Ridley Pearson - Cut and Run

“Your networking,” Hope said.

“Our routing center,” Miller answered. “One of three such hubs on campus. On any one day, we have around fifteen thousand PCs hanging on this system. Every student, every department that wants access.”

Hope glanced down the long rows of machinery and narrow aisles. She studied the racked routers as Larson and Miller continued on without her. Eventually, Miller turned back toward her to hurry her along.

Familiar with that searching look in her eyes, Larson placed a hand on Miller’s arm to silence him as he was about to call out to her.

“The Cray is down this way,” Miller finally said.

“Dr. Markowitz is a systems expert, ” she said, repeating what Larson had originally told her.

“A description that hardly does him credit,” Miller added from a distance.

“He served as a consultant here?”

“Yes. Our weather simulators, our forecasting modules.” He walked a few steps back toward her. Larson followed. “Leo is far more than a systems analyst. He’s a designer, a code writer. Custom apps, source code. He ramped us up to full integration. He identified nearly thirty percent more processor headroom than we thought we had. Stabilized the platform. All without touching the Cray.”

“The additional processing power,” she said. “Did he, by any chance, set up grid computing for you?” Before Miller could answer, she asked, “Has anyone checked the network logs?”

“Good God,” Miller mumbled. To a confused Larson he said, “I assure you the oversight was unintentional.”

“What the hell are you two talking about?”

Miller held up a finger. “She just might be onto something,” was all Miller would give him.

Miller’s office, a sanctum of order, overlooked a campus lawn and intersecting pathways. An extra chair had to be brought in, crowding the space.

Miller worked behind his desk, consulting two computer screens and an accordioned stack of printouts.

Hope explained to Larson in a hushed voice: “Grid computing is the poor man’s supercomputer. Any personal computer or server, at any one time, is only using about fifteen percent of its processing power. You link machines together, you take advantage of the headroom-the unused processing power. You link together a thousand, or ten thousand, you have what amounts to a homemade supercomputer.”

“What we’ve just established,” Miller explained, “is that our grid, the one Leo set up for us, has shown massive additional usage from midnight to seven A.M. for the past three weeks.”

“Markowitz has been using the system undetected,” Hope interjected. “With everyone asleep, he has six or seven hours of power processing available. He’s been working the swing shift.”

“We were focused on our Cray and our Silicon Graphics. But someone tapping directly into the grid? It’s so obvious in hindsight, but at the time-it’s so new to us-it just wasn’t on our radar.”

“Can we shut him down?” Larson asked.

Miller looked up sharply, meeting eyes with Hope, who then said, “No, no! You don’t want to do that.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Each night he stays on the system for hours,” Hope said. “Dr. Miller can peek behind that curtain and trace what port he’s coming in on, which Internet provider he’s using.”

“We’ve collected enough data points-six nights’ worth. We’ll identify the ISP and, with their help, should be able to nail down his exact location. If he’s moving around, that may not help you. But if he’s stationary…”

“Of course he’ll keep moving,” Larson said. “He’s not going to give us a way to find him.”

“Unless he’s innocent.” Miller made sure he met eyes with Larson. “You’re in such a hurry to prosecute him.”

“He could be being watched, or like me, maybe they hold something over him,” Hope said. “He doesn’t dare send out a distress signal, for fear of being caught, but he’s smart enough to leave us an electronic trail to follow.”

“We’ve interviewed his extended family,” Larson said. “There’s nothing they gave us to suggest extortion.”

“Nothing the family’s willing to share, at any rate,” Hope said.

Still working the printouts, Miller observed, “Only Leo would understand the risks involved by using the same entry port, the same ISP, night after night. If he is remaining stationary, if we are able to trace it, then it has to be intentional. He’s leaving you a string to follow.” Looking up from the paperwork, his finger still marking a spot, Miller said, “And if you’re smart, you’ll follow it.”

A woman with bright green hair passed Rotem’s office. She wore a black cape and had pointy ears. He thought she must be part of the secretary pool, but the lime green hair threw him. Do they have Goths working here now? He hoped like hell she wasn’t one of his deputies.

Reminded then of yet another Beltway Halloween he felt burdened by his responsibilities as a father, restricted by the twenty-minute drive to a safe neighborhood where they’d trick-or-treat with friends, the fathers drinking a little too much as the mothers went door to door with the kids. He felt the day slipping away from him, the quitting hour quickly approaching, even though it was barely after lunch. He slid the well-marked legal pad in front of him and reconsidered his list of priorities. He drew a few arrows and then pushed the pad away, feeling helpless. The discovery of a mole in their midst, and the ongoing investigation into damage done, had crushed morale within Fugitive Apprehension. Rotem’s mood wasn’t much better.

He’d had a latte and some biscotti for lunch and was already beginning to feel hungry again. With four meetings scheduled this afternoon, he had his work cut out for him.

Wegner entered his office without knocking. A redheaded man so thin he couldn’t find shirts to fit, Wegner’s boyish face belied nearly a decade of experience in the department. His deodorant failed to mask his body odor. A desk jock devoted to intelligence gathering, he approached his job with the eagerness of a field operative.

“May have something.” When overly excited, one of Wegner’s most annoying habits was his tendency to either truncate his sentences, leaving the recipient to decode them, or talk so quickly you couldn’t understand a word. Or both.

Rotem had not heard from Larson. Nor had he tried to make contact. He had two dead officers-murdered-and a safe house that was no longer safe. Larson would find cover and check in. He’d recalled Hampton and Stubblefield, who’d both been pursuing Markowitz leads. With Rotem’s department in disarray, Wegner’s enthusiasm seemed surreal.

The man placed a printout in front of Rotem, gave him about an eighth of a second to examine it, and then began talking at a furious rate. Rotem slipped on a pair of reading glasses.

“ATC. General aviation aircraft. Flight plans, into the greater St. Louis metropolitan area. Last thirty hours. Current as of one-zero hundred… a little over an hour ago.”

Rotem had reported the missing child to the FBI’s St. Louis field office, requesting they make it a priority. He’d not told them who Penny was, nor how she connected to WITSEC or FATF, nor that Laena was missing. Train stations, rental-car agencies, bus stations, truckers, truck stops, and state troopers were all on the alert, as were the general aviation airports and St. Louis International.

Rotem didn’t recall requesting that one of his guys work with Air Traffic Control’s computerized flight plans. He hadn’t asked anyone to filter general aviation for first-time visits to the area, but he wasn’t complaining.