Wired. Part 4

"So what would you do if you were still determined to get journals you needed?"

Griffin considered. "I'd put up relays," he responded after only a few seconds of thought. "I'd break through firewalls and shanghai any number of Internet-connected computers around the world, using them as relays, routing the incoming journals through a tangled web of these before it reached me. With enough relays, I'd be virtually untraceable."

Desh considered. "And what if you didn't want searchers to even have the satisfaction of knowing you were out there and receiving the journals," he said. "Even if you were untraceable. What if you wanted the world to think you really had vanisheda"that you might be dead even?"

Griffin answered almost immediately. "In that case, I'd just hack into the journals and steal the subscriptions. Then there would be no subscriber record in the databases for experts to find. And you wouldn't have to pay for it either," he noted. "In fact, now that I think about it, that's the best reason of all to do it this way."

"To save money?

"No. To save an ident.i.ty."

Desh's eyes narrowed. "I see," he said as Griffin's meaning registered. "Because the only way to buy an online subscription is by using a credit card."

"Exactly," said Griffin. "So if those searching for you uncovered your purchase, even if they couldn't trace you, the false ident.i.ty you used would be blown."

"Okay. Suppose she did steal the subscriptions. Could you track such a theft?"

Griffin gazed at the ceiling as he considered the various facets of the problem. "I think so," he said finally.

"Come on, Matt," chided Desh. "Someone with your prodigious talent? Should be a snap for you."

"I'll take that as a challenge," said Griffin.

"Good," said Desh, determination burning in his eyes. "Because that's exactly the way I intended it."

7.

Matt Griffin worked on the problem for an hour while Desh looked on patiently. As it neared lunchtime, Desh offered to go for takeout, an offer that Griffin readily accepted. Desh returned thirty-five minutes later carrying a paper sack containing a number of white, garden-variety Chinese takeout boxes and knocked on the door.

Griffin hurriedly undid the locks and opened the door with a broad, cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on his bearded face. "I did it," he announced triumphantly.

"Fantastic!" said Desh, handing him the bag of Chinese food and shutting the door behind him. "What did you find?" he asked eagerly.

"You were right about her. She's good. Very good."

Griffin sat down at his desk chair and set the bag of food on the floor beside him. "If she really does have a background in biology rather than computers, I think she's earned rookie of the year honors."

Desh lifted the large wicker chair with one arm and moved it a few feet back so it was facing Griffin. Desh sat down, his eyes locked intently on the giant as he continued.

"It turns out that all three journals have a number of, ah a discount subscribers, shall we say, that they don't know about. Somehow, considering the nature of these journals, that surprised me."

"Didn't think readers of such scholarly journals would engage in petty theft?"

Griffin nodded.

"Nothing surprises me anymore," said Desh cynically. "So how did you sort through them to find her?" he pressed, not allowing the discussion to become sidetracked.

"Two of the journals were being siphoned to the same e-mail address as of about ten months ago. No other stolen subscriptions among the three journals had the same signature."

"Good work," said Desh appreciatively. "Now tell me the bad news."

"What makes you think there is any?"

"It couldn't be this easy."

Griffin smiled. "You're right, as it turns out. It's a dead end. She's more sophisticated than I had guessed. The e-mailed journals are routed through an impenetrable maze of computers. Even someone better than mea"if such a person existed," he added, grinning, "wouldn't be able to trace through all the relays to find her computer."

Desh frowned. "At least we know she's still alive."

"And still keeping up on the latest research," added Griffin.

Desh nodded at the bag of food. "Dig in," he offered.

Griffin went to the kitchen and returned with large plastic forks and the biggest cardboard plates Desh had ever seen, with a cheerful, orange-and-yellow floral pattern printed on each one. He handed a fork and plate to Desh, and dumped two full containers of cashew chicken along with a container of white rice on his plate. Desh slopped half a box of beef broccoli onto his own plate with some rice, and began picking at it, while Griffin shoveled the food into his giant maw as rapidly as he had navigated the Web.

"You've done a nice job, Matt," said Desh. "We've made faster progress than I expected. But this is about where I thought we'd end up."

"So any ideas of where to go from here?"

Desh nodded thoughtfully. "As a matter of fact, yes. We can't trace her through all her relays, but can we use them to contact her?"

Griffin raised his eyebrows. "Interesting thought."

"Well?" pressed Desh.

"Sure. It would be easy. Just name your message and I'll send it," he offered helpfully.

Desh held up a hand. "Not just yet," he said. "I'd like to ping her first. Send in some tracking software that she'll detect and defeat."

"To what end?"

"So she knows someone's out there turning over this particular rock looking for her."

"You sure that's a good idea? It gives her a warning. Also, it's in her best interest to have as much information as possible about whoever is pursuing her. If I were her, I'd trace the ping back to us."

"That's what I'm counting on," said Desh with a thin smile. He rose and lifted his black laptop off the corner of Griffin's desk. "I want you to set everything up on my laptop, so when she does trace the ping, she traces it back to me." He paused. "a.s.suming she doesn't already know my ident.i.ty and that I'm after her. I wouldn't rule that out," he added warily. "Set up software that will watch for a breach and record everything possible about its source. I also want you to plant a tracer, so if she does invade my computer, it can latch on and follow the breadcrumb trail back to her."

"She'll be expecting that. I'll try to plant a red herring for her to find and then a more subtle tracking program, but I suspect I won't fool her." Griffin shrugged. "Worth a try though," he acknowledged.

Desh didn't expect a tracer to work either. This wasn't his real plan. What he hadn't told Griffin was that he planned to imbed information on his computer for Kira Miller to find, indicating he was closing in on her. Perhaps he could force her hand. If she really thought he was skilled enough at pursuit to be dangerous to her, perhaps she would take the bait and come after him. It was the best strategy he had been able to come up with on the long drive from North Carolina. If you can't bring the mountain to Mohamed a Desh handed his laptop to Griffin and watched carefully as the giant worked his magic, downloading software and setting traps on his system.

About ten minutes into the exercise a troubled look came over Griffin's face. He glanced at Desh but said nothing for several more minutes as he worked the mouse and keyboard. Finally, he stopped what he was doing and met Desh's eyes worriedly. "I'm afraid your plan's not going to work," he said grimly.

Desh tilted his head in confusion. "Why not?"

"Because you were right. She does know you're after her."

"How in the world do you know that?"

"Because she's already paid a visit to your computer," explained Griffin evenly. "Last night."

Desh felt his stomach clench. "You're positive?"

"I'm afraid so. I confirmed it twice. She got through your firewall and invaded your computer. And she downloaded everything she needs."

"What do you mean by *everything'?"

"I mean everything. She has a copy of it all. Your hard drive, your e-mail logsa"everything." Griffin looked back at the computer monitor and shook his head in disbelief. "She may just be as good as me, after all," he said with just a hint of admiration creeping into his voice.

8.

Matt Griffin performed computer forensics on Desh's laptop for several hours, but in the end was unable to come up with a single lead. Kira Miller had worn the computer equivalent of gloves for this theft, leaving no fingerprints or DNA behind to help give them a direction in which to search for her.

But Griffin did discover she had created a backdoor entrance for herself: one that would make future journeys into his laptop's inner sanctum to retrieve this and other data routine, regardless of any added security.

Connelly's suspicions were certainly warranted. There was a leak in USASOCa"wide enough to steer a supertanker through. Whether this was due to a mole or otherwise was unclear, but it was the only way to explain how Kira Miller had known about Desh being put on the operation practically before he had known himself. She had been one step ahead of him before he had even taken a step, which was very troubling. If Griffin had not been placing sophisticated tracking software on his computer, Desh would never have known it had been compromised.

Kira Miller must have invaded the computers of all of Desh's predecessors, only they had never discovered the intrusion. If they would have, Connelly would have warned him. Given her access to their computers, it was little wonder they had failed to find her. Not hard to avoid being caught when those searching for you werea"quite literallya"telegraphing their every move.

Desh knew he had almost been caught with his pants down. But he had been lucky. Once discovered, Kira Miller's computer invasion played right into his hands. He wanted to lead her to his computer and plant false information: now he had the perfect conduit for this, one that was above suspicion. He instructed Griffin to leave the backdoor entrance alone.

Now, while Desh continued his search for her, he would be planning the specifics of his trap. He knew he needed to be patient. She would never believe he had closed in on her in only a day or two, so he would need to wait a while longer. And the more progress he made prior to setting his trap the better. The closer he got to her, the more clues he uncovered, the more convincingly he could craft his misinformation.

Desh returned to his high-rise apartment in the heart of Washington. He had chosen it almost entirely on the basis of its location and premium fitness center. While his daily workouts couldn't compare to his regime while still with Delta, they still managed to keep him in excellent shape.

While upscale, the apartment was a bit cramped. Not that he cared. Being single, he didn't need much room, and he traveled much of the time on protection a.s.signments, anyway. Saving money while he determined what new course his life would take was more important than additional square footage. His apartment was tidy, but he had been too busy and too numb to personalize it in any way. His taste in art was eclectic, from the reality bending, impossible constructions of Escher, to the surrealism of Dali, to the serene, impressionistic work of Monet. Yet his framed reproductions of favorite works by these artists remained entombed in brown paper in his closet, a telling sign that his spirit had been sapped and he had slipped into a steady depression. Even more telling, he loved books beyond all else, and had collected many thousands over the years: but while being surrounded by shelf upon shelf of his favorites in their myriad of colors brought him great pleasure, he had yet to unbox them.

Connelly had read him perfectly. Even before Iran he had been contemplating leaving the military, struggling mightily with the decision. On the one hand, he had found friendship and camaraderie in Delta, and the importance of what he was doing could not be overstated. His work had saved thousands upon thousands of innocents from horrible suffering and death from dirty bombs, nerve toxins, train derailments, and the like, including children who were in some cases the principle targets of planned attacks, unconscionable as this was. Many Westerners were still blissfully unaware that the future of progressive society was anything but a.s.sured. Desh had been on the front lines and seen the fanaticism that threatened to turn the world's clock back a thousand years. He was helping to defeat a rigid and destructive ideology. It was a fire that was blazing across the world that, if left unchecked, would surely consume civilization.

But he had also dreamed of settling down one day. Of becoming a father. Of raising a family. And if he remained in Delta, this was impossible. He was always on the move, being called away overseas on missions about which he couldn't discuss with anyonea"including a future wife. Being married was the sharing of two lives, and he would be unable to hold up his end of the bargain. And if he did have children, each time he left his family would wonder if this would be the time Daddy wouldn't be coming backa"or be coming back inside a body bag, in piecesa"leaving his children fatherless. What kind of life would this be for them? The answer: no life at all. He had refused to even consider it.

But now he had no excuse not to pursue a wife or family. He was no longer in the military and soon wouldn't even be involved in something as dangerous as executive protection. He had wallowed in self-pity long enough. Desh made a vow to himself: once he finished this final mission, he would find a way to get beyond what had happened in Iran and get on with his life.

He rummaged through his near empty refrigerator and found just enough leftover food to cobble together a dinner. He then spent several hours re-familiarizing himself with the contents of his laptop and the thousands of e-mails in his log. He needed to know the full extent of the data to which Kira Miller now had access.

Finally, he sat down in a comfortable chair in his living room and began reading the dossier on his quarry yet again. He knew he would probably read it dozens of times before this was over. And each time, as he learned more and more about her, he would bring a slightly different perspective to the material and would glean fresh insights.

Desh's cell phone began vibrating, an unwelcome intrusion. He reached into his pocket, removed it, and examined the screen. It was a text message from Matt Griffin: key discovery 4u. visit me asap. don't call. computers, walls, phones: all might have ears.

The message drove Desh to a heightened state of awareness within seconds. Griffin had found something important and had reason to believe Kira had breached more than just Desh's computer. Maybe Griffin was being overly cautious, maybe not, but Desh approved. He had liked the friendly hacker from the start, and the man had already demonstrated that his glowing reputation was well deserved.

Now it was time to find out if his computer expert had truly earned his pay.

Desh armed himself as usual, threw on an oxford shirt and windbreaker, and rushed to Griffin's apartment, his mind racing almost as fast as his armored Suburban. The traffic was light, but even so the trip should have taken forty-five minutes. He made it in just over thirty.

Desh felt b.u.t.terflies in his stomach as he strode briskly through the short, musty corridor of Griffin's building, anxious to learn what the giant had uncovered. He pa.s.sed several doors until he came to number 14D. He rapped once on the door and waited, staring at the peephole to help Griffin make a quick identification.

He waited for Griffin to disengage the deadbolt and chain as he had done before, but instead the handle began to turn. Years in the field had trained his subconscious to set off alarms when it encountered anything unexpected, no matter how small, even before his conscious mind could reason out why. He instantly became hyper-alert, just as a woman emerged from behind the door with a gun aimed at his chest.

Already moving forward in antic.i.p.ation of trouble, Desh lashed out with his right arm to knock the gun lose, and at the same time threw his body sideways to offer a smaller target. But even as he lunged, he realized the woman had antic.i.p.ated this move, and had begun backpedaling rapidly. She fired as she moved backwards, but despite her rapid retreat, she was forced to jerk her arm aside to avoid Desh's vicious blow.

If the gun had contained bullets, Desh would have won the day. Despite her quick action and reflexes, he had interfered with her aim enough that the shot only hit his leg, and even injured in this way he would have been on his attacker in an instant, easily able to overpower her.

But she hadn't fired bullets. She had fired electricity.

With a stun gun, a hit to the leg was just as effective as a hit to the chest. Instead of bullets, two electrode darts had leapt from her gun and stuck like Velcro to Desh's pants, discharging their ma.s.sive electric payload in an instant. The electricity completely overwhelmed the tiny electrical signals his brain was sending to control his muscles, causing him to convulse and collapse to the floor, disoriented and paralyzed.

From the instant his a.s.sailant had emerged from behind the door, he had known she could only be one person: Kira Miller.

A vague realization came across Desh's addled mind that he was now sprawled on the floor, completely and utterly helpless, while one of the most dangerous women in the world stood calmly over him.

PART TWO.

Encounter.

9.

David Desh vaguely felt his legs, arms, and torso being repositioned, and his body being dragged a few feet across the floor like a 180-pound sack of cement, and then heard the apartment door shut quietly. He could see Kira Miller out of the corner of one eye. She was holding a large black duffel with three zippered compartments. Her hair was now longer than in the photos he had seen and she had dyed it blond. She was wearing bulky clothing that was far too large for her, in such a way as to add ten pounds to her appearance, and wire-rimmed gla.s.ses. Even dazed as he was, Desh was impressed with the simplicity but effectiveness of her disguise. Unless you had reason to suspect this woman was Kira Miller, you'd be hard pressed to pick her out of a crowd.

Matt Griffin was a ma.s.sive speed b.u.mp on the carpet a few feet away; unconscious or worse.

Desh's attacker knew his paralysis would only last about five minutes and didn't waste an instant. She moved as if a Guinness Book official had a stopwatch on her, removing his windbreaker and watch and frantically conducting a full body search, not leaving a single inch of David Desh unchecked. She immediately found both guns and both knives and relieved him of them expertly, along with his shoulder holster.

With this completed, Kira Miller pulled a pair of stainless steel fabric shears from her duffel and hastily cut through Desh's b.u.t.ton-down shirt and white undershirt, tossing both garments aside and producing a large gray sweatshirt from a bag beside her. She pulled the sweatshirt over his head and slipped his arms through as if he were an infant, with remarkable facility but with a decided lack of gentleness. Finally, she produced an a.s.sortment of thin white plastic strips from the bag, between two and four feet long.

Desh recognized these thin strips instantly: plastic handcuffs. These plasticuffs, also called zip-strips, could only be removed if someone cut through the hardened, injection molded nylon plastic; a surprisingly difficult task.

She pulled Desh's right arm out from his body as far as it would go, wrapped the bendable plastic stick around his wrist, and ratcheted it tight. She pulled Griffin's heavy, lifeless left arm closer to Desh and used a long plasticuff bracelet to cuff the two men together.