”
“They have flights to L.A. almost every hour. I’ll put Stone on a plane and he’ll hit it first thing tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you go? I want this taken care of.”
Carver hesitated. He wanted McGinnis to keep thinking it was his idea.
“I think Freddy Stone can handle it.”
“But you’re the best. I want Dewey and Bach to see that we don’t fuck around. We get things done. You got a problem, we send our best man. Not some kid. Take Stone or whoever you need, but I want you to go.”
“I’ll leave right now.”
“Just keep me informed.”
“Will do.”
“I gotta get to the airport myself to make that pickup.”
“Yeah, you’ve got the tough job.”
“Don’t rub it in.”
He clapped Carver on the shoulder and went back out through the door. Carver sat there motionless for a few moments, feeling the residual compression on his shoulder. He hated to be touched.
Finally, he moved. He leaned toward his screen and entered the alarm disengagement code. He confirmed the protocol and then deleted it.
Carver pulled his cell phone and hit a speed dial number.
“What’s up?” Stone said.
“Are you still with Early?”
“Yeah, we’re building the tower.”
“Come back to the control room. We have a problem. Actually, two problems. And we need to take care of them. I’m working on a plan.”
“On my way.”
Carver closed the phone with a snap.
SIX: The Loneliest Road in America
At nine A.M. Wednesday I was waiting outside the locked door of the offices of Schifino & Associates on the fourth floor of an office building on Charleston near downtown Las Vegas. I was tired and slid down the wall to sit on the nicely carpeted floor. I was feeling particularly unlucky in a town that was supposed to inspire luck.
The early morning had started out well enough. After checking into the Mandalay Bay at midnight, I found myself too keyed up to sleep. I went down to the casino and turned the two hundred dollars I had brought with me into three times that amount at the roulette and blackjack tables.
The growth of my cash portfolio along with the free booze I’d drunk while gambling made sleep come easier when I returned to my room. Things took a dramatic downturn after my wake-up call came. The problem was I wasn’t supposed to have a wake-up call. The front desk was calling to tell me my Times-issued American Express card had been rejected.
“That doesn’t make sense,” I said. “I bought an airline ticket with it last night, I rented a car at McCarran and it was fine when I checked in here. Somebody ran the card.”
“Yes, sir, that is just an authorizing process. The card is not charged until six A.M. on the morning of checkout. We ran the card and it was rejected. Could you please come down and give us another card?”
“No problem. I wanted to get up now anyway so I could win some more of your money.”
Only there was a problem, because my three other credit cards didn’t work either. All were rejected and I was forced to chip back half of my winnings to get out of the hotel. Once I got to my rental car I pulled out my cell to start calling the credit-card companies one by one. Only I couldn’t make the calls because my phone was dead, and it wasn’t a matter of being in a bad cell zone. The phone was dead, service disconnected.
Annoyed and confused but undaunted, I headed to the address I had looked up for William Schifino. I still had a story to pursue.
A few minutes after nine, a woman stepped off the elevator and headed down the hallway toward me. I noticed the slight hesitation in her step when she saw me on the floor leaning against Schifino’s door. I stood up and nodded as she got closer.
“Do you work with William Schifino?” I said with a smile.
“Yes, I’m his receptionist. What can I do for you?”
“I need to speak to Mr. Schifino. I came from Los Angeles. I-”
“Do you have an appointment? Mr. Schifino sees potential clients by appointment only.”
“I don’t have an appointment but I’m not a potential client. I’m a reporter. I want to talk to Mr. Schifino about Brian Oglevy. He was convicted last year of-”
“I know who Brian Oglevy is. That case is on appeal.”
“Right, I know, I know. I have new information. I think Mr. Schifino will want to speak to me.”
She paused with her key a few inches from the lock and turned her eyes as if to size me up for the first time.
“I know he will,” I said.
“You can come in and wait. I don’t know when he’ll be in. He doesn’t have court until this afternoon.”