Jeffery Deaver - The Broken Window

“Sure, Andrew. Once the name is swapped for the code, the Intake Center evaluates the transaction, decides where it belongs and sends it to one or more of three separate areas-our data pens. Pen A is where we store personal lifestyle data. Pen B is financial. That includes salary history, banking, credit reports, insurance. Pen C is public and government filings and records.”

“Then the data’s cleansed.” Sterling took over once again. “The impurities are weeded out and it’s made uniform. For instance, on some forms your sex is given as ‘F.’ In others, it’s ‘Female.’ Sometimes it’s a one or a zero. You have to be consistent.

“We also remove the noise-that’s impure data. It could be erroneous, could have too many details, could have too few details. Noise is contamination, and contamination has to be eliminated.” He said this firmly-another dash of emotion. “Then the cleansed data sits in one of our pens until a client needs a fortune-teller.”

“How do you mean?” asked Pulaski.

Sterling explained, “In the nineteen seventies, computer database software gave companies an analysis of past performance. In the nineties the data showed how they were doing at any given moment. More helpful. Now we can predict what consumers are going to do and guide our clients to take advantage of that.”

Sachs said, “Then you’re not just predicting the future. You’re trying to change it.”

“Exactly. But what other reason is there to go to a fortune-teller?”

His eyes were calm, almost amused. Yet Sachs felt uneasy, thinking back to the run-in with the federal agent yesterday in Brooklyn. It was as if 522 had done just what he was describing: predicted a shootout between them.

Sterling gestured to Whitcomb, who continued, “Okay, so data, which contain no names but only numbers, go into these three separate pens on different floors in different security zones. An employee in the public records pen can’t access the data in the lifestyle pen or the financial pen. And nobody in any of the data pens can access the information in the Intake Center, and link the name and address to the sixteen-digit code.”

Sterling said, “That’s what Tom meant when he said that a hacker would have to breach all of the data pens independently.”

O’Day added, “And we monitor twenty-four/seven. We’d know instantly if someone unauthorized tried to physically enter a pen. They’d be fired on the spot and probably arrested. Besides, you can’t download anything from the computers in the pens-there are no ports-and even if you managed to break into a server and hardwire a device, you couldn’t get it out. Everybody’s searched-every employee, senior executive, security guard, fire warden, janitor. Even Andrew. We have metal and dense-material detectors at every entrance and exit to the data pens and Intake-even the fire doors.”

Whitcomb took up the narrative. “And a magnetic field generator that you have to walk through. It erases all digital data on any medium you’re carrying-iPod, phone or hard drive. No, nobody gets out of those rooms with a kilobyte of information on them.”

Sachs said, “So stealing the data from these pens-either by hackers outside or intruders or employees inside-would be almost impossible.”

Sterling was nodding. “Data are our only asset. We guard them religiously.”

“What about the other scenario-somebody who works for a client?”

“Like Tom was saying, the way this man operates he’d have to have access to the innerCircle dossiers of each of the victims and the men arrested for the crimes.”

“Right.”

Sterling lifted his hands, like a professor. “But customers don’t have access to dossiers. They wouldn’t want them anyway. innerCircle contains raw data and wouldn’t do them any good. What they want is our analysis of the data. Customers log on to Watchtower-that’s our proprietary database management system-and other programs like Xpectation or FORT. The programs themselves search through innerCircle, find the relevant data and put them into usable form. If you want to think of the mining analogy, Watchtower sifts through tons of dirt and rock and finds gold nuggets.”

She said in response, “But if a client bought a number of mailing lists, say, they could come up with enough data about one of our victims to commit the crimes, couldn’t they?” She nodded at the evidence list she’d shown Sterling earlier. “For instance, our perp could get lists of everyone who bought that kind of shave cream and condoms and duct tape and running shoes and so on.”

Sterling lifted an eyebrow. “Hm. It would be a huge amount of work but it’s theoretically possible… All right. I’ll get a list of all our customers who’ve bought any data that included your victims’ names-in the past, say, three months? No, maybe six.”

“That should do it.” She dug through her briefcase-considerably less organized than Sterling’s desktop-and handed him a list of the victims and fall guys.

“Our client agreement gives us the right to share information about them. There won’t be a problem legally but it will take a few hours to put together.”

“Thanks. Now, one final question about employees… Even if they’re not allowed in the pens, could they download a dossier in their office?”

He was nodding, impressed by her question, it seemed, even though it suggested an SSD worker might be the killer. “Most employees can’t-again, we have to protect our data. But a few of us have what’s called ‘all-access permission.’”

Whitcomb gave a smile. “Well, but look who that is, Andrew.”

“If there’s a problem here, we need to explore all possible solutions.”

Whitcomb said to Sachs and Pulaski, “The thing is, the all-access employees are senior people here. They’ve been with the company for years. We’re like a family. We have parties together, we have our inspirational retreats-”

Sterling held up a hand, cutting him off, and said, “We have to follow up on it, Mark. I want this rooted out, whatever it takes. I want answers.”

“Who has all-access rights?” Sachs asked.

Sterling shrugged. “I’m authorized. Our head of Sales, the head of Technical Operations. Our Human Resources director could put together a dossier, I suppose, though I’m sure he never has. And Mark’s boss, our Compliance Department director.” He gave her the names.

Sachs glanced at Whitcomb, who shook his head. “I don’t have access.”

O’Day didn’t either.

“Your assistants?” Sachs asked Sterling, referring to Jeremy and Martin.

“No…Now, as for the repair folks-the techies-the line people couldn’t assemble a dossier but we have two service managers who could. One on the day shift, one at night.” He gave her their names too.

Sachs looked over the list. “There’s one easy way to tell whether or not they’re innocent.”

“How?”

“We know where the killer was on Sunday afternoon. If they have alibis, they’ll be off the hook. Let me interview them. Right now, if we can.”

“Good,” Sterling said and gave an approving look at her suggestion: a simple “solution” to one of his “problems.” Then she realized something: Every time he’d looked at her this morning his gaze had met her eyes. Unlike many, if not most, men Sachs met, Sterling hadn’t once glanced over her body, hadn’t offered a bit of flirt. She wondered what the bedroom story was. She asked, “Could I see the security in the data pens for myself?”

“Sure. Just leave your pager, phone and PDA outside. And any thumb-drives. If you don’t, all the data will be erased. And you’ll be searched when you leave.”

“Okay.”

Sterling nodded to O’Day, who stepped into the hall and returned with the stern security guard who’d walked Sachs and Pulaski here from the massive lobby downstairs.