Charles Brokaw - The Lucifer Code

He’d grown up in a small town in New Hampshire and started his own software company when he was sixteen. By the time he was in college at Harvard, majoring in business, he’d created two dot-com search engines that had boosted him into millionaire status. At about the same time, he’d become interested in politics because the oil shortage of the 1970s had impacted his business.

In an interview with Barbara Walters, Webster had admitted that his initial interest in politics had stemmed from corporate affairs.

‘You just can’t do business in this day and age without knowing something about the national and international political climate,’ Webster had said. A lot of businessmen had followed his example.

Webster hadn’t pawned off the responsibility to lobbyists, though. He’d dug into the legislation himself. As he’d learned how to negotiate those murky waters and become even more successful, a groundswell of grass roots support had sprung up to put him in office as a New Hampshire senator. He’d graciously turned down the offer.

With the advent of stem cell research and his own investments in the field, Webster had again been stymied by legal pressures. That had been the first major stumbling block in his career, but it hadn’t lasted long.

Webster’s wife, Vanessa Hart Webster, the former Miss America who had won the hearts of a nation with her beauty and glorious voice, had been the perfect foil for her husband. She was glamorous and educated, and loved children and animals. The camera loved her, too. After she’d retired from her year as Miss America, she’d gone to work with Webster. They’d married soon after. They’d been practically inseparable since. Vanessa Webster had spent several stints in the Middle East shoring up troop morale. Her husband’s gaming companies had donated millions of dollars worth of products for the young soldiers. The Webplay system and its innovative games had been given extensive exposure in the media and through the military. Vanessa had organized charitable medical help for the children and soldiers wounded in the war. Her husband had contributed heavily to causes that helped the soldiers and their families back home. The media started talking about ‘Vanessa’s War’ as she continued her efforts. Five years into the marriage, though, Vanessa had become ravaged by pancreatic cancer. She was by that time the hostess of her own nationally syndicated talk show, dedicated to finding charities who would benefit from her husband’s money. Even as she fought the disease, she became a spokesperson advocating stem cell research to cure cancer. The nation, and her terrified husband, had watched her wither and die for over a year.

The country had grieved with thirty-one year old Elliott Webster when he’d buried his beautiful and generous bride. After a year spent out of the eye of the public, Webster had returned and said he was going to run for senator in New Hampshire.

‘Since I was a boy,’ Webster had said with grim resolve, ‘I have pursued technology and science. I only became involved with business because I needed funding to continue my exploration of emerging technologies. My time with my dear Vanessa has taught me a lot. Her loss, when we have turned away from the very science that might have saved her life as well as the lives of millions of other people, is unconscionable to me. When I’m a senator, I’m going to work to free up the roadblocks that an ill-informed Congress has made for science. I’m going to return the future to all people.’

That declaration, RETURNING THE FUTURE, had become the rallying cry first of New Hampshire, then of the nation. Twelve years later when President Michael Waggoner had selected Webster as his running mate, it surfaced again. They had won the election in a landslide victory.

Now, with all the contacts he’d made while helping his wife’s efforts in the Middle East, Webster was point man for the Middle East peace talks.

And a whole lot of other things, as well.

‘Good evening, Jimmy,’ the vice-president said. ‘It’s good to see you.’

‘It’s good to see you, sir.’ Dawson took Webster’s hand and shook briefly. As always, the familiar electric tingle ran through Dawson. Just being near the vice-president seemed to inspire well-being and a positive attitude in people, even people who knew him well. The brief contact of flesh almost made Dawson forget the snafu in Istanbul.

‘Please have a seat.’ Webster waved his napkin to the plush chair to his right. The room was small and elegant, set up for an intimate party.

Dawson sat. Whenever he had dinner with the vice-president, Webster always had him sit on his right. Dawson liked the feeling of being the vice-president’s right-hand man. It was the little things, these small details, that Webster was so good at.

‘I took the liberty of ordering dinner,’ Webster said. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I know we’re both pushing the clock here.’

‘I’m sure whatever you ordered will be fine, sir.’

Webster poured two glasses of wine, then handed one to Dawson.

‘Let’s say we get rid of the white elephant in the room, Jimmy,’ Webster said. ‘That way we can get on with our dinner.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Tension rattled through Dawson.

‘I’m not happy with losing Professor Thomas Lourds over in Istanbul.’

‘No, sir.’

‘I know you’re not happy about it either.’

‘No, sir. I don’t want to make a habit of letting you down.’

Webster clapped Dawson on the shoulder and smiled. ‘I have a shortlist of people I know I can count on for anything. You’re right there near the top.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Webster took a roll from the covered basket in the middle of the table, then offered the basket to Dawson.

‘No, thank you, sir.’

‘Nonsense. You need to eat. Keep your strength up. We’ve got a lot to do if we’re going to pull a win out of this.’

Dawson took a roll and put it on the small plate in front of him. The vice-president buttered his own roll, then pushed the butter dish towards Dawson.

‘Indulge. We’ll work it off the next time we’re on the racquetball court together.’ Webster smiled.

Dawson buttered his roll.

‘How long ago did we lose Professor Lourds, Jimmy?’

Dawson glanced at the PDA he’d deliberately placed on the table within his view. The number in the upper left-hand corner revealed how long ago Lourds had gone missing.

‘Five hours and forty-two minutes, sir.’

Webster bit into his roll and chewed thoughtfully. ‘That’s a long time.’

‘I’ve got people on it, sir. We’re using all available intel sources. Including ELINT and HUMINT.’

The vice-president nodded. ‘I know you’ve got good people over there.’

‘We’ve got good people over there, sir.’

‘Of course. We do.’ Webster sipped his wine. ‘This is my fault, actually. I didn’t get the information to you about Lourds in time for you to make all the preparations you needed to. I shot you in the foot on this one.’

That was another reason everyone liked Elliott Webster so much. When he made mistakes, he owned up to them and then he worked to correct them.

‘I assume the men killed at the airport were our assets?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What about the other men who were killed in the car crash and in the alley? Do you have anything on them yet?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Dawson pointed to his briefcase. ‘If I may?’

The vice-president nodded and reached for another roll.

Dawson took out the encrypted computer and placed it on the table. He opened it, powered it up, entered his password, and pressed his right forefinger and left ring finger on the two fingerprint scanners. The password changed hourly and the combination of fingerprints changed twice daily. In the beginning, getting the rhythm of those changes had been difficult.