Randy White - Dead of Night

They all told her something. There was a lot more data stored on this computer than was visible on the desktop, or hard drive.

She restarted the computer, then went to system preferences and opened security options, feeling Mr. Earl out there next to the porch window, watching her, smoking, expecting her to fail.

Security vault activated. Master password required.

One after another, Dasha typed in default passwords. She’d memorized several during training. All declined.

Yebat!

She looked at the laptop’s cover as if to remind herself. This was a Mac, a system she’d never used. Russian Intelligence-its three-week encryption school had dealt only with PCs. All IBM clones that used Windows. Never a word about Macs.

Typical. Myopic bureaucrats still ran the government. Mother Russia. A gigantic country inhabited by small losers.

Outside, Mr. Earl lit another cigarette. She could hear his throaty chuckle.

Dasha called, “We need an expert to look at this.”

Mr. Earl opened the door. “You want a third person involved?” His tone asked if she wanted a third person to share the score.

No doubt now. The man was on the make. Maybe he knew about Applebee’s guinea worm study, or had a theory similar to her own-lots of money at stake.

“How else are we going to find out what’s on the computer?”

Mr. Earl held up a skinny index finger, then leaned over the computer’s keyboard, the odor of lavender and tobacco potent. He typed for several seconds, then said, “Look.”

On the screen appeared rows of blue folders, each labeled with words, not numbers. Many dozens of folders, some with interesting tags. Several had to do with Autism: Autism/mercury. doc; Autism/panic.

Some strange, angry ones that referenced Disney World: Dis/conspiracy. doc; Satanicmouse.

There was a long list of topics that indicated the quiet little man had had a busy, busy world going on inside his head.

Another folder was labeled: DR.D. STOKES/PRIVATE FILES. DOC.

Interesting.

Dasha hesitated, not sure she should risk it, before saying, “There they are, Stokes’s private files. Applebee copied them-I had my doubts. What do you think’s in there?”

Mr. Earl looked at her frankly. “I just finished going through it. It’s written in plain English, not numbers. You’re in there, I’ll tell you that much. All that the cops need to put you away for murder. Or me-for something I did a long time ago.”

Dasha widened her eyes, telling him she’d like to know more. For personal reasons.

Big grin. “Years back, I was what they called a ‘political subversive.’ What I was into, though, was drugs. Money. Dropped acid, screwed teenyboppers, hung out with LSD freaks. They made crazy predictions that, at the time, got a lot of press. They’re still getting press, thanks to yours truly and Dr. Stokes. Makin’ us even more money. Understand? Which is very, very cool.”

Dasha knew he’d been busted for more than that, because he added, “The Bahamian police, the FBI, Interpol. If any of them get a copy of this file, we’re both gone. When the time’s right, maybe I’ll let you have a look.”

She was impressed that Mr. Earl had beaten the computer’s security system so quickly but was also suspicious. Why was the man sharing the information with her?

Mr. Earl let her think about that for a moment before he said, “May I tell you something in confidence? Between us. Only us.”

“Of course. You trust me; I’ll trust you. Partnerships sometimes start in strange ways.”

His mean, judgmental eyes stared at her from above a broadening smile. “I have special software. It’s illegal for anyone not in law enforcement. It recovers keystrokes made prior to installation. Anything typed on the keyboard during the hard drive’s history, I can recover. It downloads automatically on any computer that signs on from the island. That’s how I got Applebee’s passwords.”

His confession was also an implied warning: The man had her private files, and files from every other computer on the island.

The Russian waited, not expecting him to offer anything else, but he did.

“Six-six-four. Cardinal numbers, spelled out. That’s one of Applebee’s passwords. The man’s little joke.”

“What do you mean?”

“What’s the number mean? No idea. But the joke I can show you.” Mr. Earl moved the cursor to a file labeled: Dracunculus Eminences. “Do what know what this is?”

“I wouldn’t want to try to pronounce it. Something to do with Dracula?” Dasha thought for a moment. “I’ve seen it written someplace before.”

“It’s the Latin name for the guinea worm parasite.” The man clicked on the file and several more file icons appeared. One was labeled: Eradicating Dracunculus Infestation.

He opened it, and six icons remained, all studies related to guinea worm parasites. Dasha was getting excited.

According to the dates, the three most recently created files were labeled: Raising Copepod/Hybrids, Eradication-Plan /Florida, Post-Dracunculus Africa.

“I’ll be damned, the man did it. Applebee discovered a cure.” The woman pointed at the screen. “Africa after the parasite’s all gone. What else could it mean?”

“A cure?” Mr. Earl sounded surprised, or maybe tried to sound it. “Oh-I see what you’re saying. Yes, I think he did. Solved a problem no one bothered to mess with. But here’s the joke I mentioned.”

He opened one of the files. Numbers again.

“Passwords and labels, he used letters. Funny. Ha-ha! Teasing anyone who tried to break into his system. Everything else Applebee wrote is in code.”

Dasha felt his frustration now. “There’s got to be a key. It’s probably hidden somewhere in the hard drive.”

“If it is, it’s all numbers.”

“Then we’ll figure it out ourselves.”

“That’s where we’re screwed. Unless you’ve got some special training in the area, we’re not going to have time to crack this before Stokes expects us back on the island.”

Dasha hoped she hadn’t misinterpreted his meaning. She had to be very careful here. “Why’s it so important that we translate it before we give the computer to Dr. Stokes?”

Mr. Earl was on the keyboard again, typing. “I didn’t say we had to translate it. I said we have to find the key before he finds it. Here-read this.”

An e-mail appeared on the screen. It was addressed to someone named Doc at Sanibel Biological Supply, sent from F. matthews.

Frieda Matthews.

Hey, Doc, you’re the only guy I know with the background to understand Jobe’s files, attached here. Remember me telling you my brother used numbers as words…?

Mr. Earl said, “I did an Internet search. Sanibel Biological is owned by a biologist named Marion Ford. Dr. Ford. Doc. Does the name sound familiar?”

Dasha thought, Jesus Christ, the crazy idiot who almost killed me with his boat.

One of Stokes’s stooges had gotten the name, had told them that the same guy, Ford, had been with Frieda when she’d toured her brother’s house. A close friend of the family.

Detective Jimmy Heller, the stooge.

Heller had also said Applebee’s body was infested with the worms. The dates that the last computer files were created-“Dracunculus Solved”-told Dasha that he’d discovered the solution too late.

Mr. Earl said, “We find Ford, maybe we find the key. Getting information out of people who don’t want to cooperate-your specialty.”

That’s why he needs me.

Still playing it safe, Dasha said, “Then we give the information to Dr. Stokes?”

The dried-up man, all bones and face, was shaking his head, looking at her with his mean dark eyes. “No, we go ahead and spread the parasites in Florida. Stick with the plan, woman. The only difference is, we got Applebee’s formula. Stokes don’t. Buy the land cheap, then sell to all those developers waiting in line. Millions.”