David Walton - The Genius Plague

“Let’s stick to talking about you,” he said.

“Okay. But wow. I’m a fan. You’re the guys who wrote that software worm that destroyed Iran’s nuclear centrifuges, aren’t you?”

Scaggs gave me a sidelong look. “I can’t comment on that.”

“Yeah, I know. You had nothing to do with it. But that was some piece of work. You guys are my heroes.”

“What connections do you have with members of the Brazilian government?” he asked.

I sighed. He had asked the question already, and I still didn’t have any connections with them. I hadn’t even been to Brazil in five years, and though my father had kept in touch with some of the movers and shakers until a few years ago, I barely knew their names. The closest thing I had to a government contact was a childhood friend whose father had worked for Brazilian Intelligence, but I hadn’t talked to my friend in years either.

We went around and around for what seemed like hours, him trying to trip me up or make me reveal whatever I was hiding, and me trying not to shout at him that I was exactly who I said I was and wasn’t hiding anything at all. I wasn’t truly afraid—I had heard stories about people disappearing into the labyrinth of the US intelligence agencies, held under clauses allowing detainment of suspected terrorists, but I didn’t really believe they could just yank an American citizen off the streets and never let him out again. My real concern was that my hopes of working for the NSA—or any other intelligence agency—seemed to be going up in smoke. They might let me leave, but they were never going to let me back in again.

The sound of raised voices in the corridor snapped me out of my funk. I heard my name, but I couldn’t make out what else was being said. Scaggs left me in the room and went out, apparently to join the conversation.

Eventually, somebody new came in. She was small and slight, wearing black slacks and a thin red sweater with three-quarter-length sleeves. Beneath a tasteful layer of makeup and red lipstick, the skin around her eyes and neck was deeply wrinkled, making me wonder if her long black hair was dyed. Her posture was military straight, but she walked carefully, like someone for whom walking is no longer as easy as it once was. Real NSA badges—not the visitor kind—had grids indicating which security compartments the bearer was cleared for, and hers was packed with number and letter signifiers. It also gave her name: Melody Muniz.

“Mr. Johns,” she said, and held out an elegant hand. “You’re lucky I heard the news.” Her voice was clear, commanding, with no hint of age.

“You’re Shaunessy’s boss,” I said.

She gave me a nod. “Melody Muniz. Pleased to meet you. You do know how much trouble you’re in?”

I glanced at my armed guard and then back. “I’d gotten an inkling,” I said.

“Whatever possessed you to break into your instructor’s account?”

“He told us to hack our way in!”

“Into the seminar account. The one being used for the assignment. Not into your instructor’s personal login.”

“I didn’t know hackers were bounded by rules.”

Her face was unreadable. “The truth is, you fell afoul of a trap. There are a number of such measures in place to catch foreign spies trying to use the application process to gain access to our systems. You fell for the most basic of these traps, in fact—the call to tech support for a password reset. As you might imagine, there are a number of more sophisticated ones.”

“So what happens now?”

“Good question. I’m afraid the fact that I don’t personally believe you are a spy holds very little weight with the counterespionage unit. If they turn you over to the FBI on an espionage charge, that is a very serious thing indeed.”

I was aghast. “You mean I could go to jail?”

“Not if I can help it. In fact, if I can pull the right strings, you’re going to keep the job that you very nearly threw away in your first few hours of employment.”

I was relieved, but surprised. “Why do you care?”

She pressed her lips together. “Shaunessy told me you solved a Playfair cipher by hand.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that was an important skill set in the digital age.”

“It’s not. Our computers can solve them quickly, in any language. But they do it by brute force, plus a few tricks. You did it through some mix of ingenuity and mathematical intuition, and that’s something I’m very interested in indeed.”

I thought it would be a bad time to mention that it had been mostly guesswork. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Melody, please. Or Ms. Muniz, if you must. Don’t call me ma’am.”

“Okay… Melody.” It was difficult to say. She didn’t look like a Melody, for one thing. She looked three times my age, with a hard professionalism that made me feel like a child. “I do appreciate it. And I’d like to come work for you. But I have one condition.”

She looked at me like I was mad. “I’m offering to use my influence to get you employment instead of jail time, and you have a condition ?”

“Yes, ma’am… I mean, yes.”

“All right, let’s hear it.”

“I don’t want to work with Shaunessy.” She looked incredulous, but I pressed on. “She doesn’t like me. She doesn’t think I can do the job, and she doesn’t trust me. I appreciate her helping me out when I needed a ride and telling you about my predicament. And I don’t want to repay that by making her uncomfortable.”

Melody’s eyes narrowed, and she looked angry. “Condition denied,” she said. “Shaunessy works for my team, and so will you. We don’t have room for any dilettantes. If you can’t handle that, I’ll serve you up to Counterespionage right now, and believe me, they’re eager. I don’t care if you don’t like her, but you’ll treat her with respect and you’ll do your job.”

“I do like her. That’s why—”

She waved a hand. “Enough. This may be a huge mistake, but I’ll make this all go away. Just don’t make me regret it.”

Call me crazy, but I was disappointed when they escorted me out. I was happy not to be arrested, of course, but I was so intent on working at the NSA that I couldn’t bear the idea of waiting any longer, now that I was so close. Melody had told me to return to FANX the next day. I would sign various documents to confirm the accuracy of my identity, surrender all pretense of privacy to the US government, and agree to be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law if I leaked classified information to any uncleared person. Once I did, I could be photographed and issued my badge. My badge! I would have spent the night in the lobby if they would have let me.

After several minutes of wandering, I managed to find my mom’s car in the parking garage. Remembering where I park has never been my strong suit, and it was several minutes of searching before I remembered I wasn’t looking for my Nissan. I started the engine—relieved when it purred to a start—and pulled out toward the exit.

I drove through the gate at a crawl, uncertain what the process was, or whether I would be searched. The guards at the security hut were facing the other way—toward the entrance—and there didn’t seem to be any obstacle or checkpoint. It was only when I had nearly reached the road that I realized I still wore my visitor’s badge around my neck.

I panicked. If they had reacted so badly to my little hacking stunt in the exercise, how would they react to me stealing a facility badge? I looked in my rearview mirror, and saw what I had failed to notice on my way through the gate—a metal box with a sign that read “All Visitor Badges Must Be Returned Here.” Hoping it wasn’t too late, I jammed the gearshift into reverse and pulled back toward the box. I heard the guard shouting at me just before my rear tires slammed into the metal spikes embedded in the road.