“Your home address, Social, financial records. In fact, your whole credit history. Plus, Bureau personnel records. Product warranty data. Even your Netflix and iTune playlists. That kind of stuff. Weird, huh?”
Decker put his coffee mug back down on the counter. He turned and looked out the window, through the clear plastic sheet, at the pair of great sourgum trees at the heart of his yard. One entire side of one tree had been stripped of its branches by the blast.
Without warning, Decker took a step forward and punched the kitchen cabinet nearest to him. He punched it again and again, until McCullough finally stood up and stopped him.
“Maybe you left the hospital too soon,” said McCullough. A crack ran the length of the cabinet door. “I’m not driving you out to Home Despot. You can replace that yourself.”
Decker turned toward his friend in such a threatening manner that McCullough took a step back. “Hey, it’s me,” he said, raising his hands. “Take it easy, man.”
Decker didn’t respond. He simply stared at McCullough with a vacant look in his eyes. After a moment, he finally relaxed, and mumbled, “I’m sorry. I’m… I guess I’ll get dressed. They want me to come in for de-briefing.”
“You sure that’s a good idea?” asked McCullough. “I mean, look at you. You’re a wreck, John. Not that you don’t have a right to be. If you hadn’t been wearing your body armor, surrounded by all of those heavy appliances, you’d have ended up just like everyone else… in pieces. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Yeah, lucky,” said Decker, staring down at the floor.
“Luckier than those five other agents. Look, man. Take my advice. Please. As your friend and your partner. You’re not ready, John.” McCullough put a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you go visit Becca? Take a few days to—”
“I’m fine,” Decker said, and that ended it.
CHAPTER 13
Later that morning, back at work, Decker continued to investigate the breach in security at Westlake Defense Systems when Hellard appeared at his desk.
“How you doing?” his boss asked, staring down at him with his basset-hound eyes. “I hear the de-briefing went well.”
“Well enough,” Decker answered. In truth, it had been a grueling four hours, retelling the same story over and over again to a half dozen handlers. Given that Decker seldom went out into the field, he wasn’t particularly used to the process. Plus, for some reason, Hellard had tagged the assault a “black ops”—perhaps because all the suspects had died, not to mention those five men on the SWAT team — which meant that he had to undergo a session while under hypnosis.
Decker didn’t like being hypnotized. He didn’t like to be out of control. That’s why he seldom drank and hardly ever took drugs. He had no moral objection; he didn’t particularly care what others did to get by in the world. It just didn’t make him feel comfortable. The fact that he was especially prone to hypnosis didn’t help either. Dr. Foster, the Center shrink, said this was a mark of intelligence, but he probably said that to everyone.
“Then what are you doing?”
“Excuse me?” said Decker.
Hellard pointed at Decker’s LCD screen. “You’re still working on Westlake. Isn’t that a mirror of the Lebanese hard drive? We plugged that hole, Decker. Thanks to you. Ali Hammel’s dead. Just like El Aqrab. You’re letting your personal feelings get in the way of your judgment.”
“Just tying up some loose ends,” Decker said. He reached over, closed the window. “I’m late for a meeting anyway. Sorry. Got to go.”
Decker watched Hellard waddle off to another workstation before making his way to the elevator.
The cafeteria was a large, well-lit room, airy and bright, despite the fact that it was five stories belowground in a bunker of reinforced concrete. The wall by the entrance featured a gargantuan painting of a pastoral water scene. The top half of the canvas viewed the world from atop a lake’s surface, with a field full of flowers beyond, weeping willows, snowy clouds, while the other half peered underwater, into a submarine landscape choked with lilies and schools of small fish. McCullough was standing beside it in the glare of a spotlight. His dark brown shaved head shone like a cue ball. He looked angry or anxious, out of sorts.
“Sorry I’m late,” Decker said.
They grabbed a couple of trays and headed past the steam tables toward the salad bar. As they filled up their bowls, McCullough started to bitch about the number of reported security breaches they’d been experiencing lately. They seemed to be doubling every four hours. It was like another Titan Rain, he complained, when, in 2003, state-sponsored Chinese hackers had mounted cyber-attacks against a host of government systems — from Lockheed to NASA.
This is why Hellard wanted him to concentrate on something other than Westlake, thought Decker. With Hammel dead, the case had come to a standstill. Plus, Decker had been out for two days. He had dozens and dozens of new open job numbers to attend to. Even his fellow cryptanalysts were growing tired of his singular obsession which, in the end, only meant more work for them.
With a forlorn glance at the fried chicken, McCullough started for an empty table at the rear of the room. Decker followed. They sat down facing each other, just as a white spinning object flew over their heads, whirling like the seed of a Japanese maple.
Decker ducked automatically, almost rolled to the floor. Then he took a deep breath.
Ever since El Aqrab, perhaps as far back as his car accident as a boy, Decker had been jumpy. Now they call it PTSD, he thought as he straightened. As if putting a label on it somehow makes it more manageable.
Every muscle in his body screamed out at once and he let the pain take him away. For the briefest of respites.
“Ivanov,” spat McCullough. “I hate fucking hackers!” He looked over at the Russian computer expert in the corner of the cafeteria.
McCullough and Decker were both seasoned analysts. Decker alone spoke twelve languages, nine fluently. But in their hearts they would always be codebreakers. Cryptanalyst forensic examiners. Shaking out logic from what appeared to be randomness was like a drug to them, and something they shared.
But hackers were prima donnas. That’s why McCullough loathed Ivanov. Hackers didn’t do what they did simply because their code was exquisite. Whether binary or logical. They did it to prove something, to show off, to be smarter than everyone else in the room.
Decker had seen hackers break into systems that — if they’d been caught — would have landed them in federal prison for decades, and they did it for fun. They were intellectual adrenaline junkies. I should know, Decker thought, staring down at his salad.
“I forgot you’ve been gone,” said McCullough. “Ivanov got a new UAV, an ultralight from a buddy at Lockheed. They call it the Samara. You know: like a whirligig, whirlybird, or whatever they’re called. Those seed pods that spin down from maple trees. Fifteen grams and only three inches. Got a camera too. Perfect for spying indoors.”
“Cute,” Decker answered. He looked across the cafeteria, saw Ivanov with a handheld by one of the steam tables. Ivanov was a good guy to have on your side when you wanted to break into a system, de-encrypt some hard drive, thought Decker, but he was still in his twenties.
McCullough started whining to Decker about his teenage daughter, Lisa, who went online all the time, practically lived on her iPhone, and who had recently given up the most personal information through her Facebook account.
“I keep telling her,” said McCullough, “in today’s online world, even if you keep your name secret, people can still learn all about you, and they’ll judge you simply by viewing your friends. It’s like that study by those two guys at UT, Smatikov and Nara… Narayama.”