I figured I had to get some sleep, at least for a couple of hours—the problem was where to do that. My uncles had left for their homes, almost too easily. With Owen sick, I would have thought they would refuse to leave—at least Uncle Davis, the self-employed guru of fortune. There had been no way to keep that much from the two of them. I wondered if Steckerman had confided in them, asking them to leave. I wanted to reach my hand down USIC's throat and pull out information.
First, I found a gurney on the maternity ward, wheeled it around to a side corridor that contained nothing but a janitor's closet, and I jumped on. I slept for two hours on and off, and nobody even walked by. I finally sat up, and the world sloshed sideways. Some bizarre headache slithered up my temples like a cobra.
"Just tired," I told myself, though when I stood up, I realized I couldn't think conveniently for too long. The headache was unlike any I'd ever had. My knowledge of brain aneurysm put me in a terrible position, where I could imagine some throbbing vein behind my eye ballooning. I actually welcomed the pain in case it was an aneurysm. There's less pain after one bursts, and allegedly its victims can die peacefully. I figured as long as this vein hurt like a bitch, I was okay. But I needed to find Godfrey, confess my condition, and get some meds.
The ICU was the closest place to look, and I hoped I'd find Godfrey with Cora. I fell in behind a visitor who was stopped at the ICU double doors by a security officer.
"Sorry, you can't bring flowers in there," the officer was saying, and the guy looked disappointed.
But he rebounded with a smile, saying, "A present for you then," in some weird accent that I was too sick to place. New Zealand? Australia?
I went with a hopeful hunch and asked, "Are you Cora Holman's dad?"
He turned and stuck out his hand.
"Whew, glad you're here," I said, holding my hands in the air and saying evasively, "We don't shake hands around here unless we're gloved."
"A good thing," he said pleasantly. "I understand entirely."
"She's been alone, except for me occasionally. I'm Scott, a friend of hers."
"Nice to meet you," he said, glancing around nervously. It's not unusual for visitors to the ICU to be more freaked out than visitors to other wards and feel they have to whisper. "I'm terribly sorry I didn't get here sooner. I just now heard she's taken a turn for the worse." His eyebrows furrowed anxiously, and I pushed the button that opened the double doors.
To distract from his nerves and my agony, I blathered about her condition, the cause of the coma, and how we didn't know what to expect. "I know she was looking forward to seeing you. It sounded to me like she either hadn't seen you in years or had never met you."
I couldn't help the blunt moment.
"I have never seen her," he confessed, and I studied his troubled profile as he seemed to search for words. He finally laughed uncomfortably. "Forgive me ... I've just always had an aversion to places like this. Her mother was much better with, er, the harsher sides of life."
Half a smile shot up the side of my face that didn't hurt. Then brace up, Air Mac. You're about to see the ultimate. I imagined him off playing poker at one of the casinos this morning, trying to get his nerve up. Great dad, yeah.
He continued, "I pray that she wakes up. Of course, I have lots of things to ... to say to her."
He looked sincere. It was beyond me how somebody could have a beautiful and sweet daughter like Cora and never try to see her. Her mother might have been a witch at times, but she wasn't the Evil Troll Who Controls the Universe. I could hardly look at him, my stomach being in the condition that it was. He had dark hair like Cora's, but turning gray around his sideburns.
I took him past the nurses' station and sensed somebody right on our heels. A weary glance over my shoulder revealed Roger O'Hare with another guy in a suit. I was disappointed not to see Godfrey with them, too. I needed medical expertise, not the spies extraordinaire.
"What are you doing up here?" I figured a blunt assault was not uncalled for.
"We came to see Alan Steckerman's daughter, so I figured I would drop up here to see the other young lady as well. I understand she's comatose, but it couldn't hurt."
"Nice of you," I said, and hoped my sarcasm was noticeable but not out of hand. "Meet her dad. This is Jeremy ... Ireland."
I figured I couldn't be too sick, what with my memory for names functioning well. I also pulled out of my ass the concept that I probably shouldn't introduce Roger O'Hare, at least not by full name and title. Not with all the goddamn big secrets he was obviously carrying around.
O'Hare introduced himself by first name only, I noticed. They got in a dialogue about flights from overseas and how long it takes to get through security at JFK International these days. I thought my head would crack like a walnut if I didn't run off to find Godfrey, but I'd had a plan to step on a few USIC toes until information squirted out their nostrils. Jeremy Ireland looked increasingly nervous, glancing around at the nurses and all the paraphernalia attached to the patients in each of the pods.
I finally busted into the middle of Ireland's statement about a two-hour wait to get through customs, and I pointed to Cora's pod. "She's in there, Mr. Ireland. One of the nurses can go with you and explain all the equipment." I hooked him up with the first nurse to pass by and pinched the sleeve of Roger O'Hare's suit jacket so he wouldn't follow him.
Then I pulled him along with me. He was a little resistant, and I couldn't tell whether he knew I planned to drill him, or if he was just transfixed by Ireland for some reason.
He finally fell in beside me and asked, "Why do I get the feeling Mr. Ireland is not very familiar with his daughter?"
"Touché," I muttered. "Does the job give you an eye for detail like that?"
"Obviously. During an interrogation, I can tell when somebody's going to lie to me before they even start lying." He smiled easily like he had at Steckerman's when we were talking about dropping our cell phones into the toilet. "Anyway, in case I run into you around here with anyone else you know, please don't introduce me by last name or title. I sometimes work undercover, though—"
"I didn't introduce you just now, did I?" I asked acridly.
"No, you didn't. That was great."
We were almost to the door and I glanced over our shoulders to make sure no one was listening. "I'm not a child. Don't pull any head-patting routine on me. That's not what I want to hear from you."
I laid on the big, metal button, and the double doors to the ICU swung open. I stepped through. He just stood there. Obviously, he was not thrilled to detect my mood, and he glanced over his shoulder as if Jeremy Ireland might be better company. I reached across and pulled him by the sleeve.
"I'm sorry, Scott. I can't leave here right now. I'm waiting for Dr. Godfrey."
"So am I," I told him. "The only other entrance to there is the fire escape. He's a doctor. He hates knocking."
I pulled the mask off my face, and his eyebrows shot up. I must have looked like shit. But he couldn't know the full extent of it, so I told him.
"I just woke up with a fever of about a hundred. I could puke on your shoe if I dwelled on my stomach for about thirty seconds, but I won't."
He stared in concern.
No one was in the waiting room, since official ICU visiting didn't start for another couple of hours. He parked himself facing the door, so he could get up and bolt if the more important Godfrey came past.
"But even if I puked on your shoe, it would be okay, wouldn't it?" I raised my voice to keep his attention. "I mean, nobody likes getting their tassels messed up, but it's not like I'd be puking a hot agent, is it? The germ we have is not airborne. It's waterborne only. Right?"
He said nothing, only swallowed.
"Look, my mother's dead. My brother's in a bed downstairs, in case you didn't notice when you looked in on Rain. Right now, I've got a headache so bad I think my head could split into a canoe. I think I have a right to know what's eating us—"
He starte
d to his feet. "Scott, if you're feeling that bad, you need medical attention right away—"
I grabbed his arm and made him sit again. "I'm a paramedic. I know what I need and when I need it. I need information."
"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head, like he couldn't give up anything privy. "I don't have any answers, and we're not really sure this is a USIC matter."
I decided I'd have a better chance if I asked direct questions.
"Does the CDC know what we have? Come on, have mercy. Just answer that much."
"They're working on it. I heard Dr. Godfrey say they might have a confirmation soon. Or they might not..."
"Was the water on our street infected by a terror cell?"
"We're not sure."
It implied they were investigating the water. It was more than I thought I would get.
"How'd you know to look for a blood clot on Cora Holman's pancreas?"
He watched me for a moment, kind of amazed. He stumbled, "I didn't decide that ... Dr. Godfrey decided that—"
"Yeah, based on some info that you gave him at midnight. You and the CDC must have had some understanding of how the germ would behave. You must have a particular germ in mind to predict it like that."
"Look..." He stood up, and I realized this was pointless. He was a sealed drum, and even if my brother or I died of this raving bitch, it would not change the fact that he would not breach his job. "I'm going to have Dr. Godfrey found for you—"
"I can find Godfrey my goddamn self!" I stood up, too, and the world swam. I tried not to let it show. "You goddamn bureaucrats. You have no respect for human dignity."
"Scott, we do," he argued. "I spend my whole day, every day, fighting for human dignity. It's my life. I know you're scared shitless right now. We're doing our best. And right now, I have to be in that ICU. I'm sorry."
I let out a sigh as long as California before realizing there was something in his tone that was adamant. I scoffed.
"What're you doing? Lying in wait for terrorists to come blow the place up?"
He only smiled glumly and stuck out his hand to me to shake.
I tried not to feel totally depressed. He hadn't told me anything—but he had, in what he refused to say. I shouldn't have been bothered by the sudden idea that a terrorist could visit this hospital. I mean, I already suspected they ran a discount fucking shoe store here for at least three months.
O'Hare suddenly gripped me by the elbow, and I kept myself from pitching forward by grabbing his jacket. "Let me get you a doctor, Scott."
"It's not that!" I stared at the floor, wondering if I'd just committed the ultimate of stupid moves. "On the tapes at Cora's house, her father had a totally British accent. That guy in there with her now has an accent, but I can't place it! It's not—"
I never got out "British." O'Hare took off down the corridor and I followed on his heels, barely noticing him reaching for his gun in a shoulder holster.
THIRTY-FOUR
SHAHZAD HAMDANI
FRIDAY, MARCH 8, 2002
1:00 P.M.
MISS SUSAN PULLS her car quickly away from the curb with me in it, for the second time in an hour.
"I swear to you! I do not speak of myself, anything, to Tyler Ping."
"He knows a lot about you," she says. "A lot."
"He hacked into my terminal last night. Now, I am certain"
"You think he saw your IMs to and from Tim."
"Yes."
"Michael will crap. Nonetheless ... did you send any IMs with the name of your village in Pakistan in it? Or the fact that you're a straight A student? Or the fact that you're an asthmatic? That is a hell of a lot to find out about someone—"
Over the years I have collected much information when the rest of the world is sleeping. I don't understand Tyler's interest in me, but I perceive he has the Newsweek article that Hodji and Roger leaked out when USIC formed in January. It mentioned my asthma. And Tyler has done some hacking ... to where? I hope it is not to our café's hard drive in Pakistan. We have, supposedly, a foolproof firewall, an FBI gift. My thoughts jump and confound me.
"He is a hacker," I tell her. "He can hack into anything, says my cousin."
"So, why his interest in you?"
I say nothing at first, equally angry at her for thinking I would trumpet my USIC business to another student. I finally offer, "When my cousin told him I got a job at Trinitron, I perceived that he was envious. Perhaps he hacks to see how I am more qualified than he—"
She makes a dirty word and sighs. "We can't be on top of everything! How in God's name were we supposed to prevent that ?"
I say nothing. I am only glad she does not perceive it as entirely my fault.
She continues, "We looked for him at the Einstein Museum like you said to. Turns out, he was home, cutting school. In my opinion, he doesn't need to go anywhere because he's a real trip in and of himself. First thing he says when he answers the door is 'You guys found out about me already? You're smarter than I thought.' He's a disrespectful brat."
I don't know what to say.
"At any rate, he's not associated with Catalyst. That's what he says, and we're tending to believe him. But he's all over the place ... says he can give us information about these two North Korean agents posing as shop owners ... he says he can give us information about Colony One ... and he's got some sort of computer programs. North Korea and Colony One, we can check on. We can't figure out what he's saying about the programs—it's all too technical. We just want you to stand behind the glass at police headquarters—we're using their facility until our offices are finished. Just listen to him ramble, and see if what he says about his little v-spy programs makes sense to you. He won't be able to see you. Can you do that?"
She drives us to the police station, where Tyler sits at a table behind the big glass, being questioned by some agent. He looks disheveled, as if he has not yet combed his hair. And he needs to use this tone once in Uncle's face to learn never to use it again.
"Maybe I'm telling you all this because I'm an asshole, that's why."
"You're providing information on these two men, two alleged North Korean agents, because you're an asshole?" the interrogator parrots Tyler.
"Yes. Don't you be an asshole and ask me how I know this stuff, okay?"
"How do you know this stuff? And please don't call me that again. If you want us to listen to you at all, don't act like a lunatic."
"I know because I'm a hacker. I'm a scunge-wad, disgusting hacker who could rob the Commonwealth Bank if I wanted to, without ever leaving this chair. How many times have I said this stuff now? I'm sleep deprived and on a short fuse, Mac. But maybe instead of being condescending, you ought to listen to me."
"We're here," Miss Susan says into a microphone, and I flinch, thinking it would blare all through that little room. She had said Tyler wouldn't know I was here.
But the agent just flicks at a little earpiece, like mine for Trinitron, and says, "Let's take this from the top, just one more time. About these computer programs. Okay? Maybe I'll get it this time."
"In your dreams. I need to share this stuff with a seasoned programmer. Do you have any in USIC? Yet?"
"Don't antagonize me, Mr. Ping"
"Don't try to lie to me. Just get me Hamdani. He's doing favors for you, and we both know it, so—"
"Mr. Hamdani helped us out for a few nights. He is not on our payroll." The agent shifts a little. "You've got bad information, Mr. Moderate Hacker."
Tyler laughs. "Just get the guy for me. And maybe I won't add ten grand to your grandmother's water bill next month, just to repay the insult."
"Oh my." I turn to Miss Susan. Hearing English so constantly, even for two days, I understand more. "Why does he speak in that tone?"
She leans up to the intercom and says, "Should I just bring Shahzad in? We've pulled him from Trinitron. His gig is off."
I let her pull me around the corner into the room. I notice that Tyler Ping does not look at all surprised as
I fall into a chair beside the agent.
He flings disks into my hands, explaining them one by one. His English is fast, but many computer terms are universal.
"Hamdani, here's some programs I've been perfecting for a little more than a year. I call this program Dog Leash. You program in the log-ins you want to follow, and it searches all your favorite chat sites. Once it finds one of those log-ins, it 'leashes' and follows it and creates a record on your hard drive of everywhere that person goes online."
He tosses the disk into my hands, and he has written USIC BULLSHIT 1 in magic marker. I have a similar program. I shrug, unimpressed, because of one glitch. "After the person logs off, you have to start from scratch," I suggest.
"Uh-uh. With Dog Leash, they're leashed. Permanently. From any terminal. You're only screwed if they change log-ins"
I wonder in amazement if the thing actually works and try to work my head through the problems he had solved that I couldn't. But he moves on.
"These guys are already using a program to make chatter disappear, right?"
I don't answer.
"Their program is stupid. It just makes the color of the type seek out the color of the screen and change to match it. The type isn't actually disappearing."
I feel fire of embarrassment hit my face. I would have realized this myself if I'd had more time to think—and more license to think freely.
"We walked together to the train last night, and I made a few wisecracks about this program I have that, uh ... prevents the computer teacher at school from seeing what I'm saying on the school's system. His eyeballs bugged out when I explained it. I wonder why? Ha ... He said he'd give me twenty bucks if he can upload it—which he did successfully at 11:27 this morning, thank you, Dog Leash. It's called Blizzard. Sucker."
The agent tries to interrupt, but Tyler waves his hand to ward off words. "There's a bug in the program. Anytime it's activated, on any site, it will seek out Tim's e-mail address and send him a message with a hyperlink. Not only can you capture all Catalyst's chatter, but you have an automatic tracer to any new site he's using with his cronies. He'll basically be walking around the Net with neon footprints. I'm giving you it." He looks at the agent. "For free. I call it Blizzard Erase"