In this endeavor Jack Junior was out of his element; he could no more pull intel out of raw software code than he could read Sanskrit.
Ryan rejoined his fellow analysts and went to work looking into the Libyan cell and their mysterious benefactor via other means, while Biery spent virtually every waking minute when he was not working on other Hendley/Campus IT duties huddled in his lonely but secure conference room with the Istanbul Drive.
It took Gavin weeks to open and test and retest every one of the hundreds of executable files on the drive in order to see what it did and how it affected the rest of the machine, and when this task yielded nothing of value he then drilled down into the source code, the text-based instructions of each program, tens of thousands of lines of data that, ultimately, revealed nothing more than the executables.
Then, after he’d expended weeks of effort, he began digging into the machine code. This was the computer language sequence, long strings of 1’s and 0’s that really told the processor what to do.
While the source code was high-tech and arcane, the machine code was nigh on indecipherable to anyone but an expert in computer programming.
It was mind-numbingly boring, even for a guy who lived for computer code, but despite suggestions from his fellow computer geeks that he was chasing ghosts in the machine, and nudges from the top brass at Hendley to hurry up or declare the exercise fruitless, Gavin kept working at his slow, methodical pace.
Jack had been thinking about the night in Istanbul and the subsequent monthlong investigation while he waited for his computer to boot up. He realized he’d lost track of time for a moment, snapping out of it to find himself staring at the camera above his computer monitor. It was a built-in device that was sometimes used for Web chat communications with other departments around the building. Even though Gavin had pronounced the company network impregnable, Jack still spent a lot of time with that twitchy feeling that he was being watched.
He looked deeply into the camera, still thinking of that night in Istanbul.
With a shake of his head he said, “You’re too young to be paranoid.”
He stood to head over to the break room for a cup of coffee, but before he walked off he grabbed a Post-it note from a pad next to his keyboard, then stuck the gummed portion of the paper over the camera lens.
A low-tech solution to a high-tech problem, more for his own peace of mind than anything else.
As Jack turned he took one step toward the hallway before he stopped suddenly, heaving in surprise.
In front of him stood Gavin Biery.
Jack saw Biery virtually every workday, and the guy never exactly appeared to be the epitome of good health, but today he looked like death warmed over. Here at eight-thirty a.m. his clothes were wrinkled, his thinning gray-brown hair was askew, and dark baggy circles hung pronounced above his fleshy cheeks.
On the best of days Gavin was a guy whose face looked like the only light it ever saw was the glow of his LCD monitor, but today he looked like a vampire in his coffin.
“Holy shit, Gav. Did you spend the night here?”
“The weekend, actually,” answered Biery in a tired but excited voice.
“You need some coffee?”
“Ryan… at this point, I bleed coffee.”
Jack chuckled at this. “Well, at least tell me your shitty weekend was worth it.”
Now Biery’s soft face tightened into a smile. “I found it. I freaking found it!”
“You found what?”
“I found remnants of the malware on the Istanbul Drive. It’s not much, but it’s a clue.”
Jack pumped his fist into the air. “Awesome!” he said, but internally he could not help but think, It’s about damn time.
NINE
While Ryan and Biery headed together down to the technology department, John Clark sat in his office, drumming the fingers of his good hand on his desk. It was just past eight-thirty; the director of operations of The Campus, Sam Granger, would have been in his office and working for more than an hour already, and the director of The Campus and the “white side” operation, Hendley Associates, Gerry Hendley, would just now be settling into his office.
No reason to put this off any longer. Clark picked up the phone and pushed a number.
“Granger.”
“Hey, Sam, it’s John.”
“Morning. Good weekend?”
No. Not really, he thought. “It was fine. Hey, can I come talk to you and Gerry when you guys get a moment?”
“You bet. Gerry just walked in the door. We’re free right now. Come on.”
“Roger.”
Five minutes later Clark stepped into the office of Gerry Hendley on the ninth floor of the building. Gerry stepped around his desk and executed the left-handed handshake that most everyone in the building had been offering Clark since January. Sam stood from a chair in front of Gerry’s desk and led John to the chair next to his.
Out the window behind Hendley’s desk, rolling Maryland cornfields and horse farms ran north toward Baltimore.
Gerry said, “What’s up, John?”
“Gentlemen, I’ve decided it’s time to face facts. The right hand is not coming back. Not one hundred percent. Say seventy-five percent, tops, and that’s only after a hell of a lot more therapy. May be another surgery or two in my future.”
Hendley winced. “Damn it, John. I’m sorry to hear that. We were all hoping this time under the knife would be the one that made you one hundred percent again.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
Sam said, “You take as much time as you need. With the ongoing investigation into the Istanbul Drive, the stand-down could last several more weeks, and if analysis doesn’t—”
“No,” John said flatly with a shake of his head. “It’s time for me to pack it in. To retire.”
Sam and Gerry just stared at him. Finally Sam said, “You are a crucial part of this operation, John.”
Clark sighed. “I was. That son of a bitch Valentin Kovalenko and his henchmen ended it.”
“Bullshit. You’ve got more capabilities than most of the National Clandestine Service at Langley.”
“Thanks, Gerry, but I’ve got to hope the CIA is sticking to paramilitary operations officers who can hold a firearm with their dominant hand if required to do so. That skill is beyond my capabilities at the moment.”
Neither Gerry nor Sam had a response to this.
Clark continued, “It’s not just the hand. My clandestine fieldwork potential was damaged by all the press about me last year. Yeah, the heat is off at the moment, most of the media ran off with their tails between their legs when it came out that they were spreading propaganda for Russian intelligence, but think about it, Gerry. It will just take one intrepid reporter on a slow news day to do one of those ‘Where are they now?’ stories. He’ll tail me here, they’ll dig a little deeper, and then next thing you know 60 Minutes will be down at reception with a camera, asking for a moment of your time.”
Hendley’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell them to get the hell off my property.”
Clark smiled. “If it was only that easy. Seriously. I don’t want to see another convoy of black SUVs with FBI tactical guys pulling up on my farm. Once was more than enough.”