A few of the other WATCH analysts cheered. “Did Beijing pull the plug?” asked Tony Moretti, standing now at the end of the second row of workstations.
“Maybe,” said Shel. “At least some of the initial openings came right from the Zhongnanhai complex, although they looked like hacks to me. But if I were a betting man—”
“You are a betting man,” Tony said.
“True, true.” Shel looked at his snake tattoo—the result of a bet he’d lost. “Webmind long ago beefed up the encryption on the signals from Caitlin Decter’s eyePod,” he said, “so I can’t say for sure, but I’d put money on the little lass from Texas.”
Tony nodded. “No doubt. And I’m sure Webmind didn’t like being cut in two.”
“Speaking of Webmind,” called out Todd Bertsch, one of the other analysts, from the back row, “I’ve just had a breakthrough, I think.”
Tony sprinted up the sloping floor and stood behind Bertsch, who was in his early forties, with thinning brown hair and blue gray eyes. Bertsch had been assigned to the task Colonel Hume had beseeched Tony to undertake: locate the missing hackers. “What have you got?”
“It’s what they always say,” Bertsch said, with a satisfied grin on his face. “Follow the money. Webmind bought a company called Zwerling Optics. The company was in Chapter 11, and they weren’t likely to be coming out. He bought the whole building, contents and all, from the receiver.”
“Webmind directly?”
“No. It was done through three intermediaries, but it was easy to trace back to him.”
“You’re sure it’s him?” Tony asked.
Bertsch gave him a look.
“Sorry,” Tony said. “Of course you’re sure. What about the missing hackers?”
“At least some of them still have Internet access—coming from inside the Zwerling Optics building. They haven’t posted anything, but I used the Bilodeau sieve and identified three of them with a high degree of certainty.”
The Bilodeau sieve, developed by Marie Bilodeau of the RCMP, was based on a simple premise: the specific websites and blogs regularly accessed by a person are idiosyncratic to that person. Tony’s own morning ritual included visiting Slate and the Huffington Post—hardly an unusual combination—but also TrekMovie.com (the new film was shaping up to be so good!), MobileRead.com (he had a fascination with ebook-reading hardware even though he preferred paper books), Wired’s Threat Level blog, and the US weather forecast for Miami (which was where his parents had retired to), plus checking Twitter for the hashtags #nsa and #aquarium. Those eight things were enough to identify him even if he didn’t log on or post anything of his own.
Bertsch was pointing at his monitor, which was showing the telltale list of URLs frequented by the hacker known as Chase—who, among other things, followed the part of Craigslist where antique computer equipment was bought and sold.
“So our hackers are alive and well,” said Tony.
“Looks that way,” Bertsch replied, showing him some additional Bilodeau IDs. “Webmind may have rounded them up, but at least some of them are still kicking.”
“Doing what?”
Bertsch shrugged. “Can’t say. They’re not doing anything suspicious online—but as to what they’re doing offline, your guess is as good as mine.”
“Okay, good work,” Tony said. “I’m going to go call Colonel Hume.”
He went down the short white corridor to his office and punched out digits on his double-secured and scrambled phone.
“Hello?” said the voice that answered on the second ring.
“Colonel Hume,” said Tony. “Tony Moretti. We’ve located your hackers.”
“Oh, God,” said Hume. “All of them together?”
“We’ve identified at least three—Chase, Brandon Slovak, and Kinsen Ng—with a high degree of certainty.”
“DNA? Or dental records?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Colonel, but it’s not a mass grave. They’re alive in an office building in Takoma Park—a place called Zwerling Optics. We identified them by their distinctive web-usage patterns.”
“Oh,” said Hume, sounding surprised, then, a moment later: “What would you like to do now?”
“Well, the FBI’s investigating, right?” said Tony. “We don’t want to mess things up for them; obviously, we didn’t have a warrant for this investigation, so us tipping them off directly could taint any convictions.”
“You’re suggesting due process for Webmind?” said Hume, sounding surprised.
“I’m suggesting we play by the rules except when we don’t have to. Clearly, Webmind had to have human accomplices: that whole got-no-arms thing is a get-out-of-jail-free card for him otherwise when it comes to kidnapping charges.”
“All right,” said Hume. “I’ll let the Bureau know. And, don’t worry—I’ll keep you out of it.”
“I’m not sure you should be involved either, Colonel.”
“Tony, you know as well as I do that I’m being watched. The White House hasn’t cut me off yet because they don’t want to; they’re hedging their bets—giving the president plausible deniability while still letting me give them an option to take out Webmind.”
Tony took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “All right,” he said. “But be careful.”
thirty-four
On the evening of the school dance, Matt came to Caitlin’s house to get her. In Ontario, as Caitlin had learned, a sixteen-year-old could get a G1 driver’s license—but had to have another licensed driver in the car for the first year of driving. Matt could drive, but he’d have to bring an adult along, so he and Caitlin walked to the dance. There was no breeze to speak of, and it felt like about forty-five degrees to Caitlin, and—
No, she was in Canada now, and they (sensibly!) used the metric system here. She did the conversion instantly in her head: 45 minus 32 times 5 divided by 9; it was about seven degrees Celsius out. Much colder than it would be back in Texas, but people had assured her it wasn’t bad for late October in Waterloo. Anyway, even though she had on a denim jacket, it gave her an excuse to squeeze closer to Matt.
Caitlin had only walked to the school once before: when Trevor Nordmann—the Hoser himself—had escorted her to the last school dance. Back then, she’d been blind: her first hints of vision hadn’t occurred until later that evening, coming home alone through the pouring rain during a thunderstorm. All the other times she’d gone to the school, one of her parents had given her a lift.
It was turning out to be a pleasant walk: she was getting good at walking on unfamiliar terrain at a reasonable speed. At first, she’d felt uncomfortable trying to do so without her white cane, but she liked strolling along holding Matt’s hand.
Howard Miller Secondary School had an impressive white portico in front of its entrance. Caitlin and Matt passed through it and headed down the series of corridors that led to the main gymnasium.
Music blared from the speakers as they entered; Caitlin didn’t recognize the song, but there were lots of Canadian groups she didn’t know. The lighting was dim, and there were a couple of dozen people dancing—jumping about really; it was a fast song. At least as many people were standing around the edges of the room, some talking in small groups, others texting away. Sounds echoed off the hard walls and floor, and it was quite warm.
“Hey, Cait,” said a voice she recognized.
She turned and smiled. “Hi, Sunshine!”
“Hi. Hey, Matt.”
“Hi, Sunshine,” he said, and Caitlin was pleased that he spoke up as he did so.