"What do you mean?" asked Fitzsimmons.
D'Arcy took off his glasses and used them to point at the paper in front of him. "Our chief problem is that Zimmerman can compromise our entire intelligence network. Even if she isn't working for a hostile power, as long as she has access to a computer, we might as well hand her every plan we make. There's no such thing as a secure operation."
"We're that deeply compromised?" Fitzsimmons asked.
"How else was she alerted to your little sting, Larry?" D'Arcy looked back at the papers in front of him. "She's been a step ahead of you all the way."
General Harris shook his head and tossed down a folder that he'd been looking at. "Christ, I want to know how we allowed a single individual to be responsible for critical security measures in so many systems. I don't understand this math crap, but that much information in one head was a security risk from
the get-go—"
D'Arcy nodded. "That's obvious in retrospect. But given the algorithms she developed, she was the only individual qualified to develop security measures against them. Apparently the psych profiles—or the people who interpreted them—confused Zimmerman's dedication with loyalty."
Fitzsimmons shook his head. "We were probably asking for this to happen."
Harris looked across at D'Arcy. "What are we doing to find her?"
D'Arcy nodded. "Quite right, blame is counterproductive. Our concern is retrieving Zimmerman, or, failing that, preventing her knowledge from falling into enemy hands. As I've said, operations within the community are compromised."
Fitzsimmons frowned, recognizing D'Arcy's reputation. "You mean you want to contract this job out? Like Nicaragua in the eighties?"
"No." D'Arcy opened a file in front of him and passed a photograph around to the other two men. "You both should know this man."
Fitzsimmons pulled the picture over toward him. The photo was of a grave-looking blfxk man in a police uniform standing in front of an American flag. 'This is the cop who stumbled onto the Daedalus operation?"
He slid the picture to General Harris. Harris looked at the picture, "Malcolm, isn't it?"
"Detective Gideon Malcolm," D'Arcy said. "He's received several commendations from the District police department, and his work reports are uniformly excellent. He is currently on a six-month disability leave stemming from the gunshot wounds he received."
"Okay," Fitzsimmons asked, "What does he have to do with Zimmerman, other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time?"
"Good Detective Malcolm is attempting to do our job for us." D'Arcy leaned back. "And he may have gotten just as close to Zimmerman on his own as we've managed to get."
"That's impossible," Fitzsimmons said.
General Harris looked up from the photo and said, "I understood we've contained the nature of what we've lost."
D'Arcy looked down at the pages in front of him. "Despite that, Malcolm is investigating the Evolutionary Theorems Lab."
The other two men appeared shocked at the news.
General Harris turned toward Fitzsimmons and tore into him. "You gave us all assurances that, at the very least, you contained the news of Zimmerman's defection. Now I hear a street cop is digging into her past—What the hell were you Agency boys doing?"
"Detective Malcolm was following some unanticipated leads," D'Arcy took out another picture and passed it over. This one was a black-and-white telephoto shot, showing Malcolm with a crutch and his cast, knocking on a door to a dark brownstone. The picture was tilted, showing that the photographer was working at an awkward angle. "This picture was taken in Cambridge on Monday."
"Who?" Fitzsimmons looked at the picture, as if trying to make sense of it.
"He paid a visit to Doctor Michael Nolan, Zimmerman's former partner in the Evolutionary Theorems Lab. We've had all the former lab members under surveillance—those we could find."
"Christ," General Harris said. "Can't we keep a lid on this thing?"
"There's more," D'Arcy said. "I have a report here that we intercepted a sensitive request from the Forensic department in the District. Someone was trying to run a set of two prints through the FBI computers. The prints belong to Dr. Zimmerman and a Mister Michael Gribaldi, one of the post-grads from the lab. Zimmerman's on file for her Security Clearance, Gribaldi for an arrest for marijuana possession—"
"What'd we miss?" Fitzsimmons shook his head.
"Malcolm never got those results," D'Aracy said. "But he still ended up on Dr. Nolan's doorstep asking questions—"
"We have to bring him in," General Harris said. "Debrief him, he already knows enough to damage—"
D'Arcy held up his hand and replaced his glasses. "This is an opportunity, and we should view it as such."
"What are you talking about?" Fitzsimmons asked.
"This man is exactly what we need to close in on Zimmerman. She's demonstrated her ability to stay ahead of us. She knows too much about how we operate and how to determine what we're doing." D'Arcy took back the uniformed picture of Gideon Malcolm. "This man is a wild card, an individual with his own agenda. Zimmerman is so busy watching the lumbering elephant of the intelligence community, she might miss this little mouse."
General Harris shook his head. "I can't say I like this idea. This is too sensitive a matter to leave in the
hands of a civilian."
"Exactly what are you proposing? Recruit him?"
D'Arcy shook his head. "Even if he would work with us, no. That would make him part of the intelligence community that Zimmerman's compromised. Detective Malcolm must remain a loose cannon if he's to be of any use to us."
"Even if we do that," General Harris said, "how can we hide the fact we're using him to flush her? Zimmerman has us compromised. As soon as there's any internal intel from us watching Detective Malcolm, Zimmerman's going to know we're using him."
"That, too, is simple."
"Explain it, then," Fitzsimmons said. "Adrian is right about how exposed we are. How's this going to be different from any internal operation?"
"It's this," D'Arcy said. "We have access to an unofficial means to keep track of Malcolm."
"How do we know that Malcolm is going to continue in the direction we want him to go?" Fitzsimmons asked.
"His psych profile shows a deep attachment to his brother. He followed him into law enforcement, even tried to join the FBI. He is prone to take responsibility for the incident. He has a powerful personal motive to uncover what happened with the Daedalus." D'Arcy smiled. "And the man we have to watch him can also prod him in the right direction, again outside normal channels."
"I'm sorry, but Mr. Kendal isn't in the office today. Can I take a message?"
"No," Gideon said, "I'll call back later."
He hung up the kitchen phone wondering where the hell Kendal was. His former partner had been AWOL since Gideon had come back from Cambridge. Gideon didn't want to leave town again until he touched bases with him and found out what he'd discovered about the computer thieves, the ones who were trying to sell the Daedalus to Zimmerman.
Kendal's disappearance was ominous.
Gideon made his way slowly up the stairs to his computer. It had been exactly a month since he'd been shot, and in a few days the cast on his arm would come off. He was still doing physical therapy exercises for his leg, but it seemed to resist getting better. He would never have gone downstairs if it wasn't for the fact the kitchen, and all his food, was down here.
It was a relief to take a seat in front of the computer.
He had spent the last few days in this seat, putting together what he could about Julia Zimmerman. She had done her graduate and her undergraduate work at UCLA. Her family came from Brooklyn.
It had been fairly easy to trace her, from all the academic information on the Internet. What was hard, nearly impossible, was to find her after she left MIT. After that she had vanished from the academic community, leaving no traces. There wasn't any direct way he could confirm Nolan's assertion that Zimmerman went to work for the National Security Agency. . .