“Tank really killed that guy?” Jessie asked afterward, needing to process all she’d heard.
“He had to. That guy was going to kill me.”
“And you really hit Briggs over the head with our steel bowl?”
“I had to.”
“Holy crap,” said Jessie. “My mom’s Wonder Woman.”
“No,” said Mary, “just your mom. That’s enough.”
“But how does Ian Prince know so much about me?”
“Somehow he hacked into our computer and got hold of our passwords. I guess he was able to see everything.”
“He took all our money.”
“For now, at least.”
“That’s fucked,” said Jessie. “Sorry, but it is.”
“You’re right,” said Mary. “It’s really fucked.”
“Mom!”
“I thought I was Wonder Woman.”
“Wonder Woman does not have a potty mouth.” Jessie buried her head in Mary’s shoulder. After a minute or so, she began to laugh. “What is it?” asked Mary.
“I have an idea.”
“What about?”
“I know how he hacked into our computer.”
“Oh?”
“I told Grace not to open messages from people she didn’t know.” Jessie got up off the couch, moved to a desk, took a seat, and tapped away at Greg from MIT’s laptop.
“What are you doing?” asked Mary.
Jessie didn’t look up. “Getting even.”
97
Ian Prince was exultant.
Semaphore was behind him. Mary Grant was no longer a worry. As important, Titan was up and running.
Back in Austin and seated contentedly at his desk, he opened the software designed by David Gold and Menachem Wolkowicz and the brain trust at Clarus, his Praetorian Guard. He logged in for the first time, creating a username and password. Seconds later he was inside.
Clarus was already hard at work, shadowing Titan’s every iteration. The NSA had wasted no time in feeding intercepts for decryption. Ian counted over fifty thousand documents in the queue. The intercepts were grouped by geopolitical source and prioritized from one to three stars, three being the most important. There were requests from Europe, Asia, the Middle East. The requests came from all the NSA’s “customers”: the Pentagon, the CIA, the FBI, MI6, and many, many more.
Ian went directly to the economics directorate, specifically, to the U.S. corporate subsection, and then to “Internet.” He was rewarded with a cornucopia of intercepts from his largest competitors. There was news of pending mergers, of contracts with foreign governments, of new product development. It was an all-seeing eye into every CEO’s suite, their research laboratories, their strategic planning.
Ian knew better than to act rashly. For now there was nothing to do except harvest, store, and study. He planned on remaining invisible for years to come. Knowledge, even for its own sake, was power.
He gazed across the office at the black satchel. Nearly twenty-six years ago to the day, his father had disappeared. As soon as he familiarized himself with the system, he could peek into British intelligence’s files. He had little hope of finding anything within the files of the British Foreign Office. Documents dating from 1989 would be far down the list to be digitized and placed on the Net. Records from secondary consulates in Bruges and Leipzig would figure at the bottom of those.
MI6 was a different story. Ian knew he’d find everything he needed there. The problem was that the U.K. was the United States’ sacrosanct partner. The countries exchanged information on a “per request” basis. MI6 was a customer of the NSA, just as the CIA was a customer of GCHQ, the Government Communications Headquarters, the NSA’s counterpart in Cheltenham, England. They did not spy on each other. Getting into MI6 would merely be a question of learning proper protocol for these exchanges. Nothing beyond his skill set. Not with Titan at his beck and call.
Ian pushed his chair back, crossed his office, and took a seat next to the satchel. He made an oath to his father that he would uncover his service record and let the world know of his accomplishments.
“Boss.” He glanced up to find Peter Briggs in his office. “You wanted to see me.”
“It won’t take long. Everything under control?”
“Last I heard from Mason, his man had recovered the flash drive. I have confirmation that the Mole took care of our problem in Vegas. Our men should be at the hotel presently. The situation is tied off, once and for all.”
“Good,” said Ian. “Seems like the right moment, then. I’m letting you go, Peter.”
“Pardon me?”
“I can’t have my chief of security going behind my back and disobeying me. Your job is to protect me, not get me into trouble.”
“What are you referring to?”
“That nasty knot on your head, to begin with. As I was doing some work last night, I happened to see you at Mary Grant’s home. You know how that works. I heard you speaking to the Mole about Mr. McNair. I told you to leave her alone.”
“I was only trying to cover your back. You’re a busy man. Sometimes you get…removed from how things really are.”
“I ordered you not to lay a finger on Mary Grant or her children. You disobeyed me. There’s nothing more to say except goodbye.”
“You’re letting me go-with all I know?”
“You’ve been paid handsomely. A call to Edward Mason will quiet any accusations should you be that stupid.”
“I took care of Merriweather and Joe Grant. Without me, you’d never have gotten the contract with the NSA.”
“Goodbye, Peter.”
But Briggs didn’t leave. He unbuttoned his jacket and advanced on Ian, his ruddy face flushed nearly crimson. He eyed the satchel mockingly. “Find anything about your father yet?”
“That’s none of your concern.”
“Or is it that you don’t want to look too hard?”
“What are you getting at?”
“All the time you spend staring at this silly case, daydreaming about him. Come off it, Ian, you know better. He wasn’t a secret agent. He was a drunk. He drowned facedown in his own puke in a gutter outside a Brussels whorehouse.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Ask your mother.”
“We don’t speak.”
“She told you the truth twenty years ago.”
“She was lying. She hated him.”
“With good reason.” Briggs picked up the satchel. “I looked, too. On my own. I wanted to help you find out the truth. She told me everything. About the gambling. The fights. Mostly about the drinking. Still, I wanted to believe you. Most women are skags anyway. But it’s all there in the Belgian police’s files. I’ll be sure to leave you copies on my way out.”
Ian grabbed the satchel away from Briggs. “He wasn’t a drunk. It was cover. He was an agent with MI6. He was killed while on duty. They never found the body.”
Briggs was laughing at him. “Of course they did, only your mother refused to claim it. The British government refused as well. Do you know why? Because your father had been sacked six months before. Your dear old dad’s buried in an unmarked grave in a potter’s field, or whatever they call it over there.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” Briggs jabbed his finger into Ian’s chest. “I’m going to tell the world, Ian. I’m going to tell everyone the truth about Peter fucking Prince. Everyone’s going to know what a drunken lowlife your father was.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am. Bank on it.”
Ian shot him. Peter Briggs staggered back a step. Ian dropped the satchel, the Walther gripped in his right hand. He fired again. Briggs fell. He was dead before he hit the floor. “Banked.”